Two Down
Eleven Letter Words

Fingers digging stubbornly into the knot of nerves at the back of his neck, Jonathan Kent wiped his boots and stepped across the threshold of the kitchen, allowing the screen door to bang unceremoniously behind him. Only vaguely aware that he carried the combined odor of hay, sawdust, and premium-grade, mineral-rich manure inside with him, he wiped the layer of sweat and grime on his face against the shoulder of his flannel shirt, an act which did little to make either any cleaner. He moved to the sink to rinse his hands and then leaned forward to splash some water on his face, the process of his morning routine so practiced as to be automatonic. It was only when these ritual ablutions were completed that he turned, finally, to face his family.

Both mother and son sat at the kitchen table, thoroughly absorbed in the Daily Planet weekend edition. Jonathan couldn't help but smirk as he watched Clark frown quizzically at the crossword puzzle, gnawing absent-mindedly on the end of his ball point pen. He was wearing his favorite old weekend sweatshirt, which bore a large ink stain on the sleeve from a few weekends ago when he had chewed his pen with a little too much vim and caused it to explode. Naturally, Clark had finished his chores well ahead of his father and had already torn through a healthy breakfast and several glasses of juice.

Jonathan poured himself a cup of coffee and at the accompanying clink Martha looked up, her attention finally drawn from the financial pages. "Well hello," she said with a faint smile. "Get you some breakfast?"

"Sure. Thanks," he replied, kissing her on the cheek before swinging into his own chair at the table, where the agricultural pages were already laid out for him. He glanced at the headlines for a few moments before a pang in his neck made him wince and he reached back to rub the tense tangle of muscles.

"Neck bothering you again?" asked Martha, glancing over her shoulder from the eggs and sausage sizzling in the frying pan.

Jonathan just grimaced and nodded grimly.

"Hey Dad," prompted Clark, glancing up from his crossword with a look of obviously contrived innocence. "What's an eleven letter phrase meaning 'past one's prime?' Three words. Begins with 'O.'"

Glaring over at his son, Jonathan snorted and turned back to his paper. "I don't know, but I'll give you an eleven letter word for smart-ass," he grumbled.

From the range, Martha sniffed admonishingly, "Language, Jonathan," and then turned to face her son. "Your father's not 'over the hill,' Clark. Not everyone has your talent for instantaneous chore recovery, you know." She cast a sympathetic eye upon her husband but he was pretending to find great interest in an article about John Deere's newest innovative metallurgical techniques.

"It was just a joke, Mom," Clark clarified with a smirk. His mother cast a dubious, sidelong glance at her husband , who merely grunted without looking up. Jonathan took in a sudden breath, as if about to speak, but simply released it again, exhaling through his nostrils as he brought his coffee cup to his lips.

The sharp sizzle of the frying pan was the only noise that filled the ensuing silence as the Kent men returned their full attention to their respective portions of the paper. Martha regarded her taciturn family with a frown as she transferred the eggs and sausages to a fresh plate - a plate that she nearly dropped a moment later, startled by the abrupt double "chunk" of the toast popping up. Once she had calmed her nerves, however, she slid the plate and a set of silverware in front of her husband and reclaimed her seat at the kitchen table, looking from father to son and back again. A smooth, battle-free weekend was looking unpromising as Jonathon had begun stonewalling unusually early, even for him, and Clark, his sensitivity to his father's determined obstinacy increasing by the day, was already beginning to resemble the archetype of the sullen, brooding teenager. With an uncomfortable cough and a quick, concerned glance at her family, Martha quietly picked up her paper and returned to her survey of the financial pages.

When several more minutes passed without a word, Clark set down his paper and emitted a faint, sardonic laugh. "You know, it's really nice to see that despite all the weirdness that goes on in this town we can still manage to lead the lives of a normal, everyday, dysfunctional American family," he muttered.

This statement caught his parents' attention and they both looked up in surprise. "Clark..." Martha began in a wounded tone but was interrupted before she could finish the thought.

"And just what the he...ck was that supposed to mean?" Jonathan demanded. The fork that had held a chunk of sausage midway between his plate and mouth clattered to the dish forgotten.

Clark averted his father's gaze, doodling absently on the margin of the paper. "I don't know," he mumbled with a shrug. "It's just this whole situation - you know, when I say something that pisses you off and then we just have to sit here in uncomfortable silence until you get over it and we can pretend it never happened... the whole thing reminds me of the stories Lex tells about life at home with his dad." With a sigh, Clark looked up from the paper, hoping for some sort of sign that his point had gotten across. He was quickly disappointed.

Nostrils flaring in anger, Jonathan's response was barely above a whisper. "Don't you dare compare me to Lionel Luthor."

"I wasn't, Dad, I swear. I never would" Clark's eyes flew open in surprise at the intensity of his father's reaction. "Look, it would be doing an injustice to both you and Lex to make a comparison like that. You're a good father, Dad, and I know you care about me... and Lex.... well, Lex has been through a lot..."

"This isn't about Lex," Jonathan interrupted, his anger only partially abated.

"It never is with you," Clark replied, dropping his eyes to the table. "Have you ever stopped to consider that that's part of the problem? I can't even mention Lex's name without finding myself on the receiving end of a lecture."

"Well maybe if you didn't talk about him so damn much..."

"Boys!" Martha broke in sharply. Although she addressed both father and son, her reproving gaze was directed specifically at Jonathan. "Let's see if we can work through one issue at a time, shall we? Now Clark..." She reached out to lay a comforting hand on her son's forearm. "Do you really think that we're dysfunctional?"

Clark rolled his eyes. "No," he admitted begrudgingly, picking absently at the table. "I just wish we could spend a little more time discussing things beyond you guys issuing edicts and me obeying them."

Regarding her son sympathetically, Martha ducked her head to meet his gaze. "Well, we're discussing things now, aren't we?"

"Yeah." Clark gave a soft chuckle without looking up. "Ironic, huh?"

His instinctual defensiveness quelled by his son's painfully earnest response, Jonathan gave Clark's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "Look," he said gently, "I know we might seem strict sometimes but we're just trying to protect you. I mean, I'll be the first to admit that we're not exactly the Huxtibles, but..."

Jonathan trailed off as Clark looked at him blankly.

"Oh God," Jonathan whispered. "You're too young to remember 'The Cosby Show' aren't you?" He looked over at Martha, horrorstruck. "Now I really do feel old."

Clark rolled his eyes. "I'll catch it on Nick at Night, okay Dad?" he said. "And that's 'over the hill.' Twelve across."

Martha frowned as Clark's using-humor-to-avoid-conflict mechanism reared its ugly head and Jonathan countered with his using-humor-to-justify-proselytization defense. Healthy communication was not her family's strong suit. "So," she broke in before Jonathan could launch into another lecture, "you agree that we're not dysfunctional."

"Yeah, yeah," Clark replied dismissively, eyes back on his crossword puzzle. "Fine. We're not dysfunctional. Just forget I said anything, okay?"

"Well you were the one who wanted to talk about things." Jonathan tried to keep the edge out of his voice, forcing himself to remember what it was like to be a teenager.

"I didn't want to talk about 'things,'" Clark countered, eyes still directed downwards. "I wanted to talk about why I'm not allowed to talk about Lex." He tapped his pen irritably against the table, unconsciously boring out a fair-sized dent in the wood.

Trying and failing to understand the odd expression on Clark's face, Martha shot a quick glance at her husband, who appeared to be working very hard at restraining his comments. "You are allowed to talk about Lex," she assured her son, praying to God that her husband would be able to refrain from editorializing at this particular moment. "Is there something in particular that you wanted to talk about?"

Clark started to speak but glanced over at his father, who was gazing zombie-like into the distance with held breath and white knuckles, and immediately changed his mind. "Forget it," he said. "I'll just... I'm just going to have to work through it myself, that's all. I'm going camping this weekend so I'll have plenty of time to think."

Grateful that the conversation had meandered onto a topic upon which he would be safely permitted to remark, Jonathan let out his breath and smiled somewhat forcibly. "You and Pete going to pitch a tent in old Mrs. Kanechenny's cornfield? I hope you've asked permission - don't want you boys giving that poor woman a heart attack."

"No, Dad. Pete and I haven't done that since we were, like, ten." Clark looked over at his mother, who widened her eyes uncertainly. He cleared his throat. "Actually," he announced, "I'm going with Lex. He knows a good spot about three hours on the other side of Metropolis." Clark deliberately emphasized the word 'Lex' just for the grim pleasure of watching his father's involuntary facial tick. "Mom already said I could go," he added hastily.

Jonathan shifted his accusatory gaze from Clark to Martha. "Oh she did, did she?"

"It's just a camping trip," Martha reminded her husband firmly.

Frowning, Jonathan narrowed his eyes and regarded his son, who was scribbling some letters onto his crossword puzzle. "You know, Lex has never struck me as the outdoorsy type."

"Yeah, well there's a lot of things you don't know about Lex," Clark snapped. He was determined not to let his father ruin this weekend and was quickly reaching the end of his rope. "Now can we just drop it? I'm going on this camping trip and that's final." He raised his eyebrows at his father, bracing himself for a full retaliation but remarkably none came. He had actually managed to stun the legendarily obdurate Jonathan Kent into silence with his forthrightness. That was a new one. "Good," he said brightly after a deep breath, accepting his father's silence as a sign of acquiescence. "I'm glad we've got that sorted out. Now what's an eight letter word for 'independence' beginning with 'a?'"

"'Autonomy,'" Martha muttered, rising from the table to get the coffee pot. "But I don't think you're quite ready for that yet. You are only fifteen, after all." She moved behind her husband to top off his mug before refilling her own cup.

Emboldened by his small victory and his father's continued silence, Clark spoke up. "I'm almost sixteen," he said, "and I think I would do just fine on my own. I mean, look at Lex - he runs an entire company single-handedly, conducts independent research on the side, and still has time for a social life."

"Lex is an adult, Clark," Jonathan snapped, "and you're just a child." He took a few deep, calming breaths. "Which brings up another point: namely his esteemed 'social life.' Doesn't the great Lex Luthor have anything better to do than hang out with a high school freshman? Doesn't he have any friends his own age?"

Clark glared back at his father, completely appalled. "Oh, so now *I'm* not good enough for Lex? Make up your mind, Dad. You're only allowed to insult one of us at a time." He looked down at his crossword with a disgusted scowl. "And while you're at it, give me an eleven letter p-word for 'inconsistent.'"

Frowning, Jonathan looked to his wife for rescue but she just shook her head and gave him a look that said, 'You got yourself into this mess...' He cleared his throat. "Clark," he said softly. "I'm not trying to be paradoxical. I just meant that..."

"And, anyway, none of the twenty-somethings in this town are worth Lex's time." Clark didn't even flinch at the prospect of raising his father's ire by interrupting him. He was on a roll and he was going to run with it. "Everyone interesting or stimulating moves away as soon as they finish high school.... no offense."

"That's Luthor talk," hissed Jonathan bitterly. "Just because the people of this town don't have fancy college degrees doesn't mean they're worthless."

Rolling his eyes, Clark just shook his head at his father. "I didn't say they were worthless," he corrected. "I just said they weren't stimulating enough for Lex. He needs someone who can intellectually challenge him."

"Really." Jonathan's eyebrows flew up and his tone dripped of suspicion. "Is that what he told you? You two spend a lot of time sitting around discussing existentialism, do you?"

Clark raised his eyebrows in return, but his expression was one of pure, 'I don't give a fuck what you think' earnestness, the raw intensity of which actually managed to startle his father. "Yeah, actually, we do," he replied, his tone mirroring his facial expression. "Along with a lot of other things that I couldn't talk about with anyone else in this town."

"You know, Clark, maybe you should spend a little less time 'stimulating' Lex and a little more time regaining some perspective on the town you grew up in." Jonathan exhaled sharply through his nose and briefly wondered why his family was gaping at him in disbelief before his brain registered what he had just said. 'Well, fuck,' he thought to himself, his instincts overpowering his internal censor. He debated for a moment whether to clarify the comment or just ignore it, ultimately deciding on an intermediate solution. "Well, you know what I mean," he mumbled.

"And that's another thing," added Clark, aiming the comment as his mother, but gesturing at Jonathan in vindication. "Ever noticed that this town is socially and culturally stuck about thirty years behind the curve? The old Bible-belters on the Chamber of Commerce almost managed to petition 'Will and Grace' off of the local NBC affiliate. Did you know that?" He lifted up the newspaper and swatted it with the back of his hand. "It's right here," he said. "Twenty seven down. Ten letter word for 'fear of gay people.' Gee, I wonder if anyone in Smallville knows the answer to that one."

Martha knitted her brow in concern and looked at her husband, who appeared grimly contemplative. "I don't think this town is homophobic Clark," she began hesitantly. "I think that it's just a part of the American culture that we're not accustomed to..."

"But that doesn't mean it's not here," Clark insisted. "You can't make something go away just by refusing to acknowledge it."

"We know that, son," said Jonathon softly, drawing a deep breath and glancing over at his wife with an uncomfortable expression. "Clark," he began seriously. "Son. This whole discussion seems somewhat... out of the blue. Is there something you want to tell us?"

Clark sighed. "Yes... I mean, no... I mean, I don't know." He shrugged and looked fixedly at the table. "It's just that... you know how you can talk to some people about some things and other people about other things and you can't really mix the two?"

"Um... yeah," Martha offered, not quite seeing her son's point but hoping to be encouraging nonetheless.

"And you, like, partition your friends into these categories according to who you can talk to about what... but then you need to talk about something that involves someone but that someone is the only one you can talk to about that something but since they're involved you can't talk to them and you have nobody to talk to about it?"

"What does this have to do with the Smallville Chamber of Commerce?" Jonathan blurted out, only to be shot a fierce expression from his wife which made him immediately regret his words.

"Forget it," huffed Clark, making a mental note to never open up to his parents - at least to his father - again. "what's an eleven letter word for 'unsupportive?' D, blank, blank, O, and more blanks."

"We're not trying to be disobliging, Clark," Martha assured him gently. "Are we, Jonathan?" Her husband grunted a reluctant assent and she continued. "Besides, honey, I think I understand what you were saying. It's kind of like how you would never talk to Lana about a girl you liked, right?"

"Can we please just drop it, Mom?" Clark pleaded. "I should never have brought it up. I'll work everything out for myself this weekend, okay?"

Jonathan narrowed his eyes, unable to help noticing the sadly distant but determined look on his son's face. The expression was a familiar one, bringing back memories long-since buried of his own adolescence. He winced as his stomach twisted sickly at the pain that peremptorily resurfaced. The memories had been buried for a good reason. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Clark," he said. "I don't know that it's such a good idea for you to go on this camping trip."

"Mom!" Clark demanded pleadingly, but his mother did not answer. Clearly, she was beginning to share some of her husband's reservations. "Fine," he grumbled at this lack of support. "Hey guys, maybe you can at least help me out with two down: what's an eleven letter word for someone who tries to control the lives of others."

"How about 'Lex Luthor?'" Jonathan suggested under his breath, unable to stop himself.

"That's only nine letters," Clark snapped back, despite his strong feeling that the remark did not dignify a response.

"Fine, then," Jonathan grumped. "The Lex Luthor."

"That's twelve. Besides, it starts with 'M.' Maybe it's 'My Lex Luthor.'" Clark bit his lip the moment the words escaped. He definitely shouldn't have said that. 'Please let that go,' he silently willed. 'Please, please, just let that go.'

"You know, 'Good Parents' will fit in that spot too, Clark." Martha regarded her son earnestly and Clark, overwhelmingly grateful not to have to explain his last statement, made no attempt at rebuttal, not even to remind his mother that the word 'good' does not begin with 'm.' Jonathan, however, was sick of trying to hold back.

"Lex is a manipulator," he said, "just like his father was."

"Prove it," Clark challenged. "I am so sick of you questioning Lex's interest in my friendship. Am I that unpleasant to be around that you're amazed that anyone should seek out my companionship."

"Cut the insecurity act, Clark. You know perfectly well that's not what we think." Jonathan looked over at Martha, but she did not seem eager to jump on his anti-Lex bandwagon. "I just don't want you to get hurt, son. I knew Lionel Luthor very well in my younger days and he used people and he controlled them and... and he hurt them. And I'm very much afraid that Lex will do the same to you."

Clark threw up his hands in frustration. "Why do you keep insisting that the sins or virtues of the father must automatically be passed on to the son?" he demanded. "Take Whitney, for example. You and his dad were best friends in high school, right?"

"What's your point?"

"My point, Dad, is that Whitney is a jerk and he and I will never, EVER be friends."

Letting out a deep breath, Jonathan leaned forward and tried to adopt his most reasonable tone. "Clark," he said wearily, "you know I've never tried to make you hang out with Whitney."

"I know," said Clark earnestly, "and I appreciate that. So why can't you extend that kind of open-mindedness to my friendship with Lex?" He looked intently at his father and set his jaw, working out how exactly to articulate his thoughts. Finally he spoke, slowly and clearly, letting each word linger on his lips until he was sure it had registered with his audience. "Just because you feel the need to play Montegues and Capulets with Lionel Luthor doesn't mean that Lex and I can't be friends."

Jonathan was about to point out the many flaws in his son's analogy but Clark started up again before he got the chance. "Relationships can change from generation to generation, Dad. It's just like the whole boxers/briefs phenomenon."

"The what?" Martha had been listening quietly, trying to read between the lines of conversation and understand what was really going on, but felt she had to interject at this point. Clearly, this boxers/briefs issue was a guys-only thing and she didn't want to get left in the dust.

Clark rolled his eyes. "You know, Mom. It's like how the predominant style of men's underwear inverts every generation or so because no guy hits puberty and still wants to wear the same kind of underwear as his dad. See, right now Dad and I both wear boxers, but I've been seriously considering switching over to briefs."

"Okay..." Martha replied uncertainly. She looked over at her husband, who nodded in confirmation.

"And may I ask," began Jonathan, who had an odd gleam in his eye that managed to simultaneously convey curiosity and concern, "whether the great Luthor clan is also subject to the banality of this cultural trend?"

Clark looked up, meeting his father's gaze with a kind of trepid interest. "I've got the information on my generation," he said, raising an eyebrow inquisitively as he stared, unblinking, at his father. "You got the goods on yours?"

With a bittersweet smile, Jonathan responded, "I do. You first, though."

Clark smirked, almost blushing as his eyes darted to the window and then back to face his father. "Trick question," he chuckled quietly. "Lex wears boxer-briefs. Lionel?"

Remarkably, Jonathan laughed outwardly at this. "Double trick question," he announced. "Last I knew of it, Lionel wore nothing at all."

More than a little bit discomfited by this exchange, Martha watched both husband and son intently. The only thing more unsettling than watching them argue was watching them agree on something she didn't quite understand. When, exactly, did she become the odd person out, anyway? "Um, boys?" she suggested. "I believe we may have wandered back into the 'dysfunctional family' category."

The two men looked at her innocently. "I just don't think Luthor family nudity is an appropriate topic for the breakfast table, that's all," she explained. She cleared her throat awkwardly. "More juice, Clark?"

"Um... yeah. Please." Clark handed his mother his glass as she pushed her chair back and then turned to look at his father curiously.

Once Martha had left the table, Jonathan leaned in conspiratorially. "Son," he whispered, "any chance you'd like to explain how you know so much about Lex's undergarments?"

"Sure," Clark responded, "if you'll tell me how you know about Lionel's lack thereof."

They sat in silence for several moments, eyes locked in a wordless exchange that conveyed both understanding and, from the father's side, warning. Jonathan parted his lips, about to speak, but snapped them closed again when Martha returned to the table.

"Thanks, Mom," said Clark with a faint smile, breaking eye contact with his father as he turned to accept the glass of orange juice. He returned his attention to his crossword. "Hey Dad, maybe you can help with two down," he prompted momentarily. "What's another word for 'passionate exchange.'"

"'Lust?'" Jonathan suggested. "That's a four letter word, you know."

"Yeah, well so is 'love.'"

"And so is 'S.T.Ds.'"

"And so is 'friend' if you spell it ebonically, but that doesn't mean it's the right answer." Clark looked up at his father with a determined seriousness that made Jonathan's heart ache.

Just then, their conversation was interrupted by a quick double honk of a car horn in the driveway. Clark grinned and hustled over to the window, peering between the shades to see a black Ford Explorer pull up. "That's Lex," he proclaimed, turning back to his parents with a broad smile on his face. "Gotta go." He trotted across to the stairs, against which lay his overflowing hiking pack and slung it over one shoulder. When he got to the screen door he turned and offered his parents a farewell salute. "I'll be back sometime tomorrow evening," he said, beaming, and hurried out the door.

Jonathan and Martha rose and went to the back door, each leaning against a side of the door frame as they watched Clark walk briskly toward the SUV, where Lex was leaning casually. The young billionaire looked uncharacteristically informal in his Timberlands, Levis and grey "Princeton Fencing" t-shirt. Lex smiled broadly as Clark approached him, offering an amiable wink as he took his pack and threw it in the back with the rest of the gear. When he returned to the front of the car, Clark had already strapped himself into the passenger seat. Noticing the Kents looking on from the kitchen, Lex gave a friendly wave before climbing into the Ford and donning an expensive-looking pair of sunglasses. He paused as he started up the engine, listening intently to something Clark was telling him, and then laughed brightly. Grinning mischievously, Lex turned and directed a parting, companionable nod at Jonathan before maneuvering the truck around and speeding off in a cloud of gravel and dry-season dust.

Once the Explorer had disappeared from view, Martha leaned back against the counter and scowled at her husband, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. "What the hell kind of crossword puzzle was that anyway?"