Never Held

Pairing: (Lionel/Lillian, Jonathan/ Martha-first part) // (Lex/Clark-second part) Rating: Mature
Disclaimer: I don't own a thing!
Summary: A look into the minds and hearts of men that have only one thing in common. A desperate need to replace the love they were never given by their own fathers.

Part 1/2

Lionel Luthor was never held by his father, Lachlan Luthor.

As a child Lionel had been exceptional smart and a constant loner. As other children played with cars and their dad's tools, Lionel always found building blocks the most compelling of toys. Lionel would spend hours building these elaborate castles and with each block his mind was always calculating the best way to destroy it, once it was perfect.

When Lionel was seven he remembers his father walking into his room and slamming his fist on his small play table. Lionel can sometimes still smell the cheap alcohol that was always on his father's breath when he'd lean down and yell him.

"You know what I see when I look at you, boy?" he asked swaying a bit and looking at Lionel's ten story toy building in disgust.

Lionel remained quiet as he looked closely at his castle and decided his fist would be the best way to destroy it.

"I see nothing, boy. I see nothing but another god damn mouth I have to feed." Lionel still kept his eyes on the castle and waited patiently for his father to leave. Lachlan's words no longer affected Lionel as much as they once had. It wasn't like Lionel didn't hear the same thing every time his father drank.

It was nothing, He's father thought he was...nothing. He clenched his eyes together. So, it still affected him but he wasn't going to let the bastard know that. As his eyes were still tightly clenched he jumped up startled when a hand full of blocks hit his head. He opened his eyes and kept his face blank as he father whipped another block at his head, "you hearing me boy?" he snarled.

Lionel nodded his head and kept his eyes on the fierce blue eyes of his father. "Yes, sir, I do."

"Good," Lachlan sneered his lips curling into a cruel smirk, "you best be remembering it to."

It was that night, when he lie in bed listening to his father beat his neglectful drunk mother that he vowed to kill them both.

Never being held or coddled as a child was something that Lionel at the age of 50 proudly stated. It was because of that very fact that at the age of 24 he sat on the edge of a cliff and watched the flames burn down his childhood home a mile away. It was this moment, the greatest of his life that he realized his path, his soon to be greatness and he fell in love with the flames. The beautiful red flames that burnt down everything that caused him pain. The flames of that fire hypnotized him and were forever imprinted on his soul. It was two months later after searching for that color of red again he saw it in Lillian's hair.

Every time he fucked her, he would take her from behind and grab onto that red hair tight. He would always eel the rush he got that night, the rush of killing. He had successfully destroyed a childhood he knew was best left in those flames. He would pull hard on Lillian's hair and come deep inside of her as he pictured his father's burnt body screaming for mercy.

Marrying Lillian, owning her very soul and all her wealth that came with that made him feel even closer to the flame. As he held his wife at night he would run his hands through her flame color locks and he could swear he felt the power run through him. His father's voice that constantly told him he was nothing was finally gone. Whenever Lionel reminded himself he won he would bring the red locks up to his nose and breathe in the smell of his success.

When Alexander was born Lionel had been tempted for a moment to hold his new baby boy. He held out his hands and watched as Lillian pulled the tiny knitted hat off his small head. A second later he was frozen in horror as fierce blue eyes looked up at him with flame red curls stuck up this way and that.

Lionel took a step back in terror as the ghost of his father looked up at him from the eyes of his new born son. The curls of red hair mocking him and whispering in his ear that he was nothing.

Lionel stared at his wife as if she had betrayed him and he vowed to never hold his son. He would never dirty him self by holding the ghost of his father.

As Alexander grew Lionel lost his love for the flames. He would stay at work until he knew the boy was a sleep and creep up the stairs so no one would hear him. Every night he would fuck Lillian for hours trying to get back that control, that red haze.

LuthorCorp was becoming the source of power he always envisioned it would be but each time he caught a flash of his son's red hair his father's voice would haunt him.

It wasn't until that day in the cornfields after the meteorite shower, as he watched the tuffs of red hair float away from his now bald headed son's unconscious body, that he felt it.

As he looked down at the boy his eyes took in the lack of flame and he felt the power return. He picked up a tuff of the red hair and placed it to his nose. It simply reeked of success.

For the first time since he was seven years old he though back to those building blocks. He slowly picked up his unconscious son and held him for the first and last time.

He made a vow that moment as he held the tuff a red hair in his fist that he would build this boy up, make this weak child the perfect Luthor and the whole time he would find the best way to destroy him.

Small, blue eyes looked up at him once before the boy pasted out again and Lionel welcomed the feeling of his father's dead spirit. This time Lionel didn't feel the chill, this time he was the one in control.

Jonathan Kent was never held by his father, Jerome Kent.

But whenever Martha asks him about his father, Jon always feels the need to lie. He would make up elaborate stories of a man who never yelled at his children and loved his wife dearly. In Jon's stories Jerome was a good man that cared about his community and never said a mean word about others. He was a role model, a man Jon was proud to call dad. It's the same stories he told everyone, the same ones he had been telling since he was a small child. Everyone in Smallville believed the same thing Martha did. Every one believed Jerome was a good man.

But he wasn't any of those things, no; Jerome Kent wasn't a good man. And unfortunately the world Jon created in his head wasn't the one he was raised in.

Jon's real childhood had been a terrifying time of pain and fear. By the age of ten Jon knew how to sit still as his mother carefully put make up on his face. He would smile sadly at her as she tried to keep the tears out of her eyes and tell him in a weak and whispered voice that daddy didn't mean to hit him.

That one lie his mother told him after every beating was the one he held in his heart every time he told people his stories. When he was in the lunch room with his friends and he told them about the fishing trip he and his dad had gone on, his mother's voice was there with him. The truth became the fantasy and the lies become his life.

It was on Jon's eighteenth birthday that he could no longer believe his own lies. He might always lie about his childhood but that night he no longer lied to himself. When he got home that evening he had been highly intoxicated and stumbled through the front door to be greeted by a familiar sight. His mother silently bleeding on the floor as a drunken Jerome yelled at her that she deserved it.

But that night something in Jon snapped and he saw red. Before he even registered that he had moved Jon lunged at his father with a loud roar.

A roar that had held every bit of pain and anger he felt for his father. A roar that held all the betrayal, the sadness, the loss and desperation for that simple, loving embrace from a father that was incapable of doing so.

In this moment he let himself go. He let himself be the kind of man that his father would be proud of. As he hit his father hard and heard his nose break against his fist Jon realized how easy it would be, to be a man that drank, a man that yelled, and a man that hit back.

Yes, he felt it. The power, the red haze of all that strength and he drank it in. He saw the blood gush out of his father's nose and smiled at the sight. He felt free in that moment and was about to hit his father again when he heard it. He heard his mother's howl of true emotional pain, a pain that cut deeper than any physical blow.

It was when he looked into his mother's fearful, hazel eyes that he knew he was everything he hated. Her eyes pierced right in to his soul and he instantly stilled. He couldn't do this, he couldn't be this man.

He didn't look at Jerome as he slowly back out of the house. Jon kept his eyes focused on his mother. He knew he would never come back; he knew as he looked into her eyes this would be the last time he saw her. He whispered a good bye and left his past behind him.

There years later Jon's mother died of lung cancer. Jerome and he never spoke at the funeral. They didn't even look at one another and six months later when Jerome died of a heart attack Jon didn't attend the funeral.

A year after his father died, Jonathan and his new bride walked into a dusty, old farm house and made it their home. The entire time Jon painted the house yellow he held back the tears. With every stroke of his paintbrush he prayed he was successful at covering up old memories best left forgotten.

Jon would never admit it but when Clark first came into his life he had been weary of adopting him.

The first two nights of Clark being with them Martha and he talked about nothing but his odd abilities but soon the conversation changed. It seemed that whenever Clark was put down for an instant he would whimper. Clark needed to be in arms length every second and even in sleep the little boy needed to be near them. When they tried to step away the boy would scream almost like he was in pain and whimper as if his whole world had been destroyed...and maybe it had...

A week it puzzled and worried Jon until Clark's first time in an elevator. As the doors began to shut Clark began to howl and tried to scratch at the doors. He ran around in a circle and wouldn't stop howling.

A howl that Jon had heard before, a howl his mother had once made.

Jonathan had run to Clark and held him tight and looked deep into those fearful hazel eyes and felt his mother's spirit with them.

That night when Jonathan walked down to the cellar with the crowbar he hadn't told his wife his revelation. He stood there staring at the ship with hateful eyes because he now knew why Clark always needed to be held and why the elevator made him panic. Jon knew exactly why the boy was terrified of the dark and he feared being abandoned.

Clark was three years old as far as they could guess.

THREE YEARS OLD!

How long had Clark been alone in this ship, what if it's been since he was a newborn? Jon clenched his jaw and held the crowbar tight. Clark might have been alone in this tiny ship all his young life before he fell from the sky.

Jon roared and hit the ship, "How could you!" he screamed.

"Why?" He barked slamming the crowbar harder into the unbreakable metal.

"Father's are supposed to hold you, not push you away!" he screamed hitting it again and again.

"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO LOVE ME!" He screamed and for the first time ever he didn't fight it. He let them come; he finally shed his long awaited to tears. Jonathan Kent final let him self howl.

He fell to his knees and threw the crowbar away in disgust. He wasn't sure how long he sat there sobbing but jumped when he felt a strong, tiny hand grip his shoulder. He turned around and looked at Clark and saw Martha running down the stair behind him with a panicked expression on her face.

"I though I lost him, he was there one minute then gone the..."

"Martha, its ok," he said brushing his tears away and smiling at his boy....his boy!

"Come here, Clark," Jonathan said as he held out his hands. Clark ran to him and held him tight. It was that moment he let go of the fear he would be like his father and became what he was always destined to be...

Superman's role model but more importantly, Clark Kent's Dad.