[BFTD Verse] Photographs
ooc: mom_of_steel used with affection and love.
All of his photographs are tragedies.
Lionel had been able to save only a fraction of his previous life - items neither so banal that they wouldn't be worth the risk, nor so important that Lex would instantly realize the loss. As it is, his truly personal possessions can fit into a shoebox, and they number only a few pieces of jewelry, a book or two he couldn't bear to lose, and photographs…
Lillian on her wedding day, radiant in white.
Lex in his new school uniform, nervously hanging onto his father's leg.
Julian, peacefully sleeping.
Lucas, blond-haired and innocent.
"I've lost all of them," he says as Martha turns the photographs over, careful with each image as though they might just fade and crumble in her hands. "Destroyed them all."
They're sitting on the floor of his attic apartment, photographs spread out on the rug before them. She had volunteered to bring over some of her own albums, full of colorful days gone by - teenage pageants and dances, and then her life at the farm with Clark and Jonathan. Martha might argue till she's blue that she's a mere faded, wrinkled, old version of the girl he sees as a debutante, or even as a young wife looking at a pitchfork as if it might eat her alive. But he nudges her gently and keeps repeating, "you're beautiful, you always were."
He's not.
He's never been self-conscious about his image beyond the need to repair several devastating injuries with plastic surgery, but… While Martha glows in her photographs, he seems to want to retreat into himself, the light gone out of his eyes.
"Look at this," Martha says, nudging him back. "You're adorable. How old was Lex, then?"
He adjusts his glasses and leans in to see a tiny red-headed boy riding on his shoulders, helping him to inspect a new building site. "Four, or… No, that was the New Creek site. Three. It was the first time he'd ever come to work with me, and he begged me to let him… We had a wonderful day."
My son, he thinks, remembering ruffling that hair, remembering holding his newborn baby boy in his arms. My son who killed me.
Martha touches his knee. "He loved you. They all did. It wasn't… it wasn't entirely your fault, everything that happened."
"Not entirely," he repeats, wishing he had the heart to chuckle cynically.
"Lionel, I won't pretend that you were the best husband or father, but who could have predicted what happened to Julian? How sick Lillian really was? And from what you've told me, that irrevocably damaged your relationship with Lex."
As he often finds himself telling her, she's too charitable for her own good. "I could have changed things. I could have tried… before it was too late." He remembers the fun they had had once, fencing, playing chess, reading Treasure Island, visiting the National Air & Space Museum where Lex had run wild and had almost thrown up out of sheer joy. And all of that, more than twenty years ago.
His eyes go to a photograph of Clark, clad in his usual red and blue, arms wrapped around his beaming, much shorter mother. If only he could think of a moment like that… But the closest he's come in years is dinner with Daily Planet editor Grant Gabriel, the clone of his dead son Julian, who had laughed at his jokes and listened to his stories, and bled to death in his arms.
"You have to hold on to the good moments," Martha is saying. "Even when bad things - tragic things - happen, that doesn't invalidate the happy moments. They all loved you. You were happy. And you can be happy again. Lucas is still out there, somewhere. You still have time to make a difference."
She makes a wonderful senator. He's not sure that he could make a good businessman anymore. He's too sentimental. Too afraid of consequences, of loss. "I've lost everyone I've ever loved," he says, neither looking for nor expecting sympathy. "I have no idea what I could have done to deserve you."
There's the faintest hint of a smirk on her lips. "Maybe you should be asking what on earth I did to deserve you?"
He can't look at any of his photographs the way she does, can't see the simple hope and goodness she says she sees in him. But he does see her here next to him now, as close as they can be, her fingers tangling up tightly with his. He feels her palm cool against his unshaven cheek, and her lips soft on his.
"We should buy a camera," she tells him, smiling as she gently removes his glasses. "You need some new memories. Good memories, that we can look back on when we're both ninety-two."
Ninety-two. He's worried about how much his knees might creak now if he were to stand up, but she's pushing him backwards so that his shoulderblades sink into the rug, and the photographs are scattered.
As a warm body covers his, and kisses pepper his face, Lionel Luthor starts to believe.
All of his photographs are tragedies.
Lionel had been able to save only a fraction of his previous life - items neither so banal that they wouldn't be worth the risk, nor so important that Lex would instantly realize the loss. As it is, his truly personal possessions can fit into a shoebox, and they number only a few pieces of jewelry, a book or two he couldn't bear to lose, and photographs…
Lillian on her wedding day, radiant in white.
Lex in his new school uniform, nervously hanging onto his father's leg.
Julian, peacefully sleeping.
Lucas, blond-haired and innocent.
"I've lost all of them," he says as Martha turns the photographs over, careful with each image as though they might just fade and crumble in her hands. "Destroyed them all."
They're sitting on the floor of his attic apartment, photographs spread out on the rug before them. She had volunteered to bring over some of her own albums, full of colorful days gone by - teenage pageants and dances, and then her life at the farm with Clark and Jonathan. Martha might argue till she's blue that she's a mere faded, wrinkled, old version of the girl he sees as a debutante, or even as a young wife looking at a pitchfork as if it might eat her alive. But he nudges her gently and keeps repeating, "you're beautiful, you always were."
He's not.
He's never been self-conscious about his image beyond the need to repair several devastating injuries with plastic surgery, but… While Martha glows in her photographs, he seems to want to retreat into himself, the light gone out of his eyes.
"Look at this," Martha says, nudging him back. "You're adorable. How old was Lex, then?"
He adjusts his glasses and leans in to see a tiny red-headed boy riding on his shoulders, helping him to inspect a new building site. "Four, or… No, that was the New Creek site. Three. It was the first time he'd ever come to work with me, and he begged me to let him… We had a wonderful day."
My son, he thinks, remembering ruffling that hair, remembering holding his newborn baby boy in his arms. My son who killed me.
Martha touches his knee. "He loved you. They all did. It wasn't… it wasn't entirely your fault, everything that happened."
"Not entirely," he repeats, wishing he had the heart to chuckle cynically.
"Lionel, I won't pretend that you were the best husband or father, but who could have predicted what happened to Julian? How sick Lillian really was? And from what you've told me, that irrevocably damaged your relationship with Lex."
As he often finds himself telling her, she's too charitable for her own good. "I could have changed things. I could have tried… before it was too late." He remembers the fun they had had once, fencing, playing chess, reading Treasure Island, visiting the National Air & Space Museum where Lex had run wild and had almost thrown up out of sheer joy. And all of that, more than twenty years ago.
His eyes go to a photograph of Clark, clad in his usual red and blue, arms wrapped around his beaming, much shorter mother. If only he could think of a moment like that… But the closest he's come in years is dinner with Daily Planet editor Grant Gabriel, the clone of his dead son Julian, who had laughed at his jokes and listened to his stories, and bled to death in his arms.
"You have to hold on to the good moments," Martha is saying. "Even when bad things - tragic things - happen, that doesn't invalidate the happy moments. They all loved you. You were happy. And you can be happy again. Lucas is still out there, somewhere. You still have time to make a difference."
She makes a wonderful senator. He's not sure that he could make a good businessman anymore. He's too sentimental. Too afraid of consequences, of loss. "I've lost everyone I've ever loved," he says, neither looking for nor expecting sympathy. "I have no idea what I could have done to deserve you."
There's the faintest hint of a smirk on her lips. "Maybe you should be asking what on earth I did to deserve you?"
He can't look at any of his photographs the way she does, can't see the simple hope and goodness she says she sees in him. But he does see her here next to him now, as close as they can be, her fingers tangling up tightly with his. He feels her palm cool against his unshaven cheek, and her lips soft on his.
"We should buy a camera," she tells him, smiling as she gently removes his glasses. "You need some new memories. Good memories, that we can look back on when we're both ninety-two."
Ninety-two. He's worried about how much his knees might creak now if he were to stand up, but she's pushing him backwards so that his shoulderblades sink into the rug, and the photographs are scattered.
As a warm body covers his, and kisses pepper his face, Lionel Luthor starts to believe.