Clouds Up - Thirteen (13/15)
Disclaimer: ‘Smallville’ and certain characters belong to Miller-Gough et. al. No profit is gained from this writing. Only, hopefully, enjoyment.
He had visited her sometimes. She'd always smiled when he'd walked into the room, and that was reason enough, but--
No one really knew she was his mother, not around here. In fact, no one outside here really knew, either. It was just Lucas, Lex, and Julian, and so by extension Bruce, Dick and Alfred probably knew, too. Lin, wherever he was, also knew, but. . .
Rachel had checked in by herself, and she hadn't put down anyone's name as next of kin or emergency contact. She'd said it was because she didn't want to cause a scandal, but Lucas wondered if that were the truth.
Rachel was a very good liar.
He had brought her flowers today, orchids. They were white and crisp and clean. They were beautiful and for her.
He set them down on the empty chair next to him. The people here, the attendants, they were all very nice. Lucas had seen shows on television, and movies, and he'd read quite a bit, and usually places like this. . . they didn't seem very nice. Here, it was, though. Every time he'd visited, everyone was polite and calm and they smiled at him. Some people slept or put together puzzles or walked. No one shouted or screamed or threw anything, not once when he'd been here.
It was a nice place, and Rachel had seemed happy here.
But she was a very good liar.
Since she hadn't named anyone as her next of kin or guardian, no one would be called or notified. It was only. . . chance. . . that Lucas had chosen today of all days. . .
Still too late, though. He'd be asked to identify her body.
He'd see her today, just not-- not how he'd. . .
No one would be called. No one would know. Lex and Lin, they wouldn't know. No one would. He wouldn't have known, if he hadn't come today. If he'd decided to wait until next week, or next month, there would have been no Rachel here to see.
She'd have already been buried, in the ground for weeks and no one to know, no one to care.
He should have come yesterday, or last week. If he hadn't waited until this afternoon-- if he'd come in the morning-- if he'd called her on the phone, or written her letters--
If he'd. . . done something he hadn't been doing, then she'd be here. He'd be able to give her her flowers if she were still here. Where would they go now? Was he supposed to do something with them? Was there a custom or tradition for this?
Lucas felt strange, so he took off his jacket. It didn't help any, though. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He breathed in and out, deeply, correctly.
He still felt it. It was bad and getting bigger with every second. He looked over at her orchids again and then. . . .
. . . but it wasn't Rachel's hand and hers was the one he wanted to see and feel and hold, not this woman's. . .
. . . hard to breathe and he kept sucking air in, but he couldn't get it out. . .
". . . it'll be all right, hon," she said again. Hand in his hair, hand on his cheek, and they weren't right. Neither of them was the right one. "It'll be all right. . . "
--and it wasn't supposed to be like this. How had this happened? How had he not seen this? He wanted to do something, make something else hurt and feel ugly inside. He wanted to hit and scream and tear with his hands. He wanted to destroy something, anything, just to. . .
What was the point? What use was he if he couldn't even get this right? Who was he? What was the--
What was the fucking point of even being here if he didn't do anything for anyone? If he couldn't see past himself for five fucking seconds when someone else's life was on the line? What use was any of this?
What was the fucking point?
Mom, he wanted to say. Rachel. Rachel! Mom. . .
But there was no Mom, anymore. She wasn't here. He hadn't seen her when he could have, and now he wouldn't ever see her again. He hadn't seen her. He'd never seen her, never dreamed her face, not once in all these years. What was the purpose of having those dreams if they didn't help?
Why could he see himself and everyone else, but never once her? Why couldn't he have seen that? He would've. If he'd been able to, if he'd had the choice to. . . he would have traded all his happy moments to come for just one flash of Rachel yesterday.
She was gone forever now, and maybe that was his fault. Maybe it was more than just not being able to prevent it.
Maybe she'd lied about other things besides how she'd felt. Had she been happy to see him? Had that smile on her face been real every time? Or was this--
Was this Rachel's way of getting away from him?
"Thank you," Lucas finally said to the attendant. He looked up and smiled. "I apologize for-- "
"Oh, no," the woman said sternly, interrupting him. Lucas shut his mouth in surprise and raised an eyebrow, and the attendant just reached out and patted his cheek again. "Don't you apologize, honey. You go be with your people. Your mama loved you, you know" she told him, and Lucas felt himself frown at that.
How had she--
But he just cleared his throat and nodded, smiled, went to stand and watched the woman back up. Lucas turned to go, and was about halfway down the hall when she called out.
"Hon!" the attendant said loudly.
Lucas turned to look back. She was pointing at Rachel's orchids, still lying in their crinkly foil on the chair.
"Hon, don't you want these?"
"No," Lucas answered. "They aren't mine." And he turned around and left Prairie View Mental Health Clinic for the last time.
***
Lin had been gone for a little more than two weeks already when a fire broke out in California. It evidently happened every year, but this time was worse somehow. Many people had been evacuated, so no casualties. Yet.
Lin wasn't here, but Lucas was. There were no people to worry about, not at the moment. It was the perfect time to start, to try, to attempt.
He wasn't as well known as Lex or Bruce, or even Lin, but Lucas still worried about people finding out who he really was and what he could really do. So he made a mask and put it over his face, and then he ran to California.
It was exhilarating. People couldn't see him, except when they flew helicopters overhead. Even then, though, their eyes wouldn't be able to distinguish between Lucas and the fire. He was in it.
Figuring out how to extinguish the fire was more difficult than he'd anticipated. He tried running around and that helped some, but not enough. He even flew low to the ground and very fast, and that worked too, but. . . not well enough.
What put out fire? Water. But hauling water was too difficult to do, and it wouldn't be efficient, either. What else put out fire?
Dirt. Soil. Put dirt on a fire and it was smothered.
So that's what Lucas did. He reached under the fire and lifted the earth beneath and then set it back down on top. The flames were put out. It took a lot of effort because he could only get so much dirt and soil up in his hands at one time, but it worked. Up into hills and across great stretches of fields, Lucas worked and repeated the same motions over and over and over and over. . .
Stop. Bend down. Push arms down, down, down into Earth. Pull dirt and soil and burnt grass up. Drop onto flames. Move over. Stop. Bend down. Push arms down, down, down into Earth. Pull dirt and--
It was repetitive, but not boring. The fire attacked and tried to eat everything that lay before it. It went up trees, even, and so Lucas had to follow it there, too. He used everything he could. He took off his jacket and smothered fire. He dropped bodily onto the flames, rolling and smothering them that way. The skin of his hands ripped and tore and bled climbing the trees. The fire burned whatever it touched, and it touched Lucas quite a bit. But blisters that formed, flesh which melted, torn and split skin. . . all of it healed.
The faster he moved, the more his shoes wore down. Soon they weren't there anymore. But he wouldn't not keep moving just because he was barefoot. He stepped into fire and it burned, but then he'd reach down and drag the earth up and the fire would be gone from that spot. Then he'd move and when he stopped a few feet away, his burns would be gone. His skin would be whole and new, and then he'd step into the fire again.
For an hour, he did this. He put out fire where the helicopters weren't going. He watched them drop water down from the sky and suddenly thought, 'Rain.'
Rain would help put out the fire.
They'd made it rain before. Just a few days after they'd first come to Smallville, he and Lin had flown so high and so far and so fast that they'd created thunderstorms across the country. They'd laughed, but from then on they were both careful.
Now was not the time to be careful, though. Now. . . now was the time for storms and rain.
Lucas ran across a large field of fire and the speed of his passage extinguished the flames behind him. He ran into a take-off, and couldn't help grinning when he saw a helicopter pilot's mouth drop open. Lucas flew up and over that helicopter. He went higher and higher and then arched left. Around and around and up and down, and then he'd switch direction and fly off another way. Clouds moved. Lucas moved them. He brought them together and on top of each other, and. . .
Crack and boom of thunder, wait, wait, flash of lightning. Again, again. Again, and then--
He laughed when he first felt the water. It fell down and poured and streamed onto California, and where it landed. . .
The fire was extinguished. All of it, gone. It left behind ash and things were destroyed. Plants, life, dead.
Dead, as in never coming back, never to be seen again. No more.
The fire was dead too, though. Everything died eventually, everything, everyone.
Lucas didn't go back down once the rain started falling and the fire was put out. He went back to Kansas, touching down in the trees just outside the castle's property line. He looked down at himself and decided sneaking in would be the best decision here. It was still early, still light out. Martha might even still be up there in the kitchen, doing something necessary that only she knew how to do.
So Lucas stuck to the dark parts of the estate, and avoided security cameras on his own property. He went in the castle, his castle, his land, his property, and climbed into the shower. He washed himself of ash and dirt and salt and death.
Lin was off learning, but Lucas wasn't. He would learn here and get better.
He'd help. He'd do good. He'd be of use.
He'd keep people from dying when they didn't have to.
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