Lex Luthor reclined on the leather couch, Victoria Hardwick's lips pressed against his neck as her fingers traced patterns along his collar. "You taste like expensive scotch and bad decisions," she murmured against his skin.
"My two favorite things," he replied, tilting his head to give her better access.
The heavy oak doors burst open, and Lionel Luthor strode into the room. "Lex, you have disappointed me."
Lex didn't bother moving from his comfortable position. "Hi, Dad. It's good to see you, too."
Lionel's gaze swept over the intimate scene with obvious disgust. His jaw tightened as he took in Victoria's disheveled hair and Lex's unbuttoned shirt.
"Would you mind telling me what she's doing here?"
Lex's mouth curved into a lazy smile. He ran his hand along Victoria's bare shoulder, enjoying the way his father frowned.
"Right now? Working on my neck. But knowing her, I think that's just a start."
Lionel's laugh held no warmth. "Could this be a ploy to get my attention? Well done, it worked."
Lex finally sat up straighter, though he kept one arm wrapped around Victoria's waist. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she watched the father and son face off. "I know this is gonna come as a shock, but not everything in my life revolves around you."
"Oh, I understand. So you're simply... being swindled." Lionel's voice dripped with condescension. He turned his piercing stare on Victoria. "Would you excuse us, Miss Hardwick? My son and I are going to have a little chat about family loyalty."
Victoria rose gracefully from the couch, smoothing down her silk blouse. "It's all right. I'll run us a bath." She leaned down and captured Lex's lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. Her tongue flicked against his bottom lip before she pulled away.
"I'll be there shortly," Lex promised.
Victoria turned to face Lionel, her smile sharp as a blade. "I'll send Sir Harry your regards."
"Swell."
Victoria's hips swayed as she glided from the room. The door closed behind her with a soft thud. Lex stood and walked to the bar cart, pouring himself two fingers of bourbon. He didn't offer his father a drink.
"This is hardly business."
"Generations of Luthors would beg to differ. It's always business, especially where the Hardwicks are concerned. Lex, can't you see she was sent to distract you? Sir Harry has been nipping away at LuthorCorp for months!"
Lex took a long sip of bourbon, savoring the burn. He turned to face his father. "LuthorCorp is your company. I'm just one of its many expendable employees, as you made abundantly clear when you exiled me to this charming cow town."
Lionel's eyes flashed with anger. He gripped his cane tighter, knuckles white against the silver handle. "Empires are not brought down by outside forces. They are destroyed by weaknesses from within! Lex, I've told you this. Smallville is your test. Right now you're failing."
"Thanks for the update, but I know exactly what I'm doing."
"No, you don't. She is playing the only card she's got, and you are falling for it hook, line, and sinker."
Lex slammed his glass down on the bar cart. "My personal life is my business."
"Not when it affects my company. Then it's my business." Lionel stepped forward until they stood face to face. "Lex, listen to this. If you sell out your family, then you will truly be alone in the world."
Outside the door, Victoria pressed her ear against the wood, listening to every word.
Footsteps stopped short down the hallway. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."
Victoria spun around to find Amy Palmer standing frozen in the corridor. The young woman's face flushed red with embarrassment. Amy turned and hurried away, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. Without looking back, her voice carried clearly through the empty hallway. "You don't deserve him."
Victoria's lips curved into a cold smile as she watched the girl disappear around the corner.
Outside the servant house, Jeff, Amy's brother, emerged just as she approached. Her shoulders shook with barely contained emotion. "Amy, hey. What's wrong?"
"Her! What do you think?" Amy's voice cracked with frustration.
"Amy? Amy!"
But Amy had already pushed through the guesthouse door, leaving Jeff standing alone outside.
Later, inside one of the mansion's many bathrooms, Victoria turned the golden faucets, watching steam rise from the cascading water as it filled the enormous clawfoot tub. She tested the temperature with her fingertips, adjusting the flow until it reached the perfect heat. When the water reached halfway to the rim, she twisted the handles closed and began unbuttoning her silk blouse. The fabric whispered against her skin as it fell to the floor, followed by the rest of her clothes. She stepped into the bath, sighing as the hot water enveloped her body. Leaning back against the porcelain, she closed her eyes and let the warmth seep into her muscles.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Victoria's eyes opened, but she remained relaxed. Lex would join her soon enough.
In his study, Lex sat hunched over his laptop. Financial reports scrolled across the screen as he analyzed LuthorCorp's quarterly projections. The numbers painted a troubling picture of his father's empire.
The study door opened without a knock. Clark Kent stepped inside, dark hair damp from the rain.
"Clark, what brings you over so late? Doing a little ghost hunting?"
Clark moved closer to the desk, expression serious. "No. I came here to talk to you about Victoria. Where is she?"
"She's taking a bath. Why? Is there a problem?"
Clark shifted uncomfortably. "Last night, when I was in here, I saw her. I don't really know how to say this."
Lex leaned back in his chair with a knowing smile. "She was going through the files on my computer?"
"Yeah, how'd you know?"
"Very little happens in this house without my knowledge."
Clark's brow furrowed with confusion. "You don't seem very upset about this."
"We're playing chess, Clark. It's a game. Like I said, we've known each other a long time."
"But you don't love her. She goes behind your back. Why do you want to keep her around?"
Lex closed the laptop and stood, walking to the window that overlooked the grounds. Lightning flickered in the distance. "It's complicated. Thanks for the heads up."
"That's what friends are for." Clark paused, then added, "I guess I shouldn't even bring up that Amy's got an obsession with you."
"It's a teenage crush. Nothing more." Lex turned back to face Clark.
Upstairs in the bathroom, the candles flickered; one flame guttered and died as the door opened with a soft creak. Victoria sat up in the tub, water cascading from her shoulders.
"Lex?" The door shut with a quiet click.
Suddenly, hands plunged into the water. Victoria gasped as invisible fingers wrapped around her throat and shoulders, forcing her down beneath the surface. Water rushed over her face as she struggled against the unseen attacker.
She managed to break free, gasping for air as she surfaced. Her wet hair clung to her face, and panic filled her eyes.
"Help! Somebody—"
The hands seized her again, pushing her down with brutal force. Victoria thrashed wildly, legs kicking against the sides of the tub. Her foot struck a ceramic vase on the edge, sending it crashing to the marble floor in a shower of fragments.
Down in the study, Lex and Clark snapped up at the sound. "What was that?"
Without waiting for an answer, Clark and Lex raced up the stairs, reaching the bathroom door. They burst through the entrance to find Victoria floating face-down in the tub, motionless.
Lex plunged his hands into the water and lifted her out, cradling her limp form against his chest. He laid her gently on the floor and grabbed her silk robe from a nearby hook, covering her naked body.
Victoria coughed violently, water streaming from her mouth as her lungs fought for air.
"You're gonna be okay."
After a trip to Metropolis General for a checkup, Victoria invited Lex for a business meeting with her father to discuss how they could benefit from a partnership. Lex arrived early, patiently waiting until the secretary called him. The floor-to-ceiling windows of the Metropolis high-rise offered a commanding view of the bustling city below. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, watching the afternoon traffic weave between skyscrapers.
Behind him, the conference room door opened with a soft whoosh. Victoria Hardwick entered, recovered, followed by her father. Lex didn't turn around immediately, letting them wait as he studied the ant-like movement of pedestrians forty stories below.
"Lex, you remember Dad."
Now he turned, expression carefully neutral. Sir Harry Hardwick wore a tailored charcoal suit, his silver hair perfectly styled. Victoria stood beside him in a burgundy dress that hugged her curves, emerald eyes bright with something that might have been triumph.
"Sir Harry. Victoria." Lex's voice carried a subtle edge as he stepped away from the window. "I flew halfway across the country to make sure you're okay, and you canceled dinner for a business meeting, then left me waiting forty-five minutes. You must be feeling better."
Sir Harry's face creased into what passed for a smile. "Oh, we were closing a deal."
"The city of Metropolis giving you the recycling contract?" Lex teased.
Victoria moved closer, perfume filling the space between them. "Lex, you seem upset."
"If this is the level of respect you show your business partners, I'm beginning to wonder if I made the right decision."
Sir Harry laughed dryly as he set his portfolio on the conference table and opened it with deliberate slowness, revealing neat stacks of legal documents.
"You see, Lex, it doesn't really matter. The deal is off."
"I'm sorry, I thought it was your life's ambition to crush my father."
"No, that's your life's ambition." Sir Harry's eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction. "Mine is to take over LuthorCorp."
"How do you plan to do that without my shares?"
Sir Harry reached into his portfolio and withdrew a thick manila folder. He placed it on the table between them like a chess piece, moving to place the king in check.
"You heard of Cadmus Labs?"
"I've been researching them for about a year."
"Well, your research has just paid off." Sir Harry's smile widened. "I bought them... an hour ago."
"And with the profits you'll reap from their patents, you'll buy LuthorCorp outright."
Sir Harry closed the portfolio with a sharp snap. "Tell your father I said hello." He turned to Victoria. "Come on, girl."
Sir Harry strode toward the door without looking back. Victoria lingered for a moment, eyes meeting Lex's. Something like regret flickered in her expression, but it was too quick for him to truly identify.
"Congratulations. I hope it was worth it," Lex said as she turned to follow.
— Meteor Freak —
Eric strutted across the school parking lot where Holly sat with her boyfriend, Brent, having lunch at one of the wooden tables outside the main entrance.
"Hey. Wanna go out sometime?"
Holly's eyes widened, sandwich frozen halfway to her mouth. Brent's face flushed red as he slowly stood from the bench.
"What do you think you're doing, Summers?"
"I'm asking Holly out," Eric said with a confidence that hadn't been there just a few days ago.
"What, are you suicidal?" Brent stepped around the table, hands clenched into fists. "You're not going out with my girlfriend, all right?"
Eric's lips curved into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Watch me."
"Hey!" Brent shoved Eric hard in the chest, but Eric barely moved. "You make the cover of the paper with some bogus stunt and suddenly you're somebody? Huh?"
"Brent..." Holly's voice carried a warning, but her boyfriend ignored her.
"Face it, Summers. You're still nothing."
Eric's fist shot out and connected with the side mirror of a nearby pickup truck, ripping it clean off the vehicle. Students scattered from their lunch spots, forming a wide circle, some screaming, others pulling out phones to record. Clark, Chloe, and Pete rushed over from the school steps as they realized what was happening. Tyson sauntered behind them, more slowly.
Brent's bravado evaporated. He sprinted around the truck and dove underneath it.
"What's the problem, Brent?" Eric walked casually to the side of the truck and gripped the frame with both hands. The metal groaned under his fingers. "Why are you hiding from nothing?"
The truck's wheels lifted off the ground as Eric raised one side effortlessly. Brent scrambled out from underneath and ran toward the school building. Releasing the truck, it crashed back down, and Eric caught up to Brent in a blur, blocking his path with arms crossed.
Brent spun around and ran in the opposite direction, but Eric moved faster, appearing in front of him again like he'd teleported. The terrified boy's eyes darted left and right, searching for an escape route that didn't exist. Eric grabbed Brent by the shirt and lifted him off his feet. With a casual motion, he hurled the boy through the air. Brent crashed into another picnic table, the wood splintering under the impact. He rolled across the ground, groaning and clutching his ribs.
"Eric!" Clark stepped forward. "You can't do this."
"Watch me."
"No, I'm serious!" Clark moved closer, hands raised peacefully. "You could kill someone. You don't want that on your conscience, believe me. You've just got to calm down."
"You're not my father, Clark." Eric's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Now shut up and get out of my way!"
Clark opened his mouth to respond, but Eric's hand shot out and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. With the same casual strength he'd used on Brent, Eric launched Clark backward. Clark's body slammed into a parked sedan with enough force to dent the passenger door and spider-web the window.
Holly knelt beside Brent, hands shaking as she checked his injuries. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead, and he struggled to sit up.
"Get away from us, you freak!"
"Hey! Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"
The voice called through the murmur of frightened students. Eric turned from Holly and Brent, eyes narrowing as they fixed on the source.
Tyson.
"You want a piece?" Eric lunged forward, hands reaching out to shove Tyson the same way he'd manhandled the others. But Tyson's arms came up, deflecting Eric's hands to the sides. His right fist shot forward, connecting solidly with Eric's jaw.
The impact echoed across the parking lot like a gunshot. Eric's head snapped back, and he dropped to one knee on the asphalt.
The crowd of students let out a collective "Oooh," phones still recording as they witnessed someone actually land a heavy blow on the seemingly unstoppable Eric.
Eric touched his jaw, fingers coming away without blood, but his eyes were wide with shock. He hadn't expected anyone to match his strength.
Tyson cracked his neck to the left, then the right. "I've been waiting for a challenge. Come on, tough guy. Show me what you've got."
Eric's shock transformed into rage. He pushed himself to his feet, face contorting with fury. He launched himself at Tyson, moving faster than the human eye could follow.
One moment, they stood facing each other in the school parking lot. The next, the world blurred around Tyson as Eric's superhuman speed carried them both away from Smallville High. The landscape rushed past in streaks of color until they crashed through the weathered walls of an abandoned barn on the outskirts of town.
Tyson's body smashed through rotting wooden beams and rusted farm equipment before slamming into the far wall. The entire structure shuddered from the impact, dust and debris raining down from the rafters above. He slumped to the ground among the wreckage, clothes torn and dirty.
Eric stood in the gaping hole they'd created in the barn wall, brushing splinters from his shirt with casual indifference.
"Not so tough now, are you?"
Tyson pushed himself to his feet, spitting out dust and wiping blood from his split lip. Then he started laughing. "This is going to be fun," he said with a fierce grin. "I wondered how I'd stack up against Superman."
Eric's confident expression faltered for a moment before hardening again.
"The name's Superboy."
He rushed forward, fist aimed at Tyson's face. Tyson ducked under the punch and drove his shoulder into Eric's midsection, lifting him off his feet and driving him backward into a support beam. The wooden post cracked under the impact.
Eric grabbed Tyson by the shoulders and spun, hurling him across the barn. Tyson crashed through a pile of old hay bales and rolled to his feet, already moving as Eric appeared beside him in a blur of motion. Eric's fist caught Tyson in the ribs, lifting him off the ground and sending him tumbling through the air.
But Tyson landed on his feet, sliding backward across the dirt floor. He charged forward, his own fist connecting with Eric's stomach. Eric doubled over, gasping, but recovered quickly enough to grab Tyson's arm and swing him in a wide arc. Tyson's back slammed into another support beam, and this one snapped completely.
"You're strong," Eric admitted, circling Tyson like a predator. "But you're not fast enough."
Eric vanished from sight, reappearing behind Tyson to land a devastating blow to his kidney. Before Tyson could turn around, Eric was gone again, striking from a different angle. A punch to the shoulder. A kick to the back of the knee. Each hit was precise and powerful, taking advantage of his superhuman speed.
Tyson spun wildly, attempting to track Eric's movements, but it was like fighting a ghost. His fists cut through empty air while Eric's attacks found their mark again and again. A particularly vicious uppercut to his jaw sent Tyson staggering backward, blood streaming from his nose.
"Come on!" Eric taunted, appearing directly in front of Tyson. "Is that all you've got?"
Tyson wiped the blood from his face and grinned through swollen lips. Instead of backing down, he accepted another punishing blow to his ribs in order to get close enough to grab Eric's shirt. With a roar of effort, he lifted Eric off his feet and drove him down into the dirt floor, creating a small crater from the impact.
Eric rolled away and sprang to his feet, but Tyson was already moving. He caught Eric with a haymaker that sent him flying backward through what remained of the barn's rear wall. Eric crashed into a rusted tractor, the metal buckling under his weight.
"My turn," Tyson growled.
He charged forward, but Eric recovered first. Using his speed, Eric circled around Tyson and caught him with a running tackle that sent them both crashing through the barn's side wall. They rolled across the open field beyond, trading punches as they fought for position.
Eric's speed gave him the advantage, allowing him to land three hits for every one of Tyson's.
They separated, both breathing hard. Eric's shirt was torn and dirty, a bruise forming along his jawline where Tyson's first punch had connected. Tyson looked worse for wear, face bloodied and clothes shredded.
"You're tough," Eric admitted, flexing his fingers. "But this ends now."
Eric vanished from sight, leaving only a faint disturbance in the air where he'd been standing. The first blow came from Tyson's left, a vicious hook that snapped his head sideways. Before he could recover, another punch hammered into his ribs from the right side. Tyson spun toward the second impact, but Eric was already gone. A knee drove into his lower back, sending him stumbling forward. He attempted to turn and face his attacker, but Eric's fist caught him in the temple, stars exploding across his vision.
The attacks came faster now, a relentless barrage from every direction. A punch to the kidney. An elbow to the shoulder blade. A kick to the back of his knee that nearly buckled his leg. Each strike landed before Eric disappeared again, leaving Tyson swinging at empty air.
Blood ran freely from Tyson's nose and split lip. His left eye was swelling shut, and his ribs screamed with each labored breath. He attempted to anticipate Eric's next move, but the boy was too fast, too unpredictable.
A devastating uppercut caught Tyson under the chin, lifting him off his feet. Before he could hit the ground, Eric appeared behind him grabbing his legs as they rose and slammed him into the ground like a dog shaking a toy. Then he drove both fists into his spine. Tyson crashed face-first into the dirt.
He pushed himself up on trembling arms, making it to his hands and knees before another blow sent him sprawling again. Dirt mixed with the blood in his mouth as he gasped for air.
Tyson struggled to rise back up to his hands and knees, arms shaking with the effort. Blood dripped from his split lip onto the dirt below, mixing with the dust and debris from their battle. His ribs ached with each ragged breath, and his left eye had swollen nearly shut.
But he held up a hand in peace, toward Eric.
He spat blood and said, "Alright, alright, I get it. I can't beat Superman in a straight fight."
Eric paused his assault, fists still clenched. "Smart move," he said. "I was starting to think you were too stupid to know when you were beaten."
Tyson pushed himself up to a kneeling position, swaying slightly as he fought to maintain his balance. His torn shirt hung in tatters, revealing the bruises already forming across his torso.
"You know how that saying goes."
Eric's brow furrowed. "What saying?"
A slow smile spread across Tyson's bloodied face, revealing teeth stained red.
"If you can't win. Cheat."
His fingers moved to the chain around his neck, finding the small locket that had remained hidden beneath his shirt throughout their fight. With a flick of his thumb, the locket popped open, revealing the green meteor rock nestled inside.
The effect was immediate.
Eric staggered backward as his superhuman strength drained away. Face went pale, beads of sweat forming on his forehead despite the cool autumn air.
"What?" Eric's voice came out as a strangled whisper. Hands clutched at his chest, fingers clawing at his shirt as if attempting to remove some unseen weight. "What's happening?"
Eric dropped to one knee, breathing becoming labored and shallow.
"The get back," Tyson said.
He rose from his kneeling position, drawing on his reserves of strength. His fist connected with Eric's chin in a devastating haymaker that snapped the boy's head back with a sharp crack.
Eric's eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed backward onto the churned earth, unconscious before he hit the ground.
— Meteor Freak —
The doctor finished wrapping Clark's ribs. His hands moved around Clark's torso, the white bandage pulled tight against bruised skin, and he winced with each pass.
"How much longer is it going to hurt like this?"
The doctor stepped back, examining his work. "Oh, you'll be fine in a couple of weeks."
Clark's eyes widened. "A couple of weeks?"
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." The doctor peeled off his latex gloves and tossed them in the waste bin.
The examination room door swung open, and Martha rushed in with Jonathan close behind. Her face crumpled with worry as she took in her son's battered appearance.
"Clark!" She moved toward him with arms outstretched.
Clark raised a defensive hand. "Easy on the ribs, Mom."
Martha pulled back, hands hovering inches from his shoulders. "Sorry."
"How's he doing, Doc?" Jonathan asked.
The doctor consulted his clipboard. "Well, nothing seems to be broken. We could get an X-ray just to be safe."
Jonathan exchanged a quick glance with Martha. "Um, I think we'll just take him home."
"It's your choice, but I want to see him back again in a week." The doctor made a note on his chart.
"Thanks, Doc." Clark slid off the examination table.
Jonathan placed a gentle hand on Martha's shoulder. "You help him get dressed, I'll go take care of the paperwork."
As Jonathan left the room, Martha helped Clark ease his arms into his flannel shirt. Her fingers worked the buttons. "What happened?"
Clark tested his range of motion, rolling his shoulders gingerly. "Eric just flipped out. It was kind of scary."
Martha's lips pressed into a thin line. "I wish you hadn't gotten in his way."
"I don't know what it is." Clark's voice carried frustration. "Even though Eric has my abilities, I still think of them as my responsibility."
The truck's engine rumbled beneath them as they pulled out of the hospital parking lot. Clark sat between his parents, body swaying with each turn, eliciting minor stings of pain from his ribs, but his mind remained fixed on the afternoon's events. As they rode home, he explained what happened. "Tyson seemed eager to fight. I swear he said, 'I've been waiting for a challenge,' before Eric charged him and they disappeared."
Jonathan's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "You don't think that Tyson could match your abilities?"
Clark shifted uncomfortably, the bandages pulling against his ribs. "I don't know. I don't think I've ever seen him go all out."
"Have you ever gone all out?"
Clark shook his head. However, the question touched something deeper; it made him wonder about the true extent of what he was capable of.
The Kent farmhouse came into view. Jonathan guided the truck up the gravel driveway, dust kicking up behind the tires. As they approached the house, Martha pointed toward the tree line.
"Is that someone coming out of the woods?"
A figure emerged from the shadows between the trees, moving with a deliberate but unsteady gait. The person dragged something behind them, leaving a trail in the dirt. As the distance closed, the details became clearer.
Tyson stumbled across the yard, clothes torn and bloodied. His face bore fresh cuts and bruises, dark purple welts that made his injuries from the scarecrow incident look minor. Dried blood caked his split lip and traced lines down his chin. His shirt hung in tatters, revealing scrapes and bruises across his chest and arms.
Behind him, he dragged Eric's unconscious form by the collar. Eric's head lolled to one side, body limp and unresponsive. His clothes were dirty, and a thin trickle of blood ran from his nose.
Jonathan brought the truck to a stop near the porch. The three Kents climbed out as Tyson continued his approach. When he reached the farmhouse, Tyson released his grip on Eric's collar. The unconscious boy crumpled to the ground at his feet like a discarded rag doll. He swayed slightly, blood trickling from a gash above his left eyebrow, and his right eye was swollen nearly shut. His knuckles were raw and bleeding. Despite his battered appearance, something fierce and satisfied burned in his remaining good eye.
Tyson looked up at the Kent family, split lip curving into a triumphant smile. Blood stained his teeth as he spoke.
"Tah Da!"
Martha gasped, hand flying to her mouth. Jonathan assessed the damage to both boys. "Good Lord, Tyson. What happened to you?"
Tyson wiped blood from his chin with the back of his hand, leaving a fresh smear across his knuckles. "Well, let's just say Eric and I had a philosophical disagreement about how Clark's superpowers should be used."
Clark limped closer, ribs protesting with each step. "How are you even standing?"
"Barely." Tyson's laugh turned into a wince as it pulled at his split lip. "Eric packed quite a punch. I mean, seriously, Clark, your powers are ridiculous. He threw me through a barn wall like I was a paper airplane. Or maybe he threw me through the paper wall, like an airplane? I'm not sure. I think I might be concussed. Almost feel bad about what I did to Whitney now…"
Jonathan knelt beside Eric's motionless form, checking for a pulse. "Is he going to be okay?"
"He'll live. Might have a headache when he wakes up, but nothing permanent." Tyson swayed slightly, catching himself against the truck's fender. "I technically lost the fight, by the way. The kid was way faster and stronger. But I had something he didn't."
Tyson reached into his pocket and pulled out the green meteor rock. "Good old Kryptonite. Turns out it works just as well on stolen powers as it does on the original."
"We need to get you to the hospital. You could have internal injuries." Martha said.
Tyson shook his head firmly, then immediately regretted the motion as it sent stars dancing across his vision. "Can't do that, Mrs. Kent. I've got something more important to handle first." He looked directly at Clark. "I need to give you back your powers. That's why I came here instead of collapsing and taking a nap in the woods like a sensible person."
Clark's eyebrows furrowed. "You can do that?"
"Take a nap? Can? I fought it with every step…. Oh wait, you mean about the powers. Should be able to." Tyson's characteristic grin returned, though it looked painful. "It's going to be weird, though."
"Why? What's wrong?"
"When I absorb your powers from Eric, the meteor rock is going to make me weak, just like it does to you. Real weak. I'm planning to transfer them back to you as quickly as I can, hopefully without getting stuck powerless myself." He paused, considering the mechanics of what he was about to attempt. "If I can manage it, I'll pass them through me without actually taking them into myself. Like a conduit instead of a battery."
Clark nodded, understanding the risk Tyson was taking. "Alright, let's do it."
Tyson knelt beside Eric's unconscious form. He slipped the meteor rock inside his sock, pressing it directly against his skin. The green glow was muted but still visible through the fabric.
Tyson grabbed Eric's limp wrist with his left hand and extended his right toward Clark, who took the offered hand. Jonathan and Martha stepped back, giving them space while staying close enough to help if something went wrong.
Tyson closed his eyes and began channeling his electricity. Blue sparks danced across his skin as he directed the energy first into the meteor rock, using it as a focal point, then into Eric's unconscious form.
The process began slowly. He felt the alien energy stirring within Eric, responding to his electrical pull. It was unlike anything he had absorbed before. Where Jeremy's electrical powers had felt like lightning in a bottle, and Greg's insect abilities had been earthy and primal, Clark's Kryptonian abilities carried something vast and cosmic. The power began to flow from Eric into Tyson, and immediately, he understood why Eric had kicked his ass. The strength was overwhelming, like containing an ocean in a teacup. His enhanced hearing picked up conversations from miles away, the sound of insects moving through grass, the rhythmic beating of three hearts standing nearby. His vision sharpened until he could see individual dust motes floating in the air.
But with the powers came the meteor rock's influence. The green stone pressed against his ankle sent waves of nausea through him just as quickly as he felt the overwhelming power. His newly enhanced strength wavered, improved vision blurred, and a bone-deep weakness spread through his limbs.
It was like being poisoned while simultaneously being supercharged.
Tyson gritted his teeth, fighting through the conflicting sensations. The Kryptonian abilities wanted to settle into his body, to make themselves at home. But the meteor rock rejected them violently, creating a painful internal war.
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he struggled to maintain the connection between Eric and Clark. The powers flowed through him like molten metal, burning and strengthening simultaneously. His electricity sparked erratically, sometimes blue, sometimes tinged with gold that reminded him of Clark's aura.
"Come on," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Don't get comfortable in there."
This absorption was his most challenging yet. Desiree's power had been hard to grasp, like smoke, but manageable. Tina's had been similar, but different. Clark's abilities fought the process, as if they recognized they belonged elsewhere and resented being stolen in the first place.
Tyson pushed harder, forcing the alien energy through his system and into Clark. He felt Clark's hand grow warm in his grip as the powers began to settle into their rightful owner.
The meteor rock's influence grew stronger as more Kryptonian energy passed through him. His vision darkened at the edges, and his grip on consciousness began to slip. But he held on, determined to complete the transfer before the weakness overwhelmed him completely.
The transfer intensified as more of Clark's abilities flowed through Tyson's battered body. Clark felt the familiar surge of strength returning to his limbs. His ribs, which had ached with every breath moments before, began to feel less tender as his accelerated healing kicked in. But for every ounce of power that returned to Clark, Tyson grew weaker. The meteor rock pressed against his ankle like a burning coal, its green radiation poisoning his system as the Kryptonian abilities attempted to pass through him. His face had gone pale beneath the bruises, and tremors ran through his arms as he fought to maintain the connection. His breathing became labored, each inhale a struggle against the conflicting forces tearing through his body.
Clark watched in growing alarm as his friend's condition deteriorated. "Tyson, maybe we should stop."
"Almost done," Tyson gasped, voice barely audible. Blood trickled from his nose, and his grip on Clark's hand began to slip. "Just a little more."
The final surge of power rushed through the connection like a dam bursting. Clark felt his full strength return in a flood of sensation that made him gasp. The moment the last of his abilities settled back into place, Tyson's eyes rolled back in his head. His hand went limp in Clark's grip, and he toppled sideways, unconscious before he hit the ground. His body struck the dirt with a dull thud, completely motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
Clark attempted to stand and help his friend, but the moment he moved, weakness crashed over him like a wave. The meteor rock in Tyson's sock was now affecting him too, its green radiation sapping his newly returned strength. His legs buckled, and he dropped to one knee beside Tyson's prone form.
"The rock," Clark managed to say through gritted teeth. "It's still in his sock."
Jonathan immediately understood. He knelt beside Tyson and carefully pulled off his blood-stained sneaker, then peeled back the torn sock. The meteor rock fell out, glowing green. Jonathan quickly scooped it up and dropped it into the lead-lined locket Tyson always carried, snapping it shut.
The relief was immediate and profound. Clark felt his strength return like a switch being flipped. The weakness that had plagued him for days vanished. He stood easily, ribs no longer aching. He could feel the strength in his muscles, the sharpness of his senses, the potential energy that made him more than human. After days of vulnerability and pain, being whole again felt like taking his first breath after nearly drowning.
"How do you feel?" Martha asked, studying his face for any signs of lingering weakness.
"Like myself again." Clark's voice carried wonder and relief. He looked down at Tyson's unconscious form, guilt mixing with gratitude. "He risked everything to give these back to me."
Jonathan checked Tyson's pulse. "He's stable, but we need to get him inside. That looked like it was a lot for his body to handle."
Clark bent down and carefully lifted Tyson from the ground. His friend's head lolled against Clark's shoulder, blood from his split lip staining his shirt.
Eric remained motionless where Tyson had dropped him, breathing steadily but his face pale. The fight had clearly taken its toll on both participants, but Eric's unconsciousness seemed more natural, like sleep rather than the complete collapse that had claimed Tyson.
"What about Eric?" Martha asked, nodding toward the boy's prone form.
"I'll carry him too." Clark adjusted his grip on Tyson, then bent to scoop Eric up with his free arm. The ease with which he lifted both boys reminded him just how much he had missed his abilities. "We should probably call his parents."
Jonathan nodded grimly. "And figure out what we're going to tell them about why their son was unconscious in our yard."
They made their way toward the farmhouse, Clark carrying both unconscious boys while his parents flanked him. The porch steps creaked under their combined weight as they climbed toward the front door.
"The guest room for Tyson," Martha decided, already moving ahead to open doors. "We can put Eric on the couch in the living room."
Clark navigated the narrow hallway carefully, mindful of his cargo. In the guest room, he lay Tyson gently on the bed, arranging his limbs in a comfortable position. His friend's face looked even more battered in unconsciousness.
Martha appeared with a damp washcloth and began cleaning the blood from Tyson's face with gentle strokes. "He's going to have quite a headache when he wakes up."
"If he hadn't done this, I might never have gotten my powers back." Clark watched his mother tend to his friend's injuries. "Without the meteor rock, I don't think anyone could have stopped Eric."
Jonathan joined them in the doorway. "Eric's parents are on their way. I told them he had a fight, and we found him and brought him here because we were closer than the hospital."
"Will they believe that?"
"Probably not entirely, but it's better than trying to explain the truth." Jonathan's expression was grim. "We're going to have to be very careful about how we handle this. Eric had your abilities for several days. People might start asking questions about why certain things happened."
Clark nodded, understanding the implications. His secret identity depended on people not connecting the dots between his presence and the strange events that seemed to happen around Smallville.
Martha finished cleaning Tyson's face and pulled a blanket up to his chin. "He should rest for a while."
"He's tougher than he looks," Clark said, though worry colored his voice. "But you're right. He needs time to recover."
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway drew their attention. Through the window, they could see headlights.
"That'll be Eric's parents," Jonathan said. "Clark, you should probably stay out of sight, and we'll keep Tyson hidden until we get Eric sorted out. We don't want to complicate things."
— Meteor Freak —
The rumble of diesel engines shattered the morning quiet at the Kent Farm. A convoy of flatbed trucks rolled down the gravel driveway, groaning under the weight of their cargo. Jonathan Kent stepped onto the porch, coffee mug in hand, watching the procession with growing bewilderment. Clark emerged from the barn, wiping his hands on a rag. The lead truck pulled to a stop near the farmhouse, followed by three more vehicles loaded with equipment. Boxes stacked neatly, labeled with their contents as solar panels, tractors secured with heavy chains, dominated the beds of two trucks. Pallets of seed bags were stacked atop each other, while irrigation equipment and farming tools filled every available space.
Jonathan descended the porch steps, boots crunching on the gravel. The lead driver, a man in coveralls and a John Deere cap, climbed down from his cab with a clipboard in hand.
"Good morning," Jonathan called out, approaching the trucker. "Think you boys are lost. What farm are you looking for?"
The driver consulted his paperwork, then glanced at the mailbox by the road. "Kent Farm. GPS led here, mailbox says this is the place."
Jonathan's eyebrows rose. "This is the Kent Farm, but we didn't order anything. Certainly not this much."
"Must have been one of your suppliers or sponsors." The trucker shrugged, extending the clipboard. "This is the address, it's labeled for you. Paid in full, just need you to sign and show me where you want it."
Jonathan stared at the delivery manifest, mouth slightly agape. The list stretched across multiple pages, detailing hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of equipment. Clark stepped closer, reading over his father's shoulder.
"Dad?" Clark's voice carried concern and confusion.
"I have no idea," Jonathan muttered, then looked up at the trucker. "You're sure this is all paid for?"
"Card payment, processed days ago. No delivery without payment in full."
Martha appeared in the doorway, drawn by the commotion. Her eyes widened as she took in the convoy. "Jonathan, what's all this?"
Jonathan remained frozen, so Clark stepped forward. "Let's get this unloaded. We can figure out the details later." He pointed toward the barn. "The tractors can go in there. Solar panels by the equipment shed."
The truckers sprang into action. Forklifts detached from the truck beds, lifting pallets. The sound of hydraulics and engines filled the air.
Martha descended the porch steps, still wearing her apron. "Where did all this come from?"
Jonathan signed the paperwork with a shaking hand. "I wish I knew."
The activity drew attention from across the road. Lana Lang emerged from her house, curiosity piqued by the unusual morning bustle. She crossed the street, stepping carefully around the trucks.
"New equipment?" she asked, approaching Clark.
"Looks like it." Clark watched a forklift maneuver a pallet of seed bags toward the barn.
Lana studied his face. "You're looking okay. Heard you got into a fight with Eric. And Tyson did too. Chloe must have exaggerated, she said you got tossed into a car, and he put both you and Brent in the hospital. But no one's seen Tyson since yesterday. I stopped by the theater last night, but it was locked up. I'm worried about him."
Clark's gaze shifted away from her, focusing on the workers unloading irrigation equipment. "Uh, yeah. Eric got a little out of control."
Lana pointed at him, recognition flashing in her eyes. "I know that look. You know something. What happened to Tyson? Is he hurt? Where is he?"
"He's resting in our guest room."
Without another word, Lana marched toward the farmhouse. Clark called after her, but she was already pushing through the front door.
The guest room lay in shadows, curtains drawn against the morning light. Lana stepped inside and gasped, hand flying to cover her mouth.
The sight punched the air from her lungs.
Tyson lay motionless against the white pillowcase, and the contrast made his injuries look even more brutal. Purple and black bruises covered the left side of his face like someone had taken a paintbrush and created abstract art in shades of violence. His left eye had swollen completely shut, the surrounding tissue puffy and dark as a rotten plum. A split in his lip had crusted over with dried blood, and more blood had dried in rusty streaks from his nose down to his chin.
She'd seen him injured before; the scarecrow attack had left him beaten, but this was different. Someone had hurt him over and over again.
He'd been brutalized.
Lana's legs carried her forward without conscious thought, drawn to his bedside by something stronger than the week of careful distance they'd maintained. Her hand reached out, trembling slightly, hovering inches above his battered face.
She'd been angry at him. God, she'd been so disappointed. But seeing him like this, broken and vulnerable in the Kents' guest room, all that anger evaporated like morning dew under sunlight.
This was Tyson. The boy who'd saved her from Greg Arkin. The boy who'd absorbed a shapeshifter's power to protect her. The boy who'd been there for her since he arrived. The boy who'd been fooled by someone wearing her face because he'd wanted her.
Lana reached out tentatively, fingers barely grazing his uninjured arm.
Her anger at him had been protective armor, she realized. Easier to be mad than to confront the complicated tangle of attraction and violation and longing that defined whatever existed between them. But armor didn't work when the person you were defending against lay helpless before you, when you could see evidence of exactly how much he'd risked.
The thought struck her with uncomfortable clarity. Tyson had done this by fighting someone with abilities. He could have died. And she'd wasted a week being angry at him for being human enough to want her, even if that want had been manipulated by someone wearing her face.
"What really happened to him?" she whispered.
Before Clark could respond from the doorway, Tyson's not-swollen eye cracked open. His lips curled up slightly as he said, "You shoulda seen the other guy."
Clark shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, watching Lana's face cycle through shock, concern, and something else he couldn't quite identify. The sound of diesel engines and shouting workers drifted through the window, but the guest room felt insulated from the chaos outside.
"Clark, can you give us a minute?" Lana asked without turning around, eyes fixed on Tyson's battered face.
"Sure, I'll go check on the delivery, then get him some water on my way back." Clark backed out of the room, pulling the door partially closed behind him.
Lana settled into the wooden chair beside the bed, hands folded in her lap. "What happened?"
Tyson's good eye focused on her, and despite the swelling and bruising, she caught a glint of amusement in his expression. "Ran the ones. Paid the price."
The casual tone in his voice caught her off guard. She could tell he was attempting to sound nonchalant, almost entertained by his condition.
A snort escaped her before she could stop it. "What does that even mean?"
"It means we fought. Got my ass kicked, but won in the end." Tyson shifted slightly on the pillow, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries. "Took his power away. One less Meteor Freak to worry about."
Lana shook her head, studying the purple bruises that covered his jaw and cheekbone. The sight made her chest tight with worry, but his matter-of-fact delivery confused her. He spoke about the fight like it was a minor inconvenience rather than the brutal beating it clearly had been.
"Wonder if this will get Coach Teague off my back for a few days," Tyson mused, voice slightly muffled by his swollen lip.
A frown creased Lana's forehead. Guilt twisted in her stomach as she remembered Jason's increasingly hostile behavior toward Tyson over the past week. "It's my fault that he's been giving you a hard time."
"Nah, it's my fault for carrying you out of school like we'd just gotten married." Tyson's good eye crinkled at the corner, suggesting a smile beneath the swelling. "Maybe I should stop showing off. It keeps getting me in trouble."
The memory of that day flashed through Lana's mind. Tyson had swept her up in his arms, carrying her all the way to the theater. Jason's expression had darkened considerably when he witnessed the scene, and his treatment of Tyson during football practice had grown increasingly harsh ever since. But Tyson hadn't taken advantage of her, though he had the chance.
"It's part of your charm," Lana said softly.
His eyebrow rose as much as the swelling would allow. "So you think I'm charming?"
Heat crept up Lana's neck, but she didn't look away. "When you're not getting yourself beaten half to death, yes."
"Only half?" Tyson's voice carried mock disappointment. "Eric must not have been as strong as he seemed."
"This isn't funny. You could have been killed."
"But I wasn't." Tyson's tone grew more serious, though the hint of amusement never completely disappeared. "Eric can't hurt anyone else. That's worth a few bruises."
Lana studied his face, noting how he downplayed his injuries. The bruising extended down his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his t-shirt. She could only imagine what the rest of him looked like. "A few bruises? Tyson, you look like you went ten rounds with a freight train."
"Pretty close," Tyson replied.
The casual way he mentioned such an impossible feat made Lana's stomach flip. "How do you do it?" she asked. "How do you just... face these things? Aren't you scared?"
Tyson was quiet for a moment. "I had a plan this time. Promise."
"This time? That's not reassuring coming from someone who looks like he lost a fight with a blender."
"Hey now," Tyson protested. "I'll have you know I'm devastatingly handsome under all this purple."
"Devastatingly modest too."
"Modesty's overrated." Tyson attempted to shift position again, sucking in a sharp breath as pain shot through his ribs.
"You're incorrigible." Lana shook her head, but her smile widened. "And probably concussed."
"Definitely concussed," Tyson agreed cheerfully. "But my wit remains intact."
"Debatable."
"Ouch. Wounded by words now, too." Tyson placed his hand over his heart in mock pain. "And here I thought you were here to comfort me in my time of need."
Lana's gaze dropped to his hand, noting the scrapes across his knuckles. "I'm surprised you're not complaining about the pain right now."
"Complaining won't make it heal any faster."
"No, but it might get you some sympathy."
"I've got all the sympathy I need right here." His gaze never wavered from her face.
Lana felt heat rise in her cheeks again. "You're shameless."
"You wanna see shameless? Help me to the shower."
Lana looked at him questioningly, eyebrows drawing together. "Just because you got beat up, don't get any ideas."
"It's not that." Tyson's expression grew more serious, though traces of amusement still lingered. "It's one of my powers. It's pretty gross, but it'll help me recover. I need to get in the tub."
Lana studied his battered face, noting the way he avoided her gaze when mentioning his powers. She'd witnessed enough to know better than to question the impossible. "Can you even stand?"
The question came out more tender than she'd intended, soft with concern that betrayed every wall she'd tried to maintain between them.
Tyson's good eye met hers. "I'll manage," he said, but his voice carried hardly any of his usual cockiness.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, face contorting with pain as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Lana immediately moved to his side, sliding her arm around his waist to support him. His weight pressed against her as he struggled to find his balance. Tyson draped his arm across her shoulders for stability, and the innocent intimacy of it made her throat tight.
"Easy," she murmured, adjusting her grip as they made their way toward the door.
The bathroom lay only a few feet down the hall, but each step seemed to drain more of Tyson's strength. She could feel the heat radiating from his bruised body, and the way his muscles trembled with the effort of staying upright. Lana adjusted her grip on his waist, fingers accidentally brushing against bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. They were pressed together from shoulder to hip, moving in awkward synchronization down the narrow hallway. She was learning him now; the actual texture of his skin, the real warmth of his body, the genuine way he leaned on her for support. Her heart hammered against her ribs from the intimacy of their position, from the week's worth of unresolved tension finally reaching critical mass, from the strange relief of knowing that whatever happened next would be real and chosen and hers.
Once inside the small bathroom, Tyson released his hold on her and gripped the edge of the sink for support. Without preamble, he grabbed the hem of his torn t-shirt and pulled it over his head.
Lana's breath caught in her throat.
The bruising extended far beyond what she'd seen on his face. Purple and black marks covered his chest like a grotesque map, some so dark they appeared almost black. Yellow edges marked where older bruises had begun to heal. His ribs showed clear impressions where fists had connected, and angry red scrapes crisscrossed his torso.
She turned away, heat flooding her cheeks.
Tyson chuckled, the sound slightly wheezing. "It's not like you didn't strip for me."
Lana's face burned with embarrassment, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Tyson wasn't lingering on the comment. He continued removing his clothes. The sound of fabric hitting the floor told her he'd shed his jeans, leaving him in only his boxers.
"Now what?" she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the bathroom door.
"Now you're gonna wanna step outside. You really don't want to see this." Tyson's voice carried a warning note she hadn't heard before.
The shower curtain rings scraped against the rod as he pulled the curtain closed. Lana crossed her arms over her chest, back still turned to him.
"I'm not going to leave you in here. What if you pass out? You could drown."
"Suit yourself."
The soft thud of his boxers hitting the floor outside the curtain made Lana's cheeks burn hotter. She knew Tyson stood naked only feet away from her, separated by nothing but a thin piece of vinyl. The shower knob squeaked as he turned it, and water began cascading into the tub. Steam quickly filled the small bathroom, fogging the mirror and making the air thick and humid.
Behind the curtain, Tyson stepped under the spray, sharp intake of breath audible over the sound of running water. The hot water hit his battered skin like liquid fire, but he forced himself to remain standing. He pressed his palms against the tiled wall, letting the heat penetrate his aching muscles.
Then it began.
A tingling sensation spread across his skin, starting at his fingertips and radiating outward. The feeling intensified, becoming almost unbearable as his nerve endings came alive. Tyson gritted his teeth, knowing what came next would be far worse.
His skin began to loosen.
The process started slowly, almost imperceptibly. The outermost layer of his epidermis began to separate, peeling away in flakes that the water carried down the drain. But as the minutes passed, the molting accelerated. Larger patches of skin sloughed off his arms, revealing pristine flesh beneath. The bruised and battered exterior that had covered his body began to fall away like a grotesque second skin. Purple and black bruises disappeared as the damaged tissue separated from the healthy layer below.
Tyson reached up and gently rubbed his shoulder, watching as a sheet of discolored skin came away in his hand. The sensation was nauseating, like peeling sunburned skin but a thousand times more intense. His entire body was shedding its damaged exterior, revealing unmarked flesh underneath.
The water at his feet turned murky as pieces of his old skin swirled down the drain. He could feel the swelling around his eye receding as that layer of tissue separated and washed away. His split lip sealed itself as the torn skin fell off, exposing the healed surface beneath.
Steam continued to fill the bathroom, carrying with it the metallic scent of blood and something else, something organic and unsettling. The humid air grew thick with an almost putrid sweetness that made Lana's stomach churn. She pressed her hand over her nose and mouth, attempting to filter the increasingly foul atmosphere.
Behind the shower curtain, wet sounds emanated. Not the normal splash of water against skin, but something more viscous, like thick liquid dripping steadily into the tub. The metallic tang in the air intensified, mixing with what smelled like rotting meat left too long in the sun.
Lana's eyes watered from the stench. She took a step toward the door, instincts telling her to leave, but concern for Tyson kept her rooted in place. "Tyson? Are you okay in there?"
"Yeah," his voice came out stronger than before, no longer carrying the wheeze of damaged ribs. "Just give me another minute."
The shower continued running, but the sounds from behind the curtain grew more disturbing. Wet slapping noises punctuated the steady patter of water, as if something heavy and sodden was hitting the tub floor repeatedly. Lana could hear Tyson moving around, feet squelching.
Tyson's breathing grew steadier as his ribs healed, the damaged tissue sloughing away to reveal bones that were no longer cracked or bruised. He ran his hands over his torso, feeling smooth, unblemished skin where moments before there had been a canvas of injuries. His fingers traced paths where deep bruises had marked his flesh, finding nothing but perfect, unmarked skin.
The transformation was complete, leaving him whole and unmarked, as if the fight with Eric had never happened.
He looked down at the tub floor and grimaced. The shower drain clogged with the pile of skin left behind. Chunks of discolored tissue still bearing the purple and black stains of his injuries had accumulated around the drain. Larger pieces floated in the standing water, creating a nauseating soup of his former injuries.
It was a grotesque sight, but Tyson himself looked whole and healed.
The smell had grown so intense that Lana could taste it on her tongue, a coppery flavor mixed with something rancid that made her gag. She covered her mouth with both hands, fighting the urge to vomit. "What is that smell?"
"Dead skin," Tyson replied matter-of-factly. "Told you it was gross."
The casual way he mentioned it made the reality somehow worse. "How much longer?" she managed to ask through her hands.
"Almost done. Just need to clear the drain." He reached out, grabbing the small bathroom garbage can beyond the curtain and pulling it in. More wet sounds emanated as Tyson began gathering the accumulated tissue. The water level in the tub dropped as he cleared the blockage, allowing the remaining debris to swirl down the drain with a series of wet, sucking noises.
"There," he announced, voice carrying satisfaction. "Good as new."
The shower knob squeaked as he turned off the water. In the sudden silence, Lana could hear him moving around in the tub. The steam began to dissipate slightly without the constant addition of hot water.
"Can you hand me a towel?"
She grabbed a large bath towel and held it out toward the shower, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling. The curtain rings scraped against the rod as Tyson pulled the curtain aside just enough to accept the towel. His hand appeared through the gap, and Lana noticed immediately that his knuckles showed no trace of the scrapes and cuts that had marked them earlier.
"Thanks," he said, drying off and wrapping the towel around his waist before stepping completely out of the tub.
Lana finally allowed herself to look at him, and her breath caught in her throat.
The transformation was complete and utterly impossible. Where before his face had been a swollen, purple mess, now his features were perfectly symmetrical and unmarked. His left eye, which had been swollen completely shut, opened normally. The split lip had healed without so much as a scar. For a long moment, Lana could only stare. The rational part of her mind cataloged the impossibility. Humans didn't heal like this, didn't shed damaged tissue and emerge pristine underneath. But the rational part of her mind had taken a backseat somewhere between discovering meteor rocks gave people abilities and learning that Tyson was one of them. Now she simply accepted the miracle of his healing and focused instead on the reality of him standing before her whole and unmarked.
Water droplets still clung to his shoulders, the white towel wrapped low around his waist. Lana stared at him in complete bewilderment. No bruises, no swelling, no cuts. His skin looked as if he'd spent the day at a spa rather than fighting for his life.
"How?" she whispered, the word escaping her lips without conscious thought.
Her hand moved before she could stop it, fingers reaching out to trace the spot where a particularly nasty bruise had darkened his jaw. The skin felt warm beneath her touch, smooth and perfect and completely unblemished. Actually standing close enough that she could feel his breath ghost across her face.
She pressed her palm flat against his cheek, thumb brushing near his mouth, and watched his eyes darken in response to her touch.
"This is impossible," she murmured, other hand coming up to examine his face more thoroughly. But even as the words left her mouth, her hands were mapping the landscape of his face with growing confidence, checking for damage that no longer existed. His cheekbone felt solid and perfect beneath her palm. His jaw was strong and unmarked, where it had been purple and distorted.
She traced the line of his features with both hands now, cupping his face between her palms, thumbs brushing his cheekbones while her fingers curved around to his ears. The gesture was far more intimate than a medical examination required, and they both knew it.
This was claiming, possessing, reassuring herself that she hadn't lost him to some superpowered fight before they'd figured out what existed between them.
Tyson remained perfectly still under her examination, watching her face intently as she explored his miraculous recovery. The bathroom had grown quiet except for the occasional drip from the showerhead.
Lana's hands moved lower, palms pressing against his chest where the worst of the bruising had been. Her fingers spread across his ribs, feeling for any tenderness or irregularity. The skin was warm and firm, showing no sign that he'd been beaten within an inch of his life.
Her fingers traced the defined muscles of his abdomen almost unconsciously, following the architecture of his body.
"Your ribs," she said, applying gentle pressure. "They were cracked. I could see the bruises."
"All healed," Tyson confirmed.
Lana's hands continued their exploration, sliding up his sides and across his shoulders. But as her palms moved across his skin, the nature of her examination began to shift.
The excuse for the examination had dissolved entirely now. They both knew what this was.
Reclamation, choosing, making real what Tina had made false.
The truth was becoming impossible to deny. This wasn't about checking for injuries. This was about touching him with her own hands and her own choices. About creating something real between them that existed independent of Tina's violation.
Her palms pressed against his chest again, feeling his heartbeat accelerate beneath her touch. He had memories of "her" body that she didn't share. But this moment, her hands on his actual skin, his response to her actual touch, this they would both remember. This would belong to them.
She looked up and found him watching her with dark eyes that held questions he wasn't asking aloud. Questions like…
Is this okay?
Are we doing this?
Are we creating something real to replace what was stolen?
Her answer was in the way her hands stayed on his skin instead of pulling away.
Her fingers traced the defined muscles of his abdomen, noting how his breathing deepened under her touch. The steam from the shower had left his skin slightly damp, and she could feel the heat radiating from him. Her hands moved back up to his shoulders.
"This doesn't make sense," she whispered, voice barely audible. "People don't just heal like this."
"People in Smallville do, apparently."
The reality of what she was doing suddenly hit her. She was standing in a steamy bathroom, running her hands all over Tyson's nearly naked body, and he was watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flutter. The height difference between them meant she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. They stood so close that she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, could see the water droplets still clinging to his collarbone.
The space between them seemed to shrink without either of them moving. Lana became acutely aware of how her hands still rested on his chest, how his towel hung dangerously low on his hips, how the humid air made her clothes cling to her skin. Her lips parted.
Tyson's hand came up slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn't move. His fingers brushed her cheek, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear. His thumb traced her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch before conscious thought could intervene.
His gaze dropped to her mouth for just a moment before returning to her eyes. The bathroom felt smaller, the air thicker. Lana's heart hammered as she realized how easy it would be to close the remaining distance between them.
He'd kissed "her" before. But this would be their first kiss. Real and chosen and entirely theirs. No impostors. No outside influences.
The week of anger and hurt and confusion evaporated in the steam-thick air between them. She rose slightly on her toes.
A sharp knock at the bathroom door shattered the moment.
"Tyson, are you okay in there?" Martha Kent's concerned voice carried through the wooden door.
They both froze, Lana's hands still gripping Tyson's shoulders, his hand still cradling her face, their lips mere inches apart.
The spell broke slowly, reality seeping back in like cold water. Lana watched something shift in Tyson's eyes.
A flash of mischief.
She recognized it as his defense mechanism, his way of deflecting vulnerability by creating chaos. She shook her head emphatically, silently begging him not to do what she knew he was about to do. But the devilish smile spreading across his lips told her she was about to be thoroughly embarrassed.
"Don't you dare," she mouthed.
Tyson's smile widened.
"We're just fine in here, Mrs. Kent. I'll make sure I clean the shower before WE leave." His voice carried just enough emphasis on the word 'we' to make it thoroughly compromising.
Lana's face flushed crimson. Martha's sharp intake of breath pierced the door. The silence stretched uncomfortably long.
"We?!"
Lana buried her face in her hands, mortified. But underneath the embarrassment, a bubble of laughter threatened to escape because this was so typically Tyson. This deliberate provocation. This way of forcing them out of careful distance by creating a situation too absurd to navigate with politeness.
The absolute bastard.
She wanted to kill him.
She wanted to kiss him.
The fact that she couldn't decide which impulse was stronger probably said everything about the state of their relationship.
Tyson continued to grin down at her, delighted by her embarrassment and shock. But then his expression softened, and his hand came up to gently pull her hands away.
"Hey," he said quietly, his voice pitched for her ears only while Martha's shocked silence continued in the hallway. "We're going to be okay. You and me. Whatever this is."
The words settled into her chest, loosening something that had been wound tight since the moment she'd discovered Tina's deception. He was acknowledging the thing between them, the potential, the circumstances that kept trying to destroy it before it could properly begin.
The doorknob rattled. They jumped apart like teenagers caught by a parent. Which, Lana realized with mounting horror, was precisely this situation.
Martha's voice came through the door again, carefully controlled but edged with concern. "Tyson, I'm going to need you to explain what's happening in there. Right now."
Tyson cleared his throat. "Mrs. Kent, I can explain. I have this really gross healing ability where I shed my damaged skin, and Lana was helping me to the bathroom because I could barely walk. She's been a complete gentleman. I mean, I've been a complete gentleman. She's been—" He paused. "Nothing inappropriate happened. I just wanted to make Lana uncomfortable because she's been avoiding me all week, and I'm apparently still pulling pranks like I'm twelve years old."
Long silence from the hallway.
"Oh, and it looks like a murder scene in your shower, but I promise I'll clean it up."
When Martha finally spoke again, her voice had softened but still carried an edge. "Tyson, that was completely inappropriate, but I appreciate you cleaning up after yourself. Lana, honey, are you alright in there?"
"I'm fine, Mrs. Kent," Lana managed to call out, her voice surprisingly steady despite her burning cheeks. "Tyson's an idiot, but I'm fine."
Martha's footsteps retreated down the hallway, but not before they both heard her mutter what sounded like "that boy" followed by Jonathan's questioning rumble from downstairs.
The moment her footsteps faded, silence crashed back into the small bathroom. Lana was aware of how inappropriate their position would have looked if Martha had actually opened the door. She took a step back, putting distance between them, trying to reassemble the armor she'd spent a week constructing that had dissolved completely in the span of minutes. Though she knew, as hard as she might try, the armor wasn't as strong. He'd chipped away at it.