Title: The Dorothy Option
By Keelywolfe (keelywolfe@aol.com)
Author's webpage: http://www.ravenswing.com/keelywolfe/
Rating: R
Pairing: Jonathon/Lionel
Archive: Certainly.

Feedback: Yes, please. Loved, and answered. ^_^

Summary: Yet another exploration of why Jonathon Kent isn't too fond of Lionel Luthor.

Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their respective owners, be that the semi-mighty WB, DC comics or...heck, who DOES own Superman these days? For all I know it's Bill Gates...but I do know it isn't me and I'm not making money off of this.

Author's notes: Apologies to Elton John, whose song, 'Goodbye Yellow Brick Road' gave me the idea for this.

One would think that in a sea of grays and blues, browns and ecru, it would be a simple matter to find one red shirt. But it, true to the perverse nature of all clothing, refused to be found in the moment it was needed the most.

Wading into the ever-increasing pile of discarded clothes, Jonathon shoved yet another wrong shirt out of the way. There was the purr of a seam tearing as he ripped another shirt carelessly off a hanger but he ignored it, searching frantically.

He wanted out before someone realized what he was going to do.

It wasn't like it would take very long to pack. There wasn't all that much in this closet that was actually his. Even the clothes on his back didn't belong to him and that was something he was going to change as soon as he could. They may have cost more money than he would make in a month as a farmer but he never wanted them to touch his skin again. The thought of going back to worn denim and soft flannel was more satisfying than he would have believed only a few short weeks ago.

There is a part of him wants to take all these clothes with him, if only so he could start a bonfire with them later and watch the fine linen crumble into ash. And why not? They'd been bought and paid for just as much as he had, and he was leaving.

But no, in this whole closet full of shirts and pants, all tailored to fit him perfectly, the only thing he wanted to take with him was an old football jersey, just as soon as he could find it. One shirt, the clothes on his back and he was getting out.

He wondered, very briefly, if his father would simply close the door when he showed up on the doorstep tonight. He didn't think so, not his father. In spite of everything that had happened, he was pretty sure his father would open the squeaky screen door and let his son come home. Pretty sure. Just like he was sure that things wouldn't be right between them, not for a long time and not unless he worked very hard at it, but that was OK. He intended to start working very hard as soon as he stepped on that porch.

Once upon a time he would have been horrified at the thought of wasting his life away on the farm but now the quiet peacefulness of it was calling to him like a siren.

If only he could find that damn jersey.

"Here."

A well-worn red shirt was dropped by his feet, and Jonathan whirled around, his bare feet slipping in the drifts of clothes around him and he fell backwards into the soft clutches of silk and linen.

Lionel was standing next to the bed, hands in his pockets. "That's what you're looking for, isn't it?" It wasn't really a question. Lionel Luthor didn't ask questions; when you already know the answers there isn't a need, and if the answers weren't the ones Lionel wanted he changed them.

Still exactly the same as when Jonathon had first seen him. Beautiful in a way men weren't supposed to be, exotic, with soft long hair and softer hands that never held a tool rougher than an ink pen.

Soft hands that Jonathan already knew he was never going to forget.

Warily, Jonathan stood, clutching the jersey in one hand and knowing, even after everything that had happened, if Lionel only asked him, he would stay. Hating himself every minute of the day, losing himself in this world where he didn't belong, where people smiled snidely behind their hands and offered sugar-coated sarcasm as conversation, thinking that the prettied up farm boy wouldn't understand, or perhaps just not caring if he did. Losing himself until he either drown or became just like them.

Lionel simply watched him in silence.

Just as well. Jonathan had heard his voice more than enough, and certainly he'd never forget how it sounded earlier that day through a partially opened door, laughing coolly as he collected however much money he'd won in his little bet. To seduce not only a hayseed from Smallville, but an unlikely one as well, a football player, lure him away from the testosterone-laden world of family and farmers and the bet was won. Just like that.

Unwanted emotions tightened in his chest and Jonathon quickly stuffed his bare feet in the ratty tennis shoes he'd worn to Metropolis and hidden from the cleaning staff to keep them from ending up in the trash bin. He turned away from Lionel, from the bed where only hours before he'd been tangled in the sheets, slick with sweat and pleading with his lover to fuck him harder, faster and, oh God, please...

"Jonathon." Softly, behind him and Jonathan turned back unwillingly, his pride still refusing to cooperate and simply ignore anything Lionel Luthor said. Stepping forward, Lionel lifted a hand to Jonathon's cheek and he wondered if Lionel was going to kiss him, wondered what he'd do if he did, if he'd try to kill him or if he'd kiss him back, beg with his own lips for Lionel to just ask him to stay, to keep him here forever.

Instead, there was just the lightest brush of a finger down his cheek, tracing a path from his temple to his jaw. Jonathan flinched from it and Lionel let his hand drop, standing in silence a moment longer before he turned and walked out of the room without ever saying a word.

Later, before he made himself forget that there had ever been a shred of anything good in this, any sweetness beyond that of sweaty fucking, Jonathon would wonder if maybe it had been Lionel's version of kindness; a conveniently open door with a just as convenient conversation to overhear. The excuse to leave that Jonathon would never have given himself.

Late at night, curled up next to his sleeping wife, he'd wonder if Lionel had already seen him dying and had given him the only escape route he knew how. So rarely, on certain days with certain memories whispering in the back of his head, he'd wonder. Before he met Lionel's son. Before he saw his own son watching, with shining eyes, another strangely beautiful, charismatic man, and all he remembered was burning humiliation, the rejection, the hate.

But for now, he had a bus to catch.

-finis-