Chapter Text
We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty. ~Maya Angelou
“Like I said, I was sitting in the station, yeah, Granville Central train station and boy, they give themselves some airs callin’ themselves Granville…anyway, I’m doing the usual, burying my face in a book so I don’t have to deal with the stares…oh please. Look at me. I’m a large woman of color, out here in the ass ba—in the country. Swear to God, you’d think these people didn’t have TV or something. Half of them look like they’re waiting for me to pull out the eagle and half of them look like they want to hire me to watch their kids…see—you laughin’. You get it.”
I shifted my big ass in their little ass chair and checked out the baby cop in front of me. White, and blonde, but cute as hell with big steel blue eyes… he nods and waits for me to go on, so I do.
“So, I’m feeling eyes on me—normal in this part of the country—and I look up with the Death Look, and here’s this little boy, and he just…damn, there’s this look on his face, lost and scared and—everything in his eyes, right? You can read his damn face like a book and I was getting a bad feeling. I’m trying to play him off anyway ‘cause sometime all they want is a pop, no matter how fu—‘xcuse me—darn upset they look, y’know?”
I take a sip of the fucking awful coffee they give me and I can’t help making a face, BabyCop makes a face with me, he knows the coffee’s shit. I take a breath, and tell him the bad part.
“So, kid is looking over to the pay phones all nervous like, and lookin’ at me, and some guy comes out, some ugly pasty guy. He looks like a plucked worm, y’know?”
Looked like a fucking pervert kid fucker, s’what he looked like, but I keep that to myself. “Any way, he come over and I’m thinking it’s the kid’s pop, he grabs the boy’s arm and tells him to be still and not talk. He touches the kid, and the boy, he flinches. I don’t mean like, ‘Damn, he’s gonna pop me one’, I mean flinch like he’s afraid the guy is gonna beat him ‘til he bleeds, like he’s afraid to death.”
Fuck. I have to stop and breathe a little, shit, that shit upset me. “So, fucker goes back to the phone… oh, thanks, honey, I didn’t think you could smoke anywhere anymore.” I take the cigarette the dude offers with a real sense of gratitude. Thank God, the kid is beautiful and generous too. Cute smile, Lord, forgive me, and I gotta say, nice package on him too. I notice stuff like that.
“I gotta say, ‘s cigarette’s right on time, damn.” Man, he got some beautiful eyes and let me control my self. “Okay, the fucker goes back to the phones and the boy looks at me like—shit, he’s terrified, and I thought he was even too scared to cry. You seen kids too scared to cry, to make a sound? Right, those are the kids that get the shit kicked out of them on the daily, but this kid, when I sat next to him—yeah, yeah, I’m stupid, I got up and sat next to the boy. And he didn’t freeze me out, you see what I’m sayin’? Right. Abused kids don’t ask for help. Not that age. They hide it. And he asked me, he whispered, ‘help me’.”
Fuck, I had to shiver again. That kid had sounded so hopeless, so sure nothing was going to change…
“Fucker came back and tried to yell at me, cursin’ and shit, but the ticket guy came running over, and man, that mother fucker took off--ran! Excuse my language but he was lucky as hell, ‘cause I ‘bout ready to kick his narrow whi—his ass. ‘Your pop?’ I asked the kid, and he said no and burst into tears. Fuck.”
Man, I got pissed off all over again, remembering how the little kid had cried, and BabyCop patted my shoulder. Yeah, buddy, sometimes it was good to be old an’ gray. Even if he was just trying to make an old broad feel better than trying to imagine me twenty again. “So that’s it. That’s how we come to call the cops, and that’s how we found that little lost baby.”
BabyCop was thanking me, and taking my number and telling me that they’d probably get in touch and was I going far, and I said, not far enough. Fuck Now I was involved I guess, but…shit. The worst part—I know that mother fucker hurt that kid. He hurt that kid in the worst fucking way, I was sure off it. Life’s a mother fucking bitch and she don’t play. And my ass was cold, ‘cause I gave the kid my jacket…oh well. Shit. He needed it more that me, I guess….
After several long minutes, the doctor came into the room and led the adults out, to stand in the hall. The boy sat still on the table where he’d been left, trying not to squirm. There was still a little pain. Through an unshuttered window in the wall, he could look out to the hall, and he watched his parents talking to the nice doctor, watched his mother fold up and start to fall, like a broken bird, and his father’s face go pale and white. The boy thought his face was as white as the sheet he was sitting on. He pushed his arms in to the long, long sleeves of the jacket and tried to wrap it around himself, and watched his parents through the glass.
One week earlier:
Martha swept pieces of the broken plate into the dustpan and shook it into the garbage. She wiped the countertop down and stepped back to check that it was spotless. She adjusted the curtains to let in the early morning sunlight and glanced up to see the bus already down the road.
She glanced at the table, cup of coffee from the morning still there and a ripped open band-aid package by the cup. Power Rangers. She smiled and picked up the scraps. Her smile faded as she considered the wrapper. Clark was getting hurt less and less. This had been almost an odd occurrence—him falling and cutting his knee. He’d looked positively shocked at the blood. “Poor little thing.” But typically of Clark, he’d immediately seen the silver lining--He’d been so proud about the Power Ranger strip, she’d had to convince him that one was sufficient.
The sound of the tractor in the distance reminded her that she wanted to talk to Jonathan, soon. Very soon. 'We’re going to have to tell him soon,' she thought. 'Tell him something. I don’t want him not to know. Jonathan’s wrong hiding it, wanting to hide it.'
She tossed the paper away. The ship in the cellar was there for a reason, not just to hide it. ‘If I had my way, he’d know now. Clark’s brave, and strong. He can take it'—he’d adjust pretty quick, she felt. 'He can take a lot more than most people could,' she thought firmly.
Her chores occupied her until lunchtime--she checked the clock. She quickly made a cheese sandwich, dropped a few chips on the side and covered it with plastic wrap. Clark would be home soon, and she liked making his lunch ahead of time, so all she had to do was get his recap of the day with no interruption. There was just something about watching his face, eyes glowing with excitement, and the way he had of tilting his head and drawing with his hands in the air—he was just so excited about everything.
She laughed to herself. Clark was a wellspring of enthusiasm.
She walked out to the mudroom, put on a pair of ducks and grabbed her sweater from the hook at the door.
The air was a little chillier, that perfect on the cusp of Fall kind of air. The trees were still green, but the kind of green that signaled the end of summer. She inhaled the comfortable and familiar smell of cut grass and soil.
She waited at the stop, watching birds congregate in the fields, dozens and dozens of birds, flitting back and forth, restless, wanting to head…south…away. She found herself getting restless, uncomfortable. She looked at her watch and gasped. Where was the bus? She called the school.
“But you know he came on the bus…what do you mean he didn’t show? How could you not call?” She slammed the phone down and shook with rage, fear. She dashed out to the shed, and jumped into the truck.
She drove out to the field Jonathan was in. Dry-eyed and calm enough, only her fingers alternately tapping and strangling the wheel giving evidence of how nervous she was.
Jon turned in the cab of the tractor and looked curious, when Martha parked the truck at the fence and came towards him. Instinct made him climb down and hurry to meet her. She came faster and faster, until she was running, and crying, control flying, desperate for reassurance....
They called the sheriff. Clark was missing. Lost.
Five hours earlier:
Clark watched his mother walk back to the house. He felt exceptionally brave, standing by the bus stop completely alone.
He would have been watched carefully from the kitchen window if a dish hadn’t slipped out of his mother’s soapy hands. He would have been safely on the bus, if a frog hadn’t distracted him, sent him plunging head long into the ditch at the side of the road. Nothing would have happened if a careless bus driver hadn’t rolled past the empty spot where Clark should have been. Clark would have been very okay if he hadn’t decided that he was old enough to walk to school and brave enough to walk alone. He started off with a feeling of great adventure. He felt very brave when he no longer had the farm in sight. He felt the adventure of it all right up to the moment the car passed him, screeched to a stop and the door opened.
“Can you help me? I lost my puppy.”
Clark felt a little thrill—a puppy! He wasn’t allowed to have a dog, not yet. He would soon, though. He just knew it had to be soon—he’d been practicing how not to…to…to be careful. “Puppy?” he might be able to touch a real puppy if he helped find it….
“That’s right—he jumped out of the car somewhere along this road. Do you know this road?” The man looked soft, little. He had a nice smile.
Clark nodded and turned to point a distance down the road. “I live down there.” Missed the man leaning down and grabbing a chunk of rock from the rubble at the side of the cinder road.
“I can show you a picture of my puppy,” the light, sweet voice said, and Clark stepped a little closer. “He’s really cute.”
Clark moved closer to the car. The man grabbed his arm and Clark panicked. He could break free easily—but Mom and Dad said not to hurt anyone, not to use his strength unless they were with him…but no one was supposed to touch him like this. He pulled, and the man looked shocked and Clark knew he’d pulled too hard. Didn’t matter, this man was trying to hurt him. The pale face above him jerked in and out of his view, turning bright red as he began to jerk away. There was a shadow over him, and then a sharp stab of awful pain. Against the glare of the sun, Clark saw a greasy looking, green and black rock in the man’s fist—the hand dropped and he exploded—his head, his body exploded and then, it was dark.
There was the train station, cold, and so big and…big, giant windows and benches. His ears hurt from the noise, and his eyes hurt from all the people and the colors.
There was a nice lady there. She was big and brown and really warm and she gave him her coat, and nice police men. They stopped the bad, bad man. There was a police man with nice eyes and hair like Dad’s and smiles like Mom’s. It didn’t hurt when the police man hugged him.
Mostly though, he hurt, all over, and he was sick, really sick. At the hospital, Mom and Dad came. There was so much crying, and hugging but something was wrong and he couldn’t tell them what was wrong. He just was really sick and he hurt all over. Mom hugged him and it hurt his skin, and when he wanted to talk, his chest hurt.
Finally, the doctor said he could go home, and also told Mom and Dad he needed more help, but they just looked like they wanted to cry. Dad carried him to the car. That was nice. He slept all the way home.
Two years later:
“Martha, the boy needs to go back to school. It’ll be better for him. He needs to be around other people, too.”
“I know—I know…”
“You can drive him to school, and I’ll pick him up. Everyone knows…he’ll be looked after.”
“That’s just it, Jonathan. Everyone knows. I don’t want him treated like…like he’s different.”
“Sweetheart—he’ll get over it. Everyone will get over it.”
Clark heard the kitchen door slam, and heard his dad sigh. He scratched Buddy’s head and flopped his ears around. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but it sounded like he might be going back to school. That would be nice, he supposed. The thought of all those kids though…what if they were mean to him? It was nice and safe at home, and he liked doing his lessons with Mom, but…he missed playing with other kids. He did miss seeing people. And sometimes, he missed just being on his own. Besides, Buddy liked people; it wasn’t fair to him to be cooped up all the time, right? He rubbed Buddy’s head one more time, before scrambling down the stairs to the kitchen, and Buddy ran after, his short legs thumping down the stairs as he tried to keep up with Clark.
His dad turned to him with a frown. “Hey, what did I say about running in the house? You might fall and hurt yourself.”
Clark nodded. “Sorry, but Buddy made me run. He did!” he insisted at his dad’s incredulous look, and struggled not to giggle. He laughed behind his hand when his dad scolded Buddy for disobeying the rules. Buddy grinned too and wagged his tail hard.
Clark climbed up on the stool next to the counter and asked, “Is it true, am I going to school?”
His dad put the glass of juice he poured for him on the counter, and frowned. “Were you listening in?”
“Um…a little? Is Mom mad at us?” He drank a bit of juice and watched his dad think about the answer.
“No,” he finally said. “Not mad. Worried. Scared for you.” He shrugged. “She’s a mom. That’s her job.”
Clark nodded and snagged a cookie from the jar at the end of the counter. “I’ll be fine. I’m not a little kid anymore.” He dropped a bit of cookie to the floor for Buddy, and looked up at his dad. “Right?”
“Right. You’re a brave kid—you’ll do well in school. I know you will.”
Clark smiled, and then…he felt it, the tiny creeping crawling sensation at the back of his, oh, his head, his brain, somewhere back there. His eyes began to go blurry, just a little, at the corners, and Buddy jumped up and leaned on his leg, whining. “Oh boy…” Clark gasped.
His dad looked—sad, and sorry. “Getting hit, kiddo?”
Clark nodded, tears already gathering in the corners of his eyes. His head was starting to pound, but he tried to act like it wasn’t that bad. He hated seeing his mom and dad go all pinched up with worry. It just made him feel worse, like it was his fault somehow. “Unh-hunh. I’m…gonna lay down.”
“Here.” His dad gave him a couple of pills out of a bottle they kept on a high shelf and he swallowed them with the rest of the juice.
“I’ll get your mom,” Dad said as he headed towards the back door. Clark was already moving to the couch, nodding as he went. If he could fall asleep, it might not be too bad….
The headaches that laid him flat had been a part of his life for so long, he didn’t really remember not having them. He didn’t really remember not being sick, or being really strong, stronger than Dad—that’s what they used to tell him, before they stopped talking about stuff like that. Only in his dreams did he run really fast, faster than the horses, or jump so high he could jump right on top of the tractor shed. Only in his dreams…in real life, running made him breathe very, very hard, and there were too many times he spent aching all over, his stomach crushing and his head pounding.
He lay on the couch, wrapped in the wonderful blue and red quilt Mom made herself, his red jacket a pillow under his head, and Buddy shoved between him and the couch. Every time a whimper broke through his control, he got an ear or an eye full of cold wet nose. Buddy was the best, the best friend a kid could have. He might look like a cross between a brush and a hotdog, but he was the best dog in the whole world.
The first day of school was exciting—terrifying. Mom was squeezing his hand so hard it almost hurt. He had to pull a little before she let go. He was in third grade, no one in third grade held their mom’s hand. At least not out where everyone could see. All the kids were running to the big double doors at the top of short flight of stairs. The kids pushed and shoved on their way into the doors and he was getting shoved a little, and finally, he moved towards the doors, too. He hoped no one could tell he was scared. He looked at the huge gray doors looming toward him and caught sight of something wonderfully familiar—a square brown face, a broad smile stretching the face into a look of care-free joy, and big dark eyes dancing with laughter. Clark felt his spirit soar. He turned back and waved at his mother, his own face wreathed in a warm smile he had no idea was irresistible.
When Jonathan came to pick him up that afternoon, Clark was bursting with things to tell them.
He sat at the kitchen counter and watched his mom make dinner, and told her about show and tell, and snack time. He showed her his work sheet, and Martha ooh-ed and aah-ed, just Jonathan had, of course.
“I finished before anyone else, and look—I got a sticker! Scratch it Mom, it smells like strawberries!” Clark told her also how nice his teacher was. “And she smelled pretty, too, Mom. She is really pretty. She has a dog just like us, and she lives in the middle of town. The kids who do the best in school get to go to her house for Tea. Isn’t that cool?” Clark swung his legs back and forth and snuck a slice of sugar and cinnamon dusted apple from the bowl dangerously close to him.
“How can I make pie if you eat all the apples?” Martha teased.
“Just one slice. Promise!”
He smiled back, and Martha felt warmed inside. A year ago, she wouldn’t have been able to tease him at all. He wouldn’t have been able to handle it—he would have burst into tears. Everything and anything that went wrong was his fault then, he barely spoke above a whisper. He tried to hide in plain sight all the time. He wore the red cotton jacket he’d gotten from his rescuer all the time, it went almost to his ankles and you could wrap the arms around him two times. Now he was smiling, and teasing back, almost as enthusiastic as he’d been when he was a baby.
Wheezing at the kitchen door announced the arrival of Buddy, all spiky hair and dripping nose. There was another reason Clark was less withdrawn. When they’d realized that Clark was no longer a…a danger…they’d gotten him this ball of fluff from the shelter. Clark had been the one to name him Buddy. Now he was more a ball of scruff, but he was sweet and affectionate and so tuned into Clark’s moods he was almost a barometer for them.
“Buddy, guess what? Pete Ross is in my class too. Remember Pete Ross?” Buddy looked for a second, huffed and wandered off. “Anyway, you remember him, Mom? From the playground? Yeah. He’s in my class.”
Martha nodded. Clark had been highly impressed by Pete. Pete’s family was that rarity in Smallville, fairly well off—and African American. Pete was a good kid, thank goodness, because Clark thought all people of color were angels in disguise. She smiled to herself. Pete kind of was. He’d taken Clark under his wing, and that had made a tremendous difference for him. He seemed to sense Clark needed—support. And now, Clark was doing really well. She snuck a look at Clark, tongue working at the corner of his mouth as he puzzled out his homework. He was doing very well. She hoped. Her forehead wrinkled, and her familiar feeling of guilt washed her. No, no, Clark was obviously well adjusted, doing better than they’d ever hoped. He was strong—just like she’d always said he was. Stronger than most.
Pete Ross was great; he was Clark's very best friend in the fifth grade. He was his best friend, period. Pete Ross had a big house, and brothers and a sister, and there was always noise and laughing and stuff going on. He had a dad who was a lawyer and a mom who was a judge, and he wasn’t sure what that meant but he knew it was different than his house. Pete’s mom wore suits and gold jewelry and a watch that Pete said had diamonds in it. They planned to sneak it out one day when she didn’t wear it, and see if they could write their name on the glass in the shed window. Pete said that only diamonds could scratch glass, everyone knew that. If you saw windows with names and stuff cut in them—it was diamonds that did it. Clark knew it was true because Pete knew a lot of stuff about a lot of things. He was very smart.
Pete wasn’t his only friend. Clark had lots of friends at school. He really liked school. He liked learning things, even though he got teased for being so serious. He liked sports, even though he couldn’t play so well. That didn’t bother Clark too much, because he got to do other things, like the bulletin board in the office, and in the main hallway. He always helped do the stage for plays and assemblies. Pete told him it was just fine, not everyone could do sports and not everyone could draw like Clark, so it all worked out. Pete was smart. Pete liked Clark's old red jacket, he liked Buddy. He liked the farm. Pete made Clark feel like he was just like everyone else.
Like everyone else. Oh well. Clark shook his head, and Buddy cracked an eye open and growled at him. “Sorry, sorry, let me make myself more comfortable for you, okay? Sheesh.” He rolled to his back, and so did Buddy, groaning in doggy ecstasy as the sun warmed his tummy and his head flopped down over Clark’s leg. Clark let his head drop back too. Buddy had the right idea. The sun felt great shining down on his face. He sighed, Buddy sighed. The only thing that would make this afternoon better was Mom bringing him a coke, or Pete showing up. He smiled at the thought. Yeah. That would be nice.
Clark scratched Buddy’s tummy and thought about how he felt about himself. He knew realistically he was like everyone else, but…there was something in the back of his mind, something he knew made him…different. Maybe not just that Thing That Happened, maybe…he sighed to himself. He just had a feeling. Pete—Pete told him he was nuts, and yeah, he probably was, but sometimes, he had weird dreams, about a boy who looked just like him, but was better, a boy who could do—anything. Everything. Sometimes, Clark thought that maybe the wonderful boy in his dreams was him.
Clark laughed, and Buddy huffed loudly. “Would you still like me if I could fly, Buddy? Would you fly with me?”
Someone was coming. Some One was coming…he tried to walk faster but something was pulling at him, wrapping around his legs. He tried to run but he was going slower and slower. Someone was coming and he knew if they touched him he would die, because what was coming was worse than a monster.
Someone was closer now and he tried to call out for his mom but his voice was a whisper, no matter how hard he strained. He could feel the muscles in his neck swell, feel that rough feeling in throat, feel blood pounding with his effort, but his screams came out breathy and weak.
Some One grabbed his arm and yanked him around and a jolt of pain shot through him.
“I’m going to kill you and your family for what you did to me,” a harsh whisper stabbed into his ear, knifed right into his brain—it felt like someone shoved a sharp stick in there and jerked it around. He was crying and begging Some One to stop.
Something fell on him from out of the sky, and it hurt so bad. It hurt worse and worse, and Some One said, “You deserve to die.”
He cried because maybe it was true….
Clark woke up and almost immediately wished he were still asleep. The pain was rolling through him in great, gagging waves. He panted through a really bad spike, closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. What could be worse, a nightmare about That or waking up to this? He shuddered, and tried to roll himself off the bed. Buddy was staring up at him from the floor, whining softly.
“I’m okay,” Clark told him and laughed. Yeah, he was breathing anyway. Buddy wagged his tail and tilted his head, followed Clark when he staggered to the bathroom.
Clark sipped at water, afraid to put too much in his stomach. He tried to be as quiet as he could, but as he tossed the cup into the wastebasket, he heard the click of the door opening behind him. He jerked around and for a moment, the thrill of horror that raced through him paralyzed every muscle. The relief that flooded him at seeing his dad’s face almost dropped him to the ground. The immediate grinding spike of pain made him gasp.
His dad looked horrified, “Shit, Clark, what is it?” he grabbed him, held his shaking arms. Clark figured his dad didn’t even know he’d cursed. Gosh. Clark sat abruptly on the floor, too shaky to stand.
“Dad…Dad…” he felt a huge wave of embarrassment, because he knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep from throwing up on his dad, and almost the instant he had the thought—he did.
“Oh boy, this is a bad one, hunh, sport? Don’t worry, it’s okay. Don’t cry…” His dad sat on the floor and held him, rocked him. “It’s okay. Dad’s here.”
“Dad, the man…the man…” He could feel his dad go rigid. “I had a dream.”
“He can’t ever hurt you again son, never again. He’s dead, okay? Some other bad men in the prison killed him.”
His dad leaned back, looked down into Clark’s eyes, wiped damp hair from his face. “We never wish for someone to be dead son, but it happened, and I’m not sad. You’re safe. He can never touch you, understand?”
Clark’s head still pounded, it hurt and it felt like it was stuffed with cotton at the same time. He heard his dad, and wished what he said made him feel better. The man could never hurt him again. But the hurt he already had wouldn’t go away. He sighed, and leaned into his dad. That man took something important away. His dream friend tried to tell him sometimes. He just wished he knew what it was.
He knew damn well Martha was up, and only sheer willpower was keeping her in bed. He smiled a little lop-sided smile. Nice of her to trust him. When Clark was younger, she always intervened. He understood it to a certain extent—he’d been so angry, it was hard for him to be soft with Clark. Clark needed their love, not their anger at that bastard, or what had happened.
He shook his head, He was heartily glad that pervert was dead. He wished all perverts like that a miserable death—hoped they rotted in hell.
“What are you gonna do for Easter?” Pete asked him. “Are you coming to church with us, or not?”
“Probably. I talked to my mom about it. She seemed okay with it. Are you sure your mom doesn’t mind me coming for dinner?”
“I already told you,” Pete said impatiently. “My mom said she was fine with it. Now, don’t forget you have to wear a tie, and not jeans.” Pete stumbled a little and Clark caught him, set him on his feet again and neither of them noticed how quickly Clark moved, or how easily Clark caught him. A sharp jab of pain between Clark's eyes made him stop, and lean his hands on his knees for a minute.
“Wow. Wow. Hold on a minute, Pete.” Clark swallowed hard a time or two, waiting for the nausea to pass.
Pete stopped, frowning at Clark sympathetically. “Are you—you getting one of those headaches, Cee? We can sit down, if you want.” He pointed over towards the school ground, and Clark nodded.
They strolled over to the swings there, and sat, kicking their feet in the dirt under the swings. Pete stared up into the overcast sky. He was thinking hard, Clark could see that. He opened and shut his mouth a time or two, and Clark took pity on him.
“What do you want to know, Pete?” He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and pushed off, letting the swing carry him. He had a feeling what was on Pete’s mind. He hadn’t asked him about anything since they were little kids. He felt the wind ruffle his hair as he pushed off hard, heard Pete’s voice from far away.
“What happened to you, Cee? Was it really bad? ‘Cause…sometimes…sometimes, you cry in your sleep.”
Clark felt the question like a punch to the gut. He had no words to describe what he felt about it, about what had happened, so he just said, “I was scared. It was dark, and I don’t remember much but being scared. All the time.” His words echoed oddly in his head as he spoke. He wanted to tell Pete about the other little boy, the one in his dreams, the one that kept telling him he'd lost something then. But he didn’t want Pete to think he was crazy, so he kept quiet.
They swung a bit, with nothing but the sound of the breeze in the still bare trees to cut the silence. After a bit Pete said, “I’m sorry.” Pete shivered, and zipped his jacket shut.
Clark pulled his hands up into the sleeves of his red jacket, and wrapped his covered hands around the chains again. He pumped his legs and flew—back and forth, into the sky. Clark sighed--knew what Pete meant but he just said, “It’s not your fault.”
They walked off the playground, and headed towards home, where Pete’s mom would pick him up. Right before they walked up the farmhouse drive, Pete stopped Clark, and hugged him. It was brief but hard, and then punched his arm hard enough to make Clark grunt. He looked down at his friend and smiled. “You’re a good guy, Pete.”
Pete shook his head. "No, Cee, you’re the good one. I wish I could be as good as you.”
Clark laughed, short, sharp bitter. “Oh no, you don’t want to be me. You really don’t.”
Buddy came running from the back of the house, barking like crazy and they laughed, both of them relieved to be distracted from the moment. Clark knelt and flopped Buddy’s ears around. “You’re a crazy dog, you know that, right?”
Pete took advantage of Clark’s distraction and took over the whole porch swing, making him sit on the top step. “Like owner, like dog, I always say.”
“Shut up!”
“Ha! Make me!”
“Why am I your friend, again?”
“Easy, Cee. You love me!” Pete grinned from ear to ear, and Clark buried his face in Buddy’s back, so Pete couldn’t see him blush.