A/N: Non-canon pairing. Lex/OC (unnamed, because I don't think Lilian would have told him her name)

Chapter 2

It's been ten months when a girl from the accounting department at one of your allied companies smiles at you. You don't smile back. You talk to Clark about it later, and he says you should have, that Lana would have wanted you to.

You've seen this girl before, but you tended to avoid her when Lana was alive: she's the kind of girl who's pretty enough to make a man forget all his promises. She tries again: makes small talk with you, and you make her laugh, and her laugh makes you smile.

She takes her time. Makes excuses to come over to your office building, gets to know you in spared minutes over the weeks. You don't have money or power she could be after, which means that for some reason, she likes you. Broken, penniless you.

You've been sparing moments for her for almost four months when you finally ask her on a date. You find you're not scared she'll reject you; you're scared she'll say yes. But her smile is so, so beautiful when she does.

You almost call her to cancel on the big night, but as you're about to dial, Clark's number pops up on the screen. He warns you not to cancel or he'll come over there and slap you straight. You laugh a little and put on a tie.

One look at her in that dress fills you with shame. Her intelligence and sweetness have always proven it, but you've never been more aware of the extravagance she deserves until now, when you can't give it to her. But she never stops smiling through the pitifully simple dinner, and she gushes at the measly flowers you bring her. You remember to open the doors for her, but forget almost everything else you've learned about etiquette, and when you want to impress her with your wit, the most profound thing you can think to say is that she looks pretty. But she gushes and thanks you, and holds up her end of the struggling conversation you can give through the pain that still hasn't stopped, and she asks if she can take you on the next date.

You're careful about it, but in time, you share bits and pieces about Lana. She tells you about the abusive husband who she divorced. She's broken, too, and somehow you just fit.

She doesn't make the pain go away, and she doesn't fill the gaping hole in your heart—any of the gaping holes, for that matter. She's her own piece of your life, a piece that grows throughout all the bad movies and cheap dinners and overpriced coffee breaks. A piece you don't know how you ever lived without.

Seven dates later, you realize you love her.

You don't tell her. Neither of you are ready for that. But you can see the reciprocation in her eyes, and Chloe asks you outright after a double date, "Do you love her?"

"I don't know yet," you say, and it's the first real lie you've told in awhile, but based on her grin, she can tell you're lying.

You wait another year to propose. The wedding is small, but the important people are there. Your eyes mist as she walks down the aisle, and you can't help but think of Lana, but it's easier to push the thoughts aside than you'd expected. You make vows you'll keep to the death.

It's been five years since the funeral when you look into the blue-green eyes of your first son. He lies in your wife's arms, and your arm is wrapped around her, and darkness has no place in you, not even to rage against the light. Even with the still-painful wounds that mar your heart and never won't, you feel whole.

Two years later, another son. Four years after that, a daughter, around the same time that Clark and Chloe have their firstborn, also a daughter. The girls are more or less best friends from birth. Your boys fight, friendly rivalry, but they love each other and their sister.

You and your wife take way too many pictures on their first days of kindergarten, and every other grade after that. You take them on camping trips, since that's about all you can afford, but it's about all they want.

You learn to live whole and broken at the same time. It surfaces when you least expect it. You're a tough father. Too tough, despite your best efforts. You're fair about when you scold, but not about the strength of your words. One day, after you make your younger son cry for lying to you, you overhear the older comforting him in their room. The younger says he'd rather be smacked than scolded by you. The older says it's all worth it when you say you're proud of them, that it's the best feeling in the world.

Your wife insists you're a good parent, but you're never convinced by her. Some days, though, the kids convince you you're not all bad. The way your younger son crawls into your arms after he falls off his bike. The way your baby girl screams with laughter when you swing her high in the air, hold her close and cover her little face with kisses. The way the oldest rolls his eyes when you tell him you love him the day after his longest grounding, and says, "I know, I know, Dad." Then, muttered: "Love you too."

You blink and they're teenagers. Blink again and they're gone.

Your second son marries Clark's oldest daughter, and your daughter is the maid of honor. You cry after the ceremony. You're more than whole—you're overflowing, and the joy fills you to bursting.

By miracle, all three of your kids and all four of Clark's make family reunions a priority. Christmas has never been so sweet.

You retire. Your daughter takes over the company and carries on the good work you've done, far better than you ever did. You swell with pride.

Empty nesters, you and your wife have dinner with Clark and Chloe almost every week. Every once in awhile, Lana's name is dropped in casual conversation. Your new wife doesn't react much, and Chloe doesn't frown, but Clark always glances at your face to make sure you don't flinch. And you don't.

You hear about Lionel's passing on the news. You go to his funeral, but a year later, you weep more at Jonathan's, then even more at Martha's. But theirs are celebrations of lives well lived, and you have hope that yours will be the same.

When you're in your early seventies and Clark is in his late sixties, Chloe passes away. His children and yours visit him throughout his shock, numbness, then through the pain, but no one spends longer at his side than you do. It isn't a debt to be repaid, but a gift you can afford to give. You have so, so much love to spare.

You outlive your new wife, but not by long. Clark visits on the day before your death and reassures you that your family will be fine. Your children and grandchildren weep beside your deathbed, and you hold their hands and smile as you breathe your last.

Fight the darkness, my child. Never, ever believe you will be unloved.

The End