Author's Note: Many heartfelt thanks to both Empathic Siren and Bittermint for reading through this. The story was difficult for me to write, and I appreciate your honest opinions. The characters of Smallville belong to Alfred Gough, Miles Millar and The WB (now the CW). Connor Kent and Cassie Sandsmark belong to DC Comics. No copyright infringement is intended.

'Cause who's gonna know but me?

Who'll help me recall those small memories?

I'm all that's left of this family of three

Who's gonna know but me?

(From the song "Who's Gonna Know?" by Jon Vesner)

It's Saturday, mid-morning, and I tap my fingertips impatiently on the steering wheel as I wait through yet another light cycle. I have been stuck at the same intersection for the last twenty minutes. When Cassie shooed me out of our front door earlier this morning, she'd neglected to remind me about the Christmas parade that was scheduled for today.

In downtown Metropolis.

Marching right past my destination.

I glare irritably at the clock on the dashboard, watching as yet another minute ticks by. Sighing, I lean back against the headrest, forcing myself to relax. This delay is not helping my stress level and a headache begins to bloom behind my eyes. It's strange that I'm both anxious and reluctant to finish this chore. I am usually more decisive than this.

Six cars ahead, I see yet another large float go past - though unfortunately, not the all-important one. The one that heralds the end of the parade.

Nope, no Santa in sight.

I need something to occupy my time as I wait. My fingers dance across the pad on my phone, dialing the number without conscious thought. Several rings and then there's a breathless answer. "Hello?"

"Hello, sweetheart."

"Grandpa! How are you?"

I smile at my granddaughter's boundless energy. Martha, or Matty, as she insists on being called, is in her senior year at Metropolis University, studying pre-med. She's our youngest grandchild, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit, if only to myself, that she's my favorite of the three. "I'm fine, Matty. Your grandma is busy getting ready for the holidays. You'll be there for Christmas Eve, won't you?"

Matty giggles. "Of course, Grandpa. You ask me that every time you talk to me."

"So, do you have a hot date for tonight?" I ask as I watch a huge balloon of Superman drift along the parade route. The sight sears my heart and I take a deep breath. Talk about having your life flash before your eyes. "Because if you don't, I'd like to take my favorite granddaughter out to dinner."

Snorting with laughter, Matty replies, "Pfft, Grandpa, I'm your only granddaughter!" Her voice softens then. "You're finally going there, aren't you?"

"Yes, I..." My gaze drifts past the throngs of people lining the road ahead, beyond the nearby buildings and over their rooftops to the towering LuthorCorp high-rise in the background. I follow its sleek lines up to the top floor, and my eyes dwell on the penthouse.

"Grandma called earlier. She's worried about you."

I shake my head, a faint smile on my lips. Cassie's amazing, always taking care of me, trying to make my life a little better. "Figures."

"Do you want me to come over and help?"

The concern and affection I hear in her tone warms me, and suddenly, my errand seems a little less painful. "No." I say softly, "There's no need for you to waste your Saturday doing this. Go out and have some fun with your friends and we'll get together later."

"All right, Grandpa. Call me when you're ready, okay?"

"Sure. Goodbye, sweetie."

"Bye, Grandpa. Love you."

Matty disconnects and I slide the phone into my jacket pocket. I briefly consider the notion of pulling over, parking my car on the side of the street, and just walking over to LuthorCorp, but the thought of leaving the Porsche unattended in this neighborhood dissuades me.

Wild cheers from the surrounding spectators distract me from my brooding. I glance up and see a familiar figure waving at the crowds. Once Santa passes through the intersection in front of me, the people begin to disperse. After a short wait, the police break down the barricades and allow traffic to proceed.

Fifteen minutes later, I step out of the private elevator into the foyer of the penthouse. My footsteps echo in the empty hallway as I walk toward the living room.

Dust motes dance languidly in the still air, reflecting in the morning light that struggles to penetrate the drawn curtains. I suppress a sneeze, making a mental note to have a cleaning service come in, and walk over to the button that opens the drapes. Blinding sunlight pours through the windows, causing me to blink for a second as my eyes adjust. The view from here is as incredible as always and I spend the next few minutes staring down at the bustling city.

Eventually I tell myself to quit stalling and head toward the 'storage room', as my dad laughingly called the spare guestroom. Dad had been sentimental, too much so according to Father, and kept everything he considered significant to our family. Nearly eighty years of connubial life is represented in the room: wedding pictures, baby toys, old souvenirs from our many family vacations. Scores of memories safely tucked away in scrapbooks and on bookshelves and resting on every available flat surface.

I pause at the threshold, closing my eyes as I steel myself to go inside. Father's been gone for over two years - Dad, almost six months. I still find myself missing them so much every day. Finally, the crushing pressure in my chest lessens and I step into the room.

There is a pile of unassembled boxes in one corner, along with several rolls of tape sitting on top. A faint smile ghosts across my face at the sight. Once again, Cassie has thought of everything. She must have arranged to have the boxes delivered, knowing that I tend to forget the details. I assemble several of them before moving over to one of the bookshelves.

The next several hours pass in a blur. Occasionally I get lost in the pages of one of the photo albums, remembering Dad's corny jokes, or the tender smiles Father would send in his direction, but I then pull myself away from the memories and force my hands to keep moving. There will be plenty of time to reminisce when we have the kids and grandchildren over to the house to sort through the keepsakes and divide everything amongst them.

I leave the desk for last. The decision to do so is a conscious one. It is an unusual piece of furniture, huge, with ornate carvings along the edges and drawers on both sides. Dad had called it a partner's desk when he bought it, saying it was a place where he and Father could get their work done and still be together. Father had teased him about it, saying that Dad just wanted to keep an eye on him to ensure LuthorCorp's business dealings remained legitimate. Whatever the reasons, both Dad and Father had spent many hours there working on their various projects.

Dad's side of the desk holds few surprises for me. Messy - as it always had been - filled with broken pencils and bent paperclips, kept for God only knows what reason. There are stacks of handwritten notes (research for his many books and novels), old takeout menus and several old birthday cards, lovingly made by childish hands. I chuckle at my old artwork and take great care in placing them in a box.

I move to the other side - the one where my father worked - and figure it will only take a minute or two to clear it out. Father, unlike Dad, had been tidy and compulsively organized, so I doubt there will be much here. A picture frame sits facing the chair; the photo is of Dad and me at my college graduation. It goes on top of the birthday cards. I turn back to Father's side of the desk and open the center drawer.

A holo-disk and two envelopes lay side-by-side. Nothing else is in the drawer. I pick up the envelopes and study them for a moment. One has my name written in Father's precise handwriting; the other says 'Clark'. The discovery is a bit shocking, but after brief reflection, I realize that Dad never came in here again after Father died. The loss had been too devastating.

I lay the envelope with my name on it aside and, with trembling fingers, carefully open the one intended for Dad. The note inside is folded precisely into thirds - so typical of Father. I unfold it and begin reading.

Clark,

Who would have thought, the day I hit you with my car and set our destiny in motion, that we would have ended up here? Four years of friendship and seventy-nine years of marriage, and I've never once regretted a minute of it. You gave me our wonderful son and a loving home, but most of all, you gave me your love. For that, I thank you.

I watch you sleeping, so uncomfortable in the chair beside my bed, and I don't see the gray hair or the wrinkles or the shaking hands; I see the beautiful face that I opened my eyes to on the riverbank. You have always been, and always will be, my beautiful boy, my lover, my husband.

If God is truly merciful, we will be together again. Until then, remember that I love you, now and until the end of time.

Your Lex

I blink away the tears and slowly set the letter down on the desktop. After taking a deep breath, I open and read the letter Father wrote to me.

Connor,

I still remember the day you were placed in my arms for the first time. You were so tiny (and I must admit, rather wrinkled and red) and I instantly adored you. At that moment, I promised you everything I had - my love, my protection, and my unwavering support.

We've had our moments of disagreement; God, I wasn't sure whether either one of us would survive your teenage years, but we made it, with a lot of help from your dad. One thing I want you to know is that you have never ceased to amaze me with your intelligence, your strength of character, and your integrity.

You've grown into a man I am proud to call my son, and even prouder to call my friend.

Love,

Father

I finish the last of the letter and allow it to fall onto the floor. So many memories flash through my mind: Father taking me to the lot where we bought our Christmas trees; Dad teaching me to drive after Father handed me the keys to my new car; how proud both of them were on my wedding day; the looks on their faces when I introduced them to their newborn grandson.

I finally pull myself together enough to take the holo-disk and slip it into the player. There is a few seconds of static at the beginning before a hospital room slowly comes into focus. Father's hospital room. He is sitting up against the pillows, supported from the side by Dad's arms wrapped about his waist.

I pause the hologram to stare at my parents. I had forgotten just how fragile Father had become right before his death. He is thin, his deeply lined skin almost translucent against his bones. But his blue eyes are as bright as ever, and his smile just as affectionate.

Father gazes directly at the camera with a grin. "Connor," he says in the weak, raspy voice he had at the end. "I know that if you're watching this, you've also received your letter. That's good, son." He hesitates, inhales deeply to catch his breath. "As you know, your dad and I have left everything to you in our wills. However, there are a few things..." He breaks off in a coughing fit.

Dad leans over, whispering urgently in Father's ear. Father turns to look at him and raises one shaky hand to cup his face before giving a small nod. Dad tries to smile but doesn't quite succeed. He presses a gentle kiss to Father's lips and then turns to face the camera.

He licks his lips nervously, swallows once or twice then finally says, "Lex is going to let me finish his little speech for him, okay? As he was saying, we didn't put every bequest into the wills; we're leaving them for you to decide when and how they are carried out." Dad glances at Father, who nods again, encouraging him. He continues softly, "We would like to have the Castle in Smallville given over to the State to be used as an art museum. Your father thinks naming it the Lillian Luthor Museum of Fine Arts would be appropriate, and he wants our art collection, especially the pieces left to him by his mother, to be on permanent display there."

Father takes over then, speaking quietly. "We want each of the grandchildren to have one of our other residences. There is the penthouse here in Metropolis, of course, as well as the ranch in Montana and the beach house in Florida. Use your discretion in deciding who gets which one. As for our mementos and personal items, we figure it will be easier for everyone to decide what they want after we're gone."

"We're sorry to leave this for you to do, Connor," Dad states. "We realize it's going to be difficult, having to go through our things..."

Father starts laughing and Dad turns to glare at him. "Think of it as our little piece of revenge, Connor, for all those times your dad and I had to clean your room."

I give a watery chuckle at that; the state of my bedroom had been a major sore point between Father and me for most of my teenage years. One time, Father had been so disgusted, he'd gone in with a trashcan and just started tossing everything that wasn't put away properly. Luckily for me, Dad had caught him before he'd made it to the incinerator.

There are only a few seconds remaining on the holo-disk. Father straightens in Dad's arms and looks at the camera again. "Anyway, son, I just wanted to tell you that I love you and am so very, very proud of you." The picture fades as he slumps back against Dad, obviously exhausted from his efforts.

The disk and envelopes are stowed in my pocket for safekeeping. I then pick up the box with the things from the desk and turn to go. As I pass the living room entrance, I halt, undecided. After a moment's hesitation, I re-enter the room.

Hanging on the stone wall above the mantel is a large portrait of our family. Dad's hair is black and thick, with only a few shots of silver running through it, and Father's face is serene and unlined. My twelve year old self looks as though he's about to play a trick on somebody. The prank, if I recall the photo shoot correctly, consisted of turning loose a snake in the studio. The poor photographer had been terrified; she ended up standing on a chair, screaming her head off, while Dad and Father chased the snake around the room.

I lightly touch the frame before leaving. On my way out, I pull my phone from my pocket and make a call. I have a date with the second-most beautiful girl in the world.

*****

Five years later

The reception draws to an end as the bride and groom prepare to depart. Matty is glowing in her deceptively simple wedding gown and Marcus beams with pride whenever he glances her way. He pulls her into a loose embrace, whispering something into her ear. The smile she flashes at him lights up the room.

The guests gather near the penthouse door, ready to give their final blessings to the couple. Marcus keeps a protective arm around Matty's waist as they run through the barrage of bubbles, laughing as they leave for their honeymoon.

At the sight, the last lingering bit of doubt I had over the match fades. While I know there will be difficult times in their marriage - what couple doesn't have some? - I have a strong feeling Matty and Marcus will be able to work through them. They remind me of another young couple just starting their married life, more than a half-century ago.

Someone walks up to stand beside me. I glance down at my own bride. Fifty-four years disappear in an instant and I see Cassie as she looked on our own wedding day, bright-eyed and so very beautiful.

Cassie takes my hand. "Did you give them our present?"

I shake my head. "No, I didn't get the chance. I'll just put it on the gift table before we leave."

She accompanies me as I walk over to the fireplace where the table's been set up. I place the envelope that contains the deed to the penthouse amidst the gaily-wrapped presents before looking up to study the portrait that still hangs above the mantel. My gaze shifts from Dad's smiling face to Father's and I find myself smiling back at them. I know they would be pleased with the gift.

"Hey, old man, you ready to go?" Cassie asks quietly. I glance down at her and grin. My Cassie, always looking out for me.

I kiss her tenderly and say, "Yes. Let's go home."

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