[TRIGGER WARNING: abuse, smoking, homophobic slurs, blood and general violence]

The smell of smoke was rancid, to say the least.

It licked its way through the room and seeped into Clark's lungs with a familiar ease. For a split second, Clark was a boy again, watching his father lean against the balcony and sob, hunched over a half-burnt out cigarette.

He didn't have the mind to feel pity for the man, however. Not now.

"I don't know what you think you're gonna get from sticking around, little man. They're not coming back." Clark shrugged easily but, through the camera's, Jethro was able to pick up on his antsy aura. "Do you love me that much that you want to stay? Finally cashing in that father-son bonding time?" He leant against the frame of the back door and crossed his bare arms over his chest, two steps behind Damien and three steps into frame. He'd made sure any and all scars he could possibly show were on obvious display.

"Look at us, a happy little family." Clark prodded, staring Damien down analytically. He watched the way Damien's muscles tensed and his shoulders set. Once again, he found himself able to count down until the moment Damien acted once more.

He whipped around, grabbing a fistful of Clark's hair and yanking back on it to tilt Clark's face up at him. Clark locked his hands around Damien's wrist, figuring it would look outwardly like a sign of struggle or self defence without it posing the risk of deterring Damien from his goal.

For a moment, they simply stared in a silent dare - Damien challenging Clark to fight against him and Clark challenging Damien to go through with every little threat he'd ever thrown. Then, Damien broke, suddenly aware of how very open the back porch was for a situation like this.

He began dragging Clark back into the sitting room, making sure to lock the door behind him. Clark let him, letting out faux hisses of pain through gritted teeth. Then, Damien returned to raking a cold glare over Clark's grimacing face.

"You know, once upon a life I believed you would be my living legacy. A little prodigy I could craft and mould into a man to be admired and envied." Damien began slowly with an unreadable expression, lifting the cigarette between his fingers back to his lips and taking a long drag, blowing the smoke across Clark's face. "In your eyes, I saw the shadow of myself for a short while."

"But you're the immaculate image of your mother. You always have been." His face turned sour and Clark felt something flare deep in his stomach. He ignored it. The plan was all too important to let trivial matters such as his own emotions slue his mind. "You inherited every ugly piece of that woman."

"Like these." Damien brought his free hand to trace a finger over the few small moles that dotted Clark's face, resting on the most prominent, that sat comfortably beneath his right eye. He seemed distant for a moment before tilting his wrist the barest fraction in order to press the lit end of his cigarette harshly over the mark.

Clark let himself yelp, pretending to attempt to tear away as Damien held the scalding stub in place before letting it fall heavily to the floor. He then readjusted his grip in Clark's hair to keep him in place. "Such muddy imperfections." He sighed, admiring the red raw imprint he'd left over the blemish.

"She'd say otherwise though, wouldn't she?" Damien hissed, watching Clark for a response. "Wouldn't she?" He repeated with a harsh tug upon receiving no reply.

"Yes." Clark finally answered.

"Ever delicate, the bitch." Clark suppressed an animalistic sound. "He's just a boy, darling, let him be." Damien mocked "It's just a hobby, little bee, let him live." He laughed.

"Let him live, what a phrase."

Damien, surprisingly, let go. He paced across the room, hands clasped neatly behind his back. Clark almost wasn't able to right himself into not tackling him as he strolled. "Let him live," Damien repeated. "What a bold request."

"Do you think she'd continue in her request if she saw what you'd done? Who you'd become?" Damien glared back over his shoulder. "If she knew you were purposefully jeopardising your fathers career for your own petty motive."

"You are ruining these people's lives for your own petty motive." Clark bit back.

"I'm doing what I have to to better your, Aurelia and Selene's, you ungrateful piece of shit." Damien growled, turning.

"You're doing it to better your own, you piss-stain!" Clark shouted back and Damien rounded on him entirely. Clark registered with a split second to spare what was about to happen but stood his ground regardless.

In one swift movement, Damien's fist connected with Clark's nose, causing a sickening crack.

Time stood still for a fraction of a second, Clark with his head bowed forward - sandy blond hair falling over and obstructing his blank face - and Damien breathing heavily, watching in wait. Clark then slowly, carefully, lifted a hand to press his fingers beneath his nose. When he drew his hand back, the pads of his fingers were slick with a crimson red.

Damien glanced to his knuckles, feeling a flare of satisfaction at their reddened tint and complimenting spittles of blood. He flexed his hand before glancing back at Clark. Clark was glaring back at him with a familiar fire.

It faded and changed, however, to something much darker. Something much more sinister. Clark lifted a fist to swipe away the blood, smudging it across his top lip and allowing for a fresh batch to begin oozing our in its place.

"Tell me, Damien," Clark began, straightening to stand tall and beginning to prowl around the man "how preventing a nineteen year old from going home and seeing his family benefits me or Selene or Aurelia in any way." Damien tensed for a moment, a deer caught in headlights, and it was all Clark needed.

"It's for Vincent's own-"

"And tell me, Damien," Clark interrupted, satisfied that that was enough of an acknowledgement and confession "how forcing Clay - how forcing the entire band, rather - to stop talking to the men he and Vincent fell in love with benefits me or Selene or Aurelia in any way."

"They weren't - aren't - in love." Damien hissed and Clark watched the set of his shoulders, the bend of his arms, the minute tilt of his head. Really, Damien was all too easy. "No decent man could  ever love another man. George and Nick were corrupting Clay and Vincent to their deviant ways." And, really, was anyone expecting Clark to give up the chance to disgust his father?

"The same deviant ways of your own son?" Clark asked, tone holding a teasing, faux pitying lilt to it. He made sure to slow to an almost stop, well aware that Damien was planning to strike.

As predicted, Damien lunged and slammed Clark harshly against the wall, almost grinning at the crack of Clark's head on pale painted concrete. He stepped heavy on Clark's feet to stop him from kicking, hands on Clark's shoulders. Clark glanced quickly over Damien's shoulder at where Vincent had said a camera was set. Perfect.

"Now isn't this familiar? Who's the last person that had me like this?" Clark wondered aloud with a sick smirk "Oh yes! Dear Jethro. Much different circumstances, mind you, I don't expect you to ravage me the way he did." He pushed wildly, almost laughing at the rage that burnt clear as day on Damien's face.

Damien drove a fist into Clark's stomach, grinning at the way it pushed all air from Clark's lungs. As Clark doubled, Damien shoved him back up straight. Clark, however, was having much too much fun pushing Damien's buttons.

Even with his life on the line, Clark had never felt so invigorated.

"How do you think Abigail would feel, seeing what you'd done? Seeing who you'd become?" Clark flipped hoarsely, well aware that he must look like a fish out of water with the way he was gasping for air.

Seemingly, Clark had said the wrong thing.

A sinister grin made its way on to Damien's face and Clark felt his blood run cold but he fought not to let it show. "Why don't you ask her?"

Ah, okay. Not exactly the most convenient moment for Damien to reach his limit but Clark figured he could work with it.

"You're going to kill me?" Clark asked, moulding a timid nervousness he'd long since lost into the undertones of his voice. Discretely, so much so that Damien wouldn't detect it, Clark slipped his phone from his back pocket and into his hand.

Those behind the camera watched, on edge, as he clicked his thumb against the power five times, dragging across the emergency call. Damien, by way of answer, closed a hand on Clark's throat as Clark expertly clicked his way through to the police line.

He shook his arms, faking struggle and weakly striking at Damien until his sleeves fell over his hands. And, as Clark carefully pushed his phone up his sleeve, Damien resumed his narcissistic monologuing.

"Your mother always sheltered you too much, always thought too highly of you," He pressed minutely and Clark took that as his chance to reach up and claw at Damien's wrist, successfully bringing the microphone of his phone close enough for the service on the end to hear the exchange.

"Jealous?" Clark croaked. "You've decided to kill me at" And, dear Lord, was Jethro right when he said that Clark was smart despite his looks because he then announced, loud and clear, Clay's address "all because Abigail died loving me more."

Damien pressed harder and Clark let out a a much too real whimper.

Clark had been so sure that the moment that he was face to face with death, he wouldn't flinch, shy away or feel fear.

He wasn't certain whether he was happy or not to be wrong.

"Your mother had wanted to give you everything." Watching as Clark gasped for air, Damien's ego swelled to the point of allowing secrets to spill and drop from his tongue.

It's not like Clark would be able to tell anyone.

"Our house, her earnings, even a guaranteed career at that stupid fucking studio, should you choose it." He spat. "All for an eight year old brat."

Damien began to laugh darkly and watched as Clark's eyes fought closing. "She even tried to hand you off to that gypsy brother of hers."

Clark managed to pry and yanks Damien's hand just enough to allow him a few more words. "No will, no note." He quoted, almost shameful of tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

"That's right, isn't it?" Damien laughed.

"Couldn't let them find it, now could I?" He asked and the words settled in Clark's stomach like a stone. She left a note. She left a note and Damien took that from him.

Had he planned better, timed himself more accurately, Clark was sure he'd be able to fight.

All he could do now, though, was drop the arm that didn't contain his phone back down against the wall and pray those behind the camera saw it and, in it, saw the signal.

The last sound heard was the droning beep of his phone hanging up before Clark fell limp.

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