Lois & Clark Forums Forums Fan Fiction Lois & Clark Fanfic Anchor: Part I -- Clark Kent (9-10/51)

*Content Warning: Chapter 9 contains brief descriptions of gun violence, with some of the victims being young children.




The child, who is maybe eight years old, hugs a tiny stuffed elephant against his chest with shaky hands, and tears stream down his face. His blonde hair is ruffled and covered in ash, and several smudges of soot stain his cheeks. He coughs as he sobs. Around him, the ferocious, hot fire burns, lapping at the edges of the room.

I land lightly at the doorway, and the floor creaks precariously under my feet. I shift my weight and feel the wood crumbling below me. No time to waste; the building is going to collapse soon. I float across the room.

“Hey, buddy, I’m going to get you out of here now, okay?”

I raise my voice so he can hear me over the roar of the fire, and he looks up suddenly, startled. His eyes widen as he sees me, and his mouth falls open.

“Superman!”

“That’s me,” I say. I reach for him just as the floor gives out with a sickening groan. He is safe in my arms, and I gently press his head into my chest so he doesn’t realize how close he just came to falling to his death. A gust of hot air carrying burning embers flows around us, and I wrap my cape protectively around him. “Let’s get you out of here, okay, buddy?”

He nods his head into my chest and clings on to me sobbing and coughing.

I carefully fly us out of the burning building. As he feels the fresh air, he lifts his head weakly.

“We’re flying! Wow!”

He coughs again and his head falls against my chest as he struggles to breath. I can sense his lungs are filled with smoke still, and I hurry down to the EMTs, who look up at me with surprise and relief. From the crowd, held back behind a makeshift police barrier, I hear cries of “Superman!” and “He’s back!” I settle the boy onto a gurney and hold his tiny hand in mine as the emergency workers place an oxygen mask over his face.

“Aiden! That’s my baby!” A woman in her late twenties pushes through the line of police. Her cheeks are stained with tears. I let the boy’s hand go and step back to give her room. “Aiden, my sweet baby, I’m so sorry. Oh, thank you Superman, thank you so much!”

I nod and smile tightly, then turn back to the burning building. The fire fighters spray water from their hoses on the blaze, but it is not making much of a dent. I jog over to the fire chief, who quickly reaches out to shake my hand. I reciprocate the gesture, mildly surprised that he offered a handshake so freely. Most interactions I’m used to are tinged with a certain degree of revulsion or at least hesitation, like Mr. Olsen’s refusal to shake my hand the day before.

“Superman, you have no idea how glad I am to see you,” he says with relief. Without hesitation, he continues, “We can’t get a hold on this. Any chance you can put out the flames for us? I’m worried it will jump buildings soon with this breeze picking up.”

“Of course. Give me a minute,” I reply quickly.

I launch up into the air again and hover in front of the flames as I hurriedly but thoroughly scan the building, checking that there are no other residents stuck inside. The building is clear, so I fly in and promptly put out the flames using my freezing breath. Within two minutes, the fire is out, and I exit to cheers from the crowd, police, and firemen. I smile and wave slightly toward the onlookers, and, after checking in with the fire chief, who shakes my hand again, and with the EMTs, who assure me that the young boy Aiden is on his way to the hospital and will be fine, I launch myself up into the air and back toward my—his apartment.

Two traffic accidents and an attempted mugging later, I actually make it back. Lois sits on the couch, with the television turned on but muted. Video footage of me flying out of the burning apartment building cradling the young child and lifting an overturned tractor trailer off the highway is on replay. I enter through the balcony, land quietly in the bedroom, and speed through a quick shower to get the ash and soot out of my hair before throwing my clothes back on. She looks up at me abruptly as I exit from the bedroom, adjusting my glasses. A smile tugs at her lips.

“There is already hope again,” she says quietly, motioning to the television.

She picks up the remote control and turns the volume up as I move to the couch and sit at the end opposite her. Together, we watch as the news footage unfolds. The newscasters smile and laugh and replay the footage over and over. Lois turns to face me.

“This is really good. I-I’m really glad you’re here.” She pauses and looks down at her hands. “Thank you, Clark.”

“It was great to help,” I admit, shifting my eyes back to the television.

They are now playing some older footage of him—Superman—receiving the Key to the City and giving some sort of a speech in front of City Hall. He smiles and speaks with ease in front of the large crowds, exuding confidence and poise. And the audience listens respectfully. The scrolling text at the bottom of the screen announces, ‘Breaking news: Superman returns after three-month absence. Saves child from burning building’. I settle deeper into the couch cushions.

“It…it’s very different here. In a good way, really.” My voice is timid, hesitant.

“Oh? How so?” She turns off the volume on the television and shifts her knees up onto the couch to get more comfortable.

“Well, um, I—people here are…not…afraid of me…” I lower my eyes to hide the pain in my expression. No, I don’t cry, but my hands shake, and I fold my arms over my chest to steady myself.

“Afraid of you? Why…why would they be afraid of you?”

Wells hadn’t told her all of my history, I see. I shake my head slightly. I don’t really want to talk about it. But she should know. I open my mouth to speak, but my superhearing kicks on again to rapid firing of gunshots, fairly nearby, accompanied by screaming. A lot of screaming.

“Hold that thought, I—I have to—I’ll be right back—”

I don’t wait for her response. Every second matters in a situation like this, and I’m already half way to the park probably before she can register my words. As I approach, I quickly scan the area. The peaceful protest from earlier has erupted into chaos. I spot three gunmen hiding from the rooftops of buildings surrounding the park, firing down onto the crowd with heavy-duty automatic weapons. Five people are already down in the park by the time I arrive.

With as much speed as is safe, I first target each of the three gunmen, swiping away their weapons. I then deposit them and their weapons with the policemen near the edge of the park. With the cessation of gunshots, the crowd begins to calm somewhat, but screaming persists.

“Help! Someone! Please help!”

I survey the crowd again. There are now six injured, including two children. A mother rocks her child in her arms, blood pooling on the ground beneath them. The child is still breathing, but barely. The other victims are also critically injured, and all need immediate transport to the hospital. I speed over and land next to the mother and her child. Her eyes widen as she realizes who I am, and she cries and holds her daughter to her chest.

“Ma’am, please hold on to her tightly, and I’ll fly you both to the hospital,” I instruct. She nods anxiously, and I lift her gently into my arms, focus to extend my protective aura around her, and launch up into the sky toward the hospital. Within seconds, we land at the entrance to the Emergency Department of Metropolis General. I set the woman down as several nurses and doctors rush out to meet us, and I address them quickly, “This child has a gunshot wound to the chest from an AR-15 assault rifle. There are five other victims. I will be back momentarily—please be prepared.”

“Got it, Superman,” the head nurse replies.

I take off back to the park, returning less than a minute later with the next victim—the other child, who is slightly older and not as critical. They are waiting for us this time, and I again report, “Two gunshot wounds—one to the left leg, one to the left side. Same caliber weapon.” They take the child back into the building quickly, and I hurry back to the park, returning with each of the remaining four victims. I am met each time by prepared and appreciative medical personnel, who listen carefully as I explain each victim’s wounds and then rush off to care for their patients.

After I finish with the final victim at the hospital, I stop at the park one more time, check in the with emergency crews, and give the police a brief statement. Before I take off back home, the police chief approaches me and reaches out enthusiastically to shake my hand.

“Superman, we’re so glad to have you back. This situation would have been so much worse without your help.”

“It’s good to be home, sir,” I say solemnly.

I nod to him and launch up into the sky, feeling a sudden strong urge to get back to Lois as my thoughts shift to the other Clark. I try to imagine how he might have felt to be back here, helping, after three long months away. However, I suddenly realize I’m not sure if he’d actually have been up to the task. I remember my last vision, in which he fought valiantly to push through the enemy lines, his singular focus to reach and defeat Lord Nor in order to end the conflict. I recall feeling his anguish every time he struck down an enemy soldier with his sword or gun, every time a life was lost at his hands—it changed him. His purpose, like mine, was not taking lives; it was saving lives. The work he was forced into on New Krypton went against everything he’d ever stood for and believed in. And he hadn’t been mentally prepared for it, which had ultimately cost him his life.

I wipe away a tear as I land in the apartment, grieving for this other version of me whom I will never get to meet, and I spin out of the suit back into my regular clothes. Lois is in the kitchen now, pouring two cups of coffee. So much coffee already, and it’s only 9 a.m.

In my hands, the blood-stained suit pulls me back to the present. I know from experience that I need to hand wash it with hydrogen peroxide and cold water right away to get the stain out. A quick scan under the kitchen sink confirms that he used the same method, and I move into the kitchen and nod briefly to Lois as I pull out a half-full bottle of hydrogen peroxide and get started cleaning the spandex.

She seems to sense the change in my mood, and she pushes the cup of coffee toward me on the counter, but stands back while I meticulously scrub the blood out of the blue fabric. This has always been something that I cannot do at superspeed, although I think it has more to do with my needing the time to reflect than on my physical ability to get the stain out quickly. Maybe it was the same way for him. After several minutes, I rinse the suit with cold water and am relieved to see the water run clear. I shut off the water and close my eyes a moment. Her soft voice next to me keeps me grounded.

“Here, I’ll stick it in the washing machine for you,” she offers, reaching out toward me.

“Thank you.”

I hand her the suit and rest my hands on the sink as she exits the room briefly. A moment later, I hear the washing machine start, and she returns. I fix a more neutral expression on my face and turn to her.

“Sorry I—”

The landline phone rings loudly, cutting me off, and I frown. She shrugs with a half-smile and reaches over to answer the phone since she is closest. I pick up my coffee cup and take a long sip.

“Hello?... Yes, Perry, he’s right here.” She looks over at me expectantly, and I understand she is asking whether I’m ready to speak with Mr. White. I nod an acquiescence and take the phone as she offers it. I take a deep breath to steady myself before lifting the receiver to my ear.

“Good morning, Mr. White, sir.” My voice catches slightly in my throat, and I swallow anxiously. Did the other Clark call him ‘Perry’, like Lois does? I avoid eye contact with Lois, not wanting to know whether I’d just screwed up.

“Clark, son, it’s good to hear your voice. I can’t believe it. When Lois called me this morning, well, I just darn near passed out.” His familiar voice brings a smile to my face, and I shift the phone to my other ear as he continues. “Your story, Clark, it’s—well, it’s incredible, son. I’ve already got it sent to the printer for a special edition. It will be out this afternoon.”

“That’s great, sir,” I say, adding, “I feel honored to be able to tell the story.” I look up at Lois, and she is watching me, a single tear sliding down her cheek. She knows I mean his story. I adjust my glasses.

“Well, look, son, I know you just got back and must be tired. Consider yourself still on leave until you are ready to come back in, although we all can’t wait to see you.” The sincerity in his voice hits me, similar to the enthusiastic handshakes and welcoming cheers I’d received as Superman earlier that morning. I swallow hard and close my eyes.

“I appreciate that, sir,” I manage, keeping my voice as even as possible. “I’ll talk to Lois and let you know.”

“Of course, sure, son. You both know how to reach me. Rest well, and spend some quality time with that fiancée of yours. I hope to see you soon.”

I cringe inwardly, glad Lois doesn’t hear that little tidbit. She seems fairly stable at the moment, and I’d hate for that to change.

“Thank you, Mr. White.”

And there I go again. Mr. White, Perry, Chief, sir? I almost laugh to myself. Such a simple thing, yet my mind races, wondering if I’ve made some huge mistake. But he simply hangs up on the other end of the line. I reach around Lois to hang up the phone on its holder and risk a glance at her. Her expression is unreadable, and she sips her coffee while watching me. I grimace. Bite the bullet and just ask, I tell myself.

“Mr. White, Perry, Chief, or something else?” She raises her eyebrows at me in confusion, so I elaborate. “You call him ‘Perry.’ The Clark from the other universe I visited several months ago called him ‘Chief’ or ‘Perry.’ In my universe, I called him ‘Mr. White.’”

“Oh, right,” she says thoughtfully, setting down her coffee cup. “I guess Clark usually called him Mr. White as well. So you guessed correctly.”

A small weight lifts off my shoulders as I nod in acknowledgement. Maybe this will be more intuitive than I thought.

“But, I’m sorry, um, did you—” She pauses abruptly, her eyebrows furrowed with uncertainty. She blinks several times. “Did you just say, ‘The Clark from the other universe’? H-how many universes have you visited?”

Another detail Wells failed to mention to her. I laugh dryly. “Besides mine and yours, just one other. It’s a bit of a long story—which of course I’m happy to tell, if you have time…”

She shrugs dismissively, and we move back to settle on the couch. She pulls her knees up and relaxes deep into the cushions. “I have got all day. Entertain me, Mr. Kent.”

“All right,” I agree, moving slightly to sit at the edge of my seat. I rest my elbows onto my knees. “It’s a bit confusing, and long. So don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And so, I tell her everything. Well, almost everything. I tell her about the day the Lois from the other other universe was dropped into my world with H.G. Wells by a madman from the future named Tempus, whose main goal in life was to destroy Superman and all that he stood for. I tell her how the other Lois helped me to become Superman and then how we defeated Tempus, which unfortunately led to my ‘secret identity’ being blown before I even had a chance to protect it. I tell her about how I grew into my role as Superman and how Clark Kent became merely a penname for Superman to use when he wrote the news. Then I tell her about how H.G. Wells showed up again one day and took me with him to the other Lois’s universe, where her Clark had been banished to a nanosecond in time through an exploding time window. Once again, Tempus had been responsible, in his continuing quest to destroy Superman and rise to power. I tell her how I had helped the other Lois to find Tempus, destroy his mind control system, which he had used to enslave the whole country, and stop nuclear missiles from being launched against targets all around the world. Finally, I tell her how I’d met the other Clark briefly, which had been bizarre to say the least. I don’t tell her about the strange but strong connection I felt to the other Lois or about having been engaged to Lana Lang or about meeting the Kents. Or about how lonely and isolating life had become for me.

Miraculously, my storytelling is not interrupted by any other calls for help or emergencies. Lois only interrupts a few times, preferring instead to sit, sip her coffee, and just listen. When I finish, I sit back into the couch cushions again and close my eyes for a moment. The city is quiet around us, although I sense the emergency crews still active at the park a few blocks away. It is almost as though the city has taken a deep breath after having not done so for three months.

Across the couch from me, Lois shifts and clears her throat. I open my eyes to look at her. She is staring at her coffee cup, a stray lock of hair falling in front of her face. Without looking up, she asks a simple question.

“Tempus did more than just reveal your identity to your world, didn’t he?”

Boy, she is perceptive. I don’t answer right away. I’ve only been on this Earth for less than a day, but already I’ve felt more support from the random people I’ve met in the few rescues I’ve made than I had from all of my “acquaintances” back home since becoming Superman. I lower my eyes and swallow hard.

“Yes, he did,” I admit, running a hand through my hair anxiously. I hate reliving this memory. But she asked, and I will answer. “He told the world that I was the first part of an alien invasion and that I’d—that I’d come to Earth to trick the people of Earth into trusting me so my eventual takeover of the planet would be easier and more…insidious. I don’t think people ultimately believed him, but his ideas left them with enough doubt and mistrust that…” I trail off. Please don’t ask me to elaborate, Lois. I think you get the point.

And she does. She nods almost imperceptibly as she sits up and scoots to the edge of her seat.

“The people here, on this Earth, they are different,” she says quietly.

“Yes. Very different.”

She nods again and continues. “They were very welcoming of Superman when he first showed up. He helped lift the Messenger space shuttle into orbit after a series of attempted sabotages. People were genuinely grateful and in awe not only of what he could do but also of how he used his powers for good—to help. I-I didn’t know who he was back then, but I knew he was innately good. He—Superman gives people here a sense of hope. Hope that there is something better on the way. Hope that someone is out there who cares.” She smiles at me with such compassion that I look away. She sees me. She knows. She understands.

“Well, I…” My voice catches in my throat, but I continue. “I hope that I can live up to that—”

“You will,” she interrupts. The certainty in her voice hits me, and I suck in a shaky breath.

“You—you’re pretty confident about that,” I manage weakly.

“I’m usually right about things.”

I smile as I allow myself to look up at her. Despite everything she has been through in the last three days—despite losing her fiancé and best friend and then having to face the future pretending that he’s back—she is strong and confident. And she is the one here comforting me. Is this what it feels like to have a true friend? “Take care of her for me.” Sorry, Kal, I think she’s the one taking care of me.

“A major wildfire is moving quickly through the mountains west of Colorado Springs, and authorities are concerned about potential casualties as the blaze is cutting off exit routes for visitors to Pikes Peak.”

I’m standing and have changed into the suit within a second. I glance to Lois, whose eyes are wide and concerned.

“There’s a wildfire in Colorado,” I explain. “It might take a while. Sometimes wildfires—”

“Hurry, then,” she says quickly, standing and crossing her arms over her chest. “And be careful. I…I might head home. I have a few errands to run.”

“Right, of course.” I turn to take off from the balcony. But I stop abruptly in the doorway and add quietly, “Thank you, Lois.”

And then I head out, soaring across the country toward Colorado. The Sun shines brightly almost straight overhead, and I feel its warmth strengthen me as I pick up speed.




It is a busy afternoon. The wildfire takes nearly two hours to get under control, but I manage to save every one of the stranded hikers, campers, and visitors to the area and then put out the flames. On my way back, I am stopped by a chemical fire at a manufacturing plant in Cincinnati and then a bank robbery turned hostage situation in Pittsburgh. I save a car from falling off a bridge just outside of Metropolis and then stop a burglary at a local jewelry store about three blocks from Lois’s apartment.

By the time I get back, shower, and change, it is late afternoon. The apartment is quiet and dark. I turn on the television and settle down on the couch with a cup of tea. Television broadcasts are abuzz with the news of Superman’s return and the publication of my article in the special afternoon edition of the Daily Planet. Every sentence of my article is being dissected live, on air, in front of millions. And it is extremely well received.

I watch for a few more minutes and then stand to get myself a refill of my tea and one of the leftover strawberry turnovers from this morning. From the kitchen table, the cell phone buzzes, and the screen lights up with the words, “Martha and Jonathan Kent”. I nearly drop my tea. I stare at the phone as it buzzes a second time and then a third. I come to my senses, finally, and frantically reach out and hit the answer button before it goes to voicemail.

“H-h-h-hello?” Oh, why do I stutter when I’m nervous? Apparently, I babble as well. I’m just a stuttering, babbling idiot. Silence from the other end. Followed by a quiet sob. I wait another moment and then carefully ask, “Mrs. Kent?”

“Y-yes. God, you sound just like him. I—” Her voice cracks as she sobs again, this time less quietly. I wait again, and I move to the table and sit slowly, cradling the phone carefully. “I’m sorry,” Martha says finally, her voice still weak. “It’s been a lot to take in, you understand.”

“Of course, Mrs. Kent,” I reply carefully. I want to say so much more, but I stay quiet to let her lead the conversation. After another moment, she continues.

“Lois called us this morning to give us the news and explain the…situation. You probably know that already, don’t you?”

“Yes ma’am,” I reply.

“I’ve been waiting for her phone call for three months, ever since my boy left. But a different type of phone call, you understand,” she explains. Her voice shakes, and I hear rustling on the other end of the line. “So, this morning, well… And Jonathan, he—he’s—”

I swallow hard. She is barely holding herself together right now. I wish I could help. But this isn’t something Superman can swoop in and fix.

“Anyway, I told him I wanted to call you, to see you, actually, and Jonathan, he—he—well, he won’t be back for at least a couple hours.”

I understand. Martha Kent is every bit as amazing as I’d imagined she’d be. And every bit as strong as Lois. This Clark had been a lucky man. I hear the echo again. “Take care of her for me.” And this time, “her” has a different meaning. I clear my throat.

“I would love to meet you, Mrs. Kent,” I say. Now my voice is trembling. Small sounds come from the other end of the line, and then I hear sniffling and more rustling.

“I have banana bread and chocolate chip cookies and pie.” She sniffles again. “Jonathan says I bake when I’m upset. He’s probably right. He’s not ready to meet you yet, but… I would love to have you come down, now, if you are not busy.”

I almost can’t speak. A memory flashes in my mind, but it’s not mine. An older woman, whom I recognize as Martha Kent, stands on the front porch of an old farmhouse. I stand next to her. My suit is not the familiar blue, red, and yellow, but instead all black and made of a strange, thick fabric. She moves in front of me and wraps her arms around my waist. “I know this was a tough decision, and I understand why you have to leave. But promise me, Clark, that you will come back home to me.” My arms envelop her, and I lean down and kiss her cheek. “I will, Mom.” The memory fades. I wipe a tear off my cheek and close my eyes tightly. Please, stop it, other Clark. Show me something happy, won’t you?

“Y-yes, I-I’ll be there, um, in about a minute, um, if that’s okay?” Stuttering, babbling idiot again.

“Yes, of course. Okay,” she agrees. “I’ll get the tea going.”

“Okay. S-see you in a minute. Good-bye then.” Awkward, stuttering, babbling idiot.

I hear her hang up on her end first, and I slowly pull the phone away from my ear and exhale sharply. I stare at the phone for a second and then stand, using the table for support. I’m terrified. But I don’t have any time to waste, so I spin into the suit and take off toward Kansas, my mind racing. Should I show up as Superman, or change back to my regular clothes first? Regular clothes, definitely. And should I bring flowers or some other gift? Flowers might be nice. But I’m not sure. After all, there is no instruction manual or standard etiquette for how one should act when one meets one’s dead mother’s doppelganger from another universe for the first time.

Below me, I recognize the city of Wichita, Kansas, and I quickly make a decision, dropping down in an alley behind a small strip mall off Central Avenue. I change back into my regular clothes and jog around the front of the building, where there is a small flower shop. A moment later, I’m back up in the sky, a modest bouquet of yellow roses and pink Asiatic lilies tucked safely under my arm.

I slow as I approach the Kent farm and hover in the air above the farmhouse as memories of my own childhood flood my mind. My mom taking me to pick apples from the orchard at the top of the hill. My dad giving me a ride on his shoulders as we trudge out into the muddy pasture to fix a broken fence post. Both of them rushing out of the house when I fall off the roof of the barn, only to find me unharmed. And then them sitting me down at the kitchen table later that day and explaining to me that I cannot ever, under any circumstances, tell anyone about my developing strength or other abilities. I had only been nine years old at the time. And I lost them to a car accident a short six months later.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts and spin into my normal clothes as I land in front of the farmhouse. The bright yellow siding and white trim appear freshly painted, and the front porch is decorated with crisp, colorful flowers and brightly painted, handmade wind chimes, which clink and jingle in the breeze I create as I land. I swallow nervously and step up onto the porch. The old floorboards creak underneath my feet, and, although I’m not deliberately listening in, I hear Martha’s pacing stop. I shift the bouquet of flowers to my left hand and knock gently on the door. My hand is shaking, and I clench my fist and shove my free hand into my pocket as her footsteps approach the door from inside the house. The door handle turns slowly, hesitantly, and I lower my eyes to the ground briefly and force a confident smile onto my face. Fake it till you make it, right? I’m still terrified.

Martha Kent peeks around from the other side of the door, her troubled blue eyes meeting mine. She is beautiful, like my mother was. Her straw-colored hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and her glasses sit slightly askew on her nose. Her dark green apron is dusted with bits of flour and apple peels. She covers her mouth with a shaky hand and steps toward me. I don’t move. I can’t. Martha stops just in front of me, her sad, teary eyes still glued to mine. She reaches up as though to touch my cheek, but then abruptly pulls her hand away and shakes her head as tears fall. I drop my gaze to the floor as I feel all the air sucked out of my lungs.

“I-I’m sorry, m-maybe this wasn’t a good idea, Mrs. Kent. I-I’ll just g-go now,” I stutter, backing up a step.

“No, wait—don’t leave,” she says, her voice shaky but clear. I raise my eyes back up to meet hers. She still stands in the doorway, one hand now on her cheek and the other holding the door open. She sighs wistfully. “You just…you look exactly like my boy. It’s hard to believe you’re not really him. Please, don’t leave. Come inside, and we can talk.”

I nod weakly and follow her inside. The door closes behind me, and I venture up a glance around the room as Martha pads ahead of me into the kitchen. The room smells of apple pie and cookies, both of which sit in serving dishes on the dining room table. I am again inundated with memories of my childhood, and I stop suddenly in the foyer. It is so similar, yet completely different. The furniture is newer, and like the outside of the home, the walls are freshly painted albeit a light olive green. Abstract paintings hang on the walls, along with framed family photos. I am drawn to a photograph of the three of them—Martha, Jonathan, and Clark—hanging on the wall over the fireplace. Clark stands between Martha and Jonathan, one arm around each of them, and they all smile at the camera. His love for them jumps out of the photograph, and I feel it as though I were there at that moment. I blink back a tear and turn toward the kitchen.

Martha is standing with a teapot in her hands watching me. Tears stain her cheeks, and she quickly reaches up and wipes them away.

“Mint,” she explains, holding up the teapot. “It was one of his favorites.”

“Mine too,” I say softly.

She pours the hot liquid into two coffee mugs and then carries them over to the table. I realize I’m still holding the bouquet of flowers, and I swallow nervously and step over to the table to meet her.

“I, uh, brought these for you.”

I offer the flowers to her. A small smile grows on her face as she reaches out and takes the bouquet. She brings the flowers to her nose and breathes in deeply, her eyes closing.

“I love lilies. Thank you, Clark, that was very thoughtful of you.”

She seems to be holding something back, but she smiles again and moves to the kitchen, where she finds a vase to put the flowers in. A moment later, she is back at the table, and the flowers are displayed in a simple glass vase on the counter.

“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Kent,” I say politely as we both sit. I take a sip of my tea, and the fragrant liquid is instantly comforting.

From the other side of the table, Martha seems to hold her breath for a moment. She sips her tea and then sets the cup down deliberately.

“Thank you. Didn’t you…grow up here?” Her voice trails off, but I understand her confusion.

“Um, yes, I did, until I was 10.” My voice is quiet. I don’t like to talk about this. I guess there’s a lot of things I don’t like to talk about. But this definitely ranks up near the top of my list. Along with the fact that I’m an alien. “Um, my—my parents, they died, when I was 10. I haven’t seen this house, or their house I mean, since then.”

I hold my tea cup carefully in my hands and force myself to look up at her. Martha Kent’s eyes brim again with tears. I keep talking so I don’t also start crying.

“I like the brick you used for the fireplace. Our home had stone instead of brick, although I recall Dad always saying he wanted to replace it with brick, and the kitchen—the kitchen was a little different too. The fridge was over by the other wall, and the cabinets were made of oak, not walnut. Did you remodel recently?” Yep, Lois, you’re right. I babble when I’m nervous. Oh well. If it keeps us both from sobbing like little babies, I’m all for it.

Martha doesn’t answer. Instead, she reaches out and places her hand on top of mine.

“Oh, sweetie,” she whispers. “Lois didn’t tell me… I’m so sorry.” Her hand feels warm, comforting. I close my eyes.

“It was a long time ago,” I say. My standard response. I can hear her heart beating faster. “But I’m okay now. I mean, I miss them, and—”

“Clark.” She squeezes my hand, and I raise my eyes. Her expression is one of pure kindness and compassion, and I smile weakly at her. “We’re both just a mess, aren’t we? I think we should have some pie. What would you say?”

I laugh softly.

“Yeah, yes, that sounds great, Mrs. Kent. Thank you.”

“Please, call me Martha, dear.” She busies herself with serving us each a generous slice of fresh apple pie. And as she places a piece in front of me, she says, “You know, Clark, your parents would have been very proud of the man you’ve grown up to be.”

My breath catches in my throat. “Th-thank you, Mrs. Kent—Martha. I-I always try to live as they taught me. To be honest and kind and to work hard and to help. They were very good people.”

She shakes her head slightly. “You sound so much like him,” she admits.

Her hand trembles as she takes a bite of her pie. I look down to my own plate and take a small bite. The pie is both sweet and tart, just like I remember my mom’s apple pie.

“Did you use apples from the orchard on the hill?” She nods as she takes another bite of her pie, and I smile. “My mom used to make apple pies for Patty’s Bakery in town this time of year. She’d bake maybe a dozen or so every day, and the house smelled like apple pie all the time. It was my favorite time of year, I think.”

“Patty’s…” She seems to think hard for a moment. “Oh, right, Patty Cramer. She used to have a bakery in town, but they closed their doors almost 20 years ago when Patty’s husband passed away. And I like baking, but not enough to make a dozen pies a day!”

I savor the next bite and smile again. “It was a lot of work. She would have me help her haul apples down from the orchard. And core and peel them. And they would taste just like this…”

I take another bite, and we eat in silence for a few more minutes. When we both finish, I stand and take her plate, and I then quickly wash and dry the dishes, despite her protests. When I finish, I settle back at the table across from her, and she sighs.

“I do wish Jonathan were here,” she admits, her eyes wandering toward the kitchen window, which has a clear view of the long driveway leading up to the farmhouse. “He’s as stubborn as an elephant, that man.”

I lower my eyes for a moment as I consider my words. “I hope that I get to meet him soon,” I say quietly, glancing briefly up to her before dropping my gaze again. “But I understand that it’s a lot to take in. And I understand how it might seem like I’m here to ‘replace’ your son, which is definitely not my intention.”

She takes a long sip of her tea and again stares out the window. Her voice is soft as she speaks now.

“Jonathan was the only one of us who was quite vehemently against Clark leaving in the first place,” she explains, a tremor rattling the mug in her hand. She looks back at me again, regret and pain filling her eyes. “Lois and I, of course we didn’t want him to go. But we understood his need to help. Thousands of innocent people were going to die… He couldn’t say no.”

I nod and try to stay present as I listen; images of Kal-El’s sword ripping through enemy soldiers, blood spilt on the rocky ground, and mass graves flood my mind. I close my eyes to block the images, but the message is clear. Despite his efforts, hundreds had still died. And many at his own hands. A strong surge of emotion, of self-hatred, fills me, though I know the emotion is his, not mine. I clear my throat and blink several times.

“Clark, what’s wrong? Is Superman needed somewhere?” she asks, her voice filled with concern. I shake my head.

“No, sorry, I was just imagining that…it must have been a very tough decision for him. Especially if Mr. Kent didn’t support it.” She seems to know I’m not telling the whole truth, and I sense a hint of disappointment. I quickly lower my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I add quietly. “I wish I could just bring him back for all of you.”

“None of this is your fault, Clark. And as painful as all this is, I’m glad you’re here,” she states reassuringly. Her hand again reaches out to pat mine from across the table, and I look up at her and smile gratefully. “You’ve already done so much good, just in one day. I’ve been watching the news… Superman has been busy.”

“It has been—”

I stop suddenly as I hear a truck rattling down the road adjacent to the farm. I lower my glasses, and the walls of the house dissolve from my visual field. I watch as an old red pickup truck turns toward the house, a man I recognize as Jonathan Kent driving. He doesn’t look happy.

“Mr. Kent is coming. I should probably go, I guess.” I stand abruptly. But Martha shakes her head.

“No, honey. You are my guest. He knows I planned to ask you over. If he is back already, then he wants to see you as well.”

I am not comfortable with this, but the confidence and defiance in her voice stops me from leaving. She stands and moves to the kitchen briefly, returning a moment later with the teapot. She refills each of our mugs. I close my eyes as I hear Jonathan Kent mumbling unintelligibly to himself. He shuts off the truck and gathers his things… He is quite angry.

I really want to leave.

I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I open my eyes and turn my head slightly to look down at Martha. She has a knowing smile on her face.

“Just let me talk to him first. Okay?”

I nod mutely and stuff my hands into my pockets as heavy, insistent footsteps approach from outside the house. Martha moves around me and toward the front door as Jonathan Kent enters the room. I keep my eyes lowered, but I feel his anger and grief. The door shuts loudly, and I flinch involuntarily at the noise.

“Jonathan, I’m glad you’re back. I’d like you to meet—”

“Martha, this man needs to leave our home right now,” Jonathan interrupts, his voice shaking with rage. This is worse than I thought. I look up sharply, and his eyes bore into me, forcing me to step backward.

“Jonathan, what—”

“This so-called story of his is trash,” Jonathan scoffs, pushing a copy of the Daily Planet’s special edition paper into Martha’s hands. “He fabricated everything in that article to make a name of himself—he used our son’s death to sell papers. I don’t want him anywhere near us.”

“Wh-what?” I manage, narrowing my eyes in confusion. “Mr. Kent, sir, I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me, boy!” Jonathan snaps, stepping closer to me. Behind him, Martha glances down at the newspaper in her hands, the large block letters on the top of the page popping out. SUPERMAN RETURNS: Exclusive Interview And Look At Life On New Krypton, by Clark Kent. I take a shallow breath and shake my head. Jonathan continues. “I read that whole article. There’s no way you could possibly have known all of that. Elaborate scheme you’re running here. I want you gone. Now.”

“B-but, s-sir, I-I—”

“B-b-but nothing,” he mocks. “Gone. Now.” He stands only a few feet from me now. His face is red with fury, and I can hear his heart beating rapidly and unsteadily in his chest.

“Jonathan, please, calm down. Give him a chance to explain,” Martha says firmly, moving between me and her husband. She places a hand on his chest and pushes back against him. An angry scowl crosses his face, but he concedes. Martha turns back to me. “Clark, honey, can you explain this to us? How did you write this article?”

“I-I u-used the j-journals—his journals. He—he kept v-very d-detailed journals of everything that happened a-and everything he learned,” I explain, unable to control my stuttering now. I lower my eyes to the ground and step backwards again. “They—the Kryptonians—Zara and Ching—they g-gave Lois the journals, and she gave them to me to use to write the article. Mr. Kent, Mrs. Kent, I promise, everything in that article is true, except that h-he didn’t—except that—”

“Okay, Clark, it’s okay. I believe you, sweetie,” Martha assures me.

I raise my eyes to meet hers. She has a strained smile on her face. One hand clutches the newspaper, and the other remains pressing firmly on Jonathan’s chest. The anger hasn’t left his eyes, but he no longer looks murderous. I hold his gaze for a moment and swallow nervously.

“I’m really sorry for the—for the misunderstanding, Mr. Kent,” I say quietly. “I…I’ll get going now.” I cautiously step toward the front door. Martha doesn’t protest this time and instead pushes Jonathan back a few steps to give me room to leave. I stop at the door, and my shoulders hunch as I mumble, “Thank you for the hospitality, Mrs. Kent. It was great to meet you both. I’m sorry—I…I’ll just… Um, good night.”

I don’t wait for a response. I can hear Martha’s tears falling and Jonathan’s fists clenching, and I know I cannot stay another minute longer. I open the door, step outside, and take off into the sky, spinning into the suit as I ascend.