Continuation of Open Arms. All my stories, unless specified otherwise, are AU and connected.
“Upstairs now!” Jonathan urged his wife. Martha snatched the red baby blanket off the sofa, swaddled a fussy Clark, and rushed upstairs.
Harry dove for the baby toys on the table and hid them under the sofa’s pillow cushions. He shared a concerned look with his brother. Maybe if they pretended to be on vacation the agents would just leave. But they will see the beat-up pickup truck outside. There was another urgent knock at the door. Jonathan mussed up his hair, untied his robe, and headed to the entryway.
“Slowly,” Harry cautioned Jonathan. “It’s five in the morning. They’re disturbing your beauty sleep.” he lay on the couch and stretched out his legs, flicking the TV on, the picture of laziness.
Jonathan heeded his warning and slowed his pace, not eager to face what was on the other side. The trek to the door felt too short. Jonathan propped the door open, blinking blearily at the officers on his doorstep. There were two officers, FEDs by the look of it. The taller of the two wore a flamboyant tie that was at odds with his imposing pro-wrestler build. The other man was as uncompromising as a mountain. What he lacked in stature he made up for with a glower that could cut steel.
Jonathan yawned, feigning exhaustion, which wasn’t hard to do when he had been running on two hours of sleep. “Something the matter . . . uh,” he frowned in confusion. “Officers?”
“Where is it?” Shortstack barreled past Jonathan. Jonathan was forced to step back and allow the agent through. He caught sight of Harry and drew his gun on him. “You. On your feet.”
“Woah!” Jonathan jumped between the agent and his brother. “Easy there that’s my brother. He’s a pain in the ass most days . . . but he’s done nothing wrong.”
“Can I see some identification?” Shortstack demanded. Harry handed him his driver’s license. “What’s this about?”
“Trask that’s enough,” the other Fed said. He faced Jonathan with an apologetic smile. “I’m Agent Lane,” he showed him his badge. “And this is my partner Agent Trask. At approximately 1905 hours on December 18th, a dangerous convict escaped Belle Reve during the meteor shower. Have you seen anyone strange wandering these parts?”
“He would look like one of us, but he’s not,” Trask said. “He’s an imposter! A monster!” Trask thundered.
Agent Lane shot his partner a withering look. “We will appreciate any help you can give us. This convict could pose a threat to national security, if not apprehended swiftly.”
Jonathan could read between the lines. Clark was the convict they were searching for. What did the government want with a baby? Unless they didn’t know what landed in Shusters Field. “Nothing much around here, but cornfields,” Jonathan said. “I’ll be sure to keep a lookout, can never be too careful these days.”
Agent Lane handed him a business card. “Give me a call if you see anything unnatural.”
“Unnatural how?” Harry asked.
“I am not at liberty to say,” Agent Lane said. “Any unidentified individual encountered is to be presumed to be armed and dangerous, and approached with utmost caution and vigilance.”
“He won’t need a gun to hurt you,” Trask warned. “He’d rip your head clean off your shoulders bare-handed.”
“You are jeopardizing this investigation. If you can’t keep a cool head I will have to report you to Waller.”
“Report away!” Trask screamed. “He knows something!” he jabbed a finger in Jonathan’s chest. “We’ve searched every farm within a ten-mile radius of the crash site. Somebody has gotta have seen something.”
Then Trask's eyes landed on the broken console table on the other end of the room. During one of his tantrums, Clark grabbed the leg of the table and tore it as if it were made of playdough. Consequently, his grandfather’s wood-carved table was a leg short and had collapsed to the floor with all its contents. He was going to fix that today.
“What happened to the table?” Agent Lane asked.
“I was drunk and singing Karaoke with a chainsaw,” Jonathan supplied. “Never doing that again.”
“He’s lying,” Trask hissed. “You’re one of them,” he aimed his gun at Jonathan. “You’re possessing Jonathan Kent!”
“What?” Jonathan raised his hands. “Nobody is possessing anybody. This is not some X-Files hot spot.”
“That’s exactly what this is,” Agent Lane said. “I am going to have to take you in for questioning.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong!”
Trask lowered the gun and shot Jonathan in the leg. A white-hot pain erupted through his knee calf. The impact sent him sprawling to the ground and he grimaced as he hit his good knee on the table. “You fucking psychopath!” Harry screamed.
“You have crossed a line, Trask. They will have your badge for this.” Agent Lane kneeled beside Jonathan, took his coat off, and applied pressure on the gaping hole over his knee. “You’re going to be okay sir.”
A baby’s cry pierced the silence. Agent Lane froze, bracing a hand on Jonathan’s knee. The wails intensified, sounding like a blaring alarm. Through the haze of pain, he heard his wife call out to Clark. The kid was a slippery stinker. Jonathan wasn’t surprised when he felt a little person crawl behind him. His red face was squashed, hail-sized tears obscuring his face. He started to hyperventilate when he saw the blood. His little lungs were unable to take the strain and wails morphed into coughing.
“It’s okay, son,” Jonathan wrapped a weak arm around the baby. Clark was too small to be crawling, yet, somehow he did the impossible. He saw the moment Agent Lane realized what Clark was.
“Seize him,” Agent Lane commanded. Agent Trask grinned maliciously and marched toward Clark. Clark sensed the danger and snuggled closer to Jonathan, whimpering.
“No, please! He’s just a baby!” Jonathan cradled Clark. He was so small he only needed one arm to hold him. His tiny foot dangled off Jonathan’s arm. “He’s my son.”
“You’re not touching a hair on his head,” Martha blocked Trask.
“He’s not human!” Trask said. “He’s going to grow up and slaughter us all!”
“Of course he is human!” Martha matched his outrageous tone. “I carried him for thirty-seven brutal weeks. He’s mine,” she asserted. “You take him and we’re going to court,” she promised. “I’m sure Joseph Clark will love to hear about how two rogue government agents barged into his daughter’s house and shot her husband. It’s going to be a short trial.”
“You’re Judge Clark’s daughter?” Agent Lane widened his eyes in shock. He studied Clark as if he was searching for resemblance. Jonathan held his breath. The sour old man was as dark as his daughter was fair. Martha favored her mother. It was entirely plausible Clark got his dark locks from Grandpa Clark. Yet, nobody on either side of the family shared Clark’s unnatural blue-green eyes.
“That’s right,” she atoned. “Clark is named after his granddad. Clark Joseph Kent.”
“Tell me, you’re not buying this garbage?” Trask said. “Look at this shithole. They can’t afford to take us to court. He’s one of them,” he hissed. “You want another Zero Day?”
Agent Lane narrowed his eyes at Martha’s flat belly. “You don’t look like a woman who was pregnant.”
“I carried small,” she said. “He was born during the blizzard in March here at home.”
“How convenient,” Trask said. “Look at him! You know how genetics work. They’re as blond as Nazis.”
“Excuse you! I’m a natural redhead,” Martha’s hand flew to her hip. Jonathan marveled at his wife. He had never seen her get this angry before. “And Daddy is first cousins with Vincent Di Maggio, or have you forgotten that?”
Oh God, she went there. Joseph Clark hated being related to one of the most notorious mobsters in Metropolis; he was ashamed they shared an ounce of blood. Jonathan imagined it made the holidays stressful.
“There is no need to bring in the mob, Mrs. Kent,” Agent Lane said. “I apologize for the inconvenience.”
“Don’t ever show your face here again. I have them both on speed dial,” she was bluffing. Martha hadn’t talked to Joseph in over ten years - not since Jonathan lost his temper and punched him. Not one of his prouder moments.
“I am sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs. Kent,” Agent Lane said. “The D.O.D. will pay for your husband’s medical bills.”
“Like hell we are!” Trask screeched. “They’re harboring an alien! Arrest them.”
Agent Lane shoved a hand against Trask’s chest. “Stop,” he commanded. “You are already facing losing your badge. Don’t make this worse,” he said. “Madam,” Lane nodded to her. “I will personally escort your husband to the hospital,” he said. “Again, I’m sorry for causing you such stress.”
“I appreciate the sentiment,” Martha said. “But you’ve scarred my son for life.” Right on cue, Clark started to wail.
“You think you’re safe hiding behind Daddy, Princess? You’re not,” Trask sneered. “I will find your son and end his reign of tyranny!”
“You need some psychiatric help,” she kicked Trask in the balls. Trask groaned and tumbled to his knees.
Jonathan winced in sympathy. Clark stopped crying and clapped. “Ama!” he cooed, reaching upwards.
Martha plucked Clark off of Jonathan and kissed his tear-stained cheek. “Mama’s got you, baby.” Jonathan marveled at how natural Martha looked with a baby in her arms. His knee throbbed, but the agony was a tickle compared to the pain of losing Clark. They had almost lost him. It was only Martha’s quick tongue that saved him. They were going to have to be more careful in the future.
“That was fucking awesome,” Harry beamed at her. “Your wife is a badass.”
“I know,” Jonathan shrugged and winced. “That’s why I married her.”
“Jonathan, don’t talk,” Martha scolded him.
Harry and Agent Sam heaved Jonathan to the car parked outside with the blackened windows. Martha hovered at the door, uncertainingly. She rocked Clark back and forth, her feet as antsy as her heart. She was so unnerved she didn’t feel the bite of winter. She wanted to be with Jonathan and make sure he received medical treatment. Yet, she didn’t want to leave Clark alone.
“This isn’t over,” Trask brushed by Martha, shooting a hate-filled glance at the baby. “You’ve doomed us all.”
“You’re confused,” Martha told him. “Aliens are science fiction.”
“I wish that were true,” he said, thick with emotion. He joined the men in the driveway. Martha caught Harry’s eye.
“Are you not coming Mrs. Kent?” Agent Lane held the car door open for her. She caught her brother-in-law’s eye over Agent Lane’s shoulder. He subtly shook his head and urged her to stay put. If she stays they will be suspicious, if she rode with them Clark might break something and ruin this whole charade. There will be people at the hospital. People who knew she was barren. But what choice did she have? Sooner or later they would have to introduce Clark to the neighbors. She supposed today was as good as any day.
“It’ll be okay,” she reassured Harry. “Go home. It’s late, Abigail will be worried.”
He bit the inside of his mouth indecisively. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said loud enough for Agent Lane to hear. “You have your baby girl to worry about,” she hugged him tightly, and Clark squeezed between them. She slid a folded paper with her father’s number into his pocket. “Call him,” she whispered as she drew back. Without a look back she slid into the government car.
Jonathan sprawled in the backseat, resting his head on his wife’s lap. Clark sat on her other lap, intently watching the snowflakes on the window. He waved at a large barn owl perched on the fence. “Eeeee drothi!” Clark cooed.
Agent Lane pulled out of the driveway and drove down the snow-covered path. Clark looked questioningly at Martha and then pressed his face against the window. The yellow Kent house shrank as they drove farther away. “Ja-ja” Clark waved at the house, eyes lit with excitement. Till now Clark had only seen the inside of the house. He surveyed the cornfields and swirling fields of snow with wonder. “Ooo!” he pointed outside. Martha followed his gaze to a vulture on the side of the road, picking at a possum carcass. “Drothi!!” Clark sounded horrified.
Trask swerved around and glared at Clark. “He’s very vocal for a . . . how old did you say he was?”
“Five months,” Martha responded without hesitation. Trask frowned, trying to sus out any lie.
“Babies don’t talk till 18 months,” Trask observed,
Agent Lane snorted. “Tell that to Lois. She started babbling at six months.”
“Oh, you have a daughter?” Martha failed to hide her surprise. He didn’t seem like the fatherly type.
“A one-year-old,” he nodded. “Getting her to shut up is the trick.”
“Clark isn’t that vocal,” Jonathan said. “He mostly screams a lot.”
They drove through a dark tunnel and Clark did not disappoint. He wailed and screamed in terror. Jonathan winced and covered his ears.
“Somebody shut that thing up,” Trask hissed.
“You don’t have kids, do you?” Agent Lane studied Clark in the rearview mirror with amusement. “This might help,” he opened the compartment and pulled out a pen with a laser on the tip. He kept a hand on the steering wheel and flashed the laser in Clark’s face.
“Ooo-ah!” Clark stopped crying.
“Works like a charm every time,” he tossed the laser pen to Martha. “Lois spent hours playing with this when she was his age.”
The remainder of the drive was uneventful. By the time they reached downtown Clark was sound asleep, having expended all his energy playing with his new, shiny toy. Shortly afterward Agent Lane pulled into a parking spot. Trask moved to get out, but Agent Lane halted him with a single look. “You’ve done enough. I’ll take it from here,” he climbed out of the driver’s side and helped Martha out of the car. “Again, I’m sorry for shooting your husband. We are all on edge after the meteor shower.”
“You’re on edge?” Jonathan marveled. “We lived through it.” Agent Lane helped Jonathan limp into the hospital on his good leg. By the time they reached the front desk Jonathan’s face was purple with agony.
Smallville Medical Center was a small one-story building more hut than a hospital. It wasn’t meant to house thousands of wounded. The meteor shower had turned their little hamlet into a warzone. Wounded individuals, ranging from young to old, lay on makeshift cots in the hallways, waiting rooms, and even the corridors between rooms. Nurses and doctors scurried from patient to patient, redressing wounds and consoling grieving family members. The air was heavy with moans of pain and the cries of family members separated from their loved ones.
The misery woke Clark up and he glanced around nervously. “Shh, shh,” Martha rocked him. “Go back to sleep.”
He stubbornly stayed awake, staring worriedly at a toddler with a brace and bandage around her head. “Ama!” he pointed at the girl. He squished his face in frustration, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. “Ama!” he screamed incredulously. He slammed his fists on her chest as if to say, ‘Do something already.’
Martha moaned and almost dropped him. Bruises were already blossoming on her chest. “Clark! Don’t hit! That hurt!” she grabbed his hands furiously and pulled them away. “I know you’re upset, baby. The good doctors will take good care of her.” he whimpered and rested his head on her shoulder, sucking his thumb.
“I’ve got a man shot,” Agent Lane eased Jonathan onto an empty stretcher and looked furtively around for a doctor. “He needs medical attention!”
“Fighting crime again, Jonathan?” Dr. Whitney approached the stretcher, eyes crinkling with amusement.
“You know me,” Jonathan smiled weakly and winced. “Always fighting for truth, justice, and the American way,” he saluted the doc.
“Not to worry Martha, I’ll fix your broken toy,” he said over his shoulder. “Good as new when I’m done with you.”
He ushered Jonathan down the hallway. Clark watched Jonathan disappear around the corner and started to bawl. “Babar!” he struggled against Martha, eyes wild with fear. His cries drew the attention of the other people in the hallway.
“Is that Martha Kent with a baby?” Margo Kidder was in the middle of hanging up a missing persons poster for her husband and she froze to look at Clark. “Oh my God it is!”
She discarded her posters and rushed toward Martha. Clark’s wails seemed to lift the fog of misery as slowly more people noticed him. Suddenly Martha was surrounded by people bombarding her with questions. “He is so tiny and cute! Look at those feet,” Mrs. Ross ticked his toes. Clark loved the attention and slowly his cries morphed into giggles.
“What’s his name?” “I didn’t know you were adopting Martha Kent!” Noel Kidder joined Mrs. Ross in ogling the baby.
“We didn’t,” Martha kept her voice steady. “Clark surprised us,” she kissed his tiny fist.
“Martha Kent!” Margo roared. “You were pregnant and never told me!”
The moment of truth. If she could convince the Gossip Queen of Smallville Clark would be safe. “It was a rough pregnancy,” Martha grimaced. “I was bedridden for most of it and he was early,” Clark twisted around and buried his face in the crook of her neck.
“Awe, he has Jonathan’s blue eyes,” Noel gushed. And simply like that, Clark was accepted in the Smallville hierarchy. “What a handsome little boy. Like his Daddy, he will grow up to be quite a heartbreaker.”
“You have registered him for pre-school?” Mrs. Ross said.
“So soon?” Martha wondered.
“Are you kidding? Jeff and I went school hunting while I was pregnant with Pete,” Mrs. Ross said.
“You’re way behind,” Noel said. “Maisie is already on the waiting list for Bright Horizons. You need to get on that ASAP.”
She was so distracted by the conversation she didn’t notice Clark reaching for Agent Lane, who stood nearby. Clark saw a mic pinned on Agent Lane’s collar and boldly grabbed it. “Clark, no!” but she was too slow. His fist knotted on the mic and as she drew him away, the shirt tore asunder, revealing a burnt chest beneath. Martha winced in sympathy. It was an unnatural brown-red rash in the shape of a Z. Clark froze and knit his eyebrows in concern. “Ama, Ama!” he cried, tapping Martha’s breast urgently and pointing at Agent Lane’s burn. “Ah-owh.”
The woman giggled. “Awe, he’s worried about you,” Noel boldly took Clark from Martha and spun him around. Clark happily gnawed at the mic. Martha nervously looked at the agent. She hoped he was oblivious enough to realize how unnatural it was for a baby to pull a full-grown man’s shirt off.
“Hey watch it!” Agent Lane retrieved the mic from Clark with some difficulty. “That’s a $3000 piece of equipment!” He drew his hand back, covered with slobber. Clark squashed his face and was about to cry. Lane succumbed and returned the mic to Clark. “You owe me a new shirt, Clark.”
“I can mend that for you,” Martha offered.
