(From part 1/5)
"It'll be all right, Jonathan." Martha slid a comforting hand up his shoulder. "Sam won't find out about Clark. He'll just think he's treating Superman."
"Who cares if he finds out?" Jonathan uttered hoarsely. "I just want our boy to be well."
His wife leaned her head against his broad chest, settling into his automatic embrace with the ease of long familiarity. She was careful to hide her face when she uttered her question, the words muffled: "He will be all right, won't he?"
"He will," Jonathan vowed, though he was immeasurably frightened by this sign of the depths of his wife's terror. "He's special, Martha--not because of where he's from or what he can do, but because he's our son. And he'll be okay. He will."
Locked in each other's arms, they stood vigil over their son and waited for Sam Lane to arrive with a miracle.
(Part 2/5)
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17 years ago...
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The smooth wood fit the calluses on Jonathan's palms as he fashioned the material into fence posts he and Clark would start putting up in the south pasture when the weather warmed a bit. The barn was warm with enough bite to the air to remind him that outside its protection the wind was blowing snow from one end of the fields to the other. At least Martha had already married him so he didn't have to be out plowing the powdery stuff, he thought with an inward grin.
The door was pushed open with a gust of swirling snow, and Clark easily slipped through and scampered over to Jonathan's side. He wasn't wearing a coat--he never did without being prompted--yet he betrayed no sign that he was cold. His dark eyes were alight with that inner strength that so delighted Jonathan and Martha and ensured that he was never without friends at school.
"What are you doing, Dad?" Clark curiously examined the fence posts--both those already formed and those waiting to be worked--his hands idly running over their lengths.
"We'll be replacing the fence over by Wayne's place. You finished the last of your homework?"
"Yeah." Clark picked up one of the posts and swung it like a bat, his eyes darting from darkened corner to hayloft to the stalls in the back, never settling for long in any one place. Jonathan said nothing, not even to mention that no twelve-year old boy should be able to so easily maneuver the heavy posts with one hand. Both he and Martha had felt it best to let Clark be himself; they didn't want him to think they were afraid of him or leery of his abilities. Still, it was becoming harder and harder to hide the oddities from the rest of Smallville. Jonathan was almost certain that Wayne, at least, knew there were curiosities about Clark, but so far he had been enough of a friend to keep his silence.
"So what are you doing out here?" Jonathan asked as he turned back to the wood. He could tell Clark wanted to talk to him about something, but, just as obviously, he had to work himself up to it. "Looking for extra work?"
"Sure, if you need help," Clark easily agreed. He was almost always cheerful, unfailingly optimistic, and eager to help others, but Jonathan and Martha had both noticed that in the last year or two he had grown less talkative, more thoughtful, and almost wary around others. He had spent the majority of the summer holed up in his tree-house, which he had, chillingly, named his Fortress of Solitude. Jonathan could still remember the look of pain on Martha's face when she had seen that name, formed by a child's hand on the sign hanging over the tree-house's entrance.
Jonathan remained quiet as he sawed the lengths of wood and bored holes through the centers for the barbed wire they would string through them. Clark helped him without a word, content to remain at his father's side; his hands blurred as he worked, and the holes were punched through almost effortlessly.
"Dad?"
Carefully, Jonathan continued working, though he stopped sawing so that he could match the quiet volume of Clark's voice. "Yeah, son?"
"Remember when you said I could talk to you about anything?"
"I've said it more than once, and I meant it every time." His blue eyes were fixed on the wood held in his work-worn hands, but all his attention was fixed on the boy at his side.
"I tried to talk to Mom, but when I mentioned changes, she said I had better talk to you." Clark frowned. "Why is that?"
Jonathan cleared his throat. "Could be any of a number of things, boy. What changes were *you* talking about?"
The post in Clark's hands crumpled in a shower of splinters.
Clark's expression shattered into a mask of terror.
Jonathan's heart stopped.
"Come here, Clark." Jonathan pulled his son's small, trembling form into his arms, held his tear-streaked face against his chest, and buried his own face in Clark's black hair, inhaling the scent of it. He had no words to give the boy, but he gave him his love and hoped it was enough to protect him from the entirety of the world outside their farm.
After a long moment, Clark pulled back enough to look up, tentatively, at his father. "You're not scared of me?"
"Scared of you?" Jonathan's brow creased. "And why should I be afraid of you, Clark? I know you; I love you. What is there to fear?"
Clark looked away. "Lots of things," he mumbled. At Jonathan's hand on his cheek, he looked up to meet his gaze. "Dad, you don't know what I can do. I can run from here to the school in a minute. I can lift the front end of the truck. Last week, I set a pile of hay on fire just by *looking* at it. And then, I blew on it, and it turned into ice! And today..." His voice trembled, and he set his jaw. "Today, I looked at Mom, and I saw her bones! What's wrong with me? Why am I so different from everybody else?"
"You're adopted, that's why," Jonathan said matter-of-factly. "We told you that before, but we never told you how we found you."
Paling, Clark stumbled out of Jonathan's arms. "Am I...I'm not...what am I?"
A thread of steel laced Jonathan's next words. "You're my son, Clark Kent. That's the most important thing. Your mother and I couldn't have any children, but we wanted one more than anything else in the world. And then, you arrived, a gift from heaven. You fell from the sky in a tiny ship just in time for us to see you and take you as our own. I don't know where you're from, or why exactly you can do all these things, but I do know this: I love you, Clark, and nothing is going to change that. You have these abilities, yes--which, by the way, I'm glad you finally decided to tell me about--but who you are isn't changed by what you can do. Do you understand me?"
"But what if I hurt someone?" Clark whispered, his eyes once more fixed carefully away from Jonathan. "What if I *look* at someone and they burst into flame? What if I forget how strong I am and break someone's arm? What if I see something I'm not supposed to? What if I freeze someone to death trying to blow out candles or something? What if--"
"That's an awful lot of 'what-ifs,'" Jonathan said wryly, tugging his son once more into his embrace. "But why don't I ask you a question? Do you think I shouldn't use this saw just because it can hurt someone?"
"No," Clark replied grudgingly. "But, Dad, this is differ--"
"The reason I can use it," Jonathan interrupted, "is because I know how to control it, and because I'm careful with it. These abilities of yours are gifts, Clark, tools, and you can use them to help--if you learn to control them, and if you're careful. Now, why don't I get on a heavier coat, and we'll go to the north field and practice these abilities of yours. And we'll keep practicing until you can control them all the time."
"But what if I mess up?" Clark wrapped his arms around himself, and Jonathan knew it wasn't because of the cold. "What if I hurt you?"
"Clark, when you were still a baby, you bit my finger while I was feeding you. It hurt, but I didn't stop loving you."
"I..." The boy hunched over himself, resisting when Jonathan tried to pull him back into his arms. "I can't believe you're not afraid of me. *I'm* afraid of me."
"That's why we need to practice." Jonathan paused, hating to threaten the fragile hope even now beginning to erase the residual terror in Clark's eyes. But he knew the words needed to be said; he knew he--and Martha--could never survive having their son taken from them by men like those who had come nosing around shortly after Clark's arrival. "But, Clark, some people will be afraid of you, because people are afraid of anything that's different. You need to be careful to only practice your powers where no one can see you. For now, only use them in the north field and maybe in your tree-house. If anyone else saw what you could do, they'd..." Jonathan swallowed back his own fear. "They would take you away from us and...I don't know, dissect you like a frog or something. So, promise me you'll be careful?"
"I know, Dad," Clark agreed calmly. "I already decided that nobody else could know about it. I just want to be like everyone else, but if anyone knew what I could do, I don't think they'd see Clark when they look at me. And I want to be Clark."
Despite himself, a grin tugged at the corners of Jonathan's mouth. "Really? And why is that?"
For the first time, the boy willingly met Jonathan's eyes. "Because you and Mom love Clark. I would never do anything to change that."
"Good." Jonathan cleared his throat and straightened, one hand falling, seemingly absentmindedly, to ruffle Clark's hair. "Now, you'll need something to remind you to be careful with these abilities when you're with others. Any ideas?"
Clark brightened. "I've always wanted to wear glasses like you and Mom."
"Glasses?" A laugh shook Jonathan's broad frame. "When you can see a mouse moving from a pasture away? Well, no one would suspect you, that's for sure. Why don't I see what I can do?"
A small hand slipped into Jonathan's as they made their way out of the barn. "Thanks, Dad," he whispered shyly.
Jonathan couldn't get any words to emerge past the lump in his throat, but Clark's hearing was exceptional, and he heard them anyway.
