DC Oneshots

Open Arms

An ear splitting cry echoes through the entire household. Jonathan Kent let out a weary sigh, and rolled over in bed. He took one fortifying breath and started to replay the last Metropolis Game in his head. Football usually calmed him down. But try as he did, he couldn't drown out Clark's raucous wails. There was something about Clark's anguish that set his nerves on edge. He wasn't crying for lack of nourishment or love. Martha saw to it that he had plenty of warm milk and there was no shortage of cuddles and playtime. Personally, he thought Martha could do with smothering the boy less, but he couldn't blame her really. Lord knows, the boy needed all the love he could get. Even though Clark seemed to be having a hard time warming up to them.

Like clockwork, each night for the past two weeks Clark worked himself up into a frenzy as soon as the sun set. When they tried to feed him he only cried harder, and stared horror struck at the two of them as if they were strangers (though in a way he supposed they were.) One time Jonathan even tried to take him for a stroll out in the fields and the sight of the moon offended him. Martha's words of comfort fell on deaf ears. Jonathan wagered it wasn't the voice Clark was used to hearing before bedtime.

Jonathan had only heard one other baby cry with such anguish before: Lana Lang, the night her parents died. She had stayed with them till the Social Worker arrived. That had been Clark's first night with them; somehow they managed to land themselves with two grieving orphans that fateful night. Fortunately Clark had been too distracted by his new friend to worry about his parents' absence, - a small blessing in disguise. His only concern that night had been to wipe away Lana's tears.

He feared Clark was searching for the familiar faces of his parents. Parents that abandoned him in a spacecraft for no reason. Oh, by God, he hoped they had a good reason. He shook his head. He couldn't bear to think of them. It was a reminder that, no matter how much Martah and he grew to care for the boy, he wasn't theirs. A reminder, that somewhere in the vast galaxy, a couple, not them, had lost their baby boy.

He took one last fortifying breath and climbed out of bed, and rubbed his tired eyes. Slowly he made his way downstairs to the den that had been temporarily transformed into a nursery. The sofa was buried underneath a pile of toys, and more baby blankets than they could possibly need . . . but Clark seemed to prefer the soft felt blankets to the one piece pajamas they had bought for him.

Martha strolled back and forth in front of the fireplace, a small bundle concealed in her arms. Clark's tiny face was scrunched up in utter dismay, his dark curls plastered across his sweaty brow. His fist was wrapped around Martha's thumb so tightly, her finger was turning purple. In his other hand he held onto the orange crystal they found in the ship with him. Jonathan wondered if that crystal was what passed for toys in Clark's past life.

Martha glanced up and met his gaze. In the dim light of the fire, Martha looked like an angel of the Lord, a halo of light framing her soft form. Twin rivers of tears slid down her rosy cheeks. "I'm sorry baby," she whispered, cradling Clark towards her. Her warm eyes never left Jonathan, but he knew those words weren't meant for him. Clark took one look at him, the imposter, and roared anew. 

"Hush now my little star sweeper, you'll hurt yourself," Martha said in a singsong voice. Jonathan very much doubted the boy was in any danger of harming himself. The first time he saw Clark bleed, he was surprised his blood was red, or that he bled at all to begin with. There was nothing peculiar about him, besides the manner they found him, and well . . . the occasional bout of strength that didn't befit a five-six month old child.

He knew Martha well enough to know she was blaming herself for Clark's discomfort. He knew her as well as the worn paths on his land. There were a thousand thoughts swimming through her mind, none good. If only she had sung a different song for him - if only she had fed him earlier - if only she were his birth mother.