It’s Monday and I have a new part for you. I tried to make Clark’s motivation for going out a but more clear.
He’s still terrified, but he needs to connect, that doesn’t mean part of him wouldn’t have preferred to stay home and hidden… and safe. I try to keep his fears realistic and balance this with his need to connect. Feel free to tell me if I missed my mark anywhere 😊
Thanks for your feedback, thanks for reading. Big thanks to Socomama and 90stvfangirl for their suggestions and to their help.
TOCChapter twenty-fiveClark walks beside me, but not too close.
He’s made a choice, not to hide, not to run, but to take back a piece of his life.
But the choice costs him.
I saw it happen back in the room. The moment he decided he was done being a prisoner of fear. That Maisie, his mother’s best friend, was worth the risk. That living was worth the risk.
But old habits die hard. His eyes never rest, flicking toward every rustle, every engine rumble, every shifting shadow that might turn into Bureau 39.
Lucy’s a few steps ahead, giving us space but keeping her guard up. I know she’s watching our backs more than she lets on.
Maisie’s is just around the corner, but my legs feel like lead. I focus on moving forward, one foot in front of the other, refusing to slow them down.
I stumble slightly, just a hitch in my step, but it’s enough.
Clark’s hand shoots out, steadying me, then immediately pulls back like he’s been burned.
“Sorry,” he mutters, jaw clenched. His eyes dart up and down the street. “I shouldn’t… If they see me with you, if they come back…”
“It’s fine,” I say quietly.
“It’s not.” His voice tightens. “This was a bad idea. We should go back before…”
I take another step, and my knee nearly buckles. This time I can’t hide it.
Clark makes a sound low in his throat: frustration, fear, something breaking. Then his arm slides around my waist.
“This is a bad idea,” he says again, but he doesn’t let go. His grip says the opposite: I’m not leaving you.
“Probably,” I admit, leaning into him. “But I’m not letting you do this alone.”
His grip tightens, protective despite his words. “If anything happens to you because of me…”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Lucy turns to us, though she keeps her voice down and she’s scanning the street just as carefully as he is. “Town’s dead and we’re almost there.”
Clark doesn’t relax, but he keeps walking, keeps holding me up, his head on a swivel.
After a moment, his voice comes quieter, like he’s trying to ground himself in something safer than fear. “Used to come here when my parents drove to town. Maisie would always slip me something when she thought my mom wasn’t looking: ice cream, chocolate milk, candy.”
There’s a softness in his smile that doesn’t belong to the man who’s seen too much. It belongs to a boy, barefoot in fields, chasing sunlight. I can see it in the tilt of his mouth, the way his eyes go distant for half a heartbeat, reaching for home before the world turned complicated.
But his eyes never stop scanning. Even now. Even holding me. Remembering.
He’s doing this for me, I realize. As much as for himself.
I hold onto that image, and onto him, as we step toward Maisie’s doorway, with dusk settling around us like a promise I don’t quite believe in yet.
We reach Maisie’s. Inside, I can see her moving behind the counter, customers at a few tables.
Clark stops.
His hand drops from my waist, and for a second, I think he’s going to bolt. He’s staring at the door like it’s the entrance to a cage, his weight shifted back toward the street, toward the safety of the dark. I can see the muscles in his neck corded with tension, the logic of a man who has survived by never being trapped.
“Clark?” I whisper. “We can go back. We don’t have to do this.”
He doesn’t look at the street this time. He looks at the door, then at his own hands, his jaw tight.
“I’ve spent half my life waiting for them to find me, Lois. Checking mirrors, staying in the dark, jumping at every shadow.” His voice is strained. “And you just collapsed today. Because of me. Because you pushed yourself too far. Because you were trying to help me.”
“That wasn’t…”
“It was.” He looks at me then, and there’s something fierce breaking through the fear. “If I’m too afraid to walk through that door and eat a meal with you, then they’ve already won. They don’t even need to put me in a cell… I’ve already built one for myself.”
He takes a breath, his shoulders squaring. “I’m done being a prisoner of what might happen… I want to go in.”
The “fugitive” recedes, replaced by a man who is finally deciding that his life is worth more than his anonymity. He reaches for the door, not with caution, but with the heavy resolve of a man claiming a piece of himself back.
Lucy steps up beside us. “Maisie’s been waiting for you.”
He nods but doesn’t move yet. His jaw works. I can see him calculating one more time: exposure, risk, the fact that Bureau 39 could come back.
“Maybe she won’t remember,” his voice is uncertain as he lets the handle go. “Maybe I’m just…”
“She remembers,” I interrupt, taking his hand in mine. “Trust me.”
He looks at me then, really looks, and something in him settles. Not completely. But enough.
This isn’t a war won, I realize, watching the conflict still playing out behind his eyes. It’s a fight. One he’ll have to keep fighting every time he chooses to be seen instead of hiding. Every time he walks through a door instead of running.
But he’s fighting it. And that’s what matters.
He reaches for the door again and pulls it open.
Clark pauses at the threshold, taking it all in: the smell, the low chatter, the clatter of dishes. I can see the shadow of happy memories dance in his eyes.
For a moment he’s young again, walking in behind his parents, pretending he wasn’t hungry.
The room might be the same. But they aren’t here.
Behind the counter, Maisie looks up. Her hand stills as she realizes who’s standing in her doorway.
Her breath shudders out of her. “Girls… oh, girls.” Her voice trembles before she steadies it. “You found him.” Then, softer, as if she’s afraid saying his name too loudly might break the moment: “Clark.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers. “Oh, my sweet boy. You came home.”
He goes rigid. Maisie.
She sets the pot aside, coffee splashing dangerously in her shaking hands.
“I can’t believe…” Her voice catches and she presses her lips together before trying again. “Honey, is it really you?”
She opens her arms.
Clark hesitates, just one second, before letting go of my hand and closing the distance.
“You grew up,” Maisie whispers against his shoulder, her voice thick. “You went through so much, and you still grew up.” She holds him a heartbeat longer, as if making up for every year she wasn’t able to. “Having you here, safe…” She pulls back just enough to meet his eyes. “You don’t know what that means, sweetheart. Not to me. Not to any of us. I’m so sorry we couldn’t keep you here in Smallville.”
Clark visibly deflates, his rigid posture melting into her warm embrace. “It’s… good to see you, too, Maisie.”
We slip into a booth in the back. Clark slides in first, his back to the wall, eyes on the door. I sit beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Lucy takes the seat across from us, a small smile playing at her lips like she’s pleased with the arrangement.
Clark’s hand rests on the table, fingers drumming once, twice. Then, deliberately, he stops. Lets his shoulders drop. Chooses, just for now, to be here.
Maisie returns, menus tucked under her arm but not offering them yet. She sets down glasses of water, her hand brushing Clark’s shoulder as she does: quick, maternal, like she needs to confirm he’s real.
“You know,” she says, voice warm, “I still remember your favorite order. Haven’t forgotten it in twenty years.”
Clark blinks up at her, something complicated crossing his face. “You… you remember?”
“’Course I do, sweetheart.” She reaches out, smooths his hair back the way you’d do with a child. “Burger, extra pickles, chocolate milk, and your mama’s apple pie after. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
His throat works. “No. That’s… that’s perfect.”
Lucy wipes at her eyes quickly, like she’s got something in them.
Maisie’s smile deepens. She turns to me. “And for you, honey?”
“I’ll have the same.”
Her eyes flick to mine, then soften with understanding. She nods. “Coming right up.”
“Lemonade. Cheeseburger, medium, no pickles,” Lucy says. “And fries.”
Maisie moves off, but she keeps glancing back at Clark.
The jukebox plays softly beneath the clink of dishes and gentle chatter. An older man two booths over keeps staring. Finally, he leans toward his wife and whispers something. She looks over, eyes widening, then smiles.
Word’s spreading. Clark Kent is home.
Clark notices. His hand tightens on the table.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “They’re happy to see you.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t bolt either.
Maisie returns with a coffeepot, topping off mugs at nearby tables. She pauses at ours. “Don’t mind them, hon. They’re as happy you’re back as I am.”
Clark’s shoulders drop, something in him finally unclenching.
“You’re ours, Clark. Always have been.”
His breath catches. For just a second, his eyes shine before he blinks hard and looks down at his plate. But I see it, the way his throat works, the way his hand grips the edge of the table like he needs something solid to hold onto.
Someone just claimed him. Someone said ours.
The food comes quickly. Maisie sets Clark’s plate in front of him with extra care, burger piled high, pickles spilling over the side, chocolate milk in a tall glass.
He stares at it for a long moment.
“Just like I remember,” he says quietly.
“Good,” Maisie answers. “Now eat.”
She moves off, but not before brushing his shoulder one more time.
He leans toward me as he reaches for his fork, and I catch the scent of soap and something uniquely him. Neither of us acknowledges how close we’re sitting, but neither of us moves away either.
Clark picks up the burger, takes a bite. Chews slowly, like he’s trying to place himself in the memory. Then faster. He’s starving and maybe didn’t realize it until now.
I work through my own plate, surprised by how hungry I am. My body’s been screaming for real food all day, and now that it’s here, I can’t stop eating.
Lucy watches us both, quietly pleased, working through her fries with methodical efficiency.
“You know,” Lucy says after a while, “Lois doesn’t usually eat like this. Must be the Smallville air.”
I kick her under the table. She grins.
Clark glances at me, something thoughtful in his gaze, but he doesn’t say anything.
By the time I finish, the hollow ache in my limbs has eased. The dizziness is gone. I feel almost human again. The baby needed this. I needed this.
I set my fork down and just breathe for a moment, letting the warmth settle in.
The diner hums around us: familiar smells, soft lighting, Maisie laughing with a customer at the counter. Clark’s shoulders ease inch by inch. The tension around his eyes softens. He’s not just remembering anymore. He’s allowing himself to root.
Without thinking, I let my hand rest lightly on the bench between us. His pinky shifts, barely touching mine. Not holding. Just… there.
I don’t move. Neither does he.
Maisie brings pie, Martha’s recipe, she says, like it’s sacred, and refills our chocolate milk.
When we’re done, Clark reaches for his wallet. Maisie waves him off.
“Your money’s no good here, Clark Kent,” she says firmly. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
Clark starts to protest. “Maisie, I can’t…”
“You hush. You can and you will.” Her voice gentles. “Let me do this for you, sweetheart. It’s not much, but it’s mine to give.”
He nods, throat working. “Thank you.”
She cups his face for just a second, the way a mother would. “Welcome home, honey.”
Clark’s eyes shine, but he manages a smile.
Then Maisie turns to me. Her hand finds mine across the table.
“Thank you,” she whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for bringing him back to us.”
My cheeks warm. “I didn’t…”
“You did,” she says firmly. She glances at Clark, then back to me, and her voice drops lower, meant only for me. “Martha would have loved you. Would have been so happy… for you both.”
The weight of those words settles over me. Martha. His mother. The woman who kept him safe as long as she could.
I can only nod, blinking hard against the sudden sting in my eyes. Maisie squeezes my hand once more, understanding in her gaze, then lets go.
T. B. C.
