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On Leap Day, a flaming meteor crashes into their cornfield. That 'meteor' is, of course, a rocketship carrying Krypton's last hope, but they see the coughing baby swaddled inside and call him Clark.
At first, they assume he's tired, or distressed. Wherever he came from has to be far (Martha told him to be realistic but Jonathan's relatively sure their baby is an alien), and the journey harrowing. But then, as Jonathan watches him, Martha goes and comes back with formula.
"He won't eat," she tells Jonathan some time later. "I keep trying, and he just… won't."
They try water, goat's milk, berries, scraps of leftovers, and when Martha isn't looking, he tries to entice Clark with a few paper clips. It feels a little embarrassing and excessive but it doesn't matter because Clark refuses it all. His coughs become deeper and wetter. His movements begin to slow.
Martha and Jonathan quickly come to the conclusion that Clark — the baby they had claimed as their own, a miracle sent from God — will probably not survive to see the sun rise. A nice dream, Martha thinks, head bent over the son she'll lose as quickly as she gained him. It was only ever a nice, wishful dream.
They watch and wait as his breaths stutter to a stop. Then, the sun crests over the horizon.
Like a flipped switch, Clark is smiling, giggling, hands twitching towards the east. His pallid skin regains color to the point it almost looks like it's sparkling. When Martha and Jonathan glance at each other, they know instantly, certainly, that Clark isn't from anywhere near Kansas.
Clark wakes with the sun, and Martha and Jonathan find that extremely convenient. Living on a farm means being up before sunrise, so feeding and taking care of their new baby becomes another box on their to-do list.
Not to say that Clark is in any way a chore. He gives them something new every day, a giggle they haven't heard or cute little sneeze that feels a bit strong for what they assume to be a months-old infant. A few times, his gift comes in the form of white puke down their shirts. Every time, they take it with an exasperated smile.
But, between all that lies the ship in the storm cellar, the otherworldly noises Clark makes mixed in with regular coos, and the fact that Clark may be a sunflower personified. Nighttime sees him sleepy, lethargic, almost, and he becomes moody in a way the Kents don't think they've ever seen a baby act. They periodically take Clark out onto the porch so that he gets enough sun.
For an alien baby, he's remarkably human. If this was all that was different, his body somehow taking sunlight and transforming it into raw energy, they rather thought they could do this parenting thing.
Clark stops sleeping during the summers when he's seven years old.
Martha and Jonathan have been worrying this would happen for the past few years. Ever since Clark developed his super strength, speed and senses, they've only ramped up in intensity. Their little sunflower was acting the part more and more each day.
Every kid's excitable, they know that well enough from busting Clark, Pete, and Lana's midnight kitchen raids when the two slept over, but Clark had quickly reached another level.
"I'm bored," he groaned, jumping on his parent's bed at one in the morning. "When can we go outside?"
"When the sun comes up, baby," is their constant response, but Clark doesn't much like that answer, so he keeps jumping. At least he knows not to jump on them. Last time he did, he nearly broke Jonathan's arm.
So that summer, the Kents are certifiably sleep-deprived. They long for those nights they can hand their kid off to another unsuspecting family, even as they feel the guilt. No parent should want to not have their child around, right? But not everyone has a kid like theirs.
By the time July rolls around they are truly at the end of their rope, with Martha almost setting the kitchen on fire and Jonathan collapsing face-first into the tractor steering wheel. They find they have to sit Clark down and have a Talk. Talk needs to be capitalized, it needs a distinction from all the get down right nows and the you better listen up young mans. They know that no other parent has these Talks with their child.
"We're not like you," Martha tells Clark, and her heart breaks a little when he lets out a short, punctuated alien trill. They've come to understand that as a sad sound. "We need sleep, baby. If we don't get it, we could pass out and get really hurt."
"But I get so bored," he exclaims, and that is clearly the largest, most demanding problem he's ever had. "What am I meant to do at night?"
"Well, if you really can't get to sleep, I'll take you to the library tomorrow and you can pick out some books you like," Jonathan promises. "You can read all night if you want."
Clark isn't exactly a reader, and his disappointed face shows that, but that summer, and every summer after (even, he tells her, long after he'd moved out), sinking into a good book becomes a nighttime hobby. And, more importantly, the Kents reclaim their sleep.
Now, it's been said that Clark is practically indistinguishable from his human friends. But, those Talks crop up at the most unexpected times. Here are a few examples:
The first Talk happens the night before Clark's first day of school. They cradle him as they sit on the couch.
"You know those noises you make?" Martha asks him, and Clark nods; he purrs and rubs his head into her neck for emphasis. "Don't get me wrong, baby, I love them, and I don't want you to stop, okay? They're a part of you. But… those sounds are only for Ma and Pa."
He learns those sounds aren't normal. Aren't human. Instictively, he's aware, because he'd make those sounds expecting a response, only for them to go unanswered. However, there's a difference between knowing and knowing, and now, Clark knows.
A similar Talk follows each new ability he gains. After he lifts the tractor, after he accidentally runs all the way to Wichita, after he loses his mind when the noise of the entire world opens up to him. There's even an embarrassing version after he kisses Lana for the first time at a high school party and nearly sets her hair on fire.
They all follow the same general pattern he's memorized by now. Nobody can know. Hide what you are. Hide, hide, hide.
Hiding is all he ever does, really.
When Clark is fourteen, a historical blizzard sweeps the area.
The Kents aren't exactly worried — that is, not about him. There's the chickens and calfs to keep warm, the machinery to haul away. In all of it, Clark maintains a very low spot on their list. But then, the second day of the storm, Clark doesn't come out of his room. The sun is already climbing the sky to its peak.
Martha goes in to check on him. The room is dulled by the weak but definitely existing light, and Clark is sound asleep. She's half-scared he's dead, but she shakes his shoulder and he mumbles a bit so it's not that. He falls back to sleep immediately after.
Martha isn't sure what to do, but he seems he'll be alright, so she leaves him be, makes a late breakfast. When Jonathan comes up to bring Clark a plate, he's still sleeping. When woken, he's barely conscious while eating, and Jonathan actually has to catch him before he face-plants into his pancakes. The fear truly sets in, then.
They drag him outside, next, which seems to work in that he's actually lucid. Only, he's so forlorn, and dare they say depressed, that they let him slink back inside within the hour. He's back under until one in the afternoon the next day.
The storm still hasn't let up by the time school starts, and Martha and Jonathan quickly realize their mistake when they send Clark to school that first day. Jonathan answers their call after Clark's second period, and drives the thirty minutes to pick him up. When Clark's bundled in the car, eyes red-rimmed and already closing, the nurse holds him back. "I know it's not exactly taken seriously in these parts," he says, "but I think Clark may have some issues. Has he been feeling… down lately? More than usual?"
"All the time."
"Keep an eye on him," he says. "I've known of a few kids who start to feel under the weather when winter comes around, and when no one's paying attention…" he shakes his head. "Let's just say it doesn't end well."
And Jonathan knows what he's talking about. The thing is, Jonathan knows Clark — he's the sunny kid who does cartwheels on their lawn and chats with the chickens and asks every week if they can get a dog. He's their baby that chirps and purrs and trills, and sometimes breaks the dinner table. He's their kid that would never, ever do something to hurt himself.
But Clark starts crying in the car, full, heaving sobs like he's just filled with tears. Jonathan looks at him, and thinks that so many other parents had thought the same.
For the rest of the winter, they keep a short leash on Clark, a move that irritates him greatly. Martha digs into books and reemerges with the term Seasonal Affective Disorder. Of course, it isn't necessarily the right term, because they know there's an otherworldly reason, but it's the best explanation they can give. The winter is long, and Clark moans and cries and breaks nearly everything in his room, but one day the fruit trees begin to bloom again. One day Clark smiles, and they know they've gotten through it.
"There you are," Martha says, standing with a knowing smirk and her hands on her hips. "I've made some pie."
Clark looks up. "Blueberry?"
"You know it."
He smiles, and stands from his place among the sunflowers. College will start soon and so he has to move halfway across the county to Delaware where you can't see the stars at night. He's excited. He's terrified.
He has a week left, and a blueberry pie to get through.
His mother disappears into the flowers, and before he follows, Clark turns back to the sun. At his side, his arm comes up, fingers turning like he can scoop up the sun and hold it in his hands until he soaks up all its warmth and glows with it.
"Clark!"
"Coming!"