Water crept along the mirror in long, slow tracks. Martha's hair fell cool against her bare skin as she reached with her towel to swipe a wide streak along the glass. Her arm felt heavy. Despite the relief of the shower, the opportunity to scrub the sweat of worry and the stale scent of Lionel's expensive cologne from her skin, the muscles in her neck and shoulders ached.

You're home. It's over.

The haze of the mirror cleared where she'd dried it. Pressing the towel against her chest, she couldn't help the gasp that escaped when she caught sight of her arm. Encircling her left bicep was a deepening, purple bruise that may not have been so macabre if it were not in the shape of large, meaty hand.

"Martha? Sweetheart?" Jonathan's voice was muffled by the old wooden door that separated the bathroom from their bedroom.

She closed her eyes. The sting of their earlier argument felt fresh again, her skin flushing more from anger than from the heat of the room.

"Just a minute." She kept her voice even, running a finger lightly over her damaged skin. It might just as well have been Lionel's handprint, a stark reminder of what had taken her from her husband on their anniversary, of the lie that was her new job. The thought of Lionel using her to gather information about her son hurt more than any bruise. It crossed her mind to tell Jonathan to meet her in bed, the room would be dark enough to avoid his protective reaction, but she knew him too well.

Taking a deep breath, she reached with her free hand and opened the door.

A warm cloud of steam blew over his face and chest. His wife's body was in profile, damp hair dark against pale skin, the swell of a bare breast hardly covered by the thick, white towel she held against her chest. Water still beaded on the skin of her hip.

"Are you okay? I heard…" his words trailed off when she turned to fully face him. He barely noted her gaze roaming his naked chest and the thin, blue pajama pants that hung low on his hips.

Oh, God.

When he'd held her in front of the Luthercorp building a few short hours ago, she'd felt whole, strong, her grip as fierce as his own. Seeing the damage so livid now on her skin, marking her for God knew how long, turned his stomach.

Meeting his eyes, Martha let the towel drop to the floor.

"There isn't anything else; I'm just a little sore," she said, her voice was soft, tired. Her fingers were light, combing through the hair on his chest as he looked her over. He loved how much she trusted him, how comfortable she was in her own skin. Normally, it was sexy as hell. Tonight, though, he could feel energy from her, tension across her shoulders and down her back as she waited for his reaction. And for that, he blamed the Luthors.

If I find out you had anything to do with what's going on out there, you will pray to God that you never stepped foot in Smallville, you believe me.

He forced himself to swallow down his anger. It was hard to look at the bruise and not think that it was from the grasp of another world, the fancy one she'd grown up in, the one that could eventually take her from him if she decided it was what she wanted more.

Be a better man. For her.

Willing his features to soften, he reached to hold her cheek in his hand, feeling her lean into it as he caught her gaze and smiled. "So beautiful," he said simply.

The words seemed to break something in her. The movement of her hands was no longer tentative, fingers reaching behind his neck to pull him down, to crush his lips against hers much like they'd done out on the street in Metropolis. She was so much smaller than him, but her momentum pressed his back against the tile on the wall, the damp cold against his skin an incredible contrast to the wet heat of her lips and tongue.

Jonathan's thoughts began to swim. Martha knew him better than anyone, knew how to drive him half mad with want of her, but he knew her, too. She wasn't one to avoid the difficult conversation, to smooth out an unfinished argument with sex. Her hand grazed his half-hard length through his pants and he pulled back, the kiss ending loudly, both gasping for air. Taking her hand from where it had started to pull the fabric down from his hips, he brought it to his mouth. Jonathan kissed her knuckles gently, and then held her head in both hands, waiting, waiting for her to meet his eyes.

For a while, all they did was breathe.

"Martha," he said then.

When she looked at him her eyes were wet, her lips and face flushed and reddened from the roughness of the kiss and the stubble on his face. It was so goddamned beautiful he almost lost his nerve. Almost.

"Look," he rubbed his thumbs along her temples. "The work you do in Metropolis is as much for this family as what I do here. It may be the one thing that lets us keep this farm. I'm sorry I was too angry, too jealous, to see that."

Martha nodded and gave him a thin smile. "And I could have told Lionel it was our anniversary." She paused, searching his face in a way that looked almost desperate. "But honestly, Jonathan, right now … right now I don't want an apology." He tilted his head, confused. Small hands lit on his shoulders, holding fast, her gaze strong and steady for the first time that night. "The only thing I want is you."

He smiled widely and gave a short laugh that caught with emotion. Taking her hands, he placed them at his waistband again and let her slide the material down and off, baring him fully.

"You got me, Martha Kent."

Now and always.