Disclaimer: Do not own Smallville
Summary: It's them. It always is. And it's never going to change.
Author Note: Hey y'all. Title from song Violet Hill by Coldplay. Amazing song. Go listen if you have time. Just something short and sweet for y'all to read.
My Love Down To Violet Hill
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This is how it starts.
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There's no sparks or fireworks or tingles. It just simply is.
She smiles and the world gets just that much brighter. Just that much happier. Just that much warmer.
He doesn't need sparks or fireworks or tingles. He just needs this.
And that's enough.
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He tells her on a Tuesday evening. She just says, I already knew Clark, and he wants to ask her how, when, why but all he can process is that she doesn't care.
It's exhilarating. He suddenly wants to something irrational and crazy like get down on one knee and propose.
But he refrains from doing so.
Just.
Doesn't mean he doesn't stop thinking, about doing it in the future.
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He knows she's not the candles or roses or tears type.
So he just tells her. He loves her. While they're outside, wrapped in a blanket, watching the shooting stars.
She says she loves pie, and it's not the best declaration of love as circumstances go, but the mile wide grin, the crinkling around her eyes, the way his hand is suddenly wrapped in a small warm one.
He knows.
They end up sleeping like that, wrapped so tightly around each other that's he's overwhelmed of. With her.
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He smiles, and whistles tunelessly when he sees his bathroom filled with feminine products.
He grins and floats around, when he can't even see his plaid shirts anymore, in his wardrobe, just flashes of white, yellow, green, pink.
He asks her to move in the very next day. She pats him on the back, and says, was already going to Smallville. Was already going to.
And it's nice.
Really nice.
When he wakes up and he sees her drooling on his shoulder - looking small and vulnerable in his t-shirt - snuffling quietly.
It's amazing.
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This time is the whole shabang. There are white daisies. There are fairy lights. There are candles. There's a picnic blanket. There's homemade pasta.
There's the field the first time they met.
He proposes on bended knee, his heart in his throat, his hands trembling nervously. He doesn't say a long speech. He simply asks.
Hoping she'll accept.
Later that night, when he catches the glint of the ring on her finger, he smiles softly and snuggles closer.
He's happy.
Sun shine - chocolate - pancakes - fresh grass - seeing his dad - happy.
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They name their son Aaron Jonathan Lane-Kent. He's got her eyes and his messy hair. He wails all night along, spits up his food, poops all the time, thinks his fingers are a chew toy.
He's perfect.
They name their daughter Scarlett Ella Lane-Kent. She's the spitting image of her, not a detail of him in sight.
But when suddenly she starts floating mid - air, he laughs loud and long at her mother's expression.
If possible, she's more a handful than her older brother, mini - fires all around the house, frozen vegetables left on the plate, juggling hammers and spanners.
Apparently she developed real early.
She's perfect.
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They're old now.
Now they live of memories and pictures.
Their children have children. Boys and girls.
He races her with zimmer frames.
He always lets her win.
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It never ends.
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