Pairing: Clana (I guess)
Rating: PG
Warnings: TC
Spoilers: No major ones, set at the beginning of Season 5

Home sweet home. Every Friday brought student's their own personal freedom. This was especially true for Clark Kent, since he didn't have any classes on Monday. Three whole days. Every week he worked up for this point: when he could walk through the doorway, knowing he wouldn't have to leave again until Tuesday. Even though he commuted everyday, walking through the door on a Friday afternoon still brought a strange sense of glory.

It had only been two weeks since Clark's resurrection, yet it seemed like a lifetime ago. Yet, he discovered even with his powers back, he could still enjoy life's simple pleasures of basking in the Indian summer's sun and procrastinating until the last hour to complete the work for the weekend.

Tossing his book bag on the floor, Clark made his way to the kitchen, ready to feed his insatiable appetite. He quickly created a simple, but large, turkey sandwich, figuring it would be perfect to hold him off until dinner. Stuffing a huge piece in his mouth, it finally occurred to the young man that he was alone. Furrowing his brow, he tried to think of his parents' schedules. His mom was at the produce store, and his dad was at in the barn, probably finishing up the never-ending list of daily chores. The silence on the ever noisy farm was deafening to the teenage boy.

Looking down at his half-eaten sandwich, Clark felt like he couldn't eat another bite. He threw the rest in the refrigerator, not once realizing he's never left a meal uneaten. Clark walked out the door, ready to help his dad, oblivious to the virus slowly attacking in his body.

- - -

Chapter 1:

The fall sun seemed abnormally grueling to the young Clark Kent that particular afternoon. Usually his thick skin barely felt the sun, but today, as he fixed the fence with this father, Clark couldn't stop from constantly wiping his damp brow. He glanced towards the descending sun and sighed as a dusk breeze graced his face. Grabbing another plank to nail into place, Clark steadied himself before pushing the nail into the wood with his thumb. At first there was a bit of resistance, but after tensing his muscle, the nail slid through like a hot knife in butter.

Running a hand through his damp, sandy hair, Jonathan leaned against the repaired fence. "Well, that's it. Mission accomplished," he stated as he wearily tossed his hammer in his toolbox. "C'mon, let's go get some dinner." Glad he could finally rest peacefully without a chore taunting his mind, he proudly slapped his son on his shoulder and headed toward the house.

Collapsing against the fence, Clark sighed, "Coming." He couldn't remember the last time he looked forward to the simple pleasure of sitting down. To tired to think, he grabbed the red toolbox and followed his father to their personal paradise.

As Jonathan made his way toward his wife and a warm meal, he couldn't help but notice the sluggish pace of his son. Glancing behind him, he uneasily asked, "Son, you feelin' okay?"

Clark grabbed onto the fence as if it was a railing as he walked. "Yeah, just tired," he muttered.

Jonathan immediately stopped in his tracks. He couldn't remember a time when Clark sounded so exhausted since Jor-El gave his powers back. Facing his son, the father worriedly advised, "Clark, are you sure?" Jonathan knew how Clark would always put people's lives before his, even if his own life was at risk. He still remembered Clark's first illness. His son recklessly waved the loss of his powers off as a coincidence. Jonathan had no idea how seriously ill Clark was until he passed out on the porch. Jonathan would do anything in his power to make sure that didn't happen a second time.

Wearily glancing up at his father, Clark assured, "Yeah, Dad. Stop worrying about it."

"Okay," he said passively as he turned back around.

Clark hated that tone of voice. It made him feel like an idiot. Clark knew his father didn't believe him, despite his words, yet there was nothing he could do to show the man that he was right. Irritably sighing, he continued his way toward the house.

With a swing of the front door, a fresh of aroma of cooking ham hit Clark's nostrils. Yet, it wasn't pleasant, like it usually was. Instead, it left an upset gurgling in his stomach. Clark subtly placed his hand over his stomach as he made his way to the kitchen.

"Hey there, honey," his mother sweetly greeted as she set the table. "How was school today?"

"Good," Clark instinctively answered. Every single day his mother asked the question, and everyday he gave the same answer. It seemed odd, yet somehow it became like a bland ritual in his house. But, from what he had heard, every family had the same tradition.

Placing the salt and pepper on the table, Martha robotically replied, "That's good."

"Dinner smell great," the father complimented as he rounded the table, completing the Norman Rockwell scene of family unity.

Jonathan and Martha took their spot at the table and started scooping food onto their plates. Noticing one set of hands was missing from grabbing the delectable mashed potatoes, Martha glanced up at her son. "Honey, aren't you eating," she curiously asked, wondering why he hadn't moved from behind the counter.

"Uh..." Clark stammered, as he stared at the large feast laid out before him. As if sensing his thoughts, his stomach instantaneously gurgled. Glancing away from the unappealing ham, he answered, "No, that's okay." As soon as the words left his mouth, Clark caught a glance of his father's worried expression. "I had a huge turkey sandwich when I got home." Becoming tense, Clark fidgeted under his father's skeptical stare. "I'm gonna go...read," he stuttered as he darted upstairs.

Later that night, after watching the nightly news, Jonathan and Martha Kent made their way up to bed. "Clark sure was quiet tonight," Martha commented as she climbed the stairs.

"He's been acting weird all day," Jonathan added, wondering if another strange power or predicament would soon emerge from his son. Many parents would say he was overreacting, but all that he knew was that whenever his son acted strange, the unthinkable happened.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Martha said, secretly praying for once she was right. Leaning against her husband, she peered into her son's room. Curled up in his blanket, Clark was out like a light, a soft snore drifting through the air. "See?" Martha whispered, as she slowly closed the door. The two silently left their son to rejoice in their own peacefully slumber.

Marking a new day, the golden sun gradually rose over the Kansas plains, magnificently highlighting the countryside with a rich shade of gold. Already finished with her daily crossword and most of the laundry, Martha started making lunch for her hard working men. Awoken a couple hours earlier by the truck leaving, Martha could only assume they would be back from the store any minute now. When she opened the refrigerator to grab the lunchmeat, she brought her head back with surprise at the half-eaten turkey sandwich looking back at her. It was unlike her boys to leave anything unfinished in her house. Shrugging it off, she continued to make leftover ham sandwiches.

Arriving right on time, Martha heard the truck pull up in the driveway just as she finished the second sandwich. She turned around to greet her boys, but to her surprise only one walked through the door. "Jonathan..." she questioned her brow furrowing. "Where's Clark?"

Hanging up his jacket, he casually answered, "I left without him." It was strange for his wife to not know was happening. "Isn't he awake yet?" Jonathan asked incredulously as he turned towards Martha. "It's past eleven o'clock. That's unlike him."

"I'll go wake him up," Martha volunteered, not believing, even with the foreign background, her son had the same sleeping habits as the next teenager. Jogging up the stairs, the mother quickly entered the room, smiling at the sight of her only son still sound asleep with the blanket wrapped tightly around him. "Clark, wake up," she stated, a bit louder than usual. A soft groan erupted through the air. Kneeling down next to his bed, Martha tapped the immobile teenager on the shoulder. "C'mon, Clark, wake up. The day's half over."

"Okay...okay..." Clark muttered groggily, his voice hoarse.

At the sound of his voice, Martha rose to her feet. "If you're not downstairs in five minutes, I'm sending your father up to get you," she warned as she walked out the door.

Listening to his mom jog down the steps, Clark rolled over on his stomach and pushed himself off of his bed. Suspended in a pushup, his muscles ached and he instantly fell back into the soft mattress. Clark slowly opened his eyes, and peered at the clock, wondering what insane hour his mom woke up him this time. To his surprise, in bright red numbers 11:12 glared back at him. "What?" Clark meant to exclaim, yet his sore throat wouldn't allow it. He instantly jumped out of bed and grabbed onto the wall for support. Making his way out of his room, he couldn't help but wonder why it felt like he hadn't slept a wink.

To Be Continued...

Author's Note: This is just a quick little story I've been meaning to write. It'll probably be only 5,000 words long, but it will play out like an actual episode.