Summary: It's a very odd day when Jonathan Kent's time travelling granddaughter crashes into the barn. There's a knife in her stomach, and blood everywhere, but she still manages to look at Jonathan like he's what's wrong with the situation. (Basically an excuse to have season 3! Jonathan Kent interact with the man his son will become. Because is Clark's kid goes time travelling, he's got to go bring her home, right? Right.)
Author's Note: Set during the summer Clark ran off to Metropolis. Cross-posted on ao3.
Prologue
The barn was filled with the pale, grey light of dawn, and the air was fresh with the smell of damp earth. The bitter taste of coffee lingered in his mouth. It had rained all night. He knew this because he spent most of it staring at the ceiling, listening to the hush of water hitting the roof. Two months ago, this would have made him happy—overjoyed, in fact—but now he could only muster a sliver of irritation at the mud that squelched under his boots on the walk from the house.
They were going to have to sell the farm.
They tried, God they tried. But they just couldn't keep the farm afloat without Clark. Even the thought of him made his chest ache. Clark, his impossible boy, vanished from their lives like the light of a dying star. Beautiful. Burning. Hurtling into their lives and then out of it, heedless of the sprawling wreckage left in its wake.
His son was gone. His house was about to be, and his wife couldn't make it through the day without crying. They'd started packing up some of their things last night, and they'd found a small, creased photograph of Clark when he was four years old, tiny and bundled in several layers of sweaters and jackets. He'd been grinning—that blinding grin that took up his whole face and stunned anyone who saw it. His little hands were waving in the air, his cheeks and nose were bright pink, and Jonathan remembered taking this picture. It was Clark's first time seeing snow.
When Martha saw it, she stifled a sob and stood shakily, exiting the room. Jonathan had been left, holding the photo in his hands, an ache settled deep in his chest and desperately trying to suppress the prickling in his eyes. Fourteen years have passed since the day they found Clark in that field and Jonathan never quite stopped being astounded that he could love one person so much, so much that it felt like his son reached into his chest and took half his father's heart with him when he left. So much that breathing hurt, without him. Where are you? he thought, looking down at the print of his son's tiny face. Are you safe?
With a sigh, Jonathan grabbed his gloves off his workbench and pulled them on, before reaching for some small bundles of hay. He had to feed the horses today, and the cows. They were short on chook feed. He'd have to go into town to get some more. He went over his mental list of things-to-do and wondered how he was ever going to get all of it done.
He'd just gathered the hay into his arms when there was a deafening sound—like the whip-crack of thunder and before he could take a moment to wonder what the noise was, his vision was filled by a bright, purple light. He recoiled, dropping the hay to shield his eyes. Dull thuds met his ears as they scattered around him, and he dug his heal into the ground to brace himself. Was this an explosion? he thought. But there was no heat blistering his skin, only light, sharp and blinding. Then, as quickly as it flared into being, the light died away.
Bright spots speckled his vision; he blinked to clear them, and that's when he saw her. There was girl sprawled across the ground a few feet away from him. She was pale, dark haired, and her shirt was almost entirely covered in blood.