Jonathan cuddled Clark in his lap as his sleeping son nestled happily after having another story read to him, one finger following Jonathan's faithfully as he showed Clark the words. He sometimes worried that Clark's not speaking wasn't that he was still learning English, but that it might stem from a physiological cause, that he was essentially mute. What if his people didn't speak, but communicated with some kind of telepathy, or physical movements? Was this child of theirs perhaps constantly trying to speak to them and wondering why they never talked like normal people should?
At least he didn't seem traumatized by it; when they spoke to him he listened attentively and happily, and seemed quite able to communicate his needs and wants and feelings without words. Sometimes he suspected that Clark knew the effect of those huge blue-green-grey eyes and beaming grins, but at other times he was certain that his son was just as guileless as he seemed.
His perfect little boy.
He'd been raised in an overly devout household, where "condemn the sins of thy neighbor" ranked far higher than "love thy neighbor" as a priority, but sometimes he felt just like Joseph, feeling privileged just to raise this miraculous creature, but fearing what the future might hold in a world that all too often destroyed the divine that it thought it worshipped. Most of the time, though, he was able to relax and enjoy being a father.
Clark slept with such perfect abandon, as though it were the only important thing in the world. Sometimes his face was scrunched up in concentration, as if he were making sure that he was getting this sleep thing perfectly right, other times he looked so relaxed that Jonathan felt himself want to yawn just looking at him.
"Pete's coming over in a few minutes," she said quietly, and Clark snapped to wide-awake, scrambling to be let down. "Whoa, honey, he won't be here for another five minutes. His mom is dropping him off," she added, catching him by the back of his denim overalls as he rushed to the door.
Clark sat cross-legged in front of the door, clearly willing it to open so that Pete would be there. He jumped up at the sound of a car pulling in. Judge Ross opened the door and carried Pete inside.
"Hi, Clark! Hi, Mr. Kent, Mrs. Kent! My ankle's all tied up with a really big bandaid that stretches," he informed them as his mother put him down.
"Oh, what a day. *Somebody*," she sighed, putting a hand on Pete's head, "decided to try jumping down all the stairs. It's just a twist, but I've got an Ace on it, and he'd better keep pretty quiet for a couple of days."
Clark, with an air of intense concentration, stared at Pete's bandaged ankle, and she chuckled, "Looks like he's trying to x-ray it with his eyes. He's going to be okay, Clark, you'll just have to play sitting-down games today." Clark climbed onto the sofa and picked up the book, fixing Jonathan with a stare that left no ambiguity about what he wanted.
As Martha walked the judge back to her car, Jonathan sat down himself, gathering both boys and the book on his lap. Martha watched as he read to them, triumphantly ending, "Fox in socks, our game is done, sir, thank you for a lot of fun, sir!" Pete shouted the words back, repeating them faster and faster each time, while Clark laughed.
Out of breath, he stopped, and Clark, taking the book by the edges, pointed to the picture. "Fox in *red* and *blue* socks," he said firmly, looking at Jonathan for approval.
It was forthcoming.
At least he didn't seem traumatized by it; when they spoke to him he listened attentively and happily, and seemed quite able to communicate his needs and wants and feelings without words. Sometimes he suspected that Clark knew the effect of those huge blue-green-grey eyes and beaming grins, but at other times he was certain that his son was just as guileless as he seemed.
His perfect little boy.
He'd been raised in an overly devout household, where "condemn the sins of thy neighbor" ranked far higher than "love thy neighbor" as a priority, but sometimes he felt just like Joseph, feeling privileged just to raise this miraculous creature, but fearing what the future might hold in a world that all too often destroyed the divine that it thought it worshipped. Most of the time, though, he was able to relax and enjoy being a father.
Clark slept with such perfect abandon, as though it were the only important thing in the world. Sometimes his face was scrunched up in concentration, as if he were making sure that he was getting this sleep thing perfectly right, other times he looked so relaxed that Jonathan felt himself want to yawn just looking at him.
"Pete's coming over in a few minutes," she said quietly, and Clark snapped to wide-awake, scrambling to be let down. "Whoa, honey, he won't be here for another five minutes. His mom is dropping him off," she added, catching him by the back of his denim overalls as he rushed to the door.
Clark sat cross-legged in front of the door, clearly willing it to open so that Pete would be there. He jumped up at the sound of a car pulling in. Judge Ross opened the door and carried Pete inside.
"Hi, Clark! Hi, Mr. Kent, Mrs. Kent! My ankle's all tied up with a really big bandaid that stretches," he informed them as his mother put him down.
"Oh, what a day. *Somebody*," she sighed, putting a hand on Pete's head, "decided to try jumping down all the stairs. It's just a twist, but I've got an Ace on it, and he'd better keep pretty quiet for a couple of days."
Clark, with an air of intense concentration, stared at Pete's bandaged ankle, and she chuckled, "Looks like he's trying to x-ray it with his eyes. He's going to be okay, Clark, you'll just have to play sitting-down games today." Clark climbed onto the sofa and picked up the book, fixing Jonathan with a stare that left no ambiguity about what he wanted.
As Martha walked the judge back to her car, Jonathan sat down himself, gathering both boys and the book on his lap. Martha watched as he read to them, triumphantly ending, "Fox in socks, our game is done, sir, thank you for a lot of fun, sir!" Pete shouted the words back, repeating them faster and faster each time, while Clark laughed.
Out of breath, he stopped, and Clark, taking the book by the edges, pointed to the picture. "Fox in *red* and *blue* socks," he said firmly, looking at Jonathan for approval.
It was forthcoming.