"They say if you look hard enough, you can see into the future from here." Jonathan snuggled closer on the blanket he had spread out on the ground, adjusting his leg which rested casually over hers, and heaved a relaxed sigh as they stared off into the sky together. He was promptly and amusedly "mmm"ed against his throat. "No, it's true," he said, nodding toward the stars as Martha lay cradled in his arms, his fingers combing lazily through her hair. "Local legend has it that there were Indian tribes living about these parts, and the Seer would come up here to this very spot to call on his visions." Visions was emphasized with the appropriate ominous awe. Martha lifted her head and fixed him with a skeptical stare. "Well, that's what they say, anyway."
She settled back and gazed skyward again, considering his little tale. Whether it was true or strictly for entertainment's sake, she couldn't be sure but the notion did have its allure. "A little comforting, isn't it?"
"What's that?"
"That the future could already be there. No matter what you do, it can't be the wrong thing because it was always meant to be. No mistakes."
Jonathan shifted to his side and propped himself up on his elbow, watching her. He often did that--would study her face so intently, and every now and again, she wondered who else was there with them that he could find so completely fascinating. This time was different, though. This time he seemed...sad.
"But...where's the adventure in that?"
It was a simple question but one that told so much in its asking. Where one saw the safety of fate and the predictable, the other saw a prison of forced happenstance, the absence of choice and freewill. Crickets chirped and the other night things cooed and cawed about her, all having infinitely more to say on the subject.
Jonathan sat up a little straighter as he spoke."I mean, I wanna--I wanna look back and be able to say 'I did that,' to know that I changed the world because I could, not because I was supposed to. I wanna know I made a difference," he continued, an eagerness and zest for what the universe had to offer and what he had to offer it all but bursting out of him.
In the three months they had been dating, Martha learned a lot of little things about Jonathan--that at six he had once run away from home-- well, as far as the barn. He still had a slight phobia concerning spiders ever since being bitten by one in his sleep at ten years old and rushed to the hospital. And the mere mention of hot dogs had made him ill for a year after his cousin told him what they were made from. Last year, he read Huck Finn over the summer and found himself regularly shirking a bit of hay-pitching for a half hour of quiet reading here and there, which left the cows greatly displeased. Yes, she knew all those little things, everyday facts, but it was at times like these, when it was just the two of them, that she felt she'd gotten an honest glimpse into a man that the world didn't often see or was simply too busy to notice.
He was gentle, sweet, and doting, though she was sure he would vehemently protest such a description. Men were not gentle, they were gentlemen. Men were not sweet. They were decent. And they certainly were not doting. They were merely courteous.
Tonight revealed something else. Jonathan Kent was a dreamer.
"You must think I'm ridiculous," she said, embarrassed, looking anywhere but at him. "I'm just so tired of trying to please everyone. It would be so much easier to know things were just meant to be." That was a half truth, but it sounded slightly better than the whole: that her father was a difficult man and she hadn't yet developed the skill to stand in his presence and say "No." Martha picked absently at a loose thread in their blanket, still not wanting to face Jonathan. He had probably begun to reconsider his company just then, and who would blame him? Gee, Jonathan, I know you're excited about your life and all, but I'm still the little girl who can't disappoint daddy. The very idea made her own eyes roll nearly out of their sockets.
"What I think," he murmured, nestling closely once more and tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "is that you are wonderful...and if your father doesn't know that, well then, I almost feel sorry for him."
Martha took Jonathan's hand and intertwined her fingers with his, observed her own fair skin sliding over his darkened, sun-kissed skin. And she wondered vaguely if it was proper for a young lady to contemplate just where else the sun had touched this hardworking, book-loving farm boy of hers. "Who said I was thinking about him?"
"Because it's the only time you talk like this."
Obviously, she needed to polish her feminine charms to a decent shine. That grave tone should have progressed to, at least, somewhat intrigued. God love him, the man did have a worried streak wider than the Metropolis skyline.
"Like what?"
"Like you don't have a say in your own life, like you're not the strong, intelligent, no-nonsense woman I know you are."
"It's complicated, Jonathan. My dad's had my future planned since the day my mother said 'I'm pregnant.' How am I supposed to tell him that I don't want it? He'd be crushed. And he'll think I'm not up to it, that I'm taking an easier road because I'm not capable or because I don't have the ambition. I'm not a quitter," she said firmly.
Jonathan shook his head unhappily and held her hand more tightly as though afraid she might decide to pull it back. "No, you're not. Martha, you could do anything you please. Believe me, I know. I've seen your work--not to mention several people bow their heads and cross themselves before they step up to debate you. As a lawyer, you'd be the best of the best. But I hate to see you working so hard for something you don't want."
That was the real question, wasn't it? What did she want? Indeed, there were so many things the world had to offer. Fine things. Elegant things. The best that money could buy. But looking back at the man beside her, his face etched with concern, Martha knew of only one thing she truly wanted, and money couldn't buy that.
"You are coming tomorrow, right?"
They hadn't discussed it, but it was usually a given that Jonathan would make it to a debate in Metropolis. She knew it wasn't the most riveting of events, but, whether he pretended or was genuinely glad to be there, either way, she was happy to see his face out among the crowd.
He hesitated, though. Martha could tell he wasn't ready to change the course of the conversation yet and didn't care for her little avoidance tactic. After a weighty pause, he answered with a sincere yet distant, "Of course I am," then rolled onto his back. His left arm was folded and tucked casually behind his head. His right hand still held hers. But he was quiet-- not coldly so, but quiet. If she listened close enough, she imagined, she could actually hear his jaw clinching tighter, biting back any number of things he had wanted to say but didn't.
Patience was not always a virtue Jonathan possessed, but he had been very understanding with her. He had never pried or pushed into a conversation he wasn't welcomed into, namely discussions about how her father felt about her choices. And the fact that by now he must suspect that she was holding something back was slowly eating away at her.
"It means a lot to me," she offered quietly, turning her head and watching him stare up at nothing in particular, until finally he glanced back at her, his expression softer.
"I'll be there," he assured her again and gave her hand a squeeze.
----
The afternoon had been almost a complete bore, saved only by the knowledge that when it was over, a certain young man would be waiting for her. Martha's team had placed well and stood a good chance at nationals this year . But that fact came second to the former as she made her way to the lobby, eagerly expecting to find the face she had seen all afternoon, only to be welcomed instead with "Martha, dear, wonderful performance."
No words were forthcoming as she gaped openly at the dark-haired man who was dressed in an impeccably neat gray business suit. He smiled broadly back at her. "At this rate, you'll be taking over the firm next year," he continued proudly as he put his arm around her.
When she found her voice, the only thing that managed to be sputtered out was "Dad, I wasn't expecting you."
"Well, I got back early and I thought I'd come by and see just what my hard-earned money is paying for, " he grinned. "Those young boys didn't know what hit them, did they? That's my little girl."
Martha took a few steps back and tried to appear the happy daughter, eyes darting about uncomfortably as she straightened her skirt. "Dad, I really wish you would have told me you were coming," she said, smiling meekly and searching past him for someone else.
"Since when do I need permission to come and support my daughter?" the man laughed. "And really, Martha, do try not to fidget. It becomes a nasty habit that a good lawyer can't afford to acquire."
Martha dropped her hands at her sides and grimaced at that last peevish remark. "I've been doing all right so far," she countered, but before she could elaborate any further, Jonathan had appeared at her side and put his arms around her. She'd been so distracted that he'd surprised her--and her father too, no doubt.
"You were great," he announced with a hug that lifted her off her feet and a quick kiss on the lips.
"Martha, dear, who is...this?" William Clark waved a hand loosely in Jonathan's direction and gave him a hard, quick look from head to toe. Skilled in the art of observation, he took swift inventory of one green denim button-down shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers before turning back to his daughter, awaiting some kind of explanation. Jonathan, who hadn't noticed the older man before then, answered the question and thinly veiled scrutiny with a disconcerted "Who the hell are you?" glare of his own.
So she hadn't told her father about Jonathan. She had meant to-- really, she had-- but it just never seemed like a good time. William Clark was an honest, decent man but the fact that his only daughter wasn't involved with the prince of some fictional wealthy utopian nation would go over about as well as--she stole another glance at her father's dour appearance-- as well as that.
Martha looked briefly from one man to the other. "Dad, this is--this is Jonathan. He's my, um, friend." And suddenly not looking at either seemed to be the only thing she could manage to do.
"Oh, Mr. Clark, I'm sorry. I didn't realize. Martha didn't mention you were coming. It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you." While Jonathan showed his most winning smile and gave the man's hand a hearty shake, her father continued to study him as though he were a small insect under glass.
"Yes, well, I wish I could say the same," came the flat reply.
Aaaand, there it was. The infamous William Clark charm, or lack thereof. Leave it to her dad to be completely tactless in less than one minute flat, which was an impressive record even by his standards. If she'd felt any lower, she would have been eye-level with the floor she was studying so hard.
"You've been busy, dad. I just never really had the chance...with school and everything. " That that was partially true might have made the situation more palatable, if not for the disappointment and hurt in the young man beside her. Her father wouldn't have seen it, but she did. His had eyes lost some of their shine. His smile had faded just a little "Jonathan's been to all of my debates in Metropolis," she added, not sure what exactly she expected to accomplish with that revelation, except to fan the flicker of hope that things wouldn't get anymore awkward.
"How nice"-- a sentiment that didn't reach the words as her father said them. "Does this Jonathan have a last name, by chance?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, Jonathan Kent," Jonathan supplied, ignoring the fact that he hadn't been addressed directly.
"Kent," the man repeated, mulling the name over. "Would I know your family?"
"Oh, I don't think you would. I don't imagine you get to Smallville too often."
"Smallville," he echoed, making the name sound like an awful dish he once ordered by mistake in a foreign restaurant. "It's a quaint rural area," he amended. "A strapping boy like yourself must have a plethora of chickens to attend to." The off-the-cuff joke fell flat and continued its descent through the pit in Martha's stomach. For a second, Jonathan's gaze flicked over to her, then back to her father again.
"Dad..."
"Actually, it's not the chickens you have to worry about. It's the bull," Jonathan deadpanned, squaring his shoulders just a little.
Mr. Clark seemed satisfied that he had gleaned all relevant information from the conversation and had spent as much time as he cared to on the matter. "So--Jonathan was it?" He straightened and raised a dubious brow while he clasped both of his hands together. "I hope you don't mind, but I haven't seen my daughter in a long while, so I can drive her home. I'm sure you have cows to corral or some such thing."
A tense pause stretched between the two men.
"It's fine."
The curt answer held no bitterness, but she knew Jonathan was upset and trying hard not to show it. She tried to catch his eye but he either would not or could not look in her direction now. Facing straight ahead and blinking several times, he muttered a polite "Good-bye" then turned on his heels and started to walk away.
Not a great many things surprised Martha. Being a lawyer's daughter, she had been taught to anticipate every possible outcome, to analyze a situation and predict several conclusions, but you could have tipped her over with one finger at that moment. He was just going to leave? Without another word?
"Jonathan, wait!"
Her father caught her by the arm, saying something about getting home to mom. Martha pulled loose from his grasp and scrambled after Jonathan, finally catching up with him just outside building. "Jonathan, wait, please."
His brisk walk slowed. Then he stopped and took a visible breath but didn't turn around. "Why didn't you tell him?" he asked calmly, the question laced with the hurt he still couldn't hide, despite wanting to.
"I don't know," she lied and looked down again.
He turned and smiled mirthlessly. "I've um," he swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, "I've got cattle to 'rustle up,' as us country folk say. I'll see you later."
TBC...