Audrey's head twists to look behind her as she enters The Talon, still worried of knives finding her back. Her chin quivers uncontrollably, the biting cold stabbing her exposed skin, she hadn't considered farm land could be chillier than the whipping wind of the city. She crosses her arms in front of her, seeking warmth, and security in her unknown surroundings.
Chloe blinks her eyes to make sure they aren't fooling her. At first she thinks it's the caffeine rush of her third mocha chino causing these delusions that one of the hardest interviews to land in Metropolis just walked through the door. Two bats of her eyes later she realizes she's not seeing things. She swallows hard, finishing up the last gulp in her oversized mug, watching her prey closely from behind her economics book.
By reflex she grabs her pad and pen, ready to pounce the reclusive artist and get her headline. But she has to push her journalistic instincts deep back down inside, telling herself to sit tight, and pick her moment. Chloe knows if she can just get ten words on the record from Audrey Peyton, she'll have more than a story for The Torch, she'll have something for The Planet. But to get even one word she'll have to approach this particular subject with more panache and care than she ever has before lest she be branded another reporter for Audrey to shun. The only question she needs answered is how long Audrey Peyton plans to spend in town. If it's long enough, Chloe can step back and plan her strategy better.
"You're going to need a coat if you plan to endure a Smallville winter, especially with this cold snap sweeping through," Chloe throws out her fishing line. She's impressed with herself, she resisted a reporter question and instead turned on her small town charm. Of course, that one sentence depleted her reserves of small town charm, but it should be enough to get the answer she needs.
"Thanks, I'll remember that," Audrey answers absently.
That's enough for Chloe, she'll have the time for a more strategic assault.
Lana is perched atop a step ladder, updating the menu board with her distinct writing; curly cursive letters, and i's dotted with little pink hearts.
Audrey grabs her tummy, hoping the only other people in the shop didn't hear it rumbling. She's been running on empty all day long, the thought of eating a bite making her sick. Even if food wasn't the last thing on her mind, she's sure that anything she forced down would be sent right back up by the knots in her stomach. No, a sip of hot chocolate will suffice. Just a little something to warm her up, at least enough to step back into the icy winds blowing outside.
Audrey drums her fingers on the counter anxiously, just the thought of sipping a hot chocolate comforts her, hoping also it might help settle her stomach. She glimpses over the prices on the board, realizing just how far her twenty-seven dollars won't go. A simple coffee a day and she'll be broke before the weekend.
She reaches into her purse, grabbing out two ones, rubbing them gently between her fingers, nervously biting her lip. Suddenly, the tranquility is splintered by the violent hiss of the cappuccino machine. Audrey jumps, plunging her hands down on the counter, squinting as she braces for her impending doom.
Chloe clenches down on her pen cap, taking notes with her eyes. It's obvious Audrey is nervous, and Chloe cannot wait to find out why. Perhaps she can use the moment to build a small relationship which can draw in a formal interview later.
"Loud isn't it?" Chloe asks.
Audrey nods politely, "Too loud," she adds, trying not to be rude.
Lana comes to the counter, wiping the chalk dust off her hands onto her crisp white apron. "Sorry I kept you waiting. Can I get you something?" she asks, blinking her wide eyes.
"A hot chocolate," Audrey answers, delivering it more like a question than an order.
"Coming right up," Lana says, smiling, turning quickly to whip it up.
"Lana makes the best hot chocolates," Chloe says, realizing how ridiculous she sounds, but unable to stop. "Isn't it kinda odd to order hot chocolate at a coffee shop, though?"
Audrey doesn't answer.
Lana shoots over her shoulder, "Don't mind Miss Sullivan. Too many questions is an occupational hazard."
Audrey smiles at Chloe. "Aren't you a little young to be a reporter?"
Chloe chomps down on her lower lip, horrified that she's been sniffed out. "I'm the editor of a High School paper. I just stick to reporting on the lunch menu and such." Chloe hopes desperately devaluing her purpose won't tip her hand.
"Don't knock high school achievements, you never know how far they will take you," Audrey offers, feeling in other circumstances she would be delighted to help the ambitious Chloe. But as it is, she can barely help herself.
Lana delivers the chocolate and Audrey collects her nerves the best she can, leaving the two dollars and her unwanted company behind.
x X x X x X
"Clark, shut that door! We can't afford to heat the outdoors," Martha nags, swatting her large son with a dishtowel.
"I was looking for dad," Clark says, shutting the porch door. "Is he still out there?" he asks, peeking through the window.
"There's supposed to be a hard freeze tonight, so he's spraying down the crops," his mother says, straightening the kitchen curtains he has bunched into the corner.
"Why is he doing that? He knows I can just defrost them in the morning," Clark quips, his eyes sparkling at the chance to use his heat vision.
"Yeah right, and have a field full of jiffy pop again?"
Jonathan comes through the door, the howl of the wind following him close behind.
"It's dropping by the minute out there," he says, concern for his crops and his family's livelihood evident in his eyes.
Martha's eyes match his, her smile doing its best to reassure him that all will be all right come daybreak. She slides his heavy flannel over shirt off of his shoulders, urging him to take a seat, his dinner plate already waiting for him.
Clark plops down, all too ready to inhale the chicken and mashed potatoes before him. He reaches across the table, grabbing a biscuit, quickly shoving it in his mouth.
"Clark!" Martha says, nearly causing him to choke. "Not until we say grace."
His father passes him a pair of smiling eyes, to which Clark rewards with a biscuit for his dad.
"What am I going to do with you two?" Martha asks, snatching the biscuits from them, laying them on their plates before them.
"Grace," she says definitively, taking her seat at the table.
The trio close their eyes, ready to thank the Lord for the blessing before them, and to pray for the safety of their crops through the hard freeze.
"Dear heavenly father-" Jonathan begins, only to be ripped out of his train of thought by Martha jumping up out of her seat.
"Oh shoot! The gravy...," she says, heading towards the sink for some water to mix into the drippings boiling on the stove.
"The pipes...," Jonathan says, snapping his fingers as he realizes he forgot to cover the pipes to the well.
He shoots up from the table. heading for the door without his jacket, willing to weather the dropping mercury to secure his home.
"Relax, Dad" Clark says, placing a hand on his father's shoulder. "I can defrost them in the morning."
Jonathan checks Clark's face for meaning, as it dawns on him Clark intends to use his heat vision to warm up the pipes.
Clark reassures him with a smile, as he reaches across the table for a chicken leg.
x X x X x X
The wind howls outside the Kent farm, rocking the weather vein perched atop the barn, the rod iron squealing in the silence as the rooster seizes this cold morning to sleep in.
Rows and rows of corn stand erect in the fields, encased in their icy blankets, not yet warmed by the sunrise.
The yellow farmhouse is aglow, the aromatic scents of the country breakfast sizzling in the skillet add comfort for those who crept out of bed to greet the early morning chill.
Although his entire life Jonathan has risen to meet the dawn, he has yet to perfect it without the means of a cup of strong black coffee to get him going. Hoping to assist his wife, who has her hands full with a griddle full of pancakes and a skillet full of eggs and bacon, Jonathan grabs the coffee pot, moving to the sink to fill it with water. Only a rumbling from the pipes comes forth, signaling indeed the forecast was correct.
"Clark, do you mind running out and warming up the pipes?" Jonathan calls up the stairs.
Clark runs down the stairs, grabbing up a piece of bacon right out of the pan, unharmed by the hot oil as he flies out the front door.
Standing on the side of the house, he focuses on the pipes, his eyes pulsating a weak beam of heat that instantly chisels the ice off the well, sending steam rising into the morning air.
He grins, finishing off the piece of crisp bacon.
Ever in control of his farm, Jonathan joins Clark outside, continually amazed at how unique his son, and his skills truly are. He reaches down, turning the knob on the well, quickly pulling back by the sting of the hot metal against his flesh.
"Geez, Clark," he says, shaking his hand from the burn. He shoots Clark a sly smile, amused at the memory of Clark's discovery of his heat vision.
"What's Chloe doing here so early?" Jonathan asks, motioning with his head towards the car parked at the end of the driveway. "Are you two working on another story?" he asks, concerned once again Chloe and Clark are on the path of something better left untouched.
Clark, puzzled, takes a few steps forward to get a better look.
"That's not Chloe's car."
"Then who could that be at this hour?" Jonathan ponders.
Clark jogs up the dirt path, careful to not use his abilities in front of the mysterious vehicle. He closes the distance between himself and the car quickly, coming to a stop beside the small car parked near their mailbox.
The windows are covered with ice, and the engine is off.
"Hello?" Clark calls out, knocking on the driver's side window.
"Hello?" he repeats, leaning down as her peers into the window.
The ice is frozen solid against the glass, making it impossible to see if there's anyone inside. Checking around him, he decides to take a risk, focusing his eyes on the window, allowing the heat from his eyes to melt the ice.
He quickly scans the inside of the car, stopping at the bundled girl laying in the backseat. It's Audrey.
Clark tries the door, finding it not only thick with ice, but locked tight. Almost as reflex, Clark pries the door open, screeching metal slicing through the still morning air.
Audrey doesn't move, unaffected by the sound of bending metal, and cracking ice.
"Clark, what's going on?" Jonathan asks, breathless from his run up the driveway.
Clark shakes her shoulders, trying desperately to wake the unconscious girl. His movements turn her face towards him, revealing her lips almost blue from frostbite. Without hesitation he has her up in his arms, her frail frame falling limp in his embrace.
"Son...," Jonathan prods, grabbing Clark's shoulder.
Clark backs out of the car, turning to reveal the unconscious girl he has in his arms.
"Clark!" Jonathan gasps, searching Clark's eyes for information.
"Dad, we need to get her warm," Clark says, his words setting his father into motion.
"Martha!" he hollers, running back down the driveway. "Martha!" he repeats, turning back to Clark, who is not far behind. "Is she breathing?"
"Yeah, barely," Clark says, secretly fearing how long it will be so.
"Do you know who she is, son?" Jonathan asks, fearing the possibilities.
"No," he answers, his own mind racing.
"Jonathan!" Martha calls out, her voice cracking with fear. Stopping cold on the porch, she sees her son carrying the limp girl towards their home. Her hands go to her mouth. "Oh My God!"
"Martha..." Jonathan says, seeing his wife overcome with emotion. "Run inside and gather some warm blankets."
Martha quickly turns back to the house, the screen door slamming behind her.
"Lay her down in the living room, not too close to the fire" Jonathan instructs his son.
"But dad, she's freezing."
"I know, but we can't warm her up too fast. Trust me son." Jonathan says, holding back the screen for Clark to enter the house first.
Clark puts her down on the overstuffed couch. Seeing her dressed in only a thin blouse and jeans, he unzips his own jacket placing it on her, hoping his own body heat might help her.
"Get her shoes," Jonathan motions to Clark, meeting Martha at the base of the stairs, taking the top two blankets from her stack.
"Martha, put those near the fire," Jonathan instructs his wife, fueled by his adrenaline. He moves back into the living room, placing one of the blankets on the arm of the rocking chair, shaking the other into the air, allowing it to unfold over top of Audrey.
Clark unties her keds, sliding them off her tiny feet.
"Here Clark," Martha says handing him a pair of tube socks.
Removing her thin green socks, Clark pulls up the huge pair of socks he recognizes as his own. He shimmies them all the way up to her knee under her pants.
"I'm gonna grab some whisky from the cellar. See if you can wake her," Jonathan says, leaving the room.
Clark puts his hands on her frigid pink cheeks, searching her face for a sign
Martha goes to her side, folding the blanket down under her chin. She turns and grabs the other blanket form the chair and covers the cold stranger's legs with it.
Unsure what to do next, Martha sits in the chair next to the couch, tenderly sweeping Audrey's hair off of her forehead.
Fearful of how serious this situation appears to be, Martha grabs the phone off the table. "I'm going to call an ambulance."
Audrey's head slightly moves to the side, seemingly coming to. In a voice softer than a whisper she quietly sighs a barely audible, "No..."
"Mom..." Clark says, his voice changing in pitch.
"Is she waking up?" Martha anxiously asks, halting her fingers from completing the call.
Audrey lets out a weak cough, her head bobbing back to the other side. Clark takes her hand into his as he intently watches her eyes. Her lids close a little tighter, then slowly open, blinking against the dim light of the room.
"Don't call anyone, Clark," she whispers, her chin quivering from the cold.
Martha's eyes quickly go to his, searching them for an answer.