They reach the little house on the outskirts of Smallville as the sun starts to rise. Jade is dozing in the front and Artemis is conked out in the back. He's tired himself, but he's been tired before.
There's a man and woman standing on the front porch who wave to him as he pulls up. He double checks the address to make sure it's correct; it is. He's suddenly afraid that Malone has played some elaborate joke on him—that this is his idea of humor.
If it is, he will hurt Malone. Severely.
The man and woman are an older couple. Gray haired and smiling. They look like salt of the earth types.
If they know Malone, they're probably scum.
He gets out of the car and locks the door behind him. The couple doesn't look like trouble, but they could be anything from metahuman criminals, disguised aliens, or demonic sorcerers. He won't take chances; not with his girls.
The man offers his hand. "Jonathan Kent. Mr. Malone said you'd be coming. Thought you'd be another day yet. This is my wife Martha."
"Pleased to meet you." Kent's hand is callused, but not in the way a fighter's would be. Strong, though. For his age. "Lawrence Crock." If Malone had told the Kents to expect him, then they probably already knew his real name and giving an alias would be useless.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Crock." Martha looked at his car. "There's some food in the house and we did a little cleaning. No one's lived there since Miss Potter passed on, so it might be different from what you're used to."
"It'll be fine." He doesn't want to talk. He wants to be alone. He wants to sleep. He wants to get drunk. He wants to forget that his Paula is gone. "Thank you."
The words don't come easily to him. It's been a long time since he had reason to express gratitude.
"You're welcome, Lawrence." Martha Kent glanced towards his car. "You want help with your girls?"
He wants help. He needs help. He isn't enough.
"No. I'll take care of them." He owes them that. He owes Paula that.
"I could make breakfast for you," Martha offers. Her eyes are filled with something he's not seen a lot of; sympathy.
"No, Martha." Jonathan lays a hand on her arm. "I think we should let Lawrence and his family be. We're across the field, Mr. Crock. The nearest farm house to you. If you need anything, let us know."
"Thank you, Mr. Kent."
"Jonathan." Kent smiles up at him. "I'm going to call you Lawrence, so you may as well call me Jonathan."
"And Martha. It's Martha," Martha Kent adds with a smile. "Skip! Come on, Skip! We need to go!"
"Yip! Yip!"
A medium dog—a terrier of some kind—with white and brown fur—runs up to Martha and Jonathan Kent.
The dog—that dog is familiar somehow. He doesn't know how. He doesn't know why, but he's not entirely sure he likes it.
The feeling seems mutual. The dog growls slightly as he looks at him.
"Down, boy!" Jonathan offers him an apologetic look. "Come on, Martha. Let's go."
"Lawrence, you need anything, you call on us." Martha touches his hand and offers him a smile. "Come on, Skip."
The dog growls at him one more time and then trots over to the battered truck that obviously belongs to the Kents. The Kents wave to him one more time and then drive off.
Nice couple. Strange that they know Malone.
Maybe they run a meth lab.
He unlocks the house and checks the interior out before he goes back to the car. It's not a large house, but it's larger than anything he's ever lived in before. The girls can each have their own bedroom. Landline. No obvious bugs.
It looks safe.
He goes back to the car and unlocks the doors.
Jade doesn't stir which is a sign of just how tired she has to be. She has her mother's looks, more so than Artemis. But he can see himself in her chin, in the way she holds herself. Her mother's grace and speed, but his reflexes and balance. She could be a legend.
And the Shadows want her.
He's read the letters that Paula didn't want him to see. The praise of her teachers, her mentors. The glowing reports about her potential. Paula's old bosses had written her of the importance of making sure that her children had the "proper" upbringing.
No.
No blood on his daughters' hands.
No death.
"I promise," he whispers. "I promise it'll be different for you."
Jade's eyes snap open. "I've heard that before, Daddy dearest."
Memories.
Memories of cold beer and dull anger. Frustration. A crying child.
His hand itches and he can still remember the shock of that blow. Her eyes wide with … what? Betrayal? Vindication?
And memories of his guilt. His shame. Self-loathing.
Staring down at his child.
And the dull ache of recognition.
After all those years—all the times he had sworn otherwise—he had done the one thing that he had promised himself he would never do:
He had become his father.
That moment lies between them. Everything he says and does. All the promises that he makes.
It makes a lie of everything else he's ever tried to be.
He can't take that moment back. He can't unmake it. He would die to change it.
But he can't.
"Get your stuff," he tells her. "We're here. We're home."
"Are we, Daddy dearest? You really believe that?"
He doesn't answer.
"Get your stuff. I'll get Artemis."
He wants to believe. He wants to believe he can give his daughters a home. He wants to think he can keep them safe.
He just doesn't know how.