Fic: That By Which We Call a Mother
Title: That By Which We Call a Mother
Rating: PG
Chars: Kon/Conner, Martha Kent
Summary: No matter how hard he tries, Superboy can’t find a name to fit her.
Disclaimer: The characters are DC’s. It’s not my fault they leave so much emotional territory uncharted.
That By Which We Call A Mother
He called her so many things in the beginning, but in the moment of truth he didn't call her anything at all. At first, it was "Mrs. Kent" or "Mrs. K" but she insisted on informality. Whatever he decided to call her during his stay at the farm, it had to be informal, comfortable, warm. She remembers the first day that he took the hint, and came down for breakfast in that blasted T-shirt of his. She had offered to sew him a proper costume, but for some unfathomable reason the boy kept insisting on that red-on-black T-shirt. She had read somewhere in a paperback about the psychology behind emotional transferance, and figured that he had transfered the love for his by-gone black jacket into that shirt. Boys--even Super ones--will be boys.
He had just come down the steps and set himself down for some cereal, eggs, sausage, and toast when she poured the milk for him and he said "Thanks, Aunt Martha."
She merely patted his arm, and said nothing. He needed to know she appreciated it, but too much demonstration would only make him take two steps back.
The next step came during one of Clark's visits. Everyone was so happy to have her boy back home even if it was only for the shortest while. She was serving food again, cookies this time, when the conversation came up.
"You know," said Clark, "I've never tasted a cookie that compares with this."
The young lad interuped.
"Actually, dude, Ma's got one major competitor. The bat-butler makes this mean macadamia-nut..."
He picked up the moniker from Clark and continued to use it for next month. She was surprized at how good it felt.
She had tried to always make herself available if he wanted to talk. Talking was something that boy needed to do--and often--especially when it came to his friends. Especially when it came to Robin.
"I knew Batman wasn't his dad, it's just...I dunno. I guess I never thought about what his real dad would be like, yanno? The man sucks. He's the King of Sucky People. I just...I asked Rob what he calls Batman. When they're alone, ya know? He calls him by his first name. He calls the freakin' Batman by his first name."
"I suppose it's what comes naturally to him, dear."
"I guess."
He called her "Martha" the next morning, and for the rest of the week. On the seventh day, he gave it a rest and she breathed a sigh of relief.
After Lex Luthor invaded his life, he was afraid to leave the farm. He alternated during those days: Ma, Aunt Martha, Ma'm...she even heard him refer to her and Johnathan as "the grandparents" once or twice. He healed in time, after a visit from that nice Raven girl, but he still alternated.
Finally...Crisis. She had seen many amazing things in her time, but she watched the worlds collide in the sky and felt her ageing bones tremble. He wasn’t completely recovered, but he left anyway, determined to answer Nightwing’s summons and help his friends. She worried about him. She had faith, but she worried. The cold feeling blosoming in her gut the moment he was out of sight didn’t help.
When she finally saw him again, covered in blood and floating toward her, eyes wide-open and broken, she thought for a moment that he was dead. A remaining shade of the youth who left, come to haunt her. It was only when she was finally holding him that she was certain he was real. He was alive. That was the problem.
“It should have been me...”
A broken wimper from lips accustomed to loud boasts.
“..She..she got between me and Prime...Cassie...”
The girl. The one who followed after him. She had only caught a glimpse of her. Polite little thing.
“Do...do you know what she said to me? She said...I told her that she had saved the earth. Everyone. She said ‘I know. Isn’t it cool?’ Then she...then she...nnngh!”
The sobs began. Other forms of weeping would follow. He had called her many things, but none meant more than the way he clutched at her shawl then. He buried his blood-stained face in her shoulder and she pulled him closer.
“My poor boy. My poor, dear boy. Shh...Shh...” She whispered other things too. He said nothing more. He called her nothing that night. He called her so many things in the beginning, but in the moment of truth he didn't call her anything at all.
There was a word--a right one--but it was alien to him. He was alive though; he would have time to find it. Together, they would find it. Together.
- e n d -
Rating: PG
Chars: Kon/Conner, Martha Kent
Summary: No matter how hard he tries, Superboy can’t find a name to fit her.
Disclaimer: The characters are DC’s. It’s not my fault they leave so much emotional territory uncharted.
That By Which We Call A Mother
He called her so many things in the beginning, but in the moment of truth he didn't call her anything at all. At first, it was "Mrs. Kent" or "Mrs. K" but she insisted on informality. Whatever he decided to call her during his stay at the farm, it had to be informal, comfortable, warm. She remembers the first day that he took the hint, and came down for breakfast in that blasted T-shirt of his. She had offered to sew him a proper costume, but for some unfathomable reason the boy kept insisting on that red-on-black T-shirt. She had read somewhere in a paperback about the psychology behind emotional transferance, and figured that he had transfered the love for his by-gone black jacket into that shirt. Boys--even Super ones--will be boys.
He had just come down the steps and set himself down for some cereal, eggs, sausage, and toast when she poured the milk for him and he said "Thanks, Aunt Martha."
She merely patted his arm, and said nothing. He needed to know she appreciated it, but too much demonstration would only make him take two steps back.
The next step came during one of Clark's visits. Everyone was so happy to have her boy back home even if it was only for the shortest while. She was serving food again, cookies this time, when the conversation came up.
"You know," said Clark, "I've never tasted a cookie that compares with this."
The young lad interuped.
"Actually, dude, Ma's got one major competitor. The bat-butler makes this mean macadamia-nut..."
He picked up the moniker from Clark and continued to use it for next month. She was surprized at how good it felt.
She had tried to always make herself available if he wanted to talk. Talking was something that boy needed to do--and often--especially when it came to his friends. Especially when it came to Robin.
"I knew Batman wasn't his dad, it's just...I dunno. I guess I never thought about what his real dad would be like, yanno? The man sucks. He's the King of Sucky People. I just...I asked Rob what he calls Batman. When they're alone, ya know? He calls him by his first name. He calls the freakin' Batman by his first name."
"I suppose it's what comes naturally to him, dear."
"I guess."
He called her "Martha" the next morning, and for the rest of the week. On the seventh day, he gave it a rest and she breathed a sigh of relief.
After Lex Luthor invaded his life, he was afraid to leave the farm. He alternated during those days: Ma, Aunt Martha, Ma'm...she even heard him refer to her and Johnathan as "the grandparents" once or twice. He healed in time, after a visit from that nice Raven girl, but he still alternated.
Finally...Crisis. She had seen many amazing things in her time, but she watched the worlds collide in the sky and felt her ageing bones tremble. He wasn’t completely recovered, but he left anyway, determined to answer Nightwing’s summons and help his friends. She worried about him. She had faith, but she worried. The cold feeling blosoming in her gut the moment he was out of sight didn’t help.
When she finally saw him again, covered in blood and floating toward her, eyes wide-open and broken, she thought for a moment that he was dead. A remaining shade of the youth who left, come to haunt her. It was only when she was finally holding him that she was certain he was real. He was alive. That was the problem.
“It should have been me...”
A broken wimper from lips accustomed to loud boasts.
“..She..she got between me and Prime...Cassie...”
The girl. The one who followed after him. She had only caught a glimpse of her. Polite little thing.
“Do...do you know what she said to me? She said...I told her that she had saved the earth. Everyone. She said ‘I know. Isn’t it cool?’ Then she...then she...nnngh!”
The sobs began. Other forms of weeping would follow. He had called her many things, but none meant more than the way he clutched at her shawl then. He buried his blood-stained face in her shoulder and she pulled him closer.
“My poor boy. My poor, dear boy. Shh...Shh...” She whispered other things too. He said nothing more. He called her nothing that night. He called her so many things in the beginning, but in the moment of truth he didn't call her anything at all.
There was a word--a right one--but it was alien to him. He was alive though; he would have time to find it. Together, they would find it. Together.
- e n d -