So Now I Stand Here, A God Before You

You had been standing by your locker after lunch, struggling to shove an overstuffed science textbook onto the shelf while complaining loudly about homework.

“…And Mrs. Collins acts like we don’t have other classes–”

Suddenly, you felt an arm wrapped around your shoulders.

You barely even startled.

Clark’s other arm extended out in front of you both, camera already in hand. “Smile!”

You instinctively did.

Click.

The picture captured your laughter halfway through it, your smile uneven and genuine while Clark grinned beside you, cheeks pink from both embarrassment and triumph.

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him afterward.

Clark only shrugged, slipping the camera back around his neck. “You looked cute.”

Your stomach did something strange at that. You ignored it completely.

-

After that, it just kept happening.

Clark would appear out of nowhere in the hallways, at football games, during field trips, while waiting for the bus.

One arm around your shoulders.

Camera held out in front of you both.

“Smile!”

And you always did.

There was the picture from eighth grade where your braces had just come off and Clark’s hair was too long because Ma Kent hadn’t convinced him to get it cut yet.

The one from freshman year football tryouts where Clark looked awkwardly enormous beside you, both of you flushed pink from the autumn cold.

The blurry one from sophomore year where you were laughing so hard your head had fallen against his shoulder after he told you a terrible joke.

And another from junior year Homecoming preparations where you had streaks of paint on your cheeks from decorating while Clark looked at you instead of the camera entirely.

Every year, more photos. More memories.

And always the same pose.

Clark beside you with his arm wrapped securely around your shoulders like it belonged there.

Like you belonged there.

-

At least half the pictures weren’t actually centered properly.

Because Clark was rarely looking at the lens.

Ma Kent noticed first.

One evening during your sophomore year, she sat at the kitchen table flipping through freshly developed prints while Clark pretended not to hover nervously nearby.

“Hm,” she hummed softly.

Clark froze. “What?”

She held up one of the photos.

You stood in the foreground smiling brightly into the camera while Clark looked down at you instead, smiling softly in a way that made his feelings painfully obvious.

“Nothing,” Ma Kent said innocently.

Clark turned red instantly.

“Ma.”

Jonathan Kent leaned over her shoulder.

Then, “Oh,” he hummed knowingly.

Clark looked seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

“You guys are making this weird.”

“We didn’t say anything,” Martha replied.

“That makes it worse!”

-

By senior year, the tradition was so automatic that neither of you even thought about it anymore.

You’d take pictures during lunch breaks, before classes, after games.

Sometimes when you were tired or stressed or laughing too hard to stand properly.

Clark always found a reason.

One afternoon near graduation, you stood outside Smallville High watching students sign yearbooks while the spring wind whipped around everyone’s clothes and hair.

You had been talking about college applications when suddenly…

Warmth pressed against your side. Clark’s arm looped around your shoulders.

The familiar weight settled against you so naturally that you leaned into him without thinking.

His camera lifted.

“Hey,” you laughed. “Another one?”

Clark smiled softly.

“Another one.”

Click.

For a moment afterward, neither of you moved.

The camera lowered slowly.

You glanced up at him.

Clark was already looking at you.

There was something different in his expression then.

Softer. More nervous somehow.

Like he wanted to say something and didn’t quite know how.

Your heart skipped strangely.

“You know,” you murmured, smiling slightly, “we probably have hundreds of these by now.”

Clark huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah.”

“You’ve been doing this for years.”

“I know.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

Clark blinked.

Like the answer should’ve been obvious.

Then his expression softened, making your chest feel warm. “Because,” he said quietly, “you’re my favorite person.”

Teenagers laughed nearby. Someone shouted across the parking lot. Wind rustled through the trees overhead.

But all you could hear was him.

Clark immediately looked nervous afterward, ears turning pink.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly.

But you were already smiling.

Because maybe, just maybe, you had always known.

Even before either of you had words for it.

Some part of you had always understood that these weren’t just random pictures.

Clark had been preserving pieces of the best parts of his life.

And every single photo had you in it.

-

Years later, the camera still existed. It was a little older, a little worn around the edges.

The strap had been replaced twice. There were tiny scratches near the lens, fingerprints that never fully cleaned away, and a faint crack near the battery compartment from when Clark accidentally dropped it during a high school camping trip.

But he still kept it.

Because it held pieces of his life inside it.

The church buzzed softly around you. Guests were talking quietly, music was drifting through the reception hall nearby, lights warm and golden overhead.

For one small moment, it was just the two of you standing alone near the side hallway after the ceremony.

You were still glowing from it all.

Your wedding gown pooled softly around your feet, delicate and beautiful and slightly wrinkled already from dancing and hugging and crying through half the vows.

Clark stood beside you in a dark tuxedo, tie loosened slightly now, dark hair messy from everyone grabbing him in congratulations all evening.

And yet, despite everything…he still looked at you like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You noticed the familiar camera in his hands immediately.

Your smile widened instantly.

“No way,” you laughed softly.

Clark’s cheeks pinked slightly. “What?”

“You brought it?”

“Of course I did.”

You shook your head fondly. “Clark Joseph Kent…”

He stepped beside you automatically, like muscle memory.

One arm wrapped around your shoulders exactly the same way it always had since middle school.

The other extended outward with the camera.

You pressed your cheek against his instinctively.

Both of you grinned.

Click.

The flash briefly lit the hallway.

And for one second after the flash, Clark just looked at you.

His wife.

The girl from all those blurry school selfies.

The love of his life standing beside him in white.

Emotion flooded his face so openly it made your chest ache.

Then he leaned down and kissed you softly.

Like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to.

“Mrs. Kent,” he sighed against your lips, lips turning into a grin when you smiled.

Somewhere behind you, someone wolf-whistled.

Neither of you cared.

-

A year later, the camera captured another version of you both.

Older again.

The photo was taken in the nursery half-finished around you.

Tiny clothes folded nearby. A crib Clark had assembled slightly crooked because he kept getting distracted talking to your stomach.

You stood in front of the mirror, heavily pregnant now with Leia.

Clark appeared beside you like always.

One hand held the camera out.

But this time, his free arm snaked around your waist, hand resting gently against your belly.

You leaned back into him with a sleepy smile while Clark looked absolutely overwhelmed with happiness.

Click.

-

Then came the photo that became everyone’s favorite.

You sat in the hospital bed exhausted and glowing all at once, hair messy, eyes heavy with sleeplessness.

And in your arms…tiny newborn Leia.

Clark stood beside you shirtless. He insisted on feeling Leia’s skin on his own.

One arm wrapped around your shoulders carefully.

The other held the camera outward.

You leaned your head against him instinctively while Clark stared directly into the lens with tears visibly gathered in his eyes.

Little Leia slept peacefully between you both.

Click.

The first official Kent family selfie.

Ma Kent cried the first time she saw it developed.

Pa quietly carried a copy in his wallet for years.

Clark kept the original tucked safely away like treasure.

-

The next favorite came four years later.

The photo was slightly more chaotic this time.

Four-year-old Leia stood balanced on the hospital bed beside you, grinning so hard even when she was missing one of her front teeth. 

You held newborn Jon against your chest while trying unsuccessfully to keep Leia from bouncing too hard near the baby.

Clark stood beside all of you laughing openly.

One arm around your shoulders.

The camera extended in the other hand.

Leia had both hands cupping Jon’s tiny face proudly.

Click.

The photo came out imperfect.

Leia was blurry from moving too much.

Jon looked deeply unimpressed with existence.

Your eyes were half closed from exhaustion.

Clark was mid-laugh.

And somehow, it was perfect.

-

The photo albums grew thicker over time.

From middle school hallways. Football games. Proms. College. Wedding pictures. Pregnancy. Babies. Birthdays. Lazy Sunday mornings.

Every version of your life together preserved in tiny frozen moments.

And through almost all of them, one thing remained exactly the same, with Clark’s arm around your shoulders.

Like no matter how much time passed, no matter how your lives changed…some part of him would always be that middle school boy with a camera who loved you so much he wanted proof you existed beside him.

-

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On the days he’s in camp, she sticks to his side like glue. Babbling on as he carries bales of hay across camp, rearranging the firewood he just chopped until he has to pick the splinters out of the palm of her hand. He doesn’t mind. Never minds. He fears the day she won’t wrap herself around his leg, giggling as he attempts to walk with her.

And when she cries at night, he's the one to get up without complaint. Rocking her in his arms as she cries, despite her being too old to be held like this.

She holds her toy in her fist, arms wrapped around his neck. He walks behind the tent, ten steps forward before he turns and traces his steps back. “Y’feelin’ better?” He asks her and she only whines in response, tightens her hold on him.

So he resumes his pacing. Resumes his comforting words too until he’s too tired to do so and starts humming. A tune his mother sang to him when he was her age. He doesn't remember the lyrics, but the melody sticks.