The kitchen in the Kent farmhouse was steeped in the aromatic scent of thyme and rosemary, their earthy fragrances filling the small kitchen. It was a scent that spoke of home, a testament, really, to Martha Kentâs belief that a house wasnât truly a home without something delicious being prepared; whether that was one of her award-winning pies, or simply a warm, savoury meal lovingly put together with her boys in mind, who worked so hard to take care of the farm.
As a large pot simmered on the stove, Clark peered inside, eyebrows pinching as he took in the sight. The broth was a rich, golden colour, bright herbs bobbing on the surface. He couldnât resist the urge to sneak a little taste, just to see how it was coming along. With one finger, he reached forward to dip into the broth, only for a sharp swat to connect with the back of his hand. It wasnât enough to hurt him, of course, but the shock of it made him jump back nonetheless.
âClark Joseph Kent,â Martha said, her voice firm but laced with the exasperated affection she reserved solely for her only son. She pointed her finger towards him, waggling it slightly. âI know I raised you better than that. If you want a taste, youâll get a spoon.âÂ
Clark flushed with embarrassment, giving her an apologetic smile. âSorry, Ma,â He mumbled, attention being drawn to the sharp sound of vegetables being chopped by her skilled hands. âIâm just⌠I just want to be perfect.â He confessed, flipping open his small notebook and glancing over the steps he had written so far. âNext is⌠carrots?â He asked, voice a little uncertain as he watched her hands move with practiced efficiency. He could have chopped every vegetable in the kitchen in the blink of an eye to save her the time and effort, but this was her domain, and he knew better than to try to take over her kitchen.Â
She turned, wiping her hands on her apron as she gave him a warm smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. âYouâre a sweet boy, Clark, you always have been.â She said, her voice soft. âI always say, the way to a manâs heart is through his stomach.â She mused, humming a soft tune as she swept the carrots into a bowl. âAnd, well, Bruce might have Alfred to do all his cookinâ for him, but thatâs no substitute for a meal made from the heart.âÂ
Clark couldnât help the blush that crept up his neck as he wrote down how many she had chopped. He hoped, more than anything, that she would be right about this; that Bruce would see this gesture as something sweet, that it was done only with him in mind. After all, he remembered all too well what it was like to catch a nasty cold when he was young and his powers hadnât manifested. Each time without fail, Ma would appear at his bedside with a steaming bowl of her special chicken soup and would simply stay until he was finished eating, one hand stroking through his hair. It was a small gesture, but it was one that made him feel infinitely better.Â
Bruce deserved that. He deserved to have someone see him when he was vulnerable, who was willing to be with him during that time. He deserved to experience what itâs like, to have every spoonful remind him that he is loved, not for his purpose, but for being himself.Â
Adjusting his notebook in his grasp, Clark leaned forward again, standing slightly taller as he watched Ma begin peeling potatoes. This was an important task, one that he was determined to master, for Bruce.
And as his mother patiently explained the difference between a rolling boil and a gentle simmer, Clark couldnât help but extend his hearing across the country, past the rustling cornfields and sleepy towns, until it locked on to the stuffy, congested sound of his beloved bat.Â
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