The Kent farm sat three miles outside Smallville proper, a classic American homestead with white painted wood, red barn, and fields that stretched toward the horizon.
Bruce arrived in his rental car just after four in the afternoon, the sun still high in the clear Kansas sky.
Clark was waiting on the porch, looking more relaxed than he had at school. He wore jeans and a faded t-shirt, work clothes instead of the button-up flannel he'd worn earlier. His posture was less hunched here, more natural.
"Hey," Clark called out as Bruce parked. "You found it okay?"
"GPS works even in Kansas," Bruce said with a grin, climbing out of the car. "Nice place. How much land do you have?"
"About two hundred acres. Most of it's corn right now." Clark walked down the porch steps. "My parents are excited to meet you. Mom's been cooking since I told her you were coming. Fair warning, she's going to try to feed you until you explode."
"I can handle it."
They walked toward the house together. Bruce took in every detail with his trained observational skills. The farm was well-maintained but showing its age.
Paint peeling slightly on the barn. Tractor in the distance that looked at least twenty years old. Fence posts that had been repaired multiple times.
'Not wealthy,' Bruce analyzed. 'Comfortable but not extravagant. They work hard for what they have. That'll shape Clark's values. Good.'
The front door opened before they reached it. A woman in her early fifties stepped out, dark hair pulled back, warm smile on her face. Martha Kent, Clark's adoptive mother.
"You must be Bruce," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "Clark's told us about you. Come in, come in. Dinner's almost ready."
"Thank you for having me, Mrs. Kent," Bruce said, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, the hands of someone who worked with them daily. "I hope it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble at all. We love having guests."
Martha led them inside. The house was cozy, lived-in, filled with family photos and comfortable furniture. "Jonathan's washing up. He'll be down in a minute."
The kitchen smelled amazing. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, vegetables, fresh bread. Martha had indeed been cooking for hours.
"Can I help with anything?" Bruce offered.
"Just sit and relax. You're a guest." Martha pointed to the dining table. "Clark, set another place."
Bruce sat while Clark moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, gathering plates and silverware. A few minutes later, footsteps on the stairs announced Jonathan Kent's arrival.
Clark's adoptive father was a big man, broad-shouldered and weathered by years of farm work. He had kind eyes but carried himself with quiet strength. This was a man who'd worked hard his entire life and had strong opinions about right and wrong.
"Jonathan Kent," he said, extending his hand to Bruce. His grip was even stronger than Martha's. "Pleasure to meet you, son."
"Bruce Wayne, sir. Thank you for having me."
"Clark says you stood up to Whitney Fordman today." Jonathan's eyes crinkled slightly. "That true?"
"Whitney was being a jerk. Someone needed to say something."
"Well, I appreciate you looking out for Clark. That boy's had it rough with Whitney and his crew." Jonathan took his seat at the head of the table. "Let's eat before it gets cold."
Dinner was excellent. Martha had outdone herself with a spread that could have fed twice as many people. Bruce ate with genuine appreciation, complimenting the food and asking questions about farm life that showed real interest.
"So Bruce," Martha said as she passed the bread basket. "Clark mentioned you lost your parents when you were young. I'm so sorry."
"Thank you. It was a long time ago, but it definitely changed my life."
"I can imagine. You were eight, Clark said?"
"Yes ma'am. Murdered in an alley in Gotham. Wrong place, wrong time." Bruce kept his voice steady, factual. He'd told this story so many times the emotional edge had worn smooth. "My butler Alfred raised me after that. He's been like a father to me."
Jonathan nodded slowly. "Takes a special kind of person to raise a child that's not their own. Give them love and guidance when the world's been cruel."
The way he said it made Bruce glance at Clark. The farm boy was focused intently on his food, not meeting anyone's eyes.
'They know,' Bruce thought. 'They know Clark isn't biologically theirs. And they're telling me, subtly, that they chose to raise him anyway.'
"It does," Bruce agreed. "I'm lucky Alfred was there for me. I don't know what kind of person I'd be without him."
"Well, you seem like you turned out pretty well," Martha said warmly. "Top of your class, athletic, polite. Your parents would be proud."
"I hope so."
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