stands_for_hope | At Home with Clark and Jim

"Has it been quiet in Gotham lately?" That was always a concern when going to Gotham. Who knew if it was worse to happen by after a quiet period or during one - because the quiet could stop at any time, with absolutely no warning. For a criminal facility, the Arkham Asylum seemed to have very loose security. He'd read enough lately to know all about that.

"Gotham isn't nearly as bad as people make it out to be," he says with a wave before finally starting to put roast into his mouth again. He gets it swallowed before he continues.

"It's mostly quiet. It's just that when something blows up, literally or figuratively, it has a tendency to go big and loud. Not that Metropolis is doing much better at the moment."

He leans back, sips on his beer, and scratches absently at his jaw.

"Last time I went through, it was quiet. But we can wait for a Trojans game, if you'd rather."

But Jim shook his head. "No, it's all right. I'll go to Gotham." It wasn't like he couldn't defend himself, after all. He was missing his weaponry, but he could make do without it. Even if he did intend to replace some of his weapons eventually.

Eventually. He thought that having a fighting knife on hand would ease a part of him that was still jumpy. He wasn't sure if Clark would approve, but he had kept larger secrets than having a knife.

"I'll ask Lombard tomorrow at work, see if he can get us a deal on some tickets. If not, I'll get them online."

And bagels. He's still buying Jim bagels.

He eats more of the roast.

And tonight, he's buying ice cream. And asking his mother if Miss Henderson down the way with the sheep had done her shearing yet to beg for a roommate scarf for Jim.

He nodded. "I'll try to find a job to help pay for it," he said. "That's... only fair."

And fair was fair. That seemed important now. Now that he remembered scraping up money for tickets, and making food. So far, Clark had been paying for everything. It was time he put in his fair share.

"It'll all even out," he says, obviously not worried about it but not refusing the money either. He wasn't Bruce Wayne, after all.

"Once you've got a job, we'll hash out bills more, but we're eating all right and we've got a roof over our head, so we're doing all right."

He yawns a little before turning back to his dinner and going quiet as he worked on the food.

It settled a different something inside him to see Clark eat. Though he didn't doubt Clark's health, it spoke to that part of him that had apparently taken care of Steve so long ago. That distant past was becoming clearer, and that was fine. The distant past was less worrisome than the part in the middle. He tended to avoid it, reject it outright.

He had also learned the skill of putting some thoughts out of his mind and focusing on the present instead. And in the present, he had good food - even if he had cooked it himself - and company that, for some reason, didn't judge him. That made life easier. "I... am glad you like the food."

He looks up after a particularly large bite.

"Oh yeah," he says, the words somewhat garbled around the food. Blushing a little at his poor table manners, he swallows and shakes it off.

"It's really good. My mother would approve."

He offers Jim a smile.

"I certainly do."

It amused him, and for once, he actually smiled. Clark liked his food and was eating well. He'd done something worthwhile. It was a reason to stay alive, to find life again. The moment of knowing that, unlike before, he mattered.

He could live.

"Good."

"If you really like cooking," Clark finally says as he finishes up the rest of his food, "I'm happy to pick up whatever ingredients you might need. If you feel like experimenting with anything."

He stood up, plate in hand, and went to the sink to start washing it off.

"I just... get the feeling that I used to cook. Or share cooking. I don't know if I know how to do anything special. Just normal food." And what 'normal food' meant, he wasn't sure, either. The only things that occurred to him were, "Soup beans, maybe chicken dumplings." He thought that he could do those, anyway.

"I enjoy all those things," he says, washing the dish off absently.

"But what I mean is," and he turns to Jim a little as he speaks, "if you like doing it, it makes you feel good, there's plenty of recipes out there to try out. Normal, not normal, twists on old ideas, whole brand new ones... and you're welcome to use my laptop while I'm not home."

He shifts back to start working on the fork.

"Mention it to my Ma and you'll get more recipes in your ear than you care to."

It's said with a smile but some degree of seriousness. Martha Kent's kitchen was something of an institution.

"I'll do dinner tomorrow, though. It's only fair."

"With any luck, I'll have a job tomorrow." Construction. Construction, he could do. That wasn't even a question. He just had to convince someone to give him a job. "So you might be the only one here in time to make dinner."

He could only hope. He was tired of not feeling like he was contributing. That was worse than the memories that kept him tossing and turning through the nights.

"What time are you thinking of heading out tomorrow?" he asks, trying to figure out the timing for breakfast.

He shrugged, finishing off his plate and bringing it to the sink. "Eight or nine." And he picked up a towel to dry what Clark had already washed. Chores were shared. Period.

"Perfect. Breakfast's on me."

Because he had plans.

"So's dessert. I'm gonna--"

He turns to look at his phone a second before it rings, a reflex he had to work on. Most people, after all, couldn't hear the electronics within responding to the signals. He walked over and picked it up and his face broke out in a bright smile.

"Hey Ma, how's-- Dusty did what?" he turns and holds up a finger before heading over to the main living room area, nodding along to whatever it was Martha was saying before covering the mouthpiece to look at Jim.

"She's been staying with my Aunt Carol." He smirks a little, "She doesn't exactly get along with Aunt Carol and Aunt Carol's dog is this tiny toy schnauzer--"

He pulls back and starts listening to the phonecall in earnest before breaking in with:

"Yes, Ma. Yes, I'm-- yes. Jim made a roast. Yeah, he got us a crock pot, made up a fantastic roast, almost as good as yours. Oh yeah, I'm-- Yeah, Ma. I'm just running out to grab something. Lemme see--"

He covers the mouthpiece again.

"Did you want to speak to her?"

He'd said he would, but now that the opportunity was right there in front of him, he found himself unsure. But still, he had said he would. So he nodded, taking a breath. "I will."

He would need to put more tone in his voice. More expression. He would have to sound less...

Less like himself. Less worn. He could do it.

Clark smiles and holds out the phone to him, but he can probably already hear Martha chattering away.

"--just wondering what your favorite color might be," came the voice of an older woman, warm, with a slight southern twang to her voice.

The half-statement... Well, it was enough for him to answer, even if he did wonder what the first part of the statement might have been. "...Black, I think," he said. "Hello, Mrs. Kent. I do think I prefer black, or at least darker colours. If that's what you're asking."

How long had it been since he'd spoken on the phone? Another question that fell in the realm of uncertainty.

She was quiet for a moment before she broke out in a playful chuckle.

"Well, then. I'll tell her I'll have a use for her black sheep after all," she told him brightly. It became clear where Clark's general attitude may have developed.

"I'm sure Clark's told you I'm Martha. You feel free to call me that or Ma. Mrs. Kent is my mother-in-law, after all, god rest her soul. I hope this isn't too weird for you, I don't mean to be a bother, but I just wanted to meet you as best I can with you out in Metropolis and all."

She laughed a little.

"Don't worry, no hard questions this time. Now, if you decide you'd like to come home for Thanksgiving with Clark, then I'm going to have to ask which kinds of pie you like, but that's a while off yet. Invitations open, though. Especially if you're as good at repairs as Clark's said. We're still working on the upstairs, after all."

"It isn't a bother, M-- Martha." It was true - it wasn't a bother, for all he was still hoping he lived up to their expectations. Hope was new and a little frightening. "Clark's told me about his parents, and he always sounds so happy when he does. And I understand that his comparing my cooking to yours is high praise."

Repairs - he could, and would, he decided, do that. It wouldn't take him long, and he knew how to make things livable. A little hammering, a little plaster, some paint. Easy.

"Clark's a sweet boy, but he doesn't give praise if he doesn't mean it. We taught him not to play games like that. If you do come for Thanksgiving, it'll be nice to have someone in the kitchen to help cook."

It was pretty clear she wanted him home for Thanksgiving, but she was much like her son: not too apt to push.

"Anyway, sweetheart, I won't keep you too long, but good luck tomorrow. Tell Clark to make you something nice. If you like curry, he makes very good curry. He learned it while he was traveling. It's very good."

The repetition of Thanksgiving and of Clark's curry being 'very good' had him smiling without knowing. "I'll keep Thanksgiving in mind. I don't really have anywhere else to be, and with... with how good a friend Clark has been to me, I'd like to be able to help his family out, just... because. So helping you with your upstairs sounds good to me." And it sounded like a possibility. A way to help repay the good that had been done for him.

"Wonderful! You tell Clark to look out for a package from me. I'll let you go, though. You don't need to waste your time on an old woman babbling at you."

Clark chuckled, since he could hear her as well, and he couldn't help keep the smile on as he watched Jim fall prey to his mother's cheer.

"Martha, you aren't old or babbling, but I won't keep you. I'll tell Clark about the package, though. Thank you." It was proof that he could still have manners. Another anchor toward humanity. The simplest things, it seemed, made the most difference.

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