"I can pay for it," Clark says, reaching for the check, but his mother is faster.

Martha tsks at him and pulls out her pocketbook, saying, "No, no. Not on your life. If I can't make you breakfast, I can at least buy it for you."

He smiles and lets her, knowing that he can't win the argument, and also knowing that he'll slip money into her purse when she's not watching. He hates to see her spend any more on him - farmers are the heart of America, but that doesn't mean they can afford to hop flights to Metropolis on short notice.

"I'm sorry you had to come all this way," he says. Behind him, someone comes into the diner, making the little bell over the door jingle before they elbow into the growing crowd perched at the counter. It's still dark outside, but the city is shaking off the night's drowsiness, ready to spill life out of its buildings and back into the streets.

He feels like that himself: like he's been asleep and now blinks into the dazzling noontime sun. Happy, but overwhelmed just the same.

He's your son.

Hello, Lois.

It was the right thing to do, telling Lois. But he wonders now if it wasn't a selfish act as well, or at least an ill-timed one - handing her another burden when she already had so many.

"I'm just glad you're all right," Martha says, squeezing his hand across the table. "When I saw the news - oh, I nearly fainted. And then the truck wouldn't start. Thank God for Ben, or I'd never have gotten to the airport on time." She gives his hand a final squeeze, a pat, then releases it. "The doctors got it all out? You're sure?" she asks in a hushed voice.

Clark says, "I'm sure, Ma. I'm fine."

She exhales and there are sudden tears glinting at the corners of her eyes. "Good."

His mother leaves the check and he leaves a decent tip for the waitress, and they exit the diner to walk along the street. He takes her arm in his and smiles at way she holds on to him - as if she's afraid he'll run out into traffic.

Or fly away.

They meander along the sidewalks together, heading nowhere in particular. Martha tells him about how the church is raising money for a new air conditioner since the old one conked out mid-sermon last Sunday, how that nice Daisy (who makes those picture-perfect sour cherry pies) has gotten an awful haircut but none of her customers have the heart to tell her, how someone accidentally backed a truck into the flowers right outside the town hall, and all the other worthy bits of Smallville news. It doesn't take long for the conversation to wear down to simple, comfortable silence.

Eventually, with the sun glinting strong over the rooflines, Clark takes a breath and says, "I told her."

Martha swiftly looks up at him. "Your lady reporter friend?" When he nods, she asks, "How did she take it?" with a little worried frown.

"Oh," she said. Not hurt yet; still shocked. Still preoccupied with processing the revelation.

"Hello, Lois," he said. The way her Clark would say it: sweet and sincere and naive. His heart in his throat all the while.

She met his eyes, uncertain, confused. But he knew her; she'd sort through it before she finished her next sentence. "It's been you - since the beginning?"

"Yes."

The pain bloomed across her face and he saw all his clever rationalizations for a secret identity - honoring his father's commands, giving himself a way to watch the world unseen, keeping his family safe - as the smug foolishness that they were.

He never should have lied to this woman.

He wanted to tell her that. He wanted to say, "I love you - that's why I couldn't say goodbye," and he wanted to apologize for being an idiot.

He just didn't think it would help.

She took a deep breath. "You should go."

He looked at her, trying to catch her gaze, but she had stepped back and was avoiding his. Elsewhere in the house, he heard Jason sigh and flop over in his bed, and even as his whole soul lit to the thought That's my son, he accepted the truth, heart heavy: "You're right."

But he waited for a long moment, waited for her to do or say something else. He knew her, and he knew that she would never simply accept the revelation and send him on his way. No. There would be fireworks.

She left him and stalked over to the French doors that faced the lawn, undoing the lock with unsteady fingers, and pushed it open. She stood there, still not looking at him, still not saying anything, still radiating pain.

He took the hint. But he couldn't walk past her without reaching out to touch her again. And that – the soft brush of his fingers against the sleeve of her robe - that was what did it.

Her eyes snapped to his and she said, voice shaking, "You lied to me. You never lie to anyone, but you lied to me. And I-"

She bit down on the rest of it, lips compressed into a tight line, blinking and looking away again.

"I'm sorry," he said, because what else could he say? Sorry for so much – including the purchase of his happiness at the cost of Richard's.

She stared at him, incredulous instead of confused. Anger began a slow, deadly burn behind the tears in her eyes, and her voice stopped shaking. "You need to go."

He did.

"It went better than I thought," Clark admits to Martha. He'd expected a hard slap at least, possibly worse. Shouting for certain. The toned-down reaction he attributes to Jason sleeping nearby, or perhaps the sheer number of revelations she's been forced to accept in the last few days.

Again, a flash of guilt. He never should have lied to her.

"But I'm not going to be her favorite person for a while," he adds. "Either of me. And I'm not sure – I'm not sure if it was the right thing to do."

That earns him a consoling squeeze on his arm. "Of course it was the right thing to do, dear. I'm proud of you for doing it. And don't worry, she'll come around. But Clark – if I can ask – why now? Because of… what happened?"

He clears his throat, feeling like an eight-year-old caught filching a pie off the windowsill. "No. Yes. I... I waited too long already."

She stops, stopping him also by default, and gives him a look exactly like the one he earned as an eight-year-old sneak thief. "Now, what is that supposed to mean?"

"Lois has a son," he said. "Jason. He's five."

His mother tilts her head, frowning at him, waiting to see the connection. Or maybe seeing it already and disapproving.

Tell the truth, Clark, he thinks. 'You never lie to anyone' - even if it's frankly terrifying to confess this, and all it implies, to his Ma. He takes a breath. "He's my son."

Martha says nothing, but he notices tears in her eyes again, and then a smile breaks over her face. "Clark!" she says with a bubble of laughter, clutching at his arm. "Oh, Clark! Are you sure? How do you know?"

He tells her, as circumspectly as possible given their surroundings. She clucks and gasps sympathetically at all the right parts, but the delighted smile never really disappears.

"That's wonderful news," she says.

He hunches his shoulders a little. "I wish Lois felt the same."

"She will," Martha assures him, beaming. "Now, I want a picture of my grandson for the mantel."

"I'll try to get one," he says, thinking, A picture is how we got into this mess. But he smiles despite himself: happy to see his mother happy.

They walk on in pleasant silence, going nowhere. He'll take her back to her hotel room soon, help her pack her suitcase and load it into the taxi, then see her to the airport and her return flight because she wouldn't hear of Clark flying her home himself. Too suspicious, she said; rightly so, although he worries about the cost.

And then it will only be him in Metropolis.

Him, and his son, and Lois.

He listens to the busy city waking and bustling all around him, and he hopes that some of the voices he hears today will be theirs.

END