Disclaimer: I do not own anything or anyone, because seriously, if I could, I would SO own Tom Welling.
Note: For returning readers: IT'S BACK!!! YAY!!!! I have not posted in my Saga for a very long time. It's been about a year, actually. But here it is, a finished story, brand-new and shiny. I am SO sorry about the wait, various crazy excuses are involved – all true, have no doubt – and by way of apology I give you an open-ended ending. Wait. What? Anyway.
For first-time readers: You have just stumbled on a long, confusing series of Smallville stories. This is Part Six of something I like to call The Saga, my chain of stories that all serve one higher plot arc. All six of these stories take place in about a week of the lives of Clark et al. Now you're probably going: "Wait a minute. So you're saying, in order to understand this story, I have to read FIVE OTHER FREAKING STORIES?" Well… yeah, pretty much. You do. I mean, you COULD read this first, but that is not doctor-recommended. For those interested and/or with patience, this is the Saga in chronological order: Just Friends, As Close As You'll Ever Get, Too Close, Hypothetically, Lonely, and now Have to Wonder. If you DO end up reading all of them, you're in for a treat, 'cause they're kind of weird. Now you're thinking: "Why is that a treat again?" Well, it just is. Deal with life.
Clark awoke with the distinct, uneasy feeling that someone had been watching him sleep. Shivering, he concluded that it was the lingering effects of the dream he had been having. He couldn't quite remember what it had been about, but he shook off his creepy feeling and went downstairs after changing his clothes. It was early, earlier than he usually got up, but he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep even if he wanted to. There was nothing good in the fridge, so he opened a pop tart package and stuck one of the nasty biscuit-like slabs in the toaster. Maybe he would buy breakfast at school.
His mom came in the front door, already dressed for working in the field. "Clark," she said, smiling. "You're up early!"
He shrugged and smiled. "Just woke up early, I guess."
She gestured upstairs. "If only your father would follow that habit!"
He grinned and turned away as the toaster ejected his pop tart. Holding it in one hand, he used the other to open the fridge and scout for any edibles he may have missed. Broccoli and last night's chicken and potatoes graced the shelves. He made a little sound. "Mom, we need to go shopping," he said, raising his voice as he heard her walk into the living room.
"Okay!" she called from across the house. "Thanks for volunteering!" He shook his head with a little smile and grabbed the milk bottle. No one will care if I finish it off, he lied to himself. He poured it into a glass since his mother was probably watching and threw the empty plastic jug away. "I'm going back out to work," Martha Kent told her son as she marched towards the door with several sharp farmer's tools. "When your father finally comes down, tell him there's cereal in the cupboard."
"There is?" Clark complained, but the door had already swung closed behind her. He shrugged and took a bite out of his pop tart. It definitely tasted better with milk, he decided after finishing off the glass. He devoured the rest of the pop tart almost absently as he watched his mother walk back and forth by the window, setting up the tractor to ground the second field. He turned on the radio on the counter. After a couple minutes of commercials, one of his favorite songs started playing. He whistled along as he packed up his backpack for school.
His dad came down the stairs and headed straight for the fridge. "Where's the rest of the milk?" he asked his son, who jumped slightly.
"Dunno," said Clark, and checked his watch. Twenty minutes until the bus came. The song stopped and commercials began again. Jonathon turned off the radio. "Hey, I was listening to that!" Clark protested lightly.
"Find me a commercial-free station and you can listen all day," his father told him as he closed the fridge door.
"Oh, there's cereal in the cupboard," Clark remembered.
"With no milk?" His father asked rhetorically. Clark looked outside guiltily. His mom had the tractor started up and was loading it. "Well, you better head for the bus, son," Jonathon said, resignation tinting his voice as he realized that he would have to eat a pop tart. "Martha!" he called outside. "We need to start shopping around here!"
"I know," came the semi-irritated call from the busy woman outside.
"She knows," Clark translated. His father gave him a look. "I better get going, so see you!" He sped outside as only he could, stopping only to say, "Bye, Mom!"
"Have a good day, honey!" The fond words floated after him as he jogged away. A new hobby of his was controlling his urges to run, to see how long he could walk like a normal person before going nuts and leaving dust trails through cornfields. He often found that rushing to the bus stop just gave him more time to stand there, alone, waiting for his friends who could only walk at less than half Clark's speed. It took him about ten minutes to get to the crossroads where Chloe and Pete stood, waiting.