Do you think Clark Kent had to be formula fed.
And do you think, for a moment, Martha Kent realized she was in over her head.
An alien baby, a canister of formula from the closest shop that she’s not even sure he can eat.
She’s just holding him in front of her with the bottle in one hand and his neck propped up in the other. He’s screaming his head off and she knows he’s hungry but she can’t bring herself to give it to him. She doesn’t know what he is, what will kill him. She may have met this baby maybe a couple hours ago but she’s already decided to protect him with her life.
Jonathan’s out in the shed trying to find any of the old baby clothes and pacifiers they were gifted while they were trying at least half a decade ago; Martha’s pretty sure she threw them all away the second the doctor broke the news.
She realizes that if they do actually do this it’s not going to be easy, and it’s actually going to be quite terrifying. They will always be waiting for that phone call, that knock on the door. From this point forward strangers and outsiders who come sniffin’ for one reason or another will terrify them.
She wonders if they’ll tell him how they actually came to be his parents, or let him live in blissful ignorance.
She counts down to three in her head. And gives him the bottle.
He drinks it happily; perfectly fine.
She can’t remember when she started holding her breath.
A loose curl of his blacker than black hair falls onto his forehead and covers his bluer than blue eyes. She brushes it away and he grabs her fingers with a grip stronger than she thought it’d be. It makes her bark out a laugh.
Something with those pudgy cheeks and that gummy smile can’t be all that terrifying.
