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When First We Met

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  • When First We Met




    When First We Met
    Author: Smallvillian
    Rating PG
    Disclaimer: Not my characters, just wish they were
    Author's note: Thanks to Renee for the inspiration and the second pair of eyes And don't worry, I'm still working on Measure of a Man.


    The air was crisp and cool. The start of fall brought with it the usual clamoring of young, eager minds milling past, headed off to who knows where in the guise of burrowing out their own little niche in the world. College was supposed to be a time of fresh independence, of finding one's own way in the world, beginning a new life. So why did it feel so much like the opposite?

    Martha Clark sat as she did every day studying notes written just an hour before, crossing T's and I's, glancing up every now and then at the world that buzzed busily around her until the clatter nearly died away and classes began inside the buildings she watched from her bench outside. This was always a good time of the day for her--no class to rush off to, no errands to run, just time alone with her thoughts and her work. They were often fine companions, though the conversation was sorely lacking.

    "Hey, Jonathan, we're all going downtown for some pizza, you wanna come?"

    "Nah, I'm gonna catch up on some studying. Exam next class."

    Well, so much for quiet and thoughtful. Laying her pen down, Martha looked about for the two voices that had abruptly broken through the quiet she so enjoyed, only to find that perhaps she should bring her nose out of her books more often if what met her eyes was what she had been missing all this time. Oh my.

    "You sure? We're all gonna hang out for a while."

    "I'm sure. I'll catch you later."

    He had a rather nice voice, too, she realized, now that she could place each with its owner. Denim, flannel, and gorgeous sat just a couple of yards away, stretched across a bench as if it were his own personal lounge chair, taking in the noonday sun. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Feet kicked up like he hadn't a care in the world. It was only when he turned and smiled at her, taking a bite of an apple he'd pulled from his small paper bag, that she realized she had been staring--and rather blatantly. Had there been a hole nearby, she most certainly would have crawled into it. But her books would have to do.

    Pressing on with a chapter on federal law as though it were the holy writ, she was nearly halfway through the third branch of government and its role in the "checks and balances" system when at last she conceded to the fact that a certain attractive opportunity was not going to stop knocking at her subconscious until she answered the door.

    What exactly was the problem? This young man was handsome. He seemed nice enough and he'd smiled at her...so she'd ducked into her books. That's right, girl. Just ignore him. That'll teach him. God knows you've had a full enough life so far--studying and reading and let's not forget the debate team. Smooth. Very smooth, she chided herself. She felt like the child her father so often accused her of being. For goodness sake, this was college and it was time she grew up.

    With a new sense of purpose, Martha gathered her things and chanced another look across the way. He was still there munching his snack but by then had taken out books of his own, flipping back and forth between pages and looking lost in thought. Her resolve faltered as she told herself it would be rude to interrupt him now. Yes, of course *that* was the reason she wouldn't talk to him It couldn't possibly be that she had no idea what to say. Oh, this was ridiculous. What could be less difficult than opening one's mouth and letting words come out?

    Finally, she took hold of what boldness she had left, strode right up to him, and said:

    "Nice apple." And proceeded to die of mortification-- or at least wish she had.

    His chin turned up, his blue eyes appraising her with some uncertainty, as though he were thinking perhaps she had said something entirely different and had he had just misunderstood. Then he smiled a second time and closed the book he had been reading. "Thanks, I picked it out myself."

    Thank God he had a sense of humor, she thought, and to her own surprise, she laughed, then took a breath and regrouped the troops. "What I mean to say is...I..." Her eyes dropped to the book he held. A familiar cover peeked out from under his arm and she gave thanks to a higher power who'd obviously taken pity on her. "I see you have finance this quarter. Do you have Professor MacDonald?"

    "Big Mac? Yeah, I do. I just left there, actually." He stood, his book in hand, and tossed the fruit into a nearby garbage pail. It was then that Martha realized that he was far taller than she had at first thought. Staring up at him, the playfulness in his eyes, his blonde hair tousled by a passing breeze, she couldn't quite remember what they'd been talking about. Left who where?

    Martha shuffled her books to her other arm and swept a stand of hair behind her ear, composing herself. "Oh, me too. Well, actually, I have him first thing in the morning and I, um, I was kind of tired this morning. I think I may have fallen asleep. Do you think maybe I could borrow your notes?" Granted, things hadn't started off that well, but she congratulated herself on managing to sound fairly articulate.

    "Sure. I think most people fall asleep in there. It's not just the morning group, believe me. Luckily, nodding and pretending to listen while the rest is on autopilot is something I learned a long time ago." Before she could say another word, he was kneeling down, rustling through the red backpack that sat lopsided at his feet. " I hope you can read my writing. Sometimes even I have to guess at it," he laughed then produced a green notebook and--still on bended knee, with a flick of the wrist, in a move reminiscent of the gallant prince offering his fair lady the finest flower-- he held it out to her. "M'lady."

    Perhaps it was the resident cynic in her or maybe just her pride, but now that she had regained some amount of poise, she wasn't about to further embarrass herself by becoming a giggling schoolgirl over the slightest gesture--charming as it may have been. She simply smiled in kind and took the notebook, placing it somewhere between the others she carried while he got to his feet.

    "You don't even know my name. How can you be so sure I'll bring it back?" It wasn't the most flirtatious thing she could have said but it was better than remarks about produce or any other nonsense she might have blurted out.

    After a moment of consideration, he chuckled and answered,"I prefer to believe in people. But if it makes you feel any better, my name's Jonathan. Jonathan Kent."

    "Pleased to meet you. I'm Martha Clark," she said, blinking up at him before realizing a handshake seemed to be in order, but having hands that were otherwise occupied sent them both fumbling. A few exchanged 'Oh wait's and 'Here let me's later and all books were finally and successfully set aside on the bench behind them. "As I was saying, I'm Martha Clark," she informed him, attempting to sound as though she had planned everything just that way as she quickly smoothed her shirt and held out her hand.

    "Hi," he said, smiling bigger than before, and took her hand, giving it a friendly shake.

    "This is--it's terribly nice of you. I haven't seen too many familiar faces. It's good to see a friendly one." Yes, that was better. Polite but not too forward. And she'd managed to remember to let go of his hand , though now, with no books, what to do with her own was suddenly a mystery. She settled for sweeping the same misbehaving strand from her face.

    "Oh, no trouble at all, but, um..."

    But? There was a 'but'? Martha felt her cheeks burn with an embarrassment she hoped wasn't as painfully obvious as it felt and opened her mouth, ready to make a quick excuse to leave with some dignity intact. "...It wouldn't be very friendly of me to not at least be sure you had no trouble--like I said, my handwriting can be a puzzle, even to me. I have some time. Do you want to go over everything?"

    Only when he had finished talking did she realize her mouth was still open. It opened and closed a few more times before any sound actually came out-- "Well, what about your--" 'Exam' she didn't say.

    "My what?"

    Martha looked up into those kind blue eyes before answering.

    "Nothing."

    TBC...
    Last edited by Smallvillian; 04-23-2005, 01:50 AM.

  • #2
    Very nice.

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    • #3
      Lovely expansion on that story! I can't wait to read more. I've only recently begun to really appreciate Jonathan and the relationship between him and Martha, and this was a gem of an insight into them. Well done!

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      • #4
        Thank you! It means a lot to know things came across well

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        • #5
          liking the story, can't wait to read more

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          • #6
            Great story! I love it

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            • #7
              When they had the little fraction of this story on the show, it seemed kind of trite to me, and a little empty, but the way you've deepened it changes the whole tone of the scene.

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              • #8
                Thanks so much. I hope you like the rest, too. I did want to work out the fact that Martha said that day was the first time she saw Jonathan. If it was, how did she know he took the same course with her and how could she ask for notes she didn't know he would have? If she had the same class at the same time, that afternoon wouldn't have been the first time she saw him. It would have been in class. So I hope this fixed that

                **

                "What precedent was set in the case of Brown versus the Board of Education and how does it apply to the case discussed above?"

                Martha made a face as though she had just been told an obscene joke with no discernible punch-line, then heaved a heavy sigh and collapsed face-first onto the book that lay open in front of her with a groan.

                Jonathan put his hands up and tried to approximate an apologetic expression as he leaned back in his chair and adjusted his reading glasses. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just reading what's on the paper," he said, tapping his pencil on the study sheet he held in front of him. "And if you expect to get through all of this today we better keep going."

                She sat up and eyed him tiredly. "Slave driver," she countered, then begrudgingly opened her notebook for any information that might help to answer the question posed to her. She had been meeting Jonathan at the library where they'd studied together for almost a week now, but at the moment she wasn't sure whether his determination on her behalf was endearing or a form of mental torture. Maybe it was just payback for her being so hard on him about his own study habits, which apparently consisted of whatever reading he could squeeze in between classes. "I don't have to take this abuse, you know. I can go home for that," she quipped.

                "Oh, no, you don't." Jonathan took off his glasses, holding them as he gestured pointedly at her. "If I had to learn all those watchama-formulas by heart, you, Ms. Clark, are going to know this"--he poked his finger at the paper still in his hand--"by Monday."

                "Who says?" Martha crossed her arms and raised an expectant eyebrow as she stared at her study-mate from across the table.

                "Me," he answered simply, leaning back in his chair again and grinning.

                She glared back at him and took one more peek at the pages then stood and tugged primly at her skirt before clearing her throat. "In the case of Brown versus the Board of Education, first tried in 1952 but decided in 1954, it was determined that 'separate but equal' did not afford minority children the same rights and privileges afforded to their white counterparts under the Fourteenth Amendment. The Fourteenth Amendment guarantees that 'No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.' " She put her hands squarely on the table and bent toward her one-man audience. "Why then, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do we continue to allow the denial of our own personal liberties as they pertain to life and the pursuit of liberty and --though not stated above-- happiness, under the guise of familial obligation when such action denies us the very freedoms we have fought so hard to attain? Such freedoms are God-given and supported under the law. So," she added forcefully, "If, under these circumstances, one decides that happiness is foremost, then the aforementioned individual reserves the right to do this. " The last word was punctuated by the closing of the book that had still lain open on the table.

                Jonathan sat forward at the table, leaning on his elbows toward her. "Feel better?" he asked thoughtfully, peering up at her with a certain tranquil gleam in his eye-- and something else she wouldn't put a name to just then, but whatever it was, it made her very aware of how close they found themselves at that moment. Her hands were still on the table, her body still inclined toward his. Part of her wanted to move, step back, in some way remove herself from the awkward position she'd put herself into with her little theatrics. And part of her didn't.

                She swallowed past the dryness in her throat and answered softly, "Yes."

                "Good," he said almost as quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Do you wanna tell me what that was all about?"

                It took a moment for the fog in her mind to clear enough to process not only the question but a coherent answer. Finally, she looked down, collected herself, and took a seat. "I don't know. I--do you ever wonder whether you're living your life or someone else's?"

                "Every day," Jonathan sighed then straightened in his chair, laying his glasses and pencil on the table. To say Martha was shocked was an understatement. She had had a sneaking suspicion these past few days that the man could persuade a cat to bark if he so pleased. How could he possibly understand about her situation? He could do anything he chose to do....

                "My dad's a farmer. His dad was a farmer, and now that's what he expects from me. The trouble is, I don't know that it's what I want, but I don't know how to tell him. He's given the shirt off his back just to keep the place. I'm busting my butt in three classes then have to drive home every Friday so I can try to make up as much work as I can around the place. Not to mention the part-time job at the loading docks to pay for this," he said, waving toward the books that lay stacked on the table. "Sometimes I wonder where it's all going to get me."

                If a thimble had been handy, it might have made a nice hat at that moment. If she'd felt any smaller she might have disappeared--except for her eyes, which were large with shock. "Jonathan, I had no idea."

                Jonathan almost laughed as he looked down and fidgeted nervously with the pencil he had left on the table. "Martha, I'm just a little on the poor side. I'm not dying." She'd never seen him blush before but was pretty certain that he had just been fairly close.

                "Oh, no. I didn't mean...it's just that here I am feeling sorry for myself when my biggest problem is that I can't get up the nerve to tell my father I don't want to be a lawyer. I don't think I could ever manage all of that."

                "Don't sell yourself so short--you work really hard. You're just smart enough to do it all with your mind and not your back." He tried to smile but his self-effacing jab didn't quite have the intended effect on either of them. "Any father would be proud of you," he added ruefully.

                "I'm sure your father is just as proud of you," she assured him, resting what she hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder.

                But whatever melancholy mood had come over him was quickly swept away and locked safely in the secret place all men must have for those weaknesses that the world must never see. His eyes lit with that familiar happy glow as he turned to her and said, "Hey, I'm supposed to be the one cheering you up, remember?"

                "You did." He stared back at her, probably likelier to believe she could fly, judging by the look on his face. "You made me even more glad I met you. And, by the way," she said, her tone more cross, "the only thing I see that's poor around here is your view of me, Jonathan Kent, if you thought I gave two cents about whether you were a farmer, a plumber, or a Wall Street tycoon." Then she gave him a light pinch on the arm just to prove her point.

                "Ow!" he cried, shrunk back in his chair, pretending to be mortally wounded and nursing his 'injury'. "You're brutal when you're angry."

                Martha just rolled her eyes at his antics and his impossibly boyish grin. She had obviously said something right but sometimes he could be such a....a *man.* Maybe it would wear off, she thought absently, as she shook her head, smiled, and tugged her book closer to read.

                "Of course, I could change my mind," A smirk crept across her lips despite her attempt to sound genuinely exasperated. She turned a page, purposefully not looking at him.

                "You know, there's kind of a--well, a--a social thing in Smallville this weekend. I was wondering...if maybe you would want to go ---with me," he hastened to add, as though he honestly worried she might think he had asked on someone else's behalf.

                So much for reading or anything else that might require actual thought. For a long moment she just sat there, staring blankly at the pages in front of her, replaying what he had said in her head just to be sure of the question. When Martha did look up, she almost felt guilty, him sitting there- fingers fidgeting once again with the pencil that lay on the table--looking positively vulnerable while he waited for a reply. But she couldn't exactly throw herself into his arms like some hokey scene straight out of a romance novel. After all, any self-respecting woman could never let a man think she was at his beck and call--despite the butterflies that now fluttered wildly around in her stomach.

                "This weekend?" His face fell just a fraction at the uncertainty in her voice and she knew she couldn't let him linger any longer, especially since it was taking most of her own willpower not to jump up and announce the occasion to the whole building. "I think I can make it."

                The smile on his face and hers was worth the wait.

                TBC...
                Last edited by Smallvillian; 11-01-2004, 06:45 PM.

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                • #9
                  *grins* This is so sweet! I'm really starting to get into Jonathan/Martha/Little Clark fics lately, and I'm thoroughly enjoying this. I don't think I could ever write one, but there's no need for me to try with you doing such a fantastic job of it! It's like "The Early Kents 101" - with a well-qualified professor.

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                  • #10
                    Aawww! That's a huge compliment. Thank you!

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                    • #11
                      I like it, are you going to write more? please!

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                      • #12
                        Love those glasses, my friend. Oh, and the rest of it, too!

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                        • #13
                          Don't we all love them? Teehee! BTW, Renee, you have mail I'll be working on more.

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                          • #14
                            "If a thimble had been handy, it might have made a nice hat at that moment."

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                            • #15
                              Martha scrambled about her bedroom, searching for a pair of shoes she was certain had been there just ten minutes before. Oh God, it was five forty. She really didn't to be one of those girls--the ones men always complained about--.never on time and primping themselves until they had nearly brushed their last hair out.

                              Goodness, was she wearing the right thing? Her reflection stared back at her from the full length mirror that stood across the room. A long, pale yellow dress, sleeveless, with white lily print hugged daintily to her; her red hair draped in ringlets to her shoulders. Not too dressy, but feminine and pretty. With one last satisfied nod, she turned away. Now if only she could find those shoes. Just as she was about to give up, she spied a spot of white poking out from underneath the edge of her bed, and grabbed the shoes she had decided on. They were dressy with a small heel but had the simple look of sandals. They went perfectly with the dress it had taken her hours to decide on. Not that that stopped her from worrying. What exactly did one wear to this type of occasion? Smallville certainly lived up to its name and while she'd been to more art shows and dinners in Metropolis than she cared to remember, somehow that wasn't much help in this instance. Just as she was about to consider changing yet again, there was a knock at the door.

                              "Jonathan, you're early," she stammered, opening the door to find her date standing just outside the doorway, hands clasped behind his back, having the appearance of someone in no particular hurry, who might as easily have been waiting at the corner for his bus to arrive. He smiled and stepped inside.

                              Where normally Jonathan wore clothes that were more work friendly--jeans and flannel or a t-shirt, sometimes with a jacket-- he now sported dark slacks, a crisp, blue dress-shirt, and a navy blue striped tie that came just to his black leather belt. "You look... beautiful."

                              No, it wasn't the first time a man had told her that, but usually it was an off the cuff remark, a polite pleasantry they'd said a dozen times, to a dozen different women, on a thousand different occasions. But this time was different. It was as if he realized, for the first time, that he truly meant it. His eyes lingered a moment longer, before she shut the door behind him, and he produced a single, crimson rose from behind his back, holding it deftly between two fingers. "This isn't quite as lovely, but..." he trailed off, nodding to the delicate flower, offering it to her, a shy, half-smile on his lips.

                              "Oh, how thoughtful. Thank you." Martha took the rose and held it just under her nose, breathing in its sweet, light fragrance. "You look pretty dashing yourself, sir," she added coyly.

                              "You're too kind." Jonathan tugged self-consciously at his tie. "I never feel like I get these things right," he complained, readjusting the knot and somehow managing to fumble over his own fingers.

                              "Maybe you just need a woman's touch." Martha laid her rose on the end table by the door, stood toe to toe with her much taller date and took hold of the misbehaving tie, working it neatly back into place with the same intense focus she gave any task. "There," she remarked, pleased with her work, "That's better," and swept her hands fleetingly over his shoulders, then pressed her palms to his chest, with every intention of only smoothing his shirt. But, as if of their own accord, they stayed.

                              While she stared up at him for what seemed like an eternity, knowing she should say or do something--anything-- the very air between them felt as though it pulled them closer and time itself wound down to a crawl. His eyes held hers with a sleepy affection, and before she had a chance to rationalize and analyze what a mistake it might be to behave so impulsively when the man had just barely come in the door, Jonathan, mercifully, made the decision for them both when his hands came to her face and he pressed his lips to hers.

                              It was something she knew she would always remember. The gentle chasteness of it. The heat of his skin against hers. The way he held her. The way she wanted him to.

                              But the uncertainty was evident in him when they broke apart, one of his hands still cupping her face, eyes searching hers. Both were stumbling blindly to catch up with the sudden spin forward their relationship had just taken.

                              Martha unthinkingly licked her lips and looked down, before saying quietly, "I think I like you in ties."

                              Jonathan let out a nervous chuckle and leaned nearer as he spoke, still touching her face. "And here I was hoping flannel did it for you."

                              Her eyes raised and met that sparkle in his, the one she often envied but rarely saw in herself. Searching inward, she did find something, though, something more free, more ready to take a chance, to come out and play. And she liked it.

                              "I suppose we'll have to test that theory later." Her finger traced along his chin and found it smooth, probably freshly shaved. She smirked, then turned and picked up the rose she had laid on the table, sauntering across the room into the kitchen. "I'll just put this in some water and get my purse."

                              The sense of being watched as she walked away broadened her smirk into a smile.

                              TBC...

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