Chapter Text
There were three things that broke up Jon-El’s endless isolation: morning gruel, midday gruel, and evening gruel. The thrice daily ritual had become the only thing he had to look forward to. And dread.
The Department of Defense wasn’t exactly known for its gourmet cuisine, and the slop they served to their secret, off the books prisoners was no exception. The bland food that was delivered through the slot in Jon-El’s cell door, though, was the only thing that broke up the days.
Creeeak!
The slot opened. Was that the second meal today? Or third? Or… was it the first? Time had lost all meaning. Even the dimming of the lights each night did little to ease his temporal disorientation.
“Holiday meal.” The guard’s voice barely carried through the opening. “Better not play with it again.”
Jon-El rolled over on his cot, craning his head ever so slightly so he could see the plastic tray balancing precariously in the slot. It didn’t look any different than usual.
He laid like that for a long moment, debating if he’d rather just starve. Surely that would be more pleasant than the prison slop. But his growling stomach won out over his lethargy, so he finally rolled off his cot and stumbled over to the door.
Each step felt like walking through sand. Was that a side effect of the ever present yellow solar radiation they used to light the cell, or from lack of use. How long had it been, anyway? A few days? A week? A month?
Years?
“It’s a holiday?” Jon-El asked, picking up the tray.
Clang!
The guard slammed the slot shut.
Alone again. To be fair, that was probably the longest interaction he had had in… well, he wasn’t quite sure how long.
Jon-El slid down to the floor, resting his aching back against the cell’s cool metal walls. He had a desk, it was one of the few pieces of furniture they had provided for him other than a cot and a toilet, but he preferred the floor. He wasn’t breaking any rule by being down here, but it felt like he was at least breaking an expectation. And that was something.
He looked down at his food, expecting the usual gray-brown baked brick of unidentified food parts they attempted to pass off as a meal. They used to give him actual food—slop still, but at least it tasted less like cardboard. They hadn’t given him real food in a while though. Guess they didn’t like the “F U Supes” message he had smeared on the floor last time they gave him something more runny.
This tray, though, had actual food again: some sort of fowl meat, mushy croutons, and a creamy, white puree, all topped with a kind of brown sauce. Beside all that was a red jelly. It almost seemed… edible.
He dipped his fingers into the puree, ignoring the flimsy plastic spoon they had offered. But before he could smear it against the floor, his stomach rumbled. He was so damn hungry. He brought his fingers up to his nose and sniffed.
Was this… potatoes? Hesitantly, he licked the food off his fingers. Potatoes and… gravy. It was mashed potatoes and gravy. A real meal!
Not even bothering to pick up the spoon, he began shoveling the food into his mouth. The potatoes, the fowl, the mushy croutons, the jelly.
And then… it was gone. As soon as it had been delivered it was gone again.
It had barely done anything to sate his hunger.
He leaned his head back against the wall and threw the tray out of his grasp. They had totally and utterly defeated him. And all it had taken was a little hunger.
Last year’s Thanksgiving had felt so empty. It had barely been a few months since Ma died. Without her warmth, the old farmhouse felt cold. The turkey, yams, pumpkin pie, everything tasted wrong. Clark had done what he could. He had followed her recipes exactly. But they were missing the most important ingredient: Ma’s love.
That was an ingredient that could never be perfectly replicated. But this year, the substitutions helped.
It was almost as good as Ma’s Thanksgiving. Almost.
John Henry. Nat. Lana and Sarah. Chrissy. They weren’t just good friends. They were family. Held together by the world’s most powerful secret, and a heck of a lot of shared trauma.
Clark stood before them, carving knife in his hand, and looked down at this eclectic collection of friends and family. The adults were seated around the kitchen table; the teens stood by their parents for now but would be eating in the dining room. “So… who wants to say grace?” Clark asked.
Jordan’s groan could not be missed. The kid never did like the church stuff. But Ma would have wanted them to say grace. This was one way to keep her memory with them.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll do it,” Jon said, his voice cracking.
Clark beamed. That would have made Ma proud.
Everyone bowed their heads. But Clark couldn’t take his eyes off his sweet, baby boy. He was turning into more and more of a man every day. Soon enough Jon would be up here, carving the turkey.
“Um… so… I think we’ve, uh, we’ve all had a hard year,” Jon said. “Hard couple of years, actually. But uh… but we’ve got through it. Got through another… world ending… thing… And we’re together!” He looked up and scanned the faces around the table before finally locking eyes with Clark. “So… um… let’s be thankful for our health. And our family. And, uh, this big-ass turkey Mr. Cushing taught Dad to deep-fry.”
“Jonathan—”
“Hey, no peeking. Have a little respect for the grace.”
Clark just rolled his eyes. Honestly, though, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He wouldn’t want his family any other way.
He had seen how his family could have ended up, if things had just been a little different. If he hadn’t been raised by Ma and Pa. If more than just the people in this room knew his secret.
For all the problems Jon had these past couple months, at least he was still here—with their family. Things could have been a lot worse. Things were a lot worse for someone else with Jon’s face.
There was a knock on the front door, and it opened. “Sorry we’re late!” a voice that had been absent from their lives for all too long said.
“We’re in the kitchen, Luce!” Lois shouted.
Lucy and Sam came shuffling down the hall. “Wouldn’t leave work,” Lucy said, gesturing at her father with rolling eyes.
Lois got out of her seat and pulled her sister into a hug, while the boys shared one with Sam. Clark just watched with love. He couldn’t be more grateful.
As Sam took Lucy’s coat from her and then retreated back into the hallway, Clark passed his knife and carving fork to Lois. “I just want to check on some things with your dad.” He didn’t elaborate.
Following Sam into the hallway, Clark waited for his father-in-law to finish hanging up the coats before gesturing toward Lois’s office.
“Everything okay?” Sam asked, switching into no-nonsense general mode.
Clark bit his lip. Usually he felt so gosh-darn confident in front of Sam. But every once in a while, occasionally when it came to family stuff, rather than superhero stuff, he felt crushed underneath the general’s might.
“Were you late because… because of that favor I asked you to do?” Clark asked meekly. He wasn’t even sure if Sam had followed through.
Sam huffed.
“You didn’t do it, did you? Damn it!” Clark’s confidence suddenly flared. “I asked you for one favor.”
“It’s a prison, Clark, not a country club.”
“I asked for you to send him down a holiday meal, not a spa day. It’s a small, easy comfort. For a child. Jesus, Sam, he’s fifteen.”
“He’s not being tortured. His needs are being met.”
“He’s your grandson.”
“He damn well is not.”
“He’s a version of him.” Clark ran his hand through his hair. “And he’s as much as your grandson as Natalie is your granddaughter. If Jon was stuck on that other world, we’d want them to treat him humanely. How can we call ourselves the good guys if we can’t even be bothered to give him a nice meal for Thanksgiving?”
Sam stared at him blankly. “You done?” he asked, before fishing his phone out of his pocket.
Clark glared back at him. He wasn’t even close to done.
Jon-El had done a lot of horrible things. A lot. But he had also been given a rough hand in life. Maybe he deserved prison—maybe he deserved it for a long, long time. But he deserved dignity too.
Sam flipped his phone around and showed Clark the screen. It was the feed of Jon-El’s cell. The timestamp was from over an hour ago.
Jon-El sat on the floor eating food, a food tray across his lap, and ate off of it. With his hands.
“I send today’s special down from the mess, just like you asked.” Sam shook his head. “Kid ain’t right, I’ll tell you that.”
Clark stared at the recording. No, Jon-El wasn’t right. He had been neglected, manipulated, and brainwashed.
He deserved better.
He deserved a chance to be better. To do better.
He deserved a chance.