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It's habit that has Jon checking this particular field. It's dusk, and Martha is waiting with dinner. Farms, and Jon, run on routines. Martha has dinner ready, and Jon needs to check this field.
He can't see the ground but he knows the moment he steps onto the dirt he's worked for ten years to coax life back into. It's a subtle change, but Jon knows his land. He reaches out to check the corn stalk next to him out of pure reflex, the lack of light barely hindering him. The leaf is just a touch off. A little drier than it should be, an edge of brittleness that the stalks ten feet over lack. Ten years and it's still just not the same.
It gets a little better every year, Jon reminds himself. Every year it's just that much harder to tell what happened and every year this part of the field blends in more with the rest. All farmers know patience and Jon is no exception.
It doesn't stop him from moving in deeper, cataloguing the changes as he moves to the epicenter. Night closes in, scattering eerie shadows. Dusk is an odd time, where the sounds of the day have faded- the chickens are roosting, the cows settled, and most equipment is cooling, engines silent. Tonight it seems, the night is taking its time to take over. There's no owl calling, or crickets. The wind is nearly too calm, and the rustle of leaves is absent.
Some nights are quieter than others, but it's the quiet nights that keep Jon up.
It's true dark when Jon feels the chill in the air. He's about fifteen feet from the last spot he needs to check, hungry and tired. In the distance, there's crickets coming awake and fireflies blinking alive. Here the dark is a thickness, and something else breathes in it.
Jon sighs. He's done this walk every day for ten years, and though he's always half suspected that something strange would happen on one of them, he didn't want to be right about it. Still, there's nothing to change what is. He shifts his weight, hand going for the flashlight buried in his back pocket. He grips the handle and in the dark, something gasps with quickly hidden pain.
The light clicks on, shockingly bright in the night, and Jon blinks spots out of his eyes. At first he sees nothing, just corn that's just barely too pale. The shadows are deeper now with the light, but that's not the reason it takes Jon a long moment to find what's hidden in among the corn stalks.
He's looking too high.
There, in the dirt, in the one spot of the field that no matter how long it's been Jon's never been able to get any seed to take, lies a curled up shape. It's small, shaking, and even as Jon watches the child- because it's so clearly a child- shudders violently, letting out another choked whimper.
Jon swears under his breath and moves closer without thought. He hits his knees next to the kid, ignoring the faint ache, and takes a closer look. Pale skin, ripped up clothes, no shoes.
"It's alright," Jon speaks, and the kid sucks in a startled breath, jerking away. Jon doesn't move, keeps the flashlight away from the kid's face, and speaks again. "I'm not gonna hurt you. You're alright." The light plays over the ground, highlighting the dirt sprayed over the kid's ripped up pants and long leaves scattered from broken corn around him.
"Rough landing," Jon continues. The kid's watching him, wary, scared, and still trembling. Jon ignores the too-bright reflection of the kid's eyes, and the impossibility of a kid crash landing in his field, basically unharmed. The hows and whys aren't important right now. "My name's Jon, and you're in Smallville, Kansas. My wife's got dinner ready, if you want some."
They sit in silence for a long moment. Jon is patient, even when it grates. He breathes in the dark air, feels the chill that settles in after the sun dips, and waits. The kid shudders again, and then carefully pulls himself up into a sitting position. He really is far too ashen in his face; his eyes sunk in- from pain or stress, Jon's not sure. Kid's rail thin, and Jon already knows Martha's going to fret.
"No questions?" The kid's voice is hoarse, like at some point he'd been screaming.
Jon hums, shifting a bit to ease the pressure on his knees. He's getting old, he knows it, it's just rude of his body to remind him so often. The kid watches the motions with the same intensity Jon's seen in gun-shy horses, always looking for a way out.
"I have questions," Jon's not much for lying. "But I figure you've had enough excitement for the day. More worried about gettin' you some food and cleanin' you up."
The kid's brows furrow, and Jon feels an all too familiar spark of anger curl in his gut. It's a look he's seen before in kids, ones who've never trusted an adult before and can't imagine why they would now. Jon's got questions, sure, but he doesn't think the kid realizes how many answers he's already given.
"Danny," the kid finally says, and Jon nods.
"Nice to meet'cha Danny." Jon moves to stand, carefully. "Got a son 'bout your age, he's a friendly sort. Got a spare bed too. We'll talk come mornin' about the details, but for now, it's well past dinnertime."
Jon keeps the light low still, watching carefully as Danny carefully stands. The shivers have eased some, but it still takes longer than Jon's comfortable with for Danny to get up. He moves like his muscles ache, or he's not used to his limbs. Jon's seen newborn cows stumble in near the same way as Danny as they go to stand for the first time. He's raised a son, helped him with those first fumbling steps, and none of it had the same level of pain that crosses Danny's face.
Whatever story the kid's got, it's not going to help the carefully hidden fury that's growing inside Jon.
Jon moves slowly and offers a hand to Danny. There's a hesitation, then a small, cool hand grips Jon's wrist and braces against him. It's a slow and cautious walk back out of the field, but as the dirt shifts under their feet and the corn gets just a touch taller, greener, warmth sweeps into them both. The house is a beacon across the stretch of yard, and Jon clicks off the flashlight. He doesn't need it here.
"My wife's name is Martha," Jon talks as they cross the gravel drive that loops to the barn and beyond that, the silos. "And my son is Clark. Not sure what she made for dinner, but we'll figure something out if you're not a fan. Any allergies?"
Danny lets out a sound that could be amusement, or perhaps confusion. "No," he manages, and Jon shifts to catch Danny's stumble. He'd take a break, have Danny sit for a moment, but the house is just ahead.
"Good," Jon continues, like Danny's not quaking beside him. "Makes it easier. Still you speak up if you don't like something. We don't like food goin' to waste around here, but we'll work with preferences."
"I eat… eat most anything," Danny grits out, as they climb the first of the steps. Close, so close to the kitchen, to food, and safety.
Jon breathes in the air, and the scent of dinner is warm and welcoming. He smiles. "Smells like Martha's made her chicken, you're in for a treat. No one makes chicken like my Martha."
Danny doesn't get a chance to answer as Jon swings the door open, the gush of warm air that rushes out feels like heaven on night cool skin. Martha looks up, greeting halfway out of her mouth when her gaze locks on Danny, while Clark pauses with a fork halfway to his mouth, blinking in surprise. Jon smiles and nudges Danny inside far enough to close the door.
"Sorry we're late, Ma," Jon speaks into the startled silence, moving as he always does to tug loose the laces of his boots, hat already settled on the peg that lives just besides the door. Danny's barefoot, but he does try and clean his feet off on the rug. It seems at least someone in his life taught him some form of manners, and Jon has to wonder where they are now.
"I see we have a guest," Martha's already grabbing another plate, picking up more silverware. Clark doesn't need instruction, he's up and grabbing another place-mat, another glass. "Do you want peas or corn for your side, honey? I got a pile of mashed potatoes too, with the chicken."
"…Corn, please, ma'am," Danny blinks as another seat is made up, as he's welcomed without question.
"This here is Danny," Jon finishes removing his shoes, hangs his jacket, and steps in, kissing Martha on the cheek and taking the plates from her hands easily. "He'll be with us for the night, at least, 'till we figure out somethin' permanent."
"It's very nice to meet you Danny," Martha greets, smiling warmly. "You go ahead and call me Martha or Ma, there's no need for ma'am 'round here."
Clark pulls out Danny's chair as the boy all but collapses into it. He looks worse in the bright light of the kitchen; face hollow, eyes dull, the occasional shiver still shaking his small frame. Jon drops the plate of food in front of Danny, and mouths good job at Clark, who smiles wide and hurries back to his seat.
Danny doesn't answer Martha, barely seems able to realize she'd spoken. Jon taps Danny hand and gestures to the plate.
"Eat up, then we'll get you settled for the night."
Pa steers the conversation to the tractor that's acting up and what parts will need to be found for it, then to Clark's spelling test, which sits on the fridge, a shiny sticker next to the bold 94.5% in the corner of the page. Martha mentions the couple of hens that have stopped producing, and the young rooster in the newest crop of chicks that's starting to get an attitude. Through it all, Danny eats slowly, heading drooping occasionally before he jerks up and manages a couple more bites.
Soon through, it's clear he's reached his limits. Martha had made a small plate, and Danny made it through most of it. It'll be enough for tonight.
"Lets get you settled, hon," Martha says, and herds both boys upstairs. It's Clark's turn to help with dishes, but given the circumstances, Jon gets up to do them himself. Danny can only benefit from someone his age in a strange house with strange people. It doesn't take him long to finish, and he leaves them to dry as he follows the sound of Clark's laughter up the stairs.
"…and then Miss. Susan had to catch all the frogs! Young Fred- cuz his dad is Big Fred- got in a lot of trouble for letting them all loose, but it was really fun catchin' them all!" Clark is clearly enjoying having a fresh new person to tell that story, and Jon huffs out a laugh at the joy in his son's voice. There's a quieter laugh, a new sound in the routine. It's not jarring to have the added voice, though.
He runs into Martha between Clark's room, and the smallest of the bedrooms their house boasts, and she's holding a bundle of sheets with a familiar glint in her eye.
"He was in the corn," Jon says quietly, following her into the room. Both windows are thrown wide to let the air in. They can hear the frogs and crickets outside. She's already got the bed half made, plugged the lamp back in, and shaken out the rug. "Right where… you know. He looked like he crashed. Just him, nothing else."
"He say anythin' bout what happened?" Martha fusses over the pillows. "He looks exhausted, Jon, drawn out and too thin."
"I didn't ask, not yet. He's only said his name's Danny."
"Well, he's welcome here."
"… Martha, we may not be able-"
Laughter drifts down the hall, the familiar bright laugh of his son, and the added softer tone of Danny. Martha fixes up the last of the bedding, and turns to Jon, hands on her hips, and that glint brighter than before.
"He has a place here, Jonathon Kent."
"Yes'm," Jon says, nearly drowned out by the laughter of children.
It's not a bad way to change a routine.