"There's no IRS, Jonathan."
"Just a bit of trouble. I've already dealt with it."
Locke shook his head, then immediately asked:
"Clark—where is he? How is he doing?"
"Over here."
Martha turned toward the pickup's back seat and carefully helped out a weak figure.
Clark's face was still pale, but the blue in his eyes had regained some of its sparkle.
He was wrapped in Martha's checkered shawl, still unsteady on his feet, yet insisting on standing on his own.
"Uncle Locke…" Clark's voice was much softer than usual. "I'm sorry, I—"
"Silly boy."
Still holding Dio, Locke strode forward and pulled Clark into his arms too. He could feel the boy's frail body trembling slightly, like a stalk of wheat swaying in the wind.
Maybe it was because he'd learned about his future from Giorno, or maybe because tonight he'd been a burden…
Either way—
"This isn't your fault."
Locke's voice was gentle. "It isn't any of our fault."
"What matters is that everyone's safe."
Martha wiped her eyes, and suddenly noticed a cigarette butt on the ground.
But Locke didn't smoke.
"This is…?"
"A wolf."
Locke spoke casually, crushing it under his boot. "He helped me take care of the trouble."
Jonathan raised a suspicious eyebrow, but when his wife shot him a sharp warning look, he wisely kept his mouth shut.
His brother already had more than enough secrets.
The night wind swept over the wreckage, lifting a few charred barn planks.
"Let's go." Locke rested one hand on Dio's shoulder and the other supporting Clark. "We can still make it home for a midnight snack."
"Oh no!" Martha suddenly cried out. "Good heavens! My blueberry pie is still in the oven!"
...
The kitchen was filled with the sweet scent of blueberry pie, the dining table a glorious mess.
Dio leaned back in his chair, satisfied, jam still smudged at the corner of his mouth. Clark sipped Martha's special hot cocoa in small gulps, color returning to his cheeks.
"It's getting late."
Locke stood, putting on Jonathan's cowboy hat. The brim cast a shadow under the lamp.
"Dio."
With a pout, Dio slid lazily off his chair, slipping the last cookie into his pocket on the way.
Clark's blue eyes followed the motion, a flicker of hesitation within them.
He opened his mouth, wanting to speak, but lowered his head again, fingers nervously twisting the fringe of the shawl.
Hmm…
Of course, Martha noticed this immediately. Wiping her hands, she took a foil-wrapped pie from the oven.
"Locke, wait."
Stopping the two, she pressed the warm pie into Dio's arms, then crouched to gently tidy Clark's messy curls.
"Sweetheart, is there something you wanted to say?"
Clark's ears instantly turned red.
He sneaked a glance at Dio and Locke, then whispered so softly it was almost inaudible:
"I… I was wondering if…"
"Clark should stay with you tonight."
Martha suddenly looked up at Locke, her tone leaving no room for argument.
"Didn't he say he'd be helping you check the fields tomorrow?"
Jonathan had just taken a sip of coffee—and nearly choked.
"Wait, dear, Clark just—"
But when his wife's sharp glare landed on him, Jonathan swallowed the rest of his protest and pretended to find the night outside the window very fascinating.
"Really?!"
Clark's eyes lit up instantly, but then dimmed again.
"But my body…"
"Quit whining."
Dio suddenly cut him off, his red eyes flashing with impatience under the lamp.
"If you're coming, hurry up. Don't drag your feet."
Looking at the two boys, Locke couldn't help but smile.
He reached out and ruffled Clark's hair.
"Your mom's right. The three of us have work tomorrow. And besides—you could use some sunshine."
"Yeah!!"
Clark cheered so loudly he nearly leapt out of his chair—only to stumble and almost fall to the ground.
Martha caught him just in time, shaking her head with a mix of worry and amusement.
"Careful, child."
Jonathan finally couldn't hold back. He placed his rough, calloused hand on Clark's shoulder.
"Remember to listen to Uncle Locke, alright?"
"I will!"
Clark nodded vigorously, his curls bouncing with the motion.
He turned and hugged Martha tightly.
"Thank you, Mom!"
Martha's eyes grew slightly red. She kissed Clark's forehead and said:
"You three remember to come back for pancakes in the morning."
With the two boys in tow, Locke held Dio's hand in one and Clark's in the other. Their shadows stretched long across the country road.
Dio awkwardly tried to shake off his father's hand, only to have Locke hold tighter; Clark, on the other side, bounced along happily, pointing at the stars in the night sky in awe.
"Dio, look! That's the Big Dipper!"
"Idiot, that's Cassiopeia."
"Eh? But it's clearly—"
Listening to the childish bickering, Locke tilted his head back toward the rain-washed night sky.
The Milky Way arched across the heavens, countless stars glittering quietly.
In some unseen dimension, perhaps countless parallel worlds were turning at the same time—
In some worlds, Clark had become a tyrant. In some, Dio had fallen into darkness.
But tonight, on this ordinary Kansas night, he was simply a farmer leading two children home.
That was enough.
"Step it up, boys."
Locke squeezed their hands tighter.
"There's still half a tub of ice cream waiting for us."
"I want chocolate!"
"Pineapple's the best, you idiot Clark!"
The night wind carried the boys' cheerful squabbling, startling the owl dozing on the fence. It flapped toward the moon, leaving behind only three shadows gradually disappearing at the end of the farm road.
And behind them—
The lights of the Kent house glowed warmly, like a star that would never burn out.
At the window, Martha's fingers unconsciously played with the curtain's folds, just as Clark had fiddled with the fringe earlier.
Moonlight filtered through the glass, casting mottled shadows across her tired face.
In the distance, Locke and the boys' flashlight beams had already shrunk into a single dot at the far edge of the wheat fields.
"Sigh…"
The sigh was so faint it was barely audible, yet it made Jonathan pause as he washed the dishes.
He put down the soapy plate, wiped his rough hands on his apron, and stepped behind his wife.
"The kids are growing up, dear."
Jonathan's broad hand rested gently on Martha's shoulder.
"They'll have their own secrets."
"But—" Martha turned, blue eyes full of worry. "Locke keeps everything bottled inside."
Her fingers twisted the hem of her apron.
"Just like when he suddenly left town all those years ago, and suddenly came back again."
"He just doesn't want us to worry, love."
"We have to trust him."
Jonathan picked up a photo frame from the table—last year's harvest festival family portrait.
Locke stood in the center, hands pressing down on the heads of two sulking boys, his smile brighter than the sun behind him.
"There's nothing wrong with that."
Taking the frame, Martha traced the picture with her fingertips, lingering on the three children.
"But he's always like this…"
"Leaving alone. Coming back alone."
"You know—we watched him grow up too. When I married you, how old was Locke? Twelve?"
"That just means he's tougher than we think."
Jonathan wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her hair.
"Don't worry."
"We're all Kents. In this family, trust doesn't need words."
"That's enough."
The wind chime outside jingled softly. Jonathan looked into the night.
An old memory rose unbidden—
That rainy afternoon twenty-one years ago.
Newly married, he had opened the farm gate to find Locke—fleeing an abusive, alcoholic great-uncle—standing there with a suitcase.
Twelve years old, soaked to the bone, silent.
Like a wolf driven from its pack.
A lone wolf.
PS:
[Adjusted the outline, everyone.]
[Originally planned the next adoption to happen fifteen years later, but that made the age gap too ridiculous.]
[So I've shortened it to nine years instead.]
[Just letting you all know.]