soft sounds from another planet | chapter 2 - stars hollow istg
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pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
genre: rom-com
summary: you get to smallville and it is not what you expect.
warnings: none for this chapter but this series is 18+, has smut, and mentions of canon typical violence even tho it's an au (cannot un-lex luthor lex luthor, soz)
word count: 2.3k
a/n: i took a day off work to write this and it's still buns. rip me.
“Look, most of what I know came from sitting on our back porch at home, passing a lemonade back and forth with ma and pa kent, watching our cows graze... I don’t think city folks get to really introspect. it’s just too loud out here.” - Clark Kent, interview on The Press Pass podcast, 2016
you start packing for your kansas adventure on saturday. the plan is simple: a six-ish hour flight to wichita, rent a car, and then drive the last two hours to smallville. not the worst way to spend your sunday.
you’ve always been the kind of freak who loves sitting on a plane, even in economy. and this time, it's even better because dani said the magazine would cover travel and board and insisted you fly business. so yeah... you’re kind of excited.
you’ve got the whole thing planned out in your head: iced mocha latte from al’s at 7 a.m., airport by 8:15, an hour of lounge time with sad but free continental breakfast and your research window open on safari. flight at 10, wichita by 4:30, rental car by 5:15, and–if all goes according to plan–you’ll be pulling into smallville just in time for a cozy dinner at some roadside diner that hopefully leans full 1950s: red-and-white tiles, mini jukeboxes at every table, a waitress named cheryl who calls you "hon."
but right now? you’re freaking the fuck out. because while you may love traveling, you hate packing.
“dude, there are, like, no underwear in here,” meera says, peering into your half-zipped packing cube.
“oh, fuck,” you groan, springing up.
“sit down. i’ll find some,” she says, shoving your shoulder back down with surgeon-level authority. to your horror, she proceeds to stuff the cube exclusively with the fancy underwear the lacy pairs, the ones you save for birthdays, or the very occasional hookup.
“meers,” you hiss, “i’m going there for work.”
she doesn’t even look up. “exactly. and nothing says professionalism like being emotionally prepared for a surprise makeout sesh with small-town cowboy.”
–
by the time you make it to the airport the next morning, you’re operating on exactly three hours of sleep, a fuckass coffee (classic al’s), trader joe’s chocolate covered espresso beans, and the high-stakes adrenaline of someone pretending to be effortlessly put-together.
you left the apartment with your suitcase half-zipped, your boarding pass loaded on three different apps (just in case), and your laptop charger already tangled in a knot so complex it might qualify as modern art. you are, in short, thriving.
not to mention, by some grace of god, the security line is short and (fucking miracle of miracles !!) the lounge has both wi-fi and a working toaster.
you settle into a warm sunlit corner and take your computer out of your bag. there’s a tiny stack of pancakes on your plate, a toasted bagel, a very earnest tab open titled, “how to make sure someone likes you.”
you need clark kent to like you.
see, you never truly believed that he had any true fault in what happened. sure, he couldve been a little more careful but honestly speaking, people have made worse mistakes with lesser consequences. his very public internet flogging that carried no nuance whatsoever never really made sense in your eyes.
besides, youre a romantic. and if there’s one thing hollywood romcoms have taught you, airports are a place for second chances. there’s something particularly appealing about the idea that reinvention is just one gate change away. maybe that’s why you’re already imagining what you’ll say when (if) you find him. if he even opens the door.
hi, i’m a journalist who’s been mildly obsessed with your writing since college and i swear i’m not here to stalk you, just exploit your tragic legacy for narrative gold!
okay. no. yikes. definitely not that.
you scroll absently through the “clark kent” google results again, half-hoping a new clue will magically appear between “where is clark kent now?” and “top 10 famous people who vanished mysteriously post pandemic.” it doesn’t.
the boarding call comes just as finish off the last of your pancakes. you close your laptop, and gather your things.
your business class seat is window-side, thank you very much. there’s a little glass of orange juice waiting for you, a hot towel you never quite know what to do with, and just enough legroom to fit a basketball player. you’re shorter than meera’s mighty 5’5.
you settle in, and tug your headphones on. you think about perhaps listening to an emily henry audiobook before switching to a podcast clark did back in 2016 that you’ve never heard before but had the foresight to download last night.
see, you’ve watched many many videos of him, especially in the last week, but with the podcast mic and the incredible audio quality, his voice runs straight down your spine. it’s warm and buttery and a charming mix of metropolis-polished and country twang.
by the time the plane lifts off, you feel it again - that little buzz in your chest. you’re finally doing something that you’ve wanted to for a long time and youre fucking excited.
–
the sun is just starting to set by the time you turn off the interstate and onto a two-lane road flanked by wheat fields and politely spaced telephone poles. according to your gps, smallville is still twelve minutes away. according to the increasingly spooky lack of signage or civilization, however, you might be driving straight into the plot of a mid-budget horror movie.
you’ve already passed a “jesus is watching” billboard, and an abandoned gas station with a goat on the roof (unclear if intentional).
and then, like it’s been waiting for you to stop checking the map every six seconds, smallville just... appears.
and it is stupidly cute. like, aggressively charming. there’s red and yellow bunting hanging from the stores in the main street which is lined with brick buildings and hand-painted signs: granny’s pie stop, main & maple booksellers, the stitchery (a sewing-slash-coffee shop, apparently). there are pumpkin planters on the sidewalks even though it’s not october, and actual children are playing tag in front of a general store. there’s even a little dog chasing them and nipping at their ankles as they squeal in delight
it’s so quaint you half expect to bump into a flannel-clad man carrying a christmas tree and a tragic backstory. in june.
hey, maybe you’ll get that cowboy romance meera wouldn’t shut up about.
you roll your window down and let the breeze in. it smells like woodsmoke and farmland aaaand.. maybe a little like betrayal, because you’re genuinely annoyed at how much you like it here. you’d been prepared for rundown and forgotten. instead, it’s full of life and laughter.
your rental car looks ridiculous on these streets - a slick, city-black sedan that definitely screams “i’ve never milked a cow” in this town -but no one seems to care. a sweet old man even waves as he walks by in overalls.
your phone pings, startling you.
meera: did u get murdered yet? pls confirm for legal purposes.
you send her a picture of yourself with a goofyass smile and a thumbs-up then pull into the gravel lot of the dandelion inn.
it’s a cute little b&b with floral wallpaper and fresh cookies at the front desk.
“hey, hon!” the little lady behind it grins, “you must be the girl from metropolis. i’m kelly.”
“guilty,” you smile. “how’d you know?”
she laughs. “oh, word gets around quick here. plus, you’re the only guest this week who booked with a corporate card and asked for the strongest wi-fi. that’s big-city energy if i’ve ever seen it.”
you like her immediately.
after checking you in, she hands you a room key with a sunflower keychain and a warm oatmeal cookie wrapped in a napkin.
“we’re screening the princess bride tonight,” she says. “you’re welcome to join. we’ve got blankets and popcorn and everything.”
you nod like you’ll think about it, but let’s be honest, you’re definitely going. you have questions about clark kent, but right now, but right now it’s still sunday, and you want to enjoy this gilmore girls knock-off town while the fantasy’s still fresh.
once youre settled into your room, you sit on the bed and pull out your notebook. you flip to a fresh page.
smallville: first impressions
disturbingly adorable
so fckin friendly - just genuinely nice??
stars hollow istg
clark kent grew up here?? makes sm sense, he is was a kind hearted cutie patootie too
you chew on the end of your pen and glance out the window. somewhere out there is the man you came looking for. or at least the ghost of who he used to be.
and if this town really is the kind of place that holds on to its people, maybe - just maybe - it’s still holding on to him, too.
–
by 7:45, the park is glowing like it’s been kissed on the cheek by a hallmark movie.
you wander down maple street with a b&b quilt tucked under your arm and a paper bag of kettle corn crinkling in your hand. somewhere ahead, someone is playing a soft acoustic cover of little sadie by crooked still. the town green is strung with fairy lights and someone’s set up a projector against the side of a whitewashed barn. there’s a table with cold cider and piles of nachos.
you’re so charmed–borderline disarmed–by the whole thing that you don’t even realize someone’s talking to you until they’re practically sitting in your lap.
“you’re new,” a woman says cheerfully, plopping down on the edge of your quilt like this is a long-running tradition. she’s got a plastic cup of lemonade in one hand and a tupperware of what can only be deviled eggs in the other. “i’m trish. i work at the library-slash-post office. not a joke. budget cuts and an overly optimistic mayor.”
“hi,” you say, blinking. “i’m just visiting. doing some writing.”
“ooh, mysterious!” her eyes sparkle. her accent heavy. “we get your kind every so often. journalists. usually after tornado season.”
you laugh. “close enough.”
she gestures at the green with her cup. “last week, we had a bake sale that turned into pie-eating contest that turned into a town hall. susan and shirley had a big fight about which one of their boys truly won. majority said susan’s boy, jack-ryan did.”
you’re about to ask whether susan offered bribes when a voice from behind you interrupts.
“you’re talking her ear off, trish.”
another voice pipes up, “she’s fine. if she made it past tsa, she can survive trish.”
you glance around to find that you’ve somehow acquired an entire welcoming committee. they’re settling themselves around your blanket like this was planned. you learn that they're joyce, earl, molly, ben, someone’s cousin, possibly someone’s dog, and there’s something so casual, so effortless about it that it takes you a moment to realize what’s happening.
they’ve let you in.
like you’re not new, like this isn’t strange. like you’ve always been part of the rhythm here.
eventually, the conversation drifts.
“heard you’re here about clark,” molly says, topping up your cider like it’s a peace offering.
you pause mid-sip. you’ve only… spoken to people about this on reddit. anonymously.
“word gets around,” ben adds, reminding you of what kelly had said earlier. “don’t worry. no one’s mad. just… interested.”
“he’s a good man,” joyce says, soft but firm. “always has been.”
“used to mow my lawn for free,” earl chimes in. “said the slope was dangerous, but we all knew it was because he can’t say no to a widower with a bad hip.”
“built the benches in this park,” trish adds, like it’s just one item on a long, beloved list. “with his own two hands.”
“showed my kid how to use a camera.”
“fixed the roof after the hailstorm.”
“never missed a blood drive.”
the stories pile up quick, gentle and nostalgic - laced with affection. there’s something underneath them, though. like, maybe he used to belong to this town in a way that he doesn’t anymore.
“he still lives here, right?” you ask, as casually as you can manage.
theres a beat of silence. not long, but just long enough to notice.
“he keeps to himself these days,” joyce says gently.
“but he’s around,” molly jumps in. “he’s… he’s healing.”
you nod like that explains everything, even though it doesn’t. not really. it’s like you’re assembling a puzzle, but the pieces keep shifting shape just when you think you’ve got an edge.
before you can ask more thpugh, the lights dim. the movie starts and a nostalgic sigh ripples through the crowd like someone just uncorked a bottle of collective memory.
you settle in, even giggling at some of the jokes, but your mind keeps circling back to clark.
and then, two-thirds of the way through the movie, just as westley is flinging himself down a hill and declaring his undying love… you see him.
standing near the edge of the park, half in shadow, half in the glow of the fairy lights, still as a statue.
he’s tall and clearly a notable presence, sporting a beard and downturned shoulders. you’ve watched countless interviews of him and are used to the clean-shaven version, sitting up straight in interviews, smiling like it’s second nature. he looks… rough. but it’s still unmistakably him.
he doesn’t interact with anyone. doesn’t move. just stands there, looking.. not at the screen, but at the crowd.
at you?
your breath catches.
it’s a strange kind of recognition. the kind that hits your chest first and logic second.
and then, before you can stand or or even blink properly, he turns and walks away.
not in a hurry or like he’s hiding.
just like someone who hasn’t quite decided if he wants to be found.
not quite yet.
(divider from @saradika-graphics)
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