"Can I take that as a compliment, ma'am?" Downton grinned, throwing his head back with a booming laugh. "You're hilarious!"
Still chuckling, he snatched the nearest frying pan off the stove and held it up like a shield in front of his hips—an absurd, theatrical gesture that made Martha shake her head.
She smiled at first, then rolled her eyes with practiced affection.
"Oh, I do love it when strapping young men call me 'old lady.' Makes me feel spry again," she said dryly. "But, dear—Clark and I only ever owned two frying pans. And now, thanks to you, we're down to one."
She patted Clark's arm. "Why don't you take our guest to change? He's about your age—maybe a touch older?" She turned to Downton, squinting politely. "No offense, but I've never been good at guessing Asian ages. How old are you, son?"
"Twenty-five," Downton replied easily. "Graduated a couple years back." He extended a hand. "Downton—of Downton Manor. Fancy, I know. And you are… Clark…?"
"Clark Kent," Clark supplied, stepping forward and gesturing toward the hallway. "Come on. I've got some dry clothes you can borrow."
Downton followed, matching Clark's pace with an easy swagger. "Hold on—how old are you? You didn't say. Guess I've got a couple years on you. Hey, little brother—finished college yet?"
Clark hesitated, then answered flatly, "Twenty-three. Been out two years."
"Really?" Downton plucked at Clark's sleeve, eyebrows raised. "Then what's with the gas station uniform? Graduated college and you're pumping gas? Waste of a degree, if you ask me."
Clark's expression tightened. So much for the military's 'ruthless thug' description, he thought. This guy's just… obnoxious.
He exhaled slowly. "It's not like I only work at the gas station. I help Mom run the farm—she can't manage it alone. The gas station job's just extra income."
"Ah," Downton said, nodding sagely. Then, with sudden sincerity: "So you're living at home. Sponging off your parents."
"What?" Clark stopped in his tracks. "No! I do most of the farm work and bring in outside money. That's not—"
"Relax," Downton cut in, holding up a hand. His grin faded into something quieter. "I'm not judging. Honestly? I'd give anything to sponge off my folks right now. But I can't. They're… gone."
The words landed like a stone.
Clark's shoulders slumped. He looked down, his voice softening. "I… I'm sorry, Downton. I didn't know."
A beat passed.
"I get it," Clark said quietly. "I lost my dad, too. It—it never really goes away." He glanced up. "You lost your whole family?"
Downton didn't answer right away. Just gave a slow, humorless nod.
And just like that, Clark saw him differently. The loud mouth, the ridiculous pan-shielding—maybe it was all armor.
What happened to him? Clark wondered, mind racing. Was it corporate greed? Government cover-up? Did the military really call him a thug… or was he framed?
In his imagination, Downton's past unfurled like a noir thriller: fire, betrayal, a bloodstained ledger, a man left with nothing but a name and a vendetta.
No wonder the world thought him dangerous.
For a moment, Clark's eyes softened with sympathy as he looked at Downton.
Meeting that earnest gaze, Downton let out a dry chuckle.
"What do you mean, 'no wonder'?"
He paused, then placed a hand on Clark's shoulder. Despite Clark's slightly quickened heartbeat, Downton leaned in, voice low.
"You seem to know something. Like you weren't even surprised I just… showed up."
Clark flinched—just slightly—before forcing a laugh.
"No, no, I didn't mean anything by it! I just—look, 'no wonder' you ran down the street naked. Or sneaked into my house that way. Honestly, dude, is that some kind of magic trick? Because if it is, I still haven't figured out why you're even here."
He crossed his arms, trying to sound casual but failing to mask the tension in his voice.
"And don't give me that 'fell from the sky' line. My mom's sweet enough to believe anything, but I'm not that gullible."
He flexed his biceps slightly—half-joking, half-warning.
"See these? Just so you know—our family doesn't take kindly to strangers with… intentions."
He waited, pulse racing under his skin. He couldn't afford for someone like Downton to guess the truth.
Downton studied him for a beat, then grinned—amused, almost fond.
No wonder he's only twenty-three as Superman. So young. So… pure.
In most continuities—comics, shows, films—Superman doesn't truly step into his role until he's thirty-three. There's a reason for that. Symbolism. Maturity. The weight of the world doesn't settle on his shoulders until he's ready to carry it.
But this Clark? Barely out of his twenties, still figuring out his place in the world—his mind sharp like a scholar's, yes, but his heart still wore its innocence like a second skin.
"You're trying way too hard," Downton said, giving Clark's arm a light pat. "I was just asking. And now you're about two seconds from stripping down to your boxers to 'prove' you've got nothing to hide. Kid, that's exactly how you make someone suspicious."
Clark opened his mouth to protest, but Downton cut him off with a wave.
"Relax. I don't care what you know or don't know. Right now, I need a favor."
He gave Clark a playful shove toward the house.
"Take me to get some clothes. Consider it a debt to the Kent name. Once I'm done with my business, I'll send someone to reimburse you—generously. Enough to make a real difference around here."
Another nudge, softer this time. Clark scowled but didn't resist.
A few minutes later, Downton emerged in the Kents' backyard wearing Clark's jeans, white T-shirt, and sneakers. At 187 cm, he was only a few centimeters shorter than Clark—and the clothes fit surprisingly well.
Martha, watching from the porch, smiled warmly.
"You clean up nice. You and Clark could be brothers—same build, same way of wearing a simple shirt like it's a fashion statement."
Downton bowed his head slightly.
"Thank you, Mrs. Kent. I'll return these soon—with something extra to show my gratitude."
Then he turned to Clark.
"But right now… I need a ride. There's
a town nearby I have to get to. Urgently. You mind?"
Visit patreon.com/ShiroTL for more chapters.