Unexpected Guests

Tony Stark was bored. Sadly, this wasn't anything new to him. Being as intelligent as he was, it was bound to happen with annoyingly frequency. His mind was simply that much faster than the average person and, because of that, his brain just solved problems at an incredible speed. And when there was nothing else to solve… Well, his mind just didn't deal well with idleness.

It was on times like these that Tony often did most of his impulsive moves. He just craved something to do so badly that by that point he just did what he could to get things moving; which usually resulted in a lot of money spent, a horde of journalists and, sometimes, damaged property and bruises.

But he would do his best to contain himself; he had promised Pepper that much. And after that whole mess with Mandarin and Aldrich Killian… More than ever, she deserved his best behavior. His impulsiveness had cost his house on Malibu, his suit collection and came pretty damn close of costing his and Pepper's lives.

As everything in his life, when Tony Stark fucked up, he fucked up in style.

That's not to say he had been lazy since then. Oh no. The renovations on the Stark Tower, now renamed Avengers Tower, took a lot of his time, since it had to be upgraded to be the headquarters of the team. That meant he had to improve the whole structure not only to fit the people who would live there, but also to house a few Quinjets, the research and development floors, raise the security of the place and keep and maintain his newly made Iron Legion. And, of course, there were also the improvements he made on his suits, always seeking to become better than the ones before.

Hard work. Long hours. But a lot of caution not to get obsessed all over again. Blowing up his armors had been a symbol of his new outlook in life and a declaration of love to Pepper all wrapped up in one. So he couldn't exactly go back anymore, not that he wanted to go back to that horrible place he'd been a few months back.

All that, however, did not change his current predicament. With the renovations almost done, there was little input he could give anymore. Similarly, his armor also was up to date with his most recent ideas and, even if he never really stopped to think on how to improve them, he had reached "perfection"; at least for a few days, when he probably would have a new idea again. And with Jarvis and Pepper both running his company, there was little to do.

Tony really missed the team when things got like that. Not that he would admit it, being the self-sufficient genius he was, but he felt lonely sometimes. His fame, money, intelligence and, of course, his personality, kept people away; and the ones who did try to get close were often interested in something other than friendship. At best, they were women trying to take advantage of his money, fame and good looks; at worse they were people trying to steal his technology or/and trying to assassinate him.

And of course, from Tony's perspective, even the people who genuinely didn't mean him harm were generally boring as hell.

The Avengers weren't, though. Maybe fighting alongside them in a battle to save the world made him a little biased, but the fact was the members of the Avengers were, by necessity, extraordinary people. Meaning they were not tedious. Even if not all of them could follow his quick thinking like Banner could, all of them were smart and remarkable people. And Tony was frankly surprised to call them friends; before them, Tony could count on his fingers the number of friends he had.

Even Cap was a friend, something he couldn't, even with all his intelligence and resources, foresee; and he actively did try to hate the guy, in the beginning. Which, honestly, shouldn't be difficult, since the man was pretty much the opposite of him. Except, apparently, where it really mattered.

Well, Howard would be proud, wouldn't he? One more reason to try to hate the guy, but damn that Steve Rogers for being such a likable fellow.

Maybe he should throw a party, he thought. Something to commemorate the reopening of the Avengers Tower. He would call the rest of the team, obviously, or at least the ones he could reach; which were all of them, except Thor, who still hadn't come back since New York. Pepper, of course, since she was his girlfriend and she probably would want to organize everything. Everyone would have a plus one and maybe he could give a call to some of Cap's old friends, from the War, if any of them were still alive. Rhodey had to come too and Happy. Maybe some celebrities from New York, but no one annoying or the ones he had already slept with, Pepper wouldn't like that; that way there would be only a few to pick. He would have to make a list.

When Tony was opening his mouth to call Jarvis so they could begin the preparations, his phone rang, the screen showing that the caller was Natasha Romanoff herself. He couldn't remember the last time she had called him, if she ever did, since she had worked undercover as his secretary. So without delay, he received the call; not on his cellphone, that would be plebeian of him, but on the recently installed sound system of the tower.

"Stark speaking," he said.

For a few seconds there was no answer, just a tired sigh, then she answered.

"Stark, I need your help."

It was Tony's turn to become speechless; but not for long, of course.

"Jarvis! Are you recording this?!" he yelled.

"Of course, sir. All calls made to your number are recorded for security purposes."

"Make a backup! Two even, and place it in a high security vault!"

Natasha sighed again, probably reconsidering her life choices.

"Pass the phone to Pepper. Or better yet, to Jarvis," she ordered.

"No can do. Pepper is busy and Jarvis has no secrets from me."

Ignoring Tony, Jarvis actually did answer.

"What can I do for you, Miss Romanoff?" he asked with his polite British accent.

"Hey!"

"Thank you, Jarvis. I heard you have eyes everywhere now. Is that true?" Natasha asked.

It wasn't untrue, Tony thought. After all the problem they had to find Loki and, more recently, his own problems at finding Mandarin and his people, Tony had developed and launched a lot of satellites that could work as an extension of Jarvis. While he couldn't process all the data that the satellites gathered, not even with Jarvis help, he did have a great many deal of cameras on space now, capable of looking at everything that happened in the world.

It wasn't as good as SHIELD's intel gathering, but it was getting there.

"It is close to the truth, Miss Romanoff" Jarvis answered. "Do you need me to find something specific for you?"

"Bright Arctic Oil Rig" she recited. "It was an oil rig located near Cordova, Alaska, that exploded. SHIELD doesn't have anything about it, other than the fact that it burned down. I would appreciate if you could check your recordings and see if there is footage of the event itself."

Tony frowned, a little curious about why Natasha would be investigating such a thing. He walked to the monitor where Jarvis was searching for the footage.

"I am searching the archives, Miss Romanoff. Please wait a moment."

"Thank you, Jarvis, you are a delight."

"Hey, I'm a delight too!" Tony interjected, getting no answer from her.

Rolling his eyes, he turned back to the screen, watching the blur of several recorded images passing accelerated. Until it finally got to the right one.

"I am transmitting to your computer, Miss Romanoff," Jarvis said, beginning to play the recording.

The image was a little bit further away then he would have liked, but it was clear enough. It showed the oil rig in the middle of the ocean, fire everywhere, a tower of black smoke in the sky. Some boats were visible on the screen too, far from the oil rig, but obviously there to make a rescue attempt.

For a while, nothing really happened besides a few smaller explosions and a helicopter arriving on the scene, circling around the helipad; than he saw a bunch of people arriving from the stairs on the helipad, being led by a shirtless and barefooted man. The shirtless man waved his hand, as if telling the people following him to make haste, as the helicopter approached to land.

The workers ran to the helicopter, entering as fast as they could, with the exception of the shirtless man; he stopped and looked up, noticing what Stark had also seen. The explosions and the fire had damaged the structure and the big tower of the oil rig began to fall down. Right in the direction of the helipad. There was no time to get away.

At least that was what he thought; his jaw almost dropped to the floor, however, when the shirtless man jumped closer and raised his arms, holding the multi-ton tower in place.

He couldn't believe in what his eyes were seeing. That was impossible. That thing had to weight a whole lot of tons, way more than even his own suit was capable of lifting. He didn't think even Thor could do that. Maybe the Hulk would have a chance of imitating that man, but he wasn't that sure either and he and Banner had tested the Big Guy's strength extensively.

"Romanoff, what the hell is that?" he asked, without being able to look away as the man held the tower so the helicopter could take off.

She didn't answer immediately, probably as shocked as he was.

"That is the man I'm looking for," she said, finally.

Stark felt his insides turn to ice for a moment; a new threat?

"Is he…?"

"Not a threat. Not yet, at least, and hopefully not ever. But he is an unknown."

While she was talking, the man was still holding the oil rig. The helicopter managed to get away, but he was left there and Tony could see the steel beam he was stepping on beginning to bend. In a matter of seconds, the beam gave out and the whole thing came crashing down on top of the man, a huge explosion following. The footage stopped.

That was when Stark's brain finally caught up with what Natasha had said.

"'Is'?" he asked, eyes still glued to the screen, even without anything there anymore. "You are saying that this guy survived this? Do you know this for certain?"

If he sounded alarmed it was because he was. Very alarmed even. The level of strength to hold that oil rig was off the charts and that, by itself, was shocking. Surviving the whole thing crashing on top of his head, soon before everything exploded… Well, he could honestly say that even the Mark XLIV, aka the Hulkbuster, wouldn't be able to deal that kind of damage and he and Banner were co-developing that thing to be able to stop a Hulk rampage.

"He survived," confirmed Natasha. "I was tasked by Fury to find him, to assess if he is a threat. I think he isn't, by what I already saw, but I have to find him to confirm my judgment."

"Yes, confirming is good," Tony agreed, playing the footage again. "Do you know where to start?"

She was in silence for a few seconds, thinking.

"The boats around the oil rig. Can you zoom in on them?" she asked.

He typed fast, doing as she asked.

"What are you thinking?" he questioned.

"Well, he got there somehow, right? He wasn't wearing a uniform, so he didn't work at the oil rig. And he probably didn't swim there or, at least, not all the way. So…"

"So he was on one of the boats. Got it. Learn which one and you can question the crew" he finished, talking fast.

"That's the plan."

"It's a good plan, let's do it."

Jessica groaned, not daring to open her eyes. God damn it, why all the noise? Couldn't someone sleep peacefully anymore?

"Do you absolutely have to make a ruckus?" she asked, eyes still closed.

"Well, given that you are sleeping in my apartment, that it's time to go to work and that I'm being kind enough to make eggs for you too I would think so," Clark answered, happily.

She groaned again, louder.

"And what exactly are you doing sleeping on my couch?" he asked, the sound of the frying pan and eggs loud.

"You told me I could stay!"

"I told you that I wouldn't kick you out, not to sleep on my couch."

"That wasn't planned," she grumbled, sitting down. "I just closed my eyes and next thing I know you are waking me up. How long have you been up?"

"A couple of hours. Got out, bought some things, including these eggs, and broke into your apartment for a change to borrow the frying pan."

She stared at him.

"You broke into my apartment?"

He looked at her and smirked.

"You are not the only one who knows how to do that, you know?" he turned back and started to serve the eggs into the plates. "By the way, there is a reason I woke you up. Someone is knocking at your door."

She groaned a third time, wanting to scratch her own eyes off.

"Are you sure it's the door and not the freaky neighbors upstairs doing their freaky sex?"

Clark looked again at her, a little red on the cheeks.

"I'm pretty sure your upstairs neighbors are siblings," he said slowly. "And the noise is not sex… At least I hope not."

"How the fuck do you know that? Have you been spying on the neighbors with you x-ray vision?"

"No. I just have a pretty good hearing."

"Wow, so you have super-hearing now, is that it?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Now, do you want me to prove it by repeating the things you whispered in your sleep or do you want to see who is at your door?"

She stopped in her tracks and looked at him for a second.

"You are bluffing, I don't talk on my sleep," she challenged.

"Are you sure? Are you really going to bet on that?"

Jessica stared for a few more seconds and got up, going to the door; not because she believed him, she told herself, but because she wanted to know who was knocking at her door. With quick steps, she opened the door, ready to send whoever was knocking away running.

Only to freeze when she saw that the person knocking was her own sister: Patricia "Trish" Walker.

"Trish," she whispered, too shocked to do anything else.

The woman knocking at her door turned to her. With blonde hair, pale complexion and shining green eyes, Trish Walker looked like a sunny version of Jessica Jones, even if they didn't share blood. That small fact, however, did not affect how close they were; for all intents and purposes, Jessica and Trish were sisters.

And that made the fact that Jessica was actively avoiding Trish all the more hurting.

Trish looked briefly to the apartment she had been knocking, then back at Jessica.

"Was I knocking at the wrong place?" she asked, getting away from the door.

"No… That's my apartment. I just stayed here tonight," Jessica answered, hesitantly.

She frowned, not understanding, but didn't ask for an explanation. In fact, she didn't move at all; now that Jessica was in front of her she seemed to have lost the ability to do so.

"Invite her in," came Clark's voice from inside.

His voice seemed to wake both of them from the trance they were in and Jessica called Trish, entering back into the apartment. With hesitant steps, she followed her inside. Still in silence, Trish looked around, taking in the details, until her eyes stopped on Clark. He smiled and approached.

"Hi, I'm Clark Kent, but please, call me Clark. Are you a friend of Jessica?" he asked, extending his hand.

She took it and shook it, looking at Jessica for a moment.

"I'm Patricia Walker, you can call me Trish. I'm her sister."

He was clearly surprised, looking at Jessica as well.

"I didn't know she had a sister," and then he looked at Trish again. "Did you say Trish Walker? From 'Trish Talk'? And 'It's Patsy'? I'm a fan!"

"You are?" Jessica couldn't resist asking.

"Well, from 'Trish Talk', yes. Not so much from 'It's Patsy', sorry."

Trish smiled a little bit about his enthusiasm.

"It's always nice to meet a fan," she looked between the two of them, losing the smile. "Especially when he is dating my sister."

His eyebrows shoot up at the exact same time Jessica choked on her own saliva.

"Oh, no, we are not…" he started.

"Definitely not dating!" she finished.

Trish held her look, not backing down.

"Then, please, explain this!" she exploded, suddenly, gesturing around, obviously tired of not understanding what was happening. She turned to Jessica. "Please, explain to me why the sister I don't see in months is getting out from her neighbor's apartment after clearly spending the night here. Explain to me why you don't answer my calls and why I had to come all the way to your apartment, not for the first time, to finally see you!"

She was fuming, looking directly at Jessica. And Jessica couldn't exactly deny she was right to be angry.

"Well… I can see you need to talk," Clark said, quickly. "I gotta go get my payment, so, please, make yourselves confortable. Eat some egg, drink some coffee" he finished eating his own eggs extremely fast and grabbed his jacket. "Just lock the door when you leave, Jessica, I really can't afford being robbed at the moment. Trish, it was a pleasure."

And with this, the faster she had seen him move without becoming a blur in the air, Clark left; she turned to Trish, who was still looking at her.

"Okay… Explanations. I owe some of them to you," Jessica finally said.

"You think?" Trish retorted. "Do you have any idea how worried I was? After all that crap you went through, after finally getting out from Kilgrave's control, you disappeared! No calls, no visits, nothing! Why, Jes? Why would you be so irrespons…"

"Because I was embarrassed!" Jessica yelled, reaching her limit. "Because I was humiliated!"

Trish looked surprised at her; her expression softened.

"Jes, we both know that wasn't your faul…"

"Yes, I know it wasn't my fault! I know I was being controlled! I know that there was nothing I could have done to stop him from doing the things he did, to others and to myself!" she interrupted. "It doesn't mean I didn't feel like it was."

She breathed and looked down, incapable of staring at her sister.

"I just… I just couldn't face you," she admitted, her voice low. "Not after that. I felt… I felt like no matter how much I tried to get clean, the dirt just wouldn't come off."

Trish approached slowly, tentatively, and, when Jessica didn't move away, she embraced her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Hesitantly, Jessica raised her arms and embraced her too.

"Me too."

For a few minutes, neither of them moved, content in staying in each other's arms; then they let their arms fall.

"Are you okay now?" Trish asked. "I mean, I know you are not okay, but are you getting better?"

Jessica's first answer would be a default "Hell no", but she stopped and thought a little bit. She wasn't okay, no doubt about that, but getting better? Yes, since yesterday she could honestly say she felt better. She nodded.

"I'm getting better."

Trish gestured to the apartment around them.

"Does Clark have something to do with this?" she inquired, raising her eyebrows a little bit.

Jessica didn't answer; instead, she picked the New York Bulletin from the couch and gave it to Trish. She frowned, confused, until she saw Clark's name.

"He wrote this? I heard about it. Something about a guy making mutants, right?"

"Yes and yes. And I was there with him, yesterday, fighting against armed men to help those people" she explained, quickly.

Trish did a double take, her jaw dropping.

"You were? Are you… are you doing this sort of thing again? Being a hero?"

Jessica chuckled.

"If you had asked me this a day ago I would say 'Fuck no!', but apparently I am now."

And then she told Trish what had happened, from seeing Clark "running over a car" to finally fighting the armed henchmen and that strong bitch. And more than the actual facts, she told Trish what it had meant to her; which, frankly, surprised the hell of Jessica, since she wasn't one to share. She probably hadn't woken up completely yet, that had to be it.

"So are you going to do this again? Are you going to help people again?" Trish asked after she had told her story.

"Don't know. Maybe. I think I'll evaluate case by case."

"Well, at least you have someone as strong as you now, right? He can have your back. It's safer."

"Slightly stronger. Just a tiny bit. And I shouldn't even have told you that."

"Oh, come on, what am I going to do? Tell the police? You know you can trust me."

"I know that," she admitted, begrudgingly. "But he doesn't. Anyway, I don't know yet, we'll see how it goes."

There were a few minutes of confortable silence, when Jessica took the chance to eat her cold scrambled eggs.

"Okay, quick question," Trish said, abruptly. "I know you helped Clark, I know you saved a lot of people together. But how does that amount to you sleeping here and eating his breakfast? Why the hell did he just leave us here, instead of kicking us out back to your apartment? Is there something going on here?"

Jessica stopped her egg filled fork midair.

"No! I already told you that! He is just a friend."

"A really, reaaaally, hot one," Trish interjected, smirking.

"He's 21, you cougar!"

"I'm just saying, I wouldn't mind. He is legal."

"Oh, god," Jessica groaned, beginning to laugh.

Her laugh seemed to break the dam and Trish also began to laugh uncontrollably. Jessica didn't know what the heck she would do in the future, if she would keep "being a hero" or not, if she was going to try to put her life together and move on.

But at the moment, laughing alongside her sister, talking about everyday crap, she didn't particularly care; at that moment, she was happy.

Clark looked at the envelope in his hands for what seemed to be the thousandth time; and for the thousandth time, he smiled. His first paycheck. He really did it. It wasn't just until he got into The New York Bulletin building and actually received his paycheck from Mr. Ellison himself that the idea he was being paid for his first published story had really sank in.

They still hadn't hired him, there was that, but he was off to a great start; not every journalist in the world could brag about getting a front page story at the very first time.

What to do now? He was a little hesitant about going back home. Jessica and her famous sister – who would have thought? – really needed to talk about some things, apparently. If he went back right now he had a chance of interrupting them and he really didn't want to get into the middle of the crossfire if a fight erupted.

Sure, that meant he basically kicked himself out of his own apartment, but it was for a good cause. He hoped. Jessica had helped him; he didn't mind helping her, even if it was a little bit inconvenient.

So that meant he needed to find something to do for the next couple of hours. If he had friends in the city, that would be the perfect time to go bother them. Unfortunately, Jessica was his only friend so far and she was the whole reason he couldn't go home yet. Acquaintances then? Luke seemed to be a pretty nice guy, but the bar wasn't open yet. Malcolm, his other neighbor, obviously lived in the same building, so he wasn't an option. Susan Harris, the beautiful real estate agent who gave him her number was probably working right now. And the only other people he knew were the people he saved from that fire.

He stopped for a second; why not? The woman he rescued had promised to stop doing drugs and had signed her name to start on a free rehab program, right there at the Metro-General Hospital. It wouldn't hurt to see if she was doing okay. It wasn't like she was going to remember him, anyway, and he didn't even need to talk to her, just to see how she was. So, making a decision, he got in the bus.

It wasn't long until he got out and walked to the hospital, getting in. He didn't have the slightest idea where he was supposed to go, so he just kept walking, hoping he would find someone that knew along the way. That meant he soon was in the E.R, surrounded with the sick and injured; his eyes spotted a familiar nurse.

"Hey, could you…"

"Not now, I'm busy!" the nurse said, not even looking at Clark, while she began to treat one of the patients.

He couldn't argue with that. The place was full and there was a very small number of nurses and doctors around, in comparison with the number of injured people. Instead of distracting her, Clark just watched as she tried to stitch the arm of a man, who was apparently very drunk; each time she approached, the guy moved his arm, not because he was afraid of the needle, but because he was swaying non-stop. Seeing the nurse starting to get more and more frustrated, Clark held the man in place.

"Thanks," she said, beginning to work.

While stitching the guy, she took a look at Clark.

"I remember you. You are the guy who brought those junkies who almost got themselves burned to death."

"Good memory," he complimented. "I'm Clark."

"Claire," she introduced herself. "So, did you bring any more people today? Because I really don't need any more patients right now."

Clark smiled.

"No, not today. Did something happen or is it usually this full of people?"

"Car accident nearby, I think, but it's not that much fuller than usual. I would know, I've been here since yesterday."

"Why? You're the only nurse in the hospital?" Clark joked.

"Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one in the city," she chuckled.

With her blue uniform covered in blood spots, her tired face and the somehow disheveled hair, Clark could believe it; that was the look of someone who had been working non-stop for a long while. And while some people would find that her messy appearance needed to be fixed, it told a lot about her dedication to her work.

Even like that, Clark thought, Claire was still a beautiful woman, with dark hair and skin and a striking face. Given that she was working for a whole day and was covered in blood, Clark could just imagine she would be a real beauty after a bath and a rest.

"I actually wanted to ask about the people I brought here that day," Clark began. "You were the one who suggested that rehab program and I'd like to know how they are doing."

"Well, I actually have no idea," Claire answered, bluntly.

Clark laughed.

"I imagined. But if you could give me directions I'll go there see for myself."

She finished stitching the man and took a step back.

"If you wait until I check these last," she looked back and counted "two patients, I can take you there. It shouldn't take long."

He smiled again.

"No problem."

Changing her gloves, Claire walked with quick steps to the next patient, Clark following her close. It was a boy, reaching his teenage years, cradling his arm with a tear streaked face.

"Now, how did that happen?" Claire asked, firmly but gently, touching the boy's arm.

"Football," he sobbed. "Fell down in the game."

Claire nodded, still examining him; unknown to her, Clark was also examining his arm, looking at it with his x-ray vision.

"It might be broken," she said. "I will take you to the x-ray room…"

"It's not broken," Clark interjected. Claire and the boy looked at him. "Just dislocated."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"I'm… It's a strong guess," he answered, lamely.

"Well, while I normally take into consideration any 'strong guesses' of an untrained man in the E.R when I'm examining someone, today I'll take the long way and send him to do a proper examination," Claire deadpanned, calling someone to take the boy to the x-ray room and already moving to the next patient.

This time it was woman, clearly agitated, but also very pale and weak.

"Hi, I'm Claire, what seems to be the problem?"

"You ain't a doctor," the woman sneered.

Claire's nice smile strained, but it stayed where it was.

"No ma'am, I'm not. But I will direct you to the proper doctor as soon as I know more about your condition."

The woman wasn't happy, but whatever she was going to say was stopped by a bout of nausea; Clark and Claire took a step back, but the woman managed to hold down the need to puke.

"Nausea," she managed to say. "And I'm so tired, all the time. Also I'm…"

"Twins!" Clark exclaimed, before he could stop himself.

Both women turned to him.

"What did you just say to me, young man?!"

"You are… I mean…" he stammered, realizing his mistake.

"You might be pregnant, ma'am," Claire said, stepping in.

The woman did not look happy; in fact, a photo of her expression could probably be found on a dictionary under the opposite of "happy".

"My husband can't have any children," she said.

"Oh! That's not good," Clark brilliantly responded, his enthusiasm dying.

Claire was momentarily speechless; but before this could turn into a huge fight, she just called a passing doctor, exchanging a few words with him, and he took the woman with him for further examination.

"Okay, what the hell was that?" she demanded, holding Clark's arm. "What's with all the medical diagnoses? Are you a doctor in disguise?"

"What? No!"

"What is it, then? And don't you dare try to say to me it was a 'strong guess'."

Clark opened his mouth to give her an excuse, any excuse, but nothing came out. He looked at her again and tried once more.

"I can… do things that other people can't," he finished, feeling stupid.

She raised her eyebrows.

"Yeah? Like what? Magic?"

"I…"

"Bullshit!" she interrupted, before he could say anything. "I should take you to psych ward!"

"What if I can prove it?" Clark asked, not really sure why he was even insisting on this; Jessica was a bad influence on him.

She nodded, still watching him.

"Okay, Houdini, follow me."

Turning, she left the E.R and Clark followed her. He had no idea in what he was getting into and he was slowly beginning to think this was a bad idea; actually, he already knew it was a bad idea. And yet somehow, he wasn't that concerned and that, by itself, was weird. Maybe using his powers in a daily basis was making him more comfortable with the idea of being seen as different; maybe his brief time with someone as gifted as him made him feel more normal. Clark didn't know.

Nevertheless, he wasn't afraid of the woman in front of him finding out that he had something else than the average person; his instincts did not see her as a threat. That had to count for something.

Claire took him three floors up, to the ICU, directly to a patient room. She opened the door and entered. The patient was sleeping, either naturally or because he was sedated. He was hooked to an IV and the monitor was beeping slowly.

"Okay," Claire said, looking at Clark. "If you really can 'do things that other people can't', tell me what's wrong with this guy."

Clark looked at her for a second, before turning and walking to the patient.

"What happened?" he asked.

"He passed out in his house three days ago. The neighbors called an ambulance. He had seizures and strong headaches," Claire explained. "After getting here, he had strong abdominal pain and his heart stopped twice."

"And you have no idea of what's causing this?"

Claire gave a mirthless laugh.

"If we did, I wouldn't be here with you," she shrugged. "But the guy is dying. He doesn't have anything to lose and the only thing I have to lose is my time. You either really can do 'things that other people can't', in which case you can save him; or you can't, in which case I prove that you are a liar and kick you out from the hospital."

"Hmm, very pragmatic."

She smiled.

"I found that it's useless to debate belief. You either show me proof or you shut up. If you had told me you could fly, we would be on the roof right now and I would tell you to jump."

Clark gave her a smile, but not for the reasons she was thinking.

"Alright, let's see what I can do."

Saying this, Clark focused on his eyes. It was always an interesting experience to change the kind of vision he was using; colors became different, heat and electromagnetic waves became visible, really small or far away objects gained definition.

The man's body gained a bluish tone when his eyes passed through his clothes and skin. His bones and muscles showed up. He could see every vein and artery, every involuntary movement of his organs, and the blood flowing. Unconsciously, his earing also became enhanced when he concentrated and he could hear every single thing happening in the man's body, from muscles twitching to blood being pumped.

There was only one thing in the whole body he couldn't see; a small, black dot on his right femur.

"Was he ever shot?" Clark asked, suddenly. "In the right leg, maybe?

Claire, who was observing him with attention, waiting for him to do something, was shocked into motion.

"I think so," she said, reaching for his medical history. She read it quickly. "Yeah, 6 years ago. He was mugged, resisted and was shot. In the right leg," she looked at him. "How the hell did you know that?"

Clark smiled.

"It's either a strong guess or I really can do things that other people can't," he answered, cheekily.

Claire gave him a serious look.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway, because it's clearly not related to anything," she said.

"On the contrary, it's the cause of everything that it's happening," Clark countered. "Whoever took the bullet out didn't do a good job. They left a piece, inside his bone. The lead from the bullet is slowly leaking out. This is lead poisoning."

Claire kept looking at his face, each word he said making her more surprised. She read the file again, looked at the patient again, checking and re-checking his symptoms and comparing them to Clark's diagnostic.

"Son of a bitch," she whispered, looking at Clark with a whole other expression. "How… You know what, it doesn't matter, I think you just saved this man's life."

And with that she ran out, calling a doctor to explain the situation. Clark couldn't help to be a little bothered by the attention he had just brought on himself, but he did save a life; his discomfort was a small price to pay for that.

Soon after, Claire was back, with a doctor accompanying her. The doctor, clad in his white coat, didn't even look at Clark; he just got in, approached the patient, read his file, and stared at the gunshot scar on his leg. Then he turned and looked at Clark with a very serious expression.

"How did you do this?" he asked, rudely. "More intelligent men than you couldn't figure it out."

Clark, not exactly wanting to explain he could see through things and a little bit offended by the doctor's tone, just answered:

"I'm a magician."

He could hear Claire doing her best to hold a laugh from behind him; the doctor however, was anything but amused. He raised one single eyebrow and kept staring.

"There is no such thing as magic," he finally said, completely unamused but clearly curious of how Clark had found this out. He turned to Claire. "Miss Temple, take this… sorcerer out of the ICU. I'll go prep this patient for surgery."

With this, without saying anything else, he left.

"Nice guy," said Clark, sarcastically.

"That's Dr. Stephen Strange," Claire explained. "He is a little… Don't you dare!"

"Strange?" Clark completed, grinning.

She sighed, irritated.

"If I had a nickel for every time… No, I was going to say he is kind of an asshole. But he is brilliant at what he does. He agrees with your diagnostic and will perform the surgery himself."

She looked at him and smiled for real for the first time.

"Come on, Houdini, I owe you one. Let me take to the rehab clinic."

Martha Kent held the phone between her ear and her shoulder, her hands busy with a basket full of freshly picked apples. With a lifetime of practice, she washed them and began to cut them, preparing the apples to fill her famous apple pie.

All the while she listened to her son on the phone, telling her all about his first published story.

She smiled; Martha could just picture a young Clark sitting at the table behind her, watching her baking his favorite pie, telling her about his day. Of course, back then, Clark's days didn't involve breaking into a mutant factory and causing the arrest of several high up government people. They were still weird, she had to admit, like the day he got home all scared because he had accidentally ripped a car door or the day he had, also accidentally, set part of the school gym on fire with his heat vision.

Well, maybe more embarrassed than scared on the second one, since it was on that day that he discovered his heat vision, at least in the beginning, could be triggered by the sight of the small skirts of the cheerleaders.

"Mom, why are you laughing at me?" Clark asked, no doubt hearing her trying to hold her laugh.

"Sorry, dear, I was just remembering the day you set the gym on fire because of those cheerleaders," she answered, no longer being able to hold back.

He sighed while she laughed.

"You'll never let me forget that, will you?" he questioned, resigned.

"Not in a million years, dear. It is my duty as a mother to remember every single embarrassing thing in your life, so I can pass them on to your future wife."

"Like you did with Lana? You know, she never really forgave me for finding out that my x-ray vision could be controlled to limit itself to only see through clothes right when I looked at her."

"That wasn't my fault. You ran away and left the poor girl alone, without a clue of what to do, I had to explain to her what happened."

"You didn't have to be specific!"

Martha laughed again, remembering her son's first girlfriend; what a nice girl she was. It was a pity that they preferred to remain only friends. Nice, beautiful girls that could accept the fact that Clark wasn't human and keep it a secret were a rare find.

"Okay, mom, I gotta go. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Love you."

"I love you too, dear. Take care of yourself."

She lowered the phone and got back to her pie, still smiling. Martha had a very positive outlook in life, but since Jonathan died there were still times when she felt a little bit lonely. Clark, of course, had to move on with his life, she would never begrudge that; but nothing gave her quite as much happiness as when he called her or, better yet, took a time to fly to Smallville and see her in person.

Still distracted, Martha was broken out of her old memories when the doorbell rang. Drying her hands, she left the kitchen and went to the door, opening it. There was a very beautiful red headed woman waiting on her porch.

"Martha Kent? My name is Natasha Romanoff. I'd like to talk about your son, Clark Kent. May I come in?"