Jonathan never wanted to call the number on the business card that Lionel Luthor gave to him, but Martha was insistent on making Clark's adoption legal, and Jonathan had no idea how to deal with the many bureaucratic obstacles to making an alien boy he'd found in a cornfield his legal son.

He didn't expect the number to be Luthor's personal line, or for the billionaire to insist on a personal meeting at his office in Metropolis. Jonathan had to dust off his suit—he almost never wore it, since it was so rare that he could afford to take Martha out anywhere nice, even when he could find the time—and he showered twice, since Martha said the first time hadn't been enough to get the smell of the farm out of his hair and the dirt from under his fingernails.

A helicopter landed outside the house to pick him up, and he procrastinated by spending a little too long kissing Martha good bye. He bid good bye to the little guy with a pat to the head, which was the most he'd done so far. He knew if the boy was going to be his son, he'd need to learn to be comfortable doing more than that, but it hadn't been long, and he wasn't there yet.

Luthor was waiting for him in a penthouse office, wearing a suit that clearly cost ten times what Jonathan's did. "Jonathan Kent. Good to see you." He held out a hand to shake.

"Mr. Luthor. Thanks for having me." Jonathan smiled and shook his hand. Maybe the Luthors' reputation was exaggerated.

"Please, call me Lionel."

"Alright. Lionel. How's your son doing?"

"Recovering quickly, thanks to you. How's it going with the little man?"

"Oh, just the usual challenges. Bed wetting, nightmares, some crying." Jonathan's eyelids still felt heavy from the night before. "I'll be honest, it's been pretty exhausting for both of us, but we're getting through."

"Well, do you slap him?"

Jonathan blinked. "For wetting the bed? Of course not, he can't control it."

"No, no. For crying. You've ordered him to stop, haven't you?"

An icy chill passed over Jonathan's limbs, and he didn't know what protest to make first. "He—he's two," was what came out.

"Exactly. It's never too early for a son to learn to obey his father instantly and without question, or suffer the consequences."

"Y-you'd slap a two-year-old for crying?"

"Well, let's just say you'll never catch my son sniveling in public. Two might be a little young for a belt, but he's still plenty sturdy enough to feel the strength of his father's hand."

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Jonathan clenched his teeth. He could not lose his temper during this meeting. "Strong hand. Duly noted," he forced himself to say.

"I suppose it's not too much of a problem when he's alone at home, but it's always best to stay ten steps ahead and teach him that he's never to be caught. Your son's behavior reflects on you, you know, even if he's not, ah . . ."

"Not what?"

Lionel sniffed. "Not blood."

Jonathan could feel a vein in his neck rising.

Lionel went on as though he didn't notice Jonathan's anger. "This is all very sudden for you, isn't it? I trust you have what you need to raise him?"

"Yes, we're fine." The last thing Jonathan wanted was to be any more indebted to Lionel Luthor than he already would be after this favor. "My parents packed away a bunch of my old clothes and toys."

"Ah, now, that's something to be careful about."

"Hand-me-downs?"

"Toys. There's very little time for frivolities in child rearing. A young man must learn to strategize. Is your home library equipped to the task? I may have some extra copies of Sun Tzu's works, if it would be helpful."

"Sun Tzu?"

"I know what you're thinking. But trust me when I say that even a farmer can raise his son to be a leader, as long as the boy is never allowed to be weak. The important thing is that you yourself provide a strong presence for your son."

Jonathan swallowed—he might still be able to salvage this conversation. "Yes, of course, I intend to be very present in his life."

"You can't let his mother coddle him. Women tend to have a softening effect on their boys, but your want your son to be strong, yes? You don't want him to grow up with the same weaknesses you and your wife have, or he'll be an embarrassment to your family."

"I—I beg your pardon?"

"Teach him history, and be sure he knows that you expect him to be great. Of course, it doesn't hurt if he grows up with the impression of your perpetual disappointment, so he always has something to strive for."

Jonathan cleared his throat and straightened up. "Frankly, Mr. Luthor, I'd rather my son grow up knowing that I love him no matter what."

Lionel raised his eyebrows, looking almost amused. "Ah well. Different men, different methods. Perhaps our sons will meet again someday, and we'll see how they've each fared."

Jonathan held back the retort that was on his mind—that he hoped Clark would never encounter a Luthor again. He was half convinced Lionel's son must already be a little monster.

He filled out the paperwork quietly, nodded when Lionel offered to come by the farm in a week to drop off the last papers, and stepped back into the helicopter to head back home with little more than a nod as a farewell.

As soon as Jonathan reached the farm again and watched the helicopter fly away—thinking to himself that he'd never allow another helicopter to land on his property for as long as he lived—he hurried into the house.

Clark was crying in his high chair. Martha looked frazzled as she alternated between trying to soothe him with various toys and snacks, and stirring the pot on the stove.

Jonathan gave his wife a quick kiss, then he went over to the high chair. He lifted the shaking, sobbing boy into his arms and held him tightly to his chest. He rubbed the boy's back lightly at first, but then he decided that Lionel was right about one thing: two years old was sturdy enough to feel the strength of his father's hand. Jonathan tightened his grip and rubbed his son's back a bit more firmly, whispering into his ear, "I've got you, son. It's okay. I love you."

And Clark, feeling his father's strength, sniffled, rested his head on Jonathan's shoulder, and drifted off to sleep.