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Martha was watching a documentary about marine biology. The deep dark blue had always fascinated her, even now in this new world of aliens and more-than-humans. When Clark was little she would sit him in her lap and tell him all the facts she knew, the strange wonders living in the bottom of their own oceans.
“The Mantis shrimp can see in so many different colors that humans can't,” Martha explained to him, combing her fingers through his hair.
“Just like me,” Clark said tentatively, smiling.
She pinched his cheek. “You're my cute little mantis shrimp.”
He shrieked and pushed away from her, giggling.
There was no little one to sit with her now, but she resolved she would call Clark and tell him all about it as soon as she was finished. He was much more partial to the science of bioluminescence than John was.
Her cell phone rang and she startled, drawn from her deep sea musings. The caller ID wasn't surprising. Alfred Pennyworth occasionally called her to talk casually, share recipes, discuss the logistics of a shared holiday. It was nice, having another parent who wasn't her husband understand the bone-deep terror of a child set on fighting killers and monsters. It didn't matter to her that Clark was one of the strongest beings on the planet. He could still be hurt, be weakened. He'd always be her little boy. She knew Bruce would always be Alfred's, even if he couldn't say it.
She answered the phone, eyes tracking the gentle wreckage of a whale fall.
“Hello, Alfred,” she greeted him. “How are you doing? We should go whale watching some time. I haven't been in years.”
The phone was silent.
She pulled it back to double check the ID. Yep, the photo was definitely of Alfred Pennyworth from their fishing trip they'd gone on a few years ago. She'd only barely managed to get more fish than him and hadn't wanted to challenge that winning streak with a rematch.
She put the phone back to her ear.
“Alfred?” she asked, wary. Him losing his composure was never a good sign.
He took a deep, rattling breath, static crackling through the line. Her windchimes rang and the hair on her arms stood up.
“Jason is dead,” he said and burst into tears.
“No,” she whispered, covering her mouth and feeling her own eyes swell with tears, stunned. That sweet boy? Bruce's little boy? Alfred's darling grandchild?
She didn't believe it. She didn't want to believe it.
“No,” she spoke quickly, frantic, “Alfred, what? W-what happened?”
She couldn't hear a response through Alfred's blubbering. Her mind was empty of all but the pile of presents she'd gotten him and Dick for Christmas. He loved the farm in wintertime, was always so content to baby their chickens and follow John and Martha around the farm peppering them with questions. He couldn't be gone. She'd waited for hours to get his Christmas present signed by his favorite author. She had to wrap it for him.
“I'll be right there,” she told him frantically, tear-stricken, grabbing her purse off the counter. “Jon!” she hollered out into the back, hoping he'd hear her and come running. “Clark!” she called and the next second he was in front of her. She knew right away that he knew, eyes red-rimmed and fists clenched.
“Oh, Clark!” she sobbed and they fell into each other's arms, sinking onto their dusty porch. She could hear Alfred sobbing over the phone, and she could sense when her heart broke, and her lungs felt empty, and she knew nothing could ever be okay again.
“What happened?” she begged Clark, gripping his arms. “Where is he?”
Clark shook his head, weeping. “I don't know, Ma! I don't know! It was just- he just. I wasn't there. It was the Joker, Ma, he killed Jason.”
Her grief morphed into rage so quickly she felt light-headed with it. She stood up, Clark's hands coming up to steady her. She locked her knees.
“I'm going to kill him,” she told Clark, already turning to go into their bedroom with their gun safe.
“Ma, no!” he scrambled after her, Jon finally running onto them from wherever the hell he'd been.
“You know where he is, right?” Martha said, punching in the code to their safe. “Take me to him. Right now.”
Clark shook his head, looking frightened. “I'm not doing that.”
“Boy!” she snapped, whirling on him. “If you don't take me, I'll go myself. I'm going to kill that son of a bitch, so help me God.”
“Who are we killing?” Jon said, arms crossed and looking focused.
“The Joker,” she said, loading her shotgun. Clark put his hands over his head. “He killed Jason.”
She watched Jon's face freeze. He clutched a hand to his heart, looking pale. He looked back and forth between her and Clark, frightened.
“But…” his fingers clenched in his shirt. “He's supposed to be here…? For Christmas?”
Her eyes swelled with tears again, the grief crashing back with the rage, a maelstrom mixing in her chest. “I'm gonna kill him,” she swore. “I don't think your son wants to help.”
“I'm not gonna help you murder someone!”
“Ain't murder if he's not human.”
Clark looked overwhelmed. His head looked over his shoulder, in the direction of Gotham. “I gotta get back. They're falling apart over there. Diana's with them but she's not, she's- oh my god, Ma, she's devastated.”
“Take me with you,” she demanded.
“You can't bring the shotgun,” he said immediately, “the only one in that house allowed with a gun is Alfred.”
“Fine,” she said, dropping the gun carelessly. Clark caught it before it fell, placing it carefully back in the safe. “I'll use one of Alfred's.”
Clark groaned. “Fine! Fuck! We'll do a layover at the manor and then go murder the fucking Joker, I guess.”
They walked out of the house and he picked her up, cradling her the way she'd cradled him as a baby. She put her face on his neck, tears soaking his shirt as they flew towards Gotham.