Martha Kent is used to unusual people turning up on her doorstep. One shot, composed of various small snippets and ficlets centred around one theme. I admit to guessing slightly at the context of Supergirl's arrival to the Kent family, if it's incorrect it's entirely my fault. The same is true of Lex Luthor's background – I'm utilising Smallville continuity themes.

Standard disclaimers apply. Concrit is appreciated. Am taking alternative title suggestions if anyone can come up with a good one.

"Home is not where you live but where they understand you." Christian Morgenstern.

Homestead.

She's glancing at the television screen through the kitchen door (a volcanic eruption in Indonesia. It's an awful mess and Martha has seen that kind of thing enough to know there's probably more to it than just an aggravated fault line, but still, it looks like they're handling it) while washing the dishes when he arrives. In uniform, and covered in mud.

It's almost amusing and probably would be, if she didn't know where the mud came from.

'Mom? Are you there? It's um… it's just me.' Just him. Along with half a mudslide, by the looks of it. Old instincts die hard and Martha bites her tongue to avoid asking the awkward questions he won't be able to answer. Whatever the details are, he can't tell her. She came to accept that a long time ago. Still, she manages to insert one meaningful look as he walks through the door. 'This won't take a second, we just… uh…'

Clark pauses, puzzled, then remembers he's not in Metropolis anymore and steps swiftly backwards onto the doormat. Of course, it doesn't look like that will make much of a difference, what with the state the rest of him is in. Still be darned if her son is going to forget his manners, even during a crisis. 'Ah…Sorry, I forgot. But… we have a situation out there.'

A red speed blur zips past before Martha can comment and vanishes into the dining room. Martha blinks as it passes, but remains preoccupied with the state of her son. ' Clark, dear, what happened to you?'

'Ah… Volcanic mudslide… or something like it. Diana was… well, we're out in Indonesia right now and we'll be going back there soon, I just have to get something out of the—' Clark pauses when they hear something that sounds like her grandmother's vase breaking. (She knows the sound well, seeing as Clark accidentally broke it himself at least seven times as a child. And that was before his powers manifested).

'…Oops.'

'Flash!' It's strange to think that her son actually has a "stop breaking everything in my parents' house" voice but…

Actually, no, it's not strange at all, is it?

The red blur returns and comes to such an abrupt halt besides her that Martha doesn't have to imagine the fibres of the carpet burning. 'What? I thought we were in a hurry—' he catches Martha's stare. '…Oh. Oh, right.'

She suspects the equally muddy Flash has already circled throughout the house fifty times by now, but he goes back and wipes his feet on the mat too, anyway. 'Ah… yeah, sorry about that, I think I already got dirt on your rugs…'

'And on everything else, I expect,' Martha folds her arms over her chest.

'Yeah that too,' Flash says, and the tall, proud man in red and blue shrinks a little further back on the mat. 'Sorry for barging in and all –End of the World, you know how it is.'

Clark winces. 'Flash for Gods… sorry mom. Look; this won't take long I— Flash, stay still.'

The tone of Clark's voice reminds her of his childhood. The times when his friends would be warned nervously against getting him into trouble with his parents by bringing up exactly why they needed his father's fishing wire, or the tape measure, or whatever else they'd been using to construct whatever ridiculously unsafe object was the focal point of their games at the time.

And then Clark is shooting off upstairs –flying in the house, again. They're supposed to have a rule against that. He's back, as they say, in the wink of an eye and ushering Flash towards the door. 'Okay, I have it, come on, let's move!'

'Y'know what I wanna know, Supes? Why the heck do you have acidic-antiplasmic-saline… whatever-you-called-it solution sitting in a jar in your parent's spare room?'

'…Would you believe me if I said I'm storing it for Batman?'

'Nope.'

'In that case, it's a long story. Bye, Mom!'

'Night, Mrs K. Sorry about your windows!'

And then they're gone as quickly as they arrived, leaving nothing behind but the smudges of volcanic mud Martha suspects she'll be cleaning off the carpets all throughout the house tomorrow.

She goes back to watching the television through the open door while she does the dishes, counting down the twenty-five seconds it takes for them to reappear on the broadcast.

'Would this be the Kent residence?'

Of course, he already knows it is.

When Martha opens the front door it takes her only fifteen seconds to comprehend who is standing there and come up with a coherent response. This is actually rather impressive; she thinks, for your average human being, particularly one of such a small town upbringing as herself.

Perhaps she should start asking Clark to send people round the back, instead. That way she won't have to unlock both front entrance doors every time.

'I hope this isn't a bad time.'

The voice rings of cold steel and solemnity, but to Martha, who knows (and has heard) many of the massive range of vocals in the universe (most of which have passed through her kitchen at one point or another); it might as well have oozed sincerity. The voice of a man didn't necessarily speak much of the person inside, after all. Sometimes when watching his speeches on television, she had difficulty believing the staid and sober man she heard chatting with governmental officers and agents was Clark Kent of Smallville Kansas, raised on their own little country farm, and also Superman.

In comparison, the voice of the grim and sombre Batman might as well hold a Kentucky twang.

'Not at all, Batman. But if you're looking for Clark surely you know he doesn't visit for another three weeks.'

He seems reluctant to drip on her carpet and so stays in the hallway, the impression of him exaggerated by the dull shimmer of rain, (heavy rain, Martha might add. This is the worst weather they've had in a while and superhero or not, it can't be good for him). 'It was him who sent me. Apparently he stores a solar-energy neutralizing battery in your attic. We need it, as a matter of urgency.'

'Apocalypse?'

'More like a small crisis, not apocalyptic at this stage. There's no reason to be concerned.'

'Right. I should've figured it was something along those lines. Come in out of the rain.'

Solar battery… she's fairly sure Clark mentioned that once. He leaves so many strange things here (mostly harmless, but peculiar nonetheless) she often loses track.

'Neutralizing battery, you said? That thing? It's awfully heavy.'

She's fairly sure his feet are shuffling under that huge cape of his. Odd. People are rarely uncomfortable in this house. She always goes out of her way to ensure welcome guests know when they're welcome (and that unwelcome guests know when they very much aren't). '…I have a plane.'

Of course he does. He's Batman.

'If you're looking then, I'm fairly sure it's in the back end of the attic under the gym equipment. I made him move it up there a while ago. Must've tripped over it half a dozen times when it was stored in the back of the barn. By all means, you're welcome to take it.'

The silence that surrounds him in response to her statement is almost tangible. She pats him on the shoulder (or where she estimates his shoulder must be beneath that cape) out of sheer instinct. 'It's quite alright; Clark mentioned you weren't talkative.'

'…Sorry for the intrusion.'

'Certainly. Remember to wipe your feet next time.' Martha can't help but smile as she says so. They never wipe their feet.

Then she blinks, and when her eyes reopen he has somehow disappeared into the darkness. She sees his shadow shift through the window, along with a rather bulky piece of machinery that he must somehow have carried off without her noticing.

Clark had mentioned he would do that, too.

She doesn't fall from the sky (not precisely), but her arrival is unexpected, nonetheless.

Clark has his hand on her shoulder when Martha opens the door to greet them, wondering why in the world he knocked. She thinks, for a moment, that he might be introducing a girlfriend. Then Martha notices how very young she looks, and how Clark seems to look at her sideways in the way Martha has often seen Jonathan look at him.

She's a pretty girl; reminds Martha of herself, when she was younger. Small and slight and smiling nervously, the way so many people do when Clark brings them round. Of course these people are usually superheroes, saviours of the world a thousand times over, but who always seem to be strangely nervous in the presence of Superman's mother.

Her eyes are like Martha's too, but only because they seem so… tired. As someone's might be at the end of a long journey.

'Hey, Mom, this is… this is Kara. Kara In-Ze, she's… well, she's…'

The girl reaches out her hand as Clark trails off in uncertainty, and her greeting is perfectly normal and natural. 'Hello Mrs Kent. It's nice to meet you.'

Martha glances down at the floor, which the girl's feet are not quite touching.

So, she hovers when nervous, just like her son. From that moment on, there was never any question.

Martha gets the feeling this is going to be quite a long story and will involve consumption of a lot of tea. And possibly cake. The girl looks far too thin for her age.

'…Would it be alright if Kara stayed for a while?'

'Martha, honey?'

'Yes, dear?'

'There's a kid out here who says she'd like to see Clark. You have any idea where he is?'

'No, I'm afraid I don't, he hasn't contacted since Friday. Who is it?'

'Not sure. She says her name is Ace. Cute kid, looks like she's been playing dress ups. Think she might be one of their younger ones, you know?'

'Oh.'

'Actually, she says, um… she's really looking for the Batman but she can't find him, and thought Superman might know where he is… I figure its okay, she's not causing any trouble.'

'Ah… I see. Well I'm sorry, but I have no idea where Clark is at the moment. He should be around later, though, if she'd like to stay and wait for him. There's soda in the fridge.'

'She says she'd like that.'

She honestly has no idea why Lex Luthor has chosen to show up at her front door, but she's not exactly happy to see him. She should have expected that whatever it was that brought him back to his Smallville upbringing, it would have something to do with money, though why this place is at all important to him is beyond her.

'The farm is our home, Lex. It has been since before you were even a twinkle in your dear father's eye. That won't change, no matter what sum you offer.'

'No, truly Mrs Kent, I thought it wouldn't.'

She wishes Jonathan were home, but he's not. Besides, she's dealt with this type before. Logically, she's dealt with far worse; it just doesn't normally hit quite this close to home.

'Never a pushover, Mrs Kent. Far be it from me to push any of you out of your home. A Smallville without the Kent farm? It's unthinkable. The farm itself, of course, would stay regardless of what happened around it.'

The worst thing is, he honestly thinks she'll fall for that. Martha bites her tongue and manages not to scowl. She opts, instead, for a face from his childhood. The one that says "I know your trick and I'm very disappointed in you for trying it." He doesn't look guilty. Merely… irritated.

The feeling is mutual.

'Lex, I've known you since you were a child, don't you dare think about using that attitude on me. I know you,' she puts down her coffee cup. 'And you know me, I think. You know my son, you know Jonathan. You know there's no way under the suns we would ever leave this property, in name or otherwise, not to a scheme like this, so don't bother.'

She says all this without raising her voice. Martha Kent never raises her voice.

Lex's gaze fixes on her, firm and unyielding and she can see the arrogance inside of him. She could never have imagined such a nature when he was a child. '…If that's really what you want.'

'It is.'

Just when she assumes he's run out of argument, Lex looks at her again. 'Believe it or not, Mrs Kent, I haven't forgotten those times entirely.'

'No, I suppose you haven't.'

There are many things Martha Kent knows she could never have imagined, in those days. Even having a child fall to you from the sky doesn't remove your doubts about everything. It's taken an extra twenty years for her to appreciate that the universe works in ways more complex than she can imagine, and that children do not always grow up to be as good and noble as her son tries to be.

A familiar thumping overhead informs her that someone has flown in through a window. From the tred of their footfall, she knows it isn't Clark. 'That would be my daughter coming down the stairs, Lex. I take it you don't wish to be introduced?'

Nostalgia has always been very particular with Martha Kent. She can still remember the times when he used to come home from the fields with Clark and the other boys, the way corn silks had gotten everywhere and feet were inevitably not wiped before entry.

Lex knows things. He has always known things. He's simply that kind of person and Martha knows she's pushing her good luck to breaking point on this occasion. He leaves the room with a dry expression and that eternally unyielding will.

He'll be back.

She still can't find it in herself to care. What didn't work when he was ten years old certainly isn't going to work now. Governmental backing or no governmental backing.

'Hey there, kid, sorry I'm late. The traffic over Sector 3480 was— Oh, wait, you're not the Flash.'

'No, I'm afraid you have the wrong address, dear. This is Smallville, Kent Residence. Central City is roughly five-hundred miles in that direction. Just keep going until you see the Keystone Bridge.'

'Oh… yeah. I thought I had the ring set wrong. Little poozer just can't give directions, you know? Sorry for the intrusion, ma'am.'

'It's no problem. Have a good day.'

There are surprisingly few things which can make Martha Kent jump.

The Flash, until recently, was one of them; mostly because he has a tendency to simply appear without any warning. But now it seems she's becoming immune to even that shock. When the light breeze ruffles her hair she doesn't flinch.

'Hey there, Mrs K? That is you, right? Sorry about the interruption and all, I wiped my feet this time, I swear.'

She glances at his boots, just in case. It seems to be true. 'Hello Flash, how're things in Central City?'

'Yeah, it's cool, only I'm not there now, or here. I mean, I am here, but I won't be in a second, I'm only here to find something, we have—'

'A situation?'

Flash blinks. 'Yeah, how'd you know?'

Martha puts the last glass away in a cupboard. (Why does she always seem to be doing the dishes at times like this? The breakable things are always on display whenever Flash pays a visit.) 'I've been hearing it a lot this week. Honestly, anyone would think an apocalypse was pending. I guessed that you're weren't here for brownies.'

'Nah, I came because Supes said we need more of that saline-salt-whatever stuff he keeps hidden in your spare room. He thinks what we're fighting now might have something to do with th— there are brownies?'

'Yes, help yourself and—' He finds them before she can point them out. A few seconds later, half the pile has vanished. '—I'm pretty sure the rest of it will still be in the spare room. We try not to—'

Wally is gone, and when he reappears in half the time it takes her to blink, he's holding a strange metal container in his hands. '—touch these things… oh, you found it.'

'Yup! Great! Thanks!'

And then he's gone. A plate begins toppling from the counter, Flash reappears and puts it back before it can hit the ground and then he's gone again.

There's but a single brownie left on the tray.

'Someone there, Martha?'

'No-one dear, just the Flash popping through to collect another of the supernatural devices from the spare room. He's eaten all the brownies, I'm afraid.'

She has to admit, the gorilla on her doorstep is something of a surprise. The fact that it talks is merely the icing on the strangest cake ever baked.

'Ah…May I help you?'

'That depends entirely, madam, upon whether this is the Stewart Residence.'

Oh, not another one…

'It's not the Steward residence, no, but I believe my son knows him, can I take a message?'

'Sorry, its classified information… I gained this address from the shared protocol files, I'm fairly certain this was the right one.'

'Well I'm not even sure you have the right city, dear. Don't worry, though, it's not your fault. I swear there must have been some kind of mix up in the directories; there have been a lot of people calling this week and most of them aren't looking for this house.'

'…I… that'd would make sense. Sorry for the trouble. Envoy work, you know?

'Oh, believe me I do. It's no trouble. Far from home?'

'No kidding. I'm thinking of going back to security. Diplomatic work with other sentient races has never been my strength. No offence.'

'I'm sure you do a better job than you give yourself credit for. You've managed well enough with me.'

'It's appreciated, Mrs…?'

' Kent. Martha Kent.'

'Yes. Good day Mrs Kent.'

'Have a safe trip.'

It's not the way she would've liked her son to come home for a holiday.

She knows there's trouble because Clark knocks before entering. He always does that when things are bad. Mostly because he's giving them a chance to prepare themselves. Still, a bullet wound in the shoulder wasn't something she'd expected. Ever.

They aren't usually something Clark has to worry about, since they aren't usually laced with the only mineral capable of hurting him. Martha finds herself thanking the heavens that Batman had been on the scene at the time.

'Ow. Mom, I don't think that helps.'

'Sorry, but I swear, dear, I could do a better job of this. Those people call themselves professionals.'

'Well, it's kinda hard to stitch a wound on someone who get's called the Man of Stee—ouch.'

'Sit still, Clark. And anyhow, this is nothing to joke about. You should be more careful, these are dangerous people, there's nothing they aren't capable of.'

He knows this of course. He's always known, and perhaps Martha is starting to realise it too. She's heard all about doomsday devices and powerful, sun destroying weapons. She's heard of distant interstellar wars, dark hearts, ancient swords and all manner of weapons faced down by the Justice League. But she's also always been safe in her lack of knowledge about just what such weapons are capable of.

She knows exactly how bullets work.

A hand reaches over his shoulder to touch hers. 'I know, I'm sorry.'

'A darned bullet,' Martha murmurs through her teeth, and tries very hard not to think about what the consequences would have been to someone more mortal.

She makes an effort not to cry. She always has.

It's easy to forget. Martha Kent's son is a mortal, regardless of how it might sometimes seem.

Another unfamiliar face and Martha swears their sense of clothing is getting more unusual with every visit.

'Um, hello there. This is the Kent Household, isn't it? I was told Clark lives here.'

'Yes, you have the right place, can we help?'

'Oh, good. I'm here to collect a package. Superman said it's being kept here?'

Martha tries to narrow down the list in her head of everything currently stored in the spare room. 'Are you the one they're sending to pick up the bottled universe?'

'No, that's not me. I'm the other one.'

'…The fragment of the mind controlling helmet?'

'No, I don't think so, I… wait, he left that with you?'

'I wouldn't let him take it home, dear. Would you allow your son to keep that kind of thing on his person?'

'Um, no I guess I wouldn't. But I'm not here for that.'

'The dove cage which keeps throwing out various sentient pieces of clothing, then? We had to lock it in the airing cupboard, I'm afraid, it was making a mess.'

'That's right! That ones mine I… oops,' her face turns red. 'I… yeah, he must've activated it by accident. Sorry, let me sort that out for you.'

She clicks her fingers and Martha hears a strange jumble of words. 'Eagc emoc ereh dna pots gnissem pu siht esuoh.'

The cage appears, squirming in the woman's fingers. Martha blinks, in spite of herself. 'Thanks a lot Mrs Kent, you were a great help.'

Then she steps hurriedly back down the steps, blinks, and speaks again. 'Raepassid.'

She vanishes.

Well, at least Martha can start organizing the bedroom again. Lord knows what that thing has done to her airing cupboard.

Her son arrives soon after five pm, arguing with a goddess.

At least, Martha is fairly sure she's a goddess but she's never been so bold as to ask.

'…That had nothing to do with her.'

'That would depend on how you look at it, Superman.'

They're discussing super villains, no doubt. Martha doesn't pretend to understand many of her son's conflicts (though if he get's himself shot with kryptonite again, she's darn well going to make sure she finds out about it one way or another) but she's learned to translate his team's conversations. Like her, the princess seems to have the ability to raise an argument without raising her voice. 'Weren't we having this exact same quarrel after the invasion? Right down to the letter if I recall rightly.'

'You're acting like they're about to blow us up!'

'No, I'm fairly sure they're not going to do that… shoot at us a little, maybe…'

'Diana—'

'No, Clark, I'm serious. We can't allow the sentiments of the situation to let them get the better of us, not again. You're right, in as way. It's not about her, it's about them. It always was and isn't that precisely the—'

Martha coughs, but it still takes them a moment to realise she's there.

'—Issue we have with… oh.'

'Uh… mom. Hi, we were just…'

'Am I interrupting something, Clark?' Martha is careful to weigh down her tone with her best "now, is this any way to solve a problem?" voice. (She can't help it, she honestly can't, sometimes she wonders if it's pure instinct.) It appears to work. On Clark, anyway. The princess, for her part merely composes herself. She makes no attempt to cover up her previous anger or dismiss it outright. She understands her behaviour, will apologise, but makes no excuses for it. She's evidently an honest woman.

'Ah… Mom, Princess Diana of Thymiscria. Diana –my mother.'

Wonder Woman softens. Her steel and anger turn quickly into warm humanity though something about this woman's elegance says that she is anything but human. Or anything but mortal, at least. Her eyes are still fire, like she can shift so quickly from warrior to woman and back again. It's admirable, but perhaps slightly unnerving.

Her handshake is firm, but gentle. Martha has heard stories about the Princess of the Amazons and knows her to be as powerful as Clark in many ways, but Martha never actually supposed she was genuinely as strong as they claimed. Now she feels like she might well be.

'It's good to meet you, Mrs Kent. Clark's told me so much about you.'

Martha feels she could grow to like Diana. 'I certainly hope they're good things. Do you like tea?' It's a lesson she's learned over years, that even with superheroes certain things are very effective. Tea is one of those things.

It works.

Diana (the name suits her, Martha thinks) hesitates and looks at Clark. Martha can sense whatever the argument they were having was about; the issue has very much not been resolved. Still, Diana's expression remains calm and when she smiles Martha can almost hear her son's sigh of relief. 'I love it. I'm sure saving the world can wait for an hour, right Clark?'

'I… yes. I'm… sure it can. For an hour.'

'Good. Please, sit down, Princess.'

'Call me Diana.'

And peace reigns in the Kent household. If only for a little while.

'There's someone at your door, Mrs Kent.'

'Yes, I heard. Jonathan, dear, could you get that for us?'

Fin.