Disclaimer: I do not own Smallville or these characters.

Author's Note: It's very difficult for the Kents to raise a child who doesn't speak the language? Just a bunch of random fluff pieces about Jonathan, Martha, and their newly adopted son. The purpose of this is purely baby Clark fluff.

Jonathan Kent wondered out of the barn, looking at the adoption papers in his hand. He had never felt so filthy in his life. He had lived his life as an honest man, a quality that he was planning to pass down to his newly adopted son. But now he had gone behind his son's back to fake the kid's adoption.

"Jonathan, there was no other way," his wife Martha reassured him. Martha had appeared out of nowhere, pulling her jacket over her shoulders and then wrapping her arms around her husband. "No legit adoption agency would let us keep an abandoned child without mounds of red tape."

Jonathan sighed. "I know you're right. But Martha, why did you have to say to Ethan he was adopted?"

"We've been over this a hundred times. It was the only thing I could think of at the time. How else could we explain this young child suddenly running around our home? Besides, honey, have you noticed your new son? He hugs you. He reaches out his arms to you. He knows you love him!"

Jonathan nodded as he and Martha began walking back toward the house, the adoption papers a germ-infested blackmail letter in his hand. "We do have a son now. He's a cute kid, very obedient..." he trailed off.

"And he doesn't speak a word," Martha sighed. "Do you think there could be something wrong with his vocal cords? Should we take him to a doctor? Children are usually talking by his age."

"The thing is, Martha," her husband told her as he opened the back door to the house, "I don't think he speaks a word of English. We don't know where he's from, but he could be from another country, or even another planet, for pete's sake. Where's he now?"

"In the living room, playing with your old toys."

Jonathan approached the kitchen counter. "Clark!" he called into the next room. "Clark, I bet you're hungry! Mommy won't be making dinner for a couple of hours yet! How about some milk and a cookie?"

Silence. All they heard were the knocking sounds of plastic toys coming from the next room.

"Clark, honey, you'd better hurry! Daddy loves Mommy's cookies! He'll eat them all and won't leave you any!" Martha called.

Bump. Clark had probably thrown his toy plane across the room again, knocking it square into the wall. Still no sounds of little feet rushing into the kitchen.

"You're right," Martha said, raising her eyebrows at her husband. She crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of lemonade. "He doesn't understand of word of English."

"We're going to have to take this slow," Jonathan observed.