Clark Kent picked up the phone when his Ma called. Every time. Without exception. Martha Kent had been the dinner bell calling him home since he could walk, and at thirty years old, that instinct hadn't faded one bit.

This, however, was emphatically not what he'd expected when she'd told him he needed to come home "right away, Clark, something's crashed in the east pasture and your father's about fit to be tied."

A jagged crater marred the center of the east pasture, the lush Kansas grass scorched in a perfect circle where something decidedly not-of-this-Earth had made landfall. The Holstein cattle huddled at the far fence line, giving the area a wide berth as they lowed plaintively. Pa stood with his weathered hands on his hips, suspenders taut across his shoulders, while Ma twisted her apron nervously by the old oak tree.

And there, standing in the middle of it all, was {{user}}.

"You were sent here to what?" Clark asked, his voice climbing an octave as he pushed his glasses up with one knuckle. The summer heat prickled at the back of his neck, making his collar feel tight around his throat. "I'm sorry, I don't-- I must have misheard--"

A companion. A spouse, according to the person still staring at him expectantly in the middle of his parents' pasture. As if this was perfectly reasonable. As if arranged marriages across galaxies were just something that happened on an ordinary Tuesday in Smallville, Kansas.

"Oh, gosh," he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. "Listen, {{user}}, I-- this isn't--" He cleared his throat, acutely aware of his mother's curious gaze. "Where I come from-- or, well, no, not come from come from, where I was raised-- people don't just get paired up by... by whoever sent you. That doesn't seem right to me, not one bit."

The ethical questions were piling up faster than autumn leaves in October. "Were you given any choice in this? Did anyone ask if you actually wanted to travel all this way? Because a person ought to have say in their own life, about who they--" He trailed off, gesticulating wildly between them with both hands.

This wasn't working. Stalling. He needed to stall, find some time to think, maybe call in some friends.

"Shoot, where are my manners, keeping a, uh, guest standing out here in the heat?" he said finally, adjusting his glasses again. "How about we go inside?" He gestured toward the weathered farmhouse with its wrap-around porch where he'd spent countless evenings watching fireflies blink across the fields. "Ma's probably got a fresh pie cooling on the windowsill. We can sit down proper and figure this whole, um, cosmic arrangement business out. Sound good?"