Chapter Text
When he wakes up in the morning, he’s warm. Warm and tired, and he doesn’t want to open his eyes yet because the fog hasn’t quite cleared and this is nice.
“You awake?”
He hums, and it sounds rough with sleep. Brenda chuckles. His eyes feel heavy, but he cracks them open to look at her.
It’s not too late in the morning, if the orange light filtering through the windows is any indication. But Brenda stayed with him.
She usually prefers to get up as soon as she wakes, but she stayed this morning.
Clark loved her so much.
“G’morning.”
She kisses his cheek, “good morning. How did you sleep?”
“Well. You?”
She nods and moves her hand from his back to his hair, brushing it out of his face, “yeah. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” he says. He really is fine. He’s a little tired, but he always is so that's not new. He’s feeling a lot better than yesterday, at least. Clark adds, “You didn’t have to stay.”
“I wanted to,” she assures him, “I know it freaked you out yesterday.”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, hush.” she starts detangling herself from him, and he shifts to let her sit up, “it’s not your fault. Now, are you ready to get up or do you wanna sleep in?”
He can’t really afford to stay in bed all day, even if he wants to. He starts to sit up as well, stretching with a yawn.
“I’ll get up. Do you mind making coffee?”
Brenda slips out of the bed, commenting idly, “I thought you didn’t like coffee.”
“I don’t.”
She makes a funny face at him, then leaves the room.
Clark catches himself in the mirror as he’s getting ready.
He looks… odd. Stressed out. Actually, he looks as much like a wreck as he feels right now, and that’s saying something.
He rubs his face and continues along. Best not to think too hard about that.
He showers and shaves, keeping his eyes trained on his growing mustache rather than the rest of his face. His lips are chapped. He needs a haircut soon.
Clark doesn’t like that.
By the time he’s downstairs there are two mugs of coffee, one significantly lighter in color than the other. Brenda always preferred sugar and cream in her coffee, though it appears she put some in his as well. Oh well. It wasn’t as if she knew that his preference had changed.
“What would you like for breakfast?”
His wife asks as she enters the kitchen again, picking up her mug.
He takes a sip. It’s not bitter enough. It’s fine.
Clark takes a moment to respond. It he says he doesn’t want anything, or that he’s not hungry, she’ll surely be upset with him.
“I'm fine with whatever.” He decides to respond neutrally. Brenda looks at him for a moment, then nods, satisfied.
He watches her as she gets the kitchen ready. Brenda always preferred to cook in the mornings, even with Beth around.
“What are you making?” He asks idly as she takes out milk and eggs.
“Crepes.”
He nods, then decides to help her, taking out the needed utensils while she gathers the ingredients.
He’s a bit of a klutz in the kitchen, enough so that Brenda only gives him small tasks when he helps. It’s better that way, honestly.
Brenda had banned him from the kitchen in their final year of university after he’d tried making her a birthday cake. They had to replace quite a few pieces of equipment. Clark still felt bad about it sometimes.
“Do you remember what time the market opens? I could’ve sworn it was 7, but I’m not sure.”
Clark doesn’t entirely remember either, “seven sounds right.”
Brenda looks up at the clock, “would you mind heading down and getting some fruit?”
He nods, “what do we need?”
“Strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries if they have any. Are you alright going alone?”
“Of course.” Why wouldn’t he be?
“If you’re sure.”
And so he heads out with a kiss to the cheek.
He hasn’t been to the market yet, and hasn’t seen it in a while. There’s a low chance that it’s been flooded, but he’s been meaning to go nonetheless.
It’s early enough to be a bit chilly still, the dew clinging to the grass as he heads down. The morning fog curls thickly around the trees and houses. There’s a serenity to the morning that he’s sorely missed. The birds have begun to chirp sweetly, signaling the rising sun. It’s light enough to see the road even without the streetlights.
He turns at the crossroads and braces himself for the twin bridges.
Clark hadn’t always hated heights. In fact, when he was younger there was hardly a thing in the world that would stop him from heading through the woods and up the bluffs. The view at the peak was breathtaking, and the solitude it provided was more calming than anything.
That changed with Evan’s death. He’d watched the fall from his boat, had seen the aftermath. That was enough to make anyone wary.
Even after Chief Jakes ruled it suicide, the thought plagued him around high places. All sense of contentment he used to get when taking walks up by the dam was gone, and he couldn’t go fishing without feeling ill.
The very first time he met Descole had been on that cliff. He’d just been appointed mayor and hadn’t been processing most of what was happening to him.
Clark hadn’t known what would happen when he went up. He hadn’t known that everything would change in that one night.
He shakes himself off. Clark ought to stop thinking about that man. It was all over.
He’s safe now. Clark repeats the thought as he steps onto the bridge. It creaks, the ropes swaying a bit under him.
One foot in front of the other now. Clark just had to keep walking, and not think about how the wood was getting old. He has to not think about the noises, or think about how he could fall through, and he has to not think about Evan, or the cliff, or the rushing of the water below him.
There’s a lump in his throat now, and the telltale panic builds in his chest. He desperately pushes the feeling down and takes another step. Clark cannot freeze here, even if his knees are feeling rather weak and he’s getting lightheaded and-
Clark looks down.
The river seems so far away below his feet, and the noise blends with his racing pulse.
No, no, no. He takes a step forward, then another. The rope bridge moves with his weight, and he can’t help but imagine falling through one of the boards, or tipping over the side, or any number of awful possibilities. Clark tightens his grip on the rope and stumbles like a fawn until he’s back on solid ground.
He takes a good few minutes to calm himself before starting on the second bridge. His heart pounds, but he keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the end goal and doesn’t repeat his previous mistake of looking down. The cliffs have a rather rapid drop off between the two bridges, and god only knows what seeing the height would do to him now.
Despite his best efforts, he’s lightheaded and feeling rather awful by the time he’s trudging the path down to the market.
He makes a mental note to invest in a sturdier bridge.
Aunt Taffy’s cart, and the market as a whole, comes into view as he steps down the cobbled path.
There’s a pang of nostalgia, seeing the cart again. Not once since Clark was a little boy had she changed the design or colors of the cart. Of course, she’d stopped selling to him when he got too old, but she remained kind. Though she acted a bit sour sometimes, she always seemed to have a soft spot for Clark and his little sisters.
She always seemed kinder to the children who she sensed were troubled.
“Good morning, Auntie.” He doesn’t expect too much response, as the old woman was setting up for the day, but she turns around and stares at him.
“Clark!” she rushes over as fast as her legs will carry her, and Clark freezes nervously, “Goodness, boy. I’ve missed you, you haven't been by in so long!” She tuts, “You ought to be ashamed for making your auntie so worried. Oh, you’re so pale.”
“Sorry.” He flushes as she grabs his cheeks, bending down so she can fuss over him like he’s a child again.
“I was there in the plaza, you know. Your poor wife…” He lets her chatter for a while, a little too focused on her touch to pay attention to what he had to say.
Eventually, she lets him go with a pat to the cheek, and he straightens, praying no one had seen that. He adjusts his blazer and tie, and bids her adieu.
“Be sure to see me on your way back, dear. I want to give you some sweets for your little boy.”
He reassures her and steps through the gate into the market.
He’s seen the flooding damage already in town, but it seems the market was particularly affected by the breaking of the dam. Misthallery was situated on a slant, after all, so the water hit the lower areas the hardest. Large puddles line the cobbled streets, and there are bins and piles of miscellaneous items spilled over. Wooden beams and poles supporting the stalls have collapsed, splintering and leaving their debris all over.
The market, as long as Clark had known it, hadn’t been the most savory place. Oftentimes it was home to those who had no other place, and you had to keep your wits about you when in the deeper parts. Not once, however, had Clark seen it in such disrepair. To his knowledge, the specter hadn’t made its way to the market, and even with the heavy storming Misthallery got on occasion, there had never been this much damage.
He rounds the corner right, hoping to find someone already setting up. It should be around the time for the shops to open, but of course it could be thrown off by the flooding. There’s no guarantee the starting time hadn’t changed in the time he and Brenda had last gone, either. A year can change many things.
Clark spies a girl in one of the stalls as he approaches. Her stall is well made, relatively. He recalls that before, most of her produce had been laid out in boxes on the ground, but now there were makeshift tables to keep it all off the floor. A good idea, all things considered.
He’s blanking on her name. Last year she’d been working with her mother at the stall. Veda was kind to him, even if she happened to be a bit high with her prices. Clark frequently had to haggle with her, even if he could afford the higher pricing. He understood just how much the shutting down the factory had affected the market, after all. The woman had just been trying to adapt to the situation at hand.
Veda’s daughter clung to her skirts during the mornings, as Clark remembered. She’d peer out at strangers with wide eyes. The girl hadn’t been too sociable with adults, but she played with the other children. Marie, he thought was her name, but his memory fails him.
“Ah, hello…” He clears his throat, and the girl whips around. Her hair is longer now, the curly strands falling past her shoulders. She’s wearing her mother’s red bandana, or one just like it.
“I’m not open yet.” She grins at him, “Sorry, Mr. Mayor. You can come back in a few minutes.”
“Can I ask if you have any raspberries?”
Her smile becomes a little strained, “You’re bad at following directions, huh?”
“My apologies. I’ll be back in a bit.” Feeling thoroughly chastised, he makes his way down the street. The girl was remarkably like her mother, even from the short interaction they’d had.
Well, he might as well make the most of the chance to be outside. Clark wanders a bit through the streets, finding that not much has changed apart from some new water damage. He hadn’t authorized any construction in this area, having most efforts designated to parts of town damaged by the specter. He had precious little control of what happened outside of his little office, but Descole never interfered with his efforts to keep his town on its feet. Not until the end, anyways.
The streets got narrower as he got into the heart. It seemed to get cluttered with more shops and signs and the everpresent junk scattered. Light peeked through missing areas in the patchwork rooves, but most illumination came from the shops.
Clark wasn’t ever allowed in the heart of the market when he was young. His father had said rather unsavory things about the people that resided there, and that Clark was only to grab what he needed without venturing too far in. Even now, after all these years, there’s an odd lingering sensation that he shouldn’t be there.
He’s rather absorbed in surveying the damage done, trying to mentally calculate how much money should go into funding repairs. The market was run down as-is, but he couldn’t forego the people living there. His foot snags on something in his way and he quickly rights himself and looks down.
It’s a small burlap sack that’s now spilled onto the street, full of gears and odd metal tidbits. Curiously, he bends down to grab it.
Before he can, a small hand snatches it out of his grasp. A small girl runs past him, followed by a redheaded boy with a hat. He doesn’t recognize either child, but judging by their demeanor he can guess that they live around here.
“Got it!”
“Wren, this is why Scraps said not to leave it here! Plus the bag is all wet now!”
The two begin to bicker back and forth, and Clark takes his chance to try and back out. He wasn’t good with children.
“If you didn’t put it down, Luke’s dad wouldn’t have almost got it!”
“You’re the one that wanted to check out Aunt Taffy’s cart today, Socket!”
Clark backs away slowly, rounding the corner back towards the outskirts and away from the arguing siblings. Hopefully Veda’s daughter had her stall open by now. He ought to get back home as soon as possible for a variety of reasons, one of which being delegating a few people to fixing up the market.
He passes a few more children on his way back. In fact, during this trip he hasn’t seen a single adult besides Auntie Taffy. There’s a chance that they could be simply sleeping in, or have somewhere else to be, but it still rubs him the wrong way.
Though he isn’t one to voice such an opinion in a place like this, Clark is a firm believer that children shouldn’t be working. He never minded seeing the children helping out their parents in the market, of course, but running a shop shouldn’t be the responsibility of anyone but the owners. Circumstances here were a bit nuanced, but in general, childhood should be for schooling and playing.
A child needn’t worry about money or food or bills or taking care of anyone other than themselves.
Not that a parent shouldn’t encourage responsibility. But there’s a fine line between asking a child to clean his room and demanding that the child be the only one to housekeep.
Finding himself walking back towards the market gate, he shakes off his scattered thoughts. No use reminiscing the past.
He makes a mental note to inquire about the workers that used to be employed in the factory. Perhaps a stipend could be implemented to bolster their incomes?
Off track again. What was wrong with him today?
As he approaches the girl’s stall, still wracking his brain for her name, he finds her talking with another child. This one is taller than some of the others, and he’s fidgeting with his purple bandana as he leans over the table to speak with the girl. He’s in a red coat that seems a bit too big for him, and it doesn’t exactly look new.
Clark clears his throat to announce his entrance, and both kids jump back.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The girl waves her friend off, and the boy eyes him before heading the opposite direction back into the market.
“I’m open now.” She smiles cheerily, a sharp contrast from her earlier troubled expression. “Whaddya need?”
“Just raspberries and strawberries, if you have them.” He feels like he’s forgetting something on the list, but he ignores it. If it’s important, he’ll remember.
“You sure you don’t want more than just that?” She asks as she turns around to look through the crates of produce. “We’ve got blueberries too! And juicy apricots and peaches! Oh, and plums.”
Veda’s daughter sets two crates down. “Luke likes plums, right?”
Clark flounders under her intense stare, “I’m not sure. Perhaps?”
She squints at him appraisingly, “Well, he always asks for them when he comes with your butler. Or,” She hums thoughtfully, “Maybe it wasn’t your butler. Either way, they bought plums.”
Clark swallows. It really highlighted how little he knew about his son, to not even know that Luke likes plums. The thought that Descole might know more about him than anyone makes Clark feel a little sick.
“I’ll take a few.” His voice comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat.
The girl pushes her hair out of her face and nods, packaging the fruits with a carefulness unsuited for her age.
“I’ll throw in a free one too. Tell Luke that Marilyn says hi.”
Marilyn! Yes, that was her name.
“How’s your mother doing?” He raises the courage to ask.
The girl’s hands pause, and she looks up at him. “Mom’s fine.” Then, she goes back to her work while Clark watches. He’s not so convinced that Marilyn is telling the truth.
It seems to be a sore spot, so Clark tries to wrack his brain for new conversation topics. Anything related to the specter or Descole is out, trying to ask about Marilyn’s mother is out, and parents in general seem to be the wrong subject for the children living around here.
He hadn’t exactly been paying attention during the evening of Descole’s departure, but a tidbit of information rises to the surface. It was something he barely thought of at the time, far too preoccupied with the thoughts in his head.
It was something Beth had mentioned offhand during one of her absentminded cleaning rambles.
It’s something that Clark barely recalls from over a year ago, during one of Evan’s parties.
“Say, Marilyn.” Marilyn looks back up at him, having securely packed 4 plums into a bag. “What do you know about the black market?”