Archive of Our Own

There was a baby in Clark's arms.

There was nothing wrong with the baby, despite the origins of said baby — found amidst the sterile, white cell in the underground lab that he and Batman had uncovered in their chase after Luthor. The baby was, arguably, even disappointing in regards to its surroundings — when Batman pointed out just how protective Luthor was holding this lab, how it had been under their noses without their knowledge for the better part of a year, Clark had feared something along the lines of another Doomsday. A baby simply wasn't Doomsday.

Yet even Doomsday couldn't pack enough of a punch to knock the air out of Clark as the baby had, when they opened their eyes, and Clark's own stared back at him.

“You should come with me,” said Batman. 

Clark stopped staring at the resting baby — wrapped in the heavy mass of Batman's cape — in his arms long enough to glance up. “What?” he asked dumbly.

Batman visibly hesitated, which was strange enough, but the situation really took on the supernatural mood when he restated, in his deep growl, “You should come with me. In the Fox.” His eyes dropped to the bundle in Clark's arms for a split second. “I assume you haven't taken the time to plan things out.”

Plan things out. The slight weight in Clark's arms seemed to become heavier than anything Clark had ever carried.

“Alright,” said Clark, and it sounded like Clark (odd, alone, scared Clark) and nothing like Superman.

There were police and federal agents crawling all over the place, though they wouldn't find anything about the baby there. Batman had already cleaned the systems, and Alfred was probably putting together a drive with the information that the government would need. 

Regardless of how Clark plans things out, the government did not need to know about the baby.

The Fox was enormous in comparison to the Bat, and Batman had brought it in before they knew the only thing they would be taking was a twelve-inch bundle. Clark was grateful, however, because, without it, he'd be figuring out how to best hold a baby while flying quickly enough to avoid any cameras, and he wasn't sure he wanted to experiment.

Auto-pilot allowed Batman to head to the back of the Fox with Clark and the baby while updating Alfred and Diana on the situation. That was all background noise since Clark was too preoccupied with staring at them.

Then the eyes opened again.

Clark startled, and Batman stopped talking. Clark looked up at him, helpless, before a soft noise made him look back down.

Big blue eyes sleepily gazed up at him, and a tiny version of Clark's nose twitched — the only two things visible as the rest of it was wrapped in the jet black cape.

“I turned up the temperature,” said Batman, modulated voice somehow more gentle than usual. “You can take him out of the cape.”

Clark exhaled softly, nodding his thanks, before holding that tiny body in one hand and using his other to move the cape around so the baby wasn't so hidden. 

The baby made a soft, upset noise, and Clark stiffened, his movements hesitant and unsure, which seemed to upset them even more. Once most of his body was visible, Clark then began to wrap him more gently. 

“A boy,” Batman was speaking into his comms again. The baby made another fussy noise. Clark glanced up, and Batman was at his side in an instant. 

They were hopeless.

“Alfred will know what to do,” Batman said. “I've never— ...Not an infant. But Alfred— ”

The baby's face wrinkled, upset at the intimidating figure, and Clark started panicking before the babe's face smoothed over, eyes going bright. 

Clark looked up again. Bruce was smiling, strained but real, cowl pushed back and hair damp and messy. His eyes were trained on the baby, though they snapped to Clark before Clark could look away.

Clark wet his lips. “What am I...”

Bruce's smile faded. "Plan things out."

For the last ten minutes of the flight, the baby was crying and wasn't stopping.

Bruce had long since disappeared in the cockpit, which was well enough because the silence of both of them staring at the baby had quickly become awkward, so Clark was alone when the baby started crying and didn't stop.

"Shshshshshsh," cooed Clark desperately, pacing slowly and rocking the baby as gently as he could. The tiny face was beyond upset, eyebrows furrowed, nose wrinkled, and the cries piercing and resonating off of the Fox's walls. "I'm sorry, buddy, I'm so— God, I'm sorry, bud, just— please— don't cry."

The baby continued crying.

When they landed, Alfred was patiently waiting, his face quietly creasing in concern when Clark appeared with the boy in his arms.

"Master Kent," he greeted. "If you would like to change into something more comfortable, I may be able to cure the babe's upset."

Inexplicably, Clark felt himself recoil at the idea of handing over the being in his arms, despite its loud cries having been a steady assault against his ears, and, though he would trust Alfred with the baby more than anyone else other than his own mother, he felt sick at the idea of it.

His hesitation must've been apparent, but instead of taking offense, Alfred merely gave him a very warm and reassuring expression. "I vow that I will take the utmost care of him, Master Kent."

"I know," said Clark instantly, and then he grit his teeth, looking back down at the sobbing baby. Pushing down his own upset, he strode forward and carefully handed him to Alfred.  

Alfred instantly repositioned the child in his arms, and Clark felt embarrassment pulse through him. That had been the way he was holding him the entire time. 

"I'll feed him and dress him properly," Alfred informed Clark, though he seemed most concerned with rocking the baby and humming to him. "I can feel that he has sullied Master Bruce's cape, as well. That should give you ample time to — "

"Plan things out," said Clark.

"Yes," agreed Alfred, and the baby had stopped crying.

After Steppenwolf and after the League touched down in Gotham and after they all left and after Diana touched Clark's hand softly, asking him if he was okay, after all of that —

Clark was hovering over his and Lois's apartment building, and hesitated.

He could see it — it was bare of Lois's things, but it still had his. He wasn't sure where she was living, but she wasn't sleeping there. 

He shut his eyes, and he could feel her, arms wrapped gingerly around his neck as they flew to Kansas, the field around them, her murmured reassurances, her—

Her heartbroken gaze.

He didn't have to wait long to hear her call him, and he didn't wait long to go to her, despite knowing what he'd hear. Lois was warm, caring, and honest — she'd never give him any room to raise false hope.

“Clark,” she whispered, and he let her hug him, trying to be Superman because Clark — dead, forgotten, lost Clark — could feel something breaking, deep inside of him.

“He was... created three months ago,” said Bruce, arms crossed over his black shirt. He gestured to the screen, and pictures of a test tube flashed, gradually morphing into a larger tank. There was a fetus inside. “The same lab, under heavy security and only few people knew of the— experiment.” He paused. “Experiments.”

Clark's eyes flew up. “There's...?”

“No,” said Bruce quickly. “The others date back as far as a year ago. Most of them were never anything but cells. Only twelve survived long enough to be considered infants, and were taken out of the testing environments.”

Clark looked over at the screen — one month, they cut off the umbilical cord. The picture switched, and the baby looked—

Clark averted his eyes, his stomach twisting and his throat drying. “How many...”

Bruce caught his gaze. “They tried over one hundred and twelve trials,” he said calmly, “with replications of your DNA. The embryos then grew rapidly but always with defects. The team of scientists finally tried with the actual sample of your DNA along with another donor, and the cells stabilized.” 

“What did they do to the ones that were basically… born?” he asked. “Are they— Are they still out there somewhere?”

Bruce was silent. Clark looked at him. There was only more grief layered in his eyes.

“Why,” he asked.

“Luthor didn't want another Doomsday,” said Bruce. “He wanted his own Superman.”

Clark exhaled, rubbed a hand down his face, and was startled when his hand came back wet. He quickly wiped at his cheeks, and Bruce politely looked away.

They sat in the quiet, just watching the pictures go until they stopped — yesterday, the baby still wasn't showing any sign of developing powers, according to the notes flashing across the screen.

Clark could imagine what they had planned to do if he still hadn't within another month.

“Planning things out,” he suddenly said, hoarsely and ruefully.

Bruce looked at him.

Clark smiled bitterly. “What's the point? I could never be a fath— I could never be what the boy needs. I'm just... I couldn't.”

Bruce stared. Then, “Clark, I — ”

“Masters.”

Both Clark and Bruce twisted, looking behind them at Alfred, who was standing with the baby in his arms, eyes slightly wider than usual.

“The babe, sirs,” he said, “he grew.”

Clark had a relatively strict routine, which was arguably impressive, considering that he was a dead man and Superman all at once.

When he and Lois separated, he first went to his mom — comfortable, in all of their restored glory, because billionaire teammates are, essentially, very helpful — and cried his eyes out for a week, though he kept that screwed shut because he was dead only a couple of months prior and his powers were still on the fritz.

After that, he realized that he really was a dead man with no name, no home, no workplace, no future, and the list continued on until he was crying again, this time 200 miles up, curled up in a ball and hoping that the International Space Station wouldn't float by.

A month after, when Clark finally started wearing the suit again, he adopted a strict routine. He moved to the Fortress. He wouldn't bother his mother — he refused to, and she was already very busy keeping up the farm, so he let her think that he was very busy, too. 

He slept for thirteen hours a day, interrupted by the different calls for Superman throughout the night. He woke up and read the news through the Fortress computer. He would start his own article, finish it, and then discard it with vigor because gone was his style, replaced with bitter writing, even when he wrote about the hopeful. He would go to a new country and try new food, though some days, everything just tasted like ash and dust and blood. He wasn't eating through his savings, but to really complete the lifestyle, he soon added a job into the mix — it was like the past few years (more than that — several?) was a joke, and he was right back to where he was after his father died. He'd call his mother before he went to sleep, a thirteen-hour rest that was interrupted by different calls for Superman throughout the night.

Clark had a strict routine, which was helpful, because if he didn't, his days would blur.

“Three months old,” Clark said, voice wavering. “How old was he when we first brought him to you?”

“An estimated two months,” answered Alfred. He was surveying the boy, who was laying in an elegant crib with the initials B.W. inscribed on the side. Alfred's eyes were beyond soft, softer than Clark had ever seen them, and Bruce kept throwing inscrutable glances between the older man and the baby.

Clark laid his face into his hands. “So he's growing quickly.”

“Do you know if you did, as well?” asked Bruce, leaning against a table.

Clark shook his head. “I didn't. My mom, she— she likes her photo albums. I grew at the average rate and she captured every moment of it.” 

“We haven't yet gotten DNA samples,” said Bruce, “but it's possible that they engineered his cells to make him grow faster. He didn't want a baby form of you — he wanted you, just under his control.”

Clark's disgust and guilt were like a loose string around his neck.

Bruce and Alfred kept talking about the consequences and preparations and tests they'd have to do, but Clark's gaze fell to the boy. 

He was laying back, chubby arms stretched above his head, his legs in the air even as he slept. He was wearing a black onesie and matching black cap, though Clark had no idea why Alfred had them in his possession. He blended in well with the Batcave, unbelievably, and it made Clark tremble at the idea of the boy having to be raised with a bunch of the Justice League in his life. 

The baby made a noise, as if in response to Clark's thoughts, one arm coming down to lay across his face. He looked very, startlingly alone in the crib, as a baby never should. Clark wondered if that was how he appeared to Jonathan and Martha Kent all those years ago. The baby brought the other arm down.

Without thinking, Clark asked aloud, “Does he need to be wrapped up?”

The other two men cut their conversation off, looking over at him. Clark flushed. “I'm sorry.”

Bruce stared, while Alfred smiled at him. “Do not apologize, Master Kent. However, no, he does not. At three months old, it's best to stop swaddling, at least at night time.”

Clark nodded, gratefully but still uneasy, which must appear in his expression somewhere, because Bruce was suddenly moving.

“Do you have somewhere you need to be tonight?” he asked, and Clark looked at him and realized he was looking at him.

“What?” he asked lamely. And then: “Oh. No. I mean... No, I don't.” No one was staying up for Clark Kent at the Fortress, and his mother would understand if he didn't call as he had told her about his and Bruce's plan to storm the lab the day prior.

Bruce nodded. “Would you stay here? We have a guest room. It'd make it easier to conduct the tests.”

Alfred was looking at Bruce with an expression that Clark couldn't read, and Bruce was looking at Clark with stubborn determination, and Clark looked at the baby, and he thought about the Fortress, and he said, “Yes. Thank you.”

“This is a closet?” asked Clark, holding the baby to his chest.

“Yes,” said Bruce, carrying the crib past him.

“There's a window,” pointed out Clark. “And another tiny closet inside of it.”

Bruce pushed the crib to the wall and stepped back to survey the room with Clark. “Yes,” he said, looking at Clark, “it is small.”

Clark's lips quirked up, tiny and exasperated but there, and Bruce's stretched into a smirk. Alfred came in with a baby monitor, which Bruce eyed suspiciously.

“When did you get those,” he asked pointedly.

Alfred ignored him. “My rooms are rather close, Master Kent,” he informed Clark. “Though yours and Master Wayne's are farther, you can, of course, come at any time. However, please know that I can care for the boy if he cries in the night.”

Clark nodded, slowly and unsurely. In his arms, the baby rested, eyes shut softly and his hands fisted. His expression wasn't troubled, but Clark couldn't help but imagine that nightmares plagued his rest. Considering what it took to get him here, how much he had experienced in the short time he'd been alive...

The baby opened his eyes, blearily, clearly still dozing. He and Clark locked eyes. His little lips pursed together in a faint smile before he shut his eyes again and fell back asleep.

Clark had to look away from him, then, only to meet Bruce and Alfred's carefully averted gazes. He wet his lips. “Alright.” He handed the baby over, and Alfred took the boy gingerly and placed him in the crib. 

“Goodnight, buddy,” he whispered.

As Clark left the room and Bruce led him to the guest, he felt that ten yards had never felt so long.

The baby cried half the night away; Clark left twice to be Superman and visited Alfred both of those times. If Alfred was sending him a knowing look when the baby would only cease his sobs when Clark carried him, Clark elected to ignore it.

Despite his crying, the baby actually slept most of the time, enough that Clark was gnawing his lower lip over it, eyes glued to the silent, snoring frame. 

Bruce was in disagreement. “If he was awake, this would be uncomfortable to him,” he said plainly as he pricked the baby's tiny foot with a needle.

“I know,” said Clark, and he thrummed his fingers anxiously against the table. They were in a room of the Cave that was clearly for medical tests, but it was softened by dim light and strategically placed holograms that had stars dancing across the ceiling. “I just— The babies I've seen, they're awake more often.”

“Most babes,” said Alfred, from where he reappeared behind Bruce, “are also not growing as quickly as the boy is, sir.” He placed many bags down on the ground next to Clark, and Bruce eyed them before disappearing back into the Cave.

Alfred turned a smile to Clark. “As I know the boy is growing swiftly, I acquired enough clothing to keep him warm for, at my estimate, the next two months.”

Clark smiled, slight but genuine, at Alfred. “You didn't have to, Alfred, really,” he protested, “you and Bruce are doing so much already.”

Alfred ignored him, pulling out an outfit — it was a tiny shirt with a tiny hoodie and matching sweatpants. The t-shirt read, Little Peanut, and there was a small peanut with a bow-tie on the front.

Clark glanced at the baby, who was wrapped in a plain blue onesie.

“Okay, fine, let's see the rest,” he huffed through a laugh, and Alfred looked entirely too smug as he brought up another bag.

There were many adorable onesies that mirrored a variety of animals, though Alfred had subtly tried to hide one that Clark quickly pulled from the mix.

It was a tiny suit.

Alfred sniffed. “The boy must also be taught manners.”

“I'm from Kansas, Alfred,” Clark argued with a grin.

“And I'm from Great Britain, Master Kent,” said Alfred, moving on to the next onesie.

He pulled out a Wonder Woman-themed outfit, and Clark snorted. “Did they have any of these in my size?” he asked, faux seriously.

Alfred arched an eyebrow. “I can, of course, sew you one if you desire me to.”

Clark pulled out the next outfit — a Batman one, that was a bit too big for the baby as he was now. Palms itching, the next one Clark pulled out was a lion onesie. A sense of overwhelming relief flooded his veins.

He looked at the baby.

He wouldn't want anyone to be like him, much less the innocent soul sleeping in front of them.

Alfred gave him a very warm look when Clark looked back up, and he said, “I will go fetch us some tea and milk.”

Clark nodded.

When Clark was with the baby alone, everything would go quiet for a bit.

The baby would be asleep, as usual, in his arms, and Clark would remember his training from Alfred and he'd hold him to his chest gently while rocking back and forth. The baby was lighter than most sacks of flour, which essentially meant that Clark barely realized he was holding him — as a result, he would concentrate on him entirely, just so that his mind could wrap around the little being in his arms. 

And when the baby woke up, eyes bleary, and catch eyes with Clark and smile a bit, roguish and cute, Clark’s entire focus would be on him, and the rest of the world would sound silent, just as it did when the nuke knocked him out. 

It wasn't for long — either he could no longer ignore the cries for Superman, or Alfred or Bruce walk in, another test or a bottle of formula or a new toy. Still, Clark treasured the moments and tried not to think about what would happen when things were planned out, when the tests were done, when the baby was not a baby, when all of it was over, when things were really silent just as they always had been.

Clark’s eyes flew up, his ears catching onto several cries for Superman. California, fire. 

He walked out of his room, and Bruce was on patrol but Alfred was sitting in the living room. Alfred took the baby, and Clark always wanted to apologize for the inconvenience but the shimmer of happiness that he could see in Alfred’s eyes every time he got to hold the baby would stop Clark. And make him think of his Ma.

“Master Wayne wanted me to tell you that he needs to speak with you soon about the testing,” said Alfred.

Clark was scared of what would happen when it was all over. He tried a smile. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Clark got home late, and Bruce was standing in the room with the crying baby, which was odd enough because Bruce, although nothing but smiles and kindness toward the child, hadn't held him once. 

He fixed Clark with a very deadpan look, and Clark froze on his way to picking up the baby.

“It’s been five days,” said Bruce, “and he cries every night unless you’re with him.”

Clark picked up the baby, maintaining eye contact with Bruce. “Yeah?”

Bruce grabbed the crib and Clark watched, bewildered, as he disappeared down the hall.

When he caught up with the other man, the baby fussing in his arms, he realized Bruce placed the crib directly next to his bed in the guest room. 

“Here’s to sleeping,” the other man grumbled as he stalked out of the room, and Clark waited until he heard the master bedroom door shut close before he pulled the baby back and they giggled together.

“What a grumpy old man,” whispered Clark, rocking the baby as they walked over to the windows to look out at the moon. The baby made a soft noise, which Clark could only assume stemmed from agreement.

He could work with this.

They had the baby for a week when Alfred said that they should start giving him baby food. He was already needing more, despite being— born only three months prior. 

Clark and the baby were outside, getting some sun, which is, somewhat unsurprisingly, the only way that the baby will stay awake for a long time. It was Bruce’s theory, and Clark was endlessly grateful for it. He liked it when the baby was awake — they could play with toys. Clark always wanted a sibling, and he wasn't quite sure what his relationship with this baby was, but he didn't mind playing with toys with him.

Even if, out of all of the Justice League-inspired merchandise that was released following the situation with Steppenwolf, the baby only played with 'Waterman' and 'Legendary Lady'. Clark suspected that he liked long hair.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, from where the baby was banging the two figurines’ heads together, and the baby looked up at him with a loud noise. Clark laughed at it, and the baby laughed along as if he meant to make Clark laugh the whole time. Clark nudged his little shoulder, and the baby started babbling. 

“I suspect he is going to speak a lot,” said Alfred when the baby started babbling just yesterday. “I would know. Master Wayne never once issued a single ‘gaa’.”

It was a slow day for Superman, which meant that Clark could take advantage of being somewhat friends with a billionaire and just laze around with the baby for two hours. The boy started yawning and settled against Clark’s chest for a nap, still murmuring babbles, until they’re both dozing. 

Clark woke up to a cry. Hungry, most likely.

He went inside, set the baby in the crib in his room, and headed to the kitchen. 

“If he leaves, then the baby will — ”

“He needs to know, Master Wayne, this is beyond you choosing what is safest — ”

The expression of indignation on Alfred's face was enough to make his stomach drop, and he stared at Bruce, who looked equally stubborn. 

“The DNA testing,” Clark concluded. “What is it?”

Alfred looked down; Bruce looked up, eyes dark and resigned.

The baby cried as Clark took off to fly somewhere, anywhere, and he tried to block out how Alfred went to comfort him.

Lex Luthor.

Clark changed course and headed directly up until he was out of the atmosphere.

When Clark was younger, he used to wonder who his biological parents were.

He would see the pod and it would push him over into the slippery slope of curiosity and self-degradation. Rather than comforting, the stars above him were taunting. Clark would look up and see them all and wonder if his parents were still out there. If they were alive and well, they just didn't care that he was alone. If they had sent him off because they didn't want him — if there was something so wrong with him that his parents recoiled at the idea of keeping him. If they sent him off because they didn't care about him.

If he wasn't good enough.

And that couldn't be further from the truth— they saved him, and they thought that that was best for him, and Clark grew up with Ma and Pa and he was loved, but there were—

There were times when he would fall down the slippery slope of curiosity and self-degradation and he would look at himself in the mirror in his freakish glory and wonder if he was good enough.

It took him four days, but he landed on Wayne property as the sun was setting, reflected across the still water. There was a shimmer of frost across the grass, and Clark felt the snowstorm that was brewing above. Winter in Gotham would be a new experience for him. 

Bruce was in casual clothing, shifting through papers in the sitting room. He didn't look up at Clark. “I didn't think you'd be back so quick,” he said, tone devoid of any emotion. 

Clark felt it like a strike of kryptonite. “I'm sorry. I just— I didn't…” He struggled for words, struggling even more when Bruce's eyes caught his with a level stare. “That was… a lot. But that doesn't justify leaving. It's just— I mean— ”

“He killed you,” Bruce said, “and then he did this.”

Clark faltered. “Yes,” he said, after a moment.

“Clark, that's—” Bruce cut off irregularly, and he inhaled slowly. His breathing was steady, but his heartbeat was different from its regular, perfect rhythm. “Let me rephrase,” he said.

“Okay,” said Clark.

“Do you want to come in,” asked Bruce.

Clark shut his eyes. He could hear him. He was sleeping as Alfred was making dinner, the man quietly moving around the kitchen. He made soft noises in his sleep, most likely dreaming and babbling all throughout, and his breath was soft as it blew out.

He was a mixture of Superman and Lex Luthor's DNA.

But he was something else, something of his own, entirely.

Clark opened his eyes.

“Yes, please.”

A tension that he hadn't noticed dissipated from the set of Bruce's eyes. Clark's own chest flooded with the warmth of relief.

Alfred looked up as soon as they walked in, and gave Clark an acknowledging nod. “You've made it just in time for us to eat and Master Wayne to poke at his plate like a child.”

“Alfred,” said Bruce, slightly protesting.

Clark wanted to point out just how much that wasn't helping his case but he zipped his lips shut into a smile and said, “Hey, Alfred.” He walked to the crib, but Alfred was watching him, over-cautiously.

Clark wet his lips. “It's fine, I— I just want to hold him.”

The other two men stood silently as Clark picked the baby up. Immediately, quicker than he'd ever done before, the baby woke up. He blinked up at Clark. Then a grin stretched across his face and the insistent babbling began.

The vice around Clark's heart softened that bit more and he smiled back at the baby, twin blue eyes bright in mirth. “Hey, buddy,” he said, and the baby babbled louder. “I know, I know, I'm sorry, buddy.”

Bruce sighed. “He was crying the entire time, I hope you know.”

Clark turned to look at him, just catching the look that Alfred gave Bruce, who only pressed his lips together in an act of silence. Clark grinned at them, and the baby babbled some more, a hand coming up and clocking him in the ear.

“Yeah, I deserve that,” he said.

The baby continued to grow at an exponential rate and Clark watched as his eyes grew clearer everyday — he already seemed to be intelligent, according to Alfred's careful eyes when he would play with whatever subtly educational toy that the butler would bring home on one of his 'picking up groceries' runs.

He slept with Clark every night, and Bruce not-so-subtly mentioned to Clark the whole superpowers thing. 

“If you wake up to the baby on the ceiling,” said Bruce, casually, as Clark was getting baby food thrown at him, “don't wake me up.”

There was a part of Clark, that he won't tell Bruce or Alfred, that hoped the boy won't be like him. Won't be… 

“Half-alien,” Clark said aloud, vaguely flabbergasted, and the baby giggled at whatever he thought was so amusing about stuffing a five by five block of plastic into his mouth.

Clark tugged it from him and the baby looked at him. They were sitting on the floor in his room, a blanket underneath the baby as he leaned backward on Clark's thigh, toys splayed in front of him. “That's kind of gross, buddy,” Clark informed him.

The baby just tried to tug it back, and Clark relented the light but, to humans, firm grip he had on it. The baby grinned a little and went back to chewing a corner.

“I don't like your other dad so much,” said Clark conversationally, “but if you turn out like him… If you're normal. Like a human. That'd be great. That'd be… awesome.”

The baby just babbled a bit more, and grabbed at another toy.

And most moments were just like that. Bruce was Bruce Wayne and he was Batman and, although he showed up to say hello at least once every two days, he was busy. And Alfred seemed to just appear whenever he was needed and disappear whenever he wasn't. Clark stayed in the house most hours of the day and he never saw Alfred clean but the house was always spotless. He kept checking his and the baby's seat for crumbs whenever they moved rooms. When he asked Bruce, Bruce just looked around surreptitiously and said something about "having eyes everywhere." Clark suspected magic.

So that was that. They mostly just sat around the house, though Clark was slowly trying to get used to flying with him. At the rate he was growing, he'd soon be able to hold onto Clark by his own volition, but Clark still loved doing it. He loved flying and he loved flying with other people, being able to feel their excitement, and the baby loved flying more than he did. With the early winter cold around them, Clark would bundle the boy up snugly and hold him to his chest and he would giggle and squirm the higher they got. Clark flew in gentle swirls, floating and exhaling softly as the cold air kissed their cheeks. He was gradually getting higher, but he didn't fly anywhere with the baby. Too many risks that he felt his entire being get queasy at.

Because, no matter how much Alfred and Bruce had seemingly normalized the insanity of Clark's existence, he was still Superman.

He had to be. It was inevitable, when he'd be playing with the boy and then hear cries from across the world from guardians and how their little babies were in danger. He couldn't ignore it, even if he wanted to, and he would always rub that tiny head once for good luck before flying off.

Clark was still an alien, no matter how much the little boy next to him would look up at him like he was his— whatever. Clark may feel connected to Earth more than any other planet in the universe but that didn't mean he was a part of it — the baby was, he was born here, he was half-human, and that made Clark's chest fill with hope.

“Superman! Please! My wife— Superman! Superman!” 

The genuine distress in the woman's tone echoed within Clark's ear and he was shocked out of his reverie. The baby looked up at him, so in tune with Clark's emotion, and Clark said, “Sorry, buddy.” 

Picking up, he lent an ear out — no Alfred. Shit. There was shuffling of paper in the living room.

He bit his lip.

“Hey, Bruce.” Clark tried his hardest to not sound like he was a teenager asking for a favor.

Bruce didn't look up. “That tone is familiar.”

Clark strode over to him, baby in hands. Bruce looked up, apprehension plain on his face. “I wouldn't ask if it wasn't absolutely necessary— ”

Bruce eyed the baby, who had apparently snatched a toy and was chewing on it. “Right.”

“Bruce,” said Clark, a bit desperate.

Bruce caught his eye, then visibly prepared himself as Clark passed him the baby. As soon as he was in the other man's arms, Clark ran and reappeared within a second, dressed in his suit. Bruce was still stiffly holding the baby who was leaning against his shoulder, eyes soft as he watched Clark.

“Sorry, bud,” he said softly, nudging his cheek. Then Clark looked up, and Bruce looked at Clark, expression inscrutable. “Thank you.”

He flew off with Bruce's vaguely exasperated expression in mind.

The trip took three hours overall with clean-up and Clark just hoped that Alfred had gotten back to the house before Bruce went insane.

Flying back at full speed, despite his mental exhaustion, Clark landed on the patio, and he instantly heard the baby's soft snores. Smiling a bit, he stepped inside, only to be met with—

Bruce Wayne, sprawled across the length of the couch in a position that had to be uncomfortable and a pain in his back, was asleep. Atop his chest was the baby, binkie in mouth and eyes shut as he curled on Bruce's broad frame, a small blanket wrapped around him. He looked like the definition of smug and snug.

Bruce instantly woke at whatever sound he somehow heard of Clark's entry. He glared.

“Not a word, Kent.”

Clark mimed zipping his lips, tiptoeing past them while his fingers typed a text to Alfred to hurry back before Bruce moved.

They had him for two weeks when Diana dropped by.

She was speaking with Alfred in the Cave when Clark padded by on bare feet, back from a car crash and on his way to see the baby in an adjoined, soundproof room. She looked surprised to see him before beaming, and Alfred looked to Bruce. Clark also did.

Bruce sighed from where he was elbows deep into the Batmobile. “Not my kid,” he said, quite grumpy.

“'Kid'?” repeated Diana.

Clark and Alfred cheerfully led Diana over, and Diana gasped quietly when the boy came into view.

“Oh, Kal,” she said softly, as Clark scooped him up. Alfred had knowingly dressed him in the Wonder Woman onesie — Diana was clearly already in love. “He is beautiful.” She reached out and gently held his tiny hand; the baby gripped it in his sleep, and she beamed brighter. “When did you…?” 

Clark gave her a bit of a pained smile. “He wasn't created the way you might think.”

She looked up at him, then, eyes growing sober. “Nor was I,” she said, wry. 

Bruce came in and he and Alfred did most of the explaining for Clark; Clark just winced and twisted at all of the parts he wanted to ignore. Diana's expression was sober and understanding, her eyes continuing to glance over at the baby.

“It is awful that it happened,” she finally said, “though I am glad that I get to see you with a baby in your lap, Bruce.”

The baby had taken a liking to Bruce’s lap. Bruce just glanced down as if he hadn’t noticed the boy was there.

“May I hold him?” she asked Clark. Clark nodded.

They were quiet as she picked him up. Clark watched as she held him perfectly; she had told him once before that she loved children, though they had no place in her life. Diana had had many lives before Clark was even born — he wondered how she learned that lesson, the hard way or the easy way, and if the baby she was holding then was his lesson.

His chest hurt.

There were a few long moments where Diana just rocked him back and forth, her face lightened with affection before she looked up at Clark, eyebrows revealing her uncertainty. “Does he carry a name?”

Clark’s mouth opened, his eyebrows furrowed, and his brain went on pause. Because no, actually, he didn’t carry a name. In the two weeks they had him, he hadn't carried a name. 

“I,” he said, hesitantly, “I usually just call him ‘buddy’, or something. But, no, he doesn’t…”

Diana watched him think in overdrive, before stepping closer and nudging his shoulder with her own. “Is there no Kryptonian name worthy of him, Kal-El?” she asked.

The language and formal names flit through his mind, but the only one that held any weight kept coming back to him in an endless assault. A name that he had traced within the House of El, and had always seemed so strong — something unremarkable on Krypton. But they were not on Krypton. Where Kal-El was something beautiful there, it was only a sign of Clark’s alienness on Earth — something that was, yes, personal and important to him, but no more so than the ordinariness of Clark Kent. They both connected him to his cultures.

The baby.

One of the remaining vestiges of Krypton.

Clark’s own.

“Kon-El,” he said, voice quiet as his eyes settled on that sleeping face.

Diana’s eyes creased as she smiled. She looked down. “Hello, Kon.”

The day was quiet and unobtrusive. Mid-December, and, if Clark listened hard enough, he would hear Christmas music pouring in from every corner of the States. He didn't; he liked the quiet that came with the calm.

There was still hesitancy. Though there were countless calls for him, there were those that remained silent. He was dead; he was alive. Clark wondered, sometimes, if he was only Clark Kent, if he would have called for Superman in a time of crisis. Before or after.

The snow had melted for the afternoon, but that wouldn't last. There was another storm set for the next day, so Clark took the opportunity it presented: flying with Kon.

Kon was bundled up, and Clark tucked him to his chest as they floated up. He sat, awake but quiet for once, across Clark's heart.

The sun is high in the sky, and Clark pointed it out. “You can tell it's mid-day from the position, Kon,” he told him. Kon stayed quiet. “When I was younger, Ma and Pa used to quiz me on the time based off of the sun.”

They twisted lowly in the light, twirling around, before lying still in the air. Clark sighed. “Back then, though, I didn't know that the sun was my source for... Everything, really.”

Kon made a quiet babbling noise. Clark grinned. “Yeah. I remember in science class, when she said only plants go through photosynthesis.” Kon made a little huffy noise. “Right? Take that, Mrs. Cain.”

The clouds overhead were bright against a light sky, and they'd take over by the time night fell. Clark held Kon to him. “Hold on, buddy.”

Clark carried them low, sure of Bruce’s security but unsure of trusting anything completely, and they floated around the property. He could hear everything in Gotham, the city being east of them. He could hear Metropolis, across the bay. He could imagine Clark Kent, two years ago, following around Lois Lane, coffee-stained tie flapping in the wind. Hopelessly in love with her, hopelessly clueless about the world, hopelessly alive, hopelessly — 

“Duh,” said Kon.

Clark blinked. The weight on his chest registered with him, and he exhaled, shakily and hesitant.

Kon let himself fall backward to lay on Clark’s chest. “Duh,” he said again.

Clark wrapped an arm around him. “Yeah, sorry, buddy— just thinking.” Kon giggled a little, and Clark could tell he was getting sleepy. “I know, bad idea, it always gives me a headache.” Kon wriggled a bit. “You’re getting bigger, bud. You know, Alfred said you’re in the 96th percentile for your age? Of course, we’re just guessing, but you’re like me. Eight months and I was nearing 30 pounds, according to Ma.”

They stayed floating there, the sun touching their skin softly. Clark had a new book recommendation from Alfred for when Kon inevitably turned one year within the next two months, and he sometimes wondered what happened to ‘planning things out’. 

He had his favorite books from when he was a kid in a bag and he would start reading to Kon. It’d only been a few weeks and days were busy and Clark dreaded every inch Kon grew. 

Kon still slept a lot and he hadn’t developed any— abilities. He was just Kon, spending most of his time with Clark and Alfred, and Bruce who now let him sleep on his lap, even in the Cave. He babbled more than other babies his age, and Alfred told Clark of his early signs of intelligence, Bruce told Clark of his mixed physiology. 

And if Clark was sometimes surprised with the thought that he was caring for a baby, without a partner as he had planned— well, there was nothing more to it. Clark was caring for a baby without a partner. He was also living with a billionaire and his incredibly competent butler, and the other people closest to him were a team of super-powered individuals and his mother. A baby really wasn’t all that surprising.

Especially since he just slept so much, as he was sleeping on Clark’s chest, then. Clark grinned and floated them back down. 

They were both settling in for a nap when Clark was struck with the memory of his sleep schedule only a month prior. It had changed, a lot, and Clark wasn’t sure when, but it had, and the changes that came since he was resurrected were nothing good but this— Kon— was nice.

Closing his eyes, his eyelids rested softly rather than pressing down as they had always done before.

“I know, Ma,” said Clark, wincing. “Yes, Ma. I know. I know. Ma, of course. No, I didn't mean that. Yes, Ma. No, I told Bruce not to tell you. Yes. No. Yes, Ma, Bruce is a good bo— man, a good man. Yes, Ma. Okay, Ma. See you then.”

He hung up, equally exasperated and fond. He twisted his head, looking over at the living room.

Alfred wasn't looking at him, but there was amusement dancing around the corners of his lips as he changed Kon's diaper.

“Ha, ha,” said Clark grumpily. “You know, she's gonna fight you for control over the kitchen.”

Alfred's smile spread at the edges. “I look forward to the challenge.”

Clark landed on the ground and his Ma gave him one good squeeze before releasing him. Bruce walked out first and accepted being pulled down to her tiny height, his frame twice the size of hers, with a soft look on his face.

“Toys ahead,” Bruce told her when she pulled away because he was incapable of not being a grumpy old man. Clark grinned a bit, and Bruce sent him a look.

Ma gasped as soon as she saw a toy on the sitting room floor. Clark laughed, and the feeling in his chest was unbelievably light as they waited for her to eagerly unload her coats.

Alfred was waiting in Clark's room. When they entered, he nodded at Ma. “Mrs. Kent.”

She beamed at him, eyes inevitably straying to the covered crib. “I believe you're holding one of mine, Mr. Pennyworth?”

Alfred arched an eyebrow, stepping to the side. “Quite despicable of me.”

Clark pulled back the blanket. Kon was asleep inside, toes wrapped up in soft socks — snow had come down hard and Alfred kept bundling him up because Clark never noticed the cold unless it was pointed out to him, especially since the whole dying thing. Clark plucked him up, and he fussed a bit.

Ma hurried over and Clark lowered his arms so she could see his face. 

“Oh,” she exhaled shakily. “Oh, Clark, he looks just like you. Oh.”

Clark wet his lips. “His name is Kon. I thought— Conner. Like your — ”

“Cousin,” she filled in with a soft laugh. “Oh, I hope he doesn't talk as much as cousin Conner does.”

Bruce scoffed, but his expression was relaxed. “Just wait until he wakes up.”

As if on cue, Kon's eyes peered open. His nose scrunched a bit as he smacked his lips, and he blinked sleepily up at them. 

Blue eyes trained on Clark, and Clark smiled. “Hey, buddy.” They beamed. Then strayed over to the right, catching onto Ma.

“Oh, Clark, he looks— ” She glanced up, eyes wet, and Clark knew what she was thinking, could feel it in himself, too, about Pa, how great it would've been if—

Kon made a noise. Their attention fell back to him, and Ma laughed. “Oh, I'm sorry, darling! I'm Martha, you must be Kon.”

Kon babbled some more, and Martha laughed further, which sent him into a giggle fit. Alfred, a smile in his tone, said something about getting some beverages.

Ma quickly had Kon in her arms, and they sat on Clark's bed, becoming close acquaintances. Eyes bright, she poked a finger in his little armpit and he giggled out with surprise. She laughed, looking up at Clark and Bruce. “That was always your weakness, Clark.”

Clark flushed a bit, and Bruce's eyebrows briefly raised. “If only someone had told me that sooner.”

Clark snorted loudly before he could control it, which made Kon laugh, and then Clark laughed, and Bruce's lips reluctantly pulled into a grin. It was all rather giggly.

Ma and Kon were endlessly entertained by one another, and they spent an hour together before Kon inevitably fell asleep again. Alfred and Bruce were both gone by then, and Clark and his ma just talked the rest of the day away. Ma always had a great supply of Smallville gossip and Clark always had a Superman story that would make her smile or laugh. He let her go through all of Kon's clothing and toys and grinned when she brought her purse with a newly knit blanket and some of his old baby clothes. They took care of Kon until the darkness cast over the day, and evening had come.

She and Alfred, of course, began arguing when he offered to make dinner — luckily, Kon woke up with a cry, and she was too tempted to comfort him to argue.

“Next time,” she warned Alfred, who only smiled serenely.

Clark followed her, just as Bruce was walking through the hall, and they both stopped to watch her shush and pick up Kon. Kon, after another minute, quieted down.

“Must be a Kent trait,” muttered Bruce.

Ma twisted to look at him with a smile, before looking back down and poking a finger in Kon's stomach, and he giggled and grabbed it and then Ma winced and then—

“He's got Clark's strength, too,” she said lightly, and Bruce tensed as Clark's hope crumpled all around him.

It didn't stop after that.

Just as he grew quickly, his strength developed quicker than even Clark's had. They poured over the file work from the lab, just to ascertain that this was actually happening, that the baby was really half—

Superman. 

“This was expected,” said Bruce. Clark didn't look at him. “Clark. We expected this.” The screen flipped through the abilities they were aiming to replicate.

Clark turned away as it described his likely immortality. 

Kon, beautiful Kon. 

Superman.

Another future, tainted.

Different, strange, Zod, alien, dangerous, murderous, blasphemous, the Bat, kryptonite, Luthor, Doomsday, fear, pain, nothing, anger, rage, fear, Steppenwolf, isolation, loneliness, Luthor— Kon— Kon—

Clark awoke with a startle, his hands pressing to his chest, the phantom feeling of the spear piercing his heart and oh, god, fear and pain and it was so strange, it was nothing he ever felt and he wanted it to go away, he wanted to breathe, and he was dying, Clark was—

Kon moved over in his crib, facing Clark's direction. His face was untroubled.

But Kon was Clark, so Kon was—

Clark twisted on his side and sobs wracked his body.

The cries resounded in Clark’s ears in the early morning. He laid for a moment, his head and chest feeling empty.

There were so many cries.

The suit felt heavy on his body, dragging him down. The sky was dark. Kon was asleep; Bruce was in the Cave, just back from patrol. Alfred was asleep. 

Clark stepped out and took off.

There was an entire apartment building. It was collapsing in on itself as a result of a fire that started on the third floor. It wasn’t up to code. The air was plagued with smoke and there were consistent sirens and screaming and crying and Clark longed for the lake house but he wouldn't— There were too many cries, and there were tears as they stared up at him, adoration and fear and— 

There were too many. Clark hadn’t woken up soon enough. He had lost too many already. 

He got everyone else out, including dying people that could spend their last moments with whoever was waiting for them outside. The corpses weighed too heavy in his hands.

The last man he received had no one. He grabbed Superman's hand and said he didn't want to be alone. 

Superman said okay. The man said he wanted to know what will happen when he dies because no one knew, no one but Superman. 

Superman asked him if he'd like to know about flying instead.

The man nodded, chest irregularly moving up and down. 

So Clark stood next to him, speaking softly about flying above the clouds until the man let out his last breath.

The paramedics took the body. 

Rain began to fall down around them. 

But it, just like Clark, was too late.

God, Kon.

Kon was, biologically, nearly one year old. He was easily acquainted with flying with Clark now, after months of floating, so it was not hard to pick him up from the lakehouse. Retrieving his things wouldn't be hard, given that most of his belongings were as big as Clark’s palm. He was awake, but he was always quieter when they were flying. He held to Clark easily and Clark flew, through the light snow, with his throat tight and clenching and hurting but this was right.

Smallville shaped him. His Ma and Pa shaped him. Kon was like him, but he was less so. Smallville could shape him. Ma could shape him. He could be happy with her. 

Clark felt wetness against his cheeks, and he wish he could pretend it was the snow, but his vision was blurred and his heart was breaking but—

Kon was beautiful, Kon was everything. Kon had to be better. Clark was created, Clark acted, and Kon was created to counteract him and Kon shouldn’t have to deal with that, much less Clark. Clark, who was always falling short; Clark's dependence because he was just that— he could do just fine on his own until the empty moments where he would realize that he was so alone, all the time, a sole member of an alien species, and he would mess up, mess up so bad that he dies, and—

Nothing made sense. Clark just couldn’t do that to Kon. Whatever that was, that evil that was lurking from his actions and his failure to act— it was his worst enemy, and he wouldn’t let it taint Kon.

The lighting around them grew darker as they flew inland, flying from the sun, and Clark flew from their shared past. He wouldn’t let it ruin Kon, not like it ruined him.

Smallville was right under them. The house was silent below, his mother's alarm still having not gone off. It was still.

Clark untucked Kon from his chest and held him close, but far enough to see his little face.

He had big, blue eyes, mirror to Clark’s own, the first sight that Clark saw when he and Batman uncovered a baby all those months ago. His nose was rounded. His lips curved like Clark’s own. His ears were big, just like Clark’s. The only difference was the set of his brow, and Clark found it too endearing to resent the reminder of the other half of Kon’s DNA.

Kon looked up at him, eyes bright and curious.

“Hi, buddy,” said Clark, voice cracking.

Kon watched him. Then:

“Ka'.”

Clark startled.

Kon’s eyes curved, amusement dancing around them. 

“What?” said Clark.

Kon wiggled a bit. “Ka'.”

Was that— Kal?

Clark didn’t know what to do, he— flailed. In the air. His legs shook. Kon laughed, loud and bright, and repeated:

“Ka'! Ka', Ka', Ka', Ka', Ka'—”

Clark’s expression must have been far too amusing, because Kon started laughing harder. It took a long minute of Kon repeating ‘Ka'’ and Clark’s flailing that Clark finally laughed with him, broken but genuine, and he held the boy to his chest while Kon laughed and it was—

His.

Something of his own.

“We’re moving out.”

Bruce didn’t look up from his screen; he just made a noise.

Clark straightened his posture, scared and so unsure but determined. “Soon.”

Bruce still didn’t look up, just typing away. “So you planned things out.”

Clark’s lips quirked up a bit, dryly amused. “Yes.”

Bruce finally glanced up, eyes shrewd and completely inscrutable.

Clark had never felt so nervous in his life.

“So,” said Bruce, “what’s the plan.”

Clark wet his lips. “It’s the age of online journalism,” he began, “and I’m ready to join it, even if it makes something shrivel inside me. The Fortress is big and it can be cold but Kon is developing his powers quick and I can moderate the temperatures or I’ll figure something out, you know? And we don’t know when he’s going to stop growing, right, if he’ll ever stop growing this quickly, so we should just— I don’t know, I want the job. I’ll find a place in Metropolis to keep in case he stops growing sometime soon, and he can live— a relatively normal life, though the Smallville in me is arguing that it’s no life to live, being in the city, but you turned out fine, no matter what anyone — including you — may say, and — ”

“Alright.”

Clark opened his mouth to argue further, but then the response registered with him. He paused.

“‘Alright?’” he repeated.

Bruce arched an eyebrow. “Okay,” he confirmed. “Do it.”

Clark just stood there.

Bruce’s expression somehow— softened, if it was possible, and he stood up, moving over to Clark. He laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I never doubted that you would make a good dad,” he said. “Or big brother, uncle, mentor, friend. It was never a doubt in my mind. And I agree with you. You’re both ready to move out.” 

Clark met his sure gaze, and let the solidity of his friend wash over him. “I’m terrified.”

“You should be,” assured Bruce. Somehow it was more comforting than anything else he could possibly say. He released Clark’s shoulder with one squeeze, then moved back over to his chair. “Just don’t make me be the one to tell Alfred.”

Clark laughed, and his chest felt like it laughed right along with him.

The Fortress was always quiet, but the solitude was not so deafening as it once was.

There was a lot of touching up to do, and Clark does want to buy a place in Metropolis, but that could come later. Time moved fast for Kon, but it always moved slowly for Clark. They’d figure out a center speed.

Kon’s head was filled with more hair than ever, dark curls that made Clark ruefully settle for a lifetime of teaching the boy how to slick it back.

He wasn’t sure they were going to get a lifetime— if Kon was going to grow to five years old, seventeen years old, thirty years old, or live eternally. But they had each moment that they spent together, and, for now, it was enough to keep Clark warm.

It was Christmas Eve, and they had a meeting with Alfred and Bruce with Ma in Smallville the next day where Diana would drop in, and things had changed but they weren’t for the worse. 

Clark rocked Kon gently as Kon opened his eyes sleepily. A toothy grin followed.

No, Clark thought, smiling back. This wasn’t worse, at all.