Archive of Our Own ^beta

Clark is talking to Lois and Jimmy in their office at the Planet when he hears it.

It's a heartbeat.

Clark hears those all the time these days. He can hear Lois and Jimmy's right now. Can hear everyone in the whole newsroom's; the whole building's; the whole city's.

And he can hear his own heartbeat, though he's so used to it that he usually tunes it out.

So . . . why is he hearing his own heartbeat, he wonders slowly, trying not to frown. Not sure what about his own heartbeat would make him want to frown, when–

Oh, he realizes.

It's not his heartbeat. It's not even in the building; it's blocks and blocks away.

Why on earth would he have thought a stranger's heartbeat on the other side of the city was his own? That doesn't make–

ta-tummm

. . . sense.

Clark blinks, very slowly. The heartbeat carries on, sounding excited and eager and . . .

And . . . and strong.

He isn't sure why he cares so much, that it's strong. That it sounds . . . healthy. It's not like he ever wants to hear a weak heartbeat, after all. A weak heartbeat is never, ever a good thing, except when the alternative is no heartbeat at all.

But this specific heartbeat . . . for some reason, he cares that this specific heartbeat is strong.

Why does he . . .

ta-tummm ta-tummm

That's not how human heartbeats sound, Clark realizes, slowly. That's not–no, that's not a human heartbeat. Maybe not any kind of heartbeat he's ever heard before at all.

But it sounds so familiar all the same. It sounds . . .

Right.

He doesn't know how else to explain it.

Clark frowns. He glances towards the wall in the direction of the ta-tummm heartbeat, letting his glasses slip low on his nose so he can look over them.

Specifically, so he can use his X-ray and telescopic vision over them. There's . . . the heartbeat is twelve blocks away. It's coming from a body on the street, one that's standing in place but not actually staying still, gesturing expansively and speaking to someone in a . . . food truck? Looks like a food truck, yeah. The heartbeat's owner isn't especially tall or broad, but it looks like all their growth plates are still open, so they're probably not physically mature yet. Judging by their posture and body language, they're most likely male. And probably a teenager, given both their size and those growth plates. Younger to mid-teens, he thinks? Maybe?

Clark tunes in his hearing. The heartbeat's owner gestures at themselves and says, "Look, if this was cosplay, I'd have done a better job, okay? Like, I'd be more accurate!"

They do sound male, yes. Male, and young. And . . .

And a little . . . odd, somehow.

"So what is it, then?" the person in the food truck asks, clearly amused by whatever they're discussing. Female; probably ten or fifteen years older than the heartbeat's owner.

"Would you believe I just didn't have anything else to wear?" he says, sounding sheepish.

"That's a pretty extreme version of laundry day, kid," she says with a laugh. "But I appreciate the assist with those jerks either way. Want some chili fries? On the house."

"What're chili fries?" the heartbeat's owner asks as he leans in a bit, sounding curious.

"Oh, lemme rock your world, kid. One sec."

The food truck operator starts bustling around her truck, presumably in pursuit of chili fries. Clark frowns a little. Well, chili fries are probably fine for a teenager, he figures, even if the kid's really never had them before. Though chili fries do seem weird for a teenager to not have heard of?

Maybe he's an immigrant or a tourist, or home-schooled, or just from a particularly small town. Smallville admittedly is not the ideal place to get chili fries, so Clark assumes that's probably normal in other small towns too and–

"CLARK!" Lois yells, waving both hands in front of his face. Clark startles in surprise, then blinks at her.

"Uh, sorry," he says. "Did you need something?"

"Oh, just maybe!" Lois says in exasperation. "I've been talking to you for like five minutes, did you hear a word I said?!"

"No," Clark says. Lois throws her hands up in the air.

"Clark!" she says. "This article is due by four! Focus, please!"

"Yes, right, sorry," Clark says in embarrassment, except then that thrumming ta-tummm heartbeat rises in excitement.

"These are so good!" its owner says delightedly, and Clark has the weirdest urge to just go . . . check up on him, maybe? Or . . . something like that? Maybe? It's not like the kid sounds like he needs checked up on, but . . .

Clark really wants to go check up on him, yeah.

"Forgot my bagel," he lies reflexively. "Be right back."

"Your bagel?!" Lois sputters indignantly as Jimmy tilts his head in bemusement. Clark flees. There could be a bagel. Theoretically. Which–he could've just told them he'd heard something he needed to go check on, obviously, they know he's Superman now and he didn't actually need to fall back on an old fake excuse, just . . . he was just maybe not thinking as clearly as he could've been, with that kid's excitedly thrumming heartbeat and delighted voice both echoing in his ears.

He was definitely not, actually.

So that's, uh . . . weird. Very weird. Definitely, definitely weird.

Clark gets into Superman's suit and leaves the Daily Planet building at inadvisable speed, probably, but manages not to break the sound barrier anywhere too obvious, he thinks. He follows the sound of that thrumming heartbeat and voice, and finds himself blocks and blocks away, hovering in the air a few hundred feet above a food truck being operated by a woman with dark skin and bright pink hair in her mid-twenties, and the single customer standing on the sidewalk in front of it finishing off a basket of chili fries as assorted civilians pass by in one's and two's.

The single customer is the thrumming heartbeat's owner, and he's about fifteen or sixteen, with pale skin and dark curly hair and bright and eager and inhumanly blue eyes behind a pair of round sunglasses. He's wearing a loose-fitting black leather jacket and heavy black boots and red fingerless gloves and a tight bodysuit, all blue and black and red and yellow and with the exact same "S" on its chest as the one Clark's wearing himself. He looks white, but maybe with a hint of East Asian in his features, but maybe just something totally different from both of those. Something all its own.

The kid looks up, takes one look at Clark, and absolutely lights up.

Clark feels several very new and strange feelings, then charges straight down into the kid and sends them both skidding into the empty street. Hitting him, touching him, is like . . .

Clark barely even remembers to be careful, but the instinct is ingrained too deep to ignore even as they crash into the pavement together.

And then the kid laughs delightedly and throws him off.

Actually throws him.

Clark comes to a stop twenty feet up in the air, blinks down at the kid still beaming up at him, and then bolts back down and smashes him into the pavement again.

"Crap!" the food truck worker shrieks in alarm. "Don't hurt him, Superman, he's just a kid!"

Clark . . . pauses, then looks up from the kid that he is currently pinning into the street as said kid struggles underneath him.

"'Hurt him'?" he asks in reflexive confusion, and then realizes how batting a teenager around like a person-shaped cat toy and pinning him to the street hard enough to crack it probably actually looks to an outside observer.

. . . um.

Whoops.

"Um," he starts awkwardly, and then the kid slips his pin while he's distracted and throws his arms around his neck with a gleeful laugh and a bright grin.

"Dad!" he crows triumphantly, and hugs Clark harder than literally anyone has ever hugged him before, except maybe, like, Ivo in the fullest and most vicious version of his Parasite suit while trying to crush him to death. It's . . . kind of adorable. Although also Clark can't really breathe very well now. "I found you! Hi, hi, I totally found you!"

"You did," Clark agrees reflexively and slightly out-of-breath-ly, patting the kid's back as he shoots the food truck worker and the several other staring civilians back on the sidewalk all an apologetic smile. "Sorry, ma'am, didn't mean to worry you. We're just playing."

"Oh my god so there was this lab and these doctors and they were all such jerks so I maybe kinda just broke everything and I guess maybe that was bad but they all sucked and they deserved it, I promise, I hope they all lost all their data and their personal files and their customization settings when I smashed up their stupid computers and stuff," the kid half-rants, hanging off Clark like a super-strong but also undeniably floating koala, and Clark straightens up and pats his back again as he listens to his excited and also-adorable ramblings. The way the kid talks actually reminds him of a much younger kid, oddly–even younger than Flip and the rest of the newskids, despite his appearance–but that doesn't exactly hurt the "adorable" impression. "Also there were some really annoying guys who were bothering the way cool chick in the truck over there so I threw them in a dumpster but did you know chili fries were a thing because they are so good, seriously, you should try some!"

"Are you asking me to buy you more chili fries, kid?" Clark asks wryly, and the kid somehow finds a way to perk up even more.

"I mean, no, but if you wanna . . ." he mentions, grinning hopefully.

"Two orders of chili fries please, ma'am?" Clark requests, sparing the food truck worker another smile. "If it's not too much trouble."

"Yesssss," the kid cackles delightedly, hanging heavier off his neck again as he somehow actually manages to hug him tighter. The food truck worker stares at them both for a moment, then reaches for an empty fry basket.

"Uh, sure," she says slowly. "No problem. Uh. Sorry, Superman, but do you . . . have a kid? Is that, like . . . what's happening here?"

"Yes," Clark replies reflexively, patting the kid's head.

. . . wait, that's not–

Then the kid beams at him again and nope, never mind, apparently that is right, he guesses he's just a dad now. Oh no, he and Jimmy are gonna need a bigger apartment, and Clark really hates apartment-hunting and doesn't even know how he's gonna afford his half of a bigger apartment, though at least he knows Jimmy can after selling Flamebird so he guesses that's something, and besides, what, is he gonna make his kid sleep on the couch? No way. The kid can have his bunk, heck, he'll sleep on the couch 'til they can sign a new lease or something. At least he's not an intern anymore, that's been a bit of a financial improvement, so that'll help.

". . . well okay then," the food truck worker says. "How do you even age, are you–um. I'm just . . . gonna make those both double orders, then. No charge. Congrats on, uh . . . congrats? Like, fifteen years late, apparently, but congrats."

"Thank you," Clark replies politely, smiling at her again as he walks over to her truck, the kid still happily hanging/floating off him. "We can pay, though, that's really not necessary."

"Dude. My dad would literally fire me if I ever made Superman pay for freaking chili fries," she says feelingly. "Like. Fire me so hard. Unto our family's next three generations, would he fire me."

"Thank you," Clark repeats, still smiling at her, then pulls a couple of twenties out of his belt and tucks them into her tip jar. Only seems decent, he thinks.

"Oh my god how are you even real," the food truck worker mumbles under her breath as she drops both double-orders of fries into the fryer.

"Hey, do you wanna play tag?" the kid asks hopefully, peering at Clark's face again. "Like, can we play tag after we eat? You know how, right? It looks crazy fun, I wanna try."

"As long as we do it high up enough that we don't destroy anything and no dangerous accidents or criminal activity needs urgently handled, yes," Clark replies, picking up the empty basket the kid dropped when he attacked him and taking it over to the nearest trashcan. The kid keeps hanging off his shoulders and floating along with him, seeming perfectly content to continue doing his best impersonation of a super-powered koala. Clark finds it oddly soothing. It feels kind of like the way Ma describes using those heavy heat packs she puts in the microwave, maybe.

Or like having a person who doesn't feel like they're made of tissue paper touching him, maybe.

It's a strange thought, after all this time of being . . . strange. Being too much for a much more fragile world.

The kid doesn't look fragile at all, but also Clark already knows he's going to burn down anything that ever even touches him.

He's not even going to let anything touch him, actually.

"Yesssss," the kid crows quietly, squeezing his arms around his neck and shoulders in obvious delight. Clark actually feels pressure from the embrace–actually feels his skin indent from it.

That's something he's only really felt from people trying to hurt him, before this. Not from someone hugging him.

Is this just what being hugged is like, for normal people? Just . . . this tight and warm and secure feeling?

Huh.

The food truck worker finishes up with the chili fries and the kid lets go of Clark to swoop over to her window, grinning excitedly at her.

"Thanks!" he says.

"Any time, kid," she says as she hands both overfull boats of fries over to him, then tilts her head and corrects herself: "Well . . . any time, Superboy. Thanks again for the help with those jerks earlier."

The kid beams at her. Clark feels . . .

Clark feels an odd, unfamiliar sense of . . . satisfaction, almost. Of pride. That's his kid, and people can tell that that's his kid, and his kid likes that people can tell he's his kid.

And hearing the name "Superboy" is . . . he's not even sure how to describe how that feels, but it's good.

That's–a little weird, maybe, Clark thinks to himself distractedly. That that's his first thought, he means. But also, it sounds like the kind of thing he's heard other parents say when talking about their kids, so actually, he's not sure why part of him feels like it'd be weird?

Yeah, never mind. It's weirder that he'd think it was weird, actually.

Well, he is kinda new to parenthood, he guesses, so that's probably why it feels a little strange still.

Oh, he should call his parents, Clark belatedly realizes. They're gonna want to know they have a grandkid, obviously.

. . . though he's supposed to be working right now, come to think, so actually . . .

Superboy flits back over with the chili fries and grins up at him as he holds them out to him, and Clark decides the rest of his workday is no longer a priority. It's fine, he'll just call in later. Check if he gets paternity leave or anything. There's probably something like that, he figures. The Planet has pretty decent benefits in general.

"Thank you," he says, accepting one of the fry boats. Superboy grins even brighter and floats up to eye level with him. Clark smiles wryly and pats his head, because that's just–adorable, honestly. Clark likes kids, but he's just never seen one this cute. He wants to throw him through a building and then hug him, or maybe vice versa, and also ruffle all that dark curly hair and buy him all the chili fries he wants and show him off to everyone in his life, and maybe also actually just the whole world while he's at it.

Maybe Superboy would like to go flying together. Well–tag would count as that, obviously. But just flying in general, too, like an adaptation of the kind of long, quiet walks Clark's own parents used to take him on back in Smallville.

He'd like that, he thinks.

Also if they go flying, they'd be able to throw each other around harder without having to worry about breaking anything too fragile.

. . . or, uh, cracking the street again.

Clark picks up a fry and bites into it. It's a very good chili fry, actually, although obviously in no way his priority right now. Superboy looks delighted to see him eating it, though.

"It's good, right?" he asks eagerly. Clark can't help smiling back at him. The kid is just so cute.

"It's good," he agrees before popping another fry into his mouth. Superboy grins all the wider, then shoves a truly inadvisable amount of fries into his own mouth. Clark assumes he can't actually choke on them, given his windpipe should be mostly indestructible and they're just regular chili fries, though the sight does make him briefly paranoid anyway.

"Can I put that on the menu board?" the food truck worker asks, sounding half-sheepish and half-hopeful. "Super-good chili fries? Promise I won't jack the price up or anything."

"I think that's fair," Clark says, mouth quirking in amusement again. Superboy's own mouth is stuffed with chili fries, but he makes an emphatic noise of agreement, nodding firmly. Clark feels an overwhelming urge to knock him over like a bowling pin, pin him down, and comb his wild-looking hair into order for him, but should really let him eat first. Also, playing high-altitude tag will probably just make a mess of it again anyway, so maybe it'd be best to wait until after that too.

His kid is so cute. Really. Clark has never seen a kid this cute. Even the kids in ads and commercials and anime aren't this cute.

"You're adorable," he says fondly, and Superboy swallows his mostly-chewed mouthful of chili fries and grins at him.

"Daaaaad!" he laughs protestingly. "I'm not a baby, geez!"

"You're my baby," Clark hums contentedly, ruffling Superboy's unruly curls a bit closer into order after all, which–yeah, okay, he's just immediately become his parents, hasn't he.

At least they're good examples.

Superboy laughs again and ducks away with his share of the chili fries, still grinning.

"Am not!" he says, then sticks out his tongue at him.

"Are so," Clark hums, then clotheslines him into a hug. Superboy elbows him in the gut and attempts to wriggle free for about two seconds, then melts into him completely with a happy purring sound that somehow makes him seem about six times cuter than he already did, which is saying something.

God, he's actually just absolutely precious, isn't he. Clark needs to find such a good place to raise him and introduce him to Ma and Pa and Lois and Jimmy and–

"Are you gonna finish that?" Superboy asks with clear malicious intent, unsubtly attempting to steal his chili fries. Clark lets him but hugs him harder for it in vengeance, and Superboy laughs yet again before dissolving back into happy purring as he decimates his way through both of their fry baskets with a very teenage appetite. Clark makes a low rumbling noise he's never made before in his life and nuzzles his hair before dropping a kiss into it. Superboy purrs louder in response.

So cute. Clark is going to buy him all the chili fries in the world. Every single one. They're all for his baby now.

"Tag now?" Superboy asks eagerly before Clark can follow through on clearing out this food truck of all its chili fries for him, and Clark hums and kisses his hair again, giving him an affectionate crushing as he does.

"Throw out your trash and thank the food truck worker again first," he says.

"I can't do that when you're hugging me this hard, Dad," Superboy says with a snicker. Clark huffs at that total nonsense and hugs him harder.

"I believe in you, kiddo," he says firmly, and Superboy laughs again. Clark is never going to get sick of hearing him do that, much less of making him do that. Suddenly everything about the existence of dad jokes makes sense.

Superboy balls up their emptied cardboard fry baskets together and tosses them both towards the trashcan, making a triumphant noise when they land directly in it in a perfect arc. Clark smiles helplessly and gives him another affectionate crushing. His kid is so talented. And cute. And strong. And smart. And good.

"Thanks again," Superboy says, grinning sheepishly at the food truck worker as he gives her a little wave. "The fries really were super-good."

"Any time," she says a little faintly, waving back at him. Superboy grins at her one last time, then shoves his way out of Clark's grasp and bolts up into the sky at super-speed.

"You're it!" he calls back gleefully. Clark is just unspeakably charmed.

"No sonic booms in the residential neighborhoods!" he shouts, then takes off after the kid.

Superboy is fast, fast enough that Clark has to actually try to keep up with him, and Clark feels an odd rush of ecstatic energy chasing after him. Superboy darts around an office building and loops his way up a skyscraper, and Clark could cut him off or intercept him, but watching him fly ahead excitedly is just . . .

He just loves it. Superboy looks so happy, so pleased, so excited and delighted, and Clark . . .

And Clark feels less strange and alone than he has in a long, long time.

He knows he's not actually alone–he has his parents and Lois and Jimmy as Clark, and the people of Metropolis do care about Superman, at least mostly. But he's always been strange, and always been the only one, and . . .

He doesn't feel strange, with Superboy. Superboy is exactly the same as him, and Superboy isn't strange at all, so how could he be?

And if he's not strange . . . if he's not strange, and doesn't feel alone . . .

Clark speeds up and tackles Superboy out of the air, and Superboy laughs in delight and throws his arms around his neck and hugs him. Clark feels his skin indent under the pressure of the embrace again and hugs him back, feeling breathless and overwhelmed–and not from actually being squeezed that tight.

Well, not just from that.

Superboy is very, very strong.

Clark feels like crying, just for a moment. Not because he's any kind of upset, but because this just feels like so much, like so many things he's wanted and thought he'd never have, and . . . and because . . .

"Okay, my turn, Dad!" Superboy says as he pulls back to grin up at him again, and Clark's heart hurts with how much he loves him. Is this what it's always like, meeting your kid? Does it always feel like this?

Was it like this for his parents too?

"Your turn," Clark agrees, smiling at him, and then bolts off himself. Superboy laughs delightedly and chases after him.

He should ask Superboy where he came from, Clark supposes–figure out if he knows anything more about what they are and where they're from and why they're here on Earth–but it can wait, really. It's more important to get to know his kid than it is to grill him for information that isn't even that important. Well . . . no, it's important, just . . .

It doesn't feel that important right now. Not comparatively, at least.

Clark was so, so worried that he was a weapon, a thing designed just to destroy, but if Superboy is the same as him . . .

He just can't see Superboy as a weapon.

So in that case . . . he's probably not either, is he? If Superboy so obviously isn't?

He wonders if this is something other people can see, when they see him. There's been so many realities where he was a threat or a danger, so many people who thought this version of him was a threat or a danger, but . . .

But Metropolis turned off its lights for him and trusted him to save it. But Lois and Jimmy and the newskids all trust him to protect them; all want to protect him in turn.

And Superboy came looking for him, and knew it was safe to.

Clark doesn't feel like a weapon or something alien and dangerous, thinking about all of that.

Clark doesn't feel like anything but himself, thinking about all of that.

So that's . . . a feeling, isn't it.

Superboy catches up to him–actually catches up to him!–about six blocks and a few thousand feet of altitude later and smashes into him full-speed with a triumphant crow. Clark takes the excuse to catch him around the waist and laughs, nuzzling his hair again and squeezing him tight.

“You're it!” Superboy declares gleefully, punching him in the chest before throwing his arms around his neck and hugging him again. Clark laughs again and Superboy bites him.

He's so cute.

“Lemme go!” Superboy protests laughingly, attempting to wriggle free like he wasn't just hugging him himself. Clark hugs him harder and feels so warm and so full.

“I’m definitely not doing that,” he says. He is absolutely never letting Superboy go, in fact.

Well, like, literally, yes. But definitely not metaphorically. God, it's already way too close to his kid's college years, isn't it. If Superboy doesn't want to go to Metropolis U Clark might actually cry.

No, he'll definitely cry.

Oh god, how is he even going to afford sending him to college, anyway? He should’ve had eighteen years to save up for college for him! Now he’s going to have to figure it out in less than–well, he’s still not sure how old Superboy actually is, but from the look of him at most he’s got five years, and it’s likelier to be only two or three.

Maybe he can convince Superboy to take a gap year. Or do his gen ed courses at the local community college and then transfer somewhere a little more specialized for . . . whatever he wants to do with himself. Clark should ask him about that, actually. It’s a little weird that he doesn’t know what his own kid wants to be when he grows up, even if they have just met. Or know how old he is, come to think.

Right now they’re playing, though, so he dismisses those concerns and lets Superboy escape his grip and bolt off again, and gives him a few seconds’ head start before tearing off after him. They’re both probably flying a lot faster than they should inside city limits and outside of a crisis situation, but he can’t really bring himself to tell Superboy to slow down when he’s so clearly enjoying himself so much.

They manage to avoid any sonic booms in the residential neighborhoods, at least.

Clark’s lost count of how many rounds of tag they’ve played when he hears one of the few things that would distract him from Superboy right now, which is Lois yelling for him from the roof of the Daily Planet.

“CLARK!” she bellows, and his head snaps towards her reflexively. Superboy has just tackled him again and is hanging off his back, and Clark takes half a moment to grab onto the arm the other has around his neck, then tears off full-speed towards the Planet. Superboy yelps in surprise, then bursts into laughter and clings tighter to him.

“This isn’t how you play!” he protests laughingly, though he doesn’t make any actual attempts to escape, and Clark jerks to a stop in the air just above Lois and Jimmy, who are both standing on the roof of the Planet with both of their lunchboxes and his own. They don’t look like they’re in trouble, but he doesn’t know why else Lois would be yelling so loudly for him.

He hopes Vicki Vale isn’t back in town. Vicki Vale being back in town would not be a good time.

“Is everything okay?” Clark asks worriedly as Superboy peers over his shoulder at Lois and Jimmy, looking curious.

“Cl–Superman, what are you doing?!” Lois demands. Jimmy just looks bewildered, for some reason. “You’ve spent the past two hours flying all over the city with some kid who looks just like you and you let Cat Grant scoop me on it?!”

“Oh,” Clark realizes, and winces. He definitely should’ve told Lois he had a kid before taking said kid off to play where cell phones and security cameras could pick it up. “Sorry, Lois. This is Superboy. He’s my kid. Superboy, this is Lois Lane and this is Jimmy Olsen. They’re my best friends. Um, well–Jimmy’s my best friend, Lois is more, um . . .”

“Do you have a girlfriend, Dad?” Superboy asks, perking up all the more curiously.

“‘DAD’?!” Lois sputters, dropping her lunchbox.

“. . . I immediately miss being in charge of Flamebird,” Jimmy mutters feelingly. “Can I hack the account to post about this, do you think? Is that a thing that I can do?”

“Superman, please start explaining,” Lois says tightly. “Like immediately. You disappeared for two hours without even saying anything and we had to keep making excuses to the chief and finally just had to tell him we were going on lunch break so we could actually find you! I thought we weren’t doing the secrets thing anymore!”

“We’re not,” Clark agrees, puzzled by the comment.

“Then why do you have a whole entire teenager here and why are you calling him your kid?!” Lois demands.

“Because he's my kid,” Clark says, still a little puzzled. Why else would he call him that, after all?

“Cl–Superman, you are twenty-two and he is at least fifteen!” Lois says in exasperation, throwing her hands up in the air. “Are you being mind-controlled?! Is this a mind control thing?!?!”

“Oh yeah I guess that maybe is a valid concern, huh,” Jimmy muses, tapping his fingers against his lunchbox. “Wow, our lives are weird these days.”

“I’m not being mind-controlled, guys,” Clark says, mildly offended by the suggestion. His baby would never mind-control him. “He’s my kid.”

“And I’m not a teenager, I just look like one,” Superboy adds helpfully, darting down to grab Lois’s lunchbox off the roof and then ducking back behind Clark to peek inside it. “Actually, I’m like, one?”

“You’re only one year old?!” Lois asks in horror. “Oh my god, Superman!”

“No, no, one week old,” Superboy clarifies, already having stolen her sandwich and taking a bite of it. “Though I actually just woke up for the first time today, so maybe I should only count today? So one day old, I guess. Almost.”

Lois stares up at him. Jimmy is visibly and desperately resisting the urge to grab his camera. Clark’s just relieved to find out his kid hasn’t been running around alone and unsupervised for too long. He could’ve gotten hurt or lost or something. Or run into another Ivo or Task Force X, maybe, which is an awful thought.

“Are you a secret government-funded clone created in an evil lab by dubiously-ethical scientists?” Jimmy asks, practically vibrating in place but clearly trying to be cool about this. Clark appreciates the effort. He doesn’t want to overwhelm Superboy or anything.

“No,” Superboy says.

“Thank god,” Lois mutters under her breath.

“Yeah, I mean, you guys and the cool chili fry chick and those creeps I tossed in the dumpster all know about me, so I’m not a secret,” Superboy says reasonably, still munching down the last of Lois’s sandwich. “Duh. What’s that? Can I have it?”

Jimmy promptly hands over the little two-pack of Tastycakes sticking out of his lunchbox. Clark appreciates that too.

“Thanks–” Superboy starts, then takes a bite and immediately cuts himself off, his eyes widening in surprise. “Oh my god, this is so good? Oh my god, wow, wowwwww, do you have any–”

Clark may or may not abuse his superspeed to bolt to the nearest convenience store and back again with six full boxes of different kinds of Tastycakes and also a bag of donuts and some honey buns and also milk and juice in case Superboy gets thirsty and also a replacement sandwich for Lois. He just left cash for it all on the counter and figured it’d be fine.

“Awesome!” Superboy says delightedly, making grabby hands at the Tastycakes.

“Superman!” Lois says.

“He’s a growing boy!” Clark defends reflexively, letting Superboy gleefully annex all six boxes. “Clone. Cloneboy. Not that I’m defining you just as a clone, you can be a normal boy just fine, don’t worry about it. You're not a–a weapon or a freak or a weird alien weapon freak or anything like that! At all! So don't worry about it. At all. Ever.”

“I kinda wasn't, to be honest?” Superboy says, squinting doubtfully at him. “Are you okay, Dad?”

“Yes. Yes, I'm fine,” Clark says, clearing his throat. “Thank you. Um. Do you want a honey bun?”

“Dunno, what’s a honey bun?” Superboy asks, perking up curiously.

“. . . sticky, mostly,” Clark admits, holding one out to him in offering. Superboy seems hungry. He definitely needs to make sure he gets enough to eat. “But I think they taste really good and since you're cloned from me you'll probably like them too, so–not to imply that you have to like them, I mean, you're not just my clone! I didn't mean it like that!”

“Technically I think I have human DNA too, but–” Superboy starts as he unwraps the honey bun and takes a bite, and then immediately cuts himself off to stuff the entire thing in his mouth at once. “Ohhhhhh my god, wow, I want five of these, wow.”

Clark could possibly wait ‘til Superboy is done chewing to bolt back to the convenience store for another five honey buns, but he most definitely does not.

“Thanks, Dad!” Superboy says, his eyes lighting up with delight as Clark jerks to a stop with his armful of additional honey buns, so Clark definitely chose correctly.

“What do you mean, you have human DNA too?” Lois asks with a wary frown.

“Dad’s DNA is really complicated, I guess?” Superboy says, his mouth already full of honey bun number two. “So they used human DNA to patch up the bits they couldn't figure out and just, you know, made sure to design me to still look like him either way. Oh, and they gave me–oh hey, can I have another honey thing? Please?”

“Yes,” Clark says as he holds out another for him, because he’s willing to clear out every convenience store in the city for this kid if he has to.

“Be careful or you’re gonna give the kid a stomachache, Superman,” Jimmy warns him. “He’s a day old, he probably doesn’t know how much he can eat yet.”

“You think?” Clark asks, immediately concerned. “Um–Superboy, maybe wait a little to see how your stomach feels after this one, okay?”

“Okaaaaay, Dad,” Superboy says as he opens the honey bun, though he sticks out his tongue at him as he does. “Worrywart.”

“Worrying about you is my job,” Clark says firmly, then finally remembers to give Lois her replacement sandwich. He got her egg salad because they were out of clubs. Hopefully she won’t mind.

“Superman,” Lois says, eyeing him warily as she accepts it. “You still haven’t explained why you’re calling . . . ‘Superboy’ your kid.”

“Because he’s my kid,” Clark repeats, puzzled again.

“. . . think this is an alien thing?” Jimmy asks thoughtfully, glancing sidelong at Lois, who for some reason looks increasingly concerned. “Like, ‘like recognizes like’ or maybe some sort of weird psychic bond or genetic instinct?”

“Oh god, Clark has a kid,” Lois says, putting her hands on her face, sandwich and all, and looking less and less concerned and more and more panicked. “Clark has a baby! A kid who’s a baby! And also a teenager! I can’t be a dad, my dad is the worst, what kind of dad would I be?!”

“The ‘mom’ kind?” Jimmy suggests, but Lois clearly isn’t listening.

“I’m gonna be a terrible dad!” she says despairingly, gesturing frantically at Superboy with her sandwich and nearly dropping it. Clark just keeps an eye out and figures he’ll just catch it if she does. “I don’t know how to dad! And how am I gonna afford to send you to college?! I should’ve had eighteen years to get you a college fund!”

Clark really does love her, he reflects contentedly.

“You wanna be my dad too?” Superboy asks, tilting his head and blinking at her in surprise, and Lois balks.

“I–you–that’s–!” she sputters, still gesturing frantically and clearly panicking. Clark doesn’t blame her, since her dad was in fact a terrible example. Like . . . in several ways, really. Complicated ways, but still. “I can’t–I mean, I could technically but I also absolutely–I don’t even have a Pulitzer yet! What kind of dad would I be without a Pulitzer?! And my apartment is a one-bedroom!”

Superboy blinks again. Tilts his head the other way with a puzzled expression. Lois looks increasingly panicked.

Clark rescues her by tossing Superboy off the roof, as a good co-parent should.

“CLARK!” Lois shrieks in horror. Superboy bobs back up over the edge of the roof and tackles him. They go end-over-end through the air and Superboy bites him twice and then tries to choke him out, laughing gleefully as he does. It’s adorable, so Clark smashes him into the roof and pins him there.

“Daaaaad!” Superboy laughs, attempting to wriggle out from his grasp and elbowing him in the jaw as he does.

“Stop that, you two, you’re gonna break the roof or something!” Lois sputters.

“Oh, right,” Clark realizes, mildly disappointed. “Okay.”

He lets Superboy up. Superboy sits up with a pout.

. . . Clark swats him over like a cat with a water glass, and Superboy goes tumbling across the roof and cackles in delight.

“Clark, you’re being a terrible example for our baby!” Lois yells, then balks again. “Uh, I mean–”

“No take-backsies,” Clark says reflexively, and Superboy zips back across the roof and leans in to peer at her again, hands linked behind his back and expression curious and intent.

“So you do wanna be my dad too?” he asks.

“That seems like it’d get really confusing really quick,” Jimmy muses reasonably, rubbing his chin consideringly. “Like, ‘Dad’ and ‘Dad’? One of you’s gotta be ‘Daddy’ or ‘Pop’ or something.”

“I could be ‘Pa’,” Clark suggests. “That’s what I’ve always called my dad, so . . .”

“I just call mine ‘disappointment’,” Lois mutters darkly.

“I don’t care if you suck at it,” Superboy says, bobbing in closer to her in the air. He’s a little bigger than her and floating on top of that, so he has to lean down to look her directly in the eye, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. “Just like me, okay?”

“‘Like’ you?” Lois blinks at him. Superboy makes a face.

“The docs did not like me,” he says. “And neither did the government and military jerks. So I only want a dad who likes me, okay? But as long as you’re gonna do that, then it’s cool, you can be my dad too.”

Lois looks horrified, but also a little touched. But also definitely horrified.

“Superman,” she hisses in panic, giving Clark a very stressed look.

“And this is your Uncle Jimmy,” Clark informs Superboy helpfully as he points at Jimmy, figuring Lois needs a moment to process some stuff. “I’ll introduce you to your grandparents later, they’ll wanna meet you as soon as possible.”

“What is happening right now?!” Lois hisses to Jimmy. Clark’s a little puzzled, again. “Is this how you have kids with somebody?! This isn’t how you have kids with somebody!”

“Well, it wouldn’t have been my first guess, anyway,” Jimmy says.

“What do you mean?” Clark asks, still puzzled. “This is a totally normal way to have a kid.”

“In what possible way is this normal, Smallville?!” Lois demands. “Did your parents not give you the talk?!”

“Yeah, it went ‘we kinda just found you in a field out back’,” Clark replies reasonably. Lois . . . pauses.

“. . . I hate how much this explains about you,” she mutters under her breath, putting her hands over her face.

“Okay, just so we’re all clear, we’re now Pa and Dad and Uncle Jimmy and . . . what’s Superboy’s name, actually?” Jimmy asks. “Like, his actual one, I mean.”

“Experiment Thirteen!” Superboy replies cheerfully.

Clark and Lois both pause this time.

“. . . guys,” Jimmy says, eyeing them both.

“Yeah, we’ll get on that ASAP,” Clark says quickly. Absolutely they will.

“Alright!” Lois says, then tosses her sandwich into her lunchbox with a determined expression. “It’s not gonna be ‘Sam’ or any variant thereof, for the record! Or Louis, either!”

“Why not?” Superboy asks.

“Because your granddad sucks and I’m not egomaniac enough to name you after me,” Lois says, gesturing furiously with both hands. She looks a little manic, maybe? Like just a little, Clark thinks. “Maybe Jonathan! What are your dad’s feelings on being a namesake, Superman?”

“That seems like the kind of thing you do with dead relatives, not living ones,” Clark says, wincing a little at the thought. “And I really don’t want to jinx it.”

“Fair enough,” Lois says, then starts pacing. “Lucius? No, that’s incredibly pretentious. Luce? What am I even saying, my sister would be unbearable if we named you after her. Jimmy! What’s your middle name?”

“Bartholomew,” Jimmy replies dryly, absolutely deadpan.

“. . . we’re definitely not naming him after anybody,” Lois mutters, then whips out her phone and types “baby names” into the search bar, immediately scanning the site results that pop up. “Why am I even trying to name you after other people anyway, you’re a clone, that is a terrible idea.”

“Do you have a name . . . um, Pa?” Superboy asks, peering over at Clark questioningly. “Dad called you one earlier, right?”

“Oh–yeah,” Clark says, immediately embarrassed to realize he forgot to introduce himself to his own kid. Geez, that's an oversight. “It’s Clark. Clark Kent. My name, I mean. Clark Joseph Kent, specifically. So, um, Kent would be your name too, I guess? Unless you want Lois’s last name, that’s your decision, obviously! It’s a nice last name, I like it. Well, I wouldn’t take it but that’s because I really feel I owe my parents for–never mind, just, you can have whichever last name you want! You can even have your Uncle Jimmy’s if you want, it’s fine, we won’t mind!”

“We won’t?” Jimmy asks wryly, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Um,” Clark says, trying not to wince. Maybe he should’ve asked first. “I think we won’t?”

“You’d let me have a last name?” Superboy says, looking unexpectedly hesitant for a moment. “Like–a family one?”

“Of course we would,” Clark says immediately, just as immediately grabbing his shoulders with a concerned frown at that question being posed like it’s actually a question. What did he do to make Superboy think he needs to ask that, because he needs to never do it again. “You are family.”

Superboy blinks a few times, a little too quick, and then beams up at him with very bright eyes. The sight of his face hurts, just for a moment.

“Cool,” he says, still smiling helplessly.

Clark would give this kid every single name in his family tree if he asked for it. And every chili fry in Metropolis. And also all the honey buns and Tastycakes. And also–

“CONNER!” Lois shouts, throwing the hand holding her phone up in the air.

“Huh?” Clark startles, and they all look over at her. She looks triumphant and waves her phone at them.

“Conner,” she repeats matter-of-factly. “It’s easy to pronounce, common enough he won’t constantly be having to spell it, but still uncommon enough there won’t be twelve other ones everywhere he goes. Also it means ‘lover of hounds’, so we have to get him a dog now. Do you want a dog, Conner? And, uh, also the name. Also do you want the name.”

“. . . maybe?” Superboy looks curious, floating over to peer at her phone screen. “What’s having a dog like?”

“It's nice, if you get one who's right for you and take good care of them,” Clark says, immediately resolving to find an apartment that allows pets. He’ll pay the pet fee. He’ll pay a monthly pet fee if he has to. Superboy can have all the dogs he wants. “It's rewarding. And, well–nice, again. Dogs are great, and they love people. Man’s best friend and all that, you know? Not that we necessarily count as that kind of ‘man’ because of the whole alien definitely-not-biological-weapons issue but–look, it’s fine, dogs are great! They don’t even get weird about us being the wrong species! Um. Not the wrong species, just . . .”

“A dog would love me?” Superboy tilts his head, then . . . blinks, very slowly. “Like–how much?”

“Almost as much as we're going to,” Clark says, his chest clenching tightly.

Superboy blinks again. Doesn't look at anything in particular; doesn't not look at anything in particular.

“You're gonna love me?” he asks. “Like–if I'm good enough, you mean?”

Clark has clearly made some absolutely horrible mistakes here. He doesn’t know what those mistakes were, but again, they’re never happening again. He’s figuring them all out and just never, ever making them again.

“I love you right now,” he says, firm and immediate as he gives Superboy’s shoulders another squeeze, then wraps him up into a hug. “You don’t need to be ‘good enough’ for that. But you’re great anyway. You’re wonderful. You helped that woman in the food truck and you shared things you liked with me and you came and found me. Of course you’re great.”

“Oh,” Superboy says, blinking quickly again, and then wraps his arms around him in return and buries his face in his chest and just–clings to him, kind of.

Clings to him harder than literally anyone ever has before.

Clark is never, ever letting anything happen to this kid.

“I like the name,” Superboy mumbles into his chest, just barely shy about it. Conner mumbles into his chest. Clark feels an overwhelming warmth in his own thrumming heart and smiles helplessly, then gives Lois the soft, besotted look he can’t hold back. They have a baby. It’s so great. Conner is so great. He and Lois have a baby and he’s great!

Lois turns very red, for some reason, then straightens up and shoves her phone back into her pocket as she clears her throat.

“Conner James Lane-Kent,” she decides firmly, putting her hands on her hips. “I’d say ‘Olsen’ for the middle name but ‘James’ we can sell as a coincidence easier when we’re figuring out how to explain . . . literally all of this. Any of this. This is going to be very difficult to explain, actually, given the fact you two are functionally identical. Hm. Yeah, the cover’s gonna require some work.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Clark hums unconcernedly, nuzzling Conner’s hair. Conner bites him, then jumps up and once again wraps himself around him like a supernaturally-strong koala. Clark rumbles happily–his kid likes him!–and Conner starts purring just as happily. Clark feels even warmer.

“. . . also you two can never do that out of costume,” Lois says. “Like, ever.”

“Hm?” Clark glances back at her, a little puzzled. “Why not?”

“Clark,” Lois says, staring at him. “The sounds you two are making right now sound like if a mantis shrimp was trying to explain color theory. Those aren’t even sounds, I’m pretty sure, our senses just don’t know how else to translate them.”

“I think my fillings are buzzing,” Jimmy agrees thoughtfully, poking at his own cheek. “Feels kinda weird.”

“But Conner’s so cute when he purrs,” Clark protests, trying not to pout at the idea of telling his kid he can’t purr whenever he wants to. Conner purrs louder and bites him again. It’s the most adorable thing that’s ever happened in the entire history of the universe. In the entire history of any universe. Like, all those alternate realities they saw only wish that anything that adorable had ever happened to them.

“That sounds like purring to you?!” Lois asks incredulously.

“Yes,” Clark says, a little puzzled. “Why, what does it sound like to you?”

“A rockslide causing a ten-car pile-up,” Lois says frankly.

“And you sound like somebody made a pack of tigers fight a whale,” Jimmy says.

“I don’t think tigers do packs,” Clark says, frowning consideringly and hooking Conner into a headlock as the other tries to claw his face off in the cutest possible fashion. “Do they?”

“I don’t think so, but lion roars aren’t as bone-jarring and viscerally terrifying to hear up close as tiger ones,” Jimmy says. “So I went with the scarier option.”

“Pa’s not scary!” Conner protests indignantly, scowling at Jimmy, and Clark feels warm all over again and hugs him harder. Well–tightens the headlock, anyway. Same difference. He really was so worried about being a weapon, being something dangerous, being . . .

He can’t imagine ever worrying about that again, when Metropolis turned its lights off for him and Lois and Jimmy both trust him even knowing what he’s become in other realities and Conner knew it was safe to come and find him.

And when he’s looking at Conner, he can’t feel like any kind of a “weapon” at all.

No. Not even a little bit.

“Clark’s not scary, no, but the sound of a pack of tigers fighting a whale is,” Jimmy says matter-of-factly. “The rockslide and ten-car pile-up combo is a little unsettling too, to be honest. Like, much less so, but it’s still on the radar there.”

“No it’s not, it’s precious,” Clark protests indignantly, then starts preening Conner’s ruffled curls into some semblance of order again. Well . . . a vague impression of it, anyway. Maybe. Kind of.

A bit.

. . . possibly that’s a fool’s errand, but whatever. He’s willing to put the effort in for his kid, fool’s errand or not.

“Clark, buddy, your perception is not universal,” Jimmy says. Clark frowns at him, a little hurt. Jimmy thinks his kid isn’t cute? He’s going to give Conner a complex or something and then Conner will think he’s a weird alien freak weapon and–

“Why would a pack of tigers fight a whale? Wouldn’t they drown?” Conner asks curiously before biting painfully deep into Clark’s arm and then gnawing on it, because he is cute. He’s adorable. The most cute and adorable kid Clark’s ever seen, in fact.

“Conner’s precious, actually,” he huffs to Jimmy, gathering Conner up completely into his arms and turning to put his own body between them. Conner attempts to wriggle out of his grip and Clark drags him into a full nelson. Conner slams his head back into his nose.

Seriously, how does Jimmy not think he’s cute?

“Tigers are really good swimmers, actually,” Jimmy says, watching them with morbid fascination. “So like, if you were going to send a bunch of terrestrial predators after a whale, they’re a solid option. Polar bears might be better, though. Depends on the climate, I figure.”

“Cool,” Conner says, then bites Clark harder.

He’s so, so cute.

Clark rumbles happily and nuzzles Conner as he squishes him into another headlock. Conner purrs louder and bites down hard on his arm. Clark’s pretty sure it’s going to bruise, which is just downright novel a thought.

He should get a baby book for Conner, he realizes. Then he and Lois can take pictures of cute things like Conner’s first bruises and put them in there. Ma and Pa would like that, too. And probably Jimmy, though he might like a digital one better. Hm.

Well, Clark can just do both. Conner deserves double baby books anyway, so why not?

Maybe he can scrapbook one for him. He’ll buy pinking shears and get some of those fun rubber stamps and stuff. Maybe some glitter. Does Conner like glitter?

Actually, Conner’s old enough to help with his baby book. That sounds fun too. Is that a good bonding activity to do with a day-old teenager, Clark wonders? He really doesn’t know enough about kids, but he was a teenager pretty recently himself, really, so . . . well, it can’t be that different already, right?

. . . it probably is, yeah. Um.

Well, he’ll figure it out, he figures.

“This is just not how I expected to become a dad,” Lois mutters under her breath, putting her hands in her hair. “Seriously, I was going to get a Pulitzer first. How am I supposed to be a dad without a Pulitzer?!”

“You were ever expecting to be a ‘dad’?” Jimmy asks, raising an eyebrow at her. Lois glares back at him.

“You know what I mean, Jimmy!” she hisses. “A parent! Any kind of a parent!”

“What’s a Pulitzer?” Conner asks curiously.

“The Pulitzer Prize!” Lois says, gesturing dramatically with both hands and starting to pace. “It’s one of the most distinguished awards in journalism! It’s been going since 1917! It’s a huge honor and a major achievement and–!”

“What’s it have to do with being a dad?” Conner interrupts, wrinkling his nose with a puzzled expression. Lois . . . pauses.

“Um,” she says.

“Probably nothing,” Jimmy says with a shrug. “Like. Almost definitely nothing.”

“Then why’s it matter?” Conner asks, still looking puzzled. Lois puts both of her hands over her face.

“Oh my god, I am my dad,” she says despairingly. “I think my career matters that much? Seriously?! Conner’s not gonna care if I have a Pulitzer or not if I’m a bad dad to get a Pulitzer! Oh my god, what am I doing with my life?!”

“Having a crisis, apparently,” Jimmy says. “And, like, some serious reprioritizing.”

“Taking pride in your work and having career aspirations isn’t a ‘bad dad’ thing,” Clark reassures her. Though having a kid is a reprioritizing-level situation, he thinks. Definitely when they’re a surprise kid. “That’s setting a good example for Conner, really. Just, you know . . . don’t ignore him to kidnap and illegally detain people because you think they might have something to do with a theoretical alien invasion, and I think you’ll probably be fine? Probably?”

“Yeah, the invasion thing seemed really important to, like. Everybody who was working on me,” Conner says as he sneaks another honey bun. He’s adorable about it, so Clark doesn’t stop him. “They kinda suck, though, sooooo . . . I mean, I wouldn’t mind if you were gonna invade them a little. Just saying.”

“No one’s doing any invading,” Clark says immediately, then feels awkward because, well, technically–“I mean, I don’t think anyone’s doing any invading. I’m not! I’m very much not doing any invading! Ever!”

“Are you sure?” Conner looks disappointed.

“No alien invasions until you’re eighteen,” Lois says. “. . . or until we figure out how old you should count as being.”

Conner pouts.

. . . they could probably invade just one dubiously-ethical lab, Clark thinks, if Conner really–

“No, Clark,” Jimmy says firmly, making a sharp gesture with both hands. “I know that look, man. We don’t need any more angry government dudes or MIB-types after you, we’ve got enough of those already. Like, way too many, at least one of whom came to literal Thanksgiving this year!”

“I think any is ‘too many’, in this case,” Lois mutters, looking sour.

“What’s a ‘thanksgiving’?” Conner asks curiously. “Can you eat it?”

. . . Clark ups his “introduce Conner to Ma and Pa” timeline to even earlier and makes some mental notes about potential lab-oriented invasions. Like, for just in case the opportunity ever arises, obviously. He’s not gonna go start anything, buuuuut . . .

“You can definitely eat it,” Jimmy says. “That’s kinda the whole point of it, actually. On that note, does your stomach hurt or are you good? We didn’t overfeed you or anything?”

“I kinda want more chili fries,” Conner replies musingly.

“One sec–” Clark starts, turning back towards the direction of the food truck, and Lois throws her sandwich at the back of his head. It bounces off and he catches it reflexively, then blinks down at her.

“Do not leave me alone with our new kid, Clark!” she hisses at him. “Especially not for long enough to make an order of chili fries!”

“It doesn’t really take that long,” Clark says, a little puzzled. “They’re just chili fries.”

“We could just play for a while,” Conner suggests, shifting his center of balance towards Lois, and Clark simultaneously clotheslines him and realizes that leaving Conner alone with anyone he likes too much would probably be a bad idea right now.

“You can’t play with Lois,” he says quickly. “Or Jimmy. Or, uh, possibly anyone on the planet except me, honestly, I don’t know how strong you are exactly, but humans are very, um . . . breakable. I mean, not breakable, just compared to us they’re a little . . . fragile, maybe?”

“I know, Pa,” Conner says, tilting his head and giving him a perplexed look. “I was gonna make her invulnerable too. Duh.”

“. . . what,” Lois says blankly.

“You can do that?” Jimmy asks, his eyes visibly sparkling. “Just make people invulnerable?”

“Sure,” Conner says reasonably, then sinks his teeth into Clark’s forearm affectionately. Clark is definitely gonna bruise, possibly all the way to the bone. It’s distractingly adorable.

“. . . . . . how,” Lois says. Conner looks puzzled too, then takes his teeth out of Clark’s arm and tilts his head the other way.

“The same way Pa moves people at super-speed without crushing them or anything,” he replies. “And holds up whole buses and planes and whatever without them falling apart.”

“Um,” Clark says. “What?” He doesn’t do anything to do that, it’s just–

. . . wait. Wait, why can he do that. G-forces and human anatomy and big heavy objects’ specific designs and all those being what they are, why does that even work? And also, oh god, why has he literally never thought about that before? How has he not thought about that before?!

“The docs said it was, like, a ‘passive effect’ or something?” Conner says with a shrug. Then he grins and points at himself. “So they made me so I could do it active.”

“. . . what does that mean, Conner,” Lois asks very, very slowly, because Lois always asks questions that maybe possibly they should not be asking without a bit more prep work or more careful consideration of the potential consequences of, or at least without waiting for a better moment.

“Like this!” Conner says, grinning wider as he drops into a crouch and smacks his hands down flat against the roof, and then the whole roof explodes.

Clark reacts, obviously.

“. . . um,” he says two seconds later and two hundred feet higher, Lois under one arm and Conner under the other and Jimmy clinging to his back and the roof a wreck below them. It looks shattered, but there’s no scorch marks or smell of smoke or any evidence of an explosion at all, so . . . “What just happened?”

“TTK,” Conner says, tipping his head back to peer up at him with another grin and waggling his gloved fingers in . . . demonstration, apparently? “Tactile telekinesis.”

“You blew up the roof,” Jimmy observes, peering down at it. “Telekinetically? Like . . . by touching it, but also telekinetically?”

“Yeah!” Conner says, his grin turning proud.

“Clark!” Lois hisses, shooting Clark a look. Clark just blinks down at the destroyed roof of their workplace. He has absolutely no idea what’s happening right now, but . . .

“That was so cute,” he says, and Conner laughs gleefully and then bites his arm hard enough to bruise again, which is even cuter.

Lois just puts her face in her hands, for some reason.