Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Kadmis Adoption Plan
Clark
This has got to be karma. Two minutes ago I was teasing Bruce about his gray-hair-inducing pup. Two minutes ago I was secure in the knowledge that none of the young heroes we were going to confront at Kadmis (in a rather dramatic fashion, I might add) belonged to me. Just two minutes ago I was child free and bragging about it. This is definitely karma.
Karma or no karma, there’s no denying the fact that right in front of my eyes is an exact replica of my sixteen year old face. Bright blue eyes, check. Cropped black hair, check. A little baby fat softening my sharp cheekbones, check. Someone stole my DNA and made a clone. A clone that hasn’t seen the sky before, if my eavesdropping skills are up to par. The thought of having my DNA stolen and a kid made without my permission, consent, or knowledge is an uncomfortable realization, but that isn’t the kid’s fault.
The young heroes are making a stand, fighting for the chance to form a team, while I’m busy having a minor panic attack. What on earth am I supposed to do with a kid? I’ll need backup. Aquaman, Flash, and Batman are arguing with them, citing their early (kinda impressive) rule breaking as a reason not to trust them. Aqualad immediately counters, but I wouldn’t worry if I were them. Bruce has that look in his eyes that says he has already approved of the idea, and judging by Dick’s loosening shoulders, Robin can tell as well.
The rest of the leaguers have dispersed by the time that argument is settled, everyone either heading home or back to the watchtower. The kids, Flash, Aquaman, and Batman compromised and a meeting is set at Mount Justice in two days. Which means it’s officially time for me to stop freaking out and to start introducing myself to my (Son? Little brother? Cousin?) kid. Bruce sends me an encouraging look as he passes with Robin, tilting his head in a silent offer to stay here a while. I wave him off. I can do this. No problem. Everything is completely fine.
“Hey,” I murmur as soon as I reach him. I groan internally (mental facepalm). Nice one Clark, hey was the best you could come up with?
“Hi,” my (Clone? Son? Brother?) kid says in return, a little shly. He doesn’t seem to mind my lackluster introduction. Although, I guess being alive for a grand total of two hours wouldn’t give him much time to form an opinion on proper greetings.
“I’m Clark,” I remark, and wow, I’m failing miserably on manners today. Mom can never find out.
“I’m, uh, I don’t have a name,” my (Nephew? Brother? Son?) kid admits, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, a remarkably human gesture for someone that was born today. I make a mental note to hunt down whoever made this kid and didn’t bother to give him a name. I would just like to talk. A completely friendly, no laser eyes, chat.
“Well I could give you one, if you want?” I offer, already racking my brain for suitable names. Mark? No, doesn’t feel quite right. John? No, too bibley. Decisions, decisions.
“I-i would like that,” he agrees, his big, blue eyes widening in a hopeful expression that should be criminal. How did my parents ever say no to me when I was younger? I can already feel my will crumbling and the kid hasn’t asked for anything yet. (Random question, is it conceitful to think he’s adorable when it’s my face he’s wearing?)
“How about Conner Kent?” I propose, the name coming to me in a moment of rare genius. “My Earth name is Clark Kent.”
“I like it,” the newly minted Conner decides, a timid smile on his lips, like it’s the first time he’s tried to smile. Which actually might be true. My wish for that nice, unthreating, non murderous chat increases. The poor, poor, unsuspecting Kadmis board members better hope my mother doesn’t find them first. It’s testament to the gods’ dubious wisdom that Martha Kent wasn’t given superpowers. Give my mum a little super strength and the ability to fly, and crime would be obliterated in two days tops. “What did you mean by Earth name?”
“Well I’m not from Earth originally, as you probably know,” I start to explain, leading us over to a slab of broken concrete that can sorta pass as a bench. Its jagad ends are a bit uncomfortable, but it will have to do. I hop up onto it, leaning back against a conveniently placed half-broken wall and settle down. Conner follows hesitantly, like he’s afraid I’m going to lash out at any second. (A very calm, no broken bones, chat. No painful deaths at all. Not even one. I promise.)
“My birth planet was Krypton, and my Kryptonian name is Kal-El,” I continue, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. (Kinda hard when your muscles have muscles, but I’ll manage.) “I’d love to give you a Kryptonian name as well, if that’s alright.”
“Yeah, yes, I-, that’s alright,” Conner breathes, still painfully unsure. His eyes are drinking me in like he can’t quite believe I’m real, that this is happening. (A super casual, extremely peaceful chat.)
“Like an Earth name, your Kryptonian name would share my last name because we’re family,” I state, smiling warmly down at the boy. Conner sucks in a sharp breath at the word family. For a second I’m worried I overstepped, crossed a boundary, but the next moment an impossibly pleased look spreads across his face. His eyes are bright, and his smile is glowing. “How is Kon-El?”
Conner manages a quick nod in agreement, his eyes watering with the subtle shine of tears. My (rather good) hearing picks up on him swallowing thickly. My eyes prickle in response. (Sympathy crying is a thing people! It’s like sympathy puking.) I should come up with a plan before we start bawling our eyes out. Conner is in a white suit with the Superman shield sown on his chest. The upper half of the suit is completely torn, and considering he’s been alive for less than three hours I think it’s high time the kid got some food.
“As much as I’m loving this, I think it’s time we moved on,” I announce, jumping back to the ground. Conner follows soon after, landing with a thud of someone that hasn’t gone through Bruce’s training regiment. “How about we head somewhere with warm food, a change of clothes, and a shower?”
“That sounds good,” Conner accepts, the look of longing in his eyes so sharp it cuts me to the bone. (Don’t worry kid, a couple mouthfuls of Martha Kent’s homemade soup and you’ll feel so loved you’ll be ready to pop.)
“Can you fly?” I ask and his embarrassed look of shame is answer enough. That look has to go (I won’t stand for it), so I scoop Conner up into my arms. Bridal style. Conner doesn’t know enough about Earth culture to show the proper amount of outrage a teenage boy should show when being carried by their (Dad? Uncle? Older brother?) mentor yet, but he does send a disgruntled look my way.
“You’re going to love this,” I promise him seconds before I blast up into the sky. Conner’s loud whoop of excitement gets lost in the wind, but my hearing is good enough to catch it. An answering grin tugs at my lips as I head for the Kent farm. It’s been less than thirty minutes but I’m already attached. Maybe having a (Son? Little brother?) kid won’t be so bad.