Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

METROPOLIS, JUSTICE GANG WAREHOUSE. 

It was Michael who found it—one year later. He arrived like an unexpected storm, just when Clark had begun to believe the world was settling again. Lex Luthor was still in prison, locked away in Belle Reve, but his shadow remained everywhere. His files stretched endlessly: schemes for a “league of villains,” experiments on Superman clones, notes on pocket universes. The list went on and on.

For all his cruelty, Luthor had always been brilliant—too brilliant. Even behind bars, his influence rippled through the world. There were still people who believed in him, who worked in secret cells across continents, carrying out the instructions he had scattered like seeds. Fanatics, Clark thought bitterly. To him, Luthor’s “cause” was ridiculous, and yet it endured. False accounts. False names. A vast network is still alive.

Michael—along with a handful of other new heroes stepping into the light—had been helping Clark unravel it. And then, it happened.

It was a winter night, rain falling in hard, fractured sheets. Michael had called him to a warehouse, a place humming with old servers and the quiet thrum of hidden technology. Clark could hear it all: the click of machines, the drip of water from the roof, the heavy rhythm of Michael’s heartbeat.

Michael was sweating, beads sliding down his temple. His chest rose and fell too quickly.

Clark, still in his civilian clothes, looking every bit the overworked reporter fresh from the Planet, set his bag aside with a quiet thud. His brow furrowed, though he tried to ease the tension with a smile.

“You know,” he said, voice light, “I can do a lot of things, Michael. But mind-reading isn’t one of them. My species never got that gift.”

The joke fell flat. Michael managed only a thin, nervous smile.

On the table, folders lay scattered, the computer screen locked and stubborn. Clark watched him, really watched him—the stiff set of his shoulders, the way his hands hovered too long over the files. He’d never seen Michael this uneasy. Not even in battle. This was different. This was the kind of silence Clark had seen only once before—when Batman was about to tell him something he would rather not hear.

Michael exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. His voice was tight. “Clark… we’ve uncovered a lot in Luthor’s archives. New villains, pocket universes, contingency plans. But this—this is different.” He shook his head, as though words were failing him. “We found a file. Encrypted. Buried so deep it took Batman himself to pull it free. And even then… the location it pointed to…” He paused, swallowing. “Southern Chile. An abandoned naval base.”

He slid a folder across the table. The old LexCorp insignia stamped the cover like a wound from the past.

Clark didn’t open it immediately. He pressed his fingertips against the cardboard, frowning. Michael’s heartbeat spiked. He swallowed hard, spine stiffening, eyes darting to Clark’s hands.

Clark gave a dry laugh. “What’s in here, Michael? Armageddon?”

Michael didn’t laugh. His face was pale.

“Just… read,” he said quietly. “It’ll explain itself better than I can.”

Clark opened the folder.

Photographs slipped free, fluttering onto the metal table—images of a baby, sealed in a cryogenic chamber. Blue eyes closed. Wires connected to tiny limbs. Photos marked with dates: one month old, then three, then six. The same child.

Clark’s chest tightened. He picked up a page, scanning the sharp text:

[LEXCORP INTERNAL FILE – CLASSIFIED]
Project Codename: Project Match
Subject ID: 0010
Age: 6 months
Genetic Source A: Kal-El (Kryptonian) – 52% match
Genetic Source B: Lex Luthor (Human) – 48% match
Status: Viable.

The words blurred. His hands clenched so tightly the edges of the folder crumpled. He forced himself to keep reading—clinical notes dissecting a child’s growth, “minor fluctuations,” “attachment response strong,” “risk: high potential asset or liability.” Other entries were worse.

Subject 009: deceased.
Subject 002: too human, terminated.

Clark’s hands trembled. His breath caught, heavy and uneven. He had to brace himself against the table, knuckles whitening. For a second, he thought he might black out. His heart thundered in his chest, too fast, too loud, as though it might burst free. 

The words blurred, cold and clinical, reducing a child to “subject.” His throat burned. His stomach lurched. He dropped the folder, the papers spilling across the floor like debris after an explosion.

“God…” he muttered, the word breaking in his throat. The photos slid from his grasp and scattered across the floor like fallen memories.

Michael’s face had gone pale. He stepped forward cautiously.
“Clark—are you all right?”

Clark jerked his head once, sharply—no. He couldn’t listen, couldn’t process, not yet. He staggered out of the warehouse into the downpour. Rain hammered against his skin, ran into his eyes, soaked through his shirt. Lightning ripped open the sky above Metropolis, and for the first time in years, he felt… chained. Trapped. Like something invisible had anchored itself to his chest.

He tilted his face toward the storm, fists trembling at his sides. What has Luthor done? What have I allowed to happen?

Minutes later, drenched and still unsteady, Clark forced himself back inside. Michael had already gathered the files, stacked them neatly, his composure brittle but intact.

Clark’s voice was hoarse, stripped of warmth.
“Where is the child?”

Michael hesitated, then answered carefully.
“In Gotham. With Bruce. It was the safest option… especially considering his abilities. We only found him three days ago.”

Clark’s expression hardened, all traces of his usual gentleness burned away. He gave Michael a final look—equal parts gratitude and devastation—before striding out of the warehouse. A moment later, the roar of wind filled the silence as he tore into the storm, heading for Gotham.

Michael exhaled, shoulders slumping. Maybe he shouldn’t have called.

Maybe none of this should have happened. For the first time in a long while, Clark Kent wished he hadn’t picked up the phone.

GOTHAM, THE BATCAVE

Clark always felt Gotham before he saw it. The city breathed chemicals and rust, the air sharp with something corrosive. His chest tightened the way it always did here, but tonight there was something else—something sharper, closer. A heartbeat. Quick, small, but not fragile. Distinct. Familiar in a way that set his skin prickling.

He shouldn’t have recognized it. Only he and Kara carried that rhythm, that alien tempo. And yet, here it was—steady, impossible, alive.

Clark cut through the skyline, pushing speed until the cave swallowed him whole. Bruce had described the place before, but hearing and seeing were different things: the giant penny standing sentinel, the dinosaur frozen mid-roar, the hum of machinery against dripping stone. The place smelled like damp limestone, metal, oil, and human persistence.

He heard every breath before he saw them—two adults, Alfred and Bruce. Two children, small lungs fluttering. One heartbeat, quicker than the rest, impossibly close.

Bruce was at the computer, armored, jaw set, eyes that never softened even when they recognized Clark.

“Alfred has him,” Bruce said, cutting through whatever words Clark might have tried to form. His voice was flat, absolute. “I decided to bring the child here. We had the resources to keep him safe. And…” He hesitated just enough to betray a sliver of humanity. “Dick knows.”

Clark nodded once, though the name tightened his chest further. Dick Grayson—twelve years old, sharp-eyed, endlessly curious, already more detective than most adults. The boy had managed to pull laughter out of Clark more than once. Now, he’d been pulled into this.

Clark’s hands trembled. His lungs refused to fill properly. The thought spun endlessly: a clone. A baby. Made from him, twisted by Luthor. He hated the idea so violently it made him nauseous, as if bile itself had been laced with kryptonite. He hated Lex. He always had. But this… this was worse. Because it wasn’t just another scheme. It was theft, personal, carved into flesh and blood.

“Michael told you, didn’t he?” Clark’s voice cracked low.

Bruce inclined his head. “He passed me the files. You’ve seen them?”

Clark sat heavily in the chair Bruce gestured to, every muscle rebelling against stillness. “Yes. I don’t—Bruce, I don’t know what to do.”

And for a moment, the words sat there, naked.

He thought of Martha’s hands folding pie crust, going still the moment she’d realize her son had been replicated in a lab without his consent. Jonathan, jaw tightening, saying he should’ve been more careful—as if that were even possible.

And Lois. Lois would cut straight through him. She’d ask the questions he couldn’t bear to face, demand answers he couldn’t give. “What does this mean for us, Clark?” And he would have nothing.

Kara. Oh God, Kara. The grief she carried from Krypton, still raw, still heavy. What would she see in this engineered child—salvation, or insult? Would she hold him, or would she turn away?

The weight of those imagined conversations pressed down harder than the mountain above them.

Bruce’s voice broke through, quieter than Clark expected, almost kind. “Clark. Whatever you need—I can help. You’re not alone in this. No one’s forcing responsibility onto you. You could walk away right now. You don’t even have to see him. Anyone would lose themselves in something like this.”

But Clark already knew he couldn’t. He was many things, but he wasn’t a man who left children behind. Not with Bruce. Not with anyone.

He covered his face with his hands, breath rough in his palms. “What would you do if it were you?”

Bruce exhaled slowly, raking a gloved hand through his hair. “Our lives aren’t the same. But if it were me… I’d accept him. Struggle, yes. Fail, often. But in the end, I’d keep him close. Because that’s who I am. But Clark—it’s your choice. No one else’s.”

Clark’s stomach knotted tighter. Rage burned against guilt, fear against some treacherous pull of curiosity. Maybe he should’ve hidden in the Fortress, buried himself in ice where the only heartbeat was his own. But he couldn’t—not now. Not knowing there was another pulse in the dark, a rhythm echoing his own.

Finally, he lowered his hands. “I want to see him.”

Bruce nodded once.

They called him “the baby.” Sometimes “Superbaby,” a nickname Dick had coined with bright mischief, half plea for a little brother. He was calm, and hardly cried. Alfred carried him in, swaddled in soft blue, and even Bruce’s stern mouth bent into something almost like a smile.

Clark’s chest constricted. The baby was smaller than he expected, six months at most. Olive-toned skin. Black hair. Blue eyes—his eyes, impossibly. Dressed in a bunny-print sleeper, blinking wide and curious.

Bruce murmured, “He’s a good child. Eats well, sleeps well. Dick adores him. He’s… easy.” He rocked the boy once, effortlessly, like he’d been doing it all his life. “There were complications in stasis, growth suppression, but he’s thriving now. The only survivor.”

Clark’s breath caught. Survivor. Like him. Like Kara. A rare, fragile thing in a world never meant for them.

“Can I—” His voice faltered. “Can I hold him?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He only offered the child forward.

The weight in Clark’s arms was terrifying. Warm. Alive. The baby nestled instantly, small head resting against his chest, heartbeat syncing close to his own. Clark felt it—the rhythm he thought belonged only to him and Kara, mirrored now in this tiny chest. His grip tightened instinctively. He thought of the calves he’d carried on the farm as a boy, the way life pulsed hot and insistent in his arms. This was different. This was him.

The baby studied him with eyes like blue oceans, then blinked heavily and drifted into sleep—trust, simple as breathing.

Bruce’s voice broke the silence with a faint, amused huff. “You’ll need to name him, Clark. If he’s to stay in your life. And—much as I love Dick—if I hear ‘Superbaby’ one more time, I’ll go gray faster than Alfred.”

Clark looked down at the boy, so peaceful, so unknowing. The word surfaced before he could stop it. “Conner.”

Bruce tilted his head. “Conner?”

“It means justice. And desire.” Clark’s jaw tightened. “Maybe he wasn’t born from desire. But justice—I can give him that. I can make Luthor regret ever creating him.”

Bruce’s mouth curved into something small, approving. “Then… welcome, Conner.”

Clark adjusted his hold, pressing the baby closer. He whispered it again, more to himself than to Bruce, as though saying it might anchor him to this impossible new reality.

“Welcome, Conner.”

METROPOLIS, LOIS’S APARTMENT

The goodbyes had been harder than Clark expected—harder on everyone, but especially on twelve-year-old Dick. The boy had woken up groggy only to find Bruce and Clark preparing to leave. He’d clung stubbornly to the idea of a little brother, his voice breaking as he asked Bruce for one, like it was something that could be wished into existence. Alfred had smiled sadly, pressing a diaper bag full of supplies into Clark’s hands. Even Ace, the wiry police pup Bruce had recently adopted, had padded after them until Bruce called him back. The farewells had been brisk out of necessity, because attachments were already forming too quickly.

Bruce had insisted they drive—“No baby in your arms mid-flight, Clark. Not negotiable.” And so Clark found himself behind the wheel of one of Bruce’s cars, a baby seat strapped in, a tiny bundle dozing against his chest when they finally reached Metropolis. Conner slept through it all, warm and heavy in his arms, an anchor and a storm at once. Clark felt like a character stepping into a drama he hadn’t agreed to star in—showing up at his girlfriend’s apartment in the middle of the night carrying a baby.

He raised a hand to knock, nerves buzzing beneath his skin.

“Clark…?” Lois’s voice carried through as she opened the door, robe cinched tight. She frowned. “You know you have keys, right? You don’t have to—”

Her voice cut short. Her eyes dropped to the bundle in his arms. A baby. She blinked once, twice, slow and disbelieving.

Her mind recoiled, trying to make sense of the sight. A baby. In his arms. At her door. Not possible. Not normal. Not us.

Her words came out sharp, armor against the creeping panic. “You’d better explain. Clark… if you cheated on me—God help you—you’re going to regret it.”

Clark swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. “Let me come in first. Please. It’s…not what you think.”

She stepped aside, eyes darting between him and the infant like she couldn’t decide which was more surreal.

“Midnight on a Saturday, and my boyfriend shows up with a baby in his arms.” Her tone was sharp, laced with disbelief. “Start talking.”

Clark crossed the threshold, Conner’s soft breathing against his chest like a metronome. He looked at Lois, unable to form an elegant opening. “Lex Luthor.”

It took an hour. An hour of Clark’s halting confession, of Lois listening, her anger rising in waves. By the end, her chest ached with it. Rage clawed its way up her throat. Rage at Lex for his audacity, his cruelty. For stealing Clark’s DNA—his humanity—and bending it to some monstrous experiment. Clones. Failed experiments. This baby is the only survivor.

Her jaw hurt from grinding her teeth. She wanted to punch through walls. She wanted to storm into LexCorp with a crowbar and start breaking glass until something inside her settled.

“Clones?” she hissed. “He stole your DNA? Ran experiments on children?” Her hands clenched into fists. “Clark, this is beyond villainy. This is—God, I want to smash his face into the pavement myself.”

And yet—there he was. A baby. Sleeping soundly on her couch among carefully arranged pillows, as if none of it touched him. Breathing in, breathing out. Innocent.

Clark rubbed his palms over his face, shoulders hunched. “I don’t know what to do, Lois. I don’t even know where to start.” His voice cracked, low and raw. “His name’s Conner. He’s the only one who survived. And I—”

Lois softened at the name, at the careful way Clark had laid the baby down, tucking the blanket around him like he was afraid of breaking him. She touched Clark’s back gently, her hand tracing circles through the fabric of his shirt.

“I’ll help you,” she said, voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. “Whatever this turns into, you’re not alone in it.”

Clark turned to her, eyes wide, relief and guilt tangling. “Thank you,” he breathed, slumping against her shoulder. “Because I have no idea how to carry this. Lois, the thought of Luthor using my genetics like…like clay—like parts in a lab experiment—” His hands shook as he gestured, then dropped. “Children in cryo-tanks, reduced to data. It makes me sick.”

Lois nodded, jaw tight. Her gaze slid back to the baby. Conner slept soundly, impossibly small in the wide cushions. He looked nothing like Luthor, nothing like a weapon. “He looks exactly like you did in those baby pictures your mom showed me. Clark, he’s…he’s yours, no matter how he came into the world.”

Clark’s voice fell to a whisper. “I don’t even know how to tell my parents. What do I say? ‘Hey, Ma, Pa, surprise—Luthor built a grandchild in a tank’?” He forced a humorless laugh that cracked halfway. “Bruce said he’d take him if I couldn’t. But Lois—he’s a survivor. Like me. Like Kara. What Luthor did to the others was—” His voice faltered. “Conner shouldn’t have to pay for that.”

Lois’s throat tightened. The idea was absurd, impossible, terrifying—and yet, the truth was swaddled right there in soft blue blankets. “We’ll help him,” she whispered. “We’ll help you.” She looked Clark in the eye. “Superman can’t run from this. And you, Clark Kent—you don’t want to. But if it ever becomes too much, I’ll be right here. We’re a team. That hasn’t changed.”

Clark searched her face like a man grasping for solid ground. In her steady gaze, he found it.

“Then…do you want to meet him properly?” he asked, tentative.

Her lips curved, softening. “Of course. I barely caught a glimpse. Let me see him.”

Clark rose carefully, scooping Conner into his arms. The baby stirred, but didn’t wake, his blanket slipping to reveal the bunny-patterned pajamas Bruce had insisted on. Clark passed him over with reverence, and Lois gathered him close.

Her breath hitched. Heat pooled in her chest as Conner nestled against her, warm and impossibly small. For a heartbeat, she swore she was holding Clark himself, the likeness uncanny—button nose, thick lashes, the faintest twitch of a smile in sleep. Lois held Conner tighter, tears burning her eyes. I shouldn’t want this, she told herself. This is insane. This is Lex’s doing. This is dangerous. But the warmth against her chest was undeniable. The truth pressed into her arms with every tiny heartbeat.

“He’s your copy, Clark,” Lois murmured, awestruck. “Even down to smiling in his dreams.”

Clark tilted his head, bemused. “I do that?”

“All the time.” Her voice softened further, gaze locked on the infant. “And he smells like…like a baby. Clean, sweet, new. Nothing of Luthor in him. Just…innocence.”

Clark leaned closer, brushing a finger against Conner’s tiny fist. The baby curled instinctively around it, grip surprisingly firm. Clark exhaled shakily. Driving from Gotham, he’d been so tangled in dread—his parents, Kara, the world, Lois—that he’d hardly allowed himself to see Conner at all. But Lois was right. The baby smiled in his sleep. He breathed. He lived.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, Clark allowed himself to wonder—if only for a fleeting moment—whether this child could be more than Luthor’s experiment. Whether he could be family.

Lois cradled Conner close, brushing her cheek against his dark hair. “You’ll need to tell me what Bruce packed in that bag. Bunny pajamas, a car seat—sounds like he nearly adopted him himself.”

Clark let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I think he wanted to. Dick was already begging for a brother. They…they all got attached fast.”

Lois smiled faintly. “Figures. Bruce Wayne, collector of strays.” She rocked Conner gently. “Well, I don’t mind. It’s been a long time since I held a baby this small. And yes, Clark, he really does smell incredible.”

Clark shook his head, amused. “You’ll have to explain that to me someday. For now, let’s let him sleep. He’ll need feeding soon—I’ve got milk for him in the bag. Guess I’ll learn to make a bottle the hard way.”

He glanced at the tiny hand curled around his finger, heart tightening with a mix of dread and wonder. Back on the farm, he’d raised calves and pups—small, fragile lives that deserved care. Conner was nothing like them, and yet, in his innocence, in his right simply to exist, he was the same. Innocent. Worth protecting.

And Clark knew, deep down, he could never walk away.

The thing about babies is—they’re adorable, yes. But they’re also always hungry.

It happens in the middle of the night. Clark doesn’t need sleep, but he’s grateful neither of them has work the next day. They can afford to stay up with baby Conner. He takes the task of preparing the bottle while Lois, fascinated, sits on the couch with the baby in her arms.

“Caring for” doesn’t even feel like the right word. Conner is too awake, too curious—his small head swiveling toward every new shadow, every glint of light. Clark, even in the kitchen, can hear Lois’s voice. She talks to the baby about journalism, about the League, about books she’s read, about the strange little things that have happened in Metropolis. Anything that pops into her mind, she gifts to him in a soft current of words.

When Clark finally returns—formula prepared, supplies Bruce had sent retrieved from the car—he stops at the sight: Conner, wide-eyed, soaking up the world from Lois’s arms.

Without thinking, Lois passes him over. Clark takes the baby with the ease of muscle memory—not memory of infants, but of the farm. He remembers bottle-feeding calves, lambs, and even the runt foals that needed help. By instinct, he slides the bottle into Conner’s mouth.

“He’s curious,” Lois murmurs, tilting her head as she studies the baby’s restless gaze. “He wants to see everything… but he feels too small for six months. Clark, are you sure?”

Clark glances down. Conner’s little hands clutch at nothing as he drinks greedily, as if milk were the only thing that mattered in the universe. Clark’s heart twists at the sight. “It’s the cryogenic chamber,” he explains quietly. “Luthor stalled his growth—more than once. From the files, it looked like he wanted a teenager, not a baby. But when the southern facility was raided, everything froze. Literally.”

He doesn’t need to look up to know Lois’s expression—he hears her pulse shift, feels the cold knot of horror radiating from her chest. To her, it must all feel like a grotesque science-fiction film.

Her hand trembles, then steadies as she brushes her fingers across Conner’s cheek. The baby leans into the touch. “A survivor then,” she whispers. “And nothing like Luthor.”

Clark’s mouth quirks, not quite a smile. “Just a hungry colt who knows how to drain a bottle.”

Lois huffs a breath, half a laugh. “So… six months, give or take?”

“Something like that,” Clark admits. “The files are messy—his growth was interrupted so many times. But Bruce told me as long as his diet’s stable, he should be fine.” His tone falters. He doesn’t mention the dozens of medical notes he skimmed in Bruce’s email, the ones full of sterile warnings. Instead, he watches the child’s determined gulping and feels the weight of both dread and hope coil in his chest.

When Conner finally empties the bottle, Clark pulls it away carefully. The baby blinks, restless.

“You’ve got to burp him,” Lois says, a teasing curve in her mouth.

Clark raises an eyebrow. “Lois, I grew up on a farm. I think I know how feeding works.”

“Do you, really?” she fires back. “Because foals don’t need this part, Clark. Babies do.”

She grabs a towel, drapes it over his shoulder, and hands him the boy again. “Hold him upright, against your chest. That way, if he spits up, it won’t ruin your shirt.”

Clark mutters, “I’ve been burned by plasma cannons, but apparently this is the real danger.” Still, he follows her lead, settling Conner gently against his shoulder. The baby squirms, uncomfortable. Clark pats his back tentatively, then steadier, feeling the faint vibrations of tiny hiccups and gurgles against his ear.

Lois leans in close, her voice a near whisper against his neck. “Gentle. Small circles. That’s it.”

The warmth of her hand brushes his, guiding him. Clark adjusts, awkward but determined. And then—burps. Many burps. Conner seems relieved. Clark less so.

“You’re suspiciously good at this,” he says, glancing at her. “Tell me, where did you learn?”

Lois smirks, but before she can answer, she snaps a quick picture with her phone. The shutter sound makes Clark flinch. “Evidence,” she says. “So I never forget the sight of Superman learning how to—”

Her words cut off as Conner spits up directly onto the towel.

Lois laughs. A real laugh, unguarded. Clark looks heavenward like a man begging for deliverance.

“Kid, I just saved your life,” he mutters to the baby, “and this is how you repay me?”

Conner lets out a delighted little giggle, as if mocking him.

The night goes on. Clark reads Bruce’s files, scrolls through Michael’s clinical notes, and keeps one ear on Lois’s soft breathing when she finally drifts to sleep. Conner does little—he eats, dozes, stares at the world as if it’s new every five seconds, then repeats it all.

Still, Clark’s emotions won’t settle. Sometimes, when Conner looks up at him with those blue eyes, all he sees is hope. Other times, he sees Lex Luthor’s shadow, long and poisonous. But then Conner grabs the TV remote and gnaws on it with absolute concentration, and Clark almost believes in second chances.

By Sunday, Metropolis is unusually quiet. Clark finds himself grateful. Messages from Bruce ping his phone—updates, questions. His parents call, unanswered. He knows he’ll have to explain soon. For now, there’s only the three of them, and Lois’s apartment is filled with the small sounds of life: baby laughter, bottle caps, Lois’s teasing commentary.

He helps Lois change Conner on her bed. The smell hits him first. His super-hearing has faced Gotham’s sewers, alien battlefields, and scorched metal. None of it compares to this.

“Clark, are you—are you crying?” Lois snorts.

He gags. “Lois, please—we have to finish this. What did Bruce feed him? I only gave him milk, and—Conner, stop chewing on the remote!”

She grins, barely holding her composure. “Clark Kent, crying over a diaper. I never thought I’d live to see it.”

“When you have super-smell, you’ll understand,” Clark grumbles, fumbling with the tabs until Lois takes over, showing him the correct way to face the cartoon animals.

Minutes later, finally done, Clark sags back. “That was radioactive,” he mutters.

Lois records him, still laughing.

Sunday in Metropolis is quiet. Too quiet. Usually, Clark listens for trouble, always waiting for the ripple in the calm. Today, though, it’s different. He still hears Bruce’s messages pinging his phone, his parents’ unanswered calls, the chatter of new heroes across the globe. But here, in Lois’s apartment, the only sound that matters is Conner’s soft babbling.

Clark studies him—still curious, still reaching for anything within grasp. He hasn’t shown real powers yet, just a hint of unusual strength. They look up what babies at six months should be doing, compare it to Lex’s files, but most of the time, Conner just… is. Laughing, sleeping, chewing on things he shouldn’t. Ordinary in the way Clark never expected.

What isn’t ordinary is how quickly Lois has fallen for him. She’s enchanted—watching Conner, smiling at his every sound, softer than Clark’s ever seen her. Even without the time for romance, for being just a couple, Clark doesn’t mind. Because Lois’s laughter, in this space, feels like sunlight.

Later, as Conner gnaws on his own fist in Lois’s lap, Clark exhales. “I’ll ask Perry for a few days off. I need to think. And I want to take him to Smallville—to show Ma and Pa.”

Lois looks up from the baby’s hair, twirling it around her finger. “Do you want me to come with you?”

He shakes his head gently. “No. I need to explain it myself. They’ll have… a lot of questions. And Perry would hate losing his best reporter.” His lips twitch.

She smiles at the compliment, though both know Perry has been softer since Bruce bought the Daily Planet. Softer with them, with deadlines, with Clark’s constant vanishing acts.

Leaning forward, Clark kisses her—slow, tentative. She meets him halfway, but the moment cracks when Conner lets out a sudden noise and flings the remote to the floor.

Lois pulls back, laughing softly. “Guess we’ll have to wait until this one falls asleep.” She kisses the baby’s temple instead. “Totally normal, aren’t you?”

Clark stares. Lois. Conner. A baby in Superman pajamas, courtesy of Bruce’s care package. A woman who chose to stay beside him in this chaos. A child who is blameless in all of it.

And Clark dares to hope—for just a moment—that maybe he can learn how to carry this future.

SMALLVILLE, KENT FARM. 

Clark arrived by car—an odd choice for someone who could fly. The sedan was Bruce’s, still carrying the faint smell of leather and engine oil. In the trunk sat a modest suitcase; on the passenger seat, a diaper bag bulging with bottles and formula. He looked pale enough that even Perry hadn’t pressed for explanations, and Lois, sharp-eyed as always, had only shaken her head at his exhausted state.

She had kissed Clark goodbye, but saved her warmest attention for Conner. The baby had giggled and tried to shape half-words in response, capturing Lois’s heart in less than twenty-four hours. When she pulled away, she muttered with mock severity, “Well, now I’ll just keep upping my sugar intake to survive this level of cute.” Clark had smiled weakly, but it was true: Conner had charmed her faster than he had managed himself.

By the time Clark turned down the familiar dirt road that led to the Kent farm that Monday afternoon, his parents were waiting—curious, cautious. Kara wasn’t around, Krypto was with her, and Clark still half-joked about keeping the dog away from his parents’ cows and pigs.

Martha stepped out onto the porch first. Her arms opened before words did. “Clark, honey—I didn’t expect you home, not on a weekday.” She folded him into a hug, her voice muffled against his chest. “Have you eaten? Your father’s still with the cows, giving them their feed. If we’d known you were coming, I’d have had supper ready.”

Clark hugged her back tightly, breathing in the scent of soap and flour on her sweater. The contact loosened something inside him, tugging at memories of mornings when his only chore had been scattering feed for the chickens. His smile wavered but held. “I wanted to see you. And… I need to tell you something.”

A piercing cry cut through the moment.

Clark flinched. His throat tightened, his hands half-rose before he looked toward the car. The wails came again—shrill, insistent, heartbreaking.

He gave his mother a helpless smile. “I think that’s what I came to explain.”

Martha’s eyes shifted past him, to the car window, where a tiny figure squirmed in a carrier, fists flailing. A shock of black hair caught the light, small fingers clenching air. For a heartbeat, her expression froze, then softened. She did what she had always done when life handed her the impossible—she moved.

“Clark Joseph Kent,” she said briskly, though her tone gentled by the end. “Don’t just stand there. Bring that baby inside before he splits his lungs.”

Clark nodded, fumbling more than he liked to admit. He’d practiced this: Bruce had shown him how to unclip the carrier—four times—but his fingers still felt too big, too clumsy. Finally, he freed the seat, slung the diaper bag over his shoulder, and carried both toward the farmhouse.

The kitchen met him like an embrace. The smell of coffee lingered in the air, sweetened by a cooling apple pie on the counter and the faint buttery warmth of cookies still baking in the oven. Clark set the carrier carefully on the table, though the baby inside was red-faced and restless, chewing on his own hand in frustration.

Without hesitation, Martha knelt, undid the straps with the ease of long memory, and lifted the child into her arms. She began to sway gently, her hand rubbing small circles into his back. Her movements were second nature, though the last time she had held an infant, he had been indestructible.

Clark stood frozen, diaper bag slipping from his shoulder. His mouth parted, but no words came.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Martha cooed to the baby, who rooted against her cheek. “We’ll sort you out soon enough. Don’t you worry.”

Clark cleared his throat, nerves fraying. “Ma, there’s a lot I need to explain. He’s not—he’s not a typical baby. He—”

Her eyes flicked up, calm but unwavering, the same gaze that had anchored him through his childhood storms. “Clark,” she said evenly, “right now he’s just a hungry baby chewing on my face. That’s all I need to see. How old is he?”

Clark swallowed hard. “Six months. He’s only had milk, some purees.”

She nodded, shifting Conner on her hip.

The back door banged open. Jonathan entered, wiping sweat from his brow, a basket of fresh eggs tucked under one arm. “Clark! I didn’t even hear you pull up—” His words cut short as his gaze fell on Martha and the child nestled against her.

For a moment, silence. Then a startled laugh. “Well, I’ll be—”

Conner hiccupped, then fixed wide blue eyes on Jonathan. The cries broke into soft coos, as though the stranger were already fascinating. Martha chuckled when tiny lips latched back on her cheek.

Jonathan approached slowly, the way he would a newborn calf. His weathered hands flexed at his sides, wanting to reach but not daring. “He looks like you, son. Same hair, same stubborn curl. It’s like seeing double.”

Clark sank into a chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He pressed his palms to his knees, as though holding himself steady. The exhaustion hit him all at once—not the fatigue of battles fought, but the strain of holding too much in, too fast, for too long. His chest felt tight, ready to split.

“Pa,” he said hoarsely, “it’s complicated.”

Jonathan leaned against the counter, arms folding across his chest. His gaze flicked between the baby and Clark, reading both. “I’d say so. Care to explain how our boy turned up with a boy of his own? I doubt you and Lois have gotten that far.”

Clark flushed crimson. His throat closed. He wanted to spill it all—the labs, the tanks, Lex’s fingerprints in every horror—but how could he bring that poison into this kitchen, into the hearts of the two people who had taught him love?

Martha’s hand touched his arm, steady, warm. Conner, meanwhile, babbled happily at the scent of pie and the unfamiliar ceiling beams.

“You can start wherever you’re able,” Martha said gently. “But first—this little one needs a proper meal. What’s his name, darling?”

Clark exhaled. “Conner. His name is Conner.”

Martha nodded, her hands already moving with familiar efficiency. She set him back in the chair, mashed a banana, scrambled eggs, and cut sausage into tiny cubes. She fed him slowly, spoon by spoon, as if she had done it every day of her life. Conner ate greedily, smearing food across his cheeks, gurgling in delight.

“Milk and purees alone won’t do for a six-month-old,” Martha chided softly, though her smile took the sting out of it. “He needs variety. You loved berries at that age—stole every strawberry we grew, didn’t he, Jon?”

Jonathan grunted in agreement, eyes never leaving Conner.

Clark drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “He’s not… he’s not adopted in the traditional sense. He wasn’t conceived traditionally.” He knew he should spare them the details, hold back the files, the science, the parts that would only cause more trouble. But in the end, he couldn’t. He had to tell them—if only because silence weighed heavier than the truth. “He was created… by Lex. With my DNA. Our DNA. Records were found… my teammates confirmed it. He’s half me… and half Luthor.” 

The words struck the kitchen air like thunder rolling through an open sky. For an instant, the confession seemed to lift something from his shoulders, though his strength had borne far greater burdens before. His eyes sought his parents. Concern etched both their faces.

Martha’s hands never stopped moving—steady, gentle, feeding a cheerful Conner who smeared food across his cheeks and hands. Jonathan, by contrast, went still, his jaw tightening as though clamping down on a flood of questions. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured. “Half Luthor?”

Clark nodded, the motion heavy, his throat tight around words that refused to form. Shame gnawed at him, but beneath it burned a deeper anger—at the situation, at Lex, at fate itself. “I didn’t choose this. But it’s real. And I don’t think I could’ve chosen, even if I wanted to. The boy needed someone.”

He glanced at Conner. The child’s face was messy with food, his little fingers sticky, his laugh bubbling up at Martha’s gentle coaxing with a slice of sausage. Clark’s chest ached. “I couldn’t leave him.”

Silence settled thick around them. The ticking of the old kitchen clock grew almost deafening, each second stretching into the next. Conner’s happy munching filled the space too, a simple sound, grounding and fragile against the weight of everything unsaid.

Martha wiped Conner’s chin with practiced ease, her movements gentle, steady, as if she’d done this a thousand times before. She offered him a new spoonful—this time, bright-red strawberries she had already sliced in the kitchen. Conner grabbed at them with messy hands, smearing juice across his cheeks, giggling as though each bite were a discovery.

“Well,” Martha murmured, lips quirking into a half-smile as she watched the boy’s delight, “he certainly doesn’t resemble Lex Luthor.” She placed another piece of fruit onto the tray, tilting her head toward Jonathan. “That wild hair? Pure Kent.”

Jonathan gave a gruff nod, though the silence that followed pressed down like the weight of the farmhouse walls themselves. Outside, the muted hum of cicadas drifted in through the windows. Inside, the soft clink of spoon against bowl, the faint creak of old wood under shifting weight. It was all familiar—calming—but Clark couldn’t shake the storm that churned beneath his skin.

Conner giggled again, sticky hands batting at the air. Clark tried to smile at the sound, but the knot in his chest only tightened.

Jonathan finally exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before fixing his son with a steady, searching look. “Raising a child isn’t easy, Clark. Are you sure you understand what you’re stepping into?” He cast a glance toward Martha, then back. “It isn’t just saving him today. It’s tomorrow. And the day after. Every day, every year.”

The words struck deep. Clark’s chest constricted until it ached. He lowered his eyes, voice rough. “No. I’m not sure. About any of it. About what comes next, or how I’ll handle it.” His breath hitched as he shook his head. “But I can’t walk away. Not after what I saw. What they did to him.” His fists curled against his thighs, knuckles pale. “I can’t. Not when I hear his heartbeat—steady, strong. Like mine. Like Kara’s. He’s… part of me, whether I want to admit it or not.”

Jonathan’s jaw flexed. His arms folded across his chest, breath leaving him in a slow, measured push. “If he’s half Luthor,” he said at last, voice roughened but sure, “then he’s also half you. And I know which half I trust.” His eyes softened a fraction, though anger still simmered beneath. “I won’t lie—I’m furious. Furious that man keeps clawing into our lives, even from behind bars. Furious that he would dare use you like this.” His mouth tightened. “But I’ll be damned if I let Lex Luthor write the first chapter of that boy’s life. Not with coldness. Not with cruelty. That choice belongs to us. To you.”

Clark lifted his gaze, eyes bright with unshed tears. His voice broke on the question. “And if he turns out like Luthor?”

Martha had been quiet until then, dabbing Conner’s cheeks as the boy laughed at his own mess. She shifted, rising with a softness that belied her strength. Cradling the baby, she crossed to Clark and laid one warm hand over his. “And what if he turns out like you?” she asked.

The words cracked something inside him. Clark tried to laugh, but the sound fractured into a broken exhale. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his broad shoulders bowing under invisible weight. “I’ve been holding it together since the moment I found him,” he whispered. “Telling myself I had to stay strong—for him, for Lois, for everyone. But I’m so tired. And it’s only been two days. I don’t know how to keep this up.”

The scrape of Jonathan’s boots broke the silence as he came around the table. He rested a firm, grounding hand on Clark’s shoulder. “You don’t carry it alone, son. That’s not how family works. Not here. Not ever.”

Clark’s breath shuddered, body trembling under the steady warmth of his father’s hand, his mother’s quiet strength, the bright laughter of the child who was watching it all with wide, curious eyes. The suffocating pressure inside him loosened—just slightly, but enough to draw in air again.

Martha leaned down, brushing a kiss across Conner’s cheek before placing the baby carefully into Clark’s arms. Awkward, uncertain, Clark adjusted until the small body rested against his chest. Then, unexpectedly, Conner reached up—tiny fingers finding Clark’s ear, tugging gently before brushing his cheek.

The touch cut through him like light through dark water. Clark closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the simple warmth of the baby’s breath, the small thrum of a heartbeat syncing with his own. For the first time, the fear bent under something far more dangerous—and far more enduring: love.

“It’s yours, Clark,” Jonathan said quietly, but with unshakable conviction. “Which means he’s ours, too. That’s what family is. Always.”

Martha touched her son’s face as though he were still her boy, her voice gentle but firm. “We’ll figure it out together. That’s how the Kents have always done things. You’re not alone in this. Not now, not ever.” Her smile tilted as she glanced at Conner. “Besides, I think he’s about ready for a nap. And he already knows you’re the safest place he can fall asleep.”

Clark bowed his head, breath catching as emotion tangled in his chest—fear, anger, gratitude, and something new taking root. Conner stirred against him, eyelids drooping, small body relaxing into trust. Clark held him tighter, letting the farmhouse hold them all in its familiar embrace—the creak of old beams, the scent of pie cooling on the counter, the hum of the land outside. For the first time, the weight of his doubts began to ease.

That night, after a day of chaos and unexpected joy—farm animals, Martha’s resurrected baby clothes, Jonathan tinkering with an old crib—Clark found himself holding Conner again. The baby wore soft jeans, a tiny Winnie the Pooh shirt, and bunny socks Martha had insisted on. The scent of freshly washed toys—lavender, vanilla, faint coconut—drifted through the air.

Clark’s phone buzzed. A message from Lois.
Lois: “Send pictures of Conner, Smallville. Tell me everything. Start with the animals.”

Clark chuckled, typing one-handed while balancing Conner on his hip.
Clark: “What, not interested in pictures of me?”

Lois: “Not this time. Just him. With the animals. Sleeping. Awake. All of it. Pictures, Smallville.”

Clark shook his head, laughing softly.
Clark: “I’ll call you in a few minutes, once I put him down. Ma and Pa are arguing over which pajamas he should wear—they dug out all my baby clothes. They’re thrilled.”

Lois: “Good. I want that call. And the pictures. Especially of him in pajamas. Maybe a few of you, too.”

Clark looked down at Conner, who was staring up at the stars, eyes wide, quiet with wonder. And for the first time, Clark allowed himself to believe: maybe this new life wasn’t the end of something—it was the beginning. Maybe he could stumble, fail, and get back up again. Maybe he could rewrite the future for the boy in his arms.

And maybe—just maybe—that would be enough.

Chapter Text

A WEEK LATER.

Clark hadn’t left after three days—it took a full week and then some to find his footing with Conner. Because the truth was simple: Conner was a baby. And babies, no matter how much you thought you knew, were mysteries all their own.

The week blurred into a strange rhythm: Superman by day, easing into rescues where he could; Clark Kent by evening, requesting days off from Perry—days he never asked for; and always circling back to the farmhouse where Conner waited. Lois texted him when she could, sending brief notes between her investigations, but mostly he lived hour to hour in diapers and bottles, startled cries that could rattle even Kryptonian ears.

For once, Clark was grateful his body didn’t need sleep. Even then, exhaustion seeped into his bones. Conner was beautiful—he’d never deny that—but the crash-course into parenthood stripped him raw. His parents had raised a Kryptonian infant, but Conner wasn’t Kryptonian, not entirely. He was softer. More fragile. Needed more sleep. More food. More…everything.

Clark found himself revising old lessons: babies now rode in car seats, socks weren’t recommended, and whole libraries of feeding methods had appeared since his own childhood. He lost count of the times he nearly gave up on understanding all the “new rules.” Even Bruce Wayne—Bruce—sent him essays and data sheets on infant care, as if combat manuals could prepare him for a baby’s colic. Lois demanded pictures of Conner at all hours. The League—no, the Justice gang, as Ma called them—were distracted by their hunt for new heroes, but Clark dreaded the moment Kara returned. Explaining Conner to her would be…complicated.

And then there were the legalities: paperwork, decisions about vaccines—how could he sign Conner up for things when even his existence was tangled between human and Kryptonian biology? Clark caught himself rehearsing lies: Yes, he’s already vaccinated. Of course, he is. The weight of it pressed in, heavier than steel.

Money too. He still sent money home to his parents. Now there was Conner—a reporter’s salary. The words kept circling in his head, bitter as they’d ever been. How did other reporters raise entire families on this income?

“Facebook marketplace,” Ma had said once, spooning mashed bananas into Conner’s eager mouth. The boy had already developed obsessions—strawberries, eggs, anything soft and sweet. “Oh, Clark, don’t look at me like that. Mrs. Smith—you remember her?—she swore by it when she was a grandmother. People always give good things away.”

He couldn’t argue. Conner had already inherited Clark’s old baby clothes, a crib, and even a stroller Bruce had dropped off like contraband. And Conner didn’t care—he was too busy giggling at animals in the yard, or clutching the little stuffed dog dressed in a Superman cape.

Some nights, Clark sat in the rocking chair with him and wondered if the Daily Planet offered raises. It seemed absurd, Superman debating overtime, but that was the reality now.

Now, as Clark loaded the car, the night air buzzed with crickets and the low hum of animals. Conner had wailed when pulled from Ma’s arms, a piercing cry that rattled Clark’s skull. But a pacifier soothed him quickly, and now he sat drowsy in the car seat Bruce had loaned—Clark still hadn’t returned it—watching the farmhouse lights with wide eyes.

“Do you have everything?” Ma asked, worried, lacing her voice as Pa hefted another box into the trunk. Inside: baby clothes Clark hadn’t worn since six months old, jars of food Ma had made, toys tucked into corners. Every item touched by her hands, her care.

Clark nodded. It amazed him still—their love for Conner was immediate, unflinching. Pa walked him through the barns at dawn, showing Conner the animals as if he understood. Ma bent over recipe books and knitting projects, teaching Clark again how to fasten diapers, how to bathe a baby without losing your mind. They were reliving it, and Clark could feel the years peel away from them whenever Conner laughed.

“I’ve got it all. Probably too much,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Pa keeps sneaking things into the trunk. I don’t think Conner needs this much clothing.”

Through the window, Conner blinked sleepily, his heart rate dipping into the steady rhythm of surrender to dreams.

“Oh, he’ll need it,” Ma replied, her smile tender. “Babies grow too fast. You shot up like a weed yourself, Clark, and Conner’s no different. Haven’t you noticed how he’s already bigger this week?”

Clark had noticed. Every day, a fraction taller, heavier in his arms. He didn’t say it aloud, but her words struck him deep. Conner wasn’t just growing; he was changing Clark’s world one ounce at a time.

Pa appeared at Ma’s side, his expression equal parts stern and soft. “That’s the last of it. The crib’s ready to be set up in your apartment. Mrs. Smith gave us more hand-me-downs—you’ll thank her later.”

Clark nodded again, hand dragging down his face. The thought circled again—how long could he keep Conner hidden? Bruce’s family knew. Lois knew. His parents knew. Soon the world would, too. Conner wasn’t meant for shadows, and Clark knew it. His own parents hadn’t kept him locked away. He’d had fairs, neighbors, and school. A childhood. Conner deserved the same.

“This time, seatbelt,” Pa said, voice firm, the kind of fatherly order Clark hadn’t heard in years. “Especially on the highway.”

Clark managed a small smile. “Yes, sir.”

They lingered for the goodbyes. Ma pressed kisses into Conner’s tiny fists, whispering things Clark couldn’t quite catch but felt in the air like blessings. Pa leaned in at the window, resting a weathered hand against the glass, murmuring his own goodnights. Conner, half-asleep, accepted it all with a soft sigh.

“Bring him back Monday,” Pa said at last, his voice carrying both command and plea.

Clark slid behind the wheel, buckled in. Conner was already asleep, tiny breaths fogging the glass. “We’ll be here early,” he promised. He knew the look Pa gave him—it was the same look that always reminded him he was still their boy, no matter the cape or the legends. “And yes, by car.”

He’d tried flying once, holding Conner against him. It hadn’t gone well. Conner had clung too tightly, his own nerves sparking against Clark’s. And when Ma and Pa had seen them rising over the fields, the warnings in their eyes were enough to clip even Superman’s wings.

So, the car was. An hour’s drive instead of a ten-minute flight. Normal. Safe. Human.

The engine hummed as Clark guided it down the dirt road. In the rearview, Conner’s small head lolled, mouth slack in sleep.

Clark gripped the steering wheel tighter, pulse drumming in his ears. He knew it now, knew it in every beat of his heart—that his life had shifted irrevocably. From the first moment he’d taken Conner into his arms, everything had tilted.

Was it joy? Fear? Both. The thought of Lex, of the science behind this boy, of what it could all mean—those fears clawed at him. But then he’d glance at Conner, soft and unguarded, and feel a different truth.

This child was his world now. And that scared him more than anything else.

METROPOLIS.

He would have made it to the apartment sooner, but the city had other plans. First came the diaper change, awkward and graceless, Clark fumbling through with every ounce of his supposed “super-speed coordination” while Conner wriggled like a determined little octopus, his tiny hands batting at the air and reaching for everything within sight. Then came the stop at a convenience store: wipes, diapers, the endless checklist that Ma had drilled into him.

What should have been quickly stretched into something else entirely. Conner’s cries began sharp and sudden, thin at first but climbing until they filled the fluorescent-lit aisle. Not a fussy whimper, not the “I’m bored” sound—real tears. His little face reddened, his body stiffened against Clark’s chest. Clark’s heart clenched. He tried every trick Ma had whispered in his ear, every silly nickname, every rocking sway. Nothing worked.

The sound carried—Clark could hear it ripple out, brushing against the shallow patience of the few late-night shoppers. The hum of the refrigerators, the buzz of the lights, all seemed to grate against Conner’s cries.

“C’mon, Conner,” Clark murmured, his voice pitched soft, desperate, almost pleading. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. Work with me, kiddo.”

He pulled out the little stuffed animal from the bag—a tiny plush dog with a red cape. Nothing. The cries only grew.

And in a sudden, cutting moment of awareness, it hit him: no one had ever cried in his arms before. Not like this. Not children in danger, not strangers caught in a rescue. Superman was safety. Superman was comfort. But to Conner? He was just another imperfect set of arms.

“You’re over-stimulating him.”

The voice came from behind. Clark turned, half-startled, to find a short woman in scrubs, her smile kind and practiced. She smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal—hospital clinging to her like a second skin. Her ID tag read Brown.

“What?”

She gestured gently toward the baby. “The lights, the noise. He’s not used to this. Too much all at once.”

Clark froze. He wanted to explain, to tell her he wasn’t—technically—the baby’s father, that this was all complicated, but Conner’s shrieks kept unraveling him. So when she extended her arms, he hesitated only a second before surrendering the bundle, blanket and all.

She held Conner with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times. A shift of her shoulder, a little rock, the careful placement of a pacifier against tiny lips—and the crying slowed. Then stopped. Conner sighed, snuggling into the curve of her neck.

Clark swallowed hard. Why had it worked for her?

“There,” she said brightly, “just like that. Now you try. Hold him against your shoulder. Keep the blanket up—let the lights fade for him.”

Clark obeyed, clumsily mirroring her. And it worked. Conner’s breath steadied against his collarbone, the rise and fall syncing with Clark’s own chest. The tension unspooled.

“I… thank you,” Clark managed, voice low, almost embarrassed.

“First-time parents always panic like this,” Nurse Brown said warmly, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “It’s normal. Babies from quiet homes get overwhelmed in places like this. Little by little, he’ll adjust. You both will.”

Clark nodded, tucking the words away. He thought of the farmhouse—the golden lamplight, the gentle chorus of crickets, the lowing of cattle at dawn. Conner had lived in that softness for a week. Now here he was under cold bulbs and sharp edges. Of course, it had been too much.

She tilted her head, studying him. “You know, sometimes babies just sense it. They know when their parents are stressed. Makes it harder for them to settle.”

The words stung—sharp, unfair, yet undeniably true.

“I tried everything,” Clark admitted quietly, a rueful smile tugging at his lips.

“And you’ll try everything again tomorrow. That’s parenting.” Another squeeze to his shoulder, steady and confident. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing fine.”

By the time she walked away, Conner was asleep again, curled against Clark like he had never been anything else.

Clark exhaled deeply, carrying him out of the store. His mind already raced ahead—to Bruce, to Michael, to the tests they might run. What did it mean for a child half Kryptonian, half human, to face sound, light, sensation? He remembered his own childhood, how the world had sometimes felt too loud, too sharp. Would Conner live with that doubled? Or something new altogether?

He didn’t have the answer yet. But he would find it.

LOIS LANE’S APARTMENT.

The moment he saw her, the stress slid from his shoulders. Lois, standing framed by her doorway, was sunlight breaking through storm clouds—sharp lines softening into warmth. The faint scent of coffee and sugar clung to her. When she pulled him into a kiss, when her arms wrapped around him, Clark felt that impossible comfort: home.

“Clark,” Lois breathed against him, her voice almost breaking, “I thought you weren’t coming. You’re hours late.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. “Traffic. And… we had to pick up some things.”

He didn’t tell her about the store aisle, about the helplessness. Some things were his to carry alone—for now.

Before he could explain further, Lois was already unbuckling the car seat with startling ease. In seconds, Conner was in her arms, and Clark—still juggling the diaper bag, his suitcase, the cooler of Ma’s cooking—was left staring, caught between amusement and something faintly like jealousy.

She kissed the baby’s cheek, once, twice, again. “Did you miss me, little radish? Growing so fast. I barely recognize you.” Conner gurgled in response, little hands reaching for her necklace. Lois laughed, burying another kiss against his neck. “Mmm, still smells like a baby. Sweet and warm. Tell me you missed me, hmm? You must’ve missed me.”

The laughter spilling from Conner’s tiny mouth was brighter than Clark had heard in days. Not even cows mooing in the fields had gotten him this delighted.

Clark raised an eyebrow as he hefted the cooler. “I thought you missed me, Lois. All those texts… weren’t they for me?”

She looked up, smirking, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, Clark Kent—jealous of a baby? Of course, I missed you. But you, I could catch in passing, cape flashing by the Planet. This one? This one I only get in pictures.” She nuzzled her nose against Conner’s, and the baby squealed again.

Clark shook his head, smiling despite himself, and closed the apartment door behind them. Whatever else happened—whatever chaos tomorrow brought—he couldn’t deny it: Conner had stolen Lois’s heart as easily as he’d stolen his own.

It was only a while later—after the chaos softened into something gentler—that the apartment felt almost domestic. Lois sat with Conner nestled in her arms, the baby gurgling between bouts of content silence, while Clark unpacked the last of Ma’s cooking into the freezer. The air smelled faintly of roasted vegetables and cinnamon, the kind of scent that always clung to farm kitchens. Clark tried not to think about how many miles separated him from that safety as he set the final container down.

By the time he carried their dinner out, Lois had turned the living room into an impromptu interview studio. Conner babbled back to her in earnest, his small fists opening and closing as though punctuating his answers.

“Did you have fun at the farm? Did that man treat you well?” she teased, eyes dancing toward Clark in mock accusation. “Did you see the animals, little radish? Do you want to spend more time with Lois?”

Clark chuckled, balancing a tray of plates. Conner was chewing on his fist, damp with drool—the universal signal Clark had already learned to recognize. Hunger was never subtle. Lois, anticipating him, propped the baby on her lap with a couple of pillows, tied on a Winnie-the-Pooh bib, and held him steady while Clark fetched the small bowl of mashed pumpkin, egg, avocado, and fruit.

It was clumsy, this rotation: one of them slipping bites of pasta between their own sentences while the other coaxed spoonfuls toward Conner. But the rhythm worked, messy and tender.

“I didn’t think he’d be eating so quickly,” Lois admitted, wiping a smear from Conner’s chin with practiced fingers. “The farm must have spoiled him. The pictures didn’t do justice.”

Clark shrugged lightly, feeding Conner another spoonful. “We had to watch hours of videos, read everything we could. Ma and Pa figured it was better to let him try little pieces of everything. If something goes wrong, I can handle it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his voice dipping into sheepish honesty. “He still drinks more milk than anything else, though. I should probably talk to Bruce… he gave me bags of formula when I picked him up, but those are gone. I’ll have to switch to the jars.”

The admission hung heavier than Clark intended, but Lois’s answering smile steadied him. For a moment, their gazes locked over Conner’s small head. Lois gave a tiny shake of hers and let out a low laugh, as if to break the weight.

“Which means I’ve missed a lot,” she said, glancing down as Conner pawed at her fingers. “What’s the plan, Clark? Because Monday’s coming. And with him in your arms, you don’t get to just wing it.”

Reality struck sharp again, the kind Bruce’s messages had been hammering home all week. Clark straightened his shoulders, voice firmer than he felt.

“Ma and Pa will watch him while I’m at work. I’ll drive him there and back. We’ve left some supplies at the farm, and I’ve got deliveries scheduled for the rest. He’s… growing fast. Faster than I know how to measure. I’ll have to figure it out as I go.”

Lois studied him as though weighing whether to challenge the plan. Instead, she only nodded, her silence more intimate than argument. They traded the spoon back and forth, letting Conner squeeze at slices of fruit with clumsy hands, his delighted squeals cutting through the quiet.

“So, no flights for the famous Clark Kent?” Lois teased, her smirk sharp with affection. “You in morning traffic—I almost want front-row seats. You can barely stand fifteen minutes in it.”

Clark let out a groan and tipped his head back, feigning despair. “Don’t remind me. I’ve got two days left to adjust. Just… give me time to make this real in my head.”

Her laugh softened the edge, but it didn’t erase the tension curling beneath. It surfaced again when Clark reached across the couch, lacing his fingers with hers. The squeeze was brief but grounding, the kind of contact that said more than either dared to out loud.

“You know you can count on me,” Lois murmured, eyes flicking to Conner, his face smeared with pumpkin and avocado. “With any of this. I’ve done this before.”

Clark arched a brow. “At some point, you’ll have to tell me where all this experience came from. It’s like you’ve been keeping secrets from Superman.”

Lois pressed a hand to her chest with mock scandal. “What, a woman can’t have her mysteries?”

He leaned closer, playful suspicion tugging at his smile. “Lois Lane, award-winning reporter who interviews Superman on rooftops… keeping secrets from Smallville?”

Her lips curved slyly. “A secret you’ll have to earn another time, Kent.”

Later that night, with Conner tucked against her side and a bottle balanced in her hand, Lois felt the stillness settle differently. Clark was in the other room, speaking low into his phone—Bruce’s voice, clipped and relentless, bleeding faintly through the door. Conner’s small chest rose and fell against her arm, his eyelashes fluttering with the effort of staying awake as he sucked greedily from the bottle.

Lois hadn’t expected this: the ache of missing a baby who technically wasn’t hers. She had missed him all week—missed the powder-sweet scent of his skin, the silly faces Clark pulled to make him laugh, even the chaos of toys and blankets taking over her apartment. She’d begged for photos, videos, anything to keep close to the rhythm of him.

Now, with his breath warming the fabric of her shirt, all the doubts tangled. He wasn’t hers. He wasn’t even Clark’s in the simple way children usually are. He was a complication, a product of someone else’s cruelty. But when she looked down into those eyes, so sharp and unguarded—Clark’s eyes—Lois didn’t see Luthor’s shadow. She saw hope. She saw a second chance. She saw a future she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t bring herself to reject.

Her fingers traced his soft belly, coaxing giggles that broke around the bottle’s nipple. When he finally pulled away with a grin too big for his face, she laughed softly, brushing milk from his chin.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” she whispered, kissing his tiny fist. “Your life’s going to be chaos—like a rock star’s. But you’ll tell me all about the farm, won’t you, radish? You’ll let me keep up with your stories.”

She lifted her phone and snapped a picture before she could stop herself, capturing the glow of his smile against her chest. The weight of what she felt pressed heavily, but she let it stay.

In the other room, Clark rubbed a hand through his hair as Bruce’s voice carried:

“You’re bringing him next week for more tests. Conner needs a full work-up if you’re serious about keeping him safe. Luthor’s fingerprints are still all over this. And we need the paperwork ready.”

Clark sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Will Michael be there? At the manor?”

“Yes. And it has to be at the manor if you want this quiet,” Bruce replied, irritation sharp in every syllable. “We’ll handle the biology, the legalities. Just bring your questions. Friday. Don’t argue.”

The line went dead, leaving Clark staring at his phone. For the first time that night, he let himself sag into the couch cushions, the weight of a future he wasn’t ready for settling across his shoulders. In the bedroom, Conner giggled again, and Lois’s laugh followed—a reminder of what he was holding together with both hands, fragile and unsteady, but his.

It was a few hours later—one of those rare stretches when no one was calling, when the city wasn’t burning, when Clark Kent wasn’t Superman. Just Clark. A man who wanted a quiet evening with Lois, something he could almost pretend might last forever. Lately, life had been too chaotic, too jagged at the edges. His mind kept wandering—to Kara, to the inevitable questions from the Justice team, and most of all, to Lois, who had been at his side through every turn.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clark glanced at Conner. The baby slept soundly in the portable crib they’d set up at the foot of the bed. Lois had insisted on the teddy-bear pajamas, and now Conner lay sprawled in them, his tiny chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

Lois shifted beside him, stretching out in her oversized Superman T-shirt—one he had once given her in jest, but she wore like a second skin. She lay back against the pillows and scrolled through her phone, frowning before holding the screen up for him to see.

“You know babies can just… die in their sleep, right?” she said bluntly, as if easing into the subject would only make it worse. “It’s called SIDS. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Doctors still don’t know why it happens.”

Clark froze, the glow from his own phone forgotten. He had been scrolling half-distracted through the Justice Gang’s endless message thread—something he hated being in but couldn’t leave. Now his eyes darted to Conner’s crib, horror pricking along his skin.

“Wait… they can just stop breathing? Out of nowhere?” His voice dropped, almost hushed, as if speaking too loud might disturb the peace.

He sharpened his hearing instinctively. Conner’s breathing was steady, a faint whisper of air that reassured him. Still, Clark couldn’t stop the chill crawling up his spine.

“Don’t say things like that, Lois,” he muttered, the plea almost boyish.

Her hand slid across his arm, grounding him with a gentle stroke. She offered a small smile, that practiced mixture of steel and softness that had pulled him through more nights than he could count.

“I don’t think it’ll happen,” she said firmly, her voice settling into reassurance. “Besides, Conner’s six months old, and half Kryptonian. I doubt he falls into the usual risks.”

Clark studied her, knowing Lois could be blunt, sometimes brutally so, but rarely without purpose. She had planted a fear in him, yes, but she had also soothed it. And still, maybe he should’ve read more about what babies at six months actually need. He had focused on milestones, on feeding schedules, on what Conner should be able to do. He hadn’t thought enough about what could go wrong.

“No,” he said at last, exhaling. “You’re right. He’ll be fine.” The words felt like a promise he was making to himself as much as to her.

For a beat, silence filled the room. Then Lois tucked herself against his chest, cheek pressing to his heartbeat. He tightened his arm around her automatically, clinging to the warmth she gave him.

“Honestly,” Clark confessed quietly, “I don’t even know what a six-month-old is supposed to be doing. Bruce and Michael want to run tests—figure out what Conner inherited, what abilities he might have. I just…” He trailed off, heavy with uncertainty.

Lois tilted her head back to look at him, her eyes sharp even in the soft spill of moonlight. “And you’re afraid they’ll find something strange.”

Clark set his phone aside, eyes locked on hers. Her gaze searched him, unflinching. She was worried, too—he could see it. He hated that they shared this fear, but he also knew it bound them together.

“I don’t think they will,” he said at last, steady but quiet. “From everything in Luthor’s files… Conner’s just a six-month-old baby.”

Her shoulders eased, and for a moment, she followed his gaze toward the crib. Conner stirred in his sleep, rolling slightly, one chubby hand curling near his mouth. Lois’s lips curved.

“He’s also addicted to putting things in his mouth,” she said wryly. “While you were in the bathroom, he tried to chew on my phone. And don’t think I forgot you telling me you used to eat metal.”

Clark chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension in his chest. “That’s Kryptonian biology. Our senses make food… different. But, from what I’ve read, human babies just love mouthing things.”

Lois laughed with him, a low, warm sound. She leaned back into his side, eyes still drifting toward the crib, as though this—domesticity, normalcy—were something fragile and temporary. She knew it was. Clark would have to go back to his own place soon. There were still papers to sign, futures to plan, lives to balance.

“Are you going to take him to the Fortress?” she asked suddenly, shifting against him. “I know it’s complicated, but maybe it’ll give you answers. Babies are mysteries even when they’re not half alien.”

Clark swallowed, her words hitting a nerve. The Fortress—his most sacred space, once invaded by Luthor—still carried its shadows. And yet… Lois was right. He thought of Kara, of the Kryptonian tech waiting for him, of the possibility of truth.

“I’ll think about it,” he admitted. “I want to hear what Michael and Bruce say first. If their tests don’t give us enough, maybe the Fortress will.”

The thought of what the Fortress might reveal tugged at him uneasily. Conner was more his than Luthor’s; he knew that. Everyone said the boy was his spitting image. And yet—after days with him, after nights like this, Clark still felt a strange distance, as if part of him was holding back. He didn’t want to. But the fear lingered.

Lois’s hand traced lazy circles on his bare arm, pulling him back to the present. “Whatever happens—with Conner, with you—I’m here. We’re partners, aren’t we? Let’s just… rest for now.”

He nodded, kissed her hair, and let the quiet settle between them.

Later, in the dark, Clark shifted closer, arm draped around Lois as her breathing slowed into sleep. He listened to her heart steady against his chest, then glanced once more toward the crib.

From half-dream, Lois’s voice slurred out: “If you want… You can move Conner’s crib closer to your side of the bed.”

Clark raised his brows, though she couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I’ll do that. But Lois—don’t bring up SIDS again. Please.”

She hummed, already drifting away. Clark moved silently, his strength allowing him to shift the crib without a sound. Conner slept on, smiling faintly, his arms stretched upward as if grasping for stars. Clark slid back into bed, pressed a kiss to Lois’s cheek, and finally let himself close his eyes.

For the first time in days, he almost believed he could rest. 

Time slips past Clark Kent faster than he realizes. Sunday had been quiet in its own way—Lois helping a colleague with an article for the Star City Gazette, Clark handling Superman business and attempting, unsuccessfully, to reach Kara. He knew she was still traveling among other worlds, but the silence gnawed at him. He worried about her. He worried about Krypto. He wished for a message, a glimpse, anything. And yet, he also knew he couldn’t intrude too deeply into her path.

He still hadn’t moved Lois’s belongings into his own apartment. He knew he’d have to soon. But that Sunday was…good. Better than good. He hadn’t known spending time with a baby could be fun.

As Superman, he had cradled infants in rescue operations, soothed children for a moment or two before handing them back. But never this long. Never this fully.

Conner was all curiosity—pressing his small hands into food they’d made from recipes Lois found online, bouncing when videos of babies flashed on Lois’s tablet. He had even managed to crawl, fast and determined, then sit up and take in the room with solemn, unblinking blue eyes. Clark had played with him. Really played. When he showed Conner the toys Ma and Pa had passed down—plastic machines that spoke animal names when pressed—Conner slapped the buttons with glee until tinny voices filled the air.

It wasn’t pride exactly, but something close. Lois had filmed the whole thing, her laughter filling the room. For a moment, everything was warm. A gift pressed into the hollow of Clark’s chest. Too much. Almost unbearable.

Now, as he watches Lois carry Conner against her hip, Clark knows the road ahead will be long. The baby tugs gently at Lois’s hair, his tiny fingers brushing her cheek. She lets him, smiling softly. Conner looks impossibly small yet grounded—dressed in one of Clark’s old baby sweaters, little jeans patterned with Winnie the Pooh, and socks with the Superman crest that Lois had bought because she thought it was funny. His eyes dart everywhere, soaking in the golden light of the morning.

“I’d really like to see you drive a whole hour to Smallville,” Lois teases, a crooked smile tugging at her lips as Clark buckles the car seat and tucks the diaper bag onto the passenger side. “Especially considering you once complained the bus took forever.”

Clark straightens, folding his arms with mock sternness. An eyebrow arches. “Seriously, Lois? You know I’m only driving because Ma and Pa caught me in the air with Conner. I didn’t want them panicking.”

Lois laughs again, head tipping back. They won’t be going together—Lois has work to finish, Clark needs to get to Smallville, and then back to the Planet.

“That’s why I want proof. At least a video. Clark Kent behind the wheel is practically historic.”

He huffs, shaking his head. “Next time we head to another city, maybe I’ll insist on the car. Just so you can narrate the whole trip.”

Her laughter rings brighter, and then she leans close, brushing her lips against his. Her hand lingers on his jaw, gentle and sure. “You’d never. You love me too much to torture yourself with traffic.” Her voice is teasing, but her forehead rests against his as she says it.

He wants to kiss her again—longer, deeper—but the morning chaos presses close. Getting a baby ready doubles everything: bath time, breakfast, changing clothes—still the part that unsettles him most. Babies are soft and sweet, but no one warned him they smelled like that.

“Oh, Conner…” Lois whispers, kissing the top of the baby’s head. He babbles, reaching for her cheek. “Yes, little radish, I’ll miss you too. Tell me all about your day later, okay?”

More babbles. He clutches at her shirt, demanding another kiss, and Lois happily gives him three.

Then Conner stretches for Clark. Clark settles him against his side, Conner’s warm weight familiar now.

“Daily Planet later?” Clark asks, a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

Lois rolls her eyes. “Always late, Smallville. If only you had some miraculous way of being on time. Something like, oh, I don’t know—flying.” She laughs, kisses him again, soft and quick, then kisses Conner’s hair for good measure. “I’ll be waiting. Call if anything comes up.”

They part reluctantly—kisses for Clark, kisses for Conner, until Lois finally disappears into her apartment. Clark lingers in the hallway, Conner snug against his chest.

“We’ll figure it out, kiddo,” Clark murmurs. Conner gazes at him with wide blue eyes. “As long as you don’t cry, we’re good.”

More babbles. Then a fist shoved straight into his mouth. Clark laughs under his breath, wanting to believe the baby really does understand.

Hours later, back from Smallville, Clark feels hollow. Conner had cried when he left him with Ma and Pa, cried the way he had in the grocery store. They had soothed him with a bottle, but Clark had heard the wails echoing in his ears all the way down the country road. By the time he pulled into Metropolis—after fumbling through the parking garage like a man who’d forgotten how cars worked—his chest ached. The separation felt brutal, unnatural.

At the Daily Planet, the newsroom buzzes around him. But at his cubicle, it’s just Lois, leaning against the edge of his desk, watching him with concern.

“You know I can help,” she says gently, after he tells her about the drop-off at his parents’. “Besides, the Planet offers daycare slots.”

He blinks. “How do you know that?”

“It’s in the contract, Clark. Benefits, agreements—you did read the contract, didn’t you?” Her smirk softens when he shrugs sheepishly.

His hand rubs at the back of his neck. “He’s half Kryptonian, Lois. I don’t know what he can handle, what he might show. How will he react around other kids?”

Her palm settles warmly on his shoulder. For a moment, they break their own rules, fingers twining briefly, eyes holding.

“Clark,” Lois says quietly, “we’re all he has. He may be six months old, but you’re his world. He spent his first week of life only with you. And me. Now you’re gone for a whole day, and he doesn’t understand why.” Her voice trembles almost imperceptibly. “Can you imagine that? It’s painful. For a baby, it’s worse.”

The words land like a soft blow. Clark swallows, nodding, reaching instinctively for her wrist before she can pull away.

“Do you miss him too?” he asks, almost afraid of the answer.

Lois exhales slowly. “Who wouldn’t?”

He nods again, feeling that ache pulse through his chest. He’ll have to think this through—schedules, truths, the day he’ll need to tell his friends and teammates. Secrets never stay secret, not forever. Especially with a baby like Conner.

Time in Metropolis was slipping faster than Clark expected—too fast. No one seemed to need Superman these days. No accidents, no fires, no cats stuck in trees. But everyone, somehow, needed Clark Kent. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

So he buried himself in the newsroom rhythm: editorial meetings, interviews, follow-ups. Work, pure and simple. He told himself it was enough. But every so often, the silence pressed in—the missing weight of Conner’s small body against his chest. After a week and some days with the baby strapped to him almost constantly, the newsroom felt strangely hollow.

Instead of soft baby babbles, there was Perry’s bark demanding copy, Jimmy’s chatter about his latest “conquests,” and gossip about Eve—off in Europe, living her influencer life. Good for her, Clark thought distantly, smiling to himself. At least someone was making it look effortless.

Then the messages came in, tiny lifelines from home.
“Conner isn’t crying. He’s eating strawberries…”
“Conner loves being with Pa and the cows.”
“Conner and Pa are having lunch after a long day.”

One photo—blurred, snapped mid-motion—showed Conner bundled in overalls too big for him, cheeks full and flushed. Happy. Content. Clark stared too long, unsettled by the ache blooming in his chest. The baby was fine. Why did he feel so strange?

He drowned the feeling in deadlines: corruption exposés, updates on STAR Labs experiments, a quiet obituary no one else seemed to notice. Lois leaned over to him often, asking his take on a phrase or a lead. Most of their conversations circled back to Conner anyway. He liked that. He liked the way she smiled when he showed her photos.

“You should send me those,” Lois teased, lips curved in that wry smile that cut through his fog. “The ones of him at the farm, Smallville.”

For a moment, Superman didn’t exist. Only Clark Kent.

By mid-afternoon, the bullpen was in its lull. Lois leaned over his desk, balancing a too-sweet coffee in one hand, her other hand resting on her hip.

“I thought you’d be laughing at Gardner’s terrible memes by now,” she said, tilting her head toward his phone, where the Justice team chat buzzed unanswered. “You’ve written your reply three times.”

Clark blinked at the screen. She was right. He chuckled softly, pushing his glasses up. “They’ve got… an extra kind of humor sometimes.”

Lois’s gaze softened, though her voice stayed crisp. “Mm, I’ll accept that excuse.” She nudged the coffee toward him. “Too much sugar. It helps. We’ve still got Perry’s next meeting to survive.”

Clark’s brow furrowed. “Lois—”

She dipped closer, lowering her voice until it was just for him. Intimate, despite the chaos around them. “If you want,” she murmured, that sly smile tugging at her lips, “we can pick him up together. That way, I get to watch the famous Clark Kent navigate rush-hour traffic.”

Her words hit him harder than any blow in the field. She’d been steady, pragmatic, quick to adapt in ways he hadn’t expected. It still shook him. His hand brushed hers beneath the desk—a fleeting contact, hidden from everyone else but sparking all the same.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling back. “That could be fun. Trust me, I won’t lose my cool in traffic. I usually take the bus.”

It was enough. The rest of the day blurred—drafts, rewrites, more photos from Bruce, messages from his parents, Lois’s voice threading through it all.

Later, when the bullpen had thinned, the city lights glittering outside the tall windows, Lois broke the quiet. “We’ll pick him up together, remember?” she said, still focused on her notes. “I need something beautiful to look at—Perry’s frown isn’t cutting it.”

Clark laughed, warmth anchoring deep in his chest.

The drive was long—an hour and a half of crawling traffic—but when they finally stepped into the farmhouse, the welcome was worth it. Lois was greeted with a smile, drawn into conversation with Ma as if she’d been part of the family forever.

Clark’s eyes, though, went straight to Pa, cradling Conner. The baby was dozing, dressed now in cowboy boots, jeans that pinched too tightly, and a flannel shirt clearly borrowed from somewhere. Six months old and already someone’s idea of a ranch hand. Pa handed him over with careful pride.

“Never seen your Ma this happy,” Pa said, his smile touched with nostalgia. “It’s like turning back time, Clark. She sang to him, fed him, bathed him… just like she did with you.”

Clark adjusted the baby in his arms, Conner’s soft weight pressing against him, warm and utterly trusting. Pa went on, amused.

“We’ll manage the first week fine, son. He’s good company when I’m feeding the animals. Obsessed with the cows, keeps reaching for them. And your Ma’s making so much jam you’ll have to take a few pies back.”

Clark only nodded, eyes lingering on the baby's peaceful face, then lifted to Lois. She stood a little apart, diaper bag on her shoulder, pie tins in hand, listening with real interest.

Home. Family. Lois. Conner is safe and asleep in his arms. For the first time in days, Clark believed it—believed everything would be okay.

A month and a handful of weeks blurred past in chaos—yet it was a chaos Clark found himself enjoying.

He hadn’t managed the full medical evaluation for Conner with Michael and Bruce; Gotham had stolen that time. Bruce had taken a serious hit, leaving Batman benched. Clark had stepped in as much as Bruce’s stubborn rules allowed—rules that had always excluded him anyway. Not a meta. Bruce Wayne healed in the mansion while the tabloids placed his public self in Italy.

Through it all, Conner was changing. No longer crying when they drove out to the farm, now he greeted the fields with squeals and gummy laughter. His babbling had grown more insistent, words that almost made sense if Clark tilted his ear and believed. The boy was growing like a weed.

Clark still hadn’t moved out of Lois’s apartment. Something always came up—late deadlines, Superman emergencies, or Conner simply falling asleep at the farm when neither of them could get away. Lois insisted on helping, insisted on coming with him, and in those insistent little acts, their relationship deepened. A year and a change together, but they were steady now. Serious.

He was a man in love, and he didn’t bother denying it.

Superman had his share of burdens: keeping an eye on Luthor locked away in Belle Reve, balancing League matters, juggling crises that never quite stopped. But Clark—the man—was learning to balance too: pickups from the farm, late-night moments of privacy with Lois, bedtime struggles with a six-month-old who never wanted to settle. Conner clung to him and Lois most fiercely when he was drowsy, fists tangled in their clothes, refusing to let go. Clark let him. Every time.

That evening, the apartment was warm with lamplight. Lois sprawled across the bed with a stack of files, her voice lilting as she half-explained an investigation to Conner. The baby sat propped beside her, chubby fingers wrapped around a plastic remote, gnawing like it was treasure.

Michael’s voice carried through the phone. “I’ll send you the file Bruce and I finished—the guardianship papers. This gives you full control: benefits, medical rights, the whole thing.”

Clark scrolled through the document when it hit his inbox.

Temporary Guardianship and Legal Custody
I, Clark Joseph Kent… accept legal custody of Conner Kent, minor, born of distant Kent relatives unable to provide care… Document prepared under the counsel of Bruce Wayne and Michael Holt, serving as guarantors…

There were medical notes, clean records, and witnesses Bruce had lined up. A neat fiction to explain Conner’s place in Clark’s life. A simple story for the world: a lost Kent relative’s child, entrusted to him.

“It looks fine,” Clark said, distracted by the sight of Lois tickling Conner’s toes.

“Fine?” Michael groaned. “Clark, it’s flawless. Do you know what it takes to draft papers with Bruce Wayne? He nitpicked everything. It’s excellent. Now, when do we actually get to see this kid? Even Robin is more of a fixture than your boy.”

Clark chuckled softly. “Conner’s seven months now. Babbling, crawling, and chewing everything in sight. You’ll meet him when the time’s right—once we know more about his powers.”

Michael made a noise of reluctant agreement. “Fair enough. And don’t forget Diana’s notes. Have you—”

Clark ran a hand through his hair. Wonder Woman… Just a few days ago, she had arrived, choosing to step away from working alone and answer the calls that had been going out. It was the first real step toward expanding the team.

He still refused to call it the Justice Gang.

But the truth was, they needed more than what they had. Guy was rarely on Earth. Kendra carried her own burdens. Michael split his time between other teams and buried himself in behind-the-scenes projects.

What they lacked—what they all needed—was something steady. Something they could rely on. He mumbled something about Bruce’s resistance, then signed off the call.

He found Lois and Conner exactly as he’d left them. Files pushed aside, Conner now crawling toward him with determined little grunts. Clark scooped him up easily, only for the baby to plant his wet mouth against Clark’s cheek and gum down like it was food.

Lois laughed, rich and bright. “Looks like someone inherited your appetite.” She gathered the scattered papers and set them on the dresser. “Between you two, I live with a pair of compulsive snackers.”

Clark frowned in mock offense. “Hey, it’s probably teething. He has a dozen toys to chew, don’t you, buddy?”

But Conner kept gnawing at him until Lois dangled the remote again. With some coaxing, they settled the boy onto the bed, where he resumed drooling happily on plastic buttons.

Then Lois asked it. Quiet, unguarded.  “Why doesn’t he just sleep with us tonight?”

Clark blinked. “Lois—”

“He’s always in the crib. But he’s been with your parents so much this month. What could it hurt? Just one night. Let him fall asleep next to us. Let him… tell us about his day.”

Clark looked between her and Conner. The baby’s small fingers were still wrapped around the remote, but Lois’s hand had come to rest on Conner’s belly, absently rubbing circles. The sight pulled something deep in him taut.

“I think we can do that,” Clark said softly. He watched Lois trace Conner’s tiny hand. “Just one night. He barely ever wakes up anyway. I’ll need to meet with Michael and the… League soon.” His mouth twisted on the word. Justice Gang. He’d never get used to it.

For a moment, though, the future didn’t matter. The old wounds, the DNA that tied Conner back to Luthor—they faded. Clark no longer saw a clone or an obligation.

He saw only a baby.

Conner Kent, small and warm and loved, safe between them. And Clark made a silent promise—one he intended to keep—that he would give this boy everything a baby deserved. Care. Protection. Joy. Family.

Love.

Chapter Text

Lois Lane never expected to have a baby at this age.
Or rather, she never expected Clark Kent to walk through their door holding one.

She’d imagined plenty of impossible things in her life—wars on alien worlds, heroes who moved mountains—but this? This was the kind of surprise that only ever belonged in dreams. And yet, it happened. One day, Clark arrived with a baby—an adorable baby—and the world shifted.

Lois fell for him within seconds. Minutes, maybe. All it took was a single look into those impossibly blue eyes, and she knew. She’d never planned for motherhood, never even pictured it beyond fleeting daydreams from childhood—back when her father still came home for dinner and life hadn’t yet hardened at the edges.

Sure, she’d held other babies before—her friends’ children, co-workers’ newborns, at baby showers where she smiled and handed over gifts. Penny Smith from her journalism class already had three kids, lived in Utah, and posted Christmas cards with matching sweaters. Lois had always known her life would be different. She just hadn’t realized how much.

Then came Clark—then Superman—and every layer of her world peeled back. He told her about galaxies, parallel universes, and magic; about people who could travel through time and gods who walked among them. Every revelation redrew the map of what she thought possible.

And then one night, Clark came home with Conner—black hair, blue eyes, and the sweetest little sounds she’d ever heard.

Part of her expected the wildest explanation imaginable—that he was another Kryptonian child lost in space, or a baby Clark had rescued from disaster. But the truth was worse. So much worse. When Clark finally told her, Lois felt horror flood through her like ice water. Cloning. Stolen DNA. A child grown in a tank, left alone in the dark so Lex Luthor could play god.

It wasn’t just unethical—it was monstrous. And still, when she looked at that baby, Lois didn’t see an experiment. She saw life.

She’d spent her career exposing corruption and cruelty, but this—this was the kind of innocence she’d fight for with her last breath. Lex Luthor might have created him, but Conner Kent belonged to no one except himself.

So Lois held him. And the moment she did, something in her broke open.

Conner looked up at her with those wide blue eyes—Clark’s eyes—and all her shock dissolved into something fierce and certain. Whatever else he was, he was theirs now.

Lois didn’t expect to love him so fast, but she did. She didn’t expect to find herself buying baby clothes and soft plush animals between deadlines—but she did that, too. One afternoon, she caught herself in a boutique cooing over a tiny pair of branded sneakers, the same kind she wore herself.

“It’s for a six-month-old,” she’d told the clerk, smiling sheepishly. “He’s growing fast.”

The woman grinned. “We have an entire collection. Want to see?”

Lois nodded before she even realized it.

She came home with half the store in a neat little box. Bottles, plates, miniature sweaters, and a blue stuffed bear. She tucked everything into her closet like a secret.

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe hope. Maybe both. But she knew this: Conner wasn’t the mistake Luthor wanted him to be.

When Clark took a temporary leave to settle things at the farm, Lois found herself texting him constantly—send pictures, send updates. Then she’d catch herself smiling at the thought of Clark changing diapers, utterly overwhelmed but so determined to get it right.

And when they were finally together again—Clark on a late-night call with the League, Lois sprawled on the bed feeding Conner—it felt almost domestic. Almost normal.

Conner lay beside her, kicking those soft baby legs like he was fighting invisible monsters, his little fists opening and closing. Lois held the bottle steady, laughing quietly when he tried to drink too fast, cheeks puffing, brows furrowing with that same stubborn expression Clark got when someone touched his notes at the Planet.

For all the science behind his creation, Conner was no blank slate. He had personality—curiosity, warmth, and that unmistakable Kent calm. He loved being held, loved soft textures and bright colors, loved fruit puree and watching the light move across the ceiling. And he was talkative in his own way—those small, determined babbles filling the room like music.

Sometimes, when he reached for his stuffed animals, Lois swore she could see future versions of him—older, braver, more complex—but still that same soul looking for connection.

She’d run her fingers through his dark, downy hair, breathe in that sweet baby scent, and feel something quiet but unshakable settle inside her: Whatever storms came next—whatever the world decided to say about who or what Conner was—they would face it together.

Because Lois Lane didn’t see a weapon, or a clone, or an accident of science.
She saw a child. And she’d already decided—he was hers.

It was hours later, when the night had settled thick and deep, that Clark returned to the bedroom. Lois could read the look on his face before he even said a word: more heroes, more changes. The world never stopped moving.

He set his phone aside, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat down on the opposite side of the bed. His hand automatically found Conner’s, thumb brushing over the baby’s tiny fingers while the child nursed contentedly from his bottle. He probably shouldn’t be feeding him this late—but what did it matter? Dinner and bath time would come soon enough, and for now, this was their rare window of quiet: the three of them together, no deadlines, no flights across the world, no saving anyone but themselves.

“Everything okay, Smallville?” Lois asked with a half-smile, already knowing the answer.

Clark made a vague grimace, dragging a hand through his hair. “I think so… maybe. I don’t know,” he admitted. “Things are changing. There are new heroes showing up, and we’re trying to build something more official. They’re talking about appointing representatives for whatever this turns into.”

Lois exhaled softly. “So… no more Justice Gang?” She arched an eyebrow. She still exchanged the occasional call with Michael or Kendra, but everyone seemed to be off chasing their own threads lately. She hadn’t seen much of Guy Gardner—and honestly, she didn’t mind. That’s just how life went; even the biggest bands eventually split or changed their sound. “Clark, seriously—what’s going on?”

He sighed again. “We’re trying to build something more structured. Maybe even global. They want Bruce involved. Green Arrow, Black Canary, Wonder Woman, too, and even Flash. Guy’s practically living off-planet now. Michael’s talking about building a base off-world.”

Lois blinked. “Off-world? As in, not on Earth?” She reached for Conner, carefully removing the empty bottle from his mouth and setting it on the nightstand. Clark took over, wiping a little milk from the baby’s chin with a soft cloth.

“That’s what he said,” Clark replied, voice heavy with disbelief.

“Wow,” she murmured, shaking her head. “And Michael’s serious about that?”

He nodded. “He even called Bruce for input. They think it’s the only way to keep things safe. No more big bases in the middle of cities. Too much risk.”

Lois could see the worry in his eyes—the same look he got before a storm, before something big. She reached for his hand across the small gap between them, careful not to disturb Conner as he gnawed on his plastic remote. “Clark,” she said quietly, “what’s really bothering you?”

He hesitated, blinking as if weighing how much to share. Then the words slipped out: “They want me to be the face of it. The leader. The public image.”

For a moment, only Conner’s soft babbling filled the space between them. Lois glanced at the baby, who was frowning at his toy as if deep in thought, then up at Clark again.

“Bruce thinks it makes sense,” he continued. “Michael, too. Kendra’s always chasing her past, Guy’s off-planet half the time… Kara was supposed to stay longer, but it’s been months since I’ve seen her.”

Lois swallowed, understanding immediately. Kara. Of course. She’d seen how much Clark had lit up when he found his cousin—how tender he’d been teaching her to navigate this world. “Clark…” she said softly. “You know this doesn’t surprise me, right? You inspire people. I’ve heard it from soldiers, from kids, from people you’ve saved. Superman is hope. If they want that symbol front and center, it makes sense.”

She smiled faintly. “And I’ll support you. Whatever you choose. Whether it’s leading a team or stepping back—I’ll be behind you either way.”

Clark’s eyes softened. He looked down at Conner again, at the tiny hand clutching his finger, at the small sounds of concentration coming from his son’s mouth. Every time the adults spoke, Conner seemed to respond, babbling louder, as if his opinion mattered.

“I’ll have to think about it,” Clark admitted finally. “It’s a huge responsibility. Bigger than before. There’ve been teams before us—like the Justice Society—but this feels… different.”

Lois tilted her head, a small smirk curling on her lips. “Well, if you do change the name, I’ll thank you for it. I’m getting tired of typing Justice Gang in my reports.”

Clark laughed—low, genuine. “That might change sooner than you think.”

The quiet that followed was warm. Clark rose, scooping Conner into his arms. The baby blinked at Lois, cheeks flushed, gnawing on his plastic toy with intense concentration.

“I’ll get this little guy ready for his bath,” Clark said, standing. “That way you can finish your article before Perry storms your inbox asking why Lois Lane hasn’t submitted the ‘Masks and Metahumans’ feature.”

Lois snorted. “You overheard that, huh?”

He shrugged, smiling. “What can I say? Perry’s obsessed with heroes lately. Half the newsroom thinks there’s a robot uprising coming.”

“Not far from the truth,” Lois muttered under her breath, earning another small laugh from him. Clark began to gather Conner’s pajamas and towels from the storage box by the bed. He looked oddly domestic—Superman in flannel sleeves, juggling baby clothes and bottles.

“By the way,” he said, “I think Perry’s also writing a conspiracy piece about Batman’s secret identity. So that’ll be fun.”

Lois laughed outright this time. There were baby clothes everywhere now—tiny socks, pastel towels, boxes half-unpacked. A life in motion.

“Fine,” she said, getting to her feet, “but please don’t put him in that yellow duck pajama set.” She plucked the outfit from his hands before he could protest. “I’ll hold him. You find something less tragic.”

Conner squealed, kicking in delight as Lois lifted him. She pressed a kiss to his dark curls, smiling when he yawned against her shoulder.

Clark reached out, brushing a hand over her arm—light, grateful. “Alright, Ms. Lane. You win. I’ll run the bath.”

“Good answer,” she said, soft but teasing. “Go on, next leader of the Justice-Whatever-You ll-Call-It."

He chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Years from now, he’d become that leader—though not the lone one he feared, but a partner among equals. The anxiety that shadowed him tonight would fade, replaced by the confidence of experience. But that night, all that mattered was here: Lois, Conner, and a home slowly learning how to hold them all.

Next morning.

Sunlight spilled through the kitchen window, sharp and golden. It was August in Metropolis, and the city hummed beyond their small apartment. Lois sat at the table with her laptop open, half a box of pastries between her and Clark. The TV murmured in the background, volume low.

Conner was in his high chair, gnawing on a toy that mooed like a cow. Lois had banned screens; the kids already clone, she’d said. Let’s not fry his developing brain, too.

Clark glanced over from his paperwork, brow furrowed so deeply that Lois had to tease him. “Keep frowning like that, Smallville, and people will start recognizing you.”

He didn’t even smile. “I think I need to ask Perry for a raise.”

Lois blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Diapers,” he said, dead serious. “Hypoallergenic, organic, solar-blessed—whatever. They cost a fortune.” He gestured helplessly. “How do people with three kids do this?”

Lois bit back a grin, sipping her coffee. “You know I can help, right? Financially. Or even—God forbid—telling people about Conner.”

At the sound of his name, the baby let out a string of proud babbles, the toy cow mooing in agreement.

Clark sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lois, I can’t ask you to do that. Conner’s my responsibility. I’ll figure it out. Maybe Bruce’s new employee benefits will cover childcare.”

She gave him that look—the sharp, surgical one that could cut through his Midwestern humility in seconds. Without a word, she lifted Conner from his chair, the baby instantly grabbing a fistful of her hair.

Before leaving the room, she said quietly, “You know, you’ll have to tell people sooner or later, Clark. He’s growing fast. He can’t stay hidden forever. He deserves the world to know him—so do we.”

Then she turned, balancing Conner on her hip, and walked away.

Clark stood frozen, surrounded by baby bottles and sunlight and the faint smell of coffee—trying to decide if the world was ready for them, or if maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t yet ready for the world.

Clark loved Conner — he truly did — but sometimes, he missed the quiet of just the two of them. The mornings when the world seemed manageable, when he could be both Superman and Clark without hesitation. Now there were days when everything felt heavy, when Conner’s cries filled his arms and his chest in equal measure, when the sound of the baby’s heartbeat beneath his hand felt like both a gift and a question.

He wasn’t the same Superman anymore. He couldn’t fly to the Fortress as easily as before; responsibility had a weight Krypton never prepared him for. Sometimes he feared that the lie he’d built — the one he would tell the world when the time came — would crumble under its own truth. He wanted to shout it out loud: Conner is a clone. Not a weapon, not an accident, just... a child. But saying it meant seeing himself reflected in that small face — not always the version he wanted to be.

He knew Lois was growing closer to the baby. He saw it in the way she held Conner, the way her voice softened, the small tremor of joy when the baby reached for her. They were becoming a family, whether he was ready or not. And that realization—so human, so fragile—terrified him more than any alien war ever had.

By the end of that week, the unease had deepened into silence. The apartment felt different: lighter in the mornings, heavier at night. Work didn’t distract him anymore. And tonight, as the newsroom emptied around him, Clark Kent stood by his desk long after the others had gone.

The flicker of the Daily Planet’s lights matched the exhaustion in his body. The hum of the printing presses below filled the still air. His tie was loosened, his glasses slightly askew. The quiet wasn’t peaceful—it was the sound of a man holding himself together by habit.

Then the door clicked shut behind him. Lois.

She didn’t waste time. Her voice cut through the dim space, clear and steady.

“I can’t keep pretending he doesn’t exist, Clark.”

He turned. The words trembled at their edges, the same way they had when he replayed this conversation in his mind a hundred times.

“I can’t go to work smiling, answering questions, acting like everything’s normal—when everyone can see it’s not. When people are already whispering why Superman hasn’t been as active lately.”

Clark lowered his gaze, the weight of his name settling between them.

“I know. I just… I’m not ready. This is—big.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I don’t want them to look at him and start asking questions. You’ve seen what happens when the wrong people start digging. I don’t want anyone calling him an experiment.”

“He’s not an experiment, Clark!”

Lois’s tone cracked like glass, sharp and human. She stepped closer, arms folded tight across her chest.

“He’s a baby. He’s your baby. Babies need to experience life, not be hidden from it. What happens when he’s three and ready for preschool? When he wants friends, sunlight, a life that isn’t in secret? You can’t keep hiding him. Luthor’s locked up. The world doesn’t even know about him. Conner deserves to live.”

Her words hit something raw in him. Clark’s jaw clenched; his eyes flicked away.

“I’m not hiding him. I’m protecting him.”

“That’s what you tell yourself so you don’t face what you feel.”

Lois’s voice softened, but not her stare. She stepped close enough that he could feel her breath.

“You love him, I know that. But you still look at him like something stolen from you — like a mistake you’re trying to make sense of. He’s not that. He’s a child. A beautiful one. And he deserves for the world to know he exists.”

Clark said nothing. His hands gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. The paper beneath them creased like old skin.

“I just want you to tell the truth, Clark,” she said quietly now, fatigue replacing her fury. “Tell them you have someone. That you’re caring for someone. That you’re a father, in every sense that matters. Conner’s circle is small now—but one day he’ll ask why.”

Clark exhaled, shoulders trembling slightly.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Lois. I never thought this would happen. I was built to save the world, not to raise one.”

It was almost a whisper. Superman—the symbol—sounded small for once.

“What if Luthor finds out? What if someone tells him? You know he’ll never stop. If people know about Conner… what if they come for him?”

Lois froze. The fight in her chest twisted into something else: fear. Real, tangible fear. She remembered that look—the one he’d worn when he first told her about Krypton. About the parents he’d never met, the loss he’d turned into hope. Conner wasn’t a story like that. Conner was alive, breakable, touchable—and that made everything infinitely harder.

The silence stretched. Outside, footsteps echoed faintly down the hallway. The hum of a copier, laughter from someone locking up. The world kept moving, oblivious.

Clark finally nodded, still not meeting her eyes.  “I’ll tell the team next week,” he said quietly. “I’ll start with them… especially for mission coordination.”

Lois exhaled, tired but relieved.  “All right, Smallville. I hope you do.”
She hesitated, then added, softer—“But sooner or later, you’ll have to tell everyone. Your colleagues deserve to know.”

Her voice was more a whisper of hope than a victory. She left the office, the door closing softly behind her, leaving Clark alone under the dim light. His hands remained pressed against the desk, his breathing uneven—as if each inhale was one more step toward accepting that he wasn’t alone anymore.

Smallville. The farmhouse.

Clark arrived at the Kent farm late that night. Lois hadn’t come with him—things between them were still uneasy—but she’d stayed behind with a pile of reports and half-finished investigations that couldn’t wait. He’d gotten into the habit lately of driving Conner to the farm instead of flying—dropping the car off, spending a few hours, and then taking the baby back to Metropolis. Flying both ways had become too much. Too exposed. And truthfully, Clark Kent had never been built for six o’clock traffic.

But when he landed tonight—shirt wrinkled, hair slightly out of place, worry already shadowing his face—he froze. Martha and Jonathan stood at the doorway, soft lamplight spilling behind them. In Martha’s arms, Conner wore a small adhesive strip on his forehead—blue and red, with the Superman crest right in the center. His pacifier drooped from his mouth; his cheeks were flushed, his eyes red—not from heat vision this time, but from crying. Now he was calm again, heavy-lidded and drowsy, as if the whole world had finally gone still.

Clark’s chest went tight. The air around him suddenly felt too thin. “What—what happened?” he asked quietly, taking a hesitant step forward.

Martha looked up, her face steady, touched with that kind of maternal calm that always followed the storm. “Nothing serious,” she said gently. “He bumped his head on the table edge trying to reach one of his toys. He’s been pulling himself up lately—you know how determined he is.”

Jonathan, still with the diaper bag slung over one shoulder, motioned toward the door.

“Why don’t we go inside, son? You’ll see—it’s all right. He just got a little bruise, like any baby would.”

Clark nodded faintly and followed them in. The house was warm, full of familiar, homey clutter—tiny sneakers by the door, toys tucked into corners, a few bottles waiting on the kitchen counter. The kind of lived-in mess that came with new life. His parents exchanged one of those quiet looks that carried whole conversations, and Clark’s eyes flicked again to the bandage on Conner’s head.

Jonathan set the bag down and spoke softly, the way he used to when telling young Clark about a lamb that wouldn’t make it through the winter, or when he explained why Clark had to hold back around other kids.

“Son… what we’re gonna tell you is something normal, okay? Just what happens with babies. Do you want to hold him?”

Clark shook his head, almost too quickly. “No, I—no, I think I shouldn’t.” His voice came out rough, uneven.  “What exactly happened?”

He didn’t want to peek inside their hearts, didn’t want to hear the underlying fear in their pulse. He just wanted the truth.

Martha spoke up softly. “Like I said, he was trying to stand and lost his balance. Hit the table and cried for a bit. He bled a little, but it stopped fast.” Her tone was practical, steady, like she was describing any ordinary baby’s day. But Clark couldn’t hear it that way. Not when Conner wasn’t an ordinary baby. Not when he was half Kryptonian.

Clark swallowed hard. “He… bled?”
The words barely left his mouth.

Martha nodded. “Just a little. It scared him more than it hurt him. Your father picked him up right away, and he was laughing again after he saw the cows.”

Clark’s hand lifted instinctively, hesitating midair before finally resting on Conner’s arm. His fingertips grazed the soft skin, the small bandage. He could feel the baby’s steady heartbeat beneath. Fragile. Humans. The realization rippled through him—cold and hot all at once. 

His mind flooded with questions he’d buried deep: the unstable DNA, the blend of Krypton and Earth, the shadow of Lex Luthor tangled with his own bloodline. Conner wasn’t invulnerable. Not fully.

He could hurt. He could bleed. “He bleeds…” Clark whispered again, voice cracking. “I never thought— I didn’t think that could happen.”

Because he hadn’t bled as a child. Not really. Cuts had faded before they could sting. Broken bones were theoretical things. But Conner… Conner was a reminder of how different this was going to be.

Martha stepped closer, her expression softening as she gently offered the baby to him. Clark hesitated—but his arms moved on instinct, cradling the warm little body to his chest. Conner stirred, gave a sleepy sigh, and reached for Clark’s glasses, tugging them crooked before his tiny fingers slid toward his ear.

The faint rhythm of the pacifier filled the room—the sound of breathing, of life.

Martha smiled faintly. “All kids fall, Clark. Doesn’t matter where they come from.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes locked on Conner’s face. “But this one… shouldn’t be able to.”

Her hand rested on his shoulder, grounding him. “And yet he does. Maybe that’s what makes him yours.”

Jonathan added softly, “He’s tougher than he looks. Fell, cried, then went right back to trying again. Doesn’t quit easily.”

Clark looked down at the baby again—Conner’s little hand now curled over his chest, his breathing even. The light caught the tiny Superman logo on his bandage; it glowed gold and red under the farmhouse lamps. Ridiculous and perfect.

He took a deep breath, nodding slightly. “I guess that’s normal, right? He’ll want to walk soon.” He tried to sound calm, but his voice betrayed him. “Thanks, both of you.”

They shared a hug before he left—Martha’s lingering touch, Jonathan’s firm pat on the back, both trying to comfort a son who still looked shaken. Clark didn’t mention Lois, and they didn’t ask.

When he strapped Conner into the car seat, the baby was already asleep, soft breaths fogging the night air. Clark lingered a moment longer, watching the farmhouse lights fade in the mirror, then reached for his phone.

Message to Bruce: Need to come by the cave. Something happened with Conner. I need to understand.

The reply came fast, in Bruce’s usual clipped tone: I’ll be ready. The cave’s open. Dick’s with his friends.

Clark looked back at the sleeping baby, fingers tightening around the steering wheel.
If Conner could bleed… what else could happen? What would his future hold when Luthor inevitably found out that his “creation” wasn’t perfect? The thought sat heavy in his chest as he drove through the Kansas night—headlights carving narrow lines through the dark, the sound of Conner’s steady breathing a quiet, human reminder that this—fragile, flawed, miraculous—was his protegé, was his kid.

Gotham, Bristol. Batcave. 22:00.

Clark arrived at Wayne Manor with a sleeping baby and a message from Lois that she’d be working late on a story for the Daily Planet. Complicated didn’t begin to cover it.

Conner was out cold in his car seat, his little fists loose over his chest. Clark’s heart ached; the silence between him and Lois still felt raw, and doubt had followed him all the way here.

The welcome had been brief. Alfred’s pulse jumped with quiet joy when he saw the baby again — Clark could hear it, that tender hitch — and Bruce’s heartbeat did the same, faster for half a second, before returning to its steady, guarded rhythm.

Clark rarely brought Conner into the world beyond the farm. He kept him close, a secret orbit around his life — the very thing Lois had thrown back at him hours earlier. Still, here he was: a guardian, carrying a child into the shadows of Gotham.

By the time Conner stirred, the elevator had already opened into the cave. The baby blinked against the light, making small noises, confused by the change of sound and smell. Bruce was already at work, gloves on, collecting strands of hair and a saliva sample with quiet precision. Clark never asked why Bruce had medical-grade equipment down here; some questions only earned senseless answers. He knew enough. Batman didn’t go to the hospital. And long ago, the first time Clark had accidentally used his X-ray vision on the man, he’d learned why. No doctor would ever believe bones like that belonged to a living human.

Dinner came and went — courtesy of Alfred’s persistence and Bruce’s unspoken gratitude. Clark fed Conner between bites, the baby watching everything with wide, drowsy curiosity.

The Batcave breathed around them: computers murmuring, keystrokes ticking like the pulse of the city above, a slow drip of water echoing somewhere deep in the stone. Every sound reminded Clark of time passing, of something he couldn’t stop.

Above them, he could hear Dick’s heartbeat, bright and restless — the faint sounds of laughter, the shuffle of feet on carpet, a video game flickering.

Bruce sat beside him, sleeves rolled, the faint scent of metal and soap clinging to his shirt. He looked different like this — younger, maybe, but older in ways that mattered. Clark sometimes forgot that Bruce was technically younger, and yet he carried himself like someone who had already lived a dozen lifetimes.

Clark glanced down at Conner — seven months old, restless but fading fast, the weight of him warm and solid in his arms.

“Y’know,” Bruce said at last, not looking up from the tablet in his hand, “you’ll need to take him to a pediatrician soon. Especially with how fast he’s growing.”

Clark gave him a look. “Do you take Dick to a pediatrician?” he asked, absently stroking the baby’s back.

Bruce’s mouth twitched. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “Yeah. Which is exactly why I’m telling you to. You could see Michael if you want, but my knowledge of infants is limited.” The admission almost sounded like a joke, and for a moment, Clark could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile. “Still… he’s growing fast. You’ll want to monitor that.”

Clark hummed, rocking Conner gently. He didn’t often hear Bruce talk about children. There was always something wistful in his tone when he did — a note Clark couldn’t quite name. Maybe nostalgia. Maybe loss.

Conner’s blanket — one of Alfred’s, navy with a stitched bat-symbol — was wrapped tight around his little body. His lashes fluttered. He was fighting sleep, fascinated by the low glow of the cave lights.

“When Dick first came here,” Bruce said quietly, “he’d sit in my lap and ask what every button did. Mostly at night. He’d fall asleep mid-question sometimes. He was eight then… a baby, really.”

Clark smiled softly. He’d seen the photos — the bright, fearless boy who called him Uncle Clark now. Clark had never had siblings or a big family, and somehow, that title still hit somewhere deep.

“He’s curious,” Clark said after a moment, running a hand over Conner’s tiny curls. “Lois tells him stories about her cases, and he listens like he understands every word. He loves the sky. And animals. Ma’s been making him fruit purées — he’s obsessed with strawberries.”

Bruce’s smile deepened, subtle but real. “Dick was the same. Always eating, always curious. I’m not sure they ever stop being like that.” He turned back to the tablet, scanning data.

“You’re telling me it lasts past twelve?” Clark teased.

Bruce nodded slightly. “You’ve seen how he is about your planet. About the Green Lanterns. He’s already planning to meet Flash and Green Arrow. Curiosity doesn’t fade, it just… evolves.”

Clark chuckled under his breath. The warmth of the baby against his chest made the air around him feel almost safe. Conner’s breathing had gone soft, rhythmic.

He caught Bruce watching the baby again — not clinically, not like an experiment, but with a kind of quiet ache. It reminded Clark how young he still was, barely twenty-nine, yet carrying a lifetime behind his eyes.

“Why do you keep looking at him?” Clark asked gently.

Bruce shrugged. “Just… enjoy it while you can. They grow fast. One day he’s a baby, the next he’s asking to go out on patrol. Dick grew up before I could blink.” His voice softened at the edges. “Don’t miss it, Clark. This part doesn’t last.”

Clark nodded, the weight of those words settling deep.

Another pause stretched between them — not uncomfortable, just full of understanding. Two men on different paths, both raising something fragile in a world that breaks easily.

“How are things with Selina?” Clark asked, half-teasing.

Bruce gave a wry sound that might have been a laugh. “She’s Selina. I’m me. Things are… as they always are.”

Clark smiled. “Then I guess my answer’s the same. Lois is Lois. And I’m… me. We both needed some air.”

He didn’t add that he already missed her. That every small thing — her sarcasm, her certainty — was a gravity he couldn’t escape.

The cave is filled with softer sounds: Conner’s quiet sleep-breaths, the hum of computers, the faint shuffle of Bruce’s movements. Clark looked down at his son again, brushing a thumb along his cheek.

“Has Dick ever asked for more siblings?” he asked after a beat, voice low with a smile.

Bruce gave him a side glance that was half amusement, half warning. “Trust me, one is enough.”

Clark laughed, deep and genuine. “Oh, I don’t know. Dick feels like five kids in one.”

“True,” Bruce admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Though, since Diana introduced Donna Troy, he’s been distracted. The two of them are practically inseparable.”

Clark nodded. He hadn’t met Donna yet, only heard stories — sharp, clever, full of light.

Before he could reply, Clark’s expression softened. “He’s coming,” he murmured, hearing the small, hurried steps above. “Dick’s on his way down.”

“Probably because your car can be heard from six blocks away,” Bruce muttered. “You drive like Lois.”

Clark rolled his eyes — but before he could retort, the elevator doors slid open.

Dick appeared in pajamas covered in Bat-symbols and Justice League doodles, his hair tousled and smile instant. The look Bruce gave him — that unguarded warmth — almost knocked the air from Clark’s chest. The boy wrapped his arms around Bruce’s shoulders, half hanging off him.

“Uncle Clark! I thought you came to see me!”

Then he noticed the baby. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Is Lois here too?”

Clark’s chest tightened. “No, kiddo. She’s working late. Story about the secret lives of heroes.”

Dick perked up immediately. “Cool! Are you changing the name of the Justice gang—still pending? Can I help? Why’s the baby asleep? Is he really asleep? Are you gonna test his powers? Can I watch—?”

The flood of questions didn’t stop. Clark couldn’t help laughing quietly.

He wondered, fleetingly, if Conner would be like this one day — curious, bright, overflowing with words. God, he hoped so. He smoothed a hand over the baby’s dark hair.

Bruce, with the effortless authority of a practiced parent, shifted Dick onto his lap. “Bed. Now. You’ve got school tomorrow. And if that essay isn’t done—”

Dick groaned, rolling his eyes dramatically. “You’re no fun, Bruce.”

Clark grinned. “Sorry, champ. Grown-up stuff tonight. But if you’ve got names for the team, send them to me, alright?”

Dick lit up instantly. “You heard that, Dad?” he said, bouncing slightly.

Clark’s heart squeezed at the word. Bruce’s expression softened, the faintest smile ghosting across his face. “Yeah, I heard. I think everyone did. Even Conner.”

Dick stayed a few minutes more, rambling about school, about training, about Ace the dog getting bigger. Clark listened, smiling through the soft haze of it all. Eventually, Bruce stood and scooped the boy into his arms — despite the half-hearted protests — carrying him toward the elevator.

“Say goodnight to Clark and Conner,” he said.

Dick waved sleepily. “Night, Uncle Clark. ’Night, baby Conner.”

When the elevator closed, the cave fell back into stillness. Clark looked down at his son — small, warm, dreaming.

He brushed a fingertip along the baby’s cheek and smiled.  “Y’know,” he murmured, “Lois would love it if you grew up half as talkative as Dick. Maybe then you could keep up with her.”

Conner stirred, smiling in his sleep — the same crooked smile as his. The sight pulled something deep and aching in Clark’s chest. A mix of fear. Love. Hope. And for the first time that night, the weight in him eased — just enough to breathe.

The tests came back the same as before—just like when Conner had first landed in his hands months ago. Nothing had changed. Everything read as normal.

Except for the small, unignorable fact that the baby had grown. Seven months now, heavier in Clark’s arms, still wearing that tiny bandage on his forehead. Clark hadn’t had the heart to take it off. Maybe he wanted to. Maybe he didn’t—especially with Lois still in his thoughts, her voice echoing Why didn’t you tell me?

Bruce was standing across from him, eyes moving over the tablet in steady, precise sweeps. Clark mirrored him, both pretending to focus on data rather than the quiet question pulsing beneath the surface: what if something’s wrong?

“He’s perfect, Clark,” Bruce said finally, voice even and careful. “But I’d still recommend a visit to a pediatrician. Trust me, Michael’s handled stranger cases—even if he’d never admit it.”

Clark wondered, briefly, how often Bruce and Michael actually spoke. Then again, nothing about their quiet network of secrets surprised him anymore.

“You know,” Clark murmured, brushing a thumb through the baby’s soft black hair, “this would be the first time someone in my family has ever gone to a doctor for shots. Still… I’ll think about it.”

Bruce shot him a look. “Don’t say things like that out loud, Kent. You sound like an anti-vaxxer.”

Clark rolled his eyes, a wry smile tugging at his mouth before fading again. “So what happened this time?” he asked, shifting tone. “Is it because of his human DNA?”

Bruce nodded slightly, still scrolling.
The light from the Batcave monitors painted his face in cold blues. He didn’t look up when he said:

“That’s just how infants are. They change. Their bodies surprise us. Even with Kryptonian genes, he’s still… a baby. Soft skin. Normal growth rate. Human enough to confuse the numbers. Maybe things will shift once his powers start to manifest. Have you noticed any signs yet?”

Clark hesitated. His mind drifted—to Conner’s fascination with animals, the way he laughed at sunlight hitting the curtains, the frustrated little sounds when he tried to stand before falling back down.
Normal things. Precious, ordinary things.

“Nothing,” Clark admitted quietly. “Lois keeps saying he’s a normal baby. No super strength, no laser eyes, not even a fast growth rate. The only time he cried from sound was once, at the convenience store. That’s it.”

Bruce gave him a long, unreadable look before glancing back to the reports.

“Then enjoy it while you can,” he said finally. “The tests will take a while, but everything looks normal. Good weight. Good vitals. He’s healthy, Clark. Strong.”

Clark nodded, but something in his chest didn’t ease. Hours later—after saying goodbye to Bruce, after a quiet exchange about the Justice Gang (a name Clark had already decided he hated), after driving back to Metropolis—he felt the night pressing close around him.

He parked outside his building, the city lights breathing in and out above. Conner slept soundly in his car seat, cheeks round and flushed from the warmth of the heater. Clark reached in and unbuckled him carefully, his touch reverent. The bandage on his forehead caught his eye again.

For a moment, he peeled it away.

Nothing. No cut. No scar. Not even a shadow of where it had been.

Conner stirred, then sighed softly, the sound small enough to break him. Clark brushed a hand over his cheek.

“You’re gonna be trouble, huh, kiddo?” he whispered, half smiling, half afraid.

The air of Metropolis was mild against his face, the scent of ozone and asphalt sharp in his lungs. He could already see the faint light from The Daily Planet down the street, Lois probably asleep at her desk again. He’d go to her soon—tell her everything, or try to.

For now, he just stood there, the baby breathing against his shoulder, the night holding still.

Bruce’s words replayed in his head: No one wants to see their child in pain.

Clark exhaled slowly. Conner wasn’t his child. He was a responsibility. A miracle. A danger. All of those things. None of them is simple.

He shook his head, forcing himself back to motion. There was still Lois to wake, Conner to lay in his crib, thoughts to order, fears to bury—and the fragile, impossible hope that tomorrow might make sense.

LOIS LANE. 

Time passed, and everything between them stayed suspended—like breath held too long. Clark and Lois didn’t talk about that night, or about what Conner should experience next: Metropolis, other children, the wider world beyond the farm. Life simply continued in its strange, careful rhythm.

Conner was growing—eight months now, brighter, heavier, endlessly curious. Lois helped Clark with everything, while Clark tried to balance being Superman and a caretaker, often handing off his duties to others when Conner refused to let go of either of them.

He hadn’t left the apartment yet. Lois never asked him to stay, not out loud. But every time he lingered, she felt a quiet relief that burned like guilt. She loved that baby more than she wanted to admit—loved him enough that it hurt to remember he wasn’t hers.

They still celebrated, though. Eight months. That morning, Lois held Conner in her arms, the outfit she’d picked for him soft and bright against her work clothes. From the living room, she watched him lean toward a toy on the floor, determined to crawl, to move. Across the room, Clark was making breakfast. The smell of coffee and toast filled the air.

“You know,” Lois said, adjusting Conner’s grip on a toy car, “if you keep grabbing everything, you’re gonna end up holding something you don’t like, radish.”

Conner babbled back—a burst of sound halfway between a laugh and a protest. He could sit on his own now, always reaching for the next thing, all energy and light.

Lois had seen her life shift in quiet revolutions these past months. Work, investigations, secrets whispered through the city—she still had them all. But every time she came home and Conner reached for her, the world stilled. There were things she hadn’t told Clark yet, especially about the files she’d been digging through—ARGUS, Luthor, the things he was protecting in his own way. Some truths were still locked behind silence.

Conner squealed again when Clark came over.
Lois frowned slightly. “I thought we agreed—no sweets until he gets teeth.”

She remembered that argument too well. Clark’s careful voice in her head: All natural, Lois. Nothing processed. I read five studies about it.

The “cake” in front of them was really just a plate of cut fruit in a bear-shaped dish.

Clark sat down beside her, his expression softer than it had been in weeks. Even when they were half-estranged, even when they slept on opposite sides of the apartment, they still found these fragile moments of rhythm. Conner squirmed in her lap, laughing, wanting down.

“I think we can make an exception,” Clark said. “He’s eight months old today.”
His smile tilted a little. “And knowing my parents, Ma and Pa are going to spoil him rotten anyway.”

Lois laughed quietly. She’d seen the videos—Conner on the farm, absolutely in love with it. The dirt, the animals, the wide air. He’d crawl straight through mud if someone didn’t stop him.

She stroked his hair; the scent was clean, faintly lavender.
Her baby—no, Clark’s baby. She repeated it in her mind. Not mine. Even when his weight felt right in her arms, even when he relaxed against her heartbeat, she told herself again: he’s Clark’s.

“So,” she said lightly, setting Conner between them, “are we completely insane?”
“Look, radish—Clark’s going to give you a fruit cake. Yum.”

Clark sighed, half amused. “Lois, please. Don’t start quoting Ma’s parenting videos again.”

Her laugh came easily. Conner flailed his hands, babbling nonsense that sounded suspiciously like no and yeah. When his eyes landed on the fruit, his whole face lit up—the same way Clark’s did when someone mentioned pie.

“All right, maybe we celebrate him shouting at us all day,” Lois teased.

Clark adjusted his glasses, smiling despite himself. Conner wriggled free and climbed awkwardly into his lap. Both adults looked at him, the way parents do—half adoration, half disbelief.

When Lois took the dish from Clark, her fingers brushed his, and something fragile and unspoken pulsed between them. She missed him. Missed them. But she wasn’t ready to yield, not until Clark started trusting her with the truths he carried like lead under his ribs.

She arranged the little plate again—orange slices, strawberries (Conner’s favorite), bits of banana, and a spoonful of yogurt Clark had brought from the farm. “We should also celebrate that he says ‘no’ now—and that he’s perfected the cow noise.”

 “Conner,” Lois said, grinning, “can you give me a ‘moo,’ radish?”

Before Clark could protest, Conner grinned and bellowed a perfect moo, followed by a proud “no!”
Lois broke into laughter. 

“Think we should sing?” Clark asked, rubbing Conner’s hands gently.

They were always touching him—always giving him warmth. Conner thrived on it, soaking in every hug, every kiss.

Lois met Clark’s eyes over the baby’s head. His hair was a mess again; both of them were smiling despite everything. He shifted closer. She didn’t move away.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Let’s sing.”

Their off-key chorus filled the room. Conner shrieked with delight, waving his arms, trying to sing back in sounds that made no sense at all.

Later, she didn’t go with Clark to drop him off at the farm, but she knew something must have happened—he was late to the morning meeting again. She was in the conference room with Perry when her phone buzzed: Be there in five.

When Clark finally arrived, he looked… chaotic. Glasses crooked, tie askew, a smudge of food on his shirt—definitely baby food. Lois couldn’t help the smile that broke through.

“I’m sorry, Perry—there were some issues,” Clark said, breathless.

The room went silent. Perry sighed through his nose.

“Kent, that’s the third time this week. Don’t make it a fourth.”

Clark nodded quickly and sank into the seat beside Lois, earning a sympathetic pat from Jimmy. She watched him over the rim of her coffee cup. Behind the awkwardness, he looked… happy. Exhausted, but happy.

Her mind flicked back to the messages from earlier that morning: Conner won’t let go. Keeps reaching for me. Cries when I put him down.  She’d smiled at that then, too.

She brushed her knee against his under the table—a small, accidental contact. He didn’t pull away. But it wasn’t the same as before; the distance still ached. She missed the ease, the laughter, the way they used to share a look across the newsroom. And yet—she still liked him this way, stubborn and earnest, even when they fought. Maybe because they fought.

The meeting dragged on. Perry asked for updates. Cat threw in a few sharp remarks. Jimmy pitched a wild photo idea. Lois spoke when needed, all while feeling Clark’s presence beside her like a heartbeat she couldn’t ignore.

Then Clark cleared his throat.

“Perry,” he began carefully, “I might not be able to cover the influencer piece. And I might need to stay in Metropolis for a while.”

Every head turned.

Lois felt her pulse jump.

“You?” Perry said, eyebrows rising. “The golden boy of field reporting? Don’t tell me you’re going domestic on me, Kent.”

Clark swallowed hard. The look in his eyes reminded Lois of Conner trying to stand for the first time—determined, terrified, unstoppable.

“I’ve… got a baby. A relative. He’s living with me now, and it’s complicated. He’s still little—eight months—and I’m his guardian. So I’ve been a little late. That’s all, Perry.”

The room fell silent, only to burst into whispers. Cat gasped. Jimmy grinned. Perry pinched the bridge of his nose.

Lois watched Clark, pride tugging somewhere deep. He finally said it out loud.

So—because she liked chaos almost as much as honesty—she smiled and added,

“Oh, and I’m helping him raise Conner. He’s living with us. We celebrated his eight-month birthday this morning.”

Every head turned again. Clark looked at her, startled, but she only shrugged with a soft, wicked grin.

Yes, she thought, this—this was still them: messy, human, full of noise and love.
And she wouldn’t trade it for anything.