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Conner has literally no idea what is going on. Only that his head hurts like crazy.
“Hey, buddy, hey, no no, you’re alright—it’s okay, you’re okay.”
There’s a hand on his shoulder. The person attached to the voice is big, with wide blue eyes. A ring of light shines down from above them, giving them a warm haloed effect.
There’s a murmur. Another voice. They sound worried. Conner thinks he should probably get up and see why they sound so distraught. Try to help, if he can.
“Woah, easy,” says the person right in front of him. A man. He… recognises.
Superman. Oh.
Blue dots dance across his vision. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he blinks them away.
Superman’s mouth is forming an unhappy curl. “Not so fast—take it easy. Slow. That’s it.”
The hand clasped around his shoulder slips to his arm and, vividly, like an explosion behind his eyes, Conner remembers that same hand biting into his bones.
A whimper escapes him. He flinches so hard he manages to yank himself fully from the man’s grip.
Conner kicks back along the floor, boots slipping on the harsh metal surface, but he doesn’t get very far. His back hits something hard.
Superman’s face swims back into view a moment later.
“Conner,” he says, not gentle, not firm. It’s worried, but patient. The man’s hands reach for him again, and with nowhere for Conner to go, they land on his forearms. The touch is feather light. Discombobulating.
“Go slow, kiddo,” says Superman, still talking, a crease between his brow. “That’s it, Kon. Good. Steady now.”
Conner finds himself grappling with a sudden onset of surprise. He didn’t know Superman even knew his name, let alone think they were familiar enough with each other for nicknames.
As far as he can recall, Superman has only ever called him Superboy. That was the name Luthor gave him.
Conner was his own creation. No one gave him that. He just liked the sound of it. Only his friends call him Conner; Robin, Impulse, Wonder Girl—and he hopes that, one day they’ll trust him enough to share their own names with him.
Maybe one of them shared his name in passing with their mentor. Maybe that’s how Superman found out. He doesn’t know if he should be scared that Superman knows he has a name now. A name that isn’t just Superboy.
His mouth feels funny when it opens of its own accord. It feels like someone else is speaking, like his lips have detached from his face. The words, though, they feel familiar.
“Sorry, sir.” He doesn’t know what for—or even if he’s actually sorry. It feels more like begging for mercy.
Luthor liked it when I begged.
The thought startles him. Luthor. He’d forgotten that fun fact. How could he have forgotten?
Superman’s face spasms. There’s half a second where he releases Conner—jerks backwards from confusion or shock—but then the man scoots forward and lowers himself onto the ground completely, folding his legs criss-cross-applesauce as Conner’s world starts to widen outside just the two of them.
What he sees surprises him.
Over Superman’s shoulder there’s another Kryptonian.
It’s someone Conner’s never met, he’s certain of that. He looks a bit like Superman. A bit like Conner. He’s definitely related, that’s for sure. Maybe about fifteen? Looks horrified too. Shock dances across his face, pulling at the lines in the teen’s expression with invisible strings. As though controlled by a puppet master, they tug his hands to his mouth, covering up the horror of it, but his blue eyes remain wide open.
Superman shakes his head. “No reason for you to be sorry, pal,” he says, drawing Conner’s attention back.
Since when had Superman ever called him ‘pal’?
The superhero moves closer to Conner’s side. If Conner didn’t know better, he would think Superman was using his X-ray vision to scan the bones in his body.
But that’s silly. Superman has fractured so many of his bones—by accident! Probably. He thinks—and he’s never bothered to check before.
Besides, broken bones are just par for the course in superhero work. Superboy knows that. Even Robin has to take time off occasionally. Conner’s not the only one on the team whose mentor hits a little harder. It's just that Superman never sticks around after. Never fusses over him.
It’s because Superman knows he can take it. It’s because Conner can. The others don’t know what it’s like. Luthor’s training was brutal, but it prepared him for Superman.
And yet, Superman surprises him again when he says, “Nothing broken at least,” and sighs like that’s a relief.
Conner’s still trying to piece together what’s happened.
Were they fighting someone? Is the battle still going? Or was this training? And if so, where the heck did this other Kryptonian come from? This leggy kid. Is he another clone?
A bolt of fear goes through him for the kid’s sake. God, he hopes Superman hasn’t hurt him. Conner can take the hits, he knows how. He’s had training. But this kid?
Conner looks him up and down.
God, he’s so stick thin. Looks fast, at least, yet somehow like a strong breeze might knock him over if it hit him in the wrong direction.
As his eyes meet the other Kryptonian’s, his mouth opens again of its own volition. “Are you alright?” He hopes it doesn’t come out as slurred as it sounds to his own ears.
Somehow, the kid’s eyes widen further, if that’s even possible.
“Me?!” he ejects, at an octave that sounds almost prepubescent. “I’m fine, Conner! The hell, man—how are you?!”
Conner feels himself tense.
Something is wrong here.
How does this kid he’s never met before know his name?
His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.
“Uh,” he starts, eloquently, swallowing down the pain in his jaw. “I’m sorry,” He sounds like a broken record. “Have we… met?”
It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently.
The kid looks appalled. And when Conner flicks his gaze over at Superman, reading his mentor for clues, the man has gone stock still.
The other Kryptonian—the teen—falls to the ground and lands on soft training mats. Well, that answers one question; no battle, no fight. Maybe Superman was training them? Or pitting them against each other…
Conner grimaces. He clearly lost. If Luthor were here, he knows how this would end. Survival of the fittest with Lex. Superman might not like him, but he’s never threatened to inject him with a lethal dose of kryptonite either. That was a fun conversation, he recalls, remembering the cool ice in Luthor’s eyes. It sends a shudder down his spine. It’s been a few months since he last saw the man, but even now his body still reacts like he’s in permanent danger.
And Conner’s been trying his hardest to get Superman to like him recently. At least a little bit. Enough to pull his punches some. He does not enjoy waking up with bruises the morning after a joint Justice League training session. It’s probably not the man’s fault, though. Conner’s just—weaker. He needs to get better. And this is just Superman’s way of helping him do that. Yeah.
The teen across the room drags a hand over his face in a way that makes Conner think this kid could very well be Superman’s son—they have such similar mannerisms—and says, “Fuck.”
Superman shoots him a sharp glare, but apparently doesn’t have the heart to tell him off for it. Besides, his attention on the kid doesn’t last, it diverts straight back to Conner in under a heartbeat.
“I’m going to check your vision, Conner,” Superman says, without waiting for Conner to register the words, tilting Conner’s face toward him with a gentle grip on his chin.
He doesn’t think Superman has ever been this gentle with him in his life. It’s confusing. Bewildering.
“W-Why?” he manages to get out, sticky tongue and all.
Superman’s analytical gaze is flicking between his two pupils when he answers.
“Because I think you might have a concussion, Kon.”
Oh.
That could explain why his head is starting to throb. Why his neck feels so sore.
What he says is: “Oh. S-sorry.” It’s his default. Even if it doesn’t make sense, it’s just what he’s supposed to say.
Superman’s gaze softens fractionally. There’s something in the expression that looks a little pained, but maybe Conner’s just imagining it.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” Superman says, glancing over at the other Kryptonian. The teen looks like he’s spiraling for some reason. “If that’s okay?” He releases Conner’s chin.
Since when does Superman ask if it’s okay? How strange, Conner thinks. Superman doesn’t ask, he just tells. And Conner says, “Yes, sir,” because he knows better than to tell Superman no. He nearly snorts. Maybe he’s concussed, but he’s not suicidally stupid.
“Of course.” He nods—and immediately regrets the aborted movement when the ricochet of blinding white pain almost knocks out his vision altogether. Somehow, he just barely manages to suppress the hiss of agony.
“Great,” returns Superman, but grimly, somehow. His lips press thin, forming a white line. “Alright, let’s start with something easy: The last thing you remember—?”
Conner doesn’t know how that’s easy. He thinks. It’s all blank. He trained with the Titan’s last week. Uh, nothing unusual happened. No missions. They just sorta hung out in the tower.
He relays as much to Superman, who nods slowly back at him, chewing on the information.
“Okay, good—” He changes positions, shifting onto his knees. Like this, he’s only a little taller than Conner. “Next question,” he continues, a flutter of a smile passing across his features, soft and warm. “Do you remember coming here? To the training hall? With me and Jon?”
Conner blinks.
He looks over at the kid.
He presumes that’s Jon.
“N-no sir,” he replies, still looking over at the fifteen year old on the mats. It’s not false information by any stretch. It’s true. But saying ‘no’ to Superman still makes his guts twist up on the inside. It makes him want to vomit.
But Superman nods again, like that’s to be expected.
“Okay,” he lets out a tense puff. “And my name, Conner. What is my name?”
And Conner feels like he should probably know this one—but he doesn’t. He turns his head back to Superman, fixing his gaze on the man’s chin, then moving it to the ‘S’ on his chest. Superman doesn’t—hasn’t ever—trusted Conner enough to give him any name other than the one everyone knows him by.
“It’s Superman, sir.”
It’s the wrong answer—if the tight sigh that leaves the man is anything to go by.
He hums. He looks unhappy. A deeper frown cuts into his features and Conner does his best not to curl into himself for putting it there.
Superman shifts again, resigned. “Yep,” he pops the ‘p’ and looks over toward the kid named Jon again. “Concussion. We’ll have to get him to the med-bay.”
Jon looks like he’s about to be sick, but he nods back haltingly nonetheless. “O-okay.”
It’s reflex, when Superman stands up, for the words to leap from Conner’s mouth like they’re a mantlet defence. “It’s okay!” he says, waving his hands side-to-side in front of him. “I heal fast, I don’t need the med-bay.”
This has got to be the first time ever that Superman has even remotely suggested that Conner might need the med-bay. He’s quite aware the man expects better of him—expects him to shake off the bruises. And he does, mostly because his mental image of the med-bay looks strikingly like Luthor’s labs. If he ever sees another needle in his life, it’ll be too soon.
Superman looks down at him with that frown that never went away and Conner has a fleeting moment of panic where he thinks the man might hurt him for saying it.
Instead, the man shakes his head, throws his hands on his hips, and sighs softly.
“I know you do, bud,” he replies, gentle in a way that Conner is sure he would remember if Superman had ever been before, concussion or no, “But it would make me feel better to have you checked over anyway, alright?”
Feel better?
Since when was Conner’s health of any concern to Superman?
“Sir, really, I’m sure I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
For some reason, Jon gets mad at that.
The teen grunts. “Stop trying to be a martyr, Conner,” he snaps. It’s an outburst of sudden anger that sees Conner flinch, but Jon’s not done. He folds his arms over his chest and looks away as he says, sullenly, “A concussion is serious.”
Superman closes his eyes for a second. “Jon…” he says, and his face creases in new and unexpected ways.
The man looks very much like he wants to go over and comfort the boy, but for some strange reason, he remains rooted to Conner’s side.
It’s odd.
The spike of adrenaline at being shouted at turns his legs to jelly. He doesn’t like being shouted at. No one does, he supposes. It’s just that Conner is used to the things that come after the shouting is over.
“R-right,” he says shakily, forcing himself to his feet while surreptitiously using the wall for support and trying not to look like he’s leaning too heavily on it.
It comes as a shock when Superman reaches over and grabs him by the forearm, steadying him when he wobbles.
Conner has to stop himself from snatching his wrist back.
Superman this close makes him nervous, and if the unhappy turn to the man’s mouth is any indication, he suspects Superman knows it.
“It’s alright,” Superman murmurs, just between the two of them. “I’ve got you. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Part of Conner wants to snap back and declare that he knows Superman wouldn’t; lie straight through his teeth. But, of course, Superman would know it was a lie. He ends up leaning most of his weight on the man, because his vision starts to spin more rapidly now that he’s vertical.
This soft version of Superman is freaking him out.
Since when were concussions worthy of this level of attention?
The words must slip out. He thinks he must say them with a laugh, like a joke, because his mouth is parted and he feels the tug of skin around his cheeks.
Superman’s face has been hitting quite a few gymnastic dance moves in their short exchange so far, but it’s nothing on the way it changes next.
He looks absolutely distraught.
His chin tips down and his eyebrows pull in while the rest of his face crumples, distressed. His feet falter, a slight slip in pace as they hobble toward the door on the far side of the room.
Conner suddenly wonders if the man is going to straight up drop him, a dead weight, with how suddenly his hands begin to tremble.
But that doesn’t happen. Rather, the opposite. Superman’s grip tightens.
“Jon,” he says to the teen, standing less than five feet away now and looking equally as unhappy with his arms still across his torso. “Can you please fetch the medic on duty. I—I think Conner needs to sit down.” Superman’s eyes never leave him while he speaks, darting rapidly all over Conner’s face.
Conner notices the boy glance between them, then nod, but that’s pretty much all he sees because the kid is out of the room faster than he can track with his eyes.
“C’mon kiddo,” Superman continues, already starting to lower him to the ground. “You don’t look so good.” He doesn’t think Superman is looking too good either, to be honest.
And—kiddo?
A protest forms on his lips without his consent. “I’m fine.” He tries for a smile, but thinks it comes out as a grimace when his butt hits the soft foam of the training mats, then quickly remembers to tack on, “Sir.”
Superman snorts. “Sure you are,” he says with a disagreeably raised eyebrow. “Because I know you’re completely fine when you revert back to calling me ‘sir.’”
Conner thinks the blood must rush out of his head, because the room spins in a fun new way.
“W-what else would I call you?” he asks, hesitantly. Superman’s gone crazy, he thinks, feeling his heart-beat pick up. But even the thought of being disrespectful makes him wince.
Superman just pins him with another unhappy look.
Jon returns in a flash. If it weren’t for the ‘S’ inscribed on the teen’s suit, Conner might pick him for a speedster, not another Kryptonian.
“Medic’s on their way, Dad,” he announces, crossing the room, then lowers himself beside them.
Dad?
Conner glances between them. Well, it’s not like he hadn’t thought they were related before. What does that make Conner to the kid?
“He’s your dad?” he asks, speaking the words before he can question if it’s alright to ask them. “Superman is your dad?”
Jon sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. And, annoyingly, doesn’t answer the question. Instead he looks to Superman when he declares: “Definitely a concussion.”
Superman grimaces.
“Retrograde amnesia too,” he says—and does the unthinkable; Superman raises a palm, easy and soft, and brushes a few loose locks away from Conner’s forehead. “Typically it only affects working memory—” he says, first to Jon, then continues, directing the conversation to Conner, “—but you seem to have forgotten a whole lot more than just the past hour.”
That’s silly, Conner thinks. He’s quite sure he’d remember Superman having a son called Jon. Well, he likes to presume he would—but the evidence is sitting right next to him.
Jon claps him lightly on the shoulder. “Jus’ so’s you know,” he says. “Superman is your dad too.”
Conner feels himself pale.
“That’s—no.” Looking at Jon, he shakes his head. Any mention of Conner’s genetic relationship with Superman is strictly off-limits. Taboo. The man’s made it perfectly clear in the past that he doesn’t want anything to do with Conner. “He’s not—I’m not—” He sucks in a breath that makes his lip tremble. “Our relationship isn’t like that.”
And then, because he clearly can’t help but torture himself, turns his gaze back on Superman and asks: “Is it?”
Conner won’t deny he’s wanted a better relationship with Superman since forever. But this? It’s unthinkable. Even the idea of Superman wanting to spend any small amount of time with him outside of what the Justice League enforces is laughable. The man recoils at the sight of him.
But, he thinks with a touch of confusion, he’s not recoiling now.
Superman just looks sad.
“Goodness,” he murmurs, moving his hands into his own lap and glancing down at them. “It’s been so many years since—” He looks up again. “Since I’ve heard you talk like that.” The smile the man pastes on is bitter and full of regret.
Jon, on the other hand, grabs Conner’s fingers. “Hey,” he says seriously, squinting at Conner like he doesn’t quite know who he’s looking at. “Listen. You’re my brother—and I’m sure you only believe all that because this bozo,” he jerks a thumb at Superman, “Said something stupid. Ignore him, Conner. He’s an idiot.”
Conner feels mildly terrified on the kid’s behalf. He couldn’t imagine saying such things about Superman and not getting punished for it in one way or another.
But Superman is just nodding along looking upset, still. Silently agreeing with every word.
“You—” he croaks, voice cracking. “You probably shouldn’t say that about your own dad.” He doesn’t want Jon to get in trouble. Especially because of him. He seems like a cool kid. And Conner’s somewhat desperate to have a good relationship with another Kryptonian.
Jon snorts, flapping a hand at him. “Oh don’t worry, he knows. Mom tells him all the time.”
Mom?
Conner worries his lower lip. If Jon has a mother and a father, does that mean he’s not a clone like Conner?
That’s what makes him different, he realizes, glancing between Superman and the Kryptonian teen. Jon has a real family kind of family. Not just genetic donors.
“You have a mom?” he whispers. Conner doesn’t dare to ask what she’s like. Conner didn’t even know Superman had a wife.
Jon shakes his head. “Conner,” he huffs, a little exasperated. “She’s your mom too!” Then he snorts a laugh. “Her name is Lois. Lois Lane. And I’m pretty sure you’re her favorite child.”
Superman rolls his eyes and reaches out a finger to bop Jon on the nose. “That’s not true,” he refutes. “We love you both equally.”
Jon laughs again, batting away his father’s finger.
Conner wants to curl into himself again. Digest that information, as unbelievable and untrue as it sounds. There’s no way he is anyone’s favorite anything, let alone favorite child of some woman he can’t even remember right now.
On his left, Superman sighs. “I can see you overthinking, Kon,” he says. “There’s steam coming out of your ears.”
Was that a joke? Is Superman joking with him right now?
“Sweetheart.” Superman scoots a little closer, knocking their knees together, and Conner freezes at the single, innocent word. “Hey—your memories will return. Jon gave you a good bonk on the ol’ noggin’ but the amnesia won’t last, I promise. It’ll all come back pretty soon, you’ll see.”
Conner blinks. Jon did? It’ll come back? Since when did Superman make promises?
The gentle hand rises to his hairline again. It tucks a few loose strands behind his ear. It’s so, so gentle.
It reminds him of sunshine. It reminds him of corn in summertime. It reminds him of hay and dappled sunlight through big oak trees.
Oh.
The room has fallen completely silent. Superman and Jon are both looking at him.
Oh.
Conner feels his body start to come back to him in a way that’s familiar. His tongue finally feels like his own again.
He blinks and lifts his eyes from the blue mat, back to cerulean blues.
Oh.
He croaks; “Clark.” Smiles. And it feels true. It feels right. It feels like it belongs there. “Your name is Clark Kent.”
And just like Conner knew he would, his dad smiles back at him.
“That’s right,” he agrees fondly, warmly, with love. “And you’re Conner. Conner Kent.”
Conner swallows.
“Yeah,” he breathes.
“I’m Conner Kent.”