Chapter Text
The café sat tucked into one of Metropolis's arts districts, all exposed brick, hanging vines, polished concrete floors, and oversized windows that flooded the room with spring light. Indie music drifted softly through hidden speakers, competing with the hiss of steaming milk and the steady murmur of conversations. Students crowded around laptops, and office workers lingered over sandwiches they were pretending weren't late getting back from lunch break.
Conner had always liked this place. It was trendy without being pretentious, bright and warm and always comfortably full of people chattering in a way that wasn’t overwhelming to someone with super hearing. It was just the right level to be a pleasing background sound. The food was good, the coffee smelled incredible. Even Ma loved the place. Conner had made a habit of always bring her and pa home a cup of it whenever he was in the city. Cream and sugar for Ma, black with an extra shot of expresso for Pa but don’t tell Ma about the extra shot or she’ll get to lecturing him about too much caffeine.
He looked up and brightened at the sound of familiar footsteps approaching. Clark was just another guy today in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, a his thick glasses perched on his nose and a messenger bag he hooked over the back of his chair before sitting down. Conner had never quite figured out how the disguise worked as well as it did. He always sucked at the civilian disguise thing. He just rocked his preferred punk style and threw some glasses on and prayed. Somehow it still worked for him.
They fell into easy conversation over tasty if admittedly slightly overpriced lunch.
Conner tore another piece from the grilled sourdough beside his tomato soup while Clark finished telling him about an interview he'd spent three hours chasing that morning.
"...and after all that," Clark said, smiling into his coffee, "Perry tells me he already had someone else covering the story."
Conner barked out a laugh.
"You've gotta stop letting him do that to you."
"I keep telling myself it'll build character."
"I think you've got enough," Conner snorted, dunking his bread into his soup and popping it into his mouth with a satisfied sound.
"Probably," Clark chuckled.
For a few moments they simply enjoyed the comfortable quiet.
It had become something of a tradition over the last year. Whenever their schedules lined up, they'd meet somewhere in the city for lunch. Sometimes they talked about League business. Sometimes about school. Sometimes about absolutely nothing. It was nice. Really nice. Just, normal. Conner had never expected to become this close to Clark. Things had never been exceptionally cold between the two of them. Hell one of Conner’s most beloved memories was STILL that afternoon Clark had taken him to the Fortress of Solitude to teach him Krytonian history and gift him the name Kon-El. No it was those few years of uncertainty, of wondering what exactly they were to each other.
Conner was his clone. What did that make him? His brother? His son? Neither? Both?
Eventually they'd settled on something that didn't really need a name. They were family. That was enough. That word still set a pleasant warm feeling in the center of his chest. Family. Those first few years of being alive that’s all he’d ever really wanted but it was hard putting it in words what he’d craved. He didn’t fully know that’s what was missing in his life until he finally had it.
Clark set down his mug.
"So," he asked, "How's school?"
Conner groaned, his head dropping onto his hand.
"Oh, don't remind me."
"I thought you'd be counting down the days," Clark laughed.
"I am," Conner leaned back in his chair, stretching until his shoulders popped as he mulled it over, "I've got, what... two months? Then I'm officially done."
"Must feel strange."
"It kinda does," he picked absently at a loose thread on the edge of his sleeve, "I've been in school basically my whole life."
"I think the same could be said for most kids," Clark raised an eyebrow, though his lips were quirked up in a smile
"Hey! Most kids at least get the first few years off!" Conner snorted, dropping little bits of bread into his soup to get nice and saturated.
"Fair enough."
"So yeah," he shrugged, poking the bread around with his spoon "It's gonna be nice."
"You still thinking about college?"
"Not right away."
"No?"
"Nah."
Conner reached for his drink.
"I… think I'm gonna take a gap year," he admitted, a little hesitant now that he was actually saying it out loud.
Clark nodded without the slightest hint of disappointment.
"Sounds reasonable."
"I wanna figure out what I actually wanna do before I spend a bunch of money on classes."
"That's sensible," Clark paused a moment to take a bit of his BLT, "And have you narrowed it down at all?"
Conner's expression brightened just a little, "...Maybe."
"Oh?"
"I've actually been thinking about culinary school."
"Culinary school?" Clark's smile widened immediately.
"Yeah," Conner couldn’t help but grin back. Clark always smiled like the sun and it was damn infectious.
"I had a feeling."
"Did you?" Conner laughed.
"Last time I talked with Ma she'd been saying you were doing a lot of the cooking these days," he gestures at him with his cup, "Says you’ve been stealing her recipes and doing all sorts of wild experiments with them."
"Guilty as charged," Conner rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, "It started a little bit ago when she just had me helping out with stuff like chopping veggies and rolling dough 'cause her arthritis has been acting up. Just the grunt work to start but… I can't lie, I've really enjoyed making things."
"You also called me… what was it, three weeks ago? To ask whether I thought adding smoked paprika to her chili would count as sacrilege."
Conner grinned, unable to help himself.
"...She ended up up liking it."
"She did? You’ll have to save some for me next time you make it," Clark smiled fondly, leaning his elbows against the table, "It sounds like you've really found something you enjoy."
"I dunno," Conner looked down into his soup, "I just like making stuff. It feels..." he searched for the word, "...Nice."
There was something just deeply satisfying about feeding people; about watching Ma smile after the first bite of dinner, or watching Bart inhale half a tray of cookies, or seeing the relief on Tim’s face after delivering some leftovers because he hadn't eaten in over a day because of hyper focus on a case.
It was something tangible and immediate. You put some effort into something, and people smiled because of it. They felt good so you felt good. It wasn't relief because you'd saved the world, or pulled them from a burning building or handled any number of crises that a hero encountered in their day to day. But it was kind of similar in a certain way. Just a little quieter.
"You light up when you talk about it," Clark regarded him quietly over the rim of his mug.
"...Do I?" Conner blinked, a little surprised.
"You do," he nodded.
"Huh."
"I think that's worth taking seriously. Your passions are important."
"...Yeah. I… guess they are," Conner nodded.
The conversation settled again.
Outside, people streamed along the sidewalks beneath the early April sun. A little girl tugged excitedly at her father's hand when she spotted a street vendor selling balloons. Cyclists drifted between traffic. Somewhere overhead, Conner caught the familiar sound of Kara streaking across the city.
It was normal, peaceful. It was exactly the kind of afternoon Superman worked so hard to protect.
Clark reached for another bite of his sandwich.
"So..."
Conner glanced up.
"You seem a little distracted today."
"I'm fine," he shrugged. The reply came out a little too hurried, a little too short.
Clark gave him a patient look. Despite not being his dad sometimes Clark just felt exactly like one in moments like these. It made Conner squirm a little in his seat. It was unnerving when Clark knew he was hiding something, but also kind of a relief. That he also cared when he was hiding something.
"You've answered every question today."
"...That's usually how conversations work." Conner quirked a brow.
"But you haven't volunteered anything," the statement was soft, not the accusation it could be but it quietly demanded an answer. Conner had to hand it to the man, he was a reporter through and through. He always had a way to get to the bottom of things.
"...I haven't?" Conner blinked.
"No," Clark smiled gently, "You've got something on your mind. Not just graduation in a couple of months either."
Conner instinctively opened his mouth to deny it. Then closed it again. Because...
Yeah.
He did. It felt so insignificant though. It wasn't really important in the grand scheme of things. But it was something that had been lingering in the back of his mind. A tiny little thought poking and prodding him. Maybe it was best to get it out. Not let it fester.
"It's… dumb." the teen rubbed the back of his neck.
"I doubt that."
"It kinda is!"
Clark waited. In moments like these he never rushed him. He just waited patiently, trusting Conner to confide in him when he felt comfortable. Or at least willing to talk.
Eventually Conner sighed.
"...We're doing yearbooks."
Clark nodded.
"Seniors have to submit like… a baby picture, or something from when we were a little kid. They're doing a 'Who's that Senior?' section or something."
"...Ah."
"Yeah," Conner let out a short laugh as he picked at the crust of his bread, "I um… Well obviously I didn't have one."
Clark's expression softened almost immediately.
"So Ma helped me find one."
"One of mine?" Clark guessed.
Conner nodded slowly in response. He chewed on the bottom of his lip a little. Clark didn’t press him. He gave him the room he needed to work out what he needed to say.
"It was, I think you must have been like eight? You were on this old tire swing, smiling. I liked it."
"I remember that swing. Used to be on the old oak in the back of the house.”
"Well I submitted it and it worked. No one questioned it."
"It would, I imagine," Clark nodded.
"I mean..." Conner shrugged one shoulder, "I'm your clone. Obviously."
A strange little smile crossed his face. A weird one. One of those smiles that you force hard enough that it kind of makes your face hurt so you don't just start crying instead. There was a dull ache that brewed, just behind his eyes. It'd probably feel better if he just cried. But he was sitting in a public cafe in Metropolis with Clark. He kept himself together.
"So theoretically..." he sucked in a steadying breath of air, "I would've looked exactly like that. If you know…"
He gestured vaguely. The words hung between them; unspoken but understood.
Conner stared out the window.
"I just… I mean I kept thinking… Like maybe in another life or something," he laughed quietly, trying not to cringe over how bitter it sounded, "...That could've been me."
Outside, the little girl from earlier was skipping, a bright red balloon tied around her wrist. Conner watched her disappear into the crowd.
"I spent way too long looking at that picture," His voice had become softer, "I kept wondering what happened that day."
"What do you mean?" Clark frowned slightly.
"I dunno, like what had you been doing? Up to getting your picture taken?"
"It was a while ago but if it's the one I'm thinking of that was the day Pa had hung the swing up," Clark rubbed his chin, a distant look in his eyes as he recalled it, "I couldn't fly yet, but I always had dreams that I could. That's why I loved that thing to death. I'd play on it for ages imaging I was flying."
"Really?" Conner smiled despite himself.
"Yep. I'd swing it as hard as it could go and jump off at the highest point," he huffed a laugh, "Skinned up my knees so bad a few times Ma took to telling me not to jump every time she saw me edging towards it."
"...But you still did, huh?"
Clark smiled and rubbed the back of his head looking for a rare moment to be vaguely embarrassed, "Oh every time."
Conner chuckled but his smile quickly faded again.
"...See...You have memories," Conner looked down at his hands, he couldn't bear to look at anyone right now, "You remember being eight. I... I don't."
His fingers curled slightly as he fidgeted, and waffled on what he was saying next. He could end this conversation here. Clark would never press him that hard if it was something he didn't want to talk about. And he didn't want to talk about it. But he also did. It burned dull and hollow in his chest and if he kept thinking about it he'd be sick.
"I wasn't real 'born'. You know that. I cracked out of a tube looking fifteen with all the knowledge that a fifteen year old SHOULD have but you know, none of the experience," he counted almost absently on his fingers, "Spent a couple years biologically stuck around sixteen until they figured out that mess. And..." he looked at his hand a moment before sighing heavily and looking back up at Clark, "...I'm eight."
Clark's brow furrowed, but he didn't interrupt.
"I've only actually existed for about eight years," he smiled crookedly, though there was something just slightly broken about his it looked, "I'm technically eight years old."
He paused. This was harder then he thought to get it all out there. This jumble of thoughts and emotions he'd had ever since his homeroom teacher had told them all they needed baby pictures. This stupid task. He could have just ignored it. There were a few other people in class who said it was dumb. He could have just not told anyone. But that wouldn't have solved anything. He's still be thinking about it.
"I've just... Never actually been eight. I don't know," he shrugged, "I guess seeing everybody else's baby pictures got me thinking. I never scraped my knees jumping off tire swings. I never had birthday parties. I never lost baby teeth. I never got to play Little League. I never got to..."
He trailed off after noticing that Clark's eyes had become suspiciously bright behind his glasses. He scrubbed awkwardly at his thankfully still dry eyes and looked away again. If Clark started crying here then he definitely would too and he was still determined not to bawl in public.
"I know it's stupid," he hated how his voice broke a little.
"It isn't." Clark finally spoke, drawing Conner's line of sight right back to him.
"I mean..." he spread his hands helplessly, "It is what it is."
Cadmus did what Cadmus did and Conner began his life already partway through. He was playing a game on someone else's save file without knowing what happened before he picked up the controller.
Clark reached across the table and rested a warm hand over Conner's. The gesture was so simple, so effortless, so perfectly Clark. Conner hadn't even realized how much he needed it until it was there. He blinked rapidly because that pressure was very rapidly building now.
"I'm sorry," Clark said quietly.
Conner looked up.
"I wish..." Clark's voice caught for just a moment, "I wish you had pictures of your own."
"...Yeah." he smiled, his expression sad but still grateful for being heard, "I do too."
For a long moment they simply sat together, watching people pass beyond the café windows. Then Conner exhaled through his nose. It had taken him a moment but he thought he could finally talk again without his voice breaking on him.
"You know..."
Clark glanced at him.
"I've never really admitted this to anybody."
"No?"
"It always felt selfish," Conner shook his head.
"It isn't."
"I know," he looked back outside.
"...But I've always secretly wished..." his voice was barely above a murmur now, "...that I'd gotten to be a kid... That I'd gotten to be eight for real. To make memories like that. Even if it was just for a little bit."
---
Somewhere above the café...
Or below it.
Or perhaps folded neatly between two moments where 'above' and 'below' had stopped meaning anything at all... A tiny pair of boots swung happily through empty air. Kon-Mite had been following Superboy aaaall morning.
Not in a creepy way. In a supportive way! There was a difference. A VERY important difference. One way made you a stalker, one made you someone's very best fan.
Besides, Superboy never noticed!
He never noticed the way a favorite T-shirt mysteriously turned up neatly folded after he’d accidentally left it hanging in a gym locker room or how the sunglasses a giant robot had crushed during a fight had somehow been sitting, perfectly repaired, on his kitchen counter the next morning, or that one time his phone should have shattered after falling six stories onto concrete but hadn't.
Kon-Mite had done ALL those things.
Just little things.
Nothing flashy or over the top.
Nothing that would make Superboy wonder if someone was watching him.
Because that would be mortifying if he knew! Absolutely!
The tiny imp tugged self-consciously at the miniature leather jacket it wore over an equally tiny Superboy costume with the red shield. It had changed outfits three times that morning before deciding this one looked the coolest. It really liked the version of the jacket Superboy wore now, but its favorite was absolutely the one with the spikes on the shoulders that it wore now!
Back home, of course, it had replicas of every costume Superboy had ever worn, both in this universe and in others. Of course this Superboy was its favorite one, but it liked a complete collection. Its little room back home was practically a museum!
It kicked its feet idly as it watched through the crack in reality.
Superboy was having lunch with Superman.
Kon-Mite sighed dreamily.
They looked so cool!
Maybe...
Maybe today...
No. Nope. Noperino.
Absolutely not.
It couldn’t!
What if Superboy looked at it?
What if he smiled?
What if he asked a question?
Kon-Mite would evaporate on the spot. It did not want to be perceived! In any way! It was WAY too shy for that. That's probably why it loved Superboy so much! Superboy was bold and cool and always said what was on his mind and always told the bad guys off before punching them real good.
For the imp, watching from afar was much safer.
It listened happily while they talked about the newspaper and school and graduation and oh! Culinary school!
Superboy liked cooking. Kon-Mite mentally added a recipe book to the list of possible anonymous presents.
Then...
The conversation changed. Its smile faded. The imp leaned forward as the conversation drifted to the yearbook photos. It wiped a few wet globs of tears from its eyes as Superboy talked about not having photos of his own. It had to lean in really close and extra hard to catch some of the words now but it listened so hard and so good, it didn't want to miss a precious second.
It watched as Superboy poured his heart out, and Superman reached over to squeeze his hand. And Superboy looked happy! But in a happy sad way that got Kon-mite to sobbing again and it almost missed the last part. The most important part.
"...But I've always secretly wished... that I'd gotten to be a kid... That I'd gotten to eight for real. To make memories like that. Even if it was just for a little bit."
Kon-Mite’s little heart ACHED for him.
Superboy…
Had never been little?
Not ever?
He'd skipped straight to being big?
That…That was awful!
Who skipped childhood? How did that even happen? Poor Superboy!
Its eyes grew wider and wider. Then suddenly sparkled.
Oh!
OH!
It could fix that!
It knew exactly how!
This was perfect! This would be better than all the little things it had ever secretly done for Superboy up til now COMBINED.
It would be a real present.
The best present ever. Maybe even in the history of the entire multiverse. Kon-mite was SURE of it.
Superboy wanted to be eight.
Well... Kon-Mite knew how to make someone eight. It would be so easy peasy lemon squeasy.
Its face split into a grin so enormous it nearly swallowed its cheeks.
"Heehee…" it giggled and it clapped its tiny hands together.
Reality rippled and Kon-Mite watched the magic with pure delight. It was so good. Superboy is so lucky that his very best number one fan in the entire universe can grant his wish like this!
"There!" it bounced excitedly in place. "Now Superboy gets to be little!"
It hugged itself and spun around, positively vibrating with pride.
"This is gonna be the best surprise ever."
With one last happy giggle, the tiny imp vanished back into the spaces between dimensions. It had a Superboy blog to update!!
---
The first thing Conner noticed was that he'd slept. Of course he's slept. It was more that he REALLY slept.
Not the fitful kind that came after patrols or late-night study sessions. Not the light, half-aware rest that left him waking every couple of hours because some part of his brain refused to completely switch off in case there was an emergency he needed to fly to urgently.
This had been deep and warm and comfortable in a way he hadn't felt in a long time, if ever.
He let out a sleepy yawn, arms stretching over his head until his shoulders popped pleasantly.
"...Mmm."
Morning sunlight had only just begun to creep around the curtains, painting pale stripes across the apartment floor. The city outside was unusually quiet, Metropolis was still lingering in those precious moments between night and the beginning of rush hour. It still wasn't as quiet as the familiar peace of Smallville but it was as close as you could get in the big city.
Conner smiled to himself. After lunch with Clark, the day had immediately gone sideways. Metallo had decided that a cutting-edge tank in the S.T.A.R. Labs research facility looked particularly delicious that afternoon. Conner had taken the lead on that fight, Metallo was usually pretty suceptable to being disassembled by his Tactile Telekinesis. Even still the robot hadn't gone down without crashing through several concrete walls and then the harbor. A good starts to the first day of spring break.
Afterward, Clark had insisted he come back to the apartment for dinner.
"You already helped save the city," he'd said. "The least I can do is feed you."
Conner had been planning to head home afterward. Then Jon had looked at him with the sort of exaggerated puppy-dog expression that Conner was absolutely not immune to. The kid knew it too!
"Please? just one race."
"You always say one race."
"This time I mean it! Pinky Promise!"
Three hours later they'd finally stopped playing Mario Kart. So much for the sanctity of pink promises. It had gotten late enough that Clark had inflated the guest mattress in the living room before Conner could argue about flying home.
Now... he was awake. He was used to getting up at teh crack of dawn on the farm to get all his chores done. His intention last night had been to wake up at the usual time and fly back first thing so he could get his work done. He'd called Ma and Pa last night so he knew they would't be worried, but Conner didn't want Pa taking on anything Conner could do. He'd thrown his back out last time he bailed the hay by himself.
But he was SO cozy. He stretched again, relishing in the twilight comfy half sleep he drifted in. Though something bugged him in the back of his mind that he couldn't ignore.
What was it?
Did they get a new air mattress?
Usually this one was just a little too short. If he stretched all the way out his feet hung over the end, and by morning there was always a slight sag beneath his hips where his weight had slowly forced some of the air out overnight.
This one though...It felt great. It was firm and supportive. And... Big.
Actually...
Really big.
He blinked sleepily.
Weird. That didn't make sense. The floor space in the living room he always slept in when he stayed the night didn't really have all that much space for anything bigger.
Maybe Clark had...
Ugh his mouth felt dry. Water Definitely needed water.
Still only half awake, Conner pushed himself upright with another enormous yawn.
The T-shirt he'd borrowed shifted strangely around him.
He frowned.
Why did it...
He swung his legs over the side and his pajama pants twisted around his ankles. Before his sleepy brain could process why they suddenly seemed so ridiculously long, his feet tangled in the excess fabric.
"Wha-!"
He pitched forward and the floor rushed up to meet him and his body crashed with a terrific THUD.
"...Ow."
For a second he simply lay there, more offended than hurt. Then he pushed himself onto his hands.
His...
Hands?
Tiny.
Small enough that the fingers looked stubby. They were soft and childish.
His breath caught and he felt instantly and fully awake. Like someone had injected energy drink directly into his bloodstream.
No.
No, no, no.
He stared.
The sleeves of the T-shirt swallowed his arms almost to the elbows. The hem brushed against his knees like a nightshirt. The waistband of the borrowed pajama pants had been folded over twice and still pooled around his feet.
His heartbeat lurched and his eyes darted wildly around the room.
Everything looked...
Wrong.
The coffee table looked taller. The couch seemed enormous.
The doorknob.. Why was the doorknob so high?
His breathing quickened.
"What..."
His voice...! It was high and thin even in his own ears. A child's voice.
"...No..."
He scrambled backward on hands and knees, staring in mounting horror at himself.
His feet.
Too little.
His legs.
Too short.
His hands.
His hands...!
His chest tightened so suddenly it almost hurt.
This wasn't possible.
This wasn't-
The room seemed to grow around him.
The ceilings stretched impossibly high.
The furniture loomed.
This apartment he'd spent countless evenings in that was almost liek a second home to him suddenly felt enormous, unfamiliar, and overwhelming.
His thoughts tangled over one another faster than he could catch them.
Something was wrong.
Something was horribly wrong.
His eyes burned, and before he even realized it, tears had begun to gather.
"No..." his voice shook, "No!"
A bedroom door clicked open and Clark emerged into the hallway, hair thoroughly mussed from sleep, glasses absent, rubbing one eye as he yawned.
"Everything okay?" he mumbled. "I thought I heard a-"
He stopped because a little boy stood in the middle of the living room with tears brimming in his frightened blue eyes.
For one hazy, sleep-fogged second, Clark's brain supplied the simplest explanation. The only answer that made any sort of logical sense.
Jon.
"Hey, buddy..." his voice immediately softened, "What happened?"
Clark crossed the room in three quick strides.
"Bad dream?"
Before Conner could manage more than a confused little inhale, Clark had scooped him effortlessly into his arms. The older man felt warm and solid and safe. One hand settled gently against the back of his head while the other rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades.
"It's okay," Clark murmured instinctively, "I've got you."
Conner froze.
His entire body went rigid.
His mind screamed that this was wrong- that Clark had obviously mistaken him for someone else, for Jon, that he needed to explain, that he needed-
But nothing came out.
Because suddenly everything was too much. The confusion and fear... the horrible feeling of suddenly being so incredibly small. But there was also the feeling of comfort and warmth from being held...
A tiny, broken sound escaped him and Clark held him a little tighter.
"I know," he whispered, "It's okay."
Another door creaked open.
Jon shuffled into the hallway, undoubtedly roused by the commotion, rubbing sleep stubbornly from his eyes.
"...Dad what's going on?"
He blinked once.
Twice.
His hand slowly fell away from his face.
"...Uh..."
His gaze landed on the little boy in Clark's arms.
Then on the black hair.
The blue eyes.
The oversized T-shirt his dad had lent the night prior and recognition hit him.
His eyes went cartoonishly wide.
"...Is that Conner?"