Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There is another boy standing in the ruins of Cadmus with Robin, Aqualad, and Kid Flash, and Clark looks them all over for signs of injury as he lands but Kal-El . . .

The boy lifts the torn collar of his shirt and Clark sees a symbol that is so familiar he doesn’t even recognize it, like he wouldn’t recognize his own face if he saw it—like he doesn’t, for a moment—but Kal-El does not care about the symbol or the face, Kal-El cares about the boy.

Mine, that part of him says, the piece that was never really human, the piece that never quite matched up—the piece that he forgot about, because it didn’t belong here. Except it still is here, it’s not gone, and right now it’s loud.

“I’m Superman’s clone,” the boy says, tense and defensive, and Clark feels a thready, uncertain tendril of . . . something reach out from the boy. Reach out for him. Touch him, but not physically, something more than that, something . . .

Mine, Kal-El says again, flaring up like a sunspot inside of him, and that touch of the boy just barely brushes that part of him, the sun, redyellowbright. Mine my OWN.

Something too much.

Clark remembers being small, remembers reaching out like that, remembers the nothing there, they never reached back, not his mother not his father his closest friends Lana—not even Lois. No one. There were almost-threads but they never reached for him, at best they just held on, wove a bit into his own. They were never anything by themselves.

But this boy is reaching for him. Clark has lived his whole life waiting for someone to reach for him and this boy some mad scientist grew in a tube for who knows what . . . this boy is reaching for him.

That’s not fair.

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It’s hard to be Clark right now, but it would be harder to be Superman. Even harder to be Kal-El, who is screaming rage inside because what, what is he doing that was his, his is in the world and he left it, left it to go take care of nothing important—

He should be in the fortress. Should be looking through the crystals, talking to Jor-El’s AI, figuring this out. He never understood before, never realized it might be something Kryptonian, he just thought . . . what did he think? Was he really that stupid?

He thought he connected to people like a human did.

He thought he connected to people like a human did and he was just too . . . just too different. Alien. That he wasn’t human enough for anyone to fully . . . that he wasn’t human enough. That he could never be human enough.

All that time, he thinks, all that time feeling separate and wrong and like he hadn’t earned it, and everyone he knew just wasn’t Kryptonian enough.

But the boy reached out to him with a piece of . . . himself, for lack of a better word. As if it were natural, as if it was nothing at all to do it and expect a response. A connection. A real connection.

Not exactly as if it was nothing, Clark admits, recalling the faint uncertainty of that tendril.

It’s not right. That thing he always wanted, it’s not right that someone grew that in a lab, made a . . . a mockery of it, that weakness, that chink in him. How did they even know, Clark wonders; he’s never told anyone, he thought they all knew. When he was very, very small he’d cried on his mother’s shoulder, weeping for the lack of that connection, but he’d just been a child. He’d never really been able to explain it then—he hadn’t even known what he was, then, he’d just thought he was doing something wrong and that was why.

He loves his parents unconditionally, and part of the reason for that is because they kept him even knowing he was wrong.

Except he wasn’t wrong, he was just himself.

All this time something in him has been starving to death and he didn’t know it.

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Being Clark is important. Clark is human. Clark is a reprieve. Clark is some small piece of peace, and the man his parents raised him to be, not the ideal he has to be as Superman.

Clark is important.

Right now, though, he can’t stand to just be Clark. He tries to shut himself up as just that facet of himself but it doesn’t work, he can only think of the boy, the ghost of him, that hesitant tendril making contact. He needs to understand.

It takes an hour trying to explain the problem to Jor-El’s AI, and at the end of it Clark understands that is because it literally has no concept of it. It would be like trying to explain to an Earth computer that one plus one equaled one.

Which is, apparently, almost exactly what this empty feeling he always misunderstood is about.

A Kryptonian does not connect the way a human does. A Kryptonian connects literally, mind and heart and—and soul. That’s . . . from what the AI explains once it actually understands, although it’s speaking entirely in theory and seems constantly on the verge of glitching in the process . . . from what the AI explains once it actually understands, the Kryptonian method is to form a psychic bond in a willful act between resonating souls—between spouses and lovers, close siblings or cousins or friends close enough to be siblings.

Parents and children.

Mine, Kal-El says inside, the Kryptonian nature underneath the Earthling nurture. The Kryptonian nature Clark has been denying without knowing all these years, because there was no way to give it what it wanted in any way but spiderweb threads. Spiderweb threads that should be steel, they call him the Man of Steel but this part of him has always been paper thin, this part of him has always . . .

It occurs to Clark as the AI goes down the list of symptoms and dangerous side effects that the lack of these bonds cause that he tries much, much too hard, just like the AI warns. It occurs to him that this could be why he tries so hard. He has never really connected. He has never really been connected to. His parents cared for him but he was not cared for the way his DNA thinks he should have been, the way . . . the way . . .

The way the clone reached out to be.

He is a boy. A child. He is a child and he wants to be wanted, he wants to be reached back for, he wants . . .

He is a chink in Clark’s armor and Cadmus built him to take his place. Cadmus built him to have a Superman on a string, a puppet “hero” to fight the fights they wanted him to and further their agenda. A weapon.

Superman is not a weapon. That’s not the point of Superman.

Clark . . . it’s important to him, that Superman is not a weapon.

But Cadmus made this boy a weapon, and a weapon with a way into . . . a weapon that is a trap, and Kal-El is sunspots and bursts of light at just the slightest sight of him and Clark is aching and the boy is just . . . he thinks he’s just a boy. He doesn’t know better, he doesn’t know he’s a trap, he thinks he’s just a boy, and Superman doesn't have the luxury to let himself agree.

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He’s thinking too much.

The boy—Superboy, because Clark can’t keep calling him just “the boy” or “the clone”, he needs some kind of name (Kent El he has a whole LIST of names the boy could have but that’s the chink, that’s letting him in, tripping the trap)—Superboy shows up in Metropolis and nearly knocks over a bridge and asks for help understanding his powers, that tendril of him reaching out again, a little more hesitant this time, a little thinner. Clark has a thousand tips he could offer and suggestions he could make, ways to filter out the chaos of super-hearing and control super-strength and catch someone who’s falling without accidentally injuring them in the process.

He could tell him when he grew into the flying and what first triggered the heat vision and about the X-ray vision and how the ice-breath works. He could tell him a lot of things; how much smarter and faster and stronger he’s going to get, how in time the sun will give him all the powers he doesn’t have yet and he doesn’t have to feel like he was made wrong, it was just the same with him.

But that would all be letting him into the chinks. Even thinking about any of this is letting him into the chinks. Superboy shows up in Metropolis and asks for help with his powers and Clark ignores him, because there is nothing else he can do. Anything more would be letting him into the chinks.

Even if not responding to the much frailer little tendril that reaches out for him is the most painful thing he’s done in years.

It doesn’t help when Bruce takes him to the diner later and calls him Superboy’s father. He’s not his father. It’s not safe to be his father. Superboy thinks he’s just a boy, but Superboy is a trap and Superman is an ideal, not a weapon. If he lets Superboy in and the chinks crack and break . . . if he lets Superboy in and the trap springs and he has to hurt him . . .

Clark can’t hurt him if it’s like that. He can’t hurt someone he’s . . . the only person he’s ever . . . and he can’t just let other people hurt him, he’s not sure the bond would even let him do that. He doesn’t know how Cadmus knew, maybe they didn’t even know, but according to the AI . . .

He’ll know how it hurts. He’ll feel how it hurts, and he’ll feel everything Superboy is or isn’t feeling at the time, however that trap springs.

And Superboy will be the most important thing. More important than the trap, or the League, or anyone he can’t connect to.

“I’m not his father,” Clark says, grits out because Kal-El is raging and despairing inside, and leaves.

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It works, at first, if the constant feeling of loss can be counted as “working”. A dozen times, a hundred times, a thousand times Clark almost just gives up and flies straight to Mount Justice and grabs the boy and takes him home—to Metropolis to Smallville to the Fortress to anywhere, he wants to teach him about his powers and Krypton and being Kryptonian and how to be the hero he’s trying to be and . . .

There’s a lot he wants to teach him. To help him with. There’s a lot he wants to do for him.

He can’t do any of it.

He can’t do any of it, but he knew that going in, he knew that and so ignoring him works. Except for the little tendril that is Superboy’s bond still holding onto him, weak and hollow and unfulfilled, the way his own bonds have always held onto all those people who can’t return them. Clark wants it gone, but Superboy is the one who made it and Superboy is the one who’d have to break it, and he can’t exactly ask the boy to do that because that would mean acknowledging it.

Because that would mean having it gone.

But he needs it gone, it’s dangerous. And he’ll tell Superboy that, just as soon as . . . just as soon as he gets the chance. He decides this as he’s holding up a mountain while the villagers below flee for their lives, and it’s a rational, reasonable decision and the right one to make. That half-there bond will only itch at them both, incomplete and frustrating and wrong, and it’s not a distraction either of them need or should have.

Clark believes this very firmly for the five minutes before agony lashes through him and the shock of pain is so much he nearly lets the whole mountain come down and what. What. Pain isn’t—pain like this isn’t—

His hands are shaking and the mountain is trying to fall and the pain doesn’t stop, but it’s not his pain.

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Clark can’t follow the bond. Pain is shaking through it, pain and panic and unfocused terror, but people will die if he follows it.

Then the bond stops feeling like anything and the bottom drops out of his stomach, because that is so much worse. He doesn’t have his communicator today how does he not have it today, he always has it how did it have to be today that he didn’t?

He breathes out. He thinks of a thousand terrible things and ten thousand worse ones before the village is empty and he can let fall what has to fall of the mountain and stabilize the rest and check with the villagers to make certain they don’t need him anymore, that they’ll be safe without him.

He thinks he’s never flown so fast as he does back along the trail of that terrifying silence.

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The trail leads to Mount Justice, but Clark doesn’t properly register that until he’s already shoving through the infirmary door. Red Tornado looks as close to surprised to see him as he’s capable of looking, and Dinah just looks confused. Except not just confused: the confusion is a surface thing, a bit of shellac over shock and fear and aching, bone-deep worry. Her eyes are duller than they should be, and her typically perfect hair is mussed, and the air stinks under the antiseptic.

“What happened?!” Clark demands, the words spilling out abrupt and too loud, and Dinah stares at him.

“There was a firebomb,” she says, slowly. “Someone dropped it from above.”

“What?” Clark asks, stupidly—that can’t be right, Superboy isn’t as strong or as resilient as he is but that’s nothing, how could he have even felt—

J’onn steps out from behind the curtain, completely blank, and what’s Kal-El understands before what’s Clark does.

“Is she going to be alright?” he asks, quietly. J’onn says nothing, and Dinah buries her face in her hands. The lack of answer is all the answer he needs.

If they knew, they would say.

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Standing this close to the curtain Superboy and Miss Martian are behind, Clark can feel the tendrils between them, woven together clumsily like children making daisy chains for the first time. Exactly like that, he thinks, because of course Superboy has never truly bonded before, because of course Miss Martian is not Kryptonian and all she would have known was that Superboy’s mind was reaching out to hers and wanted hers to reach out in turn. They might as well have been playing house—neither of them could have known.

They didn't know because he hadn't told them.

How did this not occur to him, Clark wonders now, how did he not even think of this? He knows J’onn’s powers as well as his own. He knows how it feels to be . . . to be lonely. To be crying out inside and no one hears, no matter what you feel for them they don’t hear, no matter how you reach out and grasp and cling and hold on they don’t notice a thing.

He can feel the little tendrils, the awkward attempts at bonds spiderwebbing out, and of course Superboy would try to. It’s . . . natural, for him to try to. These children are the only reason he is free to bond with anyone at all; of course he would try to.

Of course J’onn’s niece would feel it, and try to reciprocate in kind.

Clark steps past the curtain. Miss Martian is all clean white bandages and spilled red hair and too-pale skin inside her oxygen tent, and Superboy is slumped against the wall beside the bed and not touching her, his clothes all torn up and stained and skin smeared with ash, stinking of smoke and fire and burned Martian blood. Underneath the ashes, he is not even bruised.

Too many injuries, Clark thinks, looking at Miss Martian’s white-wrapped hands. He feels Superboy’s desire to hold her, it is strong and almost shocking and painful. The rest of the team is sitting further back and unlike Superboy have all at least tried to clean themselves up, and most of them startle when he walks in. Superboy does not react, and neither does Miss Martian. Miss Martian can’t react. Superboy . . .

Clark is afraid that Superboy, perhaps, can’t either. The AI told him things about . . . the AI told him things. When someone bonded dies without severing the link . . .

Things happen, when someone bonded dies.

Miss Martian isn’t dead yet. She might not die at all—but she might, there is an even chance that she will, and if she dies while she and Superboy are still so tightly linked . . .

But how do you look a child in the eye and tell him to let go of the only person who has ever truly held on to him?

“Superman,” Aqualad starts, uncertain, and Clark feels the thread between the boy and Superboy, a crackling electric spark. It’s stronger than he would have expected, but still not strong enough. Perhaps some of that communicating with sea creatures made it work better, he thinks vaguely, or the responsibility of leadership, or perhaps it is just the way Aqualad is. Some people are like that.

Not enough, but some.

But even if it’s something, being like that isn’t enough.

“I need to talk to Superboy,” Clark tells the children quietly, but it’s Superboy he’s watching. Superboy who doesn’t respond to his name, who still doesn’t even seem to notice that there is anything in the world but Miss Martian and white bandages and the clear plastic barrier between them.

“He won’t,” Kid Flash says abruptly, legs jittering for a second’s breath and then freezing still again. The thread between him and Superboy is spindly and drifting, barely anything, and Clark would think it wasn’t there at all if it weren’t so bright. “He hasn’t talked since—he hasn’t done anything since they took M’gann to treat her.”

“I know,” Clark replies. He didn’t know, of course, but nothing else could’ve happened. Robin and Artemis both frown, and their threads are the same as Kid Flash’s, although Artemis’s is duller. But she wasn’t at Cadmus and she can’t respond the way Miss Martian would’ve been able to, so that isn’t a surprise.

“Did Batman call you?” Robin asks, doubtful.

“No,” Clark says, and goes to Superboy’s side and reaches down and touches his arm. Superboy does not respond. Does not even notice him, when he should always notice him; even the frailest half-there bond should have let him know he was coming the moment he reached Mount Justice.

But his hand is on Superboy’s arm and the boy doesn’t even know he’s here. Clark tries not to tense, but Kal-El knows what he has to do.

The moment he came here, there was never going to be another choice.

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Clark has never done this before—Superboy has more experience, and he’s not even a year old. Miss Martian has more experience, and she’s not even Kryptonian. He isn’t sure what will happen, and isn’t sure he can move Superboy without the other reacting violently, so he sends the rest of Young Justice out into the waiting area. None of them want to go, very obviously, but they do. The bonds they don’t feel pulse brighter with their distress, and Clark is . . . gratified, somehow, to see that. They don’t know those connections are there, but they respond to them all the same.

He wonders if Bruce and Diana ever . . . he wonders if Lois ever . . .

He shakes his head, clears it out—now is not the time, there will be other times—and crouches carefully next to Superboy and touches his arm again. Superboy does not respond, still, and the tendril between them does not even flicker.

So Clark touches that, instead.

Superboy’s shoulders jerk. Clark has a moment where he wants to just grab the boy, sweep him up and crush him to himself, but he crushes that impulse instead and just touches the bond again, this one-sided thing that Superboy has held all this time, against all reason. He supposes it’s not so different from what he’s done himself. It would’ve always been easier not to bond at all, to cut those unfulfilling strings, but he never did and neither did Superboy.

He should have. They both should have. This would never have happened, if . . .

No, Clark admits to himself. This would have been worse.

He reaches past the bond and touches boy instead, the small slow-burning part inside, and Superboy goes limp and collapses. Clark grabs him before he can fall, holds him steady, and ends up with an armful of crying teenager and a mindful of relief and agony and his head is swimming and he’s not sure—he isn’t sure which of them, exactly—he was so cruel, why did he think he could be so cruel? What made him think that would work?

What made him think that wasn’t evil?

“She won’t wake up,” Superboy sobs, with his voice and with his mind—m’gannm’gannM’GANN m'gann don't LEAVE me—and Clark holds him tight and fumbles through making the bond. He knows exactly how hard he can hold on without hurting Superboy but he has no idea how to hold on like this. His attempted bond slips, awkward and clumsy, and for an instant there is a feeling disturbingly like falling inside him, and then something from Superboy is grabbing at it, pulling it in and pulling it close. Like a child with a toy, but really like a child with . . . like a child with . . .

Clark thinks of being small and devastated and grabbing onto his parents, and then tries not to think at all. He isn’t sure if Superboy will feel him feeling that, and is even less sure how he’d take it. More importantly, Superboy needs something better than memories of someone else’s need, he needs something now; something real and solid and better. But Clark has never done this before, and he doesn’t know how to soothe a grieving mind the Kryptonian way.

Which leaves the human one, he supposes, and tightens his grip on Superboy, drawing his cape around the other like a shield they’re not supposed to need.

“I’m here,” he says, and Superboy sobs into his shoulder, holding onto him harder than anyone he’s ever known.

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Bruce steps past the curtain with an impassive expression, and Clark glances up. Bruce looks down at him—at Superboy curled up under his cape, hiding against his side. He cried himself to sleep half an hour ago and hasn’t moved since; Clark’s just relieved he was able to calm down enough to sleep at all.

Miss Martian still hasn’t responded to anything, and that . . . it isn’t a very good sign.

“What’s going on,” Bruce asks, although it isn’t actually a question.

“Their minds are connected,” Clark answers, absently adjusting his cape around Superboy. That’s not a good enough explanation, he thinks, although he isn’t sure how to summarize it better. From the look on Bruce’s face, he didn’t get his point across.

“All of their minds were,” Bruce says. “No one else reacted like that.”

“It isn’t a one-sided connection,” Clark says, wondering if part of the reason the rest of Young Justice almost responds to Superboy’s attempts at bonding is all those times Miss Martian has linked them up. Wondering if that could mean . . . “Or a temporary one.”

Bruce frowns, just the ghost of one, and slips closer to them. He looks down at Miss Martian, still and barely breathing in her hospital bed, and then looks at Superboy again. Clark does not bother to mention that the two of them are breathing in tandem, even though he isn’t sure how much either needs oxygen at all; knowing Bruce, he's already noticed anyway.

“If she doesn’t make it . . .” Bruce starts, carefully, his eyes tracking along Superboy’s sleeping face and down to the arm Clark has around his back.

“I don’t know.” Clark shakes his head, trying not to let the agitation well up—it might wake Superboy, or bleed into his restless mind, and the boy doesn’t need bad dreams when reality is bad enough.

“But both of them might?” Bruce asks neutrally.

“Yes,” Clark murmurs, trying not to remember the worse stories Jor-El’s AI had related. They’d been . . . bad. He tries not to think of the bond, either, weak and thready because of the circumstances but there. If Miss Martian dies and Superboy breaks . . .

He will feel that, if Superboy breaks.

He will feel that.

The line of Bruce's mouth sours, and Robin and Kid Flash just barely peek around the corner of the curtain behind him. Clark didn't even register their presence, but they register his—they both stare. For half a heartbeat, he doesn't understand why, but then the weight of Superboy's exhausted body curled tight against his side reminds him.

He deserves those disbelieving stares, he knows. Clark offers them a tired smile—it's all he really has—and Bruce gives them a look that sends them both recoiling back around the edge of the curtain. Clark wonders if Superboy recoils from Bruce's looks like that, or if he'd get angry or defensive or just set his jaw and stand his ground. He doesn't know.

And he might never get to, he tries not to think, the low thrum of the machines around them impossible to ignore.

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Miss Martian does not wake up.

Superboy does not wake up either, not even when J'onn comes back or when Miss Martian is being treated or their teammates take turns peering in; not for anything. Clark stays on the floor with him, keeps the boy hidden in his cape, and tries to weave the bond between them stronger. The act is terrifying on a very pure, base level, but on an equally base level it is the most fulfilling experience of Clark's life. It is the thing he has yearned for all this time, a thing he did not know he yearned for—a hunger he never knew how to satisfy before, and now he does and it is . . .

Superboy does not wake up, but every time Clark's mind reaches out, his own holds on like it's drowning.

He needs to wake up. Clark needs to explain . . . wants to explain the danger Superboy is in, the threat to his mind and heart, but . . .

Even if Superboy cut his half of the bond, Miss Martian is in no condition to do the same to hers. J'onn would have to do it, and Clark isn't even sure if that would work—and if it did, the sheer violation of the act . . . he doesn't even know what that would do.

But if that bond isn't broken and Miss Martian succumbs to her injuries, Superboy will feel her clinging to him all the way into the grave.

Superboy will feel her die.

Mine, what is Kal-El says again, what is Kryptonian, what is weaving the bond between them, mine and my own and that will not HAPPEN.

Except there's nothing that would prevent it from happening, and Clark doesn't know enough to help. He is . . . he is stupid, this could have been so much easier, he is stupid and he did something evil. If he had just . . . when Superboy first reached out to him, if he had just reached back—if he'd reached back any of the times Superboy had reached out to him . . .

Any tiny thing would have made this so, so much easier.

But Clark didn't reach out when he should have, and now Superboy is all tangled up with a girl who just might be dying, children who didn't know any better, who didn't know what they could do to each other. Because he didn't tell them. Because of him.

Dinah slips into the room and looks at them for a long moment, and Clark is vaguely aware that he was about to drift off. The link is weak but it's there, and Superboy is exhausted.

“How much longer are you going to stay?” Dinah asks, abruptly. For a moment Clark can't possibly understand why she'd ask, but then he remembers . . . everything, basically, and it's not actually confusing after all. It shouldn't have been to begin with, but this is . . . complicated.

It should be the simplest thing in the world.

“Until there's a Class 8 emergency,” he says, and Dinah gives him a long, strange look—something else he deserves, he knows.

“Batman said you told him their minds were connected,” she says, and he nods his confirmation. Her eyes narrow. “How did you know that?”

“It's something Kryptonians do,” he tells her.

“Do why?” Dinah asks, and Clark hesitates. He hasn't really . . . the AI did not understand that he did not understand, did not understand what it had to explain, but as best as he was able to figure out . . .

“I think it's how we feel love,” he says.

Dinah laughs like that's ridiculous, and Clark just looks at her. She starts to snap again, but then she looks at him and doesn't. Clark isn't sure why, and doesn't intend to ask.

Dinah strides over and stares down grimly at Miss Martian, her arms folded beneath her breasts. Clark has never even spoken to this girl, but he wants her to survive more than he can even . . .

He has wanted people to survive many, many times. Every time he saves a life he is desperate with that want.

Miss Martian . . .

He needs Miss Martian to survive.

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Clark has never in his life been as helpless as this, he thinks. Situations have been more hopeless, danger has been greater, the world has been on the line, but Clark has never in his life been as helpless as this. He wouldn't have been there to prevent Miss Martian's injuries, couldn't have been there to prevent Miss Martian's injuries, but he could have prevented this crushing aftermath. They didn't know better than to do this to themselves, and how could they have? They must've both been so grateful to find a mind that would reach back when their own reached out; they never would have stopped to think about it any more than that.

Neither of them would've even known it was anything dangerous.

Clark reaches out clumsily with his mind, the awkwardness in the inexperienced gesture painfully obvious to even him. Superboy wraps around that point of contact in that drowning way again, though, and does not seem to care if the gesture is clumsy or not.

If it weren't so clumsy, though, Clark could soothe him. But it's not, because he went a lifetime without this and fled when someone was finally there to offer it. He has not had practice, and he is clumsy. He will continue to be clumsy, at least until he's had that practice, and maybe he'll still be clumsy even then.

If he has practice.

Clark won't know if his bonds will ever be anything but sad and clumsy until this all plays out, one way or the other. Won't know if those thin bright threads and this slapdash tangle are enough to keep Superboy, if they'll have to be enough, if—if he's done enough.

If all this isn't much, much too little much, much too late.

When it happens, the closest description Clark's English vocabulary has for it is “seizure”, although it's really not accurate at all. It's not even Miss Martian whose body reacts—it's Superboy that explodes awake into a violent fit against him, the floor and wall breaking beneath their bodies and Clark's face catching a glancing blow with shocking strength behind it.

J'onn is back in the room in an instant, hovering over Miss Martian's bed, and oh, Clark realizes, pinning Superboy's thrashing limbs. In Clark, there is an odd seeping numbness; in Superboy there is a devastation and terror too all-consuming to be voiced.

He doesn't make a sound in Clark's arms.

M'gann, echoes through all their minds, bleeding tonelessly mournful from J'onn, and Superboy freezes stock-still and digs his fingers into Clark's wrists so hard it actually hurts, a little.

“Superboy,” Clark wants to say, starts to say, but another echo is moving in their minds, sweet and softly fierce and like a sigh and—no. It's not moving.

It's receding.

Superboy makes the smallest, worst sound that Clark has ever heard, and Miss Martian dies.

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And Superboy . . . goes.

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There's a noise. It's loud, and constant, and loud. Clark doesn't want to hear it; it's making his head hurt. Or something already hurt his head and the noise is making it worse, he's not sure. Either way it should stop.

It's just very loud.

“CLARK!” Bruce roars at the top of his lungs, loud enough to shake the room.

Clark blinks, and looks up. Bruce is staring down at him, eyes wide and alarmed and so readable—his cowl is down. In the middle of Mount Justice, with the children all looking shocked and wrecked behind him, his cowl is down.

. . . wrecked, he thinks, the children are wrecked because— and almost dies.

“Clark,” Bruce says again, voice as guardedly reserved as normal but expression still that wide, alarmed, open thing. Clark keeps looking at him, and almost dies again. Something like panic flares in Bruce's eyes, though, and he's so distantly startled to see it that he doesn't. And how strange that it's suddenly something like a choice, whether he dies or not, how is something like that a choice, he has never . . . that has never been a choice, before.

It's a choice.

Bruce drops to his knees, grabs him by the shoulders, stares into him with eyes like Clark's never seen him wear before and says . . . something, a few things, a lot of things, and it's . . . and it's almost something, Clark thinks for a second as he stares back at his too-far-away closest friend, except the something is only the barest trace of everything, is just a ghost and a shadow and a thread, spiderweb-silk instead of man-of-steel, and it's just not . . . it's just not . . .

He looks down at the body in his arms and wonders if anything could ever feel as heavy as dead weight.

Wonders how he ever thought he was strong at all, before this.

Kal-El, J'onn says very quietly, inside, and Clark just keeps looking at the body. He can't think of it as anything else, it's not a person, it's not the person; there is no small slow-burning sun in there anymore, gathering itself up to become something greater. There is nothing there. Kal-El, J'onn says again, and Clark ignores him.

He almost dies, but Bruce's hands are on his shoulders and the thread Bruce has never felt is nothing, except it's something. A tiny, delicate something that he could snap without a thought.

But he's never broken one of them before.

“Do not let go of him,” J'onn says quietly. Clark doesn't understand the order, he would never let go of—oh. J'onn was talking to Bruce.

Bruce should let go. And Clark will make him, in just a moment. He can do that. It's not that hard, to do that. It's just spider-silk holding onto him anyway, just the barest piece of nothing, just something empty and unfulfilled and oh, God, every god, any god, this is not fair. This is not fair, not right, not . . . this is not. This is so many kinds of “not”.

The body is so heavy.

And looking at it, it's not hard at all to brush away Bruce's hands and ignore J'onn's voice in his mind.

Clark has something to do before he can die, though. He stands up; the body's head falls back on its neck, and he tucks it in against his shoulder without letting himself think about why he is doing that with a body. As if he's never carried a corpse before, as if he's never held the dead, as if this weight is somehow unfamiliar, when even Superman can't save everyone.

Can't save anyone, it feels like right now.

“Clark, wait—” Bruce hisses, but his voice is spiderwebs and doesn't matter and Clark tears out of the room and down the hall and the only person in Mount Justice who might be fast enough to catch him isn't near strong enough to, and the mountain is gone from around him and he's in the sky before anyone can do a thing.

Clark didn't wear his communicator today. He hears Bruce shout and J'onn's mind flickers fast against the edges of his own but he shuts them both out; J'onn retreats without pressing, and Clark does not listen to the echoes of his mind.

They all felt her go, and Clark does not need to know how much worse it was firsthand to know there is no recovering from it.

He knows anyway, from . . . he knows anyway.

The body is so heavy in his arms. It's wrapped in his cape, which he doesn't remember doing but . . . it's right, that way. Not right, nothing about this could even pretend to be right, but . . . but how it should be, if it has to be.

Mine, Kal-El says inside, dull and brittle and hollow-boned. Mine. My own.

My dead.

And there is only one place to take his dead.

.

.

.

Clark stares at the AI, and the AI stares at . . . nothing, actually, it's just a program. It's registering him, not seeing him. Not like a real Kryptonian would. Not like . . . not like the boy would see him, slow-burning and vibrant and solid as steel.

Not real.

The body lies on the platform behind him. Clark's cape was long enough to cover it completely, so he did, and he doesn't want to think in any more detail about that. Bruce calls his Metropolis apartment twice and tries to hail him over the Fortress's systems three times; he even tries his desk at the Planet. The computer informs Clark of each attempt, and each time he ignores it. He is hollowed-out and dulled and there is not a thing in existence that can change that—not Bruce or J'onn or Diana or—or Lois. Not even Lois, not after this, not past this, not . . .

Once and only once has Clark ever been anything but the one and only; anything but the last. Anything but alone, because there have always been people around him but . . . but he's always been alone, and he never really knew that before.

Not like he knows it now.

“Computer, shut down,” Clark mutters. The artificial shadow of Jor-El has no answers for him—it doesn't even understand. The best it had to offer were the proper funeral rites. But the boy was born on Earth, not Krypton, and laying him to rest that way is just . . . that can't be the way.

He just doesn't know what would be.

“Clark,” the nearest android—Number Five—says in Bruce's voice. Clark isn't surprised, really. Bruce has always been resourceful, and has never been stopped by unfamiliar technology.

It still doesn't mean he wants to talk.

“Number Five, emergency shutdown zero one six,” he says. The android twitches, but does not power down.

“Superb—”

“Number Five, emergency shutdown zero five two,” Clark says, and the android shorts out and crumples to the floor. Clark looks down at it for a moment and feels a very quiet loathing someplace deep inside. Or grief, maybe. The boy would have grown up to look like that, he thinks; would've been his mirror image staring back at him just like that, wearing his family crest and maybe even his same costume, in time. Why not? Kal-El knows his, so why not?

Everyone would've known his, then.

And Clark would've known he wasn't the last and only one.

He sits down on the edge of the platform and touches the body's shoulder through his cape, and at the feel of it almost dies again. Can't—there are things to do, still—but almost does.

There are . . . there are things to do.

.

.

.

Clark lands in front of his parents' house with the body wrapped up in his arms and wonders why he didn't come here to begin with, but not why Bruce didn't try calling here. Ma and Pa are on the porch, and the startled pleasure on their faces almost instantly changes to startled concern.

He is the worst and most evil thing, and he does not deserve that concern.

“I killed him,” he tells them, letting his cape fall away from the body's face. Pa stiffens, and Ma stifles a gasp behind her hand. Clark wants to pull the cape back up immediately, hating to see that numb shock reflected in their expressions, but doesn't. They hurry down the step to him and Pa pulls the cape away entirely, and they both stare at the revealed blood-red crest of El.

Clark aches at the sight of it.

“I killed him,” he says again, something in him creaking like it's on the brink of breaking, except he can't tell what something it is because everything in him is on the brink of breaking. “I didn't take care of him. I didn't teach him anything.”

Ma and Pa stare down at the body, and then up at him again.

“But Clark, honey . . . he's breathing,” Ma says, looking at him with a lost, searching expression.

“I know,” Clark says, his own eyes only for the body in his arms. He also knows it doesn't matter, because everything inside this body that was actually Superboy imploded like a star the moment Miss Martian died.

“We—” Pa starts, but Clark doesn't have the strength to listen.

“I need you to take care of the body for me,” he tells them. Ma and Pa exchange alarmed looks.

“Honey, he's not dead,” Ma stresses, laying her hand on his arm. There is no bright spark of bond there, only the faintest, faintest pulse, and Clark almost dies again at the sheer loss he feels, so much heavier now that he knows how it should feel.

“Yes he is, Ma,” he manages roughly, tightening his grip on what's left of his boy. “So I need you to take care of the body for me. Please.”

“Clark,” they both start, urgent and anxious, but he just can't take the time to explain. Or can't stand the idea of explaining—his parents were as good to him as any human beings ever could have been, the best that any human beings ever could have been.

He doesn't want to tell them all the ways that best wasn't good enough. Not on top of everything else.

.

.

.

The most painful thing was letting go of the body, Clark thinks, once he is far enough away from that moment to think again. But maybe he could never be that far away, maybe he will never be that far away, maybe it will just be the worst thing of his life for the rest of his life.

He wouldn't be surprised if it was.

He does not know what he is going to do, except he knows exactly what he is going to do: he is going to hurt someone, or something, or everyone and everything—he is going to do all the terrible, terrible things he does not do, until he gets an answer. The only answer that matters, now.

Why did you MAKE him that way?

When Clark shoves open the main door of Cadmus's surface labs Dubbilex is already standing in the lobby, and Clark stills—not at his unexpected presence or because of any second thoughts, but at seeing the G-gnome perched on the other's shoulder.

At seeing the thin bright line of sunlight connected to the G-gnome perched on the other's shoulder.

The thin bright line that does not go only one way.

“We did wonder what he was doing, when he did that,” Dubbilex murmurs as Clark stares blank-faced at the bond, his own expression alien and unreadable. Clark can't stop staring to try to figure it out. “He seemed to appreciate the reciprocation, however.”

“How did you . . .” Clark stops; swallows; thinks about just dying after all. It would be so much easier and so much more merciful and so much more . . .

“Superboy is our brother, Superman,” Dubbilex says. “All genomorphs are brothers.”

“Ah,” Clark manages hoarsely, chest clenching and intentions suddenly and sharply and entirely different. He doesn't even know what he was going to do here anymore, except he does and wishes he didn't—except that thin bright line in his eyes that is the absolute last thing he expected.

Clark thinks one last time about dying, and then holds his hands out.

The G-gnome jumps into them, and they go.

.

.

.

Clark doesn't even think about the fact he's doing this in a lab, leaving his body empty and vulnerable in front of people who've already abused his DNA once before. Or rather, he does, but he doesn't care. Superboy is the only thing that matters. Not the trap, or the League, or anyone he can't connect to—just Superboy, and only Superboy.

Exactly the way he was terrified of before.

The G-gnome opens the way through its own mind, and Clark hurls himself through it without hesitation or doubt. He has risked his life ten thousand times for ten thousand less worthy things, and those were all times he had something to come back for. This? This risk is nothing.

(almost nothing. there is Bruce's voice, his parents' concerned faces, Diana and the League and so many people he's known and never met saved and failed and

and

and Lois

Lois, and the ACHE for her.)

Clark follows pale, clumsy-made bonds that flicker like deserted roads where half the streetlights have gone out and no one cares anymore. Clark has never cared so profoundly in his life as he does now, though, and the way back gleams behind him. The G-gnome is a quiet and constant thing at his side and at the edges of his mind, and Clark . . . Clark is falling, and the G-gnome seems so sad. A strange feeling passes through him and he wonders: is it this far down because Superboy is that far gone, or is it this far down because Superboy feels like he is this far beneath him? But that doesn't make sense, why would he ever—

But of course he would, Clark thinks bleakly as they fall farther and farther with no end in sight.

He remembers how it felt, when he was this young. When he was afraid of what he could do and didn't know what would become of him, when he didn't understand the empty bonds that no one would reach back to him to fill. When he didn't even know what he was, much less anything about where he'd come from or where he was going.

This place is pitch black and crushingly heavy and very, very familiar.

It's not even that hard to find Superboy, once he realizes that: the only place that he could be is the darkest, heaviest part.

And he's right: that's exactly where Superboy is, stretched out flat and still with his eyes closed, half-sunken into an impenetrable dark that even Clark's eyes can't see through. His heart clenches with joy and horror and the bond between them pulses. Like a sunspot, like a heartbeat, like Superboy's slow-opening eyes and oh—

“Dad?” Superboy says, raspy and small like a sleepy child, and every part of Clark goes still. Superboy's eyes flare in alarm a moment late, like his mind just caught up with his mouth, and he visibly blanches. And then, horrifyingly, shrinks back and sinks into that impenetrable black.

The only reason Clark doesn't scream is because he doesn't have the presence of mind to. Both hands shoot out and grab the other, hold him there, and Superboy makes a soft and vulnerable sound of surprise, staring up at him with a pained, childish look. The G-gnome glows on Clark's shoulder and, he thinks, speaks. At least, he suddenly understands that down this deep there are no pretenses or defenses for Superboy to hide that expression behind, and nothing else he could call him.

Of course there's nothing else, when he's the only person on the planet who has the option of responding to the sentiment. Even if other people wanted to, Clark is the only one who really could.

The only one who could really be his father.

“Don't do that,” Clark tries, tightening his grip on Superboy and knowing already that he's doing this all wrong. “You'll—don't do that.”

“Sorry,” Superboy rasps, looking away with a miserable expression and sinking one terrifying increment deeper. Clark realizes a second late what Superboy thinks he meant by that.

“No!” he blurts, trying to get a better grip on him—but pushing into the dark is hard and painful and all his strength barely breaches it, and Superboy is sinking so deep and all Clark's strength is nothing how can it be nothing how is this of all times the time he isn't strong enough it's not fair it's not fair— “You can call me that. Please call me that. Call me anything you want, but don't go.”

“Let go,” Superboy says, an odd hysteric edge snapping into his voice and one hand coming up out of the dark in an attempt to push him away. But “away” is the last place Clark will ever go again, and he just keeps holding on.

“Superboy—”

“Let go!” Superboy shouts, shoving at him again. “Don't—stop lying, you don't want that! Don't you ever lie about wanting that!”

“I'm not lying—” Clark tries, and Superboy snarls at him, brighthot with grief and rage, a slow burn going supernova—

Fighting his grip, and sinking deeper into the creeping dark.

“NO!” Clark shouts, panicked hands scrabbling desperately for purchase, but Superboy just keeps fighting him and sinking and oh god oh god oh god no no no he can't he can't he can't Superman saves people Superman exists for nothing but saving people, he can't he can't he—what is he, what is he even for, if this is the time he can't?

He has to be able to.

He has to be able to.

He has to—

Clark's hands slip off the dark, and Superboy vanishes into it. Kal-El inside him screams, and Superman outside him bashes a fist into blackness that feels denser and hotter and colder and deadlier than the heart of a star, and catches—something. Something heavy and sinking and slipping—

Clark who is neither out or in is dull with horror and can't understand. It wasn't a lie. It's not a lie. What he did—what he did was horrible, the worst, the worst, but this is not a lie, this is everything he's ached to act on and how can Superboy doubt that, how could he ever doubt that when Clark is holding onto him with all his strength and shouting himself hoarse? How is that even possible, when—

The G-gnome lights up on Clark's shoulder. Something passes through him, a lesson or a game and old memories viewed at odd angles and . . . and the feeling of flying, and freedom, and the yellow sun. He sucks in a breath and the darkness does not recede, but something in it lessens.

It's not the G-gnome itself glowing this time. It's its bond to Superboy.

He is so stupid, Clark thinks, remembering every display of unconditional love in his life and how every last one rang just that one false note.

He is so stupid.

“Superboy,” Clark says, and Superboy, says Kal-El inside, flaring up and spilling out red and yellow light into the flickering ghost of a bond between them—a sun, another sun. His son.

The kind of love a man on a doomed planet felt for him, once, when his life was worth dying for.

In the dark, something grips his crushed and clinging arm. For a second the killing weight lightens, and Clark grabs onto that presence in the impenetrable dark and drags it to him.

Superboy falling out of the black into his arms is the one most perfect moment of Clark and Kal-El and Superman's life.

“D-Dad,” Superboy stutters again, looking anywhere but at Clark, and the sunspot inside flares again and nature and nurture and every part of Clark spills the same things into the bond: relief and fear and mine, my own.

Superboy's hand fists in the red and yellow fabric of the El crest—their crest—and Clark wraps his arms around a body free of the dark, a body with a sun inside it, and holds on for everything he's worth. More than that, everything Superman is worth, and everything Lara and Jor-El thought Kal-El was worth too.

That, exactly, is everything Superboy is.

Superboy cries into his chest and that crest, and Clark understands it all.

.

.

.

“Come on,” Clark murmurs some long time later with his voice and with the bond, tightening his grip on Superboy, knowing this is not all the battle. “It's time to go home.”

“It's still too dark,” Superboy says, still not looking at him.

“It's alright. We'll find the way,” Clark promises, and Superboy finally looks up at him with those stripped eyes.

“M'gann could find it,” he says, and Clark's heart sinks.

“Superboy . . .” he starts, struggling, and Superboy looks down.

“I'm not as strong as you,” he says, and lays something in Clark's hand. Clark blinks, suddenly remembering how the other'd both struggled against and held onto him with only one arm, and looks down too. The thing in his hand looks like a trailing shadow stretched out of the dark but feels like . . . cloth, almost, except cloth wouldn't be quite so . . .

“Oh,” Clark says, staring at the edge of Miss Martian's cape.

“You can save her, right?” his son asks him with pained and pleading eyes. Clark stares at the piece of a girl's death in his palm and doesn't have the faintest clue what to do.

“Wait here,” he says quietly, transferring the G-gnome to Superboy's arms with his free hand and lifting his eyes to the impenetrable dark.

.

.

.

Clark opens his eyes to a looming visage of alien horror and blinks. The G-troll cradling him in its massive arms makes a low, rumbling sound and Dubbilex steps into his line of sight. They're not in the lobby anymore—this dim and dark-lit and genomorph-crammed place is definitely the real Cadmus Labs.

“I see you have managed,” Dubbilex remarks, and Clark feels the G-gnome stir in his lap and sees a bright bond like steel in his mind and goes completely limp with relief.

Mine. My own.

“Thankyouexcuseme,” he manages possibly too fast for any of the genomorphs to hear and then bolts full-speed out of the place without waiting for any kind of reply—so fast he leaves with the G-gnome still clinging onto him and narrowly catches it in time to keep it from being blown away and possibly injured. For an instant he considers going back to leave it with Dubbilex or at least stopping to let it down but that instant is ridiculous how could he delay like that, and then he's already two states away and then he's landing in Smallville so hard he actually stumbles on the landing, half-skipping to keep himself from falling over and skidding to a stop across the driveway with the G-gnome in his arms, leaving skidded furrows of dirt and gravel in his wake.

He almost trips on the porch steps, and the front door bangs open hard enough to come off its hinges and Clark does not care at all because that is his boy standing in it, wide-eyed and out of breath for no logical reason and alive.

His boy is alive.

“Superboy,” Clark manages, and Superboy says nothing and just stares at him from the doorway, his hair mussed and the cape he was shrouded in half-hanging off him and all his weight shifted forward but his feet stuck right there. Clark has seen him from the inside and between them there is bright and shining steel and he is still just that one little piece of afraid, and Clark is so, so sorry for that.

Minemyown, he says inside, reaching out through the bond, and then Superboy is across the porch and clinging to him again and Ma and Pa are the ones standing in the doorway, both looking startled and confused and relieved all at once. Clark wonders what he looked like before, that they are so relieved when he still hasn't explained a thing.

“Thanks,” Superboy mutters in his arms, voice gruff and short and face hidden in Clark's shoulder and hands holding on tight, and I wanted you to come I never thought you'd come I KNEW you'd come the bond whispers without words, just clumsy and transcendent feelings that Superboy can't help sending. Clark swallows hard, still vaguely dizzy with the rush of rightness that this one genuine bond brings him on the basest and most instinctual levels of himself, and marvels at all of it. This is what he always wanted growing up and what he was so afraid to have standing in the wreckage of Cadmus and the most important thing.

And if there is a trick or a trap in that he doesn't care. Whatever it is or might be it doesn't matter, not compared to Superboy.

He's going to have to tell Bruce and Diana about that, he knows—warn them about that—but later. Not now.

Now is just Superboy.

“You were right. Miss Martian did know the way,” he tells him, and Superboy flares bright and sunspot-hot inside.

“She always does,” he says. Clark catches a glimpse of warmth and pleasure and pride all welling up around Superboy's bond to Miss Martian and marvels quietly to himself at this completeness—this understanding of someone without having to watch like a hawk with all his senses perfectly attuned. Just knowing, for the first time, what he should have always known. It's . . . it's perfect.

Superboy is perfect. Exactly the child he would have thought of if he'd ever thought he could have children, determined and brave and so strong-minded and trying so hard to do right—

Superboy steps back and looks down, blinking fast, and Clark belatedly remembers that the other can feel that, everything he's just thought, and considering the whiplash of all those feelings is hard enough for him . . .

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, trying to smile but not quite sure the expression can contain everything he needs it to contain. “I was . . . I waited longer than I understood, I think. Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah,” Superboy manages, sounding just shy of overwhelmed and still staring at the ground. “Yeah, I'm. I'm alright. I—why did—” He cuts himself off, stares harder at the ground, but Clark can still feel the end of the question: why DID you wait so long?

He doesn't have the answer that Superboy deserves—the one that would make it all okay, clear away the pain of all those rejections—but Superboy still deserves an answer all the same.

“I didn't know it was a Kryptonian trait,” he says. “I thought it was how everyone was.” Superboy frowns, looking up at him.

“But you are Kryptonian,” he says.

“I grew up on Earth,” Clark tells him—an automatic answer, a piece of truth he would've been so wary of sharing a day before—and Superboy's eyes widen in surprise.

“You mean—you don't know anything about Krypton either, you mean?” he asks.

“Not as much as I'd like to,” Clark admits. “My parents sent some information with me, but I was too young to remember anything for myself.”

“I didn't know that,” Superboy says, watching him raptly. “Are they—you mean they sent books or—or disks?”

“Crystals,” Clark replies, unable to keep himself from smiling at the sight of open, hopeful curiosity on Superboy's face—the look that says he wants to see those things; he wants to know. He wants to know in a way no one else has ever wanted, because to him it is something so much more than just curiosity.

To him it is what it is to Clark.

“Crystals?” Superboy asks, obviously puzzled by the response and eager to understand it, and Clark smiles again.

“The Kryptonian equivalent of computers, essentially,” Clark starts, and then before he even means to he's settling in to elaborate—and then he remembers that he's standing on Ma and Pa's porch with Superboy half-wrapped in his cape and so much to explain and so much to do and—and there's just so much.

It's unbelievable, to have this much.

“I can tell you all about it,” he promises, reaching out and adjusting the lay of his cape across Superboy's shoulders. It's still draped awkwardly—he can see the crest of El hanging over Superboy's shoulder—but he doesn't much mind that, because it's still Superboy wearing his crest and his colors. Still his own.

His boy alive and well and wearing his crest, so everyone knows.

.

.

.

“I'll be back to explain tonight,” Clark tells his parents quietly, and they both glance at Superboy in concern and Superboy keeps looking down at the porch, gripping the edge of Clark's cape in one hand and holding the G-gnome in the crook of his other arm. Clark thinks they're talking—it feels like they're talking, from here—but he's not sure what they're saying to each other.

“Alright, Clark,” Ma says quietly, looking up at him. She looks sad and worried but still relieved, and she straightens his costume even though it doesn't need it. Looking at the gesture without considering the bond he can't feel the response of, it looks the same way his own hands looked straightening his cape on Superboy's shoulders, and Clark feels . . . Clark isn't sure how he feels.

He smiles at her and the gesture feels weak, and Superboy stares at them.

“Wait,” he says. “If you didn't know it was Kryptonian, then what did you think when nobody did it back?”

“I'll . . . I'll explain later,” Clark murmurs, and Ma and Pa both frown in a way that he knows means they know something. Of course. It's—pretty obvious, he supposes, that there's something there to know. Superboy just stares at him, eyes wide, and Clark supposes . . . Clark supposes he's reaching the logical conclusion.

“Oh,” Superboy says softly, and looks down at the G-gnome again. Clark thinks about the bonds between Superboy and his teammates, how they're as strong as anything he's spent a lifetime trying to make, and wonders again if that's Miss Martian's influence. He could believe it, from what he saw of her as he pulled her out of the dark, strange and pale and shining.

(“Don't look, please,” she says hoarsely, so he doesn't.)

She was--she looked like someone who could have that kind of influence.

“We should get back,” Clark says. “The G-gnome needs to get back to Cadmus and we should check on Miss Martian.”

“It wants to come,” Superboy says, holding the G-gnome closer against his chest. “It likes Mount Justice.”

“Alright,” Clark says, wondering but not asking. He supposes it saw it in Superboy’s mind. “Don’t let it wander off, though.”

“It won’t,” Superboy promises, and so does the G-gnome--or it seems like it does, somehow.

“I’ll be back tonight,” Clark promises his parents again, and they give him long looks but nod, and he could say more but instead he scoops up Superboy and the G-gnome and takes off. Breathless excitement overtakes the bond the moment Superboy’s feet leave the ground and only gets stronger as they rise.

It’s nothing like the last time Clark carried him.

“I wish I could do this,” Superboy says, watching everything they pass with an alert and wistful expression like he’s memorizing it all.

“I think you’ve grown up fast enough so far, don’t be so eager for the extra years,” Clark says wryly. “You’ll be eighteen soon enough.”

“What’s that got to do with flying?” Superboy asks, puzzled, and there is just so much Clark hasn’t told him yet, he realizes, even with everything that’s happened.

“That’s when I started,” he says. “About when the heat vision kicked in too, actually, you’ll want to keep an eye out for that. Uh--no pun intended.”

“You couldn’t always fly,” Superboy says wonderingly, like he’s having a realization of his own, and Clark nods confirmation. The sheer amount of happiness that pours through the bond nearly startles him out of the air, but at the same time, as long as he is carrying Superboy he can’t actually fall.

“You might figure it out sooner, come to think of it, I didn’t know what to expect,” Clark admits, and that happiness in Superboy pulses sunbright and warm. Clark is still surprised by the vehemence of that reaction, but at this point he can think of nothing he would keep from Superboy, if it meant causing it in him. The thought reminds him that he owes the others a warning--no end of bad could come from a weakness like this, especially under the circumstances, and he won’t pretend otherwise. But they’ll deal with it; the League always does.

As long as Superboy is alright, the rest won’t matter.

Superman, J’onn says as they approach Mount Justice, strain and relief both equally evident in his tone. M’gann is asking for Superboy.

I know, Clark answers, because Superboy has gone still in his arms and bright in his mind--the sun inside his son is shining. And Clark has never seen it before, but he knows it is what happens when Superboy hears Miss Martian’s voice.

There is nothing else it could be.

.

.

.

“You never thought to mention this before?” Bruce asks.

“I didn’t know what it was before,” Clark says. “I thought it was normal.” Bruce fixes him with a look. He’s wearing his mask again, but it’s a very unsubtle look.

“You thought everyone else in the world had psychic connections to each other and no one wanted one with you?” he says.

“Yes,” Clark says, although he hadn’t really known it was a psychic connection before Superboy, much less fully thought it through like that. Bruce says it like he thinks the idea’s inane, which is—comforting, actually, even with the spiderweb-thread between them still so dull and thin.

“We’re talking more about that later,” Bruce says, then looks into the infirmary. Clark doesn’t have to, but does too. Superboy is leaning over Miss Martian’s bed with the G-gnome in his arms, and the other members of Young Justice are clustered around too. With them all so close, their bonds look brighter. Or—they might be psychically talking, actually. At least, Superboy’s reacting to something. He and Miss Martian can’t touch with the oxygen tent in the way, so he imagines that’s the closest to each other that they can feel.

“This is terrifying,” Clark says, hoping Superboy’s too distracted to be listening. If the boy were any less absorbed in Miss Martian, he wouldn’t have said it at all.

“A bit,” Bruce says. “I can think of a few disasters this could cause. And that without anyone finding out the details.”

“We should definitely not let people find out the details,” Clark says with a wince. He’s going to have to talk to Superboy about that. And possibly all of Young Justice, at this point. “Although Cadmus knows. Or knows something, at least.”

“As far as anyone knows, he’s just slightly psychic,” Bruce says with a shrug. “Blame it on the G-gnomes, if it comes up.”

“Honestly, that makes more sense than the truth,” Clark says.

“Truth is stranger than fiction,” Bruce says dryly, which summarizes their lives pretty neatly. “The important part is that you’re not going to ignore him again.”

“I should never have,” Clark murmurs, looking back to Superboy; letting himself feel the sun inside him.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Bruce agrees. “Apparently he’s willing to forgive that, though, so you’d damn well better not let him down now.”

“I won’t,” Clark says. He couldn’t possibly. He can’t imagine being able to let Superboy down now, if there was anything in his power to prevent it. Bruce gives him a searching look, and sighs.

“You weren’t exaggerating about how dangerous this was,” he says.

“No, I really wasn’t.” Clark smiles humorlessly. Even now, it’s all he can do not to go over and put his hands on Superboy’s shoulders and touch the bond, just to be sure he’s really alive and alright. He wonders if this is a normal way to feel or if it’s just because the bond is so new, and it’ll settle in time.

There’s also the possibility that as the bond deepens it’ll get more intense, of course.

He’s really got to talk to Jor-El’s AI. There are a lot of questions he needs answered, now. It was different when he was trying to ignore it all, but now he needs to know, because what he doesn’t know might get Superboy hurt. Just thinking that is enough to make him feel sick.

Right now, though, Superboy feels like relief and affection and joy, and there isn’t a trace of dimness in either their bond or his bond to Miss Martian. Even the other kids’ bonds are just getting brighter, it seems like.

Maybe that’s just how he feels, though.

“You’re compromised,” Bruce says. Superboy looks up, and the bond pulses briefly—questioningly. Clark sends back reassurance, and is nearly overwhelmed by just how happy feeling it makes Superboy feel.

. . . does he even have a name yet? He honestly doesn’t know. And—Superboy’s been staying at the base, right, not in a real home. That’s an unpleasant thought, now that he’s had it.

“Very,” Clark says, forcing himself to concentrate on the conversation. There’ll be time to worry about the rest of it later. “It’s—a lot. I imagine it would’ve been easier if I’d grown up knowing how to do it, but . . .”

“But you’re still just making your best guesses,” Bruce says. Clark inclines his head in agreement. Bright and strong as it is, he can still tell that the bond between him and Superboy is a clumsy, slapdash thing. He’s going to have to figure out how to build it better. Superboy deserves it to be better, especially after . . . everything. “Was there anything helpful in the crystals?”

“Maybe,” Clark says. “The AI didn’t really understand what I was asking.”

“Do you think it’s worse because it’s the only bond you have?” Bruce asks.

“I don’t know,” Clark says. “I wouldn’t be surprised, though. There’s not much to be done about that, unfortunately.”

“Hm,” Bruce says. J’onn comes out of the infirmary, looking exhausted and exultant and a little less human-shaped than usual. Clark empathizes with the feeling.

“She’s stabilized,” he says. “The healing process will take a while, but she’ll live.”

“That’s good,” Clark says, although he already knew it. He heard—and more than that, he felt it. “Are you alright?”

“I feel as if I just took a punch from you,” J’onn says with a sigh. He looks back at the kids, and Clark looks too. Miss Martian is still in her bed—asleep, it looks like—and Superboy is watching her like she’s the most important person in the solar system. The others are whispering among themselves, mostly about not waking her up, and just keep your VOICE down, WALLY. Their bonds are still glitter-bright, thin as they are. Clark can’t help smiling at the sight.

“I realize this isn’t the best time, but we need a favor from you,” Bruce says.

“We do?” Clark blinks at him.

“A favor is the least I can give you right now,” J’onn says, still looking at Miss Martian. “What is it?”

Bruce tells him.

Clark . . . blinks.

.

.

.

They wait a few days before they try. Miss Martian recovers a little more, and Superboy stays by her bedside almost constantly. Clark talks to Jor-El’s AI and learns a lot, and explains a lot of things to his parents, which is hard to do without upsetting them. He understands why it upsets them, just . . . it’s complicated. They spoil him with pie and kind words and talk for a long, long time, and he feels wrung out afterwards. A good kind of wrung-out, but wrung-out all the same.

They also clear out the guest room without him even asking, which makes something ache in that place in him that can’t quite feel the authenticity of the emotions they’re showing him. They’re real, though—as real as the freshly-made guest room bed and the freshly-baked pie and the kitchen table they all sit at for a long, long time.

He reminds himself of that more than once. It’s easier than it used to be, knowing why it isn’t quite right. It’s not him, and it’s not them. It’s something that can’t be helped.

Ma gives him a second slice of pie, and Clark lets himself feel loved in a fuller way than he maybe ever has before.

After all the waiting, though, it’s Bruce sitting in the chair across from him: mask down, face serious, and the thready bond between them as faint as spider-silk. Clark stays still in his own seat, not sure what he should be doing.

Nothing, he supposes, until J’onn tells him otherwise.

“I have no way to know if this will work,” J’onn says as he steps up beside them. “M’gann managed something, but I cannot say it will feel the same.”

“Superboy seems happy enough with it,” Bruce says, and J’onn nods.

“True,” he says. “Just manage your expectations.”

“I understand,” Clark says, because he’s been doing that all his life. One more time won’t hurt. J’onn gives him an inscrutable look, and then without preamble reaches out and touches the bond between him and Bruce, thready little thing that it is. Clark forgets to breathe, just for a second, and Bruce’s eyes narrow.

Nothing changes. Clark breathes out, not sure how he feels at all. It’s—

The thread lights up.

And Bruce is not a sun or a son, but what is inside him is exactly what Clark has always wanted from him.

“Oh,” he manages, blinking quickly, and Bruce meets his eyes.

“Does that help?” he asks, and Clark doesn’t even know how to explain how much it does. He feels Superboy in his mind, touching their bond in curiosity at the rush of emotion Clark’s no doubt sending through it, and he feels Bruce in his mind, certain and sure and like he’s been there all along.

“Yes,” he says, because it’s impossible to get out anything more complicated than that. He sends back a brief pulse of acknowledgement to Superboy, and, very carefully, weaves the bond J’onn is holding open between him and Bruce into something stronger. He doesn’t know if it’ll last, but just having the feeling of it . . .

Bruce tilts his head, and something in him reaches out and meets Clark halfway. Clark sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, just—feeling it. It’s . . . it’s so much. Not a sun, not a son, but just . . .

“Thank you,” he says roughly.

“That’s really not something you have to thank us for,” Bruce says.

.

.

.

Afterwards, Clark goes to Mount Justice. Superboy is with Miss Martian, of course, who’s sleeping. The bond between the two of them is thicker and brighter than ever. Clark moves a chair beside Superboy’s, and sits down next to him. Superboy peers over at him, biting his lip.

“You feel different,” he says hesitantly.

“J’onn,” Clark explains briefly, because obviously Superboy is talking about the bright little bond to Bruce woven into his mind. It’s nowhere near as intense or strong as his bond to Superboy, but it’s there. It’s there and it’s real, which is something he isn’t getting over anytime soon. It’s a very different feeling, but it’s impossible to ignore.

“Oh,” Superboy says. “Like M’gann?”

“Yes,” Clark confirms with a nod. He resists the urge to prod at the bond to Bruce, just in case the other might feel it. He’s been resisting that urge all the way to Mount Justice, though, and not completely successfully. Bruce hasn’t seemed to mind so far. “How is she?”

“Better,” Superboy says. “They’re going to take down the, uh, the oxygen tent tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Clark says. Superboy nods. He looks uncomfortable. He feels uncomfortable.

Clark touches the bond, and then carefully reaches past it just enough to touch Superboy himself. Superboy stiffens, just for a second, and then all the tension goes out of him at once.

“Are you sure?” he says. Clark’s not sure what he means, but . . .

“Absolutely,” he says.

“Okay.” Superboy blinks a few times, then looks away. “Um . . .”

“Yes?” Clark asks, wondering not for the first time how to ask his own boy if he has a name.

“I do,” Superboy says. “Well, an alias. It’s Conner Kent.”

“Kent?” Clark says, a little startled.

“Like Kent Nelson?” Superboy shrugs. “It was M’gann’s uncle’s idea.”

“I see,” Clark says, not entirely sure how he feels about that. Probably the same way he feels about the shield on Superboy’s chest, though, and the way he looked wrapped in his cape. “My name’s Clark.”

“Your--what?” Superboy looks startled, and Clark smiles wryly at him.

“My name,” he repeats. “Clark Kent. I don’t know if you want to call me that, or . . .”

“Um.” Superboy looks around the room, then down at his hands. “So Martian Manhunter . . .”

“He knows it, yes,” Clark says. “Are you worried?”

“Kind of.” Superboy—Conner?—bites his lip again. “You don’t mind?”

“I don’t,” Clark says. “Do you?”

“Definitely not,” Conner says. “But, uh . . .”

“You can call me whatever you want,” Clark tells him.

“Uh . . . okay,” Conner says, looking around the room again. He feels overwhelmed, so Clark holds back from the bond for a moment to let him pull himself together. It affects Conner just as much as it does him, after all, and it’s his own fault Conner doesn’t know how to handle their relationship yet. “I . . . you’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Clark says.

“Okay.” Conner looks at his hands, then lifts his head and meets his eyes with a determined expression. He looks, again, like exactly the child Clark would’ve pictured.

He waits, but he doesn’t have to wait long.

“Dad,” Conner says, that sun inside him flaring with hope and pride. “That’s what I want to call you.”

“I’d like that,” Clark says, and Conner smiles.

Chapter Text

Clark lands in front of the farmhouse’s front porch and lets Conner down, and Conner looks around, obviously curious but equally obviously confused by the whole situation. Clark told him what they were going to be doing here, of course, but that was what triggered the initial confusion and actually getting here doesn’t seem to have cleared anything up.

“Welcome home, boys. Dinner’s almost ready,” Ma greets warmly from the doorway, and Conner stares at her in bemusement. It’s the first time Clark’s brought him back to the farm since everything that happened with M’gann and the firebomb and the bond, and he very obviously has no idea how to handle the place outside of a crisis situation. He barely interacted with Ma and Pa at all, as far as Clark knows, so that’s to be expected, really.

“Thanks, Ma,” Clark says, heading up the steps and dropping a kiss against her cheek. Conner follows him, hanging back awkwardly, and Ma smiles at him.

“Hello, Superboy,” she says. “You look well.”

“It’s Conner,” Conner says abruptly. Ma is unphased.

“Hello, Conner,” she says. “You look well.”

“Thank . . . you?” Conner tries, a bit of anxiety pricking at the bond. Clark sends back reassurance and Conner relaxes slightly, if not completely.

“Something smells good,” Clark says as Ma leads them into the house, Conner still hanging back a bit as he follows. He’s nervous, and Clark wishes he could soothe it better but the bond’s still very new, so he’s not entirely sure he can. He’s trying, at least.

“Well, it’d better, I’ve been cooking long enough,” Ma says with a huff. Pa gets up from his chair and comes over, holding out a hand towards Conner, who gives it a mystified look. Clark represses a smile and sends an image of a handshake through the bond, and Conner startles for a moment and then accepts it.

“Good to see you, son,” Pa says, giving his hand a firm shake and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Feeling better?”

“M’gann’s fine,” Conner says awkwardly. It technically is the answer, though Clark’s not sure his parents will realize that. Neither of them looks bothered, though, and Pa just nods and lets go of Conner’s hand.

“Glad to hear it,” he says. Ma bustles past him into the kitchen, and Clark follows her to see if she needs any help. Conner follows him, clearly still nervous and not wanting to be left behind, and Pa comes along too.

“There’s only so much room in this kitchen, boys,” Ma says wryly, and Pa chuckles. “Here, why don’t you set the table, Clark.”

“On it, Ma,” Clark says, heading for the silverware drawer and carefully counting out four sets of silverware, which is one more set than he’s used to and oddly satisfying to do. Conner peers past him and into the drawer, looking curious again. Clark wonders if he’s ever set a table. Who knows how the kids eat at Mount Justice, really.

They still really need to do something about Conner living at Mount Justice. Clark hasn’t really been thinking about it, with M’gann still recovering there.

He sets the kitchen table while Conner uncertainly hovers and Pa starts bringing over the food Ma’s transferring onto serving plates. Conner prods anxiously at the bond again, and Clark sends back reassurance again. Conner does that a lot; he’s getting used to it. It’s hard for him not to be constantly doing the same thing himself, honestly, so he understands. He went so long without any real bonds at all, and sometimes he still can’t believe there’s anything there.

And Conner, of course, he rejected more than once. Their bond is probably even harder to believe for him.

He should’ve done better by him, Clark thinks as he sets out the last set of silverware. He’s doing the best he can now, but that doesn’t fix the times he didn’t. Doesn’t make up for what he did.

All he can do now is keep doing his best, though, and hope that one day Conner can trust that he isn’t going to pull the rug out from underneath him. He doesn’t deserve that trust, he knows, but Conner deserves to feel it.

“There we go,” Ma says in satisfaction, setting the last serving dish on the table. She cooked too much, definitely; this looks less like a normal dinner and more like a holiday meal. Clark wonders if she feels like she has to overcompensate to win Conner over, now that she knows about Kryptonian bonding and how the absence of it affects them. Or maybe she’s just expecting a teenager with superpowers to eat a lot.

“It looks great, Ma,” Clark says as they all sit down.

“Well, I tried,” she says modestly as she and Pa start serving themselves. “I didn’t really know what you’d like, Conner, so I made a few different things. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

“Uh—no, ma’am,” Conner says, looking at the food and clearly having no idea what to do with it. Clark nudges gently at the bond and gets a faint ripple of uncertainty as to the right thing to do and a stubborn determination to figure it out. It’s a very Conner way to be feeling, he’s learning.

“Good, because I didn’t think of that until it was too late to make a proper entree,” Ma says. “Do you like pie?”

“I don’t know,” Conner says. “I’ve never had it.”

“Well, we’re fixing that,” Ma says firmly. “I’ve got an apple pie in the oven, it ought to be ready just in time for dessert.”

“Uh . . . okay,” Conner says, obviously not knowing what to say. His plate is still empty, and it occurs to Clark that he’s probably not taking any of the food because he hasn’t taken any yet, so he reaches for the closest dish and serves himself. As soon as he puts it back Conner picks it up, and they repeat the process until they both have a full plate.

He’s a bit pleased he figured that out before it got awkward, and a bit pleased to see Conner copy him too, oddly. It’s . . . not flattering, exactly, but he likes it. It makes him feel like he’s doing the right thing, if Conner wants to copy him.

It’s only dinner, of course, but he’s felt the same way a few times now.

He thinks he’s doing this right, now. Hopes, at least.

“So how’s the . . .” Pa gestures between them illustratively, presumably referring to the bond but possibly just their relationship. Clark wonders if he’ll ever be the kind of father Pa is and can’t imagine it.

Can’t imagine letting Conner down by not being that kind of father either, though.

“I’m still terrible at it,” he says, because no matter what Pa’s referring to he’s terrible at it. If nothing else, he just hasn’t had the practice.

“You’re not,” Conner protests immediately, and Clark gives him a wry smile while Kal-El inside brims with pride and affection.

“I am, but I’m working on it,” he says. “It’s . . . difficult. J’onn’s been very helpful.”

“Like with Bruce?” Ma asks.

“A bit,” Clark says. He doesn’t need the help to bond with Conner the way he needed it with Bruce, obviously, but J’onn has been able to help him sort out his thoughts and emotions and not be too overwhelming for Conner, and that’s been invaluable. The bond is intense enough without him making it worse.

“Does he think he can help you make more bonds?” Pa says.

“Probably,” Clark says. “Though it’s probably not a great idea to psychically link up half the League either, so I’m not sure if I should.”

“Clark,” Ma says, exasperated but fond. “Your father’s talking about us.”

“Oh,” Clark realizes, blinking slowly. He . . . knew, he thinks, that they’d want to, but at the same time . . .

“Oh honey,” Ma says. “Of course he meant us.”

“You don’t have to,” Clark says, a little stilted. He tries not to feel anything too intense, but he’s sure that this close Conner knows what he’s feeling anyway. “It could be dangerous, if something happens. And I already know how you feel about me.”

“Not the way you should,” Pa says.

“Not the way you should,” Ma agrees.

Clark looks at them for a moment, and loves them. They look back at him, the fragile little spiderweb-threads that connect him to them pulsing softly. He can’t quite feel what they’re feeling, but . . .

But.

“I’ll ask J’onn about it,” he says.

“Good,” Ma says. “I’ll have to bake him something. He likes chocolate, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Clark says, still feeling a bit too much. Conner touches the bond, hesitant but clearly attempting to soothe his roiling emotions through it, and Clark can’t quite help the way that makes him soften. Neither of them is as good at this as they should be, but Conner keeps trying.

Kal-El is so proud.

All of him is, really.

“M’gann says he likes Oreos,” Conner says, his face reddening slightly as he steps back from the bond. Clark reins himself in, but can’t help the quiet pulsing of affection all the same.

“Oh, good, I can do something with that,” Ma says. “Thank you, Conner.”

“Um . . . sure,” Conner says, turning even redder. He turns his full attention to eating and Ma and Pa start asking after Lois and Metropolis, and Clark answers them and asks them about the farm and Smallville in turn, and they talk as they eat. Conner stays quiet, but seems to be relaxing a bit. Clark feels a little better about things. He considers telling Conner about the guest room Ma and Pa cleared out for him, but that might be a bit much right now. Conner can still barely handle small talk with them.

“Do you want seconds?” Clark asks, glancing at Conner’s nearly-empty plate.

“I’m okay, Dad,” Conner says, then flushes in embarrassment again and shoots Ma and Pa a nervous look. They smile encouragingly at him, which he doesn’t seem to know what to do with.

“Okay,” Clark says, deciding not to draw any attention to the way that hearing that just made him feel. Conner hasn’t called him that in front of anyone else yet.

They all finish dinner, Ma shoos them out as Pa clears the table, and Clark takes Conner out to sit on the porch. Conner feels noticeably relieved, and his shoulders slump as tension bleeds out of them. Clark puts a hand on one and squeezes it, sending steadiness through the bond.

Sorry, Conner says.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Clark tells him. “I know it’s a lot, but I thought you should meet them properly.”

“Because they’re your parents,” Conner says.

“Yes.”

Conner looks out across the yard and up at the sky, darker now that evening’s coming on and stars are starting to appear overhead. He still feels anxious, but he grips the bond tightly in his mind. Clark stays quiet, letting him settle.

“Who’s Lois?” Conner asks after a little while. Clark has so much to tell him, still.

“She’s a friend of mine,” he says. “She’s very important to me. You’ll meet her too, eventually.”

“Okay.” Conner glances at him for a moment, then looks back to the sky. Clark feels another powerful wave of affection, and Conner ducks his head. “You don’t have to . . .”

“To what?” Clark asks, a little puzzled. He’s not sure what he could’ve done.

“Do—that,” Conner says awkwardly. “With the bond.”

“Oh,” Clark realizes. “That’s not on purpose, Conner. That’s just how I feel.”

“. . . oh,” Conner says, visibly softening.

“I’ll try to rein it in more if it bothers you,” Clark says, squeezing his shoulder again. He knows it’s a lot, and it’s a lot to ask Conner to be feeling.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Conner replies quietly, looking intently at the yard. The fireflies are starting to come out. He pulls his knees up to his chest and folds his arms on them, curling in on himself. Clark squeezes his shoulder one last time, then drops his hand away. He’s still not sure when he should be giving Conner space and when he should be giving him support, and he’s doing his best not to push.

He watches Conner for a moment as the other watches the fireflies, and not for the first time feels that pulse of affection, sunbright and warm.

So much more than just affection.

He remembers how afraid he was of this, how certain he was of how badly it would end, and he’s still a little afraid of a lot of things but he can’t imagine regretting this, no matter what happens now or how it ends. As long as Conner’s safe and alright, that’s all he could ask for. That’s all that matters.

Conner ducks his head, his face reddening, and Clark supposes he’s feeling that. He holds back a little of it, trying to soften the intensity, but he doesn’t hold it all back. He wants Conner to know how he feels about him. He wants him to understand.

He wants him to know that he can trust in being loved, and that it’s safe to.

“Pie!” Ma calls from inside, and Clark glances back towards the door.

“Ready for round two?” he asks, and Conner nods. There’s a soft warmth inside the sun inside him, and Clark can’t help smiling at the feel of it through the bond. “Good. Your grandma makes the best pie.”

“Yeah?” Conner says hesitantly, glancing at him again. He has that hopeful look he gets every time Clark says something like that, every time he refers to him as family or doesn’t protest when Conner does so himself, and Clark wants nothing like he wants to fulfill that hope for him. He wants Conner to never doubt that again, whatever it takes.

“Yeah,” Clark replies, smiling at him in return. “Come on. Let’s go.”