Archive of Our Own

It starts, like most of Kon’s bad decisions, with Cassie.

Not that Cassie’s necessarily a bad influence — if anything, that’s more of Kon’s thing than hers — it’s just that something happens to Kon when he’s around her, like all the knowledge Cadmus shoved into his brain is immediately shoved right back out again. Worse, Cassie doesn’t even have to be physically present for it to happen. Kon just needs to get one single message at nearly midnight from her, a you up text, for him to find himself still awake nearly two hours later, sprawled out on his bed on the Kent farm with a pillow clutched to his chest and his phone way too close to his face.

Cassie [1:23]

i kind of want to go flying

Kon [1:25]

so go???

like, the window’s there. the sky’s there

be free 

Cassie [1:30]

yeah, but what if i don’t wanna be alone?

Kon [1:32]

you think somebody might attack you or???

Kon watches three little dots appear on Cassie’s side before they disappear altogether. He blinks. He kind of, maybe, has the feeling that he’s missed something, but he doesn’t know what. He scrolls through the last half-hour of their conversation, doesn’t find any sort of clue, and then stares at his screen as if he can will Cassie into answering. Does — does she really not feel safe flying alone? But no, that’s silly. Kon literally watched Cassie punch a robot so hard that it landed in another state earlier today — or well, yesterday. If anything, people should be scared of sharing airspace with her, not the other way around. Kon sometimes is.

When twenty minutes pass without any response, Kon drops his phone onto his bed and stretches, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to smother back a miserable groan. Maybe she just fell asleep? Or maybe her mom caught her texting instead of sleeping. Kon, during one of the few times he spent the night in Clark’s Metropolis apartment on the pull-out couch, had gotten caught. Clark hadn’t said anything, but he had sighed so deeply and sadly that Kon immediately handed his phone over. So maybe Cassie’s mom is like that, too? Or — his phone buzzes again. Kon scrambles to pick it back up again.  

Cassie [1:50]

nvm

He squints.

“Never mind?” He mutters to himself. He drops his phone on his chest, folding his hands on top of it. Cassie’s text echoes around in his head, slightly taunting, slightly… not. Kon huffs. Never mind what, he wants to ask, but then something clicks in his head and — oh. Oh. Oh my God, he’s a dumbass. He curses at himself before snatching his phone up yet again and hastily typing out a response. Give me 5, he says, not waiting for Cassie to respond before rolling out of bed. He’s in sweatpants and an oversized punk band tee, the sleeves cut off at the shoulders. He throws on some socks, some shoes, and skids a little into the doorway of his bathroom to stare at himself in the mirror. He looks like shit, but Cassie’s also seen him covered in blood and robot oil and God knows what else, so — fine, whatever. It’s whatever. Kon grabs his jacket on the way out, shoving his arms through it, letting the leather fall across his shoulders. 

He pauses for just a second, listening. At first, all he can make out is the sound of crickets and cows lowing in the fields, but then he closes his eyes, focusing, and yeah — Ma and Pa Kent are still sleeping easily in their room downstairs. Perfect. Still, Kon opens his window as quietly as he can, popping the screen out and leaning it against the wall. Then he climbs out completely, giving himself a few seconds to balance himself in the air before making his way to Cassie’s house, the early morning air cold against his skin. It’s good, though. It wakes him up a little. Besides, the wind resistance will be good for his hair, his curls going from bedhead to windswept in just a few miles.

He speeds up and turns west, his phone buzzing in his jacket’s interior pocket. He can’t shake the smile off his face even though his stomach is all twisted up in knots. They aren’t bad knots, though, just…just Cassie knots. The ones that always come around when she’s around or mentioned or — Kon flies faster. He makes it to her house in record time.

The neighborhood is quiet and dark, clearly full of normal, sleeping people. Kon descends slowly, flexing his hands. He swings around the side of Cassie’s house, trying to find the right window. His smile grows when he turns a corner and finds Cassie half leaning out of her room, her face turned toward the street.

“Boo,” Kon whisper-yells.

Cassie jerks back, her elbow smacking the window’s frame. Kon winces for her, but Cassie only puts a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide and sparkling. “Sweet Hera,” she says, dragging a hand through her hair, which is blonde. Like, really blonde. Gosh, Kon nearly forgot she was blonde underneath the wig she always wears for hero stuff. “Kon?”

“I, um, heard somebody wants to go flying,” he says, trying to play it cool. “And, well, I know a thing or two about that, so…”

Cassie giggles. Kon can’t help but stare at her because he’s never heard her sound like that before, all light and happy and, um, yeah. She holds out a finger to him.

“Give me just a second, okay? One second.”

“Yeah, yeah. No problem.”

Cassie retreats into her room. She comes back nearly a whole minute later — not that Kon’s counting, of course — breathless, bundled up in a sweatshirt and sleep shorts with little hearts on them and the white trainers she wears on missions. She braces against her window, starting to climb out, and Kon reaches for her even though Cassie doesn’t really need the help, slipping his hands around her waist. He isn’t expecting her to lean into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, but Kon isn’t dumb enough to complain. When he goes to open his mouth to try and say something smooth again, though, the lights in the house come on. They both freeze. 

“Cassandra?” Ms. Sandsmark calls. “Cassandra, are you still up?”

The handle to Cassie’s door jiggles, then starts to turn, and Cassie finishes scrambling into Kon’s arms, her legs wrapping around his waist. Kon flushes. Cassie’s door opens. Her mother — Helena? Is her name Helena? — stands in the doorway, blearily blinking. Her face pales when she catches sight of them.

“Kon,” Cassie says, beating one of her hands against his shoulder, “Kon, go. Go!”

Kon goes.

Behind them, Ms. Sandsmark screams for her daughter. Kon and Cassie wince simultaneously at the noise, but then they’re up, up, up and away, Cassie’s house and neighborhood quickly disappearing below them. Cassie’s legs slip down from Kon’s waist, her feet crossing at the ankles instead. A stray cloud half-drenches them, but Kon gets them above it, slowly spinning around in the high troposphere.

“This is crazy,” Cassie says.

“Do you want me to take you back?”

“Don’t you dare,” she answers. Kon hums. This close together, he can smell the shampoo she uses — something vanilla and citrusy — and her warmth bleeds into him. Or maybe his moves into her? Kon doesn’t know. What he does know is that he likes the feeling of her hands bunching into the lapels of his jacket and holding, the leather creaking, and the way her head kind of, sort of, rests on his shoulder. They float for a while like that: easy, close, quiet.

“You want to go anywhere?”

“Dunno,” Cassie says. “Do you want to go anywhere?”

Kon almost says something cheesy like I want to go anywhere you are or something, but he’s saved from totally embarrassing himself by Cassie suddenly pointing over his shoulder. Kon turns. Across from them, the sun starts to rise. It turns the whole sky a vibrant, sharp gold with this pink peach-skin color clinging to the edges of the clouds. Cassie says something — wow, maybe, or look at that — and Kon is already guiding them closer, the Kryptonian part of him craving the fresh sunlight. He carefully swings Cassie around. Her hair glows in the sunrise. Kon twines his finger around one of her strands, mesmerized.

“You —,” Cassie starts. Kon stills when she brings her hand up to touch the edge of his hair. “You’ve got blue in your hair. Or purple?”

“Huh?”

Smooth, Kon. Smooth.

Cassie laughs, her eyes not moving away from Kon’s hair.

“They’re like little highlights or something,” she says. She drags her hand through his hair, and he leans into it, the tips of his ears flushing when it brings his face nearly right up next to hers. Their noses touch. “You’ve got space hair, Kon.”

“I’ve got space everything, Cassie,” he says, slowly spinning them around. This close to the sun — this close to Cassie — Kon’s whole body practically sings. His eyes slip closed. The solar radiation washes over him, lulling and warm, and Cassie’s nails scrape down his scalp, his curls catching around her knuckles. Kon’s chest hitches. This is — he’s —

Both of them jolt when something vibrates between them. It catches Kon right in the strangely ticklish spot of his ribs, and he squeaks, surprised. Cassie’s too busy reaching into his jacket to find where it’s coming from to notice the noise, though, thank God, but then she pulls out his phone —

“Uh-oh,” Cassie says.

Kon squints at his phone. Ma’s calling. Cassie slips his phone into one of his hands before pulling her own out of her shorts. Hers, too, is ringing. Kon stares at the two phones for a very, very long time. Cassie glances over at him, then sighs.

“I should probably take this.”

“Do you want to?”

“Of course not, but — I don’t know. You don’t want Diana coming down on us, do you?”

Kon absolutely doesn’t. He’s met Wonder Woman only a few times, generally in passing, and she’s always been cordial. He doubts she’ll be as nice if she knows that he’s kind of, sort of, kidnapped her protégé. Is it a kidnapping? Cassie had wanted to go. So, not a kidnapping, then, just a — oh, it hardly matters, doesn’t it? Wonder Woman’s an Amazon. Their whole thing is being anti-men or whatever. For Cassie to, like, run away with Kon has to be something of a big, fat no. Kon frowns. He shifts his grip on Cassie. Ma goes to voicemail.

“Hey, you can be with me, right?”

“I — what?” Cassie goes red, her eyes widening. “Be with you ?”

“I meant — I just — not like that,” Kon says. Cassie’s face tightens. He backtracks. “Unless you want to be with me, which, duh, why wouldn’t you? I’m a catch.”

“You’re an idiot, is what you are,” Cassie says, not unkindly.

“That’s rude.” Cassie’s phone goes to voicemail, too. Kon spins them around again, lying back on the clouds. Cassie drags the tips of her fingers against one. Kon clears his throat and tries again. “I meant if it’s okay for you to be around guys? Because you’re an Amazon in training or whatever?”

Cassie blinks. Blinks again. Then she laughs so hard she slips right off of him. Kon’s heart slips right into his throat when she tumbles through the sky. He dives for her, almost tackling her in the air, and she’s still laughing. Cassie throws her arms up around his shoulders, her hair whipping around them. Kon, belatedly, realizes that Cassie can fly, and — he frowns, pouting.

“You’re so mean to me.”

“You’re so cute when you’re stupid,” Cassie responds. “ Amazon in training? I’m allowed to hang around guys, Kon.”

“Hey, go easy on me, okay? I’m sleep deprived.”

“You’re ridiculous, is what you are.”

He can’t help it. He smiles.

“So, what, you’re not going to get smited or anything, right?”

“Maybe not by the gods or the Amazons, but my Mom? Maybe.” She pauses, catching her breath. She brings her phone up again, knocking it against Kon’s shoulder. “She’s, um, intense.”

Kon crooks an eyebrow. “Cassie, we literally fight supervillains. You’re calling your mom intense?”

“You wouldn’t get it,” Cassie says.

“I —”

Kon stops. Cassie winces.

“I’m sorry, Kon. That was mean of me. I didn’t mean —”

“It’s okay,” Kon says, his voice surprising even him with how soft and little it sounds when it comes out. Cassie opens her mouth again, her face pinching, but Kon shakes his head. “It’s all good, Cassie. Really. It’s not like you’re wrong, either.”

“I just meant —”

“It’s okay,” Kon repeats. It’s true. Kon doesn’t really get it. How could he? He doesn’t have parents — no mom, no dad, nada. He has DNA donors. He had Cadmus handlers and genome specialists and whatever brilliant scientist of the month Luthor decided to let have a go at Kon. It’s not what anyone would consider a normal upbringing. It’s hardly an upbringing at all.

“I’m sorry,” Cassie repeats.

He squeezes her tight, trying to swallow down the sudden lump in his throat. He’s saved by having to really respond with anything by their phones ringing again. Kon groans, looking over at his caller ID. He’s expecting Ma again, maybe Pa. Who he isn’t expecting? Fucking Superman.

“Holy shit,” he says. Cassie wiggles around to see what he’s staring at. She goes still when she sees who’s calling him.

“Kon,” she whispers, as if Clark can hear them, which — okay, maybe he can, actually. How far does superhearing go? Kon doesn’t have a single clue, which is, he decides, very, very terrifying. Cassie pushes into him to get further away from his phone. “Kon, you have to answer that.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Kon, that’s Superman. Superman is calling you.”

“He isn’t, like, Jesus,” Kon says, but his stomach starts twisting all around. He absolutely does not want to answer his phone, but also — his phone goes to voicemail. Both he and Cassie stare at its darkened screen. Cassie turns her face up toward his.

“You’re going to die,” she says, totally serious.

“That’s — Superman doesn’t kill,” Kon says, which is probably one of the dumbest things he’s ever said before, but whatever. He’s panicking. Is he panicking? Yes. Yes, he’s panicking. Clark’s just called him, and Kon didn’t pick up. And, look, his relationship with Clark is fine. It’s even good after the whole naming and costuming and housing conundrum. Clark gave Kon his number for emergencies — well, the guy technically said for anything, but Kon would rather be force-fed Kryptonite than bother the guy. So far, Kon has only texted him when it's absolutely necessary, and Clark’s always responded near immediately with the answer and a singular smiling emoji. It’s fast, efficient. Very professional. What isn’t professional? Clark’s calling Kon. Did Ma call Clark to call Kon when she couldn’t get to Kon? Has Kon just been, like, Kent’d or something?

“It’s been nice knowing you,” Cassie says, which isn’t helpful at all. Kon says as much, but Cassie only smiles again. “You know, the face you’re making? The current one you have? Same one I wear when my mom is being intense.”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean, you look like your dad just came home early.”

Kon stares at her.

“What are you talking about?”

“Tim would get it,” Cassie says.

“Why would Tim —?”

Kon stops talking when Cassie’s phone rings again. They both groan, then laugh, then — her forehead pressing into his, their noses touching, Cassie’s eyelashes fluttering against Kon’s cheeks. She sighs. Her phone buzzes against the back of his neck.

“Take me home, Superboy?”

“As you wish.”

“Did you — did you just quote The Princess Bride at me?”

“You love that movie.”

“Everybody loves that movie,” Cassie says. Kon moves them back down to earth, swinging around to go back to Cassie’s house. It’s still early enough in the morning that her neighborhood hasn’t woken up completely yet. Still, Kon eases them into the treeline behind Cassie’s house, close to her back fence where the streetlights don’t catch. Their feet hit the ground. He tucks some of her hair behind her ear.

“Fair, but it’s your favorite.”

“It is,” she says. She gives him a shy look. “You remember that?”

“Of course I —”

Cassie’s back door slams open hard enough to make Cassie scream and Kon all but jump straight out of his skin. Cassie muffles herself, both of them breathing hard, as Ms. Sandsmark, still wrapped up in her morning robe and slippers, appears in the doorway.

“Cassandra!”

Kon winces at the sheer pitch of Ms. Sandsmark’s voice. Cassie shifts closer to him, almost hiding behind his shoulder.

“Mom, I can explain, really, we —”

Ms. Sandsmark points a finger at Cassie.

“You. In the house. Now.” The finger moves to Kon. “You. Also in the house.”

“Mom, he —!”

“In the house,” Ms. Sandsmark hisses, swinging her finger around to point inside. “Now, young lady. And you, too, Don Juan.”

“Don who?” Kon mutters, a little terrified. Cassie gives him a look.

“I told you she was intense.”

“Yeah, but there’s intense, and then there’s this, Cassie.”

Ms. Sandsmark snaps her fingers. Kon and Cassie jump.

“In. The. House.”

They go into the house. Kon leads the way, rolling his shoulders back. Behind him, Cassie clutches his hand, her fingers squeezing his. It’s not great. It’s very much not how Kon thought their first, like, official hand-holding moment would go, but it still makes him feel fifty million degrees hotter. Man, he hopes his hands aren’t sweaty.

“Kitchen,” Ms. Sandsmark barks from behind them, and Kon wonders if the woman had a past life as a prison guard or something.

Kon maneuvers into the kitchen. Cassie slips out of his hold to sit on one of the barstools in front of the kitchen counter, and Kon hesitates before sitting down next to her. Ms. Sandsmark marches into the kitchen, turning a quick circle in the main kitchen before stopping right in front of them, putting her hands on her hips, and scowling. Kon shifts awkwardly. He brushes his hair.

“It is six in the morning. Six! ” Ms. Sandsmark says. “The two of you have been gone for nearly five hours. Five! Do you have any idea what I’ve been doing for those five hours? I can assure that it wasn’t sleeping!”

Cassie hunches in her seat. Kon folds his hands together, turning his thumbs around one another. When Cassie doesn’t say anything, Kon glances over at her, searches her face, and then presses his thumbs together.

“We’re not hurt or anything,” he says.

The kitchen goes quiet. Cassie stares at him with pure horror in her eyes. Ms. Sandsmark shuffles up closer to the counter, leaning against the island.

“Excuse me?”

“Cassie and I. We’re not, like, hurt. I don’t see why you’re making such a big deal about this. It was just a little flight. We didn’t even go anywhere, just —”

“Kon,” Cassie says, her teeth gritted. “Shut up.”

“I just —”

Ms. Sandsmark points at him again.

“You. Your parents. Names.”

“Um…Cadmus?”

Cassie lets out a laugh — sharp, loud, unhinged. Ms. Sandsmark glares at her daughter before focusing back on Kon again.

“Say that again.”

“Cadmus. C as in cat, A as in ass —”

Cassie gives her strange laugh again, this time with a snort. Kon bites the side of his cheek to stop from smiling. Ms. Sandsmark blinks, then narrows her eyes, then slowly looks Kon up and down.

“You’re that Superkid.”

“Superboy,” Kon corrects.

“Mm. And does the super relate in any way to Superman, by any chance?”

Kon shrugs, his stomach jumping at the sound of Clark’s name. Why that happens, Kon doesn’t know. Maybe it’s because it’s smarter than he is, because Ms. Sandsmark turns around, yanks a piece of paper off the fridge, and snatches up the landline phone. Cassie rises from her seat.

“Mom, please, you don’t have to —”

“Hush, Cassandra,” Ms. Sandsmark says, typing in a number. Kon watches her, unsure of what’s going on, but then — he pales while watching her fingers move. Something about the number she’s putting in seems very familiar. Too familiar. Something like warning bells start ringing in his head when he carefully leans over to Cassie.

“Please tell me that isn’t a piece of paper with Superman’s phone number on it.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

He gapes at her.

“Cassie!”

“What? You asked me not to tell.”

“Why does your mom even have that?”

“I don’t know. In case of emergencies or something? Diana’s on there, too.”

“Is there a superhero she doesn’t have?”

Cassie seems to think about it.

“Batman, probably. Maybe Aquaman?”

“Oh my God,” Kon moans. He stands up. “Ms. Sandsmark, you can’t call —”

The phone clicks. Everybody freezes, even Ms. Sandsmark. She blinks, pulls the phone away from her ear slightly, and stares at it as if she hadn’t really expected the number to actually work. Cassie raises a trembling hand in front of her mouth again. Kon hardly dares to breathe.

“Hello?”

Kon closes his eyes. Yep, that’s Clark’s voice coming out of the receiver. Ms. Sandsmark looks at Kon for a long moment before bringing the phone back to her ear. She takes a deep breath.

“Um, yes, hello. Is this — is this Superman? ” Ms. Sandsmark goes a little pale when Clark answers yes . Yeah, me too, Kon thinks, sinking back down into his seat. One of Cassie’s hands, cold and a little clammy, paws at his arm for a moment before curling around it. Her hand slips back into his. Kon tries to enjoy it. He can’t. Ms. Sandsmark continues. “Hi, Superman. This is Helena. Helena Sandsmark? I’m — yes, I’m Cassandra’s mother. I — why, thank you, Superman. She is a good kid.”

“Superman just called me a good kid,” Cassie breathlessly says. Kon grunts.

“I hate to bother you like this, but I — there’s been a little incident this morning,” Ms. Sandsmark says. She pauses. “Oh no, no, nothing like that. Everyone’s alright, it’s only, well, early this morning your —,” she glances over at Kon. Kon stares back, stiff and a little pained. She clears her throat. “Well, your sidekick came by the house and took my daughter.”

Cassie chokes. Kon slowly closes his eyes.

“Yes, took her. Out the window. Mm-hm. Flew her away, just like that. They just got back. Landed in my backyard like nothing happened.”

“Nothing did happen,” Kon mutters. It’s not quiet enough. Ms. Sandsmark crosses her arms across her chest, one finger tapping at the phone, her eyes boring into his.

“And his attitude —!” She clicks her tongue. “He cursed at me.”

“Ass is hardly a curse,” Kon says, frowning down at his hands. The nail polish on Cassie’s thumb — cherry red — is starting to chip. He runs his finger across it, swallowing. He can kind of make out what Clark’s saying on the other end of the phone, but not really. He’s too wired to focus on the meager bit of superhearing he has to eavesdrop. Besides, Kon isn’t sure he even wants to know what Clark’s saying. It’s probably something like gosh, I’m sorry, Ms. Sandsmark, would you like me to throw him into space for you? Not that Clark would throw Kon into space, of course, but still. Still.

“You will? Alright, I — thank you. Thank you. I’m sorry this call isn’t under better circumstances, too, Superman. Yes, I’ll tell him.” A long pause. “See you soon.”

“See you soon?” Kon echoes, lifting his head.

Ms. Sandsmark puts the phone back in its cradle.

“He agreed to come pick you up,” she says. “And I suppose have a very long word with you about what is and is not an appropriate use of your powers.”

“That’s — you —”

“I suggest,” she says, pointing her nose up slightly, “you think very hard about what you’ll say to him. Cassandra —,” Cassie jerks, “— upstairs. To your room.”

“But Mom, can’t I stay? Just until Superman —”

“Upstairs, young lady. You can start your grounding now.”

“Grounding? Mom! ”

“No friends, no electronics, no flying, ” Ms. Sandsmark says, gesturing to where the stairs must be. She points one more time at Kon. “And certainly no boys.”

“And you said you could hang with guys,” Kon murmurs, keeping his voice low enough that only Cassie hears. She softens slightly. The wobbly smile she gives him is both sweet and pitiful. Kon hates it. He hates Cassie’s mom for putting her in the position to even make it. He props his chin up on his hand. “How very Amazonian of her.”

Cassie can’t help it — she laughs again. Ms. Sandsmark yells at her to go to her room again. It’s awful and mortifying, but — but right as she moves away, Cassie stops, pivots, and lands the quickest kiss on Kon’s cheek. He bolts upright, his mouth falling open. Cassie’s mom swears in Greek. Cassie, beautiful and dangerous and wonderful, flies up the stairs three steps at a time.

Kon’s still dazedly touching where Cassie’s lips landed when the whole house sort of shakes, the windows rattling with the sort of fury only a broken sound barrier can produce. Ms. Sandsmark backs into the cabinets. All of the warm, fuzzy feelings floating around in Kon’s chest after Cassie left quickly die an inglorious death. He bites his lip. One of his legs starts bouncing. He full-on flinches when a knock comes at the door. Ms. Sandsmark stares at him. He stares back.

“You’re the one who called him, lady,” he says, but he moves off the chair anyway, heading toward the front door. 

He can practically feel Clark standing on the other side, like how a dog senses a tsunami, and he smothers down the urge to stomp his foot and scream. Instead, he scrubs a hand down his face, touches the spot Cassie kissed once last time, and then opens the door. Kon isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but it certainly isn’t Clark in his civilian clothes — a button-up, slacks, the hypno glasses, his fucking Daily Planet work badge clipped to his belt, everything. Kon can’t really look at Clark in the eyes because of the glasses — the weird fuzzy-blur thing they do always makes Kon queasy — but he glances at the man’s face before staring at his chest. Clark, for some reason, looks more concerned than upset.

“Are you okay?” Clark asks.

“Am I what?” Kon frowns. He wonders if Clark’s costume is under his clothes. Maybe? Maybe not? Kon doesn’t have any X-ray vision to check. Actually, the way Clark’s looking at him makes Kon feel as if he’s being X-rayed, but he knows that’s not true. When Kon was first freed from Cadmus and needed a medical check-up, Clark took him to the Fortress of Solitude to have the Superman robots look him over. Kon asked when Clark couldn’t just, like, look him over, but Clark shook his head and said he didn’t like using his vision like that unless there was an emergency. Too invasive, he said.

“Kon?”

“What?” He shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

“Superman?”

Clark leans to the side. Kon can hear the smile in his voice.

“Hello, Ms. Sandsmark.”

Kon edges out of the house while Ms. Sandsmark comes to stand in the doorway. He crosses his arms, staring down at his feet. There’s a furious sort of indignity rising inside of him. He can’t really explain why, except that Clark’s literally picking him up like Kon’s his — like Clark’s Kon’s — Kon breathes in. He breathes out. He cranes his head back to look up at the second floor of the house, but he doesn’t catch sight of Cassie lingering in any of the windows. A part of him wishes he had. The other part’s glad she isn’t watching him get picked up like a misbehaving dog.

“Can we go?” He says, loud enough to interrupt whatever conversation Clark and Ms. Sandsmark are having. They stop talking. Clark kind of half-turns to face Kon.

“Kon, that’s very rude,” Clark says. “Ms. Sandsmark and I were talking.”

“I’m tired.”

“And whose fault is that, kiddo?”

Kon blushes hard. He scuffs one of his feet against the porch.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Sandsmark,” Clark says. “I promise you that this won’t happen again.”

“I believe you, um —?”

“Clark’s fine when I’m dressed like this, ma’am.” A pause. “Kon, is there anything you’d like to say to Ms. Sandsmark?”

Um, no, there isn’t. Kon figures that Clark wants him to say that he’s sorry or whatever, but Kon isn’t sorry. Not really. Besides the whole phone call thing, getting yelled at, and then being tattled on, Kon had a great time tonight. More than great, maybe, if Cassie decides to ever speak to him again after this. Kon ultimately shrugs.

“Not particularly,” he says.

“Kon.”

“It’s the truth,” he argues.

“It’s alright, Clark,” Ms. Sandsmark says. “Teenagers are teenagers. I can’t even remember the last time Cassie apologized to me.”

“Still,” Clark says, and there’s something vaguely threatening about it. Or maybe it’s the way he says it, all quiet like he’s considering something. Is he considering Kon? Reconsidering the fact that he lets Kon gallivant around wearing the S? Kon doesn’t know, but he certainly doesn’t enjoy it.

The weird feeling lingers even after Ms. Sandsmark retreats into her house, no doubt to climb the stairs and yell some more at Cassie, and Kon twitches, just a little, when Clark reaches for his shoulder.

“Come on,” the older man says. “Let’s leave from the back. Fewer eyes.”

The short walk back to the Sandsmarks’ backyard is punctuated only by the sound of their feet hitting the driveway and the curious sensation of standing on the edge of something. Clark thankfully takes his glasses off, folding them up — or maybe not thankfully, since it means that Kon can look at Clark’s face now. Not that he wants to, of course, but Clark has a thing about eye contact. Mainly, that Kon, you know, look at him when he wants to talk about something. Not that Kon wants to talk about this. In fact, he’s kind of hoping that Clark will just give him a nod and fly back to Metropolis, leaving Kon to go back to Kansas himself. The hope is dashed when Clark finally speaks to him again.

“Ma was worried.”

“Why?”

“ Why was she worried?” Clark asks, incredulous. “She woke up and you were gone. No note, no text, nothing. Why wouldn’t that worry her?”

“Because I’m me?”

Clark straightens up slightly, staring harder at Kon. Kon backtracks. Clark has a — a thing about Kon referencing himself as a clone. Kon thinks it’s ridiculous. Facts are facts. He is a clone, and in some nations, that means he isn’t an actual person but property, and that, technically, the Justice League would be held in contempt for stealing intellectual property, and Kon would likely be legally handed back over to Cadmus. He’s tried to explain it to Clark a few times and even to Batman once, but Clark just became unusually pale and asked Kon to never speak like that again, and Batman, if it was even possible, grew quieter and scowled harder. Tim said it upset him. Kon wonders what’s so upsetting about it.

“I meant that I’m me, as in, sort of indestructible.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m fully indestructible and Ma still worries about me.”

Kon stops himself before he points out that Clark is Ma’s son, whereas Kon is…um, well, Kon. He’s only been staying with the Kents for only a handful of months, using the Kansas farm as something like a weekend getaway when the others don’t want to stick around Mount Justice. Kon was honestly fine staying in the empty Mount Justice, but when Kara heard he was all alone, her face did this weird pinching thing, and the next thing he knew, Clark wanted to catch up the next day. Kon moved in part-time with the Kents the next day after that, Clark and Kara helping change Clark’s old kid's room into a space for Kon. Some days, Kon really likes the room. Other times it feels strange, as if he’s stolen something.

“You think you’re okay to fly?”

“‘Course I’ll be okay,” Kon says. “It’s just to Kansas.”

“You said you were tired.”

“I am, but not like —”

“You shouldn’t fly when you’re tired, Kon,” Clark says, not unkindly. “That’s how you fall out of the sky, kiddo.”

“I’m not going to fall out of the sky, Clark,” Kon says, as if he hadn’t just done that last week. But, look, it had been a rough week, okay? Back-to-back missions, low solar exposure, poor sleep — Kon’s doing better. Sort of. He’s a little achy after lugging him and Cassie around for five hours, but he’s totally fine. Besides, the alternative is letting Clark carry him home, which — nope. Absolutely not. Kon glances over at Clark, though. Did Clark know that Kon fell last week? If so, who told him? The superhero world’s surprisingly messy. Tim could’ve told Nightwing, and Nightwing could’ve told Batman, and Batman could’ve told Clark —

“If you’re sure,” Clark says. He lifts off effortlessly, slowly rising into the air. Kon has to kick off, jumping, and there’s a split-second moment in which gravity tries to catch him before something clicks inside of him and he starts floating. He wobbles. Clark reaches for him. Kon twists out of his way, pretending to fix his jacket, and then works on getting himself steady.

“You didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I did.”

Kon squints up at Clark. The world speeds by below them.

“You really didn’t.”

“I did, ” Clark repeats. “Ms. Sandsmark called me. You —”

“So she called, big —,” Kon skips over the curse he desperately wants to say, “deal. Cassie’s fine. I’m fine. Ms. Sandsmark freaked out over nothing, and you could’ve just…not answered. Or answered and been like oh, really? That’s so, like, interesting.”

He’s rambling. Kon always rambles when he’s around Clark, which is so embarrassing. Worse, Clark always lets him. Generally, the man just nods and smiles, occasionally asking questions, but right now he just stares straight ahead, his jaw working like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should or can or how.

“I’m just saying, you could’ve —”

“Kon-El.”

Kon shuts right the hell up, his jaw clicking from how fast he closes it. He stares, wide-eyed, up at Clark. It’s — he’s — look, Clark gave Kon a Kryptonian name, sure, but nobody uses it, not really. Clark had gone over the whole Kryptonian cultural lesson for it, including what El, Kon, and Kon-El meant in high Kryptonese, and Kara had even baked a cake. It was a thing. A very nice thing, and Kon had spent the whole day and the next quiet and shaken, kind of. Teary. It felt like the room all over again. It felt like, well, Kon doesn’t know. The rest of Young Justice doesn’t know that any of it even happened. He kept it close to himself, close to his chest, a little afraid to talk about it in case it all just…unravels. So, yeah. Kon has a Kryptonian name, but only he, Clark, and Kara know about it, and none of them have ever said it like Clark says it now, not sharp or anything, but purposeful. Commanding. Kon’s heard the tone a few times before, but it’s usually only directed at Kara, with Clark shaking his head and muttering Kara Zor-El under his breath.

Clark’s face softens.

“Come on,” he says, sounding like the Clark Kon knows, “here’s home.”

They descend. The farm is just starting to wake up, and the milk cows — big, round bovines — waddle their way up to them. Clark smiles at them. Kon, more out of instinct than real thought, pats one on the nose before scratching it under the chin. It lows. They start walking up to the front porch. Ma’s standing there. She squints, then cups her hands around her mouth.

“You find him?”

“Yes, Ma,” Clark answers, hardly blinking at his mother’s shout. Kon rubs at one of his ears sympathetically. The Kents are good about most things — the superstrength and the solar radiation and the flying — but they sometimes forget about the little things like superhearing.

“Gosh, Kon, where’d you go, sweetheart?”

“He went to go see a girl, Ma.”

Kon chokes.

“Clark!”

“Oh, a girl, hm?” Ma says, bundling her hands up in her apron. She gives Kon some sort of look — knowing, maybe, or amused. Both, probably. Kon flushes so hard his ears feel like they’re on fire. “Well. I hope she was very nice.”

“Um —”

Ma raises one of her arms up reflexively, still looking at Kon, and Clark squeezes himself underneath, hugging her back. When he lets go and Kon just shuffles his feet around, Ma waves her hand as if to say come here, idiot. Or, since it’s her, come here, sweetheart. Kon sighs under his breath but goes. The hug’s quick. When Kon tries to pull away, though, Ma keeps him from entering the house proper.

“Don’t you do that no more, Kon, very nice girl or not. You nearly gave Pa a heart attack. You nearly gave me a heart attack, seeing your room empty like that.”

“But —”

Kon isn’t even sure what he tries to say, but he stops trying to say it when one of Clark’s hands rests on his shoulder. Ma lets Kon go. Clark gently guides Kon inside.

“I’ll sort him out, Ma. Don’t worry.”

Kon frowns. “Nobody needs to sort me out. I’m sorted, or whatever.”

Ma looks at Clark, then at Kon. Clark nudges Kon up the stairs.

“Okay,” he says. “How about you go up to your room? I’ll be up in a few to talk, kiddo. And, uh, don’t try sneaking out of that window again, yeah? I’ll know.”

A part of Kon wants to stay right where he is, but the other part recognizes that that might be a bad idea, so he goes up the stairs, stomping ever so slightly — not enough to break through the wood, but just enough to tell everybody that he isn’t happy about it. Downstairs, Clark and Ma talk in low tones, whispering — whispering about him, probably. Kon tries to pretend it doesn’t bother him, shedding off his shoes and jacket. He checks his phone.

Cassie [7:43]

u alive?

Kon snorts. He sits on the edge of his bed, stretching his legs out, and thinks about what to say to her. His body gives a dull throb, and Kon, without thinking, scoots further into the sunbeam pooling across his sheets.

Kon [7:48]

yeah. Superman flew me back to Kansas

Cassie [7:49]

i bet that sucked

Kon [7:50]

it wasn’t great. he used my Kryptonian name

like, that’s a thing he does to Kara

Cassie [7:51]

and now it’s a thing he does to poor Kon, lol

was it scary? I feel like getting full-named by Superman would be scary

Kon [7:52]

not really

Cassie [7:53]

liar

i saw your face when Mom called him

if you looked up ‘panicked’ in the dictionary, it would’ve been your face

Kon [7:54]

ha ha

how are you even txting rn?

thought your mom said no phones. or boys

Cassie [7:55]

i’ve got my secrets

Kon [7:56]

you’re using your DS, aren’t you?

Kon jumps when somebody knocks on his doorframe. He looks up from his phone to see Clark standing there, the man’s knuckles still resting on the wood. Clark’s staring at Kon’s phone. He sighs.

“Kon, kiddo, when I send you up to your room, you aren’t supposed to be on your phone.” Kon winces. Clark holds up his hand. “It’s okay. That’s on me, not you. Just…moving forward, okay?”

Kon nods. He leans over to put his phone down on his nightstand, and then just sits, waiting. Clark comes into the room, closing the door behind him. It shuts with a little click, and for some reason, the noise makes Kon’s stomach sink right down to his toes. He watches, a little wary, as Clark walks over to Kon’s desk chair, rolls it over to where Kon is, and sits down in it. He braces his elbows on his knees. He searches Kon’s face like he’s trying to find something. Kon tries not to fidget. He ducks his head. 

“Kon-El,” Clark says, his voice soft, and, ouch, not the full Kryptonian name again. “Look at me.”

Kon glances up through his lashes. Some lizard-brain instinct tells him that Clark’s pissed, but Clark doesn’t look pissed. He’s also Superman, though, and, historically, Superman never looks pissed even when he actually is, as opposed to, like, Batman, who looks pissed even when he actually isn’t —

“Kon-El.”

Kon winces again. He can’t help it. The full name is diabolical. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, trying to keep his leg from bouncing. Clark keeps searching Kon’s face, and then he leans back in the chair, the poor thing making a low creaking noise.

“Walk me through what happened, kiddo.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I’m not asking,” Clark says, gentle but firm. Kon dips his head again. Near immediately, Clark speaks again. “Kon, look at me when I’m talking to you, please.”

Kon would rather not do that, either, but Clark kind of, sort of, sounds about one more inconvenience away from wringing Kon’s neck — not that Clark would, of course, just, you know, he might be thinking it. Still, after a little hesitation, Kon lifts his head back up.

“Thank you,” Clark says. “Now — and I’m only going to ask this one more time, Kon — I’d like to hear your side of things regarding what happened this morning. So, what happened?”

“Nothing.”

Clark’s lips purse. Kon’s heart rate skyrockets.

“Kon-El.”

“Well, nothing did happen,” Kon says because, apparently, he wants to die. “Cassie and I are fine. I don’t know why you and Ms. Sandsmark are making such a big, fu —”

Clark raises one finger. Something tightens in his face.

“Don’t,” he says, and Kon’s breath disappears right out of his chest. He closes his mouth. Clark withdraws the finger, resting it against his own lips, and then squints at Kon. Yes, Kon wants to say, I really am this stupid. No concussion needed. Instead, Kon just sits there, feeling tiny and tired and not at all like the kid who, hours earlier, dashingly flew off with his crush — okay, yes, he has a crush on Cassie if that’s not obvious already, okay? Sue him, he’s only human. Or, well, metahuman. Or Kryptonian? Half Kryptonian, at least. Lex Luthor, the flaming asshole of the century, claims the other half, but Kon doesn’t really believe it because Luthor is a generational hater and would like nothing more than to play fucked up mind games with anything and anybody wearing the S. Kon thinks Clark doesn’t believe it either, too, which is reassuring. Regardless, Batman’s apparently looking into it, which means that Tim’s really looking into it, which means that Kon’s in good hands. Kind of. Unless it’s Luthor’s hands, and then Kon’ll —

“You snuck out,” Clark says, his voice pulling Kon back to here, back to now, like he’s some moon stuck in the older man’s orbit. Which, okay, maybe he is. Great analogy, Kon. “You didn’t tell anyone, didn’t say anything, just left. Gone. In the middle of the night.” Clark holds up another finger, counting. “Then, you go pick up Cassandra, also in the middle of the night, also without telling anyone. When her mother clearly looked distressed, instead of returning Cassandra, you flew away with her.”

Kon stares at the three fingers. He crosses his arms.

“Cassie didn’t want to go back,” he mumbles. Clark gives him a warning look strong enough to strip paint. Kon shuts up again, pulling back. He’s never seen Clark look like this — hell, Kon’s never been looked at like this. Is this, like, Clark’s journalist glare? Before Kon can even try to make some sort of sense about it, Clark raises a fourth finger.

“You ignore texts and calls.” A fifth finger. The whole hand. Yippie. “You continue to fly for hours despite likely being exhausted, despite carrying not only your weight but also Cassandra’s, and then — then! — when you finally come back down to Earth, you give Ms. Sandsmark attitude —”

“It wasn’t — I wasn’t — I didn’t have an attitude —”

“You certainly didn’t behave, Kon.”

Kon shifts. He might pout. Maybe. “Well, that’s your opinion.”

The room goes suddenly, deathly quiet. So quiet, actually, that Kon can make out the sound of the grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs tick-tocking away and the soft shuffle of Ma moving around the kitchen. He fidgets. He drops his eyes again.

“I see,” Clark eventually says, and there’s something in his voice — 

Kon flinches when Clark rolls the chair back and stands up, unbuttoning his sleeves. The older man doesn’t say anything else, just starts rolling back the now-open sleeves of his button-up, and the sight has Kon’s body locking up like it does when he sometimes drops too quickly from one altitude to another.

“Uh, Clark —?”

“I can tell that we’re done talking,” Clark says, still sounding kind, still soft, but also so fucking ominous that goosebumps curl up Kon’s spine. “For now, at least.”

“Look, man, I —”

“That’s alright,” Clark continues, calm and casual and with something a little like steel propping up his words. “We can do this another way, if you’d like.”

Kon very much doesn’t like. He tries to say as much, but Clark just shakes his head. He puts his hands — his big arms now bare from wrist to elbow — on his hips, which makes him look exactly like Ma for a brief moment, and then gestures at Kon to stand up. Kon, hesitantly, listens. Like this, nearly toe to toe with Clark, Kon feels…small. Really small. Kon knows he still has a few more growth plates that need to harden before he’s fully grown, but there’s a difference between knowing he’s smaller than Clark and then realizing it. Kon has to tip his head back to stare up into Clark’s eyes, which is, as one of the tallest members of Young Justice, such a novel thing for Kon that it makes him feel funny. Vulnerable. Or maybe that’s just the way Clark’s looking at him now: disappointed, a little sad, incredibly determined. Determined? Kon blinks. He’s pretty sure he’s seen the same look on Clark’s face the last time the Justice League faced their latest big baddie of the week. A lot of the time, Kon thinks the face is cool, heroic even. Now? Yeah, no, not cool. It’s more like terrifying, actually. Is this what supervillains consistently feel like when Superman shows up? If so, Kon has a new appreciation for them. Not, you know, sympathy for them since they’re still evil , but —

Clark reaches out and grabs Kon’s arm. His grip doesn’t hurt, but it’s firm. Like, concerningly so. It’s the type of grip that Kon can’t wiggle his way out of without potentially hurting himself. His fingers twitch.

“Hey, Clark, what —?”

Clark switches their places around before sitting down on Kon’s bed. Then he pulls. Kon makes a sharp, questioning sound as his feet stumble forward, tripping over one another, and he loses balance. Before he can faceplant into the floor, though, Clark moves Kon between his legs and then forward until Kon lands across one of Clark’s thighs. He freezes. He blushes. He tries to turn over his shoulder or sit up or something, but one of Clark’s arms slips around his waist, pulling him flush to Clark’s side and pressing him down into the bed. Kon’s legs stretch, his socked feet barely skimming the ground from how weird the angle is.

“Cl- ark,” he says, his voice jumping up an octave halfway through, “what, um, what are you doing, man?”

“I’m spanking you.”

“You —?” Kon sputters, his eye going wide. He wiggles more violently now, trying to sit up, but Clark’s arm is heavy, damn it, and Kon can’t get any traction with his feet to push up. All he manages to do is knock his knees into Clark’s thighs and turn his head back to stare at Clark’s shoulder. “You can’t — you’re not —”

“I can,” Clark says, as if he knows what Kon’s trying to say. “And I’m going to, Kon. I probably should’ve done it a while ago, but, well —” he sighs again. Kon’s stomach pinches from something that feels a lot like guilt. Clark shakes his head. “Listen, Kon. You’re my responsibility, and what you did today — what you did yesterday — is not how Kents or Kryptonians or anybody, really, should act.” 

Kon’s mouth falls open. He — look. Look. This isn’t the first time Clark’s lectured him, but it’s the first time it’s been like this, like it’s actually Clark speaking to him, to Kon, instead of Superman to Superboy. Worse, Clark’s threatening to — Kon squeezes his eyes. He can’t even think of the word. Doesn’t want to, if he’s being honest. He’s been lucky enough so far to have never earned a spanking before, but he’s seen a few — mainly human parents with their kids — and has heard about far more because nobody on his team has a filter. If Bart gets smacked by one of the Flashes or Max Mercury, he mopes around for the rest of the day. Cissie, after a particularly bad training session with Green Arrow, stomped into the common room with wet eyes and the unsteady gait of a cowboy who had ridden way too hard and way too fast. Even Tim, the Boy Wonder, isn’t immune, which tracks, kind of, given the few times Kon’s met Batman. What doesn’t track? Clark doing the whole spanking thing. Specifically, Clark doing the whole spanking thing to Kon.

“Clark, c’mon. Isn’t this — isn’t this a bit much?”

“Kon-El, you snuck out, flew around for hours with Cassandra, and —”

“I know, okay? I know. What do you want me to do? Say I’m sorry? Okay. I’m sorry, man,” Kon says. He wiggles again. No dice. “I’m sorry, Clark.”

Clark makes this little, unimpressed noise.

“That isn’t how apologies work, Kon,” he says. “You can’t just throw around the word ‘sorry’ and hope it sticks. It has to mean something.”

“It does!”

“Uh-huh.” Clark shifts him around, hiking Kon’s hips up higher. Kon gasps. One of his hands shoots forward to grab the metal side bar of his bedframe, and his other bunches in his comforter. “I’m sure it does to you. I’m sure it means I don’t want this, which is not the same as I’m sorry for worrying everybody, putting myself in danger, and then acting like a punk instead of taking accountability.”

Kon opens his mouth.

“Don’t repeat that back to me, Kon-El.”

Kon slowly closes his mouth.

Then he opens it right back up again when Clark’s free hand suddenly reaches up to the waistband of Kon’s pants and boxers and pulls them down. Kon squawks, mortified. “Clark!”

“I’ve got to see what I’m doing, Kon. I don’t want to accidentally hurt you.”

“You could not do it at all,” Kon says, panicking now, bare from the waist down over his — mentor’s? Nonconsensual DNA donor’s? Dad’s? — over Clark’s knee. “Really, I —”

“Good try, kiddo, but not happening.”

“Clark,” Kon whines, his bottom clenching in humiliation. His face is so hot it feels like he’s just run right through a star. “Come on. You’re overreacting, I —”

“Kon, honey —” Kon blinks. Honey? “— the more you keep talking, the more I’m sure this is the right thing to do. I don’t let Kara run around like this, and even if your situation is… unique, that doesn’t give you a pass from experiencing the consequences of your actions. You’re a kid, Kon. Sixteen. You do not just get to go around in the middle of the night because you want to. It isn’t safe. This morning wasn’t safe for you, and it wasn’t safe for Cassandra. The two of you could’ve been hurt, and no one would’ve known where you were to help.”

“But we —” but we didn’t get hurt, is what Kon wants to say, and maybe Clark knows that, because he smacks Kon hard on his poor, vulnerable, upturned bottom. At first, Kon only hears the sound. It’s kind of a scary one — big and loud like thunder — but then the sting comes in and — “Ow! Clark, that —!”

“Hurts? Yeah,” Clark says right before he does it again, opposite cheek this time. Kon yips like Krypto does when somebody accidentally steps on his tail, all high-pitched and hurt, and he writhes around like a madman, trying to move the fuck away. It doesn’t work. Clark has him pinned down pretty well. All Kon can do is kick his legs a little and shove his face into the bed. Clark keeps talking.

“You and Cassandra didn’t get hurt this time, no, but you could’ve been. What if you couldn’t keep her and you afloat?”

“Cassie can —”

Another round of spanks. Kon whines.

“Cassandra can fly, yes,” Clark says, “but she can’t do that and carry you. And what if you ran across someone who wanted to hurt the two of you?”

“We had phones, we —”

“Kon-El —”

“For the love of God, stop with the full name,” Kon pleads. It’s stupid. So, so stupid, but between the humiliation and the rapidly building sting in his ass, it’s the only sentence his brain can still string together. “I get it! I get it, Clark!”

“No, you really don’t,” Clark says, and then, squeezing Kon closer to his side, he adds, “You’re not listening. You don’t want to listen. That’s alright. We’ll get there.”

Kon wants to ask what the fuck Clark means by we — we aren’t getting smacked around. Kon’s getting smacked around, and it hurts. Clark’s hand is big and wide and Kryptonian, his super strength cutting right through Kon’s tentative imperviousness to sink into the tender, soft muscle of his bottom. Kon can’t help but whine when the swats start to overlap with places Clark’s already hit, the burn seeming to double, but nothing — nothing — is as awful as when Clark’s hand goes down to the back of Kon’s thighs. That’s a new brand of fresh hell, and Kon’s feet kick out reflexively. Clark literally tuts at him before swinging his other leg around to pin down Kon’s.

“Stop that,” Clark says, his voice way too gentle for what his hand is doing.

“You stop,” Kon responds, yelping immediately after when his retort earns him a series of even harder spanks to already tender skin. “Clark! Stop hitting me!”

Clark slows, then — mercifully — stops. Kon pants, trembling, his eyes feeling hot and two sizes too big for his face in the way they get when he wants to cry. His backside throbs. Clark’s hand rests right over the tippy-top of it, heavy and a little terrifying. Clark half-turns to look back at Kon, his free hand moving to smooth the worst of Kon’s messy curls away from his face. Kon blinks back up at him, biting his lip, trying his hardest not to give in to the urge to cry. Clark looks strangely contemplative.

“Kon, I’m not hitting you,” he says.

“You so are,” Kon says, trying to ignore the way his voice cracks.

“No, I’m —,” Clark shifts, sliding Kon’s hips further up his thigh, and Kon whimpers, the hot skin on his ass complaining as it stretches, “— Kon, you know what a spanking is, yes?”

“Yeah — medieval torture.”

“It isn’t torture.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you the one being — ?”

Clark smacks him again. Kon’s whole body jolts.

“Enough with the sass, kiddo. It isn’t helping you.”

“But hitting me is?”

Clark falls silent for a brief moment, long enough that Kon’s body starts to, despite everything, relax. The position isn’t the most comfortable, but Clark’s warm, some of the solar energy he’s soaked up seeping out to sink into Kon instead, and he’s sturdy and, technically, Kon hasn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours. He’s tired. His ass hurts. He wants his boxers and pants back on, and everybody to just, like, forget everything that’s happened, so that he can crawl into his bed and sleep the sleep of the dead.

“Kon, am I hitting you?”

Kon’s gut instinct is to say yes, but he stops himself. Clark isn’t really hitting him. He’s just swatting, the same way Kon does at Krypto when the dog tries to chew up one of his shoes. Kon doesn’t hit Krypto to hurt — God, even the thought of hurting Krypto makes Kon feel sick — but to shock, maybe. To scold. Krypto always spits out the shoe with a guilty look on his face like he’s trying to say sorry, I didn’t listen, and then Kon scratches the back of his ears to say, you’re forgiven, boy, just maybe go after Kara’s shoes next time, okay?

Kon sniffs, resting his cheek on the bed.

“No,” he admits, a little sulky.

Clark’s lips twitch up like he wants to smile but knows he probably shouldn’t, and his free hand drifts between Kon’s shoulders to rest there, his fingers splaying out.

“So what am I doing?”

“I’m not going to say it,” Kon says. “It’s a stupid word. A stupid, awful word for a stupid, awful thing.”

“Kon-El.”

Kon groans.

“A spanking,” he mumbles. “You’re spanking me.”

Clark hums. “And why am I spanking you?”

“Because I did something dumb.”

“That’s — okay,” Clark says, sighing yet again. “Elaborate, please.”

“I snuck out.”

“Mm-hm. And?”

“And I kind of snuck Cassie out, too. And then we flew around. And then I might’ve, maybe, been rude to Ms. Sandsmark.”

“Might’ve?”

“Was,” Kon murmurs, his face pushing into his bed. “Okay? Was, I guess. It wasn’t right, or whatever. I wasn’t right.”

“That’s not true,” Clark says. “You didn’t act right. That isn’t the same as you not being right. You’re a kid, Kon. A teenage, superpowered, maybe even hormonal, kid. You’re going to do dumb things. You’re going to go out at an un-Godly hour to impress some girl —”

“I wasn’t trying to impress her, just —”

“Hush, Kon.” Kon hushes. Clark’s thumb gently rubs between Kon’s shoulder blades. Kon very much doesn’t melt at the easy touch. Clark speaks again, “Listen — and I want you to listen to this because it’s important, okay? It’s important — just because you might make bad choices every now and then doesn’t mean that you’re a bad person. Everybody makes mistakes. That’s what makes us human.”
Kon raises both eyebrows at Clark.

“Metaphorically, I mean,” Clark adds, looking a little embarrassed. It’s a little ridiculous given that Kon’s still the one bare-assed and smarting over Clark’s lap, but whatever. “I don’t expect you to be perfect, Kon-El. Nobody does. What I do expect you to do is think. You’re a smart kid, Kon. Start using that brain of yours to think before you act. Or speak.”

Kon blushes slightly at the compliment. He — he blinks, looking away from Clark. He stares at the little quilt pattern on his comforter instead, breathing out. If he’s being honest with himself, he knew giving in to Cassie was a bad idea. Like, okay, yeah, Clark may have a point. Kon’s powers are still finicky and Cassie, as terrifyingly brilliant as she is, might not’ve been fast or strong enough to catch him and lug his dead weight to somewhere safe if he decided to drop right out of the sky like he had last week. They could’ve gotten hurt. They hadn’t, of course, but Kon has a feeling that if he were to say that to Clark, the older man would just say that they had gotten lucky this time or something. And, alright, maybe he hadn’t been very sympathetic to Ms. Sandsmark. If he were in her shoes, and some weirdo boy flew her daughter away in the dead of night — in the dead of morning? — only to bring her back hours later while acting like a punk, he would be upset, too. Maybe not upset enough to literally call Superman, but still.

Kon glowers, leaning his head against his arm.

“Is there something you would like to say?” Clark asks.

“I —,” a deep breath, a whining groan, “— I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Kon?”

“Clark, come on —”

“Sorry for what, Kon-El?” Clark repeats, merciless.

“M’sorry for being a punk,” Kon says, flushing even harder somehow. “I shouldn’t’ve snuck out. I shouldn’t’ve snuck Cassie out. I should’ve been nicer to Ms. Sandsmark. I —,” Kon’s voice breaks, his chest hitching. His eyes get all misty again. He releases his bedframe to scrub at them, frowning. “I was being stupid.”

“Thank you,” Clark says, meaning it. “I forgive you, Kon.”

Kon isn’t expecting all those words to mean something to him, but they do. They really, truly do. Clark Kent — Superman — just forgave Kon for being an absolute little shit, for smearing both the Kent and El name. That’s — who, like, does that? If Kon were still at Cadmus, he would be locked into a little sensory deprivation pod until his handlers were certain he would behave again. That had been…not great. Almost a year after being freed, Kon still can’t stand total, complete darkness or an enclosed space. It reminds him too much of being there, of being locked away until he was needed again — not forgiven, never forgiven. But Clark? Clark had closed Kon’s door, yeah, but he kept the window open. The few times Kon’s had to crash at the guy’s Metropolis apartment, Clark had kept one of the living room lamps on, saying it helped him see better. Yeah, right. Clark’s too good a man to lie, but he’s also too sweet of one to openly call Kon out for his issues or make a big deal out of them. And what does Kon do to repay him? Stupid shit, apparently. God, Kon’s the worst.

“You shouldn’t —,” Kon starts, something hard and thick working its way up his throat. “You can’t mean that.”

“Mean what?”

Kon shakes his head. He doesn’t — he can’t —

Clark’s voice softens. “Kon?”

“Lemme up,” Kon says. “Let me —”

Clark doesn’t let him up, not even when Kon starts squirming again. In fact, Clark spanks him again, hard, right on his already sore bottom. Kon, totally not expecting it, shrieks.

“Clark!”

Clark doesn’t respond right away, besides continuing to smack Kon. His hand works its way from thighs up, relighting the aching sting that had just settled down. It doesn’t take much for Kon to start gasping with each collision of palm to cheek.

“I said sorry, ” Kon says, “and I meant it, why — ?”

“I know, and I’m proud of you for that,” Clark says. Proud, Kon thinks. Proud? Clark’s proud of him? Nobody’s ever been proud of Kon before. That’s just not a thing that he inspires in people. Disappointment? Yeah. Frustration? Majorly. Pride? No. No, that one’s new. “This is just to make the lesson stick —”

“It’s sticking! It is!”

“— and to get you to be honest with me, Kon.” Clark pauses. Kon’s bottom clenches in the silence, hot and sore and awful. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, kiddo. Something’s bothering you. What is it?”

Help? Clark wants to help him? Kon can’t really wrap his mind around it, not even now, not even after Clark, freshly blindsided with the knowledge that he has a clone, smiled at Kon instead of flinching back in disgust. Not even after Clark gave him his name — gave him all of his names, really: Conner, Kon, Kal-El. Not even after Clark brought Kon here to Kansas, to his parents, his old room, just so Kon could have a place to breathe that wasn’t Mount Justice or Metropolis or wherever, and have people, good people, who knew how to love weird things like they weren’t weird at all, who knew how to look past alien and clone and see something worth — worth helping. Worth loving.

Kon’s breath catches, holds, implodes a little in his chest. Something big and heavy breaks apart inside of him, and suddenly — suddenly — he’s crying. Not just soft crying, but loud, wild sobs. It’s a sound Kon’s never heard himself make before, and it’s scary. His eyes blur. His nose clogs. He can’t breathe right. Clark slows down his swats but doesn’t stop, which isn’t fair. Kon’s — Kon’s losing it, or whatever, and Clark just keeps going. Kon wants to yell at him to knock it off, but he can’t. All Kon can do is melt over Clark’s thigh, shoving his head into his elbow to try and muffle all the noises coming out of him.

“It’s okay, honey,” Clark says. “Let it out, Kon. There we go. That’s it.”

Kon has to pull his head away to get more air, his chest throbbing. He sucks in a breath, coughs, hiccups, and straight up yips when Clark’s big-ass hand slips down to target the thin, sensitive space between cheek and thigh. Kon’s world whittles down to little more than him and Clark and the sharp, zig-zagging pain threading from ass to thigh back to his ass again. Clark keeps murmuring sweet, mindless things to him, the older man’s voice low and soothing and full of more kindness than Kon’s ever experienced in his life, and, and, and —

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s alright.”

“No more,” Kon pleads, still crying.

“No more, kiddo. No more. All done,” Clark says, and for some reason, that makes Kon dissolve in even more tears. How that’s possible, Kon doesn’t know. He didn’t even know he had this much water in his body to convert into big, ugly wails, but here he is, miserable and warm and held together by what feels like the weight of Clark’s body against his and the comforting hum of his voice. “Breathe, Kon. Breathe, honey. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“S-stop saying that,” Kon says. “It’s — you —”

Clark’s hand slips under Kon’s shirt, rubbing his tense back in broad, soothing strokes. His other hand rests on one of Kon’s stinging thighs, not gripping or pinching or hitting like some of Kon’s handlers did, but just — just holding. Grounding. No more pain than Kon can take, but no less, either. Kon shudders. He hiccups again. Clark makes a sympathetic noise. He pets Kon’s hair back again, his hand resting on Kon’s cheek. One of his thumbs swipes at Kon’s tears. It’s the kind of thing Kon’s seen Nightwing do to Tim after a particularly grueling mission, or what Red Tornado does to Cassie after she pushes herself too hard in training simulations. It isn’t a thing done to Kon. Kon’s tough. Kon’s a smartass with stud earrings and a curly pompadour fade and music mixtapes full of punk rock and heavy metal. He doesn’t — this isn’t —

“Why do you c-care so much ?” He asks, his voice thick.

“Oh, Kon,” Clark says. “Kiddo. Why wouldn’t I care?”

“Because! Because I’m just —,” Kon lets out another watery sob, squeezing his eyes closed. He grips the bedframe tight enough that it bends, the metal groaning. Because I’m just a fucking freak of nature, Kon wants to say, and maybe Clark hears everything Kon doesn’t manage to get out, because suddenly his big hands are moving around Kon, carefully peeling him away from the bed. Kon doesn’t have the energy to fight against the soft manhandling, and Clark ends up bundling Kon up in his arms, his knees spread just enough to let Kon’s burning bottom hang between them. Kon presses his forehead into Clark’s chest. He starts making a damp spot on Clark’s shirt, but Clark only braces a hand against the nape of Kon’s neck and holds him steady. The touch — the sincerity behind it — makes Kon tremble.

In the end, Kon isn’t sure how long he actually cries for. It feels like a long time, though. By the time Kon’s cries taper off into stray tears and pitiful sniffles, his whole body somehow feels heavy and hollowed out at the same time. His eyes are puffy. He’s vaguely, sort of, sweaty. Clark doesn’t say anything while Kon finishes calming down, just lets Kon shove his face against where Clark’s heart beats the loudest. Clark’s arms, big and safe, wrap around him. Clark shifts slightly, kicking off his shoes, and then ducks his head to press his cheek into Kon’s curls.

“I’m going to lie down, alright?”

“‘Kay,” Kon rasps.

Clark leans back onto the bed, dragging Kon with. Kon sticks to staying on his stomach, wiggling up to his pillows. Clark lets him, his hands moving along Kon’s back in swooping, soothing patterns. It isn’t fair, Kon thinks, for the hands that just finished beating his ass — okay, no, not beating, not really; Clark isn’t anything like his handlers — to feel so nice. Clark laughs quietly, and oh, Kon must’ve said that aloud.

“You did,” Clark says. Kon purses his lips, vowing to never speak again. Clark must see the look on his face because he smiles just wide enough to show off his dimples. Kon closes his eyes. “You know, I didn’t enjoy doing that.”

Kon peels open one eye.

“Doin’ what?” He mumbles. “Gettin’ called or, like —?”

“Both,” Clark says, sort of laughing again. “But I really didn’t enjoy spanking you.”

Kon makes a face at the word.

“‘S why you do it, then?”

“Because you needed it. Because I needed it, I think.”

“You needed to — to punish me?”

“I needed to know you were okay,” Clark says. “You and Cassandra were gone for a long time, Kon. I just — I was worried. Really worried when Pa called and said you were gone, and then Ms. Sandsmark calling…that’s not you.”

“It so is, I —”

Clark shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Listen to me. You might talk back. You might get smart with people. You might run into things recklessly or without thinking them through all the time. What you aren’t is the kind to disappear in the middle of the night. You’re a good kid, Kon.”

“But ‘m not,” Kon says. “‘M not, Clark.”

“Yes, you are,” Clark insists. “I know —,” he takes a deep breath, “— I know Cadmus wasn’t great, Kon. I know they didn’t treat you like they should’ve, and I’m not asking you to tell me everything. I don’t need to know everything. Heck, I don’t need to know anything at all if you don’t feel comfortable talking about it. But what I do need is for you to know that I’m not going to punish you for making mistakes. You’re learning, Kon. You’re growing up. I’d be more concerned if you weren’t occasionally messing up because that’s what kids do: you make fools of yourself. You get in trouble. You try, you know, to get out of trouble. It’s natural. It’s alright.”

Both of Kon’s eyes are open now, staring at Clark, listening, hardly daring to breathe.

“What I will punish you for is when you intentionally do something dangerous,” Clark pauses. “Do you know what that word means? Intentional?”

“They did teach me English, Clark,” Kon says, too exhausted to have any real bite.

“What you did today was dangerous. For you. For Cassandra. And you knew better, yeah? You know not to sneak out of Mount Justice. You know to text me when you decide between here and Metropolis. You know to tell Ma and Pa when you’re going out somewhere. So when you just disappeared, I —” Clark stops, suddenly, his lips pressing together. Kon, clumsily, hesitantly, lifts his arm to wrap it around Clark’s waist.

“‘M s’ry,” Kon repeats. “I didn’t mean to scare anybody. I didn’t think anybody cared so much.”

“I know, kiddo. I had a feeling. Ma did, too.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Clark tweaks Kon’s ear. Not hard or painful, but — but teasing, maybe. Fond. “I don’t go around spanking just anyone, Kon. Though I think maybe Kara wishes I would care just a little less about her.”

“Wait, you — you’ve punished Kara before?”

“She used to party. On planets with red suns.”

Kon blinks. “What — what’s a red sun do?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clark says, which means Kon tucks that question away to ask Kara herself later. “But, look, Kon. I don’t like spanking you. I’d rather not have to. But what I won’t let you do is throw yourself into dangerous situations or push away the people who love you. I won’t. You hear me?”

Kon goes very still. His eyes start tearing up again.

“You love me?”

Clark’s face grows a little sad.

“Kon,” he says, “how could I not love you?”

Kon opens his mouth, closes it, and feels his chin wobble in the way it does before he starts crying. “But I’m a clone.”

“No,” Clark says, his voice firm enough that Kon’s stomach lurches. “You’re Kon. You’re my Kon. You aren’t some science experiment gone wrong, or just some clone or — or whatever. You’re mine, same way Kara is. Same way Krypto is.”

“Did you — did you just compare me to a dog?”

“He’s a pretty good dog,” Clark says, acting as if he hasn’t just turned Kon’s whole world on its axis. Clark smiles again. He traces the back of his knuckles along Kon’s cheek. “Just like you’re a pretty good kid.”

Kon doesn’t say anything. He can’t, really. Cadmus didn’t give him the right words to explain the way his chest aches in a stupid, warm way, or how his body just lets go of a whole universe of tension Kon hadn’t known he’d been carrying. Instead, Kon just buries his face into Clark’s massive arm and cries a little more.

“You’re going to write an apology to Ms. Sandsmark,” Clark says after a while. Kon grunts. “And you’re going to say one to Ma and Pa, too.”

Kon hums.

“And you’re also going to take a nap, kiddo,” Clark says, and Kon doesn’t even have to look to know the guy’s smiling. “A nice long one, I think.”

“I hate sleeping on my stomach,” Kon says, his voice coming out half-muffled.

“I bet.”

“You spank hard.”

“Yep.”

Kon wiggles closer to Clark.

“You’re not going to, like, spank me again, are you?”

“We’ll see.”

“Cl-ark.”

“Shh. Naptime, kiddo.”

Kon sulks, but not for long, not when Clark is so warm and steady next to him, the older man smelling faintly of cologne but mostly like coffee and sunlight — and yeah, sunlight has a scent, okay? It does to Kryptonians. It’s all citrusy without being sour, all thick, sharp anise like those licorice candies Cassie likes without making Kon want to gag, all home and safety and love — especially love. Even if, you know, said love makes you unable to sit down comfortably for a whole week. Worth it? Kon thinks of Cassie. He thinks of the sunrise. He thinks of Clark. He thinks — yeah. 

Definitely worth it.