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The pool of sick beneath Conner’s feet is starting to grow cold. It squelches uncomfortably between his toes, gross and uncomfortable, and the smell of it makes him want to barf all over again — though he’s sure he’s got nothing left to throw up.
With one shaky arm, he braces himself against the kitchen countertop and reaches up to find the new lump forming on his temple. It’s sore, to be expected, but he contains the painful hiss behind his teeth and allows his gaze, distantly fixed on the floral curtain hanging over the sink, to drop and refocus.
He tugs carefully on his plaid pajama leg, turning it this way and that, inspecting it for any vomit splatter, but he determines: all clear, thank goodness, and a small sigh of relief escapes. He really does not want to be doing a load of laundry.
Conner knew he’d been coming down with something, but he wasn’t planning on letting a measly cold keep Ma and Pa from their vacation. Ma had been so looking forward to it, and Conner could take care of the animals for a week — he was responsible. But then ‘A Cold’ had turned into ‘The Flu,’ and spikes of dizziness had come with the fever. Each raspy inhalation became something hard won as his chest turned to soup and his lungs burned with every breath. He felt cold down to his very bones and shook so fiercely he feared he might rattle himself apart.
A couple of hot tears prick fiercely in the corner of his eye, but he scrubs them away harshly. Now’s not the time. The cows have waited two hours too long already to be fed.
Conner tries not to think about the way his legs tremble as he hauls himself all the way upright, bones feeling like they’ve been ground to dust with a pestle.
“Getting crushed by a building wasn’t half this bad,” he mumbles under his breath. Wincing and rubbing at the excruciating tightness in his chest, he thinks he sounds a bit like someone’s dragging Batman over gravel.
Looking out at the yard through the window, his heart gives a strange ba-thump and pulses in time with his throbbing head, as fatigue seems to burrow deeper between his ribs.
God, he just wants to go back to bed.
Perhaps—perhaps he should call Ma and Pa, his brain supplies traitorously. Maybe braining himself on the countertop has really knocked out all the good sense in him.
Conner sags again over the countertop, pressing his face against the cool tile.
Ma and Pa deserve their vacation. They deserve a break — from the farmhouse, and from him, too. He wants them to have their sliver of excitement. They’re getting up there in years, and they’re both so good-hearted that they’d never let it show how disappointed they would be if Conner rang them up and asked them to come home.
Once again, his eyes start to fill with frustrated tears. And, once again, he scrubs at them, albeit this time with less dogged determination.
Conner isn’t sure how long he lingers like that, brain too boiled to make a decision, before a new idea occurs to him.
Why not call Clark?
It’s not a thought he recognizes at first. The concept of having someone to call at all is relatively new—and then it really hits him. Inwardly, he instantly cringes at the idea. He can’t call Clark up and whine like a little baby! …can he? Goodness, how ridiculous.
Tiredly, he lifts his chin onto his arm.
Clark is probably already at work, and he definitely doesn’t want to be bothered with Conner’s nonsense.
Sliding off the counter like a soupy snake, he blames the fever and his boiled brain for the lack of internal argument as he takes slow, squelching steps to the landline hanging on the kitchen wall.
It’s a bit too automatic the way he punches in Clark’s number without thinking. The man gave it to him, scrawled on a thin hospital napkin, the day he was discharged. In the back of his mind, he’s surprised he’s already managed to memorize it simply by staring at it for so long. Conner remembers a nice nurse taking their picture, the whole family, smiling.
‘Call me,’ Clark had said after, pointing at the napkin with the handwriting stuck between Conner’s thumb and forefinger. ‘Anytime. I’ll come, son.’
Conner doesn’t think Clark really meant it like that. Didn’t mean ‘son’ like son, but, at the time, his dumb brain hadn’t cared if there was a difference. Much like his dumb brain is making his fingers curl around the receiver now.
Clark picks up on the second ring.
“Kent speaking.”
Conner feels stupid in the way he has to reflexively fight the urge not to slam the phone back into the cradle.
He takes a deep breath.
It’s fine, he tries to reassure himself, Clark isn’t going to get mad. Clark was the one who told him to call, after all—although, that doesn’t stop his breath from quickening as the words get caught in his throat. It all makes his chest hurt a lot and he wishes he’d thought of something to say first. Instead, he’s standing in the farmhouse kitchen, clinging to the phone like it’s a lifeline while in his pajamas, with a blossoming bruise on his forehead and cold vomit between his toes.
He only realizes he’s been silent for too long when Clark prompts him anew.
“Hello? Anyone there?”
Conner startles, and clears his throat, or at least tries to. It’s an angry chainsaw.
“Clark…? It’s. Um. It’s me. I mean, Conner. It’s Conner.”
He’s breathy and hoarse and the words churn up the weight of phlegm in his throat. He has to turn away from the phone to cough.
“Conner, you there?”
Conner can hear phones in the background, people talking, and the distinct sound of keyboards click-clacking as reporters type away, delivering the daily news with each keystroke.
“I’m here,” he rasps by way of reply. “Sorry.”
The distinct sound of a door closing with a click suddenly cuts all the noise off.
Clark makes a little huffing noise, but it sounds like relief, not annoyance. It definitely eases something in his chest that has nothing to do with the flu.
“Are you safe?” There’s a hint of urgency in it.
The question throws Conner for a moment. Is he… safe? Yes, he’s fine. Well, not fine, but he’s in no physical danger from anyone but his own stupid ass - he gives the counter a withering glare, just for good measure. It must be the fever, he doesn’t understand what Clark is saying. His head is all mushy.
“I’m safe. I’m at the farmhouse—” he says, but before he can say anything more, like apologize for interrupting Clark during work, there’s a loud noise on the other end of the phone and then suddenly it sounds like Clark might be right next to a plane.
“Good,” he hears the man say over the phone. “I’m on my way.”
Conner kind of panics.
“Wait, I—you don’t have to come,” his voice falters as he devolves into another round of coughing. And wasn’t it the plan to ask Clark to come to the farmhouse anyway? What is he even saying? Why else would he call? “I’m sorry I bothered you,” he wheezes out.
Clark makes an unimpressed noise, and Conner can’t help the way he curls into himself, using the wall as a crutch and wrestling his breathing back under control.
“You called me,” Clark says, like that’s supposed to explain anything. Instead it just makes Conner feel even stupider, until Clark adds: “I’m glad.”
Conner’s not quite sure what to make of that, but the fever can take the lion’s share of blame for his confusion.
“I’m sure Pa’s out in the yard, but is Ma there?” Clark asks, wind whipping past the phone receiver. “Can you put her on?”
He needs Clark to go slower, one question at a time, so Conner can process them one by one. “No,” he answers, dumbly, then tries his best to wrestle that thought into a real sentence. “Ma’s not here.”
“Alright, Pa then.”
“He’s not here either.”
“What?”
For a split second, it sounds like Clark just stops mid-air.
There’s a prickle in the man’s voice that makes Conner uncomfortable. He has to wrap his arm around his midriff to keep the weird sensation of guilt inside.
“Ma and Pa are on vacation,” he clarifies, swallowing around the odd lump. “T–that’s why I called.”
The sudden silence is deafening. Conner hurries to fill it, feeling stupid and small, and like less has changed between them than he’d thought.
“I know you have better things to do,” he rushes to add, wincing at the poor excuse. “You’ve got work. I wasn’t even thinking when I called. My head’s just—it hurts. I smacked it on the countertop when I passed out. I rang without thinking, I’m sorry. I just wanted to hear your voice, I’m sor—”
“You did what?!”
Conner recoils so wildly from the shout that he fumbles the phone and nearly drops it. He’s already spewing apologies from his lips, each one tripping over the last, when he brings the receiver back up to his ear, fresh hot tears watering in his vision. Again, he’ll blame the fever for the unnecessary waterworks. He’d really thought Clark wouldn’t get mad.
‘Call anytime,’ he had said, but that had been conditional, it seems. Of course it was, he thinks with the dawning realization of his own stupidity. Call anytime clearly meant: call anytime you’re in actual danger, not, call-just-because-you-can’t-go-out-and-feed-some-cows-without-concussing-yourself.
Clark is silent on the other end of the phone, but Conner can hear the wind again, whistling into his ear.
“I’m just a minute out, bud. Don’t go anywhere.”
Conner barely registers the words. They don’t seep very far past the brain fog. He just nods, and then remembers Clark can’t see him. A weird noise pries its way out the back of his throat instead, and his trembling legs finally give out from under him.
He drops to the floor, phone still in hand, the coiled cord just long enough to reach.
“Five things you can see for me, Conner,” Clark says then, sounding concerned.
In return, his fever-addled head only finds the words funny, and he laughs wetly in response.
“I’m not having a panic attack, Clark,” he replies, roughly swiping at the tears with the hem of his sleeve. “I just. I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”
On the other end of the phone, the man makes a low humming noise. It’s soothing.
“You did the right thing, Conner,” Clark says, much softer now. Fondly, even. “Like I said, I’m glad you called.”
Conner’s steam-boiled brain responds in a non-sequitur. He lowers his face to his knees, but keeps the phone in hand pressed to the shell of his ear. “You’ve got a nice voice.”
It sounds like Clark startles over the phone, judging by the awkward grunt that pitches up with surprise.
“I—thank you,” he says around an audible swallow. And then: “You said you weren’t injured, but—”
Conner sniffs, just once. Miserably.
“It’s the flu,” he grouses, barely above a whisper. “Probably.”
It sounds like several things fall into place for Clark.
“Oh.”
There’s a thump outside on the porch.
Conner holds his breath and waits for the knock, but Clark doesn’t let ceremony stop him from simply walking right in through the front door.
A hulking shadow blocks out the hallway light and Conner lifts his head.
Clark’s electric blue gaze meets his own. It’s alien and yet so painfully human, and his face softens. Worry gives way to sympathy.
“Oh, Conner.”
Conner thinks he must look pretty pathetic curled up on the floor next to the puddle of vomit. Clark crosses the room, neatly dodging the pile of vile, and bends down to feel his forehead in one fluid movement.
Clark’s cool touch is soft and Conner can’t help it—he closes his eyes and arcs toward the man like a flower bending toward the sun, chasing after the homely scent of daisy laundry detergent and the faint hint of printer toner.
“Nice,” he mumbles as his eyes flutter closed. “This is nice.”
A few months ago he might have thought this to be a dream, or perhaps a fever-addled hallucination, but Clark is more real to him now. Tangible in a way he never thought possible before.
Clark doesn’t let him go to sleep just yet.
“Hey, kiddo, I’m going to need you to stay awake, alright?” And he sounds serious, cool fingers ever-so-gently probing around the bruise on his head.
Conner’s eyes fly open and he hisses when the soft press finds the most tender skin.
“I know, I know,” Clark says sympathetically. “I’m sorry. From the look of it I don’t think you’re actually concussed, but you’re going to have one heck of a bruise.”
The playful bravado comes more easily than Conner remembers. “You should see the other guy…” he jokes, cracking a twisted grimace.
Clark makes a face in return, but his lips curve up anyway.
“I’m looking at ‘im,” he retorts with a snort, slipping one arm under Conner’s legs and wrapping the other around his upper back.
In two quick movements he finds himself hoisted off the floor, pressed against a warm body.
“I can walk,” he protests, instead of the million other things he suddenly wants to say.
Superman has carried him this way before, cradled like he was something precious. Only this time, Clark is in an office outfit and wearing a pair of glasses that he doesn’t really need.
Clark carries him to the bathroom and puts both his feet in the tub.
“I’m quite sure Ma would rather you didn’t track vomit through her house though,” he replies wryly, with a single raised eyebrow.
Conner’s jaw clicks shut. He has a point.
Clark gets down on his knees and rolls up his own sleeves, hiking Conner’s pajama pants halfway up his leg before turning on the water. It runs cold. It always does, at the farmhouse. It takes five minutes for the hot water system to actually kick in. Great for summer showers, but awful in winter.
Clearly, Clark knows this, because he says: “You stay here, wait for the water to warm. I’ll be right back.” And then he disappears faster than Conner can track with his eyes. Or maybe he’s just really that unwell.
The cold water runs up to his toes and he shudders at its temperature, but doesn’t draw his feet back. Instead, he throws his head back and closes his eyes again, already drained from the fever but unhelped by everything that’s followed.
Clark is back in record time.
“Here,” he says, just as Conner opens his eyes. He presses a glass of cold water into his hands. “You have to stay hydrated.”
Conner takes it without a word, sipping at it gratefully and letting it soothe the raw heat in his throat.
“I’ve cleaned up the vomit,” Clark goes on, moving to kneel by the tub again, and returning to that sympathetic look.
“Thanks,” he croaks. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Clark gives him a little lopsided smile. He brushes his fingers through Conner’s hair, carding it off his forehead and to the side.
“Don’t dwell on it,” he offers, like that’s some kind of explanation. “You’re not well.”
Conner licks his lips.
“Well. Thanks,” is all he manages. He’ll bathe his feet and then he’ll go feed the cows and then he’ll go back to bed. He won’t trouble Clark to stay long. “Sorry I interrupted your work.”
Clark hushes him. “None of that, now,” he says easily.
Conner swishes the warm water around the tub with his feet and thinks about reaching for the bar of soap to clean between his toes.
Clark reads his mind apparently.
“I can do it,” he croaks weakly as Clark goes for his ankle, plucking the soap out of the man’s palm. It really would be embarrassing to call Superman all the way here to just help him clean gross puke from between his toes—it’s shameful enough that Clark’s already dealt with the puddle in the kitchen.
The room soon smells like the cheap lavender soap Ma favors from the grocery store. The flu makes his movements sluggish and slow, but he does manage to bend over and actually clean his really gross feet. Clark stays by the side of the tub the whole time, until he gets up to fetch Conner a fresh towel from the linen cupboard.
Conner swings his feet onto the bathmat and Clark vigorously rubs them dry.
“There,” he says, looking weirdly self-satisfied. “I’m sure that feels much better, doesn’t it?”
Weakly, Conner hums. He’s grateful Clark is here, but he’s also so exhausted. It doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Come on then,” Clark says, and plucks Conner off the side of the tub without fanfare.
Instead of turning right down the hall and heading back toward the kitchen, Clark turns left and starts climbing the stairs.
“Wait,” Conner objects around a yawn as they cross the threshold to his bedroom, the same bedroom that used to be Clark’s. “I still gotta… I still gotta feed the cows.”
Clark steps over the threshold and navigates around the sea of tissues toward the bed.
“Let me handle that, bud,” he says, achingly soft. “You just rest now. Focus on getting better, okay?”
Clark slides him between the bedsheet and the comforter in one smooth motion, then pulls it all the way up to Conner’s chin.
“Okay,” he returns, meekly, taking in the man’s shining eyes and the way his mouth is upturned toward a smile.
For good measure, Clark fondly brushes his bangs off his forehead again, but this time plants a quick kiss just left of his blossoming bruise.
Unexpected warmth flushes through his cheeks as the man retreats.
“Sleep well, kiddo,” he says as he moves to stand, crossing the room and turning out the lights with a soft click.
Silently, Conner nods. Then, calls out: “Hey, Clark?”
The man pauses at the threshold, fingers curling around the doorframe as he glances back over his shoulder.
“Thank… thank you.”
Clark’s smile is blinding, even in the gloom.
“Anytime, son.”
— 🦸 —
Conner wakes and somehow knows the sun has set outside. It’s too dark. Dusk no longer touches the faint cracks in his room and the night leaves him feeling disoriented.
It’s quiet, too.
Clark’s gone now, he thinks. The house is still, save for the gusty winds that knock the pipes and paneling. His whole head feels blocked up with mucus and the rushing of hot blood past his ears as he slowly shifts up.
His stomach grumbles. He’s hungry. He hasn’t eaten all day. Slowly, he peels back the bedcovers and slips his feet to the rug. There’s some leftover meatloaf in the freezer, if he remembers correctly. He’ll throw that on a plate in the microwave and then go back to bed. He’s too tired to do anything else and there’s a throbbing in his skull that pounds in time with his heartbeat.
Slithering out of bed, he makes his way across the room and wraps his hand around the doorknob, turning and pulling it open. A voice from downstairs hooks his attention.
Leaving the room, he crosses to the top of the stairs and realizes with a flip in his stomach that the voice belongs to Clark. A weight lifts off his chest. Clark’s still here.
Descending the stairs one at a time, he’s slowly able to make out the conversation—Clark is on the phone, but the radio is on, playing very softly in the background.
He pads quietly across the hall and stops at the threshold of the kitchen. The light above the stove is on and there’s something boiling on the hot-plate. The radio is playing on Ma’s favorite 1930s FM station, a lone woman warbling sorrowfully about her sweetheart.
“—still asleep, but I picked him up some drugs not an hour ago,” says Clark, his back turned, the cellphone jammed up between the shell of his ear and his shoulder as he busies himself with stirring something in a smaller pot. “We’ll see if they help at all.”
From this distance, Conner can hear the voice on the other end.
“Poor kid,” replies Lois, sympathetically. “And the worst timing too, with your parents away.”
With an agreeable hum, Clark shifts and moves to flip over the packet of flu medication on the counter, squinting at the instructions on the back. Conner shuffles subtly from one foot to the other and the man lifts his head sharply, but acknowledgement comes with a smile as Clark rapidly reaches over to flick off the radio. The absence of background noise sees the kitchen settles into a calm quiet, save for the wind that’s really starting to pick up outside.
“Hey, bud,” Clark greets gently, shifting the phone from one side to the other as he approaches, wearing one of Ma’s aprons and looking oddly domestic for a man who could take out the sun. “Are you feeling any better?”
One-shouldered, he shrugs. Somehow, he didn’t know it could hurt to simply blink; his eyes feel gritty and heavy.
Clark’s lips twist together sympathetically as he lifts his free hand, reaching up to brush away the greasy locks of limp hair and feel his sweaty forehead.
Conner leans into Clark’s touch as the man feels for his temperature. It’s so nice.
“I’ve got someone here who’d like to say hello, if you’re up for it?” the man says, one thumb softly stroking his temple.
“Mmmm,” he hums back in return, resting his eyes for just a moment as he decides; “‘Kay.”
Clark’s cool hand retreats from his forehead as he passes the phone over. It’s hard to believe how nice this is. It’s hard to believe this is the same Superman from less than a year ago. Conner doesn’t think he’d believe it if he hadn’t lived it himself. A year ago, he’d thrown himself into the Titans, training hard and clinging to his friends with the deep-rooted fear that one day they too would reject him. It’s almost unbelievable how much has changed.
Clark passes the phone over and leans in to press a chaste peck to his crown before retreating to the stove.
“Hi Lois,” he croaks, wishing his voice sounded less like a spluttering chainsaw. He shifts his weight and leans against the wall.
Lois’ voice is so soft.
“Hey baby,” she says. Baby? He thinks, bewildered and amused. “You don’t sound so good, huh. Clark tells me you’ve probably got the flu—that’s no good, sweetheart. Remember to stay hydrated.”
Conner feels like he’s losing his mind a little bit.
“Jon sends his well wishes too,” she goes on, and Conner can hear the kid in the background. “Love you. Get better soon, okay?”
L—love…?
Conner’s mouth runs dry, but it’s not from illness.
“Mm-hm,” he acknowledges, swallowing painfully around the sick tightness in his throat.
“We’ll talk again soon, alright? When you’re feeling better,” she finishes, drawing the mostly one-sided conversation to a close.
Conner clings to the cellphone, wishing with a strong pang that she was here with him now too.
His tongue darts out across his lower lip.
“L-Lois?” he tries, more of a rasp than a real word. “L-love you… too.”
There’s a beat of silence from the other end, and Conner’s hand tightens further around the phone uneasily.
“I know, honey,” she says, finally, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “Get some rest. We’ll see you real soon.”
The knot in his chest loosens.
“M’kay,” he agrees, just as Clark wanders back over, wiping his hands on Ma’s apron.
He passes the phone back and doesn’t really listen as Clark wraps up the conversation, too busy listening to the echo of Lois’ words in his ear; love you. Get better soon, okay?
They love him? They love him. It’s not really something he’d thought about. Intellectually knew they cared for him, but… to throw those words around so casually, when Conner has done nothing to earn them… It’s. It’s new. It’s overwhelming, but in the best of ways.
He doesn’t notice the conversation has ended until Clark calls his name.
“C’mon kiddo,” he says, steering Conner to the table. “Let’s get some meds in you.”
He plops into a chair gratefully as Clark fetches him water and pops out two purple pills from the packaging, setting them in Conner’s open palm. The water is refreshing on his dry tongue and the pills go down without effort.
“We’re having pasta tonight,” the man continues as Conner downs the rest of the water. “Nothing fancy I’m afraid, although I’m sure you wouldn’t be up for much more anyway.”
Conner blinks. “There’s a serve of meatloaf in the freezer,” he wheezes.
Clark makes a face. “I’m sure Ma’s leftovers would be just as tasty, but I’m not quite sure that would be enough for the both of us.”
Conner blinks again.
“You’re staying for dinner?” he croaks, confused.
Some expression tinged with the faintest traces of hurt and then quickly brushed away, graces Clark’s features.
“I’m staying the night, Kon,” he returns, but his face is still tight.
Conner balks. “But—” he protests, gut churning, “but where will you sleep?”
The bed that belonged to Clark is now Conner’s.
“Bud, the couch is just fine,” the man snorts. “And I know where the spare blankets are.”
For some reason, he finds this oddly upsetting.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, thinking he really truly shouldn’t have called at all. He’s truly such an inconvenience. “You really don’t need to stay. It’ll be uncomfortable. You can go home, I promise I’ll be okay.”
A shadow falls over him. By the time Conner looks up, Clark’s palm is already covering his balled fist, sitting passive on the tabletop. It takes him quite a while to try and parse out all the emotions on the man’s face, many of them too fleeting to catch, but unhelped by the stuffiness in Conner’s skull.
“I know you will,” Clark says eventually, giving his hand a gentle squeeze while looking upset and pitying just the same. “But I want to stay,” he admits in a quiet voice. “I’ll be here. If you need anything.”
Conner doesn’t quite know what to say to that. His mouth falls open, but no words come out, and finally Clark steps away.
It’s so domestic, he thinks, watching Clark drain the spaghetti noodles in the colander. The kitchen is warm, the low light of the stove and the overhead table light casting just enough warmth for it to feel cozy.
The man plates the meal, topping the pasta with a divine looking bolognese sauce, even though he’d said ‘nothing fancy,’ and joins Conner at the table with apron still adorned.
“Dig in while it’s still hot!” he declares, sliding a fork across the table.
Conner takes it gratefully.
“Thank you,” he says, jabbing the utensil into the meal and swirling the pasta all the way around the fork, gathering up the sauce. “You didn’t have to do all this for me, really. I—I’m happy that you… that you did, but I—you didn’t have too and… well, what I’m trying to say is—”
Clark stops him there.
“Kiddo,” he interjects. There’s red tomato paste in the corner of his smiling mouth. “Don’t overthink it. It’s not like it’s a hardship for me to be here with you. I know you and I have been through… uh, A Lot —” and somehow those words feel capitalized, “—but I promised you I would come when you called, didn’t I?”
Mutely Conner nods. He stuffs a fork-full of pasta in his mouth and chews on the statement.
“Besides,” Clark goes on. “It made me happy that you called.”
Conner doesn’t get the redness rising into Clark’s cheeks, but it’s astounding somehow.
“I want you to rely on me more,” the man finishes, quietly. “I’m your… dad.”
Conner huffs, but the flush that goes down along his neck has nothing to do with the fever. “Yeah,” he agrees, barely above a whisper, and with a smile he ducks his head to try and hide. “I s’pose so.”
The rest of their meal passes in relative silence. They do the dishes together, Clark washing and Conner drying—at least until Clark notices him flagging and ushers him to the living room. He presses the television remote into Conner’s palm.
“Why don’t you find us something to watch?” he suggests easily, running his fingers through Conner’s short crop. “I’ll finish up in the kitchen and come join you.”
“Okay,” he agrees, already shifting through the channels. “Do you like sci-fi?”
Clark laughs. “I do.”
“Cool,” says Conner, and adds that to the list of things he knows about Clark as the man exits the room.
He settles on a rerun of some old show about space robots and pulls Ma’s crochet rug off the back of the couch to curl around his shivering frame.
When Clark returns he’s carrying two bowls of ice-cream, and he presses one into Conner’s open palms. Vanilla. The best flavor.
Clark’s weight depresses the couch, inadvertently tipping Conner into the man’s side. Their shoulders bump up against each other, but it’s not awkward—or maybe he’s just feeling so poorly that he doesn’t have the energy to feel awkward about it. Fortunately, Clark doesn’t say anything either, and they eat their ice-cream to the sound of robot battles in space.
Finally, Conner cleans the last of his bowl and Clark plucks it from his hands and sets it on the coffee table alongside his own. The china clinks together and the spoons rattle briefly in their respective bowls. It takes him a minute to realize that the arm that unexpectedly drapes around his shoulder is tugging him toward Clark.
Is this… a hug?
Conner doesn’t know. And he doesn’t get it. But he blushes and there’s a nice warmth that fills his chest.
“T-thanks Clark,” he mutters, just audible over the shooting blasters and robot lasers on TV. “For coming over and, well, everything I guess. I—”
He takes in a gulp of air and curls his fists on his legs, which have suddenly gone all tense.
Clark rubs his arm with his big palm and hums. It reverberates through Conner’s whole skeleton. The tone is gentle, but curious. Conner releases his held breath all in one go and steels himself.
“Iloveyoudad.”
Quiet falls between them. Conner is suddenly infinitely grateful for the space robots in the background.
He squishes his eyes shut.
Part of him still entirely expects Clark to push him away. Not that long ago he probably would have. The problem, he’s learning, is that getting his biggest wish fulfilled—a family that loves him and wants him—now means he has something substantial to lose.
He doesn’t want to lose Clark. Or Lois, or Jon. Or Ma and Pa.
The sofa moves underneath him.
Conner blinks open his eyes to find himself trapped in an embrace that could crush him, but is so, so gentle.
There’s a hand, cupping the back of his head, and another arm wrapped securely around his waist. He can feel Clark’s bulk, and hear the man’s thunderous heartbeat.
“Sweetheart,” he chokes beside Conner’s ear. “Conner. I love you too, kiddo.”
Slowly, his hands come up of their own volition. They wrap around Clark’s frame and hold on tight, tugging at the man’s iron-pressed work shirt. He buries his face in Clark’s shoulder and breathes in deeply. He smells like home. Like safety. And when did that happen? Conner doesn’t even know.
When Clark finally releases him after more than a minute, he doesn’t let Conner retreat entirely. Instead, he readjusts their positions and the blanket draped over Conner’s shoulders, until they’re both comfortably sprawled on the sofa. Conner ends up with his back against Clark’s chest and a hand carding through his locks, rhythmically lulling him to sleep, aided by the flu meds that have made him drowsy.
“I love you so much.”