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Conner pokes his head out into the hall.
The Tower is silent, dark—everyone’s gone home. Normally, when his friends and teammates leave a quiet sadness creeps into him, settling deep in his chest. It’s the kind of thing that takes hours to shake.
But today, all he feels is relief at their absence.
A sharp pain flares in his arm, and he bites back a whine, clenching his teeth.
The mission had been rough, to say the least, and once it was over and they’d won, Wonder Girl had been picked up by her mentor, Impulse had left with Flash Senior to monitor his concussion, and Robin had been whisked away into the shadows of Batman’s cape.
Superman, of course, hadn’t stayed, but Conner’s learned not to expect that.
Superboy is different from the others. From his teammates. Superman smiles at them, greets them, asks how they’re doing, worries when they get hurt.
But Conner? He’s expected to be invincible. But also, invisible.
With a flicker of guilt, Conner opens the first-aid locker where all the med-kits—each labeled with names—are neatly stacked, courtesy of Batman Incorporated.
There’s one for Cassie, Bart, and Tim.
There isn’t one for Conner. He doesn’t know if the Justice League simply forgot about him, or if it’s deliberate. Either way, he’s too scared to ask—he doesn’t exactly want the knowledge getting back to Superman after all. He’s certain the man already thinks of him as useless and pathetic, he doesn’t want to add any fuel to the fire.
He pulls Cassie’s kit from the shelf, already mentally promising (for the third time) to restock it when he can, when he can get the money together.
Lately, Conner has landed himself with a few worse-than-usual injuries, so he’s been putting together his own little first aid kit, an old tackle box with a broken hinge that Pa was going to throw out. He’s scrounged up a few bits and pieces: Ma’s holey tea towel, now stained copper with dried blood, the expired Advil Tim tossed last month, and a packet of bandaids the school nurse threw at him when he cut his finger that one time in home economics.
But his tackle box doesn’t have a sling. And right now, his entire left arm needs to be stabilized. It doesn’t matter that he has to do it himself.
It’s fortunate that Batman forces all members of the team to be included when running first aid drills, so Conner knows how to wrap and tie the thing around his neck one-handed. It’s tricky, but he manages.
“There. Good as new,” he says to no one, forcing a cheerful tone he doesn’t feel. His arm burns with every movement, but it’ll heal in a few days. He’s almost certain the bone’s fractured, but he’ll call Ma to let her know he’s staying at the Tower for the weekend. She doesn’t need to add another worry to her list—and he’s kept his weaknesses hidden from Superman this long. He doesn’t need Ma accidentally saying something that could get him kicked off the team.
He’s putting the rest of the med-kit back in place when he feels an unnatural breeze run through the room.
“What in the world—?”
Conner slams the lid shut on the med-kit and whips around. The blood drains so fast from his face that he feels suddenly light-headed.
The doorway, which had been empty a second ago, now holds a familiar silhouette. He’s learned to recognize that presence in a way he wishes he hadn’t.
Superman stands there in all his uniformed red, blue, and gold glory, his broad frame casting a shadow across the room, eyes fixed on Conner with an intensity that makes the walls feel like they’re closing in.
Conner knows he’s been caught, red-handed, stealing from his team-mates, but he splutters out some useless excuse anyway.
“It’s not what it looks like!” he squeaks, pushing the med-kit behind him as if Superman hasn’t already seen it. “I’m going to replace it, I promise.”
Superman’s brow dips into a frown.
Why is he here anyway? Didn’t he go home?
“Is there something you need?” he blurts out, then stiffens at how rude he sounds, tacking on a quiet, ‘sir’ at the end. His hands are shaking. Superman never seeks him out for anything good. Only when Conner has massively screwed up somehow, he almost prefers being invisible then—hiding behind his friends like a coward whenever the man shows up.
The team calls Superman his mentor, but Conner thinks tormentor is probably closer. On training days with the others, Superman takes the time to explain their mistakes and how to fix them. With Conner, he just lays him on his back on the training mats and grunts sourly when Conner can’t manage the move he’s been shown. It’s frustrating and disheartening, but Superman is also the best . Better than Conner in every way, a perfect ideal he tries desperately to strive for. Superman is the savior of Metropolis—good with kids and animals, brave, heroic and charming. Beloved by all. And in return, Superman is sympathetic and understanding and patient and kind.
Conner swallows thickly as Superman’s eyes lock onto the medical supplies behind him. Conner swallows, trying to steady himself, but it’s like the air’s been knocked out of him. He can’t think straight, and he doesn’t know what to say. What should he say?
Superman raises a single eyebrow. “Is that… Wonder Girl’s med-kit?”
Conner flinches. Then nods silently. He’d apologize, if he thought it would help. He’s pretty sure it won’t though. And he doesn’t think Superman wants excuses.
“I… I’ll put the sling back,” he offers shakily, already tugging at the knot behind his neck. His arm will be a bitch about it, but he’ll live. It’s not like… he needs the sling, after all. Not really.
He hisses when it comes loose, the muscles in his arm protesting their use when his bones are splintered and bruised. He bites down on his tongue quickly, though.
“What?” Superman says, surprised, as Conner lays the cloth out on the floor and starts one-handedly folding it back into the tiny triangle it came in.
He finally steps into the room. “I—you don’t have to… your arm…?”
Conner’s sure there’s some question in there, but he can’t quite work out what it is that Superman’s asking him.
“I’ll ask next time, I swear,” he promises weakly, following his own folding progress to avoid Superman’s gaze. “I just thought that… No, I know I shouldn’t have taken it. It’s not mine.” A hiccup of mirthless laughter escapes him. “Once I get together the money I’ll buy her a new one too, as an apology.”
Superman goes totally silent as Conner pulls the med-kit back in front of him, unzipping the lip and carefully placing the neatly folded sling back inside.
For a minute he forgot he wasn’t the same as his team-mates. He’s expected to be better than this.
“Superboy, stop.”
Conner stiffens and still, fingers still wrapped around the soft cloth. Superman sits, and meets him on the floor. “Let me see your arm.”
Conner’s breath hitches in his throat. A fresh wave of fear rolls through him like approaching thunder. He draws his arm a little closer to himself without even thinking about it.
“It’s not— I don’t—” he stammers, hearing the roar of blood in his ears as his heart starts trying to jump out of his chest.
Superman tips his head at the sound, looking more confused than anything.
In the end, he can’t come up with an excuse. He resigns himself and gingerly scoots just a little closer.
Superman makes a grab for his arm, but where Conner is expecting a new round of pain—punishment for his failures, because Luthor wouldn’t have hesitated to correct his faults, and so far Superman hasn’t exactly been warm either—the touch is light and gentle.
“Ouch,” says Superman sympathetically, and Conner can see a faint ring of blue circling his irises, indicating the use of his x-ray vision. “You’ve fractured your ulna.”
Oh.
“To be honest, I didn’t know you could fracture a bone.” He looks up at Conner curiously. “Does your med-kit not have a sling?”
Conner tries to breathe normally. “N-no sir, I… I don’t— my medical kit is on the farm.”
Superman lets go of his arm then, but his face darkens and his voice starts to crescendo in volume. “Why isn’t it here, Superboy? Didn’t Batman run you through the importance of keeping league equipment where it belongs?”
Conner shrinks into himself. “Yessir,” he says. “But you see—”
“Then why did you take it home? How is it going to be useful to you there?”
Swiping at the hot tears that have started clouding up his vision, Conner thinks he probably looks pathetic. “So I— I can—fix the hinge on it,” he stammers, but he can’t see Superman’s face any more. “I didn’t— I didn’t bring it because I thought I would save up some money to buy some more stuff for it first.” Two rags and some expired Advil a med-kit hardly makes.
Superman doesn’t sound impressed. Through the fog, Conner can see him fold his arms over his chest.
“What more could you possibly need in a med-kit?” he asks, but he doesn’t know if it’s more an accusation or real question. “Batman puts everything under the sun in these, what could yours possibly be missing?”
“It’s—Batman didn’t make my kit?” he manages, and tries to palm away the tears because he’s making a fool of himself. “I put it together myself.”
There’s silence. It rings out in the quiet room, punctuated only by Conner’s occasional sniffle.
“You don’t have a league kit?” Superman finally asks.
Conner shakes his head. “N-no…I thought…maybe I’m not supposed to?”
Superman stares and then sighs, shakily. Which is so weird because, like, what the heck is that supposed to mean?
“Everyone is supposed to have a med-kit,” he says, seeming to almost deflate. “I…” Superman scrubs one hand over his face and sighs again. “You don’t have a med-kit,” he says, this time as a firm statement.
Conner shakes his head again. “No, sir,” he replies, barely above a whisper, cradling his left arm in his right. “I thought maybe because I’m… you know, different…” Not just different. Conner’s acutely aware he’s less-than. Both human and kryptonian, and yet neither all at once.
Superman, oddly, looks a little pained at the omission, but he doesn’t say anything to it, and instead reaches for the folded sling still sitting on top of Cassie’s open medical kit.
“Come on,” Superman says, starting to stand. “Let’s get this on you.”
What?
“But… are you sure?” he asks, mimicking Superman’s movement and getting up off the floor. His arm really does hurt, but—the sling isn’t his. “Wouldn’t that be stealing?”
Superman shakes his head. “Technically, all the supplies in the medical kits belong to Batman anyway.”
Oh. Yeah. Conner hadn’t really thought about it like that.
Conner lets Superman help him with the sling this time.
It’s awkward, a little too gentle in places and a little too tight in others, but Conner doesn’t dare breathe too hard in case the moment vanishes. His cheeks burn. Superman’s hands are warm, steady, and careful.
When it’s done, Conner flexes his fingers and glances up.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
Superman doesn’t respond right away. He looks oddly thoughtful.
Then he says, softly, “You should’ve had one from the beginning.”
Conner’s brow furrows. “It’s okay. I mean, I can patch something together. I’ve been doing fine.”
“That’s not the point.”
Superman’s voice isn’t sharp—if anything, it sounds like he’s talking to himself as much as Conner. Like he’s realizing something a little too late.
A beat of silence stretches between them, filled only by the soft buzz of the Tower’s overhead lights and Conner’s uneven breaths.
“You’re not supposed to patch things together,” Superman says finally. “You’re supposed to have what you need.”
Conner swallows hard, but the lump in his throat doesn’t move. “I didn’t want to cause trouble,” he admits quietly.
“You wouldn’t have,” Superman says, shaking his head. Another pause. Then: “I’ll make sure you get your own kit,” he adds, almost gently. “Properly stocked. With your name on it.”
Conner’s breath catches again, but this time it’s not fear. It’s something thinner, more fragile. “…Okay,” he whispers, not trusting his voice anymore. And then, because he can’t help but ruin the quiet moment, “Why… Why did you come back to the Tower?” He’d left. Like normal, so why…?
Superman drops his gaze awkwardly, in a way that seems almost painfully human—not evasive. Embarrassed, maybe? But no, not quite that either. “…I just had this weird feeling I forgot something,” he says with a tight smile that lasts no longer than a wince.
Conner blinks. That’s not really an answer, but it’s not not one either. “Oh,” he says, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Superman nods once, slowly. His hand comes up to wring at the nape of his neck. “Figured I’d check in. See if anything got missed.” His eyes lift again, meeting Conner’s—steady, serious, but softer than before. “I guess something did.”
Conner doesn’t know what to say to that. His throat is still tight, and his mind keeps chasing itself in circles. He wants to make a joke, deflect, do something to pull the moment away from the edge it’s balancing on—but he doesn’t.
Instead, he just nods. Barely.
Superman looks at him for a moment longer, like he’s making sure Conner’s really okay with that being the end of it. Then he exhales through his nose.
Conner shifts his weight, and this time flexes the fingers of his uninjured arm. “Thanks,” he says finally, voice quiet. Honest.
Superman’s expression doesn’t change much, but something flickers in his eyes. “Of course.”
Neither of them move for a moment. Conner doesn’t want to shatter the fragile thing between them. He wonders if maybe Superman doesn’t want to either.
But of course, all things come to an end.
“When are you heading back to the farm?” Superman asks awkwardly, the question sounding almost too casual—as if pretending it doesn’t matter makes it easier to ask.
“Oh,” Conner replies. The plan to stay at the Tower now feels foolish, seeing as the one person he didn’t want to see his weaknesses already has. “Um, maybe like… soon?”
Superman nods, just once. “I’ll see you off,” he declares, then adds with something softer and almost sheepish, “If that’s okay?”
Conner thinks his heart might alight from his chest in joy. And he feels so stupid for the rush of happiness that swells sharply. “Yeah,” he says, a little breathlessly. “That’s okay.”
Superman gives a faint, tired smile—real, if a little tentative. “Okay.”
It’s nothing big. It’s nothing emotional. But Conner feels winded for it anyway. “Thanks,” he says again, and the word feels simpler than it should.
Superman’s expression softens, just a little, his voice low, more genuine than Conner has ever heard it. “It’s… just what I should have done from the start.” The words feel more for Superman himself than Conner, but he tucks them close to his chest anyway.
And for once, Conner doesn’t feel invisible.