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—🦸—
Tuesday night was meatloaf night.
The pale glow of the fridge cast a cool light that spilled out into the kitchen and across the hall. Beneath the noisy rustling of plastic and the faint clink of jars, Conner could hear soft vocalizations and murmured words, Clark humming some absent tune under his breath.
He caught sight of the man long before Clark saw him, head buried in the fridge with one socked foot bracing the door open, but it was the scuff of his slippers that gave him away.
“Hey, bud—?” Clark’s voice rang out through the apartment. It was inviting, not harsh, but curious, questioning.
Skirting the corner of the living room, clean and freshly warmed by the shower, Conner was in track-pants and a loose band shirt, checked slippers keeping his toes comfortably cozy. The day’s alertness had swirled down the drain with the shower water and he was tired, but he padded out into the kitchen anyway and quickly found Clark’s furrow of concentration giving way to something softer, finally plucking out Conner’s shape.
“There you are.” Clark’s smile made the edges of his eyes crinkle into crow’s feet. “Are you up for helping me with dinner again tonight?”
They both knew Conner would. He liked cooking. And he liked meatloaf. And he liked learning new skills. And he kind of also maybe liked getting to spend this little bit of time talking to Clark one-on-one, but that was a secret. At least for now.
So, instead of spending any time thinking about how warm Clark’s casual request made him feel, he nodded and ignored the flip in his stomach as he strode smoothly around the island counter, giving a lazy salute. “Sure thing, boss.” Lately, Clark had made him feel seen, and he didn’t know what to do about that, but he didn’t dislike it. Mostly, he just wondered if that was okay. If he was allowed this.
Clark’s head returned to the fridge. “Great,” he said, rummaging past the mayo and mustard, “In that case, could you grab the salt and pepper from the pantry?”
Quickly rinsing his hands under the kitchen tap, Conner wiped them clean on a fresh rag and sidestepped around the man. “Sure,” he agreed easily, navigating the pantry, “—the breadcrumbs too?”
“Ah—yeah—” Clark pulled his head out of the fridge again, arms burdened with ingredients, “—thanks.” He kicked the door closed with his heel.
Conner’s lips twitched as he reached back in for the breadcrumbs to place on the counter. “No problem,” he returned, suppressing a snort as he watched Clark place down a carrot on the counter, only for it to roll away rebelliously.
It never made it to the floor. Runaway root vegetables were no match for Conner’s superspeed. Clark caught his eye with an amused glint as Conner returned the carrot to the chopping board.
“Right.” Clark started to fold over his sleeves one arm at a time. Orderly, but swift. “Dice the onion for me?”
Conner took up his usual place at the island.
Existing around Clark felt almost as easy as breathing now, which was odd, seeing as how it had only been a few months since Superman had popped him through drywall like a human shot-put.
And now they were cooking dinner together on an almost nightly basis, tossing jokes and banter between them before Jon and Lois came and joined in.
Sometimes Conner’s life felt so surreal.
Behind him, Clark flicked on the gas, clanking pots and pans, the glug of cool oil making up the familiar sounds of the kitchen.
The courts had confirmed Conner’s personhood, but it didn’t quite feel real yet. Not to him, at least. Everyone else seemed to be getting with the program. No one seemed to think anything strange of it. Just Conner.
Imposter syndrome Tim had called it, apparently claiming he had it too, sometimes. But Conner didn’t get that because Tim was brilliant. He was smart and funny and cool—all his friends were. They were talented. Conner was just… pretending to be. And, of course, he knew, intellectually, that the psychologists and other specialists who’d come in to evaluate his application of personhood had been biased—Lex was literally paying them to be! Yet, he still couldn’t help the thought that maybe there was still some grain of truth in their assessments. Maybe they were right and it was only by some miracle that Lois managed to convince those other professionals that Conner could be a real person, if they let him try.
He didn’t realise the knife was motionless in his hand until Clark’s clap landed on his shoulder.
Conner jolted and the sharp utensil slipped from between his fingers.
“Whoa!” Clark’s hand dropped back at once. He even stepped aside, leaving Conner a pocket of space in the cramped kitchen. For some reason, this made his chest squeeze tightly. “Sorry—didn’t mean to spook you, bud. You okay? I just need the board for the onion, if you’re done?”
“Uh, y-yeah,” he stammered, suddenly shaken for literally no reason at all. “Sorry. Onion’s done.”
Clark gave him a weird sideways glance as he picked up the loaded board, but he didn’t say anything until he’d tossed the onion into the frypan and the room started to fill with its mouthwatering scent.
“You seem a little stuck in your head tonight,” Clark opened anew, stirring the onion through the oil until it began to sizzle, keeping one attentive eye on Conner. “You wanna talk about it?”
He knew Clark couldn’t really want to hear about his dumb insecurities. He waved the man off with a fake smile. “No,” he flapped a hand at him. “It’s nothing. It’s dumb.”
Clark’s brow arced into a frown. He put down the spoon on the side of the stove and turned. “Hey,” he said seriously, resting his hip on the counter, “it’s not ‘dumb’ if it’s bothering you. What’s up?”
He was being pushy. Conner didn’t get why. He shrugged. “Nothing—” he grunted again, then faltered awkwardly. “Just—just stuff, you know?” He couldn’t figure out why Clark even cared. But after everything, the thought that Clark might be faking it didn’t ring true. Conner wasn’t a Kent, but Clark didn’t make him feel like an outsider anymore.
And Clark shook his head, because obviously he didn’t know. And he couldn’t take a hint.
Conner barreled on before the man could say something cringeworthy—add another painfully patient or understanding word. “Just… being a person,” he muttered, grabbing for the carrot that still needed peeling, anything to avoid Clark’s too-compassionate gaze. He traded the knife for the peeler, and the skin was off too-quick. “It’s hard.” He picked up the heavy knife again, and it bit into the end of the carrot with a sharp kthuck.
Clark didn’t interrupt. He just flicked off the gas and waited. And because Conner was a fool who couldn’t stand silence, he kept talking, rushing to fill the space. “And what if the court realizes they messed up? What if Lex just shows up here and drags me back to—”
There was the faintest of breezes, the most brief of warnings before Clark’s hand was on his shoulder again. The squeeze that came with it wasn’t painful, but grounding. “They didn’t make a mistake.” Clark plucked the knife out of his hand and captured Conner’s gaze in one motion. “And Lex won’t come back here again, I promise.”
Conner had a feeling he couldn’t promise that, but his shoulders sagged anyway, draining of tension.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know,” he sighed, small, and feeling it. “I know, it’s just—” he pulled his fingers off his chin and found Clark’s steady gaze right there, holding firm. Solid. Like earth. “I don’t want to forget how to chop an onion,” he whispered.
Clark’s face crinkled up with confusion. “What?”
Heat rushed to his cheeks.
That. That came out wrong.
He tried to turn away. “I told you, it’s stupid.”
Clark didn’t let him.
“No,” the man shook his head. “Tell me. What do you mean?” His hands felt suddenly so heavy on Conner’s shoulders.
He bit his lip. “You… you taught me how to chop an onion and that was… that was something Lex didn’t program into my brain—” he spat the word with vitriol, “—he didn’t think it was important enough. And maybe it wasn’t to him. And when he threatened to wipe my brain, I realized I wouldn’t remember how to chop an onion the way you showed me, and—”
Conner had made a mistake in looking away from Clark’s searing gaze, because when he looked back up, he found steel tempered by fire there, lit up in the man’s scorching eyes. His hands were concrete slabs, pinning Conner in place.
“He did what?”
Oh yeah. He’d never mentioned that to Clark. Or Lois. Or, anyone, really.
“I—”
“When?” Clark hissed the word through his teeth. The anger in it was sharp enough to make Conner think he should step back, get away. And yet, strangely, he felt safe, even with Clark’s outrage burning, white-hot, flaring across his features like the sun. “When did he threaten you?”
Conner clasped his hands together, one over the other, trying to still their tremble, unsure what to do with them now they were unoccupied. His body shook like it was bracing for the inevitable surge of fear that came coupled with sharp words, ready to hit any second. But shame pressed heavier. He’d told himself his plan had been to run—but who was he kidding? He probably wouldn’t have. Part of him had thought Lex wiping his memories might’ve been a mercy. After living in such constant anxiety, such relentless fear for so long, maybe forgetting would be easier, cowardly as that was.
With Clark’s cerulean eyes locked on him though, admitting that honest thought felt pathetic and shameful. He wanted to curl up with it and hide.
“When he had me in custody. Back at the labs, at Cadmus, before the trial.” The memory churned up that hollow defeat. Conner had sat on death row for the crime of existing. Not remembering any of the good had seemed so much easier. How absurd it felt now, standing here in the kitchen with Clark—warm, safe, maybe even loved.
Lex couldn’t touch him here.
Clark closed his eyes and let out a long, steady breath. When he opened his mouth, his voice was strained in the way he spoke when holding back emotion, folding it into something new. “Okay,” he said, the single word rushing out in one breath. The hands on Conner’s shoulders moved, sliding down over the blades in his back.
Conner blinked, reorienting. For a minute, he didn’t know what was happening exactly, and then Clark’s arms pulled him in tight, close, not quite crushing, holding him in a way that was both new and yet known. Clark’s chin came to rest against the crown of his head and they stayed like that in the kitchen, wrapped in silence, until Clark finally spoke again. “Okay,” he whispered anew, low and steady. “Listen to me carefully, kiddo: the courts didn’t make a mistake. Lois and I have got you, alright?”
Silently, Conner nodded, and finally remembered how to bring his arms up to hug Clark back. This was the second hug he’d ever received from the man, and it was just as nice as the first. Maybe even nicer, seeing as how he wasn’t bawling his eyes out and making Clark’s shirt crusty in the process this time.
“Okay,” he answered, feeling smaller and more fragile with every passing second. It was new and unfamiliar. Conner wasn’t allowed to be weak. Not in front of Lex and certainly not in front of Superman. Weaknesses were exploited.
But that was then.
And this was Clark now.
And Lex Luthor wasn’t going to wipe his brain and make him forget how to chop an onion. Or any of the other good things Conner now understood.
Like his friends. Like Jon and Lois. Like the cows up at the Kent family farm. Like Clark’s hugs. Like meatloaf.
“Alright, whatever,” he said, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Thanks.”
Clark gave him a short squeeze, then kissed the side of his temple, a lingering peck, but filled with more emotion than Conner could quite fathom. Then, the man released him, and pulled back, finding his eyes once again, gaze darting between them. “Believe in us, bud,” he returned. “We got you.”
There was something soft yet pained, equal parts in his eyes, and Conner briefly wondered if he was too stupid to get it or if he just didn’t want to name the emotion he found there. Because it was too much. It hurt, like lancing a wound, but only to clean out the rotten infection inside.
He was fairly certain this wouldn’t be the last of this conversation, but he was spared the agony of enduring it for now as Clark smiled softly and moved to pick up the spoon. “Seeing as you’re an onion dicing pro now, shall I teach you how to cook one too?”
The moment fizzled like soda pop, lightening in an instant. Conner snorted, feeling buoyant as he shuffled over to the stove, where Clark was already turning to switch the gas back on.
“Oh? You’re ready to give away all your pro-chef secrets, huh?”
Clark chuckled. A hand darted out over Conner’s head, and he found his curls suddenly being ruffled by the man’s large palm.
“Purely for selfish reasons,” Clark joked, “I doubt Jon will complain about meatloaf night if you’re the one making it.”
Conner grinned, lightly knocking Clark’s shoulder with his own, the two of them together were too large to stand in the cramped space, but neither of them made any moves to put in any kind of distance. “That’s too bad for him,” he quipped back easily. “Because I love meatloaf.”