Chapter Text
The first sound of Clark’s morning was always the same: an impossibly soft set of footsteps padding across the hallway, followed by a pause, and then the quiet click of his bedroom door being pushed open by a three-year-old who never waited for permission. Clark always woke up a split second before the tiny body climbed into his bed, but he pretended every time that Conner had startled him awake, because it made the little boy puff his chest with such pride.
"Papa” Conner murmured, voice still heavy with sleep, curls smashed on one side of his head like a very small professor who’d spent all night grading papers. "It 's morning.”
Clark groaned theatrically, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm across his face. "Buddy… It is too early to be morning.”
Conner pulled the blanket off him with a decisiveness that Clark always found slightly terrifying.
"No. The sun is up. You said when the sun is up we wake up, and the sun is up.” He pointed at the window, expression sharp, bordering on offended that Clark was not following the sacred rules of morning.
"Who taught you to argue like a tiny lawyer?” Clark blinked at him from under his arm.
"You” Conner said immediately. "It was an accident.”
Clark snorted, then tugged him closer, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
"You’re too smart for me, you know that?”
Conner shrugged in that tiny, almost dismissive way that always made Clark certain his son had inherited his other father’s personality. There was no way this had come from him.
"You taught me this too, Papa.”
Clark laughed helplessly against his hair. Every morning felt like this, like Conner was growing faster than he could keep up with, his mind racing miles ahead, asking about things Clark wasn’t always prepared to answer. Some mornings Clark wondered if his son ever truly slept, or if his brain just… hummed through the night with thoughts.
They stayed tangled in blankets for a few minutes, Conner sprawled half on his chest, reciting — completely unprompted — the planets in order while Clark stroked his back.
“... and Neptune is blue because of methane but also because”
"Buddy” Clark said softly, smiling against his temple "maybe let Papa have coffee before the science lecture?”
Conner paused, considered this, then pressed a tiny hand to Clark’s cheek.
"Ok, Papa.”
In the kitchen, Conner immediately gravitated toward the small table where his crayons were already spread out like a rainbow explosion. Clark deposited him in his usual chair and set about making breakfast: it could be nothing complicated, just scrambled eggs and toast, because complicated food usually led to philosophical crises about why toast wasn’t structurally identical every morning.
"Papa” Conner said as he scribbled furiously, tongue poking out in concentration "why don’t we have the type of robot arm that can stir eggs for you while you get dressed?”
"Because we don’t need a robot arm. I can perfectly stir the eggs” Clark cracked an egg into the pan.
"But it would be efficient.” The boy didn’t even look up. "You could do other things. And it wouldn’t get tired or spill.”
Clark bit back a sigh, the kind that came from a mix of guilt and overflowing affection.
Conner wasn’t deprived, not of love, not of food, not of stability. But sometimes Clark saw the way his son’s eyes lit up in the science museum, or how long he stared at engineering toys they couldn’t quite justify buying yet, and he felt something tight curl behind his ribs.
One night. One man whose face he couldn't remember. Not his face, not his voice and in a moment of recklessness, he didn’t bother to ask for a name. He just saw a flash of blond hair, maybe. A sharp laugh. A feeling of warmth that had been gone by morning.
He wondered sometimes, when Conner argued, or tilted his head sharply, or narrowed his eyes in that pointed way, what his father had been like. Smart.
Probably too smart.
Someone who saw the world through angles and strategy while Clark saw it through heart.
And then, Clark had a child with a mind like wildfire, bright and hungry, always reaching for things Clark couldn’t always give him.
"One day” Clark said, putting the plate in front of him. "We’ll get you all the robots you want.”
Conner looked up at him, eyes startlingly sharp and blue, something familiar and unknowable in them.
"You always say that.”
"And I always mean it” Clark murmured, kissing the top of his head.
Breakfast went mostly peacefully, except for Conner launching into a detailed explanation about why triangles were the superior shape
"Papa, they don’t fall down. They’re strong. You’re not listening.”
Clark had to reassure him between sips of coffee that yes, triangles were powerful and respected.
Afterward came the scramble of getting dressed. Clark knelt by the front door to tie Conner’s shoes, only for the boy to announce:
"You’re doing it wrong.”
"I’ve been tying shoes since before you existed.”
"Yes.” Conner tapped his chin like a tiny philosopher. "But I know the bunny-ear method is statistically faster.”
"Well, statistically, you’re three, ” Clark fired back.
Conner gasped.
"That’s discrimination.”
"Buddy” Clark stared at him. "Where did you learn that word?”
"YouTube Kids.”
"Oh my God.”
The kindergarten drop-off routine after they walked out of the subway station was always a delicate operation.
Conner was brilliant, yes. Articulate, sharp, sometimes unnervingly perceptive. But he was still just three, and he clung to Clark every morning like the world might break apart if he let go.
Today was no different.
"Papa” Conner said, lower lip wobbling and hands pressing firm in Clark’s neck as he saw the place entrance "you’re going to pick me up, right?”
"Always” Clark murmured, pulling him close. “I always come back for you.”
Conner squished his cheek against Clark’s shoulder.
"And you won’t be late?”
"I won’t be late” Clark promised, heart twisting with that familiar ache.
Clark carried him inside, Conner wrapped around him koala-tight, his fingers tangled in Clark’s shirt. Only when Miss Harper approached with a gentle smile did Conner loosen his hold.
"Good morning, Conner,” she said warmly. "We’re building bridges today.”
"With which materials?” Conner perked up.
"Blocks, straws, and glue.”
The boy nodded gravely, as though approving the curriculum. Then he looked back at Clark, putting on his brave face.
"Bye, Papa.”
Clark kissed his forehead.
"Bye, buddy. Use your words, be kind, and try not to explain physics to the other children unless they ask.”
Conner blinked up at him.
"But how will they learn?”
"Your teacher will do her best, okay?” Clark said softly.
He watched until Conner joined the other kids, still a little stiff around groups but trying… Conner always tried. Then Clark forced himself to leave.
The subway ride to the station close to LuthorCorp felt like entering another world.
Clark kept glancing at his surroundings, then at the towering skyline growing closer.
The job wasn’t his dream goal — PR wasn’t investigative journalism — but it was stable.
And LuthorCorp… well. Everyone knew it paid well.
Clark smoothed a hand down his tie as he approached the sidelines, ready to cross the street. He checked himself in a car’s review mirror and tried to steady the flutter of nerves in his chest.
LuthorCorp’s glass towers loomed overhead, gleaming in the morning light.
Clark squared his shoulders, grabbed his briefcase, and headed toward the front entrance.
The lobby was a cathedral of ambition. Vast, echoing, and chilled by silent, powerful air conditioning. The floor was a sheet of dark marble so pristine Clark felt a pang of guilt for the scuff on his best dress shoes.
People moved through the space with a swift, purposeful gait, their faces neutral, their conversations hushed and transactional. He felt the weight of a hundred invisible assessments as he crossed to the vast, crescent-shaped reception desk.
"Good morning” he said, his voice sounding too warm, too Kansas, in the sterile silence. "I'm Clark Kent. I'm starting today in Public Relations.”
The receptionist, a woman with a helmet of perfect blonde hair and a smile that didn't reach her eyes, nodded.
"One moment, Mr. Kent” Her fingers flew across a holographic keyboard. "I'll need your ID for your access pass. You're on the list for a welcome briefing with Mr. Luthor at ten.”
"Mr. Luthor?” The name came out as a surprised breath. "The CEO?”
"It's a new initiative for all new department heads” she explained, her tone implying it was an initiative she found inefficient. "He likes to… set the tone.”
Before Clark could formulate a response, a voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a scalpel, cut through the ambient hum of the lobby from behind him.
"A policy whose ROI is yet to be determined. But one must occasionally indulge in the theater of personal touch.”
Clark turned.
Lex Luthor stood a few paces away, holding a sleek, black tablet. He was a little shorter than Clark, but his presence seemed to fill the vast space, drawing the very light and sound toward him. The photos in the business section did him no justice. They captured the sharp planes of his face, the calculating intelligence in his pale green eyes, but they missed the raw, magnetic intensity that radiated from him. His gaze swept over Clark, a swift, comprehensive assessment that felt less like being seen and more like being scanned.
His eyes lingered for a fraction of a second longer than was strictly professional, a flicker of something, maybe curiosity, hopefully, to Clark, appraisal, in their depths.
"You're Kent,” Luthor stated. It wasn't a question. He took a step closer, and Clark caught a faint, clean scent of sandalwood and ozone. "The freelancer. Your campaign for the Metropolis Children's Hospital was… sentimentally effective. A 27 percent increase in donations is nothing to scoff at, even if it was built on a foundation of emotional manipulation.”
Clark felt a prickle of defensiveness, but he held his ground, meeting that piercing gaze.
"I prefer to think of it as telling a true story in a way that moves people to help, Mr. Luthor.”
Luthor's lips curved into a slow, razor-edged smile. It was a dangerous expression, but undeniably captivating.
"Semantics, Mr. Kent. Storytelling is simply the most elegant form of persuasion. And persuasion is the engine of commerce.” He glanced at his watch, a movement so fluid it was like a predator uncoiling. "My office. Ten o'clock. Don't be late. I have a particular… aversion to wasted potential.”
He didn't wait for a reply. He simply turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the marble, a man so assured of his own gravity that he expected the world to orbit around him.
Clark stood rooted to the spot, the temporary access pass cold and plastic in his suddenly damp hand. The receptionist handed him a map, her face impassive. He didn't see it. All he could see was the ghost of that sharp, interested look in Lex Luthor's eyes, and all he could feel was the unsettling, thrilling sense that the ground had just shifted irrevocably beneath his feet.