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The thing about the baby was that he wanted to help. He always did when he was regressed. Not that helping was so different from normal Clark. But normal Clark could go more than two steps without tripping on his own feet. And the dumb baby was starting to interfere with Bruce’s music.
Bruce scowled and yanked one earbud out. The whine was echoing down the corridor now, warbling in a way that probably shattered glass in lower orbit. That was Superman, in full-on toddler meltdown mode. Great.
He pressed pause on the brooding playlist—mostly old Nine Inch Nails and something Dick had once called “angsty lo-fi beats to overthink to.” He didn’t want to deal with this. He really didn’t want to deal with this.
But he was already on his feet.
The thing about Bruce was, as much as he liked to pretend he wanted nothing to do with the baby, he had made it his personal mission to make sure he was okay.
Clark had tried to help clear empty mugs from the conference room earlier. He dropped two. J’onn gently helped him pick up the pieces of shattered ceramic. He tried to make breakfast—kept getting eggshells in the omelets. Wally gently kicked him out after the third batch of crunchy eggs. Then he tried to clean, which somehow involved spilling an entire mop bucket across three rooms and sliding through it like a newborn deer in socks.
Each and every one ended with a pouty toddler who perked right up the moment someone offered him a hug.
But whatever just happened… Bruce winced. That scream was the you broke my feelings kind.
He turned a corner and spotted Diana making her way down the hall, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked up when she saw him and silently nodded down the hallway.
Diana was always the most tolerant of the dumb baby’s antics, even more so than J’onn. She’d let him cling to her like a koala all damn day. But now she’d been the one to remove him from her side.
“Do I want to know?” Bruce asked.
“No,” Diana said. “You don’t. I just need twenty minutes without him trying to help me.”
Bruce followed the sound like a bloodhound with a migraine.
There, curled up on the floor beside the gym’s entrance, was Superman. Or, rather, the wide-eyed, overgrown toddler version of him—puppy onesie and all—knees tucked in, cape twisted around his fist, red eyes swollen, sobbing like the universe had personally betrayed him.
Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair. There went his afternoon.
The sobs were quieter up close, hiccupy and raw. Clark didn’t look up when Bruce crouched beside him. Just hugged his knees tighter and curled a little further into himself, like maybe the floor would swallow him if he made himself small enough.
“Clark,” Bruce said flatly.
The only answer was a shudder and another tiny wail, muffled by a fistful of cape.
Right. Full regression. No point trying to talk to him like an adult—there wasn’t an adult here. Just a Kryptonian toddler with super-hearing, heat vision, and enough muscle to punch the moon in half, if he wasn’t too busy crying about not being allowed to carry the recycling.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Come on.”
Clark sniffled and raised his arms.
“I’m not going to hug you.”
A trembling lower lip appeared, quivering more and more.
“Don’t do that,” Bruce muttered. “You know I hate it when you weaponize the lip.”
The lip pushed further out.
Bruce growled under his breath and offered a hand. “Fine. Up.”
Clark hesitated, then slowly uncurled enough to grab Bruce’s fingers. His grip was careful, like he was afraid even that might be too much. Bruce felt it immediately—the way Clark’s strength stayed locked down, the way his shoulders were hunched like he was bracing for another gentle but firm no.
Bruce tugged him up and, against his better judgment, didn’t let go. Clark wrapped himself around Bruce, burying his face into his shoulder, coating the fabric of his sweatshirt in snot and tears.
Bruce patted Clark’s back firmly, lips pressed tight, “Okay, okay, enough of that.”
Clark stayed close after he was pushed away, still sniffling, still twisting his cape like it was the only thing holding him together.
“What happened?” Bruce asked, keeping his voice rough and casual, like he wasn’t already doing mental math on how many walls could survive a Kryptonian tantrum.
Clark shook his head. Then shook it again, harder, and a little broken sound slipped out, “Mess’d. Up,” Clark said, voice wobbling. “Tried help. Broke it. Diana said—said—” His face crumpled all over again. “Said maybe help later.”
Oh.
Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose. “She didn’t say it to be mean.”
Clark’s eyes went shiny again. “Always later.”
That one hit harder than Bruce expected.
He shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of how young and tired Clark looked like this—too big for the floor, too small for the world, wrapped up in a cape like it was a security blanket.
“You’re not… in trouble,” Bruce said, choosing his words carefully. “You’re just… bad at helping when you’re like this.”
Clark sniffed. “I try.”
“I know,” Bruce said, a little more quietly.
Clark’s voice dropped to that small, wrecked sound that made something ugly twist in Bruce’s chest.
“Can’t do nuffin’ right.”
Bruce went very still.
“That’s not true,” he said. “You’re just using the wrong mission parameters.”
Clark blinked at him, confused.
Bruce shifted into lecture mode because it was the only way he knew how to talk about feelings without combusting.
“When you’re like this, your fine motor skills are compromised. Your balance is off. Your impulse control is lower.”
Clark stared.
Then, very small: “I not bad?”
“No,” Bruce said, softer than he meant to. “You’re just small.”
Clark’s face crumpled again—but this time he leaned in, pressing his forehead against Bruce’s collarbone.
Bruce sighed and rested his chin briefly on top of Clark’s head.
“You know what you’re good at?” he muttered.
Clark shook his head.
“Staying with people,” Bruce said. “You make everyone feel better. You sit next to them. You hug them. You hand out those stupid stickers. You boost morale.”
Clark sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I help?”
“Yeah, you help,” Bruce said.
Clark thought about that, “I can do that?”
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Yes. That’s a task you can handle.”
Clark brightened, just a little. “Help you?”
Bruce froze.
He should say no.
He absolutely should say no.
Clark looked up at him with damp, hopeful eyes.
Bruce groaned. “Fine.”
Clark gasped like he’d just been given command of the Watchtower.
Within ten minutes, Bruce was listening to his music again, now with a grinning little Superman pressing various glittery stickers onto his sleeve, looking up expectantly until Bruce gave a thumbs up.