a great deal of love

Lucius Verus

like an act of god: An emperor’s favor is no favor at all.

soft to the touch: Everything that has been taken from Lucius has claw marks on it.

Clark Kent

beware of dog: No good deed goes unpunished. And your punishment comes in the form of Clark Kent.

look the other way: You don’t like Superman. You like Clark Kent even less. Clark, on the other hand, likes you a little more than he should.

the enormity of desire: Unexpectedly pregnant and with no idea who the father is, you take up Clark's offer to help you out.

Ultraman

Clark is the first person you tell.

He was the first friend you made when you moved to Metropolis. You had both happened to enroll for the same two week course of classes at a pottery studio before realizing the both of you were in over your heads. Clark with how he would accidentally destroy his admittedly beautiful projects while the pottery you made was truly the sort only a mother could love. It didn’t take long for the two of you to bond over your mishaps through shushed giggles. 

And somehow, he is now one of the most important people in your life. 

You don’t plan for him to be the first to know. It just sort of…happens. 

Two weeks have passed since you found out—a total of six pregnancy tests having been taken and a doctor’s appointment to confirm—and your decision hasn’t wavered since you saw the line on the test. 

You wanted it. 

The guilt of this want eats you alive. 

In all your daydreams about your future, being a mother is a constant. It isn’t a what-if but a when. 

The longing was easier to suppress when you were too busy with school and your then fledgling career, but as you settled into a routine, the longing manifested into a homesickness you knew made no sense. 

It was a common thing for people to say there was no right time to have a child, but there was certainly a wrong time to have one. While not ideal, you have a great job that and an even greater support system. Your lease will be up well before the due date, and you can afford to be choosy with the next place you live. 

What you don’t have is a name for the father of your child. 

Counting back from how far along you were—six weeks according to your doctor—you realized you have no clue who the father could be. Your friends had come to visit for the holiday weekend, and you had taken full advantage of the rare time where you were all in one place leading to back to back days of hazy memories. All you were left with was an ache between your legs, flashes of memories of hips pressed against your ass, a used condom or two in the trash of your hotel, and now, as you’ve come to find out, a baby. 

The thought of telling anyone makes your hands clammy and your throat close. Sleep has eluded you since the appointment with how much is going through your mind at all hours of the day. You are even beginning to think your nausea is stress related rather than pregnancy related due to how it never seems to cease. 

But you needed to tell someone, to relieve yourself of this constriction upon your heart. 

It is by pure chance Clark is the unlucky target to your oddly guilt-stricken confession. 

“I’m pregnant,” you say. 

His greeting dies in his mouth. He stands at your door for a full minute, completely silent, before dropping his bag and closing the door behind him. 

You won’t turn around. Tears poll in your eyes, and you try to focus on a smudge on the table instead of his approaching footsteps. 

Fuck. What is Clark supposed to say? He had to know you wouldn’t be telling him this if you weren’t keeping it. But the shakiness in your voice is hard to ignore and gives weight to the apprehension you are keeping tightly wound and buried underneath your bravado. 

“You’re pregnant?” he repeats quietly. 

You can feel him standing behind you. Sucking in a breath, you turn around and try for a watery smile. “Yeah,” you croak. 

His eyes drift to your stomach, and he spends a too long second staring at it. 

Your hand goes up reflexively. “It’s only a few weeks,” you say defensively. 

“And you want to…?” 

“Keep it,” you finish. 

Strangely, it is relief that shatters the careful neutrality he’s been trying to maintain. You have no time to wonder as to why for Clark pulls you into a hug, rubbing his hand up and down your back. 

He’s trembling. 

“I’m scared,” you admit, voice small. “Terrified, really.” 

“You’ll be great,” he promises, pulling you closer. 

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry at his confidence. The fear weaving itself into a knot around your excitement slackens for a second. “And if I’m not?” 

“You will be,” he says firmly. “I’ll be with you every step of the way.” 

-

You don’t remember the birth. 

However, you do remember the weight of your daughter on your chest. 

She was so small and so fragile. You could not believe such a tiny thing could hold your soul between tight, impossibly small fingers. 

You traced her features, running a gentle finger over her lips. She’s perfect. You didn’t know you could make something so perfect. 

“She’s beautiful,” Clark whispered. 

His eyes were soft with a level of devotion that surprised you even through the haze of painkillers. He reached out to touch a gentle thumb between her brows. 

Twelve hours had passed since she came, and the early stages of sunrise began to paint the sky a warm orange. Your labor had been relatively quick at under six hours. 

You had thirty five weeks, four days, and six hours to prepare for her and it was not nearly enough to prepare you for how overwhelming everything felt after labor. Your emotions were unbearably close to the surface, and each warred for dominance while you held her. 

Your mother had been your rock during your labor. It was only when you had your baby in your arms did you look up to see your mom focused on you, worry and pride watering her eyes and realize that as much as you loved your mother, it did not compare to how much she loved you. 

As you looked down at your baby, tiredness fanning out the flames of adrenaline, you understood with a jolt that your heart was no longer your own, for better or for worse. She existed in place of it.

“She looks just like you.” 

Though too early to really tell, relief washed over you at the confirmation. Your love for your daughter was unconditional, but you would be remiss to not acknowledge how scared you were of looking into her face and finding a stranger looking back at you. 

“I can’t believe she’s here,” you murmured, trailing a finger over her hair. It was dark and thick already, the ends curling as it dried. 

The source of your heartburn it seemed. 

“Can you believe they’re just going to let me take her home?” 

The thought of being able to walk out of this place with her felt irresponsible on the hospital’s behalf. You would be on your own with her, and wasn’t that just bizarre to think about.  

Your mom had gone to your apartment to do what she could to make the transition easier, but you still could not fathom this new life that was now yours. What were you supposed to do when you got home?

Clark laughed, his wonder matching yours. The sound made her open her eyes. She looked confused until she found the source of the noise. She focused on Clark, unusually alert as she took him in. 

You patted the space next to you. Her eyes tracked Clark as he sat down, and you passed her into his arms. 

Pressing your cheek against his bicep, you watched as she looked up at Clark. You followed her gaze to see his reddened eyes blinking back tears. Tears slipped out anyway, and he wiped away the ones collecting on his jaw with a congested sniffle. 

Without thinking, you leaned up and kissed Clark’s cheek. Salt splashed against your tongue when you ran it over your lips. 

“Thanks for being here,” you whispered against the skin. 

It was strange to see him holding your heart so lovingly, so delicately as if he feared her. And you wondered if she was something to be feared.

You never thought love to be scary. But as Clark’s hands trembled, Newton’s third law of motion crossed your mind.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. 

-

Inaya won’t stop crying. 

Exhaustions pulls at you despite the adrenaline her tears have sent shooting up your veins. You can feel the way your blood pounds at your temples. It’s not quite a headache, but it’s as unpleasant as one and only worsens as Inaya’s cries become more pronounced. 

She’s been fed, her diaper is clean, and you’ve been holding her for the past hour. Her airways are clear save for the tears, and she isn’t warm when you lay your hand against her forehead. You don’t know what else she wants. 

You sink to the floor, cradling her within your arms and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Her cries burrow underneath your skin and slither down to the very marrow of your bones, hollowing out what’s left and planting despair so it can root deeply within you. The sound of her sobs is a physical thing, and you ache with how desperately you wish you could strangle it. 

Her breath catches and that shaky little hiccup shreds the tenderest part of you. The tightening of your chest is jarring, enough to take your breath away for a moment. 

Motherhood has clearly not taken to you. 

It’s been ten weeks since you’ve taken her home. The adjustment has been brutal even with the help of your friends and family. Your mother had been with you until last week before she flew back home after convincing from Clark, and you feel her absence keenly.

How the fuck did anyone do this? 

You don’t think you are a person anymore. You’re more a failure than a mother these days. The title is new enough to be discarded, you think. 

Something is wrong with you. It seems like every mom out there has been able to seamlessly give up their freedoms to be at the beck and call of their child. You can barely tell what it is Inaya needs or wants much less anticipate those desires. 

And you should be able to. All you do to fill your days is be with Inaya. You should be able to read her. You should know what she needs before she has a chance to begin crying. 

“What’s wrong, sinha?” you whisper, blinking back tears.

Her wails do not soften despite how you rub her back or hum soothingly at her. Her face is screwed up with misery, and you desperately wish you knew its source. 

(You wish you could pass her to someone else. To someone who knew what to do.)

You almost wish you could place her back in your womb. In there, she was safe. Happy. Well cared for with what you now know to be less effort on your part than this moment. You would take the months of Clark’s hovering and exceeding overprotectiveness over this. At least then, motherhood was mostly optional. 

The door creaks open and you’re clutching Inaya to your chest, arms protectively over her before you see that it’s Clark. Your muscles loosen once you realize. 

He’s dressed as Superman. His hair sticks up as if he’s recently run his fingers through it. You don’t know why that small imperfection almost makes you laugh.

His face is too shadowed for you to see his expression, but you figure it isn’t a good one by how he shuffles at the entrance. “I could hear her a few blocks over,” Clark admits, sucking in a breath sympathetically. 

“Is it that bad?” you groan, resting your head against the crib. 

He sucks in a sympathetic breath. “Not more than any other baby up right now,” he reassures you. “I’ll be back.”

You don’t know how much time passes before Clark reappears. He’s changed into some sweats. Water drips from his hair and onto his bare chest so he’s somehow managed to shower without you noticing. 

You are no stranger to sleep deprivation these days, but you weren’t aware it would make you so mindless as to not hear Clark showering. 

A chill settles over you. If you didn’t hear the water running, what else are you missing? 

You look down at Inaya and her abject misery. An apology isn’t enough for what a failure you are at this.

Clark walks over and crouches with his arms held out. His hands change direction when he gets a good look at you. Instead of taking Inaya from you, he lowers himself further and slips an arm behind you and picks the both of you up. He uses his other hand to brush away the tears you don’t feel weighing your lashes down. 

“Good gosh,” he mutters. “You look terrible.” 

That earns a delirious laugh out of you. For a journalist, Clark sure had a way of sticking his foot in his mouth at times. 

“Surprisingly, I feel worse than I look,” you agree, patting Inaya’s back. 

He winces  apologetically as he takes you to your room. “You’re still beautiful.” 

“Tear and drool stains and all?” 

He nods, serious. “Dark circles too.” 

“Oh wow, did you hear that, Inaya? Dark circles too.”

Her crying ceases for a moment and you imagine it’s her pausing to pass judgement before her congested whining resumes. You wipe away at the drool accumulating at the corners of her mouth, a defeated sigh escaping you. 

Clark takes her from you once he sits down on the bed with you next to him and cradles her. She’s minuscule in his arms, and it takes a moment for him to properly adjust her. It doesn’t matter for her tears do not stop. Her hand reaches out to you, and you easily give her your finger, misery making a show out of the two of you. 

Clark studies her. His eyes glow briefly, the only source of light in the dark room. 

“She’s teething,” he says, curious.  

“What do you mean she’s teething? She’s barely even two months old,” you say, rubbing your eyes. 

“Some babies teeth early. It can cause fussiness and irregular sleep patterns,” he says as if reciting from one of those baby books he spent your pregnancy reading. 

“And she’s one of them. Of course she is,” you say, laughing incredulously. A tinge of hysteria sneaks it’s way in. You don’t even know whether you mean to be sarcastic or not. 

Shit, you are so bad at this. You don’t have anything prepared to deal with a teething baby. You thought you had at minimum a month more before it would be something you would need to worry about. 

What are you supposed to do? She’s too young for any pain relievers, and you don’t have any toys suitable for a teething baby. 

Clark sticks his finger in her mouth while you scrape at what feels are the dregs of your brain for some temporary solution. She immediately begins gnawing at the digit, grabbing his hand with her own. Her cries peter off until they’re only snuffles. 

The quiet left in her wake is jarring. 

Clark moves her, so he can free up his arm closest to you. You immediately melt into the comfort of him, burying your face into his chest. The faint smell of your body wash fills your lungs alongside the petrichor that sticks to Clark no matter what he does. 

You don’t realize how tight you’ve wound yourself up until you’re allowed this reprieve. You don’t know why you let Clark convince you that between the two of you, you could handle a newborn. Even with his help, you feel both out of control and trapped with all that the baby needs. Your brain has completely rewired to always have Inaya in the back of your mind, and the added mental exhaustion means there is no chance at rest for you. 

“I’m not cut out for this,” you confess. His skin is warm against your lips. Your lids feel heavy, and you struggle to keep them open. “I didn’t even think to check if she was teething.”

He tightens his arm around you and rests his chin atop of your head. “Hey, now we know. We can figure out what to do next. It’ll be okay,” he soothes, patting your hip. 

You should be cherishing this time, but you can’t wait until Inaya can sleep through the night. 

Clark squeezes you as if sensing the direction your thoughts are heading. 

“You have me. You always have me,” Clark says softly. He’s been unwavering in this since the moment he found out about Inaya. You will not hold him to this promise, but the repeated confirmations are nice to hear. 

You fall asleep to Clark pressing a kiss against your temple. 

-

Inaya is a happy baby. 

She smiles these days more often than she frowns. Her first giggle happens far before the timeline given to you by her doctor, and you can’t get your phone out fast enough to capture her second laugh. 

Those first few weeks were rough. So much so that your brain has muffled the memories of the tears and sleeplessness and the all encompassing dread that had made a home in the space between your heart and ribcage during that time. It is still wickedly hard, but it’s different now that you have a few more hours of sleep in your tank each night: the constant care, having to live your life in two to three hour increments if you’re lucky, the worries that keep accumulating the moment your mind has a chance to wander, and so much more. But when you think of the fact that your heart now exists outside of your body, it seems like the expected trade off for something so important. 

She’s content with watching you to pass the time. There are many nights where you wake and find her staring at you, eyes unblinking as your own struggle to focus. Most times when you catch her like this, she is simply awake for no reason at all. It strikes you as peculiar, but you are no expert in babies so you shrug it off. 

What you know is that it makes your heart squeeze tight that she’s just as happy to look at you as you are to look at her. 

The days are long but somehow, in the blink of an eye, she’s four months old. 

Clark is enchanted with her. He’s cut back on his work and spends most of his time helping you raise Inaya. 

He’s been with her as long as you have, shushing you and urging you to sleep whenever she wakes up crying in the early hours of the morning. In the mornings when the sun has just crested the sky, he’ll carefully strap her into a baby carrier and wander the sky, lips pressed against the side of her head as she takes in the world around her. 

You don’t know if you could have done this without him. 

Clark carries her now, adjusting her weight and pointing at the package of raspberries on the table. 

“See this one? It’s a raspberry,” he says. Then he gently lifts up one of her arms and shakes it. “Can you say raspberry?” 

“I think it’s a bit early for her to start talking,” you say, holding out your hands.

Clark carefully deposits Inaya into your arms albeit reluctantly. “She’s met all her milestones early, so maybe this will be another one,” he says, poking her nose. 

She giggles and ducks her head under your chin to avoid him. Her hair ties dig into your skin, and you push her back to see what Clark’s managed to do for her hair. 

“You’re getting better,” you compliment, mildly impressed with how he’s wrangled her hair into pigtails. The parting is even as well. 

He grins, pleased. “You think so?”

“Pretty soon you’ll be on permanent hair duty,” you say, smoothing down a baby hair. You smile at her, twirling a pigtail around your finger. “Isn’t that right, sinha?” 

She grins at you, drool slipping out of the corner of her mouth.

“How do I still find you so cute?” you sigh, wiping it away. She bounces in your lap, arms flailing and almost knocking you on the chin. “You’re just the cutest girl in the world, huh?” 

“Looks like you finally have some competition,” Clark says, pushing a plate of cut up apples towards you. He has a slice in his mouth so his words come out muffled. 

You accept them, moving Inaya to your other side so she can’t try to grab at a piece. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears, momentarily robbing you of the thoughts you should be having. 

You busy yourself with cleaning Inaya’s mouth. “Does the drool knock off some points?” 

Clark lets out an amused huff. He rounds the table to stand in front of you. He looks at you and then Inaya, tapping his chin thoughtfully. 

“That hard to decide?” you ask flatly. 

“If you could see what I’m seeing right now, you would have a hard time too,” he argues, dropping his hand to his hip. 

“Personally, I think drool beats spit up any day.” 

“You’d be surprised.” 

An alarm goes off, startling all three of you. You twist around to grab your phone, shutting it off. The time jerks you into motion, hefting Inaya onto your hip. 

“Ready for the park?” you ask Inaya. 

She babbles something and holds out her hand. You let her grab at your pointer finger and shake it. 

Typically on Thursdays, a cleaner comes courtesy of your parents, and you try to make yourself scarce when they do. Clark had offered to take over the costs, but your parents and you had insisted he was already doing more than anyone else would be doing in his position. Eventually, he dropped it but stipulated you still let him grocery shop and cook for you despite the many offers from your friends. 

(With so much love surrounding you and Inaya, you cannot be regretful of the choice you did not make. A choice you hesitate to say you should have made even in the deepest recesses of your mind. This isn’t bad. Sometimes, motherhood takes longer to anchor itself. 

You love Inaya. You will love being a mom. 

There is no other alternative.)

Plastering on a smile, you bring her hand to your lips to kiss her palm. Clark grabs her bag and yours while you settle Inaya in her stroller. She doesn’t fuss as you strap her in and smiles when Clark appears over your shoulder to look at her. He sticks his tongue out at her which she mimics. 

The walk to the nearby park doesn’t take long. It’s fairly empty save for a few families. You and Clark take a lap around the park. Inaya naps as the two of you talk over her. Clark’s talking with his hands, eyes bright and cheeks flushed from the sun. Nostalgia tugs at your gut. You already miss this moment, and you’re living it. 

His voice trails off when he notices the wistfulness softening the smile on your face into something with less teeth. It’s hard to push down the wave of affection you feel for him and so you pivot, hoping to dry the potential onslaught of tears beginning to warm your face. 

“I have to start looking at daycares,” you say suddenly. 

Truth be told, you should’ve started searching months ago, but time got away from you. In seemingly a blink of an eye, Inaya isn’t a newborn anymore and your maternity leave will be ending before you know it. You have two more months as well as what your company calls a family transition period. It’s not the worst thing in the world if you can’t find a daycare immediately, but you would like to have the option. 

Clark jerks his head to look at you, confused. “I can hire a nanny to come and watch her while you work,” he says, frowning. 

You immediately dismiss that with a shake of your head. “If I do that, I’m paying for it. Also, daycare will be good for her socially,” you say thoughtfully. 

You look around. Maybe you should ask one of the moms here for any recommendations if they have any. 

When you voice this, Clark shuts you down without letting you finish. He’s almost scandalized. 

“She’s not planning to vaccinate her baby,” Clark mutters, eyeing the woman you walked past. Her loud conversation on the phone, complete with over the top hand gestures, has not escaped the two of you. He nods his head to another mom. “And she has spent more time on her phone than watching her kid. Do you think those are people you want to take any sort of parenting advice from?”

“Asking for recommendations is not advice,” you argue but his point has been made. 

You are the first of your friends to have a child so in many ways, you feel completely alone. You haven’t made any mom friends nor have you truly tried to do so. It’s much easier to lean on Clark and stay within the bubble you have created. 

“I need to start going out more,” you groan, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. The realization stings. Your friends have been patient with your cancellations, but everyone has a limit and you fear you are approaching yours. “I’m becoming boring.” 

“You’re not boring,” Clark says automatically. “And you went out last week.” 

“For an hour.” And you had spent that hour lunch talking about Inaya and watching as the light dimmed in Rumina’s eyes and yet, you couldn’t stop yourself. 

What did you even talk about before Inaya? What did you do before her? 

Clark slows his stride. “What about your place? Can’t they meet you there?” 

You had tried once a month earlier. It had ended in disaster from your point of view. It was one of the rare times Clark could not take Inaya for a handful hours due to work, but you thought you could make do. Amna had been incredibly overwhelmed and unsure of what to do with Inaya there. You were tenser than normal, and try as you might, you could not give Amna a fraction of the attention you should’ve given her.

You’re surprised he’s asking you this. He knows how much of a failure that night had been for you and had sat with you until you fell asleep, reassuring you that these things happened. He had been the one to gently bring you back to your new reality. 

You are in a different place than the people around you, and fuck if it doesn’t make you feel the loneliest you have ever felt. 

“No,” you sigh. “It’s so different now that I’m a mom. I feel like I don’t remember myself anymore, and it shows.” 

Clark shrugs. “They should understand. And if they don’t…” he trails off. 

“What?” 

He shrugs again. “I think good friends understand that your priorities shift once you have a baby.” 

“They get that.” You think they do. In an abstract way, at least. “But it’s much easier said than done, right?”

“It was easy for me,” he says simply. 

You stumble, and your heart follows suit. Clark steadies you with a hand on the small of your back, making the fluttering in your stomach worse. 

“Everything’s easy for you,” you deflect lightheartedly, smiling up at him. 

“When it comes to you, it is,” he says, serious. 

You want to believe him. 

So you do. 

-

Three weeks ago, you asked your mom if she ever hated being a mother.

Years ago, she would have vehemently said no. But now, she looked at you thoughtfully, weighing the words in her mind before she spoke. 

“Sometimes,” she started carefully. “Being a mom takes everything from you and asks for more. And when you have nothing more to give, somehow, you find a way to give more. I lost a lot being a mom. My freedom, my sense of self, my ability to be. I still worry about you and your brother all the time.”

Your heart lurched at her honesty. She didn’t waver, only uttering the truth she knew down to her bones. 

Guilt must have been emanating from you for your mom smiled. 

“I love being a mom, your mom, more than anything. It is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and it is the most rewarding. You will be doing Inaya a disservice if you think you need to love each and every moment of motherhood. Moms already have so much expectation on their shoulders. Do not add to it because you think you are supposed to feel a certain way,” she said, cupping your cheek. Her expression softened, and you were thrown back to the moment when you first realized you knew your mother was the most beautiful woman alive. She was older now, so much so you ached with the reality she would not be with you for as long you’d like. But she was still the most beautiful woman you had ever seen. “So much of it will test your limits, and it’s normal to hate it at times. You love Inaya. I know you do. More than I think you realize you do. But you can still resent the things motherhood forces upon you. It doesn’t make you a bad mom, ammu.” 

You had nothing to say. 

Instead of relief, dread filled you. Because your mom was wrong. You knew exactly how much you loved Inaya. 

And you worried to what ends would you let this love take you. 

Not for your sake but for hers. 

-

Everyone thinks Clark is the father. 

He sits there sourly as Gemma, the daycare director, goes over the costs. You listen intently, writing down some notes on the pamphlet given to you when you first arrived. You don’t know if you will send Inaya to daycare just yet, but you want to keep your options open. 

Gemma’s eyes keep flicking to him and to Inaya in his lap. She was flustered when Clark appeared behind you and made more flustered by your disgruntlement any time he asked a question on the tour. Nothing was good enough for him and while exceedingly polite to Gemma, you could read between the lines of his questions. Investigative journalist truly is his bread and butter. 

 “You’re mommy’s twin, huh,” Gemma says, reaching over and pinching Inaya’s cheek gently between her fingers. The genial look Clark is going for tightens, and he carefully angles Inaya away from her. “Maybe the next one will look like Mr. Kent, hm?” 

Your smile freezes. 

Before you can refute the assumption, Clark laughs and shakes his head. “Inaya’s more than enough for us right now.”

Her mouth pinches, unconvinced but she doesn’t push. She peers down at Inaya and points at her eyebrows. “Looks like you got daddy’s eyebrows though.” 

The rest of the appointment passes without any other interruption, and you shake her hand when you leave. You lie through your teeth that you will give her a call, pamphlet crumpled in your hand by the time you buckle your seatbelt. 

Clark puts the car in reverse, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye as he braces his hand against your headrest and looks behind. 

“Thoughts?” he says neutrally. 

Your answer is a deep sigh and an arm thrown over your eyes. “My gut says no,” you say begrudgingly. 

He doesn’t say ‘I told you so’ but the air thickens with how it rolls off of him. He’s merciful in that he moves on and talks about other things, making sure to include Inaya in every other sentence. 

The drive is a short one, and soon, you’re unbuckling Inaya from her carseat. She smiles as soon as she sees your face, and you can’t help but kiss her.  

Clark carries her inside the restaurant, pointing at the different fish in the fish tank while you wait. He over enunciates the names and colors of them, waiting patiently as she makes an attempt to repeat them before moving onto the next one. 

You can’t stop thinking about the director’s mistake as you’re led to a table. By the envious looks the hostess keeps shooting you, you’re sure many think the same. You don’t do much to dissuade the assumption due to the time constraints usually imposed upon you whenever the topic comes up, but perhaps you should start shutting them down before they can begin. 

“I’m sorry the director…said that,” you say, smoothing your hands over the napkin draped over your thighs. Your voices comes off strained, and your throat spasms when you try to continue speaking, so you simply press your lips together until the agitation rattling your heart subsides. 

Clark doesn’t bother to feign confusion. He bounces Inaya on his thigh, hand braced against her stomach protectively. “I don’t mind. It’s easier to agree, anyway,” he says with a shrug. 

“Thank you,” you say, the words useless on your tongue. “I know it’s not exactly easy to hear.” 

An unreadable emotion flits across his face. Within a heartbeat, however, he’s smiling. Any earlier unease is washed away and he looks as he always does. 

“It’s not the worst assumption that’s been made about me. Not even close,” he jokes, letting Inaya play with his fingers. 

You appreciate the out he gives you. But you can’t keep taking advantage of his kindness in these smaller moments too. 

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to be the one to take on the dad role for her. You already do so much for us,” you exhale, leaning back into the booth. 

He reaches over the table and lays his hand out, palm upward. You unclench your hand place it atop of his, squeezing once. 

“Hey, I’m not doing anything I don’t want to be doing,” Clark assures you. He looks down at Inaya who is focused on tearing apart a paper napkin. His entire being softens as he looks at her and not for the first time do you feel impossibly lucky to have a man such as Clark helping you out. He’s opened his entire heart for Inaya and somehow finds more love to give. “I’m the lucky one. Really.” 

He’ll always mean this, you realize. Clark is incapable of insincerity and for as long as you need him, he’ll let you take from him until you’re satisfied. 

“I feel like lucky might be a stretch,” you say, half-joking. Your smile is frayed, and you try to reel in the sickening hope that’s begun to take flight within you. 

“I’m being serious!” 

It’s ridiculous, sometimes, how good of a person Clark is. How he manages to twist helping you take care of your baby into being a favor to himself is beyond what your brain is capable of rationalizing. 

“You’re like the essence of a Hallmark card personified, you know that?”

“The essence?” he repeats. He shakes his head, taking a bite out of the bread the waitress dropped off earlier. “I’m taking it as a compliment.” 

“It is a compliment,” you stress, taking the torn napkin pieces from Inaya. “You know I’m bad with words.”

“You’re not that bad.” Then he reconsiders with a wince. “Well.” 

“Well,” you mock, giving Inaya a new napkin. 

“Sorry, that wasn’t very nice.”

“But you’re not taking it back,” you point out. 

Clark stutters. It worsens when you give him your full attention, and he gives up by stuffing the roll into his mouth. 

It makes Inaya laugh to see his cheeks so puffed out, and she slaps the table as her giggles fill the air.

He makes a show of putting another piece in his mouth, and her giggles become louder. You grin, balancing your cheek on your hand as you watch them. 

The director’s words suddenly echo in your ear, and your focus diverts to Inaya’s eyebrows. 

They do look like Clark’s. 

-

You begin to notice a familiarity to Inaya when she reaches nine months old. 

She takes after you for the most part except for the shape of her lips and the slope of her eyebrows. As her features settle, your doubts of her being the result of a one night stand with a stranger begin to rise. 

At first, you convinced yourself this it was because she was the cure to the homesickness that had festered within you whenever you thought of your future. She had been familiar to you since the moment you laid eyes on her, as if some part of you you never realized you was missing had slotted itself back into its rightful place. 

(It was disconcerting to feel that connection. Your life had not necessarily snapped into place, but the sudden shift was a shock to your system.)

You become less convinced as the days pass. 

Clark is trying to introduce persimmons to Inaya and has a spoonful of the almost syrupy fruit to her mouth. She teases him by feigning opening her mouth before closing it dramatically the moment he tries to feed it to her. 

His frustration is apparent but despite it, he laughs as she laughs. There’s a smear of persimmon across her cheek and as you round the table, you notice a similar, albeit more dried, streak of persimmon cuts across his cheek as well. 

The words catch in your throat as you take in the two of them. 

Inaya resembles Clark. 

Her mouth curls at the corners as his does and while her brow shape still has room to change, the shape of it is eerily reminiscent of Clark’s. Her hair has begun to darken but it hasn’t quite grown out enough for you to determine her curl pattern. 

“Will you only eat if it’s mama feeding you?” Clark asks her, exasperated. 

She babbles something out that sounds suspiciously like a ‘yes’. 

“You don’t do the train noises right,” you say, stealing the spoon from him. “Naya, say ‘ah’.” 

She keeps her mouth shut until you do the awaited noises. You shoot Clark a smug look who holds his hands up in defeat. 

You both watch as Inaya decides if she likes persimmons or not. She eyes the next spoonful but allows the second bite with narrowed eyes. 

Clark finishes the other half of the persimmon in one bite. The juice leaks out of the corner of his mouth, and his cheeks bulge out slightly as he chews. 

Laughing, you use your thumb to wipe it away. “Looks like there’s more than one baby in this household,” you joke, licking off the juice. It’s tinged with the salt from your skin. 

His pupils blacken the blues of his eyes as he watches your tongue swipe it away.

Caught off guard at the raptness of his attention, you miss Inaya’s mouth entirely and nearly drop the fruit onto the floor. She whines, slapping at her table. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologize to her, rerouting the spoon back to her. 

She determines she’s had enough after two more bites and starts turning her head when you offer her another bite. Clark intercepts and takes the spoon into his mouth. 

You try not to look at him. 

The tension isn’t new, but it rears its head at the wrong times. With so much on your respective plates, neither of you have braved an attempt at a conversation. 

“Rex said he’d be able to take Inaya for the night tomorrow,” Clark says conversationally. His attention on you is anything but casual, however. 

Rex is one of four people Clark trusts with your daughter, and you almost don’t count your mother in that list because if you can’t trust your mom with Inaya, who can you? 

You have learned it is easier to go along with Clark’s approved list of babysitters than convince him otherwise. 

“Is he sure?” you ask dubiously.

Clark nods. “He seemed sure. And he said Joey could use the playtime.” 

“And is Superman sure he can take off for the night?” 

He cracks a smile at that. “Guy said the city would be better off without me, so take that as you will.” 

You look at Inaya who’s sucking at her hands. You already miss her, and you have another twenty four hours before you drop her off. 

Leaning over, you pull her hand from her. Her face goes from placid to disgruntled in less than a heartbeat and in that split second, all you can see is Clark. 

Your breath stills until an ache settles beneath your chest. 

You’re seeing things. 

You must be. 

-

The paternity test feels like a breech of trust but you cannot shake the unease that has made a home in your gut. 

It is likely your imagination running wild and filling in gaps that don’t exist. With the little information you have, your subconscious is forcing you to make sense of it within the constrains you do have. 

It isn’t possible, you decide.You are certain you and Clark haven’t slept with each other. And that should be the most damning evidence against the foreboding feeling searing your gut. 

Inaya is likely mirroring Clark. She interacts with him nearly as much as she interacts with you. It would be weirder if she didn’t pick up some of Clark’s mannerisms especially at this age. 

Taking a DNA sample from Clark had been relatively easy but finding a way to test it proved to be much harder. It had taken many bribes and appeals to logic for Robot #4—or Gary as he preferred—to agree to do the test. In the end, Gary hadn’t needed your sample and was able to upload the results onto a shared drive. 

He had left no message with the upload. Given his aversion to displays of emotion, the anxiety that had plagued you over the last seventeen hours pulled back as if in low tide at the lack of fanfare. The tension is still present but much less pronounced. 

You open the file and scroll, ignoring most of the jargon and pictures. He’ll be upset the next time you see him when you won’t be able to provide any compliments for his thoroughness for him to preen about. 

Your entire body ceases to function when you get to the page you need. 

It’s a 99.99% match.

-

Clark has the gall to be surprised. 

“How did you…?”

His apartment is utilitarian. There is nothing but floor between the two of you as Clark reads the file you’ve printed out. It’s ridiculous to be standing in his living room, his cape haphazardly thrown somewhere in the kitchen while you try to look anything other than devastated. 

You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve come to Clark’s since Inaya. There had been no need with Clark practically moving in the first time you called him, overwhelmed with what was now demanded of you.

But you couldn’t hold this conversation in Inaya’s home. You owed her a space devoid of your problems. 

You expected a bewildered and immediate denial. You expected a rapid fire of other possibilities for the result. You expected him to look anything other than guilty. 

“How?”

It’s the only thing you can manage to get past the lump in your throat. 

The question hangs heavy between you. 

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” Clark admits, paper crumpled in his hands. “That weekend your friends came to visit…Rumina gave you some pill at the club, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t just leave you alone when you were like that.” 

You frown, trying to recollect your scattered memories of that weekend from a year ago. Clark hadn’t been invited, so there would be no reason for him to be there. 

He looks up, running his tongue over his teeth as he chooses his words. “You weren’t in your right mind,” he says carefully. 

You don’t remember what Rumina gave you, but you haves a vague idea of what sort of high it evoked in you.

“But you were,” you snap, heart hammering in your chest. 

Clark shakes his head, chewing on his cheek. “No, I wasn’t,” he says, voice roughened. “I wasn’t, because it was you. If any other person acted like you did, I would’ve been able to hold back.”

“I don’t believe that,” you say angrily. It’s such bullshit. You can’t believe he’s trying to pin this on you. “You’re Superman. You don’t—you don’t—”

You can’t say it. You can’t fucking say it. 

Your voice thins until it is nothing, and all you can do is try to wet the dry patch that’s accumulated in your throat. 

If you name it, the threads holding you together will snap. And you don’t know what you’ll have left, what pieces you’ll be able to scavenge back, and what pieces will no longer have a home within you. 

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to look at me like that?” 

His voice cracks. He’s on his feet now, eyes frantic as he looks at you, begging for some solace you cannot give him.

You won’t.

“Oh fuck off.” 

Did Clark follow you around that weekend? How could you not notice? 

No matter how hard you try to find Clark in your foggy memories, you can’t get him to appear with any clarity. The aftermath is all you have, and it does nothing to help. 

“You kissed me and I couldn’t,” and he chokes out a tight laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, “I couldn’t stop you.” 

I couldn’t stop myself is what he means to say. 

You can’t take in a full breath with how tight your chest has gotten. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t who Clark is. 

(This isn’t who Superman is.)

Something inside you disappears. The void it leaves behind hurts.

“You always knew.” You swallow. It’s as if glass shards have embedded themselves into the soft skin of your throat, shredding the flesh until all that remains is a mangled version of your voice as consolation. “You knew she was yours.” 

Clark’s expression says it all. 

“How could you—” 

Your voice breaks. You wipe at your eyes with the back of your hands, trying to take even breaths. Your heartbeat feels like it belongs to someone else, someone who knows what do next. 

“Were you going to tell me?” 

It’s stupid to ask, but you can’t help yourself. 

Clark runs a hand through his hair but can’t come up with an answer. He opens his mouth, lips shaping around the beginnings of an excuse, but he must find shame for he doesn’t finish. 

“If Inaya didn’t come from it, would you have ever told me?” 

He won’t meet your eyes. “You wanted a baby,” he says weakly. 

The implication threatens to unmoor you. 

“I think I should go,” you say eventually. The words tastes false on your tongue. 

Where do you go that he cannot follow? 

Clark is silent, suffocatingly so. He doesn’t move, and you don’t try to go around him.  You both know it’s an empty statement, the right thing to say but unrealistic. 

“She’s half-Kryptonian,” Clark says finally, pressing his fingers to the corners of his mouth. 

All at once, the rage slowly simmering in your veins is doused. Her too early milestones, her resilience against the sicknesses that seemed to plague the other babies at her daycare, Clark’s extreme reluctance to let anyone around. You don’t know how you let yourself become blind to the signs. 

“I don’t know how it will manifest in her,” he goes on, edging closer to you. “Controlling it is hard when you’re young.” 

He keeps talking, but his words bleed together. They’re meaningless. He knows that. But he keeps trying. 

You reach within yourself to search for your anger and when you can’t find it, you search deeper. The betrayal you hope to harness is slippery, slicking your fingers with something far worse. 

You think if you loved Inaya a little less, you would be a better mom.

But you don’t love Inaya less. You love her more than what should be humanly possible, so you are going to do the right thing. 

You let Clark drop the papers to reach for you. The pleas coming from him go in one ear and out the other. 

What use is guilt for him now?

He’s known the ending far longer than you. Perhaps an easing into this ending is what he thinks you need, that providing an excuse will alleviate you of your guilt. 

But you have no room for guilt, on either side.

You take his hand. It’s warm. It’s comforting. 

That hasn’t changed since your world ended. He’s as he always is. And you suppose you can take solace in that. 

“Let’s go home.”