Amid the chaos, Clark's arms were filled with gifts from well-meaning teens who talked over one another and clustered close. Everywhere he looked, there was a teen with bright eyes and a wide smile, many clutching thier phones for a photo or two. Clark allowed them close for about three minutes before he politely excused himself and flew away, ignoring their disappointment.

He checked every gift, high in the sky, making sure there was no tracking or dangerous item. Once they passed his checks, Clark flew to his apartment, making sure he wasn't followed. After touching up his latest story- writing was mostly editing, he found- he took a bath and got himself some dinner.

Only then, right before he was set to head off to bed, did Clark bother to go through the gifts. Most were drawings and handmade beaded bracelets that reminded him fondly of his own high school days. There was one Superman plushie that seemed handmade, which found its way to a shelf in his room, but the one gift that really stole the show was the very last one.

It was a scroll that, upon unrolling, melted Clark's heart. It was an ink painting of Superman saving an elderly couple. It was obviously from the fire a month ago at the Daily Planet, and the couple was someone very dear to the hero.

There, in bold, sharp black lines, was Clark carrying his Ma and Pa out of the fire, thier faces beaming with love. The artist made the artistic decision not to include the disaster he was rescuing them from, so the image depicted the hair midflight with his parents in each arm, the wing blowing thier hair and thier smiles wide and warm.

He would hang this in his fortress as soon as he flew by the farm to show his parents. He stared at it a little longer before rolling it up and hiding it in his closet behind a false wall.

Clark never suspected anything because there was a picture of Superman saving the Kents, taken by one Jimmy Olsen. He fell asleep that night thinking about how much his family would love it.

That was until the monthly Justice League meeting, where the painting came up in casual conversation after it concluded and members were in the process of leaving. Barry was just retelling his most daring rescue of a group of high schoolers at science camp, outrunning a flood to reach the children. He was also showered with gifts, but his favorite was the ink painting of him running with Iris in his arms from the time he got her out of a building with a bomb.

Clark doesn't normally interrupt a conversation- because his Pa raised him better than that- but he couldn't help it this time. "An ink painting? I got one of those from a teenager two weeks ago."

"I got one too," Hal yells from across the table. He's leaning his cheek back with his feet up. Clark knows Bruce is fighting every instinct in himself to not snap at Hal to take his feet off the table. "It was even in a fancy scroll."

"Mine too." Barry and Clark say at the same time. The three pause, exchanging confused looks. A throat clears on the other side of the room; the men turn to find Diana standing there holding a very familiar scroll.

It is the same fabric that Clark's was made of, the same dark material with the twisting green swirls around the painting. The painting itself was of Wonder Woman, sword held high above her, shield at her side, and right behind her, smiling upwards at her like the goddess she is, stands Steve Trevor.

Except Steve Trevor has been dead for over eight decades. There was no way a random high school had found a picture of him, because Diana had spent years looking for pictures of him and had only found two, both too blurry to really see his facial features. The government had destroyed nearly all records of him when Steve became a part of a secret task force in WWII and couldn't afford to have him linked back to the USA.

This meant the gift giver was someone who had gone out of their way to find Steve and knew that he was someone special to Wonder Woman. Which meant this person also knew that the people they had painted for the other members weren't a wonderful accident but a deliberate choice to use thier family members.

"This just became a risk to our loved ones," Diana announces, hand tight around the top of the scroll

Hal stopped rocking in his chair, swearing softly. "They painted my niece and nephew after I saved them from a fire. I did a few loops and tricks in the air to help calm them down, so a lot of photos of us were taken. I assumed that the artist just used one as a reference. I had no idea that....."

His words fade, but no one calls him out on it. Clark's own heart was hammering in his chest, worry and anxiety licking at his stomach in a nauseating manner. The knowledge that someone out there knew his parents and was even bold enough to taunt him by sending him a painting scared him more than he thought he was capable of feeling.

The four gathered around, retelling how they received their gifts and comparing notes for any similarities. The one thing that stood out was that the scroll was always dropped off when a group of teenagers was nearby, meaning the one behind it was either using teenagers or was a teenager themselves.

"Do you think we are the only ones being targeted?" Clark questions while tapping his arm. "Does anyone else in the League receive them?"

"I'll send out a message," Barry offers, typing away on his tablet. A beep goes off on everyone's communicators, reading out the message in code and calling all members back for an emergency briefing. "We need to make it quick. I don't like leaving Iris alone now that I know someone knows about her."

Turns out every one of the main seven had received a scroll, which made everyone uneasy. Almost everyone.

"Did you not like them?" Bruce doesn't pout, but it's the closest any of them have ever seen him get to. "He worked really hard on them."

"He? Batman, do you know who sent these?"

The Dark Knight leans back in his seat, as stoic as the day they met him, but everyone knows him well enough to see the emotions just beneath his skin. Bruce was preening.

"My son painted those."

"Robin?" Clark frowns. "Why did he not just give it to us at the Watch Tower?"

"No. My other son. He doesn't know he's my son, but I know that he's my son, and I'm watching him go out in the world and act like he's not my son."

"Hold on." Barry holds up an arm. "I got confused. Which Robin are we talking about?"

"None."

".....Then how is he your son?"

"He's my biological child, whom I had during a fling with his parents during thier visit to the Tower of London."

"Parent s. As in plural?" Hal cuts in, eyebrows raised.

"Yes." Bruce nods once, sharply, decisively. And because they know him so well, smugly, "They're ghost hunters."

"Right, so your biological son, who doesn't know he's yours because he was raised by the two-thirds of your threesome, painted pictures of our family members and gave them to us as gifts." Oliver summarized, with confusion clearly coloring his words. "Does that mean he knows our secret identities?"

"Yes."

"Did you tell him?" Clark asks

"No."

"Then how does he know?"

Bruce paused for a single second before he shrugged. "He takes after me. He painted one for me as well"

They watch the man eagerly pull a scroll from its strap on his utility belt, letting it roll open on its own. It's an awe-inspiring painting of Batman mid-swing over the city of Gotham, with the moon behind him. It has bold, thick lines that create a contrast with the white fabric.

It is a true masterpiece....were it not for the giant world written across the scroll.

"It says menace."

"Yes. He does not like Batman"

Diana very delicately stepped closer, placing one comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder. "He'll come around."

"He will not. He thinks Batman is a ghost and has attempted to kill me multiple times. He won't let me close enough to talk"

There is another heavier pause before Clark stands. "All in favor of helping Batman with his child, say aye."

"Aye." The word is echoed by six different voices.

Bruce rolls up his scroll. "That's nice."

"Don't worry, Batman. How hard can it be to track down an ink artist?"

Two years later, Clark is sobbing into his hands in the conference room that has been covered inch by inch with Ink paintings. Every new piece is a new taunt. A reminder that for all his superpowers, he had nothing on the mind of a very determined and petty Wayne. "Where is he? Where is that boy?"

"What is he!? A ghost!?" Hal flings blurry photos over the table, each with a teenage boy. He's never in focus, rarely facing the camera, and the only thing clear about him is his bright green eyes, which almost seem to glow. "How can none of us get a good picture of him!?