#dad clark

The Kent farmhouse felt warmer the next morning. Not because anything had changed. You still woke up with swollen eyes. Your chest still hurt every time you remembered the empty chair across from you at the restaurant. Tim still never called. Never texted. Never explained. But downstairs smelled like pancakes.

Kon leaned against the counter with crossed arms. Jon sat bside him, already glaring on your behalf before you even spoke. “Morning, sunshine,” Lois said softly. You tried to smile. It failed immediately. Martha opened her arms without hesitation. “Oh, sweetheart.” That was it. You buried your face in your grandmother’s shoulder while she held you tight.

And in a house full of Kents, heartbreak never stayed private for long. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing one of Kon’s oversized hoodies. Immediately, six pairs of eyes turned toward you. Clark stood by the stove in a Smallville High shirt and flannel, spatula frozen midair. Lois sat at the table with a coffee mug in hand. Martha Kent reached for you instantly from her chair while Jonathan Kent looked about five seconds away from marching to Gotham himself.

“I feel stupid,” you mumbled. Jonathan Kent snorted. “You are many things, kiddo. Stupid ain’t one of them.”

“You waited two hours,” Jon said, horrified all over again. “Two. Hours.” Kon looked ready to punch drywall. “Conner,” Clark warned immediately.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it loudly.”

“You heard nothing.”

Clark sighed.

Clark pointed the spatula at him. “No space.”

Lois slid a plate of pancakes toward you. “Eat first. Emotional devastation second.” You let out a weak laugh. Small victory. Jon perked up instantly like he’d won an award. “There it is,” he said. “That’s the sibling laugh. We’re making progress.” Kon dropped into the seat beside you and nudged your shoulder carefully. “For the record, if you want me to throw Tim into the moon, I’ve got the afternoon free.”

“Kon,” Lois warned.

“What? I said if.”

“You’re not throwing anybody into space.”

“Okay. Fine. Near space.”

Jonathan Kent muttered into his coffee, “I still say Bruce oughta tan that boy’s hide.”

“Dad,” Clark scolded. “What? If Clark stood somebody up for two hours when they were young, I would’ve buried him in chores until retirement.” Clark visibly decided silence was the safest option. You looked down at your plate. “Maybe he forgot.” The entire kitchen went quiet. Kon stared at you like you’d personally insulted him. Jon looked offended for you. Lois set her mug down carefully. “Honey.” “No,” Kon cut in sharply. “Absolutely not.” You blinked. Kon leaned forward, voice gentler now. “You don’t get stood up for two hours by somebody who forgot. Tim’s not stupid. He knew what he was doing.”

“That’s the problem,” Jon muttered.

Back in Gotham, the atmosphere inside Wayne Manor felt colder than usual. Tim sat in the cave, staring at the Batcomputer without really seeing it. Bruce stood behind him. Silent. Which was worse. “You embarrassed them publicly,” Bruce finally said. Tim closed his eyes. “I know.” “You ignored every call from Clark. From Lois. From Jon. Conner threatened to come to Gotham personally.” Tim rubbed both hands over his face. “I know.” Bruce’s voice hardened. “You made someone wait alone for two hours wondering why they weren’t enough.” That hit. Hard.

Clark finally sat beside you. His expression softened in that painfully kind dad way that always made emotions worse instead of better. “What Tim did hurt you,” Clark said quietly. “You don’t need to make excuses for him.” Your throat tightened again. “I just…” You swallowed hard. “I thought he liked me.” “He does,” Kon said immediately. Everyone looked at him. Kon rolled his eyes. “Please. I know Tim. That idiot’s been gone on them since day one.” “Then why would he do this?” you asked quietly. Nobody answered immediately. Because nobody had a good answer.

Tim flinched visibly. Because that was the exact thought that had been eating him alive since yesterday. Not enough. “I messed up.” “You did.” Bruce walked around the console until Tim finally looked at him. “When you care about someone, you do not disappear when things become inconvenient,” Bruce said. “You communicate. You show up.”

Tim looked exhausted. “I was trying to protect them.” Bruce stared at him for a long moment. “By hurting them first?” Tim had no answer. Bruce sighed quietly. “Clark was furious.” Tim winced immediately. “Is he still?” “Yes.” “…Fair.” Bruce crossed his arms. “You are going to apologize.” “I know.” “And you are going to accept the possibility they won’t forgive you.” That hurt worse somehow. Tim looked down at the floor. “I know.”

Back in Smallville, Jon and Kon had apparently decided sadness was illegal. Which explained why you were currently trapped between them on the couch under three blankets while watching terrible action movies. “This one’s objectively awful,” you informed them. Jon gasped dramatically. “How dare you.” “The shark has six rows of teeth, Jon.” “That makes him efficient.”

Kon handed you popcorn. “Don’t argue with the film scholar.” Jonathan Kent snorted from his recliner. “That movie looks dumber than a bag of hammers.” “It’s art, Grandpa,” Jon defended. Martha smiled softly from the kitchen doorway while Lois snapped a secret photo of all three of you tangled together on the couch. Clark caught her doing it. “They already saw you take six.”. “I’m documenting healing,” Lois whispered back.

From love.

You leaned your head against Kon’s shoulder. “Thanks,” you said quietly. Kon immediately softened. Jon threw an arm around you from the other side. “Always.” “You’re our sibling,” Kon added simply. “Nobody gets to make you feel unwanted.”

Clark looked at you carefully from across the room. “You know that, right?” Your eyes stung again. This time, not from heartbreak.

For the first time since yesterday, you laughed properly. Real laughter. The entire room relaxed at the sound. And hundreds of miles away in Gotham, Tim Drake stared at his phone for almost twenty straight minutes before finally typing:

Martha crossed the room and kissed the top of your head gently. “One boy disappointing you doesn’t change your worth, sweetheart.” Jonathan pointed toward the window dramatically. “And if it helps, your brothers have been arguing over who gets first punch rights.”

“I said emotionally,” Clark warned immediately. Kon looked offended. “I am being emotional.” Jon nodded seriously. “Violently emotional.”

Then, deleting it.

I’m sorry.

Because somehow, two words didn’t feel big enough for what he’d done.

You glanced at the time on your phone again.

9:12 PM.

Two hours. Two full hours.

The screen's glow lit your features in pale blue, too cold against the flushed warmth of your cheeks. You set the phone down again, face blank, hands numb. The candle on the table had burned low, a pool of wax edging toward the glass base. The white tablecloth, once pristine, now had the ghostly shape of a wine ring, a glass you'd barely touched.

The restaurant staff had stopped coming by a long time ago. They no longer asked if your “plus one” would be joining you. Instead, they just floated around you with gentle, pitiful glances—like circling a dying star. A waiter eventually brought out a complimentary slice of cheesecake, as if dessert could mend the rupture clawing its way through your chest.

You didn’t touch it.

You couldn’t.

The soft clink of silverware, the buzz of casual conversations at neighboring tables, the low hum of violins from the speakers overhead—it all blurred into one excruciating, echoing silence inside your head. Everyone had begun to notice. Whispering. You could feel their stares crawling up your spine like static. A couple in the corner exchanged a look. Someone snickered. Another person offered a frown and quickly looked away.

Your vision blurred—not from tears, not yet—but from the pressure in your skull. Your chest ached like a cracked rib, and every breath you took only seemed to deepen the fracture.

Tim said 7.

You had confirmed that morning.

He had sent a smiley face emoji.

You wore your best outfit. You’d gotten there early. You even practiced what you might say if the conversation hit a lull. You made yourself believe he cared.

You finally stood, the wooden chair dragging a soft, scraping whimper across the hardwood floor. You didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. You waved over the server, that one who had been kind without saying much, and forced a smile that felt more like a splintered mirror than anything real.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For being kind.”

You reached into your wallet and pulled out a crisp $100 bill. You laid it on the check, which you'd insisted on paying despite the fact your dinner had amounted to a lonely drink and a sympathy slice of dessert. The bill looked absurd now. Like trying to tip fate for being cruel.

“I... just didn’t want it to be for nothing.”

The server blinked, mouth parting with visible discomfort. “You don’t have to do that, seriously—”

“I know. But I want to.”

You left before your voice cracked.

---

The drive back to Smallville was long. Long in the way time feels when your stomach is empty, but your heart is heavier than stone. The countryside stretched into the dark, broken only by headlights and the occasional passing truck, its rumble trailing behind like ghost-thunder.

You didn’t cry. Not on the drive.

You couldn’t.

You clenched your jaw so hard your molars felt like they’d crack. You blinked up at the stars once when you hit a red light—silent, cold, beautiful things—too distant to understand heartbreak.

When you finally pulled into the Kent farmhouse driveway and stepped through the screen door, the smell of fresh bread and the soft glow of home hit you all at once.

Clark was there, of course. Sitting at the table in his flannel, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a mug of tea forgotten beside him.

“Hey, kiddo—”

His voice was soft. Warm. Home.

And that broke you.

Your bottom lip quivered, and before you could stop yourself, a sharp sob twisted out of your throat. You didn’t even take your shoes off. You stumbled toward him, legs weak with the weight of everything unsaid.

Clark caught you before you fell.

Strong arms wrapped around you like armor. Like gravity. Like a father who’d catch the entire sky if it meant protecting his child.

“Hey. Hey, I got you. I got you,” he murmured. He guided you to the couch, holding you close as the tears finally came, messy and unstoppable, soaking into his shirt.

You tried to speak, but all you could manage—between sobs and hiccups—were two cracked, breaking words:

“He... didn’t.”

Clark didn’t ask.

He didn’t have to.

---

Thirty-one minutes later, Superman cut through the stratosphere like a bullet of burning light. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, his cape snapping in the wind like a storm flag.

The Batcave was quiet until it wasn’t.

He landed with a deafening gust of air, rattling tech and flickering screens. Silence fell like ash. The Batfamily turned—Tim wasn’t even visible yet, but it didn’t matter.

Clark’s voice cut through the cave like a blade.

“Where. Is. Tim.”

Bruce turned toward the commotion, calm but visibly surprised. “Clark? What—”

“Now.”

Tim descended from the second floor, one bootstep at a time, confused. “Wait, what’s going on?”

But before he reached the final step, Clark was there. Towering. Seething. A breath away. His expression wasn’t just angry—it was betrayed. His eyes glowed faintly, dangerously, the threat of heat vision pulsing in the dark.

“You stood my kid up tonight.”

Tim blinked, caught like a deer in high beams. “Wait... they were serious? I thought they were joking.”

Silence.

It hit the room like a bomb.

Clark recoiled slightly. Not physically. Emotionally. Like someone had slapped him with a truth too ugly to absorb.

“You thought they were joking?”

His voice dropped. Deep and dark and cold. The kind of cold that kills in winter. The kind that lives in a father’s chest when his child is broken and bleeding and all he can do is witness it.

Jason’s jaw locked. He looked away in disgust.

Cassandra didn’t speak. She just folded her arms, disappointment sharp in every line of her body.

Even Damian muttered, “Tt. Pathetic.”

Dick looked down. Barbara didn’t.

Her voice was steel.

“That’s not a joke, Tim. You don’t pretend to ask someone on a date. Not someone like them.”

Tim looked around, starting to realize. Starting to see the crater he'd left in his wake. But it was too late.

Clark stepped forward. Closer. His tone was deadly now—final.

“You don’t get to talk to them again. You don’t get to hurt them again. If I ever see you near my child... we will have a very different conversation.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

With one last glare that felt like it could shatter steel, Superman turned. The sonic boom of his departure left a thunderclap and a silence even deeper than before.

Tim didn’t speak.

No one did.

---

Back in Smallville, you sat curled on the porch swing. Knees to your chest. The stars above looked the same, but you felt different—like something had cracked open in you and let the cold seep in.

The porch creaked gently as Clark landed beside you. No dramatic gust. No heroic pose. Just him. Your dad.

“Did you say anything to him?” you asked quietly, voice raw and hoarse.

He didn’t speak at first. Then, he gently pulled you to his side, letting your head rest on his shoulder.

“I told him the truth,” he said. His voice was calm again. Grounded. “And I made sure he understood how valuable you are.”

You didn’t answer. You just let the silence settle, thick and warm, like a blanket pulled over bruised skin. Your breathing steadied. The ache dulled—just enough to feel human again.

And there, under the starlit sky, surrounded by chirping crickets and the solid, unshakable presence of your father, you closed your eyes.

For the first time all night, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t alone.

(First time doing angst, pls let me know if it's good! 😊)