#supermom

Two Years Later

Metropolis – Tuesday, 6:42 PM

You stir the pasta sauce one-handed, Three year old, Eloise balanced on your hip, humming distractedly while Liam runs his toy truck into the cabinet again and again like it’s a personal attack. Your phone buzzes on the counter.

You don’t need to look. You already know. Still, you do. Out of some hope that maybe this time, it’ll be different.

[Clark Kent ❤️: I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I see you tomorrow?]

The sting is familiar now. Sharp, then dull. You tap the edge of your phone against the counter once. Twice. Then sigh.

Tomorrow. Right.

You text back something neutral. Something nice.

[Sure. Be safe.]

He always says thank you. He always means it.

But God, you are tired of this.

You glance at the table, set for two. You’d found a sitter, taken an extra shift to afford her. You even put on makeup. Lipstick, which Eloise tried to steal earlier and smeared across your jeans.

And for the third time this week, the fourth in two weeks, Clark isn’t coming.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

“You look like someone cancelled a vacation.” your best friend teases as she joins you in the park the next day, coffee in hand.

You sigh, rocking the empty double stroller slowly, the twins playing on the playground, “He’s not doing anything wrong, that’s the worst part. He’s sweet. Thoughtful. He’s amazing with the twins. I just…”

“Just?” she prompts gently.

“I never know if he’s going to show. And I’m starting to feel like I’m dating a ghost. A very affectionate, gentle ghost who shows up with banana bread and then vanishes into thin air.”

She raises a brow, “You think he’s cheating?”

“No,” you say immediately, “God, no. It’s not that.”

It’s not another woman, you don’t think anyways. He’s assured you multiple times things were platonic between him and Lois. They only really talk about Jon. Conner had revealed to you at some point that Lois wasn’t his mom and it had been the source of tension and ultimately the reason for Clark and Lois divorce.

You tried to convince him it wasn’t *his* fault, cause he’s a child and he never asked for anything like that but like a typical teenager he brushed you off. You started doting on him a bit more after that.

It’s that Clark disappears for hours. For days sometimes. With barely an explanation. That he keeps so much of himself tucked away behind those soft eyes and crooked smiles.

That it’s been two years, and he still hasn’t let you all the way in. And lately? You’re starting to wonder if he ever will.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Thursday Night – Your Apartment

The knock comes just after 9 PM, when the twins are finally asleep, and you’re halfway through folding laundry and trying not to cry.

You think about not answering. But your feet move anyway.

It’s him.

Clark.

Hair a little windblown. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes soft with apology.

“Hey,” he says, holding up a paper bag, “I brought pie.”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then step back.

“Pie’s not going to fix this,” you say, and your voice is quiet, but it’s steady.

He flinches, barely, but you see it. You close the door behind him and lean on it.

“I can’t do this anymore, Clark.”

He sets the bag down like it’s fragile. Then turns to you.

You keep going, afraid you’ll lose your nerve if you stop.

“I’ve been trying. For two years. And I love you… I love you, but you’re never really here. Not all the way. You miss dates. You vanish. You cancel plans I rearrange my life to make. And I don’t get mad, because I know it’s not because you don’t care. But Clark-“

You press a hand to your chest, eyes damp now.

“I don’t know how to build something real with someone who keeps disappearing.”

There’s a silence between you that feels like standing on a cliff’s edge.

And then Clark steps forward. He looks… wrecked. Like whatever he’s been holding back, he can’t anymore.

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says, voice rough, “But I couldn’t tell you the truth until I was sure. Until I knew you were safe. That they were safe.”

Your brow furrows. “Clark, what are you-?”

He holds up a hand, and then-

Then he takes off his glasses And everything changes. Your heart stops.

Because without them, it’s so obvious. The set of his jaw. The weight in his stance. The look in his eyes that you’ve seen on a thousand front pages.

Superman.

You take a step back.

Clark lifts his hands like he’s trying not to startle you.

“I’m not just him,” he says softly, “But I am him. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to. A hundred times. But I didn’t want to put you in danger. I didn’t want you to think I was someone else when I’m still… me.”

You stare at him. Words caught in your throat. The room feels tilted sideways.

“You’re- You’re Superman?”

He nods, quiet, “And I’m still the man who changed Eloise’s diaper in the Daily Planet copy room. The man who taught Liam to walk by bribing him with cheerios. The man who’s in love with you. That hasn’t changed.”

You stare. And then laugh, sharp and stunned and disbelieving. “That explains so much.”

Clark looks up, surprised, “It does?”

“Why you’re always late. Why Jon says you never sleep. Why you sometimes look like you’ve seen the actual end of the world when you come back from a ‘walk.’” You pause, “Why you’re so good at carrying everything.”

Clark winces, “I really should’ve told you.”

You step closer. Still processing. Still a little breathless.

“You’re Superman,” you repeat.

He shrugs helplessly, “I’m sorry?”

You blink at him. Then, to his absolute shock, you burst out laughing.

Clark stares, completely thrown, “You’re laughing?”

Your laugh cracks into something wet and real. “This is insane, but it’s… so you. Of course you’re saving the world in between bedtime stories and potlucks.”

He lets out a slow breath, “So… you’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m furious,” you say, jabbing a finger at his chest, “You should’ve told me months ago.”

“I know.”

“You let me think I was the problem, Clark.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You step closer. Press your hand to his chest, over his heart.

“It’s always been you,” you say softly, “And now I know why you kept leaving.”

Clark closes his eyes, “I never wanted you to feel abandoned. I’ve lost people before. I couldn’t risk losing you too.”

“You almost did,” you admit.

He opens his eyes.

“But,” you continue, “If we’re doing this, you have to start letting me in. Not just the nice parts. The hard ones. The scary ones. I’m not going to break.”

He exhales. Takes your hand. Brings it to his lips.

“I’ll never hide from you again.”

You reach up, touch his cheek.

“Okay then,” you whisper.

And then you kiss him, long and sure and solid, because this man loves you enough to carry the world and still show up with pie.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Dinner was chaos, but the good kind. Spaghetti in hair, juice spilled on pants, Conner arguing with Jon about whether it counts as cheating to use super-speed in a backyard game of tag. (It does. According to Jon. Vehemently. Especially if they’re playing with the twins who are not superpowered.)

But now it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that only settles when every little person in the house has eaten, played, and run themselves into the soft wall of bedtime.

Jon is outside with Liam, you can see them through the sliding glass doors. Jon’s got a bug jar, and Liam is trailing after him, voice high and excited as he points at every blinking firefly like it’s a miracle. His curls bounce with every step.

Inside, Conner’s sprawled out on the couch, watching some bad sci-fi show with one arm behind his head and the other curled protectively around Eloise, who’s tucked against him with a blanket and wide, serious eyes locked on the screen. You’re pretty sure she has no idea what they’re watching, but she’s committed.

You lean against the doorway and take it all in.

This is your life now.

Clark walks in behind you, his hair still a little damp from bathtime (he’d been the one brave enough to wrangle shampoo into Eloise’s hair while you wrangled Liam into pajamas). His hand brushes yours lightly as he passes. Then he pauses, turns back.

“You okay?” he asks, voice quiet.

You nod. “I’m good.”

He studies you for a second. Then tilts his head toward the backyard, “Want to sit?”

You follow him outside, the night air soft on your skin, the porch lights casting a golden wash over the deck. He sits down on the porch swing and opens his arm without a word. You go to him without hesitation, curling into his side.

You sit like that for a while. Watching Jon chase Liam gently through the grass. Listening to the hush of the world, finally at peace for the day.

And then Clark says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “I want to move in together.”

Your heart stops.

You pull back just enough to see his face, and he’s serious. Not nervous, not testing the waters. Sure. Solid. Steady.

Your mouth opens, and he keeps going, eyes soft.

“I mean… if you want to. It doesn’t have to be this house. We can find somewhere you like. Something closer to work. Or-“

His hand finds yours, warm and grounded, “We could move out to Smallville. Build something out there. On the farm or get our own land. Quiet, safe. Big yard. Space for them to grow up running wild and barefoot. Chickens, if we’re brave.”

That last part earns a soft laugh from you, but you’re still staring, breath caught.

Clark leans in slightly, his voice gentler now, “I just… I’m all in. Whatever that looks like. I love you. And I love them. And every time you leave at the end of the night, it feels wrong. Like I’m watching my family walk out the door.”

Your throat tightens, “Clark…”

“You don’t have to say yes tonight,” he says quickly, like he doesn’t want to rush you, “But I needed you to know where I’m at. That this isn’t temporary for me. I want a life with you. With them. All of it. The late night bad dreams. The school projects. The mornings we oversleep and forget backpacks.”

You blink fast, tears prickling, because it’s too much in the best possible way.

“And if you need time,” he adds, “take it. I’ll wait.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because I want to say yes.”

His eyes lock on yours, and you swear the whole night stills around you.

“You do?” he breathes.

You nod., “Yeah. I do.”

The porch swing creaks softly as he turns toward you, both arms wrapping around your waist now, holding you like he can’t believe this is real.

“You sure?” he murmurs, lips brushing your hair.

“Clark,” you whisper, “I’ve been sure since the mashed banana and the copy room.”

He huffs a laugh against your shoulder, breath warm and full of relief.

“I’ll talk to Conner and Jon,” he says. “We’ll figure out what kind of space works for everyone.”

“We’ll figure it out together,” you correct gently.

He nods and you both sit there for a little while longer, porch swing swaying, stars overhead, your whole family scattered across the yard and the house and your heart.

For the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re doing this alone.

For the first time, it really, truly feels like home.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

You’re all gathered in the living room, Clark, Jon, Conner, the twins, and you, because Clark wanted to “talk as a family,” and that’s still a phrase that makes your heart do a weird little flip.

You’re perched on the armrest beside Clark, who is doing his best to look casual and calm and not like he’s about to propose with a lease agreement.

Conner’s standing by the TV, arms crossed, currently being used as a jungle gym by both Eloise and Liam. Eloise has her arms locked around his neck like a koala, cheek smooshed against his shoulder, while Liam is attempting to scale his back with the grim determination of a toddler who thinks gravity is a suggestion.

Conner is… enduring.

Jon is on the floor, legs crossed, and Liam occasionally abandons Conner to drape across Jon’s lap like a lazy cat, limbs splayed out, Jon says he’s ‘splooting’ and pats his head like a puppy.

You clear your throat gently.

“Okay,” you say, “This is important, so… I need you guys to tell me honestly how you feel.”

Jon’s brows furrow, “About what?”

You glance at Clark, who nods encouragingly, then take a breath.

“About me moving in. About us moving in,” you clarify, gesturing to the twins, who are currently wrestling for ownership of one of Conner’s shoelaces, “This is your home. And I don’t want to take up space you don’t want to give.”

Jon blinks, “But… you already live here.”

You blink back, “Well-“

“I mean, you don’t sleep here every night, but like… your stuff’s in the bathroom, and you make our lunches, and Eloise hides goldfish crackers under the couch. That’s living here.”

“She does what now?” Conner mutters, attempting to dislodge a different cracker stash from his hoodie that she just shoved in there.

Jon shrugs and looks back at you, “You’re already kind of… our person.”

Your heart swells, but you press on, gentler now.

“Even so,” you say softly, “Jon, I’m not trying to replace your mom. And I never will. That’s not what this is.”

Jon nods quickly, “I know. You don’t have to say that.”

You smile, but turn your attention to Conner.

“And you-“ your voice softens even more, “I know you carry a lot. That you feel like you always have to be solid. Quiet. Steady. And I never want to crowd you, or make you feel like you have to make space you don’t have.”

Conner’s expression flickers, just barely, and you can tell you’ve hit something real. But before he can say anything, you add, “And I know you get that from him,” with a pointed look toward Clark, who has the audacity to look sheepish about it.

Conner huffs a tiny laugh, shaking his head.

“I’m fine,” he says, “I mean, I’ve got Eloise’s spit on my shoulder, and I haven’t sat down in 45 minutes, but emotionally, I’m fine.”

“I offer to wipe her face and she hisses at me,” Clark mutters.

“She’s a feral gremlin. I love that about her. Kind of reminds me of Tim.” Conner says, adjusting Eloise, who’s scaled back up his body like she’s a clingy cat refusing to be moved.

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh.

Clark leans forward, elbows on his knees, “We wanted to talk to you guys before making any decisions,” he says. “About moving. This house is great, but it’s tight with Six of us. Seven, if you count the baby doll Liam keeps putting in the fridge.”

“She needs naps,” Liam mumbles from Jon’s lap, half asleep.

“So we’re looking at options,” Clark continues. “Something bigger in the city, maybe. Or…”

He hesitates for half a second, then smiles at Jon, “Maybe Smallville.”

Jon lights up, “Seriously?!”

Clark nods, “We could be close to Mamaw and Papaw. Big yard. Real trees. Chickens.”

Eloise lifts her head from Conner’s shoulder, suddenly alert.

“MAMAW??” she squeaks.

“PAPAW?” Liam echoes, now wide awake and kicking his legs excitedly.

Conner sighs, brushing cracker crumbs off his chest, “I don’t really care where we live,” he deadpans, “I can fly.”

Clark shoots him a dry look.

“Okay, Superman Lite,” you mutter.

Conner smirks, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You lift a hand, surrendering, “You’re not.”

Liam is now halfway up your lap and whispering, “Mamaw makes the cookies with the faces,” while Eloise is tugging on Conner’s hair going, “I wanna see the big cow again.”

Jon is already Googling “cool bunk beds with slides” on his phone.

Clark leans into your side again, speaking low.

“You good?” You glance around the room, this absurd, wonderful room, and nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper, “I’m home.”

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The sun’s setting low over the cornfields when you all pull up, Clark driving the truck, Conner in the passenger seat, you in between them on the bench, the twins wedged in the backseat with Jon wedged more, somehow still managing to talk at full volume the entire ride down the gravel drive.

By the time you step onto the wraparound porch, the screen door’s already swinging open and Ma Kent is out with open arms, “Well, there’s my babies!”

Eloise launches herself into her arms like a missile, “MAMAW!”

Behind her, Pa Kent ambles up from the barn, wiping his hands on a rag and squinting at the truck with mock suspicion, “Brought the whole city with you this time, huh?”

Conner offers him a two finger salute. “Don’t worry, I won’t touch your tractor.”

“I better not find so much as a fingerprint on the shifter,” Pa mutters, but he’s already pulling Conner into a one armed hug.

Inside, the house smells like roast chicken, fresh rolls, and a pie you’re already trying to figure out how to steal a slice of without alerting the children.

You’ve barely sat down at the table when Jon slaps both palms onto the wood and blurts out, “We’re moving to Smallville!”

Dead silence. Clark chokes on his water.

You blink, “Jon-“

“Well, we are,” he shrugs, beaming, “We’re building a house and everything!”

Ma’s eyes go wide and warm in one breath, “What?! Oh, honey!”

She’s immediately around the table, hugging you so hard you nearly forget to breathe. Clark is red in the face, coughing and laughing at once.

“We were going to ease into that,” he mutters.

“I got excited!” Jon says, not even sorry.

Pa raises an eyebrow, “You’re building, huh?”

“Looking to,” Clark says, getting his composure back. He glances over at you with a soft smile, “We’re looking for the right spot.”

Pa leans back, folds his arms, “Well, why don’t y’all take those seven acres behind the west pasture?”

Clark stills, “You’re serious?”

Pa shrugs. “Ain’t much but wildflowers and coyotes back there. It’s good land. Yours if you want it.”

Your jaw drops, at the offer, “We couldn’t-“

“Why not?” Ma says, as if the idea that you wouldn’t build a house on their land is the ridiculous part, “We’d love to have you and the kids close.”

Eloise, who’s eating mashed potatoes with her fingers, beams at Ma, “We gonna live here?”

“Close by,” Clark says gently, “You’ll get to see Mamaw and Papaw all the time.”

Liam squints at Pa, “You got frogs?” Like they may have all disappeared since the visit last week.

Pa grins, “We definitely got frogs.”

“Sick,” Liam mutters.

Conner, already reclining with his feet up on a kitchen chair, just nods like this was inevitable.

“I call dibs on not helping build the roof.”

“You will help,” Clark says, pointing a roll at him.

“Uh-huh,” Conner says, unimpressed, accepting a basket of cornbread from his grandmother.

Ma refills your glass with a smile so soft it makes your chest ache.

“You know,” she says warmly, “I always thought Clark needed someone who didn’t just love him, but loved the life that comes with him. He’s only half a man without the whole world in his hands.”

You squeeze Clark’s hand under the table. He squeezes back, gentle but firm.

And just like that, between the pie, and the kids bickering over who gets to name the frogs, and Clark slipping an arm around your chair, it hits you… This isn’t just a house you’re building. It’s a life.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The kitchen smells like rosemary chicken and warm biscuits, and Ma Kent is humming as she slices tomatoes fresh off the vine. You’re stirring a pot of green beans on the stove, barefoot, hair tied up, hips swaying lazily to the oldies station playing softly from the little speaker tucked behind the flour canister.

Outside, the sun is just beginning to dip below the trees, golden hour washing the fields in that soft amber haze that makes everything look like a memory.

Inside, it’s chaos. Good chaos.

In the next room, Eloise is holding court with a stern expression and a glittery wand, one foot planted firmly on a stool as she addresses the collection of poor, helpless souls seated around the farmhouse table.

Clark is wearing a sparkly purple tiara and a pink feather boa over his flannel.

Jon has a plastic tea set in front of him and a tiny clip on butterfly barrette in his hair. He’s fully committed.

Liam is dressed like a cowboy-princess hybrid, tiara and sheriff’s badge, sipping his pretend tea.

Conner has a sparkly cape and one fairy wing duct-taped to his shoulder, sipping from a teacup with solemn dignity like he does this every weekend (he does, he’s Eloise’s favorite playmate, don’t tell Liam).

Pa Kent has a hat with bunny ears and is using a fork to stir his teacup.

You and Ma are losing it quietly in the kitchen.

“I think this is my favorite Sunday dinner yet,” she whispers, tears of laughter in her eyes.

You’re about to agree when it happens, Clark gently tries to pass Eloise the wrong cup.

And Eloise, hands on hips, looks at him like he’s offended the Queen.

“No, Daddy,” she says, “That’s Liam’s cup. Mine is the rainbow one.”

Clark freezes.

You freeze.

Ma freezes mid-chop.

There’s a pause so loud you could hear a pin drop in the hayloft.

Liam, without missing a beat, shrugs, “Yeah, Daddy.”

Clark just blinks at them.

And then his eyes flick up to yours, wide, soft, glassy, and you see it hit him square in the chest. Because neither of them have ever called him “Daddy” before.

He opens his mouth to say something, but his voice doesn’t work. Instead, he reaches for his teacup like that’ll ground him.

Eloise, oblivious to the emotional nuclear bomb she’s just dropped, fluffs his boa and pats his cheek.

“You’re doing great,” she says seriously, “But sit up straighter.”

Conner chokes on his tea and covers it with a cough, trying not to laugh too hard.

Jon reaches over and gives Clark a little pat of solidarity.

Pa raises an eyebrow, amused but quiet. He’s seen a lot in his life. This might be the softest thing he’s seen in a while.

Clark finally clears his throat, nods like he’s processing it all very professionally.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says hoarsely, adjusting his tiara, “Rainbow cup. Got it.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, eyes burning, chest full.

Ma leans in, voice low and fond, “Told you they loved him.”

You don’t answer. You just nod and blink back the tears, heart bursting.

And through the doorway, the sound of giggles and clinking plastic cups and the steady rhythm of home wraps around you like a hug.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The house is still.

You’re curled up on the porch swing, mug of tea warming your hands, blanket around your legs, and the crickets singing low in the grass. The porch light hums softly behind you. You can see the glow of the Kent farmhouse across the field, dim and steady, like a lighthouse in a quiet sea.

You hear the screen door creak behind you.

“Mind if I sit?”

You look up and smile. “Course not.”

Conner settles on the porch beside the swing instead, legs long, hands tucked in the pockets of his hoodie. He looks like he’s been thinking, really thinking. Not just brooding, but bracing.

And you know that look. You wait. He kicks at the floorboards lightly with his heel.

“I, uh…” he starts, then stops, eyebrows furrowed, “This is gonna be weird.”

You sip your tea, unconcerned, “Weirder than when you wore a single butterfly wing and a crown for Eloise’s tea party?”

He snorts, “Okay, fair.”

You smile gently, and let the silence stretch.

He shifts again, “I’ve been trying to figure out how to… say something. I guess. And-“ he pauses, glancing up at you, and it’s so deliberate it makes your heart catch in your throat…

“Thanks, Mom.”

You blink. Your mug stills mid-sip.

He doesn’t look away, not this time.

“I mean it,” he says, voice quieter now. “You didn’t have to… I’m not even really…”

“Don’t,” you cut in softly, “Don’t you dare say you’re not really part of this family.”

His jaw works a bit, teeth clenched. He swallows.

“It didn’t feel like it, sometimes. Not with Lois. Not when I was first made. I always felt like… like I was just something Dad had to deal with. Something someone else made and dumped on his doorstep. A mistake.”

You reach out and put your hand on his head, Warm and grounding, guiding him to look at you, “You’re not a mistake.”

He shrugs, shaky, “You treat me like I’m… worth something. You tell me to put on a coat when it’s cold even though I can’t feel it. You make sure I eat. You call me ‘sweet boy’ and you fuss when I get hurt even though I bounce off of brick walls. You-“ his voice cracks for just a second, “-you make me feel like I belong.”

You gently scratch his scalp, listening, soft smile on your lips.

And then, he laughs, nervous and self-deprecating.

“Oh- also,” he says, like it’s an afterthought, “I’m dating Tim.”

You blink and He looks away, like he expects the air to shift. Like you’re going to pull away. Like he’s bracing for something bad and already ready to pretend it doesn’t matter.

“…So we’re saying it out loud now?” you ask lightly, “Good for you, sweetheart.”

He whips his head around, startled. You’re grinning, “You really thought I didn’t know?”

“I hoped,” he mutters, groaning into his hands.

You laugh and shift to smooth a piece of hair behind his ear the way you do with Jon and Liam when they’re overwhelmed.

“I’ve seen you two sharing earbuds on the porch swing. I’m not blind.”

He grumbles something about ‘privacy’ and ‘this is why people move to Gotham’, but you see the way his shoulders relax. The way his spine softens like some part of him needed this to go okay, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud.

You reach for your tea again and nudge him lightly with your foot, “I’m glad you told me, sweetheart. Really.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I love you.”

His breath catches and You don’t take it back. You let it hang there, honest and quiet and real.

After a second, he nods, “… Love you too, Mom.”

And god, that word doesn’t just land in your chest, it roots. It stays.

You sit in companionable silence after that, the stars wheeling overhead, the porch creaking gently beneath you, and for the first time in a long time, Conner looks like a kid who’s home, and your family almost feels full.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Clark’s finally home.

The room is dark except for the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and the quiet hum of the farmhouse settling for the night. He’s on his back, freshly showered, damp hair curling on his forehead, already halfway asleep.

You’re lying there, propped up on one elbow, just staring at him.

Staring.

Because your uterus is trying to file an HR complaint against you. Because your ovaries are clapping. Because his oldest child called you Mom, and now your hormones are playing a highlight reel of every baby giggle, every squishy foot, every first you missed the first time around because you inherited the twins at eight months old.

You blink slowly. Smile.

He senses it. Cracks one eye open like a man who’s learned to fear that particular silence.

“…what,” he rumbles, voice deep and rough.

“I was just thinking,” you say innocently.

He groans, “You always say that before something unhinged.”

You don’t deny it. Instead, you trail your fingers over his chest, casual, “Conner called me Mom the other day.”

A pause. A smile curves his mouth, “I know. He told me. You cried.”

“Did not,” you lie.

“Uh-huh.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, still playing with the idea. He’s warm and solid and soft with sleep.

The twins are four now. You’re past the diaper years. Past teething. Past 2 a.m. feeds and blowout onesies and sleep regression.

But also… you missed all of that.

You weren’t there for the start.

You didn’t get to carry them. You didn’t get the first fluttery kicks. You came in when things were already messy and loud and beautiful, but still… already moving.

You glance up at him, “Would you lose your mind if I said I wanted another one?”

Clark goes still. Then he opens his eyes, blinks at you like he wasn’t sure he heard that right, “Another… what?”

You look at him, all doe-eyed and dangerous,“Baby.”

There is pure fear in his eyes for a second, “We have four.”

“Technically,” you say sweetly, “I have two, and you have two. One of them is a whole adult now. I’m just proposing we combine our skills and create one from scratch.”

“Combine our skills-“ he looks like he’s buffering, like you just offered to collaborate on a crime,“Darlin’, we just got everyone sleeping through the night.”

You shrug, “I’m ovulating. My uterus has dreams.”

He groans into his freehand, the one that isn’t wrapped around you.

You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, “I want that last piece. Something that ties the whole family together.”

Clark sighs, but it’s fond. Tired. Already defeated.

“Would it help if I promised I’d change all the diapers for the first six months?” you offer.

He narrows his eyes, “You hate diapers.”

“I’ve matured.”

Clark side eyes you, “You once tried to manifest a potty-trained toddler by staring at the baby monitor with intention.”

You grin, “And it worked eventually.”

He closes his eyes again. You feel his chest rise and fall.

“Okay,” he says softly, surprising you. “Yeah. Let’s talk about it.”

You lift your head, grinning, “Really?”

He pulls you close, kisses your forehead, and mumbles, “I’m not saying yes or no.”

You wrap your arms around him, giddy.

Then, he adds, “I get to name it.”

You pause, “It? Clark.”

He’s already half asleep again, smiling.

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Footsteps could be heard from the kitchen, where Dick was told to stay. Tim dragged him back before he insulted Talia.

Talia smirked, returning to the card. She opened it and read the handwritten message Damian wrote in it.

Talia (reading the card): Mother is the smartest woman. Mother is pretty, kind of funny—even if I’d never admit it out loud. She’s been there for me… She gives me hugs I pretend I hate, her lipstick-stained cheek kisses I don’t want to end. She showers me with love that I thought I’d never see. She stands by my side, even when she doesn’t agree with everything I do. I’m sorry for the times I made you mad, but Mommy… thank you… I love you.

Talia smiled faintly, then reacted with surprise as Damian embraced her tightly, his face buried in her garment.

Damian (lying): I'm not tearing up! Your... Your perfume is giving me allergies.

Talia (wrapping her arms around Damian): I believe you, habibi. Bruce or Jason take a picture, quickly.

Jason (pulling out his phone): I got you, Bruce is a bit distracted.

Bruce was preoccupied having a good manly cry at the card's message.

Bruce: He said he loved her. I know it's Talia, but that is so sweet! My mother would be proud. Why am I crying?