For Halcyon Skies
By Amphitrite II / morethansky
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Summary: Conner spends the Fourth of July weekend with Clark and his family.
Notes: This was written as a gift for the (July 4th) birthday of a very dear, non-fandom friend who used to watch Young Justice with me. Superman has always been her favorite, and she frequently expressed her frustration that he was portrayed as a bit of a jerk to Conner in the show. This was my attempt to reconcile that.
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Conner tosses sweatpants and a toothbrush into a backpack he finds around the base and takes flight for Smallville. Hanging out with Superman's dumpy parents is not his first choice for how to spend the Fourth of July weekend, but the rest of the team is off in their own little corners of the world, from Gotham to San Francisco. When Superman—Clark, he reminds himself—invited him, his first reaction was excitement, immediately followed by dread. From the beginning, their relationship has been fraught with awkward tension, and Conner gave up trying to reach out once it became obvious Clark went out of his way to avoid him. There's still a large part of him that resents Clark for running away, but he hopes that things will be different after the weekend.
Soaring through the wide open Kansas sky, he watches green and gold cornfields roll beneath his feet as children run barefoot in the miles between old but sturdy fences. He's flown over plenty of middle America, but only ever on the way to something else. Here, time seems to run slower, steadier. Nothing like the dangerous situations he and his friends find themselves in every week, battling aliens and magicians and all sorts of people bent on chaos and destruction.
It's beautiful here, but he's bored even before he lands.
Clark and his parents—they're technically Conner's grandparents, and Conner tries to call them Mr. and Mrs. Kent, but they insist on "Ma" and "Pa"—greet him with warm hugs and an enormous platter of freshly made brownies. After a single bite of the rich, warm goodness, Conner decides that he doesn't mind being bribed into sticking around, as long as the treats keep flowing.
"We guessed that your appetite must be as massive as Clark's," Pa says jovially as Clark rubs his neck in embarrassment. Conner eyes his flustered grin with curiosity; he's only ever seen Superman in serious hero–mode on the field, nothing like this farm boy in a baggy plaid shirt being embarrassed by his parents. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
Clark takes him on a brief tour of the small house, including the room where he grew up, and then out on the grounds. He even shows Conner the loft of the farmhouse where he would sulk after a bad day at school or a rare fight with his parents, though Conner has trouble wrapping his mind around the idea that Superman was ever a teenager, much less a sullen one.
At dinnertime, they take turns manning the grill as Ma uncovers bowl after bowl of delicious appetizers and side dishes. There seems to be no end to the Kents' hospitality; they are so nice Conner doesn't know what to do with himself. He can only say thank you so many times before it begins to sound trite. It's worth the approving looks Clark shoots him periodically, though, so he keeps it up.
Dusk finds the two of them sitting on the roof of the farmhouse, gazing up at the sky as the sun dips beneath the horizon and the stars emerge, clear and proud, from the majestic curtain of night.
"Why do I make you so nervous?" Conner asks, trying for nonchalance. Clark, with his arms tucked beneath his head, turns his head to look at him inquisitively. Their eyes meet for a brief second before Clark sighs and returns his gaze to the orange-blue summer sky.
"I don't know what I am to you," Clark confesses. "And I don't know what to be for you. I'm not your father, I'm not your brother, I'm not your mentor—and from what I can tell, I'm not even your favorite superhero."
Conner ponders that for a moment. All of it is true, but it still annoys him. "I've never asked for you to be any of those. Would it have killed you to just try to be in my life? I don't have much besides the team, you know."
"I know," Clark says quietly, and Conner is briefly gratified to hear the undercurrent of what sounds like guilt. "That's why I wanted to invite you here—this, more than my apartment in Metropolis, and certainly more than the Watchtower. . . . This is my home."
The mosquitoes buzz around them, grumbling at their impenetrable skin, and through the country-thin ceilings and walls, Conner can hear Ma asking Pa to grab the plates and dessert forks.
"C'mon," Clark says suddenly, sitting up. "We always sit on the porch and eat apple pie as we watch the fireworks. It's a family tradition," he says meaningfully, fingers extended. Conner stares at the outstretched hand and imagines doing this for years to come.
Maybe he doesn't quite feel like he fits in here, where everyone is all genuine smiles and effusive Southern hospitality; where Clark seems more average American than superpowered alien; where love is expressed through baked goods and sound advice rather than by punching evildoers side-by-side. Maybe he will never quite fit anywhere, a freakish clone the twisted product of combining everyone's favorite hero to love with everyone's favorite villain to hate—neither six nor sixteen years old, born in a lab and aged on a battlefield.
But with Clark, and with the Kents, he's that much less alone in the world
It's a future he can live with.
"I look forward to it," Conner says, and takes Clark's hand.