"It's your call. ... I know with Chloe's situation you're probably anxious to get home."
Clark frowned . No one had mentioned a "situation" to him. "What's going on with Chloe?" he asked.
Emil looked at Oliver. Oliver looked at Lois. Lois smiled at Robbie.
"Hey buddy. Wanna go down with your Aunt Lois and see if your Uncle Bart left any ice cream in the freezer?"
"Noooooooo," Robbie answered. "Bunnies don't eat ice cream."
Lois' eyes widened. It was not the answer she'd been expecting. "Huh. Okay. Maybe Uncle Bart left some carrots here. Bunnies love carrots. Should we hop on down and dig some up?" Robbie nodded enthusiastically, jumped off the cot and sort of hop-skipped to the stair-case. Lois scurried after him, grabbing his shoulder just before he hurdled himself down the stairs. "After me, Rob."
"What's Chloe situation?" Clark whispered once they were half-way down.
Oliver sighed. "We think she may have been taken into custody. There was a whole group of them from the Register that went out -"
"Went where?"
"To Oakland. They're covering the protests."
"In Oakland? You said Lex was sending tanks in there!"
Oliver lifted a finger to the vicinity of his lips. "Hey – keep it down. Yes, the tanks were ordered in earlier today, but the Register crew slipped in last night. They were live-steaming footage until just after ten Pacific time this morning. Now the stream's gone dark and she's not answering her cell."
"She went in there without her comm?" Clark asked, incredulous.
"She went in there for a story, not a mission. The team's not getting involved, remember?"
"Which is exactly why you shouldn't have let her do this! It's completely irresponsible –"
"Wow, this is so weird. I'm having the strangest feeling. It's like déjà vu. Have we had this conversation before?"
Maybe in Oliver's mind they had. The man had a habit of occasionally referencing situations Clark couldn't even imagine happening as if they were shared history. Oliver's allegations – not to mention his sarcasm – were an argument for another day, however. "Whatever Chloe may have made in the past, she has a son now. It's not fair to Robbie."
"Oh, and you think you know what's fair to Robbie? I suppose letting him get hit by a truck so you could preserve your secret identity, that would be your definition of fair?" Oliver turned to Emil. "Thanks for coming, Doc. We'll be in touch." Emil nodded in return but Oliver was already at the stairs.
Clark groaned to himself. "Oliver-"
Oliver ignored him. "Robbie," he called down, "get your carrots together. We're going home."
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Lois couldn't believe Oliver had said what he'd said to Clark. She also couldn't believe Chloe'd scooped her. Well, not scooped exactly. "It's not like she got there first," she told Clark that evening as they stared up at the flat-panel screens above the bull-pen, where FOX, Al Jazeera English, and the BBC were all broad-casting the same footage of army trucks rolling toward the Oakland docks ahead of an M1 Abram. "I mean, the freakin' Tehran Times has already covered it. But she used me. She used me to baby-sit while she got a story. That's got to be a violation of journalistic ethics, don't you think?"
"It wasn't just Chloe," Clark reminded her. The viewpoint of the shots switched to various locations on the street, indicating that the entire team had been moving constantly, filming simultaneously and broadcasting randomly, probably in an attempt to (temporarily) thwart the authorities from pin-pointing the source of the stream.
"No, it wasn't just her, but you think the Register could have pulled this off without the spy equipment she supplied?"
"Queen Industries supplied," he corrected, but the point was the same. The project wouldn't have happened if Chloe and Oliver hadn't enabled it together, a fact that even that that bastion of journalistic ignominy, the Inquisitor, had noticed. They'd dubbed the entire encampment "Chloxey's Army" and insinuated it was being secretly financed by the "Queen of Oakland". The Inquisitor's profile had sky-rocketed since Lex had granted them exclusive access to his campaign, in return, it was assumed, for running whatever stories President Luthor wanted them to run during his administration. The current crop criticizing the Queens was, no doubt, Lex's way of countering the ubiquitous images of the US military being activated against US citizens. LNN's coverage had been subtler, befitting the network Lex had had to divest himself of when assuming office, but just as poisonous. It ran footage of anarchists at the 2014 Oklahoma City convention and talking heads discussing whether the same group could be coordinating with "known vigilante Oliver Queen".
Clark could feel his eyes itching in frustration. It had been beyond stupid for her to go in. Not only was she rotting in jail cell as a result, but it had put thrust both them and the Justice League into the public's sights in a way they hadn't been since Godfrey disintegrated.
Her team from the Register had gotten some great shots though.
"She could have at least invited me," muttered Lois as the scenes onscreen switched to commercial or network analysis.
"Then you'd be in jail too."
"Better me than her. Like you told Oliver, it's not fair to Robbie." No, it wasn't, which was why he'd been up late into the night arguing with Dinah. Yes, Chloe had made her choice and needed to be responsible for it, but Robbie needed his mother more.
And Clark needed to know what she knew. The possibility that Robbie was in-part Kryptonian was unlikely – it was extremely unlikely – but he couldn't yet eliminate it as impossible, and until he could the possibility would nag at him. More than nag: the idea made him twitchy, the way the sawdust in his nose had the summer he'd been mortal. Definitely, he would breathe easier once he knew. And once he'd discussed it with Chloe, he'd be able to discuss it with Lois. Give her the facts. Lois deserved them, and Chloe had them. She had to have. Even if she was unsure about the timing of conception, there had to be have been indications by now.
In fact, he realized, there already had been. Robbie'd been a preemie, born eight weeks early, and had made remarkable strides after his birth, gaining weight at a phenomenal rate. Phenomenal, he was sure, for a purely human infant. For one that could metabolize yellow sunlight, on the other hand, it was merely a matter of catching a few rays. She had to have noticed that, surely. She was always noticing things, usually at the most inconvenient times. If she'd been able to notice there was something odd about his adoption, she had to have been able to notice there was something biologically unusual about her own son.
"It's not as if she's been able to do any follow-up from prison," Lois continued once all channels had gone to commercial.
"No, she hasn't," he agreed. But she did have every reason to suspect Robbie was his son. He'd seen it on her face when he'd pulled her out of his closet that morning after the party. First her suspicion and then her immediate discard of that suspicion. Like a jerk he'd followed her lead and discarded it too. He hadn't even blinked when she and Oliver had announced her pregnancy. By that time that night had been completely out of his mind.
"That was a hint, Smallville," Lois stage-whispered.
"What?" His attention snapped back to his fianceé.
"A hint," she repeated, grabbing his wrist and pulled them away from the crowd gathering around the monitors. "You know, it's when I make a subtle suggestion and you get it without me having to explain it to you."
"What suggestion did you make?"
"Follow up. We could follow up."
Clark crossed his arms. "Perry's not going to let you anywhere near this story with a family member involved."
"He will if Superman gives me a few relevant quotes on the matter."
Clark sighed. "Lois..."
"Just listen! All Superman has to do is make a few statements in support of the First Amendment."
"That'll just give Lex the excuse he's looking for to label Superman a terrorist sympathizer. Just look at the way his people are talking about Oliver."
"Nobody's gonna criticize Superman for supporting the Constitution; it'd be like taking a stand against mom's apple pie. Besides, people are already asking where Superman was during this. If yo-" Clark frowned, and she caught herself. "If Superman doesn't speak up it'll look as if he approves of this."
"Superman doesn't get involved in politics," he said sternly. "He's not here to impose his will on people."
"Of course he's not. He's just making sure Lex Luthor doesn't either."
Clark considered that. Lex's presidency was a waking nightmare, true, but he hadn't forged every vote, and even if Clark had enough jewel Kryptonite to persuade every member of Congress to impeach him, he wouldn't. That wasn't what he'd been sent here to … to …
He couldn't remember what he'd been sent here to do. His vision had blurred. The only thing he could see clearly was Lois looking up at him with big, soft eyes, full of love and pride. Seeing her look at him like that made his chest tighten a little. It was so difficult to believe some days she loved him. Him, the kid who hadn't been able to walk twelve feet without stumbling. He was loved by such amazing woman, a woman who could have had any man she'd wanted, a billionaire even. But she'd wanted him.
She'd loved him.
He sighed.
"Okay," he said. "Superman might have a thing or two to get off his chest."
Lois squealed and threw her arms around his neck. Clark smiled, blinking.
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Two days after the interview was printed (The Daily Planet: "Superman Scolds Luthor: "Peaceable Assembly Is The American Way"), Chloe was still in jail (LNN: "Is Chloe Queen Who She Says She Is?") and Rachel Davenport committed suicide (USA Today: "Star of 'Warrior Angel: The Movie' and 'Star Trek: Return to Vulcan' Found Dead in Her Los Angeles Home"). News of the later, including the medications she was rumored to be using, the contents of her suicide note that had been withheld from the press and the grief of all her co-stars on the Whitney Houston biopic she'd just finished, was all over Twitter, the tabloids and fan forums. The Register and the Planet were the only two media outlets that day to headline the news that a federal judge had denied the administration's request to transfer the "Oakland Six" to federal jurisdiction, returning the case back to the state courts.
It was an alarming juxtaposition of events. The timing of Rachel's death, in the upswing of her career, just after she'd announced her engagement, and right when Lex would be desperate for any distraction, was chillingly convenient. It also raised questions about Lex's memory. Clark was probably one of ten people in America to know both Chloe Sullivan-Queen and Rachel Davenport, and he was the only one from the same town where Lex had lived in the seven years before his death/disappearance/three-year personal day. Had Lex remembered something? Had he suspected the truth Clark had withheld from him those seven years? And if he had, what was his game? Was he hoping to draw Clark out? Did he think Superman would fly up to the White House and into his trap?
Or was he being paranoid? It was difficult not to be with Lex. Even without his memories he was obsessed with metas and with Superman in particular; it was as if the serum Tess had injected into him had only deepened his obsessions. And there was nothing Clark could do about any of it, which just served to feed his own fears. Dinah had flat-out refused to sanction a team move against the prison where Chloe was being held and even if he could convince Perry the evidence for suicide didn't add up, tawdry murder cases weren't the sort of stories the Planet ran on Page 1. Remembering the copy of The Seven Habits of Highley Effective People someone had gotten him for his high-school graduation, he decided to focus on what could do. Planting his butt in his desk chair, he typed out a condolence letter to Rachel's parents, explaining that he'd been lucky enough to meet her while she'd been filming 'Warrior Angel' in his hometown and how kind and gracious she had been. Then he went to the Watchtower and dug up Emil's research into Connor's DNA.
Then he went to the University library to speed-read a few books on genetics.
That night he took Lois to see the new Rambo remake. After, she pulled out some desert camo gear she'd filched the last time she'd visited the General and they played a little game of reconnaissance and infiltration. It was fun, and even relaxing, but not as much as he'd hoped it would be. While Lois' breath deepened and evened beside him, he lay awake. They would never be able to play those kinds of games with a child in the apartment, he thought, apropos of nothing. Nor would there be anymore impromptu flights to New Orleans for beignets or Chicago for pizza or Baltimore for crab cakes. No more Sundays on Hawaiian beaches or St. Patrick's Day parades in Boston. No more all-nighters at the Planet or the Watchtower. A child would change their whole lives.
He'd known that, of course. Had discussed it with his mother when she'd offered – insisted, in fact – that Connor come live with her in D.C. "You and Lois need time to just be a couple," she'd said. "You can't do that with a child in the house, even one as grown as Connor." A child was responsibility and vigilance and work, and they both already had so much on their plates. Adopting was out of the question, at least for now. Not until they had established their careers, gotten the League established, harried Lex out of office.
But nature may not have given him a choice. Nature may have simply done what he had never believed she could do and taken matters into her own hands. His reading that day had covered mostly the basics, so he still didn't have a good grasp on whether it was possible, outside of lab conditions, for him to have a child with a human woman. But he still didn't know that it was impossible, either. As it stood there was a chance he may have fathered a child, and that child might be curled up in a bed in Star City right now, dreaming of Superman.
His heart began pumping loudly enough he was surprised it didn't wake from her adorable, even if a little heated, discussion of lemon pudding. He might have a child. His child. His. That meant... well, it meant a lot of things. They would have to be even more on guard than with an adopted child. They'd have to falsify medical records. Move to a more isolated area, somewhere where sudden storms and fires wouldn't be noticed as quickly. Cut off all social contacts outside the League. Do all the things his parents had done to keep him safe.
Staring at the popcorn coating of the bedroom ceiling, he understood, for the first time, the enormity of what they had done, taking him in. They'd given up any hope of his mother helping to support the family during years of falling prices by taking a job off the farm; there was no way he could have been left in a daycare. They'd had to stop attending church and Grange meetings. They'd had to lie to everyone they knew about "Clark's medical issues" and accept the prayers of the neighbors that he'd be healed of his asthma/autism/allergies soon. And they'd done so willingly, cheerfully, eagerly. They had loved him that much.
Lara's greatest fear for him had been that he would not be loved, but he always had been. At times it had been hard to remember that, knowing how alone he was in the universe. Robbie would never have to have that crushing loneliness though. Robbie would have his father with him to teach him all about Earth: how to find the Big Dipper and the North Star in the night sky; how to tie his own shoelaces and fishing flies and slip knots for lead ropes; how to tell true morels from the false ones. Robbie'd also have his dad to teach him all the things Clark had had to figure out on his own: how to throw a ball without throwing it through a tree; how to trim his own toenails with heat vision; how to let go of the ground and let himself soar.
Clark drummed his fingers against the bedspread. He glanced at Lois, who had settled down and was snoring softly. He stared back at the ceiling again. He'd be back before she woke. Even if he wasn't he could just tell her he'd heard something and went to investigate.
He sat up. Easing himself off the bed as softly as possible, he walked out to the balcony off the living room and took off, flying west. When he got to the Queen estate there was Robbie, just as he should be, sacked out in bed, feet on the pillow, head lolling in the center of the mattress. His mouth was open and he was drooling a little. That would be his Sullivan-Lane side coming out again, Clark decided. He was, from what Clark's vision could tell him, still perfectly fine. No cuts, no scrapes, no bruises. He knew there wouldn't be and yet he still had to fight the urge to fly down and feel his forehead, to know with as many senses as possible that he was completely healthy and whole.
He resisted it. Aside from the risk of Robbie waking and finding him there, Oliver had taken up residence in a rocker in the corner of the room, huddled over the light of his touch-pad. Clark could, perhaps, persuade Robbie he was dreaming, but Oliver would need a thump on the head before he believed that. Oliver would probably need a thump on the head before he would believe Robbie wasn't his son – and he'd get it if Robbie's strength began exhibiting itself anytime soon. Clark couldn't imagine a less pleasant way for a man to find out his son wasn't really his. It was critical that he be told soon.
But how? "Sorry, Ollie, you went to the casino for a few hours on your wedding night and I kinda slept with your wife?" That would go over like a ton of lead, even if it was the only way Clark could think of for Robbie to have been conceived. True, he couldn't remember the details of said conception, but it was the only real opportunity for it to have happened, given Robbie's birth date. Given also that he was 100% sure he and Chloe had never had sex at any other time. That they may have that night was surely awkward, but the wine Zee'd supplied had had them all a little out of character. Especially Lois. She'd said specifically that night she was never taking her ring off. She'd called it her "sparkly little ball-and-chain". What exactly she'd meant by that Clark wasn't sure. Now that he thought about it, it didn't sound entirely positive. The point, however, was that she'd never have gambled it away if it weren't for that wine, nor, he would bet, would Chloe and Oliver have decided so impetuously to get married. Nor, he was positive, would he and Chloe have had sex.
Unfortunately, Emil hadn't been there to record it. That meant no proof anything happened, and no proof meant waiting for one of the mansion's load-bearing walls to collapse when Robbie kicked it before he'd be believed. He thought for a moment and then glanced at the clock on Oliver's touch pad. 10:12 PST. That would make it 6:12 GMT. Zee would be awake by now. He took a last look at Robbie, still sprawled out 180 degrees from standard. Sending him a mental hug, he turned and flew north-east.
