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All of “the one where Kon’s soulmark IS fake” so far behind the cut for those who
Aug. 9th, 2025 03:50 pm![[syndicated profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/feed.png){kind=small}
suzukiblu_feedAll of “the one where Kon’s soulmark IS fake” so far behind the cut for those who want to read it all in-order from the start, as requested by @qwertynerd97.
content notes: soulmate AU, familial soulmates, past forced body modification.
(( chrono || non-chrono ))
Kon is sort of fucked-up in a lot of ways, but he didn’t deliberately get the tattoo. Like–he’s not that fucked-up. Hell, even Black Zero wasn’t that fucked-up.
Black Zero’s Westfield didn’t even give him the tattoo, actually, so maybe that’s part of why they had a better relationship than Kon did with his version of the guy. Kon would also have hated the asshole a lot less if not for the tattoo, probably.
But his Westfield had made damn sure to give it to him.
Kon doesn’t remember much before he got broken out of the cloning tube, but he does remember getting the tattoo. It’d taken a really long time, and it’d been the first time he’d ever felt pain. So like, it’d made an impression.
He hadn’t even known what it was for, then. Hadn’t even known what it was supposed to be. A brand? A method of identification? Some kind of weird serial number analogue?
Not so much, it’d turned out.
Superman’s soulmark is a gorgeous Kryptonian sunrise spread out across his chest, bold and bright and beautiful. It looks like the rising truth and the clarity of a new beginning and the very literal physical manifestation of hope.
And Kon’s tattoo looks exactly like it.
Except for the part where it’s obviously just a tattoo, of course.
Tattoos don’t pass for soulmarks, after all, which is the only reason Kon has the damn thing to begin with. Westfield hadn’t wanted him to make the mistake of thinking that he was a real person, or to make the mistake of thinking that anyone was ever going to give a fuck about him as the person that he was. He was a clone, an experiment, a weapon, a thing. He didn’t have a soul or a soulmate. Didn’t have a mark.
He got over that. Like, it sucks? It really sucks. And he still hates it. But he’d gotten over it.
Or he’d thought he had, until he’d found out who Superman’s soulmate was.
“What?” Kon says, staring blankly.
“Dad’s my soulmate,” Jon repeats, pointing at the Kryptonian sunrise spread out across his chest, brightly illuminated by the noontime sun as they stand on the dock at the edge of a little pond on the outskirts of Smallville. “Why, who’s yours? Or don’t you know yet? Like, has it not come in?"
"Clones don’t get soulmarks,” Kon says, wanting very, very badly to just throw up and die.
“Huh?” Jon says, looking actually surprised. Kon continues to want to throw up and die. Or maybe bury himself in magma in the center of the planet and stay there ‘til he suffocates. “But I thought everybody got soulmarks!"
"Naw,” Kon says instead of fuck you, because the kid’s ten and doesn’t deserve that.
“Why not?” Jon asks, because again, he’s ten. Ten and apparently as emotionally intelligent as a pudding cup, but whatever. Not like Kon’s never had this conversation before.
Never with Clark’s kid who is apparently so much his kid as to be his literal fucking soulmate, which no one ever thought to mention to the stupid shitty clone in the past like four months since Clark had finally admitted to the secret identity that Kon had long since figured out thanks to Hypertime bullshit, but whatever. He only even officially met Jon a couple months ago.
Probably they all figured it just wasn’t his business, he guesses.
Which–it’s not, really. It’s not his business. It never has been.
It’s not.
“I mean, I’m sentient or whatever, but I’m manufactured,” Kon tells the kid with a shrug. “Therefore no soul, therefore no soulmate, therefore no soulmark. That’s all."
"You don’t have a soul?” Jon asks in bewilderment.
“Naw,” Kon says again, with another shrug. “So like, we gonna swim or what?"
"Oh, uh, yeah,” Jon says, still looking bewildered.
So they swim.
Kon, obviously, doesn’t take his shirt off for it.
Jon, mercifully, doesn’t ask why.
It’s fun, aside from being the worst afternoon of Kon’s life. They fuck around for a couple hours, then fly back to the farm after and mostly dry off on the way, and Clark comes out to meet–well, not them, obviously, but Jon. Jon lights up at the sight of him and throws himself straight into his arms like he’s never once had to question whether or not Clark would ever want him there, and Clark smiles down at him like he’s the most important person in the world.
Kon should just count himself lucky that Clark trusts him enough to leave him alone with his kid for more than thirty seconds and be grateful.
What Kon actually is, of course, is jealous and angry and fucking heartbroken.
Jon is ten. Kon was manufactured two years ago. Clark had a real kid long before Kon was even a theoretical fucking spark in some fucking scientist’s eye.
And Jon had Clark the whole time Superboy was just desperately hoping that Superman would decide he was worth his attention in the long run. Worth the “S”. Worth …
When Clark had offered him a name from his family–specifically a name from an adopted member of his family–Kon had been … stupid, a little, and thought that it might’ve been, like … another step. Like he’d hoped that Superman even letting his weird stupid clone wear the “S” to begin with might’ve been.
He hadn’t been a complete idiot or anything. He’d known Clark would never, like–want to keep him around or have him too close or anything. He’d just thought that maybe he’d … that someday he might’ve …
Kon isn’t a real person. Like–obviously he’s not. It isn’t subtle. Hell, he’d have known it even if Westfield hadn’t bothered tattooing him with a copy of Clark’s mark. And really, he guesses he should be grateful Westfield didn’t tattoo his own soulmark on him, whatever the fuck that was.
Just, like, of course he’s not Clark’s … family, or whatever. Of course he’s just like that one weird kid from down the street that somebody occasionally invites over out of pity who only learns the family secrets by accident or through osmosis and isn’t actually intentionally kept around or kept in the loop or anything. Kon knows that.
But watching Jon beam up at his dad and Clark smile down at his son is still making him want to curl up and die right here and now.
Kon does kind of wonder what it’s like to be, like … loved, or whatever.
Everybody always makes it sound really nice.
“Dinner’s about ready,” Clark says. “You two mind setting the table?"
"Sorry, I gotta get going,” Kon says instead of admitting he has no idea how to set a fucking table, especially not to whatever Martha Kent’s standards probably are. Cadmus did not actually see fit to educate him on typical household chores and he has very rarely ever sat down at any semblance of a normal family dinner. Like, in Hawaii they all just ate wherever and not even all together half the time, and Cadmus has a cafeteria, and Young Justice just dumps a pile of junk food or takeout on the nearest unoccupied surface and they all just go to town on it like the weird gaggle of semi-superpowered and usually-ravenous teenagers that they are.
He could look it up on his phone, and he probably will later, but there’s no way he’s gonna run the risk of getting caught looking it up on his phone. Like–no. Never, thanks. Miss him with that particular little bit of “further proof of being a fake person” humiliation.
So it’s … whatever, he guesses.
“Well, that’s alright, we’ll just have to catch you another time,” Clark says with a polite smile that looks nothing like the one he was just wearing for Jon, and doesn’t even fake like he’s disappointed or like he’s gonna miss him. Because like … why would he, after all?
Kon misses him all the time, but Kon’s the pathetic counterfeit of a person with a copy of said person’s soulmark tattooed on him.
“Yeah, sure,” Kon says, thinking longingly of suffocating in the center of the planet.
Sometimes he thinks about what’s gonna happen when he finally gets his dumb ass killed and whoever, like, autopsies or embalms him or whatever sees the tattoo. Thinks about what they’re gonna think, if they …
Superman’s soulmark isn’t a secret or anything. Clark’s gotten smashed around too often for the suit to have kept it covered all this time. So like, if somebody ever saw the tattoo on Kon’s chest and didn’t know that Cadmus put it there …
Like … well. The natural assumption would be that Kon got it on purpose, obviously. That Kon was actually, like, that fucking pathetic and disturbed of a person.
He never wants anyone to see it. Never wants anyone to know. Never … just never. None of it. Ever.
And Clark will never smile at him like he smiles at Jon, so maybe Clark will just never know about the tattoo either. Maybe that’s a thing that Kon can manage.
He’s managed it so far, at least.
Kon goes back to Cadmus and buries himself in his eternally unmade bed in his cramped little disaster of a room and desperately tries to not be the absolute fucking freak that he is.
He definitely fails at not being the absolute fucking freak that he is.
He cries about it for a little bit, like that’s something he even has the fucking right to do, and tries so fucking hard to forget how Jon’s very real soulmark had looked when he’d stripped his shirt off and bared it so unselfconsciously. Not even deliberately or proudly–just as a simple, inalienable fact. A thing that he knew. A thing he just had.
Although Kon wouldn’t even care about the stupid goddamn mark, if Clark would ever look at him even a little bit like the way he looks at Jon.
He tries not to think about the way Clark would actually look at him, if he ever found out that Cadmus had tattooed his fucking kid’s mark on him.
Kon’s never let himself think too much about Clark’s mark, on account of not wanting to torment himself that bad. He’d just vaguely assumed that it was Lois at some point and then just shoved said assumption in a box and drowned it in concrete and made sure to never, ever take his shirt off in front of anyone else or any possible cameras or spy equipment or anything similar. Ever.
He should’ve known it wasn’t Lois. It’s a Kryptonian sunrise. Why would it be Lois?
If it were Lois, though, Kon wouldn’t care this much. If it were Lois, it’d be a romantic mark, and Lois is straight-up gorgeous and a total fucking badass, yeah, but Kon doesn’t, like, want her or anything. There’s nothing to be jealous of there.
So of course it’s not Lois. Of course it’s not romantic.
It’s Jon, and on top of that it’s a mark that only actual Kryptonians would ever share.
It’s Clark’s real kid. The one he had long before Kon was even a single strand of stolen DNA or a cell in a cloning tube or even a scribbled theoretical on a whiteboard or in somebody’s notes.
The one he actually wants.
Not for the first time, Kon wishes that prick Westfield weren’t too dead to punch.
And while he’s wishing for completely impossible shit that’s never gonna happen, he wishes he could’ve been able to stay in Smallville for that stupid dinner without fucking embarrassing himself, too.
.
.
.
Kon goes to spend the weekend at the Justice Cave base with Young Justice and it’d be great, except while they’re all hanging out watching some dumb action movie, Bart gets bored and says, “Hey, do you wanna … how do you guys say it in this century, ‘make time’?”
“No one calls it making time, Bart,” Cissie says dryly. “Also, who are you even asking?”
“Everyone?” Bart replies, looking puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I ask everyone? That’d be sprockin’ shitty of me.”
“… is this a future thing or a Bart thing?” Cassie mutters under her breath to Cissie, who just sighs.
“I mean, probably both?” she says. “Bart, we’re a superhero team, not your dating pool.”
“I don’t wanna date anybody,” Bart says, making a face as he hangs himself backwards over the arm of the couch. “I wanna make time! Sexy time!”
“No one calls it making time, Bart,” Cissie repeats dubiously.
“What’s ‘making time’?” Suzie asks curiously, and Robin, may the bastard eventually tell them his name, covers his face with his hands.
“Superboy, don’t say a fucking word,” he warns like Kon isn’t way too busy having the world’s quietest panic attack right now to say jack shit about any of this. “Impulse, this team is not going to fraternize. Especially not the entire team at once.”
“Why?” Bart asks with a frown. “It’s not like anybody’s gonna get jealous if we all do it together, right?”
“That’s a very idealized view of polyamory,” Robin says. Kon wonders why Robin even has a view of polyamory and continues having the world’s quietest panic attack.
“I said I didn’t wanna date!” Bart protests indignantly, waving both arms. “What I wanna do is climb you guys for a subjective year!”
“The Justice League would have a conniption and also disband us,” Robin says, clearly exasperated.
“Hey, the Justice League doesn’t get to disband us for who we date,” Cissie says, looking offended. “It’s none of their business, for one.”
“This isn’t even about dating!” Bart complains.
“The lack of dating makes it worse, Impulse,” Robin says, pinching the bridge of his nose with a pained expression. “You do understand that, right?”
“No,” Bart says. Robin covers his face with his hands again and groans into his gloves.
“I still don’t know what we’re talking about,” Suzie says with a little frown.
“I mean, we could maybe, you know, try something …” Cassie says, for some reason glancing over at specifically Kon as she bites her lip. He is, again, too busy having a panic attack to figure out why she’s looking at him when he’s the only one not talking right now.
Oh. Right. The not talking thing is probably weird, isn’t it. Fuck. Fuck. How does he handle this? Everyone knows he’s a flirt, so if he says “fuck no” they’re going to think it’s weird, right? Like, he could say he’s not into dudes, but that only knocks out Bart and Robin anyway, and there’s three girls in the room right now, so–
What the fuck would he even say, if they actually wanted to do this? If they actually wanted to … to …
They’d want him to get undressed. At least take his shirt off. They’d want–
Robin’s trying to shoot the idea down, of course, but Bart’s pushing it and Cissie isn’t shooting it down as hard as she could be, and who knows what Suzie will say when she realizes what they’re talking about, and Cassie seems kinda into the idea, and what the fuck can he possibly say to convince them all he doesn’t want to “make time” with three extremely cute girls for no apparent reason? Especially after how much time he’s spent hitting on Cissie?
Fuck. Just–fucking fuck.
What even could he say?
“Kon’ll agree with me!” Bart argues, pointing at him, and Kon sits there frozen in panic and desperately trying not to let it show. “Kon, tell Robin compulsory monogamy is repressive and antiquated and boring!”
“I have no idea what half those words mean, Imp,” Kon lies, and almost sounds like a normal person who’s actually, like, an actual person. He wants to bolt right out of the base and never come back. “But as much fun as dealing with Rob’s Bat-lectures about safe sex and filling out the Bat-consent forms in triplicate would be, orgies only sound like a good time. Mostly they’re just weird and awkward.”
That’s something they’ll buy, right? The idea that he’s fucked around like that before and just wasn’t that into all the fuss or whatever? That’s a thing they’d believe?
“I cannot believe you of all people just said we shouldn’t have a team orgy,” Cissie says, raising an eyebrow at him. Fuck, Kon thinks, still trying not to visibly panic.
“Like I said, they’re overrated,” he says, then flashes her a leering grin and a wink. “I’m more a one-on-one kind of guy, you know? I like the personal touch.”
“So you don’t like not being the center of attention, you mean,” Cissies translates dryly.
Kon would actually perfectly happily knock over literally every single teammate they have at once, but that’s not–he can’t do that, obviously. The moment one of them wants him naked and he refuses to take his shirt off, at least Robin and Cissie are gonna know something’s up. Bart and Suzie, probably not, and Cassie might miss it, but those two? No. Not a chance. Not ever.
He can’t let them even wonder why he wouldn’t want to take his shirt off.
And that’s all assuming that Bart wouldn’t try to yank it off him at super-speed and he wouldn’t even have the chance to keep it on.
There’s no way, Kon thinks. No way, no way, no way.
He just can’t risk it, even with them.
Especially with them.
He doesn’t know what he’d do, if they saw the tattoo and even for a second thought he got it on purpose. He doesn’t want to know what he’d do.
Or how it’d feel.
“That’s so lame!” Bart gripes. Robin looks exasperated, Cissie looks dubious, Cassie looks disappointed, Suzie looks confused, and Kon is just praying that none of them are going to ask him any follow-up questions. Like. Ever. Just ever.
“Listen, you do you, man, it’s just not my thing,” he lies with a shrug, leaning back in his seat and making a show of looking at the movie again. “Also, I can’t imagine why you’d wanna screw me or Rob anyway, some of us need our refractory periods.”
His refractory period is actually about thirty seconds max and he can definitely go more times than a baseline AMAB human can, but in Bart-time that’s an eternity anyway, he figures. So like, same difference.
“He didn’t say anything about doing anything with either of us,” Robin says, his tone a little odd. Kon immediately mentally kicks himself, because not even considering that possibility would’ve bought him some more leeway here, he’s pretty sure.
“No, I definitely meant we should all make time,” Bart says. “Was that unclear? I didn’t think that was unclear. What’s a refractory period?”
“In speedster time? A myth, I’m betting,” Kon says wryly, trying to force his heartbeat to calm down again. It’s … not going great, to be honest.
“Of course you’ve thought about it,” Cissie says, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a sigh and folding her arms.
“I mean, it doesn’t take much thinking, he just had to ask what one was,” Kon says reasonably. “So like, that seems kinda like a natural conclusion there.”
He needs to get out of this conversation. He needs to get out of this conversation yesterday. He needs to–to do something, before–before–
He needs to get out of here altogether, actually, he’s pretty sure, but would that be too obvious? Would they realize he’s avoiding something? Would they think–
He doesn’t even know what he thinks they might think, in that situation.
And he definitely doesn’t know what to do.
He really, really needs to get out of this conversation.
“… ‘one-on-one’?” Cassie says, biting her lip. Kon thinks he’s going to have a fucking anxiety attack, at this rate. Why are they still talking about this? Why is any of this happening? Why is this even a thing?
He’d–if he could … he would, if he could. But that’s not–relevant. Like. That’s not something he can do. Ever. Not even in a goddamn pitch-black room, because again, Bart could yank his shirt off or turn the lights on or whatever in an instant, and then they’d all see, and … and they’d all know.
Even if they didn’t think he’d gotten the tattoo on purpose, he doesn’t want to risk them letting something slip to anyone else. Doesn’t want to see the way they’d look at him.
Doesn’t want them to pity him, when they find out just who Superman’s soulmate is. When they find out …
He just doesn’t know how he could ever face them again, if they knew.
“I still don’t know what ‘making time’ means. And what’s a refractory period?” Suzie asks, and then Cissie leans over and whispers something in her ear. “What’s–oh. Ohhhhh. Oh!”
Suzie blushes, then brightens. Kon immediately wants to panic again.
“Oh, well, then if we took turns, maybe … ?” she suggests just a little bit shyly.
“How is Kon the only other one here who knows this isn’t a good idea?” Robin demands incredulously. “How is that the situation we’re in right now?”
“I didn’t say it was a good idea,” Cissie says reasonably, leaning back on her hands. “It’s just not the Justice League’s business either way.”
“We could just work our way up from, um, the ‘one-on-one’ kind of–” Cassie starts to suggest, leaning forward in her seat, and Kon keeps trying not to panic, and then thank fuck one of those dumbass alerts Robin has set up to keep an eye on the news in their immediate range goes off and the TV switches itself to the local news, which is literally everything being on fire, apparently. Like–a big-ass fire in Happy Harbor, it looks like, spreading through a few warehouses and getting unmanageable for the firefighters on scene.
“Super-Cycle,” Robin orders immediately, and they all just as immediately grab whatever uniform pieces they’re not wearing and scramble for the garage.
Kon doesn’t even feel bad about how fucking relieved he is, but even under all the layers of underarmor and reinforced super-suit and leather jacket, his chest still feels like something exposed and vulnerable.
The tattoo does, he means.
He’s a demi-Kryptonian with very developed tactile telekinesis, after all, so if anything about him could ever be “vulnerable”, obviously it’s the damn tattoo.
.
.
.
An industrial district fire that takes half the night to put out without casualties later, Kon lies about having a text from Cadmus calling him back early for a time-sensitive security transfer that needs more muscle than expected and pretends to be annoyed about missing the rest of the movie and to have forgotten about the idea of “making time” altogether before he clears out of Happy Harbor as fast as his ass can fly.
He sneaks back into Cadmus at two AM and doesn’t have to explain to anyone why he’s back early, and spends all of Sunday hiding in his room to make sure he won’t have to.
He also spends all of Sunday feeling like shit and totally unable to take his mind off the stupid fucking tattoo.
Sometimes Kon can forget about the tattoo, kind of. At least a little bit. Never completely, because he’s always gotta be careful about it, always gotta remember it’s there and needs to stay hidden, stay a secret, but … a little bit, at least.
That Sunday he can’t forget about it for a moment, no matter how hard he tries to distract himself with video games or scrolling his phone or skimming old memos and reports he’s mostly ignored or just–whatever doesn’t require going out and explaining why he’s back early to Dubbilex or Serling or Guardian or just whoever might notice he’s back early. Like, most of the staff probably wouldn’t, or at least wouldn’t think about it, but there’s definitely people who would.
Well, like–mostly just Serling, probably. Maybe Guardian. Dubbilex probably wouldn’t care, because that’s not the kind of thing he really bothers with. Not like he ever tried to give Kon a curfew in Hawaii or anything, and he’s even less involved in his life now that they’re both at Cadmus and he’s not, like, stuck being his fake “guardian” or whatever. And Mickey might notice, but he probably wouldn’t actually ask. So that’s … about it, admittedly.
Kon kind of wants to avoid thinking about that too, though.
If the fucking tattoo weren’t a fucking tattoo, somebody’d care where he was and be upset to find out they hadn’t known where he was. Clark would care, if the fucking tattoo was actually …
But it’s fucking not. It’s not, and it never would’ve been, because Clark already had his actual real kid long before Kon was even a theory or a possibility, much less, like–a person. Long before he even got the fucking tattoo forced onto him while he was too drugged-up and stupid to even know it was happening or what it was.
He … he remembers some of it, Kon’s pretty sure. Remembered it even before he knew what it actually was or why it was there. It’s actually the first “real” thing he remembers, so far as being alive goes.
It’d hurt.
But it fucking should’ve, obviously.
Obviously.
Sunday’s really boring, aside from being fucking awful. Kon hates it, but there’s nothing he can do about it.
It’s no different from the damn tattoo.
He sleeps like shit, and spends Monday faking grins and laughter and following Serling around her lab and Guardian around the gym and Dubbilex and Mickey around in general and talking all their ears off and–and a lot of things like that. He’s convincing about it, he guesses, ‘cuz nobody seems to notice anything’s off.
Or nobody cares enough to say anything about it if they do, anyway.
Kon has a tattoo that looks like Superman’s soulmark, and Jon has Superman’s soulmark, and he wishes he could just take his shirt off to go swimming or mess around with anyone he wanted to without worrying about what they’d think of what’s on his chest or …
He wishes he knew how to set a fucking table.
He kind of does now, he guesses, ‘cuz he’d watched like six different videos about table manners and shit while he was hiding out in his room yesterday, but he hadn’t really understood a lot of the rules and stuff or why they were rules and there wasn’t, like–there’s not anybody he could just ask, obviously.
Obviously.
“Well that ain’t the vibe,” Serling says, squinting at her computer screen as she swishes a bottle of a pastel purple solution back and forth in one hand. Kon has no idea why it’s pastel purple. Are pastels a normal color for genetics-related stuff to be? Because even if they are, he’s definitely never seen it before.
Then again, Serling’s a crazy genius weirdo chick who’s not all that interested in anybody else’s idea of SOP, so maybe it’s just normal for her.
They don’t really know each other super-well yet, but she knows he’s got a tattoo of Superman’s soulmark on his chest. She’s running the genetics department; fucking obviously she knows. She’d cocked an eyebrow the first time she’d seen it on him and said “wow, that’s the prettiest dick move I’ve ever seen somebody pull”, and he’d felt like shit about it.
She doesn’t know who else’s soulmark it is, though.
He guesses he could tell her, if he could stand to even fucking say the words. Except, like, for the part where it’d involve telling her Superman has a kid.
So like … bad idea, probably, even if he wanted to.
“What’s up?” he asks instead, and Serling makes a face at her computer.
“I maybe kinda forgot I had a thing in Metropolis today,” she says. “Or, like, less a ‘thing’ and more a ‘problem’, but the Mickster said I didn’t have a choice about goin’ sooooo yeah. Hm. Wanna give a girl a ride, Kid? ‘Cuz otherwise I gotta requisition a vehicle and I teeeeechnically don’t have a license so I’d also need a driver, and anyway, yeah, I’m gonna be wicked late if I gotta wait for that.”
“A license for what?” Kon asks, wrinkling his nose at her.
“… like to drive, Kid,” she says, raising a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow at him, and he immediately winces in embarrassment. Right, yeah, that’s–a thing, or whatever.
He has literally never in his whole entire life even thought about getting a driver’s license. Or learning how to drive. Or like … getting actual legal ID, even.
Well, like–he’s only so “legal”, so far as being a person goes. It’s not like he’s got, like … what, a Social Security number or whatever. Or a birth certificate. Or … literally anything like that whatsoever.
Like–there’s a reason he only halfway knows how to set a fucking table.
Obviously.
“Basically please save me from my poor planning and I’ll … I dunno, buy you pizza after,” Serling says, wagging her bottle of solution again. “I’ll spring for the supreme, even.”
“You’re on, Doc,” Kon says with a grin, because what, he’s gonna turn down free “not from Cadmus’s shitty canteen” food? Hell no. “But I want cinnamon bread too. I’m not a cheap emergency taxi service.”
“That is literal extortion, Mister El,” Serling says, making a face at him.
“Totally,” he agrees, grinning wider, and feels the same warm little pain he feels every single time someone calls him an El.
Mr. Kent–“Pa”, he keeps telling him to call him, so Kon’s been avoiding calling him and Mrs. Kent anything, because she’d said to call her “Ma” just the same–Mr. Kent’d called him an honorary Kent, once, and that’d been a lot worse than “a little” pain.
A little bit of the warmth, still, but … a lot more of the pain.
He’d tried to laugh about it. He doesn’t think he’d done a very good job.
And remembering it now, knowing who Clark’s soulmate is …
Clark.
Not Kal.
It’d felt–Kon’d felt a fucking lot of shit, when he’d thought he’d had permission to call Superman his … real name. When Superman had offered him a real name of his own, and …
Offered him a real name. Not just, like–smacked it on him out of nowhere or anything. Bothered to take him all the way to the Fortress, and shown him all that stuff about Krypton, and told him about the guy it’d come from and told him … told him …
Clark had called him “family”, then, and Kon hadn’t known any better. Hadn’t known Kal-El wasn’t really, like … wasn’t really …
Hadn’t known Clark had already had an actual family, or that Clark had even existed at all. Hadn’t known Clark wasn’t … wasn’t maybe …
Just–hadn’t known it wasn’t “another” step, like he’d actually earned a single step towards what he’d wanted at all.
Even if Clark had meant it, when he’d called him “family” like that … even if he’d meant it in some casual little half-serious way, like people mean about the one weird kid from down the street that occasionally gets invited over out of pity, the one who’s just around often enough to learn a little bit about the real family through accidents or osmosis … well. Clark feels differently about the House of El than he does about the Kent family, doesn’t he.
Real differently.
The House of El is some distant, far-off thing; a burned-out star and a memory to carry and carry on; something to live up to. The Kents are where Clark’s actually comfortable and content and at home.
Kon just–hadn’t known the difference, for a little while. That’s all.
In his defense, it’s not like he’s ever known what having a real “home” was like, so how would he’ve known?
.
.
.
So Serling’s “thing” in Metropolis is some kind of, like, … science conference, Kon guesses, or maybe some kind of convention? He doesn’t actually know if there’s a difference between those or if it’s actually either of them at all; fuck, maybe it’s a science fair.
Look, there’s just this whole big huge hall with some displays and diagrams and a stage all set up in it, plus a whole lot of real loud people talking real loud nerd talk in it, and that’s all he knows, okay? He gave Serling her ride here, somebody gave her a badge with her name on it and gave him a generic “assistant” badge, and now he’s just wandering through the crowd after her while she stops every fifteen feet to scribble furiously in her cheap-ass dollar store notebook, ‘cuz apparently the fancy expensive tablets Cadmus paid out the ass for suck for taking notes or something.
Kon has literally never seen anybody else with a doctorate so eager to pick the most aggressively luddite option available to them every single possible chance they get, but he guesses a tablet wouldn’t give Serling an excuse to use the glittery purple pen with the rubber pompoms on top that she’s currently rocking in her leopard-print pocket protector, so whatever. Maybe it’s the thing where Kon is apparently the literal first person her age she’s ever hung out with or maybe it’s just a “chicks dig glitter” thing.
Or maybe it’s just a Serling thing, which admittedly is probably, like … the likeliest option, Kon is pretty sure. Again, they really don’t know each other all that well, but it’s been a pretty obvious pattern in literally every single conversation they’ve had since the first day her high-tech subway car came in and knocked him on his ass, and more than a few that he’s heard her have with other people.
“So they are definitely trying to poach me more than they’re actually interested in what I’m doing, research-wise and all, a girl genuinely doesn’t know how to feel about that one or why the Mickster is apparently totally groovy on it,” Serling says as she tucks her hair behind her ear with the end of her pen, gets the rubber pompoms caught in her hair, and then attempts to shake them out with an annoyed little huff and just gets them more tangled. Kon pays attention to his TTK and uses it to untangle all the little strings and keep the rubber from sticking in her hair as she pulls the pen out of it.
He expected her hair to be soft, but it’s kinda dried-out and has a lot of heat damage, it feels like. She definitely puts the effort in when she’s styling it, though, so he doesn’t know if maybe she’s overdoing it with the hair dryer or not getting, like, some fucking vitamin or another, but like–definitely he thought it’d be softer. Which is probably a stupid-ass thing to be noticing right now, much less be thinking right now, just …
“Ugh, that’s–there we go!” Serling declares triumphantly as she finally gets her pen free without even yanking any hair out with it. Kon’s not actually sure if she noticed him helping her out there, but probably not. Like, there are several reasons he’s never shut up about TTK a single day in his weird-ass xerox of a clone-life–
( JUST that, he reminds himself; just the weird-ass xerox who doesn’t even actually know how to set a fucking table or how any of this shit even fucking works, not anyone–anyTHING that Clark would have ever actually–ever REALLY– )
–but “people don’t fucking notice it if I don’t talk about it” is the main one. But also, telling her he was touching her hair enough to notice heat damage is probably actually a fucking creepy creep of a thing to tell her, so … yeah, maybe he just isn’t gonna say anything this time, he thinks. “Anyway, like I said, they–oh, wait, I think I’m supposed to meet ‘em back over–”
Kon reflexively glances the way she’s pointing, but his eyes sort of–refocus, kinda. Or–focus past where she’s pointing, maybe; back towards the stage just past it. There’s a few people scattered around it, but on it …
On it, there’s a few more people, though only one of them actually, like–catches his eye or anything, he guesses. Weirdly, it is not either of the tall babes in very high heels and very short skirts. It’s the guy standing between them, who’s–
Well, pretty fucking recognizable, even though Kon’s only ever seen the dude in photo or on video. His whole fucking chest burns all the way to the bone at the sight of him; all the way to his lungs and heart, it feels like.
Honestly, for a knee-jerk second he assumes somebody’s just cracked out the kryptonite, because the very recognizable figure he just caught a glimpse of is Lex fucking Luthor, reigning champ of “Worst Asshole in Metropolis” at least ten years running and Superman’s least favorite person short of, like, maybe Darkseid.
Maybe.
Actually, probably Darkseid pisses Clark off less, because at least Darkseid he doesn’t have to put up with every five fucking minutes and also Darkseid doesn’t pretend to be anything but, like, fucking Darkseid.
The burning only lasts a couple seconds, though, and Kon doesn’t see anything glowing that familiar fucked-up shade of kryptonite green or anything like that. And anyway, kryptonite doesn’t burn. It makes him feel sick and nauseous and weak and pained, but it doesn’t burn. And it isn’t the burn of anger, either–like, he’s not exactly thrilled and frankly kinda dubious that the dude’s here and also maybe feeling a little bit paranoid about how many shitty evil robots might be due to drop on this science fair, but he literally does not know Lex Luthor enough to be actively pissed off at just the sight of him. He knows he fucking sucks, but that’s about it.
Kon’s chest still feels … weird, though? Like, still not anything like kryptonite-weird, but like … kinda tender, and kinda sore, and … and he doesn’t know, exactly?
But fucking weird.
Luthor’s frowning, Kon realizes. Kon is vaguely aware that Lex Luthor frowning probably means the entire fucking world is about to end, but whatever, it’s Metropolis. Clark will handle it if it does. Though like–it’s weird, kinda, that he’s still looking at Luthor. Right? Like, the guy’s not actually doing anything. He’s just standing there between two extremely hot chicks the size of literal Amazons and frowning off to one side, like he’s trying to figure something out or something. And like, obviously he’s fucking dangerous and whatever, but Kon isn't–like, he doesn’t feel like he feels when he’s clocking a threat. He’s just … looking at the guy.
Why the hell is he doing that, he wonders, and isn’t even sure why he’s wondering it to begin with.
Luthor’s frown gets deeper for a second, then clears away entirely. Then he opens his mouth, and Kon–he feels like his ears just refocused, almost, same as his eyes did a minute ago. And he actually hears–
“Rip the hall’s security footage,” Luthor orders shortly as he makes a dismissive little gesture at the women beside him, not even looking at either of them as he says it, and the one in the honestly borderline Spirit Halloween “Sexy Chauffeur Costume” uniform pulls out a smartphone and gives the screen a few little taps while the one in what genuinely looks like a formal black cocktail dress and a real expensive-looking slouchy oversized trenchcoat rolls her shoulders back inside said trenchcoat and does a quick visual sweep of the room.
Kon, like … he thinks he, like …
Kon doesn’t even know why the fuck he’s paying attention to any of this. He doesn’t even know how he just heard Luthor say that, and like–actually he shouldn’t be seeing them this well either, should he, that’s … why is he …?
He remembers the whole fuckup with Klarion and everything, and then he remembers–he’s seen too-clear that far before. Heard that far before. When he was, like … when he’d gotten fucked up into adulthood for a while, he’d had the super-senses and shit. He hadn’t known how they worked, but he’d had ‘em. They’d gone back to normal when he’d gone back to normal, though–like, they haven’t been like that again at all. So like … what the fuck?
In Kon’s experience, superpower upgrades only happen in fucking fucked-up adrenaline or panic or trauma situations. This is … definitely not that. This is literally just some sleazy business-dude and the hotties who apparently work for him, like … just existing, basically.
So again: what the fuck?
“Hellooooo, Spaceman Stud?” Serling says, waving a hand in front of his face and breaking his line of sight, and Kon–blinks, and feels–weird, still, and then just jarred, and …
“Uh–what, sorry?” he asks, tearing his eyes away from Luthor and whoever he’s with. Serling cocks an eyebrow up at him with a smirk.
“Are you seriously trying to scope out chicks from this far back?” she asks. “Like that’s very optimistic of you, don’t get me wrong, but I will actually Build-A-Bear myself a new Superboy if you ditch me here.”
“Please, like you could even handle two of me, Doc,” Kon makes a show of scoffing, drawing himself up to mock-preen, and tries to pretend that idea doesn’t make him feel fucking nauseous. Or like–maybe a lot worse than just “nauseous”, considering how that shit went the last time.
Or like … times.
He knows she’s joking, but like–is she joking? Like–she is, right? As far as he knows Serling’s never actually built herself anybody, much less done a direct rip, just … but like, Cadmus obviously didn’t hire her for fucking nothing, and it’s not like she’s shown either the most awareness of normal fucking boundaries or give-a-damn about “expected” behavior of anyone he knows, which is fucking saying something, and like–like, he just doesn’t know her well enough to really say what she considers, like, her personal sense of “scientific ethics” or whatever, or really exactly what she thinks of people who were built’s … bodily autonomy, or any of that–especially when those people are people who were built by her current fucking bosses, or–
And his chest still feels fucking weird, and he feels like he should be watching whatever’s going on onstage, and he doesn’t fucking know why.
Or why Luthor wants the hall’s security footage, of all the fucking things. That just seems weird. Like–that’s weird, right?
Admittedly, so is literally ever thinking this much about fucking Lex Luthor outside of a supervillain situation, so who even fucking knows.
Kon hears–somebody say something from Luthor’s direction. His ears don’t quite catch the words, but they do catch–perfect and flawless and high-def surround-sound levels of catch–Luthor saying something, which is a dry, “Fortunately, I didn’t ask for their opinion,” and nothing else. Nothing, like … important, or actually ear-catching, or …
( and he thinks, and doesn’t know WHY he thinks–how did he hear that? that, and ONLY that, and nothing else any clearer THAN that? what about THAT caught his attention, what about THAT made his hearing prick up into a degree it’s only ever been when he’d been turned into a full-grown adult, what about THAT was-?
no. what he thinks is: why is he LISTENING to that? )
Kon’s chest feels strange and tight and raw for no good reason and he forces himself not to rub at it. It’s too close to a tell; too close to something someone might notice. Something someone might think about; wonder about.
He doesn’t–he thinks Serling wouldn’t actually make herself a new Superboy. He thinks Serling wouldn’t …
( he doesn’t know why he’s LISTENING to– )
“Good,” Luthor says. “We’re done here. Get the car.”
The woman in the chauffeur’s uniform says something with a sharp nod, then takes off at a brisk pace; and Luthor leaves the stage and walks away with the woman in the trenchcoat at a much more measured one, looking at the phone in his hand as he does. And Kon …
And Kon watches him go, and doesn’t know why.
His chest feels strange and tight and raw, and he ignores it. There’s nothing important about it, or in it, or on it. So he ignores it. He ignores a lot of shit he feels, so it’s not like it’s anything fucking new.
Then he just follows Serling so she won’t need a “new Superboy”, because what the hell else is he even here for anyway? It’s not like anybody else in Metropolis gives a damn about “Superboy” being here; they’ve already got the real deal, after all. And definitely nobody else in Metropolis gives a damn about Kon-El being here either, and never has.
Clark’s already got … the real deal, after all.
He had the real deal long before Kon—before Superboy—before Experiment Thirteen—was even a theoretical spark in some fucking scientist’s eye.
Open the pit! RAY MOCK
Everything All at Once