Chapter Text
‘When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.’ Well, what do you do when life gives you a small child? Clark was, for once in his life, running late. It was a simple issue of his alarm not sounding, but it resulted in the situation of him quite literally tripping over the child on his porch. After catching himself, he spun to see what he had tripped on. A child. An absolutely tiny boy, covered in a thin blanket, sleeping on his welcome mat.
Quickly scanning the area, he tried to determine who had left the boy. He couldn’t hear any different sounds except the slow beat of the boy’s heart. He couldn’t see any suspicious people lurking around, watching for Clark to take the boy. It was as if someone had teleported the boy to his stoop. Sighing silently, Clark pulled out his phone and called his office. He was vague, giving as few details as needed, as he informed him that he wouldn’t be in for the day.
With that sorted, Clark scooped the boy up and carried him inside. The boy remained sleeping until Clark tried to put him down. Suddenly tears started, the boy babbling incoherently. He could pick out “please”, “don’t leave”, and “I’ll be good” from the rapid fire of words coming out of the boy’s mouth. The man did his best to soothe the boy, but it was hard. Yes, he, as Superman, had soothed children, but this wasn’t just a scared child who had just witnessed a disaster. This was a scared child, in an unfamiliar home, with an unfamiliar man.
It took quite a while for the boy to calm down enough to be coherent. As the tears dried, he mumbled out a soft “sorry”.
Clark did his best to clean the tears and snot, the boy fussing a bit at the tissue against his face. He had seen plenty of other children recoil from the touch of a tissue or wipe on their face, so he brushed it aside. When he was clean, the hero got a better look at the boy. It was not that unusual for people to have black hair and blue eyes on the East Coast. Sometimes it even felt like it was more common than brown hair and brown eyes. So looking for young boys with black hair and blue eyes would lead him down a rabbit hole of potentially hundreds of missing children.
Later. It should be now, but the boy was staring up at him with big, red-rimmed, hopeful eyes. Maybe he was smitten with the boy, but he couldn’t keep him. Gently, he brought the boy to the kitchen, setting him on the counter.
“Hello, dear,” the man began, before mentally flinching. That made him sound much older than he was. “My name is Clark. Do you know why you’re here?”
The boy nodded enthusiastically. Then he simply pointed at him, then himself, then back to him.
“Okay. Can I see if you’re hurt? If you have owies?” Another nod and Clark gently unwrapped the boy from his blanket. A note was stuck to his NASA shirt, the sticky note covering much of the logo.
After peeling the note off, Clark read it aloud, “ This child has come from a faraway place and I hope I can entrust you with his care. You might be the only one- ” He cut himself off before he accidentally exposed his secret identity to the child. Someone, somehow, had figured out his identity. If it was someone from the Justice League, they would have talked to him before they dropped off a child on his doorstep.
He would need to be even more careful than he had been about keeping his identities separate. Crumpling the note, Clark reminded himself to destroy it later. He resumed his examination of the boy. Besides cooler skin and a slower-than-average heartbeat, it beating even slower than an adult sleeping, the boy seemed in perfectly good health. No external or internal injuries he could see or detect. That was good at least.
He pulled the blanket back around the boy, smiling when the boy did. Yeah, he was definitely smitten with him, but he couldn’t keep him. The boy might have come from a faraway place, but he must have family somewhere, right? Reaching into his pocket for his phone, he felt paper with it.
He pulled the paper out, another note in the same handwriting. “ Please take care of my boy, Clark, ” he read aloud again. “ You are the only one. One day, I will return for him. Until then, care for him and love him. ”
He flipped the note around to the boy, wondering if the boy could read. Or how old he was, what his name was, and many more questions. But he started easy, “Can you read this?” A nod, a bit hesitant. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”
The boy beamed, nodding enthusiastically. His voice came out rough, cracking, “Grampa!”
That was a piece of the puzzle. His grandfather was previously taking care of the boy, his parents presumably dead or otherwise unable. But now he had another section of the puzzle to fill out. How had he gotten a note into Clark’s pants without him noticing? Telekinesis? That was certainly an option. Teleportation couldn’t be taken off the table.
At least the boy wasn’t missing. His grandfather, who knew his hero and civilian identities, who could make a note appear in his pants without him noticing, knowingly left the boy in his care. Part of him wished the grandfather had left him more information.
The boy had answered him with words, which wasn’t too bad. He could work with it. Plus the tyke had said he could read. There were pathways for communication.
With a deep breath, Clark smiled at the boy. “I’ve told you my name. Clark, remember? Do you know your name? Do you know how old you are?”
“Danny,” the boy answered. He then held up both hands, all five fingers on display. “And I’m free .” He frowned, sticking his tongue out. He carefully closed his fingers until three were displayed. “ Free !” Ah, the boy had a slight lisp. Possibly just age-related. “No! Free ! Th- Th- Th- Thr- Free !”
“I understand, Danny,” Clark reassured. “You’re three. Your mouth and tongue are still growing, just like you are.”
Danny pouted, “But I can talk! It’s only the free that I can’t say!”
“I know you can, but you’re still small. You’re not going to be perfect. We can practice. Okay, buddy?”
“Okay, Mr. Clark.”
That just melted his heart. Why? Because the boy was just so darn cute! With possibly false permission, Clark could care for him. And he would. “You can just call me Clark, okay?”
“And you can call me Danny!”
“Well, Danny, have you had breakfast yet?” He asked, already moving to make him something simple. “I can make you eggs and toast, if you’re hungry.”
“Okay, M- Clark,” Danny gently corrected himself. “Can I have some water? Please?”
Setting the pan on the stove, the man smiled at his possible son, “Thank you for saying please. Do you want cold water from the fridge or warm water from the sink?” He might not know young children, but he knew Dick. Options were a big thing for him and Clark mentally cursed himself for not giving Danny options for breakfast.
“Sink, please.”
While the pan heated, Clark filled a small plastic cup about a third full for Danny. Plastic wouldn’t break if it fell and the water wouldn’t weigh so much that the boy couldn’t actually drink from it. The toddler took it, eyeing the contents well, before he carefully tilted the cup back. The water slowly flowed and Clark was a bit surprised by the boy’s coordination. He assumed most toddlers were messy and that he would need to do many things to ensure he could care for him properly.
After collecting two eggs and butter from the fridge, he finally pulled his phone out, no note this time. Skillfully cracking the eggs into the buttered pan, he began a digital list of things he would need or need to read up on.
Foods kids could and couldn’t eat, what foods needed to be cut into small pieces versus what could be left whole, serving sizes, utensils, plates, cups, bowls. Childproofing and what needed to be kept very far from kids. Sleeping and eating habits. Clothing. Milestones. Signs of trauma in kids. Laws around abandoned children.
Flipping the eggs over, Clark watched Danny watching him, eyes looking between the eggs and him. “Oh. I didn’t ask if you wanted them scrambled. I was making them how I like them. Is that okay?”
Danny nodded. “Are they fresh?”
“They’re not expired, but I bought them a few days ago. I had some this morning. They’re safe to eat.”
He added medicine for children to the list. Goodness gracious! He was a bit overwhelmed by the list. Hopefully, he could get in contact with his parents and ask them about raising him. The tyke was probably a meta, or had the potential to be one if his grandfather was anything to go by.
Right before the man could push the lever to turn the bread into toast, Danny called out, “No!”
Clark pulled his hand back, turning to the boy. “Okay, no toast. Do you want bread?”
“No, thank you.”
After putting the bread back into the bag, he checked the eggs. He liked them over easy, but he was almost sure that kids couldn’t have them like that, especially a three-year-old. Flipping them again, he wasn’t sure they were done, so he poked a yolk. It didn’t ooze like over easy, but still seemed too soft. Putting a lid on the pan would help them cook, hopefully.
While the man gathered a paper plate, since he only had ceramic dishes, he tried to judge what the tyke was thinking. He was glaring at the pan, like it would attack. Maybe he had food trauma. He had freaked out over toast. That would be a good guess. When he turned to place the plate next to the stove, a small file had appeared.
The man scanned the contents. Somehow the grandfather had left more information for him. That was helpful at least. A birth certificate, the father hadn’t been filled in, a death certificate of the mother, a basic medical history. The boy seemed to be up to date on his vaccines, which was a relief. The last page confused him. A faked DNA test, claiming that he was the biological father. Unless he had unknowingly impregnated someone or his DNA was taken, he couldn’t be the father.
Flipping through the papers, there was nothing more. Turning the file over, another note, same handwriting. Pardon the DNA test. It was the only solution. It read and Clark frowned. He shoved them away and checked the eggs. They weren’t burnt, not quite, but definitely overcooked. He silently prayed Danny would still eat them.
After cutting them into small pieces, he moved the plate and Danny to the table. He gave the boy a spoon and a refill on water. The boy gently poked the egg, waited, and then poked them again, like he expected them to attack back. Once he was satisfied that they wouldn’t, he began eating.
“Are they good?” The man asked, watching the boy stuff his cheeks. Definitely something around food was a trigger for him. Not that he would pry. Not now.
Danny looked up, chewed carefully, and swallowed. “They’re just eggs.” He nodded and took a sip of his water.
“Glad you’re enjoying them,” Clark smiled. Then he checked over his list, glancing at the file. A doctor’s visit was added. Then he quickly added a DNA test to it. Bruce could help with that. Oh, no. He’d have to tell others. Later. The first people he needed to tell were his own parents.