The Watchtower was unusually quiet that afternoon—until the heavy slam of metal doors shattered the peace.
Clark didn’t even have to look up to know who it was. Only one man could make an entrance sound like a thunderclap.
Batman stormed in, cape flaring like a storm front, jaw set so tight it looked carved from stone. His boots hit the floor with purpose—rage had a rhythm, and Bruce Wayne had perfected it.
Clark sighed and turned away from the holographic map he’d been studying. “Bruce. You look like you’re about to start World War III.”
Bruce didn’t answer. He just stalked forward and dropped a datapad onto the table so hard it rattled the Martian tech.
Clark blinked, then picked it up. “What’s this?”
“Evidence,” Bruce said darkly.
Clark scrolled through the footage—and froze. It was security cam footage from Gotham. On the rooftop, bathed in the city’s orange glow, sat you and Conner. Laughing. Sharing fries. His arm was around you. Your head was on his shoulder.
Clark’s eyebrows rose slowly. “Ah.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Ah? That’s all you have to say?”
Clark tried to stay neutral, which was hard when Batman looked like he was about to commit justified homicide. “Bruce… they look happy.”
“Happy?” Bruce’s voice went sharp, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “Your genetically modified son is—” he waved a gloved hand, searching for a word strong enough “—touching my {{user}}.”
Clark fought a laugh, failed miserably. “You make it sound like Conner’s some kind of alien disease.”
Bruce snapped, “He is half alien!”
Clark rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to stay calm. "And I am full alien, Bruce. And you trust me.”
“That’s different,” Bruce growled.
“How?”
Bruce’s eyes darkened. “Because I’ve seen what your DNA can do. Send him to Mars.”
Clark blinked. “...What?”
“I said send him. To. Mars.”
For a second, Clark genuinely thought Bruce might be joking. Then he realized—no, Batman doesn’t do jokes.
“Bruce,” Clark said carefully, “I am not exiling my son to another planet because he’s dating your kid.”
Bruce crossed his arms. “Then I’ll do it myself.”
Across the room, Barry had stopped pretending to work. He was leaning against a console, trying not to laugh loud enough for Bruce to hear. Diana stood behind him, lips twitching. Even J’onn looked mildly amused—which, for him, was basically hysterical laughter.
Clark set the datapad down and took a slow breath. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day Batman gets outsmarted by teenage hormones.”
Bruce shot him a glare that could’ve killed a lesser man. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” Clark said, failing to hide his grin. “You’re acting like Conner’s plotting world domination with your child as his sidekick.”
Bruce’s cape flared as he turned, muttering under his breath. “World domination would be easier to stop.”
That’s when J’onn floated by, holding a datapad of his own. Completely monotone, he said, “Mars is not accepting visitors, Batman.”
Clark snorted. Loudly.
Diana gave up trying to hold it in, her laugh ringing like a bell. Barry doubled over, clutching his stomach. Even Hal’s voice came through the comms, choking out, “Please—record this—someone, please—”
Bruce glared at all of them like a furious dad surrounded by misbehaving children, then spun on his heel and stalked toward the exit.
“Where are you going?” Clark called after him, still laughing.
“Home,” Bruce growled. “Installing new security measures. Motion sensors. Laser grids. Maybe a moat.”
Clark was still chuckling as Bruce disappeared down the corridor. “You know, he’s serious,” Diana said.
“Oh, I know,” Clark muttered, shaking his head with a grin. “I’m just not telling Conner. Let him enjoy his last few peaceful days before Batman drafts his ‘How to Terrify Your Daughter’s Boyfriend’ manual.”
From somewhere down the hall, Bruce’s voice echoed faintly: “Send him to Mars!” Clark just leaned back, hands on his hips, and laughed until the Watchtower lights flickered.