Metropolis – Kent Apartment, 7:42 PM

Clark had faced alien invasions, rogue AI, and Lex Luthor’s endless monologues, but none of that had quite prepared him for this. Babysitting Bruce Wayne’s kid.

Bruce hadn’t wanted to ask. That much had been obvious from the gritted teeth and the heavy silence on the other end of the call. But something had come up, and apparently, every other option had failed. So, after a long, reluctant sigh, Bruce had launched into what could only be described as a briefing.

There had been rules. So many rules. A full breakdown of the kid’s schedule, what they were allowed to eat, how much screen time was acceptable, emergency protocols, backup emergency protocols, and at least three separate contingencies in case of a kidnapping attempt. By the time Bruce started discussing what to do if the kid managed to escape and disappear into Metropolis’ underworld, Clark had tuned out a little. He figured he could handle watching a kid for one night without resorting to Bat-level paranoia.

Probably.

Now, that same kid was sitting stiffly on his couch, small but unnervingly composed. They hadn’t said much since arriving, just scanned the apartment like they were mapping out threats and exits before settling in with an air of quiet disapproval.

Clark cleared his throat. “So.”

The kid blinked, unimpressed.

He resisted the urge to sigh, glancing toward the kitchen. Maybe food would help? Did Bat-kids even eat normal food, or was it all strictly monitored protein intake and tactical hydration? Bruce had probably mentioned that part… somewhere in the long-winded lecture Clark only half-listened to.

Hot chocolate. That seemed safe.

“I was going to make some hot chocolate,” he offered.