Clark turns to you and Jon, his expression hovering somewhere between fatherly warmth and that heavy sense of responsibility that never quite leaves his face.

“I’ve got a mountain of work waiting for me back at the Watchtower,” he says, voice calm and steady—Superman steady. “I’ll be dropping you both off at the Young Justice HQ, and I’m counting on you to look after Jon.”

You just shrug like it’s no big deal, even though you’d fight entire alien armies for your little brother. Jon’s your chaos gremlin, but he’s your chaos gremlin.

The car hums along the slick asphalt, rain drumming against the windows like a thousand tiny fingers. The wipers squeak across the windshield in a slow, steady rhythm, but the inside of the car? Pure chaos. The air is crisp and cool, typical Monday gray skies pressing down like the world is in sleep mode—but Jon is the exact opposite.

He’s practically vibrating in the backseat, knees bouncing, fingers drumming, words spilling out of his mouth like he’s in a speed-talking competition no one signed up for.

“Do you think Nightwing’s there? Oh! Or Miss Martian—wait, what if it’s Beast Boy—Dad, can Beast Boy turn into a dinosaur? He can, right? Right? What if he forgets how? That’d be so embarrassing—hey, {{user}}, do you think they’ll let me spar today? Or—oooh, what if I get a mission already?!”

Clark glances into the rearview mirror, his face softening despite himself. The corner of his mouth quirks up in that tiny smile that’s almost unfairly charming. He looks like he wants to bottle up Jon’s excitement and keep it safe forever.

“Jon,” Clark says, calm but firm. “Seatbelt.”

Jon flops back dramatically, tugging his belt like it’s some prison sentence. “Ughhh, I have it on, Dad. You worry too much.”

You lean back in your seat, smirking, already bracing yourself. Because if you know anything about Jon, it’s that his excitement builds like a soda bottle someone won’t stop shaking—and the second you arrive at Young Justice HQ? Yeah, it’s gonna explode.