Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter One

The first thing Aven felt was pain.
Not sharp, not localized — just an all-over heaviness, as if his muscles had been swapped out for lead in his sleep. His ribs ached deep, the queen a slow, coiled weight under his sternum, pressing against tender lungs. His calves burned from hours spent in three-inch heels, the soles of his feet a dull throb that pulsed with each faint twitch of his toes. Even his shoulders protested, the climb and near fall still written into every strained tendon.

He lay still a moment, letting the hum of the safe house’s ventilation fan fill the silence. No daylight down here. Just the closed-in smell of concrete and metal, undercut with the faint tang of recycled air. And beneath that, something warmer — garlic, onion maybe, starch thickening in simmering water.

When he finally sat up, the cot’s frame groaned under the shift. The thin mattress had left the bars stamped into his back and hips, and his neck popped when he rolled it to the side. The motion made memories slide in without permission — the slick marble under his heels, the weight of the champagne tray shaking in his hands, Luthor’s voice curling too close to his ear.

Bruce’s grip on his wrist, sudden and unyielding.
The rush of air beneath him when the bar gave way.
That last lurch upward, knees catching on the balcony rung.

And then—Bruce’s mouth on his, fierce and unrelenting in the loading dock shadows. No hesitation, no distance, just months of everything unsaid poured into one desperate kiss. A kiss that had felt like a claim, like a warning, like he was daring Aven to run again.

Aven exhaled through his nose, raking a hand through his hair. Across the room, Coyote was dead to the world on his own cot, one booted foot hanging off the side, arm draped across his eyes like he was trying to keep the world out.

The kitchen alcove’s light was low, a single bulb glowing above the battered counter. Wasabi stood at the stove, stirring something in a dented pot. The hiss and pop of the burner echoed in the enclosed space, blending with the low hum of the fans.

Aven swung his legs over the side of the cot, bare feet touching cold cement. The chill shot up his aching calves, making him wince. “Where’s Sarge?” he asked, his voice rough and uneven from disuse.

Wasabi looked over his shoulder, the steam curling around him. “Back at the lab with Amanda. They wanted to run a deeper sweep while it’s still quiet.”

Aven nodded faintly, flexing his fingers as the fresh cuts across his palms pulled tight — raw reminders of how hard he’d clung to that twisted metal bar until it gave way. “The drive,” he said after a beat. “The stuff we pulled from Luthor. You get through it yet?”

Wasabi turned, leaning a hip against the counter. “Some. Most of its locked down behind encryption. I’ll have the easier stuff in a few days. The heavy files?” He shook his head. “Could take until after your treatment.”

A week. That was an eternity in Luthor’s world. Long enough to move whatever they’d been after. Long enough to bury it where no one could find it again.

Aven scrubbed a hand down his face, the queen shifting uneasily inside him like she’d caught the tension in his chest. The smell of Wasabi’s cooking curled through the stale air, grounding him just enough to keep from getting lost in the weight of it all.

Wasabi turned back to the stove, giving whatever he was cooking another slow stir before nodding toward the counter. “Coffee’s over there if you want it. Sarge made it before he left.”

Aven glanced toward the battered percolator squatting beside a stack of mismatched mugs. The smell hit him first — dark, acrid, like burnt earth and motor oil had been convinced to share a pot.

He huffed a dry laugh. “Marine coffee?”

Wasabi’s mouth twitched. “Straight from the book. Black as midnight, thick enough to chew, and will probably strip paint if you spill it.”

Aven dragged himself to his feet, crossing the cold concrete with slow steps. His calves screamed with every movement, but the lure of caffeine outweighed the protest. He poured a cup, the liquid glugging out like used oil, and took a tentative sip.

It was awful.
Perfectly, nostalgically awful.

He swallowed, grimacing against the bitterness. “Tastes like Sarge’s.”

“Careful,” Wasabi said, smirking faintly as he kept stirring. “You drink too much of that and you’ll start barking orders in your sleep.”

Aven took another swallow anyway, letting the heat chase away some of the lingering chill in his chest. The queen shifted slightly at the warmth, pressing against his lung, but stayed quiet.

Aven cradled the mug between his palms, letting the heat soak into his raw, cut skin. The smell was sharp enough to sting his nose, but it kept him anchored — here, now, instead of drifting back to last night.

They hadn’t stayed up long after getting back. Coyote had gone straight for his cot, out cold in minutes. Wasabi had dumped the drive onto his rig and started a preliminary sweep, muttering about encryption before his tone softened into “we’ll deal with it in the morning.” Sarge had disappeared upstairs for a quick debrief with Amanda before heading out again.

And Bruce…

The image came unbidden — Bruce standing in the dim glow of the loading dock lights, pale eyes locked on him with that mix of steel and heat that had always left Aven off-balance. I’m not losing you again. The words had been low, fierce, meant for him alone. And then the kiss — not gentle, not questioning, but full of months of everything they’d both been carrying.

It had been five months since Aven had heard his voice in person. Five months of silence, of watching from a distance, of keeping away because getting close would paint a target on Bruce’s back. He’d run to protect him. He’d stayed gone to keep him alive.

And then last night, in the space of seconds, all that distance had collapsed.

Now the memory sat heavy in his chest, a tangle of relief and dread. He’d wanted that moment for so long, but it also cracked open everything he’d been trying to hold shut. Seeing Bruce again, hearing his voice, feeling his hands on him — it made staying away feel impossible.

Wasabi’s voice pulled him back. “You okay over there? You look like you’re about three thoughts deep into something dangerous.”

Aven took another swallow of the coffee, forcing his shoulders to loosen. “Just tired,” he lied.

Wasabi snorted without looking up from the pot. “Tired, my ass.” He gave the contents one last stir before switching off the burner. “You’ve been running on fumes for months, and now the guy you’ve been avoiding like the plague shows up in the middle of your op, pulls you out of a twenty-story drop, and plants one on you in front of your team’s getaway car.”

Aven stiffened, halfway through another swallow of coffee. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please,” Wasabi said, finally turning to face him. “I was there when you stumbled in last night looking like you’d just walked through a hurricane. Coyote was too busy face-planting into a cot, but I saw you. I saw what it did to you.” He leaned against the counter, arms folded. “So… what’s the plan now that Bruce has found you?”

Aven’s grip on the mug tightened, heat seeping into his palms. What’s the plan?
The truth was, he didn’t have one. Not when Bruce’s voice was still in his head, low and raw. Not when that kiss still felt burned into him like a brand.

And not when Clark was the one he’d been falling asleep beside for the last several days.

The thought made his chest tighten. Clark hadn’t asked him to choose, hadn’t flinched when Aven admitted he still loved Bruce. He’d even smiled — that maddeningly steady, patient smile — like he understood. Like he was okay with sharing.

Conner’s voice drifted in from memory: Maybe you don’t have to pick.
Easy for the kid to say. In the abstract, it sounded simple. But living it — carrying both loves in his chest at once — felt like a slow, constant tearing.

“It’s not that simple,” Aven muttered.

“Sure it is,” Wasabi countered, calm but unyielding. “Either you keep dodging him for another seven days until your treatment, or you admit you couldn’t stay away forever. Let’s not pretend you didn’t know this was coming. Bruce was always going to be there for it. The reunion was baked in from the start.”

Aven looked away, swallowing hard. Wasabi wasn’t wrong. Last night hadn’t been the plan, but it had always been the destination. And now, with Clark in the picture… hell, maybe he really was the bastard his head kept telling him he was.

Wasabi’s mouth twitched into a faint smirk. “Face it, man. You didn’t outrun him. You just made the dramatic entrance more complicated.”

Aven huffed something between a laugh and a groan, staring down into the coffee. “You’re an ass.”

“Yeah,” Wasabi said, pouring himself a mug. “But I’m a perceptive ass.”

Aven took another swallow of coffee, then set the mug down a little harder than necessary. “Speaking of making things complicated… the data. How’s it looking?”

Wasabi lifted a brow at the quick subject change but didn’t call him on it. “Like I said — the surface-level stuff is fine. Schedules, invoices, basic R&D memos. But the core files? Encrypted to hell. I’ll crack ’em, but it’ll take time.”

Aven nodded slowly, fingers drumming against the side of the mug. “While I was on the ledge outside his office… before Luthor came back, Keene came in with one of his security guys. I couldn’t see much, but I heard her tell him the reports were showing ‘exceptional progress’ and to leave the files on his desk so Luthor could review them after the gala.”

Wasabi frowned. “Progress on what?”

“She didn’t say.” Aven leaned back on the cot, gaze flicking to the low ceiling. “But if it’s Keene, it’s not something we want them making progress on.”

“Great,” Wasabi muttered, pushing off the counter to grab his own mug. “So, best case, it’s another bullshit side project. Worst case, it’s something we’ll wish we’d never heard of.”

Aven didn’t answer. He was still hearing Keene’s voice in his head — calm, clinical, as if the thing she was describing wasn’t horrifying at all. Exceptional progress. Whatever that meant, it wasn’t going to be good.

Wasabi took a long pull from his coffee, watching him over the rim. “You think it’s tied to the sample they took from you?”

Aven’s jaw tightened. “Wouldn’t put it past her. Luthor’s got the tech to break things Weyland can’t — and the money to keep it off anyone’s radar until it’s done.”

“That’s comforting,” Wasabi said dryly, setting his mug down. “Guess I’ll bump those files to the top of the list. If she’s walking something straight into his office, it’s worth knowing what.”

Aven stared into the dark swirl of his coffee, the queen shifting faintly beneath his ribs — a silent reminder of exactly what was at stake — when his burner buzzed against the cot beside him.
One glance at the screen showed Clark’s name.

[Clark:] Haven’t seen you today. You okay?
Another came through before he could type a reply.
[Clark:] It’s past noon, Aven. Please just let me know you’re okay.

Aven’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could almost picture Clark in the kitchen, that steady frown pulling between his brows, phone in one hand, the other braced on the counter. He hadn’t planned to stay here this long.

The phone buzzed again — this time Conner.

[Conner:] Dad’s pacing. I told him you probably crashed at the safe house but he’s still twitchy.
A pause, then another message.
[Conner:] Also… did you seriously pull off a dress and heels at the gala last night?

Aven blinked at the screen.

[Aven:] …Why are you asking me that?

[Conner:] Because I heard Dad muttering in the kitchen earlier. Something about scars and high heels.

Aven’s brow furrowed.

[Aven:] Scars and high heels?

[Conner:] Yeah. He said something like “only those scars could’ve given him away.”

Aven leaned back against the cold wall, phone resting loosely in his hand. Clark had been there. He’d known. All that effort — the wig, the dress, the voice modulator — and it hadn’t bought him more than a heartbeat of anonymity.

The queen shifted again, a faint, restless press beneath his sternum, feeding on the spike in his pulse.

He set the coffee aside, rubbing at the back of his neck. It had been one thing to wonder if Clark might’ve recognized him, another to know for certain. And if Clark had picked him out that easily… Who else had noticed?

The burner lit up again — this time, Clark’s name.

Aven swiped to answer before he could overthink it. “You’ve got a funny way of saying good morning,” he muttered, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear.

Clark's voice came through warm but edged with worry. "Aven. Thank God. I was starting to think—" A pause, then quieter: "Are you hurt?"

The concern in Clark's tone made something twist in Aven's chest. He could picture Clark clearly—probably standing in that bright kitchen, one hand braced against the counter, blue eyes fixed on nothing while he waited for an answer. The same man who'd offered protection to a stranger in a ballroom last night, not knowing it was Aven he was trying to shield.

"I'm fine," Aven said, though his voice came out rougher than intended. "Just needed to crash somewhere safe after last night."

"Last night." Clark's tone shifted, became more careful. "The gala."

Aven's grip tightened on the phone. So Clark did know. The confirmation settled in his stomach like a stone. "Yeah."

A longer pause this time. When Clark spoke again, his voice was softer, almost gentle. "The scars on your leg. I'd know them anywhere."

Heat crawled up Aven's neck. Those scars—pale lines across his right thigh that Clark had traced with reverent attention just days ago. Of course he'd recognized them. The facial overlay might have fooled cameras, but it couldn't hide the map of old wounds that Clark had memorized with his mouth.

"How long did you know?" Aven asked.

"The moment I saw you serving champagne," Clark admitted. "The way you moved, even in heels. And when Luthor was..." Clark's voice hardened slightly. "When he put his hands on you, I wanted to break his wrists."

The protective edge in Clark's voice made the queen shift beneath Aven's ribs, responding to the spike in his pulse. Across the room, Wasabi had gone still at the stove, clearly listening despite his attempt to look occupied.

"You didn't do anything," Aven said. "You and Bruce both offered to help, but you didn't blow my cover."

"We couldn’t," Clark said quietly. "We both knew it wasn't the time. But Aven..." His voice softened further. "That stunt on the balcony ledge nearly stopped my heart."

Aven froze, the mug halfway to his lips. The balcony. Clark had seen that too? How much had he witnessed? The image flashed through his mind—twenty stories up, wind whipping around him, fingers slipping on cold metal as the railing gave way.

"How did you—" He stopped, cleared his throat. "You weren't even on that floor."

A pause. "I was looking for you. When I realized you'd disappeared during Luthor's speech, I got worried."

Something in Clark's tone didn't quite track, but Aven couldn't place what. He rubbed a hand across his face, suddenly exhausted despite the coffee. "Well, as you can see—or hear, I guess—I'm fine. Just sore. And tired."

"Will you come home tonight?" The question was gentle, no pressure behind it, but Aven heard the undercurrent of worry.

Home. The word settled strangely in his chest. Clark's apartment had begun to feel that way—a place where he could breathe, where the constant vigilance eased just enough to let him sleep. But after last night, after Bruce...

"I don't know," he admitted. "There's still data to go through. And after last night, I should probably stay close to the team."

Clark was quiet for a moment. "Bruce mentioned you found something important."

Aven's grip tightened on the phone. "Bruce mentioned? When exactly were you talking to Bruce about this?"

Another pause, longer this time. "After the gala. He called to tell me what happened. That he’d found you and you were okay."

The casual admission sent a jolt through Aven's system. They'd been talking. About him. Behind his back. How long had that been going on?

"So you two are just...what? Comparing notes now?" The words came out sharper than he'd intended, edged with something that felt too close to hurt.

"It's not like that," Clark said, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of tension. "We were both worried about you. After what happened on that balcony—"

"What happened on that balcony is that I did my job," Aven cut in. "Same as I've been doing for months without either of you hovering over me."

The queen twisted beneath his ribs, responding to the spike in his pulse with a sharp movement that made him wince. Across the room, Wasabi had given up pretending not to listen and was watching him openly now, concern etched across his features.

"That's not fair," Clark said, his voice still maddeningly calm. "You nearly fell twenty stories, Aven. If Bruce hadn't been there—"

"But he was there, wasn't he?" Aven finished, his voice tight. "Funny how that works out. Almost like you both knew exactly where to find me."

The silence on the other end stretched too long. Aven could hear Clark breathing, could almost picture him choosing his words carefully. The same way he'd done in the ballroom when offering help to a stranger he'd already recognized.

"We didn't plan it," Clark said finally. "But yes, we've been talking. About you. About what happens next."

The admission hit like a physical blow. They'd been coordinating behind his back, making decisions about his life while he slept in Clark's bed, trusting him with secrets he'd never shared with anyone else. The betrayal tasted bitter on his tongue, mixing with the awful coffee until his stomach churned.

"What happens next," Aven repeated, the words flat. "And what exactly did you two decide happens next?"

"It's not like that," Clark said again, but there was something strained in his voice now. "Aven, please. Just come home and we can talk about this properly. The boys will be back from school soon, and—"

"The boys." Aven laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Right. Can't have Uncle Bruce's secrets disrupting family dinner."

"That's not—" Clark stopped, took a breath. "You're upset. I understand that. But running back to the safe house every time things get complicated isn't going to solve anything."

The words stung because they were true. Aven had been running for months—from Bruce, from the truth, from anything that felt too much like hope. And now Clark was calling him on it, voice gentle but implacable in that way that made Aven feel simultaneously cared for and trapped.

"Maybe I like complicated," Aven muttered, aware of how petulant he sounded.

Wasabi snorted from across the room. "No, you don't. You hate complicated. You just like having control over your own disasters."

Aven shot him a glare that could have melted steel. Wasabi shrugged, unrepentant, and took another sip of his coffee.

"Who was that?" Clark asked.

"Wasabi. Being an ass."

"He's not wrong, though." Clark's voice carried that particular tone of fond exasperation that Aven had come to associate with the man's infinite patience. "You do like controlling your own disasters."

The accuracy of the observation made something twist uncomfortably in Aven's chest. The queen stirred in response, pressing against his ribs with enough force to make breathing feel deliberate.

"Look," Aven said, rubbing at his sternum where the alien presence coiled restlessly. "I need time to process this. The data, the mission, whatever's going on between you and Bruce—"

"There's nothing going on between Bruce and me that doesn't include you," Clark interrupted, his voice carrying a weight that made Aven's chest tighten. "Everything that happens from here involves all three of us. That's what we need to talk about."

The phone felt suddenly heavy in Aven's hand. All three of us. The words hung in the air like a challenge, like a promise, like something that should have terrified him but instead made his pulse quicken with dangerous hope.

"I can't," Aven said, the words scraping his throat raw. "Not yet. I need—"

"Time," Clark finished gently. "I know. But Aven, you don't have much left. The treatment is in six days."

Six days. The reminder hit like a physical blow, the queen responding with a violent twist that nearly doubled him over. Five days until Amanda strapped him to a table and flooded his system with chemicals that might sever the neural bond or might kill him outright. Sixty-three percent survival rate. The odds weren't exactly comforting.

Wasabi was watching him with sharp eyes now, coffee forgotten in his hands. The Marine had seen too many operations go sideways to miss the signs of someone spiraling.

"I have to go," Aven said into the phone, his voice barely steady. "Tell the boys I'll see them soon."

"Aven—"

He hung up before Clark could finish, letting the phone drop onto the cot beside him. The silence in the safe house felt oppressive now, broken only by the hum of ventilation and the distant sound of Coyote's snoring.

"Well," Wasabi said after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "That sounded productive."

Aven shot him another glare, but the fight had gone out of him. His hands were shaking slightly—whether from caffeine, adrenaline, or the queen's restless movements, he couldn't tell. Everything felt too much, too fast, like standing at the center of a storm he couldn't navigate.

"They've been talking about me," he said finally, the admission tasting bitter. "Making plans. Deciding what happens next."

"Yeah," Wasabi agreed, stirring whatever he was cooking. "Because they give a shit about you. Revolutionary concept, I know."

The remark was delivered with typical Wasabi bluntness, cutting straight through Aven's self-pity to the uncomfortable truth beneath. Of course they'd been talking. Of course they were making plans. He was the one carrying an alien parasite that could emerge at any moment, the one with a bomb in his back and five days until a treatment that might not work. They'd have been stupid not to coordinate.

But knowing that didn't make the betrayal sting any less.

"It's not about what they're doing," Aven muttered, staring down at his torn palms. "It's about what they're not telling me."

Wasabi moved away from the stove, settling onto the edge of his cot with the careful movements of someone who'd learned to navigate a minefield of moods after years of combat together.

"Look," he said, voice dropping lower. "I get it. You're pissed. But those two men have been moving heaven and earth to find a way to save your ass. So maybe cut them a little slack for talking to each other about it."

Aven scrubbed a hand down his face. The queen shifted again, a slow coil that pressed against his lung as if responding to the discomfort settling in his chest. He knew Wasabi was right, but that didn't make the revelation any easier to swallow.

"Six days," he muttered, more to himself than to Wasabi. "And I still don't know if I'm ready."

Wasabi's expression softened slightly. "Nobody's ever ready for this kind of shit, Davis. But ready or not, it's coming." He paused, then added, "And those two? They're going to be there whether you want them or not. So you might as well stop fighting it."

Before Aven could respond, his burner buzzed again. This time, the screen showed Jon's name.

[Jon]: Dad says you're staying with your friends today. Can we still play Mario Kart tonight when you get back?

Something warm and unexpected bloomed in Aven's chest. The simplicity of the message, the easy assumption that he'd be back – it cut through the tangle of emotions like a knife.

[Aven]: Wouldn't miss it, kid.

He set the phone down and looked up to find Wasabi watching him with knowing eyes.

"The kids?" Wasabi asked.

Aven nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite everything. "Jon wants to know if we're still on for Mario Kart."

Wasabi huffed a laugh. "Kid's got his priorities straight." He pushed himself up and returned to the stove. "You know, for what it's worth, I think Kent's good for you. And Wayne... well, he's complicated as hell, but he'd walk through fire for you. Not a lot of people get that kind of backup."

The queen shifted again as Aven considered Wasabi's words. He thought of Clark's steady presence, the way the man never pushed but never backed down either. He thought of Bruce's fierce grip on his wrist, the determination in those pale eyes as he'd pulled Aven to safety.

Two men who'd seen him at his worst and stayed anyway. Two men who'd been talking behind his back – but only because they were both trying to save his life.

"Yeah," Aven admitted quietly. "I know. But—"

Before Aven could say anymore, the safe house door swung open with a metallic groan. Amanda stepped through, her face set in that carefully neutral expression that meant she had news she didn't want to deliver. Sarge followed close behind, looking more grim than usual—which was saying something.

"Morning, sunshine," Amanda said, her tone belying the tension in her shoulders. "Sleep well?"

Aven straightened, instantly alert to the undercurrent in her voice. "Well enough. What's wrong?"

She crossed to the makeshift kitchen area, helping herself to coffee without asking. Her lab coat was rumpled, as if she'd been wearing it too long, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. "We have a couple things to discuss."

"Just a couple?" Aven's attempt at humor fell flat even to his own ears.

Amanda took a long pull from her mug, grimacing at the taste before setting it down with a decisive thunk. "We've got a problem. Two, actually."

Aven's stomach tightened. In his experience, when Amanda Ripley started counting problems, things were about to get exponentially worse. "Let me guess – Luthor realized someone accessed his files?"

"No, though that's probably coming." She pulled a tablet from her lab coat pocket, tapping the screen with quick, efficient movements. "First, the inhibitor pump readings from last night are concerning. The queen's neural activity spiked during your balcony adventure – higher than we've seen since Nebraska."

The queen stirred at the mention, as if recognizing her own importance in the conversation. Aven pressed his palm against his sternum, feeling the faint whir of the inhibitor pump beneath his skin.

"She was agitated," he admitted. "I figured it was just the adrenaline."

"It's more than that." Amanda turned the tablet so he could see the jagged lines of a neural scan. "These patterns suggest she's developing resistance to the current inhibitor formula. We're going to need to adjust the dosage before the Silax treatment."

"Meaning what, exactly?" Aven asked, though he already knew the answer wouldn't be good.

"Meaning I need to crack you open again. Today." She didn't sugarcoat it – never had. It was one of the things he appreciated about her. "Local anesthetic, minor incision, quick refill with the adjusted formula. Two hours, tops."

Aven nodded, ignoring the cold sweat breaking out along his spine. The queen shifted again, pressing against his lung as if she'd understood the threat to her growing strength.

"And the second problem?" he asked, almost afraid to hear it.

Amanda and Sarge exchanged a look that made Aven's pulse quicken.

“It’s about your treatment,” Amanda said, lowering herself onto the cot beside him. Her gaze was steady, no wasted words. “We’re not doing it at my lab. Jor-El—the one I’ve been collaborating with, along with Superman and Wayne—is stationed at the Fortress of Solitude. His tech makes mine look like it belongs in a museum. He’ll be handling the procedure. With his equipment, he can run a molecular-level scan—pinpoint exactly where the queen stops and you start. That precision could tip the odds in your favor.”

Aven's breath caught. "The Fortress of Solitude?" He'd heard Clark mention it once—some remote location where Superman occasionally retreated. "What happened to doing it at your lab?"

"My equipment can't give us the precision we need," Amanda said, her gaze steady on his face. "The queen's neural pathways are integrating with yours faster than we anticipated. We need to be able to see exactly where she ends and you begin."

The queen shifted beneath his ribs, a slow coil that pressed against his lung as if she knew they were discussing her demise. Aven rubbed absently at his sternum, trying to ease the pressure.

"So Superman's just... offering up his fortress?" He glanced between Amanda and Sarge. "Since when are we that cozy with the League?"

Amanda's mouth tightened. "Since they found out Weyland-Yutani was experimenting with xenomorph biology. This isn't just about saving you anymore, Davis. It's about preventing a corporate arms race with alien DNA."

The implications settled heavily in Aven's chest. He'd known the stakes were high—had felt them pressing against his ribs for months—but hearing it laid out so plainly made everything sharper, more immediate.

"And they're all on board with this? The whole League?"

"The ones who need to know," Sarge cut in, his voice gruff. "Security’s tight. Compartmentalized. Only Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, J’onn, Green Lantern, and The Flash are fully briefed."

Aven's jaw tightened. Of course Bruce was involved. And of course he hadn't mentioned it during their brief encounter last night. Just another secret, another plan made behind his back.

"So when were you planning to tell me about this change?" he asked, not bothering to keep the edge from his voice.

"I'm telling you now," Amanda replied, unfazed by his tone. "The decision was made a couple days ago, after your teams reconnaissance mission at the warehouse proved how deeply Luthor's involved. We need better equipment, better security, and a location Weyland can't possibly trace."

Wasabi cleared his throat from across the room. "For what it's worth, I think it makes sense. If Jor-El's tech is as advanced as they say, it could tip the odds in your favor."

Aven shot him a look that could have melted steel. "Thanks for the input."

"Don't shoot the messenger," Wasabi said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just saying—anything over sixty-three percent beats the alternative."

"Fine," Aven said finally, the fight draining out of him. "The Fortress it is. But I want my team there."

Amanda nodded, her expression softening just slightly. "I expected nothing less. Your team's cleared for access. We'll head out the day before you’re scheduled—you need recovery time after I adjust the inhibitor today."

"Speaking of which," she continued, getting to her feet with a fluidity that belied her exhaustion, "we should get that done now. The longer we wait, the more resistance she'll build."

Aven's mouth went dry. He'd been through the procedure before—a quick incision, the cold press of metal against his chest cavity, the strange sensation of liquid being pumped directly into the sac surrounding the queen. It wasn't the pain that bothered him—Amanda's touch was always precise, clinical. It was the vulnerability, the moments of being splayed open while she worked inside him.

"Now?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Now," she confirmed, nodding toward the makeshift medical area in the corner. "I've got everything prepped at the lab. Sarge can drive us."

Aven glanced at his phone, still resting on the cot beside him. Jon's message glowed on the screen—a simple request for Mario Kart that suddenly felt like an anchor to something normal, something worth fighting for.

"Let me just..." He picked up the phone, thumbs hovering over the keys for a moment before he typed out a quick message.

[Aven]: Might be late getting back. Tell your dad I'm with Amanda. Medical stuff. Nothing serious.

He hesitated, then added:

[Aven]: Save me some dinner?

The response came almost immediately.

[Jon]: Dad says to take your time. I'll keep your plate warm. And I'm totally going to destroy you at Rainbow Road later.

A small smile tugged at Aven's lips despite everything. The kid's confidence was nothing if not consistent.

"Ready?" Amanda asked, already moving toward the door, her tablet tucked back into her lab coat pocket.

Aven nodded, pushing himself to his feet. The queen shifted again, a slow, deliberate press against his lung that felt almost like a warning. As if she knew what was coming.

"Yeah," he said, following Amanda toward the door. "Let's go."

As they left, he caught Wasabi watching him with an expression that mixed concern and something like resignation. The Marine had seen enough of Aven's procedures to know what was coming—the vulnerability, the pain Amanda tried to minimize but could never eliminate completely.

"Hey," Wasabi called after him. "I'll get started cracking that encryption while you're gone. Maybe we'll have something good when you get back."

Aven nodded, grateful for the distraction. "Sounds like a plan."

The ride to Amanda's lab was silent, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Sarge drove with his usual precision, navigating the city streets with the careful focus of someone who'd spent too much time in combat zones to ever fully relax behind the wheel.

As Aven settled into the passenger seat of Sarge's nondescript sedan, the queen shifted again, a slow, coiling movement that pressed against his lung. He winced, adjusting his position to ease the pressure.

"She's active today," Amanda observed from the back seat, her voice clinically detached. "The readings suggest she's responding to elevated stress hormones."

"Yeah, well," Aven muttered, "finding out I'm headed to Superman's ice fortress for experimental surgery tends to spike the old anxiety levels."

Sarge's mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile Aven had seen from him in days. "Better than the alternative."

The alternative. The word hung in the air between them, unspoken but understood. The queen emerging. The failsafe detonating. Aven's body reduced to scattered atoms to prevent her maturation.

Traffic flowed around them as Sarge navigated through Metropolis's midday congestion. The city looked different in daylight—cleaner, more vibrant than the shadowy metropolis Aven had moved through last night in heels and a dress. Hard to believe that less than twelve hours ago, he'd been dangling twenty stories above these same streets, Bruce's hand the only thing between him and certain death.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Aven pulled it out, expecting another message from Jon or Clark. Instead, Bruce's name glowed on the screen.

[Bruce]: Amanda says she's adjusting your inhibitor today.

Aven’s brows shot up. How the hell did Bruce have his new burner? He’d gotten rid of the last one after Selina answered. Aven felt his heart rate pick up as he considered answering. Had Clark given it to him?

[Aven:] How did you get my number?

The response came quickly, making Aven's stomach clench with something between irritation and an uncomfortable flutter of warmth.

[Bruce]: Clark gave it to me. Don't be angry with him. I asked.

Of course he had. Aven rubbed at his temple, feeling a headache building behind his eyes. The queen stirred restlessly, feeding off his rising stress levels with lazy, deliberate movements that pressed against his ribs.

[Aven]: And he just handed it over?

[Bruce]: We're worried about you. Especially after last night.

The simple admission made something twist in Aven's chest. He could picture Bruce typing those words—probably standing in Wayne Manor's cave, still in yesterday's clothes, pale eyes fixed on his phone with that particular intensity that meant he was trying to solve a problem he couldn't control.

Amanda leaned forward from the backseat, her voice cutting through his thoughts. "Tell him you'll call after the procedure. The anesthetic works better if you're not agitated."

Aven glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "You know it's Bruce?"

"Lucky guess." Her expression was dry, clinical. "Your heart rate spiked the moment you looked at that phone."

Embarrassment heated Aven's neck. Even his body was betraying him now, responding to Bruce's messages like some lovesick teenager. He typed out a quick reply before he could overthink it.

[Aven]: Amanda says I need to focus. I'll call you after.

[Bruce]: Understood. I'll be waiting.

The words carried weight that made Aven's throat tighten. I'll be waiting. Like a promise, like something he could count on even when everything else felt uncertain.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket as Sarge pulled into the parking structure beneath Amanda's lab. The familiar scent of concrete and motor oil filled the car, mixing with the antiseptic smell that seemed to cling to Amanda's clothes.

"Ready for this?" she asked, already gathering her things from the backseat.

The queen coiled tighter beneath his ribs, as if sensing what was coming. Aven pressed his palm against his sternum, feeling the steady whir of the inhibitor pump that would soon be opened, adjusted, refilled.

"As ready as anyone can be for voluntary surgery," he muttered, following Amanda out of the car.

The lab smelled exactly as he remembered—antiseptic and ozone, the sharp tang of chemicals mixing with the hum of machinery. Amanda moved through the space with practiced efficiency, pulling on gloves and arranging instruments with the precision of someone who'd performed this procedure too many times to count.

"On the table," she directed, patting the padded surface. "Shirt off."

Aven complied, the cool air raising goosebumps across his skin as he settled onto the examination table. The queen shifted again, a slow press against his lung that made breathing feel deliberate.

"Lie back," Amanda instructed, adjusting the overhead light. "I need to check the inhibitor site first."

Aven eased back against the cold table, the metal edge digging into his shoulder blades. The fluorescent lights above made him squint as Amanda leaned over him, her gloved fingers prodding at the small surgical scar just below his sternum.

"Incision site looks good," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "No signs of rejection or infection. How's the pain been?"

"Manageable," Aven replied, trying not to flinch as her fingers pressed against the tender flesh. "Worse after physical exertion."

Amanda nodded, reaching for a handheld scanner. "The queen's activity has increased by seventeen percent since our last reading. She's fighting the inhibitor harder than we anticipated."

The scanner hummed as she passed it over his chest, the screen casting a blue glow across her focused features. The queen shifted again, a slow, deliberate movement that made Aven's breath catch.

"This procedure is going to be more involved than last time," Amanda said, setting the scanner aside. "The resistance patterns suggest we need to adjust not just the dosage but the delivery mechanism itself."

Aven swallowed hard. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means I need to put you under completely this time." Her voice remained clinical, but her eyes softened slightly. "Local anesthesia won't be sufficient for what I need to do."

The words sent a chill down Aven's spine. Full anesthesia meant deeper access, longer time under the knife, more vulnerability. The queen twisted sharply, as if sensing his spike of anxiety.

"How long?" he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“Ninety minutes, give or take.” Amanda crossed to a cabinet, pulling vials of medication with the ease of long practice. “The procedure’s simple enough, but I’ll need to swap out parts of the pump housing. This new dose needs a more efficient circulation system to regulate it properly.”

Aven nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. Being unconscious meant losing control, meant trusting Amanda completely with his life while the queen writhed inside him, fighting against the chemicals designed to keep her dormant.

"Sarge will be here the whole time," Amanda added, as if reading his thoughts. "And I've already informed Clark and Bruce. They wanted to be here, but I told them to wait until after. You'll need recovery time, and their hovering won't help."

Aven closed his eyes briefly, gratitude and irritation warring in his chest. Of course she'd told them. Of course they'd wanted to be there. The thought of waking up to find both of them waiting made something twist uncomfortably beneath his ribs—something that had nothing to do with the queen.

"Let's just get it over with," he muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Amanda nodded, her movements brisk as she prepared the anesthesia. The IV line slid into his arm with a sharp pinch, followed by the cool rush of saline that always reminded him of field hospitals and triage tents.

"Count backward from ten," Amanda said, her voice already sounding distant as the sedative entered his bloodstream.

"Ten... nine..." The numbers felt heavy on his tongue, each one sinking deeper into the growing fog that clouded his thoughts. "Eight... seven..."

The queen gave one final, violent twist beneath his ribs—a last protest before the darkness claimed him completely.

***

Clark glanced at his phone again for the twentieth time in five minutes as he paced the kitchen. Aven was having his inhibitor adjusted, and Amanda had promised to call when the procedure was done, but that didn't stop the anxiety crawling up his spine with each passing minute.

"Dad, you're wearing a groove in the floor," Conner said from his perch on the counter, a half-eaten apple in his hand. "He's going to be fine."

"I know," Clark muttered, though the words felt hollow. The image of Aven dangling twenty stories above Metropolis streets flashed through his mind again—the way his dress had billowed in the wind, the strain in his shoulders as he clung to that twisted metal bar. If Bruce hadn't been there...

"Seriously," Conner continued, tossing the apple core into the trash with perfect aim. "You're starting to freak Jon out, and he doesn't even know what's really going on."

Clark forced himself to stop pacing, bracing his hands on the counter as he drew in a slow breath. Conner was right. Jon was already asking questions about why Aven hadn't come home last night, why Clark kept checking his phone every few minutes. The last thing his youngest needed was more anxiety.

"Sorry," Clark said, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "I just... I hate not being there."

"Amanda knows what she's doing," Conner replied, sliding off the counter with that casual grace that reminded Clark so much of his mother. "And Aven's tougher than he looks."

Clark nodded, though the knot in his stomach didn't ease. Tougher than he looks. That was true enough. The man had survived months on the run with a queen embryo in his chest, had infiltrated one of the most secure buildings in Metropolis wearing heels and a dress, had nearly fallen to his death and still managed to extract vital intel.

But everyone had their breaking point. And Aven had been dancing on that edge for too long.

The phone in his hand buzzed, making his heart skip. Bruce's name appeared on the screen.

[Bruce]: Any word from Amanda?

Clark's thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment before he typed a response.

[Clark]: Not yet. She said it might take longer this time. The queen's developing resistance.

The queen. Even the name sent a chill down Clark's spine. He'd seen it through Aven's chest that first night—the alien form coiled beneath his ribs, pressing against his lungs, its neural tendrils spreading like dark roots through his body. The sight had made him physically ill, but he'd hidden his reaction from Aven, not wanting to add to the man's burden.

The phone buzzed again.

[Bruce]: Meet me at the Metro Tower. We need to decide what we’re telling him tonight.

Clark’s throat tightened. They’d both agreed—after the gala, they would tell Aven everything. No more secrets, not with the Silax treatment looming.

[Clark]: Can't. Jon will be home from school soon. And if I leave now, I'll just pace at your place instead of here.

The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. Clark could picture Bruce on the other end, choosing his words with that careful precision he brought to everything important.

[Bruce]: Then I'll come there. We can't put this off any longer.

Clark's stomach clenched. Having Bruce in his apartment, around the boys, felt like crossing a line they couldn't uncross. But Bruce was right—they were out of time for careful planning.

[Clark]: Jon doesn’t know about us — and neither does Conner. They don’t have the full picture of what’s going on with Aven either. Conner picked up more than he let on during the Aven’s surgery and what he’s over heard, but Jon… he only knows what he saw. Not what it really truly means.

[Bruce]: I know Damian’s been careful about what he tells him. But maybe it’s time they knew — especially if something goes wrong during the Silax treatment. My kids have already asked to come to the Fortress, in case they don’t get another chance to see him. And… we should tell our children about us. They deserve to know.

Clark's fingers tightened around his phone. Bruce was right, of course. Their kids deserved to know, especially with everything happening so quickly. But the thought of having that conversation with Jon—explaining not just his relationship with Bruce, but what was really happening with Aven—made his chest tighten with anxiety.

"Dad?" Conner's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "You okay? You look like someone just told you Krypton exploded again."

Clark managed a weak smile, tucking his phone into his pocket. "I'm fine. Just... Bruce is coming over. We need to talk about some things before Aven gets back."

Conner's eyebrows shot up, a knowing look crossing his features. "Things like how you two have been sneaking around behind Aven's back for the past week?"

Heat crawled up Clark's neck. Sometimes he forgot how perceptive his oldest son could be. "We haven't been—" He stopped, sighed. "It's complicated."

"No kidding." Conner leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest. "So what's the plan? You and Bruce finally going to tell him you've been sleeping together while he's been staying here?"

Clark winced at the blunt assessment. Put that way, it sounded worse than it was. "It's not like that. We've been trying to find the right time, but with everything else going on—"

"There's never going to be a right time, Dad." Conner's tone softened slightly. "He's got a bomb in his back and an alien in his chest. The treatment's in less than a week. If you're waiting for things to calm down, it's not happening."

The truth of those words settled heavily in Clark's stomach. He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying his frustration more than he intended. "I know. That's why Bruce is coming over. We need to figure out how to tell him everything."

"Everything?" Conner's gaze sharpened. "You mean about you being Superman too?"

Clark nodded, throat tight. "Everything. No more secrets."

Conner whistled low. "That's... a lot to drop on someone who having surgery today."

"Which is why we need to do it right." Clark moved to the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients without really seeing them. Cooking had always helped him think, gave his hands something to do while his mind worked through problems. "Jon will be home soon. What should I tell him about Bruce coming over?"

Conner shrugged. "The truth? I mean, not the whole truth, but... Jon's not stupid, Dad. He knows something's up. He's been asking me why you've been acting weird all week."

Clark paused, a head of lettuce halfway to the counter. "What did you tell him?"

"That you're worried about Aven." Conner picked up a tomato, tossing it lightly from one hand to the other.

Clark sighed, a headache already threatening behind his eyes. “Has he said anything else?”

Conner paused, eyes dropping to the floor as something complicated flickered across his face. “He asked about the thing in Aven’s chest — the one we all saw at Wayne Manor. About the surgery, and what happened after. I know most of it from Tim, but I haven’t said much about it around Jon.”

Clark sighed, setting the lettuce on the cutting board. "I should have known he'd notice. Jon doesn't miss much."

"He's worried about Aven too, you know," Conner said, finally setting the tomato down. "Keeps asking when he's coming home."

Home. The word sent a pang through Clark's chest. In just a week, Aven had become woven into their lives, his presence filling spaces Clark hadn't realized were empty. The way he helped Jon with homework at the kitchen table. The quiet conversations with Conner about music and books. The coffee mug he always left on the counter, half-full because he never remembered to finish it.

"Bruce will be here in twenty minutes," Clark said, checking his phone again. "We need to figure out what we're telling Jon before he gets home from school."

Conner pushed away from the counter. "Want me to pick him up? Give you some time to get your story straight?"

Clark nodded, gratitude washing through him. "Thanks. That would help."

"No problem." Conner grabbed his jacket from the back of a kitchen chair. "Just... try not to look so terrified when we get back, okay? You're Superman. You've faced worse than telling your boyfriend you've been sleeping with his ex."

Clark winced. "That's not—"

"I know," Conner said, his expression softening slightly. "But that's how it's going to sound to him at first. So maybe practice that part."

After Conner left, Clark stood in the kitchen, the half-prepared salad forgotten on the counter. His phone remained silent—no updates from Amanda, no further messages from Bruce. The apartment felt too quiet, the air heavy with anticipation.

He moved through the rooms, straightening pillows, gathering stray dishes, his hands seeking occupation while his mind raced. Jon's backpack on the floor, Conner's headphones on the coffee table, Aven's book still open on the nightstand in the guest room. Evidence of the life they'd been building, fragile and new.

The buzzer sounded, jarring him from his thoughts. Bruce was early—of course he was. Clark crossed to the intercom, pressing the button with more force than necessary.

"Come up," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

The three minutes it took Bruce to reach his door felt like an eternity. Clark could hear his heartbeat—familiar, steady, slightly elevated from the climb—before he even knocked. He opened the door before Bruce's knuckles made contact with the wood.

Bruce stood in the hallway, impeccable as always in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than Clark's monthly rent. His pale eyes assessed Clark in that penetrating way that always made him feel simultaneously seen and exposed.

"You look terrible," Bruce said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

Clark closed the door behind him, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "Thanks. You look perfect, as always."

Bruce's mouth tightened as he moved further into the apartment, gaze sweeping over the space with practiced efficiency. "I came straight from a board meeting. No time to change." He paused, eyes settling on the half-prepared salad abandoned on the kitchen counter. "Any word from Amanda?"

"Nothing yet." Clark followed him into the kitchen, the knot in his stomach tightening. "She said it might be a couple of hours. The procedure's more complicated this time."

Bruce nodded, shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it over the back of a chair with careful precision. The movement was so familiar—so domestic—that it made Clark's chest ache. This was what they'd been building toward, these small moments of shared space, shared concern.

"Where are the boys?" Bruce asked, rolling up his sleeves with methodical movements.

"Conner went to pick Jon up from school." Clark leaned against the counter, watching Bruce's hands—elegant, capable, marked with the faint scars of too many battles. "They'll be back soon. We need to decide what we're telling them. About us. About Aven."

Bruce's expression shifted, something complicated flickering behind those pale eyes. "Everything. No more secrets, Clark. We agreed."

"I know." Clark scrubbed a hand down his face, exhaustion settling into his bones. "But Jon's only twelve. And with the treatment so close—"

"That's exactly why we need to do this now." Bruce's voice carried that edge of finality that meant his mind was made up. "If something goes wrong during the procedure, do you want Jon finding out about all of this afterward? From someone else?"

The thought sent a chill down Clark's spine. Bruce was right—they were out of time for careful planning, for gradual revelations. But the prospect of laying everything bare at once made his stomach twist with anxiety.

"What about Aven?" Clark asked, voicing the question that had been gnawing at him since last night. "After what happened at the gala—after that kiss you two shared—"

"He knows how I feel," Bruce cut in, his voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders. "I made that clear last night. What he doesn't know is how we feel. Both of us. Together."

The emphasis on that last word made heat crawl up Clark's neck. Together. It still felt strange to say it aloud, to acknowledge what had been building between them for years—the tension, the trust, the grudging respect that had slowly transformed into something deeper.

"And if he can't accept it?" Clark asked, voicing the fear that had kept him awake for nights. "If he thinks we've been—I don't know, conspiring behind his back?"

"Then we deal with that," Bruce replied, his gaze unwavering. "But he deserves to know the truth," Bruce said. "All of it. Before the treatment. Before it's too late."

Clark nodded, the weight of Bruce's words settling in his chest. They'd run out of road for careful planning, for gentle revelations. Six days until the Silax treatment. Six days to tell Aven everything they'd been hiding.

The sound of keys in the door made them both turn. Conner stepped in first, backpack slung over one shoulder, Jon trailing close behind. The younger boy froze when he spotted Bruce, his eyes widening with surprise.

"Uncle Bruce!" Jon dropped his backpack and launched himself across the room, colliding with Bruce in a hug that would have knocked a normal man off balance.

Bruce's expression softened as he steadied himself, one hand coming to rest on Jon's shoulder. "Hey, kid. How was school?"

"Boring," Jon declared, pulling back to look up at him. "Is Damian with you? Did you bring Alfred's cookies? Is this about Aven?"

The rapid-fire questions hung in the air as Bruce's gaze flicked to Clark's, something unspoken passing between them. Clark cleared his throat, moving to join them in the living room.

"Jon, why don't you go wash up and change? We need to talk about some things, but first I want you to get comfortable."

Jon's brow furrowed, that particular crease appearing between his eyes that meant he was picking up on the tension in the room. "Is Aven okay? Is that why he didn't come home last night?"

Clark's chest tightened at the worry in his son's voice. "Aven's fine. He's with Dr. Ripley right now, getting some medical treatment for his... condition. He'll be back later tonight."

Jon studied his face for a moment longer, clearly not satisfied with the answer but smart enough to recognize when pushing wouldn't help. "Okay. But you promise we'll talk after?"

"I promise," Clark said, ruffling his son's hair. "Go on, now."

As Jon disappeared down the hallway, Conner dropped onto the couch with a sigh that seemed too heavy for a sixteen-year-old. "So," he said, eyes moving between Clark and Bruce, "you two figured out what you're telling him?"

Bruce's mouth tightened slightly. "We're working on it."

"Well, work faster," Conner said, reaching for the remote. "Because he's been asking questions all the way home from school. About Aven. About why you've been acting weird. About why Uncle Bruce is suddenly showing up on a Tuesday afternoon."

Clark felt heat crawl up his neck. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," Conner said, flipping through channels with practiced disinterest. "Not my story to tell. But he's not stupid, Dad. He knows something's up."

The sound of the shower running drifted through the apartment, giving them a few minutes to collect their thoughts. Bruce settled onto the couch beside Conner, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert—the same controlled calm he brought to high-stakes negotiations.

"How much does he actually know?" Bruce asked, voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry down the hall.

Conner shrugged, still focused on the television. "More than you think, probably less than he should. He knows Aven's sick—saw the same surgery we all did at your place. He wanted to know why Aven was bleeding so much, why he had that thing moving around in his chest." He glanced at Bruce. "Your kids explained it better than I could have."

Bruce's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "What exactly did they tell him?"

"That Aven was sick with something alien. That it was dangerous. That you and Dad were trying to help him get better." Conner's tone remained casual, but Clark caught the undercurrent of tension. "Jon asked if Aven was going to die."

The words hit Clark like a physical blow. He sank into the armchair across from the couch, suddenly feeling every one of his thirty-eight years. Jon had been carrying that fear for days, and Clark hadn't even realized.

"What did you tell him?" Clark asked, his voice rougher than intended.

"The truth," Conner replied, meeting his eyes. "That you and Uncle Bruce weren't going to let that happen. That there were people working really hard to make sure he got better." He paused, expression softening. "He believes you, Dad. Both of you. But he's still scared."

The shower shut off down the hall, followed by the sound of Jon moving around in the bathroom. They had maybe five minutes before he emerged, ready for the conversation Clark was still trying to figure out how to navigate.

Bruce leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in that way that meant he was thinking through multiple scenarios. "We tell him about the treatment first. The Fortress, what's going to happen. Then we explain why both of us need to be there for it."

"And us?" Clark asked, the word hanging heavy between them.

Bruce's pale eyes met his, steady and certain. "We tell him we care about each other. That we both love Aven. That we're all trying to figure out how to make this work."

Conner made a soft sound that might have been approval. "Keep it simple. Jon doesn't need all the details, but he needs to know the important stuff. Especially if—" He stopped, shook his head.

"Especially if what?" Clark prompted.

"Especially if the treatment doesn't work," Conner finished quietly. "He needs to know that whatever happens, you two are going to be okay. That the family's going to be okay."

The family. Clark's throat tightened at how easily Conner included Bruce in that statement, how naturally he assumed they'd all weather this together. His oldest son had always been perceptive, but this felt like something more—acceptance, maybe even hope.

Footsteps padded down the hallway, and Jon appeared in fresh clothes, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked between the three of them, his expression a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. "Is this about Aven? Is that why Uncle Bruce is here?"

Clark nodded, patting the space beside him on the couch. "Come sit down, buddy. We need to talk about a few things."

Jon approached cautiously, settling beside Clark with the wary look of a child who knew a serious conversation was coming. His gaze flicked between Bruce and his father, shoulders tense beneath his fresh t-shirt. "Is Aven going to be okay?"

Clark exchanged a quick glance with Bruce before answering. "That's part of what we need to talk about. Aven is with Dr. Ripley right now. She's adjusting his medication to help with the... thing in his chest."

"The alien," Jon said, his voice small but certain. "Tim told me it's an alien embryo. Like a baby monster that could hurt him."

Bruce's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Clark made a mental note to have a word with Tim about appropriate information sharing, though he couldn't really blame the boy. Jon had a way of extracting information from people.

"Yes," Clark confirmed, resting a hand on Jon's shoulder. "It's called a xenomorph queen. It's very dangerous, and it's been making Aven sick for a long time."

Jon's eyes widened slightly. "Is that why he has nightmares? I heard him once, when I got up for water. He was making scary noises."

The revelation sent a pang through Clark's chest. He hadn't known Jon had heard Aven's nightmares—the ones that left him shaking and sweating in the guest room, sometimes crying out names of people who were long gone.

"Yes, that's part of it," Clark said gently. "The alien affects his dreams sometimes. And it makes him tired and sick during the day."

Jon nodded solemnly, processing this. "But you're going to fix him, right? You and Uncle Bruce?"

The simple faith in his son's voice made Clark's throat tighten. "We're going to try, buddy. There's a treatment that might help. It's called the Silax treatment, and it's happening in six days."

"Where?" Jon asked immediately. "At the hospital?"

"No," Bruce cut in, his voice gentle but firm. "At the Fortress of Solitude."

Jon’s eyes widened, snapping to his father. “You’re taking him to the Fortress? Is Grandpa Jor-El going to help him?”

Clark's heart stuttered at the casual mention of Jor-El, the name rolling off Jon's tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world. His youngest son had always accepted the existence of his Kryptonian grandfather with the easy adaptability of childhood, but hearing it now—in this context—made the weight of what they were about to reveal feel suddenly overwhelming.

"Yes," Clark managed, his voice steadier than he felt. "Jor-El has equipment that can help Aven in ways that Earth medicine can't."

Jon's eyes shone with a mix of excitement and worry. "So Aven's going to meet Grandpa Jor-El?"

"Yes," Clark answered, feeling the weight of his son's gaze. "But Jon, this treatment is very serious. It's not... it's not guaranteed to work."

Jon's expression sobered. "You mean he might still die?"

The blunt question hung in the air. Clark felt Bruce shift beside him, sensed the slight tension in his posture.

"It's possible," Bruce said, his voice gentle but honest. "The treatment has about a sixty-three percent chance of success."

Jon frowned, his brow furrowing as he worked through the math. "That's... that means there's a thirty-seven percent chance it won't work."

"Yes," Clark confirmed, squeezing his son's shoulder. "But those are better odds than Aven has without the treatment. And having it at the Fortress, with Jor-El's help, improves those odds even more."

Jon nodded slowly, his eyes drifting to the floor. "Is that why you've been acting weird? Because you're worried about Aven?"

Clark exchanged a glance with Bruce, feeling the moment of truth approaching faster than he'd prepared for. "Partly, yes. But there's something else we need to talk about. Something important."

Jon looked up, his gaze moving between them. "What?"

Clark took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Uncle Bruce and I... we care about each other. A lot."

"I know that," Jon said, his tone suggesting this was obvious. "You're best friends."

Bruce's mouth twitched, the barest hint of a smile touching his lips. "It's a bit more than that, Jon."

Jon’s eyes widened as realization clicked into place. “Oh.” He looked up at his father, curiosity bright in his expression. “You finally told Uncle Bruce you like him… you know, like you used to like Mom?”

Heat flooded Clark's face, a rush of embarrassment mixed with something that felt dangerously close to pride. Out of the mouths of babes. He'd thought he'd been so careful, so subtle about his feelings for Bruce over the years. Apparently not as subtle as he'd imagined.

"Something like that," Clark managed, his voice rougher than intended. "But it's more complicated than that, buddy."

Jon's gaze flicked between them, processing this with the matter-of-fact acceptance that children brought to most revelations. "Does that mean you're boyfriends now?"

Bruce made a soft sound that might have been amusement or surprise. Clark felt his throat close around words that suddenly seemed too big for his mouth.

"We're... figuring it out," Clark said finally. "But yes, we care about each other in that way."

"Cool," Jon said, and the simple acceptance in his voice made something tight in Clark's chest ease fractionally. “Does Aven know? Because he was pretty upset about his feelings when he picked us up from moms. I tried to tell him when we got pizza that it’s okay to love more than one person. That you loved Uncle Bruce and Uncle Bruce loved Aven and that it was okay for Aven to love both. Mom always says love isn’t limited.”

Clark's mouth went dry, his heart hammering in his chest as he stared at his son. The simple wisdom in Jon's words hit him like a physical blow.

"You... you said that to Aven?" he managed, voice rough.

Jon nodded, completely unaware of the bombshell he'd just dropped. "Yeah, when we got pizza last week. He looked sad, and I told him it was okay to love both of you." He shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Like how Mom loves Diana but still loves us and you."

Clark shot a helpless glance at Bruce, whose face had gone carefully neutral in that way that meant he was processing something significant. Only the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed any reaction at all.

"I—" Clark glanced helplessly at Bruce again, who seemed to be fighting back what might have been a smile. "That's very perceptive of you, Jon."

Jon just shrugged, as if he'd simply stated the sky was blue. "So does Aven know about you two?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implications that Jon couldn't possibly understand. Clark cleared his throat.

"That's... part of what we need to talk to him about tonight," he said carefully. "Aven doesn't know everything yet."

“Like you being Superman? And me and Conner having powers?” Jon asked, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Because it was way harder pretending to struggle during that PT session he made us do. Harder than the actual training. That part was actually fun.”

Clark couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at his mouth, remembering both his sons faking exhaustion during Aven’s Marine training. “Yeah… he’ll know about us—just like Aven knows about Bruce and his family.”

Jon's expression grew thoughtful, that particular look he got when working through complex problems. "So when Aven comes home tonight, you're going to tell him everything? About you being Superman and about you and Uncle Bruce?"

The weight of it settled over Clark like a physical thing—all the secrets they'd been carrying, all the careful lies and omissions that had seemed necessary at the time. In six days, Aven would undergo a treatment that might kill him. There was no more room for half-truths.

"Yes," Clark said, the word feeling heavy on his tongue. "Everything."

Bruce leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle but serious. "Jon, this is going to be hard for Aven to hear. All of it. He's been through a lot, and finding out that we've been keeping things from him might upset him at first."

Jon nodded solemnly. "Like when Connor found out he was a clone? He was really mad for a while."

Clark felt something twist in his chest at the comparison. Aven's reaction would likely be far more complicated than Connor's had been—layers of hurt and betrayal mixed with everything else he was already carrying.

"Something like that," Bruce confirmed. "So if he seems angry or upset tonight, that's normal. It doesn't mean he doesn't care about us."

"Okay," Jon said, then brightened slightly. "But he'll still be here for dinner, right? I promised I'd keep his plate warm."

The simple faith in his son's voice—the assumption that despite everything, Aven would still come home—made Clark's throat tighten with emotion. Jon had already accepted Aven as part of their family, had woven him into the fabric of their daily life with the easy confidence of childhood.

"I hope so, buddy," Clark said, pulling Jon closer for a brief hug. "But if he needs some time to process everything, we'll understand, okay?"

Jon nodded against his shoulder, then pulled back with that serious expression that made him look far older than twelve. "Dad? Are you scared about the treatment?"

The question hit Clark like a punch to the solar plexus. He glanced at Bruce, seeing his own fear reflected in those pale eyes—the terror of losing someone they'd both fought so hard to find again.

"Yeah," Clark admitted, his voice rough. "I'm scared. But we're going to do everything we can to make sure it works."

"Me too," Jon said quietly. "But I think Aven's brave enough. And if Grandpa Jor-El is helping, it'll be okay."

The simple faith in his son's words made something crack open in Clark's chest. He pulled Jon close again, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo, trying to anchor himself in this moment of certainty before everything changed.

From across the room, Conner cleared his throat. “He should know about me, too…” His expression tightened into a faint frown as he kept his eyes on the TV. “We talked that night he picked us up. He was trying to get to know me, and… if we’re being honest with him, he should know I’m a clone. From you and Luthor. Especially with Luthor tied up in all this Weyland-Yutani crap.”

Clark's blood turned to ice in his veins, the casual revelation hitting him like a physical blow. Jon's innocent question about being scared seemed suddenly insignificant compared to the weight of what Conner had just admitted.

The clone revelation hung in the air between them, heavy with implications Clark hadn't fully considered. Lex Luthor—the man who'd had his hands on Aven just last night, who'd been making predatory advances while knowing exactly who he was dealing with. The same man whose genetic material had been used to create Conner.

Bruce's posture had gone rigid beside him, those pale eyes sharp with the kind of focused intensity that meant his mind was already racing through connections, possibilities, threats. Clark could practically hear the gears turning as Bruce processed this new layer of complication.

"Conner," Clark said, his voice carefully controlled despite the way his pulse had spiked. "Are you sure? About telling him?"

Conner's jaw tightened, his gaze still fixed on the television screen though Clark doubted he was actually watching whatever was playing. "He asked me about some stuff, was trying to connect I guess. Where I came from. I gave him some bullshit answer about being adopted, but..." He shrugged, the gesture trying for casual but missing by miles. "If we're doing the whole honesty thing, he deserves to know he's been living with Luthor's genetic offspring."

The bitterness in his son's voice made Clark's chest ache. Conner had come so far in accepting who he was, where he'd come from, but moments like this reminded Clark that the wounds were still there—just beneath the surface, waiting to be prodded.

Jon stood abruptly and crossed the room, wrapping his arms around his older brother’s neck. “Just because you’re part of that bald jerk doesn’t mean Aven won’t love you too. You’re also part of Dad—and that’s the only part Aven’s gonna care about.”

Conner's shoulders relaxed fractionally under Jon's embrace, though his expression remained carefully neutral. Clark watched the exchange with something tight lodging in his throat—his boys protecting each other in the way they'd learned to do, closing ranks against a world that had already taught them too much about rejection and conditional love.

"Thanks, Jon," Conner murmured, reaching up to ruffle his little brother's hair. "But it's still complicated. Aven's got history with Luthor now. Bad history."

The understatement made Clark's jaw clench. Bad history didn't begin to cover what had happened at the gala—Luthor's predatory interest, the way he'd touched Aven without permission, the calculated manipulation that had nearly compromised the entire mission. And now they'd have to tell Aven that the son he'd been getting to know, the boy who'd been helping him navigate his complicated feelings, shared DNA with that monster.

Bruce's voice cut through the silence, carefully measured. "Aven won't blame you for something you had no control over, Conner. But Clark's right—it's another layer of complexity we need to handle carefully."

Jon pulled back from his brother, fixing Bruce with that serious look that made him seem far older than twelve. "Uncle Bruce, you've met bad guys who were related to good people before, right? Like, being someone's son doesn't make you the same as them?"

The simple wisdom in the question made Bruce's expression soften almost imperceptibly. "No, it doesn't. Some of the best people I know came from the worst circumstances."

Clark's phone buzzed against the coffee table, the vibration cutting through the moment like a blade. Amanda's name appeared on the screen, and Clark's heart hammered against his ribs as he reached for it.

"Amanda," he answered, aware that his voice came out rougher than intended.

"He's awake," came Amanda's crisp reply, no wasted words. "Procedure went well. The new inhibitor formula is circulating properly, and the queen's neural activity has dropped to baseline levels."

Relief flooded Clark's system so completely that he had to sit down hard on the edge of the couch. "Is he—can I talk to him?"

“He’s still loopy from the anesthesia and painkillers, so he’s high as a kite right now—but sure. Hold on.”

The phone rustled against fabric, muffled voices in the background, then—

"Clark?" Aven's voice came through the speaker, thick and slurred but unmistakably him. "Did you know your voice is like... really nice? Like, stupidly nice. 'S not fair."

Despite everything—the tension, the fear, the weight of secrets yet to be revealed—Clark felt his mouth twitch into a smile. Jon giggled beside him, and even Conner's expression lightened fractionally.

"Hey there," Clark said, warmth flooding his chest at the sound of Aven's voice, loopy or not. "How are you feeling?"

"Floaty," Aven replied immediately. "Like I'm made of... of clouds. But good clouds. Not the scary storm ones." A pause, then: "Amanda says the queen's being a good girl now. Told her to behave or she doesn't get dessert."

Clark caught Bruce's eye, seeing his own mix of relief and fondness reflected there. Anesthesia always made people say things they'd normally keep locked away, but there was something endearing about Aven's unfiltered honesty.

"That's good," Clark managed, throat tight. "Are you ready to come home?"

“Home,” Aven echoed, soft and almost dreamy. “Yeah… yeah, I wanna come home. But Amanda’s pestering for the phone back—yes you are, Mandy, don’t glare at me—here she is. So grumpy. Makes Bruce look like sunshine.”
A snorted giggle burst through the line, followed by Amanda’s long-suffering sigh.

“I wanted to give you both a heads-up — with the increased inhibitor dose, some of his old side effects might resurface. You can expect a low-grade fever, body aches, nausea… maybe even a few minor hallucinations.”

Clark's stomach clenched at Amanda's clinical assessment. "How long will those last?"

"Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, depending on how his system processes the new formula," Amanda replied. "I'm sending him home with instructions and some medication to help manage the symptoms. He'll need rest—real rest, not the half-sleep he's been getting."

"We'll make sure he gets it," Bruce said, leaning closer to the phone.

"Good. And Clark? The conversation you two are planning—I'd recommend waiting until tomorrow evening. Let him get through the worst of the adjustment period first."

Clark's throat tightened. Amanda knew, of course. She'd been watching all of them navigate this delicate balance for a while now, had probably seen this moment coming long before they'd worked up the courage to face it.

"Understood," he managed.

"Sarge will drive him back in about an hour. Make sure he eats something light—soup, toast, nothing heavy. And keep an eye on his temperature. If it spikes above 102, call me immediately."

The line went dead, leaving them in silence. Jon had curled up against Conner on the couch, both boys processing the conversation in their own way. Clark set the phone down carefully, as if sudden movements might shatter the fragile relief settling in his chest.

"So he's okay?" Jon asked, voice small.

"He's okay," Clark confirmed, the words feeling like a prayer answered. "The procedure worked. He'll be home soon."

Bruce stood, reaching for his suit jacket with movements that looked casual but held an undercurrent of tension. "I should go. Give you time to—"

"Stay." The word came out sharper than Clark intended, edged with something that felt too close to desperation. "Please. He'll want to see you."

Bruce paused, jacket halfway on. Those pale eyes searched Clark's face, reading something there that made his expression soften almost imperceptibly. "You're sure?"

Clark nodded, not trusting his voice to remain steady. The thought of facing Aven alone—drugged and vulnerable, unaware of the revelations waiting for him—felt suddenly overwhelming. He needed Bruce here, needed the steady presence that had become his anchor through all of this.

"Jon," Clark said, turning to his youngest son. "Why don't you and Conner start on homework? Aven will be tired when he gets back, so we'll probably have a quiet evening."

Jon's face fell slightly. "But you said we could talk when he got home. About everything."

"Tomorrow," Bruce said gently, settling back onto the couch. "Give him tonight to rest. We'll have plenty of time to talk tomorrow."

Jon nodded reluctantly, sliding off the couch with the boneless grace of childhood. "Come on, Con. Let's go pretend to do math."

"I actually need to do math," Conner protested, but he followed his little brother down the hallway toward the bedrooms, leaving Clark and Bruce alone in the suddenly quiet living room.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid. Clark could hear the boys moving around in their rooms, the distant sound of backpacks being unzipped and textbooks hitting desks. Normal sounds of a normal evening, except nothing about this felt normal anymore.

"Tomorrow," Bruce said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability. "We tell him everything tomorrow."

Clark nodded, his throat too tight for words. Tomorrow felt both too soon and not soon enough—another day of carrying secrets, another night of Aven sleeping in the guest room while Clark lay awake thinking about everything that could go wrong.

"What if he runs?" The question slipped out before Clark could stop it, raw and afraid.

Bruce's pale eyes met his across the space between them. "Then we follow him. Again. For as long as it takes."

The certainty in his voice should have been comforting, but it only made the knot in Clark's chest tighten. How many times could they ask Aven to forgive them? How many revelations could one person absorb before something fundamental broke?

Clark's enhanced hearing caught the rumble of an engine in the parking garage below—familiar, steady, the particular rhythm of Sarge's sedan. His pulse quickened as he moved to the window, peering down at the street level entrance.

"He's here," Clark said, the words coming out rougher than intended.

Bruce stood, straightening his shirt with automatic precision. "How do you want to handle this?"

The question hung between them, loaded with implications. How did they handle Aven walking through that door—still drugged from anesthesia, trusting them both completely, unaware that tomorrow everything would change?

"Carefully," Clark murmured, moving toward the door as footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

The knock was soft, tentative—Sarge's way of announcing their arrival without startling anyone inside. Clark opened the door to find Aven leaning heavily against the older Marine's shoulder, his face pale but alert. Those hazel eyes found Clark's immediately, and something warm and familiar flickered there despite the heavy effects of the drugs.

"Special delivery," Sarge said dryly, helping Aven through the doorway. "One slightly used Marine, fresh from the shop."

Aven snorted, the sound turning into a wince. “Warranty not included.”

The sight of Aven barely upright made Clark's chest tighten. He stepped forward, arms outstretched to take Aven's weight as Sarge transferred him gently.

"I've got him," Clark said, his voice steadier than he felt as Aven's body slumped against his chest.

"He's been in and out," Sarge explained, handing over a small paper bag that rattled with medication bottles. "Amanda said to make sure he takes the blue pills every six hours, white ones as needed for pain."

Aven's face pressed against Clark's shoulder, warm—too warm—through the thin fabric of his shirt. His hair smelled of antiseptic and something metallic, and his breath came in shallow puffs against Clark's neck.

Clark caught it the moment Aven’s eyes found Bruce—his body tensing, even through the haze of medication.

“Bruce?” The name was thick with confusion, and Clark’s super-hearing picked up the sudden spike in his heartbeat.

"Y-yeah," Bruce said, stepping forward with an uncharacteristic hesitation. "Clark thought I should be here when you got back."

Aven blinked slowly, his pupils wide and dark in the apartment's soft light. "You... talked to each other?"

Clark felt heat climbing up his neck. "We were both worried about you," he said, carefully adjusting his grip as Aven swayed against him. "Let's get you settled first, okay? You need to rest."

Aven's weight felt heavier than it should have against Clark's side, his body radiating concerning heat. Clark could hear the queen shifting restlessly beneath Aven's ribs, her movements smaller but still present despite the new inhibitor. He guided Aven toward the couch, hyperaware of Bruce following a few steps behind.

"M'fine," Aven muttered, though his legs nearly buckled as Clark eased him down. "Just... floaty. Like swimming in cotton candy."

"I bet," Clark said softly, crouching to help remove Aven's shoes. The man's feet were swollen, bruised in places where he'd spent hours in those heels the night before. Clark's stomach twisted at the sight.

Aven's head lolled back against the cushions, eyes half-lidded but tracking Bruce as he moved around the living room. "You're really here," he murmured. "Not... not a drug thing."

"I'm really here," Bruce confirmed, his voice gentler than Clark was used to hearing it. "How's the pain?"

Aven's mouth curved into a lopsided smile. "Can't feel much of anything right now. Amanda's got the good stuff." His expression shifted suddenly, brow furrowing. "The boys—"

"Doing homework," Clark assured him, setting the shoes aside. "They know you're back and that you need to rest."

Aven nodded, relief softening his features. His gaze drifted to Bruce again, something complicated flickering in his eyes. “Last night, at the loading dock. You… you said we’d talk.” he said his words slightly slurred.

Bruce shifted, moving to sit on the coffee table across from Aven. "We will," he said, voice steady despite the hesitation Clark caught in his eyes. "But not tonight. You need to rest first."

Aven frowned, his eyelids drooping even as he fought to keep them open. "S'important."

"Tomorrow," Clark promised, resting his hand on Aven's knee. The heat radiating through the fabric concerned him. "When you're feeling better."

Aven's gaze drifted between them, cloudy with medication but still sharp enough to catch the look that passed between Clark and Bruce. "You two are being weird," he mumbled.

Clark forced a smile, hoping it looked more natural than it felt. "Just worried about you. Amanda said you need to eat something light. How about some soup?"

Aven's nose wrinkled. "Not hungry." His head lolled against the cushions, eyelids fluttering as he fought against the pull of the medication. "Rooms spinning too much to eat.”

Clark's stomach clenched at the pallor in Aven's face, the way he seemed to be fighting just to keep his eyes open. The fever was already setting in—Amanda had warned them about this, but seeing it made his chest tighten with protective instinct.

"That's normal," Clark said, keeping his voice low and soothing. "Amanda said the new inhibitor might make you feel sick for a day or two."

Aven's eyes drifted shut, then snapped open again as if he was afraid of missing something important. "Bruce," he said suddenly, his voice thick. "You kissed me."

The words hung in the air like a challenge. Clark felt his breath catch, his enhanced hearing picking up the way Bruce's heart rate spiked. Aven's drug-addled honesty was cutting straight through all their careful planning.

"Yes," Bruce said quietly, leaning forward slightly. "I did."

Aven's brow furrowed, like he was trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. "Why?"

The simple question carried so much weight that Clark felt it settle in his own chest. He watched Bruce's face, saw the careful control slip just enough to reveal something raw underneath.

"Because I missed you," Bruce said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Because I thought I'd lost you forever."

A sound escaped Aven’s throat—half-whimper, half-sob—as he managed, “I missed you too. I’m sorry I left… but I had to. Weyland… they would’ve sent drones. Did send them. I couldn’t let you or the kids get hurt. Not because of me.”

Bruce's face softened at Aven's confession, the hard lines around his mouth easing into something more vulnerable than Clark had seen in months. "I know," he said softly. "I understand why you left."

Aven shook his head, then winced, his eyes glassing with unshed tears. “No… you didn’t. I’m the one who left you with nothing but a letter and my dog tags. You and the League tried to find us. Amanda said you weren’t doing well. Alfred reached out on our old secure line. I should’ve called… should’ve done better for you and the kids. Instead, I ran. I was a coward—left you all to worry while I chased Weyland black sites across the world, hunting for Keene. And all the while, the inhibitor shots were starting to fail.” His voice wavered, his fingers fidgeting with Moose’s collar around his wrist as his gaze drifted up to the ceiling. “I knew I was running out of time… but still, I couldn’t…”

His voice trailed off, and Clark felt a knot form in his throat as Aven's eyes slipped closed, then fluttered open again with visible effort. The medication was pulling him under, but he was fighting it, desperate to finish what he needed to say.

"You should rest," Clark said softly, shifting to sit beside him on the couch. "We can talk more tomorrow."

"No," Aven mumbled, shaking his head weakly. "Need to say this now. While I'm brave enough."

The raw vulnerability in his voice made Clark's chest ache. He glanced at Bruce, seeing his own concern mirrored in those pale eyes.

“I thought I was protecting you,” Aven murmured, his words dragging as the medication tugged at him, eyes locked on Bruce. “But I was just… running. From all of it. After Mimic stabbed you. After Mill Creek. I knew if I waited for you to wake up, you’d stop me… so I took that choice from you. Lied to your kids that I’d be back. Told myself it was better that way—because even if you hated me, even if I broke every one of your hearts, at least you’d be alive to do it.”

His gaze drifted, voice thick. “For five months, my brothers and I have been tearing through Weyland’s assets and black sites. Worked with cartels. Blown cargo ships apart so they’d sink. I’ve killed more people in five months than I ever did in the service. I put a bullet in Mimic two weeks after I left, right there in a meta prison yard. All because I thought… every trigger I pulled was one less body they could throw at you to get to me.”

Clark felt something shatter inside his chest as Aven's confession hung in the air between them. The raw pain in that broken voice cut deeper than any physical wound he'd ever sustained. He watched Aven's eyes flutter closed again, watched him fight against the pull of medication to stay conscious, to finish purging himself of months of guilt and self-recrimination.

"Aven," Clark said softly, his own voice rougher than he intended. "You did what you thought was right. What you had to do."

But Aven was shaking his head weakly, tears leaking from the corners of his closed eyes. "No... I did what was easier. Running was easier than watching you all suffer because of what's inside me. Easier than seeing the kids get hurt because I brought this nightmare to your door."

The medication was winning now, pulling Aven deeper despite his attempts to stay awake. His words came slower, more slurred, but no less devastating for their honesty.

"Used to wake up... in safe houses... and for just a second I'd forget," Aven whispered, his head lolling against Clark's shoulder. "Think I was still in your bed. Still at the Manor. Then I'd remember, and it felt like dying all over again."

Clark could feel the wet stain of tears against his shirt as Aven reached out towards Bruce his hand trembling with the effort. “I’m sorry…”

***

Bruce felt something fracture inside his chest at the broken sound of Aven's voice, at the way those trembling fingers reached for him across the space between the couch and coffee table. Without hesitation, he leaned forward and caught Aven's hand in both of his, feeling the fever heat radiating through his skin.

"You're forgiven," Bruce said, the words scraping his throat raw. "You've always been forgiven."

Aven's eyes fluttered open at that, hazel and glassy with medication but still so achingly familiar. "Don't... don't say that just because I'm drugged and pathetic."

"I'm not." Bruce's thumb traced across Aven's knuckles, mapping the familiar calluses and scars he'd memorized months ago. "I understood why you left. I hated it, but I understood."

The admission tasted like copper on his tongue. He'd spent five months oscillating between fury and desperation, between wanting to shake Aven until his teeth rattled and wanting to hold him so tightly that nothing could ever take him away again. But underneath all of that had been the terrible understanding that Aven had been trying to protect them—had been willing to sacrifice his own happiness, his own safety, to keep them out of Weyland's crosshairs.

"The kids," Aven mumbled, his grip tightening on Bruce's hands with what little strength he had left. "Did they... are they okay? After I left?"

The question hit Bruce like a physical blow. He thought of Damian's silent rage in the weeks after Aven's disappearance, the way his youngest had thrown himself into training with a viciousness that worried even Bruce. Tim's obsessive research into Weyland-Yutani's operations, staying up for days at a time trying to find some trace of Aven's team. Dick's forced cheerfulness that fooled no one, especially not Bruce.

"They missed you," he said simply, because the full truth—the way they'd all fractured a little, the way the Manor had felt hollow without Aven's presence—felt too heavy to lay on someone already drowning in guilt. "They understood why you had to go, but they missed you."

Aven's eyes drifted shut again, and for a moment Bruce thought he'd finally succumbed to the medication. But then he spoke, voice barely a whisper.

"Clark found me. In the café. Was so sick... fever, infection from the drone claws. He brought me here." Aven's head turned slightly toward Clark, a movement so small it was barely perceptible. "Been taking care of me. Him and the boys."

Bruce's gaze flicked to Clark, catching the way the other man's face softened as he looked down at Aven. There was something there—something tender and protective that Bruce recognized because he felt it too. The realization should have sparked jealousy, should have made him want to drag Aven away. But instead all he felt was a wave of gratitude and love.

"Because I knew you were safe," Bruce said, throat tight with the confession. "Clark called me the day he found you in the café. Told me you were alive, but sick. That you'd made him promise not to tell me where you were."

Aven's eyes widened slightly, struggling to focus through the medication. "You... knew? All this time?"

Bruce nodded, still holding Aven's hand between his own. The fever heat radiating from his skin was concerning, but Bruce couldn't bring himself to let go, not when Aven was finally here, finally talking to him after months of silence.

"I knew," he confirmed quietly. "I've known since the day Clark brought you home."

A frown creased Aven's forehead, his thoughts visibly struggling through the drug haze. "But you didn't... you didn't come."

The accusation hit Bruce like a physical blow, though he knew it wasn't meant as one. He'd asked himself the same question countless times over the past week—why he'd stayed away, why he'd honored Aven's request to remain hidden when every instinct had screamed at him to go, to find him, to bring him home.

"You weren't ready," Bruce said finally, the words scraping his throat raw. "You needed time to heal, to process. And I..." He paused, searching for words that wouldn't sound like excuses. "I was afraid that if I pushed, you'd run again. Somewhere even Clark couldn't find you."

Aven's eyes drifted shut, tears leaking from beneath his lashes. "I wouldn't have," he whispered. "Not again. Too tired to run anymore."

The admission broke something in Bruce's chest—the image of Aven exhausted, hunted, reaching the end of whatever strength had carried him through these past months. He squeezed Aven's hand gently, anchoring him as the medication pulled him further under.

"Rest now," Bruce murmured, brushing a strand of hair from Aven's forehead. The skin there burned against his fingers, fever-hot and damp with sweat. "We'll talk more tomorrow. All of it. I promise."

Aven's eyes fluttered open one last time, hazy and unfocused. "Stay?" The word was barely audible, more breath than sound.

Bruce exchanged a glance with Clark, seeing his own concern mirrored in those blue eyes. "We're not going anywhere," he promised, and meant it with every fiber of his being.

Aven's face relaxed at that, tension draining from his features as the medication finally pulled him under completely. His breathing evened out, deepening into the rhythm of drug-induced sleep.

Bruce remained where he was, still holding Aven's hand, unwilling to break the connection even though he knew Aven was no longer conscious. The confession had gutted him—hearing how Aven had spent these months thinking he was protecting, thinking he'd broken their hearts to save their lives. The guilt that must have followed him from city to city, from safe house to safe house, even as he put bullets in the people hunting him. The weight of it all was written in every line of Aven's unconscious face now, in the dark circles beneath his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks.

Bruce remained where he was, still holding Aven's hand, unwilling to break the connection even though he knew Aven was no longer conscious. The weight of Aven's confession hung in the air between him and Clark, heavier than any physical burden he'd ever carried.

"We should get him to bed," Clark said softly, his voice rough with emotion. "He'll be more comfortable there."

Bruce nodded, reluctantly releasing Aven's hand as Clark gathered the sleeping man into his arms with effortless care. The sight struck something deep in Bruce's chest—the gentle way Clark cradled Aven against his broad chest, mindful of the fresh surgical site beneath his shirt.

He followed them down the hallway to the guest room, watching as Clark eased Aven onto the bed with a tenderness that made Bruce's throat tighten. The room bore subtle traces of Aven's presence—a dog-eared paperback on the nightstand, a sweatshirt draped over the chair in the corner, a half-empty glass of water on the dresser. Small markers of a life being rebuilt, piece by piece.

"His fever's already climbing," Clark murmured, pressing the back of his hand to Aven's forehead. "Amanda said to expect it, but..."

"I'll get a cold compress," Bruce said, grateful for something practical to do, some small way to be useful. He found his way to the kitchen, locating a clean dishcloth and filling a bowl with cold water and ice from the refrigerator door. The domesticity of the action felt strange, out of place against the backdrop of everything they'd just heard.

When he returned to the bedroom, Clark had removed Aven's socks and jeans, leaving him in boxers and a loose t-shirt to sleep more comfortably. Bruce set the bowl on the nightstand, wringing out the cloth before gently placing it on Aven's forehead. The man didn't stir, his breathing shallow but steady, face slack with medicated sleep.

"I never realized," Bruce said quietly, adjusting the compress. "How much he was carrying. How much guilt."

Clark sank into the chair beside the bed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "He never said anything. Not to me. I knew he was struggling, but not like this."

Bruce studied Aven's face in the soft lamplight—the shadows beneath his eyes, the lines around his mouth that hadn't been there five months ago, the way his cheekbones stood out more sharply than before. Even in sleep, he looked exhausted, worn thin by months of running and fighting.

"He's lost weight," Bruce observed, the words coming out rougher than intended. "Too much."

Clark nodded, his gaze never leaving Aven's face. "He tries to hide it, but he can barely keep food down some days. The inhibitor makes him nauseous, and the queen..." He trailed off, but Bruce understood.

The queen was consuming him from the inside. Not just physically—though that was happening too—but mentally. Emotionally. Wearing him down day by day until there was nothing left but determination and fear.

Bruce adjusted the compress on Aven's forehead, careful not to disturb his sleep. The heat radiating from his skin was concerning, but Amanda had warned them about this. The fever would likely get worse before it got better.

"He thought he was protecting us," Bruce said quietly, more to himself than to Clark. "All this time, every decision he made..."

He couldn't finish the thought. The weight of Aven's confession still pressed against his chest, making it difficult to breathe. Five months of hunting and being hunted. Five months of guilt and loneliness and fear. Five months of believing he'd done the right thing by cutting them all out of his life, even as it tore him apart.

"We should have found him sooner," Clark said, his voice rough with emotion.

Bruce shook his head. "He didn't want to be found." The words tasted bitter on his tongue. "At least, not until he thought it was safe."

The irony wasn't lost on him. Aven had spent months trying to protect them, never realizing they were all doing the same thing—hunting Weyland-Yutani from the shadows, dismantling their operations piece by piece, searching for a way to save him. Ships passing in the night, both fighting the same war on different fronts.

A soft knock at the door drew Bruce's attention. Jon stood in the doorway, his young face creased with worry as he peered into the room.

"Is Aven okay?" he asked, his voice small but steady.

Bruce exchanged a glance with Clark, who nodded slightly. "He's going to be fine," Bruce said, gesturing for Jon to come in. "The medicine makes him tired, that's all."

Jon approached the bed cautiously, his eyes wide as he took in Aven's flushed face and the compress on his forehead. "He looks sick."

"The treatment for the thing in his chest sometimes makes him feel worse before he feels better," Bruce explained, keeping his voice gentle. "Like when you take medicine for a cold."

Jon nodded solemnly, reaching out to touch Aven's hand where it lay on top of the blanket. "He's really hot."

"That's the fever," Clark said, moving to stand behind his son. "It'll go down soon."

Jon's small hand patted Aven's gently, the gesture so tender it made Bruce's chest ache. He watched the boy study Aven's face with that serious expression that made him seem far older than twelve, cataloging the flush across his cheekbones and the way his breathing came shallow and quick.

"Will you stay with him tonight?" Jon asked, glancing between Bruce and his father. "In case he gets scared or needs something?"

The question hit Bruce with unexpected force. He'd been planning to leave—to give Clark and his family space, to maintain the careful distance he'd been keeping all week. But the thought of leaving Aven alone, fevered and vulnerable, made something twist uncomfortably in his stomach.

"One of us will," Clark said before Bruce could answer, his voice gentle but firm. "He won't be alone."

Jon nodded, seemingly satisfied with that assurance. He leaned down to press a soft kiss to Aven's forehead, just above the compress, then straightened with the decisive air of someone who'd completed an important task.

"I'll get my homework done so I can hang out with him tomorrow when he feels better," Jon announced, already heading for the door. "Tell him I saved him some mac and cheese when he wakes up."

After Jon left, the room fell into comfortable silence. Bruce adjusted the compress again, noting how Aven's skin seemed to burn even hotter against his fingertips. The fever was climbing, just as Amanda had warned it would.

"I should go," Bruce said quietly, though the words felt wrong the moment they left his mouth. "Let you handle this. You know his routines better than I do."

Clark's head snapped up, blue eyes sharp with something that might have been panic. "Don't." The word came out rougher than intended, and Clark cleared his throat before continuing. "Don't go. Please. Not tonight."

The raw honesty in Clark's voice made Bruce pause, his hand still resting on the bowl of ice water. There was something vulnerable in Clark's expression, something that reminded Bruce of the way he'd looked in the ballroom last night when Luthor had been touching Aven—protective and afraid and trying to hide both emotions behind professional calm.

"You sure?" Bruce asked, settling back into his chair beside the bed. "I know this isn't... we haven't exactly discussed boundaries."

Clark's mouth twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I think we're past worrying about boundaries." He paused, his gaze drifting to Aven's sleeping form. "Besides, he asked you to stay. Even drugged out of his mind, that's what he wanted."

The reminder sent warmth spreading through Bruce's chest. Stay. Such a simple word, but it carried the weight of months apart, of carefully maintained distance, of all the things they'd been too afraid to say aloud.

Bruce wrung out the compress again, the cold water shocking against his fingers. Aven stirred slightly at the touch against his skin, a soft murmur escaping his lips before he settled back into deeper sleep. Bruce found himself cataloging every detail—the way Aven's eyelashes cast shadows on his feverish cheeks, the subtle tremor in his breathing, the way his fingers curled slightly around the blanket edge as if seeking something to hold onto even in unconsciousness.

"The boys handled it well," Bruce said quietly, needing to fill the silence with something other than his own spiraling thoughts. "Better than I expected."

Clark nodded, though his gaze stayed on Aven. “Kids pick up on more than we give them credit for. I’m sure yours noticed things about us long before we did.” He glanced over at Bruce. “You should call them—and Alfred. Let them know how Aven’s doing, and that you’ll be staying here tonight.”

Bruce felt his phone's weight in his pocket, the familiar buzz of notifications he'd been ignoring for the past hour. Alfred would be expecting an update—had probably been pacing Wayne Manor's halls since Bruce had left for the Metro Tower that afternoon. And the children... they'd want to know that Aven was safe, that the procedure had gone well, that their makeshift family was still intact despite everything threatening to tear it apart.

He pulled out his phone, the screen's blue glow harsh in the bedroom's soft lighting. Seven missed calls from Alfred, three from Dick, two from Tim. A string of text messages that he scrolled through with growing guilt.

[Alfred]: Master Bruce, I trust Master Aven's procedure went well?

[Dick]: B, update please. The others are asking questions.

[Tim]: Conner texted. Said Aven's back but sick. Need details.

[Stephanie]: Is he okay? Like really okay, not your grumpy “he’s fine” okay.

[Cass]: Update?

[Duke]: Heard the surgery went well, but… just checking in. Let me know if he needs anything.

[Jason]: If he’s hurting, and you didn’t tell me, I’m kicking your ass.

[Damian]: Father, if Davis dies because you were too proud to be present for his recovery, I will never forgive you.

The last message made Bruce's chest tighten. Damian's blunt honesty cut deeper than any of the others, mainly because it carried the weight of truth. He had been proud—too proud, too careful, too afraid of pushing when Aven needed space. But sitting here now, watching Aven burn with fever while Clark adjusted pillows with the practiced care of someone who'd been doing this for days, Bruce realized how much of Aven's recovery he'd missed by maintaining that distance.

"I should call them," he said, already standing. "Let them know what's happening."

Clark nodded without looking away from Aven. "Use the kitchen. I'll stay with him."

The hallway felt longer than it should have as Bruce made his way back to the kitchen, passing Jon's room where he could hear the boy talking quietly to someone—probably Conner, sharing the details of their earlier conversation. Normal sibling dynamics in the midst of everything else falling apart.

Bruce settled at the kitchen table, the same spot where he'd sat just hours ago trying to figure out how to tell Jon about the complexities of adult relationships. Now he was calling home to explain why he wouldn't be coming back tonight, why he was staying in Clark Kent's apartment to watch over a man they'd all thought was lost forever.

Alfred answered on the first ring, as if he'd been sitting beside the phone waiting.

"Master Bruce." The relief in Alfred's voice was immediate, palpable even through the phone's speaker. "How is Master Aven?"

"Alive," Bruce said, the word coming out rougher than intended. "The procedure went well. Amanda adjusted his inhibitor, and the queen's activity has dropped to baseline levels."

"But?" Alfred's voice carried that particular tone he used when he knew Bruce was holding something back.

Bruce rubbed at his temple, feeling the beginning of a headache building behind his eyes. "But he's running a fever from the new medication. Amanda warned us it would happen, but seeing him like this..."

"It's difficult," Alfred finished for him, his voice softening with understanding. "Even when we know the cause."

Bruce's gaze drifted to the hallway, though he couldn't see into the bedroom from this angle. The weight of everything Aven had confessed sat heavy in his chest. "He told us what he's been doing these past five months, Alfred. Hunting Weyland operatives. Working with cartels. Sinking ships." He lowered his voice, though Clark could undoubtedly hear him if he chose to listen. "He put a bullet in Mimic two weeks after he left."

Silence stretched across the line for a moment. "I see," Alfred said finally. "And how do you feel about that revelation, sir?"

The question caught Bruce off guard, though it shouldn't have. Alfred had always been able to cut through his defenses, to ask the questions he avoided asking himself.

"I don't know," Bruce admitted, the words feeling like stones in his throat. "Part of me understands. After what Mimic did—wearing Aven's face, getting close enough to stab me—" He broke off, the memory still raw despite the months that had passed. "But another part of me..."

"Wishes he hadn't crossed that line," Alfred supplied when Bruce couldn't finish the thought.

Bruce closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes."

"If I may, Master Bruce," Alfred said, his tone measured but firm, "Master Aven was never bound by the same code that guides your actions. His military training taught him different solutions to the same problems."

"I know that," Bruce said, perhaps more sharply than intended. "I've always known that. It's just—"

"Different when confronted with the reality," Alfred finished. "When the man you love has made choices you wouldn't make yourself."

"Yes," Bruce said, the admission scraping his throat raw.

Alfred was quiet for a moment. "And yet you're still there," he observed. "Still by his side."

"Of course I am," Bruce said, the words coming easier now. "That was never in question."

"Then perhaps that's all that matters for tonight," Alfred suggested gently. "The rest can be sorted through tomorrow, when Master Aven is more himself."

Bruce nodded, though Alfred couldn't see it. "I'm staying here tonight," he said after a pause. "Clark asked me to. Aven asked me to."

"A wise decision," Alfred replied, and Bruce could hear the approval in his voice. "The children will understand."

Bruce wasn't so sure about that, but he appreciated Alfred's confidence. "I'll call them now. Let them know what's happening."

"Very good, sir. And Master Bruce?" Alfred's voice softened. "Take care of him. And yourself."

The line went dead before Bruce could respond. He sat for a moment, phone heavy in his hand, gathering his thoughts before calling Dick. The conversation with his eldest would set the tone for all the others—Dick's reaction would ripple through the family, whether Bruce wanted it to or not.

He dialed, the phone barely ringing once before Dick answered.

"Finally," Dick said, relief evident in his voice. "We've been worried sick. How is he?"

Bruce closed his eyes, leaning back in the kitchen chair. "The procedure went well. The new inhibitor formula is working. But he's running a fever—side effect of the medication."

"Is he conscious? Can we talk to him?"

"No," Bruce said, throat tightening at the memory of Aven's drug-slurred confession. "He's sedated. Sleeping now."

A pause, then Dick asked more carefully, "And how are you holding up?"

The question caught Bruce off guard. He'd been so focused on Aven, on Clark, on navigating this fragile new reality that he hadn't stopped to consider his own state. How was he? Exhausted. Relieved. Terrified. Angry, still, in ways he couldn't fully articulate.

"I'm fine," he said automatically, then winced at how hollow it sounded.

"Right," Dick replied, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "That's why you sound like you've been hit by a truck."

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's been a long day."

"I bet." Dick's voice softened slightly. "So what's the plan? Are you bringing him back to the Manor for recovery?"

The question hung in the air, loaded with implications. Bruce had assumed, from the moment Amanda told them about the procedure, that Aven would return to the Manor afterward. That Bruce would bring him home, where Alfred could monitor his recovery, where the family could rally around him, where Bruce could keep him safe until the Silax treatment.

But Aven had made his choice clear. He'd asked both of them to stay.

"No," Bruce said, the word feeling strange on his tongue. "I'm staying here tonight. At Clark's."

Silence stretched across the line for several seconds. "Oh," Dick said finally. "That's... unexpected."

Bruce could practically hear the gears turning in Dick's head, processing this new development. His eldest had always been too perceptive for his own good, picking up on subtexts and undercurrents that Bruce tried to keep hidden.

"You and Clark..." Dick trailed off, clearly trying to choose his words carefully. "You're both staying with him tonight?"

"Yes," Bruce said, the single syllable carrying more weight than he intended. "Aven asked us both to stay."

Another pause, longer this time. "Does he know? About you two?"

Bruce's throat tightened. "Not yet. He's in no condition for that conversation tonight."

"But you're planning to tell him," Dick said. It wasn't a question.

"Tomorrow," Bruce confirmed, rubbing at the tension building at the base of his skull. "When the worst of the fever passes."

Dick was quiet for a moment, and Bruce could picture him pacing—the way he always did when working through complex problems. "And you're okay? With all of this?"

The question was loaded with meaning Bruce wasn't sure he had the energy to unpack. Was he okay with telling Aven the truth? With the prospect of rejection? With the reality that the man he loved had spent five months putting bullets in people while Bruce had been searching for a more peaceful solution?

"I have to be," he said finally.

"That's not an answer, Bruce."

Bruce sighed, feeling every one of his forty-three years in that moment. "I don't know, Dick. I'm... figuring it out as I go."

The admission felt like a surrender, an acknowledgment of how far beyond his control this situation had spiraled. He, who prided himself on preparation, on having contingencies for every outcome, was navigating blind through emotional territory he'd never fully mapped.

"Well, that's terrifying," Dick said, though his tone had softened. "Bruce Wayne, admitting he doesn't have all the answers."

Despite everything, Bruce felt his mouth twitch toward something almost like a smile. "Don't tell the others. I have a reputation to maintain."

Dick's laugh was quiet but genuine. "Your secret's safe with me." He paused, then added more seriously, "For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing. Staying there. Both of you."

The simple affirmation loosened something in Bruce's chest. "Thank you."

"Do you want me to tell the others? Save you from having this conversation fifty more times?"

Bruce's relief was immediate and palpable. "If you wouldn't mind."

"Consider it done. Just..." Dick hesitated. "Keep us updated, okay? Even if it's just a text. And if you need anything—backup, supplies, someone to sit with him while you and Clark get some rest—we're here. All of us."

The offer warmed something in Bruce's chest that had been cold for too long. "I know. Thank you."

After ending the call, Bruce leaned against the counter and closed his eyes, letting the silence of the apartment settle around him. The tension in his shoulders refused to ease. No matter what Alfred or Dick had said, the thought of leaving Aven—even for a few hours—sat wrong in his chest.

He pushed away from the counter and made his way down the hallway, the faint lamplight spilling from the guest room guiding him back. Clark was still in the chair beside the bed, long frame folded forward slightly, his attention fixed on Aven.

Bruce’s gaze tracked the steady rise and fall of Aven’s chest, the damp cloth still resting against his forehead. The fever had flushed his cheeks, but his breathing remained even.

Clark glanced up as Bruce stepped inside. “You should get some rest,” he said softly, careful not to wake the man between them. “I’ll stay with him for now. When it’s your turn, I’ll wake you.”

Bruce shook his head automatically, but Clark’s expression was steady, the kind that brooked no argument. “You won’t do him any good if you’re dead on your feet,” Clark added, his voice gentle but firm.

For a moment, Bruce considered pushing back—another reflex he couldn’t quite help. But then his gaze returned to Aven, and the fight went out of him. Maybe Clark was right. The night was far from over.

“Wake me if anything changes,” Bruce said quietly.

“I will,” Clark promised.

Bruce lingered for another heartbeat, his hand brushing lightly against Aven’s wrist in silent reassurance before he finally turned for the door. The last thing he saw before stepping out was Clark adjusting the compress with careful precision, his every movement threaded with the same unspoken promise Bruce carried: I’m not going anywhere.