Clark left me with his parents while he flew back to Marseilles to get our things. We plan to stay there at least a few days to get Clark into a costume, and according to the TV, Lex Luthor is back in Metropolis anyways. It seems my overseas adventures are over, at least for now.
While Clark is gone, I sit around the kitchen table with the Kents drinking a cup of tea for my little cold, and listening to stories about Clark growing up. I thought this would be filled with awkward moments and vague explanations, but instead I heard endearing stories about Clark lifting his first sofa, outrunning a herd of horses, and then the slightly more embarrassing stories of Clark learning to use his other special abilities. I wondered if Clark would mind his parents telling me about all of this, but I figured he wouldn’t have left me alone with them if he hadn’t wanted us all to get to know each other.
So I sip my tea and sit back, learning a little about the mysteries that surround Clark Kent.
It’s funny, a week ago I had thought I needed to go the most dangerous corners of the earth to feel alive and focused again. Now, I feel like I am right where I need to be, listening to two adoptive parents telling me stories about their superpowered son.
Wait—adoptive?
“Where did Clark come from when you adopted him?” I ask, thinking it’s an innocent enough question.
But the cozy atmosphere in the room lifts as Martha and Jonathan Kent glance at each other uneasily. I obviously hit a nerve here.
“Look, I appreciate you explaining the why about Clark, but obviously the how is a bigger secret.” I sigh, slightly frustrated that all of the Kents seem to only go so far in telling me the truth about Clark. I meet the gaze of both of his parents, hoping to reassure them that I am only trying to learn about Clark, and not undermine him. “I mean the best for Clark. I just want to understand him… I—I think I’m even falling in love with him,” I admit before I can stop myself, surprised that admission is so close under the surface. I’ve barely acknowledged this to myself, and I don’t know why I suddenly said it, but it feels right.
I look across at Clark’s parents and feel a tightening in my chest of emotion. I suddenly want to be a part of their secret little club, to at last feel like I belong somewhere. Clark is the first person I’ve ever met that I feel entirely at home with, and I just hope that his parents will eventually feel the same about me.
But I don’t want them to think I’m trying to pry the truth out of them. They already know I’m a reporter. They can’t help thinking that I’m only fishing for a story. So I try to be as honest with them as I’d like them to be with me. “I… I didn’t mean to say that. I know what you must think. Clark and I have only known each other for five days… but these five days have been the most extraordinary of my life,” I breathe out in a rush of remembrance… the plane rescue… seeing Clark bend steel in the Paris Metro… his kiss… flying in his arms…
“I don’t want you to feel like I’m pushing anything here. Clark already said he’d tell me when he was ready. And I’m willing to wait until he is…” I lean forward in my chair, looking the Kents straight in the eye. “But you have to realize that when Clark does make his appearance as his new alter-ego, there will be questions. Not about Clark Kent, but about the hero. And we should all help him prepare how best to answer them.”
“And you mean how to answer them in the Daily Planet, don’t you, Miss Lane?” says Mr. Kent with some skepticism.
I nod, knowing that was coming. “Look, all of the newspapers around the nation—heck, around the world!—are going to want to know who this new superhero is. As I’ve told Clark, when he’s ready to tell his story, I’ll be happy to tell it how he wants it to be told. Trust me, it’s much better than the tabloids picking up the story and running with their own theories…”
Mrs. Kent nods in agreement as I speak, then turns to her husband. “She’s right, Jonathan. Clark is ready to step out in the public eye… We have to trust her to tell a version of the truth that will satisfy the public and not have them hounding after Clark to reveal his identity.”
I smile and nod encouragingly, so happy to have met an advocate in Martha Kent. Just then, we hear a whoosh outside the door and Clark is back with our things.
I stand up to greet him, but become quickly alarmed when I notice his face is covered in soot and his shirt and pants are torn.
“Clark, what happened?”
He sets the suitcases down and takes off his glasses to wipe them clean. “A fire in Madrid, on the way back,” he says casually, dusting off some more soot on his pants. “But it’s all right. I saved a family… I just need to go change.”
Clark takes off up the flight of stairs and I stare at his departing broad shoulders, admiring how easily he takes responsibility, especially without any praise or recognition. It just makes me love him that much more. I turn around and see Clark’s parents watching me.
“You really do care for him, don’t you, Lois?” asks Mrs. Kent gently.
I nod and give her an assured smile, “Yeah, I do.”
*L**L*
I wake up the next morning in Clark’s bed. As per the orders of his parents, he slept downstairs. I thought it was a quaintly old-fashioned arrangement, but neither Clark nor I mentioned we had already shared a bed in Europe and had not in fact devolved into lust-crazed individuals. But, his parents’ house, their rules I suppose.
I slept soundly, comforted by the creaking sounds of the farmhouse, and being surrounded by things that were just so--Clark. I had taken a few minutes last night to peruse his shelves, admiring his high school football trophies and odd little knickknacks that bespoke of a youth full of happy memories. Lying in his bed, I easily had felt Clark’s presence and in that comfort, had fallen instantly asleep.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” I hear now and rub my eyes, stirring out of slumber. The bright yellow sun streams through the curtains, and I see Clark leaning against the doorframe, wearing a blue and red plaid shirt and jeans, watching me.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, walking over to me, as I sit up a little in bed.
“Yeah… what time is it?” I wonder, feeling like I somehow overslept.
“Just after nine,” he answers with a grin.
“Is that all?” I grumble, tossing myself back under the covers. “Unless Perry pages me I’ll just lie here a little while longer…” I murmur, but then sit right back up. “Oh my gosh! Perry!” I cry, remembering that my wallet and pager were stolen in Rome. “I usually check in once a day—he hasn’t heard from me and I don’t know what I will tell him about Luthor—“ I start in a panic.
Clark’s reassuring hand rests on my arm, stopping me. “Relax, Lois. While I was getting our things in Marseilles, I heard about an art heist… I don’t think it has anything to do with Luthor this time, but I wrote up a piece this morning, figuring you’d need something…and I think we should tread carefully about what happened at Luthor’s party anyway,” he says, and I presume he’s referring to the rock that knocked him for a loop.
I give him a quick kiss on the lips, thoroughly grateful for his help with the backup article. “You’re my hero,” I say sincerely, meaning it in a hundred different ways.
I pull back from the quick kiss and meet his eyes. His eyes move to my lips, and we lean in about to kiss properly, but instead his smile widens. “How about some breakfast?”
*L**L*
After a delicious country breakfast, complete with ham and grits, Mrs. Kent announces that she is ready to start on Clark’s costume. He grumbles appropriately, but I think I see a look in his eye that he’s ready to tackle the challenge, and might even be looking forward to it.
Clark and I make our way to the living room as Mrs. Kent gathers her supplies. She comes trundling in with stacks and stacks of fabric, and Clark goes over to help her set it all out around the room.
She beams at me, telling me her ideas as she sets up her sewing machine. “I went into town early this morning and found yards and yards of spandex on sale. The clerk gave me a strange look, but I just said I was helping with the neighbor’s Halloween costumes this year.”
Clark rolls his eyes and looks over at me, crossing his arms across his chest. “Please, just try not to make me look like a clown, Mom.”
We go through swatches of color choices, first looking for colors that might help Clark blend in. But greens, blacks, and grays just don’t suit the goal here. I remind Mrs. Kent that we need something to make Clark stand out, to make him a larger than life hero, so that mild-mannered Clark Kent could never be associated with the alter ego.
She drapes various loud fabrics and patterns on Clark that make him look like everything from a circus performer to Elvis. She also quickly cuts out a few test patches and, going off my Zorro idea, we try out a number of different masks. But none of them seem to work, and especially not with his glasses. He looks more like nerd than a hero.
“Well, I don’t see why I should wear the glasses when I’m helping people,” he says, taking them off. “Besides, the only reason I wear them is to keep me from using my abilities in inopportune moments… As this… hero-whatever,” he says with a vague wave of his hand, “I’ll need full access to my abilities.”
“Yes! And it will also help distance Clark Kent from your alter-ego,” I add. Mrs. Kent is still mixing and matching colors to find the right combination. I eye Clark critically, appreciating how handsome he looks, even when wearing his blue and red flannel shirt. In fact… he looks very good in it—maybe even hero good?
“What about blue and red, Mrs. Kent?” I ask, my gaze fixed on Clark. “We had that red cape cut to try with the green, but did we try blue?”
“No, I don’t think so. Give me about twenty minutes, and we can try one in blue… this pattern is pretty straightforward…”
I walk over to the sewing area, which looks like a rainbow exploded in the floor, and fish around for the prototype red cape. Clark’s a tall guy, and Mrs. Kent cut quite a long cape for him, so I struggle a bit to bundle it up in my arms and bring it over to him.
“Do I really need a cape?” he asks, eyeing it suspiciously as I sort out which end is the top.
“I think it will look good when you’re flying,” I say, liking the mental image of Clark in a cape… and maybe little else…
“It will help with the aerodynamics, I think,” Mrs. Kent calls from behind her sewing machine.
I unfurl the yards of fabric and drape it around Clark’s shoulders. I unbutton his shirt a bit and tuck the collar in, tacking the cape inside to try and get an idea how he’d look in it with a blue suit. “Well, I love the cape, but the flannel’s got to go, Farmerboy,” I kid and Clark pulls me onto his lap as we plop on the sofa. I wrap my arms around his neck, fiddling with his cape behind him.
“Thank you, Lois,” he says simply, out of the blue, and I fix my attention on his eyes. He’s smiling happily, and seems more relaxed than I remember seeing him since I met him.
“Whatever for?”
“I know it’s ridiculous, but I’m actually looking forward to this whole costume thing. I think there’s real potential in the idea. And as much as I love traveling around the world, I really would like to be one place for a while.”
I continue to play with his shirt, and the cape that keeps slipping from it, my fingers finding their way to his chest. “And… could that place be Metropolis?” I ask, my heart moving to my throat as I fill with hope.
“Well, I would like to meet your editor first… you know, see if there’s a job possibility there,” he hints good-naturedly, though I cringe a bit.
I sit back from him a little, my eyes suddenly focused on a speck of dirt on his shirt.
“Lois? What is it?” he asks, his voice warm with concern.
“Clark… I have to tell you something,” I say firmly, determined that I lay all of my cards out on the table. “Now, let me preface this by saying that I’ve done all I can to disassociate you from the article I sent Perry… but I did sort of hint that you might be a story, too…” I say, wincing in shame.
He sighs, sets me aside off his lap and stands up, the cape slipping out of its tenuous hold in his shirt. “When were you going to tell me this?”
“Well,” I grimace, “I’m telling you now,” I start gamely, but keep talking, hoping he’ll understand. “But Clark, I think if we can debut your alter-ego before I introduce you to Perry—and you play up your mild-mannered, charming farm boy self, I don’t think he’ll notice.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, and pulls his collar out of its tucks. “I really hope you’re right, Lois.”
Just then, Mrs. Kent comes over to us, slicing through the tension as she holds out what look to be shiny blue pajamas to Clark. “Okay, Clark, try this on.”
*L**L*
“Clark?” Mrs. Kent calls from outside the bathroom. “Does it fit?”
Silence from behind the door.
“Clark?” she asks again, glancing at me. “Come out so Lois and I can see.”
“Um… I really don’t want to, Mom,” Clark says in a voice that is almost squeaky.
Mrs. Kent and I share a giggle, but she tries again. “Come on, Clark. It can’t be that bad.”
We wait a moment longer, and then Clark opens the door, his hands on his hips, which draw my eyes to his waist… and lower.
I feel my cheeks flush, “Oh, my…” I say a little breathless.
Clark harrumphs and crosses his arms. “I look ridiculous.”
When I can focus again, my gaze takes in the full effect. The spandex highlights every little perfect detail of his body, and with his arms folded across that chest, well, he cuts quite an imposing figure.
“Hmm… maybe we can… sort of cover that area,” Mrs. Kent grumbles, walking over to her sewing machine. She digs around and comes up with a pair of red spandex briefs. “Try these over the suit,” she says, and I burst out laughing.
“Are you serious? Do you really think I should---draw attention?” he shudders embarrassedly, covering the, er, offending area with the briefs his mom hands him.
I try to contain my giggles over Clark’s maidenly modesty, while Mrs. Kent looks at him frankly. “Well, like Lois and I keep saying, Clark---people will definitely not be worried about looking at your face.”
*L**L*
After a few more additions, Clark is ready to try on the full costume with the cape. This time when he steps out of the bathroom, both Mrs. Kent and I are speechless.
“I look silly, don’t I?” Clark asks nervously, walking over to a mirror.
“Clark,” I say, coming up behind him. “You look amazing.”
His eyes catch mine in the mirror, and his lip twitches in an almost smile. He stands up straighter, slicks his hair back with his fingers and takes another look at himself. “You think so?”
“Definitely,” I smile, glad I don’t have heat vision, as I’m sure I would catch Clark’s cape on fire with the dirty thoughts starting to spin around in my mind as I eye him in the suit.
“Wait! Clark, I think something’s missing,” said Mrs. Kent, coming up behind us. She holds up a large patch with a stylized ‘S’ on it. She comes around to the front of Clark and lays it across his chest. It definitely looks better.
“What does it stand for?” I ask, wondering too where it came from.
“We don’t know,” said Mrs. Kent, adjusting the patch until it sits squarely above and over Clark’s pecs. “It was on Clark’s baby blanket when we found him.”
“Found him?” I query in surprise, and wonder how a baby like Clark could get left anywhere. “So, you didn’t adopt him then?”
Mrs. Kent exchanges a look with Clark and he nods slightly, as if he is giving her permission to tell me something.
“Lois, we found Clark… in a field… and—in a spaceship,” she says in all seriousness. “We think… well, that he came from another planet.”
I look at Clark with fresh eyes, who is looking back at me nervously in the mirror. His shoulders slump slightly and he seems uncomfortable with the topic. “How do you feel about your costume clad hero now, Lois?” he says in a slightly defeated tone.
I come over to him, laying my hand on his massive, shiny blue chest. “Clark… I think you’re wonderful, and the world is about to find out just how wonderful you are, too,” I say confidently and he smiles warmly in return, relief filling his eyes.
“I hope you’re right,” Clark says, sounding more confident.
“I am right. You’ll see.”
Mrs. Kent moves me out of the way so she can start pinning the patch in place, and I stare at it a moment. “And you have no idea what it stands for?”
Both of them shake their head. “Well, I’m pretty sure people are going to wonder… Why not have it stand for your alias?”
“And what alias do you think would work, Lois?”
“Well, with all the things you can do---I mean, superspeed, the vision thingy, and flying—you’re more than just an ordinary man, Clark.,” I state, assessing the possibilities. “I think you are the suped up version of your everyday hero… how about--- Superman?”
