A/N: Thank you for the reviews! I think I managed to reply to them all (after an eternity, I know) and it means a lot that you've stuck with the story.

Chapter Two

"Kent Farm."

"Hi, Mom, it's me."

His mother's voice through the phone line was joyfully relieved even though it was tinny and faint. "Clark! Oh, thank goodness you're safe."

Clark smiled. "Mom, what was going to happen to me?"

"You're in a warzone, honey. I don't like thinking of you in so much danger."

"But I'm never in danger," he pointed out. "And besides, this is where I need to be. It's where I can do the most good."

"Oh, I know, I know. But allow me to worry, I'm your mother."

"Well try not to worry too much, Mom. War's over, illegal diamond trade halted, no more lives will be lost in this part of the world."

"Well done," Martha said, lowering her voice, even though at her end there was no one to hear, "I saw on the news, of course, but how did you find them?"

"I have a source in the UN task force. If you saw the news then you'd know that."

"That simple, huh?" Ma Kent asked.

"Well, that's what's going in the article, anyway."

"And no doubt there was just some lazy CIA operative who'd left the list of suspects lying around?"

"Oh, come on, Mom—you know a good journalist never reveals their sources," he grinned.

Martha laughed. "Of course. I look forward to hearing the true story when you get home."

The payphone beeped, letting him know he had a few more seconds before his credit ran out. "Mom, I gotta go. I'll email you with my flight details when I get a chance. See you on Wednesday."

"I look forward to it, honey. Take care of yourself."

"You too. Bye."

He had actually tracked the criminals through the faint traces of carbon from the mines that still clung to their clothing, clean though they were. Then there was the drug trail, the ammunition that he'd managed to track the buyer of … Of course, none of that would have been possible without the unwitting help of the UN special forces HQ personnel. Specifically, the task force's leader. It had been rather a personal coup; Clark Kent had done the research, and Superman had taken the bad guys down.

As for his … other mission, there had been nothing new. There never was, he thought, mouth turning down at the corners. Nearly twenty five years, and still no sign of her.

Clark pushed that thought aside, and checked the time. He'd arranged to meet his photographer for dinner in twenty minutes. The hotel restaurant wasn't brilliant, but it was the safest place for foreign journalists to go. Just last week a correspondent from the Bugle had been kidnapped and was being held to ransom. Something he needed to fix before he returned to America. No kidnapper would be a problem for Clark if they came for him, of course, but he'd still prefer not to be entangled. Especially not when he flew back to the U.S. in less than a week.

He still had time to have a shower before dinner, so he went back up to his room, undressed and got into the stream of water. It had been a long, hot and dusty week on the road, tracking his quarry through rocky mountains and deserts, and the hot water now was a wonderful luxury. It wasn't until you lived out of a suitcase for three solid years that you really appreciated how wonderful a shower really was. Clark spent a good fifteen of his twenty minutes under the water, and felt more relaxed for it. A good night's sleep and he'd be refreshed and ready to write up his story.

It was as he was putting on his dinner shirt—which was to say, a vaguely clean one—that the knock on the door sounded. It was an unfamiliar, brisk, formal knock. With a slight sense of trepidation, Clark looked through the door. There were two Marines standing outside, both of them unarmed but looking quite determined. Uh-oh. He crossed to the window, peering down at the street below. A military armoured car waiting too—he had no doubt it was waiting for him.

The knock sounded again, harder this time. It was followed by, "Mr Kent? Could you open the door please, sir?"

Damn. He did so, making sure his hair was as messy as possible and his glasses weren't askew. "Hello. Can I help you gentlemen?"

"Yes, sir, you can come with us."

"Am I under arrest?"

"No, sir, General Lane would like to see you. We're here to escort you to safely to him at Camp Citadel."

"And if I don't want to see the good general?" Clark asked with a nervous smile.

"Then General Lane will come to you."

"I see. Well then, lead the way."

They walked down the hotel's hallways and stairs with one Marine in front of him, one behind. It did nothing to back up the claims that he was not under arrest. He got curious looks from some of his colleagues, although some also looked indignant at what they perceived as intimidation of the press. Clark didn't feel threatened, exactly, but neither was he lacking a sense of tension about it. Whatever General Lane wanted to see him for, it probably would not be to congratulate him on tracking down the diamond smuggling guerrillas to their hiding place when Lane's military task force had failed. Clark was expecting to have his composure severely tested tonight.

The journey to Camp Citadel was short, and spent in oppressive silence. They drove through the army accommodation, Clark counting at least seventeen different nationalities present, all united under the UN banner. The semi-rigid structure they stopped outside had two flagpoles—one with the United Nations flag, and the other the American flag. The sight of the Stars and Stripes heartened Clark. He had the right to write whatever he wanted, yes, but he also had a right not to write whatever he wanted. He didn't have to say anything that might compromise his 'source'. Maybe he could get out of this without it being messy after all.

His escort got out and held the door open for him, then knocked on the door of the command tent. "Enter."

They both went inside. "Mr Kent to see you, sir."

General Lane closed the file he had been looking at. Possibly Clark had not helped his case by peering at the red-stamped TOP SECRET acorss the top. "Thank you, Lieutenant," Lane said.

The lieutenant saluted, and then left them alone.

"Have a seat, Mr Kent."

He did so, doing his best to give the impression of composed war correspondent, and not guilty wrong-doer. For a moment he had the general surveyed each other. Clark had met the man a few times before, been struck by the air of authority which surrounded him. He supposed it was helpful in a general, but it was entirely unconscious, and Clark admired that. General Lane was well-aware of his responsibilities, but didn't resent them, wasn't weighed down by them. That, combined with the open hearted kindness of his father, had been one of the biggest influences of Superman. Not that either of them knew that: Sam Lane had no idea he'd influenced him, and Jonathan Kent's modesty wouldn't allow him to think it.

After a moment of General Lane staring at him waiting for him to crack, the older man got up and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Want one?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"Long day, I imagine."

"Long week," Clark agreed.

Lane's bullet-grey eyes flicked to his sharply, looking for a reaction aside from his mild tone. The week he'd been referring to had been following a lead out into the African desert and to that diamond mine, somehow sneaking out again—after taking several photos and gathering several eye-witness accounts—before being pursued back to the safe zone. He'd had to take the conventional route, after making sure that most of the guerrillas' capacity to shoot or continue exploiting innocent people had been neutralised. Superman had paid them a visit a few days before. Clark Kent just happened to be the lucky son of a bitch who'd followed him.

Of course, how Clark Kent had known to follow Superman needed some explanations. Which was why, presumably, General Lane wanted this little tête-á-tête.

"Long week," he nodded. "Long week. Well, I can easily understand that. You were lucky to get out alive. I know Marines who would have had trouble. "

Clark sipped at his coffee. "Well, as you say, General, I got lucky."

"Very, I'd say. Almost unbelievably so."

"May I have a little more milk?"

The general pushed the milk jug towards him; Clark poured some into his cup, missing clumsily and spilling the liquid over his fingers and onto his shirt. "Oh, shoot," he muttered. Spotting a pile of paper napkins on the side, he leaned toward them. The hot coffee slopped over the rim of the cup, apparently burning his fingers. "Ow! Damn it …"

General Lane watched him. "You seem a little flustered, Kent."

"Oh, I'm not flustered," Clark answered cheerily, "just a total klutz I'm afraid!" He got up to put the dampened napkin in the trash can, tripping a little on the way.

"So I see," Lane muttered.

Oh good, so he was back to not being a likely candidate for Superman. But still not out of the woods yet. Lane leaned back in his seat, having drunk all his coffee without Clark noticing. "Thing is, Mr Kent, we knew where Bekwame was. And we knew he was the source of the illegal diamonds."

"Really? Then I'm surprised you needed Superman to sort him out."

"We didn't need Superman," Lane snapped. "There was a mission planned and prepared to take Bekwame down!"

"But surely you wouldn't argue that by acting as he did, Superman saved lives that would otherwise have been in jeopardy. There were a large number of children being used to work in the mines or being forced to fight."

"I'm not arguing anything. I didn't ask you here to discuss Superman or his lack of jurisdiction-"

How much jurisdiction do I need? Clark thought indignantly, though he was careful not to let it show on his face.

"-I wanted to talk to you about where you got your information from. No one gets that lucky. Someone told you where to go."

There was silence in the room.

Finally, Lane spoke again. "I'm not interested in your thought processes regarding the huge, stupid and unnecessary risk you took with your life, Kent. What I am interested in is who told you."

Clark gave an easy, if apologetic, smile. "General, you know I can't reveal my-"

"Because there were only a handful of people who knew where those mines were located. The strike team hadn't even been briefed yet. And if I recall, you were one of the reporters who came here, to Camp Citadel, to interview me about the handover of power to the civilian authorities. About ten days ago."

"That's true," Clark said guardedly, aware that the veiled allegations about Superman could well be coming back, "but I'm sure you're aware too that I didn't wander off to anywhere I wasn't supposed to be."

Lane snorted, then said flatly, "Reporters always wander off to places they're not supposed to be. My daughter is one, Kent, I should know."

"I'm not claiming that I wouldn't have done, given the chance. But there were no chances; the schedule was very rigid and there was barely time to go to the bathroom, let alone go rifling through top secret documents."

"But there was more than enough time for you to meet your source, who gave you the information," Lane barked.

"I don't have any-"

"Don't give me that bullshit!" Lane snapped. He then took several deep breaths, visibly reining in his temper. "Look, Kent, it's quite simple. There is one of my men who cannot be trusted. I don't know what you used to get the information—bribery, blackmail-"

"Both are completely beneath me," Clark said coldly.

"Then maybe he thought it was doing the right thing; I don't care. The point is, your source could well be induced to sharing information that will endanger lives. And whether you personally would have scruples against using it is irrelevant," he added, seeing Clark about to interrupt, "there are people out there who would. To prevent that happening, I need to know who your source is. It's important."

A short pause followed. The simple truth was that no such source existed. When he had 'been in the bathroom', there had been more than enough time for rifling through top secret documents, for him anyway. He should have played it safe. Should have left it to some other reporter to break the story. But his hunger for a story had temporarily blinded him; he'd followed his own tracks back out to where Bekwame had been and that was that. Of course to the UN, it would look like he'd had a source.

"I'm sorry, General," Clark said finally, hoping his sincerity was coming across, "but I just can't. It's impossible."

"This could be a matter of national security one day."

Clark stood, putting his coffee cup on the desk. "I can promise you one thing, sir. He's a true patriot. You have nothing to worry about on that score."

"Well. I guess we'll see, won't you. Lieutenant!"

The door opened, and the lieutenant came back in. "Sir?"

"Take Mr Kent back to his hotel."

"Yes, sir."

"I can't deny I'm disappointed, Kent," Lane said, "but I can understand a man who sticks to his guns."

Clark offered his hand, and was grateful when the general took it. "Thank you, sir."

"I'm still glad you're leaving the country soon though. Won't be my problem this time next week. Safe flight."

"Thank you, sir."

He still felt a little guilty though, when checking through the walls a moment later, just before they set off. General Lane was now on the bourbon. As the car pulled away, Clark heard him mutter, "Goddamn reporters."

Fifteen hours was a very slow flight, Clark had decided, one hour and twenty three minutes into it. He knew, logically, that the plane still flew at over five hundred miles an hour, but he could decide to be in a country one moment and then be there the next. But still, too many questions would be invited if Clark Kent suddenly appeared in his country of origin without any record of his at any port of entry. He had to do this the hard way. The human way. He had to sit in a tiny, cramped seat surrounded by other people, all of whom were desperately loud: eating, snoring, singing under their breaths, having sex like the couple in the bathroom right now—it was all so noisy. He'd stuck the complementary headphones in and turned the volume up as loud as it would go, but it still didn't particularly work. He thanked God the flight was nearly over. Out of the tiny window he could see the twinkling lights of the east coast of America, instead of the black Atlantic. Although the noise level redoubled (with the addition of all the people down there), Clark felt more relaxed than he had in the past fourteen hours.

Home, he thought, finally.

The captain's voice came over the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot speaking. Will you all kindly fasten your seatbelts, as we'll be landing at Metropolis International Airport in about twenty minutes. Local time is 22:07, and it's approximately 52 degrees outside. We hope you've had a pleasant flight with Eagle Airlines, and we look forward to seeing you again soon."

The last part was said mechanically, but rote, but Clark didn't mind. He was in too good a mood for it to be spoiled by an unenthusiastic pilot. Twenty minutes later, they'd touched down on terra firma, and then it was just a matter of the forty minutes or so getting through passport control, picking up his bags and heading into arrivals.

"Clark! Over here, son!"

Both parents were standing, waving furiously, waiting for him. It was a struggle, when he reached them, not to pick them both up in a massive hug, but he restrained himself to one normal hug each. "Man, I've missed you both."

"Feeling's mutual, honey, it's been far too long," Martha said, kissing his cheek.

"How's it feel to be back stateside?" Jonathan asked.

"Weird," Clark replied. "Good, but … weird. Been so long on the road that having a permanent home is going to feel odd."

"That's natural," his mother assured. "But give it time. I made some sweet potato pie to help though.'

Clark laughed. "I'm sure that'll do it."

"On that note, the truck's this way," Jonathan said.

They still took another two hours to get back from the airport to Smallville, but compared to the flight, the time flew b, and when they arrived at Kent Farm, Clark found the weirdness had already faded. It was good to be home.

A/N: The next chapter so not be nearly so far away, and it will contain Lois' debut. Review please!