Once again, thanks for reading and reviewing. My excuse for the few and far-between chapter updates is below (believe it or else, as my dear Dad used to say)

Disclaimer: Superman and his fellow characters are the property of Warner Bros. Studios and DC Comics and created by Joe Shuster and Jerry Siegel.

The fact that Supes is way too busy lately to send me updates, much less visit is beside the point. I fear the Fortress Fax may be spitting out crystal communiques from Moi à ce moment.

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11 Worthy

"Ch… Chief, what are you…?" Clark splutters, while he knocks over the pen cup and clips Perry's travel mug as a distraction, then does a dive tackle to catch it before it stains his boss's shirt.

This is it. No amount of fumbles will win me this touchdown. I guess you were right dad; I wasn't sent here to play football.

Perry watches Clark's antics with a knowing smile and a twinkle in his eye. He leans back into his ancient leather chair, which creaks in seeming satisfaction. "Genius, Clark. An act worthy of an Oscar -- but I'm on to you."

Clark makes eye contact with Perry, and stops – in fact, he is so still, Perry finds himself staring at Clark's neck, looking for a pulse.

"Kent -- relax, you won't be tomorrow's front page."

Sea-blue eyes narrow and Kal dips his head for a second, slowly breathing out an unknowable, near physical, burden. Palpable, and with its own life, it is a tangible presence in the room with them.

Perry observes the transformation in his mild-mannered employee with frank amazement. Clark seems to expand in height and width, and his expression relaxes -- but at the same time, a weight seems to settle behind his eyes. He lets out another long slow breath, lowers his eyelids, and sits down low in the chair across from Perry's desk.

Now revealed as Kal-El, he is larger than Clark -- larger than life… but deflated, like an Olympic runner who's lost his most recent race.

Then, Clark looks up at Perry, alien orbs meeting rheumy eyes; eyes cataloguing features and characteristics -- in a whip sharp brain that wonders how anyone could miss this – something so obvious…

"Great Caesar's Ghost."

Clark cracks a resigned smile and removes his glasses. Pinching the bridge of his nose as if he senses the onset of a migraine, he twists around in his chair and squints at the blind-covered windows of Perry's office. After taking a moment to assure their privacy, he turns back to his boss and slumps deeper into the too-small chair, defeated. Examining his glasses as if they alone betrayed his secret and now need replacing, Clark sighs, "When did you --?"

Like a slippery frog jumping from a child's grasp, Perry's revelation tumbles out. "-- The Globe – when it fell… when you saved me -- never having seen Superman in person -- so to speak…"

With a smile as wide as a Kansas cornfield, Perry gestures in the air -- as if the fact that Superman hides behind a pair of horn rims should be obvious to anyone.

"…It was YOU – Good Heavens man – YOU."

The senior editor rubs his thumb and fingers in tiny circles -- as if tasting the idea, "It turned a key in my mind, and connected all the clues that I must have been jotting down in my mental notebook."

Barely making a sound, Clark mouths "mental notebook" and is drawn to Perry's charismatic storytelling.

"There are lots of places in the world – situations -- where a pencil, and a paper notebook are a liability." Perry taps his temple. "No one can confiscate a photographic memory."

Clark nods, appraising Perry with a newfound wariness and feels apprehension nibble at the nape of his neck. He affects a smile, keeping his cards close to his chest.

How much CAN I trust a trial-by-warfare reporter like this man? Do I really know Perry -- and what his moral limits are?

I could be the story of the century – of a lifetime.

Perry smiles back, innocent of Kal's worries, pleased with his investigative coup. He heaves himself up out of his chair, and comes around the desk to face his prize. Leaning on the edge, and clasping his large hands in his lap, Perry tilts his head and frowns,

"Speaking of which, why do you bother?"

Oh, God – here it comes.

"Wh-what?"

The older man invades Kal's space and grabs a fistful of second-hand tweed jacket.

"This, 'Clark' persona -- these… awful suits…"

Uh, oh -- Perry's getting that… look – the same one Pete got when he found out. I'm no longer one of his star reporters; I'm not even Clark. I'm a bug – a sentient insect, but a bug none the less.

I hate this

"Chief, uh… Perry, this is me, Clark, just a farm boy who wanted to grow up to be a journalist."

Perry looks incredulous and splutters, "Pshaw. I'm not stupid, Cla – Superman. You can't fool me…"

Leaning towards his captive subject, Perry grips Clark's arms and squeezes, marvelling at the intransigence of the iron hard flesh.

"Good gravy, man, you're a GOD – you can lift mountains -- why hang around a newsroom and spend hours doing this… this trivial labour?"

He thinks I'm humouring him?

This is so much worse than I thought… I wonder if anyone else--?

Clark nods and slowly puts his glasses back on. He sits as low as he can in the chair and looks up at Perry, adjusting the frames on his face as if he needs the prescription to better see Perry's incredulous expression.

"Chief, I am a reporter at the greatest Metropolitan newspaper in the world… and you are my boss. I look up to you – for guidance, and focus… and for your wisdom.

I'm not even thirty years old and I'm holding down two jobs – one of them just happens to be Superman."

Perry stifles a chuckle and shakes his head. He stands up and goes to turn away from Clark, when he feels a gentle hand on his arm stopping his movement. He looks up to meet Clark's gaze and sees a vulnerability he had assumed was an act.

Clark's voice is small. "I could use your help here."

A sea change shift flits across the senior editors features and he waits for the next words, expecting nothing.

"Perry, I am not a God – nowhere near – He made me -- same as you -- just on a different planet."

Perry pushes himself off the edge of the desk and goes over to his window to gaze out at the Metropolis skyline.

"That's a big sky out there – a big world… but, I guess… you know that…" After a moment, he turns, looks at Clark with narrowed eyes, and opens a drawer of his desk, pulling out a cigar. He settles down in his chair and opens the desk drawers, searching for the matches.

Not able to stand the tension, Clark x-rays the desk, "Top left hand drawer under the false bottom."

His boss freezes for a second and then opens the drawer in slow motion. His eyebrows climb when the innocent verification of his suspicions – a single pack of matches -- rests in his right palm, his left hand still holding the thin sliver of wood constituting the magic trick of the secret compartment.

Clark watches while Perry lights up and takes a long drag.

An uncomfortable silence settles over them along with the cigar smoke curling about their heads. Perry breaks it with a chuckle, "Huh -- so, um does Lois --?"

Clark jumps to his feet and whispers with intensity, as if Lois may have developed super hearing in the last five minutes, "No -- and please, chief, no one knows. My mother's safety depends on – Gosh, Perry, please don't fire me."

His boss coughs and sputters in surprise, half-choking on a flake of tobacco come loose from his cigar. "Fire you -- I should give you a raise! Fastest typist, huh… figures."

Clark, near panicked, raises his voice, "No, Perry, don't draw attention to me. This is my… normal me -- well, the clumsiness is more, just fun – sometimes not, but, I love my job -- you can't treat me any differently."

Perry heaves himself to a standing position facing Clark and grips both his biceps with his wide ink-stained hands but this time his grasp is friendly, rather than testing. Almost as tall as the younger man, he gives him a reassuring shake and holds him in place while he speaks.

"Heavens, boy, don't worry. We all love you here – Clark and --" he adds in a stage-whisper, "-- Superman."

With a solemn nod and a wink, Perry reaches both hands up to Clark's face and gives his jaw line a soft tap. A wide smile of wonder stretches his Godfather-like visage and he murmurs, "Great. Caesar's. Ghost. You are Superman; that skin of yours is like solid rock."

A loud crash out in the newsroom makes both men whirl around.

I was distracted – Perry distracted me.

Lois.

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