Chapter Text
When Freddy was ten, he had gotten up the courage to write to Lois Lane at the Daily Planet and ask her a few questions about superheroes. He figured that, since she was a reporter and also probably Superman’s girlfriend, she’d know that sort of thing.
Lois’ response had been thoughtful and encouraging, and she’d urged Freddy to write back with other questions if he had any.
So Freddy wrote again and again, with questions ranging from “does Aquaman eat seafood?” to “do the Flash’ sneakers burn out?” and everything in between.
After a while, Lois started delegating questions to her friend, Clark Kent. Clark was a reporter who knew a lot about superheroes, probably because he was friends with Lois Lane. (Freddy also had a suspicion that Clark Kent had a crush on Lois Lane, which was sad because there was no way a regular reporter could compete with Superman.)
Pretty soon, Freddy was writing solely to Mr. Kent and not at all to Ms. Lane. Clark didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he actually actively encouraged Freddy to write more. The reporter seemed to genuinely enjoy Freddy’s questions, which was a first for anyone outside his family.
Lately, Freddy’s questions had become less curious and more serious. When, before, he would’ve asked about how much money Batman had, or if Cyborg could hack into things without touching them, now his questions were more along the lines of ‘how do you control the trajectory of your flight?’ and ‘how do superheroes keep fighting if they’ve lost control of one of their limbs or something?’
Clark had unknowingly become the Shazamily’s superhero advisor, teaching Freddy (and, therefore, his siblings) how to fly, dropkick with one leg, and get back up when you’re knocked down.
Freddy was pondering this during chemistry class. He pulled out his folder, which had a big picture of Superman on the front of it. He thought of the pictures of Clark he’d seen and absentmindedly doodled a pair of glasses onto Superman's face.
He dropped his pencil.
That face, with those glasses, looked extremely familiar.
No. Freaking. Way.
Clark was reading another one of Freddy’s letters. They cheered him up quite a bit.
Freddy was young, happy, and basically the physical embodiment of everything Clark was trying to protect. Sometimes, when Clark was feeling particularly hopeless, he would read one of Freddy’s letters, and that would give him the strength to keep going.
He had actually met Freddy, recently. Captain Marvel had asked him to eat with one of his friends as a favor, and Clark was happy to oblige. Imagine his surprise when the boy introduced himself as Freddy Freeman. It was like meeting a celebrity, Clark later recalled to Lois, and he found himself wishing he could have told Freddy who he really was.
Freddy had proved to be every bit as cheerful and charmingly-weird as his letters were, and Superman had enjoyed that lunch far more than he thought he would.
He was tapping his pen to his chin right now, accidentally getting pen marks all over it, and studying the latest question.
Hi Mr. Kent!
So, hypothetically, what do superheroes do when their face is bruised, but they need to go out in public?
Like, if they hypothetically have a secret identity, they can’t really explain where bruises come from. Should one say he ‘fell down the stairs?’ Or, mayhaps, “I banged into the water fountain?” Or perhaps one could blame it on somebody they dislike, and then get that person in trouble?
(the last one is my favorite, but you probably wouldn’t like it, would you?)
After a while, wouldn’t it be suspicious for somebody to always have bruises? Should one use makeup to cover it up? If so, what type?
Please answer at your earliest convien conveen convenience!
Xoxo,
-Freddy Freeman
P.s. due to the fact that there have always been pregnant people, the average human body contains more than one skeleton :)
Clark tapped the pen on his chin some more. Lately, Freddy’s questions had all been like this. Confusing, concerning, and not really the sort of thing a fourteen-year-old should be asking about.
He hunched over the desk to respond.
Dear Freddy,
Good question! You are correct in the fact that I don’t think you should blame bruises on other people (unless they were the ones who hurt you?)
I believe most superheroes would, besides making excuses, either use magic, hoodies, or makeup to cover up bruises. (Gotham Blossoms has a good foundation for that.)
Speaking of which, are you doing okay? I’ve noticed that your questions have gotten more and more serious as time went on. Let me know if you need help with anything!
Your friend,
Clark.
P.s. thank you for the disturbing fact about skeletons. I shall never sleep peacefully again.
Also, I’ve told you to stop calling me Mr. Kent! Call me Clark!
Lois watched him working with a smile. “You really should stop spilling the beans about all this superhero stuff,” she said. “He’s going to eventually figure out your identity.”
“I’m being careful,” Clark promised, straightening his glasses. “Freddy won’t suspect a thing.”
“It totally makes sense,” Freddy ranted through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
“Yes, Freddy.” Victor said indulgently.
“They look the exact same!” Freddy cried, covering his mouth to not spray potatoes everywhere. “Literally, the exact same. Besides, Mr. Kent writes to me about superheroes! He knows his shit!”
“Not at the dinner table, please,” said Rosa.
“ Also, Clark has a crush on Lois Lane, and Lois Lane is dating Superman. Coincidence?” Freddy slammed his hand on the table. “I think the frick not!”
“Does anybody want more potatoes?” Mary asked, her spoon hovering over the last few mouthfuls.
“Boil em, mash em, stick em in a stew,” Freddy and Euguene said in unison.
Billy groaned. “Why did we ever watch that movie?”
“Did you know that ‘boil em, mash em, stick em in a stew’ is word-for-word taken from the books?” Freddy asked, switching topics with as much grace as a ballerina hippopotamus. “Jolkien Rolkien Rolkien Tolkien, esteemed author, actually wrote the words, “boil em, mash em, stick em in a stew.’ Can you believe that?”
“Is his name actually Jolkien Rolkien Rolkien Tolkien?” Darla asked.
“Absolutely,” Freddy said, straight-faced.
“No it’s not,” Rosa corrected. “Freddy, don’t lie to your sister.”
“Your right, your right,” Freddy sighed. “His real name is Jonald Ronald R. Tolkien.”
“What’s the R stand for?”
“Rolkientolkien.”
Billy groaned.
“Also, Clark and Superman have never been seen in the same place!” Freddy cried, finishing his food. “Which is a huge coincidence, considering how often Superman visits the Daily Bugle.”
He stood, putting his plate in the sink as he walked out. “Thanks for dinner, Rosa and Victor! I need to write to Mr. Kent!”
Freddy opened the letter he’d received that morning and gnawed on his lip. Clark had asked him why his questions were getting more serious.
“Well, the only way to avoid answering that question is to ask a bigger one,” Freddy told himself. He took out his pen and paper and crafted the following letter:
Dear Mr. Kent,
(Freddy refusing to call Clark by his real name was kind of an inside joke between the two of them.)
Are you Superman?
There, short and sweet.
-Freddy :)
He chewed on his pen’s tip. Would Clark mind him asking? If Clark was Superman, that means that Freddy would’ve already met him at lunch. Had Clark recognized him? If so, it’s not like he could have said anything.
Freddy decided to mail the letter. After a moment’s thought, he leaned over and wrote an endnote, like he always did.
P.s. there are more chickens than people in the world. That means that, between the two of us, we could get at least 2.01 chickens.
There. Perfect.