Chapter Text
Clark was concerned. Okay, maybe a little more than concerned, but disturbed felt a little bit harsh for a situation that he didn’t know the full extent of. You see Clark has been working for the Daily Planet for most of his career, and about two years ago Daniel Fenton started working in the office, being the one who writes the obituaries for the paper. Of course he doesn’t usually cross paths with him, and anytime he has, his desk has always been covered in junk. Pizza boxes, newspapers and tiny little trinkets that he seems to collect like a magpie on steroids, leaving everything buried beneath to be lost to the ether. However that wasn’t the case yesterday.
He had paperwork to deliver to someone’s office but all the printers on his floor had been malfunctioning throughout the week, and died a slow and painful death like a cockroach that refuses to give up. So the only option was the next floor up. The next floor which would have working printers he prayed.
As it turned out the printer, the only one that hadn’t gotten jammed, did in fact work. Apparently the person whose office was next to the printer was good with repairing and had fixed it before it fell into utter disrepair like the others. This was coincidentally the office that belonged to the person he needed to deliver paperwork to. The office, belonging to none other than Daniel, who had very animatedly told him about how his friends had been nagging him about cleaning up his desk and he’d finally gotten around to doing it after Clark had handed him the paperwork that had just been printed.
“My friend Wes has been begging me to clean up the entire office. I think his desk is two down from yours. ‘Course I’ve been busy with all the near world ending stuff happening in Metropolis. I thought I would avoid all the chaos by moving to Metropolis instead of Gotham but clearly I was mistaken.” He sighed. “More deaths mean more obituaries. I have no idea how I can do all of them justice.”
”Well you seem to be doing pretty well so far” Clark tentatively said.
”Guess so…” He looked off to the side in a wistful manner. It made him look much older than he was. As if he carried the burden of life and death on his shoulders. “Anyway, how’s your work going. It seems like you’re articles are getting more and more traction lately,”
”It’s not the easiest. It seems like everyone expects the next big story from me. Ma’s been trying to get me to take a break from all this but it never seems to stick.”
“Cheers to that!” He laughed. A sad kind of laugh that Clark understood from the years of heroism. The laugh you give after you’ve already accepted your role as the Hero.
“Enough of that. I’ve had enough sappy conversations for one life time.”
“So Daniel-”
“Danny. Only people who want to kill me call me Daniel.” He seemed to shudder at the notion.
“So…” The Kryptonian grasped at anything to propel the conversation forward, “How did the cleaning go?”
“About as well as you’d expect when you haven’t cleaned your desk since you started. I didn’t even know how hard cleaning soda stains was until I was scrubbing them from vinyl. Not very fun, I’ll tell you that.” As Daniel, or Danny as he apparently preferred, explained his woeful tale, Clark found his eyes drifting to the newly cleared desk. Lined up behind his monitor was a row of small knickknacks, now proudly presented instead of buried under mounds of paper. And placed to the right of his monitor was a small skull decorated with a ring placed atop it like a crown and wrapped in a fruit patterned ribbon. A skull of a child. Wait, what?! The papers that he was still holding slipped out of his hand. He had to double check. And there it still was.
Now Clark would like to say he is a rational man, one who doesn’t jump to conclusions or make hundreds of contingencies for unlikely scenarios. But this was testing his rationale. The skull on Danny’s desk was certainly real. The pores were too pronounced to be a cheap imitation and despite being cleaned there was still a small coppery scent that clung to it. Just by looking he could tell that it had belonged to someone who was at least twelve years old, maybe sixteen at a stretch.
So either it was the best fake in this or any universe or Mr. Fenton owns the skull of a child. So he did what anyone would do. He slowly walked away from the potential killer and went straight to his colleagues, get a second opinion and all. What he was told was not painting a pretty picture.
“Yeah he’s like bloody possessive about it. I once picked the thing up, and I swear he was about to hiss at me.”
“Apparently that thing’s a he. Made some bad joke about it being his previous employer and was politely corrected that it was quote ‘Impolite to speak ill of the dead, and that he was very willing to part with his skull’ unquote.”
“He decorates it for every holiday and sometimes just puts random things on it. I saw he wrapped it in ribbon the previous week. He doesn’t put stickers on it though, he says it could damage it. I can’t imagine why he cares so much for a prop skull.”
“I’ve seen him leave bits of toy food next to it. I’m pretty sure it’s like a pet rock or something to him. Saw him talking to it once.”
Oh. Oh no.
So. Mr. Fenton was a potential killer who murdered a child and now was way too attached to its corpse. Great! Fine! I’ve seen it all now! Funny joke but I’d like it to be over now.
Sweet mother Mary what am I meant to do.
Clark knew that he couldn’t explain the situation to anyone without risking his identity. After all, why would mild mannered Clark Kent know what a real human skull looks like. He was stuck in a bitter stalemate that he knew no way of getting out of.