A/N: Sorry for the long wait, and thanks for being patient. I hope y'all enjoy this part; my parents were kind enough to be my betas/guinea pigs.
Part One is HERE. Enjoy! 
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Part Two“You have a phone call.”
Michel froze in the doorway to his office, his heart hammering as it always did whenever he saw Susanne. The redhead stood up from her perch on the edge of his desk and came so close that he could smell her perfume. “Um, who is it?” he stammered, struggling to remain coherent.
Susanne snorted. “I don't know,” she said, “I'm not your secretary! He's on hold, so find out for yourself.” She brushed past him on her way out the door. “My analyses are on your desk. You really should be more organized; I don't know how you find anything in here!”
When she was gone, he took a few deep breaths to steady himself again, then crossed to pick up the phone. “Hello?”
“Dr. Renaud?” the voice on the phone asked.
Michel lifted a few stray papers off of his chair and sank into it. “Yes? Who is this?”
“This is Clark Kent of the Daily Planet,” he answered. “My partner told me that you're trying to get in contact with Superman.”
Michel's heart started hammering again, this time for reasons that had nothing to do with Susanne. “Er...yes,” he replied.
“May I ask why?”
An awkward silence stretched out as Michel contemplated his answer. When his parents had given him their blessing to try to contact the mysterious superhero—whom his mother kept calling “the other Michel”—they hadn't really discussed what he should say to anyone else, let alone to a reporter from a major newspaper.
“Dr. Renaud?” Mr. Kent's voice interrupted his thoughts. “Are you still there?”
“Er, yes, I'm here,” Michel answered. He paused again, briefly this time. “I'm sorry, Mr. Kent,” he said at last. “I can't tell you what it is I want to talk to him about.”
“I see,” came the reply.
Michel suppressed a sigh as he felt his opportunity evaporating. Reaching out to the Daily Planet had been a long shot, anyway...
“If I can contact him,” Mr. Kent suddenly said, “where and when would you like him to meet you?”
“Er, what? Oh!” Michel's heart began to pound. “Ah, one moment, please...” He quickly glanced at the piles on his desk and thought he saw the corner of his day-planner peeking out from under a stack of erosion reports. Moving them aside, however, only turned up an old calendar. Crap.
“Ah, Mr. Kent?” he asked hesitantly into the phone.
“Yes?”
“Just give me one minute, please,” Michel begged.
“Of course,” the other man agreed.
Michel carefully placed him on hold and turned his attention to his desk. As quickly as he could without resorting to...inhuman means, he moved papers from one end of the desk to the other, finally picking up whole stacks at a time and flinging them to the floor. Still no day-planner.
He surveyed the remaining mountain on his desk, as well as the new sea that now surrounded it, and took a deep breath in through his nose. Perhaps he should just...peek? Michel glanced nervously at the door, his mouth going suddenly going dry. He picked up the phone again.
“Just one more moment, please, Mr. Kent,” Michel said, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice.
“All right,” Mr. Kent acquiesced, although Michel thought he detected a hint of growing confusion in the man's tone. He put him back on hold, glancing one more time at the door, then turned once again to the seemingly-expanding mass of papers.
With trembling fingers, he reached up to pull his glasses slightly down his nose. It was only x-raying, he told himself. X-rays were invisible; he would be fine. He turned his gaze onto one of the larger piles, focused, then cursed and shoved his glasses back into place when smoke began to rise.
“Dr. Renaud?” came Mr. Kent's voice from the phone, apparently on speaker instead of hold.
“One moment, please!” he called back, taking off his jacket to smother the flames. He heard the clicking of high-heels out in the hallway and threw himself onto the dying smolders just as Susanne opened the door.
For a few endless seconds, she simply stared at him in silence. “What are you doing on the floor?” she finally asked.
“Er...” Michel hesitated, then tried to stretch out casually without letting his spread jacket lift off of the papers. “It's more comfortable for my back,” he told her. At her raised eyebrow, he added, “It helps me think.”
Susanne shook her head. “Here's one more page for those analyses,” she said, handing him a sheet of paper. “I'm going to the cafe with Philippe.” On her way out, she paused. “Do you smell smoke?”
“No,” he lied.
After she left, he stood and surveyed the ruins of his office. His day-planner lay jutting out from beneath a couple of slightly-charred folders. He snatched it up, leafing through it even as he picked up the phone again. “Mr. Kent?” he said at last, “Thank you so much for waiting. Would Tuesday evening be all right?”
**********
A hard drizzle was falling when Clark finally arrived in France. The darkened streets on either side of the canal were deserted, save for a lone figure who stood under the bridge, looking at his watch. Clark landed silently, several feet away from Dr. Renaud, and was surprised when the man immediately turned to look in his direction. The uncanny resemblance that Clark had noticed in the photograph was even stronger in person, and as he strode toward his double, he felt an intense wave of fear and curiosity, mixed with a little bit of hopefulness. Strangely, though, Clark had the unsettling sense that these feelings weren't his own.
He shook the thought out of his head and cleared his throat. “Dr. Renaud?” he asked, once he had reached the dry shelter of the bridge.
Dr. Renaud stepped forward and offered his hand. “Michel, please,” he said, amiably. “So,” he continued after the handshake, “you must be Superman.”
The corner of Clark's mouth quirked. “What gave it away?”
The darkness didn't quite conceal Michel's blush. “Er, thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” he stammered.
“No problem,” Clark responded automatically. After a pause, he asked, “So, what did you want to see me about?”
Michel was silent, though Clark could hear his heart-rate accelerating. “Well,” he began, “I wanted—I wanted to ask you—about—” He stared at Clark in silence for a moment, breathing heavily, then finally reached up and removed the wire-frame glasses he wore. “I wanted to ask you about this,” he said, and floated half a foot in the air.
Clark stared, his mouth hanging open. Michel dropped down to earth again, looking almost sheepish, and slipped his glasses back on. “How—?” Clark began.
Michel shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. His words came slowly, as though he wasn't used to talking about this subject. “I've had certain—abilities—for much of my life; they started appearing when I was about twelve years old. My parents never really had any explanations to offer me.”
“You're adopted, right?” Clark asked before he could think. Immediately, he blushed. “I—saw a photo of your family,” he explained.
Michel was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I'm adopted. My parents found me when I was just a baby.”
The words sent lightning racing along Clark's spine. “Can I see it?”
Michel stared at him, blankly. “See what?” he asked, and it belatedly occurred to Clark that the word “rocket” had not actually entered the conversation.
Clark hesitated. “Your ship,” he clarified at last. “You do have one, right? I mean, you've got to; it's just too much of a co-incidence—” He stopped, still unsure how much about his own life he should give away. This man was, after all, a stranger, no matter how much common ground the two of them seemed to have. As much as he would love to have someone to share with, he needed to consider his parents.
A strange look flashed across Michel's face during Clark's reverie. “It's all right,” he said quietly, as though he understood. And maybe, on some level, he did understand; for some reason, Clark could imagine his companion's mother shouting at her son to be careful with his secret, giving him the same warnings and horror-stories that Clark often received from his father. “I don't know exactly what it was my parents found me in,” Michel continued. “Whatever it was, my father destroyed it.”
“Destroyed it?” Clark echoed, his eyebrows climbing into his hair.
Michel nodded. “He said that it was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, but there are times when a man cannot afford to be sentimental; as long as there was any trace of my origins, I would never be truly safe.” He looked sad, maybe a little wistful.
Clark thought about the emotional roller-coaster he'd gone through, finding his own ship in a Bureau 39 warehouse only to lose it again. “Maybe he had a point,” he offered at last. “My own father couldn't bring himself to destroy mine. It ended up being found by rogue government agents.”
Michel shuddered. “Did they find *you*?” he asked, taking a step back. “Is that why you fly around in that outfit, enforcing laws and helping the American space program?”
A laugh escaped him. “No,” Clark said, still chuckling. “This is—voluntary.” He sobered. “I don't know how much they know about me,” he admitted, feeling his blood run cold at the thought. “There was a file, but I didn't get to see what was in it.”
Michel put a hand on Clark's shoulder, and for a while, the two men just stood together in silence. Finally, Clark turned to face his new friend, and with an excitement he hadn't felt since he'd first gotten his powers, he asked, “Do you want to go flying?”
Michel's face lit up for a dazzling moment before quickly clouding over. He stared out beyond the shelter of the bridge, frowning, and Clark wasn't sure if he was looking at the rain or the buildings. Then, in a voice so soft that Clark almost needed his super-hearing, he said, “More than anything.”
TBC...
