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12/12/06 07:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Live No Life
Author:Roxymissrose
Pairing:Lex/Clark
WIP:: 2/4
Rating:PG
Spoilers: none
Word Count:6561
Summary: Lex and Clark have such influence on each other, whether they know it or not.
Notes: This is the answer to the "A Clexian Tale" challenge. I finally answered it, almost six months later....
So dear I love him that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life.
John Milton
I
Lex was upset.
This was not supposed to be happening. Superman was not supposed to be moaning and bleeding and scaring the life out of his researchers, he wasn’t supposed to be breathing….
Fuck. He was alive—how the *fuck* was that possible? He realized he was somehow outside of the lab. When had he left the room? He was arched against the wall, head leaning back against the cool plaster, gulping air.
He had him. He *had* Superman. Weak, powerless, broken--but alive—at his mercy.
He ignored the small roll of sick excitement in his gut. He walked back into the lab.
“What now? What has he said?”
Doctor Frame was pastier than usual, sweating unattractively. “Nothing—he seems to be in a coma—my god, we cut Superman open! We—we--”
“Shut up,” Lex snapped. “Pull yourself together.” He stalked over to the man on the steel table, still marble white, still looking like a nightmare version of Snow White. His face was lax, though occasionally he’d moan; a thin whispery sound of pain…Lex put a hesitant hand on the wide, pale chest.
Superman felt warm, normal. Which meant he was under temperature. The feel of his skin was waxy, and it gave a little under the steady pressure of his fingers. When he jabbed, it was suddenly like jamming his fingers against a brick wall. Interesting. There was so much they could learn and… no one knew Superman was alive except the few in this lab. He looked around at the nervous group…they could be quickly disposed of, if need be. On each one of them there was a switch that could be flipped—family, possessions--easy enough to guarantee silence. The whole while, without noticing, he was stroking the broad chest under his hand, slow soothing sweeps of his hand skirting the already shallow line bisecting his flesh. He was not pleased when he realized that.
“Everyone—get out.”
*****
Every pair of eyes in the room shoot towards him, and then to the door. He takes a step forward and like a room full of Catholic school girls, they break. It amuses him momentarily, the mad dash to the door.
And now, he’s left alone, with It.
The not so corpse-like corpse.
Now, Lex thinks, he’s got to figure out what to do with It. Dissect it, ignore it, shove the kryptonite back in it and bury it…shit. Lex pretty much feels like a cat balanced on the edge of a fence: one side there’s a dog waiting for him on the other, a lake…fuck fuck fuck.
He strolls around the table; his footsteps echo in the tiled room, the only sound save the gentle wheeze of machinery and…Clark’s occasional whispered gasp for breath.
God. Clark is…is huge. He’s tall. Taller than when they knew each other. Or maybe it’s because he’s lying down…his feet are giant, and that makes him smile. He remembers a distant spring day, sitting on the farmhouse porch with Clark, watching him re-lace brand new sneakers, and wondering how his parents afforded to keep their giant son in new shoes, clothes. Wishing he could help. Wishing he could touch him. Lex growls, unconsciously pushes the thoughts away with an actual motion of his hands. It brings his hand in contact with Superman again. His hair is so black against the marble white of him; his nipples are red as his lips, they’re wide and flat. Perfect. The hair runs down over the swell of muscles, into his navel. Lex is barely aware his finger is following the trail until he bumps up against the base of his thick uncut penis. Lex snatches his hand away like it’s on fire, he even shoves it under his armpit as he stumbles back. He hisses through grit teeth as the body’s eyes flicker under closed lids, the mouth opens a little and a pained moan seeps out, and Lex’s stomach lurches and curdles when he thinks he hears a faint whispery, “help me.” Or maybe it’s “help, Mom.”
Life sucks *and* bites. He snarls—stomps out of the lab, but carefully locks the door behind him.
Outside the lab, back in his granite and leather lined penthouse cocoon, he smashes his fist into the wall, over and over, until blood flies and his knuckles shred. He stops when the pain is blinding. He calls his minions—“Bring that thing up to the penthouse, have Dr. Frame install it in the guest room. Treat it like…an invalid, you understand?” he cuts off the frantic noises of acquiescence.
*****
II
/// Lex himself cleans the black tarry remains of blood from his skin, washes his hair, and does it all carefully, gently. He remembers how to do this. He remembers doing it for his mother, towards the end, when she could still tolerate being touched. Clark’s eyelids quiver as he washes his face. The damp washcloth wipes over his chin, behind the ear and the hole is nearly closed. The black and green gone from the skin, the hole is pink, with a bit of clean dark red at the center. Lex narrows his eyes. He’s healing…the holes in his chest are closed, and where the team sewed him back up, the sutures are pulling against pink flesh. Lex lays the cloth down on Clark’s pajama clad legs. He looks at his own knuckles—almost healed.
“God, let me get out of here.” He leaves the guestroom, alerts the night nurse and wanders around the penthouse.
“Well, here I am, and I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what I’m doing…I have no one to explain it to me. Martha was right—I am alone. And an idiot.” ///
Liberal doses of Lagavulin help. A joint discovered in the wet bar helped to make him feel…heavy. Lethargic if not relaxed. He gulps down the golden liquor, cross-legged on a lounge chair, staring up into the sky. Yeah. Idiot.
Ever since the alien took to the skies, with his white teeth and pink cheeks and bright eyes shining, shedding goodwill and love for everyone—except him—he’s hated him. Wanted to destroy him, make him know not everyone bought that altruistic shit. He knew. He’d always sensed the cold menace behind the…Kyrptonian…artifacts that had littered Smallville like takeout cups. These were a people who were dangerous—cold, heartless, ruthless—willing to send children out as vanguards of an invasion force…he breathed in sweet harsh smoke, and held his breath as he counted stars. Somehow…maybe Clark escaped his destiny. Maybe he really did think he was here to affect good, maybe he really was the only one of his species left…Lex released his breath and sucked in cold crisp air. Hell, there was always the possibility Clark actively tried to escape his father’s influence.
Lex wrinkled his forehead. Was pretty sure he’d meant to say ‘his programming’…he stood and sauntered into his study, flipped on the camera feed and watched Clark breathe.
He sat at his desk all night, watching…sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning. At the break of dawn, he called that woman.
“Hello…are you up? Forgive me if I disturbed your sleep...”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“How would—what makes you say that?” Lex leaned back, thrust his legs out straight. One eye on the brightening horizon, the other on the monitor. The still shape slept on.
“Was there something you had to tell me? Did you find information about my—about Clark?”
“Nothing yet,” he lied smoothly, and watched Clark’s closed eyes shiver. Was…did his finger move? He leaned forward, stared at the screen. “There’s nothing to be found yet. I will find him. I promise you. I’ll bring him home to you.”
“I know you will, Lex. Lex…would you be willing to come out to the farm?”
A thrill of horror ran through him. *No, God no* “To the…farm? You want me to visit?” He chuckled lightly, and forced himself to relax again. Now was a great time for his buzz to desert him, thanks so fucking much.
“Neither of us really has anyone to talk to about him. I. Well, I’d like to talk to someone who knows him as well as I do. Can you understand that?”
“But. I tried to kill him,” he explained patiently. “I hate him. I’m only helping you out of a—a nod to the past. Because you tried to tolerate me.”
“You’re an idiot. And you’re invited to dinner. Come hungry.”
She hung up and Lex contemplated shredding the painting hanging over the fireplace—he hated it anyway. What the fuck just happened? Did he really agree to have dinner with a woman who had every reason to poison him? More reason than his father’d ever had…shit. What could they possibly have to talk about? ‘Lex. You may have tried your level best to destroy my son and discredit everything he stood for but—hey, have some green beans.’ Shit shit. ‘Lex, I know you’re lying to me, I know you have my boy, I know you’re going to slice him up like a lab rat…’
Lex fell asleep finally, hunched over his desk, face pressed against the glass top. He was drooling a little, and an empty glass sat between his feet. The fingertips of one hand were pressed against the unchanging image of Clark on the screen; the other hand was locked around the razor sharp letter opener. He was frowning in his sleep.
*******
III
“Lex, come in,” Martha said, and he had a flash of Christopher Lee gnashing his teeth at Peter Cushing….she walked him into the living room and they went right through to the kitchen, because small town people brought friends into their kitchen. For a horrible moment, he felt a burn in his throat and in his eyes. He swallowed and grimaced, blinked rapidly until he was Lex God damn Luthor again. He was shocked at how little things had changed. He glanced over at the coat rack at the back door, and it only held a sweater—hers. No creased ball cap, no dingy brown barn coat. Strange to think that Jonathan wasn’t going to walk in the door and sneer, and frown at him. Try to stuff him with platitudes and disdain…
“I made chicken stew. You like that, am I right? I thought I remembered that you did…” her voice trailed off as she concentrated on the pot of good smells. He complemented her abilities and she smiled.
“I made a pie too. You and Clark used to finish off a pie by yourselves. Thought I suspect it was more Clark than you.” Lex nodded and felt distinctly uncomfortable. Why share memories of some fairytale past? Why bring up days that no longer had meaning?
“Lex, would you mind bringing the milk out—unless you’d prefer…well, I’m sure you’d prefer something else to drink. I’m sorry. I have no idea where my head is these days.” He assured her milk would be fine, just fine, and he took the plastic container out of the refrigerator. The logo on the jug was unfamiliar. She caught his eye as he tilted it—“We –I lease the land out. We don’t own the herds or farm anymore.” She smiled sadly. “It hasn’t been Kent Farms for a long time now. Clark and I decided it was too much for me to maintain, and Clark couldn’t divide his time anymore.”
She covered a small sigh and Lex felt a surge of fury burning up his spine. Was that what this was about-- was she after money? Was that the reason for this—this pathetic display? He expressed his opinion that if Clark had wanted to, he could have helped her keep the farm.
“Oh. Oh no, you misunderstand.” She turned off the heat under the stew, and ladled some into a tureen that had to have been hers…a family heirloom, perhaps. She put it on the table, and placed a basket of fresh bread next to it. “Neither Clark nor I regretted the decision. Jonathan loved the land, the farm—I loved Jonathan. Very much. So did Clark. But neither of us…” she hesitated before laughing lightly. “Neither of us had a Kent’s love of the land. We keep the farmhouse, but let the land out to others.” she smiled. “It’s working out well.”
Lex nodded, and commented how nice that it wasn’t financial help she sought with this visit. He opened the big, bright blue napkin next to his plate and put it on his lap. Smiled.
She froze for a second, and said, “Your mother would be disappointed with you, I think.” She shook the bright blue napkin open and smoothed it over her lap without further comment. Lex grit his teeth and said nothing. His spoon dipped towards the stew, he put it down. “Sorry. That was rude.”
“Eat you stew before it gets cold,” she said but smiled a little.
After dinner, Lex asked if he could go up to the loft. Martha hesitated a moment before saying yes. “It’s terribly dusty and cobwebby,” I doubt Clark’s been,” her breath caught for a moment, “had been up there in years.”
******
The stairs creak with his weight, but the banister is strong. Dust motes dance in the sunlight leaking in all over the barn. Tarps cover machinery, the air is stale. The smell of machine oil, hay and animals are non-existent. It’s quiet, it’s clean. It’s odd. Disconcerting. Memories can be cruel, and comparing reality to time-gilded moments…he shakes his head. It can be painful.
He wanders around the loft and listens to echoes from the past--conversation, laughter. Occasional touches, the brush of a hand against his. Simple friendship…his ache at wishing for more, and eventually, hating himself for wanting. He sighs deeply and brushes at long dusty strands of webs draping the desk, the couch. There’s an old textbook on the desk, and a little metal miniature of a tractor, beginning to rust. He moves it and the disintegrating rubber tires leave a black streak across the pine planks of the desk. Fuck all, he thinks, this is damn depressing. He takes his phone out, and calls up the office camera. Clark…Clark is still. He gets an update. No change, no movement, but he’s still breathing. Lex sits on the old couch, disregarding the dirt, and the musty, slightly mildewed smell. On the trunk in front of the couch sits a cardboard box, covered in an antique map print. Of course, he opens it, and inside there are pictures. Naturally, he picks them up. Pictures of—what, he thinks: girlfriends, cars, cows?
There are pictures of his mom and dad, and the girls that had been the cornerstone of his life. Lana…Chloe…his best friend, Pete. And Lex. Clark’s old friend Lex.
There is one picture of him, smiling. Laughing. So…thin, he thinks. Almost skinny. He rolls his shoulders, feeling the dark gray sweater he wears pull tight across his chest. He’s almost as wide as Clark, now. His neck is thicker, muscles bunch and swell in his arms as he flexes unconsciously. Yeah. He could take Clark now, he thinks. Well, his muscle and a set of kryptonite laced brass knuckles…the thought makes him laugh, it’s the certainty that Clark—Superman would laugh too, that makes him chuckle. There is another picture of him, standing in Martha’s garden. He doesn’t remember it, doesn’t remember ever being in her garden but there he is, and he looks…young. Like a believer. Clark is standing next to him. The expression on his face is so pure, so full of something…happiness, something else, and his hand is extended but the Lex in the picture doesn’t see it. He’s looking away. Lex snorts at the obvious symbolism. ‘Please.’
He stops at a third picture of himself he really doesn’t remember. And this one is a little newer, maybe…four, five years ago—there’s the Spyder he owned briefly. Hunh. They weren’t even talking then.
The fourth picture—shit—it’s him in Brazil, carnival—he remembers that one, the dress he’s wearing is pushed all the way up his ass and he even remembers that huge guy with his hand under the thong he’s wearing. No one had known who he was—he was wearing tons of make up—he remembered that god-awful expensive wig. He’d been all over and no one knew him—except Clark. The thought that maybe Clark’s mother has seen this picture makes blood stain his cheeks. Fuck, he’d been so drunk. He couldn’t even get it up that night, he’d been so drunk…not that he can remember much about that night. The pictures are—interesting. There are several of them, all focused on him, none of them particularly flattering. Why the hell—no, *how* the hell did Clark have this picture? They’re a couple of years newer than the Spyder picture…there are a few other pictures of himself from different years, but all of them taken after Clark and he became enemies, all at social functions... He flings the stack to the table, sees there are notes on the backs of some of them. Locations, times—there are numbers—fuck! His cell number, land line---no one knows those numbers but the people who absolutely have to…he feels his face burning with rage. Superman’s been spying on him. The fucker’s been invading his private life for years.
This was different than investigating criminal activities, that’s something he expects. But this—this is--spying, violating. He never investigated Clark’s personal life. Never. He has no idea who Clark was fucking, who he dated, what he did for fun, and he doesn’t give a shit. He knows about the affair with Lois lane—that was public knowledge. He knows something happened with the little blonde, the one that was such a troublemaker. Chloe. And there were always pictures of Clark in the papers, magazines, always with some pretty little china doll of a bitch. What the hell, newscasters are news too, when they’re as well known as Clark Kent. He snorts.
He pulls the photos of the giant (and incredibly sexy, if memory served him right) Brazilian, jams them in his pocket and sees that there’s a scrap of cardboard loose in the bottom of the box, there’s a picture, trapped under the loose cardboard and. And…
Oh. My. God. Does a straight man take a picture like that? Keep a picture like that? More importantly, can you get fucked like that and *not* remember it? And the thought occurs—maybe someone *had* recognized him--these are blackmail pictures, these things, or something like it. Maybe Clark didn’t take them—maybe he’d bought them. To protect Lex?
He crams them deep in his overcoat pocket and prays, like he rarely ever does, that the thick dust on the box means Martha never came up here—that she *never* looked at these. He grabs the garden picture too.
*****
IV
/// An alarm went off in his office, which meant one was going off in the penthouse too. His phone rang and transferred to his secretary—he was in a meeting. She bounced it back and he frowned. Excuse me, and shut the phone off. He knew what it meant but this meeting was too important—had taken too long to set up and was vitally important to Lexcorp’s expansion. His lawyers and officers turned to him and he smiled confidently across the table. We’re looking forward to stepping into the future with you, he assured the latest object of acquisition.
The meeting was rocky. He’s leaning back in the limo, eyes trained on the ceiling and heart slamming in his chest. He has no more patience. The moment he feared would come hoped would never come waited for was here.
Superman was awake. ///
******
He strode past the nurses bustling around in the guestroom. Dr. Frame was there, taking notes, checking his team.
“Lex, he’s awake.”
Lex gestured to the still form. The eyes were still closed.
Dr. Frame shook his head. “He’s awake, he is aware. And he seems to be…okay.”
“Lucky for you,” Lex smirks. “I don’t know how you’d explain to him that you cut his chest open while he was sleeping.”
Frame stared back with a look of open mouthed horror before he realized Lex was having fun at his expense.
“You can get out now.”
He was alone with him. He edged up to the table, slowly, almost afraid to see the change…he leaned over the side and Clark…opened his eyes. Smiled, and reached his hand up, shaky and slow, and touched Lex’s cheek. The smile was so sweet, it made Lex shiver. The touch was hesitant, affectionate, and he ached with a full body memory…. “Clark?” He pushed the hand away.
The wide green eyes blinked, slowly. The smile wavered a bit, and the chin wrinkled. Tears began to run. “Where’s my dad? Do you know my mommy?” the big hand curled in around the quivering mouth, and Lex cursed, cursed, cursed.
God Damn It….
******
There was no reason for the memory loss that could be found. There was, as far as could be determined, no physical damage to the brain. Perhaps the kryptonite splinter affected the brain in some way. Perhaps some sort of trauma that couldn’t be detected with the equipment or technology available to them. Perhaps it was a normal kryptonian reaction to severe damage…no one knew.
Lex had a theory. He postulated that the alien was doing it on purpose, to drive him insane. With sufficient incentive, he could be made to reveal his insidious plan, incentive in the form of a kryptonite bat, perhaps, or kryptonite cleats…
When Lex calmed down, he caught sight of extremely frightened green eyes, round as saucers, and a trembly chin… that chin…
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean it.” It shredded him inside to apologize. The solemn expression never changed as Clark nodded, obviously not believing him for a second.
“No really. I am sorry.” And that might have been more believable if he hadn’t nearly shouted it—and there went the tears. Damn it.
Tears spilled over Clark’s cheeks and dripped from his chin, and for a moment, Lex really felt like he was dealing with the child Clark seemed to think he was instead of a grown man.
He called for the nurse, and left the room. Let someone else deal with the insanity.
******
Days passed before Lex was able to force himself back into the guest room, when he did, he was greeted with a trill of…happiness.
“I thought you would never come back! I thought I’d made you too mad,” the … ‘boy’ finished, his tone noticeably sadder, softer.
“Clark—never mind. Can you tell me what you remember? About…anything?”
Clark nodded. “Yes. I remember lots-- the corn falling down…and I remember…Mrs. Hannigan giving us crayons. I can write my name,” he said proudly. “Clark Jerome Kent… I have to be extra, extra careful not to break mine.” Clark screwed up his face and thought very hard. “I remember…some body giving me hug. Someone who said they would be my friend always. Was that you?”
Lex chewed on his lip. Okay, obviously Clark’s life experiences were jumbled, but he seemed to remember parts of his life, maybe he would remember more as he healed. “Do you remember your mother—father? Smallville?” He sat on the edge of the bed, and Clark let out a little creak of satisfaction, and leaned against Lex.
“No. Is that bad? Do I have a mom and dad?” He pet Lex’s arm. “I’m really hungry but these people won’t let me eat. Can you make them let me eat?”
Lex felt himself relax into Clark’s warmth—and stiffened. Clark, amnesiac or not, was still Superman, his enemy. “Yes, that much I can do.” Clark seemed unaware of his reserve, and he left him happy with the promise of food, went to his study and locked himself in.
“Martha, we’re pursuing some promising leads. I’ll get in touch soon,” he told the Kent’s answering machine. He spent the rest of that night staring at the skyline from his study window, watching the sun rise over the horizon.
******
V
Clark followed Lex everywhere. He followed him whenever he went out to the patio, and nothing ruined his enjoyment of the view quite like Clark struggling not to cry in fear every time Lex walked close to the very safe, sufficiently high wall around the rooftop garden. He did recall that at some point in their early acquaintance Clark had mentioned that he was afraid of heights. And, as Lex quickly found out, the dark, loud noises, and spiders, which fear Clark demonstrated by breaking his hand when he grabbed it on sight of a small black spider, a very small spider. Too small to harm him, as Lex tried to point out. Lex was forced to try and hide the tears of pain that sprang to his eyes when Clark squeezed the broken bones of his hand. He tried to hide his pain because exactly what he feared would happen happened. Clark became nearly hysterical with guilt, and a six foot four, virtually unstoppable man having a hysterical fit was not in the least funny—it was fearsome, and extremely destructive, terrifically dangerous. It was frightening, enough that he had to work to hide his fear—and to do a better job than he’d done hiding his pain.
/// He shifted in his chair at the memory, disgusted with himself, with his lack of emotional control. In a way he could barely understand, it was easy now to forgive, put aside the lies and betrayals, the anger and hatred. This…child… hadn’t learned to lie yet. The sky was still magically blue to him; there was still a man in the moon for him. Lex leaned his head against his hands. He was horribly afraid he was falling under that spell all over again. He prayed instead that he was simply going insane. ///
His days were spent as usual, running the machine that was Lexcorp. His evenings took a turn into…he had no way to describe it. He’d taken a step through the looking glass. His evenings were a world in which Clark waited for him with all the excitement a pre-schooler could muster, eager to share his day, vibrating with excitement when he had a memory to tell him, or a well executed drawing. Lex looked into his wide green eyes every evening and swore that the next day, he’d call Martha, tell her….
Days turned to weeks, and there’d been no change for Clark. He was still a child, and the memories he retrieved were vague, unattached to any significant fact of his life. He was happy, that much was sure. Lex found himself wondering if this was the child Jonathan and Martha had known—if so, it was no wonder they’d been so devoted to him, so desperate to protect him and rightly so, from men like himself. It was a…revelation. Clark had seemed good when he’d known him because at this age, he had been. Clark looked up to him, and it was remarkable how similar the look was to that of the young teenager long gone. Lex tried his best to ignore that.
******
VI
It’s a bright day, the weather perfect and seductive, calling out to be enjoyed. Lex heeds the siren call--informs his subordinates that he has business elsewhere and they’ll be working late this day. He breezes out of the office with a smile, swimming through their venom like it’s mother’s milk. Amateurs….
A day so perfect calls for a change in routine, so he takes his…ward…to the park. A walk, perhaps a visit to the museum…it will be a break for both of them. His current push for acquisition is proving to be a headache. There’s unanticipated resistance to the merger, and his head is full of figures and plans, and he’s strangely reluctant to employ his usual means of persuasion…
Clark is walking along next to him, head back, the sun dancing across the black hair lifting in the slight breeze. His eyes are closed and he’s smiling like a fool—his fingers are clutched in the sleeve of Lex’s coat. Lex refuses to see it as anything but terribly silly.
Clark is narrating his blind excursion. “I hear birds, and people, I hear a dog, a lot of dogs—and a truck…here come’s a bicycle,” and a full minute later a bike whizzes by, and Clark crows, ‘told you so,’ as if Lex had expressed skepticism. He has to smile. Only a heart of crystal could resist such joy, such beauty.
Clark drags him to a play area—swings, merry-go-round, sliding board—and runs ahead to wait his turn on the swings. He’s smiling, cheeks pink with anticipation, bouncing on his feet…
“What are you doing?” a little girl asks him, staring suspiciously.
“Waiting to swing.”
Another boy says, “You can’t, this is not for grown-ups.”
Clark frowns, “I can so.”
The girl shakes her head. “You can’t, you’re too big.” She says it with an air of finality, and Clark starts to look worried, confused. Lex hurries up, takes him by the arm. Clark can’t be budged. He looks over the playground; at mothers and their children, fathers pushing swings, picking up their little ones, and dusting off sand and kissing bruises…
There’s a sound of something small dying. Lex turns to him and he’s forced to watch as the knowledge fills Clark. Tears are threatening as he says, “I’m different. I’m not like them, not little. What’s wrong with me?” Lex stands trembling on the edge of ordering mass murder and dying at the loss of innocence once again.
Clark smiles, a brave smile, and pats him on the arm, “it’s okay, don’t cry. I knew there was something…can we go home now, I’m really tired.”
Lex wipes his eyes—he’s certainly not crying—these brats are kicking up so much dust….
/// Lex decides that he needs to get out. Clark is ruining his life, running his life—everything revolves around the kid—man—alien, whatever. He stands under the pounding jets of his state of the art shower, the main shower head is set to rainforest, and the side jets to pulsate. He lets the force of the water and the heat drive out unpleasant memories of the day. Clark had been…difficult. Lex felt a huge pang of sympathy for Martha and Jonathan Kent. They’d had…a lot to deal with. A lot.
Clark had decided in no uncertain terms he was not going to bathe that evening. And what a fight that had been. He’d have to have the plasterer and the plumber in tomorrow, and have someone come in to redo the tile in the guestroom bathroom. He frowned, calculating the cost.
And then, slipping into his mind like soap through his hands…the memory of Clark, huge muscular, angry and extremely naked, running down the hall, yelling no at the top of his lungs…Lex tries hard to suppress the giggles that lock in his throat, his shoulders shake and before he knows it he’s leaning against the wall, laughing so hard tears fill his eyes. His ribs ache when he finally manages to control himself—and then the memory of the night nurse’s scandalized face rises up, and folds him over again. Clark, Clark…god damn it.
It really had been cute, in an aggravating way. ///
Lex was seized with the horrible and irrational desire to call Martha and ask her to tell him about Clark as a baby…he wanted to share stories like a…like a…fuck.
He shut off the shower, wrapped himself in the towel heating on the bar. He seriously, really needed to get laid. Get real. He stomped through the bedroom. And this time, he wasn’t paying for it.
*****
VII
“Hey!” It was shouted into his ear, and Lex grimaced. The owner of the mouth that was pressed against his cheek was attractive, and obviously sure of himself. No one else had tried to plaster themselves on the billionaire body of Metropolis’ most eligible bachelor. Not to mention, Metropolis’ most securitied up bachelor—Lex could see one of his guards about to step in, but he made a tiny negative shake of his head. The limpet on his side was one of his set—one of his old set, he should say. He hadn’t seen Michael since they were kids, but he saw him from time to time in the ‘pages’ and heard of him in passing. He kept an idle sort of track of the coming and goings of the rich and famous.
“Lee—eex. It’s been way too long, too long.” The mouth against his ear was wet and warm, and Lex actually felt a little lick of lust. He’d never done anyone in his crowd—he kept his sexuality to himself, once he’d left Excelsior and that car crash of a crush he’d had on his room mate at the time.
Michael was high, but still…Michael shoved a hand up under his shirt, and rubbed his fingertips across his belly. “I always wondered what gets you going, Lex…you’re such an iceman. Nothing turns you on. I always wanted to see…” his fingertips rode under the waistband of his trousers, and Lex grabbed his hand, hard.
“Oh, I don’t think you *really* want to know what turns me on,” Lex said and gave Michael a wolfish smile. One part of his brain was running down Michael’s assets and connections—his dad owned a major design house that had fallen on less lustrous times—they were currently in talks to license the name to a superstore conglomerate—that was a death knell, Lex thought—Michael’s mother had a successful perfume line and…the other part of his brain concentrated on the fact that Michael had always had the best shit and once upon a time he was rumored to be a decent enough fuck….
Michael staggered and leaned against him. “Kinky. I like kinky. You can do anything, I don’t care. Especially right now,” he grinned blearily.
Lex had a flash—green eyes, skin forever—and groaned. “In that case, how about the Amsterdam?” Lex kept a room there still, a holdover from his partying days.
“The Amsterdam?” Michael frowned, and Lex realized that the hotel was no longer considered the place to stay—“Do you want to fuck, or critique my taste?” Lex snapped and Michael shook his head quickly.
“Do you have a car,” Lex asked, and at Michael’s affirmative nod, he spoke into his phone quickly. “Follow, not too close, I’ll be over night at the Amsterdam.” Yes sir, he heard, and ushered the idiot with him out the door.
*******
There was something about an imbalance of power that was just terribly arousing, Lex mused. Michael was facing the headboard, his hands tied to it, blindfolded…it made him much prettier. He probably should have gagged him too. Lex had to admit, he liked the way his ass quivered every time he stroked his back. Nice. Lex reached under and pinched his nipple. Hard. Twisted a little, and Michael groaned. “That hurts.”
Lex might have stopped, but every time he twisted, Michael’s dick leaked, and bounced. Lex pinched the flesh right under his navel, dug his nails in as he twisted and Michael reared back. His nipples were bright red from being mauled, swollen, like his mouth, red and wet and every time Lex performed some little indignity on him, he licked his lips and moaned. All along his thighs, thick clear fluid was smeared. Ran his finger along the foreskin, pulled it back. Lex rolled the palm of his hand over the deep red swollen tip. He was fascinated. Beside Clark’s, he’d never touched an uncut penis. He rolled the skin between his fingertips and Michael jerked and groaned. “Please, come on,” he gasped. “Do—do something.”
“Shh, be patient.” He leaned over and ran the tip of his tongue along the rim, slid it between the head and the hood surrounding it. Lex sucked the tip in and chased precome with his tongue, polishing the skin, drinking him down. He pressed fingers into him; bit his hip when he jerked too hard. “Keep still.” He bit him again, sucking up bruises, hard—they were purple when he pulled back, snagged a condom from the folds of the comforter.
He rolled the lubricated condom down, stroking himself lightly as he did. He lined his dick up with the whorl of muscle, and pushed…he slid in, popped in, and groaned. Michael shivered from head to toes, and moaned, bent forward a little, but Lex just pushed the tip in and back a little, not pulling out, not pushing in, and did it until Michael practically yelled, “Put it in, you fucker--”
Lex chucked deep in his chest. “Okay, okay…” he shoved in, hard, fast, and bit down on Michael’s shoulder at the same time, and just as he figured, the intensity of the two sensations crossed wires for him and made him jerk—his dick smacked his belly with a liquid noise. Lex laughed and groaned at the same time. “Yeah, yeah, shit.”
Michael was good at this, he squeezed and fucked back on Lex, all Lex had to do was hold him, maul his neck and shoulders, and each bite brought a fresh yelp, and wiggle. Lex’s dick was buried in the guy as far as it would go, he felt it building, boiling, tightening his skin, muscles, he was panting and Michael was drooling all over the palm he had pressed against his mouth just for fun….
“What are you doing?”
“Jesus!” Lex’s eyes shot open—what the fuck “—Clark! How the hell--why?”
“I got lonely so I came looking for you…what are you doing?”
Lex bit the inside of his cheek hard, so hard, he tasted blood—but Michael was tightening on him, he was convulsing around him, his dick was spurting and Lex could feel it coat his hand and shit—he was coming, tears came to his eyes because it was so good, so hard, and he was biting down, gritting his teeth and desperate not to make a sound.
“Lex--”
The tone was worried, almost afraid and Lex refused to look at him—God. “Go—Clark—I—shit. Why are you here?” he panted. “Get out! Go home—this instant, right now, you hear? Right now.”
Clark let out a sob, and ran back to the open window, and was out—gone—flying.
Lex dropped to Michael’s wet back. Well, looked like Clark fully recovered his powers, if not his memory. Jesus, he probably traumatized the kid…he pulled out and staggered to the bathroom. Oh well, that’s what therapists were for. He sat on the edge of the tub and felt faintly sick, and guilty. Damn it. He should be
“Are you going to untie me, Lex.? Lex? Lex? Hello?”
Lex really thought about leaving him tied up. It was a delicious thought. He grinned.
Author:Roxymissrose
Pairing:Lex/Clark
WIP:: 2/4
Rating:PG
Spoilers: none
Word Count:6561
Summary: Lex and Clark have such influence on each other, whether they know it or not.
Notes: This is the answer to the "A Clexian Tale" challenge. I finally answered it, almost six months later....
So dear I love him that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life.
John Milton
I
Lex was upset.
This was not supposed to be happening. Superman was not supposed to be moaning and bleeding and scaring the life out of his researchers, he wasn’t supposed to be breathing….
Fuck. He was alive—how the *fuck* was that possible? He realized he was somehow outside of the lab. When had he left the room? He was arched against the wall, head leaning back against the cool plaster, gulping air.
He had him. He *had* Superman. Weak, powerless, broken--but alive—at his mercy.
He ignored the small roll of sick excitement in his gut. He walked back into the lab.
“What now? What has he said?”
Doctor Frame was pastier than usual, sweating unattractively. “Nothing—he seems to be in a coma—my god, we cut Superman open! We—we--”
“Shut up,” Lex snapped. “Pull yourself together.” He stalked over to the man on the steel table, still marble white, still looking like a nightmare version of Snow White. His face was lax, though occasionally he’d moan; a thin whispery sound of pain…Lex put a hesitant hand on the wide, pale chest.
Superman felt warm, normal. Which meant he was under temperature. The feel of his skin was waxy, and it gave a little under the steady pressure of his fingers. When he jabbed, it was suddenly like jamming his fingers against a brick wall. Interesting. There was so much they could learn and… no one knew Superman was alive except the few in this lab. He looked around at the nervous group…they could be quickly disposed of, if need be. On each one of them there was a switch that could be flipped—family, possessions--easy enough to guarantee silence. The whole while, without noticing, he was stroking the broad chest under his hand, slow soothing sweeps of his hand skirting the already shallow line bisecting his flesh. He was not pleased when he realized that.
“Everyone—get out.”
*****
Every pair of eyes in the room shoot towards him, and then to the door. He takes a step forward and like a room full of Catholic school girls, they break. It amuses him momentarily, the mad dash to the door.
And now, he’s left alone, with It.
The not so corpse-like corpse.
Now, Lex thinks, he’s got to figure out what to do with It. Dissect it, ignore it, shove the kryptonite back in it and bury it…shit. Lex pretty much feels like a cat balanced on the edge of a fence: one side there’s a dog waiting for him on the other, a lake…fuck fuck fuck.
He strolls around the table; his footsteps echo in the tiled room, the only sound save the gentle wheeze of machinery and…Clark’s occasional whispered gasp for breath.
God. Clark is…is huge. He’s tall. Taller than when they knew each other. Or maybe it’s because he’s lying down…his feet are giant, and that makes him smile. He remembers a distant spring day, sitting on the farmhouse porch with Clark, watching him re-lace brand new sneakers, and wondering how his parents afforded to keep their giant son in new shoes, clothes. Wishing he could help. Wishing he could touch him. Lex growls, unconsciously pushes the thoughts away with an actual motion of his hands. It brings his hand in contact with Superman again. His hair is so black against the marble white of him; his nipples are red as his lips, they’re wide and flat. Perfect. The hair runs down over the swell of muscles, into his navel. Lex is barely aware his finger is following the trail until he bumps up against the base of his thick uncut penis. Lex snatches his hand away like it’s on fire, he even shoves it under his armpit as he stumbles back. He hisses through grit teeth as the body’s eyes flicker under closed lids, the mouth opens a little and a pained moan seeps out, and Lex’s stomach lurches and curdles when he thinks he hears a faint whispery, “help me.” Or maybe it’s “help, Mom.”
Life sucks *and* bites. He snarls—stomps out of the lab, but carefully locks the door behind him.
Outside the lab, back in his granite and leather lined penthouse cocoon, he smashes his fist into the wall, over and over, until blood flies and his knuckles shred. He stops when the pain is blinding. He calls his minions—“Bring that thing up to the penthouse, have Dr. Frame install it in the guest room. Treat it like…an invalid, you understand?” he cuts off the frantic noises of acquiescence.
*****
II
/// Lex himself cleans the black tarry remains of blood from his skin, washes his hair, and does it all carefully, gently. He remembers how to do this. He remembers doing it for his mother, towards the end, when she could still tolerate being touched. Clark’s eyelids quiver as he washes his face. The damp washcloth wipes over his chin, behind the ear and the hole is nearly closed. The black and green gone from the skin, the hole is pink, with a bit of clean dark red at the center. Lex narrows his eyes. He’s healing…the holes in his chest are closed, and where the team sewed him back up, the sutures are pulling against pink flesh. Lex lays the cloth down on Clark’s pajama clad legs. He looks at his own knuckles—almost healed.
“God, let me get out of here.” He leaves the guestroom, alerts the night nurse and wanders around the penthouse.
“Well, here I am, and I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what I’m doing…I have no one to explain it to me. Martha was right—I am alone. And an idiot.” ///
Liberal doses of Lagavulin help. A joint discovered in the wet bar helped to make him feel…heavy. Lethargic if not relaxed. He gulps down the golden liquor, cross-legged on a lounge chair, staring up into the sky. Yeah. Idiot.
Ever since the alien took to the skies, with his white teeth and pink cheeks and bright eyes shining, shedding goodwill and love for everyone—except him—he’s hated him. Wanted to destroy him, make him know not everyone bought that altruistic shit. He knew. He’d always sensed the cold menace behind the…Kyrptonian…artifacts that had littered Smallville like takeout cups. These were a people who were dangerous—cold, heartless, ruthless—willing to send children out as vanguards of an invasion force…he breathed in sweet harsh smoke, and held his breath as he counted stars. Somehow…maybe Clark escaped his destiny. Maybe he really did think he was here to affect good, maybe he really was the only one of his species left…Lex released his breath and sucked in cold crisp air. Hell, there was always the possibility Clark actively tried to escape his father’s influence.
Lex wrinkled his forehead. Was pretty sure he’d meant to say ‘his programming’…he stood and sauntered into his study, flipped on the camera feed and watched Clark breathe.
He sat at his desk all night, watching…sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning. At the break of dawn, he called that woman.
“Hello…are you up? Forgive me if I disturbed your sleep...”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“How would—what makes you say that?” Lex leaned back, thrust his legs out straight. One eye on the brightening horizon, the other on the monitor. The still shape slept on.
“Was there something you had to tell me? Did you find information about my—about Clark?”
“Nothing yet,” he lied smoothly, and watched Clark’s closed eyes shiver. Was…did his finger move? He leaned forward, stared at the screen. “There’s nothing to be found yet. I will find him. I promise you. I’ll bring him home to you.”
“I know you will, Lex. Lex…would you be willing to come out to the farm?”
A thrill of horror ran through him. *No, God no* “To the…farm? You want me to visit?” He chuckled lightly, and forced himself to relax again. Now was a great time for his buzz to desert him, thanks so fucking much.
“Neither of us really has anyone to talk to about him. I. Well, I’d like to talk to someone who knows him as well as I do. Can you understand that?”
“But. I tried to kill him,” he explained patiently. “I hate him. I’m only helping you out of a—a nod to the past. Because you tried to tolerate me.”
“You’re an idiot. And you’re invited to dinner. Come hungry.”
She hung up and Lex contemplated shredding the painting hanging over the fireplace—he hated it anyway. What the fuck just happened? Did he really agree to have dinner with a woman who had every reason to poison him? More reason than his father’d ever had…shit. What could they possibly have to talk about? ‘Lex. You may have tried your level best to destroy my son and discredit everything he stood for but—hey, have some green beans.’ Shit shit. ‘Lex, I know you’re lying to me, I know you have my boy, I know you’re going to slice him up like a lab rat…’
Lex fell asleep finally, hunched over his desk, face pressed against the glass top. He was drooling a little, and an empty glass sat between his feet. The fingertips of one hand were pressed against the unchanging image of Clark on the screen; the other hand was locked around the razor sharp letter opener. He was frowning in his sleep.
*******
III
“Lex, come in,” Martha said, and he had a flash of Christopher Lee gnashing his teeth at Peter Cushing….she walked him into the living room and they went right through to the kitchen, because small town people brought friends into their kitchen. For a horrible moment, he felt a burn in his throat and in his eyes. He swallowed and grimaced, blinked rapidly until he was Lex God damn Luthor again. He was shocked at how little things had changed. He glanced over at the coat rack at the back door, and it only held a sweater—hers. No creased ball cap, no dingy brown barn coat. Strange to think that Jonathan wasn’t going to walk in the door and sneer, and frown at him. Try to stuff him with platitudes and disdain…
“I made chicken stew. You like that, am I right? I thought I remembered that you did…” her voice trailed off as she concentrated on the pot of good smells. He complemented her abilities and she smiled.
“I made a pie too. You and Clark used to finish off a pie by yourselves. Thought I suspect it was more Clark than you.” Lex nodded and felt distinctly uncomfortable. Why share memories of some fairytale past? Why bring up days that no longer had meaning?
“Lex, would you mind bringing the milk out—unless you’d prefer…well, I’m sure you’d prefer something else to drink. I’m sorry. I have no idea where my head is these days.” He assured her milk would be fine, just fine, and he took the plastic container out of the refrigerator. The logo on the jug was unfamiliar. She caught his eye as he tilted it—“We –I lease the land out. We don’t own the herds or farm anymore.” She smiled sadly. “It hasn’t been Kent Farms for a long time now. Clark and I decided it was too much for me to maintain, and Clark couldn’t divide his time anymore.”
She covered a small sigh and Lex felt a surge of fury burning up his spine. Was that what this was about-- was she after money? Was that the reason for this—this pathetic display? He expressed his opinion that if Clark had wanted to, he could have helped her keep the farm.
“Oh. Oh no, you misunderstand.” She turned off the heat under the stew, and ladled some into a tureen that had to have been hers…a family heirloom, perhaps. She put it on the table, and placed a basket of fresh bread next to it. “Neither Clark nor I regretted the decision. Jonathan loved the land, the farm—I loved Jonathan. Very much. So did Clark. But neither of us…” she hesitated before laughing lightly. “Neither of us had a Kent’s love of the land. We keep the farmhouse, but let the land out to others.” she smiled. “It’s working out well.”
Lex nodded, and commented how nice that it wasn’t financial help she sought with this visit. He opened the big, bright blue napkin next to his plate and put it on his lap. Smiled.
She froze for a second, and said, “Your mother would be disappointed with you, I think.” She shook the bright blue napkin open and smoothed it over her lap without further comment. Lex grit his teeth and said nothing. His spoon dipped towards the stew, he put it down. “Sorry. That was rude.”
“Eat you stew before it gets cold,” she said but smiled a little.
After dinner, Lex asked if he could go up to the loft. Martha hesitated a moment before saying yes. “It’s terribly dusty and cobwebby,” I doubt Clark’s been,” her breath caught for a moment, “had been up there in years.”
******
The stairs creak with his weight, but the banister is strong. Dust motes dance in the sunlight leaking in all over the barn. Tarps cover machinery, the air is stale. The smell of machine oil, hay and animals are non-existent. It’s quiet, it’s clean. It’s odd. Disconcerting. Memories can be cruel, and comparing reality to time-gilded moments…he shakes his head. It can be painful.
He wanders around the loft and listens to echoes from the past--conversation, laughter. Occasional touches, the brush of a hand against his. Simple friendship…his ache at wishing for more, and eventually, hating himself for wanting. He sighs deeply and brushes at long dusty strands of webs draping the desk, the couch. There’s an old textbook on the desk, and a little metal miniature of a tractor, beginning to rust. He moves it and the disintegrating rubber tires leave a black streak across the pine planks of the desk. Fuck all, he thinks, this is damn depressing. He takes his phone out, and calls up the office camera. Clark…Clark is still. He gets an update. No change, no movement, but he’s still breathing. Lex sits on the old couch, disregarding the dirt, and the musty, slightly mildewed smell. On the trunk in front of the couch sits a cardboard box, covered in an antique map print. Of course, he opens it, and inside there are pictures. Naturally, he picks them up. Pictures of—what, he thinks: girlfriends, cars, cows?
There are pictures of his mom and dad, and the girls that had been the cornerstone of his life. Lana…Chloe…his best friend, Pete. And Lex. Clark’s old friend Lex.
There is one picture of him, smiling. Laughing. So…thin, he thinks. Almost skinny. He rolls his shoulders, feeling the dark gray sweater he wears pull tight across his chest. He’s almost as wide as Clark, now. His neck is thicker, muscles bunch and swell in his arms as he flexes unconsciously. Yeah. He could take Clark now, he thinks. Well, his muscle and a set of kryptonite laced brass knuckles…the thought makes him laugh, it’s the certainty that Clark—Superman would laugh too, that makes him chuckle. There is another picture of him, standing in Martha’s garden. He doesn’t remember it, doesn’t remember ever being in her garden but there he is, and he looks…young. Like a believer. Clark is standing next to him. The expression on his face is so pure, so full of something…happiness, something else, and his hand is extended but the Lex in the picture doesn’t see it. He’s looking away. Lex snorts at the obvious symbolism. ‘Please.’
He stops at a third picture of himself he really doesn’t remember. And this one is a little newer, maybe…four, five years ago—there’s the Spyder he owned briefly. Hunh. They weren’t even talking then.
The fourth picture—shit—it’s him in Brazil, carnival—he remembers that one, the dress he’s wearing is pushed all the way up his ass and he even remembers that huge guy with his hand under the thong he’s wearing. No one had known who he was—he was wearing tons of make up—he remembered that god-awful expensive wig. He’d been all over and no one knew him—except Clark. The thought that maybe Clark’s mother has seen this picture makes blood stain his cheeks. Fuck, he’d been so drunk. He couldn’t even get it up that night, he’d been so drunk…not that he can remember much about that night. The pictures are—interesting. There are several of them, all focused on him, none of them particularly flattering. Why the hell—no, *how* the hell did Clark have this picture? They’re a couple of years newer than the Spyder picture…there are a few other pictures of himself from different years, but all of them taken after Clark and he became enemies, all at social functions... He flings the stack to the table, sees there are notes on the backs of some of them. Locations, times—there are numbers—fuck! His cell number, land line---no one knows those numbers but the people who absolutely have to…he feels his face burning with rage. Superman’s been spying on him. The fucker’s been invading his private life for years.
This was different than investigating criminal activities, that’s something he expects. But this—this is--spying, violating. He never investigated Clark’s personal life. Never. He has no idea who Clark was fucking, who he dated, what he did for fun, and he doesn’t give a shit. He knows about the affair with Lois lane—that was public knowledge. He knows something happened with the little blonde, the one that was such a troublemaker. Chloe. And there were always pictures of Clark in the papers, magazines, always with some pretty little china doll of a bitch. What the hell, newscasters are news too, when they’re as well known as Clark Kent. He snorts.
He pulls the photos of the giant (and incredibly sexy, if memory served him right) Brazilian, jams them in his pocket and sees that there’s a scrap of cardboard loose in the bottom of the box, there’s a picture, trapped under the loose cardboard and. And…
Oh. My. God. Does a straight man take a picture like that? Keep a picture like that? More importantly, can you get fucked like that and *not* remember it? And the thought occurs—maybe someone *had* recognized him--these are blackmail pictures, these things, or something like it. Maybe Clark didn’t take them—maybe he’d bought them. To protect Lex?
He crams them deep in his overcoat pocket and prays, like he rarely ever does, that the thick dust on the box means Martha never came up here—that she *never* looked at these. He grabs the garden picture too.
*****
IV
/// An alarm went off in his office, which meant one was going off in the penthouse too. His phone rang and transferred to his secretary—he was in a meeting. She bounced it back and he frowned. Excuse me, and shut the phone off. He knew what it meant but this meeting was too important—had taken too long to set up and was vitally important to Lexcorp’s expansion. His lawyers and officers turned to him and he smiled confidently across the table. We’re looking forward to stepping into the future with you, he assured the latest object of acquisition.
The meeting was rocky. He’s leaning back in the limo, eyes trained on the ceiling and heart slamming in his chest. He has no more patience. The moment he feared would come hoped would never come waited for was here.
Superman was awake. ///
******
He strode past the nurses bustling around in the guestroom. Dr. Frame was there, taking notes, checking his team.
“Lex, he’s awake.”
Lex gestured to the still form. The eyes were still closed.
Dr. Frame shook his head. “He’s awake, he is aware. And he seems to be…okay.”
“Lucky for you,” Lex smirks. “I don’t know how you’d explain to him that you cut his chest open while he was sleeping.”
Frame stared back with a look of open mouthed horror before he realized Lex was having fun at his expense.
“You can get out now.”
He was alone with him. He edged up to the table, slowly, almost afraid to see the change…he leaned over the side and Clark…opened his eyes. Smiled, and reached his hand up, shaky and slow, and touched Lex’s cheek. The smile was so sweet, it made Lex shiver. The touch was hesitant, affectionate, and he ached with a full body memory…. “Clark?” He pushed the hand away.
The wide green eyes blinked, slowly. The smile wavered a bit, and the chin wrinkled. Tears began to run. “Where’s my dad? Do you know my mommy?” the big hand curled in around the quivering mouth, and Lex cursed, cursed, cursed.
God Damn It….
******
There was no reason for the memory loss that could be found. There was, as far as could be determined, no physical damage to the brain. Perhaps the kryptonite splinter affected the brain in some way. Perhaps some sort of trauma that couldn’t be detected with the equipment or technology available to them. Perhaps it was a normal kryptonian reaction to severe damage…no one knew.
Lex had a theory. He postulated that the alien was doing it on purpose, to drive him insane. With sufficient incentive, he could be made to reveal his insidious plan, incentive in the form of a kryptonite bat, perhaps, or kryptonite cleats…
When Lex calmed down, he caught sight of extremely frightened green eyes, round as saucers, and a trembly chin… that chin…
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean it.” It shredded him inside to apologize. The solemn expression never changed as Clark nodded, obviously not believing him for a second.
“No really. I am sorry.” And that might have been more believable if he hadn’t nearly shouted it—and there went the tears. Damn it.
Tears spilled over Clark’s cheeks and dripped from his chin, and for a moment, Lex really felt like he was dealing with the child Clark seemed to think he was instead of a grown man.
He called for the nurse, and left the room. Let someone else deal with the insanity.
******
Days passed before Lex was able to force himself back into the guest room, when he did, he was greeted with a trill of…happiness.
“I thought you would never come back! I thought I’d made you too mad,” the … ‘boy’ finished, his tone noticeably sadder, softer.
“Clark—never mind. Can you tell me what you remember? About…anything?”
Clark nodded. “Yes. I remember lots-- the corn falling down…and I remember…Mrs. Hannigan giving us crayons. I can write my name,” he said proudly. “Clark Jerome Kent… I have to be extra, extra careful not to break mine.” Clark screwed up his face and thought very hard. “I remember…some body giving me hug. Someone who said they would be my friend always. Was that you?”
Lex chewed on his lip. Okay, obviously Clark’s life experiences were jumbled, but he seemed to remember parts of his life, maybe he would remember more as he healed. “Do you remember your mother—father? Smallville?” He sat on the edge of the bed, and Clark let out a little creak of satisfaction, and leaned against Lex.
“No. Is that bad? Do I have a mom and dad?” He pet Lex’s arm. “I’m really hungry but these people won’t let me eat. Can you make them let me eat?”
Lex felt himself relax into Clark’s warmth—and stiffened. Clark, amnesiac or not, was still Superman, his enemy. “Yes, that much I can do.” Clark seemed unaware of his reserve, and he left him happy with the promise of food, went to his study and locked himself in.
“Martha, we’re pursuing some promising leads. I’ll get in touch soon,” he told the Kent’s answering machine. He spent the rest of that night staring at the skyline from his study window, watching the sun rise over the horizon.
******
V
Clark followed Lex everywhere. He followed him whenever he went out to the patio, and nothing ruined his enjoyment of the view quite like Clark struggling not to cry in fear every time Lex walked close to the very safe, sufficiently high wall around the rooftop garden. He did recall that at some point in their early acquaintance Clark had mentioned that he was afraid of heights. And, as Lex quickly found out, the dark, loud noises, and spiders, which fear Clark demonstrated by breaking his hand when he grabbed it on sight of a small black spider, a very small spider. Too small to harm him, as Lex tried to point out. Lex was forced to try and hide the tears of pain that sprang to his eyes when Clark squeezed the broken bones of his hand. He tried to hide his pain because exactly what he feared would happen happened. Clark became nearly hysterical with guilt, and a six foot four, virtually unstoppable man having a hysterical fit was not in the least funny—it was fearsome, and extremely destructive, terrifically dangerous. It was frightening, enough that he had to work to hide his fear—and to do a better job than he’d done hiding his pain.
/// He shifted in his chair at the memory, disgusted with himself, with his lack of emotional control. In a way he could barely understand, it was easy now to forgive, put aside the lies and betrayals, the anger and hatred. This…child… hadn’t learned to lie yet. The sky was still magically blue to him; there was still a man in the moon for him. Lex leaned his head against his hands. He was horribly afraid he was falling under that spell all over again. He prayed instead that he was simply going insane. ///
His days were spent as usual, running the machine that was Lexcorp. His evenings took a turn into…he had no way to describe it. He’d taken a step through the looking glass. His evenings were a world in which Clark waited for him with all the excitement a pre-schooler could muster, eager to share his day, vibrating with excitement when he had a memory to tell him, or a well executed drawing. Lex looked into his wide green eyes every evening and swore that the next day, he’d call Martha, tell her….
Days turned to weeks, and there’d been no change for Clark. He was still a child, and the memories he retrieved were vague, unattached to any significant fact of his life. He was happy, that much was sure. Lex found himself wondering if this was the child Jonathan and Martha had known—if so, it was no wonder they’d been so devoted to him, so desperate to protect him and rightly so, from men like himself. It was a…revelation. Clark had seemed good when he’d known him because at this age, he had been. Clark looked up to him, and it was remarkable how similar the look was to that of the young teenager long gone. Lex tried his best to ignore that.
******
VI
It’s a bright day, the weather perfect and seductive, calling out to be enjoyed. Lex heeds the siren call--informs his subordinates that he has business elsewhere and they’ll be working late this day. He breezes out of the office with a smile, swimming through their venom like it’s mother’s milk. Amateurs….
A day so perfect calls for a change in routine, so he takes his…ward…to the park. A walk, perhaps a visit to the museum…it will be a break for both of them. His current push for acquisition is proving to be a headache. There’s unanticipated resistance to the merger, and his head is full of figures and plans, and he’s strangely reluctant to employ his usual means of persuasion…
Clark is walking along next to him, head back, the sun dancing across the black hair lifting in the slight breeze. His eyes are closed and he’s smiling like a fool—his fingers are clutched in the sleeve of Lex’s coat. Lex refuses to see it as anything but terribly silly.
Clark is narrating his blind excursion. “I hear birds, and people, I hear a dog, a lot of dogs—and a truck…here come’s a bicycle,” and a full minute later a bike whizzes by, and Clark crows, ‘told you so,’ as if Lex had expressed skepticism. He has to smile. Only a heart of crystal could resist such joy, such beauty.
Clark drags him to a play area—swings, merry-go-round, sliding board—and runs ahead to wait his turn on the swings. He’s smiling, cheeks pink with anticipation, bouncing on his feet…
“What are you doing?” a little girl asks him, staring suspiciously.
“Waiting to swing.”
Another boy says, “You can’t, this is not for grown-ups.”
Clark frowns, “I can so.”
The girl shakes her head. “You can’t, you’re too big.” She says it with an air of finality, and Clark starts to look worried, confused. Lex hurries up, takes him by the arm. Clark can’t be budged. He looks over the playground; at mothers and their children, fathers pushing swings, picking up their little ones, and dusting off sand and kissing bruises…
There’s a sound of something small dying. Lex turns to him and he’s forced to watch as the knowledge fills Clark. Tears are threatening as he says, “I’m different. I’m not like them, not little. What’s wrong with me?” Lex stands trembling on the edge of ordering mass murder and dying at the loss of innocence once again.
Clark smiles, a brave smile, and pats him on the arm, “it’s okay, don’t cry. I knew there was something…can we go home now, I’m really tired.”
Lex wipes his eyes—he’s certainly not crying—these brats are kicking up so much dust….
/// Lex decides that he needs to get out. Clark is ruining his life, running his life—everything revolves around the kid—man—alien, whatever. He stands under the pounding jets of his state of the art shower, the main shower head is set to rainforest, and the side jets to pulsate. He lets the force of the water and the heat drive out unpleasant memories of the day. Clark had been…difficult. Lex felt a huge pang of sympathy for Martha and Jonathan Kent. They’d had…a lot to deal with. A lot.
Clark had decided in no uncertain terms he was not going to bathe that evening. And what a fight that had been. He’d have to have the plasterer and the plumber in tomorrow, and have someone come in to redo the tile in the guestroom bathroom. He frowned, calculating the cost.
And then, slipping into his mind like soap through his hands…the memory of Clark, huge muscular, angry and extremely naked, running down the hall, yelling no at the top of his lungs…Lex tries hard to suppress the giggles that lock in his throat, his shoulders shake and before he knows it he’s leaning against the wall, laughing so hard tears fill his eyes. His ribs ache when he finally manages to control himself—and then the memory of the night nurse’s scandalized face rises up, and folds him over again. Clark, Clark…god damn it.
It really had been cute, in an aggravating way. ///
Lex was seized with the horrible and irrational desire to call Martha and ask her to tell him about Clark as a baby…he wanted to share stories like a…like a…fuck.
He shut off the shower, wrapped himself in the towel heating on the bar. He seriously, really needed to get laid. Get real. He stomped through the bedroom. And this time, he wasn’t paying for it.
*****
VII
“Hey!” It was shouted into his ear, and Lex grimaced. The owner of the mouth that was pressed against his cheek was attractive, and obviously sure of himself. No one else had tried to plaster themselves on the billionaire body of Metropolis’ most eligible bachelor. Not to mention, Metropolis’ most securitied up bachelor—Lex could see one of his guards about to step in, but he made a tiny negative shake of his head. The limpet on his side was one of his set—one of his old set, he should say. He hadn’t seen Michael since they were kids, but he saw him from time to time in the ‘pages’ and heard of him in passing. He kept an idle sort of track of the coming and goings of the rich and famous.
“Lee—eex. It’s been way too long, too long.” The mouth against his ear was wet and warm, and Lex actually felt a little lick of lust. He’d never done anyone in his crowd—he kept his sexuality to himself, once he’d left Excelsior and that car crash of a crush he’d had on his room mate at the time.
Michael was high, but still…Michael shoved a hand up under his shirt, and rubbed his fingertips across his belly. “I always wondered what gets you going, Lex…you’re such an iceman. Nothing turns you on. I always wanted to see…” his fingertips rode under the waistband of his trousers, and Lex grabbed his hand, hard.
“Oh, I don’t think you *really* want to know what turns me on,” Lex said and gave Michael a wolfish smile. One part of his brain was running down Michael’s assets and connections—his dad owned a major design house that had fallen on less lustrous times—they were currently in talks to license the name to a superstore conglomerate—that was a death knell, Lex thought—Michael’s mother had a successful perfume line and…the other part of his brain concentrated on the fact that Michael had always had the best shit and once upon a time he was rumored to be a decent enough fuck….
Michael staggered and leaned against him. “Kinky. I like kinky. You can do anything, I don’t care. Especially right now,” he grinned blearily.
Lex had a flash—green eyes, skin forever—and groaned. “In that case, how about the Amsterdam?” Lex kept a room there still, a holdover from his partying days.
“The Amsterdam?” Michael frowned, and Lex realized that the hotel was no longer considered the place to stay—“Do you want to fuck, or critique my taste?” Lex snapped and Michael shook his head quickly.
“Do you have a car,” Lex asked, and at Michael’s affirmative nod, he spoke into his phone quickly. “Follow, not too close, I’ll be over night at the Amsterdam.” Yes sir, he heard, and ushered the idiot with him out the door.
*******
There was something about an imbalance of power that was just terribly arousing, Lex mused. Michael was facing the headboard, his hands tied to it, blindfolded…it made him much prettier. He probably should have gagged him too. Lex had to admit, he liked the way his ass quivered every time he stroked his back. Nice. Lex reached under and pinched his nipple. Hard. Twisted a little, and Michael groaned. “That hurts.”
Lex might have stopped, but every time he twisted, Michael’s dick leaked, and bounced. Lex pinched the flesh right under his navel, dug his nails in as he twisted and Michael reared back. His nipples were bright red from being mauled, swollen, like his mouth, red and wet and every time Lex performed some little indignity on him, he licked his lips and moaned. All along his thighs, thick clear fluid was smeared. Ran his finger along the foreskin, pulled it back. Lex rolled the palm of his hand over the deep red swollen tip. He was fascinated. Beside Clark’s, he’d never touched an uncut penis. He rolled the skin between his fingertips and Michael jerked and groaned. “Please, come on,” he gasped. “Do—do something.”
“Shh, be patient.” He leaned over and ran the tip of his tongue along the rim, slid it between the head and the hood surrounding it. Lex sucked the tip in and chased precome with his tongue, polishing the skin, drinking him down. He pressed fingers into him; bit his hip when he jerked too hard. “Keep still.” He bit him again, sucking up bruises, hard—they were purple when he pulled back, snagged a condom from the folds of the comforter.
He rolled the lubricated condom down, stroking himself lightly as he did. He lined his dick up with the whorl of muscle, and pushed…he slid in, popped in, and groaned. Michael shivered from head to toes, and moaned, bent forward a little, but Lex just pushed the tip in and back a little, not pulling out, not pushing in, and did it until Michael practically yelled, “Put it in, you fucker--”
Lex chucked deep in his chest. “Okay, okay…” he shoved in, hard, fast, and bit down on Michael’s shoulder at the same time, and just as he figured, the intensity of the two sensations crossed wires for him and made him jerk—his dick smacked his belly with a liquid noise. Lex laughed and groaned at the same time. “Yeah, yeah, shit.”
Michael was good at this, he squeezed and fucked back on Lex, all Lex had to do was hold him, maul his neck and shoulders, and each bite brought a fresh yelp, and wiggle. Lex’s dick was buried in the guy as far as it would go, he felt it building, boiling, tightening his skin, muscles, he was panting and Michael was drooling all over the palm he had pressed against his mouth just for fun….
“What are you doing?”
“Jesus!” Lex’s eyes shot open—what the fuck “—Clark! How the hell--why?”
“I got lonely so I came looking for you…what are you doing?”
Lex bit the inside of his cheek hard, so hard, he tasted blood—but Michael was tightening on him, he was convulsing around him, his dick was spurting and Lex could feel it coat his hand and shit—he was coming, tears came to his eyes because it was so good, so hard, and he was biting down, gritting his teeth and desperate not to make a sound.
“Lex--”
The tone was worried, almost afraid and Lex refused to look at him—God. “Go—Clark—I—shit. Why are you here?” he panted. “Get out! Go home—this instant, right now, you hear? Right now.”
Clark let out a sob, and ran back to the open window, and was out—gone—flying.
Lex dropped to Michael’s wet back. Well, looked like Clark fully recovered his powers, if not his memory. Jesus, he probably traumatized the kid…he pulled out and staggered to the bathroom. Oh well, that’s what therapists were for. He sat on the edge of the tub and felt faintly sick, and guilty. Damn it. He should be
“Are you going to untie me, Lex.? Lex? Lex? Hello?”
Lex really thought about leaving him tied up. It was a delicious thought. He grinned.
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(no subject)
12/12/06 01:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/12/06 11:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/13/06 01:31 am (UTC)(no subject)
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12/12/06 04:17 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/16/06 07:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/19/06 11:00 pm (UTC)And so are the stuff of dreams made... I can just *see* Lex there, standing, fighting indecision and himself and trying to understand what he really wants.
“Your mother would be disappointed with you, I think.” ooh, there she goes. Straight for the sucker-punch and she doesn't pull it. Hehe. How he fights his inner goodness! But he accepts this with silence, but Martha chips away at him effectively. Not quite as effectively as...naked, angry Clark. That's a vision of fantasy too, but look how he downplays it. Sublimates. But not for long.
Tied up men, just left to their own devices--and so helpless against being seen by hotel staff or anyone else that might wander in. Hee! Evol, evol... but in such a nice way.
(no subject)
12/21/06 03:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
12/21/06 11:03 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/21/06 11:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/23/06 01:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
8/16/07 03:10 am (UTC)(no subject)
11/21/12 10:29 pm (UTC)Lex wipes his eyes—he’s certainly not crying—these brats are kicking up so much dust….* This made me sad, yet not unhappy? Oh gosh and Clark catching him with that guy!! I haven't laughed so hard in days!!! muhahaha
(no subject)
11/21/12 11:38 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you laughed because I don't think anyone else got that it was supposed to be funny! (you know, in that omg kind of way)