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roxyTitle:: Out Of A Foreign Land
Author:: Roxy
Pairings/Characters:: Lex/Clark
Rating:: varying to nc-17
Word Count::
Summary:: Captain Trips has destroyed his world, but gives Lex one more chance to alter fate.
Notes:: written as an answer to the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sv_renaissance "Steven King Challenge" 2008
This is one of two amazing covers that![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
danceswithgary made for the story. Mind you, some high-pitched whining may have been involved. *koff*
behind this cut is the second cover!
Word count: 5347
Rating: PG
Out Of A Foreign Land
Martha didn't seem to be getting worse, but she certainly was not getting better. Some days he'd think, this is it, she's beating it—she'd already lasted many, many more days then he'd thought possible. She might not even have the super flu, maybe it was something else entirely. Something she was going to survive. He stirred the pot of soup on the stove, not really thinking about anything special—just breathing, doing things to keep him going. He'd cleaned her house from top to bottom—not that there was much cleaning to do. He'd cleaned the barn, and chased out every bit of dust and abolished all spiders living in the loft that was Clark's place once and it almost looked like it had when Clark used it, and he used to fantasize about semi-innocent hand-jobs in the hay…Lex sighed.
He was running out of things to do….
"Hi. I just finished bringing your mom some soup. I'm worried. She's not really eating anymore." He rocked back on his heels and let his eyes roam around the root cellar. The open doors flooded the shelves full of preserves with light. He rarely turned on the electric lights in the cellar. He always left the double doors open, it felt warmer—safer that way. "I'm going to bring her some peaches. Maybe that will help." He crossed the cellar and picked a jar full of golden fruit from the shelves. "I'm going to bury you, tomorrow. But not down here. I'm going to bury you in the field. Don’t worry, no one will ever find you. But you should be under the sun, not down here in the dark."
He turned with the peaches in his hand and stared at the bundle on the floor. "Tomorrow. I mean it."
Tomorrow came, and Lex was busy, making sure Martha ate something and was comfortable as possible, thinking…what was he going to do? He was here and now, what came next? Jonathan's dream demand to take care of his son apparently boiled down to putting him in the ground. Lex felt massive disappointment. In his fantasy return to Smallville, he'd pictured a homecoming involving Clark, and mutual forgiveness--magnanimous forgiveness on his part, seeing how deeply Clark hurt him, a little attempted murder on his part aside. He smiled. Clark had to have known Lex couldn't kill him. It wasn't in him to do that—but torture, as much as Clark had tortured him all through their Smallville years, all through the Metropolis years…that was a different story. "But I never wanted you dead, you idiot. Even when you were trying to put me through a wall, I cared for you. We couldn't leave each other alone, that was the problem. We just couldn't keep far enough apart—" He shook his head. Insane. He needed to stop talking to Clark before it got to the point he started answering.
******
He was downtown on Main Street, looking for supplies, looking for Smallville's story of the end. Remembering the mutants he'd seen earlier that week, he came prepared. He had Jonathan's shotgun resting over his shoulder, a knife tucked into the top of his trusty tims, and a handgun in the waist of the shorts he wore. He felt a little like an over-dressed debutante, but it was probably better to be over prepared than to be something's meat. His head swiveled this way and that, searching for unwelcome movement, checking out doorways, and open windows, eyes trained on every alley way…He skirted debris when he could, kicked through the rubble blocking doorways and on the street when he had to.
This town died differently than Cloverdale. He had a feeling very few people left Smallville to go to whatever was promised in Las Vegas. More likely, they went outward, to the mysterious place in the corn, or to the mountains... He stopped and looked at the shelves. Bottled water…fat chance he was going to find that. The place had been picked through rather thoroughly. He found some dried fruit, and a few cans of pineapple chunks, tossed them into his backpack. He grabbed a handful of beef-jerky packages with a moue of distaste, but he reminded himself, these were harsh times, and called for sacrifices. He glanced up over the register at the rows of cigarettes and cigars…what the fuck. He reached up and grabbed a pack, humming a song old before he was born, some song about love and the end of the world. He stopped to light a cigarette, and to laugh.
He worked his way down the street, entered what was left of Fordman's to hunt for clothing, maybe another pair of boots and raingear. The store was a nightmare inside. Piled against the counters, under the racks--in drifts like snow bodies lay huddled together and Lex wondered what had made so many of them come here to die? God, what was truly horrible was that the sight of so many dead was becoming unremarkable. He dropped the cigarette and shuddered as he ground it out, taste for it gone.
He stepped around a family in the middle of what was the stationary aisle and was about to head for the pharmacy section he dimly remembered Fordman's having when he heard a noise not made by himself, and whirled around, shotgun ready. He heard the shuffling noise again, and eased back the trigger.
The crazy old woman he'd noticed when he first came into town was standing in the aisle. Her cart looked like it was supporting her; she peered about as if slightly confused to find herself in Fordman's. Her eyes sharpened when she caught sight of him, and she pointed at him. "Ladybird, ladybird fly away home," she croaked.
"What?" he snapped, distaste making him back away. He felt his mouth curl in a snarl. She wasn't right, this crazy old lady. She was…
"Your house is on fire, your children." She shrugged and turned to walk away.
"Hey, where are the others? Who else is here?" he shouted.
She grinned. "Nobody but you and me, and I'm not sure about you."
The punch line to a hoary old joke, wasn't it, he thought. Howling in the street broke him out of his horrified trance, he jumped through the smashed out remains of Fordman's front window, and didn’t stop running until he was in his truck--he drove like a maniac back to the farm. His heart was pounding crazily, mouth dry—he was terrified he'd left Martha alone to the mercy of mutants who shouldn’t even be alive. fly away home, fly away home--
She was fine—the farm was quiet, Clark was undisturbed in his bright blue plastic shroud. He looked down at the long bundle in the shadows ands thought, "He'd like that blue." His shoulders shook with semi-hysterical giggles. He wiped at his eyes. Why he let that crazy old woman rattle him, he didn’t know. Crazy was crazy…old bitch and her stupid hat.
******
He and Martha spent a long time talking that evening. They talked about the old days, Clark, and Jonathan…Chloe and Pete. She talked about things that tore his heart, things about Clark and his friends she seemed to think he knew, like what movies Clark's friends liked, or where they ate, what they ate, music they liked…Lex tried to tell her his friendship with Clark was more compartmentalized by Clark than she was aware of but she didn’t seem to hear that, and right before she drifted off into the heavy sleep that took her more and more frequently, she murmured, "We shouldn't have held him quite so tightly, he loved you so much and then…it was all gone. Feel guilty for that. Such a small thing it was. But we couldn’t handle it...love. Stupid to fear it…" She was sound asleep, and Lex stood at her bedside, mouth open, fists clenched and shaking in fury. He did not have to know that. She must not mean what it sounded like. It couldn't—must not—"No," he snarled. "It's not fucking fair, not fair…"
He went to Clark's room and lay on the bed. After a few minutes, he sighed deeply, and pushed his hand under the waist of his boxers, and held himself. Fuck…he closed his eyes, and stroked lightly, just touching really, and willed images of Clark into his mind…Clark throwing bales of hay, Clark leaning against the side of one of his cars, and laughing at some joke…Lex smiled a little, and stroked just a bit firmer. He sighed again, ran his fingers over the head of his dick and pictured Clark on his knees…mouth parted in smile, a teasing smile. "What will you do for me, if I do this?" he was saying but his eyes were warm and full of--fuck. his arousal died completely and all he felt was lost.
He sat up and threw on pants and a tee shirt and made his way quietly down the stairs. He walked through the kitchen, grabbed a candle and walked out to the root cellar. Down the stairs in the dark, and he didn't look left or right. He sat cross-legged in front of Clark's body, sat the candle down and lit it, and the wavering flame made a flickering circle in the darkness. He felt like he was thirteen again and sneaking around Excelsior in the dark…looking for a place to hide. To be safe in. He wasn't going to whine about it—what happened to him wasn't special, or horrible…He didn't believe in feeling sorry for himself—self-pity was weak, bad strategy. He dropped his head and hot tears splashed against the plastic. "Why the hell couldn't you have trusted me enough? Why didn't you—" his voice broke. "Why didn’t you see how much alike we were?" He wiped his nose against the back of his hand and tired to still his sobs. "Shit. I liked it better when I was trying to kill you." He leaned back and pushed a foot against the tarp. "God. You know I wasn't trying to kill you. I—I don't know what I was trying to do. I'm a fucked up, fucked up man." He stood. "Clark—tomorrow. You need to be in the ground, and I need to be gone. I won't leave as long as your mother needs me, but after that…I'll find some place else to go."
******
His mother stood at one of the stained glass windows, watching the rain drip down the multi-colored panes. 'You need to leave here, Lex. You have a lot of work to do. People will be counting on you. You can do something great, be someone great—someone loved.
He knew something was off—his mother, here in the castle, and he felt full and warm and he rubbed his chest, luxuriating in the feel of his silk shirt, the material slick, warm on his skin. He touched his cheek, felt how smooth and unblemished his face was, roughness that even his accelerated healing couldn’t cure was gone…The desk under his hand felt warm, skin temperature, glassy smooth and he couldn't stop stroking it. The wool pants he wore caressed his legs. He couldn’t remember ever feeling such a sensual reaction to the material before. 'I have work right here, Mother. Things require my attention here.' It was odd…unlike his usual dreams of Mother, he felt only impatience with her, a wish for her to leave him alone…
She turned to him and smiled. 'Alexander. Do what your mother tells you. You're needed--*he* needs you, darling. Stop wasting time.'
He swung his chair away from his desk and tilted his chin up. 'Why? Why should I listen to you? How much did you really care? You left me alone with *Dad*, after all…way before you died.'
The smile dropped away, her eyes blazed blood red, her lips peeled back from sharp sharp teeth. Lex clapped his hand over his ears, trying to block her voice roaring painfully through his skull. 'Don’t question me, Baldy—get your fucking ass on the road NOW.' The single word echoed and echoed and where his mother had stood was a black hole, pouring out heat, and the smell of burning. A fiery red orb burned in the center of the black and screaming, there was so much screaming…
Lex threw himself out of the soaking sheets, without knowing how he got there; he was pressed against the closet door, his hands trying to claw through the wood, trying to hide from that eye…"no no no…"
He could hear his mother's voice screaming, he heard so many voices screaming in that burning darkness. "I don’t want to go there, I don’t want that, I don't…"
A shriek ripped through the house, and he shot straight up. He laughed--like that cat from the cartoons, man--he was going to end up on the ceiling. Or dead on the floor from a heart attack.
A second shriek brought him out of his fog, propelled him through the door. It was real, raw, and full of fear--worse, it was coming from Martha's room.
Her door was open, and there was a smell like dead things, concentrated and sprayed over everything, and she hung over the side of the bed, and a thing was on her chest looking comically startled by Lex's entrance. One long slim claw was buried in her chest, it's eyes glowed a brilliant and poisonous green he knew very well.
"Stop me," it said in perfectly clear English, even though it spoke through a mouth that seemed shattered, and leapt at him, claws extended.
I'm going to die, he thought, and threw himself into a forward roll, twisted and came to his feet behind the thing. He fought down a surge of pride--See, Mercy? and tried to edge around the bed. It cocked its head and turned towards him. "Stop me." It lashed out and knocked Lex off his feet. He tumbled to the ground, and wasted not a second trying to get back to his feet, scuttled backwards on his butt trying to get away from it—and towards the gun he hoped Martha hadn't been lying about.
"Stop me," the thing said and its lower jaw fell off. Lex gagged, realized that it hadn't lost the lower jaw, it had dropped down to its chest, and opened wide, sections of bone and muscle peeling back, it's face was opening like the petals of a flower, and hundreds of teeth seemed to line the exploded flesh. "Stop me hungry…" it groaned.
Lex's shoulders hit the bed, and his elbow slammed into the nightstand—it rattled and the drawer popped loose. "Jesus, what the fuck did you wish for!" he screamed, and ripped the drawer out, dumped it in front of him.
"Wish? Wish…" its jaw opened impossibly wider, its throat swelled…"Hungry…"
Gun gun gun… He pulled out a ridiculous little popgun of a revolver and prayed. Please don’t let Martha be dead. Please let me blow this thing's brain out. His hand shook, he raised it and prayed, Lord, please don’t let that man out there in the desert get me.
The shot seemed so loud, the thing jumped straight up into the air and something thick, black, and liquid rushed out of one eye--it screamed and it was as if every voice he'd heard in his dream poured out of the nightmare jaws of whatever---whomever—the thing was. Had been. "Oh God, oh God, oh God---why now? You listen to me now?" he screamed. "Why not when I was twelve and that bastard was doing everything he could to break me—" he stood over the former person and shot until the chambers were empty.
He came back to himself with a start. "Oh shit, Martha."
She was alive—bleeding a little, a long line of dark blood welled up through the rip in her night gown, her breath was weak and stuttered, but she was still alive. More importantly, he wasn't alone. He bent forward, hands on his knees and gulped in fresh oxygen. "Martha…thank you for that, too."
The wound was long but shallow, and he splashed alcohol he'd found in the bathroom on it, wincing when she groaned. "'M'sorry, we need to do this." He eyed the disgusting remains splashed on the wall and across her bedroom floor as he taped gauze across the wound and refused to feel embarrassed at the sight of her bony naked chest. He sighed, bit his lip as he lifted her up—it was like holding wire and knots and nothing in his hands. He moved her into the guest room, sewing room, whatever. Until he could clean out that…mess, she was not going to stay in that room.
******
Martha and Lex were on the long front porch, she was wrapped in an old fashioned afghan, sipping at tea, or pretending to do so, and watching as Lex nailed a section of plywood he'd inexpertly hacked into quarters over the shattered glass in the front door. He'd checked the lower floor windows out, thinking of covering them all, but in the end, they decided not to board over the windows. Martha said she couldn't live without light, and Lex was pretty damn tired himself of sitting in half darkness. He insisted though that they had to be able to defend themselves, in case mutants weren't warned off by the remains of Flower Face's head on the driveway gate. They'd need to both be armed at all times.
Martha held the gun up to the sun and light danced over it, as it's weight made her hand shake. Lex winced at the flare of light from the bright metal. She sighed. "Clark hated guns, ever since—ah, since he was a teenager and some certain incidents made him sour on weapons. But Jonathan was a farmer and farmers are ever practical. I never did clean out the gun cabinet. Being alone here, I felt better armed."
"Lucky for us you didn't." Lex sat on the step near her, glancing down at the nearly full mug she'd forgotten on the step. "I never carried a gun after—after moving to Metropolis. Never had to. My security was armed, and I never went anywhere without them…but you know that."
She nodded and a little smile turned up the pale corners of her mouth. "Clark mentioned from time to time that your bodyguards could be…testy." Lex was nearly certain the small exhale was a snicker. Had Clark…downplayed their war, that Martha could laugh? Would he? Lex thought that yes, he might….
"Testy? Clark had a gift for understatement," he smiled tentatively and felt relief when she laughed a weak but proper laugh.
"I think he was somewhat fond of Mercy and Hope. I certainly heard enough about them. And you." She shook her head. "You should just have admitted you needed him, the both of you should have. Balance can be achieved by standing together as well as by standing at opposite ends." She sank down in the porch chair and her eyes drifted shut. "Idiots? Oh gosh, yes, they really were idiots…" she murmured and Lex knew she wasn't talking to him anymore. He adjusted her afghan, rubbed her shoulder and sighed. God, she was just…disappearing. Growing paler and thinner and…and….
She was hanging on by a thread. She was hanging on for him. And he needed to be leaving. He needed to get to Nebraska. "Tell me what to do, Mother. Should I leave, can I leave?" With a faint groan, he stood and gathered Martha up, carried her to her room. She smiled in her sleep and whispered. "Jonathan. Oh, it's too good to see you…" Lex placed her soft as a feather onto the twin bed and sat by her side to wait for morning.
PART FOUR
I pray the Lord my soul to take
Pale yellow sunlight cast patterns on the floor, pressed against Lex's eyes, warmed him…he woke slowly, anticipating his body's disapproval of his sleeping arrangements—his long legs thrown over the arm of a boudoir chair that had to be a family heirloom, a survivor from an era that had no understanding of ergonomics--because if not, than it was designed with torture in mind. He rolled his neck and shoulders, satisfied by a sharp crack and an easing in pain. He reached towards the bed, he meant to wake Martha, and move her downstairs to the living room. He touched her hand.
"Oh."
She wasn't there anymore. Her body was, but her spirit had fled, she was on her own journey now, and Lex was left behind. He dropped his head to the comforter covering her, and made a terrible noise...the pain was sharp, and intense, and totally unexpected. So much death and he could still be moved to grief? A part of him was glad—he was still that human.
******
The sun filled the room fully before he could make himself move. He had to bury her, and her son. He wiped his swollen eyes. That piece by her garden--the flower garden not the vegetable garden. He sniffed hard and wiped again at his wet eyes. The soil would be soft there and besides Clark used to talk about how much Martha had loved her flowers, loved the time she spent working among the flowers.
He rolled the top sheet around her, and picked her up. It was horrible that she seemed even lighter than she had the day before. He carried her as easily as if she were made of paper, carried her to the living room and laid her gently on the couch. He stared down at the wash-faded sheet. She deserved more, much more.
He left the house, got in his truck and drove back to the castle. Her shroud was there, in Lionel's house.
******
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on.
Four corners to my bed,
Four angels round my head;
One to watch, and one to pray,
and two to bear my soul away.
He stalked across the room that had been his library/office—a room really never intended to be his but it was where Clark met him, and being there with him magically made the castle his, changed it from the place his father decided he didn't want to inhabit into Lex's home. He'd slowly moved his business into that room, the room that was always open to Clark. Or had been. He stared around the space, looking from stained glass windows towering over the dust covered desk, the mahogany wood paneling, teak and granite floor, stone block walls…he contrasted this room to his white and gray suite in the Tower—it was as if two different people held those spaces. Metropolis was a sterile cradle of stainless steel, glass…he snarled at the empty desk and the ghost of the man who'd lived here once, who'd thought that he knew everything about life and how to live it. "You stupid fuck, you ruined everything, everything—"
On one wall a tapestry hung, embroidered with a seal that supposedly had something to do with the 'noble line of Luthor' that Dad had cobbled up out of air and fantasy. He yanked it off the wall. It was shot though with threads of iridescent blue and gold and red, just right for a shroud. He emptied the bar next, tossed a few bottle of liquor onto the bundle, and stopped to take a final look around. He had all he needed from this place. He grabbed a bottle and broke the seal, drank—it burned like fire all the way down. "That's good," he gasped. "That's perfect."
He looked over the desk, the bookcase…idly thought about putting some of the antique pieces in the wall safe but…"What the fuck, all over the world art is rotting, dying…what does it even matter anymore?"
He left the castle's front doors wide when he left. He was never coming back to this place. Let the wind and the rain take it…let it all rot, let the place disintegrate. Nothing here was his, after all.
By the time he got Martha wrapped in the tapestry, and out to the garden, he was very nearly drunk—closer to it than he had been for years—ever Clark showed up outside his penthouse window, scowling and stuffed in that stupid suit, for God's sake. He tilted the bottle back and drank deeply, feeling the liquid move down his throat in an almost solid lump. He dropped his hand, let the bottle go, and breathed hard. He took up the shovel and stabbed it into the ground.
The rasp of metal against soil filled his mind for a little and then he stumbled to a stop. Shit—I need to bury him too.
He wobbled a bit; his grip on the shovel handle the only thing holding him up. "Bring some clothesline too, must be some in the cellar or the barn…didn't they use line for—for something?" He needed to tie the tapestry closed because she kept…she kept looking at him. Kept wanting him to do *something*. Bury her God damn irritating stupid single-minded Boy Scout. "Fu—freaking Clark Kent."
He was staggering down the cellar stairs, the wide flung doors letting light pour down to the bottom…Martha's jars of fruits and mysterious vegetables sparkled more beautifully than diamonds. "Because they're useful," he muttered. "Just like these flannel shirts, useful." He rubbed his palms over his chest, drying them on the flannel…an old shirt of Clark's he told himself he remembered him wearing. Years ago, when the man didn't hate him quite so much.
Clark lay against the rear shelves—shelves that held buckets, and baskets, crates…netting and rope…he needed that rope.
And Clark.
He took a shaky breath in, and stooped as he blew it out--grabbed the bundle, thinking to pick it up like he'd picked up Martha. He staggered under the weight and nearly fell on top of him. "Fuck! Clark, you weigh a ton. Fucking alien guys built like tanks…" He tried again before giving up.
"Whoosh. Okay, okay, let me think…" He shoved the coil of rope into the back pocket of the old jeans he wore, wished he'd brought the bottle down with him, and inhaled, once, twice—grabbed the tarp in both hands and pulled. Teeth bared with the effort, nose wrinkled in a growl, he managed to slide Clark across the dirt, grunting, cursing. "Damn it, if his mother got him in here, I can get him—out." He grunted, worked Clark's heavy weight up the stairs, one step at a time. "Unh, sorry about your head, Clark—this would probably be easier if I wasn't so fucked up, boy," he giggled.
It seemed forever before he got him up and out of the root cellar, by that time the tarp was snagged on the wooden stairs, and he was dragging Clark by the shirt he was wearing—fist clutched in the material, and screaming at it not to rip, you bastard, why did it always have to be him doing whatever he could for everyone else and not ever getting any thanks even…fat tears ran down his cheeks in an alcohol fueled haze of maudlin self-pity....
By the time he got to the garden he was sweating, streaked with dirt and dust and feeling distinctly less sorry for himself and much, *much* more pissed off. Drunk and angry or not, he was still gentle with Martha's body, tying her shroud as neatly as he could. It depressed him to think that he'd learned to tie a person this way for vastly different reasons—and now it might be a much more valuable skill than he'd thought possible…"Useful," he muttered.
He lay his neat burden in the shade of an overgrown lilac, and attacked the loam with the shovel again, jammed the shovel into the soft soil over and over until he was knee deep in a longish trench, before finally stopping. Climbed out and dropped to his knees next to her—it was time.
"You helped me more than you knew. You were like a mother to me. God—so many times I *wished* you were my mother. I was jealous of Clark sometimes…other times I was stupid enough to hope we could share you—be together and you'd love me like a son because he loved me…" he laughed, until he was sobbing again. "Shit." He wiped his eyes. "I loved you."
He put her in the hole as carefully, as gently as he could, wiped sweat off his head and face with his forearm. Glanced at Clark. Laying there on the grass he looked—normal. He looked like he'd decided to take a nap in the afternoon sun. The way Lex had let him drop, his arms above his head, one hand cupped the other—he looked like he'd stretched and drifted off to sleep.
"You bastard," he growled as he threw dirt back in the hole. "You fucking bastard. You see? You see? Who had to take care of everything after all? Who cared? Me—me, that's who." He tamped the dirt down, and felt a stab of horror—no rocks. Nothing to weight her down with—protect her from the digging things…
"God! God, I'm so tired…"He flopped down next to Clark's body. "I'm so drunk. And tired. Why do I have to be the last? Was what I did so bad, God is punishing me by making me stand watch over the corpse every one I ever loved? I already had to look at your face every time we met. Clark…the hatred, the disgust…was I really that…I need a drink. Fuck me, but I need another drink, and I need to bury your ass and *go*. Before I run out of time—before that Monster finds me." He lay his face against the ground and stared at Clark's arm, so close he could see fine hairs that the sun made gold…a tiny spider crawled over the tops of them, from minute hair to minute hair, slowly, carefully picking it's way, heading upward. "Dead. Dead…" He watched it for a long moment, before grinding it under his thumb.
He didn't mean to fall asleep but he did.
'Come on to Hemingford Home, boy. Come on home.' She sat on the porch by herself, the guitar clutched in her fingers. It was dark around her, but he wasn't sure if it was twilight, or The Dark. 'Not much time left, Lex out of Kansas. Bring yourself home.'
'First, I have to bury my…my friend, and I'll be along after that.'
'Kal don’t need burying, you just get ready or—'
Lex jumped up, panting and in a panic—fuck, he'd fallen asleep outside, unarmed, like a suicidal *idiot*. He might as well have thrown steak sauce on himself and tucked a sprig of parsley behind his ear. Drinking and the apocalypse didn't mix—not unless you had a death wish, and he hadn't had that for a long, long time…since he'd stopped drinking.
He grinned wryly--and winced, remembering his dream. Mother Abigail had just about told him directly to leave Clark on the ground and go…God. Leave him…Clark gleamed like alabaster in the moon light, too perfect to be human. Lex leaned down and ran his thumb gently over Clark's mouth, pressed just a bit—jerked his hand back, horrified with himself. He'd actually…he'd almost molested…he'd touched a corpse…like *that.* Dead, and he still couldn't leave Clark in peace. He groaned, "You sick, sick fuck…" He sat up the rest of the night, guilt and disgust at himself keeping him stiffly away from Clark's body—just bent over himself, watching over Clark until sunrise….
TBC
part 8
Author:: Roxy
Pairings/Characters:: Lex/Clark
Rating:: varying to nc-17
Word Count::
Summary:: Captain Trips has destroyed his world, but gives Lex one more chance to alter fate.
Notes:: written as an answer to the
sv_renaissance "Steven King Challenge" 2008This is one of two amazing covers that
danceswithgary made for the story. Mind you, some high-pitched whining may have been involved. *koff*behind this cut is the second cover!
Word count: 5347
Rating: PG
Out Of A Foreign Land
Martha didn't seem to be getting worse, but she certainly was not getting better. Some days he'd think, this is it, she's beating it—she'd already lasted many, many more days then he'd thought possible. She might not even have the super flu, maybe it was something else entirely. Something she was going to survive. He stirred the pot of soup on the stove, not really thinking about anything special—just breathing, doing things to keep him going. He'd cleaned her house from top to bottom—not that there was much cleaning to do. He'd cleaned the barn, and chased out every bit of dust and abolished all spiders living in the loft that was Clark's place once and it almost looked like it had when Clark used it, and he used to fantasize about semi-innocent hand-jobs in the hay…Lex sighed.
He was running out of things to do….
"Hi. I just finished bringing your mom some soup. I'm worried. She's not really eating anymore." He rocked back on his heels and let his eyes roam around the root cellar. The open doors flooded the shelves full of preserves with light. He rarely turned on the electric lights in the cellar. He always left the double doors open, it felt warmer—safer that way. "I'm going to bring her some peaches. Maybe that will help." He crossed the cellar and picked a jar full of golden fruit from the shelves. "I'm going to bury you, tomorrow. But not down here. I'm going to bury you in the field. Don’t worry, no one will ever find you. But you should be under the sun, not down here in the dark."
He turned with the peaches in his hand and stared at the bundle on the floor. "Tomorrow. I mean it."
Tomorrow came, and Lex was busy, making sure Martha ate something and was comfortable as possible, thinking…what was he going to do? He was here and now, what came next? Jonathan's dream demand to take care of his son apparently boiled down to putting him in the ground. Lex felt massive disappointment. In his fantasy return to Smallville, he'd pictured a homecoming involving Clark, and mutual forgiveness--magnanimous forgiveness on his part, seeing how deeply Clark hurt him, a little attempted murder on his part aside. He smiled. Clark had to have known Lex couldn't kill him. It wasn't in him to do that—but torture, as much as Clark had tortured him all through their Smallville years, all through the Metropolis years…that was a different story. "But I never wanted you dead, you idiot. Even when you were trying to put me through a wall, I cared for you. We couldn't leave each other alone, that was the problem. We just couldn't keep far enough apart—" He shook his head. Insane. He needed to stop talking to Clark before it got to the point he started answering.
He was downtown on Main Street, looking for supplies, looking for Smallville's story of the end. Remembering the mutants he'd seen earlier that week, he came prepared. He had Jonathan's shotgun resting over his shoulder, a knife tucked into the top of his trusty tims, and a handgun in the waist of the shorts he wore. He felt a little like an over-dressed debutante, but it was probably better to be over prepared than to be something's meat. His head swiveled this way and that, searching for unwelcome movement, checking out doorways, and open windows, eyes trained on every alley way…He skirted debris when he could, kicked through the rubble blocking doorways and on the street when he had to.
This town died differently than Cloverdale. He had a feeling very few people left Smallville to go to whatever was promised in Las Vegas. More likely, they went outward, to the mysterious place in the corn, or to the mountains... He stopped and looked at the shelves. Bottled water…fat chance he was going to find that. The place had been picked through rather thoroughly. He found some dried fruit, and a few cans of pineapple chunks, tossed them into his backpack. He grabbed a handful of beef-jerky packages with a moue of distaste, but he reminded himself, these were harsh times, and called for sacrifices. He glanced up over the register at the rows of cigarettes and cigars…what the fuck. He reached up and grabbed a pack, humming a song old before he was born, some song about love and the end of the world. He stopped to light a cigarette, and to laugh.
He worked his way down the street, entered what was left of Fordman's to hunt for clothing, maybe another pair of boots and raingear. The store was a nightmare inside. Piled against the counters, under the racks--in drifts like snow bodies lay huddled together and Lex wondered what had made so many of them come here to die? God, what was truly horrible was that the sight of so many dead was becoming unremarkable. He dropped the cigarette and shuddered as he ground it out, taste for it gone.
He stepped around a family in the middle of what was the stationary aisle and was about to head for the pharmacy section he dimly remembered Fordman's having when he heard a noise not made by himself, and whirled around, shotgun ready. He heard the shuffling noise again, and eased back the trigger.
The crazy old woman he'd noticed when he first came into town was standing in the aisle. Her cart looked like it was supporting her; she peered about as if slightly confused to find herself in Fordman's. Her eyes sharpened when she caught sight of him, and she pointed at him. "Ladybird, ladybird fly away home," she croaked.
"What?" he snapped, distaste making him back away. He felt his mouth curl in a snarl. She wasn't right, this crazy old lady. She was…
"Your house is on fire, your children." She shrugged and turned to walk away.
"Hey, where are the others? Who else is here?" he shouted.
She grinned. "Nobody but you and me, and I'm not sure about you."
The punch line to a hoary old joke, wasn't it, he thought. Howling in the street broke him out of his horrified trance, he jumped through the smashed out remains of Fordman's front window, and didn’t stop running until he was in his truck--he drove like a maniac back to the farm. His heart was pounding crazily, mouth dry—he was terrified he'd left Martha alone to the mercy of mutants who shouldn’t even be alive. fly away home, fly away home--
She was fine—the farm was quiet, Clark was undisturbed in his bright blue plastic shroud. He looked down at the long bundle in the shadows ands thought, "He'd like that blue." His shoulders shook with semi-hysterical giggles. He wiped at his eyes. Why he let that crazy old woman rattle him, he didn’t know. Crazy was crazy…old bitch and her stupid hat.
He and Martha spent a long time talking that evening. They talked about the old days, Clark, and Jonathan…Chloe and Pete. She talked about things that tore his heart, things about Clark and his friends she seemed to think he knew, like what movies Clark's friends liked, or where they ate, what they ate, music they liked…Lex tried to tell her his friendship with Clark was more compartmentalized by Clark than she was aware of but she didn’t seem to hear that, and right before she drifted off into the heavy sleep that took her more and more frequently, she murmured, "We shouldn't have held him quite so tightly, he loved you so much and then…it was all gone. Feel guilty for that. Such a small thing it was. But we couldn’t handle it...love. Stupid to fear it…" She was sound asleep, and Lex stood at her bedside, mouth open, fists clenched and shaking in fury. He did not have to know that. She must not mean what it sounded like. It couldn't—must not—"No," he snarled. "It's not fucking fair, not fair…"
He went to Clark's room and lay on the bed. After a few minutes, he sighed deeply, and pushed his hand under the waist of his boxers, and held himself. Fuck…he closed his eyes, and stroked lightly, just touching really, and willed images of Clark into his mind…Clark throwing bales of hay, Clark leaning against the side of one of his cars, and laughing at some joke…Lex smiled a little, and stroked just a bit firmer. He sighed again, ran his fingers over the head of his dick and pictured Clark on his knees…mouth parted in smile, a teasing smile. "What will you do for me, if I do this?" he was saying but his eyes were warm and full of--fuck. his arousal died completely and all he felt was lost.
He sat up and threw on pants and a tee shirt and made his way quietly down the stairs. He walked through the kitchen, grabbed a candle and walked out to the root cellar. Down the stairs in the dark, and he didn't look left or right. He sat cross-legged in front of Clark's body, sat the candle down and lit it, and the wavering flame made a flickering circle in the darkness. He felt like he was thirteen again and sneaking around Excelsior in the dark…looking for a place to hide. To be safe in. He wasn't going to whine about it—what happened to him wasn't special, or horrible…He didn't believe in feeling sorry for himself—self-pity was weak, bad strategy. He dropped his head and hot tears splashed against the plastic. "Why the hell couldn't you have trusted me enough? Why didn't you—" his voice broke. "Why didn’t you see how much alike we were?" He wiped his nose against the back of his hand and tired to still his sobs. "Shit. I liked it better when I was trying to kill you." He leaned back and pushed a foot against the tarp. "God. You know I wasn't trying to kill you. I—I don't know what I was trying to do. I'm a fucked up, fucked up man." He stood. "Clark—tomorrow. You need to be in the ground, and I need to be gone. I won't leave as long as your mother needs me, but after that…I'll find some place else to go."
His mother stood at one of the stained glass windows, watching the rain drip down the multi-colored panes. 'You need to leave here, Lex. You have a lot of work to do. People will be counting on you. You can do something great, be someone great—someone loved.
He knew something was off—his mother, here in the castle, and he felt full and warm and he rubbed his chest, luxuriating in the feel of his silk shirt, the material slick, warm on his skin. He touched his cheek, felt how smooth and unblemished his face was, roughness that even his accelerated healing couldn’t cure was gone…The desk under his hand felt warm, skin temperature, glassy smooth and he couldn't stop stroking it. The wool pants he wore caressed his legs. He couldn’t remember ever feeling such a sensual reaction to the material before. 'I have work right here, Mother. Things require my attention here.' It was odd…unlike his usual dreams of Mother, he felt only impatience with her, a wish for her to leave him alone…
She turned to him and smiled. 'Alexander. Do what your mother tells you. You're needed--*he* needs you, darling. Stop wasting time.'
He swung his chair away from his desk and tilted his chin up. 'Why? Why should I listen to you? How much did you really care? You left me alone with *Dad*, after all…way before you died.'
The smile dropped away, her eyes blazed blood red, her lips peeled back from sharp sharp teeth. Lex clapped his hand over his ears, trying to block her voice roaring painfully through his skull. 'Don’t question me, Baldy—get your fucking ass on the road NOW.' The single word echoed and echoed and where his mother had stood was a black hole, pouring out heat, and the smell of burning. A fiery red orb burned in the center of the black and screaming, there was so much screaming…
Lex threw himself out of the soaking sheets, without knowing how he got there; he was pressed against the closet door, his hands trying to claw through the wood, trying to hide from that eye…"no no no…"
He could hear his mother's voice screaming, he heard so many voices screaming in that burning darkness. "I don’t want to go there, I don’t want that, I don't…"
A shriek ripped through the house, and he shot straight up. He laughed--like that cat from the cartoons, man--he was going to end up on the ceiling. Or dead on the floor from a heart attack.
A second shriek brought him out of his fog, propelled him through the door. It was real, raw, and full of fear--worse, it was coming from Martha's room.
Her door was open, and there was a smell like dead things, concentrated and sprayed over everything, and she hung over the side of the bed, and a thing was on her chest looking comically startled by Lex's entrance. One long slim claw was buried in her chest, it's eyes glowed a brilliant and poisonous green he knew very well.
"Stop me," it said in perfectly clear English, even though it spoke through a mouth that seemed shattered, and leapt at him, claws extended.
I'm going to die, he thought, and threw himself into a forward roll, twisted and came to his feet behind the thing. He fought down a surge of pride--See, Mercy? and tried to edge around the bed. It cocked its head and turned towards him. "Stop me." It lashed out and knocked Lex off his feet. He tumbled to the ground, and wasted not a second trying to get back to his feet, scuttled backwards on his butt trying to get away from it—and towards the gun he hoped Martha hadn't been lying about.
"Stop me," the thing said and its lower jaw fell off. Lex gagged, realized that it hadn't lost the lower jaw, it had dropped down to its chest, and opened wide, sections of bone and muscle peeling back, it's face was opening like the petals of a flower, and hundreds of teeth seemed to line the exploded flesh. "Stop me hungry…" it groaned.
Lex's shoulders hit the bed, and his elbow slammed into the nightstand—it rattled and the drawer popped loose. "Jesus, what the fuck did you wish for!" he screamed, and ripped the drawer out, dumped it in front of him.
"Wish? Wish…" its jaw opened impossibly wider, its throat swelled…"Hungry…"
Gun gun gun… He pulled out a ridiculous little popgun of a revolver and prayed. Please don’t let Martha be dead. Please let me blow this thing's brain out. His hand shook, he raised it and prayed, Lord, please don’t let that man out there in the desert get me.
The shot seemed so loud, the thing jumped straight up into the air and something thick, black, and liquid rushed out of one eye--it screamed and it was as if every voice he'd heard in his dream poured out of the nightmare jaws of whatever---whomever—the thing was. Had been. "Oh God, oh God, oh God---why now? You listen to me now?" he screamed. "Why not when I was twelve and that bastard was doing everything he could to break me—" he stood over the former person and shot until the chambers were empty.
He came back to himself with a start. "Oh shit, Martha."
She was alive—bleeding a little, a long line of dark blood welled up through the rip in her night gown, her breath was weak and stuttered, but she was still alive. More importantly, he wasn't alone. He bent forward, hands on his knees and gulped in fresh oxygen. "Martha…thank you for that, too."
The wound was long but shallow, and he splashed alcohol he'd found in the bathroom on it, wincing when she groaned. "'M'sorry, we need to do this." He eyed the disgusting remains splashed on the wall and across her bedroom floor as he taped gauze across the wound and refused to feel embarrassed at the sight of her bony naked chest. He sighed, bit his lip as he lifted her up—it was like holding wire and knots and nothing in his hands. He moved her into the guest room, sewing room, whatever. Until he could clean out that…mess, she was not going to stay in that room.
Martha and Lex were on the long front porch, she was wrapped in an old fashioned afghan, sipping at tea, or pretending to do so, and watching as Lex nailed a section of plywood he'd inexpertly hacked into quarters over the shattered glass in the front door. He'd checked the lower floor windows out, thinking of covering them all, but in the end, they decided not to board over the windows. Martha said she couldn't live without light, and Lex was pretty damn tired himself of sitting in half darkness. He insisted though that they had to be able to defend themselves, in case mutants weren't warned off by the remains of Flower Face's head on the driveway gate. They'd need to both be armed at all times.
Martha held the gun up to the sun and light danced over it, as it's weight made her hand shake. Lex winced at the flare of light from the bright metal. She sighed. "Clark hated guns, ever since—ah, since he was a teenager and some certain incidents made him sour on weapons. But Jonathan was a farmer and farmers are ever practical. I never did clean out the gun cabinet. Being alone here, I felt better armed."
"Lucky for us you didn't." Lex sat on the step near her, glancing down at the nearly full mug she'd forgotten on the step. "I never carried a gun after—after moving to Metropolis. Never had to. My security was armed, and I never went anywhere without them…but you know that."
She nodded and a little smile turned up the pale corners of her mouth. "Clark mentioned from time to time that your bodyguards could be…testy." Lex was nearly certain the small exhale was a snicker. Had Clark…downplayed their war, that Martha could laugh? Would he? Lex thought that yes, he might….
"Testy? Clark had a gift for understatement," he smiled tentatively and felt relief when she laughed a weak but proper laugh.
"I think he was somewhat fond of Mercy and Hope. I certainly heard enough about them. And you." She shook her head. "You should just have admitted you needed him, the both of you should have. Balance can be achieved by standing together as well as by standing at opposite ends." She sank down in the porch chair and her eyes drifted shut. "Idiots? Oh gosh, yes, they really were idiots…" she murmured and Lex knew she wasn't talking to him anymore. He adjusted her afghan, rubbed her shoulder and sighed. God, she was just…disappearing. Growing paler and thinner and…and….
She was hanging on by a thread. She was hanging on for him. And he needed to be leaving. He needed to get to Nebraska. "Tell me what to do, Mother. Should I leave, can I leave?" With a faint groan, he stood and gathered Martha up, carried her to her room. She smiled in her sleep and whispered. "Jonathan. Oh, it's too good to see you…" Lex placed her soft as a feather onto the twin bed and sat by her side to wait for morning.
PART FOUR
Pale yellow sunlight cast patterns on the floor, pressed against Lex's eyes, warmed him…he woke slowly, anticipating his body's disapproval of his sleeping arrangements—his long legs thrown over the arm of a boudoir chair that had to be a family heirloom, a survivor from an era that had no understanding of ergonomics--because if not, than it was designed with torture in mind. He rolled his neck and shoulders, satisfied by a sharp crack and an easing in pain. He reached towards the bed, he meant to wake Martha, and move her downstairs to the living room. He touched her hand.
"Oh."
She wasn't there anymore. Her body was, but her spirit had fled, she was on her own journey now, and Lex was left behind. He dropped his head to the comforter covering her, and made a terrible noise...the pain was sharp, and intense, and totally unexpected. So much death and he could still be moved to grief? A part of him was glad—he was still that human.
The sun filled the room fully before he could make himself move. He had to bury her, and her son. He wiped his swollen eyes. That piece by her garden--the flower garden not the vegetable garden. He sniffed hard and wiped again at his wet eyes. The soil would be soft there and besides Clark used to talk about how much Martha had loved her flowers, loved the time she spent working among the flowers.
He rolled the top sheet around her, and picked her up. It was horrible that she seemed even lighter than she had the day before. He carried her as easily as if she were made of paper, carried her to the living room and laid her gently on the couch. He stared down at the wash-faded sheet. She deserved more, much more.
He left the house, got in his truck and drove back to the castle. Her shroud was there, in Lionel's house.
Bless the bed that I lie on.
Four corners to my bed,
Four angels round my head;
One to watch, and one to pray,
and two to bear my soul away.
He stalked across the room that had been his library/office—a room really never intended to be his but it was where Clark met him, and being there with him magically made the castle his, changed it from the place his father decided he didn't want to inhabit into Lex's home. He'd slowly moved his business into that room, the room that was always open to Clark. Or had been. He stared around the space, looking from stained glass windows towering over the dust covered desk, the mahogany wood paneling, teak and granite floor, stone block walls…he contrasted this room to his white and gray suite in the Tower—it was as if two different people held those spaces. Metropolis was a sterile cradle of stainless steel, glass…he snarled at the empty desk and the ghost of the man who'd lived here once, who'd thought that he knew everything about life and how to live it. "You stupid fuck, you ruined everything, everything—"
On one wall a tapestry hung, embroidered with a seal that supposedly had something to do with the 'noble line of Luthor' that Dad had cobbled up out of air and fantasy. He yanked it off the wall. It was shot though with threads of iridescent blue and gold and red, just right for a shroud. He emptied the bar next, tossed a few bottle of liquor onto the bundle, and stopped to take a final look around. He had all he needed from this place. He grabbed a bottle and broke the seal, drank—it burned like fire all the way down. "That's good," he gasped. "That's perfect."
He looked over the desk, the bookcase…idly thought about putting some of the antique pieces in the wall safe but…"What the fuck, all over the world art is rotting, dying…what does it even matter anymore?"
He left the castle's front doors wide when he left. He was never coming back to this place. Let the wind and the rain take it…let it all rot, let the place disintegrate. Nothing here was his, after all.
By the time he got Martha wrapped in the tapestry, and out to the garden, he was very nearly drunk—closer to it than he had been for years—ever Clark showed up outside his penthouse window, scowling and stuffed in that stupid suit, for God's sake. He tilted the bottle back and drank deeply, feeling the liquid move down his throat in an almost solid lump. He dropped his hand, let the bottle go, and breathed hard. He took up the shovel and stabbed it into the ground.
The rasp of metal against soil filled his mind for a little and then he stumbled to a stop. Shit—I need to bury him too.
He wobbled a bit; his grip on the shovel handle the only thing holding him up. "Bring some clothesline too, must be some in the cellar or the barn…didn't they use line for—for something?" He needed to tie the tapestry closed because she kept…she kept looking at him. Kept wanting him to do *something*. Bury her God damn irritating stupid single-minded Boy Scout. "Fu—freaking Clark Kent."
He was staggering down the cellar stairs, the wide flung doors letting light pour down to the bottom…Martha's jars of fruits and mysterious vegetables sparkled more beautifully than diamonds. "Because they're useful," he muttered. "Just like these flannel shirts, useful." He rubbed his palms over his chest, drying them on the flannel…an old shirt of Clark's he told himself he remembered him wearing. Years ago, when the man didn't hate him quite so much.
Clark lay against the rear shelves—shelves that held buckets, and baskets, crates…netting and rope…he needed that rope.
And Clark.
He took a shaky breath in, and stooped as he blew it out--grabbed the bundle, thinking to pick it up like he'd picked up Martha. He staggered under the weight and nearly fell on top of him. "Fuck! Clark, you weigh a ton. Fucking alien guys built like tanks…" He tried again before giving up.
"Whoosh. Okay, okay, let me think…" He shoved the coil of rope into the back pocket of the old jeans he wore, wished he'd brought the bottle down with him, and inhaled, once, twice—grabbed the tarp in both hands and pulled. Teeth bared with the effort, nose wrinkled in a growl, he managed to slide Clark across the dirt, grunting, cursing. "Damn it, if his mother got him in here, I can get him—out." He grunted, worked Clark's heavy weight up the stairs, one step at a time. "Unh, sorry about your head, Clark—this would probably be easier if I wasn't so fucked up, boy," he giggled.
It seemed forever before he got him up and out of the root cellar, by that time the tarp was snagged on the wooden stairs, and he was dragging Clark by the shirt he was wearing—fist clutched in the material, and screaming at it not to rip, you bastard, why did it always have to be him doing whatever he could for everyone else and not ever getting any thanks even…fat tears ran down his cheeks in an alcohol fueled haze of maudlin self-pity....
By the time he got to the garden he was sweating, streaked with dirt and dust and feeling distinctly less sorry for himself and much, *much* more pissed off. Drunk and angry or not, he was still gentle with Martha's body, tying her shroud as neatly as he could. It depressed him to think that he'd learned to tie a person this way for vastly different reasons—and now it might be a much more valuable skill than he'd thought possible…"Useful," he muttered.
He lay his neat burden in the shade of an overgrown lilac, and attacked the loam with the shovel again, jammed the shovel into the soft soil over and over until he was knee deep in a longish trench, before finally stopping. Climbed out and dropped to his knees next to her—it was time.
"You helped me more than you knew. You were like a mother to me. God—so many times I *wished* you were my mother. I was jealous of Clark sometimes…other times I was stupid enough to hope we could share you—be together and you'd love me like a son because he loved me…" he laughed, until he was sobbing again. "Shit." He wiped his eyes. "I loved you."
He put her in the hole as carefully, as gently as he could, wiped sweat off his head and face with his forearm. Glanced at Clark. Laying there on the grass he looked—normal. He looked like he'd decided to take a nap in the afternoon sun. The way Lex had let him drop, his arms above his head, one hand cupped the other—he looked like he'd stretched and drifted off to sleep.
"You bastard," he growled as he threw dirt back in the hole. "You fucking bastard. You see? You see? Who had to take care of everything after all? Who cared? Me—me, that's who." He tamped the dirt down, and felt a stab of horror—no rocks. Nothing to weight her down with—protect her from the digging things…
"God! God, I'm so tired…"He flopped down next to Clark's body. "I'm so drunk. And tired. Why do I have to be the last? Was what I did so bad, God is punishing me by making me stand watch over the corpse every one I ever loved? I already had to look at your face every time we met. Clark…the hatred, the disgust…was I really that…I need a drink. Fuck me, but I need another drink, and I need to bury your ass and *go*. Before I run out of time—before that Monster finds me." He lay his face against the ground and stared at Clark's arm, so close he could see fine hairs that the sun made gold…a tiny spider crawled over the tops of them, from minute hair to minute hair, slowly, carefully picking it's way, heading upward. "Dead. Dead…" He watched it for a long moment, before grinding it under his thumb.
He didn't mean to fall asleep but he did.
'Come on to Hemingford Home, boy. Come on home.' She sat on the porch by herself, the guitar clutched in her fingers. It was dark around her, but he wasn't sure if it was twilight, or The Dark. 'Not much time left, Lex out of Kansas. Bring yourself home.'
'First, I have to bury my…my friend, and I'll be along after that.'
'Kal don’t need burying, you just get ready or—'
Lex jumped up, panting and in a panic—fuck, he'd fallen asleep outside, unarmed, like a suicidal *idiot*. He might as well have thrown steak sauce on himself and tucked a sprig of parsley behind his ear. Drinking and the apocalypse didn't mix—not unless you had a death wish, and he hadn't had that for a long, long time…since he'd stopped drinking.
He grinned wryly--and winced, remembering his dream. Mother Abigail had just about told him directly to leave Clark on the ground and go…God. Leave him…Clark gleamed like alabaster in the moon light, too perfect to be human. Lex leaned down and ran his thumb gently over Clark's mouth, pressed just a bit—jerked his hand back, horrified with himself. He'd actually…he'd almost molested…he'd touched a corpse…like *that.* Dead, and he still couldn't leave Clark in peace. He groaned, "You sick, sick fuck…" He sat up the rest of the night, guilt and disgust at himself keeping him stiffly away from Clark's body—just bent over himself, watching over Clark until sunrise….
TBC
part 8
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(no subject)
2/13/08 02:21 pm (UTC)In his fantasy return to Smallville, he'd pictured a homecoming involving Clark, and mutual forgiveness--magnanimous forgiveness on his part, seeing how deeply Clark hurt him, a little attempted murder on his part aside.
Poor Lex, always a little mad and living in his own little corner of reality, isn't he?
This was excellent, Lex's growing despair, his inability to leave Clark alone in the dark. Oh, I hope Clark finally got enough sun. *crosses fingers*
(no subject)
2/13/08 02:36 pm (UTC)Poor Lex, always a little mad and living in his own little corner of reality, isn't he?
Oh absolutely, I don't think we're ever really certain of where Lex is, I doubt he's certain. I'm not sure if the show meant for him to be so precariously balanced all along, or if it's just something that grew out of their bouncing around rewriting canon. But in my little corner of SV, that's why he needs someone like Clark.
(no subject)
2/13/08 03:38 pm (UTC)I love how you ratchet up the tension with the hints of Smallville's own special brand of weird running concurrent to all of the larger global weird weirdness, because really for all the demon bestriding the Earth, Smallville had the market cornered on that well before "good" and "evil" decided to get in to the mix.
I love how Lex is talking to Clark - I just know that he's in there, trapped and wishing so much that he was able to comfort Lex. Don't worry Lex, Clark's getting better, you just don't know it yet.
I like that Lex got at least a little closure with the Kents. All of Martha's ramblings at least contained some apology for forcing Lex away from Clark - not that Lex and Clark didn't play a large part in the Rift, but Martha and Jonathan were a large part of the chorus telling Clark that it was alright, preferred, that he just give up on Lex.
I kinda like how the "forces of evil" are working so hard to get Lex. Of course they can't trump Clark, but hey if Lex didn't know/hadn't known Clark and if Lex was more inclined to follow Lionel's teachings they would have been right in there.
And okay, I didn't realize I had quite so much to say this morning. ;-D
(no subject)
2/13/08 05:02 pm (UTC)I think it would have made a HUGE difference if one of the Kents had said, "we trust you," and meant it. I don't think he would have gone as far as he has on the show--not to say he wouldn't have done some of that stuff anyway, but it might have been for a different reason. I believe that he'd never have hurt Clark if all circumstances didn't work against him.
(no subject)
2/13/08 03:46 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/13/08 04:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/13/08 03:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/13/08 04:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/13/08 04:08 pm (UTC)"You helped me more than you knew. You were like a mother to me. God—so many times I *wished* you were my mother. I was jealous of Clark sometimes…other times I was stupid enough to hope we could share you—be together and you'd love me like a son because he loved me…" he laughed, until he was sobbing again. "Shit." He wiped his eyes. "I loved you."
Poor Lex. All he ever really wanted was just to have someone love him. :(
At least Clark is finally in the sun.
(no subject)
2/13/08 04:52 pm (UTC)Really, that's all he needs, someone to love him in the deeply obsessive and all-consuming way he craves!
(no subject)
2/13/08 04:18 pm (UTC)*pets him*
The thing was creepy. Creepy, i tell you! Blargh!!
*bounce*
Good things next, i hope.
*waits*
:)
(no subject)
2/13/08 04:53 pm (UTC)Yes, good things next! I hope! :)
(no subject)
2/13/08 05:04 pm (UTC)I just like Lex dubbing it "the super flu" in his head. Also, I loved the way he talked to 'Clark.' *sniffe* Poor Lexy. . .
"Fuck! Clark, you weigh a ton. Fucking alien guys built like tanks. . . "
It's so sad in context, but it still made me giggle. Great chapter, and need I say I'm reeeeeeeally looking forward to a reunion for our two boys? *wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more*
(no subject)
2/14/08 05:57 am (UTC)*smile* Because even at the worst moment ever, there's this second where something makes you laugh. It's like that for me, anyway! :)
(no subject)
2/13/08 05:40 pm (UTC)Beautiful job with Martha's last days, and Lex's burial. Just amazing, Roxy.
(no subject)
2/14/08 05:58 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/13/08 05:53 pm (UTC)I'm loving this so, beloved!
(no subject)
2/14/08 06:00 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/14/08 06:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/14/08 06:32 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/16/08 04:07 am (UTC):D
(no subject)
2/13/08 06:18 pm (UTC)Such a great story!
(no subject)
2/14/08 06:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/13/08 07:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
2/14/08 06:05 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/13/08 07:59 pm (UTC)That mutant was scary.
Steak sauce and parsley behind his ear? Now that's an image!
It will be good when the Clark is back with Lex, but I suspect sunrise is going to drive Lex a little bit further over the edge.
(no subject)
2/14/08 06:06 am (UTC)*beams*
thank you *so* much!!
(no subject)
2/14/08 02:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/14/08 06:07 am (UTC)Clex coming up...*petpet*
(no subject)
2/14/08 03:47 am (UTC)(no subject)
2/14/08 06:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
6/18/08 04:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
6/19/08 07:06 am (UTC)yeah...would have been a little awkward! *grin*