A Handful of Dust 1

The faint prick of a needle brings him abruptly awake from--nothingness. Or something close to it, like the padded edges of a dark cell in some particularly expensive mental institution. Amazingly familiar, is Dad here to talk to him again? It feels like it's been seconds--or years--since he's last felt this alive, but his muscles respond like they're treading molasses, and so he's already falling back into--oh God, warm, soft, dry blankets, so wonderful, so soft. So--clean. Clean.

He expects--something entirely different. He can hear the sounds of the air filters, the barest buzz that's almost subliminal. There's a completely pleasant crawling sensation on his skin, like the first low haze of arousal, but less demanding. Afterglow, maybe. He hasn't fucked in--how long?

"He'll be fine." Distant, strangely flat voice off to a vague left. "I think a few more days will work it out of his system. The worst is over. The current dosages are low enough for what you need. You shouldn't worry."

"I probably will anyway." Lex forces his eyes open at the rueful amusement in the low voice. "Thanks."

They drift somewhere far above his head--there's not any way possible to move and look and see. It just--feels so useless, suddenly, and he feels like he'll float if he doesn't breathe.

Effects of withdrawal, his rational mind tells him coolly. That little, separate place his father created, the part that learned how to observe and respond, how to keep the emotions conveniently curbed in an emergency, and he's always laughing inside when people say he's cold. He's not. He just knows the fine art of separation, compartmentalization, when the rest of his mind's this confused, blurry place of too many different emotions to possibly use them all.

A smooth hand brushes across his face, and his body moves into it, perfectly content now that it's got what it's been starving for. There's pressure and a shift of the mattress, and he can *just* turn his head, see Clark looking down at him with that familiar smile of pure pleasure.

"You're going to probably feel weird for awhile," Clark says softly, still stroking. "They're still trying to figure out how you got those doses down without killing yourself. Your heart's fine, though."

Oh, well, he's really been worried about that. It's this slow, almost painful process to pull his elbows up under him, forcing his body upright, and Clark doesn't even try to stop him. Just shifts back, hand still on Lex's face like he's trying to memorize him by touch.

"How--" The word is slurred and Lex focuses. It's all about will, about discipline, and how many people has he told that to? And how many have believed him? Most of them, especially when they knew how and where he lost his hand. Licking his lips, Lex tries again. "How long?"

"You've been out a few days. I had you sedated through the worst of the withdrawal." Another slow stroke, and Lex wonders if it would be worth the energy to sop his pride and jerk away. If he even *can*--it's taking everything in him to just sit up, and his elbows are shaking, sinking further into that wonderful softness, five hundred count Egyptian cotton sheets, he swears they have to be. Or he's been sleeping on burlap and cheap metal-framed cots and bare dirt for far too damned long. "God, I've missed you."

There's a brush of lips across his mouth, slow and achingly sweet, and there's this--*rush* of pure feeling. It's so easy for some people to hate Clark, so easy he wonders how they can manage it. Effortless as breathing, and he searches for the reasons that don't seem important right now. Don't seem entirely real--*this* is reality, this room, this bed, Clark. The rest of it is--just *not*. Long nightmare or short eternity of another life he's almost sure he couldn't possibly have lived, not poor little rich boy Luthor, the kid who thinks that domestic cars are beneath contempt and credit cards don't have limits.

That *he* doesn't have limits.

"Don't--" The word is choked out on a breath, too soft, too low, doesn't have any *force* behind it, and he sure as hell isn't channeling Dad now.

"I love you." Soft mouth on his cheek, his jaw, silky tongue sliding slow and steady, eager and careful. Exploring his mouth with sweet, slow strokes, so good, he's been missing this. Craving this. Lex's hands clench with the need to hold Clark. Touch him. Feel him, breathe him, lose himself in him, in them. *Remember*.

"Everyone you love dies." Lana. Chloe. Jonathan. It's in every touch, it's poison. It's-- not true. Not entirely. Lex knows that, he's too tired, too comfortable, too happy, too terrified to lie. The rational mind can fuck itself.

"Not you." Lick across his throat, and Clark's hands are on his skin. Addictive, familiarity, knowing every secret, no lover he's ever had was anything like Clark. Hot breath on his bare shoulder, warm mouth following, slow and wet. "Shh. I--God, you're here, Lex. You're here."

His eyes won't stay open--this slow burn of decade-old exhaustion pulling him gently into thick comfort. He's not running because there's nowhere to go where he can escape this, not now. He can feel Clark shift, moving over him, pulling the blankets back. Warm, heavy pressure settling against his body, Clark's touching him, and he can't give that up, there's nothing on earth that can make him. His beautiful, perfect Clark, warm and strong and no different than the last time.

He's drifting. In and out, fog-heavy. But--God, it's not--

Smooth fingers on his mouth, and he fights the need to lick. "Shh. You're tired, Lex. Let it go. Everything's going to be okay now. I promise."

Oh *God*. He wants to believe and can't, and sleep is welcome, he needs it, he wants it, he wants everything. He wants the lies, because it's the truth that he never has been able to live with.

There's a slick, wet slide along the back of his arm, across the scar that bought his life just outside Las Vegas--Lex buries his head in a sweet-smelling pillow, the ghost of an ache in his neck instantly soothed by strong fingers. Slow, careful, utterly knowing, working out the tension that had become habitual, and it was--God, it was good. Urged onto his stomach, Lex lets himself sink and thinks of--

--the soft mouth on his spine, tracing the fading line from barbed wire, a raid in Kentucky. Almost healed. Thicker knotwork is explored on the back of his thigh, shrapnel from a bomb that went off too soon. Careful fingers mark it, soothing the thickened tissue, the raised line of past infection that had left him fevered only two years ago.

And he'd once said he never got sick. Even his immune system has begun to lag with the sheer amount of damage he inflicts on himself. Anyone else wouldn't have survived--antibiotics are worth more than gold.

The slow exploration ends at his right wrist and Lex smiles into the soft cotton at the stuttering pause at the edge of his glove.

"When--" Shocked breath, let out in almost a hiss.

"Took you a long time to notice." His muscles are awake this time--so is his cock, but that's such a non-issue he doesn't bother trying to hide it as he rolls onto his back, noting in approval that whoever had stripped him had left the prosthetic alone. The leather has been cleaned, but against the crisp sheets and his--very clean skin, remarkably clean, so pale, so clear--it's the equivalent of a dimestore reject. Never could have guessed it was imported Italian leather and had been bought to do nothing more taxing than steer expensive sports cars once upon a time.

Easy flex of his fingers, and Clark raises himself on one elbow, fingers stopping at the line of flesh and the hand, perfect match, nothing less than the best for Lex, pinkly fleshed as a mannequin in an upper-income boutique.

"It--feels real." Clark's voice is almost reverent, and the brown eyes fix briefly. Lex watches his head tilt, eyes narrowing more, before he blinks. "Lead-lined?"

"Never pays for your enemies to know your weaknesses," Lex answers softly, flexing the hand before pushing the edge of the glove down past his wrist, edging Clark's fingers off his skin. "Just for you."

There's a slash between Clark's eyebrows; tiny Clark-specific unhappiness, and there were days Lex would have fallen over himself to erase that look. Just the kind of strange thoughts he's going to be having, being naked in bed with Clark after--God, how many years has it been anyway?

"I--I'm not your enemy, Lex." And it could be anytime in their lives, the voice almost painfully familiar, the same voice that had convinced him years and years ago that Clark would never lie to him. Except when he did, and Lex clings to that, the memory of bright, sharp pain the day that Clark told him the truth, the rage. He doesn't have the other defenses yet--not in this warm room, clean and dry and God, so comfortable. Not even hungry, and the fresh track marks on his inner arm are a good indicator he's probably better hydrated than his body knows how to handle anymore. "Lex, I--" Soft brush of fingertips against his lips, and Lex bites, hard; Clark's not fragile, never has been, and Lex holds his eyes when he grinds his teeth down, watching the dark eyes dilating suddenly and the loose sweatpants aren't hiding a damn thing.

The taste is wonderful, though--it's been a long time since he's touched someone like this, felt like this when he did. The room--so quiet, the filters almost inaudible except for that subliminal buzz he noticed before. Slick skin, edged with something sharp like sweat, that tangy-sweet taste that's Clark himself. The way Clark's body tenses beside him, one hand fisting into the mattress and the sheet almost shredding under the pressure. Can't help sucking a little, licking the tip, just beneath the blunt line of Clark's nail.

"I'm not your enemy," Clark whispers again, and he shifts closer, the mattress dipping as his thigh touches Lex's. Lex bites down again, catching Clark's wrist on his prosthetic hand, quick hard squeeze from stronger-than-human fingers. There's no comparison in simple strength between them, but Clark doesn't move again, breath catching on something like a whine. "Lex, please...."

"Shut up." He pushes Clark's fingers away from his mouth but keeps his grip on the deceptively fragile wrist. Pretty, long bones, soft skin just inside Clarks' arm that he has to taste, just to see if he remembers. So smooth, not a blemish, not a mark, like it's brand new to the world ,and Lex follows it down the trace of a vein, the rush of blood thudding lightly against his tongue. Arousal's a taste and a scent and a feeling and most people never know it, never pay attention. Sex, good sex, is a full sensory experience utterly unlike any other. "You don't--"

"Lex, listen to me. Please. I--"

And God, does he never shut up? Always asking questions, always pushing, it's like his raison d'être, he can't quite leave anything alone. A quick jerk of that wrist and Clark's off balance, flat against him, God, that bare skin. All that wonderful, sweet skin and that mouth, moist and so close, so easy just to lean up and taste. Sucking on the full bottom lip and feeling Clark's shudder rock them both.

Clark tries to find his balance, but Lex isn't quite ready for that, not when his is gone. A savage bite, and he gets a hand in that soft hair, and it's--yes, God, it's like he never left, how perfectly they fit together, Clark's mouth, Clark's tongue, the little broken sounds, the arching of his body. Sweet, addictive, pretty boy in his arms that he doesn't ever have to be careful with, not at all. Gets an arm around his back and lifts--

--*slams* them both into the mattress. His lip's cut open again, can feel Clark licking the blood away, sucking the wound and it's--shit, it's hot in that way that should scare the hell out of him, but he's too fucking hard, rubbing against that long, strong body, smooth cotton, skin slicking with sweat. Lean thigh wrapped around his, trying to move in ways that basic physics is going to say are impossible whether you think you're a god or not.

"God, Lex..." Hot breath against his forehead and he nudges Clark's chin up. More skin to touch, to remember, nothing wrong with that, nothing compromising, nothing he can't justify later. Nothing he can't live with, and adding it up, he's living with a lot worse sins than fucking protogods. "Lex, yes. I've missed you, please, come *on*--."

"Shut up, Clark." No reason to move his mouth from Clark's skin--yes, there's the taste. The acid edge he tasted on Lana's skin was here, stronger, a shock that makes him clench his teeth and groan, stiffening at the sharp edge of heat that hurts, that's good. "Just--" Tracing the bones of Clark's collar with his tongue, and the wrist still trapped in his hand flexes, almost pulling away. "Don't. You. Fucking. Move."

There's a sound like a whimper, and Lex lifts his head, looking into the clear dark eyes. So clear, he's not hiding anything anywhere. Curling his hand in the waist of Clark's sweats, he jerks them down, Clark arching to let them go. Flawless body he's lost himself in more times than he's ever been able to count, ever cared to. Sucks a kiss into the flat stomach, licking the light hair, dipping briefly in his navel, but he's just--he wants more, now. Luthor blood, he thinks, everything isn't enough, not for them, not with that name, but this is--close. So close.

Lex pulls himself up on his knees, shifting Clark's thighs apart and kneeling between. He wonders for a second who undressed him, maybe Clark, maybe someone else, but the thought drifts off before he can let them start to disturb him, bring this into some kind of reality he can't live with. This is real, right now; Clark, spread out in front of him, hot eyes and wet lips and tanned skin and hard cock, Lex has got the most powerful being in the world on his back in bed and he's got a sense of humor about himself.

This is fucking hilarious.

He keeps his grip on Clark's wrist in the blankets and holds the dark eyes, then ducks his head, swallowing Clark's cock.

"Fuck, *Lex*-" It's choked out and Lex bites, it's not like he can *hurt* Clark after all. Not even bruise him, remembers now the experiments he ran, hours on hours of nothing but this, sex and sweat and dark and the cling of skin to skin and the smells, until he lost himself in it.

Sucks hard, pulling back up, catching the glazed eyes, the hips trying to follow his mouth and Lex braces himself on one arm. Clark's so easy, really, so ready, any time, all the time, in the loft, the kitchen, the bathroom, the shower, the dorm, their bedroom, in the fucking Kansas cornfields, against the wall, Clark's never told him no, never looked away. Not since the first time, slow fuck in godforsaken Smallville and his body *remembers*.

Every. Fucking. Time.

He knows how to make Clark Kent whimper and twist and beg, promise anything and everything.

It's unreal, all of it. The way Clark tastes, like it's been just yesterday, Lex is a junkie with his favorite fix. Velvety skin, slick from his mouth, perfect fit, he had years, once, to learn everything. Thick and heavy, the weight pushing down on his tongue, stretch of his mouth, God, he's missed this and never even knew it. He knows how Clark moves and how he sounds when he wants to come, knows how to hold him just like this, can keep it up forever, driving them both crazy with it.

Another lazy swallow, switching his rhythm, and the low groan is delicious. It's like victory, and Lex has always gotten off on victory, every kind, every way, in the bedroom, in the boardroom, in the field with his bombs, in this bed with this man. He switches his grip on Clark's wrist, letting up, curving his fingers through Clark's and pinning him back down. Squeezing hard and dragging his teeth back up the length, letting Clark rest on his tongue just for brief seconds.

Squeezes Clark's fingers and looks into the hazel eyes.

Now.

One swallow and Clark is *his*--full-body shudder that's more like pain than pleasure, a low sound that ripples in the air, and Lex shuts his eyes and swallows. Acid-salt, thick, rich, fills every sense.

It barely slows him down.

Pulling back, Lex looks down, licking his lips, watching Clark's heavy gaze track the movement. Utterly pliant after, like he could be reshaped into something completely new, just by Lex's will, and God, he wonders if he ever has. Lex slowly unwinds his fingers from Clark's, flexing his hand. He could come just looking at Clark like this. Spread out and flushed from sex, soft and sweet and completely his.

"Where--" He grits out the word, not entirely sure he can make himself understood. Too fucking much all at once; it's sensory overload in every sense of the word. Indecently beautiful boy stretched out there, like a thousand wet dreams and too many fucking fantasies to count, doesn't even include the memories he's jerked off to for way too long. He wants this to last and wants it over with, wants to be inside and wants to just-- "Where?"

Even post-orgasm, Clark's not stupid. Panting breath and quick lick of his lips, he just points and Lex nods jerkily. Rips the drawer out and finds the little jar alone, and ironic, his favorite type, no, this wasn't planned, not at all.

He doesn't give a fuck.

Dropping the jar on the mattress, he tosses the drawer on the floor and leans over Clark, touching the tip of his tongue to those full lips. Clark tries to follow, but Lex jerks back, grabbing the sharp jaw, holding him still. Traces along the lower lip, down to his chin, over one perfect cheekbone. Sucks a little just below his ear, the way that always makes Clark whimper, then brushes his lips over the rim.

"Want to fuck, Clark?" Can't help stretching out against Clark, thrusting against his hip, God, that feels good. So good.

"Lex--" Clark turns his head, and a hand touches his face. So gentle, so careful, it's instinct for Clark now, he can't hurt Lex, never could, not this way. He learned all the other ways, though. Trace of fingers around the curve of his skull, down the back of his neck, scratching lightly into the skin. "What--what do you want?"

"Dusk. Good drugs. The ocean. Caviar. Sex." Another thrust against solid muscle and harder bone, it hurts in the right way, little edge of pain to flicker through his consciousness; everything's edged for Lex, always is. "My cars. My money. My life. My dad. Lana. Chloe. *Home*."

Clark stiffens, and he knows he's hit dead on. Easy to push those thighs wide, kneel back between them. Finds the jar by touch, holding Clark's eyes, wide and hurt, and that's--God, that's almost as good as everything else. Maybe makes it better. Makes it easy to slick his fingers, move Clark's legs up and push inside--and almost loses it at the feel. Hot, tight, just right, just perfect, he used to think that Clark was just *made* for him to fuck, no other explanation. Ruthlessly leans down and licks Clark's balls, sucking one into his mouth and the pained whimper's just about right. Twist of his fingers and Clark's arching, so sensitive, pretty virgin boy the first time he fucked him, all wide eyes and so shocked, so amazed, so eager for everything, just *everything*. Sex fast and dirty and hard, long and slow and sweet, any way, every way, the way Lex likes it, and he runs his tongue up the slowly hardening length of Clark's cock, catching every shudder and echoing it.

Pulls back instantly and slicks himself, breathes through it and then Clark's--God, arching, rocking up and he's pushing inside--God yes, yes, hot and tight and so eager and needing. A sharp wail that cuts through the almost-silence and Lex is breathing like he remembers his father breathing that day, death right at the door, and he can grin and grip those hips, thrust in completely and he's--

"Oh *God* Lex, yes, please--"

--inside, beautiful body, it's perfect, better than memory or how else could he have left?

He's ruthless with both of them, pulling out slow and careful, eyes closed; this is so fucking *good*. Shift of his weight to his hands and he thrusts back in, hard, every muscle screaming and aching, Clark's choked sounds goading him, pushing him harder. Deeper, Clark's neck on offer like a sacrifice, how very appropriate, sinking his teeth into flesh that will never be marked, just once he would have liked to, though, just once to get the proof, another pull out, thrust harder, shaking the bed beneath them, the sound of the frame hitting the wall. Clark's hand touches his shoulder and Lex breathes out sharply. Shift of his balance, two sweat-slicked wrists under his palms that he forces above Clark's head.

"Don't. Touch. Me." He grinds the words out, punctuated with another thrust. And there's that stupid rational part of his mind trying to comment, but it. Doesn't. Matter. Clark, staring up at him with wide-eyed wonder, just like the first time Lex showed him what his body could do, human as anyone in this one thing. Soft burn of Clark's cock against his stomach, slick wet trails that Lex thinks might mark him if he wanted them to.

Pure, rushing heat, every nerve more alive than he ever remembers; everything's narrowed down to the body he's fucking, not just any body, though he wants it to be, thinks it'd be easier if half the high wasn't coming from who was under him. Words that don't make sense, gone before he can comprehend them, and he's glad about that, so glad, and he can feel the change, the twist, the sudden gathering of tension in the base of his spine, everything in him screaming, now, now, *now*...

"God, Lex, *yes*--"

Almost there, Lex is pushing himself harder than he ever has before, it's right on the edge, just a little....

"Love you, Lex.... Come *on*--"

--*more*.

God knows where it starts, but it's *there*--hot rush that starts everywhere, pushing out, forced out, hot and painfully bright and it hits him like a blow, anywhere, all over, twisting, shuddering, cursing--

"*Fuck*, Clark, yes..."

--bright spots behind his eyes, every nerve alive, and every muscle collapsing, can't quite stop the instinctive thrusting before he can't move at all.

The wash of aftershocks are almost as intense as the orgasm, people *should* die after something like that. Clark's chest is heaving under his cheek and the wrists are pulling loose, slow and careful. Ghost-trace of his skin, and no one could really blame him for arching into the first brush of fingers. Thick wetness between their bodies, Clark came too, no surprise. Every touch on his back sends off another little flare and Lex twitches, can't help it, even as Clark rolls them over, slow and careful.

Brush of Clark's mouth against his scalp, slow and wet and almost reverent. He's gathered close and Clark's saying--things--that he can't listen to, just keeps his eyes closed and Lex wonders if he can stand being alone when he wakes up on that cold, narrow cot somewhere that isn't here--

"Mine," Clark murmurs, almost absently, like something so well-known it doesn't need force behind it to be true.

--otherwise, and it's another frighteningly intense shock, skin and cock and mind and soul, it's very possible he won't be alone.

He wakes to the smell of--smoke, it's Atlanta all over again. Crisply charring bodies falling around his feet and he's been stumbling through dirt and concrete turned to dust for *hours*. Smoke though, so powerful, laced with something like burning steak from some particularly bucolic barbecue, and he's been in this business far too fucking long.

Speaking of which, when's the last time he had steak?

The smells follow him out of the dream and he pushes off the--bed?--finding the floor with his hands and knees, breathing through his nose the blank, unremitting non-smells, soft and clean and edged with light sweat. He's trained himself to stop noticing the bad conditions of wherever he chose to sleep, but it's a new level of surreal to think that he's achieved the ability to hallucinate better ones.

Hamilton's. Balls. With. A. Spoon.

There's a shirt just in view. Lex rolls to his knees, feeling a momentary twinge in his back when he straightens, a soft burn through every muscle that's utterly pleasant. Like the post-lassitude enjoyment of bruises that you like to get, the type that don't appear after a near-death experience. Pulling the shirt down, Lex is half aware of the smoothness of the material in his hands, the catch of it on rough skin, pulling it on almost without thought. Familiar to button it up, and he glances down briefly at the--

--carpeted floor.

He's on his feet before he's even sure what he's looking at--smooth dark cream, he picked this out twenty-something years ago in that little shop downtown. Not that he couldn't have just gotten a decorator, but this was Clark's potential home and coaxing the boy along to help him pick things out made that more--concrete? Binding? The way Clark had grinned at him when they went from store to store to store, like he knew exactly what Lex was doing, and that was just fine.

The air's soft even when he's gulping it, heart racing, sweat breaking out all over--desperately clean skin, he looks down at his hands, the worn black glove, the clean hand with--Jesus, trimmed nails, when the *fuck* did that happen? Years of hundred dollar manicures and even more years never noticing his hands at all, and he's--

Back. Him. The other him.

He grabs the chair for support and the soft material of the slacks under his hand freeze him in place.

No no no no no...

"Lex?"

Life doesn't do this. It's like he's woken up after years asleep or he's sleeping now and doesn't want to wake up at all; there's a sharp pounding behind his eyes and the door is under his good hand, the doorknob *not* turning, fuck, where--Lex takes a step back, ready to claw his way through if necessary.

Out out out out out out...

"God, Lex, don't--"

Hands like steel close around his wrists, jerking them back and look at that, he *is* clawing the door. Very non-Luthor of you, Lex, that's not the way to go with this, Luthors don't kneel and they don't get desperate, they get focused. Think, Lex. Think. Think.

As if the rapid, image/pulse/sense of random thought and emotion pounding through his head could ever be classified as something as organized as actual thought.

Warm body pressed against his, naked body, cream carpet, that door, that doorknob, this shirt, those pants, this smell, oh God, no.

"Clark."

Nightmares have started with a hell of a lot less in the way of atmosphere, and Lex shuts his eyes.

"Lex." The hands don't loosen so much as--soften around his skin. Letting go slow and easy, sliding up his arms, stopping at his shoulders. Mouth against the side of his face, wet, sweet, Clark. Dropping to the loose collar of his shirt, Clark's hands just--caressing. Lazy, careful, so Clark, even now, wants to feel everything. "That's it--everything's okay, Lex. Shh. It's okay."

"I--" Words somehow not quite--right? What's he going to say? Get your hands off me Clark?--that's just a little too ironic considering what he was doing before he fell asleep. His body doesn't see the point, he's hard already, it's instinct with Clark. Even when their only contact was a phone and he'd jerk off to the memory of that voice.

"It's okay, Lex. Come on." He's on his feet, being led like a child, the chair he overturned carefully righted, and he's gently pressed down. There's nothing better he can think of doing, and he's not sure he's up to fighting the point of sitting anyway. "Are you hungry?"

Lex chokes and raises a hand to his mouth. Lip's swollen, there's a familiar taste in his mouth (Clark in his mouth), edged with blood and his stomach clenches with the thoughts of food (good food, cooked, clean, dry, warm) and this chair is so comfortable.

He's gone crazy, finally. It would be a relief to believe that was true.

"I--" Another breath, so easily. He can remember times when breathing was hard, when he was coughing up blood for days after--New York, Cincinnati, Norfolk, Kansas City, Atlanta. Now it's--subtley wrong. Right. Something. "My--I don't feel--"

Clark touches his forehead lightly, crouching to look in his eyes. There's no difference between memory and the real thing, not enough to notice. It could easily be fifteen years ago, Clark doesn't age, hasn't aged, won't age. Beautiful, perfect, semi-pedophilic wet dream forever. Lex's hands clench and he's not turned on by that thought at all, he's not.

"Your system was pretty shot up, Lex." Clark's voice is very low. "We gave you something to ease you through withdrawal--how long have you been taking those?"

"First dose of that mix," Lex answers, closing his eyes. Clark's hand is--so nice, and this is just surreal, this is his penthouse. His. And Clark's. Nothing changed, nothing rearranged, like it's been just waiting for him to come back, like there hasn't been any time at all since. Except for the locked door, and Lex half turns and looks at what he hadn't paid attention to before. Deadbolt, key-only.

No, Clark Kent is a lot of things, but stupid isn't one of them. And on some level, it's immensely comforting, grounding. Makes this just a little more survivable.

"Reason for the new lock, Clark?" he asks, and Clark's hand stills. That strange feeling of having kicked a puppy. Clark's *good* at that.

"I was worried you'd run out before we had a chance to talk." Clark pushes himself to his feet, easy motion that's like silk or liquid latex to watch. The compulsion to touch him is almost overpowering--there's a *reason* he's never let himself come this close before. "Let me get you something to eat."

The first thing Lex wants to say is no. No, not hungry, not interested, not really sane either, and there's a balcony, though Lex knows from experience that there really *isn't* a way off it unless you can fly. It might eventually be an option, but not now. And the rational part of his mind, the part that took that fucking walk last night, it points out, eat. You want out of this, doing it starving isn't going to help.

Clark doesn't wait for an answer--has he ever?--pacing away across the floor, reaching down to idly pick up the sweatpants and Lex breathes out. Dark hair still wet from the shower, all long golden lines and God, so gorgeous, nothing ever walked this planet like Clark Kent. Oh, and how literal *is* that?

"What did they give me?" Lex asks, standing up. It's the clothes, he decides. Being half-dressed is the problem, must be the thing keeping him feeling this disadvantage. Or--something else. He misses the sharp shock of blind, unreasoning panic--everything's slipping back into faintly routine, mundane. This table was from Eckhart, chairs too, bought his second year here, six months after coaxing Clark in with his own keys and unlimited access to the refrigerator. Twelve months after Clark's clothes appeared in his closet and he started leaving dirty socks on the floor and arguing over what they'd do on weekends.

He--needs pants.

Soft, charcoal grey wool that catches on the callused edges of his palm. So smooth. Material this fine's hard to get now, and it's easy to slide them on, breathe in with a purely sensual appreciation. Fit's perfect, jarring moment of non-reality--his clothes were almost always tailored and unmistakably, these are too.

Another jarring image of being measured while he slept (You've been out a few days), and Lex sees his hands begin to shake and closes them on the edge of the chair. Fingertips on the prosthetic cut into the wood, splintering it, and Lex breathes out, fast and hard. Lightheaded, he needs to think, just think, Lex. Sewers and those fucking rocks, Lana's back, Pete, and Clark and this room.

God, this room, like he's being given everything he ever wanted, right here and right now. He's almost expecting caviar to materialize in front of him. Turning sharply, Lex glances at the doors to the balcony.

Long blinds are pulled across, and that's another moment of difference, sharp enough for him to grab onto, anchor him. Idly wiping his hands clean of splinters on his pants, he crosses the room, pushes the blinds aside and looks out.

"Lex, don't--"

Reddened sky and the view goes on forever. Lex lets his eyes burn before he can shut them against the glare.

"Red sun," he murmurs.

"It's not genuine, so it doesn't--affect me," Clark says from somewhere behind him. "I'm not sure of the science. But--" He can almost see Clark's shrug and lets his breath ease out, slow and easy. Careful, like breathing glass.

"The view was never this good when I lived here," Lex answers conversationally, and the last piece of himself falls into place with a soft thump. Maybe the pants did help after all, even if they're tailored to his very much thinner body. Absently, Lex reaches down, buttoning the bottom of the shirt, not bothering with the collar. Turning slightly, he leans against the expertly cut glass and watches Clark slowly put down the tray. More smells, good ones. Overload again, but he can handle it now, even as he feels his mouth begin to water.

"There was a lot of damage," Clark answers slowly, and Lex flickers his glance back over the rubble. Luthor-owned buildings, and be fair, Lex, you blew some of those yourself. Burying secrets, burying bodies, burying lies, burying people whose voices he can still hear screaming in his head when he's stupid enough to play masochist and let whatever passes for his conscience get a free pass. Pressing his palm to the glass, he looks down at the tiny black dots--like ants, like bugs, like nothing that he could possibly care about--scurrying here and there, doing their life thing. Clark's people, out under the red sun of a new day.

It was impossible to be sure of the time of day, though, with the pink-grey clouds hanging heavy overhead--dawn and dusk are variations of red-black, have been for too long for Lex to remember exactly what a sunrise looks like outside overdone Hollywood productions on old videotapes.

"I've always gone for that post-war look myself," Lex answers, and his voice is settling down, too. Cool, calm, controlled, and his fingers are barely aching anymore from the desperate scratches at the wood of the door. The glass is pleasantly cool under his fingers, cleaned to a high gloss. "That refugee camp ambiance. Inspiring."

Clark doesn't move for a few long seconds--Lex can't be sure what's going on in that pretty head, and it's a joke to think he ever has. Clark just--doesn't think like anyone else, and this isn't the alien thing at all. It's Jonathan Kent, dammit, how he shaped his only son, the results right here, right now, piles of concrete and steel and soot, and if he hadn't been dead already, Lex is pretty sure he would have killed the man himself. Or made the fucker *live* here, dammit, him and Cassandra both. Right there, corner of Eighth and what used be Luthor Avenue. Right the fuck there. Make them fucking *see* this.

"Why are you making this so hard?" And there's--God, there's honest curiosity, hurt in that voice. "You--it's like you want to be angry, like you like it like this. I don't--I don't understand you sometimes."

Lex chokes on an impossible laugh, blinds falling closed from his fingers and plunging into the familiar comfort of their room. Not his, not Clark's, too much of both of them still here, in the very tension. That windowseat he'd walked away from--that bed they'd slept in--everything.

"Your choice, Clark. You drag me off the street and lock me in here--I'm not feeling a lot of the spirit of reconciliation and peace." Deliberately, Lex flicks the blinds, letting the pink light stain his feet, the carpet, splashing to just short of Clark's toes. Symbolic much? "Notice a theme here?"

Clark's mouth turns down, but the dark eyes meet his cleanly.

"It doesn't have to be this way, Lex. I told you that--God, how many times? And it sure as hell didn't have to end with me practically kidnapping you either--you wouldn't see me otherwise. God knows, I've tried every other way."

Lex grins, showing his teeth. Clark's always hated that. "I know."

Letting the blinds fall back down, Lex glances at the table. Fruit. The fresh, uncanned kind--where the hell does Clark get his supplies? Bread, cheese, and Clark's somehow remembered he eats light after sleep.

Well, in the days he'd been accustomed to three meals, that is.

Resisting food is just--stupid. Stupid, idiotic, no good reason *not* to eat, not to take the chair, not to attack everything in range, though somewhere along the line his table manners make an abrupt and unwelcome appearance--no doubt something to do with his surroundings and clean clothes and this feeling that he's actually back in his own skin.

Disturbing thoughts, and Lex chews through a mouthful of cheese and wonders if he should have left the blinds open to remind himself.

When he looks up, he catches Clark's eyes. He expects--oh, God knows what, confusion or anger or something useful, something he can work with, but it's not there, nothing even close. Amusement, a little smile curving up the corner of his mouth, and--

--a lot of things Lex knows he can't handle, full stomach or not, clothed or not, clean or not.

"Forgot the caviar," Clark says, lip curving more, wicked grin, and Lex chokes, can't quite help it. Finds the coffee blindly and tries not to smile, tries to find--something, anything--to cling to, hold onto the anger, but hate is--not easy. Ever. Impossible right now, all he's really got is the fear. And it's--

--not helping much.

"When can I leave?" It almost hurts to frame the question, push it out between them, but Clark's smile doesn't fade. A clue to the state of his head, maybe, but Lex can't quite get over that smile. Nothing behind it at all, just Clark, perched on a chair, one knee drawn up, watching him eat.

"A week." Clark has been thinking about this. Lex takes another piece of bread, trying to turn that over in his head. "We talk. About everything. And if you--if you feel you have to go, then you can. I won't stop you. I won't even call you again."

And that sounds--hopeful? Not exactly, something in Lex dropping just a little. Not quite any emotion he can put his finger on, not quite anything he should ever want to examine closely.

And that's certainly a comforting guarantee. This is *Clark*. He only lies for good reasons.

"And you..." Clark lets it trail off and Lex swallows the bread--that was fast, and a glance at the table tells him he's eaten more right now than he does during the average day. Won't be good for his digestive system, not at all. His stomach, however, is something near ecstatic, with the sort of sleepy contentment that makes noises about afternoon naps on that soft bed just over there.

"Me what?" Last he heard, prisoners didn't do conditions.

"I let you go in seven days, you don't run until then." Clark tilts his head at the door with a meaningful look, and yes, Lex can see the point. Pushing away from the table--God, food, edible food that actually had a *taste*, no dirt or smells to wreck it--Lex bites his lip.

"Okay."

"You promised me once never to lie to me," Clark answers seriously, leaning an arm into the surface of the table. "I'm holding you to that now. I don't want--" Clark pauses, obviously thinking, before he leans forward and the brush across Lex's knuckles is almost electric. And his body is losing the point of talking at all. "I want you to trust me. Just--pretend you do, okay? Do this--just for now. Please."

Lex has done a lot worse than simply lie, but Clark can make you feel like a monster for forgetting to wipe your feet at the door. Had to be Martha in that, Lex thinks, raising a knee and wrapping one arm around it. And he's unable to help searching those dark eyes, tracing the pretty face that looks back at him so seriously, waiting for him to respond.

"I'll stay," Lex answers, and it's--true. Mostly. Seven days is no time at all, if he thinks about it, just empty space and maybe, just maybe, he can....

...he always forgets how *fast* Clark moves.

Knee pushed down, Clark straddling his lap, hard cock against his stomach, warm mouth on his. Nothing to do with strength, just Lex's reflexes that never knew how to deny Clark anything he wanted. Instinct to suck on that tongue, reach up and curve his hands around that bare back, easy slide down to his ass and pull him close, arch up and moan.

Instinct. Reflex. Put a gun in his hand and he shoots; put Clark Kent on his lap and he fucks. There are psychologists who would pay money to study him. If there are any left.

This is not a great development in the Lexian Saga of Advanced Self-Preservation, and he wonders if he's even capable of pulling away. It might actually be the catch--if Clark just keeps touching him, there's a good chance it'll be years before Lex can pry himself away.

"Clark--" he hears himself murmur, but it's *not* a protest, nothing like it. Sweet, willing, eager boy--man, Lex, God, where's your head?--sucking down the side of his throat with the perfect pressure, edged with that light pain he can't help arching into. Bruising too, probably, trying to pull up--caring? Not-wanting? Is that even an emotion? It's not for Lex. He doesn't have to love Clark to want him; it's this great, equal opportunity response of his body. He's never figured out how to stop that.

"Let me--" muttered against his collarbone, frantic scrape of teeth and fingers moving down the front of his shirt, unbuttoning whatever buttons happen to be fastened. "Shh, Lex, let me do this--God, it's been--" choked off with a hot mouth against his chest, and Lex knows this--God, no. No, he can't justify this. Can't.

"Clark--" Can't tell him stop, doesn't know how. "You're--Jesus." Oh God, that sounded bad, and he chokes on a laugh, trying not to gasp Sharp suck on one nipple and Clark's hand is cupping him through his pants. "This isn't--you said talk."

"Yeah." Hot breath against his chest, hint of teeth behind soft lips. "So--talk."

There's the fear--sharp edge, like sucking on a penny--slicking his tongue, or it could be blood from his lip that he'd reopened when he bit it, he hardly knows. Bends his head down, pulling his hands back from that addictively silky skin, locking them on the arms of the chair and God--

"You know how many people have died for you?"

It's--not quite a pause. A skip, maybe, a brief second of wet emptiness where Clark's mouth was, and the rush of anger and relief are dizzying. Like a tear in the fabric of reality; he has no idea how he *should* feel, knows it should be good, excellent, knows he should get away now, while he can, knock the fucking chair over and risk a concussion if that's what it takes, but Clark's back. Hard bite to his nipple and Lex's cock jumps.

Clark *knows* him. Turn ons and turn offs, what makes him hot the fastest, but those aren't the important things when it comes down to it. Sex as manipulation, as a means to an end, the game learned with the loss of virginity when Lex wasn't even old enough for some Disney movies in a theatre alone, Clark *knows* how this works. That's what you get with a long-term lover--

"You know how many people you killed?" Mumbled directly against Lex's stomach and Clark's hands closed over his wrists. Head coming up, fast and hard, wet mouth and bright eyes. "Did you keep count?"

"Personally?" Yes, he does know. Every one of them, the rule he made for himself. See their faces, make sure they know why--when he pulls the trigger, breaks their necks, cuts their throats, the clinical precision of death dealt out, just another skill to master. Every death, every time, he has to draw lines in himself just to get up in the morning. It's never been about the morality--it's always been his lack that's been the problem.

"All of them," Clark whispers into to his skin, and Lex swallows down blind panic that will get him nowhere. "Every one of them in those buildings, those cars, those labs. Every day. The people you send out that don't come back, the ones that run in front of you when someone aims for you. Those. All of them."

The number is--staggeringly high. Lex sucks in a breath, fingers digging harder into the wood, and Clark's teeth are on the button of his pants. A skill perfected with years of practice, done in seconds, and Clark draws the zipper down, staring up at him, tousled hair and wide eyes. Lex can't call him a boy now, even if he wants to.

"Can you?" Lex whispers, and Clark's eyes close briefly. When they open, Lex can't breathe. "Count them all? Everyone who has died for this?"

"Every one."

And Clark leans forward, mouth closing over the head of his cock. Hard, strong suck that brings his hips up, fingers reaching, but the grip on his wrists isn't easing at all. And Clark's mouth--wide, hot, so wet, tongue perfect, touching just right, teeth a bare graze on every sensitive inch of skin. Going down on him like it's the one thing in the world he's been wanting to do forever and Lex can fight--God, can he fight, in ways he didn't even know existed when he was a kid.

Not this.

"Clark--" Breath rushing out, clench in his gut, and Clark's soft humming, God, all around him. Moist heat, tight, and just looking at him is good, better than good. And then, Clark looks up, meeting his eyes, swallows--

"*Fuck*--"

Twisting into it, can't help it, doesn't want to. Thrusts into that hot mouth, Clark takes it, kneeling there on the floor between his legs, hands off his wrists and gently working into the muscles of his thighs, cupping his balls. Just another way to up the tension until Lex can't think of anything but that he can *touch*. Silky hair between his fingers, cheekbones hard under his thumbs, Clark sucking his cock like he's trying to take everything out of him, and he *is*, God, everything.

Orgasm is a shock--sudden and out of nowhere, fast and hard and he's barely able to stand it. The rush is so fast he's slumping, and Clark's on his lap, mouth against his, he can *taste* himself there. Can't help pushing his tongue inside, can't stop himself from wanting more, all of Clark, here and now, the world can fuck itself--

"It's everything," Clark whispers against his mouth. "I know, Lex--you have no idea how much I've seen. I know--God, the shit people pull every day. They need--guidance. Help. They need--"

"A new religion?" Clark stiffens, but he doesn't pull away, and post-orgasm has never, ever been like this. Entire full-body lassitude and his mind's more awake than should be possible. "Clark--"

"If you could see--understand." Clark breathes out, forehead pressed to Lex's. "You--don't see it. What it could be. What the world could be. It's this--"

"Hell." It's hard to talk around that--Clark's voice with that soft, dreamy quality, like he's walking on air and has no idea what dirt *is*. "Have you--have you *looked* out your fucking window? That--" Lex sucks in a breath, fighting down the threat of panic. Luthors don't panic. "This is better?"

And for some reason, that doesn't shut Clark down or even start another round of arguments--do anything but make Clark smile. Slow. Beautiful. Something Da Vinci or Michelangelo spent time fantasizing about between masterpieces.

"Not yet. But--it will be, Lex. Better than anything humankind has ever seen."

From anyone else, that was--ridiculous. Stupid. He'd be able to call them on it, laugh in their faces, he *has*, more times than he can even count, rote phrases and all, but Clark--he *looks* like that, with that voice, low and full of something more powerful even than hope. This unwavering certainty, the certainty that he could do things other people couldn't, and he was so often *right*.

Like they needed to invent a whole new fucking word for Clark just for that, and Lex drags his hands away. Clark's always been like a drug to him--he needs to fucking *think*. He needs to--

"I'm going to show you," Clark whispers, mouth soft on his skin. Just caressing, just enjoying the contact between them.

"I don't--" Don't what? Don't believe, that's true, that's practically the meaning of his life, look it up in the dictionary, his picture's right beside it. Luthors aren't big on the entire blind faith thing, Clark *knows* this, but maybe it bears repeating. Maybe even to himself. Maybe most especially to himself. Lex licks his lips, catching the taste of Clark on them. "I don't believe you're a god, Clark."

Slow lick across his mouth, bite to his lower lip.

"It's not about that, Lex," he whispers, and the tip of his tongue slides between Lex's lips. Tiny tease, wet and soft and slick. Pulling back and grinning down at him. It's as if years drop away, Clark's the kid in flannel down the road, wide eyed and young, beautiful and very possibly insane. Very human, that. "I want you to believe in *me*."

Exhaustion for all the wrong reasons; fucked out, he hasn't felt like this since his teens, when orgasms were cheap and he shot up with someone riding his cock. There's sensory memory of the feeling, something close to what's going on right now, except for the sex, what with the needle Clark's holding against his arm and all the clothing they're both wearing.

"Let me ride out my own symptoms," Lex tells him, not really meaning it very much. He's been through rehab twice, and the methadone period of his life is one he'd much rather forget. He can't even imagine what coming down from fifteen years of stimulant abuse will do to him. Won't kill him, he's Lex, *nothing* kills him, even when he's ready, but that kind of pain belongs somewhere else entirely.

"You don't mean that." Is he that readable? Really? Stretched out on the bed, stripped to those wonderful, wonderful pants that are like the lightest caress all the time, all over his skin, Clark's straddling him, lip between his teeth while he pushes the needle in. He can feel the prick, the push, the soft rush that hits him light and airy. Then the pull out and Clark bends his arm up, pad of clean linen secure. "There. You're good for another eight hours."

"Great." And he means it. Thinks about sitting up, but the lightheadedness isn't going down. "What *is* this?"

"I have no idea," Clark answers, putting the empty needle beside the small bottle on the bedside table and shifting his weight back onto Lex. "I had--some people do your bloodwork, and they worked out how to clean your system." A pause. "Lex, you didn't--you were sick, you know that?"

Like he's tripping in some alternate universe, where fraternizing with the enemy is something that's not only acceptable but actually *encouraged*. Pretty Clark sitting on him, this familiar weight that keeps him from floating off the bed and possibly into the ceiling to hover for awhile. Though Clark could float them both if he felt like it.

"I--it's strange," Lex answers slowly, trying to gather his thoughts back together. "I don't--"

"You were sick, Lex. I think they might have named a new disease after you." Little, fastidious wrinkle to Clark's nose and it's hard *not* to laugh.

"Great."

"Mmm." Clark's looking down at his chest, and Lex lazily wonders what he's focusing on. "These are all--new."

"Camp life, deprivation, and being an explosives expert has its dangers." He stretches a little on the sheets, he's not getting over how *good* everything feels, and that's rather dangerous. Clark traces the long line just below his left nipple--it'd been deep and almost took out a rib. Lex has hazy memories of Hamilton's lab and the removal of the glass. "One of your people got very lucky."

"Lucky?"

Their eyes met.

"I killed her very, very fast."

The silent moment stretches in almost perfect silence, and it's just as fucked up as anything else that it's not anything like uncomfortable. Clark's fingers find another--roughly-shiny patch of skin almost completely healed, acid burn on his side from very early on, when Lex was learning his new life's occupation and still making mistakes. "I heal, Clark. I always do."

"You--" hissed breath as he shifts down and finds the scar on his side. "Your--kidney?"

"Just one." Almost lost his liver once, but that scar is gone. It's somewhat appropriate, Lex supposes, feeling an odd distance from the body Clark's mapping with those long fingers. Just--not so much detached as--uninterested? Not exactly, not quite, semantics again, he's looking for words. Frame their reality with them, carefully. Pick and choose and do it wisely, Dad had been really great about making sure he got those life lessons every day.

"There's a euphoric in that mix," Lex says slowly. Knowing that doesn't help anything clear up. "This is your idea of rehab?"

Clark's grin isn't anything like unhappy that he's noticed. "I thought they might--cushion the shock. You know--you know it could kill you, coming down like that. Hamilton laced that dose with the meteor."

A spoon would be too good for him. Lex twists a little, just taking in the friction; it's beautiful stuff. Just--unbelievably different. His body is saying this is how it's *supposed* to be.

"How bad?" Should worry him, how his voice sounds. Even at his most debauched, he never felt quite like this. Not nearly this--free? Not the right word. He needs a thesaurus. Or Chloe, who knows words and what's behind them. Knew words.

Chloe. Chloe, Chloe, Chloe, and his mouth silently shapes her name. It's a surprise to see Clark's eyes narrow, head tilting, before the fingers are on his jaw, gently turning his head.

"How bad--what?" Drawing him back into the room, and the words fade again, everything fades, all soft and pretty light and God, this can't be good. Lex is getting used to it, this feeling of general detachment. He's been looking for this feeling his whole fucking *life*.

"What you're not telling me. When you brought me in." He always takes risks no one else could. No one else, for example, was quite stupid enough to walk inside clouds of activated meteor. Not with the payload he puts out. And he does that a *lot*. There are entire areas Clark can't enter even now, years later, it's become so much a part of the environment. Lex, the one mutant from Smallville who turned out to have a really fucking interesting destiny, what with all the lack of dying he does, no matter what happens.

There's a slight chance that his long career as an adrenaline junkie may have a lot to do with that.

"You--were really sick. They--did a lot of stuff." Clarks' voice is thoughtful. "Not sure of everything, but--" Clark pauses, looking down at him with wide, serious eyes. "You'll be fine now. It--wasn't easy, Lex."

His memory isn't giving him anything in the way of useful images from that time, so Lex has to assume it was *really* bad, bad enough that even his brain decided that was just plenty of input, thank you very much.

"Oh." It's so--Clark, he supposes. Glossing over the worst of things like that. Just--very much him, always has been, and Clark's tracing another line low on his stomach. "I remember this one."

Lex closes his eyes.

"You should."

Soft, slow stroke of the line again, and then Clark shifts back, dropping his head, tongue following the ridged line. Lex wants to tell him--stop? Maybe? Don't do that? Don't ever stop? A light flush of arousal is moving through him, the comfortable kind that leads to slow, lazy fucks in the afternoon. That slow trace of his body, beautiful and careful and gentle, finding all the scars one by one, feeling the history behind them.

"I could kill whoever did this to you," Clark breaths, and the moment--jars. Hard, like coming down off heroin and landing on concrete, and Lex twists, pulling back from the gentle hands. But there's nowhere to go.

"Just you," Lex whispers, and Clark flinches. It's obvious, Clark's never been able to hide his emotions, and it's another jolt to see that and feel--ashamed of himself? This sort of thing is so much easier via phone. His hand's already out, touching Clark's face, light and gentle, because that's what he always does when he hurts Clark, always.

"I--Lex, I think you need to see now." Clark's voice is soft, and Lex realizes he's stroking Clark's face--a hard hand closes over his wrist when he begins to pull away, holding him there. "You need to see everything, Lex."

"I've seen everything." The cities, the people, the towns, the mountains and the seas and he could, quite seriously, break into some sort of musical number to cover this moment. Wouldn't be any more ridiculous than the truth. "You have no idea, Clark--"

"Then you *know*." Clark rubs his face into Lex's hand like a cat. Traces of stubble a soft burn on his palm. "Everything people are capable of--you *know*. And you--"

"I do it. Every day." Or close to it. It's not--quite a weight. More like an inescapable responsibility, and he only really understands hate in moments like this, when he thinks of the years of training his father gave him on how to be a great leader. Thanks, Dad. So fucking much. Machiavellian childhood put to practical use. "What do you think I am?"

And he wonders--now he does, here and now, because usually, he doesn't. There's not a lot of time to get introspective when you're running between warzones and planning destruction, when time that isn't running is spent sleeping or fighting.

"Afraid."

The little frisson of shock rushes up Lex's spine and through every nerve of his body.

"Clark--"

"You're afraid of what it could mean." Clark shifts a little--nothing sexual in it, except it's always sexual between them, even when it's not. "You *know* Lex. You just--"

"I don't *know* anything."

Clark's slow, indulgent smile is worse than the petting, the fingers still tracing the scars on his skin.

"You--need to understand what I've seen, Lex. You think this is about something as simple as being tired of saving people? It's not. It's about--God, I'm changing *everything*, don't you see it? When I'm done, the world's going to be--"

"The burned out remains of human civilization. If we had ships, I'd be sending babies into space at this point."

Clark's jaw locks, and it's encouraging. Somehow.

"I'm the last of my kind," Clark says softly, and he's running his fingers more purposefully. Finding the oldest scars that don't show anymore, not on his skin. "You're--God, Lex, you don't see it, do you? The future--it's *you*. All of you. I'm making the future. We--I need you."

"Clark--"

"It's--" Clark bites his lip, staring down at Lex with that specific look--the one Lex had spent quality time examining in the fifteen year-old kid. Not quite--assessing, so much as curious, wondering. Trying to trace his own path through Lex's mind, find the right arguments, the right words, and God, he's good at it. "Do you believe in destiny, Lex?"

"Never." Roadsigns are for the weak, or maybe for his father. Ten foot high billboards are Clark's style, though. Lex can't...think. Not with Clark this close, not with this room and this feeling and this....

"Exactly. There's no such thing, right? You told me that, you said you didn't want it. And you--worked every day, trying to make your own way. But--this *is* the way. Your way. Our way. Humanity's way. It's going to be amazing, Lex, you have to see that."

"It's--" Bad. Horrible, has Clark stepped a fucking foot outside recently? The people who walk under a red sky and scream Clark's name like it's a prayer or a benediction and Lex wants to--show him. Tell him. In small words. In big words. In rhyme, in code, in interpretive dance if necessary, fuck it, why *doesn't* he see? "Clark. This isn't anyone's dream. We're dragging our asses into the stone age, don't you get it? Ten more years and we're going to lose our basic understanding of the sciences. I don't want to fucking relive the medieval period of civilization."

"For a greater good," Clark answers, the little frown line disappearing. "Everyone--everyone has to sacrifice at least once in their lives. It's not worth it if there isn't one, Lex. No one appreciates the good without the bad and no one--they don't get it, Lex. When I'm done, everyone will understand." Both Clark's hands slide to Lex's shoulders, pushing him gently into the mattress. Long, serious look, terrifying. The look of someone who knows exactly what he's doing and why. "I know, Lex. I sacrificed everything for this. And it'll be worth it. I *know*."

"Clark--"

"My parents, my life, my friends, Lana, Chloe, Pete, you--I gave it up to make this, create this, because I know it will be better. It's going to be incredible, and we're going to do this, Lex, just like it should have been at the beginning. You--I don't think you really understood before you left, but you've seen the world now. You've lost everything, too. You *know*."

And there's a flaw in that, big enough to drop the remains of Metropolis in, that sacrifice only counts when it's a choice, and no one ever *ever* gave Lex the choice. Not ever. Not Dad, not Clark, not Pete, not fucking *life*. He never asked to be anything he is, simply building until one day he woke up and this was--what he was. That just fucks over the entire destiny thing, though, doesn't it? It's one or the other, Lex, can't have it both ways, even if you are a Luthor.

"No."

"You're lying to yourself." Sweet, chiding smile, hands so gentle. Smoothing over his skin.

"You and me, Lex, we know what no one else does." The intense look is back. "You can be anything you want to be, just by willing it. You taught me that. You said no roadsigns, that it could be the way I wanted it to be. That I could *do* things, choose, even if it hurt, even if--" Clark leans down, so close their mouths brush. "I choose this, Lex. You have to choose it, too."

Lex draws a breath and Clark licks, quick and light. The euphoria's still there, lightly dragged with something pleasantly approaching simple tiredness. The kind you take naps for, the kind that Lex hasn't had in so long. Clark lifts himself easily, brushing another quick kiss across his forehead.

That mouth. That....

"You're tired--it's catching up with you, I know." Another kiss, softer, smoother, wet and soft on his cheek. "We'll talk more later. Rest a little while." There's a soft shift and Lex can't really help closing his eyes, even knowing this is a bad idea, all of it. He needs to argue more, push more, that's what he is, what he does but--Clark's hand is this slow, careful stroke of his belly, soothing and easy; Clark's curled up against his side, warm and solid; dark head on his shoulder, warm skin under his hands, and when did he start touching Clark again?

He--can do this. Be this. It's not that big a thing, just sleep, rest, Clark, his Clark right here, like years of absence have been nothing more than an interim. Lex lets himself drift.

This time, Lex knows where he is when he wakes up.

It should be--disconcerting? Not what he expects, but his body's thrilled beyond words with the entire lack of dirt and the calm warmth. Easy, slow stretch of his muscles, pleasant lassitude after a full rest spreading through his body. He's used to waking cramping and sudden, so there's pleasure, in a slow, easy return to reality.

Especially this reality, and Lex just lets it simmer under the surface for a minute.

A little twist of his head shows him that he's alone, and Lex sits up, looking around the room. The clothes are in a neat pile on the chair by the table. The tray's gone, leaving a pitcher of water--cold, clear, *clean* water, frosted with condensation. Shiny glass beside it.

There's this strange feeling that he's walked into his own past, but the pull of the scar beneath his ribs reminds him. So does the lack of feeling when he runs his gloved hand over his head.

"Clark?" No reason to *not* be sure, but he can't quite tear his eyes away from the table. A quick track of the room reveals nothing else is out of place--closet door, bathroom door, door out of the room--

--door out of the room.

Lex is on his feet, the carpet is startlingly warm and soft under his feet, but he's prepared for that this time. Walking to the door, he presses his gloved hand to the surface--something about instinct not to leave fingerprints, another life lesson from dear old Dad--and looks at the lock. Expensive bolt, and he wonders a little idly if the gun could take it out. Probably, probably, but not without alerting anyone out there, and someone has *got* to be, Clark isn't stupid, he has to have someone watching....

For no reason he can fathom, Lex wraps his hand around the knob and twists.

The door opens.

Heavy wood, expensive oak, only the best for a Luthor. Hand stained, glossed, brass knob shiny as the day it was installed. Slow, careful pull inward and he's looking out into a quiet living room, the elevator just beyond. The stairs, too, behind the tastefully understated door.

It's a shocking reality. He could walk out.

His toes curl a little, catching carpet between, and his body tenses, already prepared to move. A step, but his hand on the doorframe stops him, pausing him mid stride. He's--naked. He--should get dressed.

Pushing the door shut, Lex paces back to the table. Dressing. Yes. Soft cream cotton shirt under his hands, and he remembers when he had dozens lined up in rows in his closet. Hundreds, though he can't really imagine that now. Little thing, not important, even now, when he's gone days between changing clothes. Soft pants--not the ones from earlier, new linen, his hands tell him when he slides them. Jacket that he didn't see before, and his hands stop on the edge, tracing the material gently with the tips of his fingers. Cashmere silk blend, he thinks--he still knows clothes, even now. It catches on the calluses, old burns, the price he's paid for his choices, not the pretty playboy with too much money, but this paranoid borderline reactionary.

It's--so real.

Picking up the jacket, Lex tosses it on the bed, blinking when he glances down to see the loafers. Soft silk socks slipped inside, little rolls like he used to do back in the days he owned more than one usable pair.

Taking a breath, Lex sits down to pick them up, feeling the leather with something very close to nostalgia. And--it's simple to finish dressing, like a second skin he's somehow forgotten he needed. Almost dreamily, Lex lets the jacket slide on and settles it automatically. He's thinner than he ever was then, but now, it's comfortable.

The door is shut, looking back at him almost in challenge. A promise is a promise, and he's never broken one to Clark, not really. But--they don't count. Promises. He's broken promises left and right, lied like other people breathe, that's what he *is*. In this world, in this life, there's no room for anything more.

Four steps, easy to make across the carpet, and Lex slides his fingers around the doorknob, feeling the cool weight of brass between his fingers, thick against his palm. Slow turn of his wrist, maybe he imagined it, and that's actually really fucking likely the state he's in. Easy pull and the door opens with a lack of fanfare and the living room stretches invitingly in front of him.

He promised seven days. But--he's promised lots of things, hasn't he? Promised Lana he'd get her out, promised Pete he'd do his best, promised Martha he'd bring her son back to her, promised Chloe she wouldn't die that day, and he was lying every fucking time. And they believed him, still believe him, just like Clark does, because that's what he is. Father's son, born liar, and protopsychotic standing here instead of fucking *running* to that elevator, finding those stairs, and getting the hell out of here.

He doesn't move.

Clark has people out there, he has to. Someone to watch the building or someone on the ground floor. The elevator doesn't work. The stairs are blocked--Clark can fly, he doesn't need silly human things like that. Hell, for all Lex knows, Clark can walk through walls and on water--oh God, he is crazy.

Leaning into the doorway, Lex stares down the space of ten meters. Okay. His gun. He needs it first. The rocks, those fucking meteor pieces that were the entire point of this trip. His boots, because these shoes won't survive the way he travels. His ring. Of course, it won't be in here, Clark's not stupid, the rocks and the gun and his ring are all hidden somewhere else, but that doesn't really stop him. Mindlessly, he opens the dresser that used to be his--and apparently still is. His watch, the one his mother gave him that he left that day, neat in its case. Shaking fingers make him drop it twice, but he gets it into his hand and uses his less emotionally charged prosthetic to open it, looking at the gold for a long time.

Clark kept *everything*. His watch, the jewelry box with his mother's jewelry still intact. Edges of dust when he picks it up, turning over the leather case, wiping it away to see her initials on the surface. Stupid things, like the opera ticket stubs, because the night before he left he took Clark to his first opera. Leather gloves, ones that will fit still, hands don't change that much and a little dreamily, Lex picks them up, unrolling them. Stripping off the old glove and slipping on both of the new ones, flexing his fingers inside. It's perfect.

"Lex?"

His gun, two magazines lying quietly beside it. The ring, in a lead box from a knight who died for a hopeless cause, or maybe he lived, Lex isn't sure, it's been too long since he could quote history at people to keep them at a distance. Somewhere in this room is a lead-lined case of meteorites and Clark's death sentence if he chooses to use it.

Clark--

"Lex?" Arms slide around his waist and Lex chokes on a breath, looking for his center. Granted, it's been gone awhile, he's been on edge for too long to even know what a center feels like anymore, but this isn't it--this is like walking ten stories above the earth on a floor of glass--you should fucking fall, your instincts scream it, even when your brain reasonably reminds you that glass is strong.

Lex is walking on glass right now.

"You--"

"What did you expect?" Soft nuzzle to his shoulder, touching skin, hands appreciative as they track the front of the jacket, slipping underneath. "Everything's here."

Waiting, almost. It should be like a tomb, but it's not, this is living memory. Lex flexes his hands in the gloves, and it's so natural. So--right.

"You that sure of me?" His voice is soft and he lines it up with care. He's only going to get one shot, he always tells himself that, only one. It has to hit the first time. "Murdered thousands, but hey, my boyfriend'll be back for his watch anyway, so let's keep his stuff."

It's like a blow and it hurts him as much as it hurts Clark--he feels it in the slow shudder, the pull away that leaves an aching cold on his skin. Pressing his fingers into the dresser, he starts thinking again. Think hard, think smart, in the name of God, Lex, get with the program. What the *fuck* are you doing?

"Lex--" The hurt's something that can be tasted and it's bitter. He's never been able to hurt Clark and not feel it, like somewhere along the line he developed Clark-specific empathy or crap like that. He hates it, hates the feeling of it, like he's destroying something precious.

"I watched my father die because of you. I--" He chokes on the words, because they're bitter, from somewhere in him that he just doesn't *go* anymore. It's too hard to feel this much. He's beginning to remember why he liked the burnout. "I was there to see what your dream costs, Clark. I never fucking asked to make a sacrifice for anyone or anything. I. Don't. Believe."

He can almost see Clark grind his teeth.

"You're not being fair--"

It makes him laugh. Not a pretty sound, but he's perfected the art of faking it. "Fair?" There's a lot of words he could use, and they're all lining up in his head like little soldiers. Pushing away from the dresser, he turns, and it's even *harder* to see Clark's face, know the damage he's going to do. There's a reason he's never around when his bombs go off. "Fair? I have people dying of infections that simple antibiotics can cure that we can't get anymore. I've seen gutted cities and your people fucking *celebrating* public executions. They kill in your name for fun and you *let* them and you want me to be *fair*?" The next laugh's a lot more real, because this really is funny. "Fuck you, Superman. You're nothing but a sociopath playing deity. A murderer who expects a free pass because you have a vision." Every hero needs his foil, right? "Fuck your vision."

So he doesn't expect the blow--too fast to duck, even if he had been expecting it--and it knocks him into the dresser, sharp taste of iron in his mouth and a sense of utter relief surging upward like sparks from a fire. Hand on the dresser to steady himself, he spits blood into the carpet and thinks that it's rather appropriate, all things considered.

"You're wrong." Clark and his temper, pretty perfect boy with one flaw and Lex wants to laugh and scream and stop, stop *now*.

"I'm right." Grinning and he wipes a hand across his mouth, seeing the streak of red on the glove. Familiar. Yes. The right kind of familiar. "You don't know a fucking thing. You killed Chloe, your father, you might as fucking well have killed Lana after what you did to her--"

There's a wonderful second where Clark looks like death itself, hand coming up in blinding color, so good Lex wonders if he's picked up masochism somewhere along the line because this is as good as arousal, maybe better. Aggression is tied to sex, Lex, his brain offers uselessly. You fuck after you fight, always have. And it's true, he....

But Clark--stops. Frowning, hazel eyes narrowing, coming down out of his elevated mood and back into the room completely, and it makes Lex--twitch.

"You want me to hurt you." Slow, almost thoughtful, and Clark's in his head again, how the *fuck* does he do that? "You want me to give you an... an *excuse*..."

Lex breathes out, looking for words that vanish before he can draw the breath to use them.

"You're trying to force me back, aren't you?" The hazel eyes are--filling with something very like understanding. "When you didn't see me, when you could play distant, it was easy, wasn't it?" Clark takes a step toward him and the dresser is solid, heavy, and Lex can't walk through it. "Easy to make yourself believe whatever it is you think, but--you know now, don't you?" Clark reaches out and Lex wants to move, somewhere else, like the balcony or maybe just fall through the glass floor and never in his life has he wished more that his instincts would be *right*, dammit.

He's going bad, bad places with metaphors and it's--appropriate, isn't it, Lex? Your father couldn't break you, but superaliens can. Do.

No.

"No--"

"You--God, Lex..." And it's fast again, has to be or Lex would run, he tells himself, but Clark's touching his face, tracing it. "I'm sorry--" Thumb brushing his lip, and Clark's done worse--God, so much worse, condoned even more, but he looks stricken just by a cut lip, eyes huge and dark. "I'm sorry, Lex. I--this has got to be hard for you. All of this. I didn't think."

He's shaking, knows he is, and all Clark's doing is touching him.

"It's--after all you've seen, all you've done--" Clark shakes his head, another step closer, fuck personal space, he can feel the heat of Clark's body. Warm and strong and so solidly real, more real than Lex wants to think about. "You've been running for years, and you've done things that you can't stand to remember, and I--forgot. It's just--" Clark stops, letting out a breath, staring into his eyes. Lex can't look away. "This is right, Lex. It feels right, for us. To have you here. It's how it's supposed to be."

"You left the door unlocked," Lex whispers, staring up at him. "You--"

"You promised," Clark answers, still stroking gently. Studying his face, then steps back, but the contact doesn't end. "Come on. I got you caviar."

Lex feels the smile before he can even consider how to stop it--a slow, unfamiliar, completely involuntary stretch of his mouth. And Clark--grins, no other word for it, bright, like something out of a fairy-tale happy ending, sheer pleasure and so--so *much* that Lex wants to touch it, trace it with his fingers, taste it. It only takes a step, moving without thinking, no check-in with the rational part that's lagging behind everything else.

Sweet, warm kiss, familiar taste of blood and heat and Clark, and Lex shuts his eyes and lets go.

Just for now.

Atlanta burns in Lex's mind every day.

Memories don't blur for Lex like they do for other people--Pete can't remember much about Cincinnati at all, for example, despite the death toll. Not terribly unique in the catalogue. Sabotage, some rioting, some rescues, some murders. Martha--well, she doesn't remember anything she doesn't want to, and Lex has spent time envying her that when he didn't hate her for it. Lana--

--well, Lana's free now.

But Atlanta is its own special hell of memory--more vivid, more intense, more bright, not from the surgery or the bodies that piled like cordwood, not the fires that swept through the city and the suburbs that burned for months after it was over. Certainly not the smells of death and dying that Lex never feels are completely washed from his body.

Lex remembers everything.

"Tell me," Clark says softly, and it's hard *not* to, so close and so warm. Like a blanket, the best kind on earth, all solid strength and so much care, wrapped all around him. Lex shuts his eyes.

"You were there."

"Only at the end, only until you left." Clark's breath is soft against his scalp, gentle fingers rubbing slow circles into his back. "Lex--" He stops, tilting his head down and their eyes meet again. It's impossible to look away. "You--don't have to, but you're going to be sick if I don't give you that shot. I know--"

"Okay." There's--movement? Maybe? But Clark's already back and Lex extends an arm, letting Clark roll up his sleeve. It's slow and methodical, like Clark's had practice at it, and it makes Lex smile. "I--you're getting good at this."

"I'm a fast learner." Quick, brilliant smile as Clark ties off his arm. "I think--they said in a couple of more days, you won't need this anymore. Or something like that."

"Mm." Lex watches Clark line it up with an intense look of concentration. First light-sharp sting and Lex closes his eyes at the feeling. It's--good. Not stimulant-good, with the sharp edges and bright colors and energy, but--what drugs are actually supposed to be for, which is fun. As Lex would have very much insisted in his well-spent adolescence. Softly floating feeling, and Clark frees the strap from his arm, slipping back down on the bed.

"Tell me about Atlanta." His voice is soft, and Lex turns his head to watch Clark lie back down. Fingers brushing his lips slow and careful, before Clark winds their hands together. "Tell me what happened to you."

"I--" Lex blinks, letting the images flow over him, bracing himself for the cold shock of them. Like ice-water, he's always kept them so close, so--needed. So necessary. To keep the fact, the reasons, and he knows Pete doesn't see it that way--he thinks of New York or maybe Phoenix and the missiles, hell, maybe Las Vegas going up like the world's most gaudy bonfire, but for Lex, it's Atlanta.

"You don't have to, Lex," he says carefully. Dark head tilted against the white pillowcase, dark eyes staring into his with so much worry. "I--it hurts you. I--I'm sorry, I just--"

"No, it's okay." Focus, focus--the first seconds after the injection are like this, he knows that. And--it makes it easier, doesn't it? The sharp stab of pain at his side is almost negligible, almost--bearable? Twisting his fingers with Clark's, Lex shuts his eyes. "It was--hard. We--" Lex stops.

"We have a group of people in there, Lex," Pete had told him, and Lex hadn't been interested.

"We can't afford to lose more." Because war was like that, and this *was* war. The President was about as effectual as a bowl of cold soup and calling it militia clashes was beyond surreal. He didn't get it--or he did, but Superman scared the fuck out of anyone who went up against him. At least, those who got away alive.

Or rather, those who wanted to get away.

"It wasn't planned enough," Lex answers slowly, feeling Clark's eyes on him. Long in the past, so this isn't a real betrayal of anything, just sharing history. *Their* history, more than anywhere else, anytime else. What they did, together. "We had operatives in the city. Some of your--people caught them. And executed several. We had to get the rest out."

And Pete had said, "They depend on us."

And Lex had wondered if Pete had gone utterly insane. "The South? You want to fuck around in the fucking *South*, where everyone and their fucking dog owns an arsenal? They *love* him there. They think he walks on *water*. Or are you ignoring every fucking report we get?"

Well, Pete has always had a little blind spot. It makes Lex wonder if Clark and Pete have more in common than a shared childhood.

"So we went in," Lex says softly, and opens his eyes. "There was muttering around that the President might send in the state troops to stop the rioting, but it didn't happen. No one wanted to go up against you directly, not then. Not when you went around stopping earthquakes and saving orphans or whatever the fuck you were doing. And so Chloe and I went in--we didn't know they'd recognize us."

That had to have been the first time that Lex had really gotten the thing about the marks--he'd seen it in Memphis with Pete (God, don't think, not now), but it had still been--vague? No, denial, he thinks now, feeling Clark's fingers tighten in his when he pauses too long. He hadn't been thinking about it, because he felt it every night on his back. In his skin. Woke sometimes with his fingers closed over his shoulder, breathing through phantom pain.

Once he came to it, feeling the hot slick metal, knowing what it meant, what it could mean, and Lex shies from that too, closing his eyes again. He can't be sure Clark can't read it on his face.

"We were caught downtown in a gutted grocery store, interrogating--God, some idiot who probably didn't have a clue what we wanted. They--they dragged Chloe out and someone said her name and--"

"Jesus, leave her alone!" He'd been shaking, trying to get to her through the bodies that separated them. Flashes of guns and metal and the smell of burned flesh--willingly burned, he knew, and it was dizzying, like breathing ether. Hard to get his head together. Hard to think-

"You're Luthor," someone had said, and the sound of his voice ripped Lex around, dragging the person holding him another five steps before he was on his knees, dust flying, spitting blood and feeling the barrel of a gun against the back of his neck. It was a hopeful feeling. "There's an arrest warrant out for you."

Yes, domestic terrorism. Thanks, Mr. President. Hope you enjoyed that one. Your last really interesting act before the White House became a big fucking hole in the ground. And it hadn't even been Lex to do it, though God knew, he would have loved that job. Clark's people. Same day he declared Superman a threat to the United States, well after the fact, fucking idiot....

"Lex." Clarks' voice brings him back and Lex floats back in. Little frown line in his forehead and Lex wants to smooth it away. "You don't have to."

"Pete was there--he heard something from someone, I don't know who, but he was in the city and found us. And--someone must have called you--"

Lex never did figure out who made the connection, or how. Or why it mattered, except it had.

"Luthor," the man had said, jamming cold metal into the back of his head. Chloe was screaming something, and he didn't know what. The gun should have gone off, he should be dead, but somehow, he wasn't.

He wonders why the man hadn't pulled the trigger.

It'd been only a few minutes before the *real* rioting started, and that's why Lex remembers Atlanta. Explosions everywhere--he had to admire the sheer skill of some of Clark's people, and he'd known, fucking *known* they shouldn't have come, never. Not without a fool-proof plan and a shitload of weaponry. But Pete was like some sort of fucking knight and he'd come in anyway. Not enough people, no resources, they were breaking into gun shops in the middle of fucking downtown and sirens were wailing everywhere. When the war *really* started, ended too, and Lex thinks....

...no. That's not why he remembers.

The sound of something--someone--hitting the ground, wet soppy feeling on the back of his neck, his head, and when he looked up, Chloe was the only one standing. Wide eyed and staring at the gun in her shaking hand, and he hadn't even heard the shots....

"Lex--" she'd whispered, and this was why he remembered Atlanta. Because he'd seen it in Chloe's eyes, bright and wet and staring and hardening right in front of him.

She *knew*.

"It's not going to stop, is it?" she'd asked, and he'd pulled himself shakily to his feet, wondering if he could get a lie out, wondering if she'd believe him, wondering why he cared.

And he'd said, "No."

Dust had been clinging to the blood on him, on her, dirty and exhausted and frustrated and scared to fucking *death*, yes, he remembers that, can admit it. Taking her hand and grabbing the gun from the dead man, pulling her over the body and wondering, God, was this what he wanted her to be? The hope was gone, she understood what he'd tried to tell her and Pete, now she got it.

They weren't fighting possibility. They were fighting reality.

"We got out of downtown somehow--there were fires everywhere," Lex whispers, and Clark's hand frees his, touches his face. Smoothing slow and steady down his cheek. "I--we hid for a couple of hours and she couldn't stop crying. And--I don't even know why."

He'd left a trail of bodies of anyone who saw them. He'd lied to Clark. He didn't know their names or their numbers.

Holding her and everything rushing--everything they had to do, had to get the *fuck* out of the city, get free, and now, God, he wasn't alone, and it was sick and twisted to be--happy? Relieved? God, so relieved that he wasn't alone anymore. Chloe got it. He'd seen it all in her face, her eyes. Just like him.

"I--can't do this, Lex," she'd said, when they'd emerged after nightfall. They hadn't known Superman had been called, didn't know Clark was only seconds away. Didn't know that her life could be measured in minutes. "I can't."

"You can." Or maybe not. Maybe they could run. Not just run, like this, but--he could get her out. Clark couldn't be everywhere, know everything, there were at least another six or so billion people on the planet. He had money, God knew, and he had resources still. Planes and secrets and there was always a way, always. "We will, Chloe."

"We--we have to kill him, don't we?"

And he'd stood there, dark moonless night, explosives shaking the ground like some parody of fireworks, and he'd stared at her.

And he'd said, "Yes." And maybe that day he could have.

"We got out of Atlanta in a car she hotwired. And--"

They'd talked. Not so much in words, though Chloe really was all about words. Intense look of concentration, blood and ash smeared into her skin. Ten years older than when she'd come in, and they were both aware they might not make it out alive.

"Lex, you don't have to--" Clark's voice is soft, and silky fingers stroke along his cheek.

"I have to," Lex interrupts, sucking in a breath. He can almost smell her now--sweat and gunpowder, blood and fear, so much of it. Despair like running the edge of a razor and it cut with her every hitched breath.

She'd asked, "What are we going to do?"

And Lex--hadn't known. Because no one else had seen it, no one, and it'd been so fucking long that he'd begun to think that no one would, not until the gun was against their own heads, not until they had that choice, brand or bullet, not until *that* second would they get that this war was already over.

"How--" she'd choked, tears cutting lines in the black soot smeared on her face. "Why are you still here?"

He really hadn't understood the question.

"And she kept asking me that," Lex whispers. "I couldn't answer her. I said--"

"I don't know."

She'd jerked the car into park instantly, and he thinks sometimes, maybe he should have lied. God, lied like he knew he could, and maybe she wouldn't have stopped right then. Maybe they would have kept driving.

Maybe delayed the inevitable for just a few more minutes, but Lex would give a lot to have those minutes.

"Lex, we're going to lose, aren't we?"

He'd wanted to lie. And if Pete had asked, if Lana had asked, God, if Martha had asked, he would have said no. No, of course not, no. We'll win, Clark will figure out he's fucking insane, and all will be right in the end. All of it. Everything. You can get back to farming, I can get back to business, and it will be--right? Fitting? Logical? Destiny?

"Yes."

Her head had dropped on the steering wheel--here, in the middle of a tiny backroad leading them to something like safety, bad place, he remembers thinking, bad idea--and he'd shifted over beside her and held her. Let her cry because she needed it, because he remembered that endless moment in the apartment, remembered the haze that followed that was nothing like kind, nothing like numbing. Just--

She'd said, "Why are we fighting?"

And he'd said--

"Why did you do it, Lex?" Clark's voice is so soft, so gentle--it could be part of the memory, except Clark was two and a half minutes from showing up, and Chloe was three minutes from being dead.

Held Chloe and then kicked the door open and pulled her out and turned her to see Atlanta. Heat and explosions and riots in the streets and Clark's name might as well have been written in the sky in blood. Their future.

And he'd said, "Because there's nothing else left."

So stupid. So stupid, but so true, and Lex opens his eyes on Clark.

"They found us. Just standing there, like idiots--I knew better. I should have made her keep driving, or driven myself. I just--"

"You connected," Clark answers softly, and the edge catches his attention, pulling him out of a smoke-filled memory and into--this. This room, this bed, this man, this moment. Clark.

No.

"Why did she die, Clark?" he whispers, and Clark looks at him. Pain and guilt and hurt, like a kid, like when he lied and like when he did *anything* wrong, but back then he'd just ignored his dad and played football or pulled some fucking teenage cliché of rebellion. Not--this.

"Lex--"

Drug haze or not, he can still react. Forcing the lethargy down and away, diamond-hard clarity that hurts to force, but he does it, he *has* to. Because Clark looks like that and Clark can't hide a damn thing.

"There were ten of them," he says, hearing the force behind his voice. "And they saw us. They raised their guns and you came down from the sky and stood there and. You saw us."

They'd seen him, sudden and bright and a comic-book parody blue and red. Terrifying on some almost-childhood-boogeyman level, because--he was so real. More real than the dark of the night and the hard black asphalt of that road, and those people gathered with their guns drawn, eyes wide with something like adoration. And Lex understood, and he knew Chloe did, too.

And everything had happened so *fast*. He remembers the burning pain under his ribs, the shock of losing his hold on Chloe, hitting the ground on his hip. The way she'd made no sound at all, even when she hit the ground and slid on her knees, and that must have hurt. He remembers struggling upright and seeing Clark look at her, and seeing the gun pointed at her chest, and thinking--she's Clark's friend. He loves her. He'll stop this.

The bullet had been nothing but a coda. Short, sweet, and brutally fast. He didn't even have time to blink before it entered her chest.

"Clark--"

"Lex--" Hand on his face, gentle and searching. "Lex, stop--"

"I got to her and tried to see--but you know, Clark, I didn't get my degree in medicine. There was nothing I could do and you--you could have stopped it. You could have." He could have. Faster than a bullet, more powerful than whatever powerful thing they were comparing him to that week, likely at that stage God, leaping tall buildings and looking at him holding Chloe. Bleeding her life out in front of his eyes and it was--

--gone.

"You'll be okay," he'd lied, and she'd shaken her head and then closed her eyes, but he keeps thinking she said something. Should have said something. Her blood was on his shirt, his jeans, his boots, his hands. He smelled her death all over him, and Clark was standing there, watching with that look that Lex didn't want to read, couldn't read, not then.

Maybe he's always been this far into denial.

"You let her die."

Clark's face turns away, and Lex moves. He's fast, recovered, very high, and doesn't give a shit if he dies. Straddles the long body and looks into that human-seeming face and--

"You--what--" Clark couldn't have known, but he did. He had to have. Big, sad dark eyes and little tremble to his mouth, Clark there under him, against him, every inch touching, it's always about sex with them, always. Even when it's not. Lex grabs his chin and jerks his head up. "Tell me that's not why she died, Clark. Tell me it was an accident."

But Clark Kent doesn't lie anymore, doesn't need to, and Lex feels the pulse of blood, the rush of it through his body, and there's a part of him that's asking, do you want to know this? Is this important? And above it all, sickening and terrifyingly bleak, is that rush. Rush of pure, unadulterated knowledge, twist like pleasure, *is* pleasure, this is what he has over Clark. The one thing, the only thing, and he's staring into eyes that say yes. Yes, Lex, yes. She didn't die for the vision, she didn't die because she didn't believe, she wasn't a sacrifice I had to make.

That one, Lex, that one was for *you*.

"I loved her, you know." Lies are fragile sometimes, but the best ones are true. Almost true. Could have been true. God, it could have been true, and he'll never know. Clark flinches, sickening little shot of pure power there. Addictive rush, it's victory, and it's so good it scares him. "When we were hiding, when there was nothing but recycled air and nowhere near enough food, I held her--

"Stop it--"

"--touched her. And it was...." Heady stuff, good as drugs, and he should have remembered that. "It wasn't just fucking. It was--knowing. What we knew. What we were against. What you made us." But really, how could he have known? Never guessed this, maybe never wanted to, suddenly Lex wonders if telling Clark about every person he'd fucked would push it further. Drive it down, drive it deeper, make him *feel* it. Every day. Hard and dark and let it twist, and Lex grins, can't help it. "And you know what else? It was--"

"It doesn't matter anymore." Big, dark eyes, single fluid motion that has something to do with the physics that Clark's body breaks on a daily basis. Pinned beneath and grinning, almost fucking *laughing*, it's so--God, so right, in some way. "It doesn't *matter*."

"You're sure?" Pain is good, Lex has always known that. Pain's like scars, reminds you that you're alive, reminds you that you're human, reminds you that everything has a price. "You're sure of that, Clark? How sure?"

He's--not. Lex pushes against him, lightheaded, body full of something like air, like he could just float right now forever. And Clark--his perfect, beautiful Clark--is staring at him with wide, angry eyes, and yes, sex and violence and jealousy, and, remember Lex, remember, gods get really odd when it comes to jealousy.

Gently, he pulls his hands up, cupping Clark's face. Strong bones and that wonderful, addictive skin, silky under his palms, even now, after all these years. Like life hasn't touched Clark at all.

"Clark," he whispers, and pulls his head down. Can't help bucking his hips a little, Clark's hard against his thigh and this--this isn't too bad, is it? It's surreal and scary and it's winning like nothing in his life. Bites Clark's earlobe, quick and sharp, licks inside. "You were jealous, and you let her die."

The silence is quietly damning and Lex sucks just below his ear, little spot that make Clark squirm, even now. Bites hard, once, then pulls back, staring into Clark's eyes. He wants to see this. Has to.

"She wasn't my lover, Clark. She died for nothing."

The hit is as visible as the bullet that sank into Chloe's chest in front of Lex's eyes--stark shock, pain a belated afterthought, and disbelief that knows it can't survive the truth. Then Clark's fucking *gone*, great way to deal, and Lex stretches suddenly stiff muscles, pushing himself up both elbows. The door's opened and Clark's out, gone, somewhere else, somewhere he can figure out something, but Lex is--

--isn't not happy. Isn't not anything, because this...God, this. What the fuck *is* this, Lex?

Sliding his feet to the floor, Lex feels a few seconds of serious lightheadedness before pushing himself up. The balcony blinds are still moving--possibly the way Clark made his escape, as he often does when confronted with such things as stark reality. Hmm. The socks slide luxuriously over the floor as Lex finds the table by dint of nearly falling into it, grabbing for the edge and pouring a glass of water.

No. Something--harder.

And this *is* a quasi-tomb of Lexness, so therefore, his liquor should be here--somewhere.

Grinning, Lex pushes through the bedroom door, emerging into the immaculate living room. Understated furnishings, very much his taste, except for the scarily brown monster of a recliner that Clark purchased in some sort of fit of vulgarity, and Lex remembers coming home and *seeing* it sitting there, Clark happily changing channels on the television.

It--hadn't been a pretty sight.

So. To the right, kitchen door, to the left, hallway to the other bedroom and his office, where there should be a stash of something alcoholic, but Lex isn't looking for brandy right now. Liquor cabinet, the one his father gave him in some sort of quasi-familial feeling, or maybe the fact it's been around since the Civil War is the reason it's a Luthor possession. There might have been a story involved regarding generals and battles, but Lex really doesn't care enough to try and figure it out. The smooth wood doors slide silently open and the variety of bottles stops Lex in his tracks.

It's been *years* since he's drank hard liquor for no better reason than pleasure.

Grabbing the first bottle, Lex retreats, lets himself fall into the cool leather upholstery of the couch, foot hitting the recliner. Why *did* he let Clark keep that damn thing? Staring up at the ceiling, he turns the bottle, and--

--is this a good idea? He has no idea what he's been given, and for that matter it's been years since he's had a serious alcohol binge. This could--go bad. Be wrong.

More wrong than this moment, Lex?

It's--funny. He's high in his apartment, and this is a scene from a thousand different nights he's lived. He'd gotten Clark drunk for the first time in this room--it's a memory that always makes him sweat, nothing quite like a protohero giggling on the rug with an overturned empty bottle beside him. Stretched full length, shirt half-buttoned and rucked above golden ribs, rolling on his side to watch Lex like he was eyeing dinner after a year-long fast. Mess of dark hair and soft, pliable. Sweet.

And the floating thing, which was Lex's newest and most interesting clue that Clark wasn't quite as normal as he kept saying he was, but that was--not part of that night. Not yet. Just--Clark. How he felt under Lex's hands, the soft little sounds he made when Lex touched him. The taste of him, vodka and orange juice and mint, and how he wound himself all around Lex's body until he could barely remember who was seducing who.

Sex, strangely different than any other time. Maybe the alcohol in their blood or the quiet of the room or the fact that there was no chance in any form of hell that the Kents were somehow going to wander up here and find them. The--freedom? Maybe part of it, and Lex stretches into the couch, taking a long drink, eyes closed.

The vodka's acid on his tongue, familiar, a raw down his throat. Slow burn into his stomach and he tosses back another long swallow, feeling the effects almost before he's ready. It's been so *long*, and it's--so good.

"Lex?" Soft voice, and Lex turns his head a little, watching Clark's uncertain steps into the room, bedroom door ajar behind him. Dark hair a windblown mess and the t-shirt looks as if it's been dragged through a few Kansas cornfields. Lex swears straw is falling off of it in slow motion to the floor. "Are you--"

"Drink with me." He holds out the bottle, and Clark hesitates, staring at him with wide, wary eyes.

"You--probably shouldn't be drinking with--what you're taking," Clark answers, coming another step closer. And it's the details that are sticking with Lex--bare dirty feet under the edges of muddy jeans. Little trail of mud left behind him on the carpet and Lex has to grin. Clark's such a mess sometimes.

"You're getting mud on the carpet," he observes, and Clark glances back, eyes narrowing as they come back to settle on Lex.

"Lex--"

"I've--God, Clark, I've been taking fucking *meteor*-contaminated speed. You think this will do something to me now? I--" He can't help laughing a little, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. "I've--I've lived through infections and amputation and fucking surgery on a *folding* table in the middle of a fucking *shack* and you're worried that vodka's going to fuck me up?" It's funny, really. "I've been at ground zero for two of my own explosions and I lived through your crash to earth. Trust me, nothing can kill me anymore."

"It can hurt you."

Lex twists around, and Clark's closer. Only a step or two, but enough to feel it.

"Everything hurts, Clark."

Clark looks away, and Lex takes another drink--bottle's half empty and come to think of it, a few hours of throwing up aren't going to do anything for his mood. Besides that, the bottle's getting awfully unsteady in his hand.

"Drinking's never helped." Clark says it like it's engraved in stone--sure explains the devotion, Lex thinks, and the bottle is pulled from his hand. Which he was going to do anyway, but fuck it, his decision. All his decisions, all his choices, no matter how fucked up, and Clark isn't taking this one.

"Stop it." He gets his grip back on the neck, looking up into the dark eyes. "I can take care of myself." Thank you, no, Clark, I don't need your concept of care. But saying it is too damn hard right now, and the alcohol feels too good to start pushing again.

"Yeah, you've shown that." There's a trace of bitterness in Clark's voice that's--new. Interesting, too, and Lex forces himself fully upright, wondering where this could go.

"What's wrong?" He has to smile a little as Clark pulls once, hard, and Lex gives up the bottle without a fight. He doesn't need it that badly, doesn't need to make the point or--something. "I'm fine." Better than fine.

"You're--" Clark stops, carefully setting the bottle out of reach before curling into the floor. Strangely adolescent posture, knee raised, and Lex watches as Clark stares down into the carpet. "You never liked it when I wanted to help you."

"I don't need it."

"You always said that, and you--it's like you were always scared of owing me something. Like, you could give me anything and everything and that was okay, but you--" Clark stops, frowning. A finger slowly traces the muddy edge of his jeans and Lex lets himself slide back down into the couch. Easier to think when he doesn't have to concentrate on being upright.

"That has nothing to do with--" Lex stops when Clark looks up. The determined expression is back, and Lex knows that look. And how well it works, because genetics don't mean squat when they come up against the conditioned behavior of fifteen years as Jonathan Kent's son. Stubborness above and beyond Lex's ability to ever completely deal with. Even now.

No, especially now.

"You don't think--" Clark stops again and half-turns, bringing his body to fully face Lex on the couch. Close enough to touch if Lex just reaches out, and isn't that just always the way of it? Temptation is a lot easier to ignore when you know you can't have it. "Lex, it's like every argument we ever had, all rolled up into one."

It clicks--well, sort of, in that way that logic sometimes does when you've drunk enough to actually begin to think of the connection between your feet and movement as a whole new level of interesting.

"You think I left because I was worried about owing you for changing the world?" Which, come to think of it, wouldn't be the strangest thing to come out of Clark's head--that degree in journalism is still a close second to Clark's purchase of that damned recliner.

"Maybe you thought you could never give me anything to match it."

From anyone else, any time, any place, that would be--hysterically egotistic, but the serious dark eyes and utterly guileless words freeze the laugh on his tongue. It's this borderline of the things that Lex has been burying for years, deep as he can get them. There's been a thousand reasons he's told himself he left that night, and they're all--true? True. Yes.

"I left because you were wrong. Still are wrong."

Clark slowly leans forward, bracing an elbow on the couch. This close, the scents of the night are all over him. Dust and old concrete and wind and--something like corn. Like maybe tonight he did take a run through some field outside Metropolis, that somewhere there still *is* a field that grows things, and Lex shifts closer. Breathes it in. Living scent, and it's been a long time since he's felt it like this. Close, touchable. Alive.

"I--thought about it," Clark says, softly. This close, his voice is warm against Lex's skin. "After you left. After you--disappeared." The dark eyes stare into Lex's unflinchingly. "You--and everyone left me. I thought--" Clark stops, frowning now, and looks down into the leather. "I--hate being alone, Lex."

It's honest, which Lex is used to and yet really isn't. It's Clark, who's sitting quietly on the floor, and it's Lex, who hasn't admitted to an honest to God emotion since somewhere around puberty. Words get in the way, he's always known that; always easier to do it any other way possible, from gifts to his body--cheaper too. Words cost.

"Clark--"

"And--it was hard. I--didn't know it was for good, Lex. I thought you'd be back, once you'd thought it through. Once you--once you understood, and it didn't happen. And what was I supposed to do with that? What was I supposed to think? That you spent years fucking me just because you were that bored with Smallville?"

Oh. Crap. Lex pushes an elbow under himself, trying to get some balance, meeting that desperately earnest look.

"It had--nothing to do with...." Say it, Lex. Say it. "With how I felt about you. It wasn't...." Wasn't what? It's hard to focus, and this is--important, in some way.

"You--I told you everything." Clark's voice is low, but the emotion beneath it is the same. "I mean, Chloe and Pete--they didn't know until you told them, but you. You knew. And you could still just walk away, like I didn't mean anything."

Lex breathes out, pulling himself together. Vodka and questionable drug cocktails probably shouldn't mix, ever, but he's ridden through a hell of a lot worse.

"Clark--"

"It was--we lived together. We slept together. I told you everything you wanted to know. And it took you one minute to decide that you couldn't trust me. You--" Clark stops again, letting out a breath like a sigh.

"It wasn't about trust." Though in the way liquor worked on logic, it did sound almost reasonable. And--well, they both had trust issues. But that--isn't the point.

"Then what was it? You--what, didn't believe I could do it?"

And--that's not in question. Lex grins a little, unable to help it. Even after all this time....

"Clark, I always knew you could do anything. But--"

"Then why? Just--tell me that. Tell me what made you--the real reason. You always said you wanted to change the world. Make a difference. That you didn't want to be your father and just take. That you--and God, Lex, you wanted the same thing. You--I know you still do."

"Not like this."

"Not like what?" Clark shifts onto his knees, fingers digging into the side of the couch. Desperately earnest, so sure. So fucking--sure. Lex has never been that sure about anything in his life. "I--it's not the way I would have chosen, Lex. But--it wasn't like anyone gave me a choice. All of this--it didn't have to happen this way. If--if they'd believed me. If you'd believed in me."

"Clark, they think you're a fucking *god*."

"It was--" Clark stops, breathing out sharply. He's thought about this, and for some reason, that scares Lex more than anything so far. Logically, Clark had to have thought it through--you don't accidentally get millions followers practically overnight. There's planning involved, even if it's rudimentary. But--somewhere in the back of Lex's mind, the stupid part, there's always been this--comforting hope, that Clark hadn't really understood what he was doing. That this had all happened somewhat spontaneously, and Clark hadn't really guessed the effects until it was too late.

Stupid. Unforgivably stupid, and not very Luthor.

"I had to do something, and that way--" Clark leans a little further into the couch. "Clark Kent, human reporter, Lex Luthor's favorite toy, or Superman, who is practically immortal, invulnerable, can do anything. Which one would anyone have listened to? Remember when you used to tell me about how your father treated you in LuthorCorp? And remember how frustrated you used to get when you addressed the Board of Directors? They didn't listen to you, because you didn't have the power to make them. You were Lionel's son, nothing else. You scared them to get what you wanted, Lex--I know what you did to make sure they listened, but you couldn't walk into that boardroom and make them listen, not without--other methods of persuasion."

Scarily apt comparison--Lex could remember the first time he had, and the--indulgence? No, the flat out amusement, that he thought he could ever tell them what to do. Lionel's son, heir presumptive, but Lionel was healthy and very much alive. Lex wasn't--a force to be reckoned with, not then.

And well, those alternatives had been necessary for simple survival, but....

"You know." Clark's voice drops and he's so close Lex can feel his breath on his face. "It's not--something I would have chosen, but it's what worked. And--" Clark's smile is slow, twisted, and it hurts to look at. "It worked. They listen."

There's got to be a flaw in that argument--Lex knows there is, has to be, but nothing's coming up close enough for him to catch it.

"Clark-"

"I mean, as Clark, I couldn't even convince you, could I? So how the hell was I supposed to convince the world when even my lover didn't trust me?"

It falls between them like a rock--not quiet an accusation, though it's an implicit one. Not quite a question, not something even vaguely answerable even if Lex had been dead sober.

"It wasn't about trust."

"Then what was it?" Leaning closer, so close they could touch with only a shift of Lex's body.

There's no answer that doesn't lead right back to the beginning.

"Lex, look at me."

Intense expression, utterly inescapable, and Clark's fingers brush against his. Slow and careful and utterly sincere.

"It's--this, between us. You--you trusted me with some things--your life, your history, sex--but you gave those because they didn't cost you anything. This--this would have cost you something, wouldn't it?"

Fuck. "It's not about trust." It's not, dammit.

"Yes it is." And somehow, Clark's kneeling on the couch, and Lex has no idea how that happened exactly, when it happened, but long arms are braced on either side of his head and the smell of corn is everywhere. "I--I trusted you completely, didn't I? With everything about me, everything. My life, my secrets, the ship in the storm cellar, and--everything. I took it on faith that you'd never use it to hurt me, ever. And you didn't. I believed, Lex."

Close enough to touch, and Lex reaches up, unable to really help himself. A blur of movement and his wrists are trapped on the couch and Clark is staring down at him with wide eyes that say--God, too fucking much. More than Lex thinks he can deal with here, tonight, ever.

"It's the one thing you couldn't give me, Lex. Everything else, things I didn't even know I could want, and it was so fucking easy for you, wasn't it? Just buy me things. Whatever you thought I wanted, whatever would work. But--that one thing, you couldn't. Not trust. Not you. Not everything."

"I wasn't--trying to buy you." Well, that's a lie. And not even a good one, and Lex can't help chuckling a little. "Not--later. Not--"

"You're the only one that could have seen what I wanted to do, understood it. But you left and you--didn't even try. You know how this works, you know, you *had* to have known." The grip on his wrists strengthens and Lex spares a brief thought to wonder if the prosthetic really *is* as durable as Hamilton claimed. But it's not important right now. It's Clark, staring down at him, and the hurt is like something physical, hits Lex just as hard.

"Clark..."

"Not everything has to hurt. Not everything is about keeping score. I love you. I want you. God, Lex--just once, just fucking once, let it go. Let me--" Breath out and Clark stares down at him. "Please, Lex. Try. Just--give me that. Please."

Warm mouth on his, slow and achingly gentle, and Lex pushes up against the restraining hands that move instantly. Pulling Clark down, comforting weight and so much strength that didn't show in the slim lines of his body. Breathing him in, tasting him, close and all around him, and there's a reason this is just a bad idea, he shouldn't, he needs to *think*, dammit.

"I love you," Clark murmurs against his cheek, soft lips sliding down to his collar, unbuttoning with a flick of his fingers. Old trick that still fascinates Lex, even now. "I want you. Come on, Lex. Let--let yourself have this too. No running, no hiding, not from me. Together. The way it's supposed to be." Sucking bite that makes Lex arch, sharp and hard, Clark slow rocking against him just--God, so good. "Tell me--tell me you'll try, Lex. Just try. For me. For this."

A thousand responses flicker through his head like sparks and disappear just as fast. Clark's hands are on him, tilting his head up, staring at him, and there's--God, so much there.

"There's an entire world here, Lex. For you. You--you told me I could do anything, you gave me this, and I can give it back. To you. All of it. Everything in it. We can rebuild it together, and Lex, it will be amazing. And it will be *us*."

He can argue this, he can fight it, and he thinks, in some corner of his mind, that he can win it. Maybe. He can push Clark off, Clark will let him go. One push, hard and fast, a few words, and he can walk out. Door is open and if that's not good enough, there's a balcony and he can fucking *jump*. There's a gun and there's the clips for it, and he can--

"Tell me you'll trust me. Please, Lex. Do this for me."

--can do anything, right here and right now, and Clark is staring at him like that first time, that day, the day he told Lex everything. Every secret, every lie, and--God, he *remembers* that. Above the first flare of anger, beneath the edges of pure victory, there was the relief. It was--

"You can trust me."

--knowing that he had everything. Everything there was to Clark, one person who was completely his, still is, and Lex wonders if that day, he could have given Clark the same thing back if he'd tried, if he'd even *wanted* to.

"Lex?" Soft brush of Clark's mouth against his throat, more buttons hitting the floor, Clark always did lose his fine motor skills within a button or two, and Lex is-- "Lex, please, just do this. Trust me. Give me everything."

Dark hair slides easily between his fingers as he pulls Clark's head up, feeling the bruise forming already on his skin. Clark. His Clark, the one who saved him from a car accident that should have killed him, God, so many different times, and he--he can do this. Clark had never asked him for anything before. Not like this.

"Yes."

There are no words to describe it. It's like terror, but nothing like it, and that glass floor analogy is working out well--he can see how far he'll fall and it doesn't matter. Sudden pressure on his mouth, God, his entire body, washing away the fear and everything else but Clark, touching him, murmuring things that mean something like thank you and something like yes and maybe other things too that don't matter either.

"God, *Lex*--" Sharp, instinctive grind and there's too many clothes here and not nearly enough space, but he's adaptable. Arches up and finds the edges of Clark's t-shirt, pulling at it until Clark half sits up and drags it off. Lex hears the rest of the buttons hit the floor, Clark's mouth is *everywhere*, moving too fast, slick and wet and hot. "Yes, Lex. Yes. Please...."

Slick skin under his hands, pulling Clark back down and taking that impossibly perfect mouth, pushing inside, tasting everything. Jeans are an impossible barrier, should just *not* be there, and Lex gets a hand between them, quick work to unfasten even when he's shaking, so hard he can barely breathe. Clark gets them off in a mind-bending shimmy and Lex lifts to let Clark get his pants down, thrown somewhere over the couch before Clark's kneeling between his legs, staring down at his cock with such--*God*, such hunger.

"You're so--Lex. Just--" Clark breathes out, then leans over, running the tip of his tongue over the head and Lex can't help groaning, pushing up against the warm mouth. Another long, slow lick and Lex reaches for Clark, touching dark hair that tangles around his fingers.

"Clark--"

"I'm going to make this incredible. Everything."

"Yes--"

"Yes, everything, Lex." Mouth closing tight and hot over the head of his cock, shock of pure pleasure that cuts through straight to his spine. Clark sucks slow and easy, like Lex likes it, always has, the slower route to orgasm, and Clark could drive him crazy like this. Has driven him crazy. Just *looking* at him, beautiful mouth wrapped around him, dark eyes staring into his, taking him all in fast and hard and then pulling off. Lex's fingers tighten, and he makes a noise he knows he's never made before, not in his life, but Clark's mouth is on his balls, rough and silky at the same time, so wet, so good. Sucking, little drag of his teeth over the soft, silky skin just below, God *dammit* that's just--

Clark pushes his thighs up and his tongue's moving--yes, yes, yes, little circles around the hole. Clark's finger sliding slow and careful inside him, and Lex breathes out, tense and barely able to draw a clear breath. There's an eternity of nothing but bright heat, almost rhythmic, twisting pleasure he pushes down on, trying to get more. Clark's tongue sliding in and around, and he must have completely lost these memories, because he doesn't remember it *ever* being like this.

"More..." he hears himself breathe, harsh and nothing like his voice. There's a bright scrape of teeth, long lick and a second finger stretching him, fast burn that makes him arch. Clark's other hand closes on his cock, jerking him off in an uneven rhythm he can't match, and it's pure--God-- "Clark...."

"Yes," Hot breath just beneath his balls, and Clark's sitting up. Flushed, sweat glistening on his skin, dark hair in his eyes and Lex pries his fingers loose enough to push it back. Wet strands cling to his forehead, and hot hazel eyes are staring into Lex.

"I want--" Aborted thrust against him, the tip of Clark's cock pushing against Lex and yes, God yes, okay, anything, just..."Lex--"

"Yeah." It can't be his voice that sounds like that--achingly hollow, needy, desperate, definitely, and nothing is more important right now than this. Clark. Inside him. Clark disappears and is back before Lex can begin to miss the warmth of his body, getting the tiny jar open by pure luck and slicking himself with shaking hands. Pushing Lex's legs up higher and two slick fingers slide inside, hitting the prostate perfectly, just.... "*Fuck*--"

"Good idea," Clark whispers on a strained smile, bracing himself on one hand and Lex leans up, tasting that warm mouth. Soft and wet and giving, slick tongue he can't help sucking on, and the first blunt nudge that makes him push down. "Yeah, Lex--that's--"

"Come *on*..." Muttering against Clark's mouth, pulling him deeper, mouth and body, sharp burn and the wonderful edge of sharp pain, the stretch, he sometimes thinks he lives for this feeling. All tense muscle and panting breath, Clark pushing him open by inches, hand locked on his hip to keep him still. "Just--like that. Good, so good, Clark, so--"

"You're so tight, Lex..." He says it like it's utterly new, utterly unexpected, and Lex gets an ankle behind Clark's back and thrusts his hips up--bright, hot flash of pain and pleasure and so full, he's *never* felt like this before. Breathes out through the rush, Clark's hands stroking his face, shaking against him, control held by the thinnest thread possible. "Are you--"

"Fuck yes, *move*, Clark."

Life's lost in the rhythm, sex was always an escape from reality, but--not this time. Not exactly, not in any way his mind can possibly define; it's slick pressure and flares of heat that shakes him, grounds him in the room, in his body, in Clark. Clark's so close Lex can lean up and lick the sweat from his upper lip, catch his lower between his teeth and bear down. Earns him a thrust he feels all the way through his body, shit, in his fucking *mouth*, and hitting places inside that have never *never* been touched before.

"Yes, Lex, give it up, do it--" Clark's panting, shifting up, new angle, new *everything* and there's a chance Lex is yelling. Doesn't matter. "I love you, just like this, always like this, just for me..."

"*God*, Clark..." Clark's free hand sliding through his own, pulling it to his mouth. Roughly licking the palm, drawing it down over Lex's cock, their fingers twined, setting a jarring rhythm that makes Lex twist. "*Fuck*--"

"...yeah, Lex, like that, so close, I can feel you..."

"Fuck--"

"Just like that," Clark pants, head dropping close enough to kiss, to touch, sharp bite to his collar, licking all the skin in reach frantically. Lex digs his nails into the slick skin of Clark's back, pushing up with his body, wanting more, everything... "Yes, Lex. Please. Like that...."

Breathing's superfluous, everything's narrowed down to this, when it's all about sex and it's not. When it's heat and need like an ache that's never going to be eased, and Lex knows he's panting, staring up into the ceiling far above, sparks weaving drunkenly in front of his eyes. Clark's hand closes on his jaw, sharp, hard, forcing him to look, to see--

"Please, Lex, now. Come--now. Mine, Lex, show me, show me--"

"Fuck, yes, anything you want, just..."

Another sharp jerk of his cock and it's--like breaking, everything shattering like glass, like falling, like landing, and Lex yells something, has no idea what and doesn't even care. So *suddenly*, he doesn't have time to even think before it's all a wash of heat and light and so good it scares him. Riding out the twist of orgasm, Clark's rough breathing and aftershocks like pain on the tips of every nerve.

It's hours or seconds later when he can breathe again, see again, think again. Clark's soft and wet in his arms, damp hair against his face and warm tan arms slippery around him, Clark slowly stroking his stomach. God, everything aches, and there's no way in hell he's going to ever move, ever again.

"Clark," he breathes out and a warm mouth slides slow and careful over his chest, before Clark pulls back--no, no, didn't want that--and Clark frowns before pulling out, slow and easy. Lex hisses a little, and Clark leans down, wet, open-mouthed kiss, before Clark collapses like an exhausted puppy.

"That was--" He stops, lifting his head, eyeing Lex--God, just like the first time they had sex. Fucked-out, excited, and bone-deep worry. No kid on earth ever in their lives carried around as much worry as Clark did. Could make it--heh--a religious occupation.

"Okay," he says slowly, surprised at how hoarse his voice sounds, pulling Clark back against him. The room's too cool and slick skin gets cold fast. The corner of Clark's mouth curls up and Lex knows what's coming.

"Just a second--"

One day, Lex is going to actually enjoy Clark's speed as more than a sharp, short rush of noth