Codes: Clark, Lex, Clark/Lex, AU
Rating: NC-17
Summary: AU from pre-pilot on.
Author Notes: Livia said, rentboy! Livia said, here's an outline! Livia said, this will be fun! You know, this is basically me channeling Livia. She's crack. Evil crack.

Updated 2/13/2005

Pretty When You're Mine

by jenn

"What. The fuck."

A glass hits the floor, breaking like the sound of a bullet, and Clark watches the liquid inside spread across the pale cream rug in dark red to edge in pink. That's never getting out, Clark thinks, then wonders why on earth he's focusing on, of all things, carpet stains.

Clark flickers his gaze to Dominic, slumped in a chair by the door, looking even more oily than that afternoon. Smug just isn't a good look for him. Nor is drunk, and Clark's expert eye tells him Dominic's well beyond his tolerance.

"Happy birthday, Alexander." Raising the glass of some sort of dark alcohol in salute, Dominic takes a drink, grinning over the rim. "Something for the man who has everything."

"Has…" Alexander turns sharply, looking at Clark like he expects him to suddenly morph into something entirely different right in front of his eyes. Clark's gotten used to being looked at, stands still at the slow study. "Have you lost your fucking mind?"

"Tsk. This what I get when I look this hard for an acceptable birthday present?" Dominic stands up, barely hiding the way his legs don't quite seem to know how to straighten, waving the half-empty glass in an expansive gesture, sloshing more alcohol on the floor.

Clark's really got to get over his carpet fixation. Hands clenched behind his back, Clark tries to look as blank as possible. It seems to work, because Alexander looks away, glancing down belatedly at the stains forming under his shoes before taking another step in the room and slamming the door shut behind him.

"Explain."

Dominic grins hugely, revealing some not-so-great teeth and how drunk he really is.

"I thought you'd like him," Dominick says, like it should be obvious, and Alexander blinks.

"Wait--you bought me a prostitute?"

Clark doesn't wince, but only because he's been called worse. Alexander makes it sound worse, somehow, and Clark watches the two men square off. Dominic *really* isn't up to this.

"You don't like?"

"Jesus." One elegant hand runs over the bald scalp before Alexander turns back around, giving Clark another one of those looks. "I don't believe this. What--was this my father's idea?"

"Nope." Dominic grins more, taking a step and almost falling. Dammit. Clark wonders why he agreed to this again and keeps coming up with the same answer. Five grand for one night is nothing to sneeze at. "Come on, Alexander. I know all about your thing for--"

"Stop there if you value your life." The cool voice cuts the air between them, and Dominic blinks. Something's penetrated, though Clark thinks it might be the fact that his knee's stuck behind the armrest and he can't quite figure out why his legs won't move him forward. "Get out."

"Alex--"

"Out now or I'll throw you."

With a frown, Dominic tries to turn on his heel and loses his balance. Clark fights the urge to laugh as the man tumbles onto the floor, spilling the remainder of his drink. Alexander doesn't look amused at all.

It's a long few minutes as Dominic finds his limbs and gets them in some sort of order, but the stupid grin never fades, and that makes Clark nervous. Climbing to his feet, Dominic waves his hand at Clark. "Be good to him. You're being very well paid."

Yes, restate the obvious. Almost sighing, Clark watches the man leave in an ungraceful heap and wonders if he'll make it to the limo outside without collapsing.

Alexander turns back to spear him with a very unhappy look.

"Tell me this is a practical joke."

"Um. No. Unless he pays really well for them." Clark knows enough not to fidget--Alexander looks primed to break something at the drop of a hat and Clark's not up to trying to work through whatever issues are going on here that he doesn't know about.

Sighing, Alexander glances at the door, turning the lock. "Okay. First off, sit down. I don't--he *bought* you?" The shock's not dissipating. Apparently, Alexander doesn't pay for company.

Clark still doesn't wince. "I think we've established that."

"I don't believe this." Pacing by him, Alexander goes to the small bar beside the desk, picking up a fresh glass. "I do believe it, actually. Of all the--" Alexander stops, glancing briefly around the room, eyes narrowing as if he's looking for something. "All right. Name?"

"Clark."

Alexander nods, dropping a cube of ice into the glass before walking to the desk, leaning back against it. The wood maybe has some kind of really magical confidence-making properties, because Lex seems to snap out of whatever shock he's been in, now looking more thoughtful than anything.

"What did he pay you?"

"Five thousand for the night," Clark answers almost by rote.

Alexander's eyebrows raise. "That's impressive. But Dominic wouldn't know street price if it hit him in the ass, either. What is it, exactly, he purchased?"

Shifting, Clark looks at the chair he's been ignoring, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Lex gesture. "Sit. This is uncomfortable enough. Want something to drink?"

"No, I can't--" Right. Maybe not a good time to bring up the age thing? Clark settles into the heavy leather and almost sighs at how good it feels. "Not while working."

"Smart boy." And Alexander actually seems to mean it. "Paid up front or after completion?"

"Up front."

"The man's a moron. Or you're a very good negotiator. Maybe both." Alexander shakes his head, taking a sip of his drink before relaxing, pushing a palm into the desk and hopping on the surface like a kid. He seems younger now, and Clark revises his opinion of his age down a few years. "Now, what did that money purchase exactly?"

Straightening, Clark considers his responses. "Specifically or in general? Sex."

"Limits?"

Clark watches Alexander watch him. "Sort of vague. He said you'd respect it if I was uncomfortable with something you wanted to do."

Alexander snickers. "Yes, he would say that. This explains a lot about his perpetual lack of money, if this is how he always closes deals." Taking another drink, Alexander seems to consider something. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen." He's never been called on it yet.

"How long have you been doing this?" Alexander seems genuinely interested, but that isn't exactly new. Everyone seems interested, for some bizarre reason that Clark can't quite wrap his mind around. Every customer asks that question, and every one of them actually acts like the answer means something

"A year or so." Clark waits as Alexander takes another drink of alcohol, trying to think of something to say. "Look, I--"

Alexander waves his glass idly. He doesn't spill any. Clark shuts his mouth and waits as Alexander frowns, obviously thinking hard about something. Sliding off the desk, he pads cat-soft to the chair, and Clark stares up into very blue eyes, something shifting in them that makes Clark's breath catch.

Then the slim body's in his lap, warm hands on his face, tilting his head up. The kiss is completely unexpected--slow, warm, soft, a wet tongue slicking his mouth, drawing patterns into the roof of his mouth, and his body has no idea what is going on now but reacts anyway.

Just as fast, Lex pulls back, head tilted. The expression is completely unreadable.

"You're lying." Sitting back, Alexander studies him again. "Let's try this again. How old are you?"

Clark swallows hard. He knows he can lie again, but not when this man already knows the answer. "Sixteen."

"How long have you been doing this?"

"A few months," Clark whispers, feeling strangely trapped. "Since--since late summer. I don't remember exactly when."

"When Dominic hired you, did you tell him you'd never actually done anything?"

"I have--" Clark stops, blinking. No point.. "He knew that. I--he came looking for me specifically."

Alexander nods, like he expected that. "Virgin, right?"

Clark grinds his teeth. "Not--not exactly."

"In this day and age, you'd think that question wouldn't be so complex, would you?" Bracing his hands on the arms of the chair, Alexander considers him, head tilted. "Have you fucked anyone?"

"No."

"Been fucked?"

"*No.*"

"Sucked off?"

For some reason, and Clark has no idea why, he flushes. "Sometimes. Not often since. Before."

"Before--"

"These--there's these guys. That pay. Just to." He's blushing and he thought he'd gotten over this, but then again, he's never had to *talk* about it. It was all indirect, polite euphemisms. Quiet bathroom stalls with well dressed, middle aged, extremely sexually freaked out men. Bizarre, if he thinks about it too much, so he doesn't. "To--"

"Blow you?" Clark sees a hint of a smile curve Alexander's mouth. "Yes. You're pretty. I can see the attraction." The blue eyes look him over again. "He knew that, right?"

"Yes."

"No wonder the price was so high." Alexander watches him. "Is that why?'

Taking a deep breath, Clark nods. "Yeah. He said--he said you'd like that."

"He knows me surprisingly well." Alexander frowns again, then slides off Clark's lap. Clark wonders if he should be glad. "Come on. Dominic's gone by now and I don't feel like continuing this in my office."

Oh. *Oh*. Clark's legs feel leaden, but he's--a professional. Thing. Don't say the word. His feet slide into a relatively normal position on the floor and he stands up, trying to find that blank place again. It starts like this.

*Lana, Chloe, Pete, Whitney, George, Nell, Brittany, Kathy, Matthew, Sarah, Jean, Andrew, Anthony, Doris, Greg….*

"Clark?"

Clark blinks to see Alexander at the door, one hand resting on the doorknob, and shakes himself. Easier, now, to simply follow, down a dark hall and up a staircase, opening on a huge, strangely spartan bedroom. Large windows show all of Metropolis at night, glittering like something out of a magazine picture, but Clark's seen it before. Automatically, his hands go to his throat, starting to unfasten the tie.

*Tina, Stephanie, Amanda, James, Lewis, Sean…."

"Stop. Who dressed you?"

"Dominic took me to a tailor--"

*….Anna, Richard, Erica, Gene, Rebecca, Nicholas, Beth, Kathy….*

Alexander's eyes narrow. "Mine, if I know that cut." Shaking his head, Alexander sighs, hand going to the back of his neck again, rubbing slowly. "Go lay down. On the bed," he specifies, like he's not entirely sure Clark knows what he means.

Still dressed? Shoes, definitely not. Clark kicks off his shoes, then surveys the bed, climbing up on the mattress, spread with a thick dark blue comforter, almost black wherever his body presses it. A glance at Alexander, then he scoots up, resting stiffly on the pillow. He's ready. He really is.

Folding his hands, he wonders if he should try and look seductive, but this is just *way* outside his experience. He's not even sure *how* to look seductive--it's never been an issue.

Alexander climbs on the bed, reaching over to open the drawer on the beside table, and Clark wonders if he should start removing clothes. This--isn't how it's supposed to go. Nikita--some of the others--had talked where he could hear. Said some things. It's--

But all that comes out is a remote control and Alexander flips the television on. Clark watches in blank shock as the History Channel comes up.

"Special on Alexander the Great tonight," Alexander remarks. When Clark turns his head to look at him, he sees a slight smile. "It's educational."

People fuck to someone discussing the conquests of Alexander the Great? Clark fixes his gaze straight ahead as the commentator drones on in the most boring voice imaginable.

"Hungry?"

Clark looks over again.

"I--Alexander--"

The other man looks at him carefully, smile widening. "He didn't tell you who I was, did he?"

Well, it hadn't been exactly important. Five grand is five grand period. "I--"

"Most people call me Lex."

Oh. Fuck. There's only one of those around. "Luthor."

There's moments where you re-evaluate everything you know or thought you knew, and this is one of them. Lex. Luthor. Lionel Luthor's only son, heir of the entirety of LuthorCorp, and, rumor has it, the reason that Metropolis at one time had the best grade meth on the planet.

"Got it in one. Though the building should have clued you in, I'm guessing Dominic brought you up from garage level, so you might not have seen where you were." Smiling, Alexander--Lex--stretches, a hugely satisfied cat in charcoal grey. He even seems to purr. "Now, right above the television, I want you to look up and smile."

"What--" This can't get any more bizarre. It just can't. Looking at what appears to be some sort of dwarfed grandfather clock, Clark smiles and then looks back at Lex.

"That's where the cameras are. Dominic knows exactly how old you are."

Clark freezes. "Cameras?"

Lex nods, completely at ease. "The better for the Inquisitor to have good material. For my oh so triumphant return to Metropolis to fuck an underage male prostitute. Did Dominic feed you before you got here?"

Clark tries to find something to say to that, but nothing's coming up. Following along is kind of like keeping up with a windstorm. No way to deal. "He's--trying to--but your--I thought he worked for your--father."

"Yes, there's that." Unconcerned, Lex shifts the pillow behind him, reclining comfortably before answering. "I'll be interested in seeing how this plays out. You like Gouda?"

"Gouda?"

"Cheese. Never mind, I'll tell them to bring up whatever's on hand in the kitchen." Reaching for the phone, eyes fixed on the television as the commentator makes disinterested noises regarding land acquisitions in Asia, Lex dials a few numbers and leans back again. A few short orders, and then Lex is absorbed in watching something about cavalry, and Clark tries to put this together.

"Are we--I mean, going to--"

"Nah." Lex waves a hand airily. "Not really interested."

Okay, what? Clark finds himself stiffening for completely different reasons, and the stupidest imaginable, because--it stings a little. No, he wasn't exactly chomping at the bit to do this, but--but he was *supposed* to do it, one, and two, he'd thought--Lex had *kissed* him and--

"It's not personal or due to your profession," Lex says, like he's reading Clark's mind. When Clark's head turns, he sees the blue eyes fixed on him with something a lot like amusement. Even more annoying. "It's--kind of the principle of the thing."

"The principle." Clark recognizes something scary in his own voice--kindergarten teachers sound a lot like that when their students are telling about the time they ran after fairies with swords.

"Yeah, pretty much. You know, I'm not in the mood to stay home. Did Dominic buy you anything but that suit?" Lex sits up, reaching for the phone again.

"Uh, no. I don't think so."

"Pity. You're too tall--but we have time to do a little shopping." Dialing again, Lex lifts the phone to his ear. "Cancel that. We'll be going out tonight. And you're all fired. Security will show you out."

It's obvious that Clark's trapped with someone not completely sane. Slowly sitting up, Clark watches Lex bounce to the floor, suddenly possessed of the manic energy usually reserved for preschoolers, and okay, this is just *weird*.

"Um--Mr. Luthor--"

"Lex." Wide, white smile. He's--almost bouncing. Clark tries to remember everything he's ever heard of Lex Luthor, but none of it seems to fit what he's seeing. "Mr. Luthor is my father, Alexander is no longer in service, so Lex. Get up. Shoes on. We're going out."

If Clark had said "twelve but very well-grown", Lex probably would have believed him.

Too tall, too awkward, staring around him with wide, utterly surprised eyes; he's almost a stereotype if you forget his profession. Which frankly, Lex has a hard time visualizing, and in all things sexual, visualization has never been a problem. Especially with someone that looks like that.

And also looks like he should be in some sort of school setting. Playing football. Whatever boys his age do under normal circumstances. Though Lex is kind of hazy on the concept of normal.

"Lex." The brunette's hands settle on his hips, and Lex wonders when exactly clubbing became so boring that he spends quality time watching a kid quietly freak out. "Whatcha thinking?"

God, wouldn't she be amused to know. Confused. Something. He tries to remember her name.

"Nothing." It's more dismissive than he likes, and she retreats almost instantly. And that, Lex Luthor, is easy sex backing off. You, my friend, need to get your ass on straight.

Before the thought finishes, though, Lex watches Clark react to a pretty blonde climbing into his lap. The outright panic is almost funny--no, scratch that, it *is* funny, hands coming up without touching, like he's worried he'll leave incriminating fingerprints on her skin. She's good, though, catching him in a fast, messy kiss that makes both hands close on the edge of the stool in shock.

So right, club boring, but Clark, very interesting, and it may say a lot about the current state of his life that he's finding this the most entertaining night since his return to Metropolis. Picking up his drink, Lex slowly winds his way through the clumps of people, smiling when it seems appropriate. The blonde is gone when he finally arrives at the table.

Clark's hand is on his mouth like he tasted something *really* weird.

"You okay?"

Green eyes flicker to him, and there's not a little desperation there. "Fine. Um. Great."

"So I noticed." She's already found more receptive game, apparently--leaning into the table, Lex gives the dance floor a quick view.

"Um--they all your friends?" Clark sounds dubious. No, definitely not a stupid kid.

"No. Acquaintances, classmates, etcetera." Clark nods slowly, reaching for the plain water he'd ordered. No alcohol. Of course not. Lex takes another drink and fixes his gaze on the floor, aware Clark's watching him with that puzzled expression again.

And yes, he supposes, to Clark, it is puzzling. Instead of vaguely non-enthusiastic sex--some things you can't hide no matter how hard you try, and Clark's not an expert at lying by any stretch--they're spending the night in a club doing--really, nothing even vaguely interesting.

"Enjoying yourself?"

A bright pink tongue slips out, licking full lips quickly, and Lex lets himself look since he's not letting himself touch. Little things, he thinks, wishing he'd started off with something a little stronger in the way of drinks. Dominic knows him way too well.

This should have been a good night. Skin of his teeth kind of thing, but he has his degree and he can tell Dad to fuck himself if he chooses. LuthorCorp isn't the world, not Lex's, and he's had time. Time to think and decide and grow and doubtless one of his childhood psychologists would be making soothing noises about breakthroughs and getting over the parental yoke, but Lex isn't too sure that anything's actually been *done*.

He's marking time in a club with an underage boy instead of *doing*. And maybe these last two years still haven't really changed anything.

"I guess so." Clark's voice is soft, barely heard beneath the heavy beat of the music. Lex wants to be irritated--Jesus, the kid works the streets for a living, so a little enthusiasm isn't too much to ask for, is it? Enthusiasm, hell. He's getting paid for a night of doing nothing more taxing than looking pretty on a stool. A few sharp words simmer on the edge of his tongue, but he swallows them down, taking another slow drink as he scans the room.

Small talk would smooth things a little, but God above, what the hell does he say? How's business--even Lex isn't that crass, not unless he's a lot more drunk than he is right now. A lot more drunk than he plans on being anytime soon. He can't help the touch though--just a brush on smooth skin, over the sleeve of his shirt. He can't miss the way Clark stiffens, either.

"I'm not going to hurt you." It comes out harsher than he meant it to.

Clark's expression closes off, light going out behind his eyes like a candle being snuffed out. "I don't get hurt easily."

Not in any way except this. He should let the kid go--he has the money already, and at least tonight, he won't have to worry about shelter. Though it begs the question where a sixteen year old lives. No pimp, obviously--and God knows, if anyone ever probably needed one, this kid would be it.

Silky hair slips across Lex's arm, and he turns just enough to look into dark eyes, glittering at him from beneath black lashes. "Anna."

"Nice to see you home, Lex." Southern drawl inherited from her mother, a rich lilt beneath that always, always makes him hard. Circling around him, fingertips just touching his shoulder, she gives him a slow smile, red lips parting just enough to engage a few memories. "Company?"

Lex doesn't have to look at Clark to know he's staring. God knows, Anna's worth a look or two.

"A friend. Clark, Anna." Her lazy appraisal reminds him too much of himself, but even more blatant. She's used to getting what she wants when she wants it. Lacquered nails slide from his shoulder, cutting thin lines into his bare arm, and shit, he'd forgotten her tricks. "I thought you were in New York."

"Home for a bit while Daddy tries to screw with my trust fund again." She pouts, but her eyes linger on Clark. Wet dreams have started with a lot less than this combination. "Can I borrow him, Lex? Promise to bring him back safe and sound."

A glance at Clark shows a combination of shock and protest, but not necessarily unwillingness. He's a kid, Lex thinks again, and Anna's out of the league of most adults. "Play nice?"

The cut of her nails brings blood, and Lex sucks in a slow breath as she smiles. "Always." Her eyes are back on Clark. "Want to dance?"

One look at Lex, but Clark stands up, slow and awkward. He doesn't move like he has any idea music's anything but something you listen to. Anna's not really interested in that, though---the long fingers close over his hand, pulling him with her, and Lex settles back to watch.

Since, fucking stupid principles, he can't actually touch.

Everyone and no one's watching--Clark's a novelty to a set that's fucked together since puberty, pretty enough to bring glances, but Anna chasing down new game is old hat. Lex sips his drink as Anna slips her arms around Clark's waist, drawing him close, and Lex watches the dark eyes widen before his face goes blank--a curiously still expression, like he's somewhere else entirely, and maybe the awkwardness is all show, because Anna's teaching him to move and he's doing it well.

Awkwardness shed when she leans back, exposing the long, bare line of her throat, one long leg settling between his. Big hands on her waist, slipping up her back, and they move together perfectly, it's not quite sex, but it's very close.

It's kind of depressing that this is possibly as close to getting laid as Lex is going to get tonight.

Maybe he's just tired.

Or bored.

He should plan Dominic's demise. Something creative involving spoons and wild chickens. Humiliating way to die. The obituary would be good for years of entertainment.

He should plan how to tell his father he won't be working for him. His trust fund will keep him comfortably supported for the rest of his life, and God knows, he's second generation money. He almost has an obligation to be a useless drain on society and maybe start obscure philanthropies for tax purposes. Put his name back in the papers, fulfill predictions, and so the hell what if he were to be caught with an underage prostitute, that's what he *does*.

None of it, though, sounds appealing.

Maybe something has changed.

Lex follows Clark outside, hiding a grin at Anna's expression when Clark slips away, gone before she has time to protest. She's not used to that, he thinks, draining his glass, curious. Clark didn't strike him as a junkie, and technically, he's on the clock.

But Clark hasn't gone any farther than out the back door, leaning into the wall like he's just escaped Sodom and Gomorrah and watched someone turn into a pillar of salt before his eyes. He's also sweating through the thin shirt, green eyes closed against the night. Maybe imagining he's anywhere but here.

Lex can sympathize. He doesn't want to, but he can. "Hey."

Clark's head turns, ungodly fast. "Sorry. I just needed some air." Pushing off the wall, he steps toward Lex at the door. The kid doesn't do enthusiastic well at all. Lex wonders if he's any better at it in bed.

"Don't worry about it." The cooler night air reminds him that autumn's falling into winter faster than he wants to admit. That'll make it his longest stay in Metropolis since he got kicked out of MetU, with no end in sight. "Not your sort of thing?"

Clark gives him a sidelong glance. "Not--this kind of place, no." No, Lex thinks. Upscale enough to have its backroom called private rooms that have conveniently bolted tables and thick doors. Just looking at him, Lex tries to pull it together. There's no way he buys that this kid's been doing this long. Or that well. The look around his eyes is still too raw, like he's still feeling every second of it. Lex feels the more jaded of them, suddenly, and it's--strange.

"You don't have to stay." It trips out of his mouth without checking in at his head--but really, he's not planning to fuck him, is he? "I--you have somewhere to go, right?"

Clark looks so startled that Lex wonders if he's suddenly grown horns. "I have a place."

"Occupied at the moment?" Because it's night, and he doubts Clark is living with someone who has a normal job.

Clark flushes bright red. Jesus. Who the hell let him out without a keeper? "Yeah. Until morning. Sort of the agreement. With my roommates."

"Logical." There's no reason to keep up conversation. It's not like the kid's the most brilliant conversationalist ever. And it's cold. Thin leather and sweat and a chilling breeze in an abandoned alley at a time of night sane people are in bed. "Do you need a ride?"

Clark almost smiles. "I'm good." He turns, pauses, looking over his shoulder like he can't quite believe Lex is letting him go. "You sure?"

Yes. And yes again. And no, I'm not. Lex draws in a deep breath. He wants him to stay, and it's--ridiculous. "If you need anything--?" The words tumble out of his mouth, and he has no idea where they came from.

"I know my way home."

Do you? But Lex nods, pushing the door back open, going back inside, not even allowing himself a single look at the broad back disappearing into the street. The lights and the heat are like a wool blanket after the cool onside, and somewhere, Anna's wondering what happened to her latest toy. He could fuck her tonight and think of that pretty boy. She will be. It would at least be consistent, if not the most interesting his life has ever been.

He didn't come back to Metropolis for this. He just wishes he knows why he did.

He doesn't see Clark again for three months.

Lex is a magnet for trouble.

It's in the newspapers that Clark sometimes glances at in the gutters or in coffee shops. Lex Luthor in a third of the headlines, or so it seems. Maybe it's just that more people buy when a Luthor does something.

There's that girl, Anna, once--Clark recognized her face when he was leaving a trick's apartment and stopped for juice to wash the taste from his mouth. Spread out on the table, buried beneath the sports section, just Lex and the side of her face, a tell-all interview promised beneath. Something about pregnancy and DNA testing and Lex not commenting. He doesn't comment often, but he smirks a lot. Clark thinks of the tired-eyed man he left in the alley and wonders how they can be so different.

It's silly to feel that little spark of--something. Familiarity? Maybe. Like he *knows* Lex, when all he really knows is that Lex doesn't fuck bought boys. Or maybe it was just him. Clark takes a drink of coffee, setting it just beyond the edge of the latest issue. There's not a picture of Lex, just a penthouse in the background, paramedics, and the hints of a bodybag from a society boy taking a long jump from the roof, thinking he could fly, all in greytone.

It--isn't Lex.

And speak of the very devil, walking down the street. Incognito, in that way that's like a sign, saying "Look at me! I'm someone interesting! Figure out who I am!" Grey wool hat covering his head, collar turned up with grey scarf over, completely appropriate for the cold weather, maybe, but still. The gait's as unmistakable as the lack of hair, and while Lex may be able to hide one, he can't hide the other.

Clark takes a slow sip of coffee and watches. It's not like Lex can see him through the coffee shop window. And if Lex could, he probably wouldn't recognize Clark, not after all this time.

Wrapping his hands around the cup, Clark takes in the warmth. He might not get cold, but that doesn't change the simple pleasure of it. A quiet coffee shop in the afternoon, like being home in Smallville. He can't remember the last time he was awake during the day, much less having time just to sit and breathe. Nothing to do, nowhere he needs to be, and nothing to worry about until sundown, when work starts.

He wonders, just a little, if he'll ever be able to think about it and not flush, not wonder if anyone looks at him and sees it on his face, written into his skin. There are a lot of words for what he does, and he's heard them all and then some. Somehow, he'd have thought by now, he'd be used to it. And somehow, he never is.

And *that's* a great way to spend his free afternoon, thinking about things he can't change. Lifting the cup, Clark takes another sip of coffee and tunes out the world. Warm coffee, warm shop, a little more money than he usually has to spend, and a place where no one's going to ask him to do--anything. Any of that. Almost like being normal.

"Is this seat taken?"

Blinking, Clark looks up. "Um. No." Lex just stands there, looking at him from beneath thick lashes, pink cheeked and still shivering beneath the heavy wool of his coat. He looks--amused. Confident. Very cold. "Sure. Go ahead."

And how did he miss Lex coming in?

"Thanks," Lex says, slipping off the coat, scarf, and hat, seating himself in a liquid slide into the chair. A waitress, probably attracted by the beacon of the bald head and reputation for money, sidles over a hell of a lot faster than she came to Clark. "Latte, thanks," Lex says, before she even opens her mouth, then leans both arms onto the table. "Clark."

"You remember." It sounds so *stupid* coming out of his mouth, but he can't help it.

"It's hard to forget a birthday present like that." The corner of Lex's mouth twitches when Clark does. "How've you been?"

Clark pulls his hands from his mug before he breaks it. "Good." Sometimes. Mostly. Maybe. But what else can he say? Staring at his hands, Clark wonders why Lex sat down here. It can't be for the stimulating conversation.

A few hundred headlines run through his head, like an advertisement for the Worst Conversational Fodder Ever. Picking up his coffee mug might be dangerous, but at least it gives him something to do.

"Great weather, hmm?"

Clark's eyes jerk up. Lex is laughing at him, just with that crooked smile. "Sorry. I--you know. Nothing's going on." Nothing that can be said in civilized places like a coffee shop, nothing he wants to talk about anyway. What's been going on? I don't want to think about it. I don't want to remember it. I don't want you here to remind me. The last part's unfair. If he's honest, Lex is the best trick-not-a-trick he's had.

"Understandable." Lex smiles up at the waitress and takes the offered coffee cup, sipping briefly before dismissing her with another smile when it looks like she wants to hang around. "I've--wondered how you've been doing."

Clark finds that unlikely as hell, almost as unlikely as Lex recognizing him. On the other hand, Lex *did*. "Good." Not bad. Not terrible, not like those first months. Nothing like that. "You?"

Lex's eyes flicker down, and Clark realizes he still has the latest *Inquisitor* spread out on the table in front of him, in plain view. Oh man. "Not too bad myself." A gloved hand reaches out, pulling it gently. "Third paternity suit this month, now this. It has to be a record in number of appearances."

It should be if it isn't. Clark feels his mouth tugging, trying to curl up to match Lex's smile. It *is* funny. "Um. What are you doing here?" Because this isn't an area of town he'd think Lex would be around much. At least, not during the day. God knows, he's heard enough about what Lex does with his nights. In retrospect, he's almost surprised he hasn't seen Lex around before now in one of the clubs.

"For the coffee," Lex says, and it's such a lie. Lex's grins suddenly, and he's like a teenager, maybe, with that smile. Just weird, and it makes Clark grin, too. "I needed some time to think." He motions out the window. "I saw you, thought I'd drop by and say hi."

Think? "If you're seen--" With me, he doesn't say. He hasn't been arrested yet, but it's been a close thing. And it's not like the underside of Metropolis isn't the equivalent of a village. Someone who knows what Clark is could see them. And--

"Don't worry about it." Lex glances casually out the window. "I have some--people around." Clark follows Lex's gaze, but it looks like any other street in the world. A few people going by, but it's cold, so not many. He frowns, looking harder. "If they were seen, they wouldn't be good at their job, now would they?"

Well, true. Clark lets himself relax a little, taking a sip of coffee. Maybe Lex is here for job-related purposes? Clark feels himself stiffen. Saw him through the window, thought of the convenience, wants to--wants to--

"And I'm not here to offer employment," Lex says. The smile doesn't fade from his mouth, but it does from his eyes, and he leans back, nursing the cup between gloved hands. Clark feels himself flush under the cooling regard. "I prefer my partners to at least pretend that they want to fuck me."

"It's not that." Or maybe it is, but not the way Lex thinks. Clark tries desperately not to crush the mug. "It's--it's just a job. It's not--" Personal. There's no way he can say it that doesn't make it sound insane. It's *sex*. It's supposedly fun. Even his roommates enjoy it, at least sometimes. And they always look at him weird when he tries to tell them that he--doesn't. Not really. "I just. I'm sorry. It's not you."

"Just men or both?"

He can't help the flush. "Both. Sometimes." A threesome he's never going to be able to wash out of his mind. He wants to shower just remembering it. "I. It's just me. I don't really--" Like sex. No teenage boy in history, no matter how weird, would say that. I don't like sex with people who don't see me. I don't like sex where I don't even feel like I'm there. And God, does he wish Lex hadn't seen him.

The coolness fades, though. "It can't be easy for you, doing that." Doing *that*. In nice urban coffee shops, you don't call it what it is. And so very much not what Clark wants to think about. Talk about. All of that. Finishing his mug, he tries on a grin.

"It was good seeing you again." And hopefully, never again. He doesn't like pity, and he's beginning to feel it, radiating from Lex like heat.

"Clark--"

"It's just getting late." Clark glances out at the cold winter afternoon, folding golden into the west. It's almost time to get started anyway. "I gotta run."

"Clark." A gloved hand closes over his wrist, steel-tight. Clark wishes he had the courage just to jerk away, even if it would show how weird he is in other ways. "You don't have to--"

"Don't." God, stop, stop, stop. "I'm fine. I'm good." Pulling his jacket on, Clark watches the grey eyes try to catch his. Not pity. No pity. He can't stand pity, not here. "I don't need--"

"You can't keep--look, I can help you."

But Clark's already out the door, scarf forgotten, gloves fumbled from his pockets. He waits until he's out of sight of the cafe before he starts to run.

So it's a matter of not being in the right places, Lex thinks, watching Clark doing his level best to dance. It's embarrassingly bad, or would be, if he wasn't so damn hot, in old, soft jeans that cling to his thighs and ass, a tiny, too-tight t-shirt that rides up just a little, exposing a slip of his stomach. Hypnotic to watch.

It's not stalking, not exactly, not if he had wanted to come here anyway, and Clark just gave him a better excuse. It's--serendipity. Another word, longer, that he'd use if he hadn't done six shots in one hour. A pleasant buzz is circling his head, but it takes a lot more alcohol than this to get him anywhere near as plastered as he wants to be.

It's not every day, after all, that Lex watches someone die. Luthor money erases everyone's memories but his.

Fuck. And he wasn't going to think about that any more. A motion brings the bartender with another shot, and Lex pushes himself farther back in a corner of the bar beneath the broken alcove lighting, stool tilting precariously so he can lean into the wall. The better to watch. From their chat this afternoon, Clark isn't showing a lot of enthusiasm for his presence.

He still wonders if he regrets not fucking Clark when they met. It's not like he can't just walk up and offer now, except--he *knows* him. In a way that's not knowing him at all. Too familiar to buy sex. Not familiar enough to ask for a casual fuck.

Watching isn't nearly enough, but he'll take what he can get.

A wave gets another shot, and Lex thinks of all the ways that this is just the kind of pathetic display his father would mock. Drinking by himself in a bar, so very maudlin, Dad would say, but then again, what does Dad know anyway? Sentenced him to *living* in this godforsaken city, doing his level best to try to cut Lex's access to ready money. Like Lex has any interest at all in puttering around LexCorp at Daddy's heels.

And damn, he almost missed Clark getting picked up. At least Clark stops dancing, standing stiff and still in the floor, surrounded by oblivious onlookers as the man passes him cash. Pocketing it with the same expressionless cool Lex had glimpsed in the cafe, what the kid hadn't been able to quite pull off when they met. The man's fingers wrap in the waist of the kid's jeans, and there's a second of hesitation before Clark follows him to the back door.

Finishing the shot, Lex stands up, surprised to watch the stool tumble over behind him, even more surprised when his legs feel like following. The room seems to tilt just a little before righting itself, soaking everything in a golden haze of warm nostalgia. The desperately dancing crowd, broken lights, inoperable fire escape, thick smoke--it's like being sixteen again and not giving a shit. It's just twenty-two and knowing it's never going to be different. Right now, he just doesn't care.

And maybe he wants to see what he missed when he said no to Clark.

The alley outside is an improvement, at least in smell--Metropolis prides itself on being clean, even in the slums. Snowy brick beneath his boots, freezing air all around him, numbing his nose instantly, cutting even through the cashmere line of his gloves. Clark, still on in thin shirt and jeans, is pushed up against the wall, and the thing that Lex thinks first is, he's got to be freezing.

Freezing, standing like that, jeans pushed down to just below his ass, eyes shut tight, hands fisted against the brick. Lex freezes in place as he watches the guy slick himself and push into Clark as casually as Lex buys a car.

The look of shock in wide green eyes burns away the haze of alcohol and decadence and nostalgia. It's a cramped alley ten feet from a dumpster, a sixteen year old kid pushed into a wall, and Lex realizes he's watching Clark lose his cherry right here.

When Clark's head turns, surprised eyes finding Lex, he wonders why he came outside at all.

Sex is--sometimes this. Lex remembers nights where his partners were faceless and formless, something hot and slick and tight around his cock, but he never saw himself when he did it. The man's hand casually braced on the wall, the other pushing Clark's face into the brick with a flattened palm, as coolly staged as a movie set, eyes closed, unaware of the way Clark's hands clench and release, the way he bites his lip, the bruised eyes that stare into Lex's, daring him to comment.

Or maybe wondering why he's watching at all.

And Christ, Lex is getting hard from this. He knows the second Clark sees it--an open coat and soft leather hide so few sins, and Lex hasn't ever wanted to hide it before. Clark's so fucking *pretty*, even like this, moving so his forearms brace him better for every rough thrust, regular as clockwork, flushing bright as a new apple, and that just makes it better. Hotter. Sicker, maybe, but that's nothing new.

Dark lashes shut out the world when the man comes, stumbling a little at the trick's quick pull out, quick zip and button, and the man walks away, vanishing into the dark. Maybe a cue for Lex to leave, too, and show a little damn tact. He doesn't though, just watches Clark's slow, deep breaths, the slow turn before he starts pulling up his jeans, dark head bent, too-long hair hiding his face.

"That's not safe," Lex hears himself say, and not even acid could make this moment more surreal. "Condoms--"

Clark laughs harshly, like someone who's been smoking for days. "That's--the least of my problems." Shaking hands button up the jeans, palms skidding down his hips afterward, like his own touch sickens him. Clark stares into the building across from him for a few long minutes afterward, breath slowing, every muscle stiff. He's still flushed. "You want to go next?"

Yes. Christ. "No, I didn't--" That's not why I'm here. That's exactly what I want. Alcohol and bile burn the back of his tongue. "Are you okay?"

Blank green eyes stare into the air three feet in front of Lex. "Sure." Finally pushing off the wall, he takes a step, stumbling slightly on the uneven brick, but he hardly seems to notice. And Lex can move then, finally, but Clark moves too fast--how does he do that?--inches outside his reach and obviously wanting to stay there.

There aren't words to describe the way Clark looks now. I should have, Lex thinks. I could have. That night. Just us. Not like this. Nothing like this. "Clark--"

Clark turns awkwardly "I gotta go."

"I can help--"

"I don't--need your pity."

Christ. Lex forces himself not to move as Clark walks away, the tiniest hitch in his step, like he's not sure enough of his own legs to risk anything faster.

He's out of sight before Lex rubs a palm over his cock, eyes closing.

Lex can't even hear his boots when he bends over to throw up.

The apartment's almost quiet when he stumbles home. Opening the cabinet door, he drops a wad of bills into the old coffee can on the second shelf, closing the lid with one hand that's not quite steady, pushing the cabinet closed again with his elbow. Marian left him a sandwich on the cheap folding table with a can of soda, a note taped to the top.

--Your turn on groceries. Hope you had a good night!--

The grocery list's tucked beneath the plate. Clark eats standing up, automatically washing the plate afterward. The room he shares with Randall's empty. Clark thinks he and Marian won't be seeing him again. It's like that sometimes. Marian told him, after Simon vanished. Clark searched half the city, finding him shooting up on the lower east side with no one Clark recognized. Clark thought about going in, but Simon had looked happy. Happier than he'd ever been in the apartment, anyway.

He hasn't seen him since, but then again, he hasn't looked very hard.

"Hey." A sleepy voice turns him around. Marian is a wreck of messy blonde hair and smeared eyeliner, absently pulling at the hem of her t-shirt. The cordless phone is in one shaky hand. "Good night?"

Clark thinks of the money in the can. "Yeah. Pretty good. You?" She's almost old enough to be his mother, though looks can be deceiving. Sighing, she rubs long-nailed fingers beneath her eyes. "Something wrong?"

"Randall won't be coming back." She pauses, looking at him for a second. Clark almost asks why, but his teeth clench together over the words.

"Oh." He wants her to stop looking at him, wants her to go back to her room, wants a shower and a shave and wants to--God, do anything but stand here, staring at her.

"It's nothing." She puts the phone on the charger, pulling at the stretched waist of her flannel pajama bottoms with nervous fingers. She's been twitchy for days. "He just decided to try his luck in LA, that's all."

Clark nods slowly. The feeling of numb surprise hasn't ended, but he thinks it will soon. It's been like moving in honey since he left the alley--two quick blowjobs downtown that he can barely remember, and the rest of the night wandering. They'd needed the money so badly.

"Clark?"

Especially now, with Randall gone. Clark takes a deep breath, thinking of the can in the cabinet. It's not like either of them can get tricks every night, or even most nights. Marian has a cigarette habit, and he doesn't need to ask her about the pipe in her bedside drawer, because he knows what she spends half her money on every month. They need a plumber for the kitchen sink, like the landlord will ever get around to fixing the problem. It's their second week without central heat. He might not notice, but Marian's starting to get a cough, and it isn't going away.

God, he hates this place.

"Five hundred." He watches her eyebrows go up, then the faded blue eyes drop, fixing on some point beyond his shoulder. "We'd better--" He stops, wondering when he stopped being the one told what to do, when he started being the one who paid the rent and checked to make sure she didn't dip out too much extra on a slow night from the can. When he started coping like this, like it's not all some bad dream, or temporary or--

There's nothing *temporary* about it. Not now. Not anymore.

"Clark?" Her thin hand touches his shoulder, pulling back before the barest brush. She'd told him how to do it, how to do all of it, but she'd never been able to teach him to enjoy it. He gets the feeling she hasn't enjoyed it in years. "Clark, you didn't have to--not if you weren't ready--"

He would never have been ready for any of it if that was his criteria. "It's okay." He wants his bed even more than he wants a shower. It's not like being clean changes anything. It's not like--it's not like cold water and soap can--will--

"Clark, sit down." Her voice seems to come from too far away, and Clark turns to the couch blindly, dropping on the blanket-covered arm, trying to find a way to breathe through it. Back alleys and backrooms aren't real. Sometimes, even this room isn't real, and he's been living here for nearly a year. "You want something to drink?" He can hear her banging through the cupboards and almost smiles, because she knows it takes weapons-grade alcohol to do a damn thing for him. It'd be so easy to pick up a habit just as expensive as Marian's, even if a completely different kind.

The warmth helps, though, washing the sour taste of other men's come from his mouth, tingling down his throat. Reminds him that all he's had is a sandwich to eat in the last twenty-four hours. And coffee. Can't forget the coffee.

Cradling the glass, Clark rests his elbows on his knees, eyes closed as he tries to pull it together. The last time he freaked out, he'd scared her to death. He can't do that again. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not, sweetie." Her hand touches his hair, then firms on his shoulder, urging him down onto the couch, where she can put both thin arms around him, bathing him in the smell of the drugstore perfume she likes so much, sickly with artificial gardenias, below it the more natural smell of sleep-sweat. "It's okay. It's nothing. It's just a job. That's all it is."

She told him that before he gave his first blowjob. She sat beside him afterward while he threw up just outside their apartment building, sick to his stomach, thinking he'd be tasting it forever. Long before she knew how weird he was, before she even knew his real name. She'd put him in her bed and told him he could stay as long as he wanted to.

She'd taught him everything she knew, and sometimes, he wishes she'd left him when she found him, that she hadn't been so worried about the wide-eyed kid she'd stumbled over one very bad night.

"I just--I--" He stops, keeping his eyes closed, swallowing in a suddenly dry throat. "It--wasn't bad. I mean, he didn't--do anything weird."

"Doing it the regular way is weird enough when you haven't before." She strokes back his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead before reaching over to the coffee table, picking up the whiskey. "Hold out your glass."

Another smaller drink, and his head starts feeling less--spacey. More real. The coffee table she got from the thrift shop down the road, almost new in bright wood-colored plastic. The rug that covers the cheap, peeling linoleum. Dank yellow walls, spotted with water damage and age. He keeps thinking he'll make enough one day to buy paint and redo it, but he's never quite gotten around to it. It's not that bad, he thinks, taking another small sip, tasting it this time. She must have fortified this with something stronger--grain alcohol maybe, the stuff the guys downstairs make in the basement that the landlord pretends he doesn't know about. Just enough for him to feel it a little, blurring the edges of things enough to deal with it.

"Clark?"

"I'm--okay." It's just sex, he thinks, remembering the times he's followed Marian, because sometimes when she's high, she doesn't choose good marks. And sometimes, they're not very nice. And sometimes, just sometimes, Clark has to remind them that they're paying to fuck her, not to hurt her. There's never been a news report about it or anything, and that's not a surprise, really, but sometimes, he's seen the men after. Knowing the way they limp by with downcast eyes is because of him, and that they'll never touch another woman on the street and not remember.

It should make him wonder, he thinks, that *that* bothers him less than fucking for money. It should make him wonder even more that the idea of going out with her and picking her tricks out himself when she's high has become more tempting. It's like he's lost every landmark of right and wrong, or what he will or won't do.

Carefully, he slides an arm around her shoulders, leaning back into the couch. God, he feels old. And tired. And he--needs to sleep. So does she, if the circles under her eyes are any sign. "You should get some sleep."

She nods against his shoulder but doesn't move. "Tell me."

Right. "Just a guy from Ecstasy. Three hundred for a quickie in the alley. No one I've seen before." And Lex, standing there, watching. It'd made it easier, somehow, to bite his lip against the 'no', stand there and take the foreign heat of a cock up his ass. Easier to blink away the unbelief he was doing this, if only so Lex wouldn't see.

And what had he said when he met Lex? Been fucked? No. Fucked anyone? No. He's done both, and he's sure it's changed him, but he's so far from the kid from Smallville, or the kid in LuthorCorp Towers that it's just unreal to even find the common ground. Even then, he hadn't thought--not really--that it would ever get this far.

Lex hadn't even *wanted* him then.

"Get some sleep," she says, standing up unsteadily. Clark catcher her before she falls over, reading the history of the night in the tight lines around her mouth, the yellow of her bones pressing through thin skin. It hadn't been a good night, and she hasn't had a fix in at least two days.

He's glad he only put half the money in the can. He's almost sure that it won't be there when he wakes up. "Yeah. You too."

With a tired smile, she walks to her bedroom door, closing it carefully behind her. Clark considers the can for a few minutes, adjusting his eyes to peer through plywood, counting the bills absently. Enough for rent, to cover gas and electricity, maybe even for groceries for a week. Enough for other things, too.

Absently, he pulls out a few more bills, getting up to tuck them in the can, then turns off the light with a flick of his fingers and goes to bed.

Lex helps her find her underwear, lost somewhere beneath the bed, but the shirt's ruined. She just stares at him when he offers to buy her another one, taking the one from his closet that he offers with an incredulous look, like she's wondering if he's still high.

He's *not*, but he wishes he were. He offers breakfast and a ride home, though God alone knows where she lives, but she just shrugs as she pulls on her coat over the lavender silk of his shirt, tied up above her pale belly. The piercing gleams in the faint light from the blinded windows.

"You okay?" she asks, peering at him from beneath thickly mascaraed lashes. Lex nods. "Okay. It's late, I gotta run."

"Let me call you a cab." He wishes the words back almost instantly from the look on her face. Tricks don't, he thinks, almost sighing to himself. And explaining would be an exercise in stupidity. He just doesn't do this enough to know how it's supposed to work. "It's a long way back to where I picked you up." In a limo. She probably expected a lot worse than a night of relatively simple sex, and it shows. She pushes back a handful of dark hair and reaches for her shoes, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull them on. Chunky heels, slightly more practical than the stilettos her compatriots wear, and they leave bigger, blunter bruises on his back and thighs, not tight bloody lines. If she's passed her twentieth birthday, Lex will eat the candles on her birthday cake himself. The short denim skirt slides down to the half-way point of her thigh, and she straightens it as she stands up, wincing a little. Easy sex, maybe, but also lengthy.

"All right." She finds her purse by the door, checking it automatically as he leans over to pick up the phone, feeling immensely strange being the least dressed in the room. The blue-green eyes are sharp; she either has better tolerance than he does, or she didn't take as much as he did. In her profession, he supposes that's pretty smart. When he's done, she smiles, obviously amused. "Thanks. I'll wait--at garage level?"

Lex quirks a grin at the way she tilts her head. "You've been here before?"

"A few times. LuthorCorp employees pay well." Checking her appearance in the compact she fishes out of her purse, she snaps it shut and nods at him. "Come around anytime." And turning on a heel, she vanishes out the door. Lex sits back on the bed and listens to her shoes clomp down the hall, out into the living room, and out the front door.

He's so glad he dismissed his staff for the weekend. His back aches, but that'll fade before nightfall. The drugs washed out of his system hours ago, leaving him clean and deathly sober in the too-luxurious bedroom, surrounded by the smells of sex and perfume and sweat. An exhausting night to a morning just like any other one in his life, except he's paying for the sex. Which in all honesty, isn't the worst idea he's ever had, no matter what his motivations. There's a lot to be said for a partner that he never has to see again, who doesn't expect any more than the surface.

His peers are getting more boring by the day. Bored and boring and exhausting and annoying.

The ring of his phone doesn't shift him a single inch. It's Dad again, with a speech on Luthors and destiny, or it's Dominic, who probably knows exactly how he spent his night and is trying to blackmail, or it's something else pointless and ridiculous, and God, if he stays in Metropolis much longer, he won't be jumping off buildings because he thinks he can fly; he'll be doing it to see just how fast he can fall.

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Lex pushes himself up, padding to the bathroom. There's a little blood on his chin, and her nails left cuts across his shoulders and back that will be gone by lunch. Nothing ever touches him for long. In a few hours, it'll be like there was never anyone here at all, with a staff to clean up after him and his body erasing the rest of the evidence.

God *dammit*.

Clark wasn't here last night, but he might as well have been. All that dark hair and soft mouth, filling up Lex's mind. Malachite green eyes in that single, shocked expression. It's just--wrong. He should be ashamed of himself, or sickened, or--

"Still in bed, Lex?"

Great. Lex stares at the ceiling blankly. So. From phone calls to house calls.

"At this hour?"

Christ, not the ambiance of greatness speech again.

"You are a disappointment, son."

Oh, that one. "I try." He wishes he were higher. Or not here at all.

"I thought time in the city under my eye would curb your more--excessive impulses. Apparently, I was wrong."

Lex lifts his head to look at his father with narrowed eyes. He's in usual emperor-of-the-world pose near the center of the room, the better for sunlight to casually fall around him like a halo. The effect's a little spoiled by the way he twitches. He's mad. Looks like Dominic reported on him already. "Have you thought about a haircut, Dad?"

Lionel's mouth opens; Lex so isn't in the mood for this. "Never mind. Go away. I haven't eaten yet." The very idea of food makes him nauseous. "You can't touch the money mom and Pam left me, you can't get around the strictures of the trust, and I don't give a shit about LuthorCorp." It's a rather freeing thought--he could leave Metropolis if he really wanted to. Dad can make things difficult, but he really can't do *anything* to stop him anymore. "You have nothing I want. Go fuck some socialite to get your heir. I'm *out*."

The silence says more than words ever could.

"Son--"

Lex drops back on the bed, closing his eyes. "I don't *care*." This insanely childish urge to punctuate it with a kick of his feet against the side of the bed. Maybe just yell something at the ceiling about fathers whose sons kill them because dear God, they're boring.

"I should have sent you to Smallville." Lionel's voice is tight. There's the slightest chance he's finally pushed Lionel's temper to the breaking point. Lex is almost tempted to look--he's been waiting for this for *years*. "I should have--"

"Go away, Dad." Rolling on his side, Lex reaches for a pillow and covers his head. Dad can stand there and yell out his lungs if he wants, but damned if it's going to interrupt Lex's sleep. "What on earth could have tempted me to a shitkicker town in the middle of fucking nowhere? Organic farming?"

"A mystery, son."

Lex rolls his eyes under the pillow. Great, the mysteries of the universe speech, second only to destiny as Lionel's favorite topic of conversation. Mysterious Things in this place, rocks here, strangely acting people there, blah blah fucking blah "Whatever."

"Lex, this behavior--" It doesn't look like this is going to wind down, like, ever. Lex draws a deep breath and burrows farther into the blankets. It's going to be a fucking long morning.

The can's empty when he wakes up; Clark's not surprised. Going through the apartment, Clark checks for their pawnables; gone, too. Shit. He'd been more tired than he thought. With a sinking feeling, he checks his jeans, finding a ten and two ones left. Enough to eat today. Well, at least she was thoughtful about it.

The kitchen's a mess; she must have been starting serious withdrawal before she left. A half-swept broken glass pushed under the table, broom tossed against the wall. She'd started the dishes, but there's blood in the sink from a broken plate. Patiently, Clark straightens it up, tossing the glass into a smaller bag to avoid anyone cutting themselves by accident, even if it's only going in the dumpster downstairs. His head aches a little, a burn directly behind his eyes that's been going off and on for about a week. Marian had offered him some stuff she got from the dealer down the hall, but it had been about as useful as the aspirin he'd used to try back at ho--back in Smallville.

Sometimes being--whatever the hell he was--just sucked. Rubbing his forehead, Clark dumps the dustpan out and finishes cleaning out the sink, finishing the dishes and putting them away. There's really not much to do until nightfall, and just wandering around the streets gets old really fast. He has to go out tonight or eviction is in their future. Not to mention a real lack of utilities.

Presently, a banging at the door brings his head up. Wiping his hands off on a towel, he crosses the living room, stepping over a discarded pair of heels and picking up the charm bracelet that Marian must have lost on her way out the door, setting it on the edge of the small television. Checking the peephole, he steps back and unfastens the lock.

"Stella." She pushes in with a frown, which isn't entirely new. Short dark brown hair brushes his face as she does a visual assessment--must be looking for Marian. He sighs, wondering how much she's in to Stella for. "Nice to see you, too."

"Cut the shit, Clark. Where's your girl?"

It's way to early for this. "I haven't seen her since I got up." Closing the door, Clark leans against it, closing his eyes. Headache. Even that brew Marian makes for him can't help this. Normal people can get drunk. He just gets to--stand here. "What's wrong?"

Wide green eyes grab his. "She said she'd pay me back today. You good for it?"

If she hadn't taken off with upward of a thousand dollars, sure thing. Clark rubs his forehead. "No. What and from when?"

"Early this week." Turning on chunky heels, she stops for a second, looking at him for a long moment. "You okay?"

"Headache. I'll talk to her when she gets home." About what, he has no idea. You can't talk someone into giving up the only thing that makes their life worth living. It's been a while since he's even tried. "I'll get it to you, okay?"

Frowning, she spins back around with a suspicious sweep of the room, like Marian's hiding under the furniture for God's sake. "When?"

"Give me a few days. How much?"

"Three hundred." Still frowning, she leans into the arm of the couch, brushing her hair from her eyes. "You're lucky I had a good night."

Stella's pretty and relatively smart, so he's not surprised. She also doesn't have a drug habit, which puts her at the high end of the curve as far as that goes. Tapping her foot, she plays with the edge of her skirt for a few minutes.

"Rich boys are all the same," she says, worrying a fingernail between her teeth. The green polish makes him vaguely nauseous in motion. "Nice enough, though." She smiles a little, shaking her head. "Easy money. Wish I had more like that one."

And great, he's going to have to hear about it. Sighing, Clark goes to the kitchen. He thinks there's some tea left. "Want something to drink?"

"Yeah. Beer?"

Not unless she wants to do their grocery shopping. "Tea."

"Whatever." She falls in a graceful sprawl on the couch, reaching behind her to get her purse and pull out her cigarettes. Clark wonders a little desperately where the ashtray is this time. "You should come out with me, Clark. You'd do better than at those clubs you like."

Yes, because walking a street is so low profile. "I like not having an arrest record, thanks." The microwave hums soothingly beside him.

"What do you do, blow the cops?"

I don't let myself be *seen*. He has to admit, his weirdness has some really useful applications. "Sugar?"

"Absolutely." She's not all that much older than he is, though she's legal, which makes it a little easier for her. She's not as apathetic as Marian, but time does that to you, he knows. And she hasn't been out long, just since her mother threw her out when she was sixteen. He knows she lived with a couple of boyfriends before she came to Metropolis, but Stella's as close-mouthed about her life before as he is. "Weird, though." She blows out a breath of smoke. She works for that level of casual carnality just wrapping her lips around a cigarette. He's seen her practice, even if now it looks effortless. "I almost thought he didn't like girls."

"Why?" Bringing the mugs over, he sets one beside her and watches in resignation as she ashes in the bowl of plastic fruit that Marian's so attached to.

"Wanted to do it up the ass." She shrugs. "Double pay. I've done it before."

Clark thinks there's not much she hasn't done. "Huh."

"I've seen him around, though." She's frowning. "That club you like so much--"

Clark freezes, mug halfway to his mouth. "Oh?" And his voice is nowhere near as casual as he wants it to be.

"Yeah." Turning her head, she sees the cup and sits up, reaching for it. From this angle, he can see the impression of bruising teeth in the back of her neck. "Bald guy. Lex."

Clark carefully sets down his mug, watching her take another drag. "How much for a night?"

"Flat thousand. And nothing weird." She sighs, stretching out a little. "Don't see that every day, you know?" Frowning, she takes another drag, leaning back into the couch, eyes glazing. Brown hair, green eyes, taking it up the ass. If he was the paranoid type--and he is--he'd think--

"Lex *Luthor*." She says it like it's a complete revelation, and she drops about ten points on the smartness scale right there. Her eyes glaze over. Clark knows that look. "Lex Luthor. In the Inquisitor."

Damn. "Yeah." Taking a drink of tea, Clark waits for it. Stupid, Lex is *stupid*. Doesn't he have *friends* for this sort of thing? "Anyway, I--"

"I wonder how much they'd pay," she murmurs, blowing out a lungful of smoke, eyelids drooping in thought. It doesn't take a degree in rocket science to see where she's headed.

"They wouldn't believe you." The mug is striating in his grip. Clark makes a physical effort to loosen his fingers. "They won't take the word of a--." He still can't quite say the word.

"The only difference between me and that Anna chick is she'll fuck anyone with a cock." There's a dangerously interested look in her eyes. "I could go ask--"

"No."

Clark doesn't actually believe the word came out of his mouth until he sees Stella, staring at him with wide eyes. The headache's growing worse, chopping like a thresher through his mind, and God, he'd give anything for her to leave. But not until he knows what she plans to do.

"What?"

"Don't." His mind is running a mile a minute and is it getting hot in here? Wiping his forehead, Clark puts down the mug before he shatters it. "You don't want him as an enemy."

"I don't have anything to lose."

Shit. Shit. "I'm sure Anna thought the same thing. And where's she been for the last few months after she pissed him off?" Acapulco, actually, but Stella doesn't pay as much attention to the papers as he does.

The cigarette dips disturbingly close to the blanket on the couch. "What's it to you?" Leaning forward, she fixes him with a searching look. "You know him, Clark?"

Is that what you call it? I don't know him. I don't want to know him. But I don't want--what? That he was fucking you while possibly thinking of me to--. Wow, that's convoluted. And God, his head hurts. Rubbing his forehead, Clark takes a breath.

"Just drop it. Consider it a personal favor."

"I don't do personal."

Clark looks up, wishing to God he could see her clearly. Everything's an orange-red haze and he wants her out so bad he just might throw her out, literally. "Just--don't. Drop it, forget about, don't tell anyone where you were last night--" Was Lex *high*? Drunk? Stupid? The Inquisitor *lives* to fuck with the Luthors. And has the pending lawsuits to prove it. He has to know that. Or doesn't he care?

"Clark--"

"I mean it, Stel." Taking a deep breath, Clark stands up, grabbing his cup and taking it to the kitchen. "I don't want--"

"You *do* know him." He can hear the sound of her shoes on the floor, coming closer, and it's getting hard to resist the urge to grab her and shake her. Her voice is in a new octave from glee, and that just makes the headache worse "What? He pick you up one night? Should have known--"

Before he knows he's going to do it, he's turned around, hands wrapped around her upper arms. "One word about him and you'll regret it." What the *hell*? Shaking his head free of a little of the haze, he sees her open-mouthed stare at him. He's seen people afraid of him before--chasing down Marian has never been all roses and ice cream--but never quite like this.

It takes a second to realize he's holding her off the floor.

"Shit." Biting his lip, Clark lets go, stepping back as she stumbles. He doesn't dare touch her again. "Sorry."

Eyes wide, Stella takes a backward step. On her bare arms, he can see the reddened marks of his hands in her skin. "Don't you ever--"

"Don't talk and I won't have to." Reaching behind him, Clark grabs onto the sink, wondering if he's going to fall, his knees are shaking so badly. It's not a threat unless he looks like he can back it, he knows that, but it never makes it easier. "Get out."

Slowly, she takes a step back, then another, like he's an animal that might attack at any second. Then a turn, dark hair flying, and she's fumbling the locks open, slamming the door behind her. He can hear the rapid pace of her heels on the stairs.

Sinking down on the floor, Clark closes his eyes, wondering exactly what had just happened.

So maybe he could have been more subtle, in retrospect, but there's only one reason he'd be here, and it sure as hell isn't the alcohol.

"What. The. Hell?"

Lex isn't sure how he ended up against the wall in the backroom, but it probably has something to do with Clark. Who's a lot stronger than Lex had thought.

Angry green eyes keep him pinned in place, even when the big hands drop from his shoulders. A look around isn't enlightening; no one is even glancing their way. Lex has a feeling that Clark's temper tantrums might be a little familiar to the regulars.

One hand is shoved into the wall just above Lex's shoulder. Right. He's supposed to be paying attention to Clark, not the other residents.

"You have any idea how close you were to having your name in the headlines again?" Clark hisses in his ear. His eyes refuse to focus, blurring Clark's face; the broken overheads aren't helping. And God knows, the sounds...

"Are you *high*?" Clark sounds--appalled. Lex forces himself not to laugh at the look of utter shock. "Here? Alone? Do you want to wake up with your throat cut?"

"No one would dare."

"You have *got* to be kidding." Clark glances around briefly, then takes a step toward him, knee pushing between his. It's hot, or should be, but this is probably the least aroused Lex has been in his life. On the other hand, everything's funny, right up to the fact that the back of Clark's hair is standing on end like an angry cat. He wonders if he should tell him. "This isn't uptown where the bouncers all know Daddy, okay? God, if you're gonna slum, can you at least do it in your right mind?"

"Bad day." A day with Lionel is a convincing argument for suicide. Lex thinks two hits is rather modest, all things considered. "Why am I back here?"

And damned if Clark isn't grinding his teeth.

"Your trick last night? Pretty brunette?" Oh yes. Her. "Ask me how close she was to running to the Inquisitor to have a little chat about Lex Luthor's sexual proclivities?"

Lex grins. "That would have been interesting." Disastrous. But nearly worth the look on Daddy's face, too.

"No. *Not* interesting." The full mouth brushes against his ear, but Clark's showing zero interest in sex, which is kind of sad, since Lex is beginning to warm up to the idea. If he turned his head, he could kiss that full mouth. It's hard to keep his hands down at his sides. Looks like that mix is finally kicking in with more than nausea and an aversion to bright lights. "Lex, you can't just--come down here. Do that."

"Why?"

Clark glances around briefly, then leans back a little. "You're going to end up dead or worse. I've--seen worse. You don't know what--people are like. Here."

Lex licks his lips. "I've been doing this since I was younger than you are. I can take care of myself."

"You didn't even bring your bodyguards--I looked. If I was someone else, who recognized you--" Hard hands close over his wrists, jerking them up level with his shoulders, and the knee between his legs suddenly *hurts*. "If you yelled, no one would come. If I dragged you outside, no one would care. If I killed you for five thousand dollars--and what the hell are you doing carrying that kind of money down here?--no one would give a shit. They'd find your body in a dumpster tomorrow and you'd get your last headline." Clark's grip is grinding bones together. It might be time to get a little worried. "Is that what you want?"

He's not sure. Everything's a little too bright, a little too close, and Clark--*Clark*, of all people, the pretty former-virgin-hustler--has him pinned to the wall to give him a lecture in safety. It's about on par for his life. "No."

"Then why the hell do you do this?"

Lex opens his mouth to answer, but there really isn't a good one. "I'm bored."

Clark stares at him for a long moment, disbelief staining his skin like ink. Like he can't even imagine what Lex is talking about.

"I've been coming down here for years" Lex murmurs. Clark's close enough to smell--the cheap cotton of his shirt, soap from his shower, and sweat, bitter and tangy. Too close, really, for Lex to think clearly. Or that could be the drugs. "You think I don't *know*?"

"You risk that--"

"I don't *care*."

Clark's hands loosen--not enough to pull away, but to restart blood flow, a plus. Lex flexes his fingers expectantly, but that's apparently as far as Clark will go. "You--you're crazy. You think any of us like--that this is something we want--" The words trickle off. "How can you--"

"Clark." Lex closes his eyes, swallowing. "Everything you've ever heard about rich brats slumming? I invented the clichés, and I reinvented the ones that got old. I was fucking against this wall when I was younger than you are. Do you really think you're telling me something I don't already know?"

"Lex--"

"You do it for money. I just did it because I could. It's not all that different."

Finally, Clark lets go, but he doesn't move away. Lex fights the urge to rub his wrists, fights even harder to keep from touching Clark. God, he wants to, and there's nothing to stop him now, not really. Except himself. Except Clark, if he really wants to.

"I--" Clark stops, taking a breath, then taking a step back. Not at all a positive outcome. "I have to--"

"Work?" Lex pushes off the wall. "Clark. You don't have to--I can--"

"Stop--stop saying that. You can't fix--you can't just--"

"I can help you."

"I don't *want* your help!"

"Why? Is all this some kind of penance?" Waving an arm, Lex takes another step toward him, feeling dangerously off-balance. Not good to have confrontations when he's about five minutes from not giving a shit about anything at all. "I want to help you. I--I don't want--"

"I don't *need* anyone--"

"You need money."

Clark closes his eyes, but at least he stops trying to leave. Lex glances around. No one's looking at them, but that doesn't mean they aren't listening, especially since he and Clark have gotten to the dramatic portion of the conversation.

"You want to buy me this time, Lex?"

Christ. Lex licks suddenly dry lips. The green eyes catch his, making it impossible to look away. "Clark--"

"Last time, what? I didn't know what I was doing? Too young? That was a hell of a lot of money for three hours of sitting around and letting your friends grope me." Clark takes a step forward, and Lex finds himself in the novel position of retreat. The wall isn't the comfort it should be against his back. "You followed me here last night. You're here tonight. Why?"

"I--don't know. I just--." It's the most inane thing he's ever said in his life, and that's saying something. No one asks him to explain himself. It figures Clark would.

"You don't even know me. What do you want?"

"Just to help you."

"Three hundred." Clark bares his teeth in something that doesn't come close to a smile, taking another step forward. In a second, he'll be against the wall, and Lex could possibly come just from looking at him. "You want me on my knees? I can do that now."

Christ, no, yes, maybe, now. Clark is too close, and it's too hard to think like this. "For nothing. For you. No strings."

Clark shrugs, stepping back. "It doesn't work that way."

Why the hell *not*? "I don't--"

"You've paid for it before. And I'm very good."

Like he needs to hear that now, when his entire body's alight. Even his clothing feels too rough, and he's starting to sweat, just looking at the kid in front of him. A kid, his mind tells him. A very pretty, very hot *kid*. "Don't--"

"Yes or no, Lex. Pick one."

He'd be insane to say no. "Five hundred." He's got to be jaded as shit to say that. But Clark only nods, and that space between them closes, and this time, he can touch. Clark lets him.

Soft, soft brush of lips against his mouth, before Clark draws back, skimming to breathe against his ear. "Five hundred. What do you want?"

Clark's skin is hot, like he's been dancing for hours. Hard muscle beneath the silkiest skin he's ever touched. And that mouth--he could just think about that and come, with the knee pressed to his cock, just ride that thigh and touch him and come seeing stars, possibly pass out considering everything he's taken tonight. "I--"

"Want me to suck you off?" Clark's tongue is fast and slick and does things. Across his collar and in the hollow of his throat, the scrape of teeth against solid bone, making Lex arch, breathe out some word that could be yes, or might not be, but Clark only grins at him, this sharp, glittery thing that almost scares him. Then those big hands are running down the front of his pants, one cupping him through the material, and he stops caring.

"Clark--"

"Usually I'd ask for payment up front, but I know you're good for it." Clark leans close enough to lick away Lex's breath, catching his lower lip between his teeth, pulling back with a glance down. One handed, Clark undoes the button, sliding down the zipper. "Nothing on under? Saves time."

Jesus. "I--"

"I like it."

Somewhere else, Lex is saying no, explaining that he doesn't do this, not really, not until last night. He's telling Clark that he doesn't want it this way, not him this way, but that's a lie and Clark would know it if he bothered to say it. He's saying that this isn't why he's here, why he's interested, but that's not here, and it doesn't have Clark on his knees, so fast Lex feels dizzy, one hand on his hip, the other pulling him through the opening in his pants. A look up, all jade-green eyes as hard as nails, and Clark swallows him down so effortlessly that Lex can't help the gasp, or the way he tenses.

He's good, that much is absolutely fucking true.

Good, amazing, *inspired*, and so fucking *practiced*. This isn't even close to the kid he first met, like two entirely different people. One who can coax him to shiver and gasp and probably scream if that's what he wants. Lex reaches down, touching soft dark hair, trying not to just grab on and fuck the kid's mouth. There's got to be a line drawn somewhere, and the thought's funny when he's just bought use of a sixteen year old's throat in the backroom of the third sleaziest club in the city.

It's fast, too. Lex closes his eyes, biting his lip when he comes, feeling it in every nerve down to his feet. His legs want to fold up, but Clark's holding him up, standing up with the same too-fast grace, looking down at him, licking his lips absently.

"Money."

Lex reaches behind him, pulling out his wallet. His hands don't want to work; fine motor control is shot to hell and back. He's lucky he's still standing. "Take it."

Through half-closed eyes, he watches Clark count out the bills, then the big hand slides back around, tucking his wallet in his pocket before reaching down and zipping up his pants. Another too bright smile, like walking on glass. Lex knows he's cut before he can even feel it. "See you around."

Marian's not home when he gets in; everything's still as neat as he left it, so she hasn't been here since he left. He dropped off a check at the landlord's apartment downstairs, balancing a pizza and more orange juice while running up the stairs. No one sane takes the elevator here; it's always stopping at random intervals in the wrong places, like between floors.

He doesn't bother glancing at the phone. Marian never calls.

Sitting down, Clark closes his eyes, folding his arms up on the table. If his parents could see him now--

--and that doesn't go anywhere productive at all. Pushing the thought aside, Clark buries his head, taking deep breaths. Somewhere in the back of his head, he can hear Chloe telling him that he's got to get over his savior complex some day, but in retrospect, she probably never meant in regards to her. Or really, at all, and again, that's not good thoughts, not morning thoughts, not pizza-and-orange-juice thoughts. He's tired and it's been a long night.

Getting up, he automatically showers and changes into his pajamas, the ones he brought from home a million years ago. Moving all the food to the coffee table, he grabs the remote and turns on the TV, reaching for comfort food in pepperoni and mushrooms. Marian disappears sometimes, and when she does, she doesn't like to be found. She took enough for a three day bender if she was really inspired, and it's been a bad few weeks.

He should--say something. No idea *what*, or how, but he should. And she'll tell him to mind his own fucking business and ruffle his hair, because she doesn't care anymore about anything, and it's not like he doesn't understand that. Picking up another piece of pizza, Clark wishes vaguely for cable and the Cartoon Network, but Saturday morning cartoons aren't too bad either, even if the antenna is acting a little whacky.

He saw Lex later, though he hadn't meant to, not really. Another place, with the kind of people Marian tells him to stay away from, the kind who like them young and breakable and soft. He's none of those things, but she thinks he is, and he lets her keep thinking that. Lex had been okay for as long as Clark had watched, as long as it took for a cab to arrive and pick him up, a mess of ruined leather and bruised skin and blissed out eyes, like he wasn't seeing the world at all. Makes Clark almost understand why people get high, if Lex can look like that, look so happy.

Lex isn't soft, but he plays at it like Clark does sometimes, and it's different from the Lex that Clark almost knows, the one who watches him with those sharp blue eyes, like he's always looking for something. He should have fucked Lex that first night, and maybe then, Lex wouldn't be so--interested. Watching. Should have--not gone near him tonight, or upset Stella, or watched, either, but Lex isn't like anyone else Clark's met. The other ones who come down here never really know what they're playing, but Lex just might. Rumor says a lot.

And he's listening now.

Lionel Luthor shut down two places because of Lex back in the day. Lex likes it any way he can get it, can take it. He likes it slow and fast and sharp and likes to remember with his body and his skin and likes to remember with other people's, too. He pays well because he can, because he expects silence, and he gets it. Down here, everyone knows of him, and they never talk. Leave it up to those of his class to fuck around with him. Most of them here won't, because he's been here a year and those that do don't seem to stay around long at all.

There's a message in that, Clark thinks, but he's not sure what it is. Maybe scaring Stella hadn't been necessary. If she'd heard the things that he had--but then, Stella doesn't listen, and maybe she would have found out the hard way.

Still, though. Another piece of pizza, another day to sleep, and he's got to start thinking of something to do, something that--isn't this. It's still over a year before his eighteenth birthday, before he can afford to be seen by anyone, but he's beginning to wonder what he'll be by then. Stella had said it was temporary, and he thinks Marian didn't exactly consider this her life's work either, but on the other hand, he's not vulnerable to drug abuse either. At least, not so far when he's tried.

There's a DARE speech in that somewhere, which is kind of funny. At least his head doesn't hurt anymore.

"What's it like?" he'd asked her one day, a hundred years ago, when he was trying to fall asleep and couldn't, nauseous and angry by turns, feeling younger than sixteen should ever feel.

She'd shrugged, sitting on his bed to pet his hair. "It just makes things not matter as much."

That'd be nice, to have things not matter. Marian could forget food and rent on the right kind of day, forget that they didn't have electricity and it wasn't even the worst of winter yet. Marian could forget she hated what she did, forget how long she'd been doing it, have sex like it meant something when it didn't mean anything at all.

He thinks he might like that, too.

Banging on the door interrupts his thoughts. It could be Marian, because she's always losing keys, and it's such a good thing they don't have anything worth stealing. Could be one of her dealers that she screwed over by forgetting to pay; she does that sometimes. Could be the landlord, though Clark can't imagine what for. None of it really inspires him to move much.

But it's cold outside, as cold as it is in here, but here, they have blankets, and if he knows Marian, she left without her coat or gloves today.

"Just a second." Drinking half the juice in a gulp, Clark gets up, brushing a stray mushroom from his pajama bottoms to put back on the box. A check at the keyhole shows it isn't Marian, and this is so not what he got up for.

He could be a brat and ignore her, but--

"Clark! Open this goddamn door!"

She can be really loud.

Clark unhooks the lock and steps aside, forgetting to wince when she brings a chunky pump down on his foot as she walks by him. It's not like she notices. "Good morning."

Whirling on him, she gives him a frown. "Cut the shit. He's one of your regulars? That's why you acted like a jerk last night?"

It's way too early for this kind of drama. Shutting the door, Clark goes back to his pizza, consoling himself with the thought that Stella looks like she had a hell of a night.

"Not exactly." She must have seen something. Or someone told her something. Or hell, maybe she's just really suspicious or something. "I just--"

"What does he pay you to keep your mouth shut?"

She'd probably never believe that the first time, it was five grand for being pretty and quiet. "He doesn't."

"Do you think he gives a shit about you?" She's mad, yeah. Her entire face is flushed. Must have been a really bad night. The cold doesn't encourage customers to mill around. "Why--"

"He's a--friend." That's an epic lie, and probably one of the biggest he's ever told, right up there with the first time he told Marian her ex-pimp tripped over his own feet in that alley. She hadn't believed him then, and Stella's looking like she doesn't believe him now. It's kind of funny. Folding a piece of pizza in half, Clark stuffs half of it in his mouth. He's *hungry*.

"Your friend."

He needs to sleep before he has to deal with people. "Yeah. We--met a while back. Why do you care?"

Frowning, she stares at his pizza box, and Clark turns it toward her. If she eats, she might calm down and go away, and that means some more Saturday morning cartoons before he crashes.

"I had a bad night."

And once, certain friends had told him he was too oblivious. Hah. "Sorry about that."

She shrugs. "Whatever." Sitting on the floor, she takes a slice, looking thoughtfully at the mushrooms. "Marian home yet?"

"No." Clark pushes the thought aside. She knows the streets better than he does, high or not. "She probably won't be back--" For a few days. Even if he started now, he wouldn't know where to start looking.

"Until the money runs out, you mean," Stella finishes gloomily, taking another bite. "What happened to Randall?"

"Moved to LA." That's got to be some kind of really weird euphemism. People don't just get up one day and move to LA. Unless they're running from something., maybe. But he hadn't heard anything, and by now, he would have. "You gonna be up long?"

"Long enough to finish this." She finishes the piece and stands up, licking her fingers clean like a cat. "I gotta run. You want me to ask around about Marian?"

She's either forgiven him for threatening her, or she's planning some really scary revenge. Neither would really surprise him. "No." She'd hate that. "Thanks, though."

"You owe me for Luthor." Right, he gets that. "I'll be in touch." Slinging her hair back, she unlocks the door, relocking it before she closes it again, and he finishes up the last slice, closing the empty box.

He needs to rest. But maybe, he can wait a little longer. Just to see if she comes back home.

He'll be waiting a long time.

It's the first time it happens.

It's a club first, then a building, and now it's an alley. That's as much as Clark remembers of it, except for the man's face, friendly and open. A nice guy, maybe just curious, playing around the edges of the slums. He'd touched Clark like television romance movies, and it was--nice. Nice to be kissed carefully and touched lightly and asked what he liked, even if he couldn't say that he liked anything at all. Nice to be asked back to a small, quiet apartment and nice to be led to a big, comfortable bed, and nice to be touched like that--

--and not nice, not what he was ready for, that was the problem. Because he's used to guys who are rough and tries to avoid the ones that want to see bruises after. He's used to avoiding the too-sober ones, because they'll notice things, and used to being treated like shit, because that's how life is. He doesn't expect--couldn't expect--he hadn't seen that coming, and it was stupid. It was so *stupid*, because the guy was so nice and then he wasn't, and Clark got scared when the hand went around his throat and started to squeeze, because no one had ever done that before.

Closing his eyes, Clark tries to clear his head, but he smells like burning bed and burning man, and he hadn't meant to do that, he didn't know, how the hell was he supposed to *know* he could do *that*....

"Oh God," he whispers, and wonders why he's even bothering. Three streets away there's a fire burning and fire trucks and people evacuating the building, and he's here, and-- "I didn't, I didn't--" A candle or an electric short or a goddamned case of *spontaneous combustion*, except his head had hurt and hurt and was this was it was? This--this--

"Clark." The hand on his shoulder almost makes him look up, but he remembers at the last moment, dropping his head again, hand firmly placed. He could rip out his eyes, but is that where it comes from? Will it always be there, even when his eyes aren't? "Clark. Look at me. We need to get out of here."

"I can't--"

"Were you hurt?" Cool, smooth hands track his bare skin, and Clark shivers, jerking away. Maybe touching him triggers it, and he'll burn through his own hands. The touching doesn't stop though. A delicate scent of cologne drifts toward him, so much better than ash and burned things, that Clark wants to lean into it, absorb it into his skin. It's an effort to keep still, just let it go on and on. "Clark. Talk to me."

"I'm fine."

A worried huff of breath, just over his head. "You were in the building? When it started burning?"

I *started* that fire burning, Clark thinks, but he bites his lip against saying anything. "I'm fine, Lex. I don't--"

"Why are you covering your eyes?" And he can feel Lex kneeling in front of him. They're way too familiar in some weird way, and somehow, Clark had thought the blowjob would be enough. Lex finally getting something he hadn't had before, and he'd go away, and it's like it made it *worse*. Or better. Lex never approaches him for a trick, but he watches even more, and Clark wishes he were more sorry about it than he is. "Do you have anyone I can call?"

Marian's been MIA for two weeks. A grand will buy a lot of forgetting, Clark thinks. He'd try it, if he could, if it would work. "No." Stella, maybe, but he remembers how he got a headache around her. Maybe it's specific people? "I'm okay, I just--" There are people in there, and he left them to die. He can't even open his eyes to see if anyone got out okay. "I--"

"I'll take you back." The cool hands close over his wrists, but he doesn't pull. "Come on. My car's around the block."

Which begs the question. "What are you doing here?" Because this would be a new level of Lex stalking. Following him to his trick's residence.

"Jeremy isn't known for being all that--conventional." God knows what that means. And--wait. Who?

"He said his name was Dan."

"Jeremy Maddox." Clark stiffness at the name. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. He--doesn't come down here very often, except for specific things."

"He didn't tell me that." Well, stupid, sometimes they don't. Marian used to tell him to be careful. Some of them wanted things that no one sane would do, ever. He'd just-- "He offered a lot."

"Considering what he usually wants, it should have been double that. He didn't tell you?" Lex sounds unhappy about that. "Fucker. Come on--fine, keep your hands over your eyes, just come with me. You can't get home like this."

A point, that. Clark keeps one hand firmly covering them, reaching back to brace against the wall. His jeans are ripped from when Dan--Jeremy--jerked too hard. The denim threatens to slide down, but Lex's other hand catches the waistband. How embarrassing. "I'm okay--"

"That's why I found you in an alley talking to yourself." He was? "Don't worry about it. You got out okay."

But maybe some didn't. Maybe Jeremy didn't. "Yeah."

It feels like a long way, but Clark supposes it can't be more than a block. Clark hears Lex fumbling with the keys, then the sound of a car alarm disabling and the door opening. Lex's hand on his back guides him in--incidentally holding up his pants--then shuts the door.

It feels nice in here. His headache's gone completely, and his hands aren't warm. Clark risks opening on eye, now that Lex isn't right beside him and in danger of combustion. Nothing--he can see the faint outline of his fingers, probably from the bright city lights. Opening the other, Clark takes a deep breath, pulling his hands aside and focuses on the world outside the windshield.

It's perfectly normal, and nothing combusts. Rubbing his forehead, Clark's surprised to come away with sweat, chilled and drying on his skin.

Lex slides in beside him, giving him a brief glance before starting the car. They're two blocks down before he says anything.

"When I looked, it was a pretty small fire." Clark stiffens at the casual interest in Lex's voice. "Just one apartment. They were containing it when I arrived."

Oh thank God. Clark licks his lips. No explanation is better than a really bad one. It's not like--not like--

"I think Jeremy be all right." Lex's voice is too smooth for insinuation. "He was walking out, anyway." A pause. "Tell me where to turn."

Like you don't *know*. At least, Clark wouldn't bet against him. "Stone and Second," Clark murmurs, carefully blinking. It's--gone. Like that. No headache, no *nothing*. "I--"

"You don't have to explain." The cool voice makes Clark nervous, and risking a quick glance, he doesn't like the look on Lex's face.

"It wasn't--"

"I'll bet it wasn't a lot of things you were expecting."

Clark grits his teeth. "I can take care of myself. I don't need--" Well, maybe he did. At least, more information. Dan had seemed nice, and Clark's instincts were usually so much better than this.

Interrupting the thought, Lex brings the car to a stop in front of the building. Clark hesitates. It feels weird to just take a ride and not ask him in or something--somewhere in his head are still buried good manners, and it's not like he doesn't know better. "Um. You--um. Want to come up?" For what? A thank-you blowjob? Coffee?

Lex just smiles. "Thanks for the offer, but I have some things to do." It passes through Clark's mind to ask about Dan--Jeremy--but he bites the words back. He really doesn't want to know. "Get some rest." Clark nods, stepping back and closing the door, taking a second to appreciate the sight of a BMW in the middle of broken asphalt. God, that's a hot car.

And Dan paid half up front, so it's not like he didn't make some money tonight. Taking a breath, Clark turns to the building door, taking the stairs faster than is wise, even here, where no one ever sees anything. Opening the door, Clark takes a deep breath, looking slowly around.

She's still not home.

It's not often that he can get that particular look on his dad's face.

"You what?" Lionel actually stops typing, which is right up there with a bona fide miracle. Turning lazily in the chair, Lex puts a leg over the arm, smiling winningly.

"I was looking at some things." With a flicker of his wrist, he tosses the envelope to skid across the desk, hitting the laptop to come to a stop. "Just a thought."

"Maddox Enterprises?" Dad's eyebrows go up, and Lex thinks he can see the calculation going on just behind. Dad's like playing chess, and it may have taken a while, but Lex gets it now. This is Dad, trying to work out what Lex's strategy is. "It's not a particularly--interesting company."

"They have great massage therapists." Lex cocks his head, watching his dad. "The kind you pay by the hour in certain downtown hotels. Not that I'd name names."

Lionel frowns at the folder, snapping it closed. "That's interesting blackmail, son, but--"

"Electronics. They dominate the market on chip production, for a second." Settling himself more comfortably, Lex watches his dad's face become thoughtful. "Ever since old man Maddox started leaving decisions up to his kid, it's been going downhill. And the kid's--definitely dealing with the stress badly. We could help with that." Lex grins at the look on his dad's face--acquisition always makes him happy. "You'd be surprised how careless he can be."

Lionel leans back. "Why do you care?"

It's not necessarily dangerous territory. But careful. Because if Dad doesn't like his answer, he'll take some time to find out. "Maybe I'm getting interested in business, Dad." It could happen. Over his cooling corpse, but it could.

"And I'm supposed to believe you had a change of heart?"

Of course not. "Jeremy pissed me off." In ways that Jeremy is going to pay for, for years. For the rest of his life, if Lex has anything to say about it. And right now, he really does. "I don't want just the company ruined. I want him ruined. And this is a great way to do it."

Lionel's fingers steeple on the desk. Right, it's lecture time. Disappointment, potential, mystery, sanctity of the Luthor name.... "LuthorCorp does not exist to fulfill your ridiculous vendettas, Lex."

Oh, that one. "I'm not asking you to do something you wouldn't normally do, if you were aware of the information I have."

"And that would be?"

"He's playing downtown in the warehouse district. I'm sure his wife would be thrilled to know he's paying hookers to let him beat the shit out of them. And so would his board of directors."

Lionel's interest is piqued, at least. "And they would care because--"

"He's not doing girls, Dad."

Lionel straightens. "And you know this--"

"Oh please. Like you don't know how I spend my nights." It's easy to piss Dad off, and while it's kind of fun, it's also counterproductive to the mission at hand. "Metropolis doesn't give a shit what I do, except it makes good tabloid fodder. Jeremy, however--" Lex wrinkles his nose. "You know, the Inquisitor would find it *fascinating*. And imagine how much more interesting it would be if we were ready for the fall of stock prices resulting from certain--let's say, compromising--pictures of Mr. Maddox and his evening entertainment."

Yes, Dad's very, very interested. "You have some?"

"I can get them."

Lionel's still watching him. "How did young Maddox upset you so, son?" The sharp eyes fix on him. Lex lets his smile fade.

"It's personal, Dad." Cocking his head, Lex watches Lionel consider. It's an interesting balance--Lex showing some interest in business, versus interesting reasons for wanting to do it. Lionel will go looking, but he won't find anything he can use, not really. "So?"

Lionel's gaze levels. "If you handle the deal. As a LuthorCorp employee."

Fuck. And fuck again. "Gee, Dad, that's kind of a big commitment for some revenge."

"If the revenge is so important, then you shouldn't count the cost." And just like that, Lex knows he's screwed. Dad wants that company. He can see it. But he'll leave it alone, let it flounder on until someone else takes it, until Jeremy can get his private fortune away and be just. Damned. Fine. Which isn't good enough. It isn't even close.

"Why?"

Lionel snorts. "It's your destiny, son." And that's about the crux of the answer he gets every time. Like it means a damn thing. And God, he waited out his father through the nonsense with that rustic plant, and he held out through a hell of a lot of some of the most amusing threats ever, but--this is different. This is important.

Hell, it's not like he has much else to do. "What are you offering? And if you say that plant in bumfuck--"

"The plant is failing. Option to resign without prejudice in six months if you succeed. And I won't continue threatening your trust fund."

And it must have cost him, but-- "I'll be free?"

If his father could look more annoyed, he would probably have a heart attack right in front of him. "You want freedom, Lex? Six months. But I expect *performance*. I expect to see a positive return. And that you handle the Maddox takeover."

There's a catch, but it'll probably be in the employment contract somewhere. Lex considers his options. "You want me there full-time?"

"I think a six hour daily commute would be wearying, even for you."

He has a point. Shit. Lex thinks carefully. Six months out of Metropolis. On weekdays, anyway. Six months in the boondocks, away from the city, away from--well. He has people. They'll watch, and they'll keep him updated.

And watching Jeremy's face when he loses everything-- "Deal. When do I start?"

Lionel smiles, slow and scary, like Lex just fell into the trap head first. It's not that bad an analogy. "Let's discuss that, shall we?"

"What do you mean, she disappeared?" Clark never really understood when his dad said he could *feel* his blood pressure rising, not until now. It's a thick pulse that seems to shake his sight, making everything golden-red and frightening and--

--*shit*.

Closing his eyes, Clark takes a deep breath, not letting go of the thin shoulders quite yet. God knows where Nikita will take off to, and hell if he's chasing her through half the city tonight. Breathe. Calm. Don't--don't do that. Don't feel that. Don't--

Slowly, he can feel the pressure lessen, sliding back behind his head like thick, hot honey. When he opens his eyes, the world is normal again.

Nikita whimpers, but he doesn't buy the act. She only acts frail. He's seen her with an unsatisfactory trick. "Clark, I don't--"

"Don't even try that shit with me." He shakes her--carefully, God knows what he could do if he isn't careful. Short, carefully styled blonde hair barely moves, but she goes limp, like he'll fall for that. "I know you were out with her. Where. Is. She?"

Marian has lousy taste in tricks and in friends. Nikita frowns, giving him a look from beneath sharp eyebrows, mouth tight. "That was days ago. We were partying half the night. She wandered off with some uptown creep and left me hanging with the bill, 'kay? Trust me, your girlfriend has a lot to answer for when I see her ass."

It could almost be the truth, but Clark doesn't quite trust it. "Who was she with? Regular?"

"Just one of the dealers." Fuck. "She had some debt to work off."

She blew through a thousand in two weeks? It's unreal. Clark almost lets go, catching himself at the last second. "With him?"

"Him and his friends. Shit if I know or care." One small foot kicks out, and Clark just manages to dodge it, or broken toes would be another thing he can't possibly explain. Pushing her back against the wall, Clark tries to think. She knows something.

"Tell me who."

"I don't know every dealer in the city, kid, so lay the fuck off." She glares up at him, highlighting the circles under bloodshot eyes. He can feel the tremors in her hands as they close over his wrists, trying to pull him off. Coming down, he supposes, trying to decide if she's telling the truth. "Check with Slade down on fifth. He was there, he might know Now will you let me the fuck *go*?"

Clark slowly lets go, wondering if he held too hard when she rotates her shoulders carefully, giving him another glare before moving away fast as a rabbit being hunted. He almost expects some sharp comment as she leaves, but Nikita just vanishes down the side of the building, leaving him to stare blankly at the wall and wonder what the hell he should do.

Slade was arrested two days ago and isn't out yet. Shit. And *shit*.

Working off her debt, Nikita said. That doesn't sound good, though he guesses Marian's done it before. But two weeks is a long time and she'd at least have contacted him by now, wouldn't she? Or someone? He runs through the mental list of her friends, but it's short and no one on it could really be called a friend. Just him, and he has no clue what to do.

And he has work, and God, he needs--

It pops into his head on its own, and Clark rejects it even as the idea forms. He won't. He doesn't. It won't--but it's Marian. Clark thinks of the frantically clean apartment, and the empty bedroom. He--he can't just stare at every building until he finds her. He has to--

Turning on a heel, Clark tracks back, pulling his coat closer. He doesn't feel cold, but sometimes, people notice stuff like that, and he's getting better at remembering. It's a short trip, because he'd been on his way anyway before he saw Nikita stumbling a few streets over.

It's brighter tonight--someone fixed the lights. The usual crowd of milling bodies and the smells of sweat and too much alcohol, but it's familiar, in that way that Clark finds comforting. The bouncer waves him in with a smile--he's liked Clark since he helped break up that fight a few months back, which is cool, since the superfast sneaking was dangerous and got very old, very fast.

Scanning the crowd, Clark's surprised how many familiar faces are here tonight. It's kind of a surprise they aren't busted more often than they are--just the random raids that the police do on all the clubs in the Metropolis equivalent of the Red Light district. It's not like there's any secret on what's going on here. Not that a few of the officers aren't regulars off-duty--and on, for that matter--but still.

Lex is an unmistakable presence in the middle--but then, it's really hard to miss Lex, no matter the lighting. He's moving like he has no idea there's anyone around him at all, eyes closed. Even from here, Clark can see the fresh track marks on one bare arm, though he's noticed Lex doesn't stay hurt long at all. So really recent, then. Shit. A little earlier, he could have caught him while he was still somewhat coherent.

And is he--is he really going to do this?

It's easy enough to shoulder through, even easier to pry away whoever thinks Lex will be an easy mark tonight, though she looks pissed. Lex doesn't seem to notice, but his eyes slit open when Clark pulls at his arm, heels digging in unexpectedly.

"I need to talk to you."

Even high, Lex is disturbingly fast. One arm slides around Clark's waist, jerking him into full body contact with cheap vinyl and something silky that feels way too good under his fingers. Not better than Lex's skin, maybe, but close.

"Lex. Come on." Shit, hand on his ass. Lex's eyes slit open, a little grin curling up the corner of his mouth. Not nearly as high as he's acting, maybe, but his pupils are blown, iris a thin silver ring like the moon. It's--well. Very Lex, actually. "Lex. I want to talk, not pick you up."

"Pity, that." Lex's grin widens, and he doesn't let go. It's--weird. Not to do this for money. He's not sure what it says about him that he hasn't ever danced with someone just for the feel of it. The hand on his ass slides up beneath his shirt, settling at the small of his back, drawing patterns with short, blunt nails. Almost idly, like Lex doesn't know what he's doing. "Then you sent my companion away--why?"

"She would have robbed you blind. God, you're bad at this. Stick to the socialites."

"No real difference." Lex shrugs elaborately, somehow making the movement look like part of the music. "Socialites cut condoms, sell to newspapers, and generally don't fuck worth a shit." Lex's smile widens suddenly, and he looks years younger. "At least here, if they sleep with my father, I don't know about it."

Oh man, Clark's not touching *that* one with a ten foot pole.

"And anyway," Lex says dreamily, and now the fingernails are pushing *in*, and Clark almost thinks--maybe--that he likes it.. "I pay well."

"Yeah, you have a reputation for that. Lex--"

The blue eyes flicker open again, and suddenly, there's a knee between Clark's thighs that wasn't there before. Oh. Lex is hot and slick, sweating from the crush of bodies and the lights overhead. Touching like he means it, and Clark's not used to that.

"Dance with me," Lex murmurs, warm breath against his throat, and Clark's surprised by the careful press of soft lips to the hollow of his throat, the tongue that darts out to lick the sweat away. It's--Lex. Clark draws in a breath, letting his hands settle on Lex's shoulders. "Just pretend you like it. For a little while."

That's--not going to be a problem. "Lex--"

"Just for a little while."

God. Helplessly, Clark lets himself relax. It's not easy, not this close, and he's always thinking when he does stuff like this, when he touches or dances or fucks, but this doesn't need thought.

And Lex feels *good*. "Are you--" Even for Lex, this is weird. Kind of. "Is everything okay?"

"Sold my soul, the usual." Lex mouths the side of Clark's throat, sending little sparks over his skin, prickling alive like goosebumps. "It's been a very, very shitty day."

"Why?" His clients sometimes like to talk, and rote's easy enough, but this is the one time he really wants to know. "What happened?"

Lex leans back, looking up at him from black eyes, mouth reddened and a little swollen. Against Clark's thigh, Lex is hard as hell, but he's not doing anything with it. "Just. Made a deal." A gentle hand pets his hair. "Don't worry about Jeremy. He's not going to bother anyone for a while."

Oh. Oh--fuck. "What did you do?"

Lex grins, somehow pushing up on tiptoe, until their mouths are only inches apart. It would be so easy to kiss him right now. "Nothing interesting. Tell me you like me."

"If I didn't like you, I wouldn't be here." Lex has silky skin, especially the back of his neck. Slick from sweat, and Lex shivers when he touches, just with the tips of his fingers. "You are so fucking high."

"Not as much as I want to be." Lex's lips brush his with the words, then pull back. Clark follows--it's not practice, not even intent, just instinct. And Lex is so close that Clark can feel him everywhere. The second kiss is slower, even more gentle, and Clark closes his eyes, wondering if this is how people do it when they like it. If it feels like this.

Dancing is always foreplay, maybe, but this is--completely different. And he'd do almost anything not to have to pull away right now. "I need your help, Lex."

Lex smiles. "How'd I know you'd want something." And suddenly, Lex is a cool space of inches away, the hand drawing intriguing circles on Clark's back dropping to grab a belt loop and pull. "Let's go outside. It's too loud in here."

That's not why, Clark almost says, but he bites his lip, because why the hell would Lex believe him? Outside is cooler, and Lex seems to come awake a little more, heat-flush fading from his skin. More himself, somehow, like the semi-slut is a skin he can take off and put on whenever he wants. Letting go, Lex leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. "What?"

Clark stares at the ground. "I wouldn't ask if it was--it's not for me."

"It wouldn't be for you." And Lex sounds so damned *amused*. "Just spit it out. I had plans tonight, before you interrupted."

Biting his lip, Clark tilts his head. "You don't have to." God, how else will he do this? "I just--I don't--" There isn't anyone else he can think to ask. Not with this. No one he can-- "Look, I'll--"

"No." And like that, Lex's mouth curls up again. "I'm giving you a hard time because I had a bad day. I'm sorry. I told you I'd help you, and I will. What do you need?"

Explaining this one is going to be interesting as hell. "I--Marian's still missing."

"Your roommate?" Lex acts like it's all new information, but Clark's pretty sure by now, Lex not only knows about Marian, but about every roommate he's had since he came to the city. Lex is thorough like that.

"She's been gone for two weeks. She's never--I mean. She does her thing, but she always comes back, and she's never been this long before." He's squirming under the cool eyes, wishing to God he'd gone with his first instinct and found another way.

"And you want me to--"

"She's--someone told me she left with some dealers the other night. To work off debt." God, that sounds--so not good. "There's a guy who was there, and he probably knows who she left with. But he's in jail--"

"Slade."

It shouldn't surprise him that Lex knows that. "Yeah."

"And you want me to--what? Get you in to talk to him?"

Lex makes it sound so matter-of-fact, like this is a totally ordinary request. Nodding mutely, Clark watches Lex push off the wall, pacing briefly, with a completely steady step. No, not very high at all anymore.

"I can do that."

Clark licks his lips. "I can--" The look on Lex's face stops him cold. Right. Not so much with the offer of the sex. "I--I'll do you a favor. If you ever need one."

"Hmm." Like Clark could possibly have anything but his body to offer anyone. There's a second where he can't read Lex at all, but then it's like all the lights come on at once, a deadly sober Lex Luthor in the alley, nodding to himself. "One favor. One request, maybe?"

Oh, that's an interesting way of putting it. But if Lex just wanted sex of some kind, he'd say it. It's not like Clark hasn't done it. A lot. "Yeah. One request, one favor, whatever you want to call it."

Lex extends a hand with another little smile. Awkwardly, Clark reaches to take it, surprised again by the strong grip. "Agreed. So. Ready?"

Clark blinks. It can't-- "Now?"

Lex's smile is bright enough to light even the alley. "Why not? The night's still young, and if we hurry, I have time to have some fun tonight. Let's go."

Lex gets them in by the underrated art of bribery.

It's not like Clark's shocked or anything. "You *paid* him?" Okay, so he is. It's one thing to see it down on the strip, in the clubs, down on second; it's another thing entirely to be walking through the quiet back hallways of Metropolis's Finest after Lex subtly hands over some undisclosed amount of money.

Lex gives him an amused look from the corner of his eye. He's high still, getting some kind of drug-induced second wind during the drive, and a few times, Clark could swear he's *humming*, slim body almost vibrating with unreleased energy.

"Phelan's easy," Lex murmurs. "He has certain--let us say--extremely expensive habits."

Clark doesn't like the way Phelan looks at them, smirking when his eyes run down Clark's body like an unwelcome hand, rough and careless. He'd murmured something to Lex that Clark hadn't heard, but it had been enough to bring Lex out of his haze long enough for a single sharp look. Phelan had backed off, but nothing could make him stop smirking.

"So, you have a plan?" Lex asks, and that makes Clark pause. Asking probably won't do it, and he's so not asking Lex to pay off someone else--God, does he want to know how much that Phelan cost? Clark can yell, but that seems kind of silly, because Slade's on one side of the bars and Clark's over here, so really, what the hell can he do?

"He's in the far cell," Lex murmurs, fingers brushing Clark's elbow. It's--nice. Casual, like touch never really is, and Clark tries to keep their steps in synch so he won't lose it. Which is just pathetic any way he looks at it. Cool fingers slide inside his, and Clark shivers a little as they pull away, leaving something warm and solid behind. "I'll wait for you out here."

Uncurling his fingers, Clark stares blankly at the cell key. "I don't--"

"I don't care what you have in mind." Lex's voice is all smooth honey. "When you get done, we'll go get her."

Clark closes his hand over the key again. He won't need it. "I thought you were going to party the night away."

Lex shrugs elegantly, somehow making a half-slouch into the wall into some kind of statement of sexual rebellion. It has to be the hips. "Far be it from me to interfere with your heroic impulses. Go."

Clark winces, then goes out. The cells are mostly empty--slow night?--and the few other prisoners Clark sees are pretty much out of it. Clark scans each face quickly, checking under lumps of blankets. Far end, three empty cells over, Clark finds Slade in a sleepy sprawl on his cot against the wall.

"Slade." Bloodshot eyes narrow open, giving him a slow once-over. He's gotten that look from Slade before, but somehow, it's a little less threatening when there's steel bars between them. "I need to talk to you."

Slade grins, slowly sitting up in the bunk. "Wonder why." The grin widens, eyes flickering down to fix somewhere in the vicinity of Clark's zipper. "Looking for something?"

Does Slade think he's here to get a *job*? "You saw Marian the other night. Where is she?"

Slade's eyes flicker up, and Clark thinks he sees something flicker there--memory, recognition, *something*--but it's gone as the thick lids lower. Slade shrugs. "Dunno."

He's lying. "You were there. She left with a dealer. You know who. I need to find her."

Slade shrugs. "What will you do for me?"

Before Slade, and before the last time he found Marian in an alley, Clark hadn't had what sane people would call standards. After, he had some. Slade was top of the list as a trick Clark wouldn't do if he was starving to death. "Don't even try that with me. You know where she is."

Slade leans back, scratching at his forehead. "It's been a long couple of days, kid." The big hand slides down, cupping his crotch with a sleepy-eyed smile. "I may need help remembering."

The key feels suddenly hot in his hand. "Don't screw around with me."

"Kiddo, that's the only thing you have to offer."

Maybe.

Lifting the key, Clark lets him see it, watching the muddy brown eyes light up. A slow turn of his wrist, and Slade's sitting up straight, watching him with wide, sickeningly pleased eyes. When Clark locks the cell again, he laughs. "Changed your mind? Cause Marian ain't gonna be around forever--"

And like that, Clark thinks he can nearly feel the snap. Heat, orange-red and blinding, taking over, twisting through his head and burning behind his eyes, lighting up his entire head. It *hurts*. He has Slade up against the wall, feet dangling inches above raw cinderblock, but he can't even open his eyes.

Slade's making soft, choked sounds, but Clark doesn't pay attention. If he looks at Slade now, he'll kill him. It's that simple.

For a long time, there's nothing but the harsh sounds of Slade breathing in his ears, the warmth behind his eyes, and the body hanging from his hands. He can't. He has to. He has to--

"...I don't *know*," Slade is whispering, over and over. Clark doesn't believe a word.

"I need to find her. You saw her leave. Who was with her and where would they take her?"

Slade makes a whimpering sound, trying to pull away. Clark tightens his grip, knowing he'll leave dangerously revealing bruises. Slade gasps on a cut off breath, and Clark wonders if holding him up by the throat would bring the information any faster.

"Tell me." He could break bone, so easily. Better than frying him alive, but not by much. God, he can't--can't let this--can't let it--

"She left with some new guys. I don't know them, just of them. They cater to the uptown kids. Had a few around."

Crap. "How would Marian get into a party like that?"

Slade makes a strangled sound when Clark lets his fingers tighten even more. He'll press through flesh into scrawny muscle like a wet paper towel if he isn't careful. "I--I don't--"

"Where were they when they took her?"

"Seventeenth and Bradley."

The new money. Big, luxury condos. The place where all the new-rich went to live, insanely pretentious and expensive. Marian has no business there. She's not that kind of a hooker. "How. Did. This. Happen?"

Slade sounds like he's *crying*. It's enough, but just barely, to wash away the heat behind his eyes, and Clark risks a peek out. Nothing. Slade's face is wet and his nose is running. Gross. Just gross. "I don't--she's out of money. She needed someone that would give her credit. They would. She showed up, hung out, left with them. That's all I know, I swear." His voice is thick and he's gulping, like he's going to throw up. "I swear--"

"What kind of people are they?"

"Cut the throat of the guy that was selling to those kids before. They're not street. Heroin, heavy stuff. Not my scene."

It just keeps getting better. "Whose address is that?"

"Dunno." He screams then, and Clark thinks he can hear the collarbone crack. God, he didn't mean to--but Marian. With an endless supply of powder and no one to make sure she slept and ate and didn't--didn't take too much and--

"Marian's not into that stuff. That kind."

"She sure--is now." His voice is scratchy and harsh, breathing in irregular pants against Clark's skin. Never in his life has Clark wanted to hurt someone more. For leaving her there. For not telling him. They all knew he watched out for her. Everyone knew. And--

And that's just stupid. No one watches out for anyone else here. Everyone knows that. "How much does she owe?"

"Shit. Dunno." Slade's starting to sound faint, and Clark wonders if he'll pass out before Clark can get any more answers. "A lot. She blew through everything she had the first week. Around ten grand, give or take."

Oh God. Clarks hands begin to shake, and he steps back, letting Slade pool on the floor at his feet, whimpering softly, one hand against his collar where Clark's thumb pressed too hard. Breaks there *hurt*. Or so Clark's observed. "I want her back." There's no way he can make ten thousand tonight. He can't make ten thousand in a week. No matter how good he is. "Anything happening tonight?"

Slade whimpers