Author Notes: Andy and Koi for the betas, comments, and suggestions. Beth, Wendi, Hope, Te, Tara, and Pearl-o for encouragement. Thanks.
Archiving: SSA, L3
Feedback: Like chocolate syrup straight out of the bottle.

He's probably too drunk to drive. With icy roads barely salted, an early winter makes travel for the responsible dangerous. And Lex is a lot of things, but no one's ever accused him of being a responsible driver.

Yes, after-school special time, or maybe something his nanny should have banged into him between boarding schools, but he's never followed the entire 'just say no' concept very well. It's always been 'yes' and always 'more' and always *now*.

Lex is a big fan of more.

More attention, more love, more sex, more drugs, more money, more power, more *everything*. With a bank account that crosses eleven digits and sole control of the largest corporation in America, the word 'more' is starting to take on new and interesting dimensions, because he's twenty-six and there's nothing *nothing* he hasn't done once and better. He's only twenty-six, and he's achieved the one and only thing his father ever taught him how to want.

The high won't last. Highs never do. Even the mostly-legal kind.

So. Driving. Lamborghini, a car that's almost as good as a fuck--better if he counts the socialites he's been fucking recently. He's been an adrenaline junkie from birth if the few stories he remembers of his early childhood are anywhere close to accurate, but the last thing that scared him was heights. Six months playing at skydiving removed that pretty damn thoroughly. One-fifty in a forty mile per hour zone is pretty much something he can sneeze at--oh, but that was five seconds ago. He passed into one eighty when he made that last exit.

Wow. That's not too bad for a major highway at two in the morning.

Cars are good though. God knows, he has enough of them. Fifty at last count, and he tries to add them up--Ferraris and Porsches and Jaguars and the Aston from Smallville, the pretty little Roadster he remembers buying during a particularly difficult takeover, and the Mercedes that had to have been some kind of lost bet, because he can't stand to drive it. Not--quite the right feeling. Not like silk, not like sex, nothing like this, and it sure as fuck won't hit two hundred.

Two hundred. Jesus.

He's drunk, right. Focus, Lex.

Fear? No. It's a psychological thing, maybe, that runs in men who are very, very rich and bore so fucking easily, and Lex gets bored fast. Sex is great, drugs are interesting, business is fun, but man can't live by that alone. At least, not this man. At least, not today. Even now.

It's good to be this high on life, but bad to be this sure that he'll wake up tomorrow and this feeling will be disappearing. Not as pure, as intoxicating, as fucking exhilarating, and it will--fade.

In a week, it'll be gone. In two weeks, he'll be desperate to get it back.

So. That's the state of his life. Plenty of reason, justification, excuse, motivation, to break a few dozen speed limits and test a Lamborghini's ability to keep up with him. If anything can.

Straight through the loop, and the car might skid a little when he turns, but Lex only grins and pushes the accelerator, wondering if there's a racetrack he can buy and just do this all damn day. Circles suck, though--nothing accomplished, endless loop of sameness and that's--well, very boring.

Very, very, *very* fucking boring.

Tightening his fingers around the steering wheel, feeling the imprint of it even through his gloves, Lex comes down the far side of the loop and watches the new LexCorp building. Bright, brilliant, shiny in the night, because everyone's still awake after he wandered out--at what time?--so drunk he'd almost forgotten his own passcodes, and it had taken twenty minutes to remember where he'd parked the car.

Another car, that he'd traded for this one before he'd even come down, which meant at some point, he'd been home. Right. Housekeeper, check, small annoying dog she owned, check, mauled his socks again, check, and did he kick the little fucker on the way out?

Please God, let him have, because sober, he wouldn't dare. Janet scares the fuck out of him.

This shouldn't be a paint-by-number moment. As of today, this day, he's--

Done it. Taken over LuthorCorp, and come tomorrow, he's cutting it into tiny, bite size pieces, fuck anti-trust laws anyway. Oh well. Not like there's much else interesting going on, there's a reason Dad's lost and a reason Lex drank every drop of alcohol in his office.

Could be the revolver Dad put to his temple four hours ago, and the call that came from Lionel's secretary to tell him his dad was dead.

"Fuck."

And he's talking to himself now.

"I wanted you dead, you son of a bitch." There's a chance that his father could hear him. No, that's not right, not at all. Agnostic, remember? Atheist, maybe. But right now? He likes the idea of an afterlife. He's getting a little high again on the very concept of it--Dad able to watch, look, *see* everything, and guess what, Dad? I won, you lost, and it's a fucking fabulous day. Night. Whatever.

He--needs more to drink. Now.

Somehow, peripheral vision catches the bright gas station sign just off the highway, and Lex doesn't bother checking for traffic, executing a U-turn and cutting medians, because those are for lesser mortals, not Luthors. Like rules and federal regulations and laws and filial loyalty and--that. Yes. Choppy asphalt parking lot, and Lex skids to a stop inches from the sidewalk, almost smelling the burning rubber of high-performance tires.

It's almost a disappointment that no one is around to tell him he drives like a maniac.

Or maybe not.

Getting out, Lex balances the keys in one hand, slick car against him. Debate whether to lock up the car and go inside--that's a no-brainer, right? A second glance around shows he's on the very bad side of downtown, and two blocks over, he got picked up for solicitation around his sixteenth birthday.

Or was that possession with intent to sell? God, Dad had been pissed.

Bad side of Metropolis, period. Bad side for anyone, and especially for men driving expensive cars and wearing designer suits. Though--the tie's long gone, good chance it's on his office floor. God alone knows where the coat is, maybe on the highway somewhere. Shoes are still on--that's a plus.

It takes a second for Lex to process that he hasn't moved from the car's side, and grinning, he hits the alarm and makes for the sidewalk.

He's very good at being drunk. Walk a straight line, alphabet backwards, touch your nose, touch your toes, kids' games all. He can do the alphabet backward in eight languages, and that's just another bit of useless trivia for him to remember, taking up mental space rightfully meant for something else entirely.

Like perhaps the name of the woman he had a date with tonight, who will doubtless be highly unamused by his absence. Like he cares. Like he can't get fucked anywhere and everywhere, and right now, this second, sex really is the last thing on his mind.

Alcohol--cheap alcohol, something domestic without a touch of class--that would be just about right.

Though sex isn't a bad second, now that he's thinking about it.

He pushes open the door, tiny bell ringing indecently loud, or maybe it's the quiet, and then there's a sound like a gunshot. He knows the sound, even if he hadn't been there in his father's office when the chamber discharged into solid flesh and bone. It sounded like that, he thinks--Magnum, oiled grip, pure steel, best friend of NRA good old boys and Clint Eastwood fans, and he can feel it soaking into his fingers, the smells of oil and leather from the case he sent it in.

How was he supposed to know his father would take that gift seriously?

Something heavy hits the floor at his feet, and Lex looks down. The high is fading faster by the second and so is the buzz--not that his alcoholic tendencies ever had a long shelf-life--with the pool of red sliding over cheap linoleum and around his heel and the dull black toe of his shoe, thick and almost black. Overhead lights are a joke here, cheap yellow fluorescent hidden under dirty-grey covers, but he really doesn't need much light to know what this is.

That's what a single gunshot to the head looks like. Karma is a fucking *bitch*.

"Don't you fucking move."

Slowly, Lex looks up--flannel and thermals, how's that for familiar? Long arm pointed at him, capped with a ten gauge--cheap, off the street variety with the numbers probably filed away. Anonymous way to die, Lex thinks a little inanely, because he's always been more partial to going out with flare.

This moment was definitely not on the night's agenda.

"Throw out your wallet."

Slowly, Lex's hand dips into his pocket while the rest of him takes in the figure that's shaking with repressed energy--too young to be anything but juvenile, maybe seventeen if today is his birthday, dark hair and high cheekbones. Blast from the past indeed, and Lex finds himself smiling for someone he hasn't seen in over three years, if he doesn't count the carefully planned check-ins that are only one step up from stalking.

He's not going to.

"Okay." Groping his pocket, and there are his keys. Hmm. No wallet. How's he going to buy alcohol? "Want a car?"

The click of the safety might be a negative answer, but it seems like a good trade to Lex. Car for life, and right, he's been taught better. Taught by another kid who was once this age, and Lex wonders if the shooter would be interested in some impromptu reminiscing. What was it about his cars that no one wanted them?

"Wallet." There's a quiver to the nose of the gun, and Lex takes a second. Where *is* his wallet? Could be anywhere--office, first car, home, second car, his dad's office--

Whoa, did he go by dad's office?

"Wallet!" Just short of a yell, and the gun is distressingly steady now, like the kid's aware that Lex isn't paying strict attention to the moment. On the back of his tongue, the taste of brandy burns, the expensive kind his dad always likes. Too bitter for Lex, but that may be simple association.

Hmm. He might have had more to drink than he thought if he'd done it in two separate sessions. Emergency vehicles, flashing lights, and expensive grey carpet stained tacky and black. People asking questions. Reporters.

There's a *good* reason why he forgot that, he's sure, and his hand goes out, grabbing at the door when his knees threaten to buckle. Too much alcohol. There's a chance he might be sick.

"Give me your fucking wallet!" Closer, and Lex focuses back at the figure approaching. A little too short for memory, but he wonders if he might have forgotten something, because he's given Clark reasons to hate him, but this is a little extreme for the kid who does lifesaving like a beloved hobby.

"Clark."

Of course, it can't be. Clark's not sixteen anymore, even if Lex's memory tends to lock him around that age. Maybe seventeen, when they stopped talking as much, or eighteen, when things went oh so fucking badly, and Lex doesn't have the clearest memory of nineteen other than that one night at a club when he watched Clark for three hours. Maybe he really has nothing better to do than be a very rich stalker.

Maybe--he needs another drink.

"What the fuck are you on? Give me your wallet!" Closer now, and a rough hand jerks him around, and he really, really *hates* that. Like Smallville's back again--being dragged around and thrown from cars, off bridges, down catwalks, buildings, sewers, stairs, those memorable moments of being tied in some fashion and is it too much to ask that if he has to forget something, couldn't he forget all of *that*?

No, he has to forget where his wallet is, instead. Just his fucking luck.

Cold metal is against his temple, and he can smell gunpowder and unwashed body and some cheap cologne from a dimestore somewhere. Other things, musky like sweat and fear and a lot of anger, and he knows all about anger. He does it professionally, with the help of lawyers. Therapy's never been as good as old fashioned litigation.

He wonders if this kid knows there are much more constructive ways to use anger than robbery and murder.

"Don't move." The body backs away, hand off his arm, and Lex's delayed reaction of jerking away pushes him into the wall, a few steps from the door, not that he has any intention of running. Which is--odd, if he thinks about it. Running is a good idea. Being shot in the back is the downside.

And the worst part is, he's sober enough to be aware that there's not a good chance he's leaving this store alive.

There's the sound of the cash register, and Lex looks up first, then down, because his shoes keep--well, moving. And not alcohol-induced illusion movement, but actual sliding. Thick dark lumps sprinkle the floor, the red spreading slow and steady like something out of a particularly cheesy movie. The Blob, he supplies, vague memories of camp and late nights surfacing briefly. The hard, white pebbles under his shoes are bone fragments.

This--is how his dad's office looked. But grey carpet absorbs stains, like linoleum flaunts them.

"Fuck," he whispers, and there's that fucking safety again. Is this kid indecisive or what? Shoot or not, don't hedge your bets, and Lex looks up as the kid's face freezes, ready. That second, that moment, there's an actual series of flashes like light behind his eyes. He sees his mother and Pamela and Dad, and there's this really bitter second of nostalgia, because there's something very appropriate about dying by the hand of someone who looks so much like Clark.

He's going to die. Here. In this store, against the wall, on the best night of his life, and that is karma. Someone, somewhere, is going to have a field day with this. Reporters like that Lane woman, and it's just too bad. Headlines, death of Luthors, and Lex is the last of his family.

The sound of the trigger is almost deafening, but what really gets to him is the fact that the bullet--

--doesn't reach him.

Blur of motion and Lex lets his knees go, sliding to the floor, feeling slicked cheap flooring under his palms. Lumps that he's not going to think about at all. Just watching as the shooter collapses on the ground and his place taken by a pretty kid with messy hair and wide, dark eyes.

Flannel, too. Go figure. His night for memories he doesn't want.

"Lex?"

Karma.

"Clark." Right, got it in one, from the shocked O of his mouth to the fact that even from here, Lex can see the flush. Energy around him like some sort of bubble, and he comes out from around the counter, looking down with an expression of shock.

"Oh God," he whispers, and Lex pulls his hands up, wiping them idly on his knees. Sticky pull of flesh against wool that makes him wince. Clark isn't verbal at the second, but surely he'll find a way to make this Lex's fault. And--it could be. For all Lex knows, the shooter is the son of some very disgruntled employee of LuthorCorp who got his pink slip this afternoon.

Lex wants another drink.

"Lex, are you--" Crouching, staring at him, and it fits into Lex's memory seamlessly, so many different days and different nights like this. "Did you--"

"I didn't shoot him." Isn't that obvious? Does Lex *have* a fucking gun? There may be one under the seat of the car, but he's not quite--sure--right now. Clark flinches, no other word for it, eyes flickering down to the body that's between them like an inseparable gulf of--something.

Something important his mind isn't offering at the moment. Probably better that way. Pressing his palms to the floor, Lex pushes up and his feet just don't *stay*. Easy glide until they hit the body on the floor, meaty thump that makes Lex stop, don't think, don't breathe, don't fucking *comprehend* this, because....

"Lex, are you hurt? Can you--did he shoot you?" There's an edge to Clark's voice that Lex wouldn't mind examining when he isn't drunk, feeling the aftermath of a near-death experience, and practically supine, but fate's not kind enough to give him quality time to mull anything. Closing his eyes, he licks his lips, tasting blood and sweat and more blood, like he's been bathed in it recently. It covers the brandy just enough to turn his stomach, but not quite enough to erase it completely.

"Lex, answer me." Harder voice, and then hands are touching him. If it wasn't such a bad idea to move, Lex wouldn't have it. But. Easier to give in, let himself be pulled, carried, dragged, whatever, he's used to it. Not recently, of course, it's been years since Smallville. But. Vaguely comforting to find floor that's simply cold and dry and dusty, even if his hands stick to it when he presses his palms down for balance.

"Fine."

"You don't sound fine." Another edge, and then the hands pull away, leaning him against something solid and equally cold. "Stay here, I'm going to call the police. All right?"

"Sure." Objections to the obvious are just never a good idea. He can hear Clark's voice from a vague distance, like a radio just barely on the right station, then Clark's beside him, hands on his shoulders.

"You weren't shot. That's--God, Lex. I--" The words taper off into silence, and Lex waits for Clark to draw away. Because the emergency's over, and there's a lot of things that made Clark walk away and even more that kept him at that very safe, comfortable distance. Lex would like to say he regrets it, but he really doesn't.

It's a hell of a lot easier not to give a shit.

"Are you drunk?"

Lex tilts his head back against the--wood? Stone? Plywood? Who the hell knows? Lex can't be bothered to study the architecture of the average convenience store. "I wish. God, that would be good. Could you get me some beer?"

When he looks up, Clark's mouth is twisting into a smile--a weird smile, like he wants to cry, but still, a smile, and how long has it been since he got one of those?

"I'm sorry I wasn't faster."

Fast enough to do--something, but Lex just doesn't care. Shutting his eyes, he leans his head into the counter behind him and wonders if this night will get any more surreal.

He's fully aware of the world when he's inserted, with deliberate care, into a seat, and Lex opens his eyes. The windshield's just a multi-colored glare that he squeezes his eyes half-shut against, the bucket seat's familiar under him. His car. Definitely. Nowhere near the wheel, which tells him that he won't be driving. A pity. This car could have broken three hundred tonight.

"Just--don't move, okay?" Band across his chest and lap, and he'd fight it, but God, he's tired. So tired, like he's run six marathons and there's a metal smell to the air that isn't at all comforting. Like...

The door slams closed, air hitting him like something solid, and Lex blinks, trying to get his surroundings into focus. Brilliant red-blue-white lights flash, and then the car door opens, and someone puts the key into the ignition.

"I've never driven a Lamborghini, so, um, sorry about your transmission in advance."

Lex blinks, slowly turning his head. Dark hair, big hands, beautiful profile, strobing blue and red and white. It's Clark. In his car. That's--not normal. Not anymore.

"What are you doing here?"

There's a pause that lasts a little too long before Clark speaks again. There's something to be read in long pauses like that, and they're familiar too. Clark uses them when he lies.

"I called your house and no one was home. The police had--had questions, and you aren't exactly up to it. So, I'm taking you home. They're gonna call tomorrow and get a statement." Clark takes a second to study the gear shift, a little line of concentration between his eyebrows.

"How'd you get my number?"

There's a flush creeping across his face now, cherry red, too attractive for its own good, but it reminds Lex of--something else. Looking down, he registers the fact his hands are striped drying brown and flaky, and he rubs his fingers over the mottled skin, a little surprised that the stains come off.

"Lex." Fast, so fast, hands on his, trapping them against his lap. "God, you're out of it. That's not just alcohol, is it?"

"I--don't know." The memory floodgates are trickling closed, and it takes effort to repress, but Lex is pretty good at it. Hand fisting briefly just to feel the cracking of dried blood, and it's fascinating to watch it dust off into nothingness. Clark removes his hands too slowly, and Lex forgot to notice the touching.

Well, wincing now would just be too fucking boring anyway.

"This--isn't like you." The motor comes to life with the lightest screech of pain, and Lex can see Clark wince from the corner of his eye. There's a painful silence, or maybe it's just the pain of an expensive transmission being mauled, but Clark gets them into some kind of gear and backs out, entering the access road at a pathetic twenty.

Degrading for an Italian masterpiece. Like spitting on David or kicking the Mona Lisa. Not that he's ever been into the classical period of the Renaissance, but....

"It's just like me," he answers with what should be cynicism but oddly, he sounds a little wistful. "Something from my college days, I think." Black enamel box in his dresser he'd forgotten existed. He'd discovered it right after he threw the phone across the room, splintering plastic and Janet yelling--something.

Did he fire her? And that fucking mongrel?

"Should I--I mean, do you need to go to the hospital?" Clark's voice is a little too loud, echoing in the back of his head, and Lex raises a hand to his temple, rubbing fiercely at skin that's just begun to itch. Heat spreading under his fingertips, thick and clotting behind his eyes like blood. He rubs harder and blinks away the haziness of impaired vision.

"I don't get sick," Lex answers, and that's true. Hangovers he doesn't get, high he has to work at, and there are still stories of the crap he pulled in Metropolitan backrooms. Lex Luthor, who bought his heroin by the pound and his coke by the briefcase, but that was a very long time ago, very long indeed.

Dragging his fingers from sensitive temples, he digs them into the fine wool of his pants. His coat has got to be somewhere--it has his wallet, alcohol-money inside. Or some very, very lucky guy is playing with his credit cards as Lex sits here, contemplating the drying stains across his perfectly manicured nails, dark brown ground underneath.

"Lex, you--" Lex shakes his head hard and Clark's voice trickles off. "I'll just take you home, okay?"

"Do you know where I live?" Will wonders never cease? The hesitation is just about as damning as an affirmative answer, but Lex would like one anyway.

"Yeah. Not exactly secret." Clark pauses a long moment before he blows out a breath that sounds like the winds of a long-ago cyclone. Dad could have died then. So easily. Passive murder that no one could ever blame him for. "I heard about the takeover."

That's--good? Not that it would be hard to find out, exactly, not if you were, say, breathing. His little war with Dad had given a hundred journalists the career boosts of their lives.

Little war, all over. The battlefield is Lex's--lock, stock, and data centers, and he thinks of the computer files he'll be skimming and the labs he'll be investigating and the meteor rock experiments his father ran. The *possibilities* are staggering, so maybe he won't be bored too soon after all.

"Congratulations." Clark's voice is neutral, all the small-town disapproval in the world stuffed into every syllable, and it's funny that it can still hurt, just a little. Lex straightens, turning his head just enough to see the dark profile, highlighted by the passing brilliance of downtown.

"Thanks." Clark navigates the road with the precision of a neurosurgeon, easily shifting now, getting used to the slick movements of the car, and it's purring under his hand like a huge, well-fed cat. Unbearably sexy, he thinks, grinning to himself. Clark in a Lamborghini is fantasy life material that one very pathetic day in the future, he'll be entertaining himself with for hours, no matter who is actually sharing his bed.

It's not a particularly pleasant thought, but few are.

"Is there--anyone home? I mean, your staff--"

"There's a chance--a chance, mind you--that I fired them all," Lex answers, because he's having uncomfortable visions of shocked faces and people running--*running*--to get out of his way. Somewhere distant in memory there's the sound of glass breaking, and Lex shuts his eyes, leaning back in the seat. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Yeah, you're a regular expert," Clark mutters, just loud enough to hear, and Lex turns his head on the headrest, letting his eyes slit open enough to see the hard line of Clark's mouth.

"Snarky, aren't we?"

Clark doesn't answer--full concentration on the road, hands in the very correct ten and two positions, like this is a driving test he has to pass. So cute.

It seems like no time at all before they pass through the open gate of the house he bought last year--on some level, Lex has to wonder what he was thinking at the time. The privacy is good. It's convenient to downtown.

But. It's a *house*. Lex isn't a house person. He likes the penthouse and the place down on tenth and Central, ratty little apartment he used to hide when he was exceptionally high as a teenager. The castle is a nightmare he sometimes shivers to remember, but then came that day where he'd been dead sober and in possession of the equivalent of an estate in downtown Metropolis, with no clear idea of how it had come about.

This is something his father would like, Lex thinks a little inanely as they pull up toward the garage. Grey stone, older house built around the time Metropolis took off as a real city, ivy creeping thick and heavy over it all. Clark checks the keys briefly, then glances at the glove compartment trapped against Lex's knee.

"Garage door opener?" he says, and Lex blinks, trying to remember--

"Don't have one." Pulling back a little, he's belatedly aware he'd folded himself up to fit in the seat when it was perfectly possible to adjust the seat itself. Strange, that. Clark hesitates, then shakes his head.

"I'll just leave it out here. Are the gates supposed to be open like that?"

No, Lex doesn't think so. Frowning, he tries to remember his domestic arrangements. This is what he has housekeepers for, after all.

"I'm--not sure."

A long hesitation, then Clark turns off the car after setting it in park, getting out under the bright fluorescent lights that bathe the courtyard. God, his father must have been dying laughing. No, Lex, you're *nothing* like your father. All those fantasies of being the gardener's bastard fly out the window once again, and Lex fumbles for the door handle, surprised when it slides open without much in the way of help from him.

What...?

Clark bends down, and quick fingers unbuckle the belt, letting it slide back.

"Come on. I'll--get you inside. Anyone I can call to come stay with you?"

"I don't need a fucking babysitter, Clark." Though his feet, once they find the ground, start sliding again, like he's standing in blood, and Lex bites into his lip. Arms catch him effortlessly, like he weighs nothing at all.

"Right. Okay. Just--let me get you to bed."

"I want beer."

"You need a trip to detox, actually. God, Lex, what the hell did you *take*?" There's a weirdly familiar note in Clark's voice that Lex thinks he should know, but just can't get his head together enough to *get*. "Never mind, just--let's get inside."

The front door is locked--that's good, though Lex doesn't remember exactly doing that. Clark pauses, looking at the keypad blankly.

"Optimus Magnus zero one" Lex says slowly, tasting the words. Dad would have loved that as a passcode.

"Should have guessed," Clark mumbles, and punches in the combination, waiting for a few seconds before inserting the keys. The cool of the house is welcome, but the echoing silence is not.

So. He might have fired the entire staff.

"Lex--" There's a very odd note in Clark's voice that makes Lex turn his head. Gently, he's pulled a little more upright, and the dark eyes meet his. "Did--something else happen?"

Something? So much, God, so much, and how long has it been since he talked to Clark? Should he start at the beginning, or hell, start at the end.

"I was almost shot tonight."

"Doesn't explain why there's no one here." Clark pauses briefly, another not-lie. "I can't hear anything in here anywhere. Did you really fire the entire staff?"

"Probably." Not that he has much. A housekeeper and someone to take care of day to day stuff, which Janet was always responsible for. Three people, total. He likes his privacy.

"Lex." There's a second, before Clark sighs. "Let me get you to bed."

To think he would have paid money to get Clark to say that to him five years, four years, three years, what the fuck, anytime, anyplace, Clark, name it. Even now. God, especially now, and he shouldn't have canceled on--whoever she was. Sex is as good as drugs for not thinking, though messier the next morning.

"So--you wanna tell me where to go here?"

Lex frowns, trying to think. His house. He knows every inch, every tile, every wall.

"Straight--to the hall, then a right." First floor. What was he thinking? Oh yes, easy to get in and out of. He still doesn't care for heights. Blinking, Lex lets himself be walked through the foyer, the cool darkness almost suffocating in some way he can't define. Clark turns them gently, and it's a short trip before a door is pushed open and then brilliant light when Clark flips the switch. "Fuck."

"Sorry. Just--oh God, Lex. What the *fuck* happened?"

He's tired of that question. Slitting his eyes fully open, Lex surveys the destruction with something like surprise. Broken glass, books everywhere, destruction like something out of a really bad movie involving tornadoes--he might have a copy somewhere here. Lex finds his footing, pulling away from the restraining arm, and Clark lets go so suddenly Lex is against the wall.

His room is--not a place he thinks he wants to stay. Ever. Again.

"Nothing. Everything." He's CEO of LuthorCorp, he's *won*, and he's sinking into the floor, his mind blank and strangely peaceful. This--is not what he expected when he woke up this morning. It can't be happening.

There's a flurry of air, and Clark kneels down beside him. Gentle hands on his shoulders, pulling him upright, enough to tilt his stomach and make his eyes water.

"Lex. Tell me."

"Dad's dead." It's--not very real, even when he says it. Dad can't be dead. Can't be. It's like saying that the sun won't rise, that Lionel Luthor--could be dead. That Lionel Luthor could-- "Shot himself. Paperwork complete. All over. The war."

"Jesus." The hands soften briefly, and then Clark sits back on his heels. The dark eyes are filled with something that makes Lex sick.

"I don't need your pity, Clark. Get the fuck out." What a wonderful moment to remember he can say that, do that. Clark's nothing, not even an acquaintance, and Lex isn't quite good enough to be invited to graduation or any other milestone of Clark's life, and Lex takes a breath, breaking free, somehow finding his feet and grabbing for the wall when the room moves. Rooms should not move. Ever.

His stomach reminds him that he drank a lot of liquor tonight. He wonders how much.

"You need something." Crisp voice. "Just--don't move. There's glass everywhere."

That's--not an option. His legs feel like jelly and his head's beginning to itch again, all that supersensitive skin that's making him dizzy and maybe sick, but he doesn't *get* sick. Luthor's don't crawl--head high, always, back straight--and swallowing bullets quietly in their office isn't something they do either.

Lex gets one step before he hits the floor, and Clark was right, there *is* glass. Biting into his palms, pain like freedom. Berber carpet keeps it all on the surface, close enough to cut, and Lex grinds his hands down. Clarity comes in briefly.

His father is dead.

"Lex, stop." Clark, picking him up like a puppy, and Luthors don't *do* that. He tries to jerk away and overbalances, Clark landing on top of him, and God, this kid is heavy, and it's a struggle for breath. Hot air against his cheek, and Clark's voice is angry. Genuinely pissed. Very new. "You're such a fucking moron! Stop it, damnit!"

"I can do anything I want," Lex whispers, and it sounds more real than anything, even death. "I'm the only Luthor left. I can do anything I fucking *want* to, Clark. Anything."

"Except go to the hospital." There's a second of uncertainty, and Lex is suddenly aware of the long body pressed against his, solid and warm. Clark, so close it would be easy to lift his head, kiss him. Suck full lips, explore that soft mouth. And the second lasts and lasts, and Lex would swear Clark's thinking the same thing.

Then a blur of impossibly fast motion, and Clark is sitting back on his heels. Pale rose flush over winter-gold skin. Interesting if Lex could find the energy to care, but he can't--quite. There's just *nothing*, even pain, and then Clark's reaching for him, gently pulling him upright and pulling out his hands. Hard, callused fingers skim his palm, and Lex looks down at the blood pooling in his palm and dripping to the floor.

"I need to get some tweezers. And get you cleaned up." Clark says it in a voice Lex has never heard before--harder than the kid who walked away from him. Older, too. Lex draws a breath to answer, something cutting, sharp, like the glass in his palms, but Clark doesn't give him a chance to speak. Lex is pulled awkwardly to his feet, and Clark pauses before spotting the bathroom door, walking them over with careless grace, hip pushing the door open.

More light, but a little softer, gentler. Lex draws a breath as Clark maneuvers him against the double sink, leaning him carefully against it before surveying the bathroom briefly. All done in white, and Lex remembers vaguely the designer who came in here to do it.

A very random memory indeed.

"Okay, first-aid kit--I know you have one here somewhere." One cabinet, then another, then another, finally coming out with a white metal box and sitting it on the counter beside him. A few seconds of random search before Clark lays everything out, and then his hand is taken, and Clark starts removing glass.

It's a fascinating procedure. Clark piles the slivers up together, before holding Lex's hand over the sink and pouring peroxide over the mess. Lex winces, more from reflex than anything, and then soft gauze is pressed into his palm, tape expertly applied.

"Is there anything you can't do?" he asks, and Clark flashes him a smile--brilliant, blinding, and it cuts more than glass ever could.

"Farm bred," Clark answers, finishing the last strip of tape. He moves to the other hand, repeating the procedure, and Lex just--*lets* him. There's nothing he can think to say, and well, glass is bad. So it should be removed.

"I need your secretary's number," Clark says as they leave the bathroom. Clark picks their way across the floor and deposits Lex on the bed. "She can--"

"Fired her. I think." He should remember this. Maybe. There's a tight second, and when he looks up, Clark is staring down at him with an unreadable expression.

"Did you go ahead and make out a will, too?" The voice is very soft, and Lex winces a little. "Driving like you're *trying* to fucking die, then just--all this?"

Lex blinks.

"How the hell would you know how I was driving?"

The pause is shorter. Clark's remembering how to lie again.

"I know you, and you're drunk and high. You're not a good driver sober. Shit. Okay. I--need to do something. Let me--look, where's your clothes? You need to get these off. And is there *anyone* you haven't fired?"

"LexCorp is okay." Hopefully. He doesn't remember sending a mass email to the general population announcing his burgeoning insanity. Laying back on the bed is easier than sitting up and talking, and Lex raises bandaged hands, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. Easy does it. Nice and slow. Relax. "Clothes in the left closet."

"Got it. Don't move, okay?"

The long seconds of absence are harder than all these years have been in some way, but Lex tries not to think about that. After a few long minutes, he feels Clark's presence rather than sees it, keeping his eyes closed. There's a pause before Clark sighs and reaches down, lifting Lex's legs onto the bed.

God, he's going to kill himself in the morning. With any fucking luck, he won't remember any of this.

"It's going to be everywhere," Lex murmurs as Clark removes his shoes, throwing them into the mess as if they weren't thousand dollar imported Italian leather. Cretin. It's endearing. "By morning. Everywhere. Son kills father. God, I wonder if that's why Dad did it? His last shot at me that I can't ever answer." There's a comforting logic to that. Dad did it for a *reason*. A good, screw-Lex-over reason.

"You said he shot himself." One sock down, the other being carefully worked off.

"I sent him the gun. I was thinking hemlock and a dagger, but well, you know." Lex grins, keeping his eyes closed. "Modern days. Don't want to be too predicable." He hadn't even thought of the bullets in the case. His shirt finally parts after far too many buttons and he contemplates the appeal of pull-overs. Maybe he'll find a suit that allows for it. Something in Armani. That would be a revolution for men everywhere.

Clark doesn't even hesitate once the last sock is gone. Pants, unfastened with really *interesting* speed, and he's had this dream before. He lifts his hips enough for Clark to pull them off, liking the feel of the smooth comforter under his legs.

"I'm sorry, Lex." Clark's voice is gentle, and a hand drops on his calf, lingering. Irony. So very much of it in the room--God, he would have killed for this moment only a couple of years ago.

"I'm not." He's not. Dad doesn't deserve anything more from him than he's gotten. Clark breathes out something that isn't really understandable.

"Right. Sit up. Here, can you dress yourself? I'll be right back. I need to make a couple of calls."

Lex doesn't get time to answer, and in any case, it doesn't really matter. The t-shirt slides on easily, and the sweatpants do too--so what if he never wears them to bed. Probably fuck with Clark's head to point out that he doesn't wear *anything* to bed. It's tempting, but Lex just--doesn't feel like expending the effort. It's taking all he has just to lay here, stare up at the ceiling, patterns that never existed before now moving in circles. Everything's circular, Lex thinks, and he wonders what's so fucking wrong with a straight line.

Clark comes back in through the doorway with a patented Clark-stumble , and Lex turns his head enough to catch the flush, the straight line of his mouth when he looks at Lex. There's a flickering second where Lex wonders who he called.

Not that it matters.

"You have a lot of voice mail," Clark says slowly, and Lex tilts his head. "You fired your secretary and your housekeeper, in case you're curious."

"I thought so." Rubbing bare feet into the bedspread, Lex slides his arms cautiously behind his head, wincing at the pull in his hands.

"I've got to ask--you have any friends I could call?"

"Luthors don't have friends." Lex cocks his head, feeling his smile grow. "According to you, we don't have enough of--let me remember this accurately--enough of a soul to know what they actually *are*."

Clark's jaw tightens, and Lex sees something that could be shame flash through the dark eyes before it disappears from sight. After a few seconds, Clark shoves his hands in his pockets, obviously not at ease.

"You can't stay here alone."

"It's my house. Of course I can stay here alone. I really don't need anyone, Clark." His pronunciation is excellent, not a slur to be seen. He feels drunk, though, with this insane desire to laugh popping up at random intervals.

"You're high, drunk, and injured, Lex. Let me put it another way. You're *not* staying here alone."

"Get the fuck out of my house." Commanding. He sounds like Dad. Same cold, clear voice that never needed to shout to get the point across, to be obeyed. Great. Still here Dad? Can you go the fuck away? Please?

"Like you can throw me out. You ripped the phone out of the wall in here, so it's not like you can call the police to toss me out. Get in bed." Clark sounds frustrated, which is funny, considering the circumstances.

"I'm *in* bed," Lex answers, kicking a heel into the mattress. A few long seconds pass, then Clark's beside him, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Is this how Luthors grieve?" His voice is almost a whisper. Lex thinks he sees Clark's hand go out, but it has to be his imagination. "Lex--"

"You ever wonder when you woke up in a Greek play?" Lex asks softly, and Clark shivers again, no other word for it. "It was--funny. I did it like he taught me, one piece at a time, one move at a time, careful and subtle, and he woke up one day with a mutinied board of directors and he had nowhere to go. I took everything, Clark. Everything that mattered to him. He never thought I could do it."

Clark makes a strangled sound, like he meant to say something, but Lex focuses on the wall behind his shoulder, slick and off-white. Reflecting too much light. "Turn the lights off, will you? And leave while you're at it."

Clark gets up, the light goes off, and Lex has never felt so utterly alone in this huge house that he still has no idea why he bought. Echoingly empty, and what was he thinking tonight anyway? He won't even have breakfast.

Like food is something he's interested in at the moment. Something twists in his stomach, nausea rising sweet and strangely comforting. Too much alcohol, not enough sleep. He hasn't slept since he started circling in, smelling victory like blood three days ago that seem like years.

When he raises his hands, though, they look clean. Taste clean, too, mouthing fingers and then finding gauze where his palms should be. Rougher than his skin. The sharp smell of blood's comforting somehow.

His dad's dead. And no one who ever met Lionel Luthor would buy it, never. Not suicide, not with his own son's parting gift in his office, the day of the takeover. No one, not even Lex. He's thinking obscure murder plots now, some strange set of circumstances that could have led to the body he saw as a vague shape beneath white sheets. He remembers the man who touched his shoulder when they were wheeling the body out.

He owes the man's medical bills for that little altercation. Pity he doesn't have a secretary to take care of these things anymore.

"Lex."

It's startlingly loud, too loud, like drums in his head, but it's only Clark, and a hand brushes his face.

"What are you still doing here?" There isn't anything like anger in his voice, and that sort of pisses him off. Clark shouldn't be here. Ever.

"I'm getting you into bed, stupid." Clark moves away and there's the sound of the comforter being pulled down, and Lex does not, simply does *not* want Clark to pick him up and damn well *carry* him, so he moves, finding the pillows effortlessly and sinking down on them without thought.

He wasn't tired before the comforter drapes over him, and then Lex doesn't know a damn thing more.

Sleep is dreamless. Luthors don't have nightmares.

Lex wakes up like he always does---suddenly and completely, absolutely aware of his surroundings, and memory has never been kind enough to blunt itself for a few short seconds. The rush hits like the first time, but without the cushion of shock.

Something hot and wet prickles behind his eyes, making him grit his teeth, and Lex sits up, kicking the covers to the foot of the bed. A couple of blinks bring the room into complete focus, and it's--

Not a disaster area anymore.

Blinking, Lex slides his feet to the floor, soft carpet and no glass at all. Books are back on their shelves, the dresser's rearranged, missing some items, but things are--well, not on the floor.

That's significant. Taking a step, Lex surveys the room, feeling the invisible prints of someone else's fingers, and there's really only one person he can think of. Taking a breath, he walks out the bedroom door and down the short hall to the kitchen and of course, there's Clark, still in last night's clothes, looking up without even a trace of discomfort.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" The words flow out too easily and Lex bites his lip, trying to control the need to clear out his territory immediately. Something instinctive that lives in the lizard-brain, he thinks, but that doesn't help his mood. Someone here. That's not him. Just--wrong.

He went entire *weeks* without seeing the housekeeper, who he fired, by the way, and Lex touches his temples. Shit. Fuck. Dammit. *Dammit*. One thing at a time.

"Good morning," Clark says without a trace of irony, and the little bastard is drinking coffee. "I made coffee."

"Get out."

The dark head tilts just a little as he surveys Lex, like he's been expecting this entire situation and is fine with it. Like he's been *ready*, and God, was Clark here all night? Doing *what*?

"I locked the gate. Outside are about thirty or forty vans of varying news stations and more reporters than I can count." Clark takes another drink of coffee and looks down. "I called Gabe. He's handling security--they should be here in an hour or so. Kinda surprised that you fired everyone you hired for security, by the way, the ones that were supposed to be in charge of this sort of thing. If I hadn't been here, you would have been up at five with ten reporters sitting over your bed. Just waiting."

Nightmare scenario, and Lex can actually feel his blood pressure rise at the very thought. Taking a breath, he let it out carefully, thinking.

"I--don't remember some of that." Most of that. Fuck. *Fuck*.

"I guess not." Clark sounds just a little smug, which is annoying, and Lex goes looking for his cup. God alone knows where it is--Janet usually had this stuff left out for him in the mornings. "Gabe's coming by personally with breakfast, since the pantry has a lock and I figured you'd throw a fit if I broke it."

"Why'd you call Gabe?"

Clark looks up, his expression tinged with utter exasperation.

"Here's a thought--who else do I know that works for you and who would listen to me? I'm sure that one of the LexCorp board members would have been thrilled to hear their CEO was having a nervous breakdown and fired his entire staff on a drunken binge."

Cup. Not *his* cup, but close enough. Lex follows the smell of coffee to the pot and pours a cup, ignoring the cream and sugar. He needs the caffeine. He should fucking start *mainlining* it at this rate.

"I don't need you."

"You need someone. I'll go when Gabe gets here--he's been with you forever and I know you're appointing him to the board, so I figured he's as close to a friend you have." Taking another drink of coffee, Clark gently pushes the phone toward the center of the bar, giving Lex a long look as he crosses back over. Lex likes keeping this distance between them. "Five hundred sixteen voicemail messages on this phone. I haven't checked your mobile, but I'm guessing it's around somewhere."

Lex isn't sure where the cellphone is. Could be anywhere at all. Drawing a breath, he takes another drink of coffee and observes the kid sitting across the bar from him.

"Why are you here?" Strange set of circumstances leading to this moment, and it's too early in the morning to deal with anything. "What time is it?"

"Eight," Clark answers, then puts down the cup. "Don't worry, you won't have to deal with me much longer. Gabe said he'll get someone to drive me back to school without being seen, so you don't have to worry about rumors."

"God forbid anyone ever connects you with me," Lex answers dryly, pulling a stool toward the bar with his ankle. So much to do. No secretary. He'd have to dip into the temp pool or, God, start interviewing today, and there's so damn much to get done.

The phone sits in front of him like an accusation. He has to arrange his dad's funeral once the body's released from the ME's office. Fuck.

'That's not what I meant," Clark answers, and his voice drops just a little. Pushing the cup aside with his knuckles, Clark stares at the far wall. "You--probably don't remember when Dad died...."

"I remember." It seems to stop everything between them, and Lex wishes the words back. Clark doesn't need to know.

"Oh." Another pause, meditative, like Clark is thinking difficult thoughts, then he lifts his head. "Nell took care of everything, you know. Mom--couldn't deal. I couldn't deal. It was--she just showed up when we got the news at the hospital and did everything we couldn't. Just told us not to worry, that she'd make sure everything got done." Another pause, longer. "I was--at the time, I couldn't believe it, you know? It just seemed so stupid, because Dad couldn't be dead. He couldn't. And it seemed so stupid to arrange funerals and everything, when Dad couldn't be dead. The Rosses came over and they were there for Mom and--well, anyway. It's like--" Clark stops again, flushing scarlet, and Lex takes a long breath. "I don't pity you. I just--know what it's like."

"You think I gave a shit about my father?" Like there's any comparison between Lionel Luthor and Jonathan Kent.

"No, you usually react to good news with a regression into a bratty teen, Lex," Clark answers dryly, flicking the cup with one finger. "Look, I'll be gone soon--"

"You're very good at walking out. At least this time I get some advanced notice. My thanks."

Jesus, he didn't mean to say that. Lex pushes off the stool. He needs a shower, clean clothes, and a new life, in that order. Vague, uncomfortable feelings move in the pit of his stomach, but Lex flicks them away, years of self-discipline falling into place without a second thought. Being pissed at Clark for being himself isn't productive. Hell, being pissed period isn't productive.

The shower--does nothing for his mood, and at the first traces of rusty-red stained water running into the cool white tile makes him shut his eyes and swallow hard. The gauze and tape on his hands are ruined, and he strips them off when he gets out, blinking a little at the half-healed cuts across the lines of his palms. More than he can count, livid edges hot to the touch. For the first time, he's aware of the low throb of pain, and stains are left on his towels when he wipes his hands.

"Lex?"

Clark. Shit. Grabbing for his robe, he pulls it on just before a discreet knock at the bathroom door. Fuck. Of course Clark will knock. Taking a second, he runs his palms over his sides then takes a breath.

"What?"

"Gabe's here. He's getting me a ride back to campus in a few minutes. I--just wanted to say goodbye."

Of course he did. Clark always says goodbye. He's a *good* boy, a nice boy, and even when he's pissed, he remembers to say goodbye, and Lex has a vivid, visceral memory of the last time they really spoke, at the castle that day.

And Lex is just masochistic enough to walk over and open the door, when speaking through it is by far the most sensible approach. The handle turns like it's been waiting for him to decide, and Clark is peering in at him through too-long bangs.

Too pretty for eight in the morning.

"I'll be fine, Clark." He can do this. Do it with class, too. "Thanks for your help."

Clark nods, shoving his hands into his jean pockets.

"I'm glad you're okay." There's a pause that seems to last forever, then Clark begins to back away. "So--"

"Clark." What? Lex sucks in a breath. "Just wait, okay? I--need to get dressed."

Clark pauses for a second, but it doesn't last long enough to be anywhere near actual thought.

"Sure. I'll be in the kitchen."

"Stay here." Moving by him, Lex rubs his hands against his hips again. He'll need to rewrap them. "I'll be right out."

He dresses fast, auto-reflex in action, and no one would expect him to be at the office. No secretary, fuck, he has no *idea* how to function without one, and there's a brief second of trying to decide what to do. But there's Gabe in the kitchen, and if there's anyone he can trust, it's Gabe. Pulling on a sweater he barely notes except to make sure the color matches the slacks, he grabs socks and shoes and comes back out to see Clark perched uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, surveying the room with--interest.

"You cleaned up?" he asks, and Clark ducks his head.

"Glass everywhere." Clark shrugs, trying to shift into a less-uncomfortable looking pose and failing badly. It's endearing. "I--um, found the housekeeper's closet with the vacuum and stuff. I figured that you'd probably like to get up without lacerating your feet."

"Thanks." And he means it. There's some interesting imagery of Clark wandering around with a dustpan and a vacuum, looking for stray glass fragments, that sits in his head. All the things put neatly into place. Taking another breath, Lex sits on the chair beside the dresser and lowers his shoes to the floor. "Do you have class today?"

And why does this matter?

"Only one, and I called in to say I'd be gone today." Clark settles a little more easily into the bed, and there's a sharp line drawn across his forehead, like he's thinking. Lex would give a lot to know what's going on up there. "Finals start next week, so most of my classes are review anyway. Most people don't show up."

Right. Winter vacation. Lex grins in memory and pulls on one sock.

"Going to Smallville for Christmas this year?"

The silence makes Lex look up, and Clark's very carefully staring at the wall above Lex's head.

"You know--no, I guess you don't. You wouldn't. Mom sold the farm this fall. We--couldn't afford to lease it out anymore and, well, you know. Bills."

"Tuition." Martha Kent would sell her soul to get her son through college. Lex straightens with the second sock and sits back in the chair. He didn't know. Hadn't been keeping up, but who could really blame him for that? Clark made it clear a long fucking time ago there was nothing he wanted from Lex.

"Where does your mother live now?"

"In the suburbs." Clark grins a little. "We got a good price for the land, and we found nice house. Don't say anything, but I think she sort of missed the city. She works downtown. Goes to a *lot* of plays."

Lex smiles a little, nodding, making little mental adjustments for the new information that he should have already had. Dammit. Clark knew where *he* lived--and why the hell would Clark keep up with that?--but Lex didn't have a fucking *clue* what had happened to Clark since his father died.

Somehow, it had never occurred to him that they would ever sell the farm. That anything would ever change in Smallville, and his ego, face it, needs to get off it. Just because he leaves doesn't mean the world stops.

Though it'd be nice to think so.

"I'm sorry. That I didn't know."

"Why would you care?" There isn't anything like resentment in Clark's voice, though Lex will bet money the day they sold the farm, Clark had been--thinking, maybe. Wondering if by some chance Lex would hear....

No, not like Clark. It never would have occurred to him.

Fuck.

"I'm sorry." He's starting to sound inane and it pisses him off. Shoes next, and Clark seems content to simply sit, watching the wall without expression, like this is any day they've spent together, like a three year estrangement never existed.

"It wasn't your fault," Clark says, and Lex almost breaks a shoelace at the wistful sound of Clark's voice. Remembering, Lex thinks, and there's a barn in his mind that won't quite dissipate, an old couch that smells of hay and sweat and manure and God knows what else. "And--it's been a few months, you know. No biggie."

Right. And the sun rose in the west today. Finishing the shoelaces, Lex gets to his feet.

"I don't want it back." Now Clark is looking at him, and Lex blinks, focusing back in on the young man. "I know what you're thinking."

"I'm not thinking of anything." That's a lie. He's already wondering who he can get the buyer's name from. Clark grins, but there's an edge of strain that makes Lex's teeth clench. God, he's young.

"You're thinking of buying it and handing it over. I guess another quick way to buy your life back or something." Getting to his feet, there's a strangely--relieved?--look on Clark's face. Like something had gone wrong, but he's sort of glad for it. "Look, I don't want--"

"Okay."

Clark stops. Completely. It's just a little surreal to see--Lex can't think of the last time he saw Clark ever still, inside and out, but this is a moment he'll remember. Wide eyes and hard line of his mouth and looking at Lex without anything at all but surprise.

"What?"

"I said okay. You don't like trucks, land, or anything practical. Is there a girl?"

The corner of Clark's mouth twitches, and Lex can't help matching it, even if he doesn't want to, even if he still wants to be mad and still pretend to hate him. Hands in his pockets, Lex tilts his head and waits, and finally, Clark looks away. The smile breaks fast and furious.

"Not at the moment, no." Shifting on his heels, Clark pauses, looking up. "I know I'm intruding."

"If by intruding you mean, stopping armed robbery and attempted murder, then yeah, I'd guess so." Lex shifts again, then shakes his head. He--doesn't want this to be easy, not at all. It shouldn't be, and it is, and it's settling too easily, like they're picking up where they left off.

Or--not exactly. There's a wide difference between eighteen and twenty-one, a gulf that Lex can barely recall himself, but it's all written into the lines around Clark's mouth, the shade of his hazel eyes, the posture. It's all the first touches of adulthood, and it's something of a shock to realize Clark's the same age now as Lex had been when they first met.

"I'm not worried about the tabloids because of me or anything," Clark says slowly, like he's picking each word for its weight. "I'm worried because--it's bad enough what you're going to get. I thought--I thought maybe you'd like it better if you didn't have to--worry about something getting out. About...um.... Me. Here." The blush is slower than it used to be, but it spreads like honey, thick and slow, still a pleasure to watch. Lex forces himself still, biting his lip to keep from saying anything that's going on in his head.

"Okay." Makes sense, though Lex does really wonder if he even *can* shock Metropolis anymore. Spent a night with a pretty boy from MetU on the night his father died? Not even a blip on the radar, most likely. Smiling a little, Lex rubs his hands together and winces, remembering belatedly the fact that there are still unhealed cuts spanning both palms. Fuck.

"Your hands?" It seems like less than a breath before Clark's hands cradle his, turning them over. "You really need to see a--never mind." Clark tears his gaze back down, frowning. "You wanna rewrap them?"

"I'm amazingly incompetent when it comes to first aid, Clark. Feel free to do so." Clark grins, bright and easy, and it's the strangest experience yet, with Clark applying the dressing and then the gauze, taping it in place expertly before glancing up with wary eyes.

"You--know you shouldn't be alone. During this." Lex opens his mouth to answer, and he knows it'll come out cutting as all hell, but Clark shakes his head briefly. "Just listen, okay? I know you--you'll be okay, but. But it'll be hard."

"Clark, we had very different fathers, you get that, right?"

"He's still your father." Clark says it like he's quoting some scripture or other. Maybe he is. "Don't tell me you got that drunk last night to celebrate."

That's exactly what Lex wants to tell him, but that would be, at very least, half a lie, and Lex just isn't quite up to lying again. Not right now, anyway.

"I--"

"Mr. Luthor?"

Clark pulls away like he was doing something utterly forbidden, stepping away from the bed, just as the first knock sounds. Lex stands up.

"I'll be right there." Looking at Clark, and it'd be very easy to say good-bye now. Easy and faintly inevitable, and it would be even easier to pretend this night never happened at all. Lex can rewrite history with the best of them.

But.

"Stay. For a while."

Clark nods like he didn't expect anything else. It's--strange. "Okay."

Gabe handles everything, and Lex, while having appreciated him for years as an excellent subordinate, is pretty much close to falling in love with the man who is perfectly capable of dealing with both the board *and* the media. Maybe just a serious infatuation, but he takes a mental note to double Gabe's salary the second his secretary is put at Lex's disposal indefinitely.

Julia is *good*.

The brief, flickering glances that Gabe shoots Clark aren't anything Lex really pays attention to, and there's a handshake before Gabe finally rises, orders in place, giving Clark a long look.

"Do you want me to arrange transportation now?"

"I'll arrange it later," Lex answers, and Gabe nods without comment, gathering up the folders and giving them both a businesslike smile. "I'll be in touch."

"I'll be waiting." Gabe shows himself out and Lex gets up, crossing to lean against the edge of the desk. Clark shifts a little on the small couch before looking up, then away.

"Hungry?"

"Sure." Clark hesitates briefly, then pulls himself to his feet, a little awkward, a little uncomfortable, but not entirely in the room at all. There's that fine line on his forehead again, and Clark's thinking. Lex remembers seeing it a hundred different times in a hundred different situations, and it's never boded well.

When Clark sees him watching, the line clears instantly.

"Are you okay?" Lex takes a step forward. "Would you rather get back to school--"

"No." Instinctive denial, and Lex blinks a little at the force running just under the surface of that calm voice. "No, I'm just--worried. About you." A look from beneath his lashes that's--sexy. So sexy. It hits now like it didn't hit last night, and Lex has to think he was even higher than he'd thought he was. God, he always forgets what Clark is *like* up close and personal. Instinctive reaction of body and mind that Lex has to remind himself to tune out, but he's out of practice. It's been years since he's had to control himself like that. Around him.

"I'm fine, Clark." And he is. It's--not a great day, but Lex has to wonder what he *thought* his dad would do. He took away everything that made Lionel's life worth living. Money, power, influence, gone in a heartbeat, all taken by the son that he never expected could *do* it. Lex wonders if granddad hadn't taken the same way out, no matter what the coroner's report said.

After all, Lex was only carrying on a Luthor family tradition of filial betrayal. It makes him think that he might not ever want children. This sort of thing is in the blood.

When he looks at Clark again, the searching gaze is back--like Clark can see through his skin, through bone and flesh and muscle and straight into his thoughts. Maybe judging them by his small-town values and finding them wanting, and here's the other reason he never really regretted their estrangement. This. The uncomfortable, half-aware knowledge that, in some way, he'd always fail Clark's tests, even if Clark never knew he was giving them. It--didn't make life any easier.

"Can you cook?"

Hmm? "What?" Cook?

Clark's mouth widens in a mischievous smile, too close to memory for Lex to dismiss or ignore, and an answering smile curves his own lips without thought.

"The thing you do before you eat. So you don't die of salmonella or *e coli* or whatever the latest bacteria is. That thing."

"That thing. Yes, I can cook." Gourmet-class, thank you very much. Lex had never found it was a good idea *not* to know the essentials of survival, and cooking was among them. Still smiling, he walks to the door and hears Clark following, snickering quietly. "And there's sandwiches if all else fails. God, what do you think I did in college?"

"Take-out by limo," Clark answers helpfully, and Lex snickers, since that's not exactly that far from the truth. "Pay-offs to the school cook."

"Careful," Lex murmurs, and it's hitting him all anew and it should be--not like this. Shrugging the faint traces of unease away, Lex fingers the edge of his shirt before coming into the hideously bright kitchen.

It's probably pretty obvious by the decor that he doesn't spend much time here. Bright, bright, metal and smooth porcelain and polished tile floor. Clark sits back at the breakfast bar, lowering himself onto a stool and resting his elbows on the cool granite counter, looking around the room curiously.

"Sandwiches okay?" Lex isn't honestly sure what's in his refrigerator--it's never *not* had something he wanted.

"Fine." The sound of the stool shifting over the tile makes Lex turn a little as he opens the refrigerator door. Clark is studying the ceiling like he's never seen one before.

"How did you know where I lived?" Lex listen for Clark's stool to jerk again in surprise, and it does. There's a drawer with nothing *but* sandwich meat, and Lex blinks a little before taking a stack of them out and laying it all on the counter with a selection of condiments. The refrigerator is remarkably well-stocked.

When he turns around, Clark's looking at him with a patient expression.

"Lex. You know that thing where you're sort of famous? Guess what. Not exactly a secret when you up and move across the city."

Yes, there are reasons Lex is going to stamp out this freedom of the press nonsense once he rules the world. The thought makes him grin as he gets a loaf of bread and knives, taking the entire mess to the bar and dropping it in front of Clark.

"Cutting board?" Clark picks up one knife, studying it like a rare artifact.

"Your guess is as good as mine." Which is true. Clark shoots him a grin and gets a tomato while Lex hunts for plates. The back of his neck keeps wanting to prickle with the awareness of Clark so close and so easy, and a thousand questions keep trying to slide off his tongue. He's going to admit it to himself, if to no one else--he's missed this. Missed Clark, yes, missed the kid with the hero complex and the bright smile, but he also missed *this*. This kind of moment--quietly unimportant, receiving genuine comfort from another human being and not a motive in sight.

Craved it without even knowing what he wanted. Very un-Luthor of him. Putting the plates on the counter, he shakes away the feeling and sits down across from Clark, picking up the bread.

"What's your major?" It seems important now to know--and it occurs to Lex that it should have always been important.

Clark looks up, a piece of tomato between his lips. The image is enough to wash away warm friendship thoughts and replace them with far less innocent fantasies, and Lex shakes that away too. Not easy at all.

"English." Clark chews hastily and swallows. "English, minor in creative writing."

"Journalist, teacher, or writer?"

"Writer," Clark answers with a smile, and Lex hands him four pieces of bread. "I think, anyway. I still have a year and a half left. Plenty of time to suddenly have an epiphany that my career should actually be bricklaying or something."

"I'd say carpentry, but that's just me." Lex grins at the puzzled look on Clark's face but doesn't elaborate as he opens the mayonnaise. "Ham, turkey, or chicken?"

"Turkey," Clark answers, and Lex hands over the package. "I may try to graduate early, though. I'm tired of school."

Lex remembers his own college years with a great deal of fondness. "Why?"

"I--don't know." Clark pauses, and the line's back. "I guess I never got into it. College stuff. I--you know, once a geek, always a geek, I guess." Clark returns to picking through the cheeses, possibly looking for something familiar in the cheddar family.

Lex thinks about that for a few minutes as he automatically assembles his sandwich.

"No fraternity?"

Clark looks up, eyes wide. "You're kidding, right? Not my thing."

Also expensive.

"So, what? All you do is study?" Lex can't even imagine that.

Clark grins before taking the knife, neatly cutting his sandwich in half. "More or less. My GPA likes it, trust me."

He's never doubted Clark's intelligence. Eyes narrowing, Lex takes a bite, watching Clark keep his gaze fixed on the counter. Lots of questions, and this fragile accord could break so easily with the wrong one. And it's desperately important not to break it. Not--not yet.

The silence is comfortable while they eat. Lex tries to be careful to keep his watching subtle. So many changes settle with age, some so far beneath the skin that you have to know how to look for them. Once upon a time, though, Lex could have carved Clark's face from memory, and he can trace the differences that three years have made. More than the edges of too-early maturity that were only a bare presence on the face of the Smallville kid. The eyes tell a lot, Lex thinks, and people rhapsodize about in a thousand different varieties of pulp literature, but that doesn't make it less true. It shows now, when Clark doesn't know he's being watched, and the grey tinge of pure exhaustion just beneath everything else, the kind of exhaustion Lex can relate to, even if he doesn't know why it's there. Like burn-out, and Lex never knew--never even guessed.

What the fuck is Clark *doing* to himself at school anyway? Maybe the stress of losing the farm and keeping his grades high, justifying the loss of his inheritance to finance his life, has been draining. With Clark's elevated sense of responsibility, that would be--hellish.

"How are--Chloe?" Lex struggles for names that used to be in a far more easily accessible portion of his brain. "Pete? Lana?"

There's a second where Clark's hands tighten on the sandwich, and a lone tomato squeezes its way out, falling onto the granite with an undramatic plop. Clark looks up, eyes wide and very young.

"I--haven't talked to them in awhile. Chloe transferred to Gotham last semester, and Pete and Lana are--sort of involved." Clark smiles a little, but the shadow's there. "You know how that is."

Lex wouldn't, actually. "Yes."

"Growing up, I guess. They're getting married in the spring." The enthusiasm doesn't change the darkness, and Lex wonders if Clark's even aware of the hurt anymore. It still shines in his eyes, even if he has no idea it's there. "Pete asked me to be best man. It'll be in Smallville, with Pete's and Lana's families. They're really excited about it."

Lex nods noncommittally. Clark's friends are getting *married*. There's an intense memory of Lana, all elbows and bright youth, and round little Pete, kids on the verge of adulthood, but this...is surreal. *They grow up so fast.* It makes him a little dizzy, blinking through the surprise of it, the change, and Clark...

Clark's eating with single minded intensity, eyes fixed on the sandwich as if it has the answer to all the problems under the sun.

"Clark." Clear, dark eyes lifting, and the shadow makes Lex stop, think. Breathe. "Why are you here?"

Clark's hands close involuntarily on the bread again, catching himself before the interior can escape, and he eats quickly, almost defensively. Maybe avoiding the question, maybe looking for a reason Lex will accept, and Lex is used to Clark lying to him.

It's just--maybe this once, he'd like the truth.

"Lex--" He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sprinkling a few lone crumbs across the top of the counter.

"You made it very clear you wanted nothing to do with me three years ago." The memory of that is enough to make his voice harden, but Lex has learned a little about control since being that young and that stupid. Breathing out, he tries again. "If it's not pity--"

"It's--not." The sandwich is gone, and Clark looks vainly for something to wipe his hands on, possibly for no other reason than needing something to do.

"I've had a lot of time to think," Clark says carefully, and Lex watches him flatten his palms on the cool granite, fingers spreading a little like he's looking for some kind of grounding. "I--"

"Because everyone else is gone, so I'm better than nothing?" God, he can't be that bitter still. It's been too long for the memory to hurt.

"No. I don't need anyone." Clark looks wistful, and Lex watches as he gathers himself together. "I--don't. I like having friends and everything but--I mean, if nothing else, this last year's shown me I don't--don't need it." A little shrug and something like a slow laugh. "It's easy to lose touch, did you know that? I--didn't know that. I mean, at home, there were always *people* around, everywhere. In college, when there weren't as many, when they weren't around--I never noticed the absence. I'm not sure what that says about me."

That--doesn't answer any questions.

"Clark--"

"Let me finish, okay? I've had--a *lot* of time to think. Lex, I never stopped--I never stopped caring about you just because I stopped trusting you."

"Could have fooled me." Something in him though--eases? Maybe. Maybe the part he doesn't want to admit even exists, that still wanders around in the shocked remains of that moment.

Clark's smile isn't anything like amused, and the edge of bitterness is there again. "I'm very good at it."

It's the first time--the first time *ever*--that Clark's admitted the unadmittable. Lex tenses at the questions that want to fall out between them. All of them. Years of questions from their first meeting, and then they're--gone. He can't ask.

He's so good at risk, so good at taking chances, but the look on Clark's face stops him. Like it stopped him all those years ago, and he finishes his sandwich in silence, absently beginning to clean up. Clark silently helps, and the kitchen seems too big for them, keeping them too far apart. That may be the best thing, but Lex--isn't sure.

"What changed?" Lex asks softly, and Clark turns from the dishwasher.

"Nothing. Everything." There's a pause that lasts too long, like Clark has to think too much to make a simple answer. Or maybe there isn't one at all. "Has anything changed, Lex?"

It isn't anything Lex would have so much as batted an eye at before, but now--

"I'm still my father's son, Clark." Dead father, in the cold vault of an ME's examining room, confirming death by pure arrogance. Luthor arrogance. It's in the blood. "No, nothing's changed."

The tilt of the dark head isn't quite what he expects, nor is the easy way Clark closes the dishwasher, leaning back against the counter. There's something frightening in his face, something Lex can't read at all.

"How sure are you?"

And Lex has no idea how to answer that one. He puts the rest of the food away, turning around to see Clark has taken up residence in the center of the kitchen. That thing, the thing he can't read though thinks he should be able to, is written all over Clark's face for anyone in the world to see.

Maybe it's that Lex doesn't want to. Luthors lie, and they do it best when doing it to themselves.

"Clark." This doesn't happen anywhere, anytime, not to him. Never to him. Not with Clark looking at him like that, not after this. It's the worst time in the worst way, and Lex wants to stop. It's going to hurt; he *knows* that. Because if it hurt to lose his best friend--and it still stings even now, in places he had no idea could be vulnerable--this can only make it worse.

He wants to--say something. Anything. Break the moment, because they'll never get it back, Lex will make *sure* of that--but he doesn't. Just stands there until he's moving, until that look just stops letting anything else matter at all. Just a touch on the point of Clark's jaw ,and Clark's eyes are wide and dark and he doesn't move away.

Lex has never been very good at giving up things he wants.

"You don't trust me." Lex doesn't bother framing it as a question, and Clark doesn't bother lying in his answer.

"What you did--" Clark stops, skin flinching beneath Lex's hand, and he pulls away. Big, strong fingers close over his, stopping the withdrawal, and Lex feels his breath catch. "You lied to me about everything."

"Pot, kettle--" Amazingly soft skin, traces of stubble beneath his fingers. A fascinating texture he wants to explore over and over, and he shakes his head, feeling the beginnings of an urge to laugh.

This *doesn't* happen.

"Those experiments hurt people. A lot of people. Killed them." Clark's voice is low, and it could be a repeat of the last time, maybe, but Clark was never this close before. The flares of anger and blind panic and pain and utter betrayal aren't here now, maybe can't get past Clark's skin, and it's--

"I didn't know." Not at the beginning, not entirely his responsibility, but then--he'd felt it more, maybe. This is growing up, Lex thinks, learning to delegate the blame out. Very Luthor. Dad would be proud.

"You should have known. You should have guessed." Clark's voice is low and intense and there's pain in it now, the kind that never burns out, and Lex knows what that's like. "You knew they were dangerous and you let Hamilton play with them anyway. You kept letting him, and--" Clark's voice stops short, breathy, dangerous. "You don't see it, do you?"

"Maybe I just don't care."

There's a second where Lex knows Clark will pull away--he knows it, and he's ready for it, ready to let go and let it happen. And Clark will walk out, and pictures will be taken and articles printed and the publicity will be hideous. All the things his mind can offer up as evidence of how much of him has so little to do with what Clark thinks he should be.

The catch is, he doesn't care. And that's not very Luthor at all.

"I don't believe that."

It's a chaste kiss, a surprise, and nothing that Lex is ready for, nothing at all. Warmth and soft lips, like Lex always thought they would be. Gentle, like Clark's unsure it'll be allowed. Fragile, because if he's going to walk away, this is the time to do it.

He doesn't.

Clark pulls back, but the moment Lex could have let go is gone. Gone with the flickering taste of Clark on his mouth and the dark eyes that stare down at him without anything but want. Just that. Lex holds the hand that wants to pull away, twining their fingers, tight, hard, promising.

He slides a hand behind Clark's neck, leans up enough, and that mouth--that impossibly soft mouth and warm tongue and the way Clark doesn't hesitate, though maybe some part of him still wants to. Slow, deep, achingly real, and he's breathing in the taste and feel of the one fantasy that always seemed beyond his reach, even when maybe it wasn't. And Clark kisses the same way he does everything--giving into it and going with it, completely and wonderfully and God, so *hungrily*.

It takes everything--*everything*--to pull away and back off, Clark's taste coating his mouth and the imprint of his body against Lex's, warm and hard and unfamiliar in a way Lex's hands itch to explore until he knows all of it. Holding the long fingers, one hand coming up to stop Clark when he steps forward, pressed against that strong chest. They're both breathing too hard and too fast and it could happen right *now*. Lex wants it, and Clark does too.

It just--can't. Not quite yet.

"Lex--" A little wild-eyed and scared, in the way you are whenever you jump and have no idea how the landing's going to go. A little hysterical, and that need to follow through *now*, get it over with, and that's the one thing Lex doesn't want. Over. Ever. It's hard to not stare at those full lips, red and a little swollen, eyes that ask and maybe plead, but....

"Not--not right now." Clark tries to pull away, but Lex holds him, and after a second of resistance, there's a slow nod. "Just--not yet."

"Why?" Clark *wants* to jump, wants to stop thinking, stop examining, just do it. Wake up tomorrow with a fumbled explanation and regrets, disappear again, and Lex--can't take that. Won't. But--hold him here. Just like this. Make it harder to turn his back on it, harder to justify it later, and Lex forces himself not to smile, just lets his fingers skim Clark's chest before pulling away.

"Because Gabe expects me to call and I have things to arrange." Lex waits, watching Clark's expression clear, remembering, back to thinking. There. "Stay with me."

The slow, deep breath is thoughtful, and Lex tilts his head, watching every expression on the face of the young man who's replaced the boy he knew. Close enough. Twenty-one is a good time to build an obsession. And keep it.

"Lex, I--"

"I'd rather not be alone." And he--doesn't want to be. Not now, not in this godawful house and not when he can feel Clark in his room and on his skin. Lists of calls he has to make, people he needs to talk to, the temp agency that will supply him with a new housekeeper, find a new secretary, plan his father's funeral, the shit details of the LuthorCorp takeover and dispersion of its assets....

It doesn't seem quite as terrifying as it did only twelve hours ago.

It's there, in Clark's face--the wanting to stay, only needing the excuse. The reason. The good boy trying to help out, the reason he can give himself for doing this. All right there, written in mile high print that Lex can read perfectly, and Clark smiles now, shaking his head.

"All right." It's the closest to surrender Lex could have hoped for. Breathing out, he takes another step back. "I have some phone calls to make. Do you need anything?"

"No." Clark hesitates, then frowns down at his shoes. "Do you--need any help? I mean, I don't know much about--"

"Actually, yes, I could." Gentle hand against Clark's back, feeling him move into it without even thinking. Perfect. "I'll show you."

He didn't get close to enough sleep last night, but by eight, Lex doesn't even feel *tired*.

Pizza is on the floor between them, and Lex gave up his desk to organize on the floor of his study. Gabe sent a massive number of contracts and documents for his approval and signature, and Lex, thank God, can read at a glance and sorted everything into piles depending on priorities. Even better, Julia has taken the bulk of Lex's secretary's work, and Lex wonders if it's unethical to steal someone else's secretary permanently.

Phone calls. Dozens of them, and the voice mail that Lex sorted--what was nonsense, what wasn't, the condolence calls--and Gabe is acting as spokesman for LexCorp, on the news at eight.

"He's very good," Clark says around a mouthful of pizza, wiping his hands off on a towel before moving another low-priority folder aside. Clark's as good as Lex at organization, which is a relief, and has an amazing memory. Lex has been careful what he's given Clark to look through.

"He's excellent." Lex studies Gabe's calm, serious answers to various highly prejudicial questions, including where Lex is and what he's doing. "He understands PR very well. And the PR department briefed him this afternoon. He knows his job."

"Chloe's probably thrilled about his promotion." Clark finishes off the stack. "These just need a sign-off, it looks like. Just reports and stuff. I think."

Lex glances over and nods.

"I can cover that tomorrow." The last item he's been putting off, and Lex takes a few moments to stare at the papers in front of him, feeling the sudden tightening in his chest, mouth going dry. Gabe had this rushed over only a couple of hours before.

"Lex?" Maybe he's sitting too still, or God help him, his face is giving him away, but Clark is shifting over, knee brushing against his thigh, and then a low exhalation of breath. "Oh."

"It's--" The ME's report. Rush job, overseen by Lex's own people, and their reports are sealed in a folder in his desk. He's not up to reading their comments, and Gabe would have told him if there was anything important in the packet. Taking a breath, Lex shakes his head.

"Yeah." Very gently, the folders are moved out of his hands. "I--your family? Do you--"

"Julia has the contact lists from my office and--it looks as though she's taken care of most of it." Lex breathes out, his fingers falling on the top sheet of the stack between him and Clark. "I--just need to choose a date for the funeral." Lex pauses, closing his eyes briefly. It couldn't have happened that way. Luthors don't *do* that. Suicide's for the weak, the hopeless, those without any other options, and Lionel Luthor is none of those things. Was none of those things. "I suppose--people will want to fly in. I need to check the airport schedules and--"

Airport schedules. Jonathan Kent's funeral had been three days after his death, arranged for the convenience of the family. Lex has to schedule his dad's for the convenience of the world. Vaguely, he wonders how many are celebrating in private, gloating over the fact that they'll stand over Lionel Luthor's grave. Somewhere, the Hardwicks are doubtless throwing a party.

"You don't need to decide tonight." The calm finality of Clark's voice would have raised his hackles at any other time, but Clark is methodically stacking everything, keeping their organization intact, but the mess is already considerably less. Taking a deep breath, Lex joins him, putting the packet from Gabe in the center of his desk for morning, and won't *that* be just the thing to see with his morning coffee? Fuck. "You know, you didn't eat."

Lex starts a little, turning from shutting down his laptop.

"What?"

Clark's looking at him with an endearing amount of determination. "You haven't eaten since lunch. You should eat something."

"I--ate." Though Lex realizes that the smell of tomato sauce and oregano is definitely not on his hands, nor is there a single mark on his clothes. Blinking, he looks at the box and notes that it's not empty.

"Actually, you looked at it and then went into some sort of number thing with stock option transfers," Clark says, a little smile curling up the corner of his mouth. "You'll feel better if you eat something."

Lex briefly considers protesting, but then gives up and smiles. Slow, careful, watching Clark, and he wonders what Clark can see in his face. "Okay. Out of here, though."

"Fair enough."

There are reasons people do a lot of their work at desks sitting in comfortable chairs, Lex thinks, rubbing at the small of his back. Clark picks up the box and flicks the lights off as they leave, and Lex shuts the door, feeling a sudden sense of weightlessness at what he's leaving behind. There's a strong temptation to lock the door, too, but he dismisses it, following Clark to the kitchen, and Clark drops the box on the counter, nodding toward it while he takes an expedition to the refrigerator.

The pizza's still warm, so Lex settles down on a stool while Clark looks for--something. He comes back with a bottle that Lex faintly recognizes.

"Cristal?" Lex grins. "Not the thing for pizza, Clark. Don't you remember anything?"

Clark shrugs. "Forget breeding for the night. This is the only kind I actually like. Where are the glasses?"

"God knows. Check the cabinet where the plates were." Wine on an empty stomach would not be particularly good, so Lex finishes a slice of pizza, picking up the bottle and studying it carefully.

The glasses are acceptable enough, and Lex lets Clark open the bottle. The crisp taste isn't nearly as bad as he might have predicted mixed with tomato sauce, and Clark looks up from his own glass, a little surprised. He'd never cared for wine. "Not bad."

"You're developing a palate. Or you're very tired." Smiling, Lex stands up, picking up the glass, and Clark hesitates briefly, a combination of tension and anticipation. Not so sure now, after all that time he's had to think. There's a lot to be said for the heat of the moment, Lex thinks, as Clark slowly follows him.

"Do you need to arm the security system?"

"I did it after Gabe left the last time," Lex answers. "And gave security their instructions." Pausing, he flips the kitchen lights off. He usually doesn't need his alarm clock, but Lex makes a note to set it anyway. Walking down the short hall, he can almost feel Clark's worry, because he's thinking of all the complications that'll come of this.

He'd never thought Clark was capable of casual sex. It's good to know that hasn't changed.

Flipping on the bedroom light, Lex motions to the cabinet situated between the two closet doors. "Television in there."

"Oh." The mix of relief and disappointment's almost too obvious for words, and Lex sits the bottle on the bedside table, removing his watch while Clark unfolds the wide wooden doors, smiling like a kid when they slid back inside the cabinet. "Wow. Nice. Though I'm not sure what it says about your addiction to TV to have one in your bedroom."

"I have a thing for the Cartoon Network. So sue me." Sitting at the foot of the bed, Lex watches Clark get the remote control, frowning over the various buttons before throwing caution to the wind and picking one.

Amazingly, it's the one that turns on the TV, and Clark looks pretty fucking surprised. Lex can't help laughing.

"Yeah, laugh it up." Clark turns back, brilliant, breathtaking smile, nothing different there at all, and Lex makes himself not move, not react, though God, he wants to, so much. Cross the room, pull Clark into bed, and bury everything in just tasting and touching and nothing else.

Instead, he takes another drink of wine while Clark sits tentatively beside him and starts changing channels. Not quite close enough to touch casually, but light years inside personal space.

"Anything in particular?" Clark asks, and Lex shakes his head mutely, taking another drink of wine, noticing that Clark's almost finished his glass. Hiding a grin, he scoots back in the bed, just far enough to grab the wine bottle, and comes back down, kicking off his shoes and stretching out on his stomach before pulling Clark's glass down enough to fill it. "Thanks."

"No, nothing. Just stay off the news channels. I've had enough real life for one day." Far too much, actually, and Lex thinks on the benefits of one or two more glasses of this, maybe chased with some brandy--if there's any left, that is. The little black box in his top drawer still has occupants, and at least a couple of those pills are Ecstasy if Lex's memory is anything to go by.

Which, considering circumstances, Lex isn't quite ready to judge absolutely flawless right now.

Clark hesitates, stopping at some HBO, putting the remote aside and looking down at him with a worried expression.

"You--know you can talk to me if you want." Clark takes a drink from his glass, emptying it, and yeah, Clark's very nervous. Lex feels his fingers twitch to touch and digs them into the bedspread.

"There's--nothing to talk about." The tightness is back, and he finishes off his glass, refilling it from the bottle. "It's--not what I expected. To happen." Somewhere in his head, he anticipated years of fighting his father for everything, even after he had LuthorCorp. Because Lionel Luthor is--was--a force of purest nature, unstoppable, unbreakable, inescapable, bigger than anything living. A terrifying object of worship and hatred, and Lex has never tried too hard to categorize his feelings for his father. That sort of thing isn't--important, anymore. Never was. Not really.

"I don't think anyone would have thought that." Clark's hand brushes Lex's arm as he reaches for the bottle, taking it from Lex's hand and setting it aside. "It's not your fault."

Isn't it? What kind of son sends a parting gift like that? Should have been a sword, with the implicit offer for his father to fall on it, and what if his dad had done it *that* way? Just imagining the press's reaction makes Lex's head ache.

"I know." Mostly. Mostly he's wondering if he should feel responsible, and life was so much more enjoyable when he didn't examine how he felt for holes in the loose mesh of his ethics, few though those were. Finishing the glass, Lex lets Clark take it. One drunken, self-indulgent night is enough.

"Do you? Really?"

Lex looks up at Clark. Worried eyes, slightly parted lips, still wet from wine. Beautiful, even more so than sixteen, Lex thinks, perfect, flawless bones and smooth gold skin. He can't be blamed for staring at that mouth, watching the slick tongue slide out briefly, pressing against Clark's upper lip.

Uncertainty and heat and a little fear, but nothing like rejection in Clark's eyes, even when Lex pushes himself to his knees, sitting back on his heels.

Lex reaches out, just touching his face, gently, feeling it through his entire body. Lets his thumb trace the sharp cheekbone, the corner of Clark's eye, sweep of his jaw. Eyelashes fall shut briefly as Clark leans into the caress.

"There's--a guest room, if you're uncomfortable," Lex murmurs. There are actually several guest rooms--Lex can't quite bother himself to count them up now. Clark's eyes flicker open, and a part of him wants to take the offer now, before everything's pushed too far.

But it's already too far, and Lex shifts forward, close enough to breathe on the soft skin of Clark's jaw, just touch his tongue to it. Tangy-sweet, clean, and a taste like Clark's smell, fresh air and so much life, so much energy that he crackles with it. Warm.

"I'm--not uncomfortable." Breathless, soft, and Lex smiles as he ducks his head, tracing a line with his tongue from jaw to the hollow of Clark's throat. A soft sound above him, and Clark's hands close lightly on his shoulders, squeezing just a little. "I--Lex...."

Good enough.

Lex slides both hands in Clark's hair, holding him still. Beautiful. He leans forward, just a brush of lips across Clark's mouth. Clark leans into it fast, no hesitation, and Lex lets his eyes close at the first inquisitive press of Clark's tongue against his lips. So careful, even now, but experience behind it, like it wouldn't have been anytime before now. A slow, thorough exploration of his mouth, and Clark pushes him back on the bed, slick comforter thick and warm, and Lex pulls him down, pushing them both into the mattress. Perfect, grounding weight, and the kiss is pure aggression, so much wanting and need, nothing like any other lover Lex can remember.

He sucks on Clark's tongue, tangling his fingers in the dark hair, pressing his knee into Clark's groin and Clark shudders all over, making an enticing sound like a moan and a whine. Just addictive.

God, for *hours* like this, and Clark's shaking when Lex pushes him up, peeling the t-shirt away, running his hands over smooth, perfect skin. Clark's hands fumble at his waist, pulling the shirt out, sliding curious fingers beneath. Firm, strong, deep strokes that loosen and tighten everything they touch, and there are whole new questions Lex wants to ask, didn't know he could be jealous, but God, he is. Everyone who's done this with Clark, to Clark, who Clark's done this to, who Clark's dreamed of. Every girlfriend, boyfriend, lover, fantasy, Lex wants *everything*. Just more. More skin when he pulls Clark's jeans off, knocking shoes and socks off the bed, more taste, more touch, lowering himself on that slim, perfect body and luxuriating in him.

Hard, responsive, wonderfully sweet to keep him like this, beneath him, riding the soft bucks of his body, the panted breath against the skin of Lex's throat, the skimming touch of callused fingers over his bare back, and this could be forever. Wet, open-mouthed kiss with a hint of teeth and Lex lets Clark push him on his back, skill replaced by desperation, raw and needy.

"Lex." Breathless, and Clark lifts his head away. Up on his elbows, swollen red mouth and flushed skin, and Lex feels his cock jerk just *looking* at Clark like this. Gently, he threads his fingers through the thick hair and runs his thumbs over high cheekbones, feeling Clark pull himself under control. "I want--"

"Clark--" Leaning up, Lex forces himself to brush a light kiss over the soft lips, then gently pushes Clark away. H is hands are shaking. "Not--not now."

The look in Clark's eyes almost breaks his intentions apart, and Lex bites the inside of his cheek, bringing it under sharp control--he *is* a Luthor, he knows how to wait, how to plan.

"I'm--" Clark breaks off, maybe suddenly realizing why he's here. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't think--your dad--"

Lex doesn't laugh, but only because he didn't think of that himself, and he shakes his head quickly, smoothing the tips of his fingers through the mess of dark hair.

"No, it's fine." It's not, not completely, but that's okay. "Just--not tonight."

Clark nods a little jerkily, moving back on his heels, and God, it hurts to let go at all.

Lex wakes up alone.

It's closing on four, according to the clock, and Lex kicks the blankets off, already aware he won't sleep anymore tonight. Insomnia, the usual, and Lex supposes it was the drugs and alcohol in his system the night before that kept him out for so long.

The house is quiet, but a different kind--Lex can feel the awareness of another presence just below the surface of his skin. A vague itch which he sometimes calls self-preservation, picked up during those years in Smallville when there was always a chance someone was out to kill him.

Of course, Clark's probably the last person he has to worry about.

Shower first, and morning rituals are good, very good. Mechanical movements, requiring no actual thought, and his mind drifts in slow circles before he finds himself mostly dressed, socks in hand, and--this is his house.

He doesn't *have* to wear socks if he doesn't want to. No one else is *here*--appearances can be damned. It's a frightening thought that makes Lex lean into the wall, because--how long has it been since that last lecture from his dad on appearances anyway? Years? Years and years and *years*. Alone in his own space, and he's looking at socks and shoes and watch and cufflinks, for God's sake, and there's no good reason to give a shit.

The socks are tossed on a chair. Lex wonders if this is what insanity feels like.

Emerging into the dark hallway, Lex automatically goes through the foyer and checks the security system for any problems. A half turn shows him the stairs, and he doesn't even bother pretending that he's not about to do the strangest thing of all. Up, two at a time, hall to the right, first door on the left, and it's ajar, like he left it when he showed Clark up here only a few hours before.

Carefully, he pushes the door open and wonders when stalking became his other hobby.

Clark asleep is very little like Clark awake, and nothing like Lex would have imagined. For some reason--insane reason, like his memories always of Clark always seem to be covered with some thin glaze of faintly Rockwellian gloss--he expected, anticipated, kid-like abandon. Loose limbs spread over clean sheets, maybe a blanket kicked off a long leg, and it's his voyeur tendencies talking again.

This isn't anything like he expected.

Almost--small. If anyone who reaches well over six feet could manage it, and Clark does very, very well. Pulled in on himself, fragile line of a bare back just above the edge of the sheet, drawn over one shoulder. Dark head bent, and the long fingers are gripping the pillow like Clark expects it to get away. The blanket feels like a defensive covering, and Lex remembers sleeping that way, like a thin sheet and comforter really were the best defense protection against childhood monsters.

Images of security blankets taken away, stuffed animals destroyed, pets confiscated and shipped off are all Lex's mind offers from a very dizzying childhood pattern of sleeping like that. Before even sleep became another kind of test, when he stopped wanting to crawl under a pillow and hide from the world--or more accurately, stopped letting others see it.

Thanks Dad. You fucked up my ability to not wear socks and to sleep in my own bed. Lex rubs his temples, fighting the urge to just cross the room, crawl up the bed, and curl up beside Clark. Probably wouldn't do either of them any good.

So of course, it's perfectly reasonable to move closer--a chair conveniently placed by a desk to the side of the bed, and Lex lowers himself down, resting an elbow on a raised knee. Victorian romances are shuttling around inside his head, and all he really needs is some white silk curtains and Clark to have a nightmare to make this the plot of any bad novel in history. Wouldn't hurt for a storm to start up, either. Rain would be appropriate.

No kid on earth ever looked as tense as Clark does right this second, and the last pieces fall into place, moving them directly into consenting adults. He's not sixteen anymore, Lex. Entirely the wrong time to know this. Entirely the wrong time to see each other again.

No possible good reason for Clark Kent to find him in a convenience store and save his life when Lex isn't entirely sure that he had any intention of surviving the night.

There's just something inherently *wrong* with Lionel Luthor being dead, and Lex can't quite wrap his mind around it. Absolutely unstoppable force, and those simply do not cease to be. Not by their own hand. Lex would have put down money he'd be hiring assassins before his father would up and die.

Luthors--don't do that.

He wonders, a little vaguely, if this is how Clark felt that day in the hospital. Lex had been too far away to see his face very clearly--the sudden stiffness of Clark's body, the way Martha seemed to shrink, the Rosses moving as a group to comfort and how Clark's presence seemed to reject the very idea of it. Not possible. Not likely. Jonathan Kent was a healthy man in his forties, no risk factors involved, and people like that didn't collapse fifteen feet from their doorway and die in the dust of a Kansas autumn. Luthors don't hear bad news and shoot themselves in the head.

"Lex?"

Looking over his knee, Lex watches Clark, cleanly awake as any animal, dark eyes unclouded, like sleep is something to be escaped as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Lex wonders what his dreams are like.

"Yeah." No possible excuse could work at this point, so he won't even offer one.

"Can't sleep?" Clark pushes the blanket back like he's handling nuclear equipment on a hair trigger--ginger movements before sitting up against the pillow, looking out the window.

"Yes." No excuses, no explanations, let Clark take whatever he wanted from that.

"I used to sleep a lot," Clark offers, and Lex snaps his gaze to Clark's face. There's a strangely thoughtful look, like Clark's concentrating on something about a dimension or so over from the one they're in. "I almost didn't graduate high school, I missed so much class. I'd go to bed before the sun set and I overslept every morning. I'd fall asleep in class sometimes. When I got home, I'd take a nap. Mom got worried." The absence of Jonathan from the sentence gives it some context, and Lex leans back in his chair. "She wanted me to see a psychologist." The corner of Clark's mouth quirks up, like the memory's not entirely unpleasant. "I guess--I never really noticed what was happening."

Clark had never been, in Lex's estimation, someone who noticed much of *anything* until it fell directly on his head. Especially when it was happening to himself.

"I have to go to the ME's office today so they'll release my father's body," Lex hears himself say calmly, and Clark nods. "It'll be taken from there to whatever funeral parlor my father had in mind--and he did leave very detailed instructions, in case you're curious. So really, I don't have anything to do but show up and look properly grieved."

"You don't think you're grieving?" A little kick at the blanket, and Lex follows the motion, the ripples as the comforter resettles in neat folds over the long legs.

"My father burned out sentimentality before I could read the alphabet, Clark."

"What does sentimentality have to do with grief?" And if Clark isn't honestly puzzled, Lex will start driving domestic cars.

"You're amazingly naïve for twenty-one." The words are dismissive, cutting, and should have worked. They would have three years ago. Hell, they might have three hours ago.

"Great rebuttal," Clark answers with a humiliating amount of disinterest, and he slumps into the pillow wearily. Too old, Lex thinks suddenly. No one is that old at that age. Even Lex. "It's all grey for you, isn't it? You ever think that some things have nothing to do with how you want to feel? They just *are*?"

"Did you ever even *meet* my father?"

"Did you ever see sunrise on the farm from my loft window?" Clark glances at the window near his bed like emphasis. "I haven't seen it in three years."

"What the fuck does that have to do with--" Lex cuts himself off, and Clark shakes his head, pushing the covers aside. Nothing but thin plaid boxers, and sadly, it's sexy, and Lex wonders if asking to fuck now would convince Clark that whatever he *thinks*, he's wrong.

"Nothing, really." On his feet, Clark looks at the neat pile of clothes by the desk. "You mind if I borrow something to wear?"

Lex shrugs, getting to his (bare) feet, feeling Clark like a shadow behind him. And Lex is beginning to think he hates this house--stiflingly large and too empty, like people are just waiting in the corners to fill it.

God, he should be drunk if he's going to be thinking like this.

"Go ahead. I'm going to get some coffee." Make it, that is, and it only occurs to him once Clark's disappeared that he should have asked where he found the coffee. Shaking his head, he pads into the kitchen and flips on the light over the breakfast bar. Full overheads just aren't something he's prepared to deal with, and he's not even going to begin to think on all the weaknesses *that* exposes.

It's a slow, methodical, and somewhat soothing journey across the kitchen in search of coffee, giving Lex something to occupy his mind as he memorizes where everything is. Just because he can. Plates, more plates, china, silver (when did he buy silver?), indecently expensive porcelain tooled in gold that gives him the oddest desire to take them out and break them on the floor. His dad's taste, all understated but obvious wealth in everything, and did he actually get his silverware monogrammed?

Ah, coffee. Filters near it. Very logical. Sugar bowl right beside it, and Lex closes his eyes as he sets it all on the counter. Making coffee, at least, he can do without any handholding required.

The smell is already filling the room, drawing it even smaller than the darkness, when Clark comes in. Wet hair, must have taken a fast shower, and wearing long sleeve t-shirt and Lex wonders how on earth he found jeans that fit.

"I can send for some clothes for you," Lex hears himself say, and Clark tilts his head as he unerringly finds the mugs that were next on Lex's exploration of the kitchen. Annoying. Big, strong hands take two down, placing them neatly on the counter.

"Okay." This is looking distressingly--something, though Lex doesn't know *what*. Two days ago, they might as well have never known each other. Today, some of Clark's clothes are coming to stay.

Lex wonders what his dad would say to this development. Or Clark's dad, for that matter.

"We're not even friends." And his mouth is pretty much on its own, no need to check in with his head. Lex takes a breath, letting it out slowly. "What are we doing, Clark?"

The dark head bends for a second, and Clark leans a hip into the counter, obviously thinking about it.

"Having coffee?" Clark's smile is just another reminder that time creeps by.

Petty paces and all that. "I..." Shouldn't be grieving. Shouldn't want you here. Shouldn't have anything to bite back. Or maybe there *should* be more.

Clark just watches him, unreadable eyes and quiet, unmistakable intent. "You can say it, you know. Whatever it is. You...you just can. There's a free pass for things like this, no matter--"

"Nothing's free."

"What your father told you."

Lex picks up the full coffee pot, and Clark mutely extends his cup. Pouring it out, Lex briefly considers the results of splashing it across his own hand, just for the possibility of changing the topic of conversation. The cuts on his palm burn like they're feeling it already.

"Doesn't make it less true." Is he quoting his father here? Now? Lex rubs his temples again, feeling the itch begin, and what *is* that?

"When did you start to believe what he told you?" Clark takes a slow sip of coffee, looking down at the liquid with something very close to amusement, like a very bad joke was just tossed out and it's funny because of the fact that it *is* so bad.

Lex drinks the entire cup in a few swallows, and the caffeine is going to enter his blood at something approaching speed of light. He can almost feel it now.

"What if you're wrong?" Lex looks at the empty mug. One day, he's going to be able to ask Clark something that actually matters. Something that will have some kind of--well, sense to it. One day, Clark's going to answer a fucking question straight on, but Lex has been waiting for that since they met, and he's not seeing the pattern deigning to change anytime soon.

Clark looks back at him with complete and utter focus.

"I've been wondering that myself." Taking another drink, Clark leans completely into the counter. "I found my birthparents."

It's offered between them like some sort of weird confirmation, but Lex doesn't quite understand where it's coming from or why.

Five years of looking and Lex hadn't been able to find a fucking *clue*. Clark sips his coffee, staring out the windows at the back of the house. East, where the sun will rise in a couple of hours.

"You did?"

Clark's smile twists. "In a manner of speaking. It's--a little weird. That's why I started college late and why Mom lost the farm. Because I had to know. Who I was, what I was all that crap. For some reason, I thought it would tell me something. About myself. About who I was. The weird thing is, it didn't tell me anything that I didn't already know." Finishing the coffee, Clark puts the cup down. "When did you start buying into your father's crap, Lex, about who you are?"

"Around the same time you bought your dad's." Not entirely true, maybe not even in the same area as true, but--Lex wants more coffee. Spiked, preferably. Alone, definitely. Sentimental, foolish, *stupid*....

"Oh." Nothing else, and Lex refills his cup with a hand that almost--*almost*--shakes. "You mind if I go look around the grounds?" Clark's voice is low and steady. "I've never been to this part of Metropolis before."

Lex nods, and Clark ducks his head, refilling his coffee cup and walking to the wide French doors. He disappears outside without another word, and Lex shuts his eyes and tries to decide what has to be done today.

Gabe shows up with the limo around ten. Lex doesn't even blink when Clark climbs in with them. Gabe does, but Gabe doesn't *say* anything, and Lex wonders what the man is thinking.

"Dominik and Jeremy are both already there," Gabe says calmly. Clark, just on Lex's left, watches through the windows as security opens the gate. *Crowds* of reporters everywhere, like they really have set up camp, and Lex catches himself looking for tents in the street. Maybe the vans come equipped with beds these days. "They've organized the paperwork."

"We'll need to make a stop at LexCorp," Lex answers distantly. "And--has anyone ordered the clean-up of Dad's office, or--" He stops, feeling a vicious catch in his chest.

"The police already finished with it and the tape's down," Gabe says, as if Lex finished the question. "I ordered it as soon as they left."

"Good." Another pause. Dad's house has to be--organized. Cleaned. Sold, if Lex has his way. Maybe with everything still in it. "Dad's staff--"

"Have been given a month's notice and severance pay," Gabe says calmly. Lex wonders if he's ever really *appreciated* anyone like he does this man. "All you'll need to do is give orders on what to do with everything."

"Good." Beside him, he feels Clark's brief, flickering glance, and then he looks out the window again as they slowly make their way toward the highway. "A press conference needs to be scheduled."

"Julia will take care of everything," Gabe answers, and Lex looks up. Neutral voice, casual tone. Gabe's eyes flicker briefly to Clark. "You may need to consider--" He stops, obviously wondering how blunt he needs to be.

"I know." He wonders what Clark is thinking, but nothing shows on his face. "You need a raise, Gabe."

The smile's bright and a little sad, and that's about it for conversation as far as Lex is concerned.

The morning passes in a vague blur. Intense second of shock in the ME's office, when Lex makes the mistake of looking around, and a body is barely visible through half-closed blinds. Lex feels his hand go numb, signature trailing off into nothingness, before Clark bends his head, close enough so only Lex can hear him.

"It's not your dad, Lex."

Of course it's not. All bodies look the same under white sheets.

LexCorp, brilliant and shiny and *busy*, is something like a balm. Eyes watch him, follow him, but don't ask anything, and Lex doesn't even bother paying attention to the people who seem to want to catch his gaze. Gabe handles the people that make the mistake of approaching until they get to Lex's private elevator, and Clark's looking around with nothing less than interest.

"Nice."

Lex has never actually looked at his own elevator before. Shiny wood paneling, glass, and mirrored reflection of himself, cool and calm and nothing at all different from any other day in his life.

"Thanks." He's sure there's irony in his voice. "Gabe, why are there people following us?"

Gabe shifts uncomfortably, like he's been waiting all morning for the question.

"Bodyguards." There's a pause, and Lex can clearly hear Clark catch his breath. "We can't be too careful right now, Lex, at least until the funeral."

Makes sense. If Lex wanted to take out a business rival, this would be the time to do it. He wonders what he looks like to anyone that sees. Properly grieving son, maybe? Calm CEO? Cold bastard that killed his own father for power?

Rubbing slightly at his temples, he catches Clark's clear gaze in the mirror. If there's anything there to read, Lex isn't sure what it is, and before he can frame a question (to ask what, exactly?), the doors slide open and Lex emerges in pure light.

God, he forgot how much fucking *light* his office has. What the fuck was he thinking with all these windows? Blinking, Lex steps in, trying to remember why he left the blinds up. There's an abandoned bottle by the black leather couch in the corner, and another bottle on the desk. No glasses--he'd wanted to be alone to celebrate his victory.

The soft brush of Clark's body doesn't do anything but make him flinch, and he feels the worried gaze press on him.

"Gabe--" He stops, trying to find a reasonable excuse to get rid of him. Why does he need one, though? Just give the order.

"I'll be finishing arrangements for a temporary assistant, sir," Gabe says, and then he's gone with the closing of the elevator doors. Clark moves immediately, as though only Gabe's presence held him back from looking around. Clark brushes long, curious fingers over the neck of the brandy bottle on the desk.

"Is this where you found out?" Clark asks softly. Lex jerks a little, taking a breath.

"Get the blinds down."

Clark looks at him with a raised eyebrow but begins to do just that, practiced flickers of his wrist until the room is bathed in comforting grey. Lex doesn't bother with the overhead lights, crossing over to sit neatly on the edge of his desk, fingering the bottle of very fine brandy he apparently wasted getting very, very drunk.

"No. My father's secretary called me when I got home. I suppose the call was forwarded from here...." Lex looks around. Spotless organization, he thinks, noting the neat stacks of papers, the computer that's properly shut down, the aching neatness. He definitely didn't come back here after he left the first time.

"You went home from the office?" Clark lets the last blind fall, turning around.

"Yes." Lex thinks so, anyway. Rubbing his temples, he glances around the room again. So--quiet. He can remember how it felt, though--amazement, shocked disbelief, utter and complete happiness, heady and impossibly sweet. Nothing in his life had ever matched it, and the best revenge, he'd been thinking during that second bottle of brandy, is *this*.

"And you survived driving after--two bottles of brandy." Clark shakes his head and picks up the empty bottle by the couch, looking at it. "I'd be impressed if I wasn't aware you have seriously fucked-up luck."

Lex shrugs, putting his bottle aside. The office feels far too big for some reason, even with the dim light. Heavy granite desk, import from Greece, he thinks, wondering why his mind is offering up so much nonsense in the place of actual thought. Ghosting his fingers over the surface, he glances up at Clark, who's watching him intently. "Stop it, Clark."

"I'm not saying anything."

"You're looking it. I don't blame myself for what Dad did, Clark. It was his choice." If you can call what he left Lionel with a choice. Nothing or--nothing. Congratulations, Dad, you get top marks for parenting. You raised a son capable of burning you into the ground and not even *caring*.

"Yeah, it was." Clark slowly walks over, like he's gauging the reaction of a wild thing that might bolt. He may not be too far off in that assessment--there's a near-violent desire to just *move*, scatter things, release the massive energy that's cycling inside him, needing a grounding, an outlet. "Maybe if you say it enough, you'll believe it." The edge of bitterness makes Lex glance over, but Clark's not looking at him. "I didn't kill my father either."

Clark's staring at the blinds, lost--somewhere else, and Lex shuts his mouth on the question he's not sure how to ask.

"No one could have known. That's what the doctors told us. A clot that broke free, hit his brain. It was--you know, a million to one. How could I have known?" Clark shoves a toe into the carpet and looks down, like he's surprised he has feet. "No way, really. Not without x-ray vision and a daily scan or something."

The edge in Clark's voice is unmistakable. Clark's close enough to touch, and Lex realizes he's doing just that with the first feel of fabric against his fingertips. When Clark looks up, the hazel eyes, green as spring leaves, stare back, wide and dark and utterly calm. Like this is something Clark has long since faced. And accepted.

"Clark--" No idea what to say, because there isn't anything at all. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." There's a second that doesn't quite exist in time, like maybe everything *stopped*, even the space in the room, and then Clark shakes his head, shattering everything. "It's been a long time."

"Not that long." Might never be long enough to fade completely. Fierce images from his mother's death still wake him up even now. His dad's not even making the radar.

"Long enough." Clark shivers a little and Lex pulls his fingers back, aware that he's been stroking. "Do we--"

"I just need to get my computer." He should have taken it with him the night before last night. Sliding off the corner of the desk, Lex circles around as Clark paces the room, obviously looking for something to distract him.

"You have a bathroom?" The amazement makes Lex grin.

"Yes. Bathroom, bedroom, the board room is down that hall there--"

"Oh. So a pesky thing like life doesn't interfere with work. I get it." Clark's grin is bright as he opens doors at random, stopping. "This goes to your secretary?"

"Yes." Snapping the case shut, Lex glances around the spotless, quiet room. "Come on. We can stop by your dorm to pick up your clothes before going back." That it doesn't even occur to him to just leave Clark there maybe says something. That Clark only nods in agreement may say more.

"I think it'll be a little noticeable if a limo pulls into MetU."

Lex thinks about it. "We'll take a car."

Clark's head comes up sharply. "Gabe--the guys he hired--"

"I'll tell him to meet us somewhere." Though Lex, come to think, has no idea where his cellphone is. LexCorp has a supply of them somewhere, though, or someone has one he can take. Shrugging it off, he tucks the computer under his arm and goes to the elevator, pushing the button for the garage.

"You know, your cars are sort of--well, noticeable." Clark's staring at the wall like this is something that's a completely new thought.

"Company cars, Clark. Heard of them?"

"And the LexCorp license plate won't be at all noticeable with the very recognizable man driving," Clark answers dryly.

"One that's what the tint on the windows is for, and two, who's going to be paying attention?"

Clark shrugs and there's a reluctant grin.

"Okay."

Clark's dorm is on the edge of campus, luckily enough, and Lex blinks at the first view of the old cinderblock building. Clark pulls out his keys, frowning with unfocused eyes at the building.

"Okay, if we hurry, I should--" Clark stops, tilting his head. Fingers wrap around Lex's wrist, pulling him away from the front door and for some reason that's beyond Lex's comprehension, they're circling the angular building.

"Clark?"

"I--the main room." Clark blinks, giving Lex a preoccupied look. His eyes are very far away. "Could be people in there who aren't complete idiots and just might recognize you."

"Oh." The grass is brownish-scraggly, even for winter, and Lex makes a mental note to wonder who is in charge of the landscaping budget before Clark pulls him around a corner and stops at a side door. "What floor are you on?"

"Third." Little, weak smile. "I didn't want a roommate. And I like heights."

Clark unlocks the door and pockets his keys, glancing down the stairwell first before frowning again. There's the faintest trace of a nod--what on earth is Clark *doing*?--before he pulls Lex up concrete stairs behind him, and this, in essence, is why Lex rejected the very idea of living in dorms.

God.

Clark pauses again at the last landing, giving the door a long look, like he expects it to attack at some point.

"Everyone's in class or studying or something," Clark says after a few seconds, still with that strangely intense frown. "I'm--yeah, here."

The numbered plywood door opens into what is possibly the messiest room ever. Lex stops with a blink, and it takes a concerted effort for Clark to pull him inside, shutting the door tightly behind him.

"You should call Gabe and tell him where you are," Clark says, and Lex watches him effortlessly pick a path through the mess, pointing toward the phone on the desk. Which is behind--a skateboard? Some boxes. A small mountain of pizza boxes. Dear God. "It's okay. There's nothing you can break or anything."

"I'm not comforted," Lex says blankly, and navigation is *not* easy, not at all.

"You're such a baby. I--haven't had time to clean up."

"Since the day you moved in, apparently," Lex answers, grabbing for the post of the bunk bed when he slides off the top of a possibly prehistoric Chinese take-out box. Cans crunch menacingly wherever he puts his feet. A few perilous seconds of uncertainty, then Lex uses the chair to clear out a small space and picks up the phone. It seems to work

"Dial nine to get off campus," Clark says, and Lex nods, pulling up Gabe's number from memory, then feeling inspired, dials to go straight to voicemail. "Gabe. I had a few errands to run. Two o'clock at the LuthorCorp building. Goodbye." Lex hangs up and hears Clark's low laugh.

"That's mature. Avoidance."

"This is mature," Lex says, kicking at a teetering pile of laundry. "Utterly terrifying disorder. I suppose you don't need to worry about being robbed. I don't know a thief brave enough to go through this."

"Not all of us have a staff, Lex." Clark is in his closet, rooting around with unidentifiable thumps. From the number of clothes on the floor, Lex can't be sure that there's anything actually *clean* in there. Sitting on the edge of the desk (the chair being occupied by a variety of books and papers), Lex studies the small space, wondering if he can feel Clark here at all. Personal? Yes, but--in a general, messy college-boy way. The walls display a couple of posters that Lex vaguely remembers from Clark's bedroom, and the blankets on the bed are definitely from home and possibly handmade by Martha Kent. But....

"Clark, why the boxes? Are you moving?"

Clark's head withdraws reluctantly from the closet, his expression close to guilty.

"Uh, yeah. I--got a job. Am getting a job, I mean."

Lex blinks. "You're not finished with school."

The head disappears again, and then Clark emerges with a small mountain of clothing. Could be clean, dirty, or middle ground. With a beautiful and scary lack of concern, Clark crashes through the mess and drops it all on the bed to Lex's right.

"I know. I just--wanted to--work. Um. Help mom out. A little."

"You can't possibly commute f