Codes: Clark, Clark/Lex
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Clark's pretty sure it all started when he said, yes, when Lex said, you want to go to a movie?
Author Notes: Madelyn asked, and I said yes, because I am weak like that.

by jenn

Clark and Lex--where Lex doesn't have access to any money for some period of time--he could lose a bet and has to manage money on his own, or he could just lose his fortune for some weird reason (that's not permanent).
--Madelyn

Ground Zero

"I don't believe this."

Clark does. Clark believes because there are a few basic principles of a bad night, and this is one of them.

It can only get worse.

Witness; one cab, leaving them in the completely wrong part of town, petty retaliation for the fact that at some point during the night, probably between the time their dinner was dumped in their laps by the incredibly clumsy waitress and the rain that started less than an hour ago, Lex lost his wallet.

Lex is checking every pocket for the tenth time, which is par for the course when you lose something, but it really doesn't make it any less funny. Because of course, if it isn't there the *first* time you check, it's miraculously going to show up on the tenth time, right in your hand after hiding in the vortex of Missing Things that Clark honestly believes swallowed half his pens and last week's algebra homework.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Clark stares at the building just behind Lex, because a single look will bring another accusation that Clark is *smug*, when he's not, he's just very wet and very, very fucking amused, not that he's going to *say* that. Not if he values his life.

Pulling his hands from the depths of wet cashmere, Lex gives his coat an accusatory look, then glances around them again, like there's an off-chance something's changed. Which no, nothing has--this is still Westonhouse and Burlington, they are still surrounded by dilapidated buildings, and no, there isn't a single vehicle in sight that can take them anywhere.

"Where the fuck could it *be*?"

It *could* be anywhere. That's the beauty of losing things. That's why you find yourself checking the septic tank for the aspirin bottle you had five second ago and the freezer for your lunch money. Because when something is Lost, logic stops applying. Lex's wallet *could* be somewhere they've been, but the Vortex of Missing Things sometimes deposits things in very unlikely places, say, the back of the truck, like Clark's Spanish book that mysteriously vanished off his desk a month ago and turned up under a pile of hay, speared on a pitchfork while unloading..

Lex checks their immediate vicinity while puddles form under their feet and water slides by them on the way to a crack in the sidewalk roughly the size of a small fault in the earth's crust. An earthquake couldn't surprise Clark at this point. It's just been that kind of a night.

Clark's pretty sure it all started when he said, yes, when Lex said, you want to go to a movie?

"Fucking *hell*, I don't even have my cell phone." Lex pats his empty pockets down again, making sure that they are, in fact, as lint-only as they were seconds before. Clark nods. They don't have a phone, because they left that in the Porsche currently stalled up on tenth street, right before they got in the cab, right after Lex realized that staring hard at the steering wheel would not, in fact, force obedience.

Lex wipes water from his face, resettling his coat in damp lines, trying to do that trademark flicker that just fails when wet wool meets water. It could be worse, Clark thinks philosophically. Lex could break his ankle. Or it could be midnight right now, with his parents wondering where he is, and not five to midnight, so really, Clark's got a five minute window opportunity to not worry at all about the many kinds of grounding in store for him.

That still leaves the fact they are in the worst part of Metropolis, where he's walking around with a guy wearing a Rolex and designer clothes, bald head like a massive beacon of 'guess who I am! Yes, that rich guy! Please rob me!'

Or maybe that's just Clark, wondering if the robber would give them a ride somewhere in exchange for their material goods.

"How much money do you have?" Lex demands. Clark slowly reaches into his back pocket and takes out his wallet, opening it to stare down at the five one dollar bills that make up his entire fortune. This might, if he's very, very lucky, buy them a sandwich. If they want to share. So they don't die of starvation going the *eighty-five blocks* back to Luthor Towers.

Looking through grey fog, rain, and a general sense of doom, Clark wonders why his fabulous vision isn't so great with the seeing through falling water in the dark. And he knows that Lex's sense of direction is as bad as his own.

Not to mention that Lex's shoes are not only ruined, but taking in water, tiny boats that are going to be submerged any minute, and any minute, Lex is going to notice and the bitching until now will look downright *pleasant* in comparison.

"What are you smiling about?"

Clark wipes his mouth clean. "I wasn't smiling."

Lex stares into his face suspiciously, searching for signs of amusement at their current plight. "It's eighty-seven blocks back to the penthouse. And I don't have my keycard, since it is in my *wallet*, which, you'll notice, isn't here."

Clark nods. Of course he doesn't have his keycard. That would be *good*. This night isn't about good. It's about seeing just how many things can go wrong at once, like three hours ago, when the movie theatre lost power half-way through Spiderman II and Clark and Lex left early, Lex muttering lawsuits and buy-outs in the general direction of a terrified manager and two ushers who looked vaguely suicidal.

Because that is their night. Lex's stained cashmere pants, wet shoes and coat, no wallet, no cell phone, no keycard, a lot of sidewalk, and Clark, supposed to be home and very much not. Clark checks his watch when Lex turns in a slow circle, like looking hard enough at the rain will force it to part and show him the lights of downtown in relation to where they are.

And on any other night, Lexian will might be enough--after all, Lex had managed to get Dad to say, sure, go to that den of iniquity with the scion of darkness and watch an unnamed but probably pornographic and decadent movie. Not that Dad put it like that, but Clark's good at reading between the lines. Be home at midnight, Dad had said with a threatening look at Lex's tires. Or you will die.

Okay, Dad hadn't said *that* either, but again, Clark was reading between the lines.

"This way," Lex says, like he has any clue at all, going left, tripping over the sidewalk crack and scuffing the toe of his shoe beyond hope of redemption. The ground got a look that said one day, he would personally tear up every inch of sidewalk and pound it into dust, if not today, soon.

Clark takes a deep breath and follows.

Ten Blocks

"Fuck. My feet are killing me." Lex leans up against a building, something he would never, ever do to solid wool if he was anywhere near sane, but Lex lost sanity when the Porsche died and has only been going downhill from there. Reaching down, he pulls off a shoe, and Clark watches the small waterfall of water pour onto the soaked concrete, a little impressed. Shaking the shoe grimly, Lex forces it back over the soaked cotton sock and straightens, wincing. Yes, that would be blisters. Of course.

"Clark? You've been quiet since we got out of the cab." It's more accusatory than concerned, and the look that follows says a lot more. Talk, farmboy, now.

"I'm just--wondering how long the rain will last." He is, kind of. It hasn't slowed, hasn't stopped, hasn't even given the impression that it wants to, just a steady, cold downfall that's soaked Clark to the skin and soaked Lex through wool overcoat, suit jacket, and silk shirt, through charcoal pants gone to black, and Clark has a brief, vivid image of pale, bare skin tinged blue.

Being a gentleman, he doesn't say, mmmm, but he does smile, and Lex's frown deepens. "A while. Are you enjoying this?"

He's grounded. They have no car. At any moment, according to tonight's script, they should be held up by some sort of desperate character who will demand Clark's five dollar fortune and Lex's Rolex. Clark figures that they'll leave his Wal-Mart Timex alone, but hell, it may go too, and then there they'll be, bereft of all mechanical aids, lost in a wet, timeless limbo.

"Well." Clark watches pale, gloveless hands twist in the wool like they'd like to wrap around Clark's neck. "I was thinking. That maybe we're going in the wrong direction." He's thinking no such thing. He *knows* they are. Because no matter what direction they chose, it would be wrong. It's just that kind of night.

Lex's eyes narrow. "You think you know Metropolis better than I do?"

Clark considers. Lex has, of course, been everywhere in Metropolis. Doubtless in one of these abandoned buildings, Lex once possibly presided over a Roman orgy featuring some variety of wildlife, or so rumor stated, but Clark doubts Lex was actually sober. Lex knows Metropolis *in theory*. In a vehicle. With signs, drivers, maps, telephones, and OnStar. Not on foot, in the rain, with Clark, who is wondering if all the buildings down here are identically dilapidated or they've passed this one for the sixth time. "I'm just saying, I think we passed this building before."

Lex snorts something that doesn't sound polite, so Clark doesn't bother to translate.

Minus Nine Blocks

"I really don't want to hear it," Lex says, as they come almost in sight of their landing spot, which Clark finds kind of endearing, as the only familiar place in the entire city right now. Yes, that's where Lex skidded on a puddle when the taxi driver threw them out. Over there is where Lex banged into the wall when he tried to chase the driver down to threaten him with epic revenge on a scale unheard of in modern times. That is where Clark helped him up and pretended that everyone fell into puddles fully dressed at least once in their lives. And right here, this is the spot where Clark, with a warm glow of nostalgia, realized that they were doomed.

Clark likes this spot. He wouldn't mind just staying here until the robber came for them.

"This way," Lex says grimly, pointing across the street, toward a dark void of rainy nothingness that looks, remarkably enough, a lot like the rainy nothingness they just left. "Now."

Eleven Blocks

Lex lost a shoe to the gutter.

"I don't believe this."

Lex is *sans* shoe. Lex is without foot apparel. Lex is walking down the most broken concrete sidewalk in creation, with only one shoe.

There is no place in the universe that this isn't funny. Somewhere under Metropolis, floating merrily through the sewage, is a single five-billion or so dollar shoe. Maybe some nice homeless guy with only one foot will find it and bless the day that Lex Luthor stepped wrong into a grate.

"You said that already," Clark tells Lex's socked foot as it splashes menacingly into a puddle. He's still not sure whether it would be better or worse if Lex took off the other shoe. Either way, it's funny. Sadly, it's also sexy. In a way that Clark is completely unable to explain.

Lex half-turns to give him a glare, still walking, and Clark watches in resignation as he angles into the broken brick of the building in front of them.

Mugger, any minute now.

Seventeen and a Half Blocks

The extra shoe resides in Lex's pocket. Clark has some theories on why Lex is keeping it around, since its mate is lost forever to the bowels of the Metropolis Sewer System, not the least of which is just that Lex's bitterness is such that he will keep it just to spite himself, even though the muddy heel keeps knocking into his wrist.

"How much farther?" Clark asks, because he just can't help it. Lex gives him a quick glare, slowing as he does so, just enough for Clark to see the really spectacular beginnings of what will be quite a black eye.

"Seventy blocks," Lex snaps, snapping down his feet on the concrete as if to prove that feet that have only tred on carpet through designer footwear are fit for nearly bare walking on broken concrete, glass, and random rocks. Clark admires a weed growing up between a crack and Lex steps on it with obvious relish. Yes, he understands. That is his head Lex is imagining. "We need some place to dry off."

Clark glances around warily. All the buildings look condemned, but in a shoddy, lived-in way that tells him that there is, just possibly, somewhere they could go inside and wait out the rain. Overhead, lightning cracks menacingly, just as Lex comes to a complete stop, looking up with an expression of utter relief. Clark's heart sinks as he reads the sign.

"Waterloo Tavern," Clark reads slowly, trying to interpret. Was the lightning a warning? But Lex is already moving inside, socked feet blurring up the stairs and pulling open the door with a surly ring of a tarnished bell that probably isn't real copper. Slowly, he follows, letting the door swing shut behind him with a thump that sounds like the end of his life as he knows it.

It's dark, with a low ceiling that emphasizes how large and uncomfortably silent these men are, surrounding tiny tables in groups of two or three, and none of them look like the type to give directions. Far in the back, a single pool table is being used by two men using the pool sticks in highly aggressive movements against each other. It just might be mistaken for a fight, if Clark wants to look too close.

One breaks, and Clark trots to Lex, who is heading for the bar like a thirsty man for an oasis.

"Brandy, neat," Lex says, like he isn't aware that he's in a whiskey-type bar and showing off that silver spoon upbringing like a big beacon of 'easily-kickable-ass'.

The bartender looks at him from under a thick mat of facial hair, moving a dingy cloth over the bar in an aggressive motion toward Lex's splayed hand. "ID."

Lex's hand goes for his wallet like a gunfighter for his holster and comes up empty. He actually seems *surprised*, like this very special hell didn't all start with one lost wallet, adrift in the wilds of Metropolis, probably right now being used to buy beer and alcohol and black market atomic weapons somewhere in the backstreets of Metropolis. His credit limit is certainly high enough to take it. Maybe several weapons.

"I lost it," he says, still just amazingly shocked. "I need to borrow your phone as well, if possible."

"Not unless you buy." The mustaches, plural, bristle impatiently. "No beer without ID."

Lex, of all Godforsaken things, looks ready to *argue*. Over his head, Clark watches Poolstick Man #1 go down in a blaze of denim and broken wood splinters. Oh, this can't be good.

"I'm *twenty-two*," Lex says, like his word should be graven in stone somewhere for others to read. "I'm Lex Luthor."

Oh Lex.

The beady eyes of the bartender narrow in interest, and Clark watches as he ostentatiously sets his rag aside and rests both elbows on the bar, giving Lex a long, careful look from the top of his wet, bald head down to his waist. "Oh really, *Mr. Luthor*?" Clark watches the eyes fix. Recognition. Oh God. "I don't suppose you remember a few years ago? When you and some of your friends came by?"

By the look on Lex's face, if he didn't before, he does now. Blue-grey eyes open wide, fixing on the bartender with a look of dawning horror.

"No," Lex says in an absolutely unbelievable lie. "I've never been here before in my life."

The bartender smiles slowly. Clark takes a deep breath. "Maybe I can remind you." Slowly leaning forward, he gets right into Lex's face, and Clark smells the whiskey on his breath from the two feet away from Lex he's standing. Maybe he should be closer. "Five tables. Fifteen chairs. Eight stools. Thirty-five--"

"I have no idea what you are talking about." Lex isn't a complete idiot, though he plays one well, Clark thinks sadly, matching Lex's slow steps backward. From the tables, interested patrons are approaching, lured in by the name Luthor, or possibly, imminent bloodshed, since the bartender helpfully comes around the bar to help Lex toward the door. Which is exactly where Clark wanted him to go, true, but this wasn't what he'd had in mind.

"Of course you don't, *Mr. Luthor*." They're being angled wrong, Clark realizes when the wall hits first his back, then Lex's. Not to the door. To a wall. A nice, no-possible-escape wall, because the door would be too easy and the wall makes this entire nightmare extend just a little longer. "But maybe I can remind you."

"I'll pay whatever you want." Because Lex has never met a situation he didn't think could be improved by money.

The bartender, less than five feet away and closing in, smiles wide, revealing gaps in his teeth and a propensity for chewing tobacco. Behind him, three patrons seem ready to lunge on command. "Thought you lost your wallet, rich boy."

The first uppercut hits the wall where Lex's head used to be, since while he sucks at dodging stationary walls, moving targets seem A-okay. Clark watches both bare hands come up in fists and has vague memories of Lex boxing when one fist goes out in a punch that sends the bartender to the floor in a spout of blood. Lex hisses, rubbing his knuckles, and even Clark's not stupid enough to think that's a good idea, as both patrons move in with identical looks of pure glee.

"Get behind me, Clark," Lex says inanely, staring down the three men like he actually thinks he has some chance of walking out of here alive.

Clark gives a desperate look at the door, well to their right, just as Lex yells something and, because this is *this* night, not another night, and because Lex lost his sanity along with his wallet, charges the three men.

Twenty-Two Blocks and Four Alleys Over

"I could have taken them."

Clark watches Lex lean up against the slimy brick of the alley, taking deep gasps of air into starved lungs. Listening, Clark can't hear anything but pounding rain, so there's a chance that they lost Thug #2, who had a remarkable amount of stamina for someone with such a large stomach.

Clark pretends to be out of breath, watching as Lex absently rubs his bloodied knuckles against his shirt. Somewhere, one sock vanished, and Lex strips off the other and calmly wraps it around his knuckles, trying to awkwardly tie it.

"Let me do that." Lex's hands are callused, which you just don't expect when you see them, hard palms and rough spots from pens and rapiers and steering wheels, and whatever else he does with his free time when he's not plotting against his father or stalking Clark for his secrets. "That was a good punch."

Lex smiles through a split lip, looking pleased. Clark's not sure what to make of this development, but he knows it can't be good. "I know."

"You okay?" Using the torn sleeve of his shirt, from when Thug #3 grabbed for him and missed when Clark was trying to figure out how fast he could go and *not* look suspicious, he dabs at the blood, trying not to look into the glowing blue eyes that seem to have filled with all the light the alley lacks. "That looks like it hurts."

"Fine, fine," Lex says, hand still in Clark's, like he forgot that Clark was holding it, which is just fine as far as Clark's concerned. "My back hurts like hell, though."

That's what happens when a bloodied bartender forcibly evicts you from his premises under threats of dismemberment, but Clark has to admit, Lex was only on the ground for a second before finding his feet. That could be where they lost the sock. Not to mention his other shoe. Clark's not sure. "How's your hand?"

"Fucking hurts." Lex grins, eyes turning down to look at his hand with some kind of completely weird pride. "Come on. The rain's getting worse. Let's find someplace to get out of it." Without waiting for an answer, Lex takes off, bouncing over the ground while Clark stares in horror at the glass and debris littering their path. At this rate, they're going to lose Lex's feet next.

But they come out on the other side okay, on an equally deserted street, because even criminals have the sense to stay in on a night like this. "Clark, come *on*. We don't have all night."

Clark bites back the comment that well, yes, they actually *do*, because even though Lex is running on some kind of post-near-death-experience-high, it doesn't mean that it won't change the second Lex realizes that somewhere between leaving the bar and the first attempted tackle by Thug #1, Lex lost his watch.

No, Clark won't worry about that right now at all.

Thirty-Seven Blocks

"Give me all your money."

Clark obediently reaches for his wallet, because this had to happen, and it's not like this is news.

Lex stares at the badly dressed man before them, panty-hose tied over an indistinguishable face, a moldy looking gun in one hand, and wearing ratty Nike's. The look on Lex's face is shock, or maybe envy, since this man at least has shoes.

"Excuse me?"

Clark pushes Lex aside. "Here you go." Handing over the wallet, Clark's so very glad he forgot to grab his driver's license out of the truck and his ATM card is in his mother's purse. Five dollars, one picture of Lana and her horse, and two ticket stubs to a movie that started the cycle of doom tonight. "Um, can we go now?"

The man thumbs open the wallet while Lex watches in disbelief, like he can't imagine how this could be happening, when really, how could it not? "Five fucking *dollars*? Are you kidding me?" Gun out, he nudges Clark significantly, as if to point out where the bullet will go, if Clark could be shot, which he can't be, but Lex doesn't know that. "Gimme what you got."

Or maybe he does. "I don't think so." Because Lex certainly wouldn't stand there like that, staring down an *armed robber*, who has his gun trained on *Clark*, his *best friend*, if he thought Clark could be, say, killed.

Or bruised, anyway. Clark has no fond memories of the machine gun incident of two years ago.

"Take my watch," Clark says desperately, holding out both hands and pulling it off. The thief takes it, giving it a scornful look.

"Timex? Are you fucking with me?" The gun nudges harder and Clark just barely remembers to stumble. The indeterminate colored eyes fix on Lex with manic impatience. "Give me your fucking wallet! Now!"

"No." And Lex just stands there, like a young conqueror in bare feet, coat somehow swirling now in the downpour, and Clark wishes he could have seen the shimmy that lead to that. Dammit. "Give my friend back his wallet and watch and get the hell out of here."

The gun trained on Clark shakes. Maybe he isn't used to his victims fighting back. Or maybe he smells the insanity on the air, which is a lot like ozone, but crazier. "Are you crazy?"

Why yes, Clark thinks, watching Lex stare the man down. Few things are as sexy as Lex in his business, immaculate best, but this may even top purple shirts and black Armani for sheer sex appeal. One day, Clark thinks, Lex will conquer the world, and if he'll just take off his shoes and socks, I'll probably be fine with it.

It's all just too sad for words. Clark sighs, getting a suspicious glare from the gunman. Keeping his hands up, Clark tries to look as non-threatening as possible and keep the gun pointed at him and away from Lex, who has that look of invulnerability he sometimes gets, like bullets wouldn't dare come within feet of him if they valued their existence. He's *Lex fucking Luthor*. Let all bullets fall at his knees and worship him.

"I will hunt you down" Lex promises, taking a step toward the man and getting the gun pointed at him. Crap. Clark judges his chances of getting between Lex and the bullet pretty damn good. His chances of explaining it without a mitigating concussion aren't quite so hot. "I will find out your social security number and your residence and the name of your dog. I will *ruin* you. I will have you audited by the IRS for so many types of tax fraud you will be *buried* under paperwork for the next fifty years."

Clark realizes, about the same time as the gunman, that Lex has, in fact, gone off the deep end. Or maybe the man is thinking of his last tax return.

"You had better run," Lex says menacingly, taking another step forward until the barrel of the gun is against his chest. "No matter how far you go, they will *find* you. And they will audit you."

"Jesus," the man whispers, looking at Clark like he could possibly be any kind of defense against this.

Lex takes the gun from shell-shocked fingers, cocks it, and looks the man dead in the eye. "Start running. And tell your auditor that Lex Luthor sends his regards."

Forty-Five and Three Quarters Blocks

They can't see five feet in front of them. Clark can't see Lex unless he's almost plastered to his back, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Lex is *warm*. Or at least, he makes Clark warm, which is all to the good, as far as Clarks' concerned, since his toes have been swimming in water for six blocks. Even his workboots weren't made for a horror like this night.

"Lex," Clark says slowly, leaning in to speak into one cold ear, trying to pretend it's a total accident when his lips brush it, and really, *really* pretending that he doesn't feel Lex's shiver.

He can almost convince himself it doesn't mean anything.

"Yeah?" Lex comes to a sudden stop, and Clark almost knocks him over, reaching out to grab him before he falls over. Warm. Strong. Lex, who goes absolutely still for just a second and then makes absolutely no attempt to get out of Clark's arms.

Which is good, since Clark's pretty sure he's not up to letting go.

"We need to find somewhere to wait out the rain. We can't see anything." Not even the next stoplight, which should be only a few feet ahead, but Clark can't be sure. For all he knows, they've moved into an alternate dimension, made up of nothing but heavy rain and dilapidated buildings.

"You have a suggestion?" Warm breath puffs against Clarks' face, and Clark forces himself not to lean into it. Lex's mouth is so close that Clark can see the scar and the new split, puffy, but no longer bleeding. In fact, he can barely see the cut anymore.

"Yeah." Clark glances around. "Maybe one of these buildings..." There's a sad lack of doors, but Lex gets the idea. He nods slowly, like Clark's just made a reasonable suggestion, not encouraged breaking and entering.

"Good idea. Next time we see a door, we use it."

Fifty-Five Blocks

"Someplace with a *roof*."

Sixty-Eight Blocks

"Let me do it," Clark says, as Lex studies the padlock with an abstracted air, like he was thinking of offering it money to open for them.

"No, no, I can do it," Lex says, looking vaguely pleased. It's a padlock, not combination, and looks distressingly sturdy, but the excuse of metal-fatigue is good for any and all occasions. Lex, however, is *grinning*, then turns away to glance at the ground like he expects a key to magically appear. Apparently, he hasn't been paying attention tonight to the part where nothing will go right, nothing at all, up to and including the fact they are officially out of money and have no way to tell time. Clark thinks they could have been walking for days, but he's not sure. Surely someone would have sent out a search party by now.

"Ah." Lex hold something invisible up. Clark nods dumbly. Hallucinations, check. It's about time for Lex to enter that phase. Any minute now he'll be talking to--

"There we go," Lex croons to the lock, crouching to put the invisible thing into the keyhole. "Just take it nice and slow."

--inanimate objects.

He twists his wrist in a weird pattern that Clark can't quite catch, and Clark tiredly pushes his wet bangs from his eyes, wondering if it would be excusable now to use superpowers and blame it on Lex's burgeoning insanity. It's almost better than a concussion, as excuses go. Lex would take it all as par for the course, really. Everything at this point seems normal, right up to the second Lex sits back on his heels with an expression a lot like the one he gets when he's drinking *really* expensive brandy after besting his father in chess. Clark's never seen him happier.

He's never seen a lock unlock itself and fall to the ground at the push of Lex's fingers either.

"Thought I still had it," Lex says, twirling the invisible thing in his hand. Clark squints, just making out the silvery shape of a piece of wire. Tossing it up in the air, Lex catches it with satisfaction before stuffing it his pocket, then stands up, smiling at Clark so brightly that they really didn't need sun at all. Lex could light the world when he looked like that. "Mi casa es su casa, Clark. Or abandoned building, as the case might be. Come on."

The rotted door opens on a thick dark and blessed dryness. Clark shivers, more from reaction to the lack of disasters than anything else, and Lex closes the door behind them, plunging them into an almost-perfect dark. Not so perfect, really--after a few seconds, Clark can make out Lex, standing only a few feet away, in shades of dark grey, and then a hand closes over his and pulls him toward the interior.

They'll get lost in here, no question. Staying near the door won't help--this is *fate*. Clark follows without a single argument, letting Lex navigate them across rough concrete and around large shapes that could be boxes, and smaller ones that might be bodies. Clark tries not to look too hard, concentrating on the sock-wrapped hand holding his, the even sound of Lex's breathing, and the fact that they are finally, *finally*, dry.

Drier, anyway.

"Here." Lex stops at what feels like a random spot on the floor, just beside what seems like a stack of crates. Clark x-rays, because if there are stacked crates, they *will* fall, but the pile looks disturbingly stable, but that just makes Clark more nervous. "Clark, sit down." Lex doesn't wait, just pulling, at the same time pulling off the sopping wool and somehow getting it beneath them.

It's wetter than the floor, but softer, too, and it's not like Clark's jeans aren't supersaturated anyway. And somehow, warmer. Right before the completely unexpected rainstorm, it had been a warm night. Clark leans into the crate, pressing his shoulder into Lex's in a completely accidental movement that Lex doesn't bother to pull away from. Warm. Lex is very, very warm.

"Better?" Lex finally says, breath puffing against Clark's ear. They are dry, check. The boxes aren't going to fall, check. And they have nothing left to steal, check. Also, Lex is so close Clark can smell him, some cologne intensified by the water, clean skin, and the faintly metallic bite of blood.

It shouldn't be hot. Visions of Lex merrily pounding his way through three large men--shouldn't be that hot. Lex with a gun--should *not* be hot. Lex breathing close beside him, so close that Clark can hear his heartbeat? Should not be so hot.

Wet denim might stretch, but that doesn't make it any less uncomfortable. Clark peels off his flannel overshirt and discreetly drops it into his lap.

"Much," Clark answers, and his voice sounds a little high, but what the hell, it's late and he's in an impossible situation, surrounded with warm Lex-smell, sitting on Lex-clothes, with Lex pressed against his shoulder. If he turns his head, he could, conceivably, find a perfectly reasonable excuse to kiss him.

"Maybe you should spread out your shirt," Lex says softly. "To dry it a little."

Clark's mouth goes dry. "Yeah." Slowly, he shifts enough to lay out the flannel, then considers his t-shirt, which is also soaked and could probably benefit from some time away from his skin. To dry.

"Hmm." Beside him, Clark feels Lex moving, and the black suit jacket joins the flannel, neatly spread out on the concrete. A second's hesitation follows, in which Clark sends up the most sincere prayer of his life before speaking.

"You know, your shirt is silk. It'll dry faster hanging on the crate." And it could even be true.

The hesitation stretches too long, and Clark feels like the biggest idiot ever. Face flushing, he reaches down to untie his boots, and Lex shifts. Clark thinks he can hear each individual button coming loose in those long fingers. Stripping off his socks clumsily, Clark loses his t-shirt, dropping it somewhere that he immediately forgets about when Lex stands up, wet cashmere brushing Clark's cheek as Lex hangs up his shirt.

Oh God. Right there. Half-naked Lex. Mostly naked, even, since socks and shoes are gone. Clark just makes out the pale skin, and so much of it, the ripple of muscle in arms and chest, before Lex sits back down.

Clark thinks he's probably blushing enough to light up the room.

"Comfortable?" There's a lilt in Lex's voice that Clark can't identify, mostly because a naked--*naked*--shoulder is pressed against his. ]

Clark swallows in a dry throat. The denim is going to tear soon, he just knows it. It's just that kind of a night. "Oh yeah."

Sixty-Eight Blocks, Take Two

"Clark? Are you cold?"

Clark jerks at the sound of Lex's voice, tearing him out of a particularly interesting daydream, involving this warehouse, Lex, and the magical appearance of chocolate fudge sauce, the stuff that the waitress spilled on them in the restaurant, leading to the ruination of cashmere and Clark's first genuine kink.

When Lex had said, let's go to a movie, Clark had been thinking, movie. With Lex. No frightening ex-wives hovering over their heads, no mutants on the horizon, since they seemingly didn't enjoy depredations in Metropolis nearly as much as they did in Smallville, no parents to make uncomfortable remarks, and no friends to give unhappy looks. Oh no, this was supposed to be a *good* night, which really, they haven't had all that much of this year, and Clark really doesn't think that was a lot to ask. One movie, one dinner, one ride home, without disaster. Bonding, Clark and Lex style, of course, never happens that way. They do their best bonding in dangerous situations right before Lex starts Asking Questions.

"A little," Clark answers, because he supposes he should be, what with no shoes and no shirt and if he hadn't been having that hot fudge fantasy and all. Not him. He's thinking of Lex Luthor fully clothed and everything. "You?"

Lex pauses, possibly to do a quick internal check of all systems. "Okay, but a little cool." A hand touches his shoulder, and Clark *does* shiver then, taking in the feel of long, callused fingers, the scrape of a semi-dry sock bandage, and a puff of warm breath against his skin. "Drier?"

"Sure," Clark says, having no idea what he just answered. "Um, you think our clothes are dry yet?" Oh, that's a stupid question. That would mean they should get *dressed*. Which is against everything Clark believes in right now.

Lex pauses thoughtfully, and his hand is *not moving*. "I don't think so." The hand does move then as Lex shifts to up to his knees, reaching over to check out the state of the spread out jackets. "Not quite. What time is it?"

Clark looks down at his bare wrist thoughtfully. "I have absolutely no idea."

Lex sighs, but he doesn't sound unhappy, exactly. More resigned, like it's finally caught up with him, that this is one of *those* kinds of nights. "Me either."

They sit in companionable, timeless silence while outside, newspapers around the world announce the disappearance of Lex Luthor and some guy from Smallville. Maybe there'll be a press conference, covering their mysterious disappearance, and pleas for their return from their respective parents. Or threats, as the parent might be. Perhaps they'll put up a memorial when they find Lex's long lost shoe beneath the city, and people will bring flowers.

Maybe Clark has skidded past the intangible edge of insanity and is heading into that deeply frightening territory known as 'balls-out-crazy'. Clark likes that word. Pete used it once, and Clark's always wanted the opportunity to use it. "You know," Lex says, shifting back to sit beside Clark, tailor-style, so one knee presses against Clark's, "I was thinking I wanted a night off. But this isn't really what I had in mind."

"Yeah," answers Clark, trying not to think of how much bare skin is under those cashmere pants. They're still on, and Clark has to bite to keep from suggesting that they would dry *much* faster if they were, say, hung up on a box somewhere. Clark twitches uncomfortably, reaching down to rub at his zipper quickly enough that Lex doesn't see, if he should happen to be looking in the direction of Clark's crotch.

"Clark?" Huh. So Lex saw something. "Is something wrong?"

"Jeans," Clark says, locking his hands together before they, all on their own, go check out the state of Lex's pants. It could happen. At this point, Clark doesn't trust a single limb of his body not to make things even weirder.

"Ah. Chafing." A thoughtful silence. "You should take them off."

And he makes it sound so *reasonable*. He always does. Lex can make almost anything sound reasonable when he uses that tone of voice. Clark's fingers are already at the button fly of his jeans before some sort of stupidly sane thought penetrates. "Um, won't it be weird?"

"Of course not," Lex answers, like it's silly to even think such a thing. Clark listens to the merry sound of a zipper being pulled down. "I'll take mine off, too. That better?"

Absolutely. Coordination goes to hell, and Clark knows he hears denim tear, but it really doesn't matter. Standing up, he peels off his jeans, trying to keep his shaking hands from further destruction, since one day, far in the future, he just might want to put them back on. Sitting back down, wet cashmere brushes his face as Lex lays them over the top of the upper crate behind them, then Lex sits back down right there beside him, almost completely naked.

Yes, right there. Almost. Completely. Naked.

Leaning back into the box, Clark keeps his eyes stubbornly focused on air straight ahead of him

"So," Lex says, completely at ease in his almost-nakedness.

"So." He can do better than that. He knows he can. "Um. Think the rain will let up soon?"

They can just hear it, if Clark listens carefully, still pounding down outside. Clark blesses bad weather with every fiber of his being.

"Maybe." Lex doesn't sound too sure. "Maybe soon."

"Yeah." Pointless conversation. Always fun. Clark pretends that a single movement won't bring him pretty much in full body contact with a mostly-naked Lex, because God alone knows what would happen if he really thought about it. Which he isn't. At all. "So. The bar. You remember that?"

"I usually remember being thrown out."

Clark grins. "I mean, the night you and your friends went there."

Beside him, Clark thinks he can see Lex smile. "Like I said, I usually remember being thrown out. Into the grateful arms of quite a few Metropolis policeman, as the case might be." Lex sighs, but it sounds more nostalgic than anything. "Quite a night."

Clark grins, imagining a younger, but no more sane Lex, getting into fistfights with bar patrons with large poolsticks. At this distance from the actual scene of the event, it takes on a glow of warm nostalgia, very different from the bone deep terror of earlier. "Yeah, it was."

Lex shifts beside him. "Uncomfortable?" Clark asks, when Lex rearranges his legs, knees to his chest, before leaning back into the crate behind him. Clark thinks he can almost see the smile on Lex's face.

"No more so than usual. Are you still shivering?" Somehow, Lex's voice sounds closer when he says that, like they aren't almost touching right now. All mostly-naked warm Lex, and if Clark turns his head, he could probably see him smiling.

He *is* smiling, and if that isn't a sign of just how bizarre this night is, nothing could be. "You know, it could be worse."

Oh God. "Don't *say* that, Lex." Clark can imagine worse. Attacked by hordes of homeless persons after Clark's workboots. The roof falling in. Crates randomly tumbling down on top of them. Lionel Luthor showing up to see them, sitting here, naked.

*Dad*, coming in after a long, fruitless search for his only child, finding them naked, and jumping to all the wrong conclusions. Which really, there is a perfectly logical reason for all of this, and not just Clark's hormones, either, but would anyone believe them?

Would Clark believe himself? If Dad and Lionel and Smallville are going to come in here and jump to all the wrong conclusions, which should happen any minute, *second* now, the way that Clark's life is going, it's damn well going to be jumping to the right conclusions.

Leaning over, and it's not far, Clark's nose bumps Lex's, but the angle's easy to correct this close, and Clark kisses him.

It's *really* been a long night, full of shocks for Lex, who has lost all his worldly possessions, so it's no huge surprise that at first, Lex just sits there, like he can't imagine how his life got to this point-- to wit, half-naked in a condemned building, making out with his best friend--but Clark's okay with that. After losing two shoes, a sock, his watch and wallet, one stalled Porsche, one ruined pair of pants, and one disastrous movie, he's going to be a little shock over the entire series of events. Clark licks the soft lower lip, catching the taste of dried blood, sliding his tongue just inside to run over the tight line of Lex's teeth, picking up the almost indiscernible remains of the soda Lex had with their hamburgers just before the hot fudge incident.

Lex's mouth is wonderful and would probably be even better if he kissed back, but Clark takes what he can get, relaxing when fingers twine in his hair. A quick jerk, however, tells him that Lex isn't quite as copasetic with this turn of events as hoped.

"Clark." Lex sounds breathless. He's also licking his lips, like he's looking for Clark's taste, which is encouraging, though the hold on his hair is less so. "Clark, maybe we shouldn't--"

"We passed shouldn't hours ago," Clark says, reaching out to cup Lex's jaw. Warm, *soft* skin, and Lex's grip loosens when Clark runs his thumb over the parted lips. They'd passed shouldn't, and couldn't, and will not, and even cannot, and damned if Clark's going to hear another thing that sounds even vaguely like good sense. Good sense does not live here. Good sense is one parallel dimension over, where the movie worked, dinner was unremarkable, and Clark got home at a decent hour.

It's not nearly as good as this.

"Clark. I think. We should. Talk about this." And Lex even *sounds* like he means it, but he's opening his mouth when Clark kisses him again, and oh, tongue, and Lex is diminishing the space between them until they're skin on skin, which just makes this so perfect that Clark expects the crates to start falling *right now*.

But they don't, so Clark wraps an arm around Lex's waist and pulls them both up on their knees.

"Let's not," Clark answers breathlessly, ducking his head to lick along Lex's jaw. He tastes like rainwater. "Let's really, really not." Lex is wearing *silk* boxers that slide when Clark's hand slides down to rest on his lower back, fingers just brushing the damp material. Smooth, but not nearly as good as Lex's skin, and Clark's vaguely aware they're skipping rapidly past the making-out part, which is kind of strange but excusable, and skidding right into serious business, which is Lex pushing him back on a warm bed of wet wool and grinning down at him.

Even in the dark, Lex seems to almost glow, looking down at him with that vaguely shocky expression that's been running beneath every emotion so far tonight. Just this sense of disbelief, that this is happening, happening to *him*, and Clark shouldn't enjoy the wide eyed incredulity as much as he does.

"This," Lex says, one hand on Clark's thigh and moving slowly upward, "is a really bad idea." He sounds pleased, like he gets that bad ideas right now are the best ideas ever. If only those pesky crates will stay in place.

"Definitely." Lex's fingers slide into the leg of his boxers, fingers stroking just *there*, and Clark wonders about the tensile strength of wet cotton. "Um. Could you--"

Lex moves like water, a slow slide up Clark's body, not touching until his mouth is just a breath above Clark's, elbows nailing the ground firmly on either side of his shoulders. "Clark," he says softly, and Clark catches his breath at the press warm hardness against his hip, the same time his cocks' pressed to wet silk through equally wet cotton. "Oh." That definitely wasn't part of tonight's schedule of events.

Lex kisses him, soft and closed mouth, chaste compared to the interesting twists of his hips under Clark's hands, slick and sharp, making Clark catch his breath. All that skin, up Lex's smooth, damp back, getting warmer by the second, the vulnerable throat, the silky back of his head, to that perfect mouth that's taking air and what little sanity Clark has left, tongue quick and smooth, teeth catching Clark's and making him arch, sucking in Clark's little moan.

"Lex," he whispers into the night air, head going back at the pull of his hair, Lex's teeth tracking his shoulder, tongue soothing behind, and Clark throws a leg over Lex's, locking his ankle behind his calf, just in case Lex's long-lost sense returns and he thinks about just how very *weird* this is, and how possibly disastrous, what with crates above them, rain outside and oh-my-*God*-don't-stop-Lex-don't-stop.

"Lex," Clark whispers, arching into the steady pressure, wondering if there's any chance he can pry his hands off Lex's skin long enough to pull his boxers off, peel off Lex's, and check out these mind-blowing sensations via skin to skin. It could be good. It could be *incredible*. Clark just might not last long just *thinking* about it. "Lex--"

Lex's wonderful, wonderful mouth closes over his nipple, cool skin in an impossibly hot mouth, and Clark whimpers, scrabbling to keep touching skin, something, locking on Lex's shoulders when he gives the other a sharp bite, still going down in an unmistakable direction, hands hooking Clark's boxers in passing, skinning them off so fast that Clark can't be sure they survived intact and can't quite bring himself to care.

It occurs to him, panting on insanely warm wool, that he's naked, very, very naked, just when Lex whispers something into the skin of his hip that sounds like "Breathe."

It's a stupid command, Clark knows that, the second those soft lips wrap around the head of his cock, a monumentally stupid command. Breathing's overrated, and so is thinking, so Clark gives up on both, gasping when Lex cocks his head and goes down, hard and fast, swallowing Clark to the base, one hand braced on Clark's thigh, the other sliding between his thighs and doing deliciously new things to that tiny patch of skin just behind his balls, cupping his sac, making him wish that he could just stay here, just like this, forever, brilliant light filling his entire line of sight like beacon--

"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

--or maybe, a flashlight.

Clark watches Lex sit up, wiping his reddened mouth casually with one elegant hand, turning toward the source of the light. It's been a long night, Clark thinks inanely, unable to move, even when Lex sits casually back on his heels, almost naked, mostly dry, and unsurprised, because it wasn't going to be falling crates after all.

"Mr. Luthor?"

It was going to be *policemen*, or one policeman, singular, staring down at them with a dawning expression of horror as he recognizes Lex and maybe sees tax fraud charges in his future.

Lex smiles, slow, dark, and utterly calm. Standing up, Lex reaches for his shirt, pulling it on with precise flickers of his fingers.

"So good to see you again, Bailey. Can you give us a ride back to Luthor Towers? I'm afraid we got lost."

Lex getting dressed is a tragedy, only equaled by the fact that seventeen does not allow for erections to fade, even in the face of a shocky police officer. "Could you please turn away while my friend gets dressed? Our clothes may be dry by now."

The light flicks off, and Clark listens to the man stumble backward, apparently wondering if he can get out of here without Lex promising retribution and rains of toads on him and all of his progeny for all time. "I'll just, uh, wait, um outside, Mr. Luthor."

"Excellent idea," Lex says, so very calm that Clark's wondering if they dodged the bullet or if, actually, this night isn't really over yet.

The footsteps fade, and Clark moves into action, pulling on his t-shirt and shucking into his jeans--no boxers anywhere in sight, and man, *this* is going to be brand new vistas of uncomfortable--tying his wet flannel around his waist. When he pulls on socks and shoes, he looks up to see Lex, looking--completely not himself. Wrinkled, half-buttoned silk shirt, suit jacket over one arm, bare feet, and grinning like this entire night has been the Smallville State Fair, complete with cotton candy and five hot dogs.

Grinning when he extends a hand, hauling Clark to his feet and jerking him close.

"Think we can make it?" he whispers, and Clark thinks, yes, they can. Of course they can. And he'll answer just the same if Lex actually clarifies the question.

"Where?"

"Come on," Lex says, sock-tied hand laced through Clark's pulling him in the opposite direction of the policeman. "Let's get out of here."

"Lex." Clark comes to a stop, blinking down at glowing blue eyes and a brilliant smile. He couldn't say no to Lex if he tried. But he can at least figure out why. "Um. You want to walk home?"

Lex laughs, jerking him into motion, and they stumble through a darkened warehouse, ducking back outside into endless rain and a wet, deserted dark street, and pulls Clark into a hug that would crack bones if he wasn't invulnerable.

"Why not?" Lex grins up at the sky, then into Clark's face before kissing him, warm and wet and sweet. "It's a perfect night for a walk. Let's go before he figures it out."

Clark hears himself start to giggle. Because it's really been a good night. "Why not?"

He wonders if they'll make it back before morning, and then decides he just doesn't care.

the end

Epilogue, by Madelyn

Lionel slid out of the limo with unhurried ease, watching as Paulo shut the door behind him. Lionel pulled on his sunglasses, weaving his way up to the steps to his office. They were repaving the underground lot at LuthorCorp this week, and it was only a minor irritant that he'd have to actually use the front entrance. He gave a winning smile at a slack-jawed employee, (probably someone in the mailroom, but one never knew). He turned to tell Paulo to order in something Italian for lunch when a something came out of nowhere and smacked him in the forehead. He fell to the ground, his security yelling tersely. Paulo anxiously helped Lionel up, who groaned as he slid his way to a sitting position. Workers milled about, staring wide-eyed at him. He nodded, to shake it off, but froze as the motion seemed to make his head feel like there was an odd combination of jello and nails within. He looked down

It was a shoe. A single shoe. He waved away the security gingerly poking at it, and picked it up himself. It smelled like--

Sewage. "Ugh." He muttered, disgusted, letting it fall from his finger.

Fucking attacking shoes.

the end, really