Valentine's Day Ficlet
ooc: For mom_of-steel, who wanted one and wasn't too shy to ask.
Lionel Luthor does not celebrate Valentine's Day.
In the wake of his wife Lillian's death, it had been too heartbreaking to try to muster any cheer for Thanksgiving or Christmas, and there had been good practical reasons for avoiding the celebration.
Burying himself in work over the holidays seemed to be good for business as well as soothing his psyche, and Lex… well, Lex was at school, where they would serve turkey and sing songs and presumably have a wonderful time. His personal secretary sent a card and some kind of gift. Lex wouldn't want his father interfering anyway, if his sullen moods whenever he was required to come home were any indication.
Birthdays, too, began to fall by the wayside. His assistant sent cards and corporate gifts when appropriate, but Lionel saw no reason to celebrate his, and neither, apparently, did anyone else. Occasionally Lex would appear and casually mention that he had aged by two or three years, and Lionel would take him to dinner or buy him something. Once it was a car. Lex crashed it, drunk and high even when the shinbone had pierced his skin. Lionel bought off the police and decided to forget birthdays altogether.
Valentine's… It requires a partner, and Lionel hasn't had one in years. Lily had liked the day, and he'd remembered it for her sake, wining and dining her, buying her jewelry and taking her to the opera or ballet. It had been a truly beautiful day, during the good years at least, before her moods turned dark, before she began to imagine she hated him, before she talked about divorce and wouldn't let him touch her.
Was any of it real? In the days before his "death", he'd ponder it, looking through old photographs and love letters, their wedding rings discarded in a drawer. It's so easy, knowing the hurt and pain and death that ended them, to think that perhaps it had never been love, that perhaps he had wanted to dominate and corrupt a pretty girl from a rich family, and she had pitied the poor boy from the gutter. She had gone mad, and he had cheated, and their children… Julian dead, Lex twisted into darkness and insanity. Was there ever any love between them to begin with?
But he closes his eyes and can still see her smile, her fingertips stroking the frown from his face, the weariness from his eyes. "Lionel," she says, bright and effortlessly free from concern. "Come… Come with me."
One day she stopped asking, and he found he could no longer go by himself.
***
He lets himself in at the service entrance to Martha's building, wearing his best suit under a trenchcoat that could easily be over workman's overalls. Perhaps he doesn't quite have the bearing of a tradesman, but no one ever looks at him twice as he takes the stairs to Martha's apartment, a bag slung over his shoulder, and another paper bag in his hand.
The last time he did Valentine's Day on a budget, he reflects, he must have been about twelve, blushingly giving a wilted rose to a girl by the docks. Morgan had laughed at him, but the girl had smiled, and kissed him on the cheek. The next time he'd had a crush on a girl, he had had gold and diamonds in his repertoire.
He knocks at Martha's door and waits, a little embarrassed that he is now the poor boy once more, calling at the apartment of his girlfriend who, if not precisely rich, is certainly not lacking for anything.
"Just a second!"
The door opens, and there she is… A vision in a crimson suit, red hair trailing her shoulders, having apparently just been liberated from a more formal arrangement, bare feet against the lush, deep carpet, a boot in her hand. "I just walked in… You have no idea how much congressmen can talk," she explains, looking around, seemingly caught between whether she should put the boots back on or take more things off. "Oh, Lionel, I was going to dress up."
"You," he says softly as he steps in, shutting the door, "are beautiful precisely as you are." And, bag removed, he has twelve red roses for her. They may have been purchased from a street seller rather than a top Washington florist, but they're just as red and fragrant.
She purses her lips in an almost-smile, leaning forward to smell them. "Lionel Luthor, you know exactly how to make a girl blush."
"Not an 'old lady'?" he asks, smirking, referring to their conversation of the previous evening.
The boot almost ends up in a very delicate area, but she takes the flowers instead. "I'll put these in water. You, uh… are we eating? I was going to cook, and have the whole afternoon free, and then…"
Lionel takes the boot from her, helpfully. "I have wine, and opera. And experience tells me that not only do several good restaurants deliver, but that your kitchen is usually stocked with better leftovers than most of those restaurants serve to the mayor."
He can somehow detect that she's rolling her eyes even though she's now in another room, the tap going. "Well," she concedes, coming back with the flowers in a vase, "there may be some ravioli I was experimenting with. And some chicken pot pie I made in case Clark came by - I think he more or less lives on coffee now, from what Lois tells me. And probably…"
The list goes on as Lionel unpacks his bottle of wine, and lays out the records he had brought with him.
"Oh, and there are a few muffins left over, I think," Martha says. "But that's hardly a meal, Lionel."
He comes over to her, smiling. "No, it's about seven meals, my love… And, really, it's all just an appetizer for the main event, which, as I recall, involved us lying in bed half-naked, listening to opera."
Her hands go to fiddle with his tie, smoothing it down. "You're right… we can't have anything too filling before all of that exertion. We'll get indigestion."
"Exertion?"
Lionel never ceases to be amazed by the way in which Martha Kent the mother, cook, and politician can segue into Martha Kent the devilish seductress with nothing more than a quirk of a smile. "Oh, didn't I mention that?"
She tugs him into her, and grins up at him. "You haven't even kissed me yet, Mr. Luthor."
He has to wonder what Lillian might think of him, kissing another beautiful redhead with roses on the table, and a night full of excellent wine and better opera ahead of them. Would she warn Martha, given the chance? Would she look into Lionel's eyes and believe his intentions, as she had once before? Would she wish them well?
"What are you thinking of?" Martha asks when their lips part, her hand cool against his cheek.
He shakes his head as if to dispel the cobwebs. "I'm… thinking whether this might be a tradition for us, for years to come."
If he lives. If Clark approves. If he doesn't drive her mad.
Martha's hand slips down his arm, and her fingers tangle up with his. "Come," she says with a smile, and tugs him towards the bedroom. "Come with me."
He grabs up his records, determined to follow wherever she might lead.
Lionel Luthor does not celebrate Valentine's Day.
In the wake of his wife Lillian's death, it had been too heartbreaking to try to muster any cheer for Thanksgiving or Christmas, and there had been good practical reasons for avoiding the celebration.
Burying himself in work over the holidays seemed to be good for business as well as soothing his psyche, and Lex… well, Lex was at school, where they would serve turkey and sing songs and presumably have a wonderful time. His personal secretary sent a card and some kind of gift. Lex wouldn't want his father interfering anyway, if his sullen moods whenever he was required to come home were any indication.
Birthdays, too, began to fall by the wayside. His assistant sent cards and corporate gifts when appropriate, but Lionel saw no reason to celebrate his, and neither, apparently, did anyone else. Occasionally Lex would appear and casually mention that he had aged by two or three years, and Lionel would take him to dinner or buy him something. Once it was a car. Lex crashed it, drunk and high even when the shinbone had pierced his skin. Lionel bought off the police and decided to forget birthdays altogether.
Valentine's… It requires a partner, and Lionel hasn't had one in years. Lily had liked the day, and he'd remembered it for her sake, wining and dining her, buying her jewelry and taking her to the opera or ballet. It had been a truly beautiful day, during the good years at least, before her moods turned dark, before she began to imagine she hated him, before she talked about divorce and wouldn't let him touch her.
Was any of it real? In the days before his "death", he'd ponder it, looking through old photographs and love letters, their wedding rings discarded in a drawer. It's so easy, knowing the hurt and pain and death that ended them, to think that perhaps it had never been love, that perhaps he had wanted to dominate and corrupt a pretty girl from a rich family, and she had pitied the poor boy from the gutter. She had gone mad, and he had cheated, and their children… Julian dead, Lex twisted into darkness and insanity. Was there ever any love between them to begin with?
But he closes his eyes and can still see her smile, her fingertips stroking the frown from his face, the weariness from his eyes. "Lionel," she says, bright and effortlessly free from concern. "Come… Come with me."
One day she stopped asking, and he found he could no longer go by himself.
***
He lets himself in at the service entrance to Martha's building, wearing his best suit under a trenchcoat that could easily be over workman's overalls. Perhaps he doesn't quite have the bearing of a tradesman, but no one ever looks at him twice as he takes the stairs to Martha's apartment, a bag slung over his shoulder, and another paper bag in his hand.
The last time he did Valentine's Day on a budget, he reflects, he must have been about twelve, blushingly giving a wilted rose to a girl by the docks. Morgan had laughed at him, but the girl had smiled, and kissed him on the cheek. The next time he'd had a crush on a girl, he had had gold and diamonds in his repertoire.
He knocks at Martha's door and waits, a little embarrassed that he is now the poor boy once more, calling at the apartment of his girlfriend who, if not precisely rich, is certainly not lacking for anything.
"Just a second!"
The door opens, and there she is… A vision in a crimson suit, red hair trailing her shoulders, having apparently just been liberated from a more formal arrangement, bare feet against the lush, deep carpet, a boot in her hand. "I just walked in… You have no idea how much congressmen can talk," she explains, looking around, seemingly caught between whether she should put the boots back on or take more things off. "Oh, Lionel, I was going to dress up."
"You," he says softly as he steps in, shutting the door, "are beautiful precisely as you are." And, bag removed, he has twelve red roses for her. They may have been purchased from a street seller rather than a top Washington florist, but they're just as red and fragrant.
She purses her lips in an almost-smile, leaning forward to smell them. "Lionel Luthor, you know exactly how to make a girl blush."
"Not an 'old lady'?" he asks, smirking, referring to their conversation of the previous evening.
The boot almost ends up in a very delicate area, but she takes the flowers instead. "I'll put these in water. You, uh… are we eating? I was going to cook, and have the whole afternoon free, and then…"
Lionel takes the boot from her, helpfully. "I have wine, and opera. And experience tells me that not only do several good restaurants deliver, but that your kitchen is usually stocked with better leftovers than most of those restaurants serve to the mayor."
He can somehow detect that she's rolling her eyes even though she's now in another room, the tap going. "Well," she concedes, coming back with the flowers in a vase, "there may be some ravioli I was experimenting with. And some chicken pot pie I made in case Clark came by - I think he more or less lives on coffee now, from what Lois tells me. And probably…"
The list goes on as Lionel unpacks his bottle of wine, and lays out the records he had brought with him.
"Oh, and there are a few muffins left over, I think," Martha says. "But that's hardly a meal, Lionel."
He comes over to her, smiling. "No, it's about seven meals, my love… And, really, it's all just an appetizer for the main event, which, as I recall, involved us lying in bed half-naked, listening to opera."
Her hands go to fiddle with his tie, smoothing it down. "You're right… we can't have anything too filling before all of that exertion. We'll get indigestion."
"Exertion?"
Lionel never ceases to be amazed by the way in which Martha Kent the mother, cook, and politician can segue into Martha Kent the devilish seductress with nothing more than a quirk of a smile. "Oh, didn't I mention that?"
She tugs him into her, and grins up at him. "You haven't even kissed me yet, Mr. Luthor."
He has to wonder what Lillian might think of him, kissing another beautiful redhead with roses on the table, and a night full of excellent wine and better opera ahead of them. Would she warn Martha, given the chance? Would she look into Lionel's eyes and believe his intentions, as she had once before? Would she wish them well?
"What are you thinking of?" Martha asks when their lips part, her hand cool against his cheek.
He shakes his head as if to dispel the cobwebs. "I'm… thinking whether this might be a tradition for us, for years to come."
If he lives. If Clark approves. If he doesn't drive her mad.
Martha's hand slips down his arm, and her fingers tangle up with his. "Come," she says with a smile, and tugs him towards the bedroom. "Come with me."
He grabs up his records, determined to follow wherever she might lead.