[Back from the dead verse] Ficlet
Lionel Luthor has rarely ever been bored.
From his twenties, his days had been packed with meetings, travel, research, studies, and - occasionally - time with his wife and family. His assistant had had to keep two diaries in order to ensure that he was always precisely where he needed to be, and even then, she spent most of her time writing apologies to say Mr. Luthor appreciates the invitation, but… Some years, he had no idea what "he" had bought Lilly or Lex as a Christmas present, and had been just as surprised as they when it was unwrapped.
Even in prison, he had had his books. He had been able to rage at his lawyers, or attempt to teach his fellow inmates the finer points of chess.
He had not been bored.
It is 10am on a Monday, and Lionel, having explored every crevice of Martha's - of their - apartment, has nothing whatsoever to do. Martha had left early to be briefed on an upcoming vote, and even though it had been wonderful to wake up next to her, to make love to her fast and sweet, she had kissed him goodbye and been gone before it was even eight.
Jimmy the cat is in his basket, paw draped over a squeaky toy, occasionally opening an eye as if to warn Lionel away from even thinking about trying to play with him.
The phone calls he had planned have already been exhausted - the private investigator he has hired to find Lucas has nothing to report, and Tess Mercer's responses have been terse and conducted through the LuthorCorp company lawyer. He has no great wish to respond to the many inquiries from the press - Perry White is to be their only contact in that arena.
And so.
He looks through Martha's collection of books, and picks one out: a Washington-set murder mystery. How long has it been since he read fiction? Still, he's trying out the role of the dutiful boyfriend, now, not the harried entrepreneur.
He slips off his shoes and sits down on the couch, preparing to read.
The book has been finished by mid-afternoon, when he gets up to find food for the cat and for himself. Perhaps he could go to Martha's gym… But, he recalls, Martha had said something about how nice it would be if he made dinner.
"Hi," he says, assuming that it's probably a bad time to call.
He can almost see the smile in her voice. "Hi. Is everything all right? How are you?"
"Fine, fine." He's too used to being dismissive, particularly on the phone. "Ah, how was the vote?"
"Needlessly complex, as usual. Don't get me started on the topic of earmarks. Oh, and my assistant is waving my coat in front of me… Where are we going? Oh, Lionel, I'm sorry, I have a meeting that completely slipped my mind…"
"That's all right, I, ah… When do you think you might be home?"
He receives a vague answer with a two-hour margin of error on either side, and, Jimmy curling up by his feet, starts on another book.
When the door opens at seven, the scent of Chinese food wafting through the air, Martha finds both of them dead asleep on the couch, the book resting on Lionel's chest.
"Busy day?" she asks with a grin, kissing his cheek.
He blinks at her.
"Tomorrow," she says with conviction, sitting down beside him and brandishing chopsticks, "we're going to find you a job. No more lying around with the cat, Mister, not unless you're cooking and cleaning too."
Lionel stretches out and sits up. "Would you like fries with that?"
She'd probably jab him with the chopsticks but for his arms around her and his mouth on hers: teasing, tempting…
The nights, at least, are anything but boring.
From his twenties, his days had been packed with meetings, travel, research, studies, and - occasionally - time with his wife and family. His assistant had had to keep two diaries in order to ensure that he was always precisely where he needed to be, and even then, she spent most of her time writing apologies to say Mr. Luthor appreciates the invitation, but… Some years, he had no idea what "he" had bought Lilly or Lex as a Christmas present, and had been just as surprised as they when it was unwrapped.
Even in prison, he had had his books. He had been able to rage at his lawyers, or attempt to teach his fellow inmates the finer points of chess.
He had not been bored.
It is 10am on a Monday, and Lionel, having explored every crevice of Martha's - of their - apartment, has nothing whatsoever to do. Martha had left early to be briefed on an upcoming vote, and even though it had been wonderful to wake up next to her, to make love to her fast and sweet, she had kissed him goodbye and been gone before it was even eight.
Jimmy the cat is in his basket, paw draped over a squeaky toy, occasionally opening an eye as if to warn Lionel away from even thinking about trying to play with him.
The phone calls he had planned have already been exhausted - the private investigator he has hired to find Lucas has nothing to report, and Tess Mercer's responses have been terse and conducted through the LuthorCorp company lawyer. He has no great wish to respond to the many inquiries from the press - Perry White is to be their only contact in that arena.
And so.
He looks through Martha's collection of books, and picks one out: a Washington-set murder mystery. How long has it been since he read fiction? Still, he's trying out the role of the dutiful boyfriend, now, not the harried entrepreneur.
He slips off his shoes and sits down on the couch, preparing to read.
The book has been finished by mid-afternoon, when he gets up to find food for the cat and for himself. Perhaps he could go to Martha's gym… But, he recalls, Martha had said something about how nice it would be if he made dinner.
"Hi," he says, assuming that it's probably a bad time to call.
He can almost see the smile in her voice. "Hi. Is everything all right? How are you?"
"Fine, fine." He's too used to being dismissive, particularly on the phone. "Ah, how was the vote?"
"Needlessly complex, as usual. Don't get me started on the topic of earmarks. Oh, and my assistant is waving my coat in front of me… Where are we going? Oh, Lionel, I'm sorry, I have a meeting that completely slipped my mind…"
"That's all right, I, ah… When do you think you might be home?"
He receives a vague answer with a two-hour margin of error on either side, and, Jimmy curling up by his feet, starts on another book.
When the door opens at seven, the scent of Chinese food wafting through the air, Martha finds both of them dead asleep on the couch, the book resting on Lionel's chest.
"Busy day?" she asks with a grin, kissing his cheek.
He blinks at her.
"Tomorrow," she says with conviction, sitting down beside him and brandishing chopsticks, "we're going to find you a job. No more lying around with the cat, Mister, not unless you're cooking and cleaning too."
Lionel stretches out and sits up. "Would you like fries with that?"
She'd probably jab him with the chopsticks but for his arms around her and his mouth on hers: teasing, tempting…
The nights, at least, are anything but boring.