one reflects the other
Title: Better Baser Natures
Fandom: Smallville
Characters, Pairings: Clark, Lana, Lex, Lucas, Clark/Lex and Lana/Lucas
Rating: not explicit, sexuality, violence, swearing and drug use
Disclaimer: not my characters
Note: story was started back in season 3, but I always felt like I wanted to finish it. So I did!
Better Baser Natures
The sun is bright and shines directly on Lana’s face, so that she has to squint to watch the man hovering above her. His kisses move lower and she sighs, remembering something he had said the night before. “Lucas, you don’t really think we’re horrible people, do you?”
His lips curving into a smirk tickle the skin of her belly. “I don’t know about you,” he says, “but I’m headed straight to hell.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that. It’s not funny.”
“The way I see it, you’ve got to start being much, much more wicked. I won’t mind damnation so much if we’re together.”
“Not funny. You don’t even believe in hell, anyway.”
“Do you?”
“No,” she says, tentatively, after an extraordinarily long pause.
He laughs. “You are so cute. I try and try but I just can’t fuck the farm girl out of you.”
“Hey, I was never a farm girl.”
“You’re such a snob.”
“I’m not!”
“You’re a stuck-up bitch and I love it.”
“Shut up and get back to work,” she says, pushing his head back down her body.
Lucas is often late, so Lex, who hates to wait, is in the habit of always arranging to meet half an hour before their actual reservation. Even with that safeguard in place, Lex has been waiting at the bar for nearly an hour when Lucas finally arrives, without apology. “Hey,” he says, placing his hand for just a moment on his brother’s shoulder.
“You’re late, Lucas.”
“Don’t hassle me, ok?”
“You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit.”
“You’re working too hard.”
He shakes his head. “Come on, Lex. We both know there’s no such thing.” Lex slides his drink down the bar and Lucas takes it in hand and drains it, making a face as he finishes. “That’s their best scotch? How can you drink that shit?” His low opinion doesn’t stop him from ordering another.
“What the hell is going on with you?” Lucas doesn’t meet Lex’s gaze, a weak attempt at evasion.
“Nothing. I don’t know. I’ve been having bad dreams.”
“About what?”
Lucas reaches out suddenly, takes his hand. “Do you think a person can do something so bad that they can never be forgiven?”
Lex is taken aback. He has never seen Lucas show remorse or guilt for his actions, even when, intentionally or accidentally, the outcomes have been bad. He has never seen Lucas be anything but triumphant and proud. What the fuck could Lucas have done? How sick and wrong would it have to be for Lucas to feel guilty? The true answer to this unexpected question is yes, he does think a person can do an unforgivable thing. Anyone who knew Lionel as he did, inside and out, would have come to the same conclusion. But he knows that if he tells Lucas that, he risks scaring him, losing his trust, so he says, “No.”
Lucas is watching him. “You know what they say sometimes, about how a person’s only responsible for a death they directly cause? Only the triggerman is responsible. Do you think that’s true?”
This time, the answer’s no. Years of Clark being disappointed in him for funding dangerous projects, even if he wasn’t directly involved, have taught him so, but he knows the only way to find out what this is about is to give the answers Lucas needs. “Yes.”
Lucas is self-absorbed, but he’s not dumb. “You’re just telling me what you think I want to hear.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind?”
It’s like the last traces of sleep and vulnerability slip away, and Lex can see Lucas pull the facade back on. “Fuck it. It’s not important. Did you say you wanted to get something to eat?”
They talk about nothing but girls and business over dinner. Lucas is as far away as he’s ever been.
Lucas has always had the crime scene pictures, locked in his vault. He’s always had them, known they’re there, but he’s never had the balls to look. He’s been too afraid to look. Why he does it now, he can barely explain, except that somehow the need to know has grown. Just how damned is he?
They are gruesome. He takes some green K right away, just to calm himself down enough so that he can call for his car. Janet, his assistant, comes rushing in. “Mr. Luthor, you can’t miss this meeting.”
“I don’t care what you tell them, but the meeting is cancelled. Reschedule if you can.”
“You’re going to lose them. You need these investors, they don’t need you.”
“Do what you can. Sweet talk them, bribe them, lie outrageously, I don’t care. Earn your fucking salary for once, and get them to reschedule.”
The ride over to Lex’s is mercifully short. Unfortunately, it’s not his brother who meets him at the door. “I need to speak with Lex.”
“He’s isn’t home.” Clark steps out into the hall, shutting the door behind him, so that Lucas can’t try to push his way into the penthouse. “What’s wrong?”
“I need,” he says, and what is it he needs? He needs more than anyone living can give him. He needs forgiveness from the dead. “I need to see my brother.”
“Your pupils are dilated.”
Jesus Christ. Clark the narc. How did Lex stand living with this puritanical asshole? “Let me in. I need to sit down.” Clark looks unsure. “Come on, man. This is more my home than yours.”
“How do you figure?”
“Don’t be a bastard. I’m the only family Lex has.”
Much as he hates it, Clark can’t deny that’s the truth. He opens the door and leads Lucas over to the couch in the living room. “Stay there. I’ll call Lex.”
Clark takes the phone into the other room, but Lucas can hear him. He’s loud when he’s angry. “Yeah, he’s here. He’s high again.” Then the voice is quieter but he can still make out, “such a fucking mess.” On the phone, Clark’s voice is agitated, but not mean. When he comes back out, however, his face and voice twist with animosity. “He’s on his way, not that you deserve it, you little shit.”
Lucas tries to ignore his hostile host, closes his eyes to block out his glare. He’s taken more than he should have. It’s pleasant, though. Everything’s smoothing out in front of him. He feels like he’s floating, like that trip he and Lana took to the Caribbean last year. He’s on a raft, drifting over the green water, satisfied, the sun warming him from above. His eyes open and he sees Clark is still staring at him. Oh, that is a cold, cold place. On green, he sees both less and more than he usually does. The details blur, but the big picture’s clear. He’s always known Clark dislikes him, always considered it jealousy, but today he sees that it’s much deeper than that. “Why do you hate me?”
“You’re a disgusting person. You’re reprehensible.”
“I’ve seen shit you can’t even imagine. You have no idea the kind of things people are capable of. You think I’m the worst person in the world? You’re still just a hick from the sticks and the only reason Lex keeps you around is because he likes fucking you.”
“I know what you’re capable of.” And then one of Clark’s hands is over his mouth, the other holding his nostrils shut. Lucas’s limbs flail frantically, but there is no escape. Clark sounds like he’s the one who’s choking when he says, “You killed Chloe Sullivan,” and that condemnation is the last thing Lucas is aware of before he passes out.
Lucas often works late at the office. Sometimes he even falls asleep at his desk. Those are the times when Clark strikes. As Superman he stands in front of him, calls him Luthor, tells him he’s going to burn in hell.
Sometimes Clark watches him, just for a moment, before waking him. Of all the faces in the world, this one is most ugly to him. He would like to kill Lucas, absolutely. He would like to hire someone to do it, just like they hired someone to kill Chloe. He would like to see the body, covered by plastic in the morgue. He would do it, except that he knows what it would do to Lex. He can not imagine the triumph of Lucas lying dead on the slab without simultaneously seeing Lex there, his knees buckling, his hand rising to his face to cover his tears until he can compose himself. No, killing Lucas is not an option. This, though, this subtle torture is what he has.
When Clark has to work late at the Daily Planet he is always quiet as he can be as he slips into the bedroom. The caution is usually wasted, because most nights he finds the same sight, Lex, propped up on an elbow, regarding him calmly in the dark. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
Lex doesn’t answer. He slides back down into the bed and turns on his side. Clark stops beside the bed and gives him a quick, automatic kiss, before heading into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth slowly in the mirror. He doesn’t even know if he needs to, but it’s a habit. There’s a picture of them taped to the mirror. They’re looking at a sculpture at the Metropolis Museum of Art. Lex is entranced by the statue, and Clark is equally entranced by Lex. It was a Rodin, Clark suddenly remembers. Men, political prisoners, being led to the noose. He wonders how he’s forgotten that. He wonders why that particularly harrowing scene held Lex’s attention for so long. He thinks he knows, thinks he grasps something about Lex and condemnation and a persecution complex, but he quickly puts that thought away. He is a master at clearing his mind. After a quick shower, he’s back in the bedroom, slipping under the cotton sheets, and next to Lex, who turns, so that they can look at each other. Lex’s voice is smooth on all sides, but sharp in the middle, like the captain of a sinking ship when he tells his damned crew there’s nothing to fear. “I had dinner with Lucas and Lana tonight.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes. I’m worried about Lucas.”
“He can take care of himself.”
“Undoubtedly. Still, he’s under a lot of stress.”
“He should be.”
“What the hell does that mean?” When Clark does not answer, Lex presses on. “Why do you dislike him so much?”
“He tried to kill me, Lex.”
“He tried to kill Superman, not you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Lex. Ok, fine. For argument’s sake, let’s say he just tried to kill Superman. Ok. I’d still be just as dead if he’d succeeded, wouldn’t I?”
“But he doesn’t know about what Kryptonite does to you, so he couldn’t have hurt you.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“You don’t understand. He thinks Superman’s an alien.”
“He’s right.”
“Yes, technically. But you’re human, Clark. He doesn’t understand that. He wouldn’t hurt you; you’re family.”
Sometimes he thinks the reason he won’t tell Lex the truth is because he’s afraid. He’s afraid that Lex will make excuses for Lucas and that would be, for Clark, unforgivable. As long as Lex is ignorant of who killed Chloe, Clark can continue to love him. He can pretend that he doesn’t tell Lex the truth because it would destroy him, just as it nearly destroyed Clark.
Lana enters her home as she always does, calling out for Lucas. “Lucas? I’m so sorry I’m late. My flights were delayed twice, can you believe it? Once in Paris, and then again when I got to New York.” The apartment is quiet and cold as a tomb, and she shivers involuntarily. “Lucas?” she calls again. The windows are open in the kitchen. She shuts them all and, with each thudding sound, her chill deepens. Her feet move her down the hall and she trails her fingers behind her, touching the wall, as she did when she was a child, walking down the hall to Nell’s room when she woke up after nightmares, afraid of the dark. The bedroom door is ajar ahead of her, and when she reaches it she stands still for a long moment before finally giving it a shove. Her whole world grinds to a halt until she sees him, lying in bed, sleeping, and all terror is released, everything’s back to normal. Poor baby. She’s walking on tiptoe to the bathroom, trying to be quiet, when she notices something on the floor. She stops in her tracks and reaches out to turn on the bathroom light. Suddenly, the space around her is illuminated, and just as before, everything pauses. It is a needle, and there is green residue in it. But he doesn’t, he wouldn’t, not anymore. She stalks across the room to their bed, yanks down the covers, slaps his face. “Lucas! Lucas!” There is no response. He can’t hear her. She calls the front desk. “I need an ambulance here immediately.” It is bad, she knows it is bad, and she crawls into bed beside him, like this is any other night she came home late. She curls around him and nestles her face in his neck. His breathing is so slow, and she tries to breathe with him, tries to calm herself down. He is breathing, his heart is beating. He will be alright, he has to be. “I love you,” she whispers. “Just hold on, just hold on.” When she hears the pounding at the door she scrambles out of bed. Within a minute, they are in the ambulance, sirens blaring, racing to the hospital.
It is after one in the morning when the phone rings, and when Clark picks it up, his voice is wary. “Yeah?”
“I need to talk to Lex,” Lana says the moment he answers.
“Of course, hold on.”
She hears him waking Lex, hears Lex muttering about the time, and all the important shit he has to do in the morning. He growls when he says, “Lana. Are you ok?”
“Lucas overdosed.”
“Jesus Christ. He’s not? He’s alive, isn’t he?”
“He’s in a coma. Lex, I need you.”
“Where are you?”
“St Jude’s.” Isn’t he the patron saint of hopeless cases? She knows that’s an ominous sign. She knows Lex knows it, too. “Please hurry. I don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll be right there. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
“I know.”
Lex is very quiet on the ride to the hospital. Clark tries to catch his eye and smile, do something to reassure him, but he knows it’s as good as a lie. If this is anyone’s fault, other than Lucas’s, it’s his own. His attempts are futile, anyway. Lex won’t engage with him. When he does speak his voice is low and hard, accusatory. “Lucas told me he wasn’t using anymore.”
“He didn’t want to disappoint you. I told you, Lex, he was high the last time I saw him.”
“No. I can tell when he’s lying, Clark. He hasn’t been using.”
“He just had a relapse. It happens.”
They’re stopped at a red light, and he glances at Lex, whose jaw is clenched, and who looks back at him with hard eyes. “You always want to think the worst about him. Why is that?”
“I’m just trying to be realistic.”
“You want to think I’m better than I am, so you take your worst fears about me, and you project them onto him. He knows you don’t like him, that you don’t think he’s good enough for Lana.”
“He’s not.”
“You don’t think anyone’s good enough for her.” His voice is bitter. “You’re obsessed with her, just as you always have been.”
Clark doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. It’s bullshit, and he thinks Lex knows it, he thinks that Lex is just scared and taking it out on Clark. So he says the only true thing he knows. “You’re the only person that matters to me, Lex.”
“I know that’s not true. What about your parents?”
“I don’t fuck them.” He blushes, thinking of how pissed his parents would be to hear him talk like that. Clark! Mom would say. How dare you? “Come on, you know what I mean. You’re the only person I love like, you know.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, in love, that kind of love.” Lex doesn’t answer, and Clark is still enough of a dreamer to think that means he’s soothed.
Outside of the hospital, he takes a deep breath of the night air, knowing how stale it will be inside. He leans over and kisses Lex, deeply, lets himself steal all the warmth he can from that mouth that’s always softer and sweeter than any other he’s ever known. He wraps an arm around Lex and can’t help clutching at him, loving the flex and tension of his arms. He lets go when he feels Lex pulling away. Lex watches him with appraising eyes. “I love you, Lex.” he repeats.
They ride the elevator to the eleventh floor in silence. They’re passing the sixth floor when Lex says, “Eros and agape, Clark. You’ve always had one for me, and you’ve never had the other. If I’d never touched you, never fucked you, you’d be as cold to me as you are to Lucas.” Clark loves Lex’s voice so much that sometimes he doesn’t even realize what Lex has said until a few moments after he finishes talking. Now is one of those unfortunate times, for in the pause, while Clark rewinds the tape in his head, and actually hears the words, rather than luxuriating in the sound, something shutters itself in Lex’s gaze, something that was soft and uncertain becomes fixed and bitter.
Clark’s afraid. This is big, too big, and he’s not good with words, and Lex never believes him, anyway, never has, even now, when he knows everything, when Clark’s had no secrets from him for years, Lex still thinks he’s a liar. He suddenly feels fifteen years old again, in the loft, knowing he’s ruining everything, and having no gifts to fix it. His brain is frantically trying to find words when the elevator dings and the doors open, and there’s Lana, and Lex is moving towards her swiftly, taking off his gloves and taking her hand in his own, as Lana leads them towards the doctor.
It is only later that Clark can bring himself to walk into the room. This has too much familiarity, like too many times in Smallville at someone’s bedside. Sick of it, and yet it’s what he’s chosen for himself. A watcher, a shepherd. Lana’s fallen asleep in the chair by the bed and she looks like a child and he’s scared for her. He touches her shoulder, gently, on the silky black top. She never wears pink anymore. Lex and Lucas are always buying clothes for her, tight suits with exquisite tailoring from London, which she wears with lacy scraps underneath. “Lana,” he whispers, “Don’t you want to go home?”
Her eyes open and she looks past him. “Where’s Lex?”
He knows he’s being selfish, but that hurts. “He’s on his phone out in the waiting room. He’s trying to bring a specialist in from New York. Do you want me to go get him?”
She nods, and then closes her eyes again, lets out a sigh. Her hand moves to cover Lucas’s which lies on top of the bed spread.
Lex is alone, silent, standing by a window and looking out. It’s a cold night, and Clark can see the condensation which forms on the glass each time Lex exhales. Clark’s the one with x-ray vision, but it’s Lex who knows how to look. Clark can see a hundred miles away, but he can’t always tell when someone’s lying. When Clark stands in front of a painting, he can see each individual brushstroke, but it’s always Lex who dawdles. Lex framed the “Superman: Superpatron of the Arts” headline from when Clark told a curator at the Met about a second canvas that was covered up in a Goya painting. Lex thought it was funny. Clark just found it kind of embarrassing. The curator and the art historians had all gone on and on about the masterpiece beneath, but Clark preferred the original. Sometimes he wonders why he bothered telling them. Sometimes Clark thinks extraordinary senses have prevented him from really enjoying them. The man who can see everything doesn’t know where to focus. “Lex?” Lex turns and nods, though he barely moves. Just a slight tremor of his head, and Clark wonders if anyone else would have seen it. Lex looks composed, but Clark can see every red vein in his eyes, can see their slight inflammation, and he knows Lex has cried. “She’s asking for you.” Lex just nods again, and walks past Clark, without touching him, his arms folded around himself.
He hardly ever does it, but tonight isn’t like other nights so he lets his ears and eyes go with Lex, following him down the hall.
“Are you alright?” That’s a gentler voice than he’s ever heard before from Lex. It’s not fair. Why should she get such comfort?
Lana’s crying. He’s seen her cry before, god, so many times, but never like this. She wails and strikes at herself, scratches at herself and Lex runs to her and grabs her hands to stop her from hurting herself. He coos to her, nonsense, nonsense, he’s humming something so soft and sweet, he’s rocking her, just like a baby, and the wailing stops, though she continues to sob. Lex holds her close, strokes her hair.
Lex leads her back into the waiting room, leaves her with Clark. She’s still crying. Clark almost hates her. He wishes he could cry like that, with such abandon, but he’s never been able. He’s never able to grieve, there’s always another person he has to rescue, another disaster he has to avert. His eyes follow Lex, through the swinging doors, back into Lucas’s room. Lex straightens things up, throws out crumpled tissues and half-emptied coffee cups. He stands by Lucas’s bedside, and smoothes his hair, runs his fingers across his forehead, tucks his arm, the one that doesn’t have the IV needles stuck in it, underneath the blanket, pulls the blanket up beneath his chin. He pulls the shades across the window and turns off the tv. Returning to the bedside, he bends down to kiss his brother’s cheek. “Good night,” he whispers. “We all love you.” If there’s one thing that breaks Clark’s heart, it’s this, Lex’s best attempts at being a mother.
At home, Lex drinks too much, too quickly, and when Clark tries to intervene, he gets nasty. “You’re not even sorry. Just one more Luthor you won’t have to look after, keep in line.”
“That’s crazy, Lex.”
“No, it’s not. Isn’t this what you do? You try to keep everyone in line, everyone under your thumb. That’s why you hate us. We represent everything you can’t control. Aren’t we the reason you have to work so hard? We fuck everything up and you have to go on making it right again.” Lex drains his drink and throws the glass against the fireplace, so that it shatters. “You don’t think I’m a good person. You don’t admire or respect me, and yet you have the fucking nerve to live with me and say you love me.”
“Yeah, Lex, I love you. I manage to love you despite all your fucking faults. You should be god damn grateful.”
“I would have been grateful, I would have worshiped you as my fucking god, but all you ever did was lord your superiority over me. You made me love you, but you also made me hate you.”
Shit. Clark knows he’s pushing back too hard. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why? You meant it, didn’t you?”
“No. I didn’t. I don’t.”
“You did. Get the fuck out of here.”
He won’t even stay. Not if Lex is like this. Lex is right. He doesn’t care about anyone. This isn’t his planet, these aren’t his people. But he’ll go out into the night, now, to save them, because what else is there? He has to do something, and it might as well be this. Humanity like a million, no, billions of little puppies, and he’s responsible for all of them, stupid, slobbering pets.
When he returns home in the morning, he expects Lex to be back to his normal self, with facade up at full strength. Lex is an alien, too, and though neither of them manage to fake normality, they can both at least pretend to be human.
And everything is fake normal, everything is exactly as Clark expected, except that at the breakfast table, while finishing his coffee, Lex says, without even looking Clark’s way, Lex says, like he’s talking to himself, “Not all of us grow up believing we are loved.”
As long as Lex holds out hope that Lucas will recover, Clark does the same. He’s not guilty over any part he might have played in this, because it’s all going to work out, it’s going to be ok. He’s got to stay strong, for Lex’s sake he can’t let himself give in to recriminations. Yeah, he’s bullshitting himself completely, but he goes along with it until it’s too late to keep faking. When Lex starts talking about turning off life support, he knows what he has to do.
It’s always so easy to tell himself he pretends to be better than he is for Lex’s benefit, when it’s always been for his own. Every single time he’s doubted himself, blamed himself for wanting vengeance, he’s managed to push it back down as quickly as possible.
Lex is at his desk, staring into space. When he realizes Clark is there he quickly shifts his gaze to his computer screen, as though he’s at work.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No.”
“Well?”
Clark has thought this over. Lucas’s secrets and his own can be revealed, but only if Lex wants them to be. It’s in Lex’s hands. “If I knew about things Lucas had done, bad things, would you want to know?”
Lex’s eyes narrow. “Why do you always pretend these questions are rhetorical, Clark?”
“Please, Lex, just answer the question.”
“I knew Lucas was guilty over something, he as good as admitted it. I wondered and I worried. But can knowing make any difference now, when the only question left regarding my brother is how long we leave him on life support?”
“No.”
“Then keep it. Whatever it is, you can keep it.”
“And what if-?” Clark swallows.
“Yes?”
“What if I had done something?”
“Like what?”
Clark drops his eyes. “Something cruel.”
“When have you ever been cruel?”
“Not because I wanted to be cruel, not like that. Just because, because I was so angry about what he did. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For what I did.”
“To Lucas?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted to punish him?”
“I guess. I didn’t think it through. I just did it.”
“I know you. I know you and I know…” Lex trails off and Clark dares to raise his eyes. Lex sits perfectly straight, stares into the distance like any legendary conqueror surveying his kingdom, and his eyes are wet.
Clark goes to him, kneels beside him, rests his cheek against his knee. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“I know.” Lex’s hand rests on the back of his neck. “So am I. It’s ok. It’s ok.”
The morning of Lucas’ funeral Clark wakes early. His skin feels so warm, but the sun’s not yet risen and what shines on him is Lex’s fixed gaze. He lets his hand move slowly towards Lex’s, runs his fingers over the blue veins of Lex’s forearms, brings the wrist to his mouth and kisses where long ago Lex made cuts so that he could be with his mother. Lex sighs and Clark raises his eyes. He feels as he sometimes does, like he wants to be powerless, give everything over to Lex. He wonders if Lex can see that in his eyes, see that Clark is faithful, adoring. And maybe Lex can read him that well, because his next words are hoarse yet honey sweet, and somehow exactly what Clark always wants to hear. “I know you love me, Clark.” Lex’s eyes lower, no longer looking at Clark, but looking at where their skin touches, Clark’s lips and tongue moving slowly along Lex’s hand. Clark drops his own eyes, closes them, just feels Lex, listens to him. “I fought my father for so long. I’ve always been fighting someone. I fought my mother, because I didn’t want her to go. I know she stayed on longer than she wanted because I was so afraid to lose her. I’ve fought your father and your mother, I’ve fought Lucas. It’s all I know how to do. I fight you, because you’re all I have.”
Clark whispers. “You have so much more than me, Lex.”
“No, you’re all I have, because you’re all I want. And I hate you for that. And I fight you, because that’s all I know how to do. That’s all we know how to do. I’ve fought you the whole time I’ve known you. Fought for you to love me, fought for you to want me, fought for your secrets.”
“You didn’t have to fight for any of that, Lex. Well, maybe my secrets.” He can’t help smiling. “But everything else I gave to you because I wanted to.”
“Exactly. I didn’t win it, so it’s not truly mine. Any day you can take it away from me, Clark. You can leave, any day.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“We don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“I guess not.”
“We don’t know. And I try to be ok with that, but I’m not. I’m really not. I’m scared and I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m scared, too.”
“I don’t believe you.”
For so long Clark thought he could save Lex, that someday Lex would feel safe and happy, but now he’s seeing that was just a stupid fairy tale. Lex can’t ever feel that way, no one can, because Lex is right. What they have can be stripped away. “Isn’t there a saying in the bible, Lex? Something like, no man can know the hour of his death, so he must always stay awake? Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Yes, but I’ve never been any good at accepting what I can’t control. Why do you know that passage?”
“My mom likes it. She says it reminds her to appreciate what she has in every moment.”
“Does she? That sounds like her. Did I ever tell you that my mother used to sing to me?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“It was rare, but I’ve always remembered it.” He hums. “It was an old lullaby. The line I remember goes something like, ‘Love watches over each hamlet and hall, love never fails, but it cares for us all.’ Lucas never had any of that, Clark, not even a moment of it.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I know.”
But Clark can see in his eyes that he’s preparing to carry it, just another bogus addition to his bag of guilt. “I saved your life.”
“I know. In more ways then one.”
“And are you grateful, Lex? Tell me, honestly, are you glad I saved you?”
“Yes.”
“You owe me. I gave you my breath, and you’re alive because of it.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Tell me you’ll trust me, just for the next hour.” Clark glances at the clock, it’s five thirty. “Just till six thirty, just don’t doubt me.”
“I don’t doubt you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then don’t doubt this.” He slides his hand over Lex’s arm, leans forward to kiss the jut of each cheekbone. “Just for an hour,” he murmurs as his lips brush Lex’s. “Promise me.”
Lex swallows, looks away, bleary eyed. Clark reaches out his hand and gently, so gently, turns Lex’s face back towards his own. Lex doesn’t fight it. Their eyes meet for a long moment before Lex nods.
Fandom: Smallville
Characters, Pairings: Clark, Lana, Lex, Lucas, Clark/Lex and Lana/Lucas
Rating: not explicit, sexuality, violence, swearing and drug use
Disclaimer: not my characters
Note: story was started back in season 3, but I always felt like I wanted to finish it. So I did!
Better Baser Natures
The sun is bright and shines directly on Lana’s face, so that she has to squint to watch the man hovering above her. His kisses move lower and she sighs, remembering something he had said the night before. “Lucas, you don’t really think we’re horrible people, do you?”
His lips curving into a smirk tickle the skin of her belly. “I don’t know about you,” he says, “but I’m headed straight to hell.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say that. It’s not funny.”
“The way I see it, you’ve got to start being much, much more wicked. I won’t mind damnation so much if we’re together.”
“Not funny. You don’t even believe in hell, anyway.”
“Do you?”
“No,” she says, tentatively, after an extraordinarily long pause.
He laughs. “You are so cute. I try and try but I just can’t fuck the farm girl out of you.”
“Hey, I was never a farm girl.”
“You’re such a snob.”
“I’m not!”
“You’re a stuck-up bitch and I love it.”
“Shut up and get back to work,” she says, pushing his head back down her body.
Lucas is often late, so Lex, who hates to wait, is in the habit of always arranging to meet half an hour before their actual reservation. Even with that safeguard in place, Lex has been waiting at the bar for nearly an hour when Lucas finally arrives, without apology. “Hey,” he says, placing his hand for just a moment on his brother’s shoulder.
“You’re late, Lucas.”
“Don’t hassle me, ok?”
“You look like shit.”
“I feel like shit.”
“You’re working too hard.”
He shakes his head. “Come on, Lex. We both know there’s no such thing.” Lex slides his drink down the bar and Lucas takes it in hand and drains it, making a face as he finishes. “That’s their best scotch? How can you drink that shit?” His low opinion doesn’t stop him from ordering another.
“What the hell is going on with you?” Lucas doesn’t meet Lex’s gaze, a weak attempt at evasion.
“Nothing. I don’t know. I’ve been having bad dreams.”
“About what?”
Lucas reaches out suddenly, takes his hand. “Do you think a person can do something so bad that they can never be forgiven?”
Lex is taken aback. He has never seen Lucas show remorse or guilt for his actions, even when, intentionally or accidentally, the outcomes have been bad. He has never seen Lucas be anything but triumphant and proud. What the fuck could Lucas have done? How sick and wrong would it have to be for Lucas to feel guilty? The true answer to this unexpected question is yes, he does think a person can do an unforgivable thing. Anyone who knew Lionel as he did, inside and out, would have come to the same conclusion. But he knows that if he tells Lucas that, he risks scaring him, losing his trust, so he says, “No.”
Lucas is watching him. “You know what they say sometimes, about how a person’s only responsible for a death they directly cause? Only the triggerman is responsible. Do you think that’s true?”
This time, the answer’s no. Years of Clark being disappointed in him for funding dangerous projects, even if he wasn’t directly involved, have taught him so, but he knows the only way to find out what this is about is to give the answers Lucas needs. “Yes.”
Lucas is self-absorbed, but he’s not dumb. “You’re just telling me what you think I want to hear.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind?”
It’s like the last traces of sleep and vulnerability slip away, and Lex can see Lucas pull the facade back on. “Fuck it. It’s not important. Did you say you wanted to get something to eat?”
They talk about nothing but girls and business over dinner. Lucas is as far away as he’s ever been.
Lucas has always had the crime scene pictures, locked in his vault. He’s always had them, known they’re there, but he’s never had the balls to look. He’s been too afraid to look. Why he does it now, he can barely explain, except that somehow the need to know has grown. Just how damned is he?
They are gruesome. He takes some green K right away, just to calm himself down enough so that he can call for his car. Janet, his assistant, comes rushing in. “Mr. Luthor, you can’t miss this meeting.”
“I don’t care what you tell them, but the meeting is cancelled. Reschedule if you can.”
“You’re going to lose them. You need these investors, they don’t need you.”
“Do what you can. Sweet talk them, bribe them, lie outrageously, I don’t care. Earn your fucking salary for once, and get them to reschedule.”
The ride over to Lex’s is mercifully short. Unfortunately, it’s not his brother who meets him at the door. “I need to speak with Lex.”
“He’s isn’t home.” Clark steps out into the hall, shutting the door behind him, so that Lucas can’t try to push his way into the penthouse. “What’s wrong?”
“I need,” he says, and what is it he needs? He needs more than anyone living can give him. He needs forgiveness from the dead. “I need to see my brother.”
“Your pupils are dilated.”
Jesus Christ. Clark the narc. How did Lex stand living with this puritanical asshole? “Let me in. I need to sit down.” Clark looks unsure. “Come on, man. This is more my home than yours.”
“How do you figure?”
“Don’t be a bastard. I’m the only family Lex has.”
Much as he hates it, Clark can’t deny that’s the truth. He opens the door and leads Lucas over to the couch in the living room. “Stay there. I’ll call Lex.”
Clark takes the phone into the other room, but Lucas can hear him. He’s loud when he’s angry. “Yeah, he’s here. He’s high again.” Then the voice is quieter but he can still make out, “such a fucking mess.” On the phone, Clark’s voice is agitated, but not mean. When he comes back out, however, his face and voice twist with animosity. “He’s on his way, not that you deserve it, you little shit.”
Lucas tries to ignore his hostile host, closes his eyes to block out his glare. He’s taken more than he should have. It’s pleasant, though. Everything’s smoothing out in front of him. He feels like he’s floating, like that trip he and Lana took to the Caribbean last year. He’s on a raft, drifting over the green water, satisfied, the sun warming him from above. His eyes open and he sees Clark is still staring at him. Oh, that is a cold, cold place. On green, he sees both less and more than he usually does. The details blur, but the big picture’s clear. He’s always known Clark dislikes him, always considered it jealousy, but today he sees that it’s much deeper than that. “Why do you hate me?”
“You’re a disgusting person. You’re reprehensible.”
“I’ve seen shit you can’t even imagine. You have no idea the kind of things people are capable of. You think I’m the worst person in the world? You’re still just a hick from the sticks and the only reason Lex keeps you around is because he likes fucking you.”
“I know what you’re capable of.” And then one of Clark’s hands is over his mouth, the other holding his nostrils shut. Lucas’s limbs flail frantically, but there is no escape. Clark sounds like he’s the one who’s choking when he says, “You killed Chloe Sullivan,” and that condemnation is the last thing Lucas is aware of before he passes out.
Lucas often works late at the office. Sometimes he even falls asleep at his desk. Those are the times when Clark strikes. As Superman he stands in front of him, calls him Luthor, tells him he’s going to burn in hell.
Sometimes Clark watches him, just for a moment, before waking him. Of all the faces in the world, this one is most ugly to him. He would like to kill Lucas, absolutely. He would like to hire someone to do it, just like they hired someone to kill Chloe. He would like to see the body, covered by plastic in the morgue. He would do it, except that he knows what it would do to Lex. He can not imagine the triumph of Lucas lying dead on the slab without simultaneously seeing Lex there, his knees buckling, his hand rising to his face to cover his tears until he can compose himself. No, killing Lucas is not an option. This, though, this subtle torture is what he has.
When Clark has to work late at the Daily Planet he is always quiet as he can be as he slips into the bedroom. The caution is usually wasted, because most nights he finds the same sight, Lex, propped up on an elbow, regarding him calmly in the dark. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
Lex doesn’t answer. He slides back down into the bed and turns on his side. Clark stops beside the bed and gives him a quick, automatic kiss, before heading into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth slowly in the mirror. He doesn’t even know if he needs to, but it’s a habit. There’s a picture of them taped to the mirror. They’re looking at a sculpture at the Metropolis Museum of Art. Lex is entranced by the statue, and Clark is equally entranced by Lex. It was a Rodin, Clark suddenly remembers. Men, political prisoners, being led to the noose. He wonders how he’s forgotten that. He wonders why that particularly harrowing scene held Lex’s attention for so long. He thinks he knows, thinks he grasps something about Lex and condemnation and a persecution complex, but he quickly puts that thought away. He is a master at clearing his mind. After a quick shower, he’s back in the bedroom, slipping under the cotton sheets, and next to Lex, who turns, so that they can look at each other. Lex’s voice is smooth on all sides, but sharp in the middle, like the captain of a sinking ship when he tells his damned crew there’s nothing to fear. “I had dinner with Lucas and Lana tonight.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes. I’m worried about Lucas.”
“He can take care of himself.”
“Undoubtedly. Still, he’s under a lot of stress.”
“He should be.”
“What the hell does that mean?” When Clark does not answer, Lex presses on. “Why do you dislike him so much?”
“He tried to kill me, Lex.”
“He tried to kill Superman, not you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Lex. Ok, fine. For argument’s sake, let’s say he just tried to kill Superman. Ok. I’d still be just as dead if he’d succeeded, wouldn’t I?”
“But he doesn’t know about what Kryptonite does to you, so he couldn’t have hurt you.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“You don’t understand. He thinks Superman’s an alien.”
“He’s right.”
“Yes, technically. But you’re human, Clark. He doesn’t understand that. He wouldn’t hurt you; you’re family.”
Sometimes he thinks the reason he won’t tell Lex the truth is because he’s afraid. He’s afraid that Lex will make excuses for Lucas and that would be, for Clark, unforgivable. As long as Lex is ignorant of who killed Chloe, Clark can continue to love him. He can pretend that he doesn’t tell Lex the truth because it would destroy him, just as it nearly destroyed Clark.
Lana enters her home as she always does, calling out for Lucas. “Lucas? I’m so sorry I’m late. My flights were delayed twice, can you believe it? Once in Paris, and then again when I got to New York.” The apartment is quiet and cold as a tomb, and she shivers involuntarily. “Lucas?” she calls again. The windows are open in the kitchen. She shuts them all and, with each thudding sound, her chill deepens. Her feet move her down the hall and she trails her fingers behind her, touching the wall, as she did when she was a child, walking down the hall to Nell’s room when she woke up after nightmares, afraid of the dark. The bedroom door is ajar ahead of her, and when she reaches it she stands still for a long moment before finally giving it a shove. Her whole world grinds to a halt until she sees him, lying in bed, sleeping, and all terror is released, everything’s back to normal. Poor baby. She’s walking on tiptoe to the bathroom, trying to be quiet, when she notices something on the floor. She stops in her tracks and reaches out to turn on the bathroom light. Suddenly, the space around her is illuminated, and just as before, everything pauses. It is a needle, and there is green residue in it. But he doesn’t, he wouldn’t, not anymore. She stalks across the room to their bed, yanks down the covers, slaps his face. “Lucas! Lucas!” There is no response. He can’t hear her. She calls the front desk. “I need an ambulance here immediately.” It is bad, she knows it is bad, and she crawls into bed beside him, like this is any other night she came home late. She curls around him and nestles her face in his neck. His breathing is so slow, and she tries to breathe with him, tries to calm herself down. He is breathing, his heart is beating. He will be alright, he has to be. “I love you,” she whispers. “Just hold on, just hold on.” When she hears the pounding at the door she scrambles out of bed. Within a minute, they are in the ambulance, sirens blaring, racing to the hospital.
It is after one in the morning when the phone rings, and when Clark picks it up, his voice is wary. “Yeah?”
“I need to talk to Lex,” Lana says the moment he answers.
“Of course, hold on.”
She hears him waking Lex, hears Lex muttering about the time, and all the important shit he has to do in the morning. He growls when he says, “Lana. Are you ok?”
“Lucas overdosed.”
“Jesus Christ. He’s not? He’s alive, isn’t he?”
“He’s in a coma. Lex, I need you.”
“Where are you?”
“St Jude’s.” Isn’t he the patron saint of hopeless cases? She knows that’s an ominous sign. She knows Lex knows it, too. “Please hurry. I don’t know what to do.”
“We’ll be right there. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
“I know.”
Lex is very quiet on the ride to the hospital. Clark tries to catch his eye and smile, do something to reassure him, but he knows it’s as good as a lie. If this is anyone’s fault, other than Lucas’s, it’s his own. His attempts are futile, anyway. Lex won’t engage with him. When he does speak his voice is low and hard, accusatory. “Lucas told me he wasn’t using anymore.”
“He didn’t want to disappoint you. I told you, Lex, he was high the last time I saw him.”
“No. I can tell when he’s lying, Clark. He hasn’t been using.”
“He just had a relapse. It happens.”
They’re stopped at a red light, and he glances at Lex, whose jaw is clenched, and who looks back at him with hard eyes. “You always want to think the worst about him. Why is that?”
“I’m just trying to be realistic.”
“You want to think I’m better than I am, so you take your worst fears about me, and you project them onto him. He knows you don’t like him, that you don’t think he’s good enough for Lana.”
“He’s not.”
“You don’t think anyone’s good enough for her.” His voice is bitter. “You’re obsessed with her, just as you always have been.”
Clark doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. It’s bullshit, and he thinks Lex knows it, he thinks that Lex is just scared and taking it out on Clark. So he says the only true thing he knows. “You’re the only person that matters to me, Lex.”
“I know that’s not true. What about your parents?”
“I don’t fuck them.” He blushes, thinking of how pissed his parents would be to hear him talk like that. Clark! Mom would say. How dare you? “Come on, you know what I mean. You’re the only person I love like, you know.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, in love, that kind of love.” Lex doesn’t answer, and Clark is still enough of a dreamer to think that means he’s soothed.
Outside of the hospital, he takes a deep breath of the night air, knowing how stale it will be inside. He leans over and kisses Lex, deeply, lets himself steal all the warmth he can from that mouth that’s always softer and sweeter than any other he’s ever known. He wraps an arm around Lex and can’t help clutching at him, loving the flex and tension of his arms. He lets go when he feels Lex pulling away. Lex watches him with appraising eyes. “I love you, Lex.” he repeats.
They ride the elevator to the eleventh floor in silence. They’re passing the sixth floor when Lex says, “Eros and agape, Clark. You’ve always had one for me, and you’ve never had the other. If I’d never touched you, never fucked you, you’d be as cold to me as you are to Lucas.” Clark loves Lex’s voice so much that sometimes he doesn’t even realize what Lex has said until a few moments after he finishes talking. Now is one of those unfortunate times, for in the pause, while Clark rewinds the tape in his head, and actually hears the words, rather than luxuriating in the sound, something shutters itself in Lex’s gaze, something that was soft and uncertain becomes fixed and bitter.
Clark’s afraid. This is big, too big, and he’s not good with words, and Lex never believes him, anyway, never has, even now, when he knows everything, when Clark’s had no secrets from him for years, Lex still thinks he’s a liar. He suddenly feels fifteen years old again, in the loft, knowing he’s ruining everything, and having no gifts to fix it. His brain is frantically trying to find words when the elevator dings and the doors open, and there’s Lana, and Lex is moving towards her swiftly, taking off his gloves and taking her hand in his own, as Lana leads them towards the doctor.
It is only later that Clark can bring himself to walk into the room. This has too much familiarity, like too many times in Smallville at someone’s bedside. Sick of it, and yet it’s what he’s chosen for himself. A watcher, a shepherd. Lana’s fallen asleep in the chair by the bed and she looks like a child and he’s scared for her. He touches her shoulder, gently, on the silky black top. She never wears pink anymore. Lex and Lucas are always buying clothes for her, tight suits with exquisite tailoring from London, which she wears with lacy scraps underneath. “Lana,” he whispers, “Don’t you want to go home?”
Her eyes open and she looks past him. “Where’s Lex?”
He knows he’s being selfish, but that hurts. “He’s on his phone out in the waiting room. He’s trying to bring a specialist in from New York. Do you want me to go get him?”
She nods, and then closes her eyes again, lets out a sigh. Her hand moves to cover Lucas’s which lies on top of the bed spread.
Lex is alone, silent, standing by a window and looking out. It’s a cold night, and Clark can see the condensation which forms on the glass each time Lex exhales. Clark’s the one with x-ray vision, but it’s Lex who knows how to look. Clark can see a hundred miles away, but he can’t always tell when someone’s lying. When Clark stands in front of a painting, he can see each individual brushstroke, but it’s always Lex who dawdles. Lex framed the “Superman: Superpatron of the Arts” headline from when Clark told a curator at the Met about a second canvas that was covered up in a Goya painting. Lex thought it was funny. Clark just found it kind of embarrassing. The curator and the art historians had all gone on and on about the masterpiece beneath, but Clark preferred the original. Sometimes he wonders why he bothered telling them. Sometimes Clark thinks extraordinary senses have prevented him from really enjoying them. The man who can see everything doesn’t know where to focus. “Lex?” Lex turns and nods, though he barely moves. Just a slight tremor of his head, and Clark wonders if anyone else would have seen it. Lex looks composed, but Clark can see every red vein in his eyes, can see their slight inflammation, and he knows Lex has cried. “She’s asking for you.” Lex just nods again, and walks past Clark, without touching him, his arms folded around himself.
He hardly ever does it, but tonight isn’t like other nights so he lets his ears and eyes go with Lex, following him down the hall.
“Are you alright?” That’s a gentler voice than he’s ever heard before from Lex. It’s not fair. Why should she get such comfort?
Lana’s crying. He’s seen her cry before, god, so many times, but never like this. She wails and strikes at herself, scratches at herself and Lex runs to her and grabs her hands to stop her from hurting herself. He coos to her, nonsense, nonsense, he’s humming something so soft and sweet, he’s rocking her, just like a baby, and the wailing stops, though she continues to sob. Lex holds her close, strokes her hair.
Lex leads her back into the waiting room, leaves her with Clark. She’s still crying. Clark almost hates her. He wishes he could cry like that, with such abandon, but he’s never been able. He’s never able to grieve, there’s always another person he has to rescue, another disaster he has to avert. His eyes follow Lex, through the swinging doors, back into Lucas’s room. Lex straightens things up, throws out crumpled tissues and half-emptied coffee cups. He stands by Lucas’s bedside, and smoothes his hair, runs his fingers across his forehead, tucks his arm, the one that doesn’t have the IV needles stuck in it, underneath the blanket, pulls the blanket up beneath his chin. He pulls the shades across the window and turns off the tv. Returning to the bedside, he bends down to kiss his brother’s cheek. “Good night,” he whispers. “We all love you.” If there’s one thing that breaks Clark’s heart, it’s this, Lex’s best attempts at being a mother.
At home, Lex drinks too much, too quickly, and when Clark tries to intervene, he gets nasty. “You’re not even sorry. Just one more Luthor you won’t have to look after, keep in line.”
“That’s crazy, Lex.”
“No, it’s not. Isn’t this what you do? You try to keep everyone in line, everyone under your thumb. That’s why you hate us. We represent everything you can’t control. Aren’t we the reason you have to work so hard? We fuck everything up and you have to go on making it right again.” Lex drains his drink and throws the glass against the fireplace, so that it shatters. “You don’t think I’m a good person. You don’t admire or respect me, and yet you have the fucking nerve to live with me and say you love me.”
“Yeah, Lex, I love you. I manage to love you despite all your fucking faults. You should be god damn grateful.”
“I would have been grateful, I would have worshiped you as my fucking god, but all you ever did was lord your superiority over me. You made me love you, but you also made me hate you.”
Shit. Clark knows he’s pushing back too hard. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why? You meant it, didn’t you?”
“No. I didn’t. I don’t.”
“You did. Get the fuck out of here.”
He won’t even stay. Not if Lex is like this. Lex is right. He doesn’t care about anyone. This isn’t his planet, these aren’t his people. But he’ll go out into the night, now, to save them, because what else is there? He has to do something, and it might as well be this. Humanity like a million, no, billions of little puppies, and he’s responsible for all of them, stupid, slobbering pets.
When he returns home in the morning, he expects Lex to be back to his normal self, with facade up at full strength. Lex is an alien, too, and though neither of them manage to fake normality, they can both at least pretend to be human.
And everything is fake normal, everything is exactly as Clark expected, except that at the breakfast table, while finishing his coffee, Lex says, without even looking Clark’s way, Lex says, like he’s talking to himself, “Not all of us grow up believing we are loved.”
As long as Lex holds out hope that Lucas will recover, Clark does the same. He’s not guilty over any part he might have played in this, because it’s all going to work out, it’s going to be ok. He’s got to stay strong, for Lex’s sake he can’t let himself give in to recriminations. Yeah, he’s bullshitting himself completely, but he goes along with it until it’s too late to keep faking. When Lex starts talking about turning off life support, he knows what he has to do.
It’s always so easy to tell himself he pretends to be better than he is for Lex’s benefit, when it’s always been for his own. Every single time he’s doubted himself, blamed himself for wanting vengeance, he’s managed to push it back down as quickly as possible.
Lex is at his desk, staring into space. When he realizes Clark is there he quickly shifts his gaze to his computer screen, as though he’s at work.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No.”
“Well?”
Clark has thought this over. Lucas’s secrets and his own can be revealed, but only if Lex wants them to be. It’s in Lex’s hands. “If I knew about things Lucas had done, bad things, would you want to know?”
Lex’s eyes narrow. “Why do you always pretend these questions are rhetorical, Clark?”
“Please, Lex, just answer the question.”
“I knew Lucas was guilty over something, he as good as admitted it. I wondered and I worried. But can knowing make any difference now, when the only question left regarding my brother is how long we leave him on life support?”
“No.”
“Then keep it. Whatever it is, you can keep it.”
“And what if-?” Clark swallows.
“Yes?”
“What if I had done something?”
“Like what?”
Clark drops his eyes. “Something cruel.”
“When have you ever been cruel?”
“Not because I wanted to be cruel, not like that. Just because, because I was so angry about what he did. I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For what I did.”
“To Lucas?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted to punish him?”
“I guess. I didn’t think it through. I just did it.”
“I know you. I know you and I know…” Lex trails off and Clark dares to raise his eyes. Lex sits perfectly straight, stares into the distance like any legendary conqueror surveying his kingdom, and his eyes are wet.
Clark goes to him, kneels beside him, rests his cheek against his knee. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.
“I know.” Lex’s hand rests on the back of his neck. “So am I. It’s ok. It’s ok.”
The morning of Lucas’ funeral Clark wakes early. His skin feels so warm, but the sun’s not yet risen and what shines on him is Lex’s fixed gaze. He lets his hand move slowly towards Lex’s, runs his fingers over the blue veins of Lex’s forearms, brings the wrist to his mouth and kisses where long ago Lex made cuts so that he could be with his mother. Lex sighs and Clark raises his eyes. He feels as he sometimes does, like he wants to be powerless, give everything over to Lex. He wonders if Lex can see that in his eyes, see that Clark is faithful, adoring. And maybe Lex can read him that well, because his next words are hoarse yet honey sweet, and somehow exactly what Clark always wants to hear. “I know you love me, Clark.” Lex’s eyes lower, no longer looking at Clark, but looking at where their skin touches, Clark’s lips and tongue moving slowly along Lex’s hand. Clark drops his own eyes, closes them, just feels Lex, listens to him. “I fought my father for so long. I’ve always been fighting someone. I fought my mother, because I didn’t want her to go. I know she stayed on longer than she wanted because I was so afraid to lose her. I’ve fought your father and your mother, I’ve fought Lucas. It’s all I know how to do. I fight you, because you’re all I have.”
Clark whispers. “You have so much more than me, Lex.”
“No, you’re all I have, because you’re all I want. And I hate you for that. And I fight you, because that’s all I know how to do. That’s all we know how to do. I’ve fought you the whole time I’ve known you. Fought for you to love me, fought for you to want me, fought for your secrets.”
“You didn’t have to fight for any of that, Lex. Well, maybe my secrets.” He can’t help smiling. “But everything else I gave to you because I wanted to.”
“Exactly. I didn’t win it, so it’s not truly mine. Any day you can take it away from me, Clark. You can leave, any day.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“We don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“I guess not.”
“We don’t know. And I try to be ok with that, but I’m not. I’m really not. I’m scared and I don’t know what to do.”
“I’m scared, too.”
“I don’t believe you.”
For so long Clark thought he could save Lex, that someday Lex would feel safe and happy, but now he’s seeing that was just a stupid fairy tale. Lex can’t ever feel that way, no one can, because Lex is right. What they have can be stripped away. “Isn’t there a saying in the bible, Lex? Something like, no man can know the hour of his death, so he must always stay awake? Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“Yes, but I’ve never been any good at accepting what I can’t control. Why do you know that passage?”
“My mom likes it. She says it reminds her to appreciate what she has in every moment.”
“Does she? That sounds like her. Did I ever tell you that my mother used to sing to me?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“It was rare, but I’ve always remembered it.” He hums. “It was an old lullaby. The line I remember goes something like, ‘Love watches over each hamlet and hall, love never fails, but it cares for us all.’ Lucas never had any of that, Clark, not even a moment of it.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I know.”
But Clark can see in his eyes that he’s preparing to carry it, just another bogus addition to his bag of guilt. “I saved your life.”
“I know. In more ways then one.”
“And are you grateful, Lex? Tell me, honestly, are you glad I saved you?”
“Yes.”
“You owe me. I gave you my breath, and you’re alive because of it.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Tell me you’ll trust me, just for the next hour.” Clark glances at the clock, it’s five thirty. “Just till six thirty, just don’t doubt me.”
“I don’t doubt you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then don’t doubt this.” He slides his hand over Lex’s arm, leans forward to kiss the jut of each cheekbone. “Just for an hour,” he murmurs as his lips brush Lex’s. “Promise me.”
Lex swallows, looks away, bleary eyed. Clark reaches out his hand and gently, so gently, turns Lex’s face back towards his own. Lex doesn’t fight it. Their eyes meet for a long moment before Lex nods.