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So MissKittie (aka paradisepink) asked for Old-School Clex. And um....Smallville is hard, y'all. Though at least I got to set it back in the day before Smallville went from fun to TOTAL CRAP.
*ahem*
(Back before Clark became a complete douchebag)
Title: Affogato
For:Smallville
Pairing: Clex
Summary: Um...Lex is drinking coffee. It's just a snippet really. A very AU snippet. Clark doesn't do farmboy nearly as well as Lex does obsession.
Warnings: I tend toward the dramatic and cheesy sometimes, but I try to rein it in. Oh, wait, a warning for this? Not really. Clark is a hor.
Seated at the back of the Talon there isn’t much Lex doesn’t see. True, the view is partially blocked on one side by one of the many arrangements of sunflowers that Lana insisted on, and at busy moments, the servers often forgot he was there. His father would have urged him to take a more public position, remind those around of just who was in charge, and the kind of service he expected, prompt and constant.
Lex enjoys the quiet. He is Luthor enough to demand a booth to himself, back next to the office in case he needs to check up on his protégée, but he finds being forgotten useful on occasion. Forgotten, Lex can spend hours in a shadowed cave of soft padding and stacks of research, sipping at his coffee, observing.
If his drink goes cold, he has only to snap his fingers, remind the world he’s there and the world will run to offer him another latte.
In the meantime, Lex can ignore his phone, make his plans, and keep an eye on the citizens of the world he plans on running someday. It is simply that, unlike his father, he prefers keep his back safely to wall as he does.
Around five the place had filled in with a decent amount of business so there was plenty to keep an eye on—if he were really interested in small town high school drama and talk of football. He could recite their conversations; they were the same conversations always overhears here, or, almost always. Because there were also the odd days, the strange, Smallville days, when every word trembled with unexpressed fear. It’s only on those days that Lex ever suspects that the people in Smallville knew how ridiculous they were, that they purposefully repeated the same talk of tractors and first downs and prom dates to avoid mentioning the things that lined Chloe’s Wall of Weird and those citizens who suddenly turned violent or disappeared.
The proverbial things that went bump in night were not proverbial here, yet no one had ever forced them out from beneath the covers to look. Probably no one ever would, and they continued to count off the years since the meteor shower, one big game, one harvest, one sacrifice, at a time.
Just under two years in Smallville, and Lex is getting pretty good at dancing around the obvious too. Another year and he might even care about football. How his father would love that. Maybe he’d buy a team and sit in the stands with orange paint on his face and chest. It would be good for public relations and irritate his father in one neat stroke.
“The masses need their coliseums,” he would argue smoothly, and watch for any sign that his father was swallowing his anger. He probably wouldn’t see one, not then, but the eventual corporate contest for ownership of the team wouldn’t be a surprise.
Now there’s a game, one far more interesting than the homoerotic mock-battle for Smallville’s honor that will be taking place tonight, even if it lacks pageantry.
On a far less symbolic level, the game will bring in crowds, both before and after the game, and the Talon could use the business.
Lex lets out a small breath as his wandering thoughts inevitably return to the pragmatic.
Back in the world, or at least, far more aware of it, Lex curls his fingers around his cup. It’s cold, but he takes a sip anyway, his eyes flicking up when the door swings wide and there’s a flash of color.
The game means everyone will stop in for a coffee, teenagers wishing to see and be seen, adults just needing a boost to stay awake, even those living on farms outside of town will most likely come in to watch. It’s a big game, from what Lex understands, some sort of playoff or pre-playoff spectacle, though he’s fairly positive they would come into town anyway.
It will get crowded, and his booth will be needed, not that anyone will ask him for it. Crowds bring money, but they also bring noise, and heat, and suspicious farm folk who seem to think he either can’t hear them or don’t care that he can—as long as he can’t identify who is speaking. Now would be either the time to order his last drink and settle in or to gather up the files he’s not looking at anyway and leave. He’s observed enough of the Smallville citizenry for one day, for one lifetime, but Lex swallows cold milk and angles his head down to look at his laptop as the door opens again, the choice made for him.
There’s another flash of color, primary, reds and blues that are anything but simple, and Lex looks up and adds white and black to his mental color chart. There is already space there for both colors, a space set aside and marked, locked behind not a few doors. It is Clark’s space, a space for Clark that not even Clark can know exists.
Existing where it does, it is both smaller and larger than the room in the mansion dedicated to the same subject; like Lex at the moment, it is between worlds, and if Lex had the time, he would allow his thoughts to wander to that confused cat that is neither here nor there, and what Clark would say, if Lex would ask for his thoughts on the subject.
Clark would not pretend to misunderstand him. At least, not about something as seemingly harmless as physics. Unless the physics were also attempting to explain the destroyed Porsche Lex kept in that very room. Then Clark would barely be able to string two sentences together for a decent lie.
Clark doesn’t do farmboy nearly as well as Lex does obsession.
Not that the lies his best friend tells to his face matter in the long run. It’s only a matter of time before Lex discovers the truth on his own, he knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from leaning back against the padding of the booth, keeping his gaze mostly trained on the screen of his laptop.
The cold latte is bitter and sour on his tongue, and he finds himself regretting the choice. Too much milk.
Clark of course will order something with as much milk as possible, and possibly chocolate, and whipped cream, and very little espresso. Two of those a day ought to show up even on a teenager’s body, but there isn’t an inch of fat to be found on the flat planes of Clark’s stomach, on his muscled hips, in the smooth curves of his ass. Two of those a day would also be an expensive habit for a poor boy from a farm that barely makes it through each year, if Clark didn’t get at least one of those free from Lana every day—something else about him that Lex isn’t supposed to know. But Lex is here, even if unseen, and doesn’t miss that Lana waves her hand dismissively after taking his order and that Clark doesn’t reach into his pocket for money.
He wouldn’t have done that before, too much Jonathan Kent’s son to ever take a gift freely given when he could sweat and toil for it instead. Gifts had to be given in secret, through the agency of innocent, unwitting store managers. Lex lets his eyes slide completely away from the computer screen to study Clark. His figure draws the eye. That isn’t something Lex would deny even outside of his head.
Ideals of male beauty had changed a lot in the past few millennia, but there are elements of all of them in Clark, as though someone had observed all of Earth’s history and from that constructed a superhuman being, or something with the appearance of one, at least. Lex pauses a little at his own fanciful thoughts, clearing his head of all the ridiculous possibilities and focusing instead on finding the correct answer.
He is already invisible until he chooses to be seen. He is more invisible now, in the same room as his best friend. Clark Kent is still just a boy, but he buries his hands in his jeans pockets and tugs the pants lower, and behind the counter, Lana’s eyes still stray down. Clark flashes white teeth, and flicks his eyes away, as if he doesn’t see or doesn’t understand. But after a moment he frowns and leans in against the counter. His arm is on the counter top, supporting him. His hand crosses into a space beyond where Lex can see it, closer to the girl he’s in love with than to Lex.
Unobserved, or thinking himself unobserved, Clark’s body moves gracefully to display itself. He lifts his head at something Lana says, lifts it higher than he needs to to simply show interest, and his throat is bare, hinting at more flawless skin waiting to be exposed.
The loose t-shirts, the flannel draped over hunched shoulders, they had hidden it for a while, almost successfully, but no matter how much yelling Jonathan Kent had done, it had been a while now since Clark had walked with his head down. Whatever had brought on the change is something else Lex needs to uncover.
He dreams about it. Throwing aside white sheets and finding something else underneath, something not a twisted hunk of metal best consigned to scrap. Wide, guileless blue eyes opened for him. A red mouth, shut for once so he doesn’t have to listen to any more lies. And skin, so much skin, clear and perfect, sweet as water on his tongue.
He no longer wants his latte, should never have ordered it.
Looking up he can see that Lana is laughing, pink and pastel and muted. She is a beautiful girl, more so when she has a goal. Lex moves his eyes from her, already familiar with that look on her.
Clark is evidently trying to be funny, or really was funny, though Lex can’t imagine what joke would get a reaction like that out of his calm store manager.
The pragmatic thoughts slither back, as always, even in the sheltered space he saves for Clark. Because there is always the possibility that Clark hadn’t been that funny at all, and that Lana is exaggerating her laugh to please Clark, to get Clark closer.
Lex dreams about that too. Pleasing Clark, getting Clark closer. He has sense enough to keep that hidden, or reason enough, considering the time and place, Smallville, home of football and corn and meteor rocks and no sympathy for those who don’t follow the set rules.
“Ah.” Lex murmurs out loud, not really surprised that Lana Lang is finally responding to Clark’s charm, but needing the sound of his own voice.
He is alone at his booth, with his cold coffee, separated from the world by space and time, by age and sunshiny flower arrangements. He can feel himself drifting, lost in the growing dark and staring up through the currents, and that is familiar as well.
He wonders if Clark knows what Lana is doing, but only for a moment, because his gaze goes to Clark’s flushed cheeks, and the sweep of eyelashes and he knows that Clark does. It’s only a question now of whether Clark responds, or feigns ignorance. It’s an academic question, something for research and charts and graphs like the ones Lex is ignoring, a lifeline of numbers and corollaries.
The argument for either side is strong. Lex watches, his attention fracturing into already-stored data and the collection of new evidence. Clark ducks his head, peeking up through his shaggy, silky black hair. Clark lifts his head a moment later, his lips dark from his teeth biting them, his gaze steady.
Lana is nothing now but a speck of pink at the edge of Lex’ vision. Clark is standing straight and tall, brighter than sunflowers will ever be, the center of the Talon, of Smallville, the world beyond Smallville. He is the god of the world that is supposed to belong to Lex.
Lex can feel the heat emanating from him even from across the room.
Lex’ fingers curl around the cold paper cup. This is more than Clark just growing up. More than a fantasy dredged up from a comic book, he knows that, and still files it away as irrelevant in his overall feelings for Clark Kent. This is the truth that the flannel had tried to keep hidden, this is the truth that Lex could have begged for, would still beg for, if he had been anyone else.
Lana is still, quiet, as breathless as anyone with eyes to find herself in the presence of that, this Clark.
The memories burn, red hot at the forefront of his mind, with this Clark superimposed over them. Straight and tall, strong, unmoving. No Porsche, no fire, no distance can even slow him. Beyond perfect, Lex had been right to label him superhuman.
Lex breathes out, unwilling to acknowledge at the moment the struggle it took for even that. Lana might not be able to see anything but Clark’s beauty now, but he can, sees Clark in that field, weak and bound, naked and humiliated, his eyes fierce and vengeful. Sees Clark bent over him, his eyes round and worried, his lips wet, his breath in Lex’s mouth.
He has the evidence locked away by not a few doors, he ought to know which is real, what to do. But the space inside is bursting past the doors, exploding like a blinding supernova.
Lex shuts his eyes, fights the childish need to fold his arms over his head like he had done back in that cornfield as a child while the shockwaves pass over him. He wants to, and that’s enough to make him hold back.
He opens his eyes and Clark is in front of him, at the edge of his booth, tall enough to make Lex look up even though he knows why he shouldn’t. The desire to fall to his knees doesn’t seem entirely unreasonable under the circumstances. But knowing that, and longing to drop down and press his mouth to Clark’s feet, are two very different things.
“Clark.” The name slips out, and it might be habit alone that there’s only the usual trace of amusement and curiosity in his tone. Clark’s cheeks are still flushed, but his lashes dip down at his name before he looks back up. He looks pleased, and Lex can feel himself responding, smiling, wanting to please Clark again.
He looks down casually, and puts an unshaking hand on his laptop. He barely pauses before shutting it, and leaving himself without even the flimsiest of shields. He keeps his face expressionless, but somehow doesn’t think it will matter.
Clark slides into the opposite side of the booth without being invited and Lex flicks his eyes back up. This new Clark seems confident of being wanted and illuminates Lex’ shadowed corner with just a hint of a smile. The whole space is warm.
“Hey, Lex.” The breathless greeting suddenly cracks his superman image, and Lex watches Clark’s gaze go from the spread-out papers to his face. “Am I interrupting?” His question his anxious, but Clark himself has made no move to leave Lex’ space, and Lex tilts his head to consider that.
Yes, and Clark will awkwardly get up and excuse himself and talk to Lana before attending the game he doesn’t really care about anymore. Yes, and Clark will leave, and Lex can go back to the mansion and try to remember that the world is supposed to be his for the taking.
No, and Clark will stay, and Lex will talk to him about the game neither of them cares about, and maybe ask him that question about Schrodinger’s Cat anyway. No, and Lex knows he might give in and worship Clark like the rest will soon enough, knows he might even though he’s also the only one who might ever resist him.
“No,” Lex pushes out the word, his heart racing. No, because all of him wants to kneel before Clark, because all of him needs Clark reaching down to touch him again, and because all of him cannot let that happen, and Luthors do not run from anything, not even their own feelings, not even gods.
Because Lex had let Clark pull from him from the water, he leans back into the padding he couldn’t care less about and smiles. Clark beams.
“Big game,” Lex remarks to fill the silence, to cover how his eyes will not leave Clark’s body when Clark mimics his pose and falls back. Clark shrugs, as though the game is nowhere near as interesting as being here with Lex right now. Lex files that away automatically, trying to keep a flurry of facts between them now that Clark has blown away the doors. For a moment his only thought is that he can’t let Clark know that he has.
“I guess.” The childish response makes Lex’ lips quirk up again despite everything. His quiet, his plans, are all as worthless now as his Porsche, and he is smiling. The shiver down his back is not entirely fear and there is no longer a locked room to hide it.
Clark’s eyes meet his when he looks up and see everything, if he knows what he’s seeing. He’s a blur of elemental reds and blues in front of Lex’ dry eyes, and then Lex swings his gaze over, blinking to see Lana bearing down on them with a tray.
She sets a cappuccino in a cup and saucer in front of Lex with a small, nervous smile and then sighs as she places a small cup in front of Clark. It doesn’t look like anything with chocolate or whipped cream. Lex looks at her while she looks at Clark, watches her recollect herself enough to blink and walk away when Clark doesn’t say anything except for a thank you.
“I got you a new drink. I bet that one went cold like an hour ago.” Clark turns back to him the moment she’s gone, and Lex lets a small line form between his eyes, but doesn’t comment. He doesn’t need to; Clark feels his smashed paper cup for a second and then shoots him a smug look.
Lex’ mouth is dry. He reaches for his cappuccino and takes a sip knowing it will be too hot. Anything that isn’t fresh, cold water would be.
“That’s very generous of you, Clark.” His lips are burning, sweet with foam. For a moment Clark’s eyes are as green as a meteor rock. Unearthly, Lex thinks, and swallows.
He had never been invisible; Clark had known he was here all along.
“No thank you, Lex.” Clark sits back up to lean on the table. He must be distracted, Lex can hear it creak. He looks serious, glancing back at the counter where Lana is finally occupied with a crowd of football fans. “Lana is my friend, but she can’t afford to give me free drinks everyday.”
Wide, guileless blue eyes opened for him. His red mouth, opened, his lips wet.
Because everything in him wants to wait for the rest, Lex lifts one corner of his mouth and gestures at the small cup Clark hasn’t yet touched.
“And what is that?”
“Oh,” Clark’s eyes dip down while he takes a careful sip. He uses his tongue to sweep a remaining drop from the corner of his mouth and then he hums a little. He catches Lex’ eye as he does, lets his tongue linger for a moment before his blushes overtake him again, and Lex nearly nods his head in acknowledgment of Clark’s little victory. “Something new Lana is trying. It’s called an affogato.”
Lex lets out a laugh that’s more of a cough. He takes a moment wondering if he ever really had a choice, then realizes that it doesn’t matter, he’d fight anyway.
Clark is staring at him, eyes lit up with curiosity and a silent demand to know, and Lex shakes his head before looking back at him.
“Affogato…” he repeats slowly, his voice rough, “…means drowned.”
Now let's make like this never happened.
*ahem*
(Back before Clark became a complete douchebag)
Title: Affogato
For:Smallville
Pairing: Clex
Summary: Um...Lex is drinking coffee. It's just a snippet really. A very AU snippet. Clark doesn't do farmboy nearly as well as Lex does obsession.
Warnings: I tend toward the dramatic and cheesy sometimes, but I try to rein it in. Oh, wait, a warning for this? Not really. Clark is a hor.
Seated at the back of the Talon there isn’t much Lex doesn’t see. True, the view is partially blocked on one side by one of the many arrangements of sunflowers that Lana insisted on, and at busy moments, the servers often forgot he was there. His father would have urged him to take a more public position, remind those around of just who was in charge, and the kind of service he expected, prompt and constant.
Lex enjoys the quiet. He is Luthor enough to demand a booth to himself, back next to the office in case he needs to check up on his protégée, but he finds being forgotten useful on occasion. Forgotten, Lex can spend hours in a shadowed cave of soft padding and stacks of research, sipping at his coffee, observing.
If his drink goes cold, he has only to snap his fingers, remind the world he’s there and the world will run to offer him another latte.
In the meantime, Lex can ignore his phone, make his plans, and keep an eye on the citizens of the world he plans on running someday. It is simply that, unlike his father, he prefers keep his back safely to wall as he does.
Around five the place had filled in with a decent amount of business so there was plenty to keep an eye on—if he were really interested in small town high school drama and talk of football. He could recite their conversations; they were the same conversations always overhears here, or, almost always. Because there were also the odd days, the strange, Smallville days, when every word trembled with unexpressed fear. It’s only on those days that Lex ever suspects that the people in Smallville knew how ridiculous they were, that they purposefully repeated the same talk of tractors and first downs and prom dates to avoid mentioning the things that lined Chloe’s Wall of Weird and those citizens who suddenly turned violent or disappeared.
The proverbial things that went bump in night were not proverbial here, yet no one had ever forced them out from beneath the covers to look. Probably no one ever would, and they continued to count off the years since the meteor shower, one big game, one harvest, one sacrifice, at a time.
Just under two years in Smallville, and Lex is getting pretty good at dancing around the obvious too. Another year and he might even care about football. How his father would love that. Maybe he’d buy a team and sit in the stands with orange paint on his face and chest. It would be good for public relations and irritate his father in one neat stroke.
“The masses need their coliseums,” he would argue smoothly, and watch for any sign that his father was swallowing his anger. He probably wouldn’t see one, not then, but the eventual corporate contest for ownership of the team wouldn’t be a surprise.
Now there’s a game, one far more interesting than the homoerotic mock-battle for Smallville’s honor that will be taking place tonight, even if it lacks pageantry.
On a far less symbolic level, the game will bring in crowds, both before and after the game, and the Talon could use the business.
Lex lets out a small breath as his wandering thoughts inevitably return to the pragmatic.
Back in the world, or at least, far more aware of it, Lex curls his fingers around his cup. It’s cold, but he takes a sip anyway, his eyes flicking up when the door swings wide and there’s a flash of color.
The game means everyone will stop in for a coffee, teenagers wishing to see and be seen, adults just needing a boost to stay awake, even those living on farms outside of town will most likely come in to watch. It’s a big game, from what Lex understands, some sort of playoff or pre-playoff spectacle, though he’s fairly positive they would come into town anyway.
It will get crowded, and his booth will be needed, not that anyone will ask him for it. Crowds bring money, but they also bring noise, and heat, and suspicious farm folk who seem to think he either can’t hear them or don’t care that he can—as long as he can’t identify who is speaking. Now would be either the time to order his last drink and settle in or to gather up the files he’s not looking at anyway and leave. He’s observed enough of the Smallville citizenry for one day, for one lifetime, but Lex swallows cold milk and angles his head down to look at his laptop as the door opens again, the choice made for him.
There’s another flash of color, primary, reds and blues that are anything but simple, and Lex looks up and adds white and black to his mental color chart. There is already space there for both colors, a space set aside and marked, locked behind not a few doors. It is Clark’s space, a space for Clark that not even Clark can know exists.
Existing where it does, it is both smaller and larger than the room in the mansion dedicated to the same subject; like Lex at the moment, it is between worlds, and if Lex had the time, he would allow his thoughts to wander to that confused cat that is neither here nor there, and what Clark would say, if Lex would ask for his thoughts on the subject.
Clark would not pretend to misunderstand him. At least, not about something as seemingly harmless as physics. Unless the physics were also attempting to explain the destroyed Porsche Lex kept in that very room. Then Clark would barely be able to string two sentences together for a decent lie.
Clark doesn’t do farmboy nearly as well as Lex does obsession.
Not that the lies his best friend tells to his face matter in the long run. It’s only a matter of time before Lex discovers the truth on his own, he knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from leaning back against the padding of the booth, keeping his gaze mostly trained on the screen of his laptop.
The cold latte is bitter and sour on his tongue, and he finds himself regretting the choice. Too much milk.
Clark of course will order something with as much milk as possible, and possibly chocolate, and whipped cream, and very little espresso. Two of those a day ought to show up even on a teenager’s body, but there isn’t an inch of fat to be found on the flat planes of Clark’s stomach, on his muscled hips, in the smooth curves of his ass. Two of those a day would also be an expensive habit for a poor boy from a farm that barely makes it through each year, if Clark didn’t get at least one of those free from Lana every day—something else about him that Lex isn’t supposed to know. But Lex is here, even if unseen, and doesn’t miss that Lana waves her hand dismissively after taking his order and that Clark doesn’t reach into his pocket for money.
He wouldn’t have done that before, too much Jonathan Kent’s son to ever take a gift freely given when he could sweat and toil for it instead. Gifts had to be given in secret, through the agency of innocent, unwitting store managers. Lex lets his eyes slide completely away from the computer screen to study Clark. His figure draws the eye. That isn’t something Lex would deny even outside of his head.
Ideals of male beauty had changed a lot in the past few millennia, but there are elements of all of them in Clark, as though someone had observed all of Earth’s history and from that constructed a superhuman being, or something with the appearance of one, at least. Lex pauses a little at his own fanciful thoughts, clearing his head of all the ridiculous possibilities and focusing instead on finding the correct answer.
He is already invisible until he chooses to be seen. He is more invisible now, in the same room as his best friend. Clark Kent is still just a boy, but he buries his hands in his jeans pockets and tugs the pants lower, and behind the counter, Lana’s eyes still stray down. Clark flashes white teeth, and flicks his eyes away, as if he doesn’t see or doesn’t understand. But after a moment he frowns and leans in against the counter. His arm is on the counter top, supporting him. His hand crosses into a space beyond where Lex can see it, closer to the girl he’s in love with than to Lex.
Unobserved, or thinking himself unobserved, Clark’s body moves gracefully to display itself. He lifts his head at something Lana says, lifts it higher than he needs to to simply show interest, and his throat is bare, hinting at more flawless skin waiting to be exposed.
The loose t-shirts, the flannel draped over hunched shoulders, they had hidden it for a while, almost successfully, but no matter how much yelling Jonathan Kent had done, it had been a while now since Clark had walked with his head down. Whatever had brought on the change is something else Lex needs to uncover.
He dreams about it. Throwing aside white sheets and finding something else underneath, something not a twisted hunk of metal best consigned to scrap. Wide, guileless blue eyes opened for him. A red mouth, shut for once so he doesn’t have to listen to any more lies. And skin, so much skin, clear and perfect, sweet as water on his tongue.
He no longer wants his latte, should never have ordered it.
Looking up he can see that Lana is laughing, pink and pastel and muted. She is a beautiful girl, more so when she has a goal. Lex moves his eyes from her, already familiar with that look on her.
Clark is evidently trying to be funny, or really was funny, though Lex can’t imagine what joke would get a reaction like that out of his calm store manager.
The pragmatic thoughts slither back, as always, even in the sheltered space he saves for Clark. Because there is always the possibility that Clark hadn’t been that funny at all, and that Lana is exaggerating her laugh to please Clark, to get Clark closer.
Lex dreams about that too. Pleasing Clark, getting Clark closer. He has sense enough to keep that hidden, or reason enough, considering the time and place, Smallville, home of football and corn and meteor rocks and no sympathy for those who don’t follow the set rules.
“Ah.” Lex murmurs out loud, not really surprised that Lana Lang is finally responding to Clark’s charm, but needing the sound of his own voice.
He is alone at his booth, with his cold coffee, separated from the world by space and time, by age and sunshiny flower arrangements. He can feel himself drifting, lost in the growing dark and staring up through the currents, and that is familiar as well.
He wonders if Clark knows what Lana is doing, but only for a moment, because his gaze goes to Clark’s flushed cheeks, and the sweep of eyelashes and he knows that Clark does. It’s only a question now of whether Clark responds, or feigns ignorance. It’s an academic question, something for research and charts and graphs like the ones Lex is ignoring, a lifeline of numbers and corollaries.
The argument for either side is strong. Lex watches, his attention fracturing into already-stored data and the collection of new evidence. Clark ducks his head, peeking up through his shaggy, silky black hair. Clark lifts his head a moment later, his lips dark from his teeth biting them, his gaze steady.
Lana is nothing now but a speck of pink at the edge of Lex’ vision. Clark is standing straight and tall, brighter than sunflowers will ever be, the center of the Talon, of Smallville, the world beyond Smallville. He is the god of the world that is supposed to belong to Lex.
Lex can feel the heat emanating from him even from across the room.
Lex’ fingers curl around the cold paper cup. This is more than Clark just growing up. More than a fantasy dredged up from a comic book, he knows that, and still files it away as irrelevant in his overall feelings for Clark Kent. This is the truth that the flannel had tried to keep hidden, this is the truth that Lex could have begged for, would still beg for, if he had been anyone else.
Lana is still, quiet, as breathless as anyone with eyes to find herself in the presence of that, this Clark.
The memories burn, red hot at the forefront of his mind, with this Clark superimposed over them. Straight and tall, strong, unmoving. No Porsche, no fire, no distance can even slow him. Beyond perfect, Lex had been right to label him superhuman.
Lex breathes out, unwilling to acknowledge at the moment the struggle it took for even that. Lana might not be able to see anything but Clark’s beauty now, but he can, sees Clark in that field, weak and bound, naked and humiliated, his eyes fierce and vengeful. Sees Clark bent over him, his eyes round and worried, his lips wet, his breath in Lex’s mouth.
He has the evidence locked away by not a few doors, he ought to know which is real, what to do. But the space inside is bursting past the doors, exploding like a blinding supernova.
Lex shuts his eyes, fights the childish need to fold his arms over his head like he had done back in that cornfield as a child while the shockwaves pass over him. He wants to, and that’s enough to make him hold back.
He opens his eyes and Clark is in front of him, at the edge of his booth, tall enough to make Lex look up even though he knows why he shouldn’t. The desire to fall to his knees doesn’t seem entirely unreasonable under the circumstances. But knowing that, and longing to drop down and press his mouth to Clark’s feet, are two very different things.
“Clark.” The name slips out, and it might be habit alone that there’s only the usual trace of amusement and curiosity in his tone. Clark’s cheeks are still flushed, but his lashes dip down at his name before he looks back up. He looks pleased, and Lex can feel himself responding, smiling, wanting to please Clark again.
He looks down casually, and puts an unshaking hand on his laptop. He barely pauses before shutting it, and leaving himself without even the flimsiest of shields. He keeps his face expressionless, but somehow doesn’t think it will matter.
Clark slides into the opposite side of the booth without being invited and Lex flicks his eyes back up. This new Clark seems confident of being wanted and illuminates Lex’ shadowed corner with just a hint of a smile. The whole space is warm.
“Hey, Lex.” The breathless greeting suddenly cracks his superman image, and Lex watches Clark’s gaze go from the spread-out papers to his face. “Am I interrupting?” His question his anxious, but Clark himself has made no move to leave Lex’ space, and Lex tilts his head to consider that.
Yes, and Clark will awkwardly get up and excuse himself and talk to Lana before attending the game he doesn’t really care about anymore. Yes, and Clark will leave, and Lex can go back to the mansion and try to remember that the world is supposed to be his for the taking.
No, and Clark will stay, and Lex will talk to him about the game neither of them cares about, and maybe ask him that question about Schrodinger’s Cat anyway. No, and Lex knows he might give in and worship Clark like the rest will soon enough, knows he might even though he’s also the only one who might ever resist him.
“No,” Lex pushes out the word, his heart racing. No, because all of him wants to kneel before Clark, because all of him needs Clark reaching down to touch him again, and because all of him cannot let that happen, and Luthors do not run from anything, not even their own feelings, not even gods.
Because Lex had let Clark pull from him from the water, he leans back into the padding he couldn’t care less about and smiles. Clark beams.
“Big game,” Lex remarks to fill the silence, to cover how his eyes will not leave Clark’s body when Clark mimics his pose and falls back. Clark shrugs, as though the game is nowhere near as interesting as being here with Lex right now. Lex files that away automatically, trying to keep a flurry of facts between them now that Clark has blown away the doors. For a moment his only thought is that he can’t let Clark know that he has.
“I guess.” The childish response makes Lex’ lips quirk up again despite everything. His quiet, his plans, are all as worthless now as his Porsche, and he is smiling. The shiver down his back is not entirely fear and there is no longer a locked room to hide it.
Clark’s eyes meet his when he looks up and see everything, if he knows what he’s seeing. He’s a blur of elemental reds and blues in front of Lex’ dry eyes, and then Lex swings his gaze over, blinking to see Lana bearing down on them with a tray.
She sets a cappuccino in a cup and saucer in front of Lex with a small, nervous smile and then sighs as she places a small cup in front of Clark. It doesn’t look like anything with chocolate or whipped cream. Lex looks at her while she looks at Clark, watches her recollect herself enough to blink and walk away when Clark doesn’t say anything except for a thank you.
“I got you a new drink. I bet that one went cold like an hour ago.” Clark turns back to him the moment she’s gone, and Lex lets a small line form between his eyes, but doesn’t comment. He doesn’t need to; Clark feels his smashed paper cup for a second and then shoots him a smug look.
Lex’ mouth is dry. He reaches for his cappuccino and takes a sip knowing it will be too hot. Anything that isn’t fresh, cold water would be.
“That’s very generous of you, Clark.” His lips are burning, sweet with foam. For a moment Clark’s eyes are as green as a meteor rock. Unearthly, Lex thinks, and swallows.
He had never been invisible; Clark had known he was here all along.
“No thank you, Lex.” Clark sits back up to lean on the table. He must be distracted, Lex can hear it creak. He looks serious, glancing back at the counter where Lana is finally occupied with a crowd of football fans. “Lana is my friend, but she can’t afford to give me free drinks everyday.”
Wide, guileless blue eyes opened for him. His red mouth, opened, his lips wet.
Because everything in him wants to wait for the rest, Lex lifts one corner of his mouth and gestures at the small cup Clark hasn’t yet touched.
“And what is that?”
“Oh,” Clark’s eyes dip down while he takes a careful sip. He uses his tongue to sweep a remaining drop from the corner of his mouth and then he hums a little. He catches Lex’ eye as he does, lets his tongue linger for a moment before his blushes overtake him again, and Lex nearly nods his head in acknowledgment of Clark’s little victory. “Something new Lana is trying. It’s called an affogato.”
Lex lets out a laugh that’s more of a cough. He takes a moment wondering if he ever really had a choice, then realizes that it doesn’t matter, he’d fight anyway.
Clark is staring at him, eyes lit up with curiosity and a silent demand to know, and Lex shakes his head before looking back at him.
“Affogato…” he repeats slowly, his voice rough, “…means drowned.”
Now let's make like this never happened.
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All hail Lex? :)
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