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cont.
Fifteen minutes later, his eyes still chilled from the cold compress, he stepped up to a podium bearing the Presidential seal and looked out at the shining sea of cameras, cold alien eyes. His left hand still wanted to grasp the podium for balance, and the reflexive twitching of his muscles sent hot spikes of pain through him.
“My fellow Americans, today a great crime has been perpetrated against us and all humanity. Superman came to these shores as a child, and in America’s grand tradition, we embraced him as one of our own. Today we discovered that he was not, as he believed, the last survivor of his race. But the other survivors we met were brutal thugs, determined to punish Superman for the supposed crimes of his parents – crimes I do not believe existed except in the twisted minds of these lawless strangers.
“They took me hostage to trade for Superman. And Superman came, as he would have come for any one of us, whether man or woman, child or adult, homeless or captain of industry, criminal or saint.
“We could not believe these villains when they said that they came only for Superman. They made perfectly clear that they delighted in exercising their powers against those who were physically weaker. As a result, our dedicated military personnel risked their own lives and executed a plan that should have remained only a what-if scenario.
“The alien ship has been destroyed. The danger to America, and to the world, has been contained. The White House sustained superficial damage, but Army engineers assure me that it’s structurally sound.
“Superman –“ He stopped, the words disappeared down some sinkhole in his heart. “Superman --. At this time, there are no – we have recovered no --“ He was crying. Lex Luthor, whose greatest political liability had been his perceived effeminacy, was crying on camera, in front of the whole world and possibly Mars. And he didn’t care.
Lana shoved something into his right hand. Thinking it was a tissue, he half-raised it to his eyes, then realized that it was a note. Clumsily, he unfurled it on the podium, blinking away the tears that made his vision blur in and out.
He looked up into the cameras. “Excuse me. Urgent matters require my attention. Secretary of Defense Whitney Fordham will brief you on nonclassified aspects of the military action.”
Lex moved smoothly off the podium, disdaining the helping hand Lana offered, and strode back into territory off-limits to the press. Behind him, the tidal roar of reporters surged and ebbed only a bit as Whitney stepped up and began to speak.
“This way,” an officer he’d never seen before said, and he followed.
They had to stop to put on hazmat suits, one jury-rigged for his broken arm by attaching an entire suit around the arm of another. The portable airlock seemed to work – Lex would have to reward the CDC for that – and they stepped into the chamber.
Clark’s body was lying on a low table, feet towards the entrance. Lex, almost hypnotized, walked to the other side. He was soaking wet, droplets of water collecting at the ends of his dark hair and slipping off like tears. Lex remembered their first meeting, when Clark had been just as wet, and felt again the choked agony of breathing with lungs sodden from drowning.
Clark was breathing too, shallow but there.
A respirator mask was over his mouth, fogged slightly. “We’ve hosed him down to get rid of Kryptonite particles, but we haven’t been able to get what’s left of the suit off,” a voice from another hazmat suit said in Lex’s ear. “He’s breathing oxygen from a tank, so he shouldn’t be swallowing any more, but it would be better if we could strip him.”
Lex reached down and tugged at the gold chain that disappeared into Clark’s ridiculous outfit. The yellowish ring should be warm from Clark’s body heat, though there was no way he could tell with his mechanical hand and the rubber glove over it. He rubbed the ring between his fingers, considering.
“I’m going to the Residence,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He tolerated assistance in shucking the suit outside the airlock, but then jogged – nay, ran – to his destination, heedless of the Secret Service officers’ panicked attempts to keep up. That was mean of him, given the major failure they’d already experienced today, but he couldn’t have cared less.
The vault was behind a Gilbert Stuart on loan from the National Gallery. Not as nice as his private collection, and too old by more than a century for his taste, but certain things were expected of a president. He paused before touching the dial, collecting himself and stilling his shaking hand.
The dial turned smoothly, back and forth and back again, and the heavy bronze door swung open. Lex reached in, rummaged around, and pulled out the canister he sought. Then he double-checked, because it would be a major letdown to make a mistake, but they were clearly labeled and he closed the door on the others.
Back again, swaddled in the rubber suit again, and he practically bounced into the decontamination chamber, canister tucked under his working arm. The doctors were still clustering worriedly around Clark, but they looked up when he reentered.
“Cover his exposed skin with this,” he said and let the canister fall into his hand so that he could hold it out. “It’ll go to solution in DMSO, so do that and give it to him orally.”
“What is it?” one of them asked.
“It’s a myth,” he said, smiling. And if the smile was crazier than it was sane, no one could tell through the facemask.
He stood, watching, as they rubbed the pale yellow powder into Clark’s visible skin. There was a fair amount, though nothing to arouse a prurient interest in anyone who didn’t have a thing for bloodied corpses. The arms and legs of the suit hadn’t stood up very well, which under the circumstances was a good thing. DMSO arrived – Lex never ceased to be amazed at what could be found within 500 meters of the White House – and two men propped Clark’s head up as another dribbled liquid down his throat.
Clark coughed, but kept it down.
After a time, when Lex had been provided with a seat and twice begged to leave at least long enough to eat, Clark made his first real independent movement since Lex had first entered the chamber.
He slumped over on one side and vomited onto the floor.
Lex eyed the puddle with some interest. Neither particularly yellow nor particularly green, which was what he’d hoped.
The doctors descended like locusts, asking if he was all right, if he knew where he was, if he knew what had happened. Clark was dazed, too confused to answer everything at once.
“Give him some room,” Lex ordered, and it was nice to know that sometimes doctors will listen to nonmedical personnel, at least if the person happens to be president. Clark raised his head and looked over at Lex, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of a Luthor encased in a garment roughly as flattering as the Goodyear Blimp. In orange.
“What happened?” Clark asked Lex, his voice muffled some by the oxygen mask.
“Capsule summary? They chose the wrong man with whom to fuck.” He hadn’t smirked in hours; he was going into withdrawal.
“Are they –“
“Dead. Departed. Shuffled off this mortal coil. Ex-Kryptonians.” Okay, he might have overshot and gone all the way to giddy.
Clark looked down at his chest. “The ring –“
“Yeah, it counteracts the effects of Kryptonite.” The doctors and soldiers in the room were all staring avidly at this unprecedented interaction. “The ring alone wasn’t enough, but I had some more lying around.”
“Lex –“
He hadn’t heard his given name from that mouth since – for a long time, anyway. Lex stood, brushing at the ridiculous rubber pants as if their line could be improved. “I’ve really got to go.”
“Thank you.” Clark’s voice was low and sincere. Not that the latter meant anything. Still, his heart seized up in his chest and he had to take a few deep breaths before he could reply.
“You mean a lot to this country, Superman.”
He turned and left the chamber. With any luck, there were a million things to do now, not the least of which was to announce Superman’s miraculous survival. And he desperately needed to figure out what he could plausibly wear with his arm done up like a robot’s.
Later, after the emergency Cabinet meeting and some time alone with Pete, his secretary buzzed with the news that Superman was waiting and did he have time for a meeting?
Lex took a minute to think. Clark was unlikely to persist after a few refusals, and he wouldn’t break through presidential security – he’d consider it rude, at a minimum. They might never meet in private again, if that’s what Lex wanted.
Apparently, what Lex wanted was to rip his heart out of his chest and squeeze, just for kicks. “Send him in.”
It took a few minutes for Clark and his escort to arrive. Lex amused himself by imagining Clark’s pajama-like outfit among all the dark suits, rep ties and sensible pumps of the White House staff. Amazing that a shy kid could have developed into an adult willing to wear such a retina-searing costume. Though he supposed that it drew attention away from Clark’s face.
There came a knock at the door, and then it opened, admitting Clark. The Secret Service agent watched him almost balefully as the door swung closed. The Secret Service and the Air Force were the only ones who’d always agreed with him that it was a matter of national security to be stronger than Superman, and Lex had just negated Superman’s only known vulnerability, or at least the only one a democracy could morally use. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time’ was not going to be a good enough excuse.
“Mr. President,” Clark said, looking around the Oval Office.
“What do you want, Clark?” Because he wasn’t scared, he got up from behind his desk and strolled over to the couch. It was difficult to arrange himself casually with his dominant arm useless, but he’d already had half a day’s worth of practice.
Clark sat in a wing chair, his hands on his knees like an attentive schoolboy.
“I want to know about the ring.” He wasn’t wearing the chain, Lex noted, and felt a distant pang. But from some secret pocket, Clark produced the ring on its chain and held it out.
Lex could have reached across the gap between them and taken the ring back.
He’d be damned if he accepted the return of another gift. “It’s yours; let the Fortress tell you about it.”
“Will it be able to make more?”
The scientist/lecturer in Lex reared his ugly head. “Possibly, possibly not. Remember how we speculated that the Kryptonite was like a monkey’s paw, granting a wish in the worst way imaginable? Human thought influenced the reactions. With this stuff, you have to be thinking –“ he looked away, feeling absurd even though he knew it was the truth – “happy thoughts. So you might need to find a friendly human scientist to repeat the synthesis.”
Clark considered the ring in his hand, looking at its polished surface as if he might find a message inscribed there. “I never asked – what were you wishing for when the meteors came?”
Twenty years was a long while to wait for that question, but Lex decided to answer it anyway. “I wished that my father wouldn’t keep dragging me around, showing me off like a prize horse. I wished I were healthy, and unafraid.” Overall, not the worst wishes. At least he hadn’t been a budding entomologist, or obsessed with electricity like that one kid. If his mother had succumbed the first time she’d gotten ill, he might have been wishing to raise the dead. Instead, the meteor shower had left him unnaturally healthy, bald, and not psychotic, which was at the far end of the good side of the bell curve for Kryptonite reactions.
“And are you? Unafraid?” Clark’s hazel eyes bored into his. For all Lex knew, he might have been looking in Lex’s brain, tracing the neurons.
“I haven’t been afraid to die since that day.”
Clark nodded. “Lex, when did you make this --?”
“I call it yellow Kryptonite. It has the same basic atomic structure,” he said and shrugged.
“Okay. When did you make it?”
“Does it matter? What if I told you it was an accidental byproduct of an attempt to synthesize green Kryptonite to make it work across large distances?”
“I’d want to know if that was the truth, and when you made it.” Clark’s gaze was steady, confident.
“It was, actually. The green synthesis wasn’t going anywhere, but occasionally I’d get this yellow stuff, and finally it occurred to me to test it. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to protect against the deleterious effects of regular Kryptonite, at least on Earth flora and fauna. I couldn’t be sure about you.”
“And when did you make the ring?”
Lex sat back and winced as every bone fragment in his left arm registered a separate protest. “You weren’t this persistent before.”
“Maybe I was and you never made me work for it.”
“If you’re looking for some kind of confession, I said all I wanted to say earlier. I kept the bulk powder on hand in case I needed to decontaminate an area after extensive Kryptonite exposure, which is now in fact the case. You’ve got the ring; don’t ask me for more.”
“But I want more, Lex.” Clark did one of his tricks, appearing on the couch beside him in less than an eyeblink. The heat of his thigh was like Proust’s madelines, ripping him back to a time when they’d sat like this on the ratty couch in the Kent’s barn, or on the long leather couch in front of the big TV in the castle, closer than necessary. Waiting for the moment Lex had finally begun to think was inevitable, when they’d turn their heads at the same time, each one’s eyes dropping to the other’s mouth, pupils dilating, breath hot and moist. Waiting for the first kiss and, inevitably, waiting for the last.
The grating sound of the brocade against their bodies reminded Lex that this wasn’t Smallville, and that Clark had always known intuitively what would get him what he wanted from Lex.
“Fuck you,” he said roughly, though the last syllable was said directly into Clark’s mouth. Clark’s hand was on his chin, holding him in place, while his mouth yielded like the Maginot Line. He couldn’t move his arms – he couldn’t feel his arms – and only his mouth was immune from the sticky paralysis Clark’s touch brought like poison.
He didn’t hear the knock, and he didn’t hear the door open, but he did hear Lana say, “Mr. Pres-ident!”
She finished at a much higher register than she’d started at.
By the time he got some distance from Clark and looked up, she’d slammed the door and had her back and hands pressed up against it as if to ensure that no one else could repeat her mistake. Her eyes were as wide as an anime character’s, and she looked as if she wanted to run away before Lex killed her but was afraid that any movement would cause him to strike. He wanted to wipe his mouth, but worried about how it would look.
Lana’s open-mouthed shock gave way to laughter, near-hysterical as she brought her hands to her mouth and doubled over, hiding her face. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and he watched her intricate silver filigree barrette shake with her guffaws.
Beside him, Clark started to laugh too.
Laughter is contagious, but Lex was immune.
He might have smiled a little.
Lana straightened up, still chortling. “Oh. My. God. The look on your faces!”
“You’re one to talk,” Clark said through his chuckles.
“Mr. President,” she tried again, still giggling, “is there something I ought to know?”
“No!” That tone was not presidential. It needed serious work.
“You know, the Weekly World News did a story like this –“
“That’s quite enough, Mrs. Ross.” There, much better. Almost glacial.
Lana sobered up quickly. “I’m sorry, Mr. President.”
Clark glared at him, always so ready to come to the aid of a damsel in distress.
“It’s all right, Lana,” he said, biting down on the sigh. “This was – a mistake.”
The couch cushions trembled as Clark shifted beside him. “Lana, could you maybe come back later? After Lex and I have finished talking?”
He could see Lana suppress the urge to repeat “Talking?” in precisely the tone that the euphemism deserved. “Why were you coming to see me?” he asked, to remind her that Clark wasn’t the one giving orders.
“Oh! Uh. Just – I have a list of interviews I think you ought to do. The New Today Show, a few others.”
“I trust your judgement.” Now get the hell out. Lana, good girl that she was, heard both statements and turned back to the door. “And, Lana? I’m fairly sure that your husband doesn’t need to hear about anything you saw just now.”
“Believe me, Mr. President, I am one hundred percent certain that he doesn’t. But, sir?” She paused, and after a moment he nodded permission for her to continue. “If – You shouldn’t keep me – or him -- in the dark about your long-term plans. I’m saying that as your press secretary, not just as your friend.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but recognized that he was at his limit.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Goodnight, Lana.”
“Goodnight, Mr. President. Clark.”
“’Bye,” Clark said, waving as the door closed behind her. “Now, where were we?”
“Somewhere we’re not going ag –“ was as far as he got before Clark was on him, barely respecting his broken arm. He’d forgotten – no, lie, he’d forcibly pushed out of his mind – what it was like to have Clark’s bulk pressing him down, transfering heat to him like a hot stone in a sauna. Resistance would be futile, he thought as Clark’s tongue slipped over his teeth. And, it was probably a mistake not to have touched anyone in such a long time. It made him too susceptible to Clark’s hand moving over his throat, down his chest and around his waist until he arched up, pressing himself against Clark’s body in every way he knew how.
With the last bit of self-control remaining to him, he smacked his arm against the sofa. He couldn’t manage much force, but there were enough loose bones that the pain was more than satisfactory. His involuntary grunt convinced Clark to back off a bit, though his hand was still high on Lex’s thigh.
“No means no, big guy,” Lex said, too breathily.
Clark pulled away entirely, propping his face moodily in one hand, his elbow on the arm of the couch. “No means ‘no, not on your terms, Clark.’”
“That’s also true,” he acknowledged.
“Look, you can’t take back what you said when you came out of the ship. I won’t believe you if you try. You didn’t ruin me, even if you did hurt me, and I want you back too.”
Lex looked away and swallowed, trying to think. Without Clark, he’d been stronger. Less distracted, more driven. Less – permeable. When he looked back, Clark’s eyes were filled with knowledge, but not pity.
“How does our story end, Lex?”
“How does any story end?” he responded, and it was like being back in front of one of the castle fireplaces, half-meaningful conversations about myth and history, honor and destiny.
“As I recall, either with a wedding or with everybody dead,” Clark said dryly. “Which are you going to choose?”
Lex looked at the man who he’d loved with every proton and electron in his body, the man who’d betrayed him better than Lionel could ever have hoped to do. He hadn’t been afraid to die since he was nine, but there were worse things than death to fear. If he let Clark define him again – and that was what would happen, for all Clark’s grumbling about Lex’s terms – he’d always be something of a failure, struggling at decisions that Clark found as natural as breathing.
He closed his eyes, and chose.
Notes: I read that yellow Kryptonite was “fictional,” unlike all the other kinds of Kryptonite, and somehow that turned into this.
I’m not satisfied with this, so constructive criticism welcome. The harsher you are, the more I want you to send it to RivkaT@aol.com rather than putting it here. I want help, but I’m not an exhibitionist masochist. One specific question: I should get rid of Whitney, right?
Fifteen minutes later, his eyes still chilled from the cold compress, he stepped up to a podium bearing the Presidential seal and looked out at the shining sea of cameras, cold alien eyes. His left hand still wanted to grasp the podium for balance, and the reflexive twitching of his muscles sent hot spikes of pain through him.
“My fellow Americans, today a great crime has been perpetrated against us and all humanity. Superman came to these shores as a child, and in America’s grand tradition, we embraced him as one of our own. Today we discovered that he was not, as he believed, the last survivor of his race. But the other survivors we met were brutal thugs, determined to punish Superman for the supposed crimes of his parents – crimes I do not believe existed except in the twisted minds of these lawless strangers.
“They took me hostage to trade for Superman. And Superman came, as he would have come for any one of us, whether man or woman, child or adult, homeless or captain of industry, criminal or saint.
“We could not believe these villains when they said that they came only for Superman. They made perfectly clear that they delighted in exercising their powers against those who were physically weaker. As a result, our dedicated military personnel risked their own lives and executed a plan that should have remained only a what-if scenario.
“The alien ship has been destroyed. The danger to America, and to the world, has been contained. The White House sustained superficial damage, but Army engineers assure me that it’s structurally sound.
“Superman –“ He stopped, the words disappeared down some sinkhole in his heart. “Superman --. At this time, there are no – we have recovered no --“ He was crying. Lex Luthor, whose greatest political liability had been his perceived effeminacy, was crying on camera, in front of the whole world and possibly Mars. And he didn’t care.
Lana shoved something into his right hand. Thinking it was a tissue, he half-raised it to his eyes, then realized that it was a note. Clumsily, he unfurled it on the podium, blinking away the tears that made his vision blur in and out.
He looked up into the cameras. “Excuse me. Urgent matters require my attention. Secretary of Defense Whitney Fordham will brief you on nonclassified aspects of the military action.”
Lex moved smoothly off the podium, disdaining the helping hand Lana offered, and strode back into territory off-limits to the press. Behind him, the tidal roar of reporters surged and ebbed only a bit as Whitney stepped up and began to speak.
“This way,” an officer he’d never seen before said, and he followed.
They had to stop to put on hazmat suits, one jury-rigged for his broken arm by attaching an entire suit around the arm of another. The portable airlock seemed to work – Lex would have to reward the CDC for that – and they stepped into the chamber.
Clark’s body was lying on a low table, feet towards the entrance. Lex, almost hypnotized, walked to the other side. He was soaking wet, droplets of water collecting at the ends of his dark hair and slipping off like tears. Lex remembered their first meeting, when Clark had been just as wet, and felt again the choked agony of breathing with lungs sodden from drowning.
Clark was breathing too, shallow but there.
A respirator mask was over his mouth, fogged slightly. “We’ve hosed him down to get rid of Kryptonite particles, but we haven’t been able to get what’s left of the suit off,” a voice from another hazmat suit said in Lex’s ear. “He’s breathing oxygen from a tank, so he shouldn’t be swallowing any more, but it would be better if we could strip him.”
Lex reached down and tugged at the gold chain that disappeared into Clark’s ridiculous outfit. The yellowish ring should be warm from Clark’s body heat, though there was no way he could tell with his mechanical hand and the rubber glove over it. He rubbed the ring between his fingers, considering.
“I’m going to the Residence,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
He tolerated assistance in shucking the suit outside the airlock, but then jogged – nay, ran – to his destination, heedless of the Secret Service officers’ panicked attempts to keep up. That was mean of him, given the major failure they’d already experienced today, but he couldn’t have cared less.
The vault was behind a Gilbert Stuart on loan from the National Gallery. Not as nice as his private collection, and too old by more than a century for his taste, but certain things were expected of a president. He paused before touching the dial, collecting himself and stilling his shaking hand.
The dial turned smoothly, back and forth and back again, and the heavy bronze door swung open. Lex reached in, rummaged around, and pulled out the canister he sought. Then he double-checked, because it would be a major letdown to make a mistake, but they were clearly labeled and he closed the door on the others.
Back again, swaddled in the rubber suit again, and he practically bounced into the decontamination chamber, canister tucked under his working arm. The doctors were still clustering worriedly around Clark, but they looked up when he reentered.
“Cover his exposed skin with this,” he said and let the canister fall into his hand so that he could hold it out. “It’ll go to solution in DMSO, so do that and give it to him orally.”
“What is it?” one of them asked.
“It’s a myth,” he said, smiling. And if the smile was crazier than it was sane, no one could tell through the facemask.
He stood, watching, as they rubbed the pale yellow powder into Clark’s visible skin. There was a fair amount, though nothing to arouse a prurient interest in anyone who didn’t have a thing for bloodied corpses. The arms and legs of the suit hadn’t stood up very well, which under the circumstances was a good thing. DMSO arrived – Lex never ceased to be amazed at what could be found within 500 meters of the White House – and two men propped Clark’s head up as another dribbled liquid down his throat.
Clark coughed, but kept it down.
After a time, when Lex had been provided with a seat and twice begged to leave at least long enough to eat, Clark made his first real independent movement since Lex had first entered the chamber.
He slumped over on one side and vomited onto the floor.
Lex eyed the puddle with some interest. Neither particularly yellow nor particularly green, which was what he’d hoped.
The doctors descended like locusts, asking if he was all right, if he knew where he was, if he knew what had happened. Clark was dazed, too confused to answer everything at once.
“Give him some room,” Lex ordered, and it was nice to know that sometimes doctors will listen to nonmedical personnel, at least if the person happens to be president. Clark raised his head and looked over at Lex, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of a Luthor encased in a garment roughly as flattering as the Goodyear Blimp. In orange.
“What happened?” Clark asked Lex, his voice muffled some by the oxygen mask.
“Capsule summary? They chose the wrong man with whom to fuck.” He hadn’t smirked in hours; he was going into withdrawal.
“Are they –“
“Dead. Departed. Shuffled off this mortal coil. Ex-Kryptonians.” Okay, he might have overshot and gone all the way to giddy.
Clark looked down at his chest. “The ring –“
“Yeah, it counteracts the effects of Kryptonite.” The doctors and soldiers in the room were all staring avidly at this unprecedented interaction. “The ring alone wasn’t enough, but I had some more lying around.”
“Lex –“
He hadn’t heard his given name from that mouth since – for a long time, anyway. Lex stood, brushing at the ridiculous rubber pants as if their line could be improved. “I’ve really got to go.”
“Thank you.” Clark’s voice was low and sincere. Not that the latter meant anything. Still, his heart seized up in his chest and he had to take a few deep breaths before he could reply.
“You mean a lot to this country, Superman.”
He turned and left the chamber. With any luck, there were a million things to do now, not the least of which was to announce Superman’s miraculous survival. And he desperately needed to figure out what he could plausibly wear with his arm done up like a robot’s.
Later, after the emergency Cabinet meeting and some time alone with Pete, his secretary buzzed with the news that Superman was waiting and did he have time for a meeting?
Lex took a minute to think. Clark was unlikely to persist after a few refusals, and he wouldn’t break through presidential security – he’d consider it rude, at a minimum. They might never meet in private again, if that’s what Lex wanted.
Apparently, what Lex wanted was to rip his heart out of his chest and squeeze, just for kicks. “Send him in.”
It took a few minutes for Clark and his escort to arrive. Lex amused himself by imagining Clark’s pajama-like outfit among all the dark suits, rep ties and sensible pumps of the White House staff. Amazing that a shy kid could have developed into an adult willing to wear such a retina-searing costume. Though he supposed that it drew attention away from Clark’s face.
There came a knock at the door, and then it opened, admitting Clark. The Secret Service agent watched him almost balefully as the door swung closed. The Secret Service and the Air Force were the only ones who’d always agreed with him that it was a matter of national security to be stronger than Superman, and Lex had just negated Superman’s only known vulnerability, or at least the only one a democracy could morally use. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time’ was not going to be a good enough excuse.
“Mr. President,” Clark said, looking around the Oval Office.
“What do you want, Clark?” Because he wasn’t scared, he got up from behind his desk and strolled over to the couch. It was difficult to arrange himself casually with his dominant arm useless, but he’d already had half a day’s worth of practice.
Clark sat in a wing chair, his hands on his knees like an attentive schoolboy.
“I want to know about the ring.” He wasn’t wearing the chain, Lex noted, and felt a distant pang. But from some secret pocket, Clark produced the ring on its chain and held it out.
Lex could have reached across the gap between them and taken the ring back.
He’d be damned if he accepted the return of another gift. “It’s yours; let the Fortress tell you about it.”
“Will it be able to make more?”
The scientist/lecturer in Lex reared his ugly head. “Possibly, possibly not. Remember how we speculated that the Kryptonite was like a monkey’s paw, granting a wish in the worst way imaginable? Human thought influenced the reactions. With this stuff, you have to be thinking –“ he looked away, feeling absurd even though he knew it was the truth – “happy thoughts. So you might need to find a friendly human scientist to repeat the synthesis.”
Clark considered the ring in his hand, looking at its polished surface as if he might find a message inscribed there. “I never asked – what were you wishing for when the meteors came?”
Twenty years was a long while to wait for that question, but Lex decided to answer it anyway. “I wished that my father wouldn’t keep dragging me around, showing me off like a prize horse. I wished I were healthy, and unafraid.” Overall, not the worst wishes. At least he hadn’t been a budding entomologist, or obsessed with electricity like that one kid. If his mother had succumbed the first time she’d gotten ill, he might have been wishing to raise the dead. Instead, the meteor shower had left him unnaturally healthy, bald, and not psychotic, which was at the far end of the good side of the bell curve for Kryptonite reactions.
“And are you? Unafraid?” Clark’s hazel eyes bored into his. For all Lex knew, he might have been looking in Lex’s brain, tracing the neurons.
“I haven’t been afraid to die since that day.”
Clark nodded. “Lex, when did you make this --?”
“I call it yellow Kryptonite. It has the same basic atomic structure,” he said and shrugged.
“Okay. When did you make it?”
“Does it matter? What if I told you it was an accidental byproduct of an attempt to synthesize green Kryptonite to make it work across large distances?”
“I’d want to know if that was the truth, and when you made it.” Clark’s gaze was steady, confident.
“It was, actually. The green synthesis wasn’t going anywhere, but occasionally I’d get this yellow stuff, and finally it occurred to me to test it. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to protect against the deleterious effects of regular Kryptonite, at least on Earth flora and fauna. I couldn’t be sure about you.”
“And when did you make the ring?”
Lex sat back and winced as every bone fragment in his left arm registered a separate protest. “You weren’t this persistent before.”
“Maybe I was and you never made me work for it.”
“If you’re looking for some kind of confession, I said all I wanted to say earlier. I kept the bulk powder on hand in case I needed to decontaminate an area after extensive Kryptonite exposure, which is now in fact the case. You’ve got the ring; don’t ask me for more.”
“But I want more, Lex.” Clark did one of his tricks, appearing on the couch beside him in less than an eyeblink. The heat of his thigh was like Proust’s madelines, ripping him back to a time when they’d sat like this on the ratty couch in the Kent’s barn, or on the long leather couch in front of the big TV in the castle, closer than necessary. Waiting for the moment Lex had finally begun to think was inevitable, when they’d turn their heads at the same time, each one’s eyes dropping to the other’s mouth, pupils dilating, breath hot and moist. Waiting for the first kiss and, inevitably, waiting for the last.
The grating sound of the brocade against their bodies reminded Lex that this wasn’t Smallville, and that Clark had always known intuitively what would get him what he wanted from Lex.
“Fuck you,” he said roughly, though the last syllable was said directly into Clark’s mouth. Clark’s hand was on his chin, holding him in place, while his mouth yielded like the Maginot Line. He couldn’t move his arms – he couldn’t feel his arms – and only his mouth was immune from the sticky paralysis Clark’s touch brought like poison.
He didn’t hear the knock, and he didn’t hear the door open, but he did hear Lana say, “Mr. Pres-ident!”
She finished at a much higher register than she’d started at.
By the time he got some distance from Clark and looked up, she’d slammed the door and had her back and hands pressed up against it as if to ensure that no one else could repeat her mistake. Her eyes were as wide as an anime character’s, and she looked as if she wanted to run away before Lex killed her but was afraid that any movement would cause him to strike. He wanted to wipe his mouth, but worried about how it would look.
Lana’s open-mouthed shock gave way to laughter, near-hysterical as she brought her hands to her mouth and doubled over, hiding her face. Her hair spilled over her shoulders and he watched her intricate silver filigree barrette shake with her guffaws.
Beside him, Clark started to laugh too.
Laughter is contagious, but Lex was immune.
He might have smiled a little.
Lana straightened up, still chortling. “Oh. My. God. The look on your faces!”
“You’re one to talk,” Clark said through his chuckles.
“Mr. President,” she tried again, still giggling, “is there something I ought to know?”
“No!” That tone was not presidential. It needed serious work.
“You know, the Weekly World News did a story like this –“
“That’s quite enough, Mrs. Ross.” There, much better. Almost glacial.
Lana sobered up quickly. “I’m sorry, Mr. President.”
Clark glared at him, always so ready to come to the aid of a damsel in distress.
“It’s all right, Lana,” he said, biting down on the sigh. “This was – a mistake.”
The couch cushions trembled as Clark shifted beside him. “Lana, could you maybe come back later? After Lex and I have finished talking?”
He could see Lana suppress the urge to repeat “Talking?” in precisely the tone that the euphemism deserved. “Why were you coming to see me?” he asked, to remind her that Clark wasn’t the one giving orders.
“Oh! Uh. Just – I have a list of interviews I think you ought to do. The New Today Show, a few others.”
“I trust your judgement.” Now get the hell out. Lana, good girl that she was, heard both statements and turned back to the door. “And, Lana? I’m fairly sure that your husband doesn’t need to hear about anything you saw just now.”
“Believe me, Mr. President, I am one hundred percent certain that he doesn’t. But, sir?” She paused, and after a moment he nodded permission for her to continue. “If – You shouldn’t keep me – or him -- in the dark about your long-term plans. I’m saying that as your press secretary, not just as your friend.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, but recognized that he was at his limit.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Goodnight, Lana.”
“Goodnight, Mr. President. Clark.”
“’Bye,” Clark said, waving as the door closed behind her. “Now, where were we?”
“Somewhere we’re not going ag –“ was as far as he got before Clark was on him, barely respecting his broken arm. He’d forgotten – no, lie, he’d forcibly pushed out of his mind – what it was like to have Clark’s bulk pressing him down, transfering heat to him like a hot stone in a sauna. Resistance would be futile, he thought as Clark’s tongue slipped over his teeth. And, it was probably a mistake not to have touched anyone in such a long time. It made him too susceptible to Clark’s hand moving over his throat, down his chest and around his waist until he arched up, pressing himself against Clark’s body in every way he knew how.
With the last bit of self-control remaining to him, he smacked his arm against the sofa. He couldn’t manage much force, but there were enough loose bones that the pain was more than satisfactory. His involuntary grunt convinced Clark to back off a bit, though his hand was still high on Lex’s thigh.
“No means no, big guy,” Lex said, too breathily.
Clark pulled away entirely, propping his face moodily in one hand, his elbow on the arm of the couch. “No means ‘no, not on your terms, Clark.’”
“That’s also true,” he acknowledged.
“Look, you can’t take back what you said when you came out of the ship. I won’t believe you if you try. You didn’t ruin me, even if you did hurt me, and I want you back too.”
Lex looked away and swallowed, trying to think. Without Clark, he’d been stronger. Less distracted, more driven. Less – permeable. When he looked back, Clark’s eyes were filled with knowledge, but not pity.
“How does our story end, Lex?”
“How does any story end?” he responded, and it was like being back in front of one of the castle fireplaces, half-meaningful conversations about myth and history, honor and destiny.
“As I recall, either with a wedding or with everybody dead,” Clark said dryly. “Which are you going to choose?”
Lex looked at the man who he’d loved with every proton and electron in his body, the man who’d betrayed him better than Lionel could ever have hoped to do. He hadn’t been afraid to die since he was nine, but there were worse things than death to fear. If he let Clark define him again – and that was what would happen, for all Clark’s grumbling about Lex’s terms – he’d always be something of a failure, struggling at decisions that Clark found as natural as breathing.
He closed his eyes, and chose.
Notes: I read that yellow Kryptonite was “fictional,” unlike all the other kinds of Kryptonite, and somehow that turned into this.
I’m not satisfied with this, so constructive criticism welcome. The harsher you are, the more I want you to send it to RivkaT@aol.com rather than putting it here. I want help, but I’m not an exhibitionist masochist. One specific question: I should get rid of Whitney, right?
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No Chloe, shouting questions from the peanut gallery? Hehehehe.
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Thanks for the comments.
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More coming in email.
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I really do like the story -- I like the characterization of Lex, especially, and I look forward to seeing the final version.
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Meeple!