Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Early June, 2003

As he was escorted into the downtown Lisbon police station, Lex rolled his eyes at the officer’s ongoing tirade about the sorry state of the world and no-good American tourists. During the first run-through that had started sometime after pulling over and before being ordered to get out of the rented Maserati, Lex hadn’t been able to parse much of the cop’s quick, irate speech. It had been a while since he’d needed his Portuguese, after all. However, the policeman had kindly repeated himself several times so that by the time he was giving his name to the booker, the Luthor heir knew the public servant’s grievances backwards and forwards, and had learned several new profanities in the bargain.

“Então?” The officer stopped his monologue to glare a question at Lex. “Que dizes para si mesmo?”

Mister Luthor raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Advogado, por favor.”

The policeman set his jaw. It was the only thing, besides his name, that Lex had said during the entire procedure.

“Amanhã.”

Lex shrugged. An inefficient exit from police custody would piss off his father even more than his relapse into hedonism.

They led him to the main holding cell just behind the booking station. There was the apparently universal collection of drunks and thugs, a prostitute, and a dark-haired woman in an expensive-looking white and black club dress who was resting her head against her folded knees in a way that suggested she was trying to sleep. She was tall, slender and fit under the scant material of the dress, and in the harsh fluorescent light of the cells her skin was almost shockingly pale. When they opened the door, her head came up enough to look at him, and he saw piercingly blue eyes and elegant cheekbones through the veil of loose strands of coal-black hair.

He knew her immediately: Helen Wayne, scion of Gotham, only surviving member of her family and heir to not one but two fortunes that ran older and deeper than the empire Lionel Luthor had built. Lex smiled enough to show teeth. Tonight was turning out to be interesting.

Once they had locked him in and taken off the handcuffs, he turned nonchalantly and sauntered over to the emptiest section of bench. It was the space immediately next to Ms. Wayne.

He felt her gaze flick over him efficiently, taking in his fine wool trousers, custom-made Oxfords, Italian leather belt, and dime-a-dozen sleeveless undershirt.

“Where’s the rest of it?” she asked in a low, throaty voice that sounded a little the worse for a long night’s wear.

Crossing his legs casually, he leaned back, hands laced behind his head. “The car, I think.” He waggled his eyebrows at the officer standing guard. “It’s no fun if you know where all your clothes are.”

“Mmmm.” She didn’t say anything, and he couldn’t see most of her face between her knees and the fall of her hair, but he was pretty sure she smiled. “Busy night, then.”

“Why, Ms. Wayne, I’m just getting started.” He tried to put together her evening from her appearance and failed, intrigued. “And you?”

“Winding down, Mister Luthor.” She kept her eyes on him, studying him with a lazy intensity that suggested more was going on inside that lovely head than the society pages tended to imagine, and when her chin lifted a fraction more to give her a better view of him, he could see that the curve of her right cheek was vividly blue and purple with a fresh bruise. “Though it was a colorful experience. Lisbon men are very ... vigorous.”

He held her gaze steadily. “I see. I can only imagine he was trying to make up for deficiencies in other areas. Although,” he drawled, smirking, “he must not have been very good at that, either, if you’re the one in here.”

“He wasn’t. Neither were his friends.” She lifted her head enough that he could see the flash of teeth in her smile. “The police may have gotten around to them eventually. The paramedics were in the way, last I saw them.”

Which would explain, Lex thought to himself, the unoccupied bench and the distance the drunks are giving her.

“I applaud your skill and thoroughness, Ms. Wayne. What kind of training do you have? I’m partial to tae kwon do, myself.” She had to have some kind of formal education in the art, given her body type and the three or more grown men she’d incapacitated.

“Boxing. Aikido. Jiujitsu. Singlestick and fencing have their own pleasures.” There was a note of satisfaction in her voice at the topic, at just the idea, that he could hear even through the husk of her voice. “Do you fence, Mister Luthor?”

He grinned with genuine pleasure. “Since I was twelve. Glorious, isn’t it? Tactics and adrenaline all at once.” It was something he was good at, giving someone bits of the truth. Over time he could curate a nuanced, false image of himself made entirely of small honesties.

Her soft, molten chuckle was provocative in a way he wasn’t quite ready for, in spite of the dress she was wearing, but since she lowered her face back to her knees at that moment he was spared the fact that she might have seen it on his face. “Will you take a bet, Mister Luthor?”

“What sort of bet, Ms. Wayne? I’ve heard it’s good to know before jumping into these things.”

“If my lawyer gets us out of here first,” she said, her voice muted by her knees but still sly, “you buy me lunch and give me a fencing match. If yours gets us out first, I buy you dinner and you take me for a drive.”

Lex raised an eyebrow. “You assume I’d have mine get both of us out.”

“Of course you would.” She fixed him with those piercing blue eyes again, and it was like being a great deal more undressed than he already was. “Think it through.”

With a smirk he let his gaze wander down and back up. “Of course. You’re the most fun I’ve had in ages.” He nodded, extending his right hand. “I accept.”

She reached out and took his hand in her own, and he could feel the strength in those slender fingers when she gripped him. “Besides,” she said in that same mild, almost lazy tone, “you never pass up a chance to throw your weight around to impress a woman. Especially if it will piss off a few authority figures at the same time.”

His laugh reached every part of him, for once. “Beautiful, thorough, and you have my number. Luck is with me tonight.”

Turning to face the guard, he called out loudly while gesturing the man over. “Policial! Sim, você.” The guard looked annoyed. “Telefone. Agora.” Newlin would be cranky about the time, but a nice bonus should take care of that.

The police officer ostentatiously ignored him. Lex frowned and memorized the name and number on his ID tag. Something unfortunate would have to be arranged for the man.

Helen smirked. “Problem, Mister Luthor?”

His smile was dazzling. “A minor setback, Ms. Wayne.” His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Care to spar?”

“I don’t think we’re going to have that kind of time,” she told him, eyes dark with amusement.

He settled back against the wall. “In that case, Miss, I await the morning with bated breath.”

“Isn’t it morning yet?” She arched an eyebrow at him, smiling, and outside in the lobby there was a sudden muffled ruckus of voices in English and Portuguese. “I’ve lost track of the time.”

Outwardly uninterested in the noise, Lex shrugged. “Three-ish, last I saw. I was referring to the more traditional definition.”

“Mmm.” Her smile grew another notch. “Breakfast sounds lovely. Join me, whichever of us wins the bet.”

“I’d love to, Ms. Wayne, and I know just the place. Great pasteis de nata.” Listening intently to the new voices - an American and an interpreter - he resigned himself to losing the bet.

The door to the holding area snapped open, and two women and a man in the black suits and white shirts that said security in any language came through at a brisk walk with the station sergeant trailing after them. The leader of the group was as tall as Helen and more heavily built, her olive complexion and dark hair both striking in hawkish sort of way, and her fierce dark eyes settled on Helen with the focused intensity of a high-powered laser. “Miss Wayne,” she said, her voice absolutely unamused, “I am going to start putting you in armored vans that lock on the inside from now on.”

“We both know that isn’t going to happen, Capaldi.” Helen stretched slowly, the motion so elegantly feline that Lex found himself thinking of the tiger that had been part of his seventh birthday party, and glided to her feet with a graceful fluidity that told him a great deal about exactly how much martial arts training she must have had to move that way. “I’m just glad your little toy started working again.” She ran a fingertip around the elegant platinum-inlaid bracelet around her wrist that Lex noticed for the first time was made of brushed titanium. “I trust that Ethan is already about his work?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Capaldi’s eyes narrowed, and she gestured for her back-up to cover the entrances. The man and woman both went about it with hearteningly professional efficiency. “The sergeant here was about to let you out.”

“Tell Ethan I want this man released as well,” Helen said with a flick of her fingers toward Lex, “and his car returned from impound. Then the two of us will be going to breakfast.”

Capaldi turned and looked Lex over with hard, disapproving eyes. “At least let me run a background check on him first, ma’am.”

Lex gave her his best insolent smirk, smiling when her glare tightened noticeably.

“A background check on Lex Luthor? I can only imagine it would make interesting reading.” Helen grinned impertinently. “Arrange it. And Capaldi?”

“Ma’am?”

“Thank you,” Helen said, in a voice that was so gently personal that Lex understood entirely the flash of exasperated, intimate loyalty on the bodyguard’s face as Capaldi nodded, just once, and then dragged the sergeant back out to the front room with her.

Standing, Lex made a show of stretching. Nonchalantly drawing attention to his well-muscled arms always amused him. “I have got to get one of those. Is it proprietary tech?”

“Simple encrypted GPS tracker,” she replied. “Mounted inside the bracelet. I disabled it right after I ditched her people for the night. When I arrived at the station, I fixed it.”

Both the Wayne security people spared a look from their job to glare at her. Helen smiled back, undeterred, and suddenly Lex couldn’t stand the hours that lay between them and their first fencing match. “I needed the privacy,” Helen explained, smiling faintly and turning to look at him with those deep blue eyes that gathered even the harsh light of the fluorescents into themselves. “You understand.”

His own, paler eyes regarded her with recognition and admiration. “I understand.”

“I left my rental somewhere in the Alcântara district,” she said, and her lips curved up into a smile that at least said convincingly that it was just for him. “You’ll have to drive me to breakfast.”

The grin spread across Lex’s face slowly. “Ms. Wayne, I hope you like fast cars.”

“And fast men?” she grinned back, offering him her arm.

“You took the words out of my mouth.”

Chapter Text

Early June, 2003

Lunchtime at Smallville High, and the students had all gone to their natural habitats: jocks to the popular corner of the cafeteria, nerds to the library, and nosy weirdos to the newspaper room.

Clark sighed. He was beginning to think that Pete had been right when he joked about news being a gateway drug. Sure, it started innocently with interviewing classmates about Homecoming, but then it had escalated to turning down social activities in favor of chasing down headlines, and, in his darker hours, examining public records.

Sometimes, he didn’t even want to stop.

“You’d think the Planet would have gotten tired of covering Lex’s Girlfriend-of-the-Month club.” Chloe frowned at the offending front page. “They bury all the good stuff.”

And, okay, there was the part where he could read about Lex. Which today was decidedly good-news-bad-news.

“It’s been a slow week, I guess.” He tried to sound casual and almost made it. “No meteor-freak incidents for almost a month, and the elections are all over, so...” He shrugged. Maybe casual-ish.

“Hey, she’s not so bad. At least she doesn’t look like a stripper.” Pete was looking over Chloe’s shoulder, his bag dangling loose from his hand, stopped in the middle of his emphatic exit from the realm of the Wall of Weird by the dark-haired girl on the Planet’s front page. “Who is she, anyway?”

Clark was very decidedly not looking. Unfortunately, the article he was supposed to be proofing didn’t receive any attention, either.

Chloe used precious seconds of news-reading time to give Pete a look of utter disbelief. “Um, hello? Only the richest and most famous Gothamite in the last twenty years.”

Resolve evaporated, Clark spun around in the chair. “He’s dating Helen Wayne?!”

His friends turned and stared at him with matching expressions of confused disbelief. “You care?” They were off being exactly synchronized when they said it, but not by much.

“No.” It came out a bit too loud, and Clark shifted uncomfortably. “But he’s always going on about improving his image. Respectability. She’s kinda wild for that, isn’t she? I’m just surprised.” He turned back to the proofreading with a vengeance. Today was not a good day to be a comma splice.

“Relax, Clark,” Chloe told him airily. “It’s not like the Princess of Gotham is going to marry him or anything. It’s a fling. They hit a few nightclubs, go skydiving, whatever. It’s a three day story.”

“Besides,” Pete snorted, “like she could make his reputation any worse.”

Die, run-on-sentence, die.

“Or he’s doing it to piss off his dad,” Chloe suggested. “I know I would if my father was the devil.”

An auto-correct error bit the dust. “Lionel isn’t... Well, okay, he is.” Clark agreed. “Don’t tell my dad I said so.”

“You dad is totally right on that, Clark. It runs in the family, too.” Pete got his bag over his shoulder and started out the door. “Chloe! Food!”

“All right. Fine. Coming. Be right back, Clark.” Chloe abandoned her paper on the table for a minute and hustled out of the Torch on Pete’s heels, leaving Clark alone with his editing and the Planet with the pictures of Lex and Helen Wayne and the internet.

That was always a terrible combination.

He searched it. He knew he shouldn’t, knew that it would remind him of whatever had happened with him and Lex - or, more frequently lately, painfully not happened. About whatever it was that had driven Lex to hop the company jet out of town two weeks ago with barely a word. It wasn’t like he could do anything about it. Guys who kept extremely important personal information from their best friends didn’t have much of a leg to stand on when it came to said best friends' relationship choices.

Results plastered the browser window, and Clark’s chest tightened. He’d been expecting the kind of photos he’d become used to with media coverage of Lex: suave, self-possessed, showing the camera exactly what he wanted and no more. Master of the universe. He didn’t like those because they didn’t show the parts of Lex that Clark liked best.

These pictures did. At least, some of it. Lex laughing with Helen as they leaned over the back of a boat together with champagne flutes in their hands. Lex smiling his shark grin at Helen as they descended the steps of one of Metropolis’s most expensive playhouses toward their waiting limousine. Lex and Helen dancing, the two of them climbing out of Lex’s car with Helen’s hair loose and windblown, his best friend wearing the look of alert fascination he got when he was absorbed in something. Lex looking at Helen like she was a steak dinner with all the trimmings.

He shouldn’t have looked. He shouldn’t. It made something in his chest hurt.

It’s a three-day story, he repeated to himself, closing the window before he could look any more at the lean, dark-haired witch that had put his best friend under her spell. It’s a fling.

The pain in his chest wouldn’t go away.

By the time lunch was over, all the articles had been speed-edited, the browsing history deleted. Clark wished he could resolve the rest of his life that easily.

Chapter Text

Late June, 2003

Saturday or not, Luthors had work to do, and so Lex was awake, showered, dressed, and sitting with his feet up in his home office before nine. He still liked to enjoy the weekend, though, so breakfast consisted of hundred-year-old Scotch, neat.

The slow burn in his throat was wonderfully smooth.

Closing his eyes, he let out a long breath. It had been an eventful three weeks. Here he was, in the most luxuriously appointed back end of beyond, with an old-money Gothamite who was doing all sorts of uncomfortable things to his sense of normalcy and stability. He had never meant for it to go so far, but she’d made it frighteningly easy to care about their relationship. For there to be a relationship completely divorced from strategic interest was enough of a danger, but the extent of his sentimental investment had already grown well past the point of safety.

Of course, it wasn’t like this was the first time that had happened. He opened his eyes and stared at the antique model of a cargo galleon he’d picked up in Portugal. It occupied the space once filled with the Ming vase that had been a trophy of one of his father’s hostile takeovers.

Dad had stopped by to criticize him on his latest public display of emotion. Lex had taken it in sardonic stride until Lionel had started in on his son’s obvious lack of effort to control himself. Then Lex had had to laugh, because if anyone knew how hard he worked at keeping his hands off Clark, he’d have won some kind of medal.

The vase had borne the brunt of that little breakdown.  

Maybe he’d have been able to handle his ridiculous infatuation if Clark hadn’t lied to him, again, so painfully obviously. Apparently repressed anger and lust were an explosive combination. Getting the hell out of town was obviously necessary. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that running away had not only failed to resolve anything to do with Clark, but had landed him an entirely new emotional dilemma in the bargain.

Of course, there was the great and singular advantage that there was absolutely nothing stopping him from touching Helen when he wanted to. Especially not Helen.

“Lex?” The soft, almost hesitant warmth of Clark Kent’s voice snuck up on him and ambushed him from the door of his office like the unfair, unjust and impossible secret weapon that it was. “Your car’s out front. Welcome back, I guess.”

“Clark. Come in.” He hadn’t meant to say that. The rest of the Scotch didn’t deserve to be slung back like cheap moonshine, but Lex sure as hell needed it. Especially with that tentative, hopeful expression on Clark’s face.  “You’ve been well?”

“Uh... Fine. Good. Great.” Damn him, but the farmboy was a terrible liar. It was insulting, to be lied to so obviously while Clark stood there and rubbed his shoes on the floor and tugged the edges of his jacket and was otherwise a screaming mass of tells. “The farm’s good and summer break just started, so that’s good. And the truck is still running great. So things are great.”

The Scotch and the lies helped him find his edge. “That was an atrocious sentence, Clark. I hope, for the Torch’s sake, that your writing isn’t that bad.”

“It... ah, no. Isn’t. That bad.” Clark dropped those remarkable eyes of his to his shoes and scuffed the floor a little more. “So... um... how was Europe?”

Lex smirked. “Fine. Good. Great.” With an expansive wave, he gestured Clark further inside. “Please, Clark, sit down.”

“Ah... yeah. Sure.” Clark picked his way around the couch and sat in it like he was afraid he was going to break it and then have to pay for it out of his allowance. He tried folding his hands in his lap, then resting them on the back of the couch, then on his knees. He tried sitting up straight, and then slouching, and then sitting sideways. None of it seemed to quite work for him. “So I mainly just thought that since you were back in town we could talk. You know, about things. How you’re doing. You know. Things.”

Lex resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. Clark and his painfully obvious fumbling were going to kill him.

“Yes, Clark, that’s often what people talk about. Things.” He decided that another tumbler of breakfast would not be advisable, instead watching his only friend squirm like there was something wrong with his jeans. “Did you have any particular ‘things’ in mind?”

“Ah... how’s business?” Even Clark winced a little at the obvious small talk, but at least he’d managed to get out a question. That was a start.

Even when Lex was furious with Clark, there was always a point at which he took pity on the boy and either relented or left. That point appeared to be getting closer by the second.

A compromise, then. Lex poured himself another drink. “We both know you didn’t come to ask about that.” He took the first swallow of Scotch a bit slower this time. “Europe was...interesting, Clark. Surprising.”

“I bet it was. Um. Interesting. With all those old museums and cathedrals and cities. Did you see a lot of sights?” Now Clark was looking up at him with those disarming puppy-dog eyes again, and it was everything Lex could do not to believe he really did want to talk about tourist destinations and old architecture. Also everything he could do not to push away from his desk, cross to the couch, lift Clark’s face in his hands and....

He took a large enough swallow from the whiskey that it burned the back of his throat painfully.

“Ah... Lex? Isn’t it a little early for that much?” Clark asked in hesitant innocence.

A soft, throaty woman’s laugh echoed from the side entrance nearest Lex’s bedroom, and he didn’t have to look toward it to know that Helen Wayne was standing there looking at him. Looking at him trying not to look at Clark. “I don’t know,” she murmured in that lazy, watchful voice he’d come to recognize as the shield she hid behind when she was wary, “I think I could stand a drink, myself. Have something for me, Lex?”

Lex looked at her then and felt his breath stop for a second. She was gorgeous, as always, wearing the aubergine shirt she’d stripped off of him the night before, top buttons undone and hanging slightly off one shoulder. Except for that, as far as he could see, she was naked, and even with Clark there in the room he couldn’t resist looking. God, he loved her legs: all soft, creamy skin belying a lithe strength that could break boards or hold him down in spite of all his conditioning.

He’d have enjoyed it much more, of course, if she hadn’t chosen this moment to do it.

“Helen,” he finally managed, voice a little too strained, “This is my friend Clark Kent. Clark, Helen Wayne.” At this he stood, still avoiding looking at Clark, and went to the bar.

“Mister Kent,” Helen purred, gliding over to the armchair nearest Lex’s desk and folding herself into it with elegant discretion - denying Lex, in the process, any proof as to whether she was wearing anything under that shirt or not - then resting her chin on the knuckles of her right hand and looking Clark up and down with those piercingly blue eyes. “I don’t think Lex has mentioned you. What is it that you do?”

Lex risked a peek back at the farmboy. Clark seemed unable to decide between being angry and turned on. He didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off Helen’s legs, either. That was amusing, comforting and infuriating all at the same time, and then it set off an extremely unhelpful series of mental images. Lex turned back around.

“I, uh, help my folks. And school. You know.”

“What is it you study in college, then?” she inquired, and Lex could practically feel the mind behind those eyes sifting Clark like a puzzle.

He could definitely feel Clark turn redder. “Not college. High school.” That noise would be Clark swallowing uncomfortably.

“Ah.” Lex could practically feel her eyes on his own back now, tracing the marks she’d left with her nails the night before, and his perfectly rational awareness that he was wearing a shirt and jacket over them did nothing to hide the feeling of exposure. “You didn’t mention to me that you were a Big Brother, Lex, much less in Smallville. How charming.”

Drinking straight from the decanter would be a bald show of weakness, he knew, but damn if it wasn’t tempting. He turned, smiling and flourishing a martini.

“Funnily enough, Helen, we met when Clark saved my life,” he remarked, pouring on the smooth Luthor charm for all he was worth. Clark’s color was fading a bit now, and he looked less likely to start shouting denouncements of the elite’s debauchery. Lex was almost certainly going to get hell from Ms. Wayne the next time they were alone, but maybe he could still salvage this. “After I’d recovered enough to be sociable, we hit it off.” Finally, he tried looking Clark in the eyes again.

“Do you want anything, Clark? Consuela squeezed fresh orange juice this morning.”

“Ah... juice. Yeah. Juice sounds good.” Clark finally managed to get his eyes off Helen’s legs and looked at Lex with a lost, hurt expression that Lex didn’t want to think about too much. “Anyway, it wasn’t a big deal. Lex drove off a bridge into the river, and I fished him out. That’s all.”

“Brave boy.” Helen’s voice warmed with approval as she reached out and took her drink from Lex, then caught his wrist with her other hand and drew him down to kiss him - not on the lips, but just behind his jaw and below his ear, where her tongue the night before last had made him beg for the first time in his life. Twice. “I can see why Lex was grateful to you, and why he’s so reticent to mention it. After all, I will be doing the driving from now on.”

Trying to shut out the pain on Clark’s face, Lex smiled at Helen. “You say that now, but I remember you enjoying my driving.” They both had. That particular car had wound up seeing quite a lot of action. With and without the engine running.

“I’ll need a lot of persuading,” she suggested, and her voice made very clear just what kind of persuasion she had in mind. Clark’s cheeks flared hot red again, and he suddenly became very interested in the floor.

Dammit. No direction he took seemed to be working today. He kissed Helen quickly, then broke away and felt her watching him go.

Lex called for Clark’s juice through the intercom, and three omelettes. Food always made Clark feel better, and Lex himself could probably stand not to be quite so inebriated.

“So what is it that fills your time, Mister Kent, when you aren’t in school or helping your parents, or saving rich men who are ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’ from drowning?” Helen murmured.

Dear God, she wanted to know about the free time of a Smallville school kid. He’d have mocked her for it if he hadn’t shared the exact same curiosity. He was definitely going to mock her for the Byron comparison.

Clark shrugged, but it was a practiced one, this time. The lie he always told. Lex took another swallow and tried to figure out how to get rid of one or both of them without being a total asshole. It would have been easier if he ever wanted to be separated from either of them. “Oh, not much. Hang with friends. Work on the school newspaper. Do a little astronomy.”

“How many galaxies have you observed?” Helen’s voice was... different. She was playing at warmth and interest, but there was something else there now. Something probing and sharp, like a cat’s claws hidden in the sharpness of its paw.

“I saw Andromeda once,” Clark told her, hiding his hurt under small talk. “And that was pretty lucky. My telescope’s not the best.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Have you seen more? I bet you could use any observatory you wanted.”

“I star-watched from the roof of my home for many years,” she said softly, and there was another unexpected element there for a moment - something dark and cold and painful, like thinking of his mother at three in the morning and wishing, impossibly, that he could call her - but then it vanished again as she smiled that same charming smile at Clark and took a long swallow of her martini. “Do you know that at the heart of every one of those galaxies is a supermassive black hole, Mister Kent? An all-devouring compaction of mass and matter that pulls everything in that galaxy toward it at every moment and consumes anything not moving fast enough to maintain its escape?”

“Yup,” Clark answered, smiling. “Is that some deep metaphor about life, or have you just been spending too much time with Mister Cryptic here?” The look he gave Lex was playful, teasing, but also exasperated and with an edge. How long did it take to make omelettes? Clearly the staff needed some re-training.

“Perhaps a bit of both.” Helen looked away, catching Lex’s eyes as she did, and he saw something in them that bit into him like a hook the way it had that night in the Portuguese police station when she’d talked about needing to shed her security for a while. The idea of being understood had never been more frightening or attractive.

Before she could say more, the door chimed softly and the plates arrived. Rene put Lex’s omelette on the desk, handed Helen hers on a suitable tray that Helen neatly balanced on her knees, and put Clark’s down on the coffee table in front of him before withdrawing from the room without a word.

“This smells great! Thanks, Lex,” Clark exclaimed as he dug in. The happy gratitude in the teen’s voice warmed the Lex almost enough to overshadow the disaster of his exposure before Helen.

“Any time, Clark.”

Helen didn’t say anything. But she watched him, watched him watching Clark, and ate her omelette in a meditative silence that told him he was really in trouble.

“So,” Clark finally spoke up after he’d demolished his food and juice both in record time, “how long are you staying in town? Ah... Miss Wayne?”

“As long as Lex cares for me to stay and I don’t become bored,” Helen replied mildly, sipping from her martini again and fixing Clark with those blue eyes until the farmboy blushed and looked down at his hands. “But don’t hesitate to call on him because of me. I’m sure the two of you can carry on perfectly well with me here.”

Really, deeply, irrevocably in trouble.

“Um. Okay.” Clark’s smile was brittle, covering disappointment. Damn him. All of the time he’d spent alone with Clark so far had been exquisite torture, and the kid wanted more.

The worst part was that Lex would let him have it.

He’d fed Clark another omelette, just to see him smile. It wasn’t as if it was getting him into more trouble than he already was. Helen saw everything. She didn’t need more evidence to know exactly what lay in the air between Lex Luthor and the Kent farmboy.

After breakfast, they’d talked a bit more, and then Lex had said something about having work to do, which, while true, was an excuse he only used when he wanted to.

This morning he wanted to. He needed to get Helen’s piercing gaze away from him before he exploded.

Helen had watched Clark go, ignoring Lex coolly until they were alone, and then tapped her martini glass lightly. He’d taken his cue and refilled it, and when he’d started to come back she unfolded from the chair in which she’d spent almost the whole of Clark’s visit and walked over to sit on his desk in his shirt and maybe panties. He still wasn’t sure.

“Alexander,” she said in that soft, measured voice that had sharpened steel under it while she studied him with those piercingly blue eyes, “I think you haven’t been completely honest with me.”

He snorted. “Because this would have made such wonderful conversation. Perfect for lunch on the Seine, don’t you think? I hear lusting for underage bumpkins complements a nice Pinot Noir.”

“How long?” There was the hint of gentleness again, the temptation to hand himself over and trust her not to gut him afterward. Damn her.

Well, he’d learned a thing or two about her personal life in the last two weeks. Enough to learn more. Enough to slide a knife in, if necessary.

The thought made him sick.

“Since I opened my eyes on the river bank.” He let his hand wander between laptop and half-full tumbler. “It’s a damn nightmare. More so that I can’t bring myself to send him packing once and for all.” He raised the glass to his lips, finally looking at her over the rim. “I know I should.”

“There’s nothing illegal about it.” Those blue eyes watched him, unreadable except for the intensity with which she was examining him. “Or immoral, unless you happen to think God would object. His father might come after you with a shotgun, of course. That would be inconvenient. The press would have a field day. But if you’re waiting for me to be shocked, Alexander, you’re going to be waiting a long time.”

The ghost of a smirk pulled at his mouth. “I do love that recklessness about you, Helen, but clearly in this matter Mr. Kent has more sense.” He swallowed the rest of the liquor.

“I didn’t say it was a good idea. He’s a child, and I doubt he would suit you. But I think you might be overdoing it on your scruples. Unless it’s not about his age, of course.” She took a sip of her own martini, then slid off the desk and came to him, resting her palm against his chest and looking him almost fully in the eye in spite of her lack of heels. “Unless there’s something else that bothers you about the idea of you touching him.”

The smile he gave her was brittle. “I’m not surprised you can tell. But that is not something I will ever discuss with anyone.” How could he explain the extent of Clark’s lies without betraying the existence of his mountain of secrets?

“I see. You both have a great many such things. I wonder how much of the attraction comes from that?” There was something merciless in those blue eyes now, intermingled with the things he would have liked to call kindness and affection if he could believe in them.

The obsessive curiosity he always felt about Clark took hold, and it was only through great effort that he didn’t press Helen to tell him what she saw. “I wonder.”

Something flared in her eyes, and she leaned into him to kiss him with a tight hand against his jaw. “I enjoy mysteries,” she whispered into his lips, “but what I enjoy most is solving them.”

Dear God, that was an offer. She was offering to dig into Clark for him. Or maybe threatening to dig into him. Or both.

Grabbing her by the biceps, he pushed her to arm’s length and held her there. “Solve me to your heart’s content, Helen,” he said in a poisonous voice that was getting to be familiar, “but leave Clark alone. Uninvestigated. Unsolved.”

She bared her teeth in a smile, and then her leg came around his and took his knees out from under him, and they fell hard enough that the desk rattled and the door opened and then closed after a moment as one of their security people checked to be sure that they were all right. It wasn’t exactly a fight, and it wasn’t exactly sparring, and it wasn’t exactly fucking. But when it was done they were both bruised, his lips were bleeding and she made a little hissing sound in her throat when she moved her hips that told him she would be sore for a while, and she rolled off him to lay beside him and run her fingertips over his bald scalp lightly. “You are an interesting man, Alexander,” she murmured low in her throat. “You don’t bore me.”

He smiled with blood on his teeth. “Nor you me, Helen.” He trailed his hand down her collarbone, breasts, waist, and down her stomach to the edge of the finally-revealed black lace panties, just because he could. “Care for a fencing bout?”

“Mmm. Yes.” She leaned down and kissed his lips, blood and all, and then sat up and looked down at him with that studying, watchful remove in her eyes again. “When I do solve you, Alexander, and when I finally know who you are... shall I tell you?”

He pulled her down for another kiss, and didn’t answer.

She didn’t ask again.

Chapter Text

Mid-July, 2003

Sneaking around WayneTech’s high-speed rail station construction site was, as Clark had known from the moment Chloe uttered the words ‘groundwater’’ and ‘conspiracy’ in the same sentence, a terrible idea. Especially after dark on a school night. Especially when the Torch was already in trouble over the last time they’d trespassed to get a story.

What was it about Chloe that always made awful ideas sound reasonable?

“You don’t have mutant mind-control powers, do you?” he whispered behind her.

“What? No. Why would you think that? If I had them, we wouldn’t be doing this in the middle of the night!” Chloe turned and stared at him for a second, then shook her head. “Come on, there ought to be something in the construction office that’ll help prove that LuthorCorp and WayneTech are definitely in bed together.”

Clark grimaced at the air over his friend’s head. He’d almost managed to stop thinking about Lex and Ms. Wayne. Well, at least about what they may or may not be doing together in what may or may not be a bedroom. He felt pretty pathetic that thinking about himself and Lex in unspecified locations was, so far, the only way he’d been able to do that.

He noticed that he was hearing extra heartbeats a fraction of a second before the click of a gun’s safety being flicked off jolted him out of his thoughts completely. “That,” a man’s voice from the shadows of the rail storage area, “is far enough. Who are you, and what are you doing on Wayne property?”

Chloe turned, started to run, and found herself looking right down the barrel of another gun - in a woman’s hand, this time. “I wouldn’t do that,” the lean redhead holding the compact black pistol said quietly. “I hate shooting people. Kodiak doesn't much like it, either.”

“That’s great!” Clark said nervously, holding his hands over his head. “We don’t want you to shoot anyone either.”

“Funny kid.” The guy still holding the gun on them with one hand quirked half a smile. “Not all that smart, but funny. Nat...”

“Already called it in. You two just keep your hands up for a few minutes, now.” The redhead’s expression was coldly professional. “No heroics.”

Clark frowned slightly. Usually only the bad guys said that. Apparently WayneTech guards were less like police and more like the mercenaries that LuthorCorp was rumored to hire. It made his heart beat faster. If he had to protect Chloe with his gifts it would be very unlikely that he’d get away unseen.

A cluster of other heartbeats approached, one of them ahead of the others. The woman it belonged to was tall, built as hard and strong as Clark had ever seen a woman, and not amused. She looked like she belonged in a Mafia film or something.

“When you said kids,” she said, once she’d stepped dramatically out of the shadows and had a good look at them, “I thought you were talking about jocks on a dare. The girl’s got a camera. Nice one. You get their ID?”

“Waiting for you, boss.” Kodiak gestured to his partner, who shifted her grip on the gun to cover Clark and Chloe at the same time, then holstered his own weapon and held out his hand. “Wallets. Slowly. Just drop them on the ground.”

“Like hell! Look, if you’re going to call the sheriff, you call the sheriff, but if you think we’re just gonna let you rifle through our stuff and then disappear us, you have another thing coming!” Chloe was winding up now - she’d be trying to chain herself to something next, or get arrested on purpose to make a point. That would suck.

Though not as much as someone hurting Chloe or finding out that they couldn’t hurt him. Clark drew breath to speak, but before he could even try to get Chloe or the guards to see reason, someone else interjected.

“That won’t be necessary, Capaldi.” A half-familiar voice spoke up from the middle of the cluster of heartbeats Clark had assumed were other guards. “I’m sure they were just bored and looking for a little trouble. No need to inform the police - just ask the young lady for the memory card from her camera and let her go. I will have a word with the gentleman, though.”

Clark cursed silently to himself in language that his dad would ground him for knowing, let alone saying. Trespassing and getting interrogated by a billionaire wasn’t bad enough, no. Clark Kent’s life wasn’t weird and complicated enough unless he was interrogated by Lex’s billionaire girlfriend.

Chloe was getting headway on some not-so-silent foul language of her own, but he cut her off. “Chloe. Please. Just give them the card and go home. I’ll be fine.” He used the puppy eyes for good measure. It was the one weapon that seemed to work against her otherwise-immovable resolve.

“Clark...” She stared at him for a minute, stubbornly and implacably his friend, and then turned and glared at the guards. “That’s Clark Kent, you overpriced thugs! He’s good people! His parents are good people! If anything happens to him...”

“Nothing is going to happen to Mister Kent,” Helen Wayne said softly from behind the cover of her guards, “except perhaps a ride home. Capaldi, see the young lady gets back to her parents without anything but her memory card to complain about.” She turned away. “Mister Kent, if you’ll come along, I imagine we can find some coffee.”

Clark wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one. Coffee could mean anything, or nothing.

He followed her into the construction headquarters, which for a portable building was remarkably nice inside. There was a kitchenette with a coffee pot and various assorted condiment options, and after Helen had prepared a drink for herself, he shrugged and made his own with several chocolate-flavored creamers and about four packets of sugar. It wasn’t nearly as good as the mochas Lana made at the Talon, but serviceable.

“Clark Kent.” Helen’s voice was softly, richly amused, and she seated herself under one of the small lamps the illuminated the big drafting table in the middle of the room. Her clothes were painfully expensive, but not exotic - a simple skirt suit, obviously tailored by hand, and a gray silk blouse with a gold chain necklace and leather gloves to go with the slightly heeled leather boots that didn’t look as though they were used to getting mud on them. She was only a few years older than Clark, but despite her enrollment at Princeton she didn’t look like any of the college students who came home to Smallville in the summer. Her face was serious, intense, and guarded. Kind of like Lex’s business face, and the idea that she might be even the tiniest bit right for the younger Luthor made Clark shove the thought away like it was meteor rock.

In the meantime, he had no idea what she was thinking.

“What brings you out to my property in the middle of the night, Mister Kent?”

He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Being friends with a crackpot’ was probably not the right answer.

“We, uh, wanted to see if there was any pollution coming from the site.”

“I believe that one could submit a public records request to the EPA and get a much more complete answer than eyes and a camera could provide without sneaking across several layers of ‘No Trespassing’ signs and risking arrest.” Helen’s eyebrow rose slightly, and he thought she might have been amused still. It was hard to tell, with how careful her voice was. “You appear to have a high opinion of your investigative prowess.”

“Uh.” He scratched the back of his head. “Well, Chloe definitely does. And in our defense, there’s lots of weird stuff in Smallville that doesn’t make it into official reports.”

“‘Weird stuff’?” Helen’s eyebrow rose a little further.

Clark cursed silently. Again. “The, um, meteor rock mutates people in weird ways. Psychic powers, heat-sucking jocks, lizard-men. Weird. It’s been going on for a while.”

“Curious.” Helen sipped her coffee and studied him with an uncomfortable lack of incredulity. “Luthorcorp was very clear that the meteorites were little more than a scientific curiosity. Perhaps they need a second look. I wouldn’t want any of my workers becoming lizard-men.”

“Nobody can prove it,” Clark backpedaled. “Nobody but Chloe and me and a few others even believe that’s what’s happening.” His mind raced furiously as he tried to think of a way to get her off the topic. Nothing was presenting itself.

Helen smiled faintly, but those dark blue eyes were watching him so closely that it felt like she might be taking layers of his skin off just with her gaze. “It shouldn’t be difficult to obtain a significant sample of the stuff. It is, I understand, quite common in the area. Testing it for radioactive or chemical properties that might cause aberrations in the human genome would only take time and money.”

More cursing. “Most people just want life to get back to normal.”

“I,” Helen murmured very softly, something hard in her expression that vanished almost as soon as he thought he saw it, “am not most people, Mister Kent.”

“I know.” He drank more coffee and made a face. The bitterness still came through the additives. “Can I go home now?”

“If you like. But I’d rather you stay.” Helen leaned back in her chair and smiled a more natural smile that still somehow reminded him of a shark, or something else big with too many teeth. “There are a lot of things I’ve wanted to talk to you about.”

Clark knew he should take her offer to leave. It would put an end to his informational Tourettes and prevent further mishap.

He stayed. “Really?”

“Oh, yes.” If he restricted himself to only watching her in the bands of light humans could see in, those deep blue eyes gleamed out of the dark at him. “Not least among them, the question of exactly how long you’ve been in love with Alexander Luthor.”

It was a really, really good thing that Clark didn’t need to breathe all the time.

As it was, his shirt still suffered a coffee stain. He jumped back to the kitchenette to swipe futilely at it with paper napkins, his back turned to Helen. He opened his mouth several times, but for some reason the words wouldn’t come.

“You only saw me eat breakfast,” he finally said, almost petulantly.

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” Helen’s voice was quiet, but there was nothing soft about it. “I didn’t need to watch you eat breakfast. I knew before Alexander ordered the juice.”

Giving up on his shirt, he leaned on the counter with both hands. “So is this where you tell me to stay away from your boyfriend?”

“This is where I ask why you haven’t told him.” He heard the soft intake of her breath as she shifted in her seat, folded her hands in her lap, blinked twice to clear a bit of grit from her eyes. “And he isn’t precisely my boyfriend.”

The surge of relief that ran through Clark was nice. It didn’t help with the big picture, though.

“Because I can’t tell him everything,” he finally answered with a voice that sounded weird and far away when the small office echoed it back to him.

“Because you don’t trust him?”

He whirled around, hands curled into fists, voice half-desperate. “I can’t trust anybody.”

“I realize that this is Kansas,” she said in that same soft, deadly reasonable voice as she glided to her feet and moved a few steps toward him, “but you’re not that long a drive from Metropolis. The closet is an uncomfortable habit of mind, but do you really think he’d reject you because you’re bisexual?”

Heat rushing to his face, Clark reflected that his staring at her legs had been really obvious. He also swallowed his protest that his secret was way beyond sexuality. She thought it was and he was going to let her, even if he thought that being a bisexual human boy would be much easier than a bisexual alien boy posing as human.

“Nobody likes rejection,” he replied instead. “Plus he’s...it’s like he’s from another planet,” he said, patting himself on the back for telling her what was bothering him without really telling her. “I’ve never seen or heard of half the things he talks about on a given day, and I think he bought himself an island at some point, and he speaks like five languages and I’m...I’m a high-school farm boy.”  He sat back down, slumping.

“Are you trying to tell me, Mister Kent,” Helen murmured with a fresh hint of suppressed laughter in her voice, “that you don’t think you’re good enough for my lover?”

Clark blinked. “No, I just...” Sighed. “Okay, yeah, I do. But c’mon, he’s Lex Luthor.”

Helen chuckled softly and leaned against the counter next to Clark, making a show of refilling her cup of coffee and mixing in her sugar. “My father would have said,” she murmured, “that Alexander puts his pants on just like everyone else - one leg at a time. A fact, I assure you, that I can verify from practical experimentation.”

Another blush hit with full force. “I. Um. Hang on.” He went back to leaning on the counter. “No fair talking about Lex’s pants.”

“Or his lack of pants?”

“I hate you,” Clark answered through gritted teeth. And breathe, one, two, three. Breathing was useful sometimes.

Helen chuckled and leaned close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body on his skin, which wasn’t as close for him as it was for most people, but was still pretty close. “You,” she murmured, “are the one lusting after my lover. I don’t think you get to enjoy the privilege.”

One, two, three.

“Too bad, I do.” Turn away from Helen, grab his coat to hold in front of himself, leave. He could do this. “Bye.”

“Traditionally,” she murmured in that same low, warm voice after neither of them moved for a few moments, “a goodbye is followed by a departure.”

“That’s me, Non-Traditional Man,” Clark snarked. Then he did turn and made it to the chair.

“It’s nobly self-sacrificing of you to go on hiding it from him because you think you don’t measure up to what he deserves. Stupid, but noble.”

He stopped, jacket in hand. “Apparently it’s my thing,” he answered, gesturing to the room. “And it’s time for me to go get nobly grounded.”

“One of my people will take you home, if you like,” she said, watching him with a strange little half-smile on her face. “It must be a long walk to wherever you parked.”

Clark nodded. “Uh, thanks. Just back to my truck. It’s a couple miles out.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she said, and came to the door in a few graceful strides to open it for him. “Capaldi,” she called through it, “have Miss Trent take Mister Kent to his truck. She can use my car. I have an inspection to finish.”

The scary Mafia lady walked Clark to the edge of the construction site, glaring at his shoulder blades the whole way. The redheaded gunslinger waved him into the sleek black Lincoln that had to be armored, and Clark sat in the tumultuous silence of his thoughts. Most of them boiled down to dreading the looks on his parents’ faces, and to the fact that Helen Wayne thought he should come out to Lex.

The last, small thoughts left over were saying that maybe the world wouldn’t end if Lex knew.

It was a long drive home.

Chapter Text

Early August, 2003

Helen Wayne rolled out of Alexander Luthor’s bed just before noon and stretched, working the muscles of her body carefully and gauging the toll of the last night’s bruises and strains with a faint smile of satisfaction on her face. It was not inconsiderable - she’d need a hot shower and a few hours of putting her body to work to bring herself back into tune. Nights with Alexander tended to be like that - messy, lingering, half-violent affairs that absorbed the whole range of her effort and concentration.

She appreciated that about him.

For all the discipline she applied toward emptying her mind while she stood under the hot water of the shower and reordered objecting muscles with a sequence of stretches she could do entirely from reflexive memory, thoughts drifted in. The tall, dark-haired farmboy who walked like a man with too many secrets and the sharp, blonde friend of his who looked at him with the eyes of a frustrated lover. The tangle of secrets that was Luthorcorp, and her cold fury at the idea that the people here believed laws could be broken by the powerful with impunity. The way Lex’s eyes went wide when her nails dug into the back of his neck. The creak of rusted hinges and the dark alley lit only by a few flickering street lights....

She wrenched herself out of her own mind with all the savage self-discipline that years of martial arts and meditation could offer, focusing on the sound of the water against the fine marble of tub until there was nothing else in the world, and when her breathing was steady again she shut off the shower head and took a towel from the rack, drying herself methodically until there was nothing left to do of that task. She made a point of getting dressed fully and carefully, pinning up her damp hair and examining the wardrobe options Ellaine had shipped in for her before making a decision. The bustier had to be hooked precisely, the stockings and garters checked before she slipped into them, and while the black slip over them was simple enough, the blue and black Valentino coatdress that went over that in turn required a certain care with its buttons and fastening to be sure that it hung properly. Jewelry absorbed its own fifteen minutes. Then the boots and gloves had to be checked for state of polish - perfect, for which she would need to remember to thank Lex’s staff - and the whole composition examined in the mirror for a few minutes to be sure she’d missed nothing.

Women’s fashion, in Helen’s experience, was nothing if not a useful way to absorb the mind in trivialities. Besides, the look on Alexander’s face would be very satisfying.

His office was only a short walk from the bedroom - short enough that the question of what precisely would be the most entertaining thing to say to him when she walked in was sufficient to occupy her thoughts - but the corridor deadened the sound sufficiently that she was within sight of the door (open, which was unusual) before she heard voices. More than one. She didn’t stop moving, but her whole body relaxed and the bruises and minor pains vanished from her awareness in the way they always did when she was ready for a fight.

Helen would not have admitted it to anyone, except perhaps to Alexander in a moment of weakness, but she enjoyed fighting.

“I thought you wanted to be taken seriously, Lex.” It was an older voice, male, quiet with false reasonability. “Skipping meetings, especially while flouncing around in front of the press, only hurts your performance. Not to mention your image.”

“I’m offended you would say so.” Alexander’s voice performing sarcastic mockery as well as she’d ever heard. “I’ve never flounced, Dad. It’s more of a shimmy.”

She moved to the door, silent in her boots in spite of the wood floor and the narrow heels, and watched them for a moment or two - the elder Luthor, with his long hair and elegant beard and severe, expensive suit, staking claim to the edge of the desk while his son slouched on the sofa by the cold fireplace, his suit coat abandoned on an armchair and his tie probably shoved in a drawer of the desk. His aggressive nonchalance couldn’t hide the careful way he watched his father.

Lionel appeared frustrated, his mouth twisted like he’d tasted something bitter. Helen resisted, with an effort, the urge to smile. It would have been inconvenient to explain if Lionel had turned around and noticed her doing so.

“Avoiding the subject as always, I see. Do I have to remind you of the consequences of failure, or are you going to at least try to behave like a man and take care of this?”

Alexander took a drink from the tumbler in his hand. “I have everything under control. The quarterly report was very favorable, and knowing they aren’t my top priority might make the parties involved a bit more contrite.” He gestured at a file folder sitting on the desk next to Lionel. “Feel free to check my homework. Would you like to sign my permission form for the field trip, too?”

Helen watched the tension in Alexander’s shoulders and wondered, not for the first time, how someone so tight and so angry could sound so calm.

She wondered that about herself more often than she’d like to admit.

Lionel ignored the file. “You know how quickly things can change, Lex. Make sure you’re the one on the high ground no matter how safe things look. I’m only concerned for your position.”

“I’m touched,” Alexander answered dryly, but with a hint of hesitation. His knuckles were white on the back of the couch.

“On the other hand,” Lionel continued, “You’ve finally gotten yourself a suitable companion. When are you going to start negotiating a corporate merger?”

His answer was a snort. “It’s a little early in the relationship for cold calculus, Dad. Don’t I get to practice with a pre-nup?”

“Actually,” Helen spoke up at last, enjoying the way Lionel’s head snapped around and Alexander had to work not to jump out of his seat, “I’m not aware that Wayne Industries is looking for a merger partner at this time. Acquisitions, maybe. Are you selling, Mister Luthor?” She glided over to the couch and rested her hand on the back of Lex’s shoulder, squeezing her fingertips gently into the muscle of his back.

It wasn’t visible, but Helen felt Alexander relax subtly under her hand.

Lionel flicked his eyes over her, a cold, hungry look that was gone in half a second, and she found herself wondering if it was her company or her person that had aroused the greater rapacious desire in the man. He replaced it with a winning smile. “Miss Wayne. I apologize for my idle speculations.” The man strode over to her like he was cutting his way through a boardroom mingle, hand outstretched, and if it just so happened that the maneuver left Alexander with a choice between being forced to guess what was happening behind him or shifting around in his seat in a manner that was unlikely to be dignified... well, a more generous woman might have thought that was a coincidence.

Helen thought nothing of the kind.

“No apology is needed, Mister Luthor,” Helen said mildly, though she did not move her right hand from Alexander’s back to take his father’s. “One doesn’t blame a shark for swimming, after all.”

Smile turning slightly mischievous in a way that undoubtedly charmed most people, Lionel took Helen’s left hand and, with a courtly bow, brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Wayne.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Alexander’s jaw tighten.

“My mother was absolutely right about you, Mister Luthor,” Helen said in a soft purr, though she gently squeezed Alexander’s shoulder as she did. “I remember very well that she used to call you a very charming pirate.”

Lionel’s satisfaction was dazzling. “I’m glad to live up to my reputation, Helen.”

In a smooth gesture, Alexander lifted his glass to his lips again.

Helen’s smile widened, but she knew her eyes must be very cold. “You obviously didn’t know my mother very well, Mister Luthor. The only things in the world she despised more than useless people were thieves and murderers - people who harmed those who couldn’t defend themselves. It was not, I assure you, a compliment.”

In a spluttering cough, some very expensive single-malt wound up splashed on the coffee table. Wiping his mouth with one sleeve, Alexander turned to give Helen a look of mingled incredulity and admiration. “Warn me when you’re going to do that.”

She turned and smiled at him angelically, ignoring the increasingly apopletic expression on Lionel’s face. “So you can put your drink down, or so you can tie your hands to the table?”

A half-disbelieving smile found its way onto his face. “Anything you want, you magnificent creature.”

“You aren’t outside my reach, Wayne,” Lionel cut in, features purple and twisted with rage. “You’ll regret insulting me in front of my heir.”

“I really won’t.” Helen turned back to him, an eyebrow arched, and channeled every ounce of aristocratic disdain her grandmother could have mustered. “I’m the last daughter of the Wayne family and the heir to the Kane Chemical fortune, Mister Luthor, and my mother gave away and spent more money on her efforts to improve the education and social safety net system in Gotham than your entire ‘empire’ can offer you. There is nothing in the world that you can do to hurt me, and if you try, I will tell my people to spend the next twenty years of their lives ruining the rest of yours. Lillian Roche had no judgement in men, and the only worthwhile thing you had to offer her is sitting on the couch. Do we understand each other, Mister Luthor?”

Like magma trying to erupt into the crushing pressure of the deep ocean, Lionel’s face contorted and screwed itself into a tight grimace.

“Anything at all,” Alexander repeated.

“I was right,” Lionel snarled, grabbing his briefcase from the desk, “You suit my over-indulged, spineless excuse for a son perfectly.”

Then he stalked from the room, his echoing footsteps the only sound in the room for a moment.

Helen watched him go, cold satisfaction in her chest, and then turned back to Lex with a narrow smile on her face. “Is he always that hospitable,” she quipped, “or only with the special guests?”

The tumbler and its last finger of Scotch placed carefully on the table, Alexander turned to slump against the cushions again, this time abandoning the pretense of casual comfort. Head tilted back over the edge, he rubbed both hands over his face.

“It’s a matter of how well he hides it. Everyone is a tool or an enemy. Always.”

Helen circled the couch and settled herself next to him, studying his face, and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Anything I want?”

There was a haggardness to his face when he looked at her, but his desire lit up his eyes like it always did.

“Anything you want.”

“Tell me about your mother.” She looked him in the eyes, letting the ache in her chest show because otherwise he wouldn’t understand - why she would ask, why she needed to hear it, why she wanted something more from him than table-breaking sex at a moment like this.

Expression sobering, he swallowed, drinking in her new openness. After a moment he nodded, not as if he had decided to honor his offer, but as if he was acknowledging the dignity of the request.

He unbuckled his watch and ran a thumb over the surface, looking at it with an expression that mirrored Helen’s own.

Then he handed it to Helen. She accepted it with the same reverence she would have shown any of the hundreds of tokens of her parents that filled the manor outside Gotham, the reverence due to a link to the past that was as irreplaceable as it was precious.

He took a deep breath.

“I was thirteen when she died...”

Chapter Text

Early September, 2003

“I’m spending Saturday morning out in the cornfields.” Lex glared at the offending crop through Armani sunglasses. “Why am I in a cornfield, Clark?”

The two months since breakfast with Helen and Clark had passed relatively smoothly. Business had been going as planned, he’d taken Helen out to enjoy Metropolis cuisine and nightlife, she’d only taken two or three trips away when business became too busy to let him keep up with her restlessness, and no new horrible animal/human hybrids had emerged to wreak havoc on Smallville, the plant, or his house. Almost boring.

So when Clark had asked him to hang out, Lex had agreed, and been even more interested when Clark had chosen the unusual venue. Either it was for some banal, farm-based reason that Lex couldn’t fathom, or there was something truly interesting and unusual about to happen.

Lex had always been a gambler.

“It’s quiet.” Clark shrugged his shoulders, looking very young in his letter jacket and with his hair rumpled by the wind, his eyes on the horizon instead of anything closer at hand. “Nobody comes out here.”

The Mercedes was already warm to the touch when Lex leaned back on the driver’s door.  He let a half-smile tug at his lips as he watched Clark fiddle with the change in his pockets. “So we’re here to be shielded from the world by the great American carbohydrate. I see.”

The boy turned and looked at him, half-blurred by the sunlight streaming around him, and Lex took a deep, steadying breath to keep himself from closing the distance between them. “You should let yourself look at it sometimes, Lex. It’s beautiful.”

Lex stared, caught off guard despite the entirely suspicious nature of the outing so far. Clark thought corn was beautiful. Of course he did. Clark thought all wholesome things were beautiful.

The problem was that he was starting to make Lex think twice about things like corn. Clearly he was suffering from some form of slow-onset insanity.

“I’m more of a peak-and-ravine man, Clark. A connoisseur of geological drama.”

Of course, he’d put up with corn and plains for much longer than he’d really had to. But Clark didn’t need to know that. The way the farmboy was eroding his self-control just by standing there was appalling.  

“Not everything has to be high drama, Lex.” The sunglare shifted off enough that he could see the smile on Clark’s lips as he took a couple of steps toward Lex. “So... I guess you still want to know why I wanted to be shielded from the world. With you. Um.” He flushed a little, obviously tongue-tied while he tried to think of a way to reword that sentence. God, it was sweet torture when he wandered into innuendo like that. There was only about an arm’s length between them now, and Lex’s pulse had risen and forced his breath to come faster. It would be so easy to take his hands from his pockets and put them all over Clark, there away from the world.

“Yes?” he said instead.

“Ah... so I tried looking around for a right way to do this and there doesn’t seem to be one, so...” Clark trailed off, started to look down at his shoes, then straightened up and looked Lex in the eye in a way that easily put two inches on his height. “I don’t ever want us to stop being friends, Lex, but there’s something I have to tell you. Something you deserve to know about me.”

Even though he’d been half-expecting it, the words opened up a precipice under Lex and he was teetering on the edge high, high up between flying and falling. He’d seen this place before, felt the wind of freedom and death, but it had always been his own hypotheses, his own questions that led him there. Clark had been the one to hold back, to keep his feet. Never to offer. Lex was powerless before the force of his need to know and the knee-shaking thrill of Clark offering himself.

A small corner of his mind tried to regulate his facial expression into mild expectation. He had no idea if he succeeded or not.

“I’m bisexual, Lex.”

It wasn’t quite falling off a cliff. More like a rug being pulled out from under his feet. Lex swallowed, trying to turn the aircraft carrier with the engines at full.

“Thank you for trusting me with this, Clark.” Was there something else he was supposed to say? “You’re still the same person to me.” There, that was the main thing, but there probably was something else. Maybe asking about friends or parents or something, but fuck them. He was busy having an aneurysm.

“Good.” Clark’s relief was immediate, visible and profound. “I mean, not that I thought you’d be... you know...but I thought it might make things weird. With us.”

The eyes. His goddamn wide, trusting eyes, looking right at Lex with all sorts of vulnerabilities in them, and now this opening.

“Since we’re disclosing,” he said, voice rough and more bitter than he wanted to reveal, “I am, too.”

“Oh.” Clark’s eyes went so immediately wide that it made him look downright virginal. “Oh.”

Lex closed his eyes. Breathed deep. Tried to think boring thoughts. Failed.

“So that was what Helen meant about stupid...”

His eyes snapped open. “Excuse me?”

Clark flushed, opened his mouth, closed it, suddenly became fascinated by his shoes and the hard-packed dirt under them. “I, ah, ran into Helen the other day,” he mumbled. “We talked. About things.”

At least the alarm bells in Lex’s head were helping the blood flow back to his brain. “You ‘ran into’ Helen? She doesn’t exactly frequent Smallville, Clark.”

“We weren’t exactly in Smallville....” More mumbling. God, it was infuriating.

“Then where were you? Sneaking out at night to go clubbing in Metropolis?”

“No.” Clark scuffed the ground with his foot, then seemed to find enough nerve to look Lex in the eye again. “Chloe was having one of her... things. We went to the construction site for the new high speed train - you know, the one with the service station she’s building outside of town - and we kinda got caught and Helen convinced security not to get us arrested and then we had coffee and talked.”

Lex stared. “You trespassed Helen’s construction site. And then the two of you had coffee.” He pressed three fingers to his forehead. “At which point she called you stupid. Not because you decided to trespass a WayneTech site, which would be entirely appropriate, but for some reason pertaining to your coming-out. Which she knew because you were bonding over coffee.” His pulse was fast again, this time with anger. He’d made clear to Helen that investigating Clark was non-negotiable, so of course the big clod had to come to her. He narrowed his eyes, his voice dangerously soft. “What else did you talk about?”

“Um...why we were on the site. You.” Clark swallowed, eyes wide, and looked so gun shy that Lex had the mad impulse to reach out and grab him so he wouldn’t run away. “Mostly you.”

“Me.” The subtle relaxation in Clark’s posture told him that his voice had been warmer this time.

“You. And, um, me. And why I hadn’t told you that I, well, like you.” Clarks cheeks flushed at his stare. “She brought it up!”

The corn disappeared in an instant and it was just Clark in front of him, and the rushing air around him, and again he wasn’t sure if he was flying or falling. It was too much to bear.

“Don’t.” His voice was half-strangled. “Don’t say that, Clark.” He stood all the way up, tore his eyes away from the untouchable, and started walking down the damn country road.

“That she brought it up?” He was close, damn it. Too close behind Lex for anything like distance. Probably trying to comfort him or force him to confess his own feelings. He sped up.

“You know that’s not it.”

“That I like you?” Clark stopped, but his voice reached out and dug into Lex’s chest like a hook.

He managed to take three more steps before he couldn’t go any further.

Somehow he wound up facing the farmboy again. “Clark,” he said, voice thick. “You have no idea how crazy you make me.”

“No.... I don’t think I do.” Clark stared at him with those wide eyes, like he was seeing him for the first time, and something in Lex flinched at the thought that Clark would recoil. Turn away. Run away.

He didn’t.

Lex just breathed for a minute.

“Most of the time you look at me like you want me to get closer,” he said at last. “Like you’re inviting me to do whatever I want. But I know you aren’t, because other times you push me away like a stranger.” Lex wanted to look down, at the dirt, the corn, the sky, anything but Clark’s wide eyes and bit lip. He didn’t. “I want all of you, Clark. Everything. I’m greedy.” The farmboy shifted his weight and opened his mouth, but Lex kept going.  “And I’m vicious. I’ll hurt you someday when I get too crazy from wanting what I can’t have,” he warned. “And I don’t want to hurt you. So don’t tell me you like me.”

“Even if it’s the truth?” Clark whispered, staring at him with those soulful, searching eyes of his.

Finally, Lex closed his eyes against the sight. “Especially if it’s the truth.”

“Oh,” Clark said softly, and it cut to hear the disappointment in that quiet voice.

With pained determination, Lex put one foot in front of the other until he’d reached his car. Door half-open, he turned enough to see Clark in his peripheral vision.

“I’ll see you later, Clark.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

It took him seventeen minutes to drive the eight country miles back to the estate, and the suspension of the Mercedes would never be the same again. He didn’t give a damn. He could buy another Mercedes every day of the week. The same could not be said of his sanity.

“If you slam the doors like that, Alexander,” Helen Wayne murmured without looking up from the leatherbound book resting against the arm of the couch under her slender fingers, “you’re going to knock a hole in the wall.”

The book made a sizeable hole in one of the stained-glass windows. It was a little disappointing.

“I just had the most interesting conversation with Clark.”

“That,” Helen said mildly, shifting her weight against the couch in a way that told him she was ready to throw him if he tried to grab hold of her and thoroughly ignoring his statement, “was a terrible way to treat Murder on the Orient Express. Not to mention the window.”

“Do you usually go around giving relationship advice to the teenagers who cross your path?” He stalked back and forth across the room, powered by the tightly-controlled violence of his emotions. “Or was this a special case?”

“It depends on the person.” Helen’s smile was absolutely intolerably calm. “Clark is interesting. Besides, he came to me.”

The Venetian paperweight, a gift from the Consul, shattered against the far wall. That was more satisfying than the window.

“I hadn’t realized that ‘get off my property’ and ‘tell me your life story’ were such similar conversation starters. I’ll have to be very clear the next time someone tries to steal LuthorCorp secrets or I’ll find myself playing Freud to a mercenary!” The last had come out in a shout.

“Would you rather I’d had him arrested?” She was still barely speaking above a murmur, but there was nothing frightened about those cool blue eyes. Even now, she was still observing him. “Or perhaps simply delivered to his parents with a stern warning about sneaking out at night?”

“Yes!” Lex gestured wildly. “Either of those would have been much better.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and then she began to smile. “The boy found enough courage to tell you the truth, then. Why on Earth are you here, Alexander?”

If he’d had any hair, he would have been tearing it by now.

After the last, bright flare, the fury left him and he slouched over to the bar. “It’s my goddamn life story again, Helen.” Triple shot of bourbon, this morning. “I can have anything except what I want most.”

“There’s no law against it, Alexander.” She’d rise from the couch and moved in behind him, just out of easy reach, and he could feel her eyes on his back now. “In Massachusetts you could even marry the boy. And I can’t imagine he wouldn’t have told you yes.”

The drink burned nicely down his throat. Almost felt cleansing.

“He’s keeping something from me,” he told the liquor. “Something important. And he lies in my face as if I can’t tell.”

“Lies have never kept anyone I know from sleeping together,” Helen whispered, her hands slowly sliding up the line of his back as she moved in closer still.

He leaned into her touch. “I’m sure you’ve figured out that if it were just that, I’d have seduced him years ago, legal or not.”

She rested the line of her body against his back, her lips brushing the nape of his neck and then the curve of his scalp, her hands settling around his waist. She didn’t ask him to explain. She didn’t need to ask. He could practically feel her itching to know.

Clark might be able to accept that the world sometimes hid things from him. Luthors - and Waynes, apparently -  weren’t made that way.

“I’ll lose it,” he murmured, settling his hands over hers. “If he lies to me when we’re that close, I’ll lash out and make sure it hurts.”

“And you’re afraid of hurting him.” She kissed the back of his head again gently, and her hand under his pressed against his waist, leveraging him around to face her.

His hands slid to her hips. “I’m very good at hurting people, Helen. Sometimes I destroy them.”

With a sharp pull, he knocked their hips together, capturing her mouth in a deep kiss. She locked her hand against his shoulder, fingers of the other digging into the small of her back, and then he couldn’t tell anymore if he was kissing her or if she was kissing him, or who was holding who in that rigid brace against the bar. Maybe both of them.

“You aren’t going to hurt me, Alexander,” she husked into his mouth when they finally apart with a gasping, trembling need for air. “You can’t.”

“I know,” he murmured as he worked the buttons of her blouse. “It’s one of your best features.”

“Along,” she sniped as she raked her nails over his scalp, “with my winning personality and exquisite figure.”

“Mmm,” he agreed, sliding a knee between her legs. “And your many skills and talents.”

“Those too,” she purred, kissing him hard enough to bruise his mouth. “Now be quiet.”

Chapter Text

Mid-September, 2003

It had been fifteen days since Clark had talked to Lex in the cornfields. Their conversation had turned itself over and over in his mind, steamrolling all other thought and producing a hollow feeling in his chest that refused to go away. He hated worrying his parents, so he tried to hide it, but acting normal was like trying to lift the truck the day he lost his gifts.

Martha had responded with a combination of feeding him, piling on more chores, and an excess of hugs. Jonathan had pretended nothing was wrong right up to the moment he threw his hands in the air and told Clark to go out and do something that wasn’t moping around the house.

So there he was, wandering the fields outside Smallville, kicking the dirt and feeling confused and angry and sorry for himself.

He didn’t understand Lex’s reaction to his confession. Gentle but firm rejection, he would have understood. There had been a million plausible reasons why Lex wouldn’t be interested in Clark. Preparing himself for that had taken up most of the time between his talk with Helen and inviting Lex to the cornfields.

The sound of a prop plane starting up got his attention long enough to look. It was at the Smallville Airport eight miles out of town in the other direction, and preparing to take off. He kept staring without particular interest while he brooded. Chloe would be proud of his multi-tasking.

No, Lex rejecting him wouldn’t have been a surprise. The other possibility Clark had thought about - obsessed over, really - was less plausible, but at least fit into what he knew about Lex’s sexual life. If Lex did reciprocate, the farmboy had mused, maybe he’d push Clark against the Mercedes and kiss the daylights out of him. Maybe it would go further. Lex was a man who knew what he wanted, after all.

Clark picked up a rock, took a quick glance around for witnesses, and threw it as hard as he could towards the open plains. It went a few miles before he lost sight of it.

Lex knowing what he wanted wasn’t enough, apparently. Clark could understand why he was worried--he knew plenty about being scared you’d hurt the people around you--but he’d seen some of the worse parts of Lex and he wasn’t afraid.

For all the long hours spent chewing over the mystery, Clark hadn’t been able to think of anything he could say to Lex that would convince him that they’d both be all right.

The plane had taken off - he’d missed that, which was a mark against multitasking - and was slowly circling the Baker field out to the southwest like the people in it really needed a good look at a few acres of wheat from fourteen thousand feet. Weird. He looked closely - out of sight for most people, but most people didn’t have telescopic vision - and it looked like a pretty unremarkable LuthorCorp prop right up until the doors opened and two people came tumbling out onto nothing but two and a half miles of air. He could hear them screaming.

He ran half a mile before his brain caught up and told him firmly that he couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t stop them falling, and calling for help would be far, far too slow. Even if he caught them, at terminal velocity his arms would break them just as surely as the ground.

They weren’t screaming. Weren’t just screaming. They were laughing.

Now that he was looking for it, he saw the bulky backpacks they were wearing, the goggles, the skintight suits. He also saw their faces.

Lex had taken Helen skydiving.

A vice took hold of his chest and he found it hard to breathe. Lex was afraid of hurting Clark, so he decided to risk his stupid life with his not-girlfriend. Where Clark had to watch. It didn’t make him feel any better that Lex couldn’t know that he was watching.

“Great plan, asshole,” he said out loud. He couldn’t look away.

Helen folded her arms against her body and shot down past Lex, setting herself twirling as she did, laughing the whole way. Lex, arms and legs still spread-eagled, folded his own body into a tight line and dropped after her, grinning like a maniac.

Great. Not only were they skydiving, they were racing each other to the ground.

Maybe his dad had a point about his choice in friends.

Helen rolled her body so she could look back up at Lex, holding up a gloved hand and making an obscene gesture that he could hear her laughing along with, and part of him was already screaming for them to open their damned parachutes and stop messing around because that was what parachutes were for, to be opened! Lex was gaining on her now (because heavy objects fell faster than light objects at terminal velocity because the air resistance was proportionate to the falling object’s velocity squared), but Helen kept her body straight and angled slightly to the vector of the drop and they were running out of altitude awfully fast - fifty-five meters a second, he’d read that somewhere, and oh God, he didn’t want to watch either of them hit.

He didn’t want to hear either of them hit. His stomach turned over at the thought.

Lex was about to overtake Helen, falling at the perfect angle for Clark to see his face. His expression was intense and complex, tenderness and fascination and adrenaline-thrill mixed with a weird peace that scared Clark as much as the freefall. The only other time he’d seen it on Lex’s face was when he offered himself as a hostage to Mister Jenkins. Like he knew he might die and didn’t mind.

They were close enough to touch now, and Helen’s hand went out and caught Lex’s and held for a fraction of a second before she pushed him away, gaining a fraction of distance in the process, and their chutes went, one after the other, close enough together that probably nobody but Clark could tell that Helen had pulled a fraction of second before Lex had. They dropped the last thousand feet, slowing but still much too fast for his whole body not to tense, and then they both hit in matching, rolling stops that at least didn’t break any bones or tear any muscles.

Bruises. They were going to have bruises.

He took a deep, shuddering breath for the first time since they’d jumped.

Then he punched his fist into the ground up to his bicep. Then the other fist. His breathing was ragged now, his vision blurring with tears, and he didn’t feel ashamed of it because on top of watching his best friend and biggest crush almost die, now he could hear Lex and Helen moaning into each other’s mouths.

He pulled it together enough to run to the next county, and then collapsed in someone’s alfalfa. After a while of staring at the sky he’d shoved the mess of his feelings into something resembling containment.

His parents looked more concerned than ever when he got home, but at least they didn’t say anything.

Chapter Text

Late December, 2003

“I’m going to church,” she’d said three days ago, while she and Lex were curled up in his bed watching a real-time simulation of the Spirit and Opportunity rover landings that the LuthorCorp tech people were streaming over from NASA. About a week from landing, Lex was about as close to giddy as she’d ever seen him and it had seemed - for reasons passing understanding - like a good idea at the time.

Lex continued watching the screen for a couple of seconds, and then he blinked and looked at her with puzzled surprise. “Church?” His eyes slid back to the screen for another second. “Why?”

“It’s Christmas,” she said, not lifting her head from his shoulder.

He broke his pattern of alternating attention to study her. She saw him search her face, a flick of his eyes as he glanced at the sapphire-adorned hairpin glittering in her hair. He hadn’t said so, but she was pretty sure from the style and the age and the beauty of the piece that it must have been his mother’s. The way he’d looked at her when he’d given it to her, she hadn’t been able to convince herself to argue.

So now she wore it more nights than not, when they were together, unless she was planning something particularly ambitious in bed. There were some associations even they weren’t totally comfortable ignoring when it came to their sex lives.

“Do you want me to come?” He knew it was meaningful to her, but that he couldn’t fathom why was plain on his face. Which was understandable enough - Lex Luthor viewed God as about as relevant to his life as Santa Claus, and nothing she’d done in his presence had probably even convinced him she didn’t feel the same way. But if Helen Wayne wasn’t sure that she believed in God, she also wasn’t sure that she didn’t, and her parents had. At least one day of the year, she had to honor that.

Of course, that didn’t mean she had to make Lex sit through her own personal penance. “Only if you, for some incomprehensible reason, actually want to.” She crooked a smile up at him, then kissed his lips lightly. “I’ll just take a service at the local church. You can take me out on New Years and ruin whatever sanctity I pick up.”

One of his rare, unguarded smiles took some of the mileage off his face. “It’s a deal. Don’t let the locals cramp your style too much.”

Which, now that she was actually standing in the back of the First (and only) Methodist Church of Smallville, was actually a worthwhile concern. The place was crowded with townsfolk and farmers turned out in their best, most of them wearing the heavy boots and overcoats they’d worn against the prairie chill, and the entire scene reminded her more than slightly of something out of Little Women. It was definitely not much like taking Mass at Gotham Cathedral, and she was glad for the plainness of her own heavy coat - the dress she was wearing under it would have stood out like a Lamborghini at the Smallville County Fair. Still, it wasn’t without its charms, and they actually managed to sing the old hymns mostly in key.

Maybe there was something to be said for small town churches, after all, but brevity wasn’t it.

The stars were unchallenged in the sky by the time they spilled out into the snow in small clumps, families and neighbors walking each other to their trucks or setting out on foot for a nearby home. She stood just outside the doorway, face turned up to the sky, and was infinitely grateful for the cold air.

It made it easier not to drown in memories that would force her to tears if she allowed it.

“...sorry, I think I left my gloves inside.” A warm, no-nonsense female voice caught Helen’s ear through the general murmur. The woman was answered by a tired, deep chuckle. “Can’t miss the most important Kent family tradition,” he said. “I’ll come help you look. Clark, go warm up the truck. We’ll be out soon.”

“‘Kay.” The jingle of keys being handed over. Helen closed her eyes and smiled faintly.

Mother, are you watching? Because I’m sure you would be laughing.

The boy stopped when he found Helen in his path, his boots audibly crunching and shifting in the snow.

“Ms. Wayne? What are you doing h--I mean, hi.”

“Hello, Mr. Kent.” She opened her eyes and turned to face him, some of her self-possession flooding back into her now that she was looking into the shimmering blue eyes she was nearly certain still drove Lex crazy to think about. “Are you sure you don’t want to finish asking why I didn’t catch fire when I walked over the threshold?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, barn coat pulling up to show the blue suit underneath. “That would be Pete’s department. I’m just...surprised.”

“It is the only church in town that doesn’t meet in someone’s house,” she pointed out, not quite able to stop herself from teasing him. He just became so amusingly flustered.

She got an adorable eyeroll this time. “Well, yeah. You just don’t seem the churchy type.”

“‘πάντες γὰρ ἥμαρτον καὶ ὑστεροῦνται τῆς δόξης τοῦ Θεοῦ.’” The Greek was a little unfamiliar on her tongue, out of practice as she was, but the look on his face was worth it. “Romans 3:23. It was my father’s favorite chapter.”

His eyes got a faraway look, for a moment, and then he snapped back to the moment. “That’s the ‘everyone screws up’ chapter, right?”

“Ineloquent, but yes.” Her lips ticked upward in a small, almost unwilling smile. “We fall so we can learn to pick ourselves up. That’s what my father thought, anyway.”

Something in those eyes of his softened, and he looked away awkwardly. “Seemed like a good guy, your dad. We read about him in civics.”

“They keep trying to convince me to go back to Gotham and dedicate a monument. It seems... I can’t stomach it. They did so much for the city, both of them, and the world just goes on like nothing changed. Like it didn’t really matter.” She managed to stop herself before any more words spilled out, shaking herself a little. It’s Christmas. That’s all. It’s Christmas and I’m standing outside a church instead of drunk. That’s all. “Alexander misses you.”

Or, perhaps, I just can’t keep my damned mouth shut tonight.

Clark looked like he’d been about to say something down-home and reassuring, then walked into her subject change face first at full speed. “Um...?”

“I just thought you ought to know.” And am apparently incapable of keeping my thoughts to myself at the moment. “Have you talked to him?”

The crossed arms were back. “Not really. I kind of gave up after he kept talking about keeping me away for my own good, the arrogant jerk. You can tell him I said so, too.”

“When Alexander tries to throw himself on his sword around me, I generally find myself inclined to fuck it out of him.”

There was obviously something medically wrong with her at the moment. She needed to walk out of here, find a specialist in psychological disorders and find out why she was having the compulsive need to be honest with young Kansas farmboys.

So red in the face she was surprised he wasn’t steaming in the cold air, Clark stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked everywhere but at her. “Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen,” he finally choked out. “He was pretty clear about that. I have friends who aren’t rich assholes. I think a couple of them might date me if I’m less of a flake. It can’t be more trouble than he is. Besides, just no.”

“You’re not that kind of girl?” Helen murmured, an eyebrow arched in faint amusement. His embarrassment really was charming. He muttered something that sounded remarkably close to ‘screw you’ under his breath and threw his hands in the air.

“Bye. Merry Christmas or whatever.”

“If you change your mind,” she said, taking the extra step she needed to catch him and slip one of her cards into his pocket, “I can definitely arrange it. Merry Christmas, Clark.”

He shook her off and stomped off towards the family truck, still muttering.

“Like I want her help. Just talking to her is more of a headache than he is. Not that I’d just jump into bed with him, how much of a douche he’s been, thinks he can just...”

Chapter Text

Early January, 2004

“Alexander.” Helen’s voice broke into his thoughts, the gently immovable tone she used when she wasn’t going to let him look away or hide or lash out at her to make her back away from him. “Alexander, look at me.”

“How dare you,” he grated out, eyes still fixed out over the city. “How dare you bring him here, how dare you touch him, how dare you....”

“Alexander,” she said again, and there was sharpness in it this time as she took hold of his wrist and spun him around, looking up at him with those cobalt eyes that burned in the moonlight. “I am not trying to steal Clark from you. I am not trying to hurt you, or leverage you, or make you do anything. I am not going to hurt him, or let him hurt me. What I am, Alexander, is tired of watching you ache for him and refuse to let him know that there is a chance. Do you understand? He is here, now, because he wants you. And I am not going to let either of you hurt the other any more than you already have.”

“You know that having him in my penthouse amounts to throwing potassium into a bathtub, and you tell me you aren’t trying to make me do anything?”

“I could have worn the red and black bedroom set,” she told him, looking up at him with a quirk of a smile on her lips. “That would have been making you. This is encouragement.”

“You put him in red silk boxers, Helen.” He glared down at her.

“Those were his idea, actually.” Her smile grew a little more. “I told him I thought they were a little much, but he was so charmingly determined that I couldn’t help but go along.”

The rage guttered and died. Lex’s face turned cold. “You think you can stop me from hurting him, Helen? I could cut him off at the knees with a few well-aimed words. You’re fast, but not that fast.”

“I don’t have to stop you with my hands, Alexander.” She looked up at him, unflinching and unafraid. “Imagine saying that to him in front of me. Go on. Try.”

The scenarios unfolded in his mind, all the ugly things he could use to punish Clark for his lies. For making Lex vulnerable. But that was where they stayed. The cruel, the contemptuous, the outright falsehoods - he couldn’t say any of them, even hypothetically. Only the most simple statements of fact made their imaginary way past his lips: You lie to me. I know you lie to me. It’s eating me up inside.

They would hurt, yes, but in the history of Luthor attacks they were barely a warning shot.

It felt like something broke open in his chest.

“I’ll be pathetic,” he murmured, almost whispered. “Completely undone. Do you really want to see that?”

“No. I want to see you happy. But I’m willing to see you undone, if that’s what it takes to get there.” She leaned up and kissed him softly, resting her palms on his shoulders, lips tracing his until they were breathing each other’s air. “If I needed a man made out of steel, Alexander, I’d build one.”

With his hands on her waist, he leaned into the kiss. “Happy is an exotic locale for me, Helen,” he said into her mouth. “That might be a while coming.”

“I own travel companies,” she teased as she finally drew back and looked into his eyes again. “I can handle exotic. Exotic locales, exotic materials, exotic tastes...”

The ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Meteorite disco ball for the ceiling?.”

“If that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll get you.” She kissed his jaw lightly. “But for the moment, there’s a nearly naked agricultural worker in fantastic shape sitting in your bed waiting for us to debauch him.”

“I see this is fantasy-fulfillment for you, too.” He relaxed enough to gesture grandly to the penthouse door.

“Two exceedingly attractive men from opposite ends of the socioeconomic spectrum ready to do my bidding in bed?” She grinned up at him, though it didn’t quite reach the focused, tender intensity in her eyes. “What girl wouldn’t be willing to pull a few strings for that?”

He leaned down to kiss her hair. “Do your bidding? My plan mostly involves fucking both of you stupid.”

“Oh. Hm.” She leaned in enough to brush her mouth over the curve of his jaw. “I suppose I can live with my disappointment.”

Clark was standing in the hallway that led back to the bedroom, wearing one of Lex’s robes and an anxious expression, and the whole picture was enough to make Lex want to go to the damned farmboy and hold him and chase that look off his face. “Um... so...” he began.

“Bedroom now,” Helen ordered him, though there was warmth in her voice that made Clark’s cheeks flush hot red. “Questions later.”

“Clark.” Lex stepped in close, closer than he’d ever dared. Any resolve he had left was quickly evaporating under Clark’s radiant heat. “I need you to promise me something.”

Helen sighed.

“Yes, Lex.” Clark’s wide blue eyes looked down at him with all the sincerity in the world.

“Promise me that if you have to choose between protecting yourself and giving me what I want, you’ll protect yourself.”

“I...” Clark started to protest, looked to the side, then back at Lex. Then, thank God, he nodded his damned stubborn head. “All right. I’ll do my best.”

One corner of Lex’s mouth turned up as he curled his fists into the borrowed robe. “Well, that will have to do.”

Kissing Clark was like drinking sunlight through a fire hose, except he didn’t want to stop. Ever. It scared the hell out of him. But then Helen’s familiar warmth was against his back, her lips against the back of his neck, and he wasn’t pulling back. He wasn’t going to pull back.

He returned his attention to the task of kissing Clark until the farmboy’s knees buckled. He wondered, idly, how long that would take.

It didn’t happen before he had to break for air, but Helen seemed eager enough to take over for him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, except that it made him harder than he’d ever been in his damned life. It also put Clark’s neck at an excellent angle for sucking, which he did with enthusiasm while fumbling with the robe’s belt. When Lex bit down into the sun-drenched skin and muscle, Clark’s moan reverberated all the way through both of them--all three, if the sudden tightening of Helen’s fingers against Clark’s chest was anything to go by. Which, he could say with the confidence of familiarity, it was. Then Helen came up for air in turn and made room for him, and he had enough time to watch Clark’s eyes snap open wide in surprise as Lex hauled his head around and kissed him all over again.

Clark moaned something into Lex’s mouth that sounded a lot like “Doomed.”

That was very satisfactory.

His second kiss with Clark was slightly less overwhelming than the first, and Lex was dimly aware of strong, graceful fingers unbuttoning his shirt. Helen, apparently unsatisfied with his progress, had decided to take over the undressing process. Lex didn’t mind. That left more time for making Clark produce those wonderfully stunned, desperate little noises.

He’d never realized just how much of the process of moving from kissing in the hallway to sprawling out on the bed could benefit from an able assistant. He’d have to give that more thought.

Later.

She’d gotten the belt already, which meant that he could put his hands on every inch of Clark’s shoulders and chest and abs like he was trying to memorize them. He was doing a pretty good job of it until he got to the hips, and then he was grinding against Clark’s barely-clothed erection and moaning ridiculously loudly and that was when the farmboy’s knees gave out and the whole lot of them spilled to the floor, even Helen.

They lay there a moment, helplessly entangled, and then she started to laugh - softly, richly, with a world of pleasure in the simple absurdity of the moment in it. After a few incredulous seconds, Clark joined in with even more gusto than she had.

Lex hadn’t laughed like that in ages, and never right before sex. “I think you were right about the bed, Helen,” he conceded breathlessly. “But please get off me so we can proceed.”

She swatted him playfully, then started wriggling her way out of the tangle of robe, silk shirt, dress and limbs. “As you get to know me better, Clark,” she said without taking her eyes off Lex, “you’ll discover that I’m almost always right about everything. I trust that I can depend on you not to follow Alexander’s example, and learn to go along from the start?”

“Sure, great, whatever you want,” came the dazed answer.

“I like him. He’s a quick learner,” Helen concluded airily as she finished getting to her feet, dropped her dress to the floor and then stepped over both of them to lead the way toward the bedroom. “We should definitely keep him, Alexander.”

“Wait, what?” Clark blinked, eyes coming into focus, and then his head was swiveling between Lex’s eyes and Helen’s retreating figure. “Did she just say...”

Lex pressed a sloppy kiss to Clark’s throat just below his jaw. “I couldn’t possibly comment. Now move your leg, hot stuff.”

They’ll be asleep for a while. Helen pulled the robe she’d plucked off the floor beside the bed a little tighter around herself and sipped her water while she leaned against the counter and waited for the espresso machine and the coffee maker to finish their work. To see them, you’d think they’d been waiting a century for the chance to have each other and not just a few years. Pretty. I suppose I ought to be jealous. She considered the idea while she swallowed the last of the water, then walked to the balcony and opened the doors to let the cleansing cold of the winter air in.

She wasn’t. Why was escaping her for the moment, but it would come in due course. The espresso machine toned softly, demanding her attention, and she went back to fixing her Hammerhead. There was probably a law against putting a third shot of espresso into one of these things, somewhere, but she was prepared to overlook it.

Her cardiovascular system could handle it.

It had been good to see Alexander let go - to see him stop thinking about anything except where he was and what he was doing and with whom he was doing it. She’d been lucky enough to bring him to that place herself a few times, but only a few, and she hadn’t wanted the boy’s first time to be marked by seeing Lex’s eyes go distant with another thought that belonged in another place, another world.

Sentimental, but there it was - she’d wanted it to be good for them, and the boy had done an admirable job at applying himself to keeping Alexander on task.

The boy. Clark. She stirred her coffee again, carefully, and then took a hot sip that her mouth protested before she told it firmly to be silent.

She’d had her hands on him more than once tonight, and she hadn’t been gentle. Neither had Lex. He was stronger and harder than he looked with his clothes on, of course, but still....

The idea turned itself over in her mind a few times. She’d need more data to form a proper conclusion. Still, it was suddenly easier to understand the obsessive interest Alexander sometimes showed in the secrets Clark insisted on keeping. The boy truly was a puzzle.

Helen knew how to be patient. She set the thought aside for the moment, sipped her coffee, and thought about the look on Alexander’s face when he’d finally pushed his way down between Clark’s legs and gotten a look at what he’d jokingly described as the Promised Land.

He hadn’t been disappointed. Helen smiled at the memory.

The sound of the bedroom door closing softly caught her attention. Clark had found another robe somewhere, and padded across the lush carpeting to the kitchen, squinting in the light.

“You and coffee.”

“It sustains all life, Clark, I promise you.” She studied him, astonished by how comfortable and energetic he looked. He was asleep barely twenty minutes. I wish I had that kind of recovery time. “Without it, we’d simply wither and die.”

“Whatever you say, Helen,” he nodded, zeroing in on the refrigerator. She watched in amusement as he opened the appliance, retrieved a half-full quart of milk, and proceeded to drink the entire contents without either getting a glass or closing the door.

Then he went back to rummaging.

“Hey, bacon. You want some, Helen?” He peered over the door, waving the package enticingly. “Bacon sustains all life.”

“If you’re cooking,” she replied airily, “I’ll eat it. Especially if you take that robe off first.”

Despite everything she’d seen of him in the last few hours, he blushed. Not as much as he had the first time he’d seen her, but still a robust flush.

He shrugged out of it, revealing a borrowed pair of boxer-briefs. “Don’t want to get grease on it anyway.”  

With only a little bewilderment at the sleek, well-appointed kitchen, Clark found a cast-iron skillet and set of tongs. “You like it chewy, crispy, or burnt?”

“Crispy.” She studied the line of his shoulders, of his chest, of his back, and her eyes narrowed slightly. I wasn’t wrong, and it wasn’t a trick of the light. “He’s still asleep?”

“Yeah.” His voice was softly affectionate. She was learning all the different tones Clark used when talking about Lex. Like this one, most were unmistakably smitten.

“If you hurt him,” she said in a deliberately mild tone, “I’m going to be very put out with you.”

He blinked. “People usually think he’s the dangerous one.”

“Do you know the story of Hephaestion, Clark?” She took another sip of her coffee and leaned her head back, enjoying the warmth of the stove and the coolness of the air.

He sighed. “Everything’s ‘Ancient Greece’ this and ‘Renaissance’ that with you people.”

“Hephaestion was the schoolmate, friend and companion of a great general - a conqueror who led a single small country to rule the entire known world of the time by the age of thirty. The story goes that the general so loved Hephaestion that when the young captain died of a fever before the general could even reach his side, the general was so overcome with grief that he refused to eat or drink for two whole days, and then he gave his beloved a funeral fit for a king. Soon after, he became sick himself - or was poisoned, depending on which historian you believe - and died, some say as much of heartbreak as of the fever.” Helen took a slow sip of her coffee and watched Clark watching her from the corner of her eye. “The general’s name was Alexander of Macedon, who was called the Great by his people and his enemies alike.”

“I saw that one coming, FYI,” he said mildly, turning the bacon. “Kinda hard to avoid the legend when it hangs over Lex’s head all the time.” He turned to look at her head on. “Look, I don’t know what kind of future we have, but--”

“I wasn’t suggesting that you ought to be picking out matching curtains and crockery just yet,” she told him with an amused smile. “But you asked me why I think you’re the dangerous one to him instead of the reverse. From everything he’s told me about you and everything I’ve seen, you are singularly well-endowed with friends and family who care deeply for you. Alexander might hurt you, it’s true, but if he does I have no doubt at all that you’ll heal swiftly and cleanly. I am not nearly as confident he’d heal well if you hurt him. Does that make my point a little clearer, Clark?”

He nodded, started to stare broodingly at the wall, then frowned and rubbed his face. “I’m afraid of that, too.”

“Caution isn’t the same as fear, Clark. It’s worth remembering the difference.” She finished her coffee and set the cup down on the table, then ran her fingernails firmly down the line of his back. It felt surprisingly like scraping them across a nail file. “I think you and Alexander can do well together. You just need to remember to handle him with care.”

With his free hand he picked up a pot holder and lightly gripped the handle of the skillet, turning it to a better bacon-flipping angle. “I know how to be careful.”

“More careful than we were with you tonight, I should hope,” she teased him as she drew her fingers back and flexed them slowly. I wonder...

He shrugged as if he could feel her scrutiny. “I know other people bruise more than I do.” Apparently satisfied with his cooking, he flicked the stove off and went to look for plates. He smiled as he handed her portion over. “And I didn’t mind you being un-careful.”

She heard something darken in her own voice as she set her bacon down and pressed into him, pushing him back against the counter and running her hand down his chest. “And just how uncareful,” she husked, “are you willing to let me be, Clark?”

His own plate clattered on the counter. She could feel him start to harden through her robe.

“Uh. Lots?”

She shoved herself against him, wrapping her hand in his hair and kissing him hard enough that it hurt her own lips a little, her other hand wrapped around his wrist as she ground herself against him. They stayed like that a little while, tongues tangled, her feeling his body burn against hers, and then she drew back and licked her lips and looked down at his hand where she’d pressed it.

“Clark,” she murmured, whole body rigid with the taut stillness that had driven itself through her when she’d been sure she’d put his hand where she’d meant to, “that burner is still hot.”

Belatedly he jerked his hand away, a hunted look on his face as he slid sideways away from her. “It’s just...I don’t...I have to go.” He was halfway to the front door when he looked down at himself and stopped short.

“Clark,” she said softly in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, keeping her eyes on his and suppressing the astonishment that was trying to drain the blood out of her face, “don’t punish Alexander because I had to know. I already told him that I wasn’t going to let either of you be hurt. Don’t make me a liar.”

A half-hysterical laugh bubbled out of his throat. “Sure, no problem. Helping you keep your word is definitely my top priority right now.” Still, he didn’t rush back to the bedroom and his clothes, starting to pace the living room instead.

“I would think,” she said softly, “that protecting Alexander would be a concern.” She stayed where she was, keeping her movements to a minimum except for starting the espresso machine going again. Her doctor was going to throw a fit, but that would be later. Later would be the time for dealing with that problem.

“He’s the only reason I’m still here,” Clark snapped, glaring. “I just meant that I don’t really care what you want.”

“Why should you?” She smiled faintly and leaned against the counter. “But it’s good that we understand each other. I’m curious about how you came to be fireproof and bruise-proof, of course, but I’m also more interested in not having Alexander hate me in the morning. I let curiosity get the better of me once tonight. I think that’s more than enough.” For the moment. I wonder if your passion for the cause of meteor-radiation is personal, Mister Kent, or if there’s something else going on? Also for later. “I don’t expect you to like me, Clark. I don’t expect you to trust me. But you can believe that I want Alexander to be happy, and that I don’t want to see you hurt... well, outside the bedroom.” Her lips quirked up in a smile she couldn’t quite contain. “Though now I know to be more careful with my teeth.”

Clark looked away and muttered something about his wishes concerning her dental fortitude. Then he sat on the far end of one of the sofas, arms crossed over his chest and trying to glare holes in the window.

“Are you going to sulk all night?” she asked softly, mixing herself an Americano and moving to sit on the other end of the couch.

“Yup.”

She couldn’t help smiling. The boy was so disarmingly earnest, even about his anger. “When I was eight years old,” she whispered, surprised by her own need to offer him something in return for the secret she’d so badly wanted to steal, “the world stopped making sense to me. Before that moment, I thought that everything there was could fit neatly into a pattern that logic and learning and common sense could identify, sort and make simple fact. I thought that good people took care of each other, and bad people could be helped or at least kept safely at arm’s reach, and that God looked down on the world and made sure everything went the way it was supposed to.”

Clark kept staring straight ahead. “Will you just leave me alone, or do I have to lock myself in the bathroom or something?”

Helen sighed and looked down at her coffee, then closed her eyes. “What I’m trying to say, Clark, is that I’m not going to do anything that’s going to take you away from your parents. Anything. Ever.”

There was a subtle creak of leather, and when she peeked through her lashes Clark was giving her a sideways, appraising look. After a long moment he spoke.

“I believe you. But I also believe that you’re going to dig up as many of my secrets as you can whether I want you to or not.”

“As many as I can without breaking my word to Lex not to intrude on your life, yes.” Her lips curved up at the edges in another one of those smiles that wouldn’t go away, and she opened her eyes fully to meet his. They really are a lovely, vivid shade of blue... “You’re a fascinating man, Clark. I won’t say ‘can you blame me,’ because of course you do, but...” she laughed gently. “Just don’t offer me a lift across any rivers, and we’ll be fine.”

He narrowed his eyes and went back to glaring out at Metropolis.

She sighed. “Aesop? The scorpion and the frog? Nothing?” Another swallow of coffee was definitely necessary.

Without another word, Clark got up and padded down the hallway. A moment later, she heard him start the shower. That warranted another sigh while she finished her coffee. Then she had an idea that brought another smile to her lips as she started toward the bedroom.

“Alexander,” she murmured as she slid into bed next to her lover and pricked him with her nails to wake him, “your farmboy is naked in the shower.”

His half-lidded eyes instantly snapped to full awareness. “Have I told you lately how completely marvelous you are?”

“Not lately.” She settled in next to him and kissed his jaw, pulling the blanket around him away and curling into it herself. “Are you going or staying?”

As he sat up, he gave her waist a lingering caress through the cashmere. “Going, naturally.” He smirked. “I can’t be held responsible for the distraction you present.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to be. Enjoy your farmboy.” She closed her eyes, settled her breathing, and made a show of getting ready to sleep.

From the sounds she heard from the shower a few minutes later, she would have wagered a small Pacific island that he’d taken her advice.

Chapter Text

Early February, 2004

Lex was midway through the Starnet file when he became aware that Helen’s breathing had changed. In fact, his first thought was that it had stopped, and he’d looked up from the laptop with concern.

She was breathing, still, if very shallowly. Breathing and watching him in the near dark with wide eyes and her lips compressed into a line so tight that it drove all the blood out of them.

“Helen?”

“Alexander.” She bit off his name as though it tasted bitter in her mouth, then sat up in bed and started for the wardrobe in which she’d been keeping her clothes.

The computer was shifted to the bedside table. “You disapprove of my reading material?”

“That information is proprietary,” she responded, dragging a blouse out and shrugging into it quickly before starting on the buttons. “You didn’t pay for it, or I’d have heard about it - Star Labs are a competitor of WayneTech’s, and my people keep a close eye on them. That means that you stole it.” The blouse roughly buttoned, she resumed digging through the wardrobe.

“Indirectly, yes.” He paused, watching her quick, forceful movements, the line of tension in her shoulders. “In this particular case I’m looking for proprietary LuthorCorp information. I bought a mole to find a mole.”

“And when you’ve done that,” she said, her voice hard as she dragged on a pair of slacks, “I trust that you will be deleting all the information irrelevant to your mole hunt?”

“No. Then I’m going to get the advantage over them.” She continued dressing in silence. “This really bothers you.”

“Of course it bothers me, Alexander. I didn’t take you for a thief.” She spit the word like a blasphemy, and he remembered how she’d cut his father apart in much the same tone. The slacks belted on, she pulled out a jacket and shrugged into it before heading to the side table where she’d left her purse the night before.

When she reached for the handbag, Lex rolled across the wide mattress and put a hand on her wrist. Her expression was savagely severe when she looked at him, made more so by the bluish light of the laptop screen.

“Helen. I know this looks like greed, but it’s about survival. Someday I’m going to need a StarLab secret to keep the wolves off my back.”

“Survival, Alexander?” She bit the words off. “There are children in the street who steal bread or fruit so they don’t starve. That is about survival. This is about money and power and status, and if you don’t understand the difference, you can go to hell.”

He dropped his arm with a glare. “So good of you to come down from on high and set me straight. Tell me, Helen, when was the last time your position depended on how well you collected and guarded information?”

Her eyes narrowed, and her voice turned icy. “Wayne Industries puts a great deal of effort into guarding what belongs to it, Lex, but we don’t steal. We don’t buy tips. We make the best product or we buy it over the table from the person who does, or we don’t manage either and live with the consequences. If I found out that one of my executives was doing what you’re doing right now, he’d be done at Wayne Industries for good. Period. My people know that. There are things that you, if you sell them, you can’t buy back. Honor is one of them. Probably that’s cost me money or status at some point - things I could have had. I don’t care.”

Helen standing over someone like an angry Valkyrie was intimidating, sure, but it didn’t impress Lex. What did strike him was her clothes, the purse; everything between them. He hated it, more than he hated the idea of passing up strategic advantages.

“You still don’t understand,” he ground out. “But I concede your point. After the investigation, I’ll delete all the rest.”

Visibly biting down on her anger, she reached out to touch his face and lowered her voice to a murmur. “Maybe I don’t understand. Maybe I can’t. But I think your father would be pleased with you stealing it and angry with you for deleting it, and more importantly, I think it’s the right thing to do.” She sat down on the bed next to him, discarding the purse onto the floor with an audible thump, and then her arms were around him tightly enough to constrict his breathing a little. “And if you ever find the wolves trying to climb onto your back, Alexander, you can call on me to watch it for you.”

The silk of her blouse whispered cooly over his skin as he brought his arms around her in kind. They held on to each other wordlessly for a few moments, and then he chuckled.

“Of course this means I’ll need to rely entirely on internal security measures to prevent and identify leaks. Honor is really inconvenient sometimes.”

“Nothing worthwhile is easy,” she whispered into his ear, the banked tension in her body easing another notch, and then kissed his jaw lightly. “But you’re clever. You’ll figure it out. I might even help you, if you ask me nicely.”

He palmed her curves through the layers of silk and wool, smiling wickedly. “Oh, I can ask very nicely.”

“Show me,” she husked, pressing him down to the bed and wrapping her lean frame around his.

Lex was more than happy to oblige. If honor was inconvenient, he decided somewhere between the first scream of pleasure and the first crack in the headboard, it also had very competitive fringe benefits.

Chapter Text

March, 2004

The relationship Lex had with Helen - and at this point he had not only admitted to the existence of the relationship but was also willing to call it such - was agreeable to both of their lifestyles, and as such they went for stretches of time without seeing each other. Sometimes as little as a few days, sometimes up to three weeks would pass between the nightclubs and the extreme sports and the bedroom athletics.

A month and a half was not typical. It had taken until the fourth week for Lex’s nerves to fray from the buildup of tension that he was accustomed to venting with Helen. The fifth week, he had clubbed with acquaintances from Metropolis, driven alone at speeds law enforcement couldn’t even try to catch up with, and called in fencing, tae kwon do, and aikido sparring partners.

The sixth week, he’d finally admitted to himself that he missed her.

A day later, after re-arranging appointments and leaving strict instructions to the household staff and upper management at the plant, he was taking the curves up to Wayne Manor at only twenty miles per hour faster than recommended.

The mansion itself sat on the hill like a gloomy Acropolis, its broad gothic sprawl of gray and tan stone dotted with huge curtained windows like closed eyes, looming over Gotham City in as lordly a fashion as any European castle might over the town it ruled. Bigger than the house in Smallville, by far - bigger than most of the mansions he’d seen that had been established for the particular purpose of striking awe with their size. Wayne Manor had been grown, more than built, and the layering of structure to the house only added to the weight and grandeur. There was plenty of sunlight streaming through the broken clouds everywhere else, but the gray darkness seemed to gather thicker and heavier over the manor as though it were trying to hide itself from the light.

He was not someone who thought of himself as likely to be impressed by architecture. It seemed appropriate that it was Helen’s ancestral home that did so.

At the edge of the estate, he stopped for the huge wrought-iron gates that barred the way. However, he’d barely rolled down the window when they opened silently to let him pass, and he wondered if someone was always watching the camera feed or if Helen had anticipated his arrival. He hadn’t called. Surprising Helen would be real work, but he’d at least wanted to be spontaneous.

After the tour of the formal gardens, Lex parked the new Porsche at a careless angle and sauntered up the grand front steps. He pushed the bell and idly inspected the ancient molding, waiting perhaps ninety-five seconds before the door swung open.

A tall, narrow, balding man in a formal suit whose eyes were far too intelligent to be restricted to opening doors greeted him in a carefully neutral British accent. “You must be Mister Luthor,” he said. “Please come in.”

“Thank you, Mister...?”

“Pennyworth.” The butler closed the door neatly behind him, then took his coat and scarf. “I don’t believe Miss Wayne is expecting you, but she has mentioned you. If you’ll wait a few moments, I’ll ask her if she wants to see you.”

“I appreciate it, Mister Pennyworth.” He was escorted to a group of fine sofas and armchairs clustered around a cold fireplace, each piece of furniture as clean and bare as the marble floors and stately columns. After watching the retreating butler go at his unhurried, methodical pace, Lex sat where he could look at the grand foyer and galleries above.

They were built on a grand scale like the rest of the house, the sort of soaring vaults and staircases that were built for entertaining hundreds of elite guests at a time. Now, empty, with only the diffuse natural light of the afternoon, it might have been a particularly clean ancient ruin. The sense of absence was oppressive.

“Alexander.” Helen’s voice came down to him from the top of the stairs, startled and pleased, and he reflexively stood up to watch her as she descended the stairs. She looked different, though she was almost to the landing of the foyer before he realized why - her simple jacket and dress combination in white and black, stripped of jewelry or makeup to accent it, and the restrained formality of her hair reminded him of a funeral.

In that house, it almost felt like one.

He smiled up at her. “Helen. Good to see you.” The rest of it he could say later, or be understood without saying.

“You came to fetch me.” There was fresh life in her voice now, a hint of laughter, and she came to him and wrapped her arms around him tightly for a moment before withdrawing to a more modest distance and flushing with a hint of embarrassment that was decidedly unlike her. “I don’t know whether I should be pleased or cross with you,” she murmured, “so I think I’ll simply forgive you and kiss you.”

She did, briefly and demurely, so different from her usual passion that it left him lurching after a stair tread that wasn’t there. He stepped back, half-amused, half-concerned. “You sure you want to ride with such a reckless driver?”

“I think I’ll survive.” Another flash of that familiar smile, all too quickly subdued. “I have a few calls I have to finish up, but they can wait. We can go up to the library.”

As he followed her up the stairs, he regaled her with a mostly-true account of his school trip that involved hiding in the Gotham Museum with two friends and almost not getting caught before closing. By the time they arrived in the long, walnut-paneled rare book Mecca, he’d at least gotten a chuckle or two from her. The place reminded him uncomfortably of a mausoleum he’d visited in Italy once - as if the air itself were determined to hush any hint of life or brightness that might sneak inside. The old Italian structure had made him want to shout, run, do anything to break the silence in the air. He hadn’t started to have those same reactions to Wayne Manor yet, but he could already tell that it was only going to be a matter of time.

The thought that kept running through his mind, over and over, was Helen lives here?

They settled on the sort of leather sofa Lex associated with brandy, cigars and gentlemen’s clubs. Before she could sit primly at the other end, he pulled her close, turned his back to the armrest, and held her leaning back against his chest.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured into her ear.

“Lex...” she shied a little, though she closed her eyes, and her nails bit lightly into his thighs through his slacks.

One hand warming her collarbone, the other lightly stroking one of her own, Lex settled deeper into the couch.

“Shh. I want you to think about flying, Helen.” It was something he hadn’t tried with her, yet, but there had never been the need to get her away from her surroundings when he couldn’t actually do so. “Remember how cold the air was at fourteen thousand feet? And the rush when you jump. The whole world spread out under you, or all the corn in the world, anyway, and you’re weightless.”

The sheer relief when she relaxed - and she did relax, almost completely, until her whole body was pressed back against him and her head rolled back against his shoulder - was an almost physical pleasure. “Alexander,” she whispered, eyes still closed,  “you are a wicked, beautiful man, and I really ought not let you put your hands on me in my father’s house.”

Chuckling, his hand slid to her waist. “Then you get to choose between being naughty in Wayne Manor or letting me take you somewhere else.”

“Alexander....” Her eyes came open again, and she turned against him enough to look into his eyes, and the emotion in them was enough to make his chest hurt in spite of the fact that he was normally pretty well insulated from sentiment. She stared at him for a double handful of heartbeats, then wet her lips nervously and managed a smile. “We would have to be extremely quiet.”

It still hurt, seeing her so tightly folded up inside herself, but Lex knew how to have fun while in various states of pain. He smirked and whispered into her mouth.

“Challenge accepted.”  

Chapter Text

June, 2004

Clark stood at the entrance to the mansion’s kitchen, bouncing with restless energy. It had been almost three weeks since the last time he and Lex had been alone together longer than five minutes. A very, very long three weeks. Especially when thinking impure thoughts led to heat vision. He’d almost set things on fire about five times in the last couple of days alone.

Finally, the door opened, and Clark handed the box of his mother’s veggies over to the cook. It was hard not to zoom into Lex’s office in a whoosh of anticipation, but he managed a normal-person walking pace. Well, a fast walking pace for a normal person, but close enough.

On his way up the stairs, he heard Helen answer her phone in the living room.

“Miss Wayne?” The man on the other end of the phone said. It had taken Clark a little while to realize, when he was younger, that not everybody heard both sides of every phone conversation. That had been a little embarrassing. He tried not to pay attention, but there was something in the man’s voice that grabbed him - a tightly controlled nervousness.

“Robert.” Helen’s voice was surprise and pleasure, then concern. “Something’s wrong or you wouldn’t be calling like this.”

“I shouldn’t say anything... but you deserve to know.” Helen said nothing, waiting and giving the man on the other end of the phone time to work up to what he needed to say. Words might have made him change his mind. “Joe Chill is up for parole. Emergency hearing in the next three months. They moved him to isolation until then. Something about dirt on a mob boss.”

What Helen’s heart did in her chest at that moment, Clark had never heard before. It stopped him cold, made him turn to look through stone and plaster. She was sitting with one hand tight in her lap, the other white-knuckled on her phone, the line of her back rigidly straight and her eyes staring at nothing. Her breathing had stopped. Two seconds, ten, half a minute....

She started breathing again. “Thank you, Robert,” she said in a voice that might have been discussing the weather in China. “I appreciate you telling me. I won’t forget it.”

“Helen...” he started to say, hesitated, gave up. “I’m sorry.”

“I appreciate you telling me,” she repeated in that same voice. “I’ll see you soon, Robert. Goodbye.”

Then she hung up the phone, carefully set her computer to the side, and smashed her knuckles on the hardwood of the nearest bookcase. Stood there, staring at them and not seeing the minor fractures Clark could see in her bones, and her expression frightened him.

He half-turned to go back down, then hesitated. This wasn’t anything he could help with, and he was pretty sure she’d be furious that he even knew she was upset about something. He wasn’t good at commiserating with people about stuff like that.

But Lex was. And Clark could say he’d been right outside the living room when she’d punched the furniture.

He forgot about it for the next hour. It was a very good hour. They didn’t even leave the office.

Lounging on the sofa, Lex watched him as he dressed. His voice and body were relaxed, languid, but his eyes swiftly cataloged every detail they came across. “I don’t approve of this, Clark. What could you possibly have to do at home that can’t wait another hour or five?”

“Chores. Dinner. Many things which my parents will notice if I do not do.” He blushed and tried very hard not to think about what Lex could do with another hour, much less five. It didn’t go as well as he might have hoped.

“I’ll hire someone to do your chores.”

“And again with the explaining-to-my-parents and my father owning a shotgun.” Clark was still blushing, but he gave Lex a pleading look. “I’ll try to come back day after tomorrow. Okay?”

Eyes riveted to Clark’s hands as he buckled his belt, Lex smirked. “I suppose a tentative appointment with Clark Kent is something worth putting in my schedule.” He dragged his gaze up Clark’s chest. “I’ll even plan activities.”

Dammit, now he was blushing again and it was harder to buckle his pants. Clark pointedly reminded himself not to swear because Lex thought it was funny when he did. “Um,” he said instead, a model of eloquence, and then remembered Helen’s knuckles. “There’s... ah... something up with your girlfriend. Or not-girlfriend. Whichever.”

Lex raised an eyebrow. “Lots of women aren’t my girlfriend, Clark, but I will assume you mean Helen.” That was another side benefit of sex. Lex would normally be a much bigger pain in the ass about Clark’s verbal fumblings.

“Yeah.” Clark finally got his belt fastened and ran a nervous hand through his hair. “She got a phone call while I was coming up and it upset her pretty bad. I think she hurt her hand punching the wall. So you might want to, um, check on her. Or something.”

Yes, because that was a rousing and inspiring plan. Well done, Clark. Well done.

Lex studied Clark’s face for a contemplative moment. Then his expression softened into a subtle smile.

“Thank you for telling me, Clark. I’ll look into it.”

For reasons he couldn’t readily explain, Clark felt profoundly relieved. Lex would, somehow or other, take care of it. Apparently he believed that enough that he didn’t need to know how it was going to happen to feel better.

“So,” he said, managing to smile and not blush at the same time, “day after tomorrow. Around three?”

Now Lex was grinning. “It’s a date.” Then he stood up, still completely naked, and sauntered over to where Clark was standing. He pulled Clark down for a kiss just as deep and hot and intoxicating as anything they’d done in the last hour, and made it last until he needed to come up for air.

Then he smiled up at Clark, turned the farmboy around, and nudged him towards the door.

“Don’t be late.”

Clark was long past making promises about that sort of thing by now. It seemed to be a jinx. But he smiled and nodded in what he hoped was a suitably emphatic fashion.

He was still smiling two hours later when he was out in the fields driving posts with his bare hands, because he couldn’t stop hearing the lewd remarks Lex would be making if he knew what he was doing.

Chapter Text

October, 2004

At Metropolis University, the science professors had tried to teach Lex a number of things that he’d already known: background knowledge, habits of mind, who you had to butter up to get published. A lot of it never came to bear on his life as a mid-level executive in Kansas, but one particular viewpoint seemed to apply to nearly everything in Smallville.

Big events were meaningful, sure, but you could get just as much information, if not more, from patterns of small occurrences. You just needed to view all the little things from a wide angle, and suddenly a few ditches turned into the Nazca lines.

Lex had put together a number of pictures about Smallville and its inhabitants. Some were more interesting - and more painful - than others.

It was second nature to start compiling small bits of data on Helen. Lex had been doing it since Lisbon. He’d cataloged her patterns of sleeping, travel, extreme sports, sex, reclusive periods, emotional availability--anything she did in his presence, or that he could learn from various sources.

The current collection of data had been inconclusive at first - about as specific as Clark’s initial assessment when she’d smashed her hand on Lex’s bookshelf. Something was up with Helen. More data had followed in fits and starts: her laugh was a second too late. Her security staff were edgy. New callouses slowly appeared on her thumbs and index fingers.

Lex knew she was planning something that nobody wanted to talk about. The bail hearing announcement in the Gotham Times gave him the answer of what.

Now he just had to stop her from the utter stupidity of her plan.

He beat her to the restaurant they’d agreed on. Watching the street from the bar, he saw her sleek, armored Lincoln arrive, windows tinted black. Capaldi got out, face even stonier than the last time, and Helen dismounted with the regal serenity of a queen careless of any potential danger. Or, if you knew what you were looking for, one who’d already accepted the possibility of her own ruin and was prepared to proceed anyway. She stood outside the door a moment, straightening her wrap and her dress, and then glided through the door with her head high. It only took a single sweep of her eyes to pick him out at the bar, and she handled boarding the stool next to him as if it was the most natural thing in the word to do in an evening dress and heels. “Scotch and soda,” she told the bartender, “and nothing younger than I am.”

Lex smirked without looking at her. “That doesn’t exactly rule out much, or are you keeping something from me?”

“If I wasn’t older than most of the swill they serve with soda in Gotham bars, Alexander, you’d be on your way to jail just from looking at me like that.” The bartender finished mixing her drink and set it in front of her, and Helen took a long swallow before toasting him with it. “This isn’t bad, though.”

Taking a sip from his own drink, Lex smiled at her and leaned on the bar. “I should hope so. Viajante came highly recommended.”

“That’s usually trouble,” she drawled teasingly, matching his lean. “I find all my best fun places I’m not supposed to be in the first place. Jail in Lisbon, for instance.”

His fingers glided slowly over her hand and wrist. “Shall I call the jet? I’m happy to renege on our dinner reservations.”

“Only because you see a fair prospect of getting me out of this dress faster,” she murmured, leaning close enough that their lips nearly touched.

Gaze smouldering, he took her hand in one of his, letting his other slip to her thigh, leaning in close enough to feel her body heat. “So, darling,” he murmured in her ear, “Lisbon, Prague, or the isolation ward of Gotham State Penitentiary?”

“Prague,” she retorted into his ear, her pulse under his fingertips barely missing a beat. “Lisbon’s old hat, and Blackgate has never exactly been anyone’s idea of a pleasure spot.”

“Of course not,” he agreed, and turned her hand over. Thumb running between the toughened patches of skin, he continued in the same throaty voice. “I know what you’re planning to do at the hearing, Helen. I know you’ve been training. I know why.”

She stood up so abruptly that it nearly pitched him off his stool, and without another glance at him or her half-finished drink she was stalking through the door of the restaurant and calling Capaldi’s name sharply enough to bring the big woman running from wherever she’d been passing the time.

As soon as he regained his balance he was on her heels at the curb as she waited for the car. He called out from a couple of yards away. “Funny how you want to walk away now, but not later.”

“Capaldi,” Helen said in a cold, flat voice that was as unlike the warm, human smile he’d seen her give him in the small hours of the morning as anything he’d ever heard, “if Mister Luthor gets any closer to me, kindly break his knee. Either will do.”

“Ma’am,” Capaldi said, and it was impossible to tell if it was agreement, argument or rebuke. Helen ignored it, whichever it was.

Lex didn’t move, but he didn’t fall silent, either. “I’ve always been loathe to choose between two things I want, Helen. I know how to get what you want and still have your good name in the morning.”

“What makes you think I give a damn about my good name, Lex?” she whispered, shifting impatiently on her heels without looking at him.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the noise of the street as if they were in a vacuum. “Because it was your father’s name, and your mother’s, too.”

Her shoulders hunched as if he’d put a knife in her chest, and it hurt a little inside him somewhere he hadn’t realized could hurt like that, but she didn’t snap back at him. Didn’t say a word until the car had been pulled up and Capaldi put a hand on her shoulder in silent inquiry.

“Shotgun,” Helen whispered to her head of security, then walked to the door and climbed inside. She left it standing open instead of slamming it, which was as good as an invitation.

Capaldi got into the front of the car, too, which removed the possibility of having his knee broken just yet.

The bulletproof window between the front and passenger cabins was rolled up, and Lex was fairly certain it was more for purposes of plausible deniability than any real secrecy. The tension in Capaldi’s bearing for the last two months meant that she knew what Helen was planning just as well as Lex did.

He sat quietly next to Helen, watching her for a few minutes before taking her hand. She didn’t pull it away.

“Joe Chill murdered my parents. He shot them like animals for no reason at all - because he tried to grab my mother’s pearls and they caught on his gun and he panicked. There were six rounds in his gun, and he left four in the chamber. He didn’t even try to finish what he’d done. He just left them bleeding in the dark. Alone.” Helen’s voice was as cold and empty as the void past where the light of the stars guttered out. “I won’t let that pass, Alexander. I can’t.”

“I’d never ask you to.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m only asking you to plan this out. Avenge your parents in secret, make yourself an alibi, and you’ll have balanced scales and a clean record instead of a magnificent tragedy.” Leaning towards her, he reached out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “I’d have done the same if my mother had been murdered.”

She turned and looked at him with those terrible, burning blue eyes, and her hand slowly rose to trace the line of his cheekbone with her fingertips as she studied whatever she saw in his. “Avenge my parents,” she whispered, almost musing. “Is that what I’m doing, Alexander? Sometimes it’s hard to tell what it is I’m doing anymore.”

A wry smile pulled at his lips. “If you’re asking me what the right thing to do is, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Revenge, I understand.”

She nodded very slowly, thoughtfully, and then she kissed his mouth so lightly that it was barely a breath. “Very well, Alexander,” she whispered against his lips. “Teach me about revenge.”

Chapter Text

November, 2004

Gotham City’s courthouse building had changed since the last time Helen had set foot in it, and none of the changes were for the better. There was the increased security, for one thing, and the decay of the facade that suggested the money had come out of maintenance. The hard, edgy looks on the faces of the police providing security, and the air of nervous despair clinging to the occasional defendant who crossed the hallways between the holding area and the court.

It hurt something in Helen’s chest, seeing the old grand edifice of justice so maimed and ruined, but that needle of pain vanished almost at once beneath the weight of cold anticipation burning in her lungs. She didn’t need to worry about security - her bodyguards were licensed to carry their weapons even in a courthouse, and she wasn’t carrying anything suspicious on her person. The pre-paid cell phone in her pocket, which she ‘forgot’ to turn off, would be entirely sufficient.

The two vans of men outside, hired through properly deniable contractors who didn’t know even the name of the agent for whom they were working, would handle the work. Most of the work.

She’d have time to look her parents’ murderer in the eyes, in private, before she did what was necessary.

Flashbulbs went off as she passed through the metal detector without event, and more when Alexander followed behind her. Leisure yachts, high-end nightclubs and fine dining were one kind of relationship; accompanying someone to a murderer’s parole hearing was another entirely.

None of the speculation would be even close to accurate. It was strangely insulting, that no one could notice the difference. Could see, written on either of their faces, the fundamental reality of the moment.

The most fundamental bonds were always about blood. Sharing it, shedding it, surviving it.

On the other side of the checkpoint, Alexander took her hand and glanced wryly over his shoulder at the press. “Which story do you think the tabloids will go for? Party kids finally growing up, or asshole businessman takes advantage of vulnerable heiress?”

“If none of them suggest that I’m taking advantage of you,” she replied in a soft, calm voice that had no conversation with the burning ice wrapped around her heart, “I’ll consider suing for libel.”

Squeezing her hand and keeping his face neutral, he put on a marvelous performance of his own as the concerned, supportive boyfriend. Even Helen herself wouldn’t have been able to see the lie without knowing how deeply he had involved himself in her vengeance.

“I can recommend a great attorney,” he replied. “Especially if the ‘libel’ happens to be true.”

“I’ll make a note of that.” She stopped in the middle of the hall, past the cordon that kept out the press but not yet out of sight of them, and kissed him. It was a light kiss, soft and short, but her gratitude was in it and she knew he would feel it. My practical Alexander. She wondered what her parents would have thought of him. Likely, they would have disapproved.

Her parents were twelve years dead.

The hallway to the courtroom was packed with onlookers and press, and it was that and the fact that Rachel cut a somewhat unfamiliar silhouette in a skirt suit and pumps that kept Helen from spotting her from a distance.

“Helen?” Surprise and dismay pushed Rachel’s voice past the crowd, and the newly-minted if very junior Assistant to the District Attorney sidled through the crush. Older than Helen, Rachel was still notably young to have the position - of an age with Alexander - but her early graduation from high school, quick acquisition of a BA, and the fact that Gotham’s DA was desperate enough to hire law students before graduation had given her career an early start. Helen’s self-imposed fits of exile weren’t the only reason she hadn’t seen Rachel for years.

Now Helen had come to the hearing that Rachel had avoided telling her about, and come with a full entourage to make a suitably large impression. The District Attorney’s office was clearly worried about Miss Wayne’s influence on the outcome of the day’s proceedings, and what worried the D.A. would worry Rachel. Sources close to the DA’s office had made clear that Joe Chill getting parole would lead to better and more information on the Falcone family, and the only person who really had a chance of stopping it was Helen herself.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Up close, it was more apparent that Rachel was concerned for her friend’s well-being, too, or at least doing a strikingly good job of feigning it. The lawyer pushed a non-existent strand of hair back from her face, eyes darting to Alexander and back. “I’ll let the judge know.”

“Thank you, Miss Dawes.” Helen made eye contact, because that was the most effective way of conveying she had nothing to hide, and part of her contracted in discomfort at the sight of how her formality hurt the girl who’d been her friend all their lives, with whom it had never mattered which of them was born to the manor bedroom and which was the daughter of the housekeeper.

Who she’d thought of as her friend, at least. A friend would have told her what was going to happen to her parents’ killer, and damn the consequences. Perhaps it had mattered more than she’d cared to notice who Rachel’s mother worked for.

“Helen, I’m sorry you didn’t hear this from me,” Rachel began, gripping her sheaf of notes tightly and getting as close as she dared. “But I didn’t want to put you in this position. I know what this means to you, and I know how much you care about Gotham. We could do so much good with real dirt on Falcone.”

Something hot and burning tried to force its way up into Helen’s eyes, and the only thing she could do to keep from raising her voice to a pitch that would carry all the way to Park Row was to drop it to a whisper and step in close enough that she could be sure Rachel would hear every word. “What makes you think,” she bit out, “that I give a damn about what good the District Attorney does for his re-election by going after the Falcone family? This man murdered my parents, Rachel. He put a .38 special in each of them, chest wounds - do you know what a chest wound sounds like, Rachel? The horrible, sucking sound of air going in and out of someone you love’s chest, crushing their lungs, choking them to death by inches while they struggle to breathe? While they try to find the air to tell you not to cry, to be brave, that things will be all right?” There was a kind of madness in her eyes now, and she knew it, and she knew she didn’t dare show it to Rachel and she just didn’t care. Couldn’t care. “Do you remember the trial? I remember it. I remember every minute of it, sitting there with Alfred and watching that man sit there like he was made of stone and bile, not even sorry for taking my parents away from me. And I remember how that District Attorney took my hand and told me that I didn’t have to worry or be afraid. That this man who had taken my life away was going to spend the rest of his in a six foot by eight foot cell. The rest of his life. I must have repeated that to myself a thousand times while I waited to fall asleep, all that year. The rest of his life. Tell me, Rachel, is Mister Chill still alive?”

Now there was fire in Rachel’s eyes, too, and she planted herself directly in Helen’s path. “What the hell do you think we’re fighting for? Do you know our murder rate? What happened to your parents has happened to someone every day for the last ten years. At least a third of those murders are related in some way to organized crime, and half of that goes back to Falcone.” Her voice took on tones of a long-borne frustration and she began to gesture sharply. “And we can’t get anything to stick because he’s bought off half the cops and judges in town and the good people are too scared to fight back. So I’m sorry for your pain, Helen, but I’m not going to put one person’s grief over saving the lives of hundreds of people. Your parents wouldn’t want me to, and if you’re willing to do that then you’re not the person I thought you were.”

Rachel turned away, disgust on her face, and started toward the courtroom door without looking back.

“Six years each,” Helen hissed after her. “That’s what my parents were worth to this city? How much will the next one’s victims be worth, Rachel? A few months? A year?”

Rachel kept going without answering her, and Helen stayed where she was, pale and trembling with her rage. Alexander had the sense to stand there in silence for a minute, then two, while she brought herself under control before he laid a hand on her arm and guided her towards their seats.

“Old friend?” It was clear from his tone of voice that ‘friend’ had many interpretations.

“I thought so,” she answered in a whisper, because she could feel things grating in her chest and was more than a little afraid of what her voice would sound like aloud. “For a long time, I thought so. Now I don’t know anymore. We were together most of our lives, and now I don’t think I know her at all.”

Taking her hand, he nodded subtly. “Everyone tends to think that abandoning you for a cause is better than leaving you for someone else, but I never understood why. It’s betrayal either way.”

“It’s not me she abandoned, Alexander.” Her eyes filled for a moment with tears, and she squeezed them shut tightly to force the sign of weakness away. “Not only me.”

He said nothing, only squeezed her hand, and pushed her wrist subtly against the phone in her pocket, deliberately enough for her to be sure he intended it. She drew a deep breath, forcing herself to go over every inch of the plan again in her head, and then nodded subtly. The city can forget, Father. The judges and the lawyers and the cops can forget. But I won’t. I never will. Never.

They’d brought the man in for the hearing while she was composing herself, and she studied him with the eyes of a practical expert in criminology, psychology, forensics. She’d spent her childhood on such things, trying to bury the hurt in abstract theory, and none of it had left her memory.

Very little left her memory.

Sober. Nervous, twitchy, but sober. That was new. He’d been a junkie once, but not anymore. The suit wasn’t as cheap as it looked, but he wore it badly. He’d shaved for the court, but couldn’t erase the lines his life had carved onto his face. It gave him the look of a weasel, of something that would scurry under the nearest cover at the first sign of trouble.

She hated him so much that it tried to choke the breath out her just looking at him.

“I was desperate, like a lot of folks back then, but that don’t change what I did.” Rehearsed words. Pitiful. Aimed for a judge looking for a reason to show mercy where none was deserved. But she agreed with them. Part of them, anyway.

Nothing on this Earth could change what he’d done. Nothing.

The judge asked if Helen had anything to say. Anything to offer. Then the man in the dock - the man who’d killed her parents - turned and looked at her with fear in his eyes. She looked back at him, measured him, standing without remembering coming to her feet.

There was nothing she wanted to say. Not to him, not to this mockery of a court. Not to anyone. She thought about the gun she’d chosen for later, a reliable high-caliber semi-automatic, and imagined it in her hand against the wood frame under her fingers.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her feet turned her around and marched her out of the room of their own accord, desperate to feel clean again. To wash that filth’s gaze off her until her skin bled.

She pressed her hands to the half-ruined wooden wall of the courthouse and closed her eyes tight against the tears that didn’t come.

Footsteps echoed off the dingy marble, and she imagined that she could hear the expense of the shoes that made them. Alexander leaned against the wall an arm’s length away and took out the smartphone bought exclusively for today. He opened a GPS ap, checked the cursor on the map, and put it away again, satisfied. Then he just stood there in silence, one foot on the wall behind him, waiting for her.

“I remember him being taller,” she whispered, not turning around yet, infinitely grateful that he could give her this moment of privacy with her pain and still be present. Somehow, he had a way of doing that.

“Of course,” he murmured. “Not that it matters how tall he is.”

“Not that it matters,” she agreed, and smiled. It felt as though she could have cut herself on the expression. “I supposed we ought to go and see him come out. It’s to be expected.”

He pushed away from the wall and offered his hand with a hint of his laughing smirk. “And will be conveniently photographed by half a dozen reporters.”

“Just so.” She took his hand and squeezed it firmly. “Alexander....”

Turning quickly to face her, he brought a finger to her lips, a strange distance in his eyes. “If you’re still speaking to me tomorrow, you can thank me then.”

She studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly and kissed his fingertip, accepting the instruction. There were times she understood him, and time she did not, but for the moment - at least for the moment - she was prepared to trust him.

Her life, after all, was more or less in his hands.

Capaldi - expressionless and exact, but infallibly present - had already spoken with a guard about where the prisoner would be released. They went out to the side entrance of the courthouse together, Alexander and Helen and Capaldi and her bodyguards, just in time to fall into place behind the ring of press and spectators being held back by police while the infamous Crime Alley shooter was brought out a free (more or less) man. Helen made herself calm and still, suppressed any hint of motion or reaction, waiting for the screech of tires and the hiss of tear gas that would create the necessary distraction for Mister Chill’s discreet removal from the scene and thereafter from the world, and she was so focused on that waiting that she didn’t notice the expensively-dressed blonde who shoved through the crowd and past the police with her press credentials held high and a gun pressed against her coat until the shout.

“Hey, Joe, Falcone says hi!” The words barely registered, but the gun did. Revolver. .38 special. Two shots, close enough together to be one thunderclap. Her whole body locked itself into a tight, rigid line as Chill started to fall.

The police officers who pulled their weapons didn’t have time to shoot before Helen’s security detail put the woman down with a half-dozen headshots. Helen didn’t see it happen. She and Alexander were already on the floor, her people putting their bodies between their principals and any stray bullets.

Helen couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, but she could smell it in the air - cordite and blood.

No one had to tell her that Joe Chill was dead and didn’t know it yet. She knew. She could hear the sound of him trying to breathe through a perforated chest.

Alexander glanced over Falcone’s seat of power with a mildly disgusted expression. “A seedy club under a bridge? He’s going to be a fat guy with a cheap hooker on each arm, isn’t he.”

Helen stepped out of the car, aware of her guards fanning out edgily from the vehicles flanking her Lincoln, and studied the men in front of the doors who were visibly considering going for the weapons under their jackets. The cheap, heavy wood of the doors. The classic alcohol signs in the windows. “You can wait in the car if you’d rather, Alexander.”

The other passenger door opened and closed, and then Alexander was smiling and waving up at the guards. “I wouldn’t miss it. Luthors love networking.”

She couldn’t help a small, tight smile. Even now, he was trying to make her laugh.

Her bodyguards kept a tight ring around them as they mounted the stairs, but Helen held up a hand before they came close enough to actually panic the guards on the door. Capaldi, who’d visibly been about to speak, shut her mouth with an audible click.

“Tell Mister Falcone,” she told one of the guards, “that Helen Wayne will see him now.”

The guards glanced at each other, one of them nodding towards the door. The other one disappeared into the building.

“Miss Wayne...” Capaldi’s voice was tight with warning.

“Reckless, pointless and unsafe?” Helen replied without looking at her.

“A few other things. Yes.”

Helen smiled tightly. “Thank you, Capaldi. I know. You and your people are also welcome to wait in the car.”

“No, ma’am.” The other woman’s voice might as well have been made of granite.

“Then just try not to shoot anyone else today. Unless you have to.”

Hands in his pockets, Alexander smirked at the guard. “‘Have to’ is such a flexible phrase, don’t you think?”

Capaldi, Helen was nearly certain, would have killed Lex on the spot if looks could accomplish such wonders. The idea made her smile a little more.

It probably wasn’t a pleasant smile. Alexander didn’t seem to mind.

The doorman who’d gone inside returned, eying her people nervously. “Mister Falcone says he’ll see you. Just you.”

“My boyfriend,” she gestured to Alexander, “and one guard. Or he can explain to the police how his efforts at denying us service became... messy.”

Her smile widened, and the guard shivered. Definitely not a pleasant smile, then. “Okay,” he managed to get out. “Okay. Fine. One guard. But I pat down your boyfriend.”

Grinning, Alexander looked the man up and down. “Want me all to yourself?” Shrugging out of his coat, he strutted up into the guard’s personal space, watching him through pale eyelashes, voice low and seductive. “I don’t mind. You aren’t half bad yourself.”

The guard’s expression suggested he’d rather put his hands in warm sewer filth than touch Lex now, but he’d already committed. The pat-down was as uncomfortable and abbreviated as dignity allowed, which considering the state of the man’s dignity was quite notable on both counts. Helen kept her smile to herself.

Capaldi signaled the others to back up, then showed the other guard her gun with one hand. He gave her a looking over, which she gave right back, and he visibly tried not to back up a step. It mostly worked.

She’d owe Capaldi a bonus for this, later. Or a nice present. Something.

Formalities over, they went in. Girls, men in suits, booze, guns. It was that kind of bar. The only difference was that she recognized some of the faces. Some of them she’d seen at the courthouse that afternoon. Interesting. She filed the thought for later.

Falcone wasn’t hard to pick out. He was the only man in the room who thought he could pull off a white suit.

“Guess the hookers are on break,” Alexander whispered to her as they were none-too-gently seated.

The smile tried to happen again. Helen suppressed it this time. Keeping her eyes on Falcone made it easy. What kind of man are you? she asked him - or perhaps just herself - with that silent examination.

Falcone glanced at Alexander. “You picked a bad spot for a date, Princess.”

“He has bad taste in nightspots. Don’t you read the tabloids?” Helen leaned back in her chair, aware of Capaldi’s tension behind her but shutting it out. “Besides, I wanted to see you. Apparently that’s easy enough to do, if one has the nerve for it.”

“Nerve.” His jaw worked, and something ugly happened in those narrow eyes. “Or stupid. You could have just sent a thank-you note.”

“I could,” she agreed, voice as still and cold as the empty space in her chest where the frozen rage had rested a few hours before. “But some things demand the personal touch.”

“And I wanted to meet you, Mister Falcone,” Alexander added, an undertone of malice in his otherwise pleasant voice. “You understand the value of making people wonder.”

Falcone’s eyes shifted between them, and Helen could see him recalculating his position. Whatever he’d been expecting a moment ago, this wasn’t it.

Helen let herself smile, this time.

“You murdered him so that he couldn’t testify against you,” she said mildly, then waved her hand as his cheeks flushed. Anger, probably. “Don’t bother. I don’t expect you to confirm it, but I’m not wearing a wire. I just wanted to be sure. The DA wanted to let him out so he’d talk, you wanted him out so you could kill him. Ironic. He might have been safer in jail. Or would you have arranged the same thing there, too?” The smile tightened. “I imagine so.”

“You think you’re the first person to figure that out?” Falcone’s voice dripped with condescension. “Everybody in here knows what went down today, and why, and how it would only have been a little bit different if Chill’d stayed locked up.” He raised an eyebrow. “Now is there a point to this little visit or do I have to throw you out for boring me?”

“I wanted to meet you,” Helen murmured, very softly. “The man who ordered a hit on the man who killed my parents, which I’ve thought about doing myself too many times to count. I wanted to have a look at you. To know what kind of man you are.”

Falcone snorted. “You think I’m a book in your fancy college? You could spend a week staring at me and not know what kind of man I am. You’re a princess, Wayne. You’ve never gotten blood on your hands. You’ll never understand what it takes to be a king down here.”

“Maybe not.” Helen looked at him another handful of heartbeats, trying to find something she recognized in the man across from her, and under the table her hands started to shake. She wanted to hurt him. Badly. She wanted to hurt him because he was small, and petty, and because he didn’t give a damn about anyone else.

I’m not going to put one person’s grief over saving the lives of hundreds of people. Your parents wouldn’t want me to, Rachel’s voice said in the back of her head.

She stood up very slowly, hands clenched at her sides so he wouldn’t see her trembling, and spoke in a tight little voice that she couldn’t raise above a whisper. “Thank you, Mister Falcone. You’ve been... enlightening.”

Falcone sneered. “Sure thing, Princess. Now get out of my sight.”

His thugs hustled them out, and then Capaldi steered Helen toward the car so quickly that she barely remembered the intervening space. Alexander was only half a beat behind, so that she nearly collided with him when she pulled away from Capaldi and stumbled a few steps past the car before she doubled over and spilled what little she’d managed to eat in the last twenty-four hours onto the pavement. The dry heaves kept her doubled over against Capaldi’s grip for longer that she could be sure of - it felt like forever - and when she finally managed to straighten up again, she was dizzy and unsteady on her feet and Alexander was looking at her with a concern that was almost fear in his eyes.

“I’m ready for the car now,” she told Capaldi in a whisper that rasped, accepting the handkerchief the older woman offered her and cleaning her mouth as carefully as she could.

“Yes, ma’am,” Capaldi whispered, and touched her shoulder once more. It was the first time she’d touched Helen more than was strictly necessary in over a month. If there had been any tears left in Helen, she might have wept.

She let Capaldi help her into the car instead, and waited for Alexander to join her.

Almost as soon as he’d slid onto the seat beside her, he retrieved a bottle of water from the car’s mini-fridge and wrenched off the lid. He didn’t quite hold it to her lips, but he was close enough to catch it - or her - if need be.

“Not too much at once,” he murmured, pulling it away after she’d swallowed a few mouthfuls. He was more relaxed than he’d been outside, but was still on edge and watching her closely. The decay of Falcone’s neighborhood was already sliding by outside, and soon they were in a better part of town.

She took a couple of sips, breathed, took another couple of sips. Nodded slowly, wet her lips with her tongue, discovered that she could breathe again. That there was room in her chest for air.

“I wanted to kill him so much, Alexander,” she managed at last, dragging her legs up onto the seat and hugging her knees to try to keep herself from shivering. “I thought it would make it better. Even things. Karma. I don’t know.”

Moving closer, Alexander wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her against his warmth. “It was good enough for Hammurabi.”

“My parents would be ashamed,” she choked out into his shoulder. “Of how close I came to being like that shell of a man back there. My parents would be ashamed.”

He was silent for a few minutes while he stroked her back. “I can’t say how they’d feel about anything,” he said at last, “but think of it this way: Falcone getting to him first was fate giving you a chance to be different. To do something to be proud of.”

“Fate.” She tucked herself a little tighter into him, and her laughter rasped in her throat. “I didn’t know you believed in fate, Alexander.”

He chuckled softly. “My life is too strange - and sometimes wonderful - for me not to.” Squeezing her for emphasis, he kissed her hair. “The two best people I know, for example, met me in a foreign drunk tank and at the bottom of a river in Kansas.”

She buried another sound that might have been a laugh or a sob in his shoulder - even she couldn’t tell. “So,” she breathed roughly. “A second chance. A chance to do things right.”

It sounded good. The only trouble was, she didn’t have the least idea where to begin.

Chapter Text

Early December, 2004

Miraculously, nothing had happened to keep Clark from arriving at the Luthor estate at six sharp. He was there, he was on time, and he was even dressed appropriately for the evening’s activities. Going to the Metropolis Opera wasn’t really his idea of a good time, but Lex had employed unfair persuasion techniques during the discussion and Clark had wound up agreeing to go. Clark was pretty sure he’d have agreed to go watch paint dry at that point.

He knocked, tugging awkwardly at the red silk tie he’d dug out of the nether reaches of his closet that morning. His mother had frowned and steamed it over the kettle until all the wrinkles came out, and after dinner she’d fussed over Clark’s navy church suit until he was apparently fit to be seen in public.

Helen answered the door wearing what could charitably be described as a dress.

“Ah,” she said, looking him over before returning her eyes to his face. “You must be going to the opera.”

Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. Something about face powder.” He frowned slightly. “Is Lex not back yet?”

“Not yet.”

It figured that the one time he’d managed to keep a date, the other person was late. Karma sucked.

“In fact,” Helen continued mildly, “he’s quite late. Not only is he apparently standing you up, but he already missed dinner with me an hour ago. So I presume that whatever it is, it isn’t going well. Why don’t you come upstairs and wait before you start wearing a hole in the doorstep pacing?”

He took a nervous step inside, then waited until Helen’s back was turned to check the doorstep. No hole or Clark-sized footprints or anything. He exhaled.

Helen knowing about some of his gifts made him really jumpy around her. He hated it. She probably knew that, too. He was pretty sure that was also on his list of things he hated.

“Powder Her Face?” she inquired once they’d settled into Lex’s office, her curled up in his favorite chair by the fire and Clark perched uncomfortably on the extremely comfortable couch and trying not to look at her legs any more than he could avoid.

“Sounds right.” Clark shrugged. “I don’t know anything about opera except that it’s long.”

“Oh, that one is definitely going to be a challenge to sit through,” she said, smiling to herself in a way that made him feel about half dressed.

He eyed her suspiciously. “Because it’s boring?” Lex had been extremely vague about the particular opera they were seeing, now that Clark thought about it. Just a title casually thrown into the list of glowing generalities and the thing he’d been doing with his hands.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. No, boring is definitely not the word I would use.” Helen’s eyes were sparkling now with suppressed laughter that was almost certainly at his expense. Great.

“And you’re totally not going to say what word you would use, are you, because that would be telling.”  The way she kept secrets was a good thing for Clark, but really infuriating when he wanted to know something.

“Because it would spoil Lex’s fun,” she agreed, still smiling. “Which would make me a terrible girlfriend, I believe. He might never forgive me.”

Clark blinked, slid back on the couch several inches, found his arms crossing of their own volition. “You’ve been dating for like a year and a half, haven’t you?” That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Dammit.

“Sleeping together, anyway.” Her mouth quirked up at the edges. “Which you’ve been doing with him for the better part of a year yourself. He seems content with the arrangement.”

A weird wobbling sort of feeling took hold in Clark’s chest. It happened whenever he thought about...whatever it was he had with Lex. What it was, exactly. How long it would last. The fact that no matter what their bodies were doing, there was always a distance between them full of Clark’s secrets and Lex’s obsessions.

He grunted and looked away, because when they made eye contact she always saw too damned much. No matter how wonderful his time with Lex was, it wasn’t anything he would call contentment. Not for either of them.

“I’ve said the wrong thing,” she sighed quietly, and he could hear the shift of the fabric of her dress as she started to move toward him and stopped. “I’m sorry.”

It was the first time he could remember her apologizing to him. To anyone, in his presence.

He looked up at her finally. “Um. Apology accepted, I guess.” Looked away again. “It’s just that we’re close and far apart at the same time, you know?”

“I do.” He could hear the little smile on her face without looking up to see it. “But something will happen. You won’t even know what it is, when it’s happening, but when it’s done you’ll look at him and realize that you’re on the same side of the river, together. That he won’t let you drown, and you won’t let him.” Then she was laughing, a soft sharp sound of amusement. “Forgive me. That was a dreadful metaphor, considering how you two met.”

The wobble stopped, leaving his breath stable again.

He huffed a laugh. “No,” he said, “I think it fits pretty well.”

She drew another breath to say something else, and then the door slammed open. Lex barely saw either of them, blind with rage, and Clark stood up in alarm. He wanted to stop Lex from grabbing the morning star off the wall, stop him from smashing it through his stupid glass desk, but part of him didn’t believe that it was happening and confused the rest of him into motionlessness for those crucial seconds.

Lex struck the desk in the center, first, and Clark expected it to shatter outward in razor-edged pieces. His fear lessened when it cracked and buckled but held together like a car windshield.

But then Lex shouted wordlessly and started smashing at the desk even more wildly, scattering pebble-sized pieces across the room with his fury, and then Helen’s hands were on his wrist and the two of them hit the floor hard, rolling across glass-strewn polished stone together, his whole body thrown into struggling against hers. Clark couldn’t begin to imagine that he wouldn’t throw her off, maybe start hurting her, but he didn’t. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he didn’t want to.

Finally, what seemed like forever later, they were still except for the hard bellows pump of their shared breathing.

“Alexander,” she whispered, and it was a strange intimate kind of hurt to hear how gentle her voice was.

Lex struggled to sitting, looking down at her with regret and gratitude on his face. “Helen. Thank you.” Then he looked up, ignoring the wreckage, finding his lover’s eyes. “Clark. I’m sorry.”

Clark’s jaw worked, and he didn’t know what to begin to do with half of the emotions twisting around inside him. Part of him was surprised he wasn’t burning holes in the floor with his eyes right now. “Maybe,” he managed to get out in a weirdly natural voice, “you’d better tell me what’s going on, Lex.”

“Us,” Helen suggested in that same soft voice, sitting on the floor next to Lex and rubbing the fresh bruises on her arms.

Lex nodded, got to his feet, helped Helen stand. Clark noted numerous small cuts on both of them with dismay, and demanded that Lex produce a first aid kit. He didn’t sit down until both billionaires were seated and a large box of bandages and ointment was open on the coffee table.

“What’s going on,” Lex said, staring into the distance as Clark dabbed antiseptic onto his wrist, “is my father. He came by the plant right before closing, trying to shame me for being seen with Helen.” He smiled at her. “You made quite the impression, darling.”

She smiled back grimly. “Good to be memorable. What was his offer?”

Clark frowned, not understanding. He bandaged Lex’s wrist, and tossed a second tube of antiseptic to Helen with a significant look. He wasn’t going to patch her up, but wasn’t going to just let her sit there and bleed, either.

“Oh, fairly typical,” Lex answered breezily. “Stop giving the media reasons to cast me as predatory and reckless, or he’ll cut off my allowance. Because he only wants what’s best for me, of course.”

“Of course.” Helen had gotten the hint and was tending her own wounds, thank goodness.

Clark moved on to a cut across Lex’s cheek. Just an inch higher and it would have been his eye. He glared at the injury as if it might give up and leave.

“So I, foolishly, tried to be reasonable. Remind him that I don’t control the media. Point out that just as many tabloids were praising my commitment to you, Helen, as the ones that call me a cad. Draw his attention to the success of the plant and the generally positive reputation I’m building in Smallville.” Here Lex grimaced. “I knew that my image was just a tertiary concern at best, but his tirade about my judgement was even more vitriolic than I’d expected.” He gave Clark a smile that was half affectionate amusement and half fear. “I can only imagine what he’d say if he knew about you, Clark.”

Clark fought down a rush of inarticulate panic at the whole idea, and somehow managed to settle for kissing Lex and picking another cut to bandage. “No points for my farmboy charm?”

Lex snorted a laugh. “He wouldn’t know real charm if it bought out LuthorCorp.”

“I could try,” Helen suggested, half a smile on her face. “Clark could lead the bidding team.”

The teenager stared. “Your girlfriend is really weird,” he told Lex.

Lex laughed, and the world seemed a bit better. “Even if you did it through shell companies, it wouldn’t work. He’s got his claws too tightly into his majority shares.” Then he smiled. “But I do have enough of my own money to fund a new company. I’m going to file for incorporation on Monday, right after I resign from LuthorCorp.”

“Do you have a name?” Helen inquired, her smile growing a little further.

Lex grinned. “I admit it looks conceited, but I love the idea of my father reading about LexCorp every morning.” Clark couldn’t keep the jaw-dropped disbelief off his face, and Lex’s grin widened. “Okay, I am somewhat conceited.”

“I love it.” Helen was barely containing a burst of laughter that seemed ready to tip her back on the floor. “Well, now that this enterprise has a name, it also has a first investor. What are you going to buy with six hundred million, Alexander?”

Clark’s eyes bugged at the figure. He was pretty sure Lex could buy Smallville and the three neighboring counties with that much.

“Newly-developed technology and the talent to make more, of almost any kind as long as it’s promising, but mostly related to energy, medicine, and large-scale data collection.”

“Like putting sensors on highways and street lamps and stuff?” Clark’s curiosity got the better of his shock. “That’s pretty cool.”

“Definitely interesting.” Helen slipped her arms carefully around Lex, leaving Clark room to work on the last of the bandages, and kissed their mutual lunatic businessman’s neck lightly. “Shall we go shopping tomorrow then? We can even bring Clark along if you like.”

“That depends,” Lex answered, smiling at the farmboy. “Do you still want to watch people walk around naked while singing about sex, Clark? We can still make the second act, and that has all the best parts anyway.”

Clark just stared. There really didn’t seem to be anything else to do. Except...

“You’re both weird,” he blurted.

Helen laughed. “Who isn’t?” she quipped, and then kissed Lex’s bandaged cheek. “I’m going up to bed. I think you both ought to join me.”

Both young men watched Helen’s legs as she picked her way through the mess and left the room. The evening had been such that Clark didn’t care how obvious he was about it.

Lex turned back to Clark. There was something fierce and burning in his expression, but it didn’t make Clark nervous.

“I’ll never let him hurt you, Clark.”

Clark took a deep breath, and decided that he could think about how he felt about that in the morning. That tonight, he’d let it feel safe, no matter how absurd the idea was in the first place.

“Ah, Lex,” he said at last, “when she said she was going up to bed, and that we should join her, did she mean...?”

An odd look of exasperation crossed Lex’s face, like Clark had missed a key point in a lecture. Then he leaned forward and kissed Clark deeply, hands sliding inside the suit jacket. When he pulled back for breath, he was grinning. “That is, in fact, what she meant. And what have we previously established about Helen and her suggestions regarding beds?”

Clark remembered the last time he and Lex and Helen had shared a bed, tried not to remember what happened afterward, and settled on blushing. “Right. No arguments.” He licked suddenly dry lips and got to his feet. “Lex...she’s really giving you half a billion dollars? Just like that?”

With an arm around Clark’s waist, Lex steered him towards the door. “Should I be offended by your attention span or embrace your new investment fetish?” Even while they were walking, Lex was working on undressing Clark, one hand tugging the dress shirt out of his trousers. “And not to me, but my company. It isn’t quite the same.” His fingers were cool and a little rough against Clark’s skin. “But trust me, she can afford it. Even if LexCorp tanks, Wayne Industries and Helen’s trust fund will both be just fine.”

“It’s just...” Clark’s breath hitched, and he tried not to look shy. He hated looking shy with Lex. It made him feel like a hen in with the foxes. “It’s a lot of money. So it’s hard to get my head around.”

“Clark,” Helen said from the bed, her amusement carrying out into the hall, “we can discuss the finer points of investment strategy tomorrow. You two both have better things to be doing.”

She’d disposed of the dress. Other than the bandages, what she was still wearing didn’t so much leave things to the imagination as encourage said imagination to indulge itself. Clark’s did so with enthusiasm.

“Believe me, Clark,” Lex murmured into his ear as he stepped up behind the teenager and reached around to work on his shirt buttons. “That’s not what either of us are thinking about right now.”

If this wasn’t a crime, it probably ought to be, but Clark honestly didn’t care right now. They were weird, sure, but Helen was right: who wasn’t?

Besides, weird could be good. Very, very good.

Chapter Text

March 11, 2005

The reception for the grand opening of LexCorp’s Metropolis offices was being held in the Lux hotel just a couple of blocks away, because the guest list had spiraled upward so expansively that nothing in the actual office tower Lex had selected would even start to hold so many people in the style to which their pocketbooks were accustomed. There was the narrative element, of course - the son striking out on his own, the disapproving father in the background - but what had really turned the trick on making the opening one of the can’t-miss social events of the spring (despite the fact, as Clark had pointed out a couple of times, that it was still winter) was the smell of money. Helen Wayne had been judicious in discussing her investment in the company, but not nearly so judicious about her presence on the grounds, and the resulting investing frenzy had taken LexCorp from an idea to the third-best capitalized firm in Metropolis in a single quarter.

LexCorp was, as Lex had put it himself in a moment of dark humor, the cause célèbre of the rich and famous this year. He hadn’t seemed entirely happy with the idea when he said it, but he hadn’t objected to taking the money, and Clark had never seen Lex working so hard. Helen... well, actually, he’d never seen Helen work before at all, but the amount of time they spent going over company accounts and potential tech buys was still impressive. It was apparently working, too - the angry calls from Lionel that Helen continued to intercept before they could get to Lex were getting more frequent.

Clark had been around for one or two of those. The cheerfully condescending tone of voice that Helen used would have pissed anyone off, but Lionel went from ‘hello’ to a screaming fit fast enough to set records. Clark couldn’t decide if it was awesomely hilarious or kinda scary.

How all of that had led to him standing in a corner of the Lux ballroom in a tux that cost more than his dad’s tractor, trying to avoid the flutes of champagne people kept trying to give him or the roving camera brigade of social photographers, that he was a little less clear on. There had been Lex asking him to do it, and him protesting the impossibility, and then somehow he’d been getting Chloe to lie to his parents while he put on the tux in Luthor Manor.

He was pretty sure there’d been some intermediate steps there, but he couldn’t be sure.

“If you relax and stop tugging on your suit jacket,” Helen Wayne’s voice broke into his thoughts from behind him, “you’ll have more fun and it won’t need repairs by the end of the night.”

With a deep breath and one last smoothing of the jacket, Clark smiled wryly. “It won’t make me stop feeling out of place. I think I’m the only person here who’s ever worn flannel in their lives.”

“Nonsense.” Helen, who looked so natural in her black evening gown and opera-length gloves that Clark couldn’t help wondering if she’d somehow concealed a professional dressing and make-up team in her room at the mansion, slid her arm across his and rested her fingertips against his wrists lightly as she sipped her champagne. “I know for a fact that I’ve worn your shirts in the bedroom more than once. Lex noticed. I’m surprised you didn’t.”

Clark very deliberately did not glare. Well, at Helen, anyway.

“All right then, what do you suggest would be relaxing? Eating tiny things I can’t identify? Drinking champagne my parents would kill me for touching? Talking to people about farm equipment?”

She laughed softly under her breath, then tugged him around to look down at her and held up the half-empty flute in her hand. “First of all, take two swallows of this. Secondly, remember that Lex brought you here to enjoy yourself. Thirdly, and most importantly, I suggest you dance with me.”

The flute wound up empty, but Clark felt he couldn’t be blamed for finishing off the stupid tiny glass. “Are you nuts?”

“Completely,” she retorted, teleporting the flute onto a passing tray via some strange power that involved hand gestures and smiling indecently prettily. “Dance with me anyway.”

And that’s how he found himself out on the dance floor, a hand on the back of the wealthiest heiress on three continents, trying to duck his face from any photographers and still not trip over himself or others. It was not the best dance ever.

“Clark,” she whispered, somewhere between their first circle of the floor and the second, “this is much more pleasant if you just try to enjoy it.”

“Life is much more pleasant if I’m not grounded for thirty years,” he grumbled, turning his head away again. “And I thought I’d get to, I don’t know, talk to Lex sometime tonight.”

“He’s doing press and investor meetings. He sent me to look after you.” She chuckled and leaned into him, lips almost touching his ear as she dropped her voice to an intimate whisper. “The photographers are tame, by the way. You can stop hiding from them. None of the pictures with you in them will be published. Anywhere.”

Clark opened his mouth, stopped, frowned. “You know that’s kinda creepy, right?”

“A lot of life is kinda creepy,” she replied casually. “You get used to it. I imagine like you get used to being puncture-proof.”

His frown deepened, but he stopped swivelling his neck so much. “Okay, you’re creepy. Also, you added to my stuff-proof list?”

“You stepped on a nail in the garage three weeks ago. Wearing your socks. The nail didn’t make out well. You didn’t notice.” She brushed her lips against his cheek, like they were boyfriend and girlfriend or something, and smiled up at him. “I’m curious how well that holds up to bigger pressures, mind you, but I’m not asking.”

“Just stalking,” Clark muttered.

“Observing,” Helen corrected.

“Okay, voyeurism, if that was the time with Lex and the Mercedes.”

“Consensual voyeurism,” she teased huskily. “Neither of you told me I ought to leave.”

Clark hid a smile over her shoulder. “Mm-hmm. When’s the big unveiling or ribbon-cutting or whatever it is again?”

“Logo and product line unveiling. Midnight. He’s going out to the front to do a quick press conference before then, and he’ll come back in for the big finish. He still wants you to come up onto the stage, romantic idiot that he is. Shall I tell him no again, for you?”

The clock in the hotel’s grand entrance had just cleared eleven-forty. Clark bit his lip. “I could stand off-stage, couldn’t I? Close to Lex but not out in the open?”

“You could do that,” she agreed softly. “In fact, I’ll have Capaldi arrange it. There’s an earpiece in my purse. As soon as we finish dancing....”

Clark had already heard gunfire - not the reassuring boom of a shotgun or a hunting rifle but the hard chatter of an automatic weapon - more times in his life than he’d ever wanted to. Hearing it now, here, made Clark’s blood rush with the need to shield people with his body, rush around the hotel, take all the guns away, and crush them down into useless pieces of metal. It would be fast. Easy. And very, very visible.

It was a big group of people - twelve, thirteen, fourteen men - all armed to the teeth and spreading out around the perimeter of the room. The leader had a megaphone and was shouting for everyone to get down on the floor right now or somebody was going to get shot.  

Helen, pressed up against his body, went tense and then relaxed. “Clark,” she whispered, “shove me down on the floor.”

He’d been thinking about doing that anyway. In a heartbeat she was lying on the hardwood underneath him as he kept his weight on his hands and knees. Once she was there, Clark was scanning the room, looking for the attackers and their positions and trying to find Lex.

“Capaldi,” Helen whispered into his chest, her fingers against her ear, and it took him only a fraction of a second to realized that her frightened squirming had been anything but. “Blackbag. I count fifteen tangos - fourteen on the floor and one on the catwalk with a rifle - military gear, AR-15s, a lot of smoke and tear gas grenades. Claymores. Pretty sure they were mining the doors as they came in. Don’t let Lex come bulling in here with security, or the police.”

“Ma’am...” He heard Capaldi’s voice, tiny in the receiver, starting to protest.

“You come crashing in here, you get killed. Don’t be stupid. Take your people up the street to the tower and secure the building - labs and server rooms, especially. Think diversion.” Helen’s voice was soft and urgent, but there was no panic in it. The rest of the room was anything but that sane - rich, frightened people clawing at each other to try to get away from the men with guns or shoving each other in an effort to get down to the floor faster. It made him feel sick to watch, but nobody was getting shot yet and nobody was paying any attention to them.

“My priority is...” Capaldi started again.

“You work for me, cavaliere. Do this for me.” Helen gave the order calmly, as if they weren’t lying on the floor in a room full of guns and she wasn’t sending the professionals away or telling them to keep out.

“Si, signora.” He heard the carrier cut out, and Helen let go of her breath.

As infuriating and weird as Helen was, Clark had to admit he was impressed. He was the one with super-speed and x-ray vision, and she was the one who saw the attackers’ equipment and tactics in the time it took him to put her on the floor.

“I can make the doors safe,” he whispered to her. “Or should I take out the attackers first?”

“I’d ask for a primer on how you plan to do that,” she whispered back, “but I don’t have the time. They’re carrying smoke. I want one of those mercs over here. Once people have settled down, I’m going to make a scene. Pull his pins. Figure anything you can do will be safer if nobody can see us.”

“As long as you’re sure which pin is which,” he nodded. “Smoke is good.”

“Color-coding is my friend,” she whispered back, and he could feel her grinning into his chest - a mad, fierce, adrenaline-soaked grin. “Getting quieter. Time to stop talking.”

He nodded again, silently, eyeing the doors and what the mercenaries had done to them. He thought he could remove the mines before they went off, or at least set them off himself.

On the other side of the main doors, he caught sight of Lex stalking back and forth on the red carpet, barking into his phone at someone. It looked like Capaldi had done her job, because Lex stayed where he was despite what Clark heard his heartbeat doing.

The crowd were almost all quiet on the ground now. A few of the men were moving among them, relieving people of jewelry, but most of them were watching the possible entrances or applying mines to them. If this was a robbery, they were putting a lot of effort into causing harm to any potential rescue.

Helen shifted under him, peeking over his shoulder at the nearest hostage-taker, then shoved Clark off her and staggered to her feet. “Hey!” The drunken slur and unsteady stance was so perfectly performed that if he hadn’t known she was cold sober, Clark would have believed it immediately. “Hey, you can’t do this! This is America, you fucking sons of bitches! Where do you think you are - Russia?”

Guns swung toward her, but only for a few seconds - she was unsteady on her feet, gripping her purse, and tall or not she was about as threatening as an indignant lapdog. The nearest thug even snickered under his breath as he picked his way toward her.

“You! Yeah, you!” She kicked off one shoe and threw it at him, missing wildly, then grabbed for the other. “I’m gonna have my lawyers see they lock you up somewhere worse than Blackgate, you hear me!”

“Honey,” the man grated out, “you better shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you.” He was almost within arm’s reach of her, now, and his hand was off the trigger - gripping the stock like he was getting ready to slam it into her gut if he decided he wanted to. Helen spluttered indignantly, stumbling toward him and threatening to make sure they put him in a cell with the biggest guy in the state, and he cocked his arm to drive the buttstock into her with an angry growl as a couple of the other men laughed.

Helen’s left hand dropped down to his wrist and twisted, throwing his balance off, and her other hand came out of the purse gripping something black and metallic that Clark could see was expanding segments of metal from a central grip and wrapping around her knuckles and wrist, and then the empty hand dropped to the guy’s belt and pulled pins - not all of the pins, he noticed, just the first three and the last three on the belt. The man struggled for a fraction of a second, obviously not quite understanding what was happening, and the unfolded ... Clark wasn’t sure what it was, except it had less coverage than a gauntlet and more than brass knuckles ... jammed into his ribs and set him jerking like he’d just grabbed the wrong end of a cattle prod. Then the grenades went off with a hiss, making him cry out as the casings spewed smoke and instantly heated from a comfortable room temperature to as hot as a stove burner, and Helen knocked him hard to the ground and drove her fingers into his neck in a way that made him go silent, twitch, then go still. He was still breathing and his heart was still going, and now the room was full of smoke and Helen was already sliding through the crowd toward the next guy.

She wasn’t going to get there before Clark did, but she didn’t know that yet.

The room slowed down, people frozen in their terror and confusion, the smoke hanging sedately in the air, sounds long and low. Clark was at the closest door. He could see the ball bearings, plastic explosives, and blasting cap inside the Claymore, and he worried a little about setting it off as he broke it open and pulled out the detonator, but it didn’t explode. He threw the detonator in the trash and ran to the next door, and the next, and finally the main door.

The sound of a firing pin slamming against a large-caliber bullet brought him running back to the ballroom, and it only took one look to find the problem - the man on the catwalk with the long rifle whose round was just barely clearing the end of the barrel. Clark took a (relativistic) moment to consider the implications of the infrared goggles and the heavy gun, then did something he’d always wondered if he could actually do - he ran right up the wall, grabbed the edge of the catwalk and knocked the man out with a careful rap on the back of the head, then ran back down and caught the bullet out of the air when it came within reach.

Then he went around the ballroom hitting the other attackers very precisely on the backs of their heads, checking for fractures and heartbeat after they fell. The safeties on their guns got clicked on, too. He put the crushed rifle round in his pocket, while he was at it.

The last attacker went down when Helen was still two feet away, Clark resumed his place on the floor, and the world resumed its normal speed. He watched Helen through the smoke as she arrived at the attacker she’d been making her move on, dropped to one knee to take his pulse, then listened for the sounds of gunfire or anything more active than partygoers coughing and whimpering. Nothing. She loosened her grip on the device in her hand, which obediently folded itself into a compact bar with a thick metal loop across the top, and shoved it back into her purse before laying down on the floor and covering her mouth with a glove to keep from coughing. “Call... Alexander...” she rasped out softly as she pressed her free hand to her ear.

Outside, Lex stopped mid-yell, tapped a button on his phone, and put it to his ear again.

“You can come in now,” she choked out. “Safe party, but smoke is bad for you. I’d like an oxygen mask.”

Ambulances and police were on their way, Clark could hear, but wouldn’t be on the scene for another minute or so. Lex was yelling at someone for oxygen anyway. Clark smiled.

People from the outside were opening the doors, letting the smoke out, and Clark helped Helen get outside. Lots of people needed oxygen, but somehow Helen got some as soon as they were clear of the ballroom.

It might have had something to do with all the yelling Lex was doing.

“Alexander,” Helen breathed out when they were more or less alone - the medics had left Clark, who they described as amazingly unaffected, in charge of seeing that Helen kept getting enough oxygen while they attended to other patients. “If you don’t cease fretting... you’ll make yourself... gray.”

“Of course,” Lex ground out, ignoring the hair joke. “I’m overreacting. Both of you, not to mention the guests and investors of my brand new company, being trapped in a room with fourteen heavily-armed terrorists is nothing to worry about.”

“Fifteen,” Helen rasped with a faint hint of amusement in her expression, “if you’re counting the man with the rifle on the catwalk.”

Clark couldn’t remember if Lex had always had an eye twitch, but he sure did now. “All of whom -” Lex gave Clark a momentary, probing look and amended himself, “most of whom need treatment for smoke inhalation. What the fuck happened in there, Helen?”

“They did something stupid. I took advantage.” She lowered the mask again, coughed roughly,  then spoke in a slightly more natural voice. “But you’re asking the wrong questions, Alexander. We’re all safe and alive, if a little the worse for wear. That’s post-mortem. The right question is, why were they mining the doors and why did they pick the fifteen minutes you were sure to be out of the ballroom and on live television to do it?”

Clark stiffened. It was an important question, one that worried him deeply, but Helen asking it when she did wasn’t coincidence or accident. She was covering for him. With Lex.

He was sick and tired of lying.

“No.”

Lex looked up at him, startled out of the answer he was already preparing for Helen’s question, and Helen’s smoke-reddened eyes widened in silent surprise. “Clark,” she whispered roughly, coughed, lost the rest of the sentence.

Lex got quiet then, his attention laser-focused on Clark, and it reminded him of that day in the cornfield. Had Lex been waiting for this since then?

Probably longer, Clark admitted to himself. Probably since the river.

“‘No’ what, Clark?” he prompted softly after a moment. Still waiting for Clark to answer, intense as he was.

“I... ah...” Damn it. He was not going to turn into an inarticulate mess right now. It wasn’t going to happen like that. “What happened. In there. Those guys weren’t stupid. I did that. I mean... Helen and I. Did that. Together.” Really eloquent, Clark, his inner critic piped up. Well done. You’ve definitely come a long way in the last year when it comes to self-expression.

There had been other moments in his friendship with Lex when he’d almost told. Those times, Lex had been quiet and still and intense, like he was trying not to spook Clark but couldn’t quite conceal his interest. Other times, Lex has pushed, and Clark had reflexively pushed back. This time, though, Lex didn’t make insinuations or ask angry questions, and he didn’t try to hide what this meant to him, either. He stood inches from Clark, staring at him hard, a white-knuckled grip on the sleeve of the rented tux, his voice caught in a strangle-hold between supplication and demand.

“How?”

“Not. Tame. Reporters.” Helen choked out, interrupting Clark’s opening efforts to cram I’m from outer space and I’m bulletproof and I’m sorry I’m a lying chickenshit boyfriend into the same sentence. Lex looked down at his hand, up at Clark, forced his grip to relax and stepped over to lean against the portable cot Helen was sitting on.

“Right,” Clark whispered, then shook his head and looked Lex in the eyes. “I’m not just bi. I know. You know. The first thing I ever said to you was a lie. I’m sorry.”

“I...” Lex stopped himself. Breathed. Touched Helen’s shoulder lightly, and looked into Clark’s eyes, and then somehow found a smile from somewhere. “Fifteen minutes ago, I was absolutely convinced I was going to lose both of you if I didn’t charge into that building and somehow magically fix this. I really thought that. And then Capaldi grabs my arm and says to me, ‘Miss Wayne says it’s a trap. Keep everyone out.’ And just like that, I completely changed my plan. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Trust,” Helen whispered roughly, “is crazy. But we need it anyway.”

“When we’re not surrounded by all these people,” Clark whispered in a voice that felt like it was as tight and raw as Helen’s even though the smoke hadn’t hurt him at all, “I’m going to tell you. Everything. I promise.”

“I think I believe you,” Lex said, and squeezed Helen’s shoulder. Clark thought maybe he did that to keep from reaching out to touch Clark instead, but he might have been fooling himself there.

He didn’t think so, though. Not the way Lex was looking at him.

“So,” Lex said after a moment’s breath, “what do we tell the reporters?”

“Tell them we rigged the hotel with a prototype security system. Available next year.” Helen smiled wanly. “Tell the police it was your security people. Tell your security people it was my security people. Tell my security people it was me.”

Clark groaned. “That’s so twisty it makes my head hurt just thinking about it.”

“Don’t worry, Clark,” Lex said with a growing smirk. “All you have to do is figure out what to say to your parents.”

“My....” Oh. Oh God. This was going to be on the news. This was already on the news. Which Chloe watched obsessively. Which meant she’d probably already called his parents. Which meant they’d probably called his cellphone, which was turned off and sitting upstairs in Lex’s room at the hotel. Which meant they were probably in the truck heading to Metropolis right now and he was absolutely, completely, without any question whatsoever dead.

“I can’t tell you everything if I never see the light of day again, you know,” his voice said without consulting the rest of him, which was contemplating if he could actually run all the way to Australia before his parents got there.

The look Lex gave him was amused and tender and fierce all at the same time. “If they give you solitary, I’ll break you out.”

“Thanks. But then what? We fly off to Bora Bora to hide from the law?”

“Actually,” Helen whispered, “there’s an island in the Mediterranean where I have a place.”

Clark turned and stared at her, then shook his head. “You are both completely surreal,” he told her quietly.

“Says the Porsche-proof high school student who just took out half a dozen armed terrorists,” Lex deadpanned.

“All but one of them, actually,” Helen rasped conspiratorially. “The guy with the grenade-burns, I tased.”

“It was pretty badass,” Clark admitted, smiling despite his impending doom. “Don’t rifle through her purse.”

“I need to get a bigger purse,” Helen retorted. “More room for toys.”

Clark’s cheeks started to heat at a memory he’d rather not be thinking about in public, and Helen’s smile widened. “That kind too,” she coughed out. “Definitely.”

Lex grinned. “I am shocked, shocked that either of you would be thinking about that at a time like this.”

“Get the nurses to sign off on me going upstairs,” Helen suggested. “Then we can see how shocked you are, both of you.”

Clark’s eyes widened, and then he found himself wondering if it was actually possible to be in more trouble than he was already. “Uh,” he said.

Lex clapped him on the shoulder, hand lingering just a hair too long for a platonic gesture. “Much as I would love to clarify your indecision, I do have press, police and employees to lie to.”

Clark smiled and opened his mouth to retort, and then froze in what was probably a look of horror.

Lex sighed. “That was fast. I didn’t think your parents would break the speed limit.” Then he raised his phone again, said something to his security chief, and a minute later the police were letting Martha and Jonathan storm through the cordon and over to the ambulance.

Clark braced himself.

“I might have known you were behind this,” his father growled at Lex. “You might be able to trick people into thinking you’re not like your father, but I know better.”

“He isn’t!” It was stupid to grapple with his dad at a time like this, but Clark couldn’t stop himself, even when his father’s rage got pointed at him. “He’s not like Lionel at all.”

“You are in a heap of trouble, son,” Jonathan didn’t quite yell. “You don’t want to add backtalk to lying, sneaking out, and doing God knows what out here at some party with Lex Luthor!”

“Actually, Mister Kent,” Helen said in a voice that was almost normal - if you ignored the lingering rasp in her throat, anyway - as she stood up from her cot and pulled the bright red shock blanket more tightly around herself, “Clark was here with me. A fact for which I’m grateful, because he pushed me down on the floor in there and put his body between me and the men with guns. That’s something I’m not going to forget for a long time.”

“With you?” Martha Kent was visibly having one of the worst nights of her life, but that didn’t keep her from jumping on the word choice with the zeal of a state’s attorney cross examining a hostile witness. “What exactly do you mean, ‘with you’?”

“Exactly what I said.” Pale as she was, Helen straightened herself up and laid her hand on Clark’s arm lightly. “I asked Clark to be my escort to the party this evening - a bit at the last minute, I admit - and in spite of the fright I’m sure it must have given you both, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that I’m glad that I did. Helen Wayne, at your service.”

Clark was momentarily grateful that he was in too much trouble already for either of his parents to be surprised at how stunned he looked at the frank ‘confession’ Helen had just dropped on both of them. It at least made it easy to stand there and not look over to see what Lex’s reaction to his girlfriend’s latest attack of crazy might be.

The strangled cough was a hint, though.

“What? With my son? How old are you?” Martha spluttered.

“Twenty-one, Mrs. Kent,” Helen replied mildly, leaning a little bit more on Clark’s arm and muffling a cough that he suspected had less to do with smoke inhalation than sympathetic effect. “Last month, actually.”

As horrified as he was at the thunderous expression on his mother’s face, it occurred to Clark  that that was better than Lex’s twenty-four. Lex’s very masculine twenty-four.

Dear God, Helen might have a point.

“If you all will excuse me,” Lex cleared his throat, and Clark was pretty sure that he was the only one who could tell that his boyfriend was trying desperately not to laugh, “I really do need to go and talk to the police. Possibly also the press, if I can’t avoid them.”

Jonathan glared at the businessman with barely-restrained rage, his face a red verging on purple. “Fine. But don’t think you’re off the hook for this, mister.”

Hands held up in surrender, Lex bowed out. Clark envied him.

“How long has this been going on?” Martha had turned her Inquisitor face at Clark now. He swallowed.

“About a month...?” he ventured.

“Clark,” Helen said gently, “that’s very sweet, but I think frankness is more important than protecting me right now.” She drew Martha’s eyes back to her with another carefully controlled cough. “January, Mrs. Kent. Just after the New Year, specifically. I passed some time with Clark at the Smallville plant’s holiday party, and he impressed me. He was honest, generous, patient, and genuinely interested in other people - not the sort of qualities that are in abundant supply in the young jet set I spend most of my time around. So I asked if I could see him again. He’s asked if I was ready to met you twice now, but I... well, to be honest, I lost my nerve. I’ve never actually met someone’s parents before. Under the circumstances....” she coughed again, then smiled - a masterpiece of wry, self-deprecating humor. “I think he was right and I was wrong. A nice restaurant would have made a much better setting for this.”

“You don’t say,” Martha said in a flat voice. Lips pressed together, she eyed Helen and then Clark, deliberating.

“All very nice,” Jonathan grunted. “What about the pictures of you and Lex going yachting together? You seemed pretty interested in the Luthor part of your jet set.”

That gave Clark had a strong sense of foreboding. There was no good answer to his father’s question, and he was sure Helen would try.

He was not disappointed.

“Lex and I,” Helen said softly, meeting Jonathan’s eyes and sounding so sincere that Clark couldn’t help but be stunned by how much truth she was willing to use for this, “are very close. He’s a good friend, and we’re very intimate. If you’re asking if we spend time together? Yes. We do. If you’re asking if Lex and I are sexually involved? Yes, we are. But there’s nothing exclusive about our relationship, and he’s been very understanding of my feelings about Clark. Willing to give both of us whatever space we need to make our own decisions, and not to think less of our relationship because it hasn’t yet involved anything more physically intimate than some rather memorable kisses. I’m very grateful to him for that, Mister Kent. Most men I know aren’t that understanding.”

If you were very inclusive in the definition, Clark mused in a corner of his mind while the rest of him stood by in horror at what was becoming of his life, most of what he and Helen had done together could be called kissing. Of course, what Helen had watched (and helped) him do with Lex went lightyears beyond kissing.

He had to hand it to her, though. He’d never have believed both of his parents could be struck dumb while so angry. It was like the social equivalent of the thing in her purse.

Eventually Martha got herself together enough to speak. “Well. Miss Wayne. We are taking Clark home now. You may not hear from him for a while.”

Clark swallowed. He’d be spending the rest of the year next to his space ship for sure.

“Of course.” Helen nodded as though this was the most understandable thing in the world. “If you don’t mind, may I call him at your home in a day or two to see how he is? Briefly, of course, but I’d like to be sure he’s all right. Then... well, I don’t want to impose on whatever domestic consequences might be involved, but would a short call once a week be acceptable until they’re resolved?”

Of course she had to ask. It wouldn’t go with the story if she didn’t ask. But it helped it sink in that now he had to pretend to be dating his boyfriend’s girlfriend.

Martha nodded, less in agreement than in search of response, and took Clark’s arm. Jonathan, whose face was at least starting to return to its normal color, couldn’t stop looking at Helen like she had three heads.

“Thank you,” Helen said, as if they’d just all agreed to something, and then stepped in and kissed Clark very lightly on the lips before easing back toward the cot she’d been sitting on before she’d turned his world inside out. “I’m sorry for all of this, Clark. But when things get back to normal, I’ll still be around. Promise.”

Clark opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He gave her a little wave over his shoulder as he was herded towards the truck, instead.

Then he was sitting in the middle seat of the truck, headed back toward Smallville and feeling his parents glaring at him without either of them actually looking at him.

He fidgeted uncomfortably with the buttons on the tuxedo waistcoat and hoped the trip home would somehow get shorter. It would have been shorter if they’d let him run home, but that was going to happen on the first of never from now on.

They were maybe ten miles out of Metropolis when his mom finally broke the silence.

“You shielded her from the attackers.” It wasn’t really a question, but more like the set-up for one.

“Um... yeah.” If Helen had been here, she’d probably have done some crazy conversational chess thing and anticipated where this was going. Lex would just have gotten through it without batting an eyelash. Clark was aware of his own nervous squirm. “I... there were fourteen of them, and it was really public, and we were dancing when it started. So there were cameras and a lot of people and she was right there. Protecting her was the best I could do.”

Damn. That had sounded convincing. Either they were making him a better liar, or he’d always been better than he thought.

“She seemed pretty impressed,” his dad put in, and Clark was surprised to hear a little bit of laughter leak into the general unhappiness in his voice. “Prudence apparently has its rewards.”

The way his mother exhaled told him she was still thinking. Damn.

“How did you all get out of there? The police wouldn’t talk to us, but the terrorists were all unconscious.” That definitely was a question. Fortunately, Clark already had a selection of answers. He went with the first one Helen had suggested.

“Lex had a prototype security system installed for the party. I guess he didn’t want to take any chances. Nothing happened until we were all down on the floor, so I guess it was waiting for a clear shot. Some kind of concussive wave thing. It really ... not hurt, but I think I get what people mean when they say sensory overload, now. Nobody else seemed to notice, so I guess super-hearing isn’t all upside.”

He’d mention that to Lex and Helen later. Maybe it was even a good idea.

“Sounds useful.” Martha sounded, ever so reluctantly, impressed. “And they’re still alive. Maybe his new company really will do some good.”

“Speaking of Lex...” His dad cut in and then trailed off, uncomfortable and disbelieving. “You really don’t mind that she’s with him?”

Oh, God. Think calm thoughts. What would Helen do? Use the truth. She’d use the truth and rewrite the details. “I don’t know if I mind or not,” he said, looking down at his hands so he didn’t have to look at his parents. “She’s weird. I mean, both of them are. Sometimes it’s a little like dating someone from another country, you know? Different language. Different rules. But I don’t think about it a lot when we’re together. It just feels natural. So I guess it doesn’t really bother me as much as I feel like it should bother me.”

There was a contemplative silence in the truck. At least Clark hoped it was mostly contemplative. His parents were doing the talking-with-their-eyes thing over his head - okay, around his head - and he could never tell what that meant.

“Clark, I know she’s very...charming, but there are so many fundamental differences between the two of you. She’s older, from another city. And she’s famous, more so than Lex. There’s so much about her world that you don’t know. And she’s convinced you that it’s okay for her to date you and Lex at the same time....” Martha shook her head. “This isn’t good for you, sweetie.”

“If I didn’t let her date Lex at the same time,” he pointed out, not sure why he was arguing the point so fiercely when he wasn’t even actually having this relationship, “then she’d probably want to do the stuff she does with him with me. Skydiving, yachts.... um. Other stuff. She doesn’t mind not doing them with me right now, and I’d probably tell her no if she asked because skydiving would be crazy. So her being with Lex, in a weird way, kind of makes us dating work.” And now he was back to the truth - semi-truth - again. This was really, really strange.

His mom opened her mouth, but Jonathan got there first. “Now, son, you know we don’t approve of you sneaking out and lying to us about where you were going to be. It’s irresponsible and hurtful and we won’t stand for it.” The farmer took a deep breath. “But it seems to me, Martha, that Miss Wayne has been honest with Clark, and as long as she stays honest I don’t see as it’s our business if she’s dating Lex, too.”

Martha made an indignant, startled sound in her throat. Clark knew exactly how she felt. His dad was the last person on the planet he’d expected to jump to his defense there.

Capitalize. That was what Helen’s voice in his head was telling him to do. Capitalize. And when had he started having Helen offering him advice in his head, anyway? That was something he usually only had his parents, Lex and Pete doing. Not that he listened to inner-Pete’s advice much.

“She’s a really honest person,” he said, and then was amazed he didn’t catch fire. “What she said about asking me to keep it a secret... that was true, but that’s not why I didn’t tell you. I know she thinks it is, and I kinda don’t want her to stop thinking that because it makes me look good, but I just wanted to go to the party and I didn’t think you’d let me. So I lied. That was wrong. I’m sorry.”

There was another silence, and then his mother jumped on the part of the conversation she knew how to deal with.

“You’d better be sorry, mister. We were worried sick.” She turned to look Clark in the eyes with as much maternal sternness as he could ever remember her using. “You’re on bathroom duty for the next month, and you aren’t going anywhere but to school for the next week. After that, you will call us to let us know where you are any time you go somewhere besides school or home. For the foreseeable future. Is that clear?”

He ought to argue with that. Except it was such a relief that it wasn’t worse that he was nodding already. Apparently his mom knew a little conversational chess, too.

“And keep your damn phone on, son. It’s what it’s there for.”

“The bad guys took them. Well, started taking them, before the security system got them. They took mine. I guess the police probably have it, or the hotel. Can I call Lex when we get home and ask him to get it for me?” He almost believed himself.

His mother pursed her lips. “All right. But the ban on socializing starts as soon as you hang up.”

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it. He was going to get to hear Lex’s voice tonight, he was only going to be grounded-grounded for a week, and he’d somehow gotten through this conversation without tripping over his own story. He owed God more than one - assuming God helped out with things like this. He would have to ask the preacher, someday a long time from now.

Finding a suite in a five-star hotel in Metropolis, on no notice and in secret, would have taxed most security organizations soundly. Doing it on the same night that one had fended off a terrorist attack on a major hotel (in which an already arranged suite had to be abandoned) and an industrial espionage raid on a corporate headquarters was even more daunting.

In spite of the fact that she’d done all of that and survived a shot to the chest (which, bulletproof vest or not, had fractured a rib), Capaldi barely looked winded when Lex Luthor opened the door of the Presidential Suite at the Huxley. “Discreet room service is already on the way, sir,” she told him quietly. “Is Miss Wayne resting comfortably?”

It had been a long, rough night, and so Lex didn’t berate himself too much when he showed visible surprise at her deference. “Ah. Yes.” He paused, and she looked like she could wait out the century without discomfiture. “You and your team saved LexCorp a lot of money and grief tonight. Thank you. I know it’s not in your job description.”

“We’re Miss Wayne’s people, sir. That’s our job description, and those were her orders.” Capaldi looked at him so steadily that it actually made him a little bit nervous, but then she smiled faintly and the hardness that always seemed to be there in her expression when she wasn’t talking to Helen softened. “We all know what you did for her in Gotham, sir. What you protected her from doing. Maybe not all of us liked the way you did it, but compared to what she was going to do.... We noticed. We noticed you’d have charged right into that place and put your body between her and the guns tonight if she hadn’t told us to tell you to stay out, too. As far as we’re concerned, that makes you good people. Anything else, sir?”

A part of Lex’s mind wondered if Capaldi had been talking to Clark. Nobody else had ever called him ‘good people.’

God. Clark. He knew he’d hit him. All this time, alternating between hating Clark for the blatant lie and being sure he was losing his mind.

“Have someone keep an eye on the media. Wake me if any solid news about the attack breaks. Or if any of it mentions Clark.”

“I’ll have a summary ready for you when you wake up, sir.” Her smile twitched a little wider. “If I wake you, Miss Wayne will find a way to toss me off the balcony and make it look like an accident.”

An answering smile spread across Lex’s face. He didn’t try to stop it. “I’m sure she would.” He checked his watch. “I suppose I can let the world go on without me for a few hours. Goodnight, Capaldi.”

“Sir.” She had a way of being incredibly eloquent with that word. He just hoped she never taught his own security people that trick.

He shut the door and slipped off his shoes, padding across the living room of the suite to the bedroom door, then leaned in the doorway and looked down at Helen curled across the bed like an oversized cat. “I think I’m adopted,” he told her dryly.

“Of course you are.” Helen, who’d abandoned her smoke-stained clothing as soon as they’d arrived and gone directly the shower, was wearing a hotel robe and her own wet hair and nothing else. It was a flattering look, all the more so with that indulgent smile on her face. “They like people who are good for me.”

Shrugging out of his Westwood jacket and tossing it in the general direction of the setee, Lex dropped to the bed and started on the vest. His tie hadn’t made it out of the Lux. “That’s fairly anomalous. I’m not sure it will last.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe neither of us is really good for anyone.” She rolled over next to him and started on the buttons of his shirt, her hands working down a few inches below his as he got the vest off. “But so far, so good. I like our chances.”

When all the buttons were open, Lex curled his hand around hers, letting their fingers partly entwine on his lap. A slow smile spread across his face. “Then the world had better watch out. We’re quite the formidable team.” The vest, dress shirt and belt landed on the plush bench at the foot of the bed. Then the undershirt joined them. “Even if you are prone to ridiculous lies on Clark’s behalf.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said, a wry smile on her face. “I think I was rather charming, actually. His mother might like me.”

Lex couldn’t help laughing. “She’d like your head on a pike as a warning to any women with designs on her son, you mean.” He stood again briefly to get out of the fine wool trousers and kick them into a corner. “It’s a miracle Clark will still have a social life before graduation.”

“Probably. But it’ll be amusing trying to win them over, and it’ll spare you what they’d have done if we’d said he was there with you.” She looked him over lingeringly, then opened her arms to him in invitation with a warmer smile. “It was crazy, I admit that, but you have to admit that it worked.”

“Thus far,” Lex grudgingly conceded into the hair behind her ear. “And I will forever treasure the look on his face.”

“Mmmm.” She laughed, low in her throat, and the robe parted so that his body was resting fully against hers, and the relief of that was so profound that it almost frightened him. Almost.

In his jacket, his phone went off. The theme of the Wicked Witch of the West, from The Wizard of Oz. Helen’s idea of a joke. His father.

Damn.

“Let me,” she whispered, rolling him onto his back and then sliding off of him. She was back on the bed a fraction of a moment later, phone in hand, palm against his chest and body casually astride his. “Alexander Luthor’s phone,” she said calmly. “How can I help you?”

She thumbed on the speaker so he could hear his father inhale in masked irritation. “Ah. Helen.” There was a pause as Lionel considered his options. “Put Lex on. I need to speak to my son.”

Lex’s chest filled with an automatic breath, an answer boiling up out of the back of his brain, but Helen’s fingertip against his mouth silenced him just as reflexively. Somehow, the intimacy of the contact outweighed the years of conditioned response.

Still, he couldn’t stand to deal with his father lying down. Since sitting up would either put him in an embrace with Helen - intolerably constricted - or topple her over, he wound up half-reclining braced on his elbows.

“Alexander is fine, Mister Luthor. He was outside the building, and never in any danger. I’m also fine, by the way, in spite of the fact that I’m fairly certain the hostage-takers had orders to shoot me personally. For that matter, Lex’s freshly bought research and technology - the material that’s going to make his company a tearing success in the next few months - is also perfectly fine. I’m sure you’re very relieved to hear all of that.”

Lex’s chest tightened, but there was no accompanying adrenaline surge at Helen’s implicit declaration of their suspicions. Lying all her cards on the table like that - all of his cards - was exactly the kind of move that the younger Luthor had unlearned the hard way. Data was power, and she’d just given quite a bit to Lionel.

Or that’s how it should have been. For some reason - again he conceded the possibility of his own insanity - those words didn’t sound like an invitation to disaster. From Helen’s lips, they sounded like a warning.

A subtle grinding sound issued from the speaker before Lionel spoke.

“Of course. Very relieved,” he said with thinly-veiled disappointment.

“I’m very, very glad to hear that, Mister Luthor. You see, if there was even a hint that you were involved in any of this - say, removing a rival corporation by trying to steal their property and wreck their PR roll-out because they’ve gotten to several major tech finds ahead of you already and embarrassed you in the press - if there was any hint of that, we’d be coming for you. Lex and I both. I don’t think you want that to happen, Lionel, because if it does... you’ll lose. I’d say Lex sends his love, but we both know I’d be lying. Good night.”

Then she hung up on his father. On Lionel Luthor.

His elbows rebelled and deposited him on his back again. Lex covered his face with both hands. “You just...of course you did. It’s not a complete evening without declarations of war.” A single laugh escaped his throat. “I knew the body armor R&D would come in handy.”

“Plenty of things will come in handy.” She discarded the phone and settled down on top of him, kissing his knuckles lightly, voice quiet. “He wasn’t expecting that. It’ll put him off his game for a day, maybe two. I’m sorry, Alexander. Even with everything, I know he’s your father. It’s going to be hard, but letting him work his own timetable would be harder.”

A few slow exhales later, Lex let his hands slide away from his face onto her back. Her dark hair curtained the glow of the city lights from the big windows except for a few twinkles reflected in her eyes. “It’s strange. I always thought that going against him would be the capstone on my solitude,” he leaned up to kiss her softly, “but it seems it’s the keystone of something else.”

“Alexander,” she teased him huskily, her body settling more firmly against his, “is that a proposal?”

His arms tightened around her waist, and he chuckled as they broke the next kiss. “It’s a little early for that, don’t you think? You should at least wait for the second quarter before we start thinking about horizontal mergers.”

She laughed with him, pressing her lips to his again, and by the time she spoke again they were far enough into what came after kissing that he almost didn’t hear her. “I’m not exactly the marrying kind, Alexander,” she gasped into his jaw, “but you... are something... special.”

He didn’t say anything to that, but he didn’t have to - the press of their hands and mouths and bodies answering each other did it for him. They’d never really needed words, he and Helen. They understood each other.

Right from the first moment in Lisbon, they’d understood each other perfectly.

Chapter Text

March 19, 2005

Night was just starting to gather over Smallville, the first stars peering through the darkening sky as the guests from the Talon’s movie showing of the week spilled out into the dusk. There weren’t many of them - maybe two dozen, a mix of older residents with a fondness for classic movies and teenagers looking for a good place to make out. In spite of how well Helen had dressed for the night, they blended in.

At least that much was going for them. He gave it a fifty-fifty chance that someone from school would run into them before the night was over. Knowing his luck, it would be Pete or Chloe, and then he would never, ever hear the end of it. Or Lana, which would be about a million times worse even if she did have a boyfriend who was not him.

Not to mention the mood he was currently in, thanks to Helen and the Talon working in conspiracy against him.

“I am never letting you pick the movie again,” he told her, trying not to let his voice get too far above a whisper.

Helen’s lips quirked up in that infuriatingly amused smile she’d been flashing intermittently all evening, from the graciously awkward pick-up at his front door to the ‘charming’ meal at Dulvan’s she’d asked him for suggestions on ordering for. “I grant that it’s not the Seven Samurai, but it’s a wonderful movie. You’re telling me you don’t like classic cinema, Clark?”

Hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders hunched, he snorted. “I’m telling you that outsiders helping a small town they can’t ever really be a part of is getting kind of old for me.”

She didn’t say anything for a while - long enough that they’d broken away from the crowd and were moving alone from streetlight to streetlight, long enough that he was starting to wonder if she was ever going to talk or if he should just run home and admit to his parents this was total fabrication. Then she did say something, barely a whisper, and the rawness of the honesty in it did things in his chest that he wasn’t in any way ready for. “I find it comforting. I don’t know why, except that no matter what it cost them, the farmers are safe. I’m sorry, Clark.”

He let out a long breath, watching it condense and float away. “It’s always good to help people,” he agreed, finally looking at her. She looked intense, like she always did, and passionate about doing good. Apologetic was an odd look for her, but it was there, too. “But the isolation sucks.”

“Yes.” She shrugged a little deeper into her coat and gave him a faint smile that caught the edges of the light from the streetlamp as they passed out of the pool of illumination and back into the growing dark. “The world hasn’t made much sense to me since I was eight, Clark. I like that you think it ought to make sense. It’s vaguely reassuring.”

“Glad to help, I guess.” He smiled. “And it’s nice that your weirdness makes me feel less weird.”

“You see? We’re a perfect couple.” She dropped back into the dry, half-mocking voice that he was coming to recognize as her personal armor against the world. It was a lot like Lex’s, actually. “Now I just have to win your parents over, and my plans to ensnare you will be complete.”

Laughing, he felt some of his gloom wash away. “Oh, great, more fake dates. I can hardly wait.”

“I’ll try to do better for the next one.” They were out past the last of the streetlights now - he hadn’t noticed that about where she’d parked her Lamborgini while there was still light in the sky - and she didn’t seem to have any more trouble seeing in the failing light than he did. It was weirdly comfortable.

“Alexander is nervous,” she finally murmured a few feet from her car. “Things with his father are going to escalate, but there’s no sign yet of where or when that’s going to happen. It worries him. He worries about you, too.”

Clark sighed. “Look, I haven’t had a chance to tell him everything, but...Lionel can’t hurt me.” He waved the hand she’d pushed against a hot stove over a year ago. “I’m hurt-proof. Lex doesn’t need to worry.”

“Nobody’s invulnerable, Clark.” She gave him a sad, soul-weary little smile and reached up to brush his cheek. “Even if you can shrug off, say, having a car blow up around you... your parents can’t. Your friend - the intrepid reporter - can’t. You understand?”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He’d known for a long time that Lionel Luthor was ruthless and didn’t much care who got hurt as long as it wasn’t him. The idea that he’d kill people to get to Lex was a whole other level of evil.

Clark searched Helen’s face for any trace of doubt or exaggeration and found none. He opened his mouth, couldn’t find the words, closed it again. Got into the passenger seat when the car chirped awake at Helen’s touch on the keys, staring at the dashboard. Suddenly Lex’s control-freak episodes regarding the media - especially when Clark was involved - seemed much more reasonable.

“What should I do? I can protect them if I’m there, but...”

“But not the rest of the time. And you can’t stay beside them all the time, either. If I thought I could convince your parents to accept protection...” Helen gave him a small, rueful smile. “I can’t imagine that would be productive. The most practical option - the one I ought to suggest - is that you stop seeing Lex and me entirely. It would be safest. The trouble is, what would be safest for their health would be heart-crushing for Lex. The second-best option is that they accept protection from Lex’s security, or better, from mine. The next best option is that we try to be discreet and hope Lionel hasn’t already decided you’re important to Lex anyway.”

Clark swallowed, watching the last buildings of town pass by the window. “I don’t think they’d agree to bodyguards, not unless I told them that we think Lionel was behind the attack. Maybe not even then.” He frowned. “And then they’d say that I should pick option number one.”

He turned to look at her profile in the glow from the instrument panel. “I should,” he said slowly. “Three people’s lives are more important than my relationship with Lex. But I don’t think I can.” Hands balled into fists, he watched his skin move as he flexed. “There’s got to be something I can do.”

Helen didn’t say anything for another mile, then pulled the car over to the side of the road and shut it down. Sat there in the dark with him, breathing, and in the closeness of the space he could taste the weight of her anger - a cold, burning rage that was more than a little frightening to have someone feel on his behalf. The silence thickened, until it was a little hard to breathe through, and then she spoke.

It was such a calm, reasonable murmur that he could hardly believe it was coming from the same woman wearing that expression. “Three things deter someone from harming you,” she said. “Moral obligation, the difficulty of success or the promise of retribution. Lionel doesn’t give a damn about morals, we can’t make it hard enough to go after the people you care about to keep him from considering it, so that leaves retribution. We acquire something that would hurt him more than hurting your parents would help him, and we hold it over him. Make sure he knows we have it, and that we’ll use it.”

“Extortion.” Clark’s voice was hard. “We do things his way?”

“No.” Helen’s eyes closed, then opened again, and there was something harder than metal in her eyes when she looked at him. “He’s a murderer and a thief. We don’t sink to his level. But yes, if extortion is what it takes to keep you and your family safe, I’d consider it. Would you?”

Jaw clenched, Clark finally nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I would. But there are other problems, too. What keeps this from spiraling out of control? Wouldn’t he just try to hurt us worse?” He shook his head. Life had been awfully complicated lately.

“Probably. Of course, he’s going to try to hurt us as badly as he can, eventually. When he realizes that Lex isn’t coming back, that this isn’t just a temporary burst of independence. So it’s more a question of timing than of escalation.” Helen gave him a small, tight smile. “Alexander wouldn’t approve of me telling you this. He wants to keep you out of it. He’d say you deserve to keep your hands clean, if I asked him.”

“He’s kind of a dumbass sometimes,” Clark said, unable to keep a tiny smile from his lips. “I’m helping whether he likes it or not, and I think you probably have better ideas that I would, scary ninja woman.”

“Well, then, welcome to the conspiracy.” She laughed softly, and then her eyes turned hard again. “Tell me everything about what you can do. Everything. Then we’ll be ready to start looking for a target.”

He was nodding before he’d really thought about it. Some time in the last year and a half - or maybe just in the last week - he’d come to trust Helen Wayne implicitly.

“I will. But give me a couple of days. Lex deserves to know first.”

“Agreed.” Just like that, her face softened again, and she leaned across the middle of the car to kiss him gently. “More than agreed.”

Chapter Text

March 22, 2005

A cornfield in March wasn’t much - acres and acres of recently-tilled soil stretching out to the horizon with leftover mulched stalks mixed among the mud and fertilizer. It was cold enough that it didn’t smell, thank God, so Lex didn’t regret his choice to be poetic in his selection of venue for the afternoon’s conversation. The dirt on his shoes was bad enough.

Clark had gotten to the part about not being a meteor freak.

Lex stared.

“You don’t look like an alien,” he said at last, almost offended. “Billions of planets in the universe and nature copied itself? How disappointing.”

“Guess so.” Clark shrugged a little, wearing his nervous tension on his face like he was trying not to show it and failing miserably. He’d never been very good at hiding when he was lying.

Just good at doing it.

“Clark.” Lex turned, looked steadily at the farm boy. “I don’t care what species you are.”

“Technically,” Clark managed, though the smile on his face that blossomed while he got the words out was enough to warm the whole damn field like summer, “I don’t even know what species I am. But that’s good to know.”

Lex felt himself smiling back. “I feel the need to point out that you have terrible priorities,” he said, enjoying Clark’s confusion. “Of all the things to worry about, my possible negative reaction should have been be far down on the list.”

Underneath things like spending his life on the run, or being a prisoner in some lab somewhere, or being used like a WMD. Things Lex was trying very, very hard not to think about at the moment. It was typical of his life that learning Clark’s secrets gave him more to worry about.

“Anyway,” he continued, running over whatever the farmboy had been about to say, “it wouldn’t be that difficult to at least determine which direction you came from. If we knew where to point the telescopes, maybe we’d find a clue about your home planet.”

“Well...” Clark shifted his shoulders, then smiled a little more shyly. “I have a ship. You know, a spaceship. So that might help.”

Lex briefly missed his sunglasses as his face showed utter surprise, then realized that Clark had probably always been able to see through them, which didn’t help with the shock. “Let me guess - it’s in your basement next to the washing machine?”

“Storm cellar,” Clark said ruefully, and then laughed like Lex had told a particularly funny joke.

Lex let that go with only a raised eyebrow.

“So your space ship,” he finally said, voice only slightly strained, “crashed in a field just outside of Smallville, and nobody noticed the impact or your parents loading it into the back of their truck?”

Clark’s face fell and he got very interested in his shoes. “It was the day of the meteor shower, Lex,” he whispered. “Nobody noticed anything.”

Lex’s whole body went still, and he was plunged into memory. The helicopter. What Luthors don’t feel. The boy tied up in the cornfield, Lex’s fear and shame, the shockwave. The look of disgust on his father’s face when he found him, already mostly bald. How his baldness had shaped his life.

And then, later, the research he’d done on the meteor shower. He knew all the major landfalls, including the one that had nearly killed him, and the one only a few miles away that had cut a deep scar in the land without any meteorite fragments large enough to match.

He was staring intensely at Clark, his fingers dug into arms that could lift at least four tons. “Your parents found you in Miller’s field, didn’t they?”

The way Clark’s eyes widened in surprised, defensive confusion was plenty of answer. Lex didn’t need words, or wait for them.

“You landed only a few miles from Riley’s Field. That’s where my father and I were.” Clark still looked confused. “It means two things, Clark. First, that you escaped my father by an astronomically small margin. Can you imagine what would have happened if he’d been the one to find you? I can. I’m trying not to.”

Clark went very, very pale. “I think I’m going to join that effort,” he got out, but his voice shook when he said it. “What’s the second thing?”

With a deep breath, Lex forced himself to relax and pry his hands open. It was much easier than it would have been if he weren’t this close to Clark. The farmboy’s proximity was damn near narcotic.

“The second thing,” he answered, sliding his hand halfway between Clark’s shoulder and neck, “is that our lives have been linked much longer than we thought. We’re meant to be together.”

It was all too easy to pull Clark down into a kiss - or had he pushed up? It didn’t matter. The distance had been bridged. He was distantly aware that his feet weren’t touching the ground anymore. It probably should have bothered him more than it did.

He wondered if that was because his boyfriend was an alien with strange powers, or because he was just Clark.

When they finally trudged out of the cornfield, grinning like idiots, they found Helen sitting on the hood of the car bundled up in her coat. Watching them. Smiling.

“Did you know that you levitate?” she asked Clark, like she was asking about the weather.

Lex wasn’t sure who started laughing first, but soon the three of them were leaning against the car and each other and gasping for breath.

“I mean it,” Helen managed to get out in a relatively normal voice, while Clark and Lex were still trying to stop doubling over. “You float. Is that a normal thing for you, or is it something you only do while you’re kissing a man in a cornfield?”

Clark’s laugh turned into a cough. “You’re really a bitch sometimes, Helen.”

Lex grinned. “Isn’t she?” he said proudly. “Now, out with it, Clark. You didn’t mention violating gravity on your list.”

“I wasn’t really sure I could. Do. Whatever.” Clark gave him a lopsided, embarrassed grin. “Sometimes I wake up from dream and I think I’m a foot or two over the bed, then fall, and then I’m not sure if I was actually doing it or if that was part of the dream. I’ve never had anyone confirm it before, and it seemed pretty crazy. Crazier than, you know, shooting heat beams out of my eyes and seeing through things and hearing the music they’re playing two counties over.”

“That explains the attention span,” Lex muttered.

Helen smirked. “I think that’s just Clark. No focus. Well, not outside of bed with us.”

Clark turned vividly red. “I hate you,” he mumbled. “I really hate both of you. Why am I dating you again?”

“Me? I’ve been promoted to ‘real date’ status, then?” Helen arched an eyebrow inquisitively.

“So much,”  Clark said, and gave Lex a plaintive look. “I hate her even more than you.”

Lex grinned so hard it hurt. He could always count on Helen to pull them away from his father’s ambitions or the mess of history he and Clark were tangled up in. She knew how to make him laugh, how to chase his tension away even when he didn’t know he was tense, and he might treasure that more than her brilliance or her strength.

Might. It was a tough list to pick from.

“I’ll drive,” he told her, ignoring Clark’s puppy-like expression.

“Good.” Her smile turned wicked. “Remember to drive carefully and not to speed. Scenic is even better.”

“I am not,” Clark declared firmly, “having sex in the passenger seat of Lex’s car.”

Helen and Lex both turned and stared at him with the same disbelieving expression.

“While it’s moving,” he amended.

Lex fought down the urge to start laughing again.

“Today,” Clark tried to clarify.

“Clark,” Helen purred, “shut up and get in the car.”

Lex used the keys in his pocket to pop the doors, slid into the driver’s seat and ran a hand over the wheel while he watched the two of them get in - Helen in Clark’s lap, complete with seat belt - and then started the car with an extra rev or two just to hear the sound Helen made in her throat. “You see, Clark?” he said, knowing exactly how innocent he could make his voice sound when he wanted to. “All a man needs to obey the rules of the road is a little incentive.”

Chapter Text

April 1, 2005

When he bothered to think about it, Lionel Luthor considered himself a patient man. Building companies required patience - the methodical construction of layers of power to ensure his control of his own empire, the grooming of properly loyal subordinates, the well-timed project that might take years to come to fruition. Strategy required patience - the well-worded memorandum, the right fact about the right person that could be held back for decades until the right favor was needed, the correct friendship called upon at the correct time. He had thrived for many years in a rarefied climb not tolerant of error, and patience had been the backbone of his victories.

His son, unfortunately, seemed to have a gift for taxing that patience. He always had. Lionel sometimes suspected he’d been born with it, specifically to make Lionel’s own life more difficult. Or perhaps his mother’s idea of a joke. He’d never cared for Lillian’s sense of humor.

The real trouble was the woman, of course. Lex had always been a fool for women, and if Lionel was honest with himself - something he took great pains to be - Helen Wayne was the sort of woman he could understand a man making a fool of himself for. If Lex had only been up to the task of mastering her, she would have been a formidable wife, but the boy obviously wasn’t ready for that sort of responsibility. He’d let her encourage his adolescent rebellion, instead, and that was entirely unacceptable. This venture of Lex’s was doomed to failure, and it would be irresponsible of Lionel to allow it to continue long enough that it might take Lex’s future with it when it fell apart. He’d tried to show him that by exposing the laughably thin security on the opening gala of this ‘LexCorp,’ but it had almost been a pleasant surprise to find that Lex had been more careful than he’d given him credit for. The boy could learn. It had been a relief right up until the moment he’d tried to call his son, to encourage him to come home, and gotten that insufferably self-righteous little princess instead.

No, the woman was definitely the problem.

Well, no one was perfect. Everyone had their vices. Lionel had spent decades learning and relearning that particular piece of wisdom, and when his investigators had told him Helen Wayne was clean, he’d demanded they look deeper. There was always, always something.

He looked down at the photographs on his computer and smiled narrowly. It was reassuring to have one’s faith rewarded. Now all he needed to do was make his son understand what a terrible, terrible mistake he was making.

Getting a call through to him was difficult, of course, but not impossible. Nothing was impossible for a Luthor, even if that mean planting a cellphone in Lex’s desk at the mansion in Smallville and risking one of his assets in the house.

“Hi, Dad. Thanks for confirming my suspicions about Ruiz.” Lex’s voice was inappropriately cheerful. His son always had enjoyed baiting him.

“Really, Lex, you can’t think I’m going to fall for a simple affirmation trap like that. I’m disappointed. If you think I have people in your household staff, you’ll have to find out which ones yourself.” Lionel carefully suppressed his smile to keep it out of his voice. His boy had always been clever, and Ruiz was apparently not careful enough. A problem to keep in mind. “I understand your little venture started production on a new alarm system recently. When can I expect to see it on the market?”

There was a minute pause and the sound of an equally minute change in Lex’s position. He could picture the subtly increased tension in his son’s posture, the smirk he used to cover his anger or fear. Lionel smiled. It was still gratifying to know that not all of his informants had been compromised, proud as he was of Lex’s development.

“As soon as it tests at ninety-eight percent reliability, which we project will be by the end of the next quarter. I’d be happy to have systems installed on LuthorCorp’s campuses,” Lex replied with amiable confidence. “Can’t be too careful these days, especially with how quickly old technology becomes obsolete.”

“We’d be happy to review your work, Lex. If it’s superior to our current contractor and meets our specifications, I don’t see any reason we shouldn’t use it,” Lionel said with a proper air of magnanimous generosity. It wouldn’t hurt to try the boy’s products out and find their weaknesses, after all. “But I didn’t really call to talk about business, son.”

“On the contrary. Everything is business with you.”

“Lex! Really. I’m hurt.” Lionel sighed. “I simply called out of a sense of personal, paternal concern.” Tapping the send command on his computer, he shook his head. The boy could be so very defensive at times. “I wanted to talk to you about Lancelot, as a matter of fact.”

A few clicks indicated Lex was opening a program on his laptop. “I’m all ears, Dad. Which part of the tragedy is my object lesson today?”

“King Arthur trusted Lancelot - his best friend - with his woman. His confidence was... misplaced. Their disloyalty destroyed his kingdom.” Lionel allowed a pause for Lex to take in at least a few of the pictures, then sighed regretfully. “I’m terribly sorry, son.”

There was a pause, and then a strangled noise escaping Lex’s throat. Lionel blinked, but took it in stride. Lex’s strong emotions were often unpredictable. It had been years since he’d seen his son cry, but every man had his breaking point.

“I’m sure you’re as shocked as I am,” he began. “How they could possibly betray your trust with such an egregious....”

He was interrupted by Lex losing control and bursting into laughter.

“Oh, Dad, thank you. That’s the best April Fool’s joke I’ve gotten in years. I never knew you had a sense of humor.” He was still, absurdly, laughing as though his sides were going to split. It was preposterous.

“The pictures are entirely real, Lex,” he bit out frostily.

Lex only laughed harder. “Of course they are, Dad. Believe me, I’ve got much better ones. Speaking of, let me link you to some very interesting stories about Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot.”

“Are you completely mad?” Lionel couldn’t help it. For the first time in years, he entirely lost his temper. “You... you knew she was seeing that farmboy behind your back and you don’t care? How can you let yourself be humiliated that way, boy?”

“Not behind my back,” Lex drawled, his smirk clearly audible. “In my bed, mostly. And my garage. And the Ferrari on a memorable occasion.” The idiot boy was enjoying himself immensely. “C’mon, Dad, never heard of a cuckolding fetish?”

“If I can find out about this,” Lionel snapped, “I assure you, so can a great many other people. People who don’t have your best interests at heart, Lex. People who want to see your reputation ruined permanently.”

“Are you sure it’s my reputation you’re worried about?” An undercurrent of threat lingered underneath the deceptively light tone. “Because you’re showing your concern in a very strange way. How much do two dozen terrorists cost these days, anyway?”

“I don’t like being slandered, Lex.” His voice was too tight, too angry. Out of control. “I don’t know what lies that woman has been filling your head with, but....”

“Please.” Lex’s voice was cold and flat, now. “I admit I hadn’t expected it beforehand - your punishments don’t usually put me and hundreds of other people in mortal danger - but the attack had your fingerprints all over it. Nothing I can take to the authorities, of course, because you hate getting your hands dirty, but I know how you think.” There was another pause, no sounds of movement this time. “I must have really struck a nerve when I left.”

“This... this ... joke of yours is going to fail. When it does, I will expect a complete apology before you come back to where you belong.”

“Expect whatever you like.” Shifting, the sound of Lex getting up. “Is that all? I have to wash my hair.”

Lionel heard himself spluttering - actually spluttering - and if he could have snatched back the next words the moment they left his mouth, he would have. “You don’t have any hair, Lex.”

“The word is joke, Dad. Look it up. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Then his own son hung up on him. Intolerable. He was going to have to find some way to remind the boy where respect was due.

Patience, he reminded himself. Patience was what would win this fight. Here at LuthorCorp was where Lex belonged, and it was only a matter of time until the boy would remember that. Time and a few hard lessons.

Lionel was entirely sure, now that he was calm again, that he had plenty of lessons left to teach.

Chapter Text

April 1, 2005

It went against all reason, but walking across the Kents’ muddy yard to the barn soothed Lex’s frayed nerves much better than any high-end massage or meditation training. If this was insanity he’d caught from Clark, he was fairly content to let it run its course.

His nerves went right back to frayed when he discovered that the noises coming from the barn were Jonathan working on what looked like a pre-World-War-II tractor engine, not Clark puttering in his hayloft.

“Good afternoon, Mister Kent.” If he sounded disappointed, it was his own fault for not minding his surroundings.

“Lex.” Jonathan leaned up out of the tractor engine, up to his elbows in grease, and gave Lex a look long enough to make him a little nervous. Not that he really expected Jonathan Kent to come at him with a wrench, but...

“We haven’t seen you around the house lately.” It was neutral, mostly, but Lex thought there might have been a little guarded concern in Jonathan’s voice. More likely, he was projecting, but it was a nice thought.

“It’s been a busy month for me,” he answered. “How have you and Mrs. Kent been?”

“Busy.” Jonathan’s smile was a little crooked, but it was at least genuine. “We’ve been in the middle of planting, which would be easier if my son wasn’t quite as eager to be done with his work at the end of the day.”

Somehow, he managed to sound as though he was genuinely griping and not really upset with Clark at the same time. Lex had no idea how he did that. Maybe it was a small town thing.

“He has a lot on his mind, especially with colleges sending out letters soon.” Which was true, to a point. Clark did worry about his higher education. In between rounds of sex and worrying about Lex, Helen, his parents, his friends, meteor freak-outs, not failing chemistry, and at least a few other things. And Clark said Lex worried too much.

Jonathan snorted in amused disbelief. “I wish I thought that was what was on his mind.” Before Lex could say anything else, though, Jonathan held up an oily hand. “Boys are only eighteen once. I’ve resigned myself to that. I guess I’m just surprised you’re as understanding about it.”

Lex smiled inwardly. Fielding this particular issue was made much easier by Jonathan’s aversion to talking about his son’s sex life. Outwardly, he shrugged. “Polyamory has never been my preferred relational style, Mister Kent, but given the choice between losing both my girlfriend and my best friend and putting up with their romance, it wasn’t too hard.” He grinned. “I’m beginning to think that all the great tragic love triangles were comprised of idiots. This is a much more sensible option.”

“Can’t say it’s exactly a comfortable idea for me, but sensible or not, it was damned unselfish of you.” Jonathan started to wipe his hand through his hair, caught himself, and grabbed a rag to start wiping his hands. “I want to say it’s not what I would have expected from you, but maybe I should have. I know you and Clark have had your ups and downs, but I guess I ought to give you more credit for how you’ve stuck with him than I do. Much as it sticks it my throat to say it. So thank you.”

Blinking, Lex took in a breath, trying to accommodate the sudden strange lightness in his chest. This wasn’t how he’d expected Jonathon to react and it took him a long moment to pull himself together. “I’d do anything for Clark, so ‘you’re welcome’ seems inappropriate,” he finally answered, “but you saying that means a great deal to me.”

Jonathan shrugged, but Lex was pretty sure he was hiding a smile under the Kansas stoicism. “Clark should be back soon. You want to wait up in the loft for him, I imagine Martha won’t mind. She’s had her hands full keeping Miss Wayne out of there the past couple of weeks.”

“I’ll bet she has,” Lex grinned as he mounted the creaky stairs. “I’d offer to run interference for Mrs. Kent, but Helen isn’t exactly tractable.”

“I’ve met mules more tractable than that woman,” Jonathan muttered under his breath as he went back to work on the engine. He didn’t specify which one he meant, either.

Lex had the good sense not to ask.

Presented with the choice between sitting on the ratty couch and staring out the window at bare fields, the entrepreneur decided to take the risk to his suit and propped his feet up. It took Clark just under five minutes to show up silhouetted in the barn door, and Lex suspected that it was only that long because he’d had to finish whatever chore he’d been working on. Super-hearing and being faster than sound certainly had their advantages.

“You look relaxed.” Blue eyes swept Lex over slowly, and knowing that they could see through his clothes made him feel perversely undressed. It was oddly comfortable. “Am I in trouble?”

“Now, Clark, why would you think that?” He let his own eyes wander over Clark, enjoying the heat that still rose to the farm boy’s cheeks even after everything he’d done with Lex in the last year. “Guilty conscience?”

“Um,” Clark said, running a hand through his hair and getting an awkwardly chastened look on his face. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

A quick glance confirmed that the sofa was out of Jonathan’s line of sight, and Lex reached out and ran his hand up Clark’s thigh. “At full speed,” Lex agreed, grinning.

“Ahem.” Clark reached down and carefully removed Lex’s hand, then moved Lex’s legs while he was at it so he could sit down on the couch. “Is there any chance I’m going to get out of this without spilling it?”

Lex grinned wider and waggled his eyebrows. He could always count on Clark to cheer him up. “Interesting choice of words, Clark.”

“Shut. Up.” Clark gave him a look. “My dad’s down there, and I swear he has super-hearing.”

Leaning forward, Lex kissed Clark silently, then stood up. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve been doing these last few weeks. A tour of the Kent farm.”

“You want to go walking in the muddy fields with me when my parents could pull up looking for me at any moment,” Clark suggested, lips twitching, “because you’ve suddenly lost your mind?”

“You’re late to that party, Clark,” Lex answered. “You’ve been slowly eroding my sanity since the day we met. And if you have a better idea, I’d love to hear it.”

“Dad, I’m going to take Lex for a walk in the mud because he’s crazy!” Clark called out, heading for the stairs.

“He’s a Luthor,” Jonathan called back, but somehow it didn’t sting quite like it usually did. “What do you expect?”

Clark laughed. It was bright and rich and as warm as sunshine.

Somehow, Lex managed not to kiss him right then and there.

They circled around the back of the barn, mud already accumulating on Lex’s shoes, and then Clark reached down and picked him up like he was a new bride about to be carried over the the threshold. For some inexplicable reason, Lex started to blush.

“Hold on and try not to panic,” Clark said.

The world went raving mad, like he was in a speed tunnel someone had built out of glass through the middle of Kansas for some god-forsaken reason, and then they were standing at the top of Reeve’s Dam and looking down into the reservoir from what was definitely not the public access area of the place.

“A better idea,” Lex heard himself say distantly, staring at the reservoir, then at his alien boyfriend. Clark opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t have time to answer before Lex had one hand on the back of his neck, the other working its way under the flannel shirt, and his mouth doing its best to convey how much Clark amazed and delighted him.

From the noises Clark was making, Lex’s mouth was doing an excellent job.

“Um, Lex,” Clark managed, one unsteady breath at a time, “someone might, um, see us. Here. Lex!” The second time Clark said his name, it didn’t sound like a protest.

But protest or not, it was a valid point. Lex kissed Clark one last time before pulling back and drinking in sight of him. “Is it always like that when you run?”

“Um... mostly. Sometimes it’s a little faster, or slower.” Clark’s cheeks were flushed and he looked a little embarrassed, but his eyes were shining with the pleasure of sharing a secret. “I’ve never carried someone before. Who was conscious. Um. That sounded less creepy in my head.”

Sobering a little, Lex smiled. “You’re the least creepy person I know, Clark. Even correcting for selection bias.”

“Alien privacy violations and all?” Clark whispered shyly, but he smiled when he said it.

“And all.” Lex took the few steps needed to lean against the the concrete wall at the edge of the dam. The drop was dizzying, especially with the torrents of water gushing out. He was fascinated by the raw force of it. “If anyone else had the powers you do, it would be terrifying. But you’re good down to your unbreakable bones, Clark.”

Clark didn’t say anything for a while. Long enough that when Lex turned around to look at him  and found him staring off into space, he almost wasn’t surprised.

“What do you see?” he asked softly.

“Somebody up the road a few miles is cooking barbeque. Big family. Bunch of kids. Aunts, uncles, the whole deal.” Clark looked down, took a deep breath, then looked into Lex’s eyes. “I think I’m... the thing with pretending to be dating Helen is getting more complicated.”

Lex nodded. “It is. What does that look like from your end?”

“Well...” Clark took another deep breath, like he was bracing himself for something. “I think I’m starting to not be pretending very much, Lex.”

Lex blinked. This wasn’t blindsiding him, exactly, but it did put him off balance. “I know I’m not always the most rational person in the room,” he said dryly, “but I’m not quite a big enough hypocrite to get jealous that my boyfriend is developing feelings for my girlfriend.”

“It’s not that.” Clark sighed and ran a hand through his hair again - the gesture reminded Lex of Jonathan, which was the sort of amusing thought he was definitely keeping to himself. “I mean, a little bit, but I didn’t think you were going to freak out or anything. It just feels like a really stupid thing to do. I mean, I don’t even know if she feels the same way, or what ‘the same way’ is to begin with, and she’s not exactly in my league.”

Lex blinked again. Then he bit his lip, because laughing at his boyfriend now would be mean.

“Clark,” he said, carefully controlling his breathing to keep from cracking up before he finished, “you do realize that you’re gorgeous and have superpowers that, as far as we know, literally nobody born on Earth does? Not to mention that you have, sitting in your storm cellar, a technological revolution that could make you actually richer than Helen, my father and the next ten wealthiest people on the planet to boot? Because I think you may need to reevaluate your sense of what’s in your league a little.”

“Oh.” Clark’s mouth worked for a minute, and he looked so much like a landed fish that Lex knew he wasn’t going to make it. Any second now he was going to start laughing hysterically and his superpowered boyfriend was going to throw him off the dam, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

“Oh,” Clark said again. “I... hadn’t thought of that.”

His prediction was, as usual, correct. He lost it in one big burst, going from zero to sixty in half a second, clutching at the railing to stay upright.

“God. Your face,” he gasped out between gales. “Your face.”

Clark stared at him, completely nonplussed, but at least didn’t throw him into the reservoir. Lex would have done that, in his position. No question.

“What? I just never thought of it that way!” Clark protested defensively, which didn’t help at all. Now Lex was almost sitting on the concrete.

“Clark Kent,” he announced, somehow getting enough breath for more than a few words at a time, “savior of kittens and an unspecified number of unconscious people, discovers his sex appeal and fortune. Ladies and gentlemen.”  

Completing his slow, undignified fall on his ass, he looked at Clark through actual tears, he was laughing so hard. “God, I love you so damn much, you beautiful idiot.”

That sobered him up in a hurry. His breath froze in his lungs and he looked away, anywhere but Clark’s eyes, unable to even think about what to do next. Lex hadn’t said those words - and meant them - since before his mother died.

“Lex,” Clark said softly, kneeling down next to him and resting a hand against his cheek, “it really helps with, well, pretty much everything if you remember to breathe.”

Leaning into Clark’s touch was less choice than succumbing to gravity. “How long can you go without?” he asked inanely, his own hand on Clark’s arm. “Breathing, I mean. You gasp a lot under certain conditions. Or is that just for my benefit?” His fingers dug into the work-stained canvass of the jacket, and he dug them further, as hard as he could. Clark stayed solid and calm.

“If you keep doing that so hard, you might hurt your hand,” Clark whispered. “And I’ve never really timed it. A long time. Hours. But I’m pretty sure I do need to breathe.”

Nodding, Lex forced his hand to ease up on the pressure. It was much more difficult than it should have been, and that fact made the rest of his shaky composure wobble further. He should say something witty, or flippant, but the words weren’t coming. Not injuring himself on Clark’s arm was about all he could manage at the moment.

“Lex,” Clark whispered, leaning down to kiss him lightly on the mouth as if he didn’t care who might have heard Lex’s laughing and come to look, “I love you, too.”

He’d hoped those words were coming - hoped for years, he realized - but was still unprepared for the way the tension disappeared all at once and left him giddy. Arms thrown tight around Clark, feeling the same careful, firm pressure his boyfriend always used, he let out a weak laugh.

“God knows why.”

“Maybe it’s a superpower,” Clark murmured into his ear.

Lex smiled into Clark’s hair. “Must be.”

Chapter Text

April 4, 2005

There were problems, Clark reflected, with going to Metropolis with Helen at the drop of a hat. Like how he had planned to be spending the day at the library researching his history project. For the purposes of which he had turned down an invitation to Bad Movie Marathon Day at Chloe’s house, because he was going to pass all his classes, dammit. And then, having gone to Metropolis, staying and coming home late with a cover story only Helen could make plausible, he got to bed late. Which meant he’d slept late, which meant taking the ‘shortcut’ to school, which always left him feeling like the world was moving at about the speed of Bob Ruth’s slow-cooker.

Those were some of the problems he’d expected. Other problems, unexpected problems, involved trying to slink into first period only to find himself ambushed.  

“Clark Kent,” Chloe Sullivan said in the voice that meant he was in big, big trouble, “get your overgrown, normalcy-challenged butt in gear and come with me. Right now.”

He gestured futilely down the hall. “I have math, Chloe. Can’t we talk at lunch?”

“Right. Now.” Chloe clarified. Clark tried his best apologetic look. Nothing happened.

Shit.

He was unceremoniously marched to the Torch with the sort of efficiency that Helen’s security team might have envied, where he discovered that Chloe had already dragooned Pete and Lana into what had all the makings of an intervention. If his parents walked through the door, he decided immediately, he was going out the window.

“Bag,” Chloe said, pointing to the highly-suspiciously-clean table.

“Um, guys?” Clark ventured, trying to look nowhere and at everyone at the same time. “You’re starting to worry me. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait? Nobody’s in the hospital, are they?”

“Not yet,” Pete muttered. Shit, shit, shit.

“Bag,” Chloe repeated, pointing at his backpack. “How was the library, Clark?”

Eyes closing in defeat, he handed over his possessions. “I’m sorry. I really was going to study. It was just...”

“You had to go to Metropolis and make out with a smoking hot billionaire chick instead?” Pete suggested in a tone that was not at all friendly. Chloe, meanwhile, occupied herself with emptying his backpack onto the table. There were, thank you God, no condoms in there. Helen carried them.

It was an uncomfortable thing to be grateful for. Not to mention the question of how they knew where he’d been and who with, which was not supposed to be making the rounds. Helen would probably say something about information security being an imperfect business, and somehow that didn’t make him feel any better. Was his face on the cover of a newspaper? Would someone tell him if it was?

More importantly, would he hear about it before his dad could ship him to the North Pole?

He resolved, silently, that he needed to learn more and better profanity. Lex could probably teach him. Clark looked pleadingly at Lana. She had always been the most merciful. No dice. If anything, she looked even more unhappy than Pete and Chloe. “There is no good answer to this, is there?”

“None.” Silky hair shook back and forth with the motion of her head. It was really unfair how pretty she was when he was in trouble.

Chloe held up a pair of high-quality file folders full of equally high-quality paper and glared at Clark. “I have seen what you laughingly describe as research notes and outlines. These have in common with them what LeBron James has in common with Pete on the basketball court. Did you have your secret girlfriend pay someone to do your research for you?”

“What?! No! I’ve never even seen these!” He grabbed them, flipping through two neatly-typed sheafs of notes on the topics he’d mentioned to Helen. He felt the blood drain from his face. “Oh my God. She did. She did and she didn’t tell me.”

Chloe and Lana glared at him. Pete took a break from glaring to laugh at his expense. He wasn’t entirely sure which he preferred.

“Regardless of that,” Chloe said, in a voice which suggested the jury was definitely still out on his assertions of ignorance, “you have a lot explaining to do. Because the Parisian Report is not how I expect to find out that you’re dating someone. You are dating, right? Not just making out in alleys behind Metropolis bars while not carrying protection?”

Of course Chloe would use the lack of condoms against him. She was going to make a great journalist, assuming he or someone else didn’t strangle her first.

Clark sighed. “Uh. Kinda? We were pretend-dating, and I guess now we aren’t pretending, but I’m not sure because we haven’t talked about it.”

There was a deafening silence. Nobody’s facial expression changed.

“Pretend-dating?” Lana sounded like he’d suggested he’d seen a dinosaur in downtown Smallville. Actually, given their collective lives in the last few years, that would probably be more credible. “So you go to Metropolis and get photographed being indecent with girls you’re only pretending to date now?”

Lana’s suddenly Victorian sensibilities notwithstanding, that stung.

“Not to mention,” Chloe pounced, “why you’re pretending to date her in the first place. Or why a multi-billionaire is going along with your not-really dating scheme.”

Pete looked as if he’d been saving what came out of his mouth next for years. “Lex Luthor is definitely behind this. What’s he gotten you into, Clark?”

Lex was behind this. Gotten into him. Oh, god. Now he was probably turning red from collar to scalp. He looked helplessly from one of his friends to the other, contemplating what was the worst that could happen.

Pete would hate him. Probably Lana, too. That would be pretty awful. Maybe they’d get over it? Dubious. Chloe would be hurt. Really, deeply hurt, which would be worse.

On the other hand, they’d all hate him anyway for being a liar if he tried to make something up. Which they would know instantly. Because there was nothing plausible to cover this. If he came clean there was at least a chance he’d have friends at some future date after enough grovelling and cool-down time.

He took a deep breath and spoke to the pile of school supplies on the table. “She made it up so my parents wouldn’t freak out over me dating, um, Lex.”

He’d thought the room had been silent before. He’d thought he’d had a pretty good understanding of silence. Apparently he’d been wrong about that, too.

“You’re gay?” Chloe blurted out finally, incredulously. “And you thought, what, we wouldn’t be okay with that?”

From the look on Pete’s face, it wasn’t certain he was okay with that. Which didn’t even get into the way Lana was visibly still trying to cram the idea into her head.

“Bi.” This was definitely not how he’d ever pictured this conversation going. Not that he’d pictured it going at all. “And... I really couldn’t handle even a remote possibility that you guys wouldn’t be okay with it. And this is Kansas. And I’m a giant weenie. Sorry.”

“Lex Luthor?” Lana blurted out.

“Criticism of terrible choice in partners later. Coming out support time, now.” Chloe’s declaration was firm enough that it seemed to shake Lana out of her general state of shock. Pete figited. Chloe glared. He cleared his throat.

“Ah. So. Yeah.” Pete shuffled his feet and gave Clark a look that was a lot more uncomfortable than the day he’d explained his powers to Pete. Which had also not exactly been the best coming out, now that he thought about it. It would probably help if he stopped waiting until people caught him lying before telling them the truth.

Chloe cleared her throat. Pete shuffled his feet a little more, but managed a strained smile. “We’re cool,” he said, about as uncooly as possible.

“Cool,” Clark mumbled back. Lana still looked pole-axed, and Pete was sidling for the door. Warnings had to come now. “Guys, please don’t tell anyone else. My parents don’t know. Lex’s dad doesn’t, either, and if he found out he might...” Clark paused, looking for a way to translate ‘mob-style harm slash murder of loved ones’ to something that was even remotely normal, “...flip out. Violently.”

Pete actually stopped sidling. Lana sobered up pretty fast, too. Apparently, now that he’d pointed out the thought, nobody in the room needed it explained to them.

“So that’s why all the sneaking around and bullshit secrecy?” Chloe asked after a few more seconds of silence that was somehow less oppressive than it had been a minute or two ago. “Because you’re worried your parents can’t deal, and Lionel’s a violent control freak, and this is Kansas? And how long have you and Lex been together, exactly?”

The storage cabinets suddenly became fascinating. “Because of that, and because like I said, I’m a giant weenie and I’ve been a bad friend and I’m really sorry.”

“You are, and you have been, and okay. But this is Kansas,” Chloe said wryly. “I’m not letting you out of here until you answer the question, though.”

He winced. Better to rip off the band-aid, he guessed. “Ayearandthreemonths.”

Lana’s eyes bugged. Pete, weirdly, didn’t look any more uncomfortable than he already had. Chloe frowned.

“Only that long?” she asked, like she suspected it might have been a lot longer.

Clark blinked. “Huh?”

“You’ve been weird and secretive about you hanging out with Lex since, oh, I don’t know, you met him.” Chloe raised both eyebrows. “A year and three months? What were you doing the rest of the time, pining?”

He shifted in the so-far-not-broken chair. “I guess. What was I supposed to do, ask him out? It’s only a freak accident we met in the first place.”

Lana was frowning now in an introspective kind of way. Clark wondered if that meant more or less trouble later. Knowing his luck, probably more.

“You’re an idiot,” Chloe told him, and he could hear the sound in the back of her throat that said she wanted to cry but was doing a really great job of burying it. “A big, stupid idiot. But I guess we can still be friends. Just trust us next time, okay?”

A big, stupid idiot who hurt his friends with his lies and currently felt about two inches tall. He nodded. “Yeah.” It scared him - because he knew that the next step would be confessing his resident alien status once everyone had recovered from the shock of discovering his secret love life - but he meant it.

“Okay.” She repacked his bag and held it out to him. “Go to class, Clark. Next time, bring your boyfriend and your stupid fake girlfriend to Bad Movie Day.”

“Oh God,” he said without being able to stop, “you do not know what you’re asking.”

“What? They’re too good for Big Trouble in Little China?” Pete bit off, recovering some of his normal chip on the shoulder in place of the weird discomfort thing. It was bizarrely comforting.

“No, because they’re both completely insane. We watched Enter the Dragon together and when Lex wasn’t deconstructing the sociopolitical meaning of everything, Helen was critiquing the fighting. And it would probably turn out that the movie was somehow based on some Greek myth or something, and they’d both insist on telling us all about it.” He left out the weapons Helen carried in her purse (for Lana’s sake) and the shameless groping Lex started as soon as he’d predicted the ending five minutes in (for Pete’s).

“Wow,” Chloe snarked, “the rich really are different.”

“You’re dating Lex Luthor,” Lana said, as though the idea was still somehow a foreign concept.

“Yeah.” He’d never actually said it aloud before, like that. He wondered how it would sound. “I’m dating Lex Luthor.”

It sounded pretty good, weird situation or not.

Chapter Text

April 8th, 2005

When Clark stopped off at his locker, he was expecting to drop off the books he didn’t need for the weekend and pick up the ones he did. What he was definitely not expecting was a padded yellow envelope with the words Not a bomb written on it in Helen’s crisp, distinctive script.

After glancing around to see if anyone had seen the b-word on something in his locker - and how the hell had she gotten it in there in the first place? Was Capaldi lurking in the gym or something? - Clark stuffed the envelope into his bag, exchanged the books, and then tried to walk nonchalantly out of the building. Then he snuck around to the back and made it to the barn in record time.

Inside the envelope were a black smartphone which looked like it could stand up to being run over by a tank without cracking and a single 3x5 card with the words Mercedes. 19 characters. Nothing else.

He rolled his eyes. “You are such a spaz,” he muttered. It wasn’t like she couldn’t have just handed him the thing on their next almost-date. The mysterious, ridiculously long password was just the icing on the overkill cake.

Nineteen characters. Something to do with the Mercedes. Blood rushed to Clark’s face as he remembered some of the things they’d done in that particular car. He tried two phrases that came to mind, both of them obscene, and the phone warned him he had two tries left before popping up a hint phrase. Nailproof, it said, and he could almost hear Helen’s gentle exasperation in the word.

“I hate you,” he told the phone. “And all your stupid espionage bullshit and I should have just called and told you this.” He still might. Even if he was, okay, a little compulsive when it came to mysteries and being able to handle tough situations.

Consensual voyeurism, he tried.

The home screen obligingly appeared. Clark glared at it.

There were only four icons on the home screen: Contact book, phone, text and an audio file. The contact book had a single entry, no name, with a phone number. The phone and text looked pretty normal. The audio file, when he tapped it, opened itself. For a second, he didn’t hear anything at all. Then Helen’s voice came out of the phone, so softly that normal people probably wouldn’t have heard anything at all. “Hello, Clark. I hope you can hear me. Pardon the dramatics, but Lex has been impressing on me the importance of protecting myself - us - from anything that could be used against us. I’m planning something. The information’s embedded in the phone - I didn’t want to risk sending it, or even encrypting it, so I had an idea. Back in the World War I, they invented something called the microdot - a way to print text microscopically, so you could fit a whole page into the space of a period and then pass it undetected. Anyway, I don’t want Lex to know about this until after it’s done - he’ll try something stupid to protect us, when we need to protect him. I don’t want anyone else to know about it, period. If you’re in, meet me tonight at midnight in Metropolis. The phone will tell you where. You can use it to call if there’s an emergency. All right. That’s it. I’ll see you or I won’t.”

Frowning and trying not to let his worry go completely nuts, Clark turned the phone over in his hands. Sure enough, the armor-like case had a subtle texture to it.

Hundreds of raised dots.

Not quite believing it, Clark turned on the table lamp and looked closer. A lot closer. He hadn’t even tried to use his vision like a microscope before - apparently his life had more far-seeing requirements - but sure enough, the dots got bigger and bigger as he focused on them, and soon he was looking at documents embossed on the case of a phone.

“Okay, that’s pretty cool,” he admitted, wondering how the hell you got an embosser to work so tiny. Lasers, maybe.

Then he forgot Helen’s weirdness for a while. The documents included the layout of a facility under one of the business towers in Metropolis, a multi-floor affair, and a description of the work being done there. One floor was devoted to biochemical research, one to pharmaceuticals, one to high energy physics. The language was couched in vague terms - ‘volunteers,’ ‘potential products,’ ‘cell lines’ - but the section about the physics research was as blunt as it was frightening. Possible breakthrough with use of local exotic material for laser lensing. Large increase in power yields. Only noticeable drawback a faint, exotic radioactive trace left behind on test targets.

The documents were initialed at the bottom. L.L. Clark hadn’t seen that much of Lionel’s handwriting, but he’d seen enough to recognize those sharp, elaborate capitals.

He felt sick. Lionel was making meteor-rock lasers. What were the ‘test targets’? What had the volunteers offered themselves up for? Were they really volunteers? What was Lionel planning to use the lasers for? Or already using them for?

Too many questions that wouldn’t be answered with things like research or document skimming.

Taking a deep breath, Clark blinked his vision back to normal. He hid the phone in the couch cushions, speed-deposited the envelope in the middle of the trash bin, and started composing his face into something resembling normal. By the time he was halfway through his chores, he was ready.

Metropolis at night was beautiful. The lights from the buildings and the streetlamps gave it an enchanted quality, like nothing could possibly go wrong here. Even the alleys seemed clean. Helen Wayne hated it, hated it with the deep, inexplicable resentment of a girl who had grown up with a very different understanding of what a city night meant. Of a darkness that clung to every corner, that gathered and pooled and grasped instead of politely stepping aside for the lights.

She hated it most of all because it was a lie. Oh, there were fewer muggers and thugs and legbreakers in Metropolis, that was true. But the rot was still there. It moved up into the towers or down into the underground, but it was still there. It was always there.

Cain and Abel, after all. Human nature.

A knock at the door came at twenty minutes before midnight. It was Clark.

“You do realize you’re nuts, right?” His voice was half-worried, half-teasing. The light from the hall silhouetted his height and bulk, making him look dangerous. When his face was visible, he tended to seem innocuous.

Helen smiled faintly. She knew better, as much as she found the illusion charming. The boy was dangerous - far more dangerous than he looked.

That was useful.

“Probably,” was all that she said before she turned back to the table on which she’d laid out her tools for the night. After he closed and locked the door, he came over to inspect her gear.

“Explosives?” he whispered.

“Yes.” She touched three small boxes, then something that one of the lab techs had described as looking like an oversized glue gun. “Breaching charges and explosive gel. I’m not planning to bring down the building or anything equally mad, Clark, but some of the doors we’re going through tonight might not be easy to open. And leaving your fingerprints on steel is an awkward way to be found out.”

He nodded, eyes sweeping over the other tools. “And the rest of it?”

“You want an itemized list?” She arched an eyebrow at him, got nothing, then shrugged. “Nomex bodysuit armored with kevlar plating and polyethlyneglycol with a silica suspension. Helmet with integrated HUD, low-light and thermal vision modes, flash filters. Thermal dampening coating. The gauntlets are armored, weighted and have integrated electroshock functionality. Breaching charges, explosive gel, grenades - gas, smoke and flashbang. Claw-gun, which fires a gripping hand on a high-tension line. Taser. Caltrop dispenser. Electronic damper. Automated hacking system.”

“Jeeze. Security must be airtight.” He picked up a gauntlet. “So what’s the plan? Get in, break stuff, get out?”

“Go in, get a good look, find solid evidence of wrongdoing to keep, wreck the place on our way out. Make sure nobody on the staff gets hurt worse than they have to be.” Helen started peeling out of her jacket and skirt, caught the farmboy blushing, hid a smile. Sweet. I wonder if it’s being from a place like Smallville that makes him sweet. When she was stripped down to her sports bra and panties, she reached for the skinsuit she’d be wearing under the armor. “You thought about how you’re going to hide your face?”

The same worn backpack he took to school, Lex’s mansion, and everywhere else landed on the bed, and Clark pulled out the face-shrouding hood of a cheap Grim Reaper costume and shrugged in embarrassment. “At least I don’t look like a bank robber.”

“I think we can do a little better.” Helen smiled and adjusted the strap on her own armor, then picked up a motorcycle-style helmet from behind the table on which she’d laid out her gear and offered it to him. “Polarized, hardened upper faceplate. The catch to flip it up if you need to is under your right jaw.”

“Cool,” he grinned, already putting it on. Turning slightly, his head tilted to the side. “It’s hard to hear, though...Okay, that’s better. I just needed to adjust.”

Helen finished placing the last of her gear into the harness rig she was wearing, checked the holster grips on the taser and the explosive gel dispenser one more time, then picked up her own helmet. “Ready to go to work?”

The boy shifted uncomfortably. “Um, Helen. Look, I want to help - but I’m not sure I can. Meteor rocks...hurt. Make me sick and weak. Even small ones.” He looked away. “Sorry.”

“It’s up to you whether you come, Clark. I’ll do my best to protect you while we’re in there, but I won’t lie - having you will be useful. It might make this safer for everyone. Still your choice, though.” She looked at him as steadily and seriously as she could, wanting to make sure than he understood that she meant it. No false choices, not on this.

“I’m coming,” he said at once, sure and steady. “I might have to leave, but I’ll do everything I can until then. And after. What’s the getaway plan?”

She took the leather folio from the table, opened it, turned a page to the layout diagram. “We enter here: under the elevator machinery for the main building, straight down into the lab. Go in just before 2 am, when as few staff as possible will be in the building. We exit through the parking access elevator or through the subway access tunnel, depending on convenience. Once we’re clear of the area, we cache the gear in the 83rd Street station and take ourselves and the evidence back to this hotel room. Go down to breakfast in the morning like the usual kind of lovers who’ve been up all night.”

Removing the helmet, Clark flopped into a chair. “Can’t I just go home once you’re safe and try to avoid getting grounded?”

“Sure.” Helen laughed gently and looked down into his eyes, her lips curving up in a teasing smile. “Assuming you want to miss the sex.”

He bit his lip. “Not really, but grounded.” Then he grinned. “If I’m allowed to leave the house there can be more sex later.”

“You’re obnoxiously prudent,” she informed him, then lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. She could still hear his breathing in the half-dark.

“Or now,” he ventured. “We have two hours, right?”

“Yes,” she murmured just a little bit acidly, suppressing the urge to glare at him. “Because the best way for me to break into a highly secured facility full of armed guards is while I’m rubber-limbed and fog-headed with fatigue and endorphins from a rousing roll in my hotel bed with you. That is certainly less dangerous than grounding.”

The sound of rustling fabric had to be Clark holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, jeeze. So are we going to spend the time meditating or doing ninja concentration exercises or what?”

“I’m going to sleep,” she murmured, finding herself smiling in spite of her annoyance. “You’re going to go over the intelligence we have until you know every room and corridor of that place by heart.”

“Aww. No secret ninjutsu?” She could hear the grin on his face.

“My trainers were all ex-special forces, Clark. They didn’t go in for ninjutsu.”

“So I get homework.”

“‘Victory is in the preparation,’” she replied serenely.

“James Bond is a horrible liar,” he complained, picking up her folio from the desk. “Do I at least get a communication watch or exploding pen or something?”

“Sideband encrypted radio headset. It’s in your helmet. Read, Clark.” She deliberately deepened her breathing, pushing herself toward sleep. “And wake me in an hour.”

“Yes’m,” he snarked, then settled back into the chair. Before Helen fell asleep, she had a chance to muse about how fast he was turning the pages.

 “So I realize this is maybe a bad time,” Clark murmured into his mic as he watched Helen rig the floor of the elevator shaft with explosive gel, “but do we have more to go on than ‘Lionel having a meteor-laser is a Bad Thing’?”

“All of what he’s doing down here if off the books. Illegal, either because it’s dangerous or because he’s not using the permits process at all. If he’s doing it this way, it’s because he doesn’t want it tied back to him.” Helen reholstered the gel sprayer at her hip, shifted back to the edge of the shaft and braced herself. “You might want to hold onto something, Clark.”

The steel beams that supported each floor made a narrow ledge a couple inches of wide. Clark used the last one above the rigged floor to wedge himself into the corner. “So we know some Very Bad Things and suspect a whole lot more.”

“Yes.” Helen took a slow breath, let it go, and then depressed the detonator. A low, resonant thunder of sound filled the shaft, and a circular ring of concrete in the floor simply disintegrated into chunks and relocated itself into a space that looked like it might be some sort of break room, smashing two big coffee urns in the process. Helen dropped down through the haze of concrete dust in the air, moving swiftly to conceal herself in a low kneel beside the door. Clark could hear heartbeats coming - elevated, but not panicked - and a quick look through the walls showed two security guards heading for the break room. Probably investigating the noise. He thought about dropping down, hesitated, not quite sure what to do.

The door opened. “What the hell...” one of the guards started to ask the other.

Helen moved fast. Faster than Clark had ever seen a normal human move. Both men hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of them through their armor, then shuddered and jerked silently as the tasers in Helen’s gauntlets abused their nervous systems. From the moment the door opened to the moment Clark was sure they were unconscious, maybe five seconds elapsed.

Clear, she signaled him with a raised, open hand.

Special Ops was right.

He preceded her out the door, scanning the corridor and then the rooms beyond. Nobody else seemed to have noticed the explosion in the break room or Helen’s takedown. There were other night staff in the building several floors away, but it was only a matter of time before someone either tried to contact the unconscious guards or went to take a break themselves.

Helen moved briskly through the upper two floors, taking pictures and downloading contents from computers onto flash drives as they went. She told Clark to stay out of the labs themselves, and the one time he looked, the mutated starfish and the vials of crushed meteorite made him sorry he had. The only met one security guard in the whole two floors, and with Clark to tell her where he was and what he was doing, Helen put him out with some kind of sleeper hold before he even knew they were there.

It was nerve-wracking, but the idea of Lionel developing meteor weapons was much more so, and knowing he and Helen were going to put a stop to it - knowing his gifts were helping people - made him feel purposeful in a way he rarely did. Solid.

And, okay, their doubles spy-work was strangely companionable.

They moved down to the last level, unseen and unnoticed, and were soon confronted with a heavy, locked door labeled ‘High-Energy Lab. Authorized Personnel Only’, and below that the familiar yellow warning symbol. Helen ran her hand over the keypad, shook her head, then took a breaching charge from her belt and attached it to the door. “Fire in the hole,” she whispered softly, and there was something in her voice that frightened Clark. A cold, crushed-gravel emptiness that was almost worse than anger. It made him want to sit her down for a while until Helen the human being came back.

The door opened onto a short corridor lined with rooms, ending in a cavernous space full of expensive-looking equipment. Wary of meteor rock, he walked in cautiously, relaxing a little as he failed to feel sick. He scanned the big room. “There’s someone in the far corner,” he gestured. “Working at a bench. Must be a tech or a scientist.”

“Describe him,” Helen murmured, easing from the shadow of one piece of equipment to another.

He squinted, trying to get something besides a skeleton to look at. “Middle-aged, about your height, slouchy. Doesn’t look like he works out. Balding. Lab coat. Bench has a lot of something-parts. Anything else?”

“Hair color, eye color. Any signs of healed fractures in the left leg.”

Clark raised an eyebrow behind the obscuring mask. Apparently preparation included a unknown number of medical histories obtained through almost-certainly illegal methods. “Dark hair. Can’t tell eye color because he’s looking away. And...” he went back to skele-vision, “yeah, your weirdly specific prediction is correct. He does have bone scars in his femur.”

“Robert van Vogt. Physicist and weaponeer. He used to work for the United States government on high-energy weapons. Now he works for anyone who pays.” Helen glided forward through the equipment, until she could see the man herself. “Take these,” she murmured, holding up a fist of flash drives. “Put one into each computer. They’ll auto-execute, and flash blue when they’re done. Collect them afterward.”

Clark nodded. Cool as Helen’s takedowns were, he’d seen plenty. Plugging in the drives took less than ten seconds, and only that long because he had to navigate around all the equipment.

He was waiting for the blue lights when he heard Helen’s voice. “Hello, Doctor van Vogt. I think we ought to discuss the terms of your employment, don’t you?” It was, if anything, more frightening than it had been the last few minutes.

A cry of surprise and pain pierced the room’s stillness, and the sound of bone coming dangerously close to a fracture. He turned. Stared.

Couldn’t breathe.

Van Vogt was up against the worktable at which he’d been standing, his arms and shoulders locked in place by Helen’s hold, one of her hands compressing his wrist in a way that had to be agonizing. His jaw was fixed stubbornly shut, but the look on Helen’s face under the mask...

Someone who only knew human expressions from a textbook might have called it a smile. Might.

“You know,” Helen whispered, “it’s not so much how many bones you break, Doctor. It’s how you work them afterward.”

Clark was next to her faster than he thought possible, and he wasn’t sure the equipment had gone unscathed by his fit of speed. He didn’t care. He put a hand on her shoulder, preparing to push her away from van Vogt, but realized that she probably wouldn’t let go and the scientist’s bones would get broken anyway.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed into the mic instead.

“Working,” she breathed back, the sound in his ear but not in the air. He heard the click when she switched the external speakers back on. “My friend here doesn’t like mess,” she said, voice gently mocking. “But I know how many men, women and children you’ve murdered, Bobby, as surely as if you pulled the trigger. If you think it’s going to cause me any grief at all to break a bone or tear a muscle for every single one of them...”

“You can’t do that!” van Vogt blurted out in helpless, breathless outrage. “I’m an American! I have rights!”

“To the cops, you’ve got rights. To the judges, you’ve got rights. But we both know Lionel Luthor’s going to bury this whole thing without a word to any of them, don’t we? So I don’t care what rights you think you have, Robert. You’re going to tell me everything you know, because a man like you doesn’t get into bed with a snake like Luthor without insurance. Give it up, and you won’t have to relearn how to walk again.”

Clark stood frozen, trying to believe that she was bluffing. “Don’t,” he whispered fiercely. “Don’t do this.”

Her hand shifted. Nothing broke, but van Vogt screamed in pain, jerked against her, visibly wilted. “Safe Deposit Box 383, First Mutual Bank,” he groaned out through tears. “The Glenmorgan Square branch. Key’s in my pocket. Everything... everything’s there. Luthor doesn’t know.”

“Good boy,” Helen whispered, and then her left hand darted down to her belt and came out with a small wedge-headed cylinder. She pressed it to his throat and he went limp as deadweight, but he was still breathing when she lowered him to the floor and straightened up. “You should get him out of here,” she told Clark softly. “Him and the others. Put them in the secure elevator to the parking lot. God knows what kind of toxins are going to be in the air down here when we leave.”

Too many protests bubbled in his throat for him to pick one, so Clark wordlessly hefted the unconscious scientist in a fireman’s carry and started for the door. Blue lights blinked at him from the shadows.

“Your drives are done,” he called coldly over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she told him quietly, and he couldn’t tell if he was kidding himself when he thought he heard regret in her voice.

Once clear of the equipment, it didn’t take long to pile the unconscious LuthorCorp employees into the right elevator and hit the button for the ground floor. Clark scanned the three sub-levels again, and again, and then went through the rooms himself to check for stragglers.

When he was sure nobody else was there, he went back down to the lab. Helen was re-sealing the door to particle physics area.

“We have four minutes,” she told him quietly. “You found everyone?”

“Yes.” A worrying thought occurred to him as they made for the stairwell. “Could the explosion come up the elevator shafts?”

“No. Nothing that big. A sequence of small, controlled explosions. Environmental hazard is a bigger concern, but the whole first floor is slightly overpressured to keep the air down here from leaking up. We’re going to call Hazmat as soon as we leave. They’ll clean it up before it has a chance to become a problem.” Helen was breathing a little bit hard as they hit the second landing, then turned off down the side corridor to the access tunnel. Examining the steel door to the tunnel, she dropped her hand to her hip, then swore surprisingly calmly. “Damn. They reinforced this recently - it wasn’t on the schematic. Gel won’t punch through this without more than I have. Clark... I hate to ask, but...”

“It’s okay,” he said as he stepped closer. “No such thing as knuckle prints, right?”

If she answered, he couldn’t hear her over the sound of him punching the door right out of its frame.

“Feel any better?” she asked him, once they were a good long way down the tunnel - and, presumably, once whatever she’d set up back there had gone off. He’d heard a ripple of sound, like firecrackers but deeper, but no big boom.

He couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or not.

“Feel any remorse?”  His voice came out bitter.

“No.” She picked her way along the narrow curb beside the tracks, stopped at a maintenance door another twenty feet along, then opened it and ducked inside. “He’ll have nothing more to show for the evening than a few bruises and strains, and the sedative I dosed him with is an amnesiatic - there’s a better than 80% chance he won’t remember what happened. Even if he did, the man’s an illegal weapons maker and a war profiteer. I’m not going to shed any tears for any time he has to spend in therapy - physical or emotional.”

The maintenance corridor was narrow, but soon they were through that door and in what looked like a utility room. Clark glared at Helen’s shoulder blades the whole time. “Reasonable or not, I saw your face. You wanted to break his arm.”

“If I did everything I wanted to do, Clark, there would be a lot fewer people in the world.” She reached up and took her helmet off, then gave him a long steady look with those dark, hard blue eyes. “Want and do aren’t the same for anyone.”

“I know that,” he snapped, thinking about wanting to pummel Whitney. “But it doesn’t even bug you a little bit that you want that?”

“Why should it?” she whispered as she started peeling out of her armor. “It’s not that he doesn’t deserve that and more, Clark. It’s that there have to be limits or I stop being someone my parents would have recognized, and that justice has to come from everyone - not just someone’s pain. So as long as I respect those facts, why should it bother me that I wanted to leave that bastard down there to die with his work?”

Unable to really counter that argument - especially when he’d made it himself a number of times regarding Lex - he sighed. “Fine. Wish him dead all you want. It’s still wrong to assault people. Even the bad guys.”

Retrieving two gym bags from a cabinet, Helen started packing her gear away. “Sometimes it’s not as simple as that,” she said - maybe as much to herself as him. “Sometimes you have to do something wrong to do what’s right, and sometimes doing something wrong enough undoes any good that might have come from that right you wanted to do in the first place. The rules don’t always work, but you have to have something bigger than you to break them for.”

Clark felt something in his chest soften. It hurt. He pulled off the helmet and tucked it into one of the bags.

“Now I know what you mean about the world not making sense,” he said softly.

“You don’t,” she whispered, and the sound of her voice made that hurt in his chest twist like it was cutting him. “I don’t think you can. That’s good. You should hold on to that, Clark. It makes you a good man.”

He looked at her in the half-light of the utility room, watching her slip on an understated black blazer and wondering how she could look so unfamiliar in the same piece of clothing she’d been wearing on one of their dates.

“Hey.” She palmed the flash drives and key into her pockets, then straightened up and looked at him with one of her charming, vibrant smiles. “Nobody went to the emergency room for more than a check-up, everyone’s still breathing, a lot of dangerous tech doesn’t exist anymore and we got at least some of the goods on Lionel Luthor. It was a good night’s work, Clark. Don’t let it eat at you.”

He nodded, trying to agree with her. “What about the key?”

“I’ll send someone down to the bank when it opens. They’ll loot it, and I’ll turn whatever’s in there over to Alexander. If you want to be part of the conversation about what he does with it, I’d say you’ve earned that.”

A sense of mild panic gripped Clark. Lex wasn’t so great at moderation. Whatever he decided to do would be big.

“Yeah,” Clark said heavily. “I’ll be there.”

“You can go home,” Helen told him softly, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “I’ll call Capaldi to pick me up. Don’t worry. She’ll get me back to Alexander safe and sound.”

He nodded again, wondering what it meant that her kiss felt different from all the others they’d shared, and if he’d ever see Helen the same way again.

“Text me when you’re back at the hotel?” he asked. “I’ll do the same once I’m home.”

“I will.” She smiled, and it was strange all over again that the same face could hold that look of gentle, protective fondness and that monster’s smile he’d seen tonight. “Get some sleep, Clark. Say hello to your parents for me.”

Going from the quiet of the utility room to the bright life of the subway station - even at three in the morning - was a bit of an adjustment, but Clark was out in the cool night air in under two minutes. It took him another few minutes to find an empty alley to start from, and then he was zooming home.

For a little while, he didn’t have to worry about LuthorCorp or meteor-mutated starfish or Helen or violence or what Lex might do with the scientist’s safe deposit box. For a little while, it was just Clark and the wind and the miles of plains between Metropolis and the Kent farm.

Chapter Text

April 9, 2005

The early Saturday news about LuthorCorp’s sabotage made for an interesting breakfast. Lex absently picked at half a grapefruit while he scanned various websites and TV channels, mind racing to find the actual facts sprinkled lightly throughout the stories and then put them into something resembling a useful picture.

An analysis of his father’s brief interview indicated that Lionel was as surprised about this as Lex was, and that he would have kept it from the media entirely if he could have. Amusing, that, but also worrisome, because the list of LuthorCorp’s enemies who were both skilled enough and willing to get their hands dirty was currently comprised of StarLabs, a multinational conglomerate headquartered in Beijing, and Lex.

At least he had a publicly-documented alibi. Thank God for charity balls and their many photographers. Of course, convincing Lionel that none of his own people had been behind it would be trickier.

As he finally pushed the grapefruit away and switched to another news show, his personal phone played a two-second clip of a revving engine. Helen’s personal text chime.

Morning, beautiful boy. Meet me at the Four Seasons. Need to talk privately. Bring Clark. Also cuffs.

Smiling wickedly, he remembered the last time she’d ordered him to bring toys to a hotel. The look on Clark’s face when he realized what Lex and Helen had planned was going to be delicious.

Footage of the LuthorCorp facility caught Lex’s attention again. A steel door lay in a tunnel several yards from its frame, severely dented at about shoulder height, as if someone had used a hydraulic battering ram cranked up to eleven. A savage jab at the remote paused the picture, and Lex leaned in, noticing that the impact had left not the perfect arc of a molded siege weapon, but four parallel indentations.

Lex felt his chest catch fire. The breakfast dishes shattered against the stone wall, but he made it to the punching bag before destroying anything else.

Half an hour later, knuckles bruised, he was able to think in whole sentences again.

A few phone calls and three hundred thousand had him the rights to the footage of the steel door and the services of an excellent and discreet graphic designer. The clip hadn’t disappeared from the media, but the handprint would be doctored out before lunch.

He answered Helen’s text on the way to the Mercedes.

If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in protective custody, I expect an extremely good explanation when we get there. Then he turned the phone off.

Breathing exercises got him safely all the way to the farm. Clark was already waiting for him at the front gate, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, looking like something out of a goddamned Norman Rockwell painting. No matter how angry Lex was, Clark was always gorgeous. Appropriate, given Mister Rockwell’s discerning appreciation for male beauty.

Pulling up at a nearly-reasonable speed, he rolled down the window.

“Ready, or do I need to charm your parents?” It wasn’t quite a growl.

“You’re giving me a ride to my date with Helen. Paintball.” Clark didn’t smile as he rounded the car, opened the door and dropped into the passenger seat. “My parents think you’re a saint of forbearance.”

Lex snorted once, not looking at Clark. They drove for several miles in silence.

Clark broke down first. “We were going to tell you together. At least, Helen said we were. I guess we didn’t expect it to make the news. She thought your dad wouldn’t want anyone poking around down there.”

“He doesn’t, but that’s the problem with commando raids, Clark. Unintended consequences.”

“You have a lot of experience with those?” Clark bit off, voice sharp, and then he was flushing and looking down like he was embarrassed he’d said it. Or said it like that. Or whatever.

Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Lex stared straight down the Kansas highway.

“Sorry,” Clark whispered. “That was... I didn’t mean to be a dick.”

Exhaling, Lex glanced at Clark. “I know.”

It was entirely unjust how lovely and bruised that face could look when Clark was upset. It made him look like a wounded angel, and a lot of Lex wanted to do just about anything to drive the hurt away. The rest of him, the hard and angry part, bit down on the words he wanted to say. Waited. Seethed.

“I asked to go,” Clark finally murmured. “That wasn’t her fault. I thought I could, y’know, help. I did help. I just didn’t really know what I was helping with. She tried to explain, but I don’t think I got it. Not until we were in the middle of it.”

There was far too much that Lex wanted to say. He settled for prodding more confession out of the farmboy. “And now?”

“Now I don’t know what I think about any of it. Last night, when I got home, I was sure I shouldn’t have gone. Then I spent all morning thinking about all the ways my being there kept her from maybe getting hurt, and other people from definitely getting hurt. So... “ Clark shrugged a little, tucking his jacket a little tighter around himself. “So maybe I don’t know anything about anything.”

Lex let another moment slide by. Clark’s phone rang.

He answered it automatically, which was just like him, and then twitched a little in his seat before shooting a look over at Lex. “He picked me up. Yeah. Yeah, we’re on our way. Okay. Room 38 at the Belfry. Yes, I’ve got it.” A breath, another little sideways look, a sigh. “No, he’s not happy. Okay. What? No, I’m not going to... okay. Fine. Fine.”

He hung up, turned to glare at Lex, then went back to looking out the window. “She wants to know if you remembered to bring the cuffs,” he said in a particularly frustrated voice.

“Sex toys aren’t exactly on top of my priority list right now, Clark,” Lex replied, voice drier than the Gobi. “In between fixing the news debacle and maintaining enough self-control to drive, I did not, in fact, remember to bring the goddamn cuffs.”

Clark, impossibly, started to chuckle. Lex risked a glance at him, saw that there were tears of suppressed laughter in his eyes, had to jerk his head back to the road not to stare. “Sorry,” Clark finally blurted out, “it’s just that she’s worried about that right now, out of everything, and all I can think is that it’s just like her to freak about the smallest stupid detail.”

It was very like her. And Clark laughing about it, in the middle of a disaster, was just like Clark.

“Do you two have some sort of insidious user agreement? I think I must have signed over any hope of sanity when I started spending time with you.”

“Yeah, sure.” Clark was still trying not to crack up completely, but his voice came out in little stuttering gasps of mirth. “We set it all up before I even met you. Total conspiracy. Trust no one.”

“Hmm,” Lex mused, sliding a gloved hand up Clark’s thigh, “I guess I might as well enjoy my insanity, then.”

“You ought to... um... watch the road.” Clark’s voice was still coming in little gasps, but it definitely wasn’t laughter now. “Pay attention to your driving. You know. Safety.”

Lex’s smile showed teeth as his fingers worked Clark into a moan. Then he abruptly pulled his hand back to the steering wheel. “Good point, Clark. Better safe than sorry.”

“My parents were right,” Clark breathed. “You are secretly the devil.”

Lex grinned. He could always count on Clark to improve his mood.

Helen took one look at them from inside the door of their rented hotel room and smirked. “Lex,” she murmured, “you started without me.”

Ushering Clark inside, Lex gave her a flat stare. “Only because I’m enjoying his frustration at the moment,” he answered. “You, on the other hand, have a great deal of explaining before I’m inclined to play.”

Helen’s expression closed, her lips curving up in that faint smile that could mean everything or nothing, and she spread her hands - fingers open, palms up - as she slipped back to the edge of the bed and sat down. Two laptops and an array of printed documents were spread out behind her, and the black lace nighty she was wearing didn’t go with the backdrop at all. “Did you manage to get some sleep, Clark?” It was a polite enough murmur, but she didn’t take her eyes off Lex when she said it.

“Some,” Clark said, shifting his shoulders awkwardly. “You?”

“Not really, no.”

Ignoring the pleasantries, Lex sat on the opposite side of the bed and reached for a laptop. “What are we looking at?”

“Complete financials on LuthorCorp. Black budget defense contracts. Gray market arms dealing with third world countries. Tech developments that definitely fall outside the bounds of what’s legally permissible with the permits LuthorCorp had on site, and probably wouldn’t be legal with any permits whatsoever - bioenhancement, biological warfare, high energy weapons development. Feasible man-portable lasers that will kill tanks, much less people.”

“God.” Clark blanched and sat in the generic armchair.

“Were you expecting to find all this?” Lex skimmed through the documents, catching key phrases confirming Helen’s conclusions and a few that she’d obviously left out for Clark’s benefit.

Helen twisted around on the bed to face him, tucking her legs up under her and resting her head on one of the pillows. It was a perversely relaxed position that failed to take any of the hardness out of her eyes. “Not in so many words. I had no idea they were so far along in so many directions, frankly. But yes, I had some idea of what they were working on. That’s why I decided to go in and extract the evidence of it in the first place.”

“None of which explains why you saw fit to exclude me from your plans.”

That earned him a gentle, rueful sigh and a faint smile on Helen’s lips. “They were developing a meteorite-lensed laser, Alexander. I suspected, not unreasonably, that you might do something inadvisable to try to protect the two of us if I told you that I was planning to sneak into a heavily guarded facility and wreck it.”

Lex’s eyes snapped to Clark, who was looking everywhere but at him. He felt fury take him by the throat again and found himself on his feet. “You went into a building with a meteorite laser,” he began, then snapped back to Helen, “even the raw materials of which, let alone an operational weapon, are lethal to Clark and have unpredictable effects on humans. You did this with nobody but each other for help if something went wrong, which was at least somewhat likely, given that it’s a LuthorCorp facility. And you didn’t tell me because you didn’t want me to do something ‘inadvisable’?” Stalking back and forth across the small room, his gestures grew, as did his volume. “I helped you plan something extremely inadvisable in Gotham, if you’ve forgotten, and what the hell do you think I’d do if you were captured or killed?”

It was uncomfortably gratifying, the way she flinched when he brought up what had almost happened in Gotham. But she didn’t take her eyes off him. “I told Capaldi what we were doing. I took precautions. And you know damn well that you’d burn the whole city down to protect Clark. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t. I wanted this done quickly, quietly, as safely and discreetly as possible because that was the best way to keep everyone involved intact. I’m not about to get myself or anyone else killed, Lex. You know me better than that.”

Clark was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, eyes fixed on Lex, a troubled frown on his face. This time it was Lex who looked away, at Helen instead. “So I’m supposed to trust you the way you don’t trust me? I’m not incapable of subtlety, Helen. LexCorp wouldn’t exist if I was.”

They sat there for a minute, maybe two, just looking at each other. It had never been as hard to hold Helen’s eyes before that moment. He hoped, irrationally, that it never would be again.

“You’re right,” she finally whispered, reaching out to catch his hand in hers. “You’re right, and it was arrogantly high-handed of me, and I was wrong. I’m not used to trusting anyone. Ever. That doesn’t excuse it.”

The rage in Lex stopped building, held steady for a breath, and then drained away. He told the remaining anger to take a back seat and shut up.

Gripping Helen’s hand firmly, he smiled wryly. “Well, you’re in good company. I’ve been reliably informed that - how did you put it, Clark? - I’m an egotistical control freak, too.”

The way her composure cracked, just enough that he could see the weight of the relief behind it, made him want to do something inadvisable right there on the bed and damn the evidence in the way. “You are,” she agreed softly. “Maybe that’s why I like you so much.”

“Among other reasons,” he agreed, trailing his free hand down her jaw and throat before turning to his boyfriend.

“Clark?” he asked softly, trying to gauge the farm boy’s expression.

“How can you just... deal?” Clark’s voice was tight, not so much under control as leaking out through his metaphorical fingers. “How can you just be okay with living in a world where your dad is building glowing green lasers and trying to make meteor freaks for the military and your girlfriend is fine with breaking people’s arms for information if that’s what gets them to talk? How can you look at all that and just see stuff you can use?”

What Lex wanted to do was take Clark in his arms and reassure him that everything, irrationally and contrary to ample evidence, was going to be all right, followed by a less verbal sort of reassurance. Instead, Lex leaned against the desk across from Clark’s chair.

“The remains of various breakable objects suggest that my ability to deal is less than perfect,” he pointed out, letting his ankle rest against Clark’s. Lex looked at Helen, caught the guarded way she held herself, filed it for later. Something had obviously happened between the two of them, but discussions about arm-breaking could wait for later. “I’m a survivor, Clark. I have been for most of my life. Getting all the advantage I can out of a situation is my first reaction, and I’m very good at it, but it’s not everything I am. If it was, my father would own me, and you wouldn’t be with me.”

“I guess.” Clark gave him a long, searching look that seemed to be trying to find something under his skin. Hopefully, a grim note in the back of his head sounded, not literally. “You two really scare me sometimes.”

A pale hand traced one of Clark’s titanium forearms. “I trust you to stop me if you need to.”

“I don’t want to have to stop you! Either of you!” Those fierce, too-knowing eyes that still managed to be innocent burned into his. “I don’t want you to be people I have to think about stopping!”

“There’s no such thing as perfect trust, Clark. Not with anyone, not ever.” Helen’s voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut. “Everyone is someone you might have to think about stopping someday.”

Clark recoiled. “So you have a plan to stop Lex? And me?”

Jaw set, Lex waited for Helen to respond. He’d have been surprised if she didn’t have such contingency plans, really. Plans of his own had been made and then locked away in his mental basement of survival gear he didn’t want to ever have to open, but they were there if he needed them.

Helen, he knew, could face them without flinching. It made her strong, the way he was, and it also took some of her humanity away from her. It figured, in some perverse poetic justice way, that the one of them born on some other planet was the most human.

“Yes,” she said, simply and quietly, without blinking. “Though in your case, ‘plans’ might be a little strong. You’re nearly impervious to injury, can see or hear a threat coming from quite literally miles away if you’re paying attention, and you may or may not be able to fly. If I’m not willing to kill you or involve innocent bystanders - and I’m not - then that doesn’t leave much in the way of options.”

Clark’s jaw dropped a fraction, and he stared at her in something that wasn’t quite anger or shock or bitterness, but certainly sampled from all three pretty liberally. “I wouldn’t... why would you even think about that?”

“Because we’re both paranoid control freaks,” Lex broke in, glaring at Helen even if she didn’t know how scared Clark was of his own gifts sometimes. “If something is possible, she makes a plan for it, no matter how unlikely.” Leaning in, he put a hand at Clark’s jaw and pulled his face around to make eye contact. It was a sign that his appeal was working that he was able to do it at all. Clark didn’t move if he didn’t want to.

“Any of us needing to stop each other is in that category,” he said, letting his fingers edge into Clark’s hair. “Theoretically possible, but so unlikely that only Helen thinks about it.”

“Why would she do that in the first place?” Clark whispered, not quite kissing him.

Helen’s voice was close - close enough that Lex could feel her breath on the back of his neck a fraction of a second before her hands were resting on his hips. “It’s as close as I ever come to feeling safe.”

Closing his eyes in pain, Clark leaned his forehead against Lex’s. “Oh.”

Silently, Lex squeezed Helen’s hand. Neither of them said a word. Neither of them had to.

“I probably shouldn’t have been so blunt,” Helen breathed, her lips tracing the line of Lex’s jaw lightly as she looked down at Clark. “It’s been a long forty-eight hours.”

The farm boy’s exhausted laugh still managed to warm Lex.

“You haven’t slept at all in that time, have you?” Lex pressed a quick kiss to Clark’s forehead, then turned around and put his hands on Helen’s shoulders. That she let him was, in its own way, as reassuring as Clark letting himself be moved. There was probably something a little twisted about him liking the fact that both of his lovers could manhandle him any time they wanted, but that was another thing he’d worry about later. “Have Capaldi take you to the penthouse,” he continued, steering Helen towards the door. “Sleep as long as you need to. Clark and I will go over the files.”

“You’ll miss things,” Helen objected, but she didn’t stop him from pulling her along with him. That was probably as close to agreement as he was likely to get.

“You can tell us all about them when you wake up,” Lex soothed, draping her coat over her shoulders. “And don’t try to do anything remotely. I’ll have Capaldi sedate you.”

“She’ll listen to you, too, the traitor.” She leaned into him, her head against his shoulder and her hands pressed against his chest, and they stood there in silence for some small eternity while she felt his heart beating under her hand.

“Good night, Alexander,” she finally husked. “Try not to wear out our young guardian angel with your perverse and insatiable appetites.”

Behind them, Clark coughed conspicuously. Lex smirked.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, brushing his fingertips down her cheek, “I’ll save some appetite for you.”

“Good to hear.” She pressed her lips to his palm lightly, offered him a wan smile, and then started down the hallway with her shoulders braced squarely and her step as certain as though she’d just come from a refreshing workout.

“How is it possible,” he breathed, watching her, “that I found the one woman in the world more stubborn than I am to fall in love with?”

“Careful, Lex. Keep saying stuff like that, she might ask you to marry her.”

“True,” he deadpanned, closing the door. “With her hopeless romanticism, she could hardly resist.”

Clark was against him before he could finish turning around, pressing him against the door firmly enough that it hurt just a little, and the farmboy bent down to brush unhurried lips against his. “I’m not sure I’m ready for you to get married. Maybe I ought to try to head that off somehow.”

Desire flooding his system, Lex dug his fingers into Clark’s hips as if they weren’t already close enough to feel each other getting hard. “Maybe you should. I’m sure you’re full of ideas.”

“Not yet,” Clark admitted, “but I’m working on it.”

Another, deeper kiss had them both breathing hard.

“The cuffs would have been handy,” Lex conceded a moment later, sucking at Clark’s pulse, “but I have faith in your ability to improvise.”

Chapter Text

April 15, 2005

Clark knew something terrible was about to happen by the way his parents looked at each other while he cleared the dinner dishes from the table. It was the sort of unhappily-determined look he associated with Pete and sports tryouts.

“Clark,” his mother said once he’d finished the chore. “Sit down. Your father and I have something important to talk to you about.”

He sat, worry suddenly overpowering. “Is something wrong? Neither of you is sick, are you?”

“No, son, nothing like that.” His father paused, staring at his clasped hands as if they could give him courage. “It’s... well...we’ve noticed that you’ve been...more intimate with Helen lately.”

Oh. Oh God. They’d seen them kissing - and, okay, hands had been involved -  in the Lamborghini.  

It was The Talk. He’d been dreading it since Pete had shared his own horror story in seventh grade.

“You know we’ve had our reservations about Helen,” his mother began explaining, painfully sincerely, “but we’ve decided that we need to set that aside for the time being. The two of you are obviously very...” she paused, then settled on “serious, and we think it’s important to talk about the ... ah... biological realities of the situation first.”

The look of pained mortification on his father’s face would have been funny if he wasn’t wearing an identical one himself.

“I took health class with everyone else,” Clark reminded them in attempt to circumvent the subject. “I know about...diseases and condoms and stuff.” God, he sounded like a nervous twelve-year-old.

“You see, Martha? The boy’s already had classes.” Jonathan visibly perked up. “So really, do we need to....”

“Jonathan Kent, you sit there and hope we don’t have a talk after this one,” his mother spit out, which returned his father to staring rather plaintively at his hands. Oh, God. Martha, for her part, was undeterred. “It’s good that you had those classes, honey, but I think we have to admit the fact that none of us knows everything about your body.”

Great, now it was The Talk: Alien Edition. “Like I could forget,” he grumbled. “I get it. I have to be careful. Like I always am.”

Jonathan shifted and stared at a spot on the wall. “It might not be as simple as that, Clark. It can be hard to control yourself in the heat of the moment.”

Clark did not point out that Helen and Lex - not to mention his bed and the bathroom - were just fine despite the heat of numerous moments, and even the idea of saying so turned his face bright red.

“Even if you are good at controlling yourself, it’s different than handshakes or hugs or... everything, really.” His mother gave him a painfully concerned expression that ought to have been photographed and put in a record book somewhere. “Even a small mistake and you could crack that poor girl’s hip, break a rib....” she trailed off, sighed. “I’m worried about her, and I’m worried about you. How would you explain that to her, or anyone, if it happened? Even bruises would be dangerous for you.”

Or the lack of them, Clark thought. He bit his lip. Was it simply how long he’d been carrying secrets that made him so sick of them?

He took a deep breath and prepared to be yelled at. “I wouldn’t have to explain. She already knows.”

There was half a second of silence. “Knows?” His father’s voice was that careful, tight tone he used to keep himself from going straight to yelling. His mother just stared at him, pale as a ghost.

“About my abilities, and why I have them. I told her last month.”

His mother’s hand came down on his father’s before the yelling could start, and they had a long hard exchange of looks that reminded him strangely - a little uncomfortably - of the way that Helen and Lex could talk without words. Then his mother fixed him with a stare that made him feel about an inch high. “Why didn’t you ask us before you told her, Clark? Or at least tell us you were going to.”

“You would have said no,” he pointed out half-guiltily. “You always do. You didn’t even want Pete to know.” He looked around the room before meeting Martha’s eyes again. “I trust Helen. She figured out some of it before I told her, and she didn’t tell anyone.”

They didn’t say anything in answer for a long moment. When he chanced a look, his father was staring at him like Clark had turned into a stranger.

Maybe he had. “I told Lex, too. I couldn’t stand lying to them all the time.”

His mother’s breath caught and tears began to stream down her face. Clark stood, stricken, wanting to give her a hug but afraid to move.

“Give us a few minutes, son,” his father said in a low, hard voice. “We’ll talk more later.”

“Dad...”

“A few minutes,” Martha cut him off quietly. “We need to regroup, Clark. Talk. Try to understand. So go out to the barn, and we’ll come find you when we’re done talking.”

Swallowing hard, Clark nodded. “Okay. I’ll listen to some heavy metal or something.”

Before his parents had to ask again, he was out of the house. He didn’t actually own any heavy metal, but he did have some Lifehouse and he turned that up pretty loud. When that failed to keep him from hearing snatches of conversation he desperately didn’t want to, he dug his cellphone out of his desk and thought about calling Lex.

Why he called Helen, right at that moment, he had absolutely no idea.

“My parents know you know I’m an alien,” he said after she picked up. “I’m trying not to hear them freaking out about it.”

“All right. Turn off the music - it’s hurting my ears.” Somehow, even now, Helen sounded calm. It was weirdly reassuring.

When he turned off the ancient boom box, she exhaled in relief. “Better. Now, I want you to pay very close attention to my voice. Nothing else - just my voice. Can you do that for me? The exact sound, timbre, pattern. Hear it?” Even when she stopped speaking to let him respond, she started humming softly - just loudly enough that he could make it out over the phone.

He did. Like being able to see microscopic text, when he focused his hearing he could distinguish the way Helen’s breath moved through the tiny chambers of her lungs from how it vibrated over her vocal cords from the buzz in her sinuses from her mouth breaking off crisp consonants, all of that layered underneath the notes and cadence and meaning of her words. “Yeah,” he answered with a smile. “Your lungs sound nice.”

“We’ll both ignore the fact that that’s one of the stranger compliments I’ve received in a life not devoid of truly strange complements,” Helen murmured, “and instead I want to try an experiment. Listen to my breathing and my voice and see if you can find me. Not on the phone - out in the world. I want you to try to hear me - just me, nothing else - from wherever I am. If you can hear Lex driving to your house, you can hear me anywhere. I’m just going to keep talking about how lovely Alexander looks when he sleeps - he curls around the pillow, which I know you know, but I find it completely charming -”

As she started talking, he opened his awareness and let it roll outwards in an ever-larger circle. It caught a word from his mother, the noises of animals and bugs and wind through plants, then a jumble of sound from the people and things in town, and then he started to get the hang of scanning. Faster and faster, he skimmed over the surface of sounds, barely letting them touch him before moving on, until he caught the particular combination of wavelengths belonging to Helen alone.

He grinned in triumph. She was lounging in Lex’s sitting room, the one attached to his bedroom - the loveseat there had a very particular creak he’d found funny the first time Lex had sat down on it. Now that he was listening directly instead of through the phone, he could hear her heartbeat, little shifts of weight, blinking. She was drinking something with ice in it, and wearing a silk robe.

“- and what a comfortable width your shoulders are, which isn’t something I’d ever considered about shoulders before - that they could be comfortable, I mean. Alexander’s are, too, of course, but they’re slimmer - a better match for resting my head on. Yours are more suitable for some sort of shielding hug, which I suppose only makes sense when I consider who they’re attached to.”

“Now I see why you’re quiet most of the time,” Clark broke in, laughing. “Extemporaneous isn’t your thing.”

“It isn’t, no.” She chuckled quietly, leaned back against the loveseat in a way that made the silk hiss more noticeably on her skin. “I presume you’ve either taken mercy on my poor efforts or succeeded in yours?”

“I can hear how you’re sitting. It’s kind of awesome. Like I’m there with you.”

“I was sure you could.” Her voice modulated down into a bedroom purr, and he heard her nails scraping skin gently. “Much more distracting than that horrible music, I trust?”

“It isn’t horrible,” Clark protested. “But I’m definitely distracted.” He wondered if he could figure out where she was touching herself.

Her fingertips shifted. Cloth sound - silk? - and the sound of the skin contact changed. He was still trying to figure out how exactly when a soft, caught sound vibrated in the back of her throat and he knew exactly where.

“Um.” He wondered if he could keep listening and still notice his parents leaving the house. The last thing he needed was to be caught having kinda-phone-sex. For a minute he fumbled in his pocket for some change, then tossed a penny over the loft railing. He heard that, so maybe he had a chance.

Then he caught the sound of Helen’s hair striking the loveseat as she let her head fall back, and a deliberately sensual moan that said she knew damn well he was listening and wanted him to enjoy the auditory show. “Clark,” she breathed, “have I mentioned lately what an absolute delight it is when I have you and Alexander in bed at the same time?”

“Not in so many words,” he said, voice all over the place. “But there were hints.”

Her breath caught in her throat, slipped free with a little quivering sigh, then drew back in again sharply as her fingers shifted the pace of their contact. “It really, really is. It’s exquisite. The two of you are lovely together, of course, but what I really enjoy is having two such fantastic - and different - specimens of male perfection at my fingertips. I really haven’t even started working through the catalog of what I plan to do about that....”

The distinct noise of the screen door shutting cut through the sound Helen always made when something particularly pleasurable happened in bed. Usually that sound came with a wild-eyed look at him, Lex or both and threats of bodily harm if they stopped whatever they were doing at the time. “Crap! I have to go!”

“Go,” she laughed. “Go. I’m hanging up now.” Suiting action to word, she did just that.

Then she got on with what she was doing, quite enthusiastically, before he managed to figure out how to stop tuning in on her.

“For my next trick,” Clark whispered to himself, willing time to slow down, “a super-fast cooldown.”

God seemed to be happy with him for once, because he pulled himself into a state calm enough to pass for normal teenage agitation before his parents reached the barn door.

Chapter Text

April 24, 2005

Lex glared at the rows of fine shirts in deep, rich colors, the Italian leather shoes and belts, the bespoke suits. “This is ridiculous.”

“Not the white suit,” Helen suggested from in front of the wardrobe filled with her own clothes, hands on her hips, dressed in nothing but lingerie that would normally have been the center of his attention. This was not, unfortunately, a normal time. “They’ll probably serve us stew or marinara or something else sure to spatter it.”

“Mm.” The navy Gaultier? No, it made too much of an impression. Didn’t he own something for occasions besides classy parties or the boardroom?

He wished he could believe that it didn’t matter, but Jonathan Kent was sure to be in a mood and looking too Luthor would not do Lex any favors.

Sighing, he thumbed halfheartedly through the closet for another minute or so. Finally, he dragged a few items off their hangers. “Burgundy t-shirt, gray slacks, black jacket. It’ll have to do. You?”

She hissed softly in vexation, then held up a deep blue dress with knee-high slits and a discreet black jacket. “I thought about the black pantsuit, but it felt too funeral.”

“Agreed.” Pulling the slacks on over what Clark called his ‘future-tech Underoos’ (because apparently they didn’t appreciate lightweight, wicking and seamless in Kansas), Lex pressed a kiss to Helen’s bare shoulder. “I recommend picking one piece of jewelry - the more sentimental, the better -  and leaving the rest. Martha’s got a keen eye.”

“Already decided.” She gathered her hair up off the back of her neck, fingers swift and dextrous as ever, and applied a few almost invisible bobby pins before securing the whole arrangement with the sapphire-set hairpin that she treated with more care than the rest of her jewelry put together. That they hadn’t had to talk about why Lex had given it to her meant almost as much to him as how deeply she obviously valued it.

The rest he’d seen, at least. Now she unlocked a small box he hadn’t seen her open before, unclasped the case inside and extracted a set of pearls that she secured around her throat with even more reverence than she’d applied to his pin.

He’d read the police report. Thirteen years ago, Joe Chill had spilled those pearls all over Crime Alley.  

Talk about showing your throat. Which, when dealing with Martha Kent, was a perfect disarmament. Lex wasn’t sure which he wanted more: to applaud how dirty Helen fought or to stand between her and the world.

Martha Kent. Martha Wayne. Well, that particular parallel couldn’t possibly be comfortable for Helen, either.

“I got you a present,” she murmured, resting a light hand on his shoulder to call him back from his distraction. “She’s waiting out in the hall.”

Coming to full attention, Lex raised an eyebrow. “You think we need to relieve stress that badly?”

She laughed in her throat. “Probably, but no. Don’t make that suggestion to her, either. Capaldi tells me that she’ll take it badly. A personal quirk. She’ll also prefer to introduce herself. Go make a good impression while I finish in here.”

One of these days, the fact that he had no idea what went on in Helen’s head would stop being so enticing, and he could be left alone in peace.

Jacket on but unbuttoned, Lex stepped out into the hallway. Sure enough, a tall, well-built woman was standing at the head of the stairs. Short sandy hair, black pants and jacket, loose enough to hide armor or just about any one-handed weapon underneath.

A bodyguard. Well, given the last couple of months it was high time he hired another one.

“Good evening,” he greeted her, offering his hand. “I don’t often meet people for the first time in my own hallway.”

“I don’t often meet potential employers in their homes. Mercedes Graves.” She took his hand in hers and shook it firmly - quick, strong, confident grip that didn’t feel a need to crush his knuckles to make a point. “I’m reliably informed that you’re looking for a new bodyguard and head of security. Capaldi and I go back a while. We shouldn’t have trouble working together. I only actually have one question for you, Mister Luthor - if I tell you to stay down, will you stay down?”

His lips ticked up at the corners. He had had his own fair share of business partners fucking things up for him. “In most circumstances, yes. If either of two particular people are in danger and I see a way to protect them, I won’t hesitate to make your life difficult.” Of course, Clark was immune to everything that could kill Lex, and the sort of things that Lex could protect him from didn’t involve immediate threats to personal safety. On the other hand, life being what it was, Lex was already imaging several possible scenarios.

She sighed. “Mister Luthor,” she said, her expression just a little bit exasperated, “I can already tell that you’re going to be a pain in my ass. I don’t know why, under the circumstances, I’m still tempted to work for you. Sir.”

Now he was grinning. “Something tells me it isn’t the compensation package. Something to do with Capaldi and Ms. Wayne, perhaps?”

Her rather striking blue-green eyes narrowed. “I’m going to be working for you, Mister Luthor. Which makes your safety my first priority. Let’s get that clear right now, shall we?”

Well, she gave into that temptation quickly. “And mine will be the safety of those I care about. If that doesn’t present too much conflict, Ms. Graves, I’ll be happy to have you.”

They stood there for a minute, eye level and staring at each other. Her expression cracked first, a rueful hint of a smile, and she shrugged her shoulders in a careless way that drew attention to the fact that she was probably the largest woman he’d ever met in person. “At least you won’t be boring,” she said, seeming to tell the ceiling as much as Lex himself.

“One thing,” Lex assured her, “I’ve never been accused of.”

The edge of good-humored exasperation vanished between one heartbeat and the next, her spine straightening to a careful attention and her expression smoothing out. “I’ll have to car brought around in ten minutes, sir,” she informed him, briskly efficient, and then turned away and vanished down the stairs.

“She’s quite something, isn’t she?” Helen asked from the door of the bedroom, rolling his watch lightly in her hand and smiling. “Your own personal Amazon.”

He held out his wrist for her to buckle it on. “Very professional. Somewhat masochistic, too. Or does she think she can teach me the error of my ways?”

“An employer she didn’t have to worry about,” she murmured, buckling the watch and then leaning up to kiss him lightly, “probably isn’t one she’d respect. Which does suggest a certain tolerance for frustration that I think is probably requisite for being part of your life. If we don’t want to be late to dinner, we’d best be on time for the car.”

His laughter shook through both of them when he kissed her. “She and the Kents would get along wonderfully. It would also streamline the disapproving frown process.”

“Mmm. But then she and Capaldi would find small ways to make us miserable for the next few weeks just to remind us who really runs our schedules.” She kissed him again, feather light and quick, then started down the stairs ahead of him with an absurd amount of grace for the heels she was wearing. “Call Clark to tell him we’re coming, or let him fret?”

“You need to ask?”

“I suppose not,” she chuckled throatily, and he didn’t have to see the knowing smile on her mouth to want to kiss it. “At least he doesn’t have nearly so many clothes to sort through. That ought to simplify his decisions...”

“Clark, honey,” Martha called over her shoulder. It wasn’t strictly necessary, of course, but they’d managed to come to an arrangement where he pretended not to hear his parents talking about any number of things as long as they pretended he couldn’t. “Whatever you pick will be fine. It’s your turn to set the table.”

“Be down in a minute,” came the distracted reply.

“Zip through his chores, sure,” Jonathon grumbled as he stomped mud off his boots at the door. “Get ready in less than half an hour? No chance.”

Martha arched an eyebrow at him. “You never worried about picking the right outfit for a girl, did you?”

“I worried about whether I remembered to wear my clean jeans,” he snorted, laugh lines deepening around his eyes. “Not that you seemed to mind.”

“It seemed rugged.” Her lips quirked up at the edges. “I was young and impressionable.”

“Lucky for me,” he smiled, pulling her close with a hand around her waist and kissing her. A familiar whoosh of air flew past, and by the time Martha pulled back, the table was set with the company dishes and their son was staring out the window, fidgeting.

“Thank you, Clark,” she said, noting his second-best slacks and the newest button-up. “The blue was a good choice.” Polite and civilized without trying too hard.

“Um,” he said, eyeing the stairs like he was reconsidering the choice. Apparently, maternal approval was no longer reassuring when it came to clothes.

Jonathan hid a smile behind his hand. “Why don’t you come help me start up the grill, son?”

“Okay.”

They clumped outside, and Martha busied herself with the vegetables. Or started to; they were back remarkably fast. She looked at her husband. He pointed to his eyes, then shrugged.

“I guess there’s no reason not to,” she said. “How long before you need the steaks?”

“Give it ten, fifteen minutes.” Jonathan settled against the counter in a way that probably looked relaxed to Clark - assuming their boy hadn’t learned to read stress levels by their heart rates in the last week, which was not totally out of the question. There were times when Martha wondered exactly how many ‘powers’ were packed into Clark’s biology, and if they were ever going to get to the end of him developing them. At least, pray God, before they got to super-cake-baking or something equally absurd.

And then there was the little detail of her pride. She didn’t know if she could cope with Clark being a better cook than she was. Some things, a woman just shouldn’t have to face.

Still, it had its advantages. Almost before she finished asking Clark to chop the greens and garnishes for the salad, the bowl was full and Clark was shifting around like he didn’t know what to do with his hands again. She picked up the bowl, aiming for a note of normalcy, and suggested he pick up around the house while she worked on the dressing. Not that she said ‘and don’t come back until I’m done,’ of course, but her son usually understood things like that without having to have them spelled out. Working out a routine for dealing with antsyness when he could hand-plow a field in five minutes flat had taken patience and a lot of willingness to adapt, but they’d gotten the hang of it eventually. Just like Jonathan had gotten used to patching holes in the walls and replacing doors when Clark was little.

Parenting Clark, it seemed, was being thrown for one loop after another. She paused, resting the olive oil and measuring cup on the counter. “I used to imagine going to a parenting support group when Clark was younger. Explaining that I was worried about how he was doing, developmentally.”

Jonathan nearly doubled over laughing, which was fair enough. She was grinning more than a little herself. “I know. I couldn’t get past the first few sentences without imagining myself saying something that would convince them all I was crazy.”

“When Clark knocked down the fence in the south pasture, old Bill Hancock started trying to tell me about the stuff his boys used to get up to when they were younger,” Jonathan finally managed to get out.”It was everything I could do not to tell him that he never had to worry about his sons picking up the cows and moving them around by hand because he thought they looked better facing south.”

Martha grabbed Jonathon’s arm, laughing now, too. “Remember when he put them in a circle so he could read them a bedtime story?”

“‘Good night, moon. Good night, stars. Good night, cows,’” Jonathan recited from memory, pressing his hand over his eyes to hold back tears of laughter. “I thought I was just going to stand there rooted to the spot until all my hair fell out, trying not to laugh because I was sure I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

She patted his chest. “It was noble of you.” Then she looked up at him with a wicked gleam. “You know, we’ve never gotten to embarrass him with these stories.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to object, seemed to discover he had nothing to say in the process, and settled for kissing her lightly. “Martha Clark Kent, you are every bit the trouble my mother said you’d be.” His smile was warm and solid and full of quiet, familiar laughter. “So we’ve moved on to the silver linings?”

Sighing, she squeezed his arm and went back to the dressing. “The silver linings are at least on the travel plan. I’d rather not leave at all, but that’s how it is.” Fresh basil and oregano were next. “I’m scared, Jonathan. More than usual when it comes to Clark.”

He just nodded. Jonathan wasn’t the sort of man to say that aloud, but she’d been his wife almost as long now as she hadn’t before and she knew what his fear looked like the same way she knew his anger and his kindness and his joy. But after a minute or so of silence, staring off into space, he shrugged his shoulders and reminded her again why she’d fallen in love with the solid, patient farmer’s son in her finance class to begin with. “No use shouting at the weather, Martha. Or at that boy, either.”

Both her eyebrows went up this time. “And yet.”

He shrugged his shoulders and grinned lopsidedly. “Well, I used to do that around planting season when you first moved down, if you remember.”

Snapping the lid on the tupperware and shaking it, Martha snorted. “You have a very broad definition of when I first moved down. I seem to remember a few choice words from, oh, three years ago? Or was that this February?”

“Well, maybe a few.” The grin got a little wider. “I figure you’re still getting settled. Just take the curtains.”

“You have a problem with these curtains, buster?” The dressing was poured over the salad, and then a wooden spoon brandished. “Them’s fightin’ words.”

“Just saying the others could have lasted another couple years. But it’s more than a man’s life is worth to argue with a woman settling into a place,” Jonathan conceded magnanimously while he backed a couple of steps back toward the door. “How about I go get the corn and steaks on the grill?”

“You do that.” She waved him off with the spoon, grinning. He pulled what he needed from the fridge, gave the curtains another look with a mournful expression that was surely just to rile her, then went out chuckling.

“That man,” she told the ceiling, smiling in spite of herself.

The sound of a car coming up the drive registered just before Clark appeared in the living room, looked around as if for something to tidy, and wound up fluffing throw pillows. Well, it was nice to know that she and Jonathan weren’t the only ones with tension to spare. Especially since Clark was the reason for theirs.

A door slamming. Footsteps on gravel. Finally, the doorbell.

Clark opened it before she could say anything.

“Hi.” Oh, lordy. Martha could feel Clark’s awkwardness from the kitchen.

“Hello, Clark. Lovely evening, isn’t it?” Lex’s smooth tenor, using his maybe-sincere, maybe-mocking tone. She was never sure with that boy. She was sure he liked to keep people guessing.

“Yeah, I guess. You two look good. Um.” Shuffling his feet. He was probably slouching, too, the ragamuffin.

“It suits you, Clark. Not as well as the tux, but it suits you.” Helen Wayne’s sharp Gotham accent carried, but quiet affection softened the edges noticeably. “Now why don’t you let us in before poor Capaldi starts fretting more than she already is?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Helen. It’s such a nice porch,” Lex drawled. Now he was definitely mocking Clark. “Really quite lovely, Mrs. Kent,” he called, making sure his own voice carried as well as Helen’s.

“Is that a proposal?” Helen quipped, gently easing Clark back through the door with a hand on his arm. “Do you think there’s space enough for us to move in, darling - say, over by the wind chimes - or would we just be underfoot?”

Martha snickered over the lemonade.

“I hate you two. So much.” Clark grumbled, and the floorboards creaked as their guests came in. He led them back to the dining room, and Martha put on her hostess smile.

“Helen. Lex. Good to see you. Why don’t you sit down and have something to drink?”

Fortunately for them, they both understood that it wasn’t really a request. Helen slipped her arm across Lex’s, which seemed to forestall what was probably going to be an unfortunate but witty remark, and settled him into one of the chairs before crossing the room to kiss Clark on the cheek before taking a seat of her own. Clark blushed and stared, which Martha had a hard time blaming him for - the dress and sparse jewelry Helen was wearing tonight might be plain compared to what she often wore to pick Clark up for dates (when Lex wasn’t doing it for her), but that didn’t mean the tailoring was any less flattering. It inclined her, not for the first time, to find fault with the girl.

Helen Wayne made that irritatingly difficult.

Meanwhile, even though he was dressed acceptably plainly (again, for him, but he got closer than Helen did), Lex was deep in whatever role he’d picked for the evening. Some days it was the charming businessman, some a concerned friend, but she’d never had a conversation with Lex that didn’t feel like there was a man behind a curtain somewhere.

Which would have made him about as appealing as his father if it weren’t for the way she’d seen him open up around Clark. And, as much as she hated to admit it, the way he’d smiled for a moment on his way inside after Helen decided to make fun of him.

She served lemonade and set the salad on the table, then went back to give her mashed potatoes a second look. Helen was digressing on something about the price of steel, which Lex greeted with a professionally interested face that could have meant anything or nothing but that actually seemed to calm Clark down. Why the economics of metal production would do that was a mystery, but anything that made Clark less likely to accidentally knock a hole in the table was probably a good thing.

The potatoes were fine. She turned off the heat, went out to the back and leaned in the doorway, watching her husband turning meat on the grill and trying to resist the urge to complain where her son might hear.

Which was ridiculous, of course. If she was going to wait for that problem to pass, she might as well give up entirely.

“Just another couple of minutes, Martha,” Jonathan assured her. “Then you can weaken their resolve with food.”

She sighed and spread her hands, giving him an expression that combined long-suffering patience with a promise that he was going to pay for that later.

“Mmm.” He smiled unrepentantly and turned the corn. “That boy wearing more of his white Armani?” Tentative peace accord or not, her husband was still not entirely above tweaking Lex Luthor when he got the chance.

“Sorry. He didn’t give you any ammo on that one,” Martha informed him. “I might even go so far as to call his clothes sensible.”

Her husband scoffed. “Right, that’s settled. You feed them, I’ll check for body-snatchers.” A sizzle as he prodded one of the steaks. “Meat’s done.” Which means I have to go be civil, he didn’t sigh. Out loud.

She buried a chuckle, taking a platter once he’d finished loading it and kissing him on the mouth lightly before carrying it back inside. At the table, Clark and Lex were both desperately trying to smother their laughter while Helen described something with her hands that looked a bit like a particularly ungainly flamingo trying to dance.

“And then he asked if I’d like to have another,” Helen continued, as if after a dramatic pause, “at which point I began to seriously consider the practical use of medieval tapestries for escape.”

Lex laughed - not the smooth chuckle he used in interviews, or the derisive snort Martha had seen him give in Lionel’s presence. It was a full, genuine laugh, unselfconscious, and it reminded her that he wasn’t so very much older than Clark.

Her son was smiling, but not entirely comfortably. “Not everyone has private dance lessons from the age of five, you know.”

“Nine,” Helen said, voice deliberately light, but there was something around her eyes that made Martha’s nerves twitch - a tightly controlled lack of emotion masquerading as good humor. “Alfred thought it would cheer me up.”

Clark winced and opened his mouth to say something, but Lex laid a hand on his arm and spoke instead. “You didn’t know. Besides, I’m sure Young Travolta had had as much instruction as Helen, if not more so. She’s too classy to mock the less fortunate. For that, anyway.”

“Lex, are you really sure you want to describe people who weren’t tutored within an inch of their lives as ‘less fortunate’?” Momentary emotional absence forgotten, Helen smiled with wicked good humor. “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t have wished most of my teachers on anyone.”

“Shh,” Lex put a melodramatic finger in front of his lips. “Leave him his illusions.”

Jonathan forged in and got the meat on the table before the laughter he was suppressing got the best of him, which was more than Martha could manage. Fortunately, he also got his voice back and distracted the table before they noticed her done burying her laughter in her hands. “Who is this guy,” he asked, “and what have you two done with Lex Luthor?”

“Behind the barn,” Helen riposted without missing a beat. “Genetically engineered replacement. It was the only way to get our hands on his fortune, Mister Kent. You understand.”

“Like you need mine,” Lex grinned. “The steaks look great, Mister Kent.”

“Oh, not for me,” Helen went on, the picture of earnest concern. “For Clark. How else am I going to avoid marrying below my station and invoking the displeasure of my ancestors?”

Martha tried to get hold of herself without much success. Clark stared at her for a second or two, then back at Helen, then back at Martha. “Mom, you’re killing my ability to tell her it’s not funny, here.”

“Now, dear,” she replied, holding the counter for stability, “At least think about it. Imagine the Mothers’ Day presents you could get me.”

Lex threw up his hands in mock despair, and Clark rolled his eyes. Helen just stared for a moment, her deep blue eyes very wide and very startled, and then she threw her head back and laughed - rich, throaty peals of laughter that rocked her against her chair and left Clark and Lex both staring at her as though she’d suddenly sprouted wings.

“Is anyone here,” Clark asked the ceiling, “not totally nuts?”

“‘Fraid not, son,” Jonathan chuckled. “Steak?”

Clark just groaned and put his head in his hands.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me how delightful your mother is, Clark,” Helen told him as she kissed him goodnight on the porch. “Lex had me expecting the Spanish Inquisition, but your parents were the soul of hospitality.”

Clark smiled and shrugged. “It was a good night. You should see her when I skip my chores.”

“Base slander, I’m sure.” Helen paused, leaned back up to kiss him again, then whispered against his lips, “Alexander and I will miss you tonight.”

Squeezing Helen’s hand gently in his, Clark caught Lex’s eyes, sucking in a breath under the full force of the hunger in them. “I could sneak away after lights out,” he suggested even more quietly than Helen.

“I would never suggest such a thing,” she said virtuously. But if you do, her eyes added, there’s something special in it for you.

“Night, Clark,” Lex added, trying for casual. It probably worked on people who couldn’t hear his heart pounding when his eyes brushed Clark.

He didn’t trust his own voice to be as sneaky. “Night,” he said generally, then stepped back inside without lingering any more.

There wasn’t much washing up left to do, but he gamely gathered the dessert dishes and brought the washable part of the grill inside.

“Clark,” his mother said quietly as she came up behind him, toweling her hands carefully, “don’t forget to be careful with the grill.”

Blinking, he saw that he’d left finger-sized dents in the wires and sighed as he started straightening them out again. “Maybe it looks better this way.”

He could hear the smile in his mother’s voice. “Mm. Kind of hard to grill evenly on it, though.”

“It was artistic,” he argued, smiling ruefully.

“I think she’d rather have a painting,” Martha suggested while she started a pot of decaf coffee. “Miss Wayne doesn’t seem like the abstract art type.”

“You know I suck at painting,” he answered, carefully smoothing a wire between thumb and forefinger. “Maybe I could claim it’s the style of my people. Alien chic.”

She didn’t say anything for a little while, shifting things around on the counters like she was straightening them even though they were already in order, and when she finally did speak up again, her voice was very quiet. “Telling them your secret was an awfully big commitment, Clark. They’re very charming, and she might even be good for you, but have you thought about what happens when you leave for school? Or after that?”

“Yeah, I have.” The grill back to normal, he set it in the sink. “Helen spends time in Gotham, Metropolis, New York, London, everywhere. Lex lives in Metropolis half the time anyway. If I go to MU, we’ll see each other about as much, maybe more than we do now.” He turned to face his mother, watching her fidget. “I know it’s a big deal. I’ve thought about it a lot - not just how much I hated lying but what could happen if things went wrong. I wondered for a long time if I even had the right to tell anyone, since you and Dad would be in danger if I was wrong.” He ran a hand through his hair. “And...look, I’m not saying I’m going to be careless about your safety. I’m not. I love you and I’m going to protect you as much as I can, but...you chose the secrets. You’ve always had each other. I mean, I have you, too, but it’s not the same.” He shrugged again. “Trust is a risk, but it’s what I choose.”

She looked at him for a long, long time, then kissed his cheek lightly and smiled in a way that just about broke his heart. “When,” she said softly, “did you grow up on me?”

Sometime after three-way sex and before the black ops mission, he very much did not say. “Guess I couldn’t help absorbing all the life lessons you and Dad keep going on about.”

“Clark,” she said, and then stopped and shook her head. Touched his shoulder one more time. “I’ll see you at breakfast. Don’t stay up too late.”

“‘Kay,” he replied, managing to sound bored. The twinge of guilt about lying to his mother had been getting smaller and smaller lately. Maybe that should worry him.

She poured two cups of coffee, then went up the stairs to where his father was taking off his boots - Clark knew that sound like he knew his own breathing. They’d probably sit up for a while, not talking or maybe speaking in whispers he’d do his best not to hear. Which meant that he was on his own for the night.

What they expected him to do was go up to his bedroom and go to sleep. Maybe putter around the loft for a while first. A couple of months after LexCorp’s opening gala, he was more or less back in his parents’ good graces, but getting caught sneaking out would sink him right back to square one. Maybe square zero.

Which meant that he was just going to have to be very, very careful. It was only a little less nerve-wracking than breaking into guarded a LuthorCorp facility.

He was knocking on Lex’s door a little more than an hour after they’d left his house.

“You realize,” a big woman he doesn’t know said as she opened the door, “that you could ask my employer for a key and the security codes?”

Clark blinked, then smiled sheepishly. “I do now, Ms., uh....”

“Graves. Mercy. And you would be Mister Kent.” She stepped back out of his way, and his eyes registered the body armor under her shirt and the pistol under her jacket without asking his permission. Bodyguard. “They’re upstairs.”

“Thanks.” It didn’t take much effort to act a little intimidated. Mercy could probably put him on the floor before he realized what was going on. Well, assuming she didn’t break her hands on him because his body forgot to go limp on reflex.

The thought lasted until he got to the door to Lex’s bedroom and knocked. Helen opened it.

Some vaguely witty comment had been sitting in his head, but it was completely replaced by black lace and strappy and no, wait, dark blue and skin.

“Uh,” he greeted, brain already offline. “Hi?”

“Alexander,” Helen called softly as she turned away and gave him a view that was possibly even more brain-frying than the the one from the front, “you owe me the keys to the blue Lamborghini.”

“He didn’t peek? Really? I’m disappointed.”

Helen just laughed.

Trailing after her, Clark didn’t care that he’d been the subject of a bet. In fact, he was busy imagining Helen at the wheel of said car while wearing her current ensemble which could only technically be described as underwear. Then he frowned. “Peek? I don’t usually x-ray buildings I’m walking through and wait you wore that to dinner? In my parents’ house?!”

“It’s called lingerie, Clark,” Lex murmured, voice husky with laughter, and Clark was suddenly aware that unlike Helen, Lex wasn’t wearing anything at all. “That’s what it’s for. And we weren’t anticipating a strip search.”

Helen saved him from an impossible dilemma by sauntering over to the bed. “Just that I’d abuse my abilities and look through your clothes? I think I would have died of embarrassment if I had.”

“Fortunately, you lived up to my expectations and not down to Alexander’s.” The bed creaked softly as Helen slid onto it, and Lex’s breath caught. Clark’s cheeks started to burn. Not that it was the first time he’d seen her tease Lex, but the outfit didn’t help his composure at all. Not that ‘composed’ was ever much involved when he was around the two of them.

“Clark,” Helen said, voice almost playful, “how long did you say you could hold your breath again?”

The sound Lex made sounded almost like pain, but it wasn’t. Probably.

“I dunno,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt, “a long time.”

“Hours?”

Lex swore under his breath.

“Probably.”

“More than long enough. Come over here.”

Helen’s eyes gleamed in the dark like they were gathering in all the light. Clark dropped his pants on top of his shirt and put a hand on the bed. “Is he all right?”

Helen just laughed.

Chapter Text

May 14, 2005

“So tell me again who thought it was a good idea to set up tents and a bonfire in Potter’s field instead of renting out some place?” Chloe Sullivan wrapped Pete’s jacket around herself a little bit tighter and glared at the sudden surge of laughter. “What’s so funny?”

“‘It’ll be great, Clark,’” the Kent boy mimicked in high-pitched tones,”’We’ll save so much money, Clark. Nobody will complain about noise.’” He grinned, finishing the shoulder-high chimney of wood sitting on a carefully cleared and watered patch of bare field. “Besides,” he said in his normal voice. “You’ll be a lot warmer soon. I also seem to remember something about ‘Smallville tradition blah blah rite of passage blah blah not in the same square mile as our classmates blah.’ Which was a pretty convincing argument.”

“That was when I thought you could build a fire in less than half an hour. God, I’m freezing!”

Which was probably fair, not that Clark could tell. The Kansas prairie lost heat fast after sundown.

Hefting a half-gallon of lighter fluid, Lana smiled at Chloe. “All I know is that I’m with friends and I’m not at the Talon, thank God. You think this is enough?”

“...Yes.” Chloe threw a sideways look at Clark. “You told her we needed lighter fluid, right? She doesn’t just carry that around in her car all the time?”

The brunette winked as she popped the cap and started dousing all the wood within her petite range. “That would be dangerous. I just have a gallon of gasoline in an approved container.”

Pete, shivering a little in his shirt sleeves, rubbed his arms and stamped his feet impatiently. “Why doesn’t that make me feel better, Chloe?”

“Because we may have missed Lana being a pyro for years now? Um, you don’t really have to use the whole container, Lana....”

Lana laughed, fished out a lighter and lit a long match. “What’re we saving it for, anyway?”

Her throw didn’t quite make it to the lighter fluid without dousing the match, but Clark gave the wood a stern 300⁰ look and it caught with a very satisfying whoosh. Lana whooped, Chloe practically cheered in relief, and Pete made a grab for his coat.

It was starting to look like a pretty good night.

Once everyone was a safe-ish distance from the flames, they spread blankets on the ground, broke out the camping chairs, and dug the coolers from everyone’s cars. No longer being at the mercy of high school called for celebration, and celebration meant setting things on fire and eating as much as physically possible.

“I brought something special,” Pete announced, waiting until everyone was looking before throwing open the lid to his cooler, chest puffed out like he’d just won the Gold in Party Planning. “Aw yeah.”

Lana took one look and burst out laughing, then grabbed. Chloe just whistled. “Truly, Ross,” she said in only partial mock reverence as she muscled her way past Clark, “you are a god among men.”

Clark himself was laughing. “Okay, Pete, that’s pretty awesome. Did you have to drag the cooler into the diner with you, or did you just pull up out back?” He perused the selection, eyebrows raised. “Wow, twelve milkshakes? We’re going into sugar-coma for sure.”

“So worth it,” Lana remarked, voice almost indecent with how much she was enjoying her cookies-and-cream. Smoothing the nonexistent lapels of his leather jacket, Pete surveyed his work with pride. “We’ve all earned it. Though, gotta be honest, I thought we were only going to have two each.”

Clark’s mouth twisted momentarily, and then he shook it off, determined to enjoy himself. “It’s just how it is. Though, I mean, we could make a video or two to show them what they’re missing. You know. As a favor.”

Eyes rolling back into his head a little as he took the first sip of his New York Cheesecake shake, Pete shrugged. “Fine by me, man. I’m just annoyed on your behalf. Not cool, skipping out on your boyfriend’s graduation party.”

It meant a lot to Clark that Pete had muscled through his own discomfort with the idea in record time. Now he didn’t even flinch at the b-word, even if he did still frown whenever Lex’s name came up. Clark could handle his friend not liking his boyfriend on personal grounds.

That and the double-chocolate peanut butter shake had put Pete in the running for World’s Greatest Bro.

“It was just one of those things. Shareholder meeting they couldn’t get out of.” He crooked a grin at his friends, which was easier while he was remembering the library of profanity Lex had been working through in the background when Helen called him with the news this morning. “They couriered me my present. Because, you know, that’s normal.”

“Weird is normal in Smallville, Clark. Sheesh, think you’d know that by now.” Lana smiled more gently than her words suggested.

Chloe took up the idea, raising her domed plastic like it was a beer stein. “Which is not to say that you, Shiny-top and the Queen of Gotham are not extra weird, mind you, but mutant bees and rampaging students with superpowers make a close second. So when do we get to see it?”

“Huh?” Clark blinked, feeling slow in that special way only Chloe ever seemed to make him feel.

“The present, genius! When do we get to see the present?”

“Oh. Right. Well, now I guess.” Reluctantly, he put the milkshake down and went to the family truck. In addition to a laptop, his folks had given him the use of the Ford for one night, no questions asked.

Lex and Helen’s gift - and it was weird that it didn’t bother him much that they were the sort of couple that gave joint presents now - was wrapped in delicate metal foil and small enough to fit in his jacket pocket if he’d been willing to tempt himself with peeking. He fished it out of the glove compartment, brought it back to the group and braced himself to be razzed. If it’s some kind of sex toy, I swear I’m going to get them for this.

“No, closer, sit here,” Lana waved him over to the blankets. “So that we we can all see.”

This is so going to be a sex toy. Biting his lip, Clark tore the paper off, tugged the lid from the box, and stared.

“Uh.”

Pete started laughing.

Chloe grabbed for the gift. “Holy crap, is that a Rolex?”

Grateful for the darkness and the fire, Clark was sure he must be red from hairline to collar.

“It’s a Rolex,” he said faintly.

“Oh my god.” Lana covered her mouth with her hands to try to stifle her giggling.

“Do not,” Chloe said, still examining the Rolex with something like awe, “tell us that you’re as bad about being on time and missing appointments with Helen Wayne as you are with us.”

“Uh.” Clark looked away. “I can neither confirm nor deny....”

“Wait wait wait,” Pete pulled the box away from Chloe. He finally managed to get enough air for words. “It’s got diamonds instead of numbers. You should wear this to the next county fair, Clark. It’d really swank up the place.”

“Oh my God,” Clark moaned, face in his hands.

“Diamonds? Really?” Lana grabbed it this time, then stared, then gave Clark a lingeringly suspicious look. “Is this, like, a bribe or a payoff for something? You know, the way rich men give their mistresses jewelry after they....”

“Stop!” Pete’s expression was pained. “Please, please stop.”

“Oh my God.” Clark wanted to die. Or maybe just run away to the South Pacific somewhere. He took a long drink of milkshake. At least that was still good.

“Phshh,” Chloe waved her hand dismissively. “Like Lex would need to. Clark’s been whipped since day one.”

“You like beaches, right, Pete?” Clark asked loudly. “Let’s go to Fiji.”

“Seriously, stop.” Pete’s voice was strained. “I will take back your damn milkshake.”

There was a sudden, blissful silence for all of maybe ten seconds.

“Clark,” Chloe said in a stage whisper, “if you were serious about Fiji, I insist on pictures. You know, in the act.”

“That’s it, milkshake privileges revoked!” Clark didn’t actually see Pete chasing Chloe around the bonfire because he was busy burying his face in his hands and trying to get that image out of his head.

“So the Dow took a seventy-point drop today? So what! It happens! It’s the fucking stock market, it goes up and down all the time, the point is that it always goes back up eventually. I know this, Wall Street knows this, the public knows this, little old ladies who only drive on Sundays know this! Why is this concept so hard for investors to grasp? Let’s not even get into the fact that LexCorp’s stock is doing much better than average. One dip and it’s all hands on deck to help them find their lost five-dollar-bill.”

“Mister Luthor....”

“Not that they’ll appreciate it. Neither reason nor comforting lies will make them happy; they just want me there to complain at, to acknowledge I hear them, I care, I see where they’re coming from, like I’m their therapist or their favorite call girl. Parasites.”

Mercy Graves checked the elevator ahead of him, then followed him inside and hit the hold button. “Sir, someone may hear you up here, and there will be press downstairs...”

“I should have said no, damn the consequences. It’s a special occasion. Setting the backwoods on fire and contributing to the delinquency of several particular minors isn’t an opportunity that’s going to present itself again. I can’t believe I’m missing this milestone of Clark’s so I can babysit these cretins.”

“Alexander.” Helen Wayne leaned in the doorway of the elevator, her dark hair bound elaborately up in a french twist and her conservative three-piece women’s suit - unrelieved black except for the faint red embroidery on the waistcoat and silver buttons - a perfect contract to Lex’s white power suit.  “Please.”

Jaw snapping shut, Lex let out his next breath in a long exhale rather than use it to lambast his investors more than he already had. Pulling himself back together enough to be Mister Luthor, CEO, took a few more breaths, but with Helen’s hand on his arm it was easier.

“I say that we have them all quietly bound and gagged so we can ship them to the Bermuda Triangle. Freight,” Helen suggested in a murmur, “just to help them get away from it all.”

Miss Graves was a professional. That was what made watching her jaw work while she fought not to laugh so very satisfying.

The very corner of Lex’s mouth twitched. “Now, Helen, let’s not be stingy,” he said in a low voice that was a marked contrast to his yelling of a few moments prior. “I hear they’re looking for ballast on the next Mars rover. Who wouldn’t want to be part of space exploration?”

Helen didn’t try to hid her smile. It was just that it was the one she used that reminded him of a shark (and made him want to take her clothes off on the spot, but that was another problem). “Do you think NASA has enough room for that much dead weight?”

The elevator chimed softly, announcing their arrival on the bottom floor, and Capaldi was already waiting with her arms folded and a long-suffering look on her face. She and Graves traded a look, and her expression turned positively stern.

Helen grinned unrepentantly. Capaldi sighed. “You really shouldn’t encourage her, Mister Luthor,” she said in the voice of a woman telling a toddler to stay out of the cookies for the hundreth time.

A raised eyebrow and sardonic smile answered her. “Still haven’t given up on the hope that her actions can be influenced, have you? Well, we all have our foibles.”

Capaldi just sighed again and threw Mercy a look. The young woman shrugged. “Kids,” she said, “what can you do?”

Her hand wrapped around his, still laughing softly, Helen Wayne pulled Lex through the doors after her and into the storm of flashbulbs. Not alone, of course - their security teams wouldn’t have tolerated that without high-grade sedatives - but as close to it as two people could be in front of the whole world. She was still smiling when Capaldi glared a cameraman out of the way and handled first Helen and then Lex into the car. Mercy was already inside on the facing seat, strapped in, her face turned away and her fingers against her ear as she communicated with the lead and chase cars. The car vibrated slightly in spite of its armored bulk - Capaldi taking shotgun and slamming the door to keep someone’s hands out - and then they were in motion and Mercy visibly relaxed.

“It’s still in your pocket, isn’t it?” Helen murmured, eyes on the window but her fingers wrapped around Lex’s.

He nodded, hand drifting to touch the box through the fabric of his coat. “Sentimental as always. Or maybe just delusional enough to hope for an early finish and a fast helicopter.” His lips quirked. “I deeply regret not being there to see the look on his face when he opens the watch. I imagine his friends will be merciless.”

“Much more so without us to keep up a united front against. I’m sure he’s going to be blushing for hou....”

Fire blossomed in the street behind them and the world rocked like something had kicked it in the knees, the sudden scream of tires trying to hold friction against the road mounting over the horrible sound of the engine block shredding itself and both almost lost in a double thunderclap that left Lex’s ears ringing, and then the back of the car slammed into concrete with enough force to smash fragments through windows built to stop bullets. They bounced twice, motor still grinding through its death throes, and then they were still.

The driver, Frank, had a bloody mess for the right side of his head. Lex could see a circular hole in his left temple. Trying not to retch, he took stock of the others. Mercy was holding her head from where she’d been thrown against the window, and a blood-covered Capaldi was examining herself for serious wounds in the front seat and trying not to move enough to draw fire.

Helen was unbuckling her seat belt, bruises up and down her arms a much better alternative to a head injury. Lex freed himself and saw a confusion of fire, smoke, and people running in various directions outside. The black armored lead and tail vehicles were only just recognizable as shapes in the flames of their own wreckage. A slim, strong arm went around him - Helen - and then she was speaking into his ear in a slow, clear voice to be heard over the ringing in his head. “We don’t have much time. Follow me. Lead Mercy. Ear protectors.” She pressed them into his hand, kissed him, then opened her purse and fished out a handful of small white beads. Breathed on them, then squeezed them in her hands for what seemed like forever, and then threw the door open and spilled the delicate white spheres into the street.

Slammed it closed, threw her arm in front of her eyes and tensed. Instinct shut Lex’s eyes for him.

Even through them, he saw a flash bright enough to be dazzling. The faint noise from the street vanished entirely, then came back a moment later laced with echoes of thunder.

Helen’s hand gripped his, and pulled, and he heard the door open again. He was at least able to see, albeit through a weird afterimage of veins, and he took Mercy by the elbow. Helen was ahead of him, pulling Capaldi from the seat and half-supporting her as they moved through the rapidly thickening haze of smoke. None of them ran, not exactly, but they made damn good time all the same.

“Lovely evening for an assassination attempt,” Lex whispered, pulling out his phone and removing the battery. Both went back into his pockets. As Helen did the same, he nodded at her purse. “What other goodies do you have in there?”

“What?” She shook her head as if trying to clear it, then turned to look at him very carefully while she pulled something that reminded him of an oversized black knuckle-duster out of her purse. It unfolded around her hand like a glove or a gauntlet, a frame of metal and ceramics. “Look at me and say that again.”

He repeated himself, her eyes on his lips, and then she shook her head. “Kidnapping,” she said, slowly and distinctly again. “Or execution. They want us alive at least long enough to verify. Why they didn’t RPG our car. Can she manage?”

Mercy, kneeling by Capaldi and checking the other bodyguard’s injuries, didn’t get a chance to answer before the older woman held up her pistol. There was only a moment’s hesitation before Helen nodded and fished in her purse again. This time it was three compacts. “Warpaint,” she said. “Assume cameras. Hurry.” She shrugged out of her dark coat and draped it over Lex’s shoulders, then pressed two compacts into his hand. “Mercy.”

Graves was already up, pressing herself to the mouth of the alley, gun ready in both hands. She took the compact from him by feel and shoved it into her pocket one-handed, but she didn’t move from her post.

Kidnapping or execution. A cold, lead weight of certainty settled in Lex’s stomach. Taking them somewhere to be questioned, tortured, and ultimately killed at the pleasure of their captors. Complete power over them. Yes, that was Lionel’s style. Lex imagined that his father would want to be there in person. Later, of course, once he’d established a good alibi and bribed or extorted the right people.

To his mild surprise, the compact was literal warpaint - the sort of thick, dark stuff smeared on soldiers’ faces to keep their faces from standing out. Which would have been great, if his white trousers weren’t visible from a hundred yards. The compact went into his pocket unused; no point getting his face dirty until he could change into something more nondescript.

A cool breeze reminded him that he would need a hat, too.

Lex sighed. Tonight, some lucky drifter was going to sell him a set of dirty clothes for an exorbitant amount. Assuming they made it out of a three block area without getting shot or worse.

Chapter Text

“Tough one,” Lana mused, staring thoughtfully into the fire. A log popped as it collapsed inward.

“Okay,” she finally said. “I’d sleep with Indiana Jones, marry Dr. Kimble, and kill Han.”

“What?” Pete spluttered. “Kill Han Solo? He’s only the smoothest guy in the galaxy. What’s wrong with you?”

Chloe nodded sagely. “Good choices. Solo would probably be bad in bed. Too self-centered.”

Trying not to laugh at Pete’s outrage, Clark started in on his third milkshake of the evening. If he played his cards right, he might get to finished Chloe’s third shake, too, if her vaguely pained look of enjoyment was anything to go by. He was pretty sure he couldn’t get sick from eating too much, but he didn’t see a reason not to try.

“Hmm. Clark. Clark, Clark, Clark.” Lana stared into her milkshake as if trying to divine something from it, then got a positively evil smile on her face and looked up at him. “We’re all friends here. You can be honest with us, right?”

And wasn’t that a huge red flag. “Hey, we agreed that everyone here is off-limits,” he reminded her, shifting a little on his blanket.

“Oh, I know.” Her smile got wider. “Helen, Lex, Snidely Whiplash.”

Chloe snorted into her milkshake. “Come on, Lana. You’re supposed to pick three roughly equivalent choices. That’s what makes it interesting.”

Lana sniffed. “Fine, since you’re going to be a spoilsport, you can stand in for Snidely.”

“Wrong,” Chloe smiled. “Against the rules, remember? But I will pick someone else. Let’s say, oh...Lionel Luthor.”

There was a long silence as everyone, Chloe included, gave their horrified expressions some quality time.

“While they are both weird and scary, I think Lionel is more in the same league with people like Bin Laden and Hitler. What about...”

“I’d marry Snidely. I can’t get enough of that mustache,” Clark tried, rolling his eyes even as he tried to cleanse his mind of He Who Must Not Be Thought Of in the Same Sentence With Sex.

“Awesome. I’ll be best man if it means you’re going to kill Lex. Can I help?” Pete piped up.

“Nope! I’ll do my best, of course, but he’ll outwit me and then we’ll be locked into a never-ending series of battles, and live nemeses ever after.” He grinned.

Lana was looking at him in the way she did when he’d just been a total spaz. “I think you should maybe re-evaluate your life goals, Clark.”

“Seriously,” Chloe advised. “Very seriously. Possibly with professional help.”

“Right now my goals include lots of sugar. Are you going to finish that?”

After a half-second of looking forlornly at her mocha-banana, the blonde thrust the cup in his direction. “Take it, please. Save me from diabetes.”

“My pleasure.” And it really, really was. He wondered if they had had anything this tasty on his home planet.

After a moment of two of milkshake bliss, Clark turned a wicked grin on Pete. “Carrie Underwood, Beyonce, Michelle Branch.”

Clark leaned back and watched Pete’s face go through a very amusing series of conflicting expressions while Lana and Chloe debated the quality of Underwood’s first album. He was about to weigh in on it when he heard his name.

<...Clark that you got shot, Alexander, I am going to make you regret it. Painfully. For the rest of your life.>

Suddenly Clark was on his feet, pulse hammering at a mile a minute. That was Helen’s voice. He turned towards Metropolis (not that he really needed to, it was just instinct) and listened.

<You think I want to explain that you got shot? I’m a trained fighter, Helen, even if you take me three out of five.>

God. Oh, god, they were in trouble. Big, bullets-and-kung-fu trouble. Clark widened his awareness, took in the area surrounding Lex and Helen. Something small, high, echoing - stairwell. Another person shifted against the wall, gritting her teeth in suppressed pain. One of the bodyguards, probably. Where was the other one? Was she okay?

He zoomed out further, caught the sounds of police radios, emergency vehicles, a news van. Intermittent gunfire.

The blood left Clark’s face. At least five of Lex and Helen’s people were dead. Someone was chasing them with intent to do violence. That was all he needed to know.

He turned back to his friends to find them all staring at him.

“Clark? Is something wrong?”

He faltered. “Um, I just, uh, remembered...”

<If you get killed with that in your pocket, he will never forgive me. Never. It’s not the kind of thing you get over.> Helen’s breathing was deep but steady, the way it had been the night of the Lexcorp opening gala. The night she’d taken on a room full of trained men with machine guns.

He could hear her heartbeat trying to race against that soothing, controlled rhythm. <Stay down, Alexander. And if you have to, shoot straight.>

Chloe was looking skeptical and like she was preparing to be disappointed. So did Lana. Pete just looked concerned and uncomfortable.

“I’m an alien,” Clark blurted. “I’m from outer space and I have superpowers and I help people and right now Lex and Helen are in danger so I have to go help them. I’m sorry.”

He had just enough time to register the slowly-dawning looks of shock on the girls’ faces and Pete’s own surprise at the outburst before he turned and shot off into the night like he could outrun bullets.

If he was lucky, maybe he could.

The fire crackled.

“Did he just...” Lana stopped.

“Run off at supersonic speeds? Yep,” Pete confirmed. He took another sip of shake.

Some honest-to-God crickets chirped.

“I thought he was probably a meteor freak.” Chloe was still staring. Since Clark was gone, she was staring at the mocha-banana dairy slurry oozing out of the overturned cup onto the ground.

“So did I,” Pete admitted.

“The alien thing would explain a lot,” Lana said. “Pretty much everything, really.”

Chloe looked between her two friends. “We should help, shouldn’t we? Or at least try to figure out what’s going on?”  

“Call the Metropolis police,” Pete suggested, and Lana pulled out her phone. “Anything else probably won’t do much, so we might as well stay here.”

After the phone call, which also turned out to be redundant, the silence stretched out.

“So,” Chloe said. “‘Fess up, Pete. Who’d you marry?”

The thing about combat tactics was that they weren’t at all like chess. You couldn’t see all of the pieces, your view of the board was only as good as your information and your memory, pieces didn’t move in organized turns or drop off the board in predictable ways. Not to mention, of course, that chess pieces didn’t bleed.

But there were moments when you saw what was going to happen minutes ahead of time, moments when you could read the street around you and the pieces you had, the pieces your opponent had, and know every move of the rest of the game. Sometimes it was like chess after all.

The seventh time Capaldi braced herself in a doorway, gasping for air, Helen Wayne could see the whole board.

“Graves,” she whispered, “clear the next intersection.”

The big, sandy-haired woman shot her a look, but did as she was told. Alexander stayed to the darkest shadow available, shivering in his thin borrowed clothes and her coat. For a moment, at least, she and Capaldi were as close to alone as people running from trained mercenaries could be.

“Remember the time you wanted to keep me from paragliding?” she whispered, slipping a hand inside Capaldi’s jacket. The armor was there, as always - no way to test the ribs without unstrapping it - but her fingers came away wet. Fresh blood.

Capaldi’s smile was pained. “Rented a chase chopper to keep an eye on you. Almost lost you twice.”

“You worry too much.” Helen ran her fingertips down Capaldi’s slacks, found the sharp bits of metal under them with her fingertips.

“Paid to.” Capaldi’s breath caught on clenched teeth. “It’s been an honor, signora.”

Helen closed her eyes for a moment, tears boiling unshed in her chest. She leaned against the wall beside the taller woman, the image of Capaldi face-down in an alley with a bullet in her head dancing behind her eyes, and the tears hardened into cold resolve. No more.

“The honor was mine, cavaliere.” She leaned into Capaldi for a long moment, bearing the faint sound of her bodyguard’s pain while she kissed her cheek, then pulled the backup piece from the small of Capaldi’s back and checked it. “However it ends, the honor was mine.”

“Your parents would be proud.” Capaldi braced against the door, shoulders square and eyes unflinching. “Sono orgoglioso.”

“Addio.” Helen turned away, hugging herself a moment, then took Alexander’s hand and pressed the pistol into it.

His eyes darted down to her wrist, bare now that she’d dropped the GPS bracelet into Capaldi’s pocket.

“Good idea,” he murmured. “I hope it works.” Checking the magazine, he chambered a round and lowered the pistol to rest against his thigh. The icy alertness that had been Alexander’s default expression for the last half hour cracked a bit as he gave Capaldi a concerned look. “What’s your security team’s ETA once they get the signal? She’s lost more than a little blood.”

“Minutes. Which means the faster we move, the faster the jamming will pass and the faster they’ll be here. Can you run?” Her lips touched his, lingering, hiding his face from Capaldi.

“Yes.” The emotionless armor was back. The ragged gash on his leg (courtesy of an exposed piece of rebar he’d hit taking down an attacker that had gotten too close) wasn’t going to make exertion easy for him, even with a rough and ready bandage from her purse on it.. “Am I running towards something or just away?”

“How does the Lexcorp building strike you?” Her smile was almost whimsical. Bruised, cut up and isolated, doubling back over the twenty blocks they’d already covered was probably impossible. Not to mention that it was the single place in the city most likely to involve their security and the snatch teams shooting at each other.

He stared at her for a moment. “Do you know something I don’t? Because it sounds like a terrible idea.”

“When has that ever stopped us before?”

His lips turned up at the corners. “Skydiving and the Maserati are a lot more fun than this.”

“No argument. But at least they won’t see it coming.” Helen wrapped a hand around his, pulled in a deep breath and started to run. Graves shot them a look suggesting they were both out of their damned minds, but she was after them like a bloodhound.

Someone from a building across the street actually took a shot at them, spattering rifle rounds through the facing and windows of the trendy clothing shop behind them, but they were nowhere near on target. Which meant they’d surprised their hunters into giving themselves away and the bastards still weren’t willing to shoot to wound and risk an accidental kill. Good signs.

That it also meant the box was down to a couple of blocks, if that, was bad news Helen kept to herself. She took them down the first subway ramp they passed instead, trying to block out the sounds of Alexander’s pain on the stairs, and ignored the warnings telling her not to drop down onto the tracks. The subway schedule in her head told her than she had fifteen minutes to find an access back to the street before a train was a concern.

The nearby stations would already be covered, but in Metropolis there were other options. Maintenance tunnels, elevator access to feeder walkways providing private access for office workers. Her mental map of the Metropolis subways wasn’t as meticulously perfect as her map of Gotham, but it was better than what the men hunting her had to work with.

Eleven minutes were enough to get them into the elevator for Cybrian Industries, and ninety seconds was all it took her Autokey to crack the security on the elevator. Graves was checking Alexander’s bandages and pulse while she covered the door; he just seemed to be trying to remember how to breathe.

Helen flexed her fingers against the grip of her gauntlet and listened. Over the soft hum of the machinery, she could hear the distant echo of a train.

“When we hit the lobby,” she murmured, “we go left. I’ll drop smoke - I’ve got a few beads still.”

Alexander shook his head. “Right. The sidewalk on the Spring Street entrance is enclosed for construction. Forty-fifth will be open.”

“If we get out of this,” she said, dropping to one knee so she could kiss him, “I’m going to build us a remote-controlled tank.”

The hand not holding the Glock cupped her cheek briefly. “You’re insane. I love you.”

“Marry me,” she murmured, ignoring the chime of the elevator to kiss him.

Something that could have been a murmur of agreement or alarm at the opening of the doors stuck in Alexander’s throat, and he brought the gun up - reflex threw her left to clear his line of fire, and his round took the man sweeping the lobby in the back at the same moment Graves’s shot drilled through his neck. Graves swung out through the door, weapon up, and fired off half a dozen rounds so quickly the sounds seemed more like one continuous, muffled roar through Helen’s earpieces. She kicked up, throwing smoke into the lobby and dragging Alexander to his feet with her, and they were out into the haze before a rattle of rifle fire punched through the closing doors. The smoke rasped in Helen’s nose and throat, tasting of chemicals, and she caught the shadow of the mercenary watching the stairs a fraction of a second before his head started to turn.

The capacitors in her gauntlet whined with the electric discharge that would have dropped him like a sack of meal if they hadn’t caught and lowered him to the floor. They got the door open together, quietly, and then Graves was through behind them and they had the heavy metal door closed.

“Last magazine. I saw electronics and comm gear,” Mercy gasped out as she reloaded her pistol with steady hands. “I think we came up right into a command post. The gear ate a few rounds, mine and theirs. Twisted my fucking ankle.”

Helen had to smother the wild impulse to laugh with relief. Capaldi was - probably - going to live. That they might all three be dead or captive in minutes somehow didn’t dim the brightness of the emotion. Not that she intended to let that happen.

Not while she was breathing.

“I’m going to make some noise,” she told Graves, emptying what was still useful from her purse into her hands. Three noisemakers, a flash pellet, two pearls of tear gas. Four patches of explosive gel. Six sedative darts. “When they’re good and busy, you get him up the stairs and then out. I’m going to break east. Pick your direction and keep it quiet.”

Alexander grimaced. “Rendezvous behind the deli on Forty-Fifth, or line of sight,” he bit out. Helen was immensely grateful that he wasn’t trying to deny the limitations his injuries had imposed on his mobility, and that he had kept the consequent rage in check; she could forgive any number of cold snarls for that. “If that isn’t possible, the alley off of Sunset between Main and Broadway.”

“Agreed.” Helen took a deep breath to push away the image of Alexander lying on the ground with bullets in his chest, gasping for air. She needed to be clear and empty to have a chance at surviving what she was about to do, and that thought would break her if she allowed it. “Let Mercy cover you. If you make me explain to Clark that you got shot, Alexander, I am going to make you regret it. Painfully. For the rest of your life.”

“You think I want to explain that you got shot? I’m a trained fighter, Helen, even if you take me three out of five.”

Her pulse tried to race, but she forced her body to obey and her breathing to stay slow and steady. Steady breathing, steady pulse, steady hands. Smooth and precise was the only way to be fast enough for this. “If you get killed with that in your pocket, he will never forgive me. Never. It’s not the kind of thing you get over.” Alexander’s fingers touched the ring in his pocket, and his eyes told her she was playing dirty. If that was what it took to keep him alive, she would live with it. “Stay down, Alexander. And if you have to, shoot straight.”

Crushing her to his chest, he kissed her fiercely, pouring everything he wasn’t saying into it. If it was going to be the last time they saw each other - and while both of them would spend every drop of their considerable intellect, skills and resources to the last before they let it happen, they couldn’t deny it was a distinct possibility, not with the bodies of their people in the morgue and hospital and Alexander wounded - he wasn’t going to let her go without showing her what she meant to him.

“I expect you to set a date,” she whispered into his lips, “the moment we get that leg seen to.”

“Oh?” His eyes were darting all over, drinking in every detail of her face. “You aren’t going to give me a ring first?”

“Greedy boy,” she husked, slowly drawing back from him and checking the tools she held in her hands by feel. “I’ll get you something from Cartier’s if that will make you happy.” She turned toward the door while Mercy got her arm around Alexander’s waist, giving up the moment. Every second she waited was going to make this more dangerous, no matter how much she wanted to cling to them.

Her body clenched at the sudden bursts of gunfire from the lobby, and then the door only somewhat muffled a series of cries, grunts, and the shrieks of metal warping under extreme force.

A half-second after silence fell, the locked door was pulled off its hinges and Clark blinked at them, breathing hard.

“Hi,” the boy said.   

“Mercy Graves,” Helen said, the cool serenity of the moment dissolving into bright, impossible laughter, “please allow me to present Clark Kent of Smallville, Kansas.”

Chapter Text

May 14, 2005

The executive office of LuthorCorp boasted the best view of Metropolis that money could buy, a sleekly modern style with a few carefully calculated old-fashioned touches here and there for variety, cutting-edge technology in IT, security, and climate control.

Lionel Luthor saw none of it save the feeds on his computer screen. Even those he was barely skimming, nothing new having been added in the last few minutes.

“I expect comprehensive reports within the hour, delivered to the aforementioned location,” he told the contractor, voice even. “You know what happens if you fail me.”

“Sir,” the contractor - a Colonel, when he’d been in military life - didn’t waver. “Whatever happened at our south command post was a long way from a conventional breach. You might want consider tightening your own....”

Every light and computer screen in the room died as suddenly and completely as if they were candles being snuffed. The faint moonlight spilling in through the broad windows was the only illumination, and a cold breeze shivered through the room from the open balcony doors.

Doors which Lionel Luthor had not, in fact, left open.

“Please, Mister Luthor,” Helen Wayne’s voice whispered out of the near dark, cool and sharp as iced steel, “don’t get up.”

“Excuse me,” Luthor said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to you.” He snapped the cheap cell phone shut. It failed to shed any light, either, in spite of depending on nothing but a battery.

“I’ve thought a lot about a moment like this,” Lex’s voice came from the direction of the plush leather arm chairs. “I prepared a range of conversational options. ‘I can’t believe even you would sink this low’ versus ‘The past doesn’t matter because I’ve surpassed you’ and even some impressively dramatic yet completely deserved recriminations.” He paused, and the leather creaked. “But you know what? Nothing about me or who I am or who we are to each other ever made a dent in your ego before, so I’m just going to skip to the end. We know what you tried to do. You’re going to pay for it, one way or another. But we’re also extremely busy people, so if you run very, very fast and stay out of our way, you might be able to live a comfortable existence on a nice quiet island somewhere.”

Lionel’s answer barely got to the point of being a drawn breath; Helen’s whisper cut it to silence again. “Believe it, Mister Luthor. Build your tower as high as you like, add whatever security you want, and we’ll still be able to touch you. Leave now and never come back to Metropolis. If you do....”

The desk vanished from in front of him, crashing against the wall in a shattered mess, and Helen chuckled low in her throat. “You get the idea. Leave tonight. Alexander will clean up after you.”

Lionel said nothing, only leaned over to reach under his ergonomic leather desk chair for the gun taped to the underside of the seat. He ripped it off and leveled it in the direction of the woman’s voice and fired.

Or would have, if the gun hadn’t been pulled from his fingers before he’d even straightened up. There was a crunching sound in the darkness, and then a crumpled mess of gunmetal was tossed at his feet. He swallowed, then changed his tactics to the situation.

“I see you’ve gained some impressive advantages, Lex,” Lionel said, the warmth of his voice incongruous with the surroundings. “We could be unstoppable if we worked together.”

“‘And rule the galaxy as father and son’? I don’t think so.” Lex’s voice was tight around suppressed fury. “We may share genetic material, but you’ve never been a father to me. Now go, or do the sensible thing and turn yourself in.”

The door to the hallway burst open, banging on its hinges, and then something pulled him up out of his chair and shoved him towards the exit. Shoved him hard enough that he bruised himself banging off the door - suddenly not obstructed by the broken desk - which was nearly the whole length of the room away.

“Have a pleasant flight, Mister Luthor,” Helen Wayne called after him as he stumbled through the door, “or better yet, don’t.”

Once he was gone, there was only breathing in the darkness of the room. Seconds ticked by, slicing away minutes one at a time, until finally a soft red glow spilled from the chemical light in Helen’s hand as she knelt in front of Lex’s chair - quiet, searching, waiting for the light to show her his face.

“He’s gone,” Clark said, looking up from staring down through the layers of the building. “Drove out in a company car.”

Lex closed his eyes, inhaled. Exhaled. Opened his eyes again. When he spoke, his voice was impossibly weary. “We haven’t won yet. He’ll be back.”

“And we’ll be waiting.” She wrapped her arms around him, kissed him, let the electrical disruptor and chemical light both fall from her hands to stroke them over his scalp. “We’ll be waiting and ready, all of us, and we’ll beat him again. As many times as we have to, until stewing in his own poison finally finishes him.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders, and then he slumped back against the chair in exhaustion.

A tall body radiating heat leaned in close, strong arms wrapping around him. “Okay, Lex. I’m taking you to a doctor now. You can pick which one but ‘no’ is not an option.”

“No arguments,” Helen whispered, touching her lips to his cheek, “and you can tell me which day you chose when you get back.”

“Day?” Clark asked, still holding Lex as tightly as he could without hurting him - not nearly as tightly as he wanted to, as he’d wanted to every moment since he found Helen and Lex in that stairwell with camo paint on their faces and blood and filth on their clothes. Since he’d checked Mercedes Graves into the hospital room right next to Francesca Maria Capaldi’s.

“We’ll tell you over breakfast, Clark,” Lex said, eyes closed, taking one more moment to soak in the nearness of the two people who he was absolutely certain weren’t going to let him get into more trouble than was good for him between now and maybe the rest of his life. “I know a great place in Lisbon. Fantastic pasteis de nata.”

“It’s a date,” Helen whispered, then gently pushed herself away from him. “Get him out of here, Mister Kent. The sooner that’s done, the sooner we can catch our flight.”

“See you,” Clark said, and then he and Lex were gone, a gust of wind ruffling the papers scattered across the floor around Helen’s feet. She stood up, stretching carefully to keep from aggravating the bruises along her ribs, and walked out through the windows to the balcony. The moon was setting, the stars were fading, and the first breath of light was just beginning to pale the eastern sky.

After a few minutes of quiet, almost blissful silence, she started to laugh. “Oh Clark,” she whispered, knowing he could hear her, “what are we ever going to tell your parents?”

Chapter Text

June 24, 2005

The stairs into the storm cellar were dusty and still carried the footprints from Clark’s last visit. The day he’d met Lex and survived a Porsche and learned he wasn’t human. It hadn’t occurred to him at the time, but a few days later he’d woken up realizing that his parents had known all along, and wanted him anyway. They’d gone to great lengths - some of them illegal - to keep him. To make him their son. His dad had been amused when he told Clark about the space ship, but he hadn’t been laughing at Clark. He’d been laughing at the situation, and that more than anything else convinced Clark that where he’d come from didn’t have any impact at all on his parents’ love for him. Jonathan and Martha Kent were his parents in every way but one, and he would always be their son.

And yet, here in the cellar was the link to his other parents. He’d read enough about adoptees (well, okay, Helen had read a lot and summarized it for him) to know that it was normal to want to learn about his birth mother and father, and that it wouldn’t hurt his current family if he didn’t let it.

He pulled the chain to the light bulb because even though he could have seen in the dark, he wouldn’t have seen the full range of colors, and he wanted to, in Lex’s words, optimize his experience.

Fifteen years of dust erupted into a cloud when the tarp slid away from the ship. His ship.

The sharp lines of it reminded him of an arrowhead. There were no scorch marks from entering the atmosphere. No larger than a small rowboat, Clark was impressed that it had been able to get him all the way from wherever it was. He knew how far away even the closest star system was. Did it travel faster than light somehow? Or did it have the best suspended-animation system imaginable?

Digging the octagonal...tile? Disk? Puzzle piece? from his pocket, he examined the matching depression on the ship’s wing. It didn’t look high tech at all - just a polygon-shaped hole. Hopefully it didn’t need to be put in a particular direction. Or if it did, hopefully he could take it out again and keep trying until he found the right direction. Sighing, he looked back at the disk. The markings didn’t help, but he supposed it would have been odd if his spaceship had come with pictograms instead of writing, like it had come from Ikea or something. He’d been keeping the disk in the drawer of his nightstand, clattering along with pens and loose change and, lately, condoms. Like a car key.

Shugging, Clark clicked the octagon in place. “Open sesame?”

The ship thrummed. It wasn’t like an engine starting or a musical chord or tectonic plates grinding - it wasn’t like any other noise he’d ever heard, and he’d heard a lot of them. It was a low, complex, resonant thing that built in intensity, moment by moment, until he could feel it against his skin and under his bones and the only reason nobody else could was because they were in the storm cellar and....

Sound spilled into his head, a strange harsh musical language of sound that he had never imagined but still tugged at him with the strange, instinctive echo of meaning. The ship rose from the ground, rotating slightly as it hovered, and he had the most intense feeling that it was looking at him.

The sound came again, and the lack of echoes told him that it was inside his head and not actually a sound at all.

Was it talking to him? Was it alive? He hadn’t thought about that possibility.

Well, maybe if it was that advanced it would have a built-in translator.

“Uh, hi. I can’t understand you. Sorry.”

It hovered there for a moment, humming and buzzing softly to itself, and then a voice - not masculine or feminine, but unmistakably alive - was speaking to him in words he could understand. In his head.

<Linguistic database verified from local environmental signals analysis. Verify telepathic matrix communication comprehension.>

Something about it prompted him to match his next thought to how the ship’s language had felt.

<Wow. That was fast.>

<Local linguistic structure was archived to database before critical shutdown initiated. This vessel is pleased to be returned to the service of the House of El.>

It sounded sort of like the man Lex claimed was not his butler. Unlike Mr. Sanders, however, it actually knew something about him. <House of El? Is that my family?>

<Affirmative. You are Kal-El, son of Jor-El, descendant of Gam-El, Tala-El, Hatu-El, Val-El and Sul-El, and son of Lara Lor-Van.>

Oh, he could just hear what his mother would have to say about the disparity in the name lists. He smiled at the thought.

There were a million questions. <Which planet am I from? What’s it like? Does everyone there have abilities like mine?>

<You are the last son of the planet Krypton,> the ship told him. <Full holographic modeling and database information on planetary conditions is available for download at your convenience. Please specify ‘abilities’ and designate their parameters.>

He frowned, a heavy feeling growing in his chest. <The last?>

<Sensor data acquired during launch indicates that the probability of planetary life extinction within two Earth-scale minutes of vessel launch is not significantly variant from 100%.>

The bottom fell out of the room, or felt like it did. Clark found himself clutching the ship for support.

<What happened?>

<Planetary core detonation fractured the crust of the planet and induced the rapid shedding of all terrestrial matter into space.>

<It exploded?!>

<Affirmative.>

“Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair. <I can’t be the only survivor. Nobody evacuated? What about other escape pods?>

The ship seemed to vibrate gently against his hand. <Ships not equipped with non-spatial drives could not have escaped the detonation in time without advanced departure clearance. Science Council directives prohibited non-approved space travel or distribution of information regarding potential planetary core detonation - subject classified as non-probable, inflammatory, prohibited. This vessel’s construction logs do not indicate Science Council approval.>

Heat bloomed behind Clark’s eyes along with the outrage in his veins. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rested fists against the dirty floor.

<They just let it happen? How many people lived there?>

<Planetary population at time of detonation estimated at 11.3 billion. Science Council logs indicate that possibility of planetary core detonation was dismissed as impossible and seismic anomalies categorized as a non-recurring tectonic event. Jor-El’s algorithms classified as inconclusive and incomplete.>

<But he was right.> And he must have known it, and known that they were all going to die, and that’s why he sent Clark to Earth. <Why didn’t my parents leave, too? Why just send me by myself?> He didn’t know many human parents who’d send their toddler off to a strange day-care center, let alone an alien planet.

For a moment, he could have sworn the ship’s synthetic mind-voice sounded sad. <This vessel represented the prototype of the Exodus project. Construction efforts were redirected to its completion upon detection of secondary catalytic tremors in the planet’s mantle.>

And the planet had blown up two minutes after Jor-El’s ship had left, which meant there had not, in fact, been time to build a bigger ship.

Clark blinked, and tears landed on his hand. Sometime in the last few minutes, he’d sunk to the ground.

<You said you had 3D models of Krypton. Do you have other information? About my parents, from my parents, about the Science Council. How much do you know? And, oh, right. Are you alive? Or self-aware or whatever?>

<I am a Tier Seven AI, representing a tenth-level intellect.> Was he losing his mind, or was the ship sounding stuffy at him? <I contain a comprehensive database of the literature, scientific fact and knowledge of the twenty-eight known galaxies, as well as a complete Kryptonian historical archive and the full science log of Jor-El of Krypton.>

He sat there staring at the ship for a minute. Then he started laughing. Lex was going to completely lose his shit. No question. Clark just needed to decide the best way to enjoy it. “Oh, by the way, my spaceship is sentient and knows pretty much everything. Pass the salt.”

The metal - or possibly ceramic? - of the hull was cool under his hand. He stroked it lightly. <I definitely want to know more, but not now. What do I call you?>

<I was not assigned a designation beyond Ship before departure. Technical matters took precedence.>

Apparently Ship had a thing for understatement.

<Okay, Ship. My name - my Earth name - is Clark. Nice to meet you.> He wasn’t sure if a level-ten intellect or whatever it had said meant Ship had a personality or feelings, but what was the point of having a talking spaceship if you didn't at least try to make friends?

<This vessel expresses pleasure to scan you, Kal-El whose Earth designation is Clark. Will escort or assistance be required, or is station-keeping presently desired?>

Okay, maybe he wouldn’t tell Lex about this. Not if he ever wanted to see his boyfriend again.

Clark patted the hull in bemused affection. <Stay here for now. I’ll come back soon.>

<Temporal variable of return is non-critical, Kal-El. This vessel is fully equipped to maintain and occupy itself usefully in your absence.>

<Uh, okay. Good to know. See you later, then.>

He had the tarp in his hands before the thought caught up to him. <Wait, occupy yourself? Doing what?>

<Scanning and analysis of local signal traffic is a high priority, as well as analysis of present infrastructure and technological development. This vessel’s mission parameters require a full awareness of local conditions to best serve your needs.>

Clark nodded slowly. Having his own super-smart spaceship was incredibly cool, but even he could see potential problems cropping up. <Okay. Just don’t, um, do anything.>

<Action requests will await your return, Kal-El.>

<Awesome.> He threw the tarp back over the ship, stared at it for a minute, then shook himself and climbed back out of the cellar. Helen and Lex were half a mile away at the south fence, keeping each other company in companionable silence under the pale light of the stars, and it only took him a few fractions of a second to join them.

“Clark,” Helen said without turning around, “if you spatter mud on my suit speeding up to me I will make you hand-wash it.”

“I’m all the way back here,” he pointed out. The last ten yards didn’t take long to travel at normal speeds. “Besides, your budget wouldn’t even notice buying another one.”

Leaning backwards on the fence next to them, Clark looked up at the sky. At Helen’s suggestion a few weeks ago, he’d looked at the moon and Jupiter using only his eyes. He hadn’t tried stars yet. Somewhere up there was the wreckage of Krypton, and twenty-seven whole other galaxies of life.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” she said, smiling, and reached out to wrap a hand around his and gently pull him against the rail between them.

“Principle be damned,” Lex muttered, turning away from the view to fix Clark with eyes that burned with interest. “Did the key work?”

All the same emotions he’d run through in the cellar hit him hard, and for a minute he could only nod.

“It’s...” he tried. Swallowed. “My planet. It’s gone. Basically exploded. That’s why my birth parents sent me here.” His eyes were stinging again, the stars blurred. “I’m the last of my species.”

Helen’s arms were around him before his knees could buckle, and she didn’t say anything - not a word, not a sound - and somehow that silence was more eloquent than any words could have been. If anyone knew what it was like to have their entire world ripped away from them, it was Helen Wayne, and the way she held him was probably exactly the way she’d wished someone would hold her when she was eight.

It had been a long time since he’d cried in front of anyone. Longer still since he’d gone into  full-blown sobbing on their shoulder. There just wasn’t any other way to cope with the hurt - it was the only way he could carry it.

After a moment there was Lex’s hand warm on his back, and Lex’s voice pitched low and soothing. Clark mostly didn’t listen to the words, was just grateful that they were there.

“Thanks,” he sniffed after a while, and found a bandana in his jeans to blow his nose.

Helen squeezed his shoulders gently, then took a handkerchief from her pocket to wipe his face carefully. “I would have liked to meet them,” she said very softly. “They sound like extraordinarily brave people, and God seems to have decided their faith deserved a reward considering the parents who did raise you.”

Clark smiled shakily.

“And there’s one mystery solved,” Lex said, lips quirking up. “Now we know your willingness to dive into trouble is genetic.”

The farm boy grinned. “Be nice, Lex, or I won’t let you talk to it and learn the secrets of Planet Krypton and the twenty-eight known galaxies.”

“Twenty-what?” Lex’s voice cracked like a particularly horny teenager’s, and Helen buried her face in Clark’s shoulder laughing.

“Called it!” Clark whooped. “You’re going to cream your pants, Lex. It’s a real AI, for starters, and has some kind of brain-ranking system and is pretty snooty. Oh, and learned English from I think radio waves as it was crashing to Earth. Just, you know, to help me.”

Lex’s mouth worked soundlessly, and then he looked away towards the barn as if gauging the possibility of sneaking in. “Do you have any idea how incredible that is, Clark? Do you know what this means?” He looked like he might try to run for it any second now.

“Alexander,” Helen said softly, “let it wait.” Lex’s face started to turn outraged, and her lips twitched up into a smile. “You know we’re going to have to build entire supercomputer networks just to talk to it properly, anyway, assuming that Clark wants to allow it. Practice a little patience. You can meet the talking starship from outer space later.”

Lex glared, then grimaced, then closed his eyes and tried some meditative breathing.

Clark was grinning wide enough to break a lesser man’s face. “Don’t worry. Now I have a wedding present I know you’ll like.”

The breathing technique was interrupted when Lex grabbed Clark and kissed him fervently. Helen was against his back before he had to chance to sort out the first rush of knee-buckling heat, and then the three of them spent about twenty minutes bruising each other’s lips and leaving each other achingly ready to be anywhere they could get their clothes off.

Helen wrapped her arms around Clark’s neck, still kissing him while Lex gripped her hard in his own arms, and her breath was raw with laughing hunger. “Alexander and I,” she husked into his mouth, “have been arguing all week about whether you ought to be his best man or my maid of honor.”

“I saw him first,” Lex growled under his breath, and Helen’s laughter only brightened.

“Yes,” she husked in Clark’s ear with enough volume to be sure Lex would catch it, “but think how good he’d look in a dress.”

There was a suspicious silence from Lex. Clark raised his eyebrows.

“Dammit. I was perfectly fine without that particular kink, Helen.”

Helen snickered. Lex blushed and made a sound in his throat that reminded Clark of the way he’d reacted to the twenty-eight known galaxies.

Funny, but enough was enough. Time to put his foot down. “Nuh-uh. I am not wearing a dress.”

They looked at him.

“Not doing it.”

There was a hand on his chest.

Crap. “In the wedding.”

Helen’s laughter and Lex’s groan of mingled relief and satisfaction danced over his skin while he closed his eyes.

He was in so very, very much trouble, and he wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

Chapter Text

Ten Years Later

Mercy Graves was not amused when Clark turned up at the limo five hours late, mustard stains on his handkerchief and his inordinately expensive suit disarranged from a long walk in the city. A decade of handling personal security for Lex Luthor had worn a little of the edge off the woman’s personality, but only a little, and her glare would probably have sent most people cowering under the nearest manhole.

“Mister Kent,” she said, frostily polite.

“Sorry, Ms. Graves,” he said. Of course, he’d texted his apologies and instructions not to wait when he’d been only one hour late, but she worked for Lex, not him. “I do appreciate this,” he added as he slid into the back.

“She must have been a very interesting reporter, sir.” Mercy settled into the front passenger seat, signalling to the driver, and the body of limo hummed as the boosted turbines took power. Even with the weight of the armor in its body, it only took the micro-fusion power system buried in the heavy chassis forty-five seconds to generate enough vertical lift; after that, they were flying.

He opened his mouth, then shut it. Mercy did not want to hear about the fact that while, okay, Ms. Lane had definitely distracted him and he’d talked to her for longer than he should have, that had only been for forty-five minutes tops, and then it had been convincing Ms. Lane that he was with Mr. White and Mr. White that he was in the copy room and the copy room that he was in printing and actually saving all 8,886 citizens of Mosfellsbær from a surprise eruption of Hengill (the only volcano on the island that Clark could actually spell the name of) before coming back to Metropolis to grab a hot dog and a quick walk to clear his head and finish the tour of the newspaper he’d just, well, bought.

It said something about his life that superpowers and afternoon jaunts to Iceland and flying cars were all pretty normal, but what he really had trouble with was getting used to being rich.

“Miss Wayne called while you were out,” Mercy said in such a smooth, pleasant way that he was bracing for the verbal elbow before it caught up to him. “She said to tell you that the Foundations will be two hundred and forty seven million dollars further into the black by the end of the quarter.”

Clark did his best not to gape. “Yay,” he said faintly. God. He could literally not give money away fast enough. He needed to step up his game. Maybe start buying the Amazon wish lists of every public school and hospital in the world.

“Apparently,” she continued as though he hadn’t spoken, cheerfully stating the obvious, “fusion power is more profitable than anticipated. Perhaps knowing half their money is going to charity encourages people to make the transition.”

He could hear her lungs working while she struggled not to laugh at his expression. Well, fine, two could play at that. Giving up on hiding how weirded out he was made her have to work harder to keep a straight face.

Also? Clark was still - Lex’s efforts to ram multiple marriage through the state legislature aside - a Kent, and he knew that his ‘bodyguard’ laughing at him was so not a big deal on the scale of problems.

“Mister Luthor said to tell you that you made the Inquirer and the Observer again, both of whom seem to be pushing the theory that you’re starving yourself to keep his affection. He was wondering if you’d like him to set up a photo-op with a burger, a steak, or perhaps an entire cow.”

Oh my God. His palm was definitely on his face. “Sure. Why not. I’ll also make a PSA about eating disorder awareness and make a donation to whatever organization is best at preventing slash treating them.” God. This was his life.

Mercy’s smile softened, just a little at the edges. “He also wanted me to tell you that Ms. Wayne has promised to be on time for dinner tonight, and he thinks she might actually mean it.”

“Yeah? Great,” he brightened. Lex, Helen and Clark managed to see each other pretty frequently, but it was usually in pairs. The whole saving the world through technology and investment thing would have meant that the three of them weren’t often in the same place for very long, even without their various extracurriculars, and Clark knew he was lucky they’d agreed to his suggestion - demand, really - that they all take a week-long vacation together every year. So far they were eight for ten, which he counted as a win. “How long is she staying?”

“He didn’t tell me, but he did say she was bringing along Pennyworth.” Which meant at least two days. Maybe this Harvey Dent guy was really starting to turn things around in Gotham after all. That, or Helen needed to put her head together with Lex about upgrades on her robotic minions.

Sometimes, when he couldn’t take it any more, Clark called Chloe and complained that his girlfriend had taken over Gotham with bat-themed anti-crime robots that were actually pretty effective. Chloe, of course, would tell him to stop whining and go buy his parents another truck to cheer himself up.

He hadn’t told Chloe that his parents had actually banned him from giving them any more vehicles. Even with a dozen permanent farm hands, five times as much land as they’d started with, and top-of-the line equipment, there were still only so many trucks a body could drive, Clark, thank you all the same.

Cruise tickets hadn’t worked out, either, but he was hoping art lessons for his mother might do better. Just as long as he didn’t mention he was calling from his flying limo. That was probably a bridge too far.

A few hundred yards south and down, he heard the automated air defense systems on the LexCorp roof disengage as they settled in to land and buried his face in his hand again. His boyfriend remained completely insane.

Not that, after a second-string terrorist group had attacked the penthouse via helicopter, he didn’t have reason. He hadn’t needed guns the first time, but only because the Omani hadn’t accounted for Superman being in the building. Still, Clark felt that the surface-to-air missiles and the high power radar system were probably a little bit excessive.

Helen, on the other hand, had e-mailed Lex detailed plans for stealth drones armed with missiles, guns and EMP cannons. He hadn’t built them yet, but it was probably only a matter of time.

What was really insane was how glad Clark had become for all their illegal artillery and paranoia and backup plans since he started his second life as Superman. He’d explained it to Pete, once, when Pete had accidentally found one of Helen’s powersuit blueprints stored on Clark’s computer. It wasn’t that he felt invulnerable most days; it was that everything and everyone around him felt so fragile. Knowing that both his lovers would use every technological trick they’d been able to learn from his Ship to stay alive and safe was a daily reassurance.

He caught a white coat out of the corner of his eye and then he was across the roof in a blur. Lex’s arms wrapped around him, laughing spilling into his ears, and then the door slammed shut behind them. Mercy had the kindness or the good sense to use one of the other secured exits.

For maybe ten minutes, Saville Row tailoring or not, they made out like the most embarrassing kind of teenagers.

“So, hot stuff, how do you like your new propaganda machine?” Lex smirked up at him like he hadn’t just been two suits away from sex. Being able to hear his pulse hammering just made it hotter.

“Uh.” Clark’s wheels spun for a moment before the lust subsided and he could think again. “You really want to hear me gush about it again?” He wouldn’t say he’d been obsessive. Just concerned. Interested. Taking care of due diligence during the six months of vetting and auditing and other dark arts of big finance.

Ok, maybe a little obsessive.

“Absolutely,” Lex said, radiating certainty while he unfastened Clark’s belt. “I want to hear every last detail.”

Dammit. He wished it was easier to hold his ground with Lex when he was obviously playing “make Clark try to think thoughts while I do unspeakably sexy things to him,” but, well. The crazy-smart adrenaline junkie who basically owned Metropolis had his hand down Clark’s pants, and the familiarity didn’t stop it from completely undoing him.

“So, uh, still digging the shiny lobby, and the press room was sort of familiar and sort of like what hard drugs sound like. Mmm...”

One of Lex’s hands stroked his hip encouragingly. The other was indecently busy assisting the softness of Lex’s mouth in trying to buckle his indestructible knees. “Ah, Lex, ohmygod.” Breathing wasn’t strictly necessary for Clark, though it was necessary for talking, so he should probably keep up with that. “The meeting went well. Not like it was the - the first time we’ve talked or - or - fuck, are you enjoying this, asshole? - but I saw more of Lois Lane than before - not like that, stop smirking oh oh oh Christ fuck god Lex Lex Lex...”

Lex Luthor had the smuggest smile in the hemisphere. Clark had checked once. He took his time carefully tidying his swollen lips with a handkerchief, then stood up and pressed a kiss to the smoothness of Clark’s jaw. “So has the indefatigable Miss Lane decided you are not, in fact, an evil corporate overlord in the making yet?”

Curling his fingers carefully around Lex’s shoulder, Clark nodded once. “Yup. Passed muster. Maybe she could smell the flannel on me or something.” God, his eyes. Self-satisfied and tender and possessive all at once. He nuzzled Lex’s throat. “So, my turn now, or later?”

“Helen’s waiting, and I don’t have your recovery time.” Lex sighed enviously, tugging carefully on the steel-hard strands of Clark’s hair. “Just think what I could do if I could bring that innovation to mankind....”

Laughing, Clark fixed his pants. “Make love, not war?” He grinned. “Of course, not much else would get made, either. Can’t think you’d like the hit to your production line.”

“I’d just improve the automation. And think how much more productive my people would be while they were working.” The door hissed open, and Lex wandered down the hall from the secure lifts toward the dining room with his hands flying about dangerously close to the irreplaceable original art on the walls. “The implications for creativity alone are staggering, and contentment with the work environment would break the charts. Of course, we’d be even better off if I could replicate some of your abilities, but we’re probably decades from workable human testing for any sort of retroviral application for your genetic material. Though if I can convince Ship to help out, I might be able to get that down to a ten year plan - Kryptonian bioscience is fascinating and I’m still in what I’m given to understand is a primer for teenage specialists.”

Groaning, Clark shook his head. “Helen!” he called down the hall. “He’s going mad scientist again.”

“So he is.” The dying sunlight spilling through the diamond-hard windows mingled with the light-refractive fabric of Helen’s dress and the dark spill of her hair, turning her into a shadow of curves and pale skin as she leaned against the dining room door. “But he’s also forgetting something more important.” She held out a hand and swayed her fingers gently in the air. Lex sighed, fished a key from his pocket and dropped it in her hand.

Helen Wayne smiled like a shark. “Thank you. I’ll enjoy taking the Veneno back to Gotham.”

Hugging her around the shoulders, Clark raised an eyebrow. “What was the bet this time?”

“Evidence of superhuman multitasking capabilities under acute sensory stimulus. The over-under was ninety seconds on subject.” Helen kissed him lightly, her deep blue eyes dancing with mirth as she flipped the keychain around her fingers.

“That wasn’t a very fair trial.” Clark pointed out. “No control, and the sample size was hardly statistically significant.”

“Technically, we only have one subject to work with on your side. On ours, you haven’t show any interest in our sensible attempts to assemble a harem for scientific exploration,” Helen riposted smoothly. Lex muttered something about perfecting a disintegration ray for that contingency in the background. Helen sighed and threw a long-suffering look at him. “Fine. My sensible attempts. When you perfect your grav-boosted club, you can hit him over the head and carry him off to your cave.”

“It isn’t a club,” Lex objected.

X-ray vision didn’t help Clark determine how much Lex was joking. “Right. So this is maybe a bad time to talk about my giant crush on Lois Lane?”

“The Planet investigative reporter?” Helen’s smile was so indulgent that it made him feel like a kid all over again. “You don’t say. Could it be her crusading bylines, her aggressive personality, her breathtaking figure or reckless devotion to the truth that first caught your eye?”

“Crap. I’ve been gushing about her, too, haven’t I,” Clark realized with chagrin.

“A little. Helen pegged it by the second time you bought print copies of her articles even though you’d already read them digitally.” Lex heaved a sigh. “Personally, I don’t know how you can be attracted to someone with such a fondness for salted caramel ice cream and Grey’s Anatomy.”

Clark buried his face in his hands. “Honey, we’ve had this talk. The one about surveillance and stalking?”

“Says the man monitoring the entire globe while he’s not paying attention,” Lex murmured, wrapping his arm around Clark’s waist and kissing the back of his neck lightly. “But don’t worry, I don’t have active surveillance in her apartment. Your afternoon dalliances will be entirely private.”

“Mostly private,” Helen murmured, her hands resting against Clark’s back. “Her home security system is manufactured by a Wayne Industries subsidiary. But I won’t peek.”

“My life,” Clark moaned into the tablecloth. “My. Fucking. Life.”