Spoilers: Let's call it general up until Shattered/Asylum.
Summary: Five things that never happened to Kal-El.
Thanks: Lyra, babe, you really pushed for this one to finally happen, and lo and behold, it did!
The hardest thing, at first, was not to stare. He was just so *naked*, and Chloe hadn’t really seen any naked men…okay, boys…up close and personal before. Of course, Kal didn’t much mind if she stared. He didn’t get that it was rude, which made sense, because he hadn’t ever been taught about what was polite, and what wasn’t, because he was a weird wild alien cave-boy who could move really fast and make fire out of his eyes and probably came from planet Gorgeous or something.
Chloe isn’t even sure how he’d learned English at all. She has some suspicions that it was connected to the metal pod that was propped up against the wall in one of the back caves, which Kal said was ‘his father’. Chloe is pretty sure she’s heard more than one voice when she’s come down to visit Kal a couple of times, so it’s possible the ship has some form of AI. Kal’s pretty fiercely protective of it, though, so she hasn’t asked to examine it. Yet.
She found him two years ago, the summer before freshman year when, on a whim, she’d decided to go investigate the ‘haunted Kawatchee caves’. She’d asked Pete to come, but he’d wussed out, and now Chloe is kind of glad. It makes it seem like Kal is hers, and hers alone. She hasn’t ever told Pete about him. She isn’t really sure she’s going to.
Chloe was scared out of her mind for about two seconds when she saw him for the first time – standing next to the fading brown paintings on the sandstone walls. Sun was coming in through one of the holes in the ground above the caves, and when Kal turned his head toward her, Chloe’s first thought was “Wow. I’m going to be raped and murdered by the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen who is…not wearing any clothes. At all.”
Kal grinned slowly, instead of rushing Chloe like the madman she’d been pretty sure he was, and said, “Hello. My name is Kal-El, what’s yours?”
Chloe still thinks it’s funny that alien-to-human language courses have the same stock phrases as English-to-Spanish.
So, at first, the hardest thing to do was not to stare at his body. At the way it’s perfect even gold all over, and how his hair curls around his shoulders and his eyes are the most amazing green ever, and how he is…big. Everywhere.
She started bringing him jeans a few months after she found him, but Kal only seems to wear them when he’s in a clothes kind of mood. And as it turns out? Naked usually trumps clothed in Kal-El’s repertoire of moods.
Now the hardest thing to do is not to touch him. Because he sits *so close* and his eyes are *so green* and he’s really smart, and sweet and funny if not totally bizarre and fundamentally the strangest person she’ll ever meet in her whole life – and exactly the kind of thing that makes Smallville the most off-the-wall place *ever*.
And he likes her. He really likes her. He *listens* to her when she talks, and yeah, so he doesn’t really have any one else to talk to, but he says these things to her that seem like they’re *real* things. Adult things – like how he thinks about time, and space, and the world, and yeah, so his perspective’s a little skewed, what with not ever having had any kind of human contact before Chloe and being from *outer space* and everything, but he’s got amazing things to say.
And she dreams about him at night. She dreams about his big, long fingers, and his ridiculously long eyelashes, and the way the lines of his muscles all seem *created* for somebody to lay kisses on them. She wants to lick that little hollow place in his throat where sweat shines when it’s really hot out, and she *really* wants to feel what it would be like for him to kiss her.
Chloe wonders if they do things like that where he’s from, and whether or not the AI in his little chrome spaceship has had the birds and the bees talk with him, and she’s also wondering if he’s got any kind of idea *whatsoever* that for about two years now, she’s been basically throwing herself at him.
Probably not. He’s a primitive cave alien who doesn’t know anyone else; how the hell would he be able to pick up on social cues?
She’s seventeen years old, and the truth is, that yeah, okay, she’s got a crush on Kal-El, but also? She’s just plain *horny*, and she’s had it up to her neck with waiting for the oh-so-sweet but oh-so-clueless naked man-boy to pick up on the fact that she wants to tackle him to the floor and screw him senseless.
Or maybe just do a lot of heavy petting, and work up to the screwing. Chloe’s not sure she’s willing to go that far on a first date…even with Kal -“I Am An Alien Adonis”- El.
So today, when she goes into the caves, and Kal turns to her with that slow, sweet smile of his – the one that shows all of those big white teeth and makes his whole face go kind of soft and glowy – and says “Chloe!” in that really nice, “Oh, I’m Just So Very Happy to See You, My Best And Only Friend” way he has, Chloe drops the basket of food she’s brought on the cave floor and grabs his big, beautiful face between her hands.
She presses an insistent kiss onto those soft, pink lips, and licks at them until he opens his mouth, and Chloe *knew* he’d taste good, but she didn’t know he’d taste *this* good. He stumbles backward a little, and Chloe loses her balance, scrabbles at his shoulders for purchase and ends up flush up against his oh-so-nude body, and whoa, nelly, is Kal interested. Chloe can feel his interest poking into her hip, and it’s not gross at all, it’s just…really fucking hot.
“Are you okay?” Kal asks, staring down at her, his hands running up and down her back, and Chloe nods, grins, tells him, “Just fine. Better than fine. Perfect, really. So, what about you?”
Kal looks at her for a second, his green eyes running over her face in that really intense and serious way he gets sometimes, and when he speaks, he’s so very somber. He says, “That was a kiss, wasn’t it?”
Chloe giggles, and feels herself blushing, but she says, “Oh yeah. It sure was.”
Kal nods, his hands sliding down her back to steady themselves on her hips, and maybe the AI did have The Talk with him after all, because he’s leaning in, he’s kissing her cheek, her ear, her eyelids, and Chloe is the luckiest girl in the world. Every one should have their very own naked greek god stashed away in a cave somewhere, to pet and play with and to kiss for days and days and days.
And Chloe does kiss him, and lets herself touch all the places she’s wanted to for, oh, *years*, and those muscles are just as nice to fondle as they were to look at – better even, and his hands on her breasts? Feel pretty much perfect except for all the *cloth* in between them.
“Chloe, I know how you feel about clothes,” Kal whispers into her ear, “but would it be okay if I…?”
Maybe Kal’s species are wacky mind-readers or porn stars or something, Chloe thinks as she shimmies out of her skirt and Kal unbuttons her blouse. Oh yeah, she reflects as she discards her last piece of clothing and she feels all of that gold Kal-skin up against hers, naked is definitely the way to go.
The door behind Martha opens quietly, and when she turns Jonathan’s standing in the doorway, looking nervous and tired.
“Is he…?” Jonathan asks, nodding toward the stairs, and Martha nods.
“Clark’s sleeping,” she tells him, before turning back to the window, her voice grating, harsh.
She rubs her crossed arms, and stares out at the red, red barn. The red’s bright, and dark, like blood in the summer sun, and it hurts her eyes to look at, so she closes them. Jonathan’s feet make heavy thuds against the old wood of the floor as he walks toward her, and his hands are warm on her shoulders.
He takes a deep breath, wraps his arms around her, and pulls her back to his chest, hugging her from behind and burying his face in her hair for a moment. He takes a shuddering breath, and when he speaks again, his words are thick.
“He’s just a baby, Martha, he didn’t know what he…he didn’t know what he was doing,” Jonathan says.
“Of course,” Martha echoes, but what she sees behind her closed eyes is Judge Ross, curled over the still, brown body of what used to be a happy, sweet little boy. She sees Pete’s dark, staring eyes, and his little hand, half curled in the dust. And she sees Clark, smiling, sitting there, clutching that red crystal of meteor rock, tight in his fist. He was waving it through the air, making it swoop and dive over the dead body of the youngest Ross child.
There was blood on his round, smiling face. “Mama!” he said to her, holding out his chubby arms. “Mama, look what I have!”
The teacher was standing to the side, talking to the police, her hand pressed tight against her throat as she sobbed, and Martha could smell the blood in the air – sharp, like iron. Clark ran to her, hugged her knees tightly. She was almost sick.
The policeman wouldn’t look into her eyes when he told her what happened. “It was an altercation over the rock, apparently,” the man said, glancing at the pad in his hand. “Your son wanted it and the other boy wouldn’t give it to him.”
“Look what I have!” Clark kept saying, waving it in the air as Jonathan held him. “Red plane! Red plane!”
Martha grabbed it out of his hand and threw it into the quarry. It rolled down the hill, clinking against the other rocks. Clark sagged back into his father’s arms, blinking and shaking his dark head, and all Martha could think was, ‘What did I bring into my home?’
“Mama?” Clark whimpered, his eyes filling up with tears, before he turned to his father and asked, “Where’s Pete?”
Jonathan leans his forehead against her shoulder, and says, “God, Martha, he’s just…he’s not even six years old. He doesn’t know how strong he is…we shouldn’t have put him in school. Not yet, he’s too young, not ready for that kind of thing. “
Martha opens her eyes, looks down at Jonathan’s big hands. Dust from the quarry is still all over them. It’s all over them both – pink, and terrible, smudged like chalk against their skins.
“We should wash our hands,” she murmurs, breaking away from him, and striding over to the skin. “They’re filthy.”
Jonathan doesn’t say anything, and when she looks over her shoulder, he’s standing with one arm braced against the window. His whole body is bowed, an arc of tension. The water is hot against her hands, and steam curls up toward her face.
They’d only had Clark for six months when he put his hand into a pot of boiling water. It hadn’t done anything to him. Nothing at all. When one of the cows had kicked him, a year ago, it’s hoof had broken. Clark had been fine. It was like nothing could hurt him.
Martha had never thought she’d be afraid of that.
She looks back down at her hands, and they’re red and raw. It occurs to her that the water’s been running a long time, and that it’s very, very hot. She turns it off, and dries herself with a dishtowel. She doesn’t feel anything.
Upstairs, Clark is asleep. Clark, who has been her son for two years. She knows that he’s probably curled on his side, knees drawn up, body formed into a tight little ball. She knows that every now and then, he probably whimpers a little in his sleep, and that when he wakes up, his cheek will be pink where it was pressed against his pillow. She knows that his hair will be standing on end, and that he has not one, but two cowlicks. She knows the way his sleeping body feels in her arms, and the way the skin right behind his ear feels when she presses a kiss to it.
She also knows that Pete Ross’ mother is in the hospital right now, heavily sedated, and that they still haven’t found Pete’s arm. Clark must have thrown it down one of the mines.
God, she thinks, there was *so much* blood. She shudders, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.
“We can’t stay here,” Jonathan says abruptly, pushing himself upright decisively. He stalks toward the hall closet, yanks out a suitcase. “They’re going to take him, and Martha, when they do…they’ll figure out what he is.”
“What is he, Jonathan?” Martha asks, her voice startlingly loud as chills shiver up the length of her body.
Jonathan turns toward her, eyes wide and blue – shocked. “Clark’s our son,” he says simply. He drops the suitcase and walks over to her, grabs her arms and looks down at her.
He’s so tall, so strong, Martha thinks, but Clark is already stronger.
“Martha, tell me you don’t think –” Jonathan demands, angrily, breaking off to shake his head. “He’s our little boy. He found us, remember? We’re supposed to take care of him, and damned if I’ll just hand him over to be put in some kind of cage, and studied and examined…I won’t do that. He’s just a *baby*, dammit, Martha!”
She doesn’t tell him that’s what she’s afraid of. Instead she just reaches out, and pulls him close.
“Hey, Whitney, your brother made front page again today,” Chloe says as Whitney tosses his bag to the ground next to his desk in the Torch office.
Whitney rolls his eyes. “Yeah, so what else is new? Calvin’s always front page. What is it this time? Football? Basketball? Baseball?”
“Nooo,” Chloe draws the word out, perching on the corner of his desk and playfully tossing a mock-up of tomorrow’s edition at his chest. “Jock-Strap Fordman got a full ride from Notre Dame on a football scholarship, and he’s turning it down, according to sources close to the guidance counselor’s office.”
“Amy?” Whitney asks, raising an eyebrow as he stares at the picture of his brother.
Chloe’s eyes sparkle. “Amy,” she confirms, and Whitney shakes his head.
“That girl’s got to be invisible or something to hear all the things she manages to hear,” he mutters.
Cal really needs to cut his hair, Whitney thinks, or else his whole ‘clean-cut shy guy’ mystique’ll go to hell. The dark curls cover Cal’s eyes as he makes a shot from the free-throw line in the grainy picture.
“Well, I don’t question my sources methods *too* closely beyond making sure that they’re accurate,” Chloe says nudging his knee with her foot until he looks up at her. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right?”
Whitney levels a flat stare at her. “You’ve asked and she won’t tell you, is that it?”
“Maybe,” Chloe allows, grinning at him. “So, would sources close to Calvin like to disclose *what* your illustrious adopted brother plans to do upon graduating from the hallowed halls of Smallville high? Will he go pro or will he go to MetU with the lovely Ms. Lang?”
She looks down at him, smiling wide and eyes shining, and Whitney just shrugs because, honestly, there is no predicting what Cal’ll do on any given day. He’s pretty close -mouthed about the future, and even though their mailbox is flooded with fat envelopes that Whitney would *kill* for, when their mom asks what Cal wants to do next year, he just shrugs and mutters something non-committal.
He’s been that way since their dad died, the year before. Cal was always closer to their dad than Whitney was, even though he was adopted. It was because of the sports thing – Cal was so strong, and so fast, and yeah, maybe a little bit too much of both of those things, but their dad had taught him how to be careful, how to use his abilities to win.
Whitney hadn’t been able to compete, really, in the face of that. It worked out okay, though – Cal was the athletic one, Whitney was the smart one. Whitney wanted out of Smallville someday, and his only way out was to be the smartest kid in the class.
With Cal around there was no way he was going to stand out on the field. Even if he was pretty fast for a normal guy, he wasn’t competing with normal guys. He was competing with his brother.
Whitney loves Calvin, and he was glad that his parents had found him in the field that day, but some days…it’s really hard to be the Other Fordman Brother.
“Earth to Whitney,” Chloe calls, reaching out to knock on his forehead. “You in there?”
He rubs his head and glares at her. “That’s domestic violence,” he says, “and I don’t have to take it.”
Chloe rolls her eyes. “Please. I barely even touched you. Besides, someone my size beating up a fine strapping lad like your self? That’s a story that would belong on my wall of weird.”
“You know,” Whitney says, reaching out and pulling his girlfriend into his lap, “that’s the kind of talk that supports all of those nasty macho stereotypes you keep complaining about.”
“Oh, and sitting in your lap right now is really a feminist act?” Chloe laughs, and Whitney kisses her slowly – long and lingering, and when he pulls back she’s flushed.
“You know,” Chloe says, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “When I first came here? It was Cal I had a crush on.”
Whitney shakes his head. “You and everyone else in the world,” he says, and Chloe laughs a little.
Whitney loves the way she laughs, and he kisses the line of her jaw, whispers, “You’re lucky you ended up with me.”
“Oh, am I?” she asks playfully, pulling back just enough to look down at him.
“Yeah,” Whitney confirms, grinning up at her. “Cal wouldn’t have known what to do with you.”
Chloe leans in to kiss him again, but suddenly there’s a crash and a baseball comes hurtling through the window.
“Sorry!” Cal’s voice calls up. “I’m coming up to get it!”
Chloe just shakes her head, staring at the hole in the glass.
“Unbelievable, “ she says. “We’re two stories up! Your brother is like, completely not from this world, you realize that.”
Whitney chuckles, buries his face in Chloe’s neck, murmurs, “You don’t even known the half of it.”
When Cal shows up in the doorway a minute later, both Chloe and Whitney are flushed, but sitting in different chairs. As soon as he walks in, Chloe’s head snaps up and her eyes narrow and it’s all Whitney can do not to laugh, because he *knows* that look, and he doesn’t envy Cal the interrogation he’s about to get.
Nighttime in Metropolis is open season for the rich and dull, Lucas thinks, knocking back another shot of whiskey as he surveys the crowd, darkly. He hates this fucking place. Shitty music and boring people and why the *fuck* did he come back here?
He’s looking for something more interesting, and it doesn’t look like he’s going to find it here. It wasn’t in any of the four other clubs he’s been to tonight either, and Lucas is already on his feet, heading toward the door when he sees the kid. Leaning against the bar, shirt only buttoned halfway up his chest, hips jutting out – a long, tall package of come-fuck-me, topped off with a serious pair of cocksucker lips and Lucas knows that face. He’s a little bit drunk, but he fucking knows that face and –
Shit. It’s the farmboy, and he’s finally ditched the plaid.
Lucas lets his eyes travel up and down the kid’s body, and damn, but it’s a nice trip. Lucas remembers thinking the kid was hot back in Smallville, but now?
Well, now he’s more…interesting. And Lucas likes interesting. He pushes his way through the sweating, drunken crowd, and sidles up close to the kid, who doesn’t notice him until Lucas leans over and whispers, “You’re a ways from home, Clark Kent,” in his ear.
The kid’s head whips around so fast that Lucas can’t even blink before he’s nose to nose with a face full of fucking *pretty*. The kid’s hand’s fisted in his shirt, pulling him even closer, and Lucas is…not minding that farmboy wants to play this rough. Lucas is all about rough.
“That’s not my name anymore,” the kid says, loud enough so that Lucas can hear him over the bass beat.
So, Lucas thinks, games. He can do games. “What is?” he asks, not even turning a hair.
“Kal,” says the kid after a weird pause. He lets go of Lucas’ shirt, smoothes it out a little and settles back against the bar, shooting Lucas a flirty look through those damned girly lashes of his. “You can call me Kal.”
“Whatever,” Lucas says, with a shrug. His eyes slide down to Kal’s ass, which looks pretty fucking fine, and yeah, this is maybe *exactly* what Lucas was looking for tonight, so what if the kid’s Big Brother’s Special Friend. Lucas wants to get laid, and he wants to get laid now, and there’s this convenient alley, right out back.
Lucas’ hand is just *itching* to cup the curve of Kal’s ass, so what the fuck? If he’s going to make a pass, why not do it fucking right – the kid’s fast enough he could probably stop Lucas if he wanted.
He doesn’t. Instead he looks over his shoulder at Lucas, with this long, slow, hot smile that’s just filled with carnal intent, and yeah, Lucas’ night is getting better.
“There’s an alley out back,” Kal says, and Lucas can’t stop himself from grinning. He pushes off from the bar and looks back over his shoulder, and the kid’s right there, dogging his steps, looking damned eager.
Lucas likes eager.
The air in the alley’s cool against his face, but not as cool as the stone wall he’s pushed up against. The kid grunts, humps his ass a little, and yeah, that feels good. Even better when the kid reaches around front, undoes his pants and pushes them down, mouths the side of his neck, and Lucas had forgotten about that mouth. How fucking hot it was.
He pushes back against Kal, and Kal growls in his ear – hot and low – but he doesn’t let up at all, doesn’t let Lucas turn around, so it looks like tonight Lucas is getting fucked, and hell he’s fine with it.
“Lube and condoms in my coat pocket,” he grits out, taking himself in hand and jacking once or twice. He feels Kal’s cock nudging at his ass through the fabric of Kal’s jeans he’s still wearing, and there’s one finger pushing into him, and it burns, and too soon, there’s another finger, and another, and hell yeah, the kid’s finger fucking him like a pro. The edge of pain doesn’t bother him – makes everything hotter, better, more *real* through that whiskey fog.
Lucas has a hard-on that he could beat the fucking *band* with by the time he hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper, and then he feels the blunt head of Kal’s cock, pushing into him by inches, not careful – just insistent, and *shit* this is good.
Kal starts to move, groaning. His fingers are tight on Lucas’ hip, so tight he’s going to have some impressive goddamned bruises tomorrow, but Lucas likes it. He likes that he’ll be feeling this for days and days to come, he likes the way the kid keeps hitting that sweet spot, the one that makes the world white out a little around the edges. The farmboy’s just *riding* Lucas, and shit, Lucas likes being ridden by this kid.
Likes it so much that he doesn’t last long before coming all over the dirty wall in front of him, and Kal doesn’t last much longer. When the kid comes, he makes this noise that sounds a fuckload like Lex’s name, and Lucas laughs a little.
“Wrong fuckin’ Luthor, kid,” he pants.
Kal says nothing, just pulls out of him kind of abruptly. Lucas doesn’t move, just keeps his head pressed against his arms, catches his breath. He hears the soft wet plop of the condom being tossed aside, and the hiss of a zipper.
“Catch you later,” Kal says, and shit, Lucas thinks as he listens to the sound of Kal’s footsteps receding down the alleyway, but he sounds like he means it.
Lex isn’t sure how long he’s been out of Belle Reve. At first things were still fogged up by the meds he’d been taking. Clark doesn’t tell him where they’re going, or where he gets the money they’re using.
He doesn’t tell Lex much, beyond what he needs to know. But he doesn’t lie. Lex likes that.
The first night Lex was able to, he asked what had happened. Clark shrugged, said, “Your dad drove you crazy, gave you some kind of poison or something. We’ll get him back for that, don’t worry. Long and short of it, you ended up in the loony bin, I bailed you out of there. And by the way, yeah, I did get hit by a car before you went in there, and you did hit me on the bridge. I'm not human. Who cares? All that matters is that I got you out.”
“Why?” Lex asked, and Clark just raised his dark brows, looked vaguely amused. Looked vaguely off – like some kind of stranger wearing Clark’s face. Someone older, someone harder, someone meaner. Someone more like Lex.
“Why did I get you out?” he echoed, uncrossing his arms before crawling up the bed on all fours, a dark, wicked smile on his face. “Because it’s no fun playing all by yourself.”
Lex didn’t notice the class ring on Clark’s finger until a few days later. It seemed like Clark was different, but he wasn’t sure if he was just imagining it, or if he was still drugged.
Not that it would have mattered, really.
Nothing quite makes sense anymore – like the world’s somehow turned upside down. It must have, because he and Clark are on the run from his father, and Clark’s fucking him senseless every night, and sometimes, when Clark’s sleeping peaceful and naked next to Lex, he hears the rasp of Louis’ voice or the sound of the waves on the island.
He didn’t hear Julian until the night when Clark went out for a couple of hours. He tried singing, but that high, frightened shrieking wouldn’t go away, not until Clark came back.
“It’s a fucking *blanket*, Lex,” Clark said in disgust as he pulled it away from Lex and suddenly, it was again. Just a blanket – thin and green.
A minute ago it had been a warm body in his arms. A little brother.
Lex is pretty sure that he’s never going to stop being crazy. It doesn’t bother him. Not too much.
Clark stole them a car – a little black convertible, and the trunk’s filled with cash and guns.
“We’re going after Lionel,” he said abruptly one night, after they’d fucked. “Maybe in a few weeks. When you’re stronger. Bastard thinks he can get away with anything. Fuck him, Lex. We get rid of him, and we’re golden – the whole company’s yours then. We can live in the penthouse. Do whatever the hell we want.”
Lex remembers the way Clark had grinned then, this vicious slow slide of a smile at the idea of killing Lionel.
Lex can’t really blame him; he feels pretty good about the idea himself, ever since Clark told him about how he was next up on the electro-shock-therapy list at Belle Reve.
Besides, killing your family is a Luthor tradition. Lex remembers that much.
They’re not ready yet. Lex knows that Clark’s waiting for him to be well enough to plan something, some way of killing Lionel that won’t be obvious foul play. Clark’s not too good at planning, and he seems content to wait for Lex.
Lex doesn’t know how long that’ll last, though.
One night, he asked, “What happens when you get bored with me?”
Clark looked at him, expression a mixture of hauteur and indulgence, and he said, “I’d suggest you see to it that I don’t.”
“And what if I got bored with you? What if I run away?” Lex asked, then, and Clark laughed out loud.
“That’d be cute,” Clark told him, obviously amused as he stretched both arms up over his head in a slow, predatory stretch. “Really cute, Lex. Why don’t you try it sometime?”
These days, Lex is doing better enough for them to go out at night, and usually they do. Clark likes clubs a lot, which surprises Lex a little bit, but not too much. Before they head out, Clark makes Lex take one of the pistols from the trunk, and tuck it into the back of his pants.
“I’m not going to bail your ass out if you get in any kind of trouble, not if I don’t feel like it,” Clark says, crossing his arms. “You should be able to look after yourself.”
Tonight’s place is just a hole in the wall, with salsa music and cheap tequila. Lex takes a couple of shots, goes to the bathroom, and comes back to find Clark covered in woman.
He doesn’t much like it. Especially because she's kissing Clark’s lips, and Lex had forgotten until this very second that he’s a dangerous man. Hell, more dangerous now that he’s crazy and his conscience has turned into a sociopath on him.
“I don’t like sharing,” he says, loud enough to startle the woman. She pulls back, just a little, but Clark’s hand on her hip keeps her in place. He just smiles lazily at Lex, eyes half-lidded.
“Yeah?” he says. “What are you going to do about it, huh? Make me leave here and go home with you?”
“I can’t make *you* do anything,” Lex says reasonably, smiling a little. “Can I?”
Clark just nods once. “Nice to see that you understand that.”
Lex’s smile widens, and he pulls his pistol out of his pants, aims at the woman’s head. She starts gibbering at him, eyes wide. The music’s so loud that no one seems to notice.
“I can make her leave, though,” Lex tells Clark, and the woman tries to scrabble off his lap. Clark doesn’t let her.
“And if she doesn’t go?” Clark asks, voice low and rough, like it is when he’s feeling talkative in bed, whispering dirty, hot things into Lex’s ear. “What then?”
Lex cocks the gun, puts it up against the woman’s temple. She’s sobbing, but Lex doesn’t particularly care. “Nobody else touches what’s mine,” Lex says evenly. “And you’re mine.”
“I thought it was the other way around,” Clark drawls. Lex shakes his head, and Clark says, “Prove it, then.”
Lex pulls the trigger, and that’s noise enough to get some attention. People turn toward them, some of them screaming – it doesn’t matter. All Lex can see is the way Clark’s looking at him, smiling the way another Clark did once at another Lex, despite the red flecks of blood across his face.
Clark lets the woman’s body drop to the floor, and he grabs Lex, kisses him fiercely. “Must be love, then,” he says.
“Yes,” Lex answers, as all around them people are yelling, trying to pull him away from Clark, but they can’t. No one can. “It must be love after all.”