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Chapter Text

The kettle whistled. With one arm, Lex poured water over a heaping spoonful of instant coffee, stirred, and brought it to his lips. The thick sludge tasted like mud, the bitter, grainy coffee beans scratched his throat and stained his veneers. He gulped it down anyway, slamming the empty mug back on the counter. 

The cheap coffee is obviously out of mockery. As is this whole sad excuse of an apartment with migraine-inducing LED lights and a broken thermostat. The federal government had seized his assets as soon as he set foot into the police car. And now, under house arrest, he resides not in one of his own comfortable homes but in a dingy, government-owned property. 

The entire apartment was reminiscent of a soon-to-be bankrupt three-star hotel. The walls were sparsely decorated with paintings of landscapes and a single clock that was annoyingly four and a half minutes behind the analog in the kitchen. The floor plan was simple: a bedroom with an en suite that led into the living space, which also happened to be the same room as the kitchen. In the bedroom, the full-sized bed was generously provided with a single sheet and foam pillow, while the bathroom was stocked with soaps and gels that smelled like sandalwood, though the vanity light flickered and the towels were well-used and scratchy. The living space consisted of a plush loveseat across from a blue couch. Between the furniture sat a coffee table that housed exactly three books (Gone With the Wind, Moby Dick, and an outdated Easy Dinners cookbook) and a wooden chess set. The kitchen area is stocked with cheap essentials—instant coffee, microwaveable oatmeal, packets of ramen noodles, and soup cans. There were no knives. No windows. No television. The front door, his only viable portal to the outside world, was locked on the outside, presumably guarded by a rotating collective of federal agents. The corded phone that sat on the kitchen counter had exactly two buttons for external calls: one for general requests and another for emergencies. Although in theory anyone could call him, during the past week, he had only received two calls from his lawyers on the otherwise inactive line. 

In their last call, his lawyers discussed court strategies for his charges: conspiracy, crimes against humanity, abduction, and first-degree murder. Lex wasn’t worried in the slightest. He’s not going to Belle Reve, no matter what the fickle news outlets are surely telling the public now. He doubts he’ll even set foot in prison. With his money, resources, and a firm hand on the legal system, this nightmare will be over immediately after he steps out of court. As per his lawyers’ suggestion, Lex had pleaded not guilty to negotiate the full return of his assets and ultimately avoid any outstanding criminal charges. The only actual consequence was his current state of imprisonment. 

For seven torturous days, Lex woke up after a sleepless night of tossing and turning, plagued by nightmares of embarrassing live interviews, violent super-dogs, and one bastard alien in particular. His neck was always cramped by the shitty foam pillow, and his forearm still itched and ached in his cast. Nevertheless, he maintained a strict regimen. Meditate. Think about annihilating Superman. Shower. Make shitty coffee in his shitty kitchen. Ponder Superman’s weaknesses. Eat bland oatmeal. Daydream about Superman’s demise. Read Moby Dick again. Take a nap to pass the time. Have another Superman-induced nightmare. Wake up in a cold sweat. Curse Superman. Heat a can of soup. Contemplate methods of escaping to kill Superman. Meditate again. Imagine Superman violently exploding, his alien blood and innards coating the streets of Metropolis. Drift off to a restless sleep. 

His trial wasn’t until next month. Exactly twenty-eight days left of this hell-hole. Twenty-eight days until Lex can exact his revenge on Superman and each and every one of those incompetent sycophants who dared to be disloyal. Anger. Resentment. Feelings that had solely motivated him to defend humanity from Superman are now directed to new oppositions. Those metahuman friends of Superman, the so-called Justice Gang. The Daily Planet, the newspaper that ruined him. That backstabbing, lying whore Eve. Useless Angela and, in fact, the rest of his employees who watched as he got his ass handed to him by a fucking crusty white dog. The volcanic hatred bubbled in his stomach, filling him with sufficient motivation to survive this imprisonment to henceforth eliminate anyone and anything that would get in his way. 

Yet, in the dead of night when the cold air sends shivers up his spine and plants a deep chill in his bones, he couldn’t help but feel completely and utterly empty. 

Pathetic, he can hear his father say, when he’s cocooned in his thin blanket. Worthless. Lex attempts to push those feelings aside. He’s Lex Fucking Luthor. The most intelligent man on Earth. He’s powerful, rich, and revered for his accomplishments. Nevertheless, the thoughts make his chest squeeze painfully, and his throat sour with bile. Pathetic. Worthless. Even temporarily, Superman bested him. A muscle-for-brains alien. An imbecile who wears his fucking underwear outside of his pants. Lex knew that letting these thoughts overtake him would render him mentally blunt and physically inoperable. So, only late at night does he allow that feeling to take over, crawling over every inch of his pale skin, poisoning his veins. It keeps him up at night, re-evaluating every possible variable, every moment where he faltered and ultimately failed. 

Today—the eighth day—is no less miserable. That morning, he woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare. He was in Superman’s ice fortress, but this time he was alone in the cavernous halls, and he was running, running from someone…or something. He attempted to meditate his nerves away. He drank awful coffee. He tried to read Gone with the Wind before giving up and instead imagined different ways in which he could eliminate Superman, each more brutal than the last. Eventually, he was so bored that he attempted to play chess with himself, switching from the loveseat to the couch to consider different moves against himself. He was on his sixth move when he heard a knock at the door. 

“Come in!” Lex called as he hastily tried to put all of the pieces back on the board. By any standards, playing chess by yourself is extremely lame. 

He expected his lawyer, a government agent, or the doctor, maybe, to remove this goddamn cast, but certainly not Superman in his usual hideous blues and reds. 

Fear and anger rose to the back of his eyes; a throbbing migraine started to set in. He tried to stand up straight, looking as imposing as possible even in his disabled state, as one would do with a wild bear. Superman just stood there, twiddling his thumbs in front of him with a stupid little smirk on his face. 

“You came here to rub it in, didn’t you?” His voice embarrassingly comes out scratchy from days of disuse. “You ruined my life, what more could you possibly want?” He grabs a wayward bishop and holds it tightly, tempted to throw it at Superman’s head. “Get out.” 

Undeterred, Superman wiped his boots off on the mat and made his way across from Lex on the other side of the table. He shrugged, “Thought you could use some company.” 

“I said, leave.” Lex’s heart beat in his throat. 

When Superman doesn’t budge, Lex really does throw the bishop at Superman. It bounces off his temple harmlessly and rolls onto the floor. “That wasn’t very nice.” Though he didn’t sound a touch angry, only infuriatingly amused. 

Lex seethes as Superman picks the bishop up, places it on the table, and takes a seat on the loveseat. Lex snatches it back. Why was he here? That weak-willed alien doesn’t have the gall to try to cause him bodily harm. Clearly, Superman’s presence is meant to be a form of government-mandated psychological torture. While there is no way he could, even at his fittest, best Superman physically, he’s still able to fortify himself mentally. 

“Playing chess?” Superman asked, breaking him out of his train of thought. 

“No.” 

Superman cocked his head. “Are you any good?” 

Lex cleared his throat. “I’m certainly better than you.”  

Superman’s eyebrow twitched in amusement. “Is that a challenge?” 

Silence lingered. It could be a trap, but Lex feels. The least he could do is demonstrate his superiority to Superman through a simple game. Lex sits back down on the couch and places the bishop on the board. He moves his pawn two spaces and ignores Superman’s glowing smile. 

Chapter Text

Luthor beats him in five moves. 

Admittedly, Clark doesn’t know how to play chess. To play well, at least. 

Lois once taught him the basic rules at a Daily Planet Christmas party—how each piece moves and the difference between a ‘check’ and a ‘checkmate’—but he hadn’t bothered becoming good at it. Clark had grown up on card games with his Ma and Pa and word games with his friends at school. His late grandparents had a checkers set, but the red and black pieces only had one shape and one way to move. 

So, yes, he probably couldn’t beat Luthor in chess even if his life depended on it, but he didn’t really want to. Luthor seemed to have attempted to maintain some of his usual polished look with a well-pressed dress shirt and tailored slacks. Still, with the stitches and blue-black bruises that decorated his skull and the cast wrapped around his forearm, he seemed uncharacteristically frail. And his eyes just looked…so sad. A jarring memory took Clark back to the LuthorCorp office, watching the beaten and bloodied Lex Luthor shed tears of defeat. Despite everything, at that moment, Clark couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

Luthor starts setting up the game again, this time with a smug glint in his eye. He moved his pawn again two spaces and glanced up at Clark briefly, as if to say Best two out of three? Clark felt a wave of satisfaction flood over him. This was exactly what Luthor needed: a win over Superman. 

Clark knew that his friends believed him to be too idealistic, but he wasn’t completely naive. He was well aware that, no matter the press’s influence or public opinion, Lex Luthor would be let off easily. In the slightest chance that he would be sent to Belle Reve, Clark understood that prisons rarely promote rehabilitation. With the existing investigations into Belle Reve’s many cases of abuse, it’s clear that there is no compassion or hope for change for the prisoners. Either way, with his fortune, Luthor won’t face any proper consequences. 

Clark knew that Luthor had no incentive to change, either. After his trial, Superman will still be alive and well, on the streets of Metropolis. Consequently, Luthor will cause more problems. Clark shudders to think of what his next plot could be. Though in some ways, Clark is grateful that Luthor was honest about his motivation. Maybe, Clark thought, if Luthor didn’t hate him, he wouldn’t hurt innocent civilians. Maybe if Clark could help Luthor see Superman’s humanity, to truly understand him, then so many lives could be saved and spared from hardship. Luthor had only met him a handful of times, most of which were under extremely stressful circumstances that did not exactly endorse civil communication. Now, in Luthor’s isolated room, free of the prying eyes of the public, social media, coworkers, and employees, Clark has the opportunity to show Luthor who he is beyond his superpowers. 

At the same time, he truly hoped to understand Lex Luthor better. Of course, he was aware of him and his multifaceted company working for the Daily Planet. Though it almost seems impossible to live in Metropolis without being aware of LuthorCorp’s CEO. Clark read interviews, tabloids, blog posts, and Reddit threads dedicated to the billionaire. Some netizens called him a genius, an inventor, and the world’s most eligible bachelor, while others called him a narcissist and a sociopath. Depending on who you talk to, he’s charming, abusive, a crook, and the most honest man you’ll ever meet. A different version of Luthor seems to exist in every headline and post across the Internet.

And there’s the version that Clark knows: calculating, angry, and drenched in a superiority complex. Clark knows Lex Luthor, the supergenius, who can create functioning clones, metahumans, and pocket dimensions. Clark also knows the Lex Luthor who targeted the people of Jarhanpur, allowed a Kaiju to destroy the downtown area, and created an interdimensional rift that almost swallowed the entirety of Metropolis out of envy. He knows the Lex Luthor who kidnapped and imprisoned his enemies. He knows the Lex Luthor who killed Mali. At that moment, he felt so helpless. It happened so fast. He couldn’t help Mali despite his desperate pleas; he couldn’t give Luthor a satisfactory answer to stop him. Knowing that every one of those atrocities was to target Superman made Clark feel sick to his stomach, and his heart felt like lead. It wasn’t about Luthor profiting from the weapons trade or amassing more political power or destruction for destruction’s sake; it was about extracting and eradicating Superman. So, Clark needs to take responsibility. He needs to take action before anyone else is hurt.

Because of the life that Clark has experienced, the Earth with all the complexities of kindness and love and compassion, he doesn’t believe that anyone can be truly evil. Even someone as hateful as Lex Luthor. Clark felt a duty to show Luthor that he had the resources and intelligence to make the world a better place rather than destroy it for his ego.

The first step: coaxing Luthor’s guard down by beating Superman in chess…again. 

While Clark was losing with each turn, he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the swift and graceful way Luthor danced the pieces across the board, the way his irises darted across the checkered panel, calculating every possible move. Occasionally, he felt especially proud when any of his random moves stumped Luthor, making his brow furrow and his hand come up to rub against the side of his face. He would recover quickly, however, and take one of Clark’s knights. Clark was far from offended by his loss; he couldn’t imagine how many steps ahead Luthor was. It occurred to him, when Luthor’s rook closed in on his king, that he couldn’t take his eyes off Luthor, and Luthor couldn’t take his eyes off the game. 

When Luthor checks him a second time, he sits back, pleased, and finally looks at Clark. “Surely the government sent you.” 

“No, actually,” Clark responded truthfully, even though he knew Luthor wouldn’t believe him. “It’s, well, this seems a little lonely.” He gestured to the windowless walls. 

“I don’t need your pity,” Luthor snapped. “And I have plenty of visitors.” His eyes darted down to the board to fixate on his win. Maybe contemplating a more strategic way, he could have won. 

Now, Clark knows that’s not true. He heard agents outside the door gossiping about it. And who would visit him? Angela is currently preparing a testimony against him and has become the resident ghost at the Justice Gang’s headquarters to avoid time in Belle Reve. He tried to visit her once to hopefully introduce himself in better circumstances, only to be shooed away by Kendra (“I don’t think she’s ready to see you yet. Give her some time.”). All of the employees working during that fateful day at LuthorCorp are either being tried for aiding and abetting or have fled entirely. Eve is too busy being head over heels in love with Jimmy, which she has made known to everyone in Metropolis and her thousands of followers online. Does he have any close friends left? Any real allies? Clark doubts it.  

He bites his lip and decides to change the subject. “Sorry about your arm. He sort of has some boundary issues.” 

“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.” Luthor then muttered, “I knew I should’ve put that mutt down when I had the chance.”

The air in the room instantly sours. 

Clark’s jaw tightens. He knew this would happen. Lois’s words echo in his ears: Stay cool, Kent. He takes a deep breath. “I am sorry on the dog’s behalf, but that doesn’t mean you can say that.” 

Lex looks up at him with his baby blues, feigning innocence. “Say what?” 

“Are you trying to provoke me on purpose?” 

“Is it working?” 

Clark doesn’t want to get into it, he decides. So he opts for a distraction. “Another game?” 

“Well, obviously you’re shit at chess. Are you even trying?” 

“I am.” Clark picks up the tiny tower and imagines a tiny medieval prince scaling it to save his tiny lover trapped at the top. He puts it back down. “I just haven’t really played before.”

“You haven’t played before,” Lex repeats, deadpan.

“Yeah, I’m more of a Scrabble or Bananagrams guy.” Lex pulls a face that either means Who the fuck plays Bananagrams? or You can spell?. Clark shrugs. He suddenly feels restless and a little giddy. “If you want a fair fight, I’ll bring one of those next time. I’ll kick your ass with all twenty-six letters of the alphabet.” 

“Fine.” 

“Fine.” Clark stood up, maybe a bit too fast, and bumped the coffee table, causing some of the pieces to topple. He tried to ignore Luther flinching at the commotion. “See you tomorrow then.” 

Before Lex could respond, Clark had already closed the door behind him. Despite his initial insistence to stay, he was looking forward to leaving, actually. Clark usually prides himself on being calm and collected in the face of chaos and danger, but being around Luthor made him feel like a ticking time bomb. Around him, Clark doesn’t trust himself to be completely rational. It was annoying, frustrating, and exhilarating all at once. Even as he was miles away from Luthor, he could still feel his heart beating unusually fast.

Chapter Text

What the fuck just happened? 

Superman waltzes in uninvited, practically forces him to play chess—although very predictably loses twice—and now he’s coming back to challenge him in fucking Bananagrams? 

Although the door firmly shut behind Superman, the deadbolt turning on the outside, he couldn’t rule out the whole ordeal as a stress-induced hallucination. Theories and questions raced through his mind, all overshadowed by the doubt that he would see Superman before he left this hellhole. However, as promised, Superman shows up the next day with an annoying grin on his face and a Scrabble box in his arms. 

Like the day prior, Lex generously greets him (“You again?”) and they commence their competition in relative silence. 

Ten minutes into the game, the words rotating in Lex’s mind come spilling out of his mouth. “I don’t know why you bothered showing up. I hope I didn’t make you feel too welcome.” 

Superman’s brows furrow, wrinkling his perfectly smooth skin. It was his turn, which means that he had to shuffle the letters around a million times before making a decision. “Huh? Oh, I just thought this would be a good time for you to get to know me. Not just as Superman, but also as the Metropolis’ Greatest Scrabble-r.” He finally makes his play.

Lex looked down at the board. Superman played MAXIMIZE for forty-one points. Bastard. 

The outcome of the game was delayed thanks to a great amount of back and forth on the technicalities of the Scrabble point system. Despite Superman’s semi-convincing arguments about abiding by the rule booklet, Lex still refused to concede that this thing won. It’s impossible. He punches for a living—how in the hell could Superman beat him?

Superman didn’t look disappointed at his defeat, however. He just flashed his stupidly white teeth and shrugged. “I’ll get you next time.” 

The next day, Superman comes back for a Scrabble rematch. And if anyone were to ask, no, he did not lose. Superman was just dealt better letters. In the days that followed, Superman arrived armed with a deck of cards, crosswords, sudoku puzzles, and, of-fucking-course, Bananagrams. 

Lex decided to take advantage of this visitation to truly observe Superman’s behavior and collect any information that could be useful in future endeavors. Unfortunately, puzzles and games didn’t reveal any ground-breaking discoveries. Superman is never reactive to personal insults—although he sighed extra loudly when Lex brought up Supershit. Unlike Lex, he seems comfortable with silences and is never compelled to fill them. However, it’s plausible that it’s a tactic to avoid exposing any vital information. When he’s not fighting or flying, Superman moves clumsily, like he has no idea how large he is relative to the space around him. Surprisingly, he never displays any supernatural strength while doing menial tasks, not even accidentally. He’s awkward, trips up his words, and tends to hunch into himself when he’s sitting, as if he’s attempting to appear smaller. In these moments, Lex could almost be fooled that this wasn’t Superman at all, but a human look-alike who preferred wearing his underwear outside of his ugly blue pants. It made his stomach turn how easily Superman could blend in, even in his obnoxious suit. 

He’s halfway competent, too, Lex hates to admit. The football imbeciles in Lex’s high school, whose physical likeness Superman so closely resembles, practically had grey matter leaking from their ears after bashing in their heads all day. Those gorillas he called classmates could barely think, much less spell. Superman could have his head bashed into a building and still scrape up the brain cells to play QUIXOTIC in Scrabble, somehow. 

On Superman’s eleventh visit, he brought two copies of the Daily Planet Sunday crossword puzzle and a box of donuts, which Lex refused to eat out of sensible caution.

Then Superman started eating them one by one. Slowly. Tantalizingly. Getting crumbs all over the goddamn floor.

Lex felt his eye twitch. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“Can’t let ‘em go to waste,” Superman said with a disgusting mouthful, reaching for the last donut. 

Lex slapped his hand away. Poison or no, he wasn’t going to let Superman take away possibly the best food he’s had in two weeks.

“You glutton,” Lex had sneered as he bit into the donut. It was delicious. 

Lex chose to ignore that Superman looked infuriatingly pleased.

When Superman brought him a copy of The Great Gatsby, Lex’s suspicions rose once more. How else would he know it was his favorite book? 

“I read it in an interview,” Superman explained when he was rightfully interrogated. 

Okay, well, he didn’t exactly remember, but he supposes that he might have mentioned that once. 

“It was from 2019,” Superman continued. “For the promotion event that you did with that bookstore company.”

Smith & Co. Of course. How could he possibly forget? So, Superman was doing his research now. Lex supposed it was only fair after he had closely watched, filmed, analyzed, and dissected Superman’s every move for the last three years. 

They settled into silence once more. Superman stretched out across the couch and opened a beat-up paperback. He must have noticed Lex looking because he peered from above the yellowed pages and flashed him the cover. “Pride and Prejudice. I love Jane Austen.” 

Occasionally, Lex would glance over to see if Superman was actually reading or if this was an unusual farce in his long-term game. Lex watched him turn four pages. So, it did appear that he was progressing in the story. He also noticed that Superman would react dramatically to the events of the book. Often, he would catch Superman smiling widely, or furrowing his brows, or bulging his eyes. One could almost tell the exact point of the story by the pattern of expressions he made. What a fool. 

Eventually, Superman yawned, glanced up at the clock on the wall, and announced his departure. Lex buried his face in the book, pretending not to notice. He hadn’t turned a single page in fifteen minutes.

Lex would think that Superman would eventually give up on this endeavor. Perhaps he’ll realize that whatever his plans were, it wasn’t working. Perhaps he’ll simply get bored. But he came back again. And again. And again.

He knew there was something wrong with him when he found himself disappointed to see the doctor coming through the door to take his cast off instead of Superman. Has Superman been subtly Pavlov-ing Lex with his stupid donuts and books and puzzles and games? There is no way that he could find any enjoyment out of spending time with Superman, in his stupid red cape and his stupid grin and his stupid fucking cologne that lingers in the apartment hours after he leaves.

After his doctor had long gone, right on schedule, Superman knocked on the door. He entered, more disheveled than usual, and flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. In his hands were a deck of cards and a bag of pastries from La Petit Boulangerie. Business as usual. 

The pastries were decent, and Gin Rummy was stimulating enough, but Superman wouldn’t stop sighing and pouting. The sad act quickly grated on his nerves. 

He doesn’t care what Superman allegedly feels. At least that's what he told himself when he threw down his cards and asked: “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Hmm? Oh, I’m fine.” 

“Right.” Lex leaned in a little closer. Superman’s eyes were slightly bloodshot, like he’d been crying. 

Superman let out a self-deprecating laugh and sat up straighter. “Sorry, I don’t feel like talking about it. It’s something pretty personal. Another game?” 

Lex rolled his eyes and reshuffled the deck. If Superman wanted to play coy, so be it.

But Lex knew ‘personal’ issues for Superman could only mean one thing: relationship troubles. Obviously, Lex didn’t believe the secret harem was real; he was the one who purposefully fanned that flame, but he didn’t think that Superman would stoop to a monogamous relationship. One that would have him in tears, apparently. Superman could have any woman he wished, Lex figured. Especially now that the public adores him more than ever. 

That night, he can’t stop thinking about the plausibility of Superman in a relationship. Weeks ago, the concept would have disgusted him, but now, he can’t help but feel fascinated with the idea. Is his consort a metahuman? It’s likely, but clearly, he hasn’t gone public with her yet. Unless he has in the last three weeks, Lex has been in isolation. Surely, if Superman were with a woman previous to his imprisonment, he would have known about it. Does Superman take her on dates in the city? Do they play board games and crosswords in his ice fortress? How did they meet? Is he good in bed? A new category of Superman’s life opened up, and Lex felt anxious to know everything. 

Lex’s own romances were mostly short-lived and unexciting. After divorcing twice before the age of twenty-five, he sought out vacuous, expensive women who would affirm his intelligence, and good looks, and wealth. Some, like Eve, were capable enough but were still willing to degrade themselves for his ego. All, however, rarely stayed long; he often got bored with them or annoyed by their inexcusable quirks. Spending time with his ex-girlfriends was always an exhausting game of pretending to be amused by their interests, holding conversations about meaningless bullshit, and providing enough Tiffany necklaces and Louis Vuitton purses so that they forget about his frequent outbursts. 

At first, Superman was an unapproachable and foreign force, simultaneously frightening and fascinating. Then, more recently, Lex saw him for what he really is: impulsive and stupid. But now with the gifts, the juvenile competitions—conceding to Lex’s win even when they both knew he lost—and how he laughs off Lex’s threats easily, never afraid or intimidated. It could be unpleasant. But instead, Lex found that it was…easy. Superman was easy. Not that he was anything like his ex-girlfriends whatsoever. He’s muscular, he’s tall, and he could lift a skyscraper. He has perfected the boy-next-door camouflage. 

Lex has been patiently waiting so long for Superman to slip up, to show any sign of arrogance or superiority, but nothing. When provoked properly, Lex can goad the violence out of Superman—albeit more so on desks and windows than on people. But here in this soulless government apartment, Superman just smiles and shakes his head like Lex is an old friend, not someone who would take the greatest pleasure in killing him. He finds himself feeling nauseous again. 

In the morning, he has an epiphany. 

As much as Lex is far above the plebeians who worship Superman, he’s fallen for the act. The ‘but I have human feelings, too’ act. It must all be part of Superman’s plan to fool him. To disarm him. To extract information from him. It’s the only explanation for why Superman has been coming to him, day after day, despite everything. There must be an ulterior motive. Maybe the government is hoping Superman will influence him before his trial. Maybe he’s here for surveillance. Maybe to subdue him. 

Lex should have seen this coming. He was blindsided by a weak, desperate part of himself that remained healthily suspicious but accepted his company. For the first time, he’s had Superman’s constant attention without lifting a finger. For the first time, he craves his attention, not to destroy him, but to keep him.

Superman’s presence has become an all-consuming addiction. It was unlike watching video footage or battles from afar. It was an intense shock of adrenaline that Lex had now become accustomed to. 

But that Superman believes Lex to be oblivious enough not to notice his scheme is an unbelievable insult. Lex Luthor won’t be played as a fool.

Chapter Text

Clark was ecstatic. 

His plan was working! It wasn’t necessarily easy ignoring Lex’s hateful comments or his general unhappiness, but it was worth it for the semi-amicable silences and short-lived civil conversations. It’s not an ideal situation, but it’s progress. 

Soon, Clark hopes, Lex could be open to applying his intelligence for the good of the world, instead of using it to take down Superman. Maybe, if Lex gets to know Clark a little more, he won’t view Superman as a threat. Maybe, someday, Clark can show Lex that his talents are more than enough. That he’s smart enough and powerful enough and desirable enough. Maybe then he’ll stop hurting himself and the rest of the world to feed his ego. 

If Clark had to guess, Lex probably hates him at least ten percent less now. Maybe eleven percent after he sees the expensive cup of coffee Clark brought him today. When he first stepped into the apartment, he knew that the bare amenities provided must be soul-crushing for someone who is used to living so lavishly. Clark knows that some entertainment here and some pastries there never hurt when you’re trying to appease someone. 

He hopes to be at least twenty percent less disliked by the trial. 

Clark tucked his book under his arm as he rapped on the door with his free hand. He didn’t need to, but he knew it was the polite thing to do. Nothing. He looked over at the guard, who just shrugged and unlocked the door for him. 

“Lex?” Clark called. No answer. 

Clark glanced around the room. No sign of Lex in his usual spot on the chair or anywhere in the kitchen area. He heard the metallic creak of a faucet and the spray of a shower head. Slightly embarrassed to have caught Lex at such a private moment, Clark considered returning at a better time, but decided to wait instead. Surely, Lex was expecting him. 

He set the coffee on the table close to Lex’s chair and reclined on the couch as usual. Before he settled back into some riveting Regency era drama, he noticed a dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby perched on the arm of the loveseat. Clark grinned despite himself. Lex might not seem appreciative, but it shows. 

Fifteen minutes later, Lex steps out of the bedroom, smelling like sandalwood and cotton. Although his body radiated heat from the warm water, the look in his eyes was so, so cold. 

Clark sat up immediately. Something wasn’t right.

“Lex—”

“You think I wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t catch on to your little plan? I may seem like a weak human to you, Superman, but I’m not fucking dim.” Lex’s voice was low and sharp, his face flushed with anger. 

Clark’s stomach dropped. He felt frozen in his seat. “What?”

“I know you’re here to spy on me. I know they’re using you to get into my head. They can’t send me to prison, so they sent you to torment me.” He could see the veins straining in Lex’s neck. 

“Who? I have no idea what you’re even talking about.” Clark couldn’t help his voice desperately rising, too. 

“Oh, sure you don’t,” Lex spat. “Do you know how many legal violations you’re causing by interfering like this? Of course you don’t. Look at me, I’m Superman. I can do whatever I want because I’m so perfect and innocent, and everyone loves me! ”

“I didn’t say any of that!” Clark stood up, feeling incredulous. 

“But you were thinking it. Weren’t you?” 

Clark hadn’t. Although he had a feeling that any more protests would fuel Lex’s rage, he still had to try. He took a step forward. “No. Listen—”

“No, you listen. I don’t need your bleedingheart speeches or whatever the fucking idiotic nonsense you have to say. I need you to get the fuck away from me.” 

Clark nodded. He was practically vibrating with the urge to defend his character and his intentions, but Lex’s message was loud and clear.

As he turned to leave, he heard Lex deliver the final blow: “I should have killed you in that goddamn pocket universe when I had a chance.” Clark never looked back. 

Clark returned to the Fortress confused. He did everything right this time. He didn’t push Lex to make small talk or act friendly. He gave Lex win after win. Heck, Clark even brought him donuts!

Lex’s re-inflamed anger frightened him. He might hate Superman now more than ever. When he’s inevitably released, he may go to greater, more destructive lengths to eliminate Superman. Metropolis still hasn’t fully recovered. The people he hurt are still suffering. But, at the same time, it annoyed Clark. Lex Luthor spent millions of dollars orchestrating a military invasion to get Superman’s notice, and now, when he’s voluntarily visiting, it’s a problem? If he ignores Lex, he’s on his high horse, but if he’s giving him attention, he’s suspicious. And, on top of that, Lex won’t give him a chance to prove that he’s not at all what Lex presumes him to be. It’s all so gosh darn frustrating. 

Lex probably hates him ten percent more now.

Clark held his head in his hands. He knew this would be difficult, but now it feels impossible. He needs some advice. 

It takes about a minute of knocking for Lois to open her door.

“Would you quit doing that? I have neighbors, you know.” She looks into the hallway before stepping aside to let Clark in. 

He hasn’t seen her much in the last couple of days. When he steps into her apartment, he immediately smells burnt meat radiating from the kitchen. “Steak again for dinner?” 

Lois folded her arms. “I thought we weren’t talking.” 

She’s never been one to ignore the elephant in the room.“I didn’t say that,” Clark protested.

“No, you didn’t,” she took an ice cream bar out of the freezer and shut the door a little too hard. “You just needed some space right now.”

Clark took a deep breath. “I’m…I’m sorry. You have the right to be angry with me right now. I left you hanging last time we fought, and I should’ve stayed to talk it out.”

Lois’ expression softened. “Thank you for apologizing. I would still like to talk it out, but I’m guessing that’s not why you’re here.”

As usual, she’s wickedly observant and mercifully forgiving. 

“I need your help,” Clark confessed, revealing his visits to Lex while he's still under house arrest, his plan to help Lex recognize his potential for good, and the unpleasant exchange that had happened earlier that day. 

“Ah, so there’s where you’ve been disappearing to.” She took a large bite of her ice cream bar and chewed thoughtfully. “I still don’t understand why you’re going through all this trouble when you should be filing for a restraining order. You know what he did. I’m sure he’s well-prepared to do much worse once he pays his way out of Belle Reve.” 

“But, see, I’m trying to prevent that.” 

“By trying to be his friend?”

Clark shrugs. He hadn’t thought about friendship as a possibility. But he certainly didn’t want them to be enemies.

Lois sighs. “I swear. You truly believe that everyone is beautiful. Even that evil piece of shit.” 

Clark ignores that comment. He also hadn’t thought about Lex being beautiful before. He’s handsome, in a classy, traditional sort of way, but he has the feeling that’s not what Lois means at all. “I tried everything. He just hates me so much. I felt like we were getting somewhere, and now we’re a million steps back. I don’t know what to do.”

After finishing her ice cream and discarding the wrapper on the table, she approaches him. 

Lois looks up at him, her eyes sparkling with sympathy. “Listen, Clark, you are incredible, but you’re not a miracle worker. It seems like the only thing that’ll change his mind is a lobotomy.” 

Clark wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to give up. 

“Hey, I’m not saying you can’t or shouldn’t try to…to make him see the light or whatever.” Her arms are folded protectively, but she steps closer. “I just want you to be careful. You act on instinct, which is fine most of the time because your instinct is pretty good. But people are complicated, Clark.” 

“Even Lex Luther.” 

Lois rolls her eyes. “Especially Lex Luther. Listen, I think if he hated you that much, he probably wouldn’t have put up with you every day for two weeks straight.” She bites her lip. “If you want my advice, give yourself some time to think about what you want out of pursuing this, and why. This isn’t a situation you can act first and think about later. He’s a dangerous person, and I’m afraid he’ll use whatever he can against you as soon as he can.”

“I know.” 

“You’ll do the right thing. You always do.” 

He smiles, beside himself. She always knows what to say. “Thank you, Lois.” 

“Anytime, Smallville.” She gives him a small smile. It makes his chest ache. “I should get to bed soon.” 

It’s barely nine o’clock, but Clark nods anyway. It was too early after their fight to show up out of nowhere and expect them to fall into their usual motions. He wasn’t expecting anything from her; he just missed her. He makes his way to the door. “See you tomorrow, then.” 

“Clark?” He turns around, maybe a little too quickly. “There are some people you can’t fix. People don’t change unless they want to.”

“I know.” Even as the words left his mouth, Clark didn’t believe himself. “Goodnight.” 

It was several hours later that he realized that he had left his book with Lex. “Darn it.”

Chapter Text

Superman didn’t come back the next day. 

Or the next. 

By the third day, Lex felt certain the alien wouldn’t return. He was relieved, of course. The last thing he needed was Superman breathing down his neck every day. 

Nevertheless, restlessness overcame him quickly. He’d been alone many times. Sometimes, as a child, he spent days on end without human interaction. Back then, the rooms were larger, and he had more at his disposal. Before, toys, books, endless hallways, and the echoing footsteps of maids he had never seen kept him company. Now, the apartment felt claustrophobic, the silence stifling. And if he glanced expectantly at the door once or twice, that was no one’s business but his own.

Minutes ticked by. Lex paged through The Great Gatsby, reading the ending over and over again. As a habit, he glanced at the sofa across from him. The memory of Superman obnoxiously sprawled out on the couch lingered, one calf resting on the armrest and the other dangling to the ground, Pride and Prejudice held above his head, his expression all too content. Once Lex had cleared his throat so loudly that Superman dropped the book on his face with a satisfying thwack. It was hilarious. 

Lex’s chest constricted. He shook his head, as if to expel the memory. Standing up robotically, he pushed the sofa to the farthest part of the room and collapsed back in his seat. Out of sight, out of mind. 

For the remainder of the day, Lex chose to be productive with his time. Using one of the Sudoku booklets that Superman brought, he began crafting his post-trial plans. He considered things he attempted before—nanites, the raptors, a clone, an interdimensional rift—all impactful in their own right, but none were ultimately satisfactory. Ultraman may have beaten Superman as the Hammer of Boravia, and nearly during the rift, if it weren’t for the stupid dog. But even beaten down, Superman always recovers at an inhuman speed. 

Across a nine-by-nine puzzle, he made a list of Superman’s strengths and weaknesses, all of which he could name in his sleep. After a second thought, he jotted ‘chess’ under the weaknesses category. 

Lex reflected on the pocket universe prison. It was almost perfect. Superman wasn’t exposed to sunlight. He was isolated with kryptonite. It would have worked if it weren’t for Element Man. Lex had no idea what Superman had said to persuade him—the video footage and audio were corrupted—but it proved that the next time he’s captured, he’ll need to be completely unreachable from everyone and everything. Feeling inspired, Lex sketched several possibilities for another improved interdimensional holding cell, specially fit for a Kryptonian. 

He sat back, admiring his work sprawled across the coffee table. Superman will regret trying to mess with his freedom. His future. His reputation.

For the first time in almost five weeks, Lex fell asleep satisfied. 

The hallway he walks down is familiar. 

The frozen walls extend for what seems like miles in either direction. He squints, unable to see an end. There must be an end, so he continues forward. 

Although the air is eerily quiet—the sound of his footsteps is only interrupted by his own stuttering breaths—Lex knows he’s being watched. It pricks the back of his neck. He wants to look behind, if only to prove himself right, but he persists, eyes locked onto the abyss ahead. 

He blinks, and there’s a door. Elegant, framed by tall, crystalline icicles. Was it there before? He can’t remember. The mirrored hallways disorient him, and dizzying fractal light patterns dance across the floor. He reaches for the handle with his bare hand. Strangely, it doesn’t feel cold. 

Unease sits heavily in his stomach when he presses forward. It opens easily, soundlessly. 

The room the door leads to is dark. Every corner fades to an empty blackness. He doesn’t see walls or a ceiling, if any existed at all. The only light is cast on a man writhing in the middle of the room. Blood spilled from a gaping wound in his head, but he was still alive, clutching his skull and kicking his legs out in distress. Lex steps closer. The man’s eyes were bulging, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. Upon approaching the man, he looks familiar. The street food vendor at Superman’s interrogation. He recalled no name, only his pitiful cries for Superman not to yield. 

A voice behind him breaks the silence: “Help him! Please, help him!”

Lex turns around, stumbling back from the man on the floor and away from the voice. Partially obscured in the darkness, his suit pristine, stands Superman. He doesn’t look at the dying man on the floor, only at Lex. His fists clenched at his side, tears streaming down his face. 

Lex can’t move. 

“Please,” Superman sobs. “Please, he needs your help!” His cries echo in the room. 

He tries to move but collapses onto his knees. It doesn’t hurt, but the floor is warm and wet and nauseating. The man’s blood has flooded the ground under him, staining his pants. He feels it seeping into his skin. 

Superman becomes louder, his cries more urgent. “Help him! You need to help him!” 

I can’t, Lex wants to scream, but his jaw won’t open. I can’t move!  

He tries to push himself off the floor, but his hands slip, staining his palms and sleeves. The man is still alive, his eyes bore into Lex, his mouth gapes again, soundless. Blood gushes from the wound on his head. 

Superman’s words become incomprehensible, a muddled gibberish. Lex looks up at him desperately, only to find the slumped clone in his place, face obscured by long, greasy hair. 

Ultraman stalks forward, bends down, and snaps the man’s neck with a sickening crack. 

Lex jolted awake. Immediately, he stretches his limbs, testing his arms and legs. He can move. Of course, he can. He almost feels embarrassed to be relieved. What a stupid dream. 

As usual, he showers and makes a barely digestible cup of coffee, but the paralyzing feeling lingers, and the grotesque image of the vendor crowds his mind. He tried to push the thoughts away, willing his conscious mind to overpower his subconscious. It became nearly impossible when he revisited his notes from the day before, which were scattered with reminders of the interrogation, and this, in turn, invoked the unsettling dream. 

Frustrated, he sinks into the loveseat. It’s absurd that something as harmless as a dream could get under his skin. His eyes scoured the table for a distraction. 

What a surprise. Superman left his book. 

He immediately flips through the pages, taking note of the annotations scattered throughout—underlined passages and chicken scratch in the margins. Lex squints, but he’s still unable to read Superman’s handwriting. Eager for a simple diversion, he stacks the Sudoku pages in a neat pile on the edge of the table and spends the rest of the day reading Pride and Prejudice accompanied by Superman’s incomprehensible commentary. 

That night, he tosses and turns before settling into a restless slumber. 

Darkness surrounds him, the area illuminated dimly by the antiproton river rolling below. He presses his hand against the prison box in the pocket dimension. He’d never been on this side of the plexiglass before, he muses. 

He catches a familiar shade of blue out of the corner of his eye. 

There, on the farthest side of the box, Superman lies perfectly motionless on the ground. He’s rolled onto his side, obscuring his front from Lex. Perhaps he’s asleep, he wonders. 

Curious yet, Lex cautiously approaches the body. Mere steps away, Lex notices the skin of Superman’s outstretched hands first. His veins blackened and bulged, contrasted with the pallor of his skin. Closer, he catches a glimpse of purple and blue boils decorating his neck. His body is marvelously still. There is no sign of breathing. It seems that Superman has already succumbed to kryptonite poisoning. Kryptonite from where Lex does not know. He doesn’t need to know.

He bends down, his knee barely grazing Superman’s back. He bites his lip. Lex craves to see the alien’s defeated face just once. His heart pounds in his throat as he pushes Superman flat on his back, though his head remains lolled to the side. Undeterred, Lex grasps his cheek to guide his gaze upwards. Superman’s eyes roll back, lifeless, but his hand slips, pulling away slimy, decomposing skin. A sick, rotting smell fills the box as muscle tissue and bone become exposed. 

Lex stumbles backward. 

Lex’s body shudders awake, grasping at his bedsheet. He stumbles out of the bedroom to check the clock. It was almost three in the morning. He wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep if he tried. 

Instead, he staggers into the bathroom and retches last night’s soup into the toilet. He can still feel Superman’s rotting skin slipping against his fingertips. He spends the next hour dry heaving until his ribs ache. 

Lex believed himself to be more tolerant of death than others. He’s certainly caused death before, probably more deaths than he’ll ever care to know. But even the memory of Superman’s death in his dream—the feeling, the smell —made his empty stomach turn. 

Even in his absence, Superman affects him. Haunts him. The thought lifts Lex’s fatigue and replaces it with a fierce anger. 

If he were in his office, he would have thrown a pencil holder to the ground or pushed a stack of papers off his desk and then forced his sycophant assistants to pick them up. But he isn’t in his office, and there’s no shit to throw around.

In a brief stroke of clarity, he vaguely recalls a therapist he visited in high school to address his…physical aggression. The therapist had recommended ripping up paper as a soothing technique. Lex had thrown a chair at him during a discussion about his father, and that was that. 

His eyes fell on Pride and Prejudice. A reminder of Superman, destroyed. Perfect. He tears each page out, first removing them one by one and ripping them methodically. Each square piece fluttered to the floor. In a fervor, he begins grabbing wads of the yellowing paper and haphazardly shredding them. The covers require more force, but he manages to reduce them to hundreds of minuscule scraps, too. 

The destruction is euphoric.

It isn’t until his hands are empty, the floor littered with Pride and Prejudice, does Lex realize that not only is he not in his office, but he has no damn assistants to clean up this mess either. 

With the floor finally cleared, Lex settles into the loveseat, annoyed. At least he no longer feels tired, he figures as he flips Moby Dick to the first page again. He can’t fall asleep again. He can’t risk another horrible dream. 

Lex doesn’t remember dozing off, but the next time he opens his eyes, he’s back in his penthouse on his plush king-sized bed. It was still nighttime, though his curtains must be opened, as lights from the city danced around his walls, neon pinks and yellows and greens cutting through the pitch blank. 

It calmed him. He was home, finally. 

Suddenly, the room is flooded with light. Eve steps out of the bathroom in a silk nightgown, long bathrobe, and curlers in her hair. She smiles widely at him, as usual. She looks like a 50s movie star, he thinks passively. Lex attempts to push himself up, but finds he can’t move at all. He tried to follow her with his eyes as she walked around the edge to the other side of the bed. 

The bedsprings squeaked and groaned as she settled beside him. At that moment, Lex couldn’t remember the last time they had been to bed together. Had they been together for four months? Six months? He felt her manicured hand snake down his chest and carefully press him flat onto the bed. Her hand rests on his shoulder as she leans down and kisses him slowly. Lex allows his eyes to close upon contact. It’s strange, really; she smells like the rose-scented soaps from his childhood house.

Her hand presses firmly against his clavicle, and she’s kissing him almost desperately now. She abruptly pulls away.

When he opens his eyes again, he sees short curly hair and a strong jaw hovering over him. He’s smiling, white-toothed and radiant. Lex’s eyes water. Superman leans in, one of his powerful hands cradling Lex’s neck, and kisses him.

When he woke, Lex first felt anger. Then numbness. Then pain radiating down the side of his neck. He groaned. He really shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the chair. 

He forces himself not to recall the dream as he showers. He can’t look at himself in the mirror. He can’t imagine what Superman may have seen in his dream. But that wasn’t the real Superman. No, that was a perverted Superman his subconscious decided to torture him with. 

He tried to choke down some oatmeal, but he felt sick from hunger and too nauseous to eat. His body ached relentlessly. 

Eventually, he found the best compromise was to lie in bed and read Moby Dick until his vision became blurry, pinching himself periodically to avoid falling asleep again. 

It was barely noon. Barely twenty-four hours until he’s released for his trial. Every second dragged on in tired agony. 

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmurs to no one, his voice swallowed up by the empty air.

Chapter Text

“Clark, we need to talk.” 

It was barely dusk by the time they made it back to Lois’ apartment. The lamps littering the living room cast dramatic shadows across the walls. The blinds were drawn tight. Two room-temperature mugs of hot cocoa sit between them, untouched. Clark fixated on watching the silhouettes of the furniture dance behind Lois, his hands wringing in his lap.

Lois was leaning forward, arms hugging her chest, brow wrinkled earnestly. Clark knew that if he looked her in the eyes, he would see how deep and beautiful and sad they were. Her voice was far away, but even muddled in his brain, he understood what she was saying perfectly. He understood that what she wanted was permanent. A conclusion. An actual break-up. 

The conversation was long overdue. They had been fighting more frequently, from forgotten dates to text miscommunications to domestic policy issues to disagreements about appropriate and inappropriate methods of heroism. 

Clark felt more and more distant. Lois admitted feeling the same. The difference is that Lois has the guts to say it out loud, he realizes. 

Deep down, Clark craved to be wanted and understood. But more than that, he hated letting down the people he loved. He can’t help but reflect on his attempt at being a good boyfriend as a huge letdown for both of them. 

It took everything in Clark to stay silent. He knew that he would try in vain to save the situation. He would try to change her mind about him. About them. It would inevitably end in another fight.

A wave of silence returned him to the present. Clark realized Lois had stopped talking. She was pinning him with her wide eyes, waiting for him to say something, anything. 

He cleared his throat as quietly as possible, forcing the rising lump down. Clark didn’t want to make her feel worse by crying. “Yeah. Um, yeah, I understand. Thank you. For saying something.” He looked at his wrist. He wasn’t wearing a watch. “I should—I should get going. It’s getting pretty late,” he said anyway. 

Before Lois could open her mouth, he made a break for the door, tripping on the side table in the process. She followed him, catching the door before it closed. 

Clark turns around and holds his breath. He feels like Orpheus, frozen in time, but he doesn’t reach out.  

Lois stands on the other side of the doorframe. The distance between them felt impossibly wide. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the ground, one hand on the doorknob. Now she’s the one who couldn’t look him in the eyes. 

Clark shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I’m sorry, too,” he croaks. 

The door shut with a final click. 

He sighs and flattens himself against the door, careful not to press too hard. Closing his eyes, he can hear the clinking of dishes in her kitchen. The buttons were pressed on the dishwasher. The light switch flicked off. Lois’ footsteps retreated to her bedroom. 

With a final glance back, Clark retreats

He takes the B train back to his apartment. The windows abstract the cityscape, blurring together skyscrapers, illuminated windows, and street lamps. The steady movement of the train relaxed him, finally allowing him to think properly. 

He loves Lois. And he knows that, to at least some extent, she loves him. He’s eager to mend their relationship, to void any animosity between them, but he doesn’t want to push her too quickly, too soon. So, he’ll be patient. He’ll manage this weird in-between place—no longer lovers, but not quite close friends again. 

At least at the Daily Planet, they don’t have to pretend not to be in a relationship anymore, Clark thought grimly. 

In the meantime, he can spend the rest of his Thursday night clearing his mind by doing a crossword, watching one of his favorite childhood movies, or reading a book.

Oh, jeez, his book. 

Without another thought, he finds himself standing in front of Lex’s door, fully suited, in five minutes flat. It’s late, but the guard is still willing to let him in. Hopefully, it’s late enough that Lex will be asleep and Clark can retrieve his book unnoticed. The last thing he needs right now is more verbal abuse from Lex. Tomorrow is the trial, so surely he’ll want to be well-rested for that. Surely. 

Clark took a deep breath before turning the handle and stepping into the room. He immediately loses all hope of going unnoticed when he enters a completely lit apartment. 

He’s barely two steps in when Lex stumbles out of the bedroom. 

He looks like hell. Perspiration scatters across his brow and upper lip, the pallor of his face strikingly contrasting with the dark circles under his eyes. His usually well-pressed shirt is wrinkled and unbuttoned, revealing his chest and the deep groove of his collarbone. His brilliantly bright eyes have dulled and darkened. From across the room, Clark notices his hands shaking. Underneath the fatigue, he looks thoroughly pissed-off. 

Lex crosses his arms defensively, but noticeably leans on the doorframe for support. “What’re you doing here?” He slurs, his voice wavering through his anger.

Clark swallowed hard. The image of a beaten and bruised Lex Luthor flashed through his mind, tears streaking down his face. Only in these moments has Lex revealed to him an unseen vulnerability. A crack in his unbreakable shell. “I’m just here for my book,” he answered carefully, as if he were approaching a wild animal. 

Lex didn’t answer, instead tightening his arms around himself. He notices Lex’s heartbeat skyrocket. 

Clark sighs. Even if Lex won’t tell him where his book is, at least he’s not being outwardly combative. In haste, he uses his x-ray vision to scan the apartment and finds nothing Pride and Prejudice -shaped except Lex’s books scattered on the coffee table. Weird. He definitely left it here. 

He circled the living room and the kitchen area, looking through various drawers and cabinets with a glance. He made a courtesy sweep over Lex’s bedroom, which turned up nothing. Clark almost gave up hope until he stooped down and peered under the chair. In the shadows lies a torn piece of paper, fraying at the edges.

if you do not marry Mr. Collins, it reads in Times New Roman. 

Clark did a double-take and then a triple-take to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. Sure enough, it was his book. 

His stomach sinks. For the second time that night, a cold numbness fills his core. He couldn’t look at Lex, who had stayed uncharacteristically silent. The air grew heavy, the LEDs bore down blindingly, and the palpable discomfort stretched on.  

“It was a graduation gift,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure if Lex heard him. It didn’t matter. 

His best friend from high school had given it to him with a lovely handwritten note taped to the inside, which thankfully lives in a drawer in his bedside table. It was just an object, but it was a loved object. A comfort. It was his favorite book. 

A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed it down. He wouldn’t give Lex the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He grits his teeth hard instead. 

Clark needs to recognize this for what it is: a desperate act. A last-ditch effort to provoke Superman into violence or despair. Lex Luthor sure knows how to press Clark’s buttons; he’ll give him that. 

He looks up to see what Lex has to say for himself, but he remains mute. His expression was unreadable. Clark tries to search for regret in his eyes but finds nothing but contempt. 

Clark tries to still his shaking breath. If he’s learned anything from his relationship with Lois, arguing or bargaining or fighting won’t fix anything, and it certainly won’t make him feel better.

With a mere scrap of his book in hand, Clark turns tail and leaves. 

People don’t change unless they want to, Lois had told him days ago. 

She was right. Part of him wonders how long it will take Lex Luthor to change. Another part of him wonders if he’ll change at all. By tomorrow night, Lex will probably be back in his penthouse in Metropolis, making plans to do who knows what to capture or kill or maim Superman. It’ll be how it has been. 

Clark doesn’t want that. He wants it to be different between them for the sake of his friends, his family, the city, the world, and, selfishly, for his own sake. But what other choice does he have? If Lex tries to hurt people, he’ll have to stop him. If Lex tries to kill him, he has a right to protect himself. Clark realizes, with heavy regret, it’s not a matter of if, but when. 

The morning only brought him a level of exhaustion that not even the yellow sun could fix. 

He managed only to be a couple of minutes late to work, but before he could reach his desk, Perry pulled him aside. “You’re with Jimmy on the Luthor trial for today. Lois called in sick.” 

Of course. Clark couldn’t escape Lex if he wanted to. His only saving grace was Jimmy, who looked equally unhappy to attend. 

“Look alive, Kent.” Perry slapped him on the back. “It’ll be a front-page piece. I’m doing you a favor.”

The courtroom pews were almost completely full of reporters when they arrived. Clark slides into a seat next to Jimmy near the back just as Lex and his team of exorbitantly paid lawyers enter. 

Jimmy leans over and whispers, “God, he looks terrible.”

Clark nodded, though he found himself disagreeing silently. Even with his almost sickly pale skin and darkened eyes, he looked rather regal in his well-pressed, three-piece suit. He moved across the floor elegantly and confidently, as if he were at some grand ball rather than his own trial. 

Lex situates himself on the center seat, back straight, chin held evenly. His impassive demeanor could fool anyone in the room. Anyone except for Clark. From across the room, he noticed the tightness of Lex’s jaw and tendons along his neck straining from tension. 

Glancing around the room, he notices that the crowd is filled entirely with press, leaving the jury stands empty. “A bench trial?” He whispers to Jimmy. Lois would’ve known that. She would have been more prepared. 

Jimmy shrugs. “Easier to convince a judge than members of the public, if you know what I mean. It’ll be quick, but painful—painful for us at least.” 

On the other side of the floor, Eve entered with her representative. She noticed Jimmy immediately, energetically waving and blowing him kisses until her lawyer nudged her to stop. Clark couldn’t help but notice Jimmy’s sympathetic smile back. 

Another woman followed after her. Clark wouldn’t have recognized her if it weren’t for the deep frown set on her lips. Angela’s hair was unbraided, curls cascading down to her shoulders. She looked stiff and uncomfortable; otherwise, she seemed in good health. 

Clark had tried to check in with her at the Hall of Justice, but he’d been turned away by Kendra, insisting that Angela was busy or tired, or busy and tired. He wasn’t offended—in fact, he’s relieved that she feels well enough to give a testimony.

The court is called to order, and the cacophony of hushed voices falls into silence. As the opening statements were read, scratches of pen against paper rang through the courtroom. Clark took careful notes, half-distracted by Jimmy nervously bouncing his leg. 

Jimmy leans over again, his voice low in Clark’s ear. “Eve told me that she’s been getting threatening calls and text messages. And there’s this tinted car that sits on her street. It’s witness intimidation! That’s completely illegal. She hasn’t been outside her apartment in weeks.” 

A woman behind them hushes them loudly. Jimmy shifted back to his seat, and Clark tried to seem busy with his notes. 

It’s fucked up, Jimmy mouths. 

It’s completely messed up. Clark figures that he shouldn’t have expected any less from Lex Luthor’s team. They’d do just about anything to keep him out of jail. 

His eyes drift over to Lex again, only to find him staring right back. Clark fumbles and drops his pen. 

The woman shushed them louder. 

“Sorry,” he whispers. He reached under the seat, but the pen had already rolled out of reach. In defeat, he picks up another. 

His attention returns to the front of the room as the prosecuting attorney begins to present their case against Lex. 

It seemed that the prosecution had more than sufficient evidence, both provided by the Daily Planet and subpoenaed from LutherCorp partners and employees. The witness testimonies brought by the prosecution were sure to affirm the case and even reveal abuses beyond the paper evidence. However, while the prosecution may be prepared and, by all means, correct, Lex Luthor and his team are ruthless. Clark wasn’t up to date on his legalese, but even he understood that the legal system isn’t about justice, it’s about power. At the end of the day, if Lex Luthor has enough power to kidnap, endanger lives, and kill without so much as a slap on the wrist, then— 

The pen snapped in Clark’s hand, splashing ink all over his dress shirt and jacket. Jimmy stared at him, slack-jawed. 

As Clark sat frozen, black ink dripping onto his only pair of clean slacks, the woman behind them looked just about ready to murder him.

Chapter Text

The judge’s podium blurred before Lex. 

He blinked away the distortion, resisting the urge to rub his eyes. They’re painfully dry from lack of sleep, but he couldn’t show an iota of weakness. Not in public. Not in front of his team. Not in front of every major news source in the United States. 

It’s a relentless effort to keep alert with the low buzz of the courtroom lulling him into a daze. 

He pinches his thigh underneath the table. It helps. Barely. 

Lex hasn’t rested properly in over forty-eight hours; although he’s not unused to late nights and early mornings, usually he’s afforded simple luxuries like decent coffee and Adderall. Now, it feels as if he’s hanging on by a single thread of willpower and spite. To add to his suffering, each time his eyes shut for a little too long, Superman appears, hovering inches away from his face and smiling at him. 

Even now, he could almost feel Superman watching him. It was an irrational notion, Lex was lucid enough to understand as much—he would have seen him with that eye-sore of a suit amongst the hordes of monochromatically dressed reporters. Still, he swore he could feel the same prickling sensation up his spine that he usually gets when that bastard is around him. 

Twice, out of sheer boredom, Lex turned his head slowly to scan the sea of reporters, only to be met with Clark Kent’s stupid bespeckled face. The first time, he was practically gawking at Lex through his thick-framed glasses. To his delight, Clark fumbled and dropped his pen when Lex caught his gaze. The second time, Clark was looking down in horror at his ill-fitting suit, which was now completely stained with ink. What a moron. How he was able to catch Superman’s notice, Lex will never know. 

Lex’s attention was pulled back to the front of the room as the prosecution moved from introducing their case to presenting their evidence. The prosecuting attorney’s evidence consisted mostly of contributions from the Daily Planet—bank statements, interviews with ex-employees, incriminating selfies taken by Eve—and subpoenaed documents from LuthorCorp associates. To witness his dirty laundry aired out for the world to see was irritating and humiliating, but Lex wasn’t worried about the consequences. His team was comprised of the most decorated defense lawyers in the country who weren’t afraid to play dirty. 

If any member of the court believes that Lex Luthor will spend a single second in prison, they’re daft or insane. 

The prosecution called Angela Spica to the stand as the first witness. That traitor. She may no longer be made of flesh and blood, but she’s just like all the other opportunists and yes-men that vied for his attention only to flock to greener pastures when it best suited them. Lex could barely allow himself to focus on her statement; her self-victimization made him sick with anger. After all, it was Lex’s technology that ensured her survival at all. Without the nanites, her mangled corpse would’ve been unidentifiable from such an impact.

She returned to her seat without so much as a single glance towards Lex. 

Eve approached the stand as the second witness. She was dressed like a vague concept of modesty, wearing the shortest heels and skirt he’s ever seen her in, her hair curled and pinned up delicately.

Like a 50s movie star. Leaning over him. Short curly hair. Hands on the back of his neck. Lex blinked rapidly, tightening his fists until his nails bit into his palms. 

Eve’s statement was a miserable distraction from his internal turmoil. Her eyes were glued to the script in front of her, pausing the rehearsed sob story every so often to sniff dramatically and tilt her head up so her makeup didn’t run. She stuttered out alleged domestic and professional abuses, which irked him. 

Objectively, Lex had been good to her. He paid her well, more so than one should pay an assistant who doesn’t do much assisting. He bought her whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. He invited her on important business trips—even to Superman’s fortress! Some might say that the pocket universe prison was an extreme reaction, but she betrayed him first. 

She’s the reason why Lex is forced to endure this humiliation ritual in the first place. 

The only source of solace in the whole event came from his attorney’s merciless cross-examination, near-impossible questions asked in quick succession. It was particularly gratifying when Angela flushed with embarrassment down her neck and Eve stumbled off the stand, sobbing into the embroidered silk handkerchief that he had gifted her. 

It’s what they deserve, Lex concluded as the judge gaveled away the horrified whispers rising from the crowd. For all that he’s suffered in the last month, it’s what they deserve. 

As per the request of his team, Lex declined to present a statement on his own behalf. His case was presented already; there was no need to be redundant in such a miserable slog of an environment.

However, his cross-examination was mandatory. Despite the exhaustion weighing heavily on his bones, he approached the prosecution’s questions with confidence and ease, allowing just enough faux-remorse to seep through for the conservative newspapers to write something halfway generous about him. Every movement was practiced. Every syllable was predetermined. Lex played the role perfectly. 

After a brief recess, the verdict was announced: Lex Luthor was found guilty under federal law for criminal conspiracy and destruction of government property, with a punishment of a fine of one hundred and fifty million dollars and another one hundred million dollars issued directly to the city of Metropolis for damages. The homicide and kidnapping charges were dropped, which Lex owed to a chief loophole that his team argued tooth and nail for—the pocket universe existed outside both federal and international legal jurisdiction.

An uproar ensued behind him. Lex’s team congratulated each other on another successful case with a bloated check. Leaning forward against the table, Lex discovered that the overwhelming desire to collapse made it difficult to feel vindicated. 

The midafternoon sunlight was both painful and soothing as Lex stepped out of the courthouse. Immediately, dozens of photographers and reporters swarmed him like bees to honey. 

Before he could reach his driver, Lex caught Clark Kent and his ruined suit out of the corner of his eye. He stood away from the chaos, arms limp at his sides. Of course, Clark Kent, being the preeminent Superman flunkey, thinks he’s too good to interview him. 

Lex slid into the backseat of his Mercedes, his sights now firmly set on the plush king-sized mattress. 

As he settled under his weighted comforter that night, the dreams, the shitty apartment, the trial, all washed away like distant memories. Finally, his freedoms and luxuries were rightfully returned. Finally, Lex was able to drift off into a dreamless sleep. 

The next morning, at seven sharp, Lex arrived at LuthorCorp feeling like a new man, particularly looking up at his newly renovated skyscrapers. Besides some minor construction on the West Wing of the building, the towers had been repaired back to their pre-interdimensional rift state. 

Stepping off the elevator, Lex made his presence known to his secretary. “‘Morning, Heather.”

She covered the mouthpiece of her headset. “It’s good to have you back!” Heather was an eager thirty-something college dropout with an incredible knack for effortlessly juggling Lex’s endless wave of e-mails, telephone calls, meeting requests, and travel itineraries. 

“Good to be back.” Lex swiftly made his way to his office, anxious to begin sorting through the heap of overdue reports.

“General Mori is on the line,” she called after him. 

Of course he is. 

Lex took his time pouring a fresh cup of coffee—an Ecuadorian blend—before answering the phone. 

“Luthor! How’s freedom treating you?”

“Just fine, Mori.” Lex leaned back into his chair, surveying the overdue reports sprawled across his desk. 

“Hope your stay at the Fed's exclusive suites wasn’t uncomfortable.” 

Lex couldn’t help but grind his teeth at that. “It was, actually. Might as well have put me in prison isolation for a month.” He picks up the pharmaceutical branch report and pages through it.

Mori laughed, loud and grating into his ear. “Well, there were some extra protective measures taken. The guards were only ordered to do basic security checks on friends and family, not prevent them from visiting. You’re a high-profile case, so the guards were more for your protection. Anyway…” 

Friends and family. 

Lex’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. Maybe his coffee wasn’t sitting right. 

Friends and family. 

It didn’t matter that his only regular visitor was Superman—the government’s eyes and ears while Lex was locked up. Just Superman bringing him books, buying him food, playing games…demonstrating his almost-convincing emulation of man. 

Friends and family. 

Had anyone else even attempted to visit him? 

“…to negotiate with Johnson from the Department of Defense. Nothing too public, yet. You understand. So, how does next week sound?” 

The question shook Lex out of his daze. “I’ll have Heather contact you about scheduling.” He hung up the phone before Mori could say another word. 

Friends and family. How demeaning. Who does Mori think he is?

Lex shuffled the papers around to find something halfway interesting, but as usual, Superman returned to the forefront of his mind. 

Superman, who had visited him voluntarily exponentially more times in the last month than in the last three years. In his annoyance at the alien’s persistent presence and in his own desire to seek the most important information, he realized that he may have missed opportunities to extract the subtleties offered in their brief, yet personal, exchanges. 

He has already amassed and memorized an encyclopedia of Superman’s attacks; he can anticipate his every move and counter quickly and effectively. He knows Superman’s weaknesses like he knows the back of his hand. But when it comes to Superman’s mannerisms, his way of being, Lex has barely scratched the surface.

Over the last month, Lex has identified the way Superman stumbles over his words when he gets frustrated and the careful way he approaches personal subjects. Where his eyes fall during conversation, sometimes directly into Lex’s own, sometimes right over his shoulder. But this new information, this utterly mundane information, has opened a cavern of new ways to understand his enemy—the enemy to mankind—that he has yet to uncover. 

Perhaps that’s why he failed the first time: he was working with incomplete data, considering only a piece of the whole. But how to fill in his understanding, that is the question. 

Lex peered out of the floor-to-ceiling windows to gaze across Metropolis’ landscape. At any moment, Superman could come crashing through the window to confront Lex. To lecture him about kindness or humanness or “using his power for good,” now that he’s released from confinement. Just the thought gave a shock of adrenaline up his spine. 

It’s only a matter of time. Then Lex will extract every ounce of information possible out of the alien.  

But Superman didn’t show up that day. Nor the next day. For three days, Lex’s eyes were glued to the Metropolis skyline. Twice, he witnessed Superman flying through the city, weaving between skyscrapers, saving civilians and squirrels alike from interdimensional creatures, and helping old ladies cross the street. 

On the fourth day, Lex became increasingly impatient. If Superman surveilled him under house arrest, surely it would be more sensible for him to surveil Lex while he was mobile and free to do as he pleases? Lex knew, however, that it was naive to expect the creature to act sensibly. 

What Superman needed was a reason to visit. Some simple motivation, like a stolen dog or a proxy war. 

Unfortunately, his PR team in their latest meeting had strongly, strongly encouraged Lex for the next six months to avoid overtly public projects, particularly destructive, eye-catching ones that would certainly capture Superman’s attention. 

No matter. Lex is nothing if not creative with his pursuits. 

The memory of their last meeting returns to him vividly. At the time, Superman’s distraught pout had given him a sense of deja vu, but he couldn’t pinpoint it until now. 

It was the face Fleurette made when Lex destroyed her ugly Shein dress that she insisted on wearing to important events. It had been mostly an accident. Fleurette had been over-served at a dinner party with the senator of Delaware and was making quite a scene. To deter any further embarrassment, Lex pulled on her sleeve a little too hard and a little too quickly, almost ripping it entirely off the body of the dress. It was the cheap stitching—Lex had told her—but she still gave him the silent treatment until he bought her a new one. 

A plan began forming—subtle, out of the public eye, but certainly noticeable to Superman. 

Euphoric, Lex mashed the intercom button on his desk. “Heather, I need you to make an overnight delivery.”

Chapter Text

“Hey, guys! Guys!” 

In the corner of the Crystal Corner Bar, Jimmy stood at the head of the table with a tall mug of beer, swaying slightly, trying to get the attention of the Daily Planet staff—and Eve—seated in front of him. The only ones who seemed to notice him were Clark, who was stone-cold sober, and Eve, who hadn’t looked away from him once. 

Jimmy cupped his hands around his mouth, “Hey!” Overlapping conversations died down as curious eyes turned to the head of the table. He held up his glass with one arm, bracing himself on the table with the other. “I want to toast Clark, for once again making the front page! Cheers!” 

“Cheers!” Everyone echoed. Glasses clanked together noisily, causing beer to spill down raised arms and onto the table. 

Clark clinked his glass merrily with Cat and poured the rest of the ale down his throat. The Daily Planet pub outing wasn’t really about Clark’s article at all, but he felt flattered nonetheless. After all, he was very proud of his article on the Lex Luthor trial, which he spent all night agonizing over after the event.

He turned his head and accidentally caught Lois’ eye. She gave a half-smile and raised her glass. Clark smiled back, maybe a little too widely. They haven’t had a proper conversation since the break-up, but he still counts any amicable interaction with her as a step closer to mending their friendship. 

Clark hated to admit it, but he was terrible with complicated relationships. Not knowing whether he had a chance to be close with Lois again had his stomach tied in knots. Even thinking about his situation with Lex made him feel queasy. One moment, he was tolerating Clark’s company, and the next, he was screaming at him and destroying his things. He couldn’t bring himself to approach Lex after the trial; he wouldn’t know what to do or say. Clark had probably been too optimistic about Lex in the first place. I mean, the guy said it himself: he hates Superman. 

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Clark turned, startled. Lois, a hand still held firm, looked at him urgently. Before he could open his mouth, she nodded to a mute television in the far corner of the bar. The screen displayed a group of firemen circling an apartment building on the East Side, completely engulfed in flames, hurriedly guiding civilians away from the fire. It cut to a distressed reporter on the scene. 

Lois leaned down and whispered in his ear. “I’ll cover for you.” 

For a moment, relief overrode the weight of the emergency; Lois was still Lois, no matter what. “You’re the best.” 

“Go!” She hissed, nudging him out of his seat. 

Clark makes it to the East Side fully suited in a minute flat. 

He recognizes Chief Schmidt on the ground giving orders and rushes over. “What can I do?” After years of collaboration with the fire department, Clark learned it was better to assess where he was properly needed before running headfirst into a burning building. 

Thankfully, the Chief looked relieved to see him. “Not much, I’m afraid. The fire caught on too quickly, so it’s only a matter of seconds before the whole thing collapses. I believe everybody is accounted for, but we weren’t able to fully clear the top floors.” 

“On it.” Leaping into action, he scanned the whole building, and sure enough, on the thirteenth floor, he detected the heartbeats and labored breathing of small animals and an adult. 

In the bathroom of a nearly-decimated apartment, he found a cat and her three kittens meowing helplessly in the bathtub. The tiling and porcelain had protected them from the worst of the flames. Clark scooped them up and delivered them to a huddle of firemen before flying back into the smoke. Desperately, he searched each room for the last resident until he came across an older woman passed out face-down near her doorway. All around them, the charcoaled woodwork crumbled, and the air grew thicker. Clark held her close as ash rained on them. He broke through the side of the building just as the ceiling gave out completely.

The woman is immediately rushed to the hospital. Regretfully, Clark was not able to get her name to check in on her. He’ll have to look into that later. 

As the residents of the apartment watched in horror as their home crumbled to the ground, Clark stood with them, offering kind words and hugs where they were needed. The owners of the rescued family of cats thanked him profusely. Before leaving, Clark confirmed with the fire department that the city would ensure housing for the residents while their home was rebuilt. 

Suddenly, Clark became keenly aware of the smoke and ash clinging to his suit, his normally bright colors dulled significantly. It would be best, he decided, to refresh at the Fortress before heading back to the bar. 

When he arrived, Gary pushed a box into his hands. “This was delivered several minutes ago by that bald villain. We scanned it. No bombs, tracking devices, or otherwise malicious software detected.” 

“Thanks, Gary.” Clark curiously turned the box in his hands. “How…how did he get in?”

“I suspect that he has found another way to isolate your DNA, sir. Quite disturbing, if you ask me.” 

“Right.” Clark will solve that mystery later. But first—the small, rectangular, and unassuming package. Maybe it’s some strange prank?

He scanned it with his x-ray vision and…it was a book. Not just any book, but a 2012 Penguin edition paperback of Pride and Prejudice. He opened the box carefully to inspect the gift, flipping through the pages and turning it over in his hands. 

“Some sort of ill-suited joke, I presume?” Gary asked.

“It’s just a book, Gary.” But it wasn’t just a book. It was his book. Maybe in pristine shape and without his notations, but it was the same cover and edition. 

Clark suppressed a smile. The candle of optimism reignited. Is this the olive branch that Clark had hoped Lex would one day extend to him? 

There was only one way to find out. 

Lex’s office at LuthorCorp glowed like a beacon in the night sky. Clark floated up to his window and peered through. Lex was leaning back in his chair with his phone nestled between his ear and shoulder, his hands busy shuffling papers in front of him. He looked healthy and well-rested, a stark difference from his appearance at the trial. Under the soft office lights, Lex was the image of corporate refinement, elegantly reclined behind his behemoth oak desk. Almost immediately, Lex noticed Clark and held up a hand: two minutes. 

Unfazed, Clark waited on the roof and counted to one hundred and twenty. When he floated back down, Lex’s phone was placed to the side, and his papers were neatly stacked. He gestured to the balcony door pointedly, like Clark planning to smash through the window again. 

Clark floated down to the balcony entrance and pulled. The door wouldn’t move. He pulled a little harder, careful not to break the handle. When it didn’t budge, he looked helplessly inside and mouthed, It’s locked.  

Lex smacked his forehead and made a dramatic pushing motion with his hands. 

Clark sheepishly pushed the door open and stepped inside the office. “You should probably label that door.” 

“I don’t normally have guests coming in through the balcony,” Lex responded coolly, remaining seated at his desk. 

Clark walked towards him, trying to appear as unimposing as possible in his ashen suit. “You replaced my book. Gary wasn’t too happy that you broke into the Fortress again, though.” There was no need to beat around the bush; Lex knew why he was here. 

“First of all, your Fortress doesn’t have a damn mailbox. Second, I needed to get rid of it anyway—it was collecting dust on my bookshelf.” 

“I don’t know if I believe you.” Clark ignored the first part. It’s not like he got mail anyway. He didn’t even have an address.

Instead of responding, Lex gave Clark a once-over and wrinkled his nose. “You smell like smoke.”

“An apartment on the East Side burned down. Wiring malfunction, I think. The whole building collapsed, but thankfully, we were able to get everybody out in time.” Then Clark paused. It dawned on him. “Wait, did you set an apartment on fire so that you could deliver the book?”

Lex gaped, looking genuinely offended. “Christ, Superman, I’m not a fucking monster. I don’t go around burning down poor people's housing for fun or even for you. That’s gauche and completely unimaginative. I noticed that you were on the news taking care of business. And do you know what? After every domestic incident involving two or more civilians, you tend to linger for an average of 13.7 minutes after the incident is resolved. So, I took my chances and I was correct. Except apparently you lingered for much longer this time, since you’re here so fucking late.” He rummaged around the cabinet behind his desk. “Scotch?” 

“Sure.” Clark took a seat across from him, slightly embarrassed about his false accusation. He also didn’t know he lingered for that long. He just felt it was important that the people he helps are well cared for, especially when they lose their home. A glass is pushed to him with a generous pour of honey amber liquid. “Thanks.” 

It was pretty suspicious. The book, the drink, the civil conversation. He was half-wondering if there was something he was missing—another cataclysmic event caused by LuthorCorp across the world or even some armed mutant forces on the other side of the door. After a courtesy x-ray around the building, he only found the janitor emptying trash cans a floor below them in the West Wing. He kept an ear out for trouble, just in case. 

Out of politeness, Clark took a healthy sip of the liquor and audibly gagged. His ears burned with embarrassment. 

Lex snorted. “God, you should see your face.”

“Sorry,” he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t usually drink anything this strong.” 

“Well, no use wasting it.” Lex retrieved Clark’s glass and poured it into his own, filling it almost to the top. “What’s your poison?” 

“Beer. Most wines are okay.” Clark said, trying not to gag on the taste sitting on his tongue. “But, I don’t usually drink too much since I can’t get drunk anyway—my metabolism is too fast.” 

Lex set another glass in front of him and took out a small bottle of wine. It was cherry-colored and bubbly. 

Clark took a sip, smaller this time. The drink was fruity and altogether pleasant, washing away the scotch from his tastebuds. “It’s good. I like it.” 

“Of course you do. It’s a semi-sweet Italian red. It’s practically juice.” 

Clark didn’t know if he exactly agreed with that, but he wasn’t going to complain. Lex had never been so…hospitable. During house arrest, he was mildly receptive to Clark’s presence at best. Now, it seems like he’s treating Clark like a guest, rather than some worthless, lesser being. 

Clark took a deep breath. “You know what I think?”

Rather than answering, Lex nearly downs the whole glass. Clark wondered, briefly, how he could stomach it. 

“I think you missed me,” Clark continued. 

Lex scoffed. “And I think you’re confusing me for one of your brain-dead followers. If anything, you’re more of a nuisance to me now.” 

“I don’t know. I thought we made a connection.” Maybe Clark is pushing it a little too hard, but he couldn’t help it. He truly hoped this time it could be different. 

“Gross.” Lex finished the rest of his scotch and set the glass on the coaster with a heavy hand. “How did you know that this wasn’t a trap?” 

Clark looked around. Everything is still and silent, except for the red dot blinking on the security cameras. “This doesn’t look like much of a trap to me. It’s just us.” 

“Well, next time I’ll make it a little more obvious.” Lex took advantage of Clark’s confused silence to riffle through his desk drawer for a deck of cards. 

Without any interruptions, they played a game best out of three. When Lex beat him fairly, Clark took his leave. It became rather late, after all, and Lex was almost finished with his second serving of scotch for the night. He exited the door he arrived in with an unreciprocated wave goodbye. 

Clark flew out into the night with a newly-ignited warmth in his chest. Lex Luthor actually wanted to spend time with him. Sure, he insulted Clark and kept him on edge the whole time. And maybe it was awkward and a little intrusive with the surveillance camera staring at them. Yet Clark left without a fight. Despite his initial worries, it wasn’t a trap. 

Tomorrow, Clark will find a gift to give in return and bring his Scrabble board for old time’s sake, if Lex has the time. He couldn’t just wait for Lex to reach out to him again; that would be rude—friendships are built on mutual effort.

Chapter Text

The coffee machine melodically beeped. With one arm, Lex retrieved his mug, bringing it to his lips, and with the other, he smoothed out a copy of the morning’s reports. The blend was smooth and refreshing, revitalizing his mind and body to prepare for the endless meetings and paperwork that day. He sipped it contentedly before placing it on a glass LuthorCorp-brand coaster on his desk.

It’s been one month since the trial, and Lex has steered LuthorCorp back on track in almost all fronts. 

After his unfortunate hiatus, Lex reconnected with his domestic and foreign partners to reestablish their agreements. While the PR department head won’t budge on prohibiting public endeavors, LuthorCorp’s pharmaceutical branch and engineering team have begun a long-term project combining nanites and replacement limbs. Lex has already made preliminary agreements to sell them to healthcare facilities for millions. And, following the dissolution of PlanetWatch, Lex successfully pushed forward talks on a new contract with the Pentagon to sell LuthorCorp technology for the US Peace Corps occupation in Kasnia. 

It’s been one month and Lex’s pet project on Superman couldn’t be going smoother.

After the first day, Superman arrived on his own accord with a take-out box in his hand, a Scrabble board under his arms, and a goofy smile on his face. Lex had allowed it, entertaining Superman’s silly idea of companionship. Since then, Superman’s visits have become habitual. Reliable. Expected. And best of all, the idiot has yet to question Lex’s intentions or his abrupt “change of heart” again. 

After each visit, Lex would carefully fill out a detailed report on the interaction, highlighting any new or surprising observations or developments. The dedicated Superman filing cabinet and digital documents resided in his penthouse office, alongside the combat data and a lead box containing strands of Superman’s hair—his key to the Fortress. 

Superman’s persistence became both irritating and useful in unexpected ways. 

Regular visits meant that Superman was breathing down his neck about every project, interrogating Lex about the ethics and morals of his experiments, which was entirely unwelcome. He’s also, annoyingly, become friendly with practically everybody in the office that he comes across, from Heather to the janitor, to his CFO. 

On the other hand, Superman, unlike Lex, is a chronic people-pleaser. Whenever he can do something that he imagines would make Lex happy, he does it. Lex just has to say, I’m craving some udon from Tokyo, hand Superman his credit card, and not even ten minutes later, he has a (relatively) fresh, authentic Japanese dish in front of him. Despite Superman bitching and moaning to Lex about “eating local”, he never fails to retrieve Lex’s requests and often shuts up when he’s stuffing his face with his share of pasta or gyros. Lex marks this behavior in his documents as ‘particularly exploitative’. 

While awaiting Superman’s inevitable arrival that night, Lex flipped through the tall stack of letters Heather left him to sort through. He noticed, among the bills and junk mail, a rather large envelope with an unfamiliar return address. He ripped it open. A typed letter and a collection of photographs fell out onto his desk. 

The latter informed him of his late aunt’s passing, information which he already knew and did not feel strongly about. They were never close, and she took care of his father—her brother—after his stroke. As far as he knew, she never cared for Lex much either. The letter explained that the photographs were the only objects marked in a box with his name on it, so her will recipients decided to send them to him. Out of the pure goodness in their hearts, he figured bitterly. 

Lex flipped through the collection. One was of him as a baby, held by his father and mother. He tore it up and threw it out immediately. Most were candid images of him as a meek red-haired adolescent, which his aunt must have taken of him when he visited her horse farm. The remaining were of Lex and his father in his childhood townhouse. They were perfect pictures of upper-crust Americana, with his father’s perpetually stern expression and cigars. Lex could almost smell the stale stench of smoke that possessed every corner of his youth. 

He carefully laid them out on his desk, then organized them by what he assumed to be chronologically—he wasn’t sure, none of the photos were dated. It occurred to him then that it disturbed him that he could not pull fully forged memories from most of the photos. Each moment captured, clearly once experienced, was wholly unfamiliar now. 

Lex sat back in his chair. The stack of mail long forgotten on the corner of his desk. 

What does he remember from that time? It all seemed to blend into an incomprehensible timeline of abhorrent events. He rubbed his temple, frustrated. 

Lex stared at the collection of posed bodies and unseeing eyes. The photos stared back at him, challenging him—daring him—to pick apart their mystery. 

He opens a new bottle of scotch. This venture cannot go on unaided. 

That’s how Superman found him, at his desk, well-aided, trying to determine if this photo of him standing near the fireplace was before or after his eighth birthday. He couldn’t tell if the marks on his hands were bruising from the swats from his Latin tutor or water damage. He threw the photo down, unable to look any longer. The child had a certain frailness that Lex resented.

He had heard the balcony door open and close, Superman’s greeting dying in his mouth, and his careful steps approaching. Lex didn’t look up, but he could sense Superman watching him intently. The room felt twenty degrees warmer. 

Taking a seat across from Lex, Superman picked up one of the photos and examined it. “This was you?” He holds up a picture of ten-year-old Lex wearing his riding britches. The photo was deceiving—he wasn’t really into equestrianism, he only rode once or twice at the suggestion of his aunt. 

“Yep.” Lex moved the fireplace picture to the to-be-burned-later pile and took the riding photo from Superman. 

“Who’s this?” Superman holds up another with his father, only his father, standing next to an old wooden LuthorCorp logo. If Lex looked closely, he could see a sparkle of pride in his eye. How rare. 

“That’s my old man.” Lex took the picture and crumpled it in his hand, tossing it into the waste basket. He poured himself another glass. “He was a piece of shit.”  

“Oh.” Superman delicately held the discarded fireplace photo. He looked at the child in the photo—not the man in front of him—with sorrow. It made Lex inexplicably angry. “He hurt you?”

Lex snatched it back. “He never hit me. Oh no, that sort of thing was below him. When I needed discipline, my father used to lock me in the coat closet. Did you know that? He used to forbid the maids from letting me out. I would scream until my voice was gone, but I wouldn’t be let out until he wanted me to. Sometimes I was in there for so long that I was forced to relieve myself.” He takes a generous sip to suppress the bile rising in his throat. 

“Lex—”

“No. Don’t talk. I don’t want your pity, Superman.” He poured another three fingers and drained it. The words flooded the still office air like an overflowed river. “When I turned seven, my father forbade any of my maids from talking to me. Practically the only conversations I had until high school were with my tutors. I can speak five languages, did you know that? Sprechen Sie Deutsch, Superman?” 

Superman shifted in his seat, his brows furrowed, his lips parted with…confusion? Distress? Disgust? Lex couldn’t tell. He couldn’t be bothered. 

Lex clumsily pours himself another glass, the amber liquid splashing onto the surface of his desk. His hands shook as he raised the glass to his lips. “The other thing—the other thing was that my father wasn’t a religious man. No, he was a man of politics and—and capital. His God was the machine on Wall Street that kept his pockets full. But some nights I would pray that someone, anyone would listen to me. And see me. For the first decade of my life, I was fucking invisible. Now look at me. Everyone knows who I am. Everyone sees me. I have my face on fucking GQ and fucking Fortune and Time fucking Magazine.”

Lex could barely taste the scotch anymore as it ran down his throat. He placed the glass down harder than expected, jolting Superman from this stupor. “What about you, huh? Where were you, Superman, when I had no one but my failed experiments to keep me sane? Aren’t you supposed to save people? So much for being a fuckin’ hero.” 

He reached for the bottle, only to find it empty. Cursing, he clumsily reached into the cabinet for another. 

“I’m so sorry,” Superman whispered, his voice oozing with sympathy. 

Fuck Superman’s sympathy. He survived his father on his own. His only mistake was not putting hydrogen peroxide into his father’s bedtime tea when he had the chance.

“It’s hardly your fault. That bastard had the audacity to die before I could do anything about it myself.” Lex lifted the glass, but before it met his lips, Superman’s hand was on his, guiding the glass down and gently prying his fingers off.

Instantly, Superman materialized beside him. “I think we’re done with that for now.” His voice felt close, soothing. “C’mon.” 

Lex could feel Superman’s hand travel from his upper back to his underarm. He’s lifted from his desk chair. The motion made him lightheaded and a little nauseous. With Superman’s arm around him, Lex lulled his head onto his shoulder and tried to memorize every pore and hair visible on his profile. This is the closest he’s ever been to Superman, he supposed. Unless he counts that one time he threw Lex against the wall. But those were mere moments. This felt like forever. 

All of a sudden, he’s on the couch outside of his office, his head propped up on a throw pillow.

“Want to know another secret, Superman?” His hands clasped tightly across his chest. He’s still dizzy. His body no longer felt like his own, like he was watching himself from across the room.

“Hmm?” Superman sat on the floor against the couch, his arm resting along the seat of the couch, pressed up against Lex’s thigh. 

“I still don’t have a single friend.” The admission came from nowhere. He felt like a child again. He isn’t. He never will be again. “No one likes me. Not really. They like my money and my intelligence and my connections, but it’s all superficial. That’s just how people are when you’re better than everyone. It’s lonely at the top. That’s what they say.” 

He wishes he could shove the words back into his mouth as soon as he said them. In his last coherent thought, he hoped to be so fucking drunk that he would forget this conversation ever happened, or he would blow his brains out in the morning. At least he has options. 

“We’re friends.” Superman puts a hand on his calf, right below his knee. It’s warm and grounding and entirely undeserved. 

Lex scoffs. “We are not. You hate me.” He meant to say, I hate you. Or maybe he didn't. 

“No, I really don’t.” Superman looked humored, he’s finally smiling at Lex again. 

“I don’t believe you.” Lex brought his hand up to his face and wiped away a tear. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying. 

“You don’t have to believe me for it to be true.” Superman squeezed his leg gently.  

Lex didn’t deign him with a response. His nausea subsided, and he could feel the enticing pull of sleep in his core. He rolled onto his side, his back to Superman. 

A pounding headache woke Lex at the crack of dawn. Last night blurred together in an embarrassing abstraction. How completely humiliating. 

He allowed himself ten seconds of screaming into the throw pillow before adjusting his suit and heading back into his office. 

A glass of water and Advil sat on his desk. A faint burning smell emanated from his metal waste basket. From the bottom of the bin, he picked up a half-incinerated photograph, his father’s image deliberately lasered out, while his ten-year-old self remained. The rest of the photos were neatly stacked and facing down. The corner of Lex’s mouth twitched upward at the gesture. He slipped the burned photo into his desk drawer and swept the remaining ones into the waste basket. 

There was no reason to believe that Superman would act any differently after that night. After weeks of close observation, Lex knew this to be true. Superman apparently considered them to be friends, much to Lex’s chagrin, and Superman is nothing if not loyal to his friends. 

Still, Lex found an unexpected relief when Superman returned the next night with two copies of the Sunday crossword in his hand and that stupid grin on his face. They did not discuss Lex’s father or his childhood, and the scotch was kept locked safely away in the cabinet behind his desk.  

Their routine continued as usual until three weeks later, when Superman didn’t show up at his usual time. Nor did he arrive after hours, when most of LuthorCorp had left for the night. Lex checked the window. No creatures or fires or unhinged metahumans to be seen. It was a disturbingly peaceful evening. 

At almost two in the morning, Lex checked his watch for the millionth time. Superman was never this late to their meetings—if he’s ever delayed, he always alerted Lex through Heather from a payphone. 

He was about to head home to write an angry speech on timeliness and respect to give to Superman tomorrow, when a rush of wind blew through the office and Superman stumbled out through the balcony door. 

Lex stood up immediately. He’s beyond annoyed. “Do you have any idea how late it is—”

Superman, faster than Lex can process, lumbered forward and collapsed into Lex, his arms fastening around his shoulders in an iron hold. He shook, sobbing into Lex’s collar. 

Lex stilled. His hand slowly moved to grip Superman’s biceps, though realizing that any escape attempt was futile. It takes only moments for the weight of Superman’s embrace to force them both to sink to their knees on the cold, polished floor. 

On the ground, Lex managed to twist out of Superman’s hold. Arms braced on the tile floor, he pulled himself away until he could see Superman’s full, miserable face. His usually fair skin is blotchy and twisted, his eyes bloodshot. Snot dripped from his nose. Lex should be happy to learn that Superman’s an ugly crier. He should be.

Lex plucks a tissue from the box on his desk and hands it to him. 

Superman blew his nose noisily. “She was just a child. Oh, God—” He choked.

Lex handed him another tissue. 

Between hiccups and sobs, Superman explained that he answered a call for a home invasion in the suburbs. While he assessed the wounds on the pregnant mother, one of the unaccounted-for invaders fired a round into the victims’ house. Most of the bullets didn’t hit, but one punctured the neck of the family’s ten-year-old daughter. It happened in less than a second. He tried to save her, or at least stop the bleeding until the EMTs arrived, but it was no use. 

Superman broke down into tears again. Lex handed him the whole tissue box. 

It occurred to him then that Superman was at his most vulnerable, willingly seeking Lex’s comfort. Discomfort crawled into his chest. He’d never considered himself to be a source of comfort for anyone. 

It’s possible that if he refused any warmth, Superman might not visit again, throwing off his whole project. But it’s also simply not in Lex’s nature to give out free hugs to depressed aliens. As a compromise, he gave a couple of tentative pats on Superman’s shoulder. 

Superman turned his head and gives a small, teary smile. Lex retreated his arm and turned away. He couldn’t have Superman looking at him like that. 

When Superman’s sobs finally subsided, he gave Lex a crooked smile. “Wow. You’re so quiet. If you want to say something, you can.” Superman bumps his shoulder gently, like it’s Lex who needs comforting. “Here: ‘You can’t save everyone, Superdork’. How’s that?” 

“Incredible. You’ve finally lost it.” Lex bit his lip, suppressing a smile. “I do not sound like that.” 

“You sort of do.” 

Superman inches closer until their shoulders are just barely touching. Lex holds a bated breath. He feels like he’s on fire. 

“It wasn’t your fault.” The words come out of Lex’s throat low and harsh. 

“What was that?” Superman looks up at Lex with those big, wet eyes. It’s pathetic. It’s beautiful. 

“Don’t be obtuse.” He wasn’t going to repeat himself to the guy who could hear a pin drop from a mile away. 

Lex looked at his watch. The hour hand was inching closer and closer to four. He had already decided that he wouldn't be getting any sleep that night. 

He felt the warm presence leave his side. “Sorry, I’ve overstayed. I should get going.” Superman pushed himself from the floor to lean against the desk. He still looked so forlorn. 

“No.” Lex scrambled to stand. No, you haven’t overstayed. No, don’t go. “You kept me up. Find a place so I can get dinner.” Superman raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “I’m craving something local.” 

Superman practically beams. 

Lex began to regret his choice of words as Superman instructed his driver to take them to a seedy street on the East Side. Although he was relieved to finally leave his office after twenty-one hours, he didn’t imagine they would be queueing up for kebabs before dawn. He looked around the nearly-empty street nervously; there were more rats than people out, but he pulled his hood lower over his face anyway. Superman greeted the vendor like an old friend, and Lex hung back as Superman ordered for them both.

In a silent agreement, they walked to the edge of the river. Superman perched himself on the wall, feet dangling over the edge. Lex leaned forward, resting his elbows on top of the cool cement. 

It’s a brisk, windy morning. Superman’s cape flapped behind him as he mournfully gazed into his food. Out of the corner of his eye, Lex noticed a darker section of the cape, a deep burgundy staining the bright carmine cloth. Lex didn’t need to be a forensic scientist to imagine what had happened. Superman had wrapped that child in his cape in a futile attempt to staunch the bleeding. From how blood-soaked the cape was, the intruder must have hit an artery. She would have never survived, even if the EMTs had arrived in time. 

Lex looked back up. Superman had finally started to unhappily devour his kebab. Lex took a bite and watched the crumbs fall into the water. He knows the exhaustion will settle in much later while he’s in a meeting or on an important call. But for now, he’s wide awake, eating pedestrian food, and watching the sunrise with fucking Superman. 

At nearly five in the morning, Lex called his diver. Superman insisted on waiting with him until his car arrived, though his kebab had long been eaten. 

As he stepped into the vehicle, Superman called out to him. “Thanks for everything, Lex.”

Lex didn’t know how to respond. 

After a week, two months into the project, Lex reviewed his logs. What he found were not only weaknesses, but unexpected imperfections. Metropolis’ hero couldn’t save everyone every time, even though he’s capable of sonic speed and possesses superhuman instincts. He’s graceful when he flies, but clumsy when he walks. He stutters, he raises his voice, he’s inexplicably bothered by small, insignificant annoyances. But he was confident and mind-numbingly earnest. It was irritating how aware and self-assured Superman could be about these defects that couldn’t be compensated for with his muscles or abilities. He also didn’t seem to care that he exposed himself so thoroughly to Lex. Wearing his heart on his sleeve, for Lex to rip off and mutilate.

Another anomaly arose. After that fateful night when Superman sought Lex’s consolation, he began looking at Lex differently. He was more regretful when he had to cut their meetings short to save the city. His hand would linger on Lex’s shoulder, on his elbow, on his forearm. He even complimented Lex’s new tie, a blue silk one that his stylist picked out (“It matches your eyes!”). It was too friendly and too suspicious for Lex’s liking. Yet, he allowed it and logged the behavioral changes in his ever-growing documents. 

Lex’s suspicions were heightened when Superman requested to meet at a two-star hotel on the edge of town at sunset. 

When he arrived, alone as promised, Superman offered to fly them to the roof. 

“Fuck, no. I’m taking the elevator.” It’s not like he’s afraid of heights; Superman could drop him for God’s sake. 

“The building’s locked,” Superman called after him. 

He tried the door anyway. Locked. “Can’t you just use your super-strength to break in?”

“That’s illegal.”

“Isn’t trespassing on a roof also illegal?” 

Superman shrugged with faux innocence. 

Lex huffed and crossed his arms. “Fine.” 

Superman, with too much enthusiasm in Lex’s opinion, scooped him up. “I’ll be careful, I promise.” 

Lex didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until Superman set him gently on his feet. When he opened them, he saw a mostly bare rooftop except for an ice cooler.

Superman pulled out a vintage bottle of Dom Pérignon from the box and proudly presented it to Lex, grinning ear to ear. 

Lex accepted it hesitantly. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s your birthday. Happy birthday! Unless I got it wrong. September 28th, right? I read it on your Wikipedia page.” 

“Oh. No, that’s right.” All of the built-up annoyances faded away as he turned the bottle in his hands. Lex hadn’t realized the date. 

Superman guided them over to a dewy metal bench overlooking the east shoreline. “Ah. I forgot it rained.” Without hesitating, he detached his cape and laid it over the seat. Superman gestured for Lex to sit on it. 

“What a gentleman,” Lex deadpanned. A weaker man would’ve been completely charmed. Lex was only half-charmed. 

“I aim to please.” Superman rummaged around in the cooler again, his smile fading slightly. “Ah, shoot. I forgot the glasses. I hope you don’t mind sharing. It’ll be like high school.” 

“Oh, sure.” Sharing a bottle of liquor on a rooftop had never been Lex’s high school experience. Maybe Superman’s was. He could imagine it. Youthful. Popular. Star of the football team. Taking girls to rooftops to drink cheap beer and pretend to be rebellious. “You can tell me if you’re planning on getting me drunk, pushing me off the roof, and pretending that it was an accident.” 

Superman just laughed, like Lex told an outrageously funny joke. “What? No. I just wanted to show you my favorite spot. I used to come here all the time when I first moved to Metropolis. Now, I mostly just use it to watch the end-of-the-carnival firework show.” 

The sun fell behind the shoreline before them, decorating the coast with a violet-orange hue. They passed the bottle in silence. Occasionally, Superman would point out large birds or other creatures that Lex could barely make out in the distance. 

When darkness blanketed the city, as promised, fireworks lit up the sky in sparkling greens and golds and reds. Lex found it reluctantly endearing when Superman called out the types of explosions as they appeared. He hadn’t even known they had names. 

The fireworks eventually faded, and Superman took a deep swig of the champagne. “I feel like you should know why I came to see you all those times before the trial. I thought that if you could get to know me as—as a person, you wouldn’t hate me so much. And maybe if you didn’t hate me so much, it would be better.” 

The champagne made Lex feel lighter, his ears still ringing from the fireworks. “What would be better?” 

“Everything.” He’s looking at Lex now, wide-eyed and serious. “I also wanted to get to know you. And learn more about you.” 

“And what did you find out?” Lex couldn’t stop himself from asking. He remembered the now hundreds of thousands of physical and digital documents detailing Superman’s every move. 

Superman leaned in, like it’s a secret only he and Lex can know. Lex notices the crow's feet on the corners of his eyes. Inhuman but not ageless. He can’t stop himself from imagining an old Superman with sunspots and wrinkles, refusing to stop fighting monsters and saving kittens from trees. And himself, crippled with age and over-drinking, refusing to step down as LuthorCorp CEO. 

Superman’s hand rested near his, and Lex couldn't find the strength to move it. 

“That you’re stubborn. And irascible. And you drink too much when you’re upset.” Lex resented that. He’s not an alcoholic. “You love winning, and you stay up with me until four in the morning.

“You’re resilient and creative. And the smartest person in Metropolis. Don’t tell Mister Terrific I said that.” He’s closer now. Lex could feel Superman’s breath on his cheek. It’s warm. He wanted to find it disgusting. He doesn’t. 

“And you know more about me than I do myself sometimes.” He’s impossibly close now. He smelled like cheap coconut shampoo and gravel. 

His eyes reflected the moonlight, the blinding brightness suffocating Lex. 

Stillness surrounds them, enclosing them in the night air. 

And then Superman's lips pressed against his, kissing him like a starved man. He’s soft and insistent. And Lex is kissing back with equal fervor. One hand presses into the cape below, shakily holding himself up, with the other, he traces up Superman’s arm. The skin-tight suit reveals every taut muscle, every subtle movement of his tendons. He wants to peel back his skin and reveal every pulsating capillary and vein and dissect his very being. 

Superman pulls away. He’s breathing hard. Lex couldn’t look away from the insufferable smirk on his lips. “I thought you said I wasn’t your type.” 

“You kissed me, idiot.” Lex doesn’t move away. 

Superman’s smile deepens. Those fucking dimples will be the death of him. 

“And I’ll do it again.” 

“Oh, shut up.” 

Superman pulled him in, his hand knocking the bottle off the ledge. The glass shattered and champagne splashed onto their ankles. They jolted apart at the noise. Superman stared in horror as the bubbles fizzled into the pores of the concrete. 

After a moment of stunned silence, Superman buried his head in his hands and groaned. “Sorry, this was such a disaster.” 

Lex could’ve said, This is the best birthday I can remember, and it would’ve been the truth. Instead, he said, “I’ve had worse birthdays.” 

And that was also the truth. 

Lex let Superman fly him back to his house, not out of pity, but out of convenience, if anyone should ask. The experience was less horrible the second time, courtesy to the one-third bottle of champagne and Superman’s arms wrapped tightly around him. 

“So, this was nice.” Superman lingered outside on his balcony, his boot scuffing the ground. 

Lex nodded. He was slightly disoriented from the flight, and a bothersome migraine was forming. 

When Lex’s hand reached the door, Superman’s voice rose abruptly. “I, um. I’m not seeing anyone else. So, you know…” 

Lex shouldn’t have looked back, but he did. The spark of hope in Superman’s eyes made his ears burn. Almost six months of continuous data collection and analysis, and not once did he predict Superman would…proposition him. For the first time in his life, Lex felt paralyzed with indecision. 

On the one hand, it could all be a fucked up joke. A set-up to ruin Lex again. There could have been hidden cameras on the rooftop or in his office. Hidden microphones in Superman’s suit. His buddies at the press could be ready with an exposé by morning. He could see the headlines now: Criminal CEO Duped by City’s Sweetheart. And it would be Lex’s fault for trusting and confiding in the alien in his most vulnerable state. 

On the other hand, Superman bought him expensive champagne. Superman celebrated his birthday. Superman called him the smartest person in Metropolis. Superman kissed him. And if Lex was being honest with himself, he wouldn’t mind Superman kissing him again like he did before. Like Lex meant something to him. Now thinking about it, it is the only logical conclusion that if Superman should court anyone, it should be Lex, the pinnacle of mankind in every way. Perhaps Superman has finally realized Lex’s superiority over his small-minded fans. 

On the hypothetical third hand, Lex hadn’t been with another man since he was sixteen, kissing Carlos Santiago in the bathroom between classes. A hall monitor had noticed. The headmaster had been notified. Lex doesn’t remember how Carlos’s short-cropped hair felt through his fingers. He doesn’t remember how it felt when Carlos’ hands pulled Lex impossibly close. He does remember the aftermath. The humiliation. He never saw Carlos again; his father made sure of that. But his father is dead, and no one on Earth can keep Superman away from Lex, except for Lex himself.

There he was, standing in front of Superman, the greatest threat to humanity. Superman, the alien whom Lex obsessed over relentlessly. Superman, who defeated him with a smile on his face and ugly red trunks over his suit. Superman, who visited him when no one else did. Superman, who forgave him based on one simple, insincere gesture. Superman, who came to him first for comfort. Superman, who despite not completely understanding Lex’s genetics and particle physics experiments, listens anyway. Superman, who, beyond all expectations, is clever and witty. Superman, who sees him. 

He might be the only one who ever has.

It might be the stupidest choice Lex has ever made in his life. 

Lex lifted his hand off the door handle. “I’m not either.” 

He tried to sound composed. He hated being weak in front of Superman. 

A grin spread across Superman’s perfect face. He took Lex’s hand into his and brought it up to his lips. He pressed his lips to Lex’s knuckles, then his wrist, then pulled Lex into another searing kiss. 

Lex placed a hand on Superman’s chest. “You should go…” He could feel a quick staccato heartbeat. “You should go,” he repeated more forcefully. 

Superman pressed a final kiss on the corner of his mouth. “See you tomorrow, Lex.” 

Mercifully, Superman let him go and hopped up on the edge of the balcony. With one last longing look, he took off into the night.

Chapter Text

Lois poured another packet of sugar into her black tea. The granules dissolved into the milky amber liquid as she stirred contemplatively. The empty container was discarded onto the growing mountain of empty sugar packets beside Lois’s morning bun. Her eyebrows were knit together, more pensive than upset. 

All things considered, Clark thought that she was taking the announcement about him and Lex pretty well.

After weeks of awkward back-and-forths in the office, Clark had been thrilled when Lois invited him out for coffee. Although she claimed that the meeting was on the grounds of important business, he had a feeling that she missed him too. It was also the perfect opportunity to finally break the secret about him and Lex.

Lois set her spoon on the porcelain saucer with a clink. She took a sip, irises scanning from the table to Clark, searching for the right words. “Are you sure you can trust him? I mean, he’s kind of the worst person ever.”

Clark took a deep breath. He was prepared for some classic Lois cross-examination. “We’ve been officially seeing each other for almost two months. I would say that’s pretty serious.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t answer my question. Has he ever even said the word ‘relationship’ about the two of you?”

“Well, no, not in that many words. But we’re exclusive.” If Lex was seeing someone else, Clark would know; he has somehow successfully managed to monopolize Lex’s free time.  

“Uh-huh. And you took his word for it?” 

“Of course!” 

Her half-empty mug hit the table with a fair amount of blunt force. “Jesus, Clark,” Lois groaned, burying her head in her hands.

“I know, I know. But he’s changed! I mean, his methods are still a little questionable, and he’s not the most emotionally available person ever, but I can tell he’s trying. He’s attentive, and interesting, and—and passionate about a lot of things. He just gets me, you know?” 

“He gets you? He’s obsessed with you, Clark. And not in a good way.” 

“Maybe in a bit of a good way.” He smiled into his coffee. He likes that Lex cares enough to keep track of his favorite foods, board game preferences, and every single one of his facial expressions in his extensive Superman database that he thinks Clark doesn’t know about. “It’s nice to be wanted.”

“Clark…” She warned. 

“Lois.” He repeated, trying to sound just as stern. Her hesitation is reasonable, Clark reminds himself. She’s just being a good friend. 

“Does he know your…” She gestured at Clark vaguely. His identity. 

Revealing his biggest secret to Lex has been on his mind for a while. “Not yet, but I think I’m going to tell him soon. We’re getting there, mutual trust-wise.” 

“What if he takes advantage of it? Clark, you know what he’s capable of.”

The lenses on his rose-colored glasses aren’t that thick. Clark wouldn’t dare reveal his identity unless he absolutely believed that Lex could be trusted with that knowledge. 

“Of course, I do. And I know more than anyone what kind of person he is now. He wouldn’t do something like that. If anything, I think he’ll be happy to know that Clark Kent isn’t a threat to our relationship anymore. Superman isn’t interested in dating himself.” She wrinkled her nose at his use of the third person. “I really like spending time with him, Lois. I really like him.”

“Okay, okay. I’m happy that you’re happy, even though this is totally weird.” She shook her head at him, but she couldn’t hold back her smile anymore. 

A wave of relief washed over Clark. He felt a massive weight lifted knowing that Lois was on his side—even if she didn’t exactly agree with his choice in men. 

“It is, but it’s a good-weird. I promise.” He finished off his mocha and reached over the table to take a piece of the morning bun before she could slap his hand away. “So, what was the big news you wanted to tell me?” Clark asked, chewing the pastry. 

Lois’s face fell. She covered her frown with her mug, her eyes darting from the passerbys outside to Clark. Finally, she set her tea down and took a deep breath. “Please don’t freak out on me, Clark.”

Clark nodded despite a ball of worry forming in the pit of his stomach, crawling into his chest.

“My contact at the Pentagon recently informed me that the Department of Defense is pushing a deal to purchase about 300 billion dollars worth of weapons from LuthorCorp. For the Peace Corps in Kasnia and the ongoing occupation in Qurac, and who knows what else. I wanted to tell you this because I was—I was afraid that Luthor was preparing some new scheme to get to you. I wanted you to know before it went public. I’m sorry, Clark.” 

Numbness quickly replaced the initial shock. Desperate questions raced through his mind. How did he not know about this? How could Lex keep this from him? Why would Lex need to keep this from him? Does he not trust Clark? Does he want to hurt Clark? 

He hadn’t even realized he had stood up until Lois was calling after him. “Clark. Clark, where are you going?” 

“I have to go.” Clark didn’t want to cut their time short, but he needed to sort this out with Lex now. 

Maybe Clark should have waited to collect his thoughts before approaching Lex. 

Maybe then he wouldn’t have interrupted Lex’s meeting, simmering with anxiety. Maybe then, when Lex decided to double down on his decision, Clark wouldn’t have said things he didn’t mean. Maybe then Lex wouldn’t have said some things Clark hoped he didn’t mean. Maybe then Lex wouldn’t have muttered ‘nosey fucking alien’ when Clark turned to leave. Maybe then Clark wouldn’t have stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard the wall cracked and the ceiling shook.

At Fortress of Solitude, Clark allowed himself some time to cool down, staring up at the towering crystalline ceiling from his healing bed. 

He supposed it was bound to happen eventually. Even if Lex did change in many respects, fundamentally, he was still a billionaire CEO who seemed to care more for profits than lives. Usually, Clark would try to understand arguments from Lex’s perspective, but this time, there was no compromise. 

Clark knew in his heart that Lex’s deal with the D.O.D. wasn't about Superman this time, so there must be something else that’s causing Lex to be so firm and secretive about the deal. 

“Sir, did you order this? I found it in the mailbox.” Gary held up a small package containing an expensive-looking watch. There was no note. 

Clark took the gift and sighed. “No.”

The package filled Clark with equal parts hope and offense. At this point in their relationship, Lex should know at this point that he wouldn’t want a post-fight conciliation watch. Despite that, Clark can still recognize that it was a sign Lex wanted to see him again. 

Clark resolved that this time, he can properly communicate to Lex that he does care about him, but that he also cares about the people in Kasnia and Qurac and will do anything to ensure their safety.

It was nearly sunset by the time Clark felt sufficiently collected. LuthorCorp was quiet, empty of its nine-to-five staff and bustling interns. Heather waved him in as soon as she saw him.

“What’s this for?” Clark held out the opened package, the watch glinting in the last rays of sunlight pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

“Good afternoon to you, too.” Lex didn’t even look up at him from his laptop. The nonchalant act never worked on Clark; he could hear Lex’s heart racing and see the subtle constriction of his muscles. 

“What’s this, Lex?” He placed the watch on the desk, maybe a little too firmly. 

Lex closed his laptop with equal force and glanced at the gift. “A watch.” His gaze finally rose to meet Clark’s. “You said you wanted a new one.” 

It was true. Ever since he accidentally sat on his old one, he’d been looking for a replacement. “Yeah. For, like, a birthday present or a Christmas gift, but not to…to appease me because I don’t want you to get involved in military offenses against civilians.” Clark took a step back and deflated. He was getting worked up again. “Right now, I don’t want a watch. I just want to talk about this with you.” 

“Okay. Then talk.” Lex gestured to the seat in front of him.

Clark sat down. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the damage he left from his last visit. “Okay. I’m sorry about the wall—”

“I don’t care about the wall.” 

“Okay. Well, I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting.” 

“Right. Apologies accepted.” He opened his laptop again, like the conversation was already over. 

Clark had to stop himself from audibly sighing in frustration. He had thought that perhaps after a mutual apology, they could discuss the problem without animosity. Maybe it was too hopeful to assume Lex apologized for anything. 

Although it was possible that Lex just didn’t understand the situation from Clark’s perspective. He didn’t exactly explain himself well the last time he approached Lex. 

“I feel…upset that you made a weapons deal fully aware of who will be affected by it. You, out of all people, should know that the ‘Peace Corps’ uses hostility to subdue foreign governments and communities. Do you know how many civilians are affected by them? The Peace Corps carries automatic weapons around elementary schools and bus stops. And Qurac…The US military doesn't need better weapons; they need to find a way to provide these countries with actual helpful resources.”

Lex leaned back, his arms folded and chin raised. “What do you expect me to do? Not take the deal?” 

“Yes!” 

“Listen, Superman,” he hissed at Clark. “You might not understand, since you clearly think the world runs on candy and smiles, but we’ve…been underperforming this quarter and this contract could mean a great deal of difference.”

Ah. 

Clark isn’t surprised that Lex likes to keep his fear of failure buried under layers and layers of indifference. Nevertheless, people don’t deserve to die because one guy decided their livelihood was worth a quarter’s profit. 

“So, make another deal that doesn’t have to do with bombs and—and indirectly killing innocent people.” 

“First of all, we don’t manufacture bombs. Second, it’s the Department of Defense, for fuck’s sake. What the hell else do they do?” 

“Well, you’re the smart one. I’m sure you can figure something out.” 

Lex recoiled slightly. After a heavy pause, Lex silently stood and walked around the desk to the door. Clark hesitantly followed him. 

To Clark’s relief, Lex didn’t look angry when he paused at the door and rested his hand on Clark’s shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Clark asked as let Lex practically shove him out of the room. 

“It means. I’ll. See. What. I. Can. Do. Now go, I’m busy.” Lex shut the door in his face. 

Later, Lois quietly passed Clark a small stack of redacted files. The weapons contract with LuthorCorp was dissolved, and a new cybersecurity deal was outlined: data protection, heightening cyberspace infrastructure, and no obvious sign of enabling any future military operations. 

Clark took his lunch break to kiss Lex over his desk until Lex reluctantly kicked him out of his office. 

On the night that Lex invited him to his penthouse apartment, Clark arrived in his Superman suit carrying a duffel bag of Clark Kent clothes. The concierge directed him across a chandeliered hallway to the elevators. There, on the 25th floor, Clark found Lex in his massive bedroom, lounging on a pristine white couch that sat in front of the largest flatscreen TV Clark had ever seen. 

A warm greeting died on his lips as Clark watched Lex’s eyes immediately fall onto Clark’s bag, his expression flickering from perplexity to a hardened contemplation. The bag suddenly felt like it was filled with lead. 

Clark found his voice first. “Mind if I change into something more comfortable?” 

“Bathroom’s down the hall to the left. Can’t miss it.” Lex responded, turning away, his cadence slightly strained. “While you’re up, grab us the drinks out of the fridge.” 

The bathroom was just as clean and impressive as the rest of Lex’s apartment. Clark carefully removed the suit, attempting to leave as little debris as possible on the spotless tiles. He washes the gel out of his hair and dresses slowly and deliberately. 

Clark studies himself in the mirror. His reflection stares back at him, his hair now damp and unwieldy. He adjusts the button-up shirt he’s wearing, tucking it into his slacks and then untucking. Clark grimaces when he notices an oil stain near the bottom of his sleeve. He rolls them up to his elbows. 

It’s a fact that Superman is Clark Kent, and Clark Kent is Superman. Clark isn’t any different when he’s wearing one name or the other. He enjoys the same things and loves the same people. He holds himself to be the best man he can be. He cares deeply. 

But Superman is daring and interesting and exciting. Clark Kent is…not. An unnamed anxiety that he’s carried since he arrived expands, pushing against his ribs. Surely Lex wouldn’t like him any less, knowing how completely mundane the other half of Clark’s life really is. 

He took a deep breath and adjusted his glasses. He looks fine. It’ll be fine. 

When Clark opened the refrigerator to retrieve the drinks, he couldn’t help but smile. Lex bought him the canned cocktails that he loves and Lex claims to hate—he said they tasted like stale chemicals. They’re certainly the best-tasting chemicals Clark’s ever had. 

Clark sits down on the couch with the drinks, a polite distance away, and Lex does a triple-take. He holds his breath as he watches Lex experience all seven stages of grief in a matter of moments. Then, with an eye on Clark, he picks up his laptop and starts furiously typing, muttering something about stupid, faulty facial recognition technology. 

At a loss, Clark picked up the remote and turned on the TV. 

Lex slammed his laptop shut. “What the fuck. Your disguise is a journalist?” He sounded more exasperated than angry. 

“Well, I am a journalist. I had to get a four-year degree for that job. I pay my bills with that job.” 

“And you interview yourself?” Lex asked, incredulously. 

Clark pretended to be interested in the various apps on Lex’s 98-inch screen. “Wow, you have everything on here. Netflix. HBO. Peacock?”  

Lex sank back into the couch. “I can’t believe that you lecture me about integrity when you’re pulling that bullshit regularly.”

Their shoulders were no more than half a foot away. Clark wanted to close the distance badly, but the bubble of anxiety refused to dissipate. “What’s Pride and Prejudice on? Netflix?” 

“This is so fucking—how have I never noticed?” 

Clark finally turned to Lex. His expression had softened, looking more curious than upset. Clark supposed he should be brave. “Well, the glasses help a lot. Hypno-glasses.” 

“Let me see.” 

“Please be careful.” He handed Lex the pair. “I accidentally broke my spare.” 

“Of course, you did.” Lex inspected the frames from all angles, peering through the lenses from the front and the back. “Clark,” he eventually said, without looking up. 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s on HBO.” He handed Clark back the glasses.

Mid-movie, Clark managed to successfully ease up against Lex, and by the time the credits rolled, Clark found himself lying on Lex’s chest. The drinks were good. The company was even better. And the movie certainly exceeded his expectations. 

“The costumes were a little different from what I imagined, but the casting was great. All I’m saying is that if I was Elizabeth Bennett, I would absolutely forgive Matthew Macfadyen for anything. He was a perfect Mr. Darcy. What’d you think? Lex?” 

“I want to make you a new suit. I can make it better.” His fingers were threaded through Clark’s hair, gently separating each curl. 

“I bet you can. I like my suit, though.” 

“But it looks…really tacky.” A generous description, coming from Lex. 

Clark let out a small chuckle. “It’s supposed to look a little silly. I wouldn’t want people to be scared of me. Plus, it’s good for visibility. And, again, I like it.” 

“I’ve already prototyped some designs.” 

“Of course you have.” Clark muffled a yawn with his hand, his cheek still pressed against Lex’s chest. “Hey. Let me stay here tonight?” 

Lex’s hand stilled. “No, I have to work in the morning. And apparently you do too.” 

“But I’m so comfortable.” He nuzzles deeper in Lex’s chest. Maybe a little too much. 

“God—Clark, get off,” Lex choked. Clark likes how Lex says his name. He’d heard Lex talk about Clark Kent with a venomous tone, but now it’s familiar. Like how he now says Superman. Clark lets Lex push him to the side a little to alleviate the pressure. “Ugh. It’s like cuddling with a fucking refrigerator.” 

Despite his complaint, Lex resumed carding his fingers through Clark’s hair, running his fingernails over his scalp. It’s gentle. His eyes drift closed. All he wants right now is to fall asleep to the steady beat of Lex’s heart. 

“If you let me stay, I’ll let you take me to that fancy restaurant you like. The one just out of New Troy.” 

“It’s a three hour meal with a set menu.” 

“I know.” 

Lex shifted, sitting up against a throw pillow. “You’ll have to wear a suit. A nice suit. Not that mess you wore for the trial.” 

“I know.” Clark’s hand found its way under Lex’s undershirt, trailing up the bare skin of his abdomen. He pauses. “Wait, you remember that?” 

Lex grabbed his wrist. “And you can’t just get up and leave because someone’s grandma’s parrot got stuck in a clothesline or whatever.”

“I won’t.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. Here, I’ll show you.” Clark moved off of Lex to sit up on the edge of the couch. He leaned over the coffee table to eat forkfuls of imaginary food from his imaginary plate. “Mmm, delicious. Is this ecargot or something? Eel? It’s fantastic! Compliments to the chef.” 

With an encouraging grin, Clark gestured at Lex for his line. 

Lex rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, amused. “Superman, help! My cat’s stuck in a tree!” 

“Ah, see, the fire department’s got that one. I’m enjoying my meal right now.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Superman! Come quickly, a train derailed and is headed toward a children’s hospital!” 

“One moment, please. Excuse me, waiter, where is the restroom?” Clark sped-walked to the bedroom door and then flew a lap around the children’s hospital and back. He smoothed out his shirt before entering the room again. “See? Less than three minutes tops. No lingering. You’ll barely notice I’m gone. Okay?” 

“Okay, fine,” Lex acquiesced, lying back on the couch. 

Clark followed him down, crawling up until his forehead rested on Lex’s collar. “Okay. What if someone’s trying to call you?” 

“Then I turn off my phone. Unlike your ‘job,’ people actually respect my time.” 

“Hey, you can’t always predict emergencies.” 

Minutes passed before Lex broke the silence. “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

“Okay, you can stay over.” 

When Clark wakes up bathed in the morning sun, Lex is already in the shower. He stretched, still feeling the warmth of Lex’s hands all over his chest and arms and skull, the bluntness of his nails down his back, his hot breath on his neck. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine. 

Clark wrote his number on the notepad on the side table and stumbled out of the room with his pants half-on. He’s already late for work. 

At work, he notices a text from an unknown number. 

Our reservation is on Friday at 6:30. Does that work for you? - L

Only four days. Clark could hardly wait. He responds affirmatively and sends a flurry of emojis back. 

Lex responded immediately: Are you having a stroke?  

Nope! Just looking forward to our date! :)

A reaction bubble appeared on the message with the thumbs-down emoji. Clark bit his lip, failing to suppress a smile. 

I think you accidentally disliked my text :(

Lex disliked that message too.

“What’re you so happy about?” Lois nudged him

“Nothing.” Clark turned his phone away, not at all suspiciously. The look she gave him was persuasive. He showed her the text messages. “He’s taking me on a date.”

“Ooh! A date? With who?” Cat asked, walking by. 

“No one,” Clark and Lois responded in unison. 

When Cat was out of earshot, Lois leaned in and hissed, “What if he’s planning something? What if…he’s secretly stealing your DNA to create an army of clones.” 

“Huh. I guess he does like to micromanage.” 

He texted Lex, Are you secretly stealing my DNA to create an army of Supermen?  

Seconds later, Clark’s phone buzzed. Do you have any idea how annoying an army of you would be? I’ll pass. 

“See?” He showed her the messages. 

She shook her head in disbelief. “I have no clue what you see in him. He called you annoying, Clark.” 

“No, he called the hypothetical Superman army annoying. It’s different.” 

“Right.” She didn’t look convinced. 

“Lois, I think he actually likes me a lot.” 

“I’m sure he does in his own sociopathic way.” She pats him on the shoulder. “But if he ever tries anything, you let me know. I’m not afraid to write another incriminating article…or punch the botox out of his face.” 

“That’s not necessary, but thank you. I know I can always count on you.” Clark did appreciate her concern. “Also, he just has a great skincare routine.” 

Arriving at the restaurant, Clark in his stiff new suit and Lex in one of his handsome three-pieces, the first thing he noticed was the distinct lack of patrons. In fact, not a single table was occupied.

“There’s no one here,” Clark whispered. 

“No one should be here,” Lex whispered back, adjusting his cufflink. “I reserved the entire restaurant.” 

The waitress led them to a table in the far corner near the window looking down on the Metropolis skyline.

“Good evening, gentlemen. In front of you is our menu for tonight. As you can see, we have a six-course menu. We specialize in farm-to-table cuisine, and pride in our locally-sourced produce and meats. Can I get you started with anything to drink right away?”

“We’ll take the wine pairings,” Lex responded without hesitation.

The first and second courses were small, barely a bite of food each. Lex seemed to enjoy them, so Clark did his best to appreciate the art of gastronomy.

While Lex could indulge in the meal, Clark could indulge in Lex. Each time the sommelier brought a new wine, he would announce the origin, year, and notes, which would fly right over Clark’s head. Rather, he enjoyed watching Lex nodding along intently, occasionally asking questions that Clark would’ve never thought to ask. 

The salad course was third, which turned out to be this deconstructed plate sparsely decorated with well-ripened vegetables and peeled citrus drizzled with three different types of vinaigrettes. He could identify beets, blood oranges, and, to Clark’s horror, cherry tomatoes.

He poked one with his fork. It squished unpleasantly.

Eat the darn tomatoes, Clark.  

With all of his willpower, he stabs one and brings it to his mouth. He swallows it so he doesn’t have to feel between his teeth. He pokes the second one with his fork. It’s bigger and will be much more difficult. 

Lex’s voice cut through his train of thought. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Oh! Um, nothing.” Mind over matter, Clark, eat the tomato. 

Lex set his cutlery down on his plate. “What?” 

“Well, it’s just…” He leaned in closer. Lex leaned in, his face now serious. “I don’t like tomatoes.” 

Lex looked almost relieved at Clark’s admission. He reached over and took Clark’s plate, pushing the remaining tomatoes onto his before handing it back.

“Seriously? You grew up on a farm.” 

“It’s a texture thing! I like a lot of other stuff.” 

“What about pizza? Pasta sauce?” 

“Okay, you know that’s different from a whole tomato.” 

Thankfully, the fourth course was a perfectly seasoned veal cut. He’s almost embarrassed at how quickly he eats it while Lex is carefully cutting it into bite-sized pieces. Halfway through, Lex insisted that he was saving his appetite and pushed his remaining meat onto Clark’s plate. 

The fifth course was a pasta dish with sausage. It was the smallest portion of pasta Clark had ever seen, so he tried to savor it by eating each individual noodle separately.

Mostly, Clark enjoyed listening to Lex rant about the new internship program at LuthorCorp, which was populated by young Ivy League graduates with dreams of becoming the next Mark Zuckerberg. Lex’s opinion of most of them was outstandingly negative, except for a few stand-outs. Clark just thinks it’s nice that he’s giving recent graduates an opportunity right out of college. It’s hard to get a break in the industry these days, he’s heard.

The sixth course was an array of raw steak. 

“It’s uncooked,” Clark whispers. 

“It’s supposed to be,” Lex whispers back, eagerly cutting into it. “It's beef tartare.” 

After a moment of amicable silence, Lex downs the rest of his pinot noir and clears his throat. “I’ve thought about it.”

Clark looked up mid-bite. 

“Close your mouth.” When Clark swallowed, he continued. “I thought about what you said. Before. And I would be open…to the idea of meeting your parents.” 

“Really?” Clark didn’t mean for it to come out so loud, but he was so genuinely surprised. He had brought up the idea a couple of days ago, and Lex had rejected it immediately and refused to talk about it any further. 

“Shh.” Lex looked around, like the restaurant wasn’t empty. “Yes, really.” 

“Am I going to get an explanation for why you decided to change your mind?” 

“No.” 

Clark shrugs. He’ll figure it out sooner or later. 

The dessert was a delicious slice of caramel cake decorated with every sort of berry imaginable. Clark devoured his piece and ended up finishing Lex’s serving after he complained about how full he was.

When Lex took out his card, Clark reached over to rest his hand on Lex’s. “Thanks for dinner. It was delicious. I’ll get the next one.” 

Lex passed his card to the waitress. “No, you won’t.”  

They step into the cool night air. The streets were quiet. Lex leaned into him and Clark held him close. It felt like they were the only two people in the world.

“I didn’t call my driver.”

“So, that means that I get to take you home?” 

Lex sighs heavily, as if he hadn’t made up his mind a while ago. “Yeah. I guess I still have credit on my Superman express card.” 

A laugh bubbles up from his chest. “You’re so weird.”

Lex bats his arm lightly. “Shut up. Freak.”

He presses his face against Clark’s shoulder, his lips brushing against his neck. “Take me home.”

Chapter Text

If it were up to Lex, Clark’s parents would be wining and dining at the finest Metropolis restaurants, sleeping in the grandest room at a five-star hotel, and given an all-exclusive tour of LuthorCorp—all on Lex’s card, of course. Unfortunately, he needed to “compromise” and “understand that Ma and Pa can’t just leave the farm, it’s not easy for them to get help these days, Lex”. 

“Compromise” came in the form of a weekend trip to the Kents' farmhouse in Kansas on Lex’s private jet. No fucking way was he going to brush elbows for two and a half hours with some sweaty hick from Nowheresville, except for Clark, of course.  

Lex had already survived the meet-the-parents routine twice, both times carefully curated to demonstrate his desirable amounts of wealth and intellect. The father would be impressed by his bank accounts and car collection. At the same time, the mother would swoon when he complimented her jewelry and youthful complexion (often aided by thousands of dollars' worth of plastic surgery). Then, after a glass or two of champagne, they would be practically begging Lex to marry their daughter. 

His first ex-wife was the daughter of a Texan-born media mogul. The marriage had been more of Lex’s father’s idea than his own; settling down was what a young man ought to do, after all. However, after two years of the woman practically draining Lex’s pockets, her father’s bankruptcy was the nail in the coffin for their divorce. Soon after, he married his second ex-wife, an heiress to a duke in Toran. The marriage lasted less than a year, ending in the two exclusively communicating the separation through Lex’s assistant and her advisor. While the marriages had ended for uniquely disastrous reasons, they had been similarly fostered from monetary mutual benefit and familial pressure rather than out of love, not that Lex was all that interested in love in his twenties.  

At least those meetings had been predictable. Formulaic, even. Every reaction was anticipated and expected. Yes, they both led to a swift and painful divorce, but at least Lex had had every card at his disposal to flaunt his success to his future in-laws. 

So if Clark was going to disarm him completely by making them fly out to Kansas with nothing but a suitcase and his fucking pride, Lex figured he should at least be prepared. 

In the days leading up to the visit, Lex compiled all the necessary information on the town of Smallville (population of 1,947), Martha Kent, Jonathan Kent, and any miscellaneous data on the simple family lineage of the Kents. He read about typical Midwestern cuisine and pastimes, even the stupid ones like cornhole. He learned that Martha Kent ( née Smith) was born in Topeka before her family moved to Smallville sometime in the 1970s. Lex found black-and-white newspaper archives of a regional colorguard championship and barely legible yearbook photos of Martha Kent as a senior at Smallville High School. She met and married Jonathan Kent, the only child of a family of farmers, in the 80s, presumably immediately after graduating. Clark didn’t enter the family picture until 1995. 

After hours of tedious archival research, Lex came to the unsurprising conclusion that the only extraordinary thing about Clark’s parents was Clark. 

When Clark initially brought up the idea to Lex, he had shut it down immediately, mostly because it was a horribly stupid idea. Meeting Clark’s parents, who, unless they lived under a rock, likely were aware of Lex’s former plots to kill Superman, obviously complicated an already tenuous situation. If—and it was a big if—the meeting went well, it meant a level of interpersonal commitment that Lex hadn’t confronted in almost a decade. At the same time, it showed that Clark wanted to be with him. It showed that Clark wanted a future with him. For Lex, that would be preferable to the alternative, but the thought of meeting Clark’s parents still turned his blood to ice. And, if the meeting did not go well, Lex couldn’t guarantee Clark would stay, a notion that Lex rarely entertained. 

(The last time he did, he couldn’t eat for two days.)

Ιf Lex had learned anything about Clark, it was that he adored his parents. Almost every day, Clark would be on the phone with his parents, texting them photos of day-to-day affairs, or receiving dorky Hallmark letters for the holidays. Lex found it strange how close they were; nevertheless, he would be damned if he didn’t get the Kents’ approval. 

“Don’t be nervous.” Clark's hand grasped Lex’s gently. 

They were only half an hour into the flight, and Lex was entirely too close to ordering the pilot to turn around. The clear advantage would be that Lex would get to keep his dignity and hold onto Clark with certainty. The disadvantage would be that it would disappoint Clark, and Lex would never hear the end of it. So he kept his eyes fixed on the compact window, willing this weekend to be over before it even started. 

“I’m not.” Lex pulled his hand onto his lap, conscious that Clark could feel the sweat on his palm. 

“You don’t have to worry, I promise.” Clark leaned into him, pressing into Lex’s side.

Lex kept his gaze on the sea of clouds. “That depends. Do they know about Boravia?” 

“Yes, but I think a lot of people do. It was on international news.” 

“And the rift? And the clone?” 

“Well, yes, but—” 

“And that I tried to kill you?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Clark.” 

“Okay, yeah.” 

Lex shifted uncomfortably. He needed to get these seats refurbished; they’ve become worn-out and scratchy. “And what about the dog?” 

“Actually, I never told them about that. But they might’ve seen the video. You know, the viral one of me yelling at you.” How could Lex forget? He’d never admit it to Clark, but he still found it sort of funny. “Not one of my best moments,” Clark confessed, as if it was his fault at all. 

“So it does seem like I have some things to worry about.” He can’t believe that he let Clark convince him to go to Kansas. At least in Metropolis, he could’ve clouded their judgment with fine liquors. 

“It’ll be fine. I explained to them the situation,” Clark said, like it clarified anything. Then, as if Lex wasn’t four seconds away from parachuting out of the jet, Clark relaxed back in his seat and put his headphones on.

“Whatever the hell that means,” Lex muttered.

In a true act of desperation, he picked up his phone, turning his screen away from Clark, to scroll through the Wikihow article, “How to Impress Your Boyfriend’s Parents When You First Meet”. Thankfully, Clark seemed more interested in poking around at the miniature TV screen in front of him. 

As soon as they touched ground, Lex’s driver was already waiting for them outside the terminal at the private airport. 

The scenery during the ride to the Kents' consisted mostly of cornfields, farms with cornfields, and more cornfields. When they weren’t driving through cornfields, Clark was pointing out the various sentimental buildings that they passed—schools, libraries, movie theaters—and commented on the shiny new developments, which stood out like a sore thumb among the aging brick buildings. Watching the blur of small-town USA pass by, Lex found it surprisingly easy to imagine a pre-Superman Clark walking down the pot-hole-filled streets on his way to one of the three local cafes. 

Pulling into the Kents’ driveway, Lex’s senses were immediately assaulted with the thick stench of fertilizer. He held up a hand over his nose, trying not to visibly gag. The Kents’ cows, the apparent offenders, greeted them with low moos as the car came to a halt in front of a one-story red-roofed farmhouse. It looked like it was pulled directly from a children’s storybook, complete with the sweet old couple, Martha and Jonathan Kent, standing on the porch steps waving out to them. 

Clark, who insisted on carrying both of their suitcases, quickly threw the baggage down on the porch and pulled his parents into a tight hug, which they reciprocated warmly. Lex ambled a few steps behind, attempting to mask his uncertainty with politeness. 

Jonathan Kent greets him first, holding a large, calloused hand out. “Alex, is it?” 

Lex takes it into a firm handshake. “Just Lex.” 

“What a unique name,” Martha Kent ducked away from Clark’s embrace and pulled Lex down into a hug. 

“Ma,” Clark scolded, though smiling. 

Lex found an opportunity in Clark’s admonition to pull away from Martha Kent and step away to a safe distance. 

“It’s true! I’ve known quite a few Alexanders and not one—”

“Ma,” Clark interrupted, his face now flushed from embarrassment. 

“Okay, okay. Come in, dinner’s almost ready.” She stepped aside, but not before turning to Lex. “We got the guest room all fixed up.” 

Clark guided Lex into the house, one hand on the handle of a suitcase and the other pressed to the small of his back.

The image was sickeningly cozy, Lex mused as he cut through the heaping serving of roast beef and mashed potatoes on his plate. The Kents, talking over each other in their Midwestern accents, reaccounting unremarkable stories to Clark about family friends and local football games and seasonal produce. Clark nodded along, occasionally glancing over to Lex, probably to make sure he was paying attention. Lex tried to smile back, an affirmation of his attentiveness, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace. 

Without mundane stories of his own to tell—like hell he was going to spill about his new pocket dimension project or international deals—Lex took to simply observing. As per his research, Jonathan Kent was a soft-spoken farmer with the thickest accent Lex had ever encountered. He had to strain his ears at every other sentence, and even then, Lex barely understood him. He laughed like Clark, ate his food like Clark, gracelessly and loudly, and wrung his hands when he talked about something passionately. Like Clark. Martha Kent was sharper, correcting her husband on misremembered dates or facts, while relentlessly doting on Clark. She had a slight tremor in her left hand. Lex couldn’t tell if her frequent head shake was a tic or a habit. 

“So, what about your folks, Lex?” 

Lex blinked, caught off-guard by Jonathan Kent’s question. 

“Pa—” Clark reprimanded, looking genuinely mortified. 

“No, it’s fine,” Lex interrupted. Maybe he would be better off pitied by the Kents, rather than resented. “My father died several years ago. My mother and I aren’t close.” 

There was a heavy pause; the evening birds and the drone of the grandfather clock filled the silence. 

It was Martha Kent who broke the silence with her honey-sweet drawl. “Well, dear, you’re always welcome here.” Then she leaned in with a faux-whisper. “Even without Clark.” 

Clark flashed him a smile that said, I knew they’d love you. Lex desperately wanted to respond, I don’t believe it for a second. 

The conversation quickly pivoted to projects on the farm and about the plausibility of hiring workers for the harvesting season. “Oh, that reminds me. Clark, be a dear and bring the tools into the shed. Forecasters say it's gonna rain tonight.” 

“Yes, Ma.” 

“And check out the fence in the morning, will you? The latch is acting up again.” 

“Yes, Ma.” 

“And don’t forget to seal that window in the guest room. Don’t want our guest here getting too chilly tonight.” 

“Of course, Ma,” Clark said, looking at Lex, his eyes twinkling. 

The guest room is unsurprisingly small, with one double bed pressed into the corner, a creaky wooden dresser that could’ve been made in the 1950s, and an old-fashioned writing desk. Clark fiddled with the paint-chipped window for a couple of moments before pulling Lex into a deep kiss. 

“Wake me up if you get too cold,” Clark whispered, breathlessly. 

Then he was gone, and Lex was alone. He slumped on the quilted bed, the mattress springs groaning underneath him. 

Lex slowly woke to the sound of domestic bliss: birds chirping, soft clattering in the kitchen, the low mechanical drone of a tractor. As he stretched onto his back, Lex realized that he hadn’t slept this well in years. 

He sluggishly followed the scent of breakfast into the kitchen, where Martha Kent was standing over the sink, scrubbing carrots. Two plates were stacked by the dishwasher; Clark must be outside already with his father. Lex felt acutely betrayed by Clark's decision to let him sleep in. 

Martha gestured to the table with a single plate of two eggs over easy, a slice of thickly buttered toast, and a glass of orange juice. “Good morning. Made you one of Clark’s favorites, hope you don’t mind.” 

“Not at all.” Lex sat down at the empty table, the euphoria of a good night’s sleep wearing off. “Thanks.” 

Lex was attempting to ration his bread with the egg yolks when Martha spoke up again over the rush of the faucet. “Oh, I forgot to ask…You don’t mind helpin’ me out this morning with some errands? I meant to do them yesterday, but time seemed to run away from me.”

“Not at all,” Lex repeated, though dread began to replace the feeling of pleasant fullness in his stomach. 

He cleared the rest of his plate despite the nausea, which seemed to please Clark’s mother well enough. 

Just as Lex slipped on his shoes to follow Martha, Clark entered through the back door, covered in dirt and grass stains. “Where are you guys going?” 

Before Lex could open his mouth, Martha popped her head back in the kitchen. “Oh, I’m just borrowing Lex to grab some groceries and soil for that new raised bed. We’ll be back before you know it.”

“Are you sure? I’m almost done outside with Pa…” 

“Yes, you go take care of your things, and we’ll take care of ours. Can we get you anything while we’re out? Enough feed for the chickens?” 

“Yes, Ma, all good,” Clark said, exasperated. Then he turned to Lex. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Lex tried to sound convincing. Surely, he can handle a couple of hours alone with Clark’s mother. “Go and pick corn or whatever you were doing.” 

Clark cracked a relieved smile. “Alright. Have fun, you two.” 

Lex had experienced many painful incidents, from getting his ass kicked by a flying dog to being publicly humiliated on international news, but at that moment, nothing seemed as agonizing as sitting in the passenger seat of a truck with Martha Kent in deafening silence. Worse still, the truck was about as beat up on the inside as it was on the outside. Lex tried his best to keep his hands folded in his lap to avoid unnecessarily touching the grime of the seat and the dashboard. 

“Well, here we are,” Martha finally broke the silence as they pulled into a long driveway that ended in a greenhouse and a store with a neon sign that read: Molly’s Plant Nursery.

When they stepped out of the tetanus-ridden truck, Martha instructed Lex to carry seven fifty-pound bags of the soil that sat outside the shop into the back of the open truck bed while she paid the employee inside the shop. “Just holler if you need help!” 

Lex willed himself not to roll his eyes until she turned her back. Martha might be used to her son’s superhuman strength, but Lex is more than capable of lifting some stupid bags of dirt.

The first four bags proved to be easy enough, but as Lex heaved up the fifth, he quickly realized that it sprang a leak, smearing soil across his brand-new ash-grey shirt. He threw the final two in the back quickly so that he could wipe off as much as he could before it seeped in and stained the fabric. 

Martha Kent didn’t seem to notice the dark, wet stain across Lex’s chest when she exited the shop, tucking the receipt into her wallet. Or maybe she just didn’t care, since she turned the radio onto some gospel country station and started humming along jovially. 

The Smallville grocery store was no more than seven aisles of local produce and highly processed foods. He couldn’t help but feel like a child as he pushed around the squeaky cart as Martha filled it with cereal, baking supplies, and out-of-season fruit. It was even more helpless standing in the check-out line watching Martha count her twenties and accept the senior discount.

As the pimple-faced cashier fumbled with her change, out of the corner of his eye, Lex noticed the people standing behind them staring him down. He turned to give the hick with a bad tan a taste of his own medicine when his gaze traveled down to the magazine rack with his face plastered on the front cover of Tell-All Magazine. In bold letters, it read, ‘Insider Exclusive: Does CEO Lex Luthor plan to destroy Metropolis…again?’ 

Then the hick dared to open his mouth. “Hey, are you this fuckwad that caused the rift? My nana almost lost her house!”

Maybe another time, Lex would’ve punched the remaining loose teeth out of this man’s head. Instead, he scooped up Martha’s grocery bags and stalked out of the store, seething. 

Back in the truck, Lex’s anger had simmered into a quiet humiliation. He knew going to Kansas was the stupidest idea ever. Fucking Clark and his relentless fucking optimism. 

Martha sighed heavily. “Oh, don’t mind them. People in small towns can be short-sighted.” 

Lex shrugged dismissively. He had stopped being offended by the lies those gossip magazines were spewing a long time ago. For the most part. At least Martha seemed to be affronted on his behalf. 

He noticed her hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. “You know, we were so afraid for Clark growing up. People do terrible things when they’re afraid or when they see something they don’t understand.” 

“Right.” Lex kept his eyes fixed on the road. He had already anticipated this conversation before arriving in Kansas. Even before agreeing to go to Kansas. 

“Me and Jon were rightly nervous when Clark moved to the city for school. But, oh Lord, did that boy want his independence. We…we hoped that bein’ from the city, folks would be more open-minded about Clark bein’ different. I suppose most are.” 

Lex just nodded, now watching the speedometer rise steadily. He pointedly ignored the emphasis in her voice when she said most. 

“He’s just tryin’ to help people. He’s a good kid. It’s a real shame when folks take advantage of that.” 

As they close in on a stop sign, the deceleration causes Lex to lurch forward, bracing himself on the dashboard. He swallowed as he slowly sat back, his mouth dry. “Yeah. A shame.” 

There were no cars at the four-way stop, but the truck was at a standstill. Eventually, Martha looked at Lex, her eyes glossy. “Might I be frank with you for a moment?” 

“Of course.” Lex braced himself for a blunt confession. You’re no good for my son. Or maybe, You need to leave town as soon as we get back before Clark’s Pa gets the shotgun. 

Instead, she reached over to place her hand over Lex’s. “Not too long ago, Clark told us, me and Jon, that you and him reconnected somehow. He told us that you’re a different man. That you…no longer was doin’ the things you were before. It was like a miracle; we couldn’t believe it. Now, listen here, because I will not tolerate any more hurt on my boy, but Clark is grown and has a good head on his shoulders. We can’t tell him who he can and can’t love. But, me and Jon, we just want him to be happy. Can you, from the bottom of your heart, promise to make Clark happy?” 

“I will,” Lex responded. He couldn’t bring himself to move his hand. “I mean, yes. Of course.”

“Good.” She lifted her hand back to the steering wheel and finally moved past the stop sign. “Well, that’s all said and done. Let’s get this back before Jon starts wonderin’ where his truck went.” 

Clark met them as they pulled in front of the house, streaked head to toe in grease and mud. Even still, he looked completely and utterly perfect. 

“Lex!” Clark waved him over eagerly, his smile fading as Lex approached. “Oh, no, your shirt.” 

“Ah. Yes.” Lex regarded the stain that had now thoroughly soaked through the fabric. He had blissfully forgotten about that. 

“Here, you can go inside and soak it, and I’ll take care of these. You can wear one of mine.” Clark walked around to the back of the truck and hoisted all of the bags up at once, like they weighed nothing at all. “Ma! You want these out back?”

Clark’s room was an endearing time capsule of the early 2000s with his twin-sized bed, Mighty Crabjoys poster, and full collection of annotated Shakespeare plays. While looking for an acceptable shirt replacement, Lex took his time turning every leaf in that room, from his posters to the faded titles on his CDs. 

When Lex picked up a shiny wooden plaque that read Smallville Middle School Spelling Bee - Third Place, a pair of hands brushed his bare shoulders, and he nearly threw the damn thing at the wall. 

“Jesus, Clark,” Lex whipped around to see the smug bastard, still in his dirty coveralls. “Warn a guy next time.”

“Sorry.” Clark moved his hands down to hold Lex’s. “Find anything interesting?” 

Lex shrugged. “I thought there would be more for football. Or, I don’t know, something athletic.” 

“I wasn’t allowed to. Well, Ma and Pa told me I wasn’t allowed. I used to be pretty upset about it when I was a kid, but now I think it was the best decision they could’ve made. I could’ve really hurt someone.

“Probably. Or maybe you could’ve given the Smallville Giants a massive advantage. You could’ve gone to the big leagues.” 

“True,” Clark chuckled. He pulled Lex in closer, pressing his lips to his neck, right below his ear. “Look at you, always thinking of the big picture.” 

“Clark. Your parents,” Lex hissed as Clark peppered more kisses near his collarbone. 

“They’re still outside. I finally have you to myself.”  

“But you’re filthy.” Lex freed one hand to hold Clark by the nape of his neck, running his fingers through his mud-caked hair. 

“Oh, you love it.” 

Lex found himself at a loss for a response when Clark’s lips pressed against his, his hands pulling him close. 

After some thorough showers and a hearty dinner of chicken and green beans, the Kents ushered them into the living room. It was meant to be family game night, but it quickly devolved into family photo night when Lex inquired about the thick leather book on the coffee table. 

“And here’s Clark in his little graduation photo. Oh, jeez.” Lex is certain Clark’s father is crying now. His broad shoulders shake as he cradles the tiny picture in his hands.

Martha pats Jonathan on the back sympathetically. “Oh, Mush.” She shook her head, smiling at the photo. “What a little rascal Clark used to be. Especially when he was first learnin’ about his gifts…” 

“Please don’t tell the tree story,” Clark groaned. 

Martha ignored him, much to Lex’s delight. “When Clark was six years old, he learned that he could fly. So, he flew all the way to the top of the tree out there. See that one right out that window there. It used to be a little smaller, but still tall enough so we couldn’t reach ‘em at the top. Not even with a ladder! Oh, Lord, Jon had a fit. And Clark was crying ‘cause he could get up, but he didn’t know how to get down. Eventually, we had to call the fire department to get him down. They’d saved many-a treed kittens before, but never a treed child, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, look at this one,” she held up a candid of an adolescent Clark in Jon’s arms in front of a sign that said Smallville Animal Farm and Petting Zoo. “Now, when Clark was ten—”

“I’m so sorry,” Clark murmured, as Martha delved into a story about Clark freeing several captive animals and the family’s subsequent perma-ban from the farm. 

“Don’t be,” Lex whispered back. “You were such a menace.” 

Clarked nudged him lightly, with a glint in his eye. “Some may say I still am.” 

When the Kents decided to retire for the night, Clark quickly collected the keys and a pile of blankets for a “surprise” that he planned. Lex was willing to humor him, especially since they had barely spent any time alone in the last twenty-four hours. 

“Ma, we’re taking the truck out!” 

“Be careful, Clark! It’s deer crossin’ season.” Martha called through the screen door. 

Clark turned on the radio to a pop station and insisted on singing along to top forty hits as they drove along dark dirt roads, winding past endless cornfields and fenced lawns filled with sleeping cows. Eventually, they pulled into a narrow off-road clearing. Clark cut the engine, and Lex collected the pile of quilts. 

There they lie on the truck bed, shoulder-to-shoulder, looking up into the infinite night sky. Lex would have poked fun at Clark for taking him stargazing, but he truly couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen this many stars, billions visible before their eyes; the vastness of the Milky Way inviting him to explore the unexplored, to know everything there is to know about their universe and the rest. 

“Thanks for hanging out with my Ma all day.” Clark broke the silence. “I’m sorry I had so much work to do. Pa can’t really handle a whole lot anymore, and hiring help has gotten a bit much for them.” 

“No, it was…nice.” Really, the affair was like slowly ripping off a bandaid, painful but fortunately ending in relief. 

“That’s good. She thinks you’re great.” 

Lex turned his head toward Clark, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”

“Well, yeah. They like you because you’re important to me. And…I told them everything, especially as things were changing. Things were as they were before, and now they’re different.”

“You really believe that?”

“Of course. Don’t you think so?” 

Lex’s voice caught in his throat. Unspoken words hung suspended in the air. 

One year ago, Lex would have happily used all of this information to his advantage. He would have ruined Superman’s life and reputation, no matter the cost, and done so with pleasure. One year ago, Lex would have never believed anyone if they told him that Superman was also a bespeckled journalist from Smallville, Kansas. He would have never believed that Superman could be so painfully mundane. That he laughs like his adoptive dad and cries during sappy movies, and likes shitty pop music. That he chose Lex over everyone else in the world. 

Suddenly, Lex realized he’s been quiet for a little too long. “We didn’t play cornhole once. I can’t believe you made me learn all the rules for no reason,” he blurted. 

Clark laughed. “I didn’t make you do anything. You did that to yourself.” 

“Sue me for doing my research.” Lex turned back to the abyss above them. Up there in the expanse of space are the shattered remnants of Krypton floating aimlessly. He’s been aware of the fate of Krypton since he became aware of Superman’s existence three years ago. He’d never thought about it much, the death of a whole planet. Lex tilted his head back to Clark, studying his profile. “Clark.” 

Clark's eyes met his, now dark and warm, reflecting the sparkling night sky. 

“Do you ever think about what it would have been like if you stayed on your home planet?” 

“Well, I would probably be dead.” 

Lex gave him a look. 

Clark shifted his gaze back to the sky. “Sometimes. Not as much anymore. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“If I wasn’t here.” 

“I would be so damn bored,” Lex exhaled. In truth, he hadn’t felt alive until four years ago.

“Oh, I’m sure you would find something else to obsess over.” 

“No. I don’t think so.” It’s a fact that there is no one like Superman. No one could be like Superman. Even when Lex tried deliberately to replicate him, to improve him, the defects were, in hindsight, inevitable. 

“Well, I’m happy that I make life exciting for you.” 

You do more than that, Lex wanted to say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he asked, “Why don’t you think about it anymore?”  

Clark intertwined his fingers with Lex’s. Lex could feel his pulse thrum through his wrist, grounding him, keeping them both on Earth. “I think I realized that everything I love is already here. My parents, the ones who actually raised me. My friends. My job. Smallville. Metropolis. You.” 

Lex could see constellations in Clark's eyes. New ones, unnamed ones, ones Lex yearns to call his own. In the middle of a cornfield in Kansas, Lex felt as if he and Clark were the only two left on Earth. 

Lex unlaced his fingers from Clark’s and traced letters slowly onto his palm, hoping that Clark’s ultra-keen senses would pick up on the subtle lines and curves of the words he can’t bring himself to say. 

I love you.