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Lex stares blankly at the front page of the Daily Planet, then lifts his eyes to stare just as blankly at Superman. Superman is currently floating outside the window of his penthouse office while fondly watching Lennox ignore both him and his own breakfast to eat the vast majority of Lex’s own instead. The man has been here for eight and a half minutes and did not at any point see fit to mention giving Cat Grant an interview. He also did not see fit to identify Lennox as anything besides “Kon-El” in said interview, which Lex finds extremely irritating.
Admittedly, he hasn’t actually let the other in, but if Superman had wanted to mention the interview, it’s not as if he couldn’t have broken the window just fine. Or just knocked, Lex supposes, though he hardly sees why Superman of all people would bother. And also he hasn’t actually mentioned Lennox’s name to Superman yet either. But again, Superman is an amateur stalker with alien super-hearing who listens to people’s heartbeats as a regular pastime, so Lex refuses to consider that an acceptable excuse either way.
He should possibly instruct the PR department to go back to at least skimming any “requests for comment” that the Daily Planet sends over before unilaterally trashing them, though.
Possibly.
“Of course you picked the Planet for the birth announcement,” he says witheringly, eyeing Superman more on principle than anything else, given Metropolis’s most sanctimonious stalker is too busy being besotted with Lennox to actually be looking at him, god forbid.
Superman says something, but the windows remain soundproof to human hearing, and Lex sighs. He’s going to have to set up an outdoor speakerphone at this rate. For personal convenience, obviously; not to encourage any sanctimous stalking.
Obviously.
“The only thing that surprises me is that you didn’t give Lane the exclusive,” he informs the man dubiously. “What, was she on vacation? Left you for Aquaman and a beachside resort, perhaps? I hear Hawaii is back in vogue for the upper middle class, if she appreciates the cliche option.”
Superman says something soundproofed again, still fondly watching Lennox messily devour a good three-fourths of Lex’s bagel and a somewhat concerning amount of cream cheese. Eventually-invulnerable half-Kryptonian stomach and circulatory system or not, Lex just cannot imagine wanting to eat that much cream cheese, much less actually doing it without vomiting.
Children remain absolutely baffling, as Lex has continued to find since first collecting Lennox from Cadmus. Not that the actual fact of children being baffling has been any kind of a surprise, but certainly the hypothesis has been well-confirmed at this point.
And yet Superman is still the most ridiculous thing happening to him right now.
Well, he always is, isn’t he.
Lex sighs again and finally just tosses the paper down on his desk and opens the window. It’s more annoying not being able to hear the alien anyway.
Lennox makes a face, then annexes the full remainder of the cream cheese—and the full remainder of Lex’s bagel, while as per usual leaving his own almost entirely untouched—and retreats to his preferred corner of the office, where his scavenged art supplies are all only arguably contained. Really at this point it’s approaching his favorite wall, given the unchecked spread of said supplies. Children, again, remain inscrutable.
He really should invest in a file cabinet, he supposes. Children understand how file cabinets work, yes? At least theoretically? They’re not complicated concepts, and Lennox is presumably at least somewhat familiar with at least one alphabet and some basic spelling.
Worst case scenario he can color-code the thing, Lex figures.
“Thank you,” Superman says politely as he floats into the office and lands lightly on the floor. Lex is frankly disgusted with him for showing up and bringing his manners, of all things. At least the man could have the dignity to be a hostile uninvited guest; is that so much to ask? For the sake of both their dignities, is that so much to ask?
Though he does appear to have brought something else, judging by the absolutely bizarre sight that is the mid-sized tote bag he has hooked over one shoulder.
Perhaps Superman finally thought to pack himself a meal of his own, Lex reflects idly, his nose wrinkling in distaste at the thought. How . . . quaint.
Does Superman even need to eat? It seems unlikely.
“Yes, well, I only have so much patience for lipreading with someone who isn’t even facing me,” Lex says dubiously, steepling his fingers on his desk and eyeing the other. He should’ve made himself a mimosa before he let him in.
Or a tequila sunrise, more like. And he most definitely means a double when he says that.
Possibly he’ll be needing some alternate coping mechanisms to manage his cortisol levels, Lex admits to himself resignedly, because at this rate liver damage might become a concern. Also, unfortunately, Lennox being eventually invulnerable to the effects of Earth-based alcohol does not actually mean he can’t still set a bad example for the impressionable physiological four year-old in terms of stress regulation and self-medication and the concept of—ugh—”healthy” coping mechanisms.
Ugh.
This is somehow Superman’s fault, Lex reflects accusingly. Which it in fact demonstrably is.
“Good morning, Kon,” Superman greets as he turns towards Lennox’s wall and smiles warmly at him. Lennox ignores him, but Lex finds himself increasingly certain that even if Superman actually isn’t doing it intentionally—which he frankly doubts—the man has some sort of latent mental power that inclines people to respond positively to his presence.
Superman has an eidetic memory and enhanced intelligence and can think faster than just about anyone on the planet who isn’t wearing lightning bolt earmuffs, and, as the process of making Lennox has made obvious, also possesses passive telekinetic abilities. Further mental powers would not exactly be a stretch. Especially one that arguably wouldn’t be particularly different from the passive telekinesis—just a passive sense of let’s just all do as I’d prefer us all do, instead.
Definitely that would explain why no one just dislikes Superman. Either they adore or respect or outright revere him, or they absolutely despise him. One would have to absolutely despise the man to actually feel anything negative about him, under those circumstances. And that would also explain Lennox not responding positively to Superman’s presence, because Lennox is Kryptonian enough that he’d likely have the same ability, and as a result could easily be minimally affected by or just outright immune to Superman’s version of it.
Though it doesn't seem that Superman is minimally affected by Lennox, so that admittedly might be a flawed theory.
. . . Lex might need to get Cadmus on that, he thinks. Just . . . maybe taking another look or two at the DNA they have on file, just to see what else might turn up in there.
“I brought you something today, kiddo,” Superman says. “I should’ve brought it sooner, I’m sorry, but I hope you’ll still like it.”
Lennox does not in any way acknowledge the statement, just sorts through his collection of highlighters and arranges them in some mystifying presumable-organization that is definitely not any method of organization that Lex is personally aware of. If Kryptonians do have any latent telepathic abilities, his are clearly beating out Superman’s.
Lex briefly considers the possibility that Superman is actively letting Lennox do that out of some sort of ingrained parental instinct that for some reason enjoys being ridiculously smitten by its own progeny, then immediately dismisses the thought for being ridiculous.
“You brought him something,” he says, eyeing the man skeptically. Superman glances back at him with a mildly surprised expression, for some baffling alien reason or another. Lennox spares an unimpressed glower for the back of his head, which Lex finds very validating, parentally-speaking. Theoretical telepathic effects or not, he very much appreciates that Lennox doesn’t fawn over every little swish of Superman’s cape the same way the rest of this damn city tends to.
“Are you finally done calling Kon ‘it’?” Superman asks. Lex gives the man his own unimpressed look. What, does Superman think he misspoke? Of all people?
“Lennox decided to have a gender, so yes,” he says. “Apparently that’s all the rage with the children these days, they just come up with their own.”
Superman . . . tilts his head, still looking at him.
“‘Lennox’?” he repeats. Lex remains unimpressed.
“He also decided he wanted a human name,” he says. “Something about immigrants regularly giving their children localized names in addition to cultural ones. Don’t ask me who told him that immigrants do that, mind; statistically it was Wendy. And either way I certainly have no interest in hacking every single computer system he ever needs to have his name in to input whatever esoteric glyphs that writing ‘Kon-El’ would entail.”
And Superman . . . blinks, slowly, and tilts his head just a degree or two farther.
“Does he talk to you?” he asks. “Does he—talk?”
“Were you under the impression he didn’t?” Lex asks dubiously, cocking an eyebrow at him. He supposes Lennox still hasn’t spoken in Superman’s presence, come to think, but Lennox does speak to him as of the day before yesterday, so if Superman hasn’t been eavesdropping while he’s been stalking them, that’s hardly on him.
“Oh,” Superman says, and just barely, barely frowns. It might be the closest thing to a negative emotion that Lex has actually seen from the man since he met Lennox, aside from an instance or two of mild disapproval over his parenting choices. “. . . what was his first word?”
“‘Father’,” Lex says.
Superman’s barely-there frown—deepens, just for a moment, and then clears away.
“Who’s Wendy? A new assistant?” he asks. Lex suffers.
“I really cannot imagine why you believe I’d hire a ‘Wendy’ instead of a ‘Prudence’ or ‘Chastity’,” he replies dryly. He hadn’t thought that was a particularly subtle theming in his more useful employees. Mostly because just about all of his more useful employees don’t want to use their legal names for one reason or another—or just don’t have “legal” names—but still. “I’m referring to genre television. There’s a werewolf, apparently. Or a stalker. I’m not entirely clear, admittedly, but it’s a step up from the sitcoms.”
“. . . he likes those?” Superman asks hesitantly. Lex cannot fathom why the man asks it like that. “Which ones?”
“Ask his watch history, Boy Scout, I don’t track them,” Lex replies still more dryly.
Well, he does, technically, but only to filter for physiological-age-appropriateness and verify any scientific claims as necessary—and also, since the day before yesterday, to understand the genuinely baffling references that Lennox has been making since he started speaking. But god forbid any child of his get the idea that anything along the lines of “left brain/right brain” or “sugar rushes” or “the recent increase in recorded cases of this historically-underdiagnosed medical condition means this medical condition is entirely the fault of modern vaccines and artificial flavoring” are actual things, much less hear any survivorship bias junk science.
Not that Lex wants to be feeding any child of his artificial flavorings either way, but that’s besides the point. He also doesn’t want his child operating on pop culture’s bastardized version of the scientific method, which is absolutely the larger concern—especially, again, considering the nuances of Lennox’s personal biology on a yellow-sun planet.
“Mm,” Superman says. It is not, as a response, particularly illuminating. When does Superman ever say anything useful, though?
. . . admittedly, the clarification that Lennox’s atypical heartbeat was not in fact a symptom of a heart defect did save him some time and effort and cortisol. Technically. Arguably.
Besides the point.
“I did bring you something,” Superman says as he turns back towards Lennox and goes to one knee on the floor in front of him, though he doesn’t get especially close to him in the process and leaves a good eight feet on the marble tile between them. He sets his quaint little mid-sized tote bag on the floor beside himself; Lex eyes it with all due disdain and suspicion. A tote bag. Not even one made out of any kind of alien fabric, as far as he can tell from a basic visual inspection. “It’s alright if you don’t like it, of course, but would you like to see it?”
Lennox doesn’t look at Superman; doesn’t acknowledge either the question or the fact that he’s spoken at all. He’s abandoned the last crumbled remnants of Lex’s pilfered breakfast and is still fussing with rearranging his scavenged art supplies, and is frankly devoting far more attention to the process than he ever once has to Superman. The reaction is unsurprising, and in fact at this point expected. Either way, Superman has yet to show any sign of being bothered by Lennox ignoring him, no matter how many times Lennox has.
This time, though, Superman . . . hesitates, for a moment.
And Lex—frowns.
That’s . . . different. A deviation in behavior.
And not on Lennox’s part, obviously.
“You don’t have to, but if you’d like to,” Superman adds after waiting the moment and spending said moment being entirely ignored by Lennox. Then he reaches into the tote bag and carefully pulls out . . .
Lex squints over his steepled fingers at the folded-up cape that Superman has just pulled out of his bafflingly normal-looking tote bag, because Superman has lost literally all capacity to make any sense whatsoever, ever.
“It’s yours now,” Superman tells Lennox, half-unfolding the cape to reveal the S-shield on it and, therefore, confirm that it is in fact one of his capes. Lennox, again, shows absolutely no interest in the conversation, but even as a man with absolutely no experience with children, Lex cannot imagine why a physiological four year-old would particularly care about being given an adult-sized article of clothing anyway.
Do children actually play dress-up, or is that just a fictional trope like love at first sight and childhood friends and supportive parents?
Lex may have to do some more research, he notes.
“You brought him one of your capes?” he asks witheringly anyway, just on principle. What is even the point of that?
“It’s not one of my capes,” Superman says, not taking his eyes off Lennox; trailing his eyes along the curves of Lennox’s jaw and nose and brow and through the mess of loose curls that Lex has yet to figure out how to tame. Which, well, he’s a few decades out of practice there, obviously, and also his hair was never telekinetically-invulnerable, so yes. Some trial-and-error experimentation has admittedly been required.
“It literally has the S-shield on it,” Lex counters dubiously, because apparently Superman thinks he’s as much of an idiot as he’s been lately, and Superman shakes his head.
“No. It has the El crest on it,” he corrects, and passes a hand gently over said “crest” before refolding the cape and setting it on the floor in front of Lennox, who continues to ignore it. “It was my baby blanket. My parents sent me here wrapped in it.”
Lex stares blankly at Superman. Lennox continues to express no interest in Superman whatsoever and lines up a pair of dry-erase markers on top of the blank sheet of printer paper he has on the floor.
“Your baby blanket,” Lex repeats incredulously. He cannot imagine that level of sentimentality. That is an absolutely baffling level of sentimentality.
. . . also: wait. Sent him here wrapped in—
“Boy Scout,” Lex says, speaking much more calmly than Superman deserves him to be. “You’ve been on Earth since you were young enough to fit in a baby blanket?”
“Yes,” Superman says, still not looking away from Lennox. Lex . . . disassociates briefly. Perhaps. Just briefly. He just—that just—he’d really just assumed that the man had shown up when he’d shown up! How did he even survive on an alien planet as a literal infant without anyone finding out what he was or where he’d come from?! What, did someone just pluck a random baby out of a literal UFO and take him home with them like they were just picking the cutest puppy out of a cardboard box on a street corner with “free to good home” written on it?!
And Superman just said that to him! Out loud! Deliberately! With his own damn mouth!
Lex does, in fact, have to get Cadmus to look into what kind of effect Lennox might be having on Superman’s psychological state, because this situation is officially reminding him of certain lurking super-schizophrenia concerns. Heavily reminding him of, in fact.
What, again, in every actual hell.
Well, it wasn’t as if he’d actually needed an explanation as to how the damn Planet article had happened, but it is all the same very clear how the damn Planet article happened.
“I have absolutely no idea how to respond to this information,” Lex says frankly.
“It’s yours now,” Superman says to Lennox, because why would he ever say anything actually useful or helpful? Just—well, the heartbeat comment being the exception to prove the rule, obviously. But still, god forbid. “It’s your right to have it.”
Lennox just sets down another marker beside the first two and goes back to sorting through his collected supplies, reorganizing them via another unfathomable but clearly deliberate system. Superman just . . . watches him, for a long moment. Lex can’t see his full expression, but something about it seems . . . different, slightly, from the way he’s seen the man watch Lennox before.
A deviation in behavior.
“And so is this,” Superman says, and reaches back into the tote bag and even more carefully extracts . . .
Well. An actual baby blanket.
Lex stares absolutely blankly at the thing as Superman lays it down beside the allegedly-not-a-cape. The actual and obvious baby blanket is a worn and soft-looking quilt constructed out of offset rows of six-pointed shapes made up of fanned circles of rhombuses, all of them cut out of multiple mismatched prints that look like they fell out of an overclocked centrifuge being operated by a colorblind intern, and all of them connected by a backdrop of flat dark blue hexagons, and the opposite side lined in a white-speckled baby blue fabric. And Lex is very obviously not an expert, but even from this side of the office the blanket is very obviously not a piece of mass-produced bedding, and might not even be machine-sewn.
Ah, he realizes belatedly. The rhombuses—that pattern is supposed to make them look like stars framed against a dark sky, isn’t it.
Well, that’s incredibly, incredibly on the nose.
And also incredibly insane, because it implies not only that Superman at some point had been in the custody of a human caretaker, but that said human caretaker had sewn him an obviously labor-intensive baby blanket, and might have even done it knowing he wasn’t human. Which in that case implies a caretaker with either a very literal mind or a very strange sense of humor, which might be the thing Lex finds the most baffling of all.
No—the most baffling thing is the fact that apparently the human caretaker preserved both of those blankets long enough for Superman to take possession of and preserve them himself, which is so bewildering a concept that Lex can’t wrap even his own incredibly impressive brain around it. As far as fictional tropes go, that’s the kind of thing that people make up for saccharinely sentimental television shows, for god’s sake; who actually keeps an infant’s bedding? It’s not as if it’s a record of the infant’s achievements or potentially necessary medical information; it’s not even as if the infant picked it out for itself!
Lex needs a drink. And possibly a psychiatric evaluation. For himself or Superman; whichever. Both. Absolutely both.
Ugh.
“Your grandma made this one,” Superman tells Lennox as he gives the quilt a light pat before leaning back into his crouch again. Lex experiences a level of lack of understanding that he has never previously encountered in his life, because what. Just—WHAT? “She used pieces of scrap fabric from everything she’d sewn for the house over the years to make the stars, so I’d always know it was my home too. That I belonged there.”
. . . Lex needs much, much more than one drink, and also can probably forgo the psychiatric evaluation and just go file a request to be committed, because what. In. Every. Actual. Hell.
Lennox picks out the fountain pen he annexed off Lex’s desk yesterday afternoon from his peculiarly-arranged supplies, then lays down on his stomach and starts using it to draw on the sheet of printer paper currently on the floor. He completely ignores Superman and everything the man’s just said despite the fact that said man is clearly trying to offer him something he considers . . . sentimental, though Lex has no idea why.
Why the sentimentality, he means, not why Lennox is ignoring Superman. That part is perfectly logical to him.
Lex remembers, briefly—
The pen is ebonite and black gold-dusted lacquer with a gold nib and was custom-crafted by Japanese artisans via ridiculously time-consuming traditional methods. It cost three thousand dollars, which is why it’s the one on his desk—the genuinely pricey pens are in his desk, because god forbid any of them get knocked off the desk and ruined by the latest person to decide to throw something at his desk—or just try to throw his actual desk at him, which really happens annoyingly often at this point in his life.
But it’s just a pen, is his point; mid-range, but nothing especially special. It looks good on the desk and that’s about it, and it’s far from being one of his preferred choices. Nothing that matters for Lennox to have taken.
But Lex can’t help remembering, again, what Lionel Luthor would’ve done over even such a petty little thing, much less over how much of the office Lennox has taken up with his scavenged supplies and stacked-up pages of art.
He really has no idea why that thought is in his head right now.
“They’re yours now, either way. You belong here too,” Superman says, and smiles a little wryly—or a little sadly—at Lennox, who continues to ignore him in favor of his paper. It is also unsurprising, as a reaction. Dubious as Lex has been of Superman’s intentions all this time and fully intends to remain, he was already well-aware that Superman wasn’t going to react to a child ignoring him anything like Lionel would’ve, but watching it feels . . . strange, somehow.
It feels goddamn uncomfortable, actually, and makes Lex want to turn on the red-sun sunlamps and dropkick the man back out the window, but unfortunately that’s probably a disproportionate response in this scenario. Tempting, but disproportionate. And he is trying to showcase good examples for Lennox in terms of when to actually be defenestrating people.
Probably that rules out as many drinks as he feels like processing this situation should require, Lex reflects resignedly. At least until Lennox has gone to bed for the night, anyway.
Well, maybe he can distract him with an episode of Wendy or ten. Wendy has so far been a very reliable option for distraction.
Superman lets out a soft little sigh, then gives Lennox a quiet smile and gently pats both folded blankets at the same time, each with a different hand, and gets back to his feet in one smooth motion, like the miserable alien’s never had his knees crack in his life. Bastard, Lex thinks very, very feelingly. Indestructible-kneed bastard. When the rest of the world turns forty it actually matters, goddammit. Amazons and the like aside, anyway. And . . . whatever the hell Captain Marvel has going on over there aside.
One day Lex will figure out whatever the hell Captain Marvel has going on over there, and he will damn well monetize it.
“You are genuinely exhausting,” he informs Superman, half-narrowing his eyes at the man as the other steps back from Lennox and folds up his quaint mid-sized tote bag to tuck it under his arm. “Why on earth are you having these conversations in front of me? Why on any earth, including the irradiated remnants of your birth planet's?”
“Kon-El deserves to know about them,” Superman says, sparing him a brief glance before looking back to Lennox. “They're his family too.”
“And you couldn't, I don't know, arrange a private conversation to inform him of the existence of whatever lunatic ‘grandma’ was demented enough to spontaneously adopt an alien infant fresh off the unidentified flying object, if it was really that necessary that he be informed?” Lex retorts in exasperation. He does not actually care if Superman publicly identifies his weaknesses and vulnerabilities, mind—Superman publicly identifying his weaknesses and vulnerabilities is in fact an objectively useful thing for his life goals—but he cares about Superman publicly identifying Lennox as one of those vulnerabilities, and this is just further illustration of his obvious willingness to.
Lex is perfectly capable of keeping his own child safe, obviously, but that isn't the point. He really doesn't feel like putting up with Toyman or Parasite breaking in every 3-5 business days; three meal periods’ worth of Superman a day is already annoying enough.
“. . . Lex,” Superman says wryly, glancing back at him again. “No one else in this conversation has ever taken in a child without thinking things over for a little while first? Really?”
“I am quite literally the most intelligent human being alive, I don't need to think things over,” Lex retorts, insulted by the implication that he ever would need to. “Also I cannot possibly imagine this woman being prepared to handle a random superpowered alien infant, while I have my son's DNA very literally memorized.”
“Does he have any toys yet?” Superman asks. Lex stares incredulously at him, because what in hell does that question have to do with a single thing that he just said? “I've still only seen him playing with your office supplies.”
“He is absolutely physiologically-developed enough to ask for toys if he wants any,” Lex says in disgust.
“Does he have to ask for everything?” Superman asks.
“That would be how a person receives things, Boy Scout, yes,” Lex retorts irritably, narrowing his eyes at him in irritation. “I realize you showed up and were immediately fawned over like the second coming of the divine right of kings, but the rest of us actually do have to put in the work.”
Superman tilts his head, just slightly, and gives Lex a long, measuring look that makes his spine bristle. Arrogant son of, apparently, the most insane grandmother to ever exist on this planet; Lex should—
“I told you,” Superman says. “I don't love anyone to get something for it.”
"What is that even supposed to mean, you sanctimonious idiot?" Lex demands in exasperation. He's heard Hallmark movies sound less ridiculous and schmaltzy and generic. Typically he wouldn't watch one of those under torture, but unfortunately last week Lennox had learned about the existence of Christmas via channel-surfing his way into the middle of a Hallmark Channel "Christmas in July" 24-hour movie marathon and Lex had not known peace for the full thirteen and a half hours until the damn thing had ended. Especially he had not known peace during lunch and dinner, when Superman had spent the duration of both meals floating outside his penthouse window.
Lex still does not know peace, frankly, because now he only has until December to figure out how the hell people celebrate the holidays, of all things.
Which, once again: ugh.
At least Lennox hasn't asked to invite Superman.
. . . yet.
Relatedly, the Hallmark Channel is blocked on every single device in LexCorp Tower now.
Perhaps Lex can convince Lennox that Judaism is more his speed. It seems an appropriately stubborn religion for his tastes, and Hanukkah does involve fire, doesn't it? Children appreciate fire, Lex assumes. He wouldn't have had to listen to so many inane "don't play with matches!" public service announcements as a child himself if they didn't.
"It means I want Kon to have things because I want him to have them," Superman says, which unfortunately reminds Lex that the man exists and has opinions, and unfortunately he has made the mistake of asking him about said opinions, like a damn idiot. Yet again: ugh. "I want him to know he deserves them without having to demand them. That they're his right whether he's arbitrarily ‘earned’ them or not."
Lex—pauses, momentarily, because . . .
What the hell does that mean?
What the hell does that mean from Superman, of all people?
Well, the sanctimonious prick did show up with god-alien superpowers and his whole ridiculous immature spiel about the inherent value of sapient life that no sane and rational adult actually believes. Lex wouldn't have bought that nonsense coming from an incredibly public member of an objectively genetically superior species when he was Lennox's chronological age, for hell's sake, but unfortunately the general population loves to be charismatically lied to in ways besides the ones that are best for his profit margins.
It's very ironic that such a significant percentage of his business model is the exact same reason that he has to put up with Metropolis’s ridiculous idolatry of Superman, actually, Lex reflects. Annoyingly, infuriatingly ironic.
"No one gets anything in life without earning it, Boy Scout," he says irritably. "Except for you, of course, as the resident invasive species."
"Kon has powers too," Superman says. "Doesn't he?"
"What?" Lex says, then glowers at him, insulted by the insinuation. "Obviously, yes. You think I cloned you incompetently? I actually upgraded him, in fact."
"I think you gave him powers," Superman says. "And you didn't make him earn them."
Lex glowers at him.
"He cost eight point two billion dollars to make," he says flatly. "I earned them, through sweat and equity and very literal blood. And also salvaged genetic material."
"And then you gave them to him," Superman says, just barely tilting his head.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
"Given the only things you've given him were secondhand bedding, I really don't see how you can judge what I choose to," Lex retorts, more than a little exasperated with whatever inane point Superman thinks he's making here. "Is there an actual purpose to this segue? Some genuine intent or direction we’re going?”
Superman looks at him for a long moment, and Lex resists the urge to bristle over it. Every time this arrogant bastard looks at him and judges him, he—
"You resent me for having things that you don't think I earned, but you gave Kon all those things and more without expecting him to earn a single one of them," Superman says.
"Lennox is mine," Lex says irritably. "I can give him whatever I want."
"And that's what you wanted to give him?" Superman asks.
"You make absolutely no sense as a person," Lex says in even more exasperation, glowering at him. "You do know that, yes, Superman? How absolutely nonsense you are, as a person?"
"I've always known 'Superman' isn't a person," Superman says, just barely raising an eyebrow at him, and Lex—pauses, just for a moment. "I actually feel like you're the one who has trouble differentiating there, historically speaking."
"Are you an actual idiot?" Lex demands incredulously. "I am well aware that you are nowhere near the illusion of moral perfection that you present to the world. I am apparently more aware than anyone else in Metropolis that you are nowhere near the illusion of moral perfection that you present to the world, in fact, to my eternal disappointment in the population.”
"That," Superman says. "You're talking to Superman again.”
"I am speaking to you, yes," Lex says, eyeing him flatly.
"Is that the only name you think of me as?" Superman asks curiously, tilting his head. "I'm just 'Superman' in your head?"
Lex stares blankly at him again. Superman just looks back at him.
"What are you getting for loving Kon-El?" Superman asks.
"Get out," Lex says flatly.
"Alright," Superman says, simple as anything. The bastard doesn't even have the decency to give him the satisfaction of arguing about it; just turns his head back towards Lennox again and says, "Have a good morning, Kon-El. I’ll see you at lunch, kiddo."
Lennox ignores Superman, as per usual. Superman—pauses, a moment, as not per usual. Lex narrows his eyes at him. The damn alien had better not be—
Superman floats up off the floor a few inches, then takes off back out the window in a flashed blur of motion and rush of air that blows several papers off Lex’s desk, though at least doesn’t disarray any of Lennox’s art supplies. Lex glowers at the space where the man was just standing, then just sighs in irritation and pinches the bridge of his nose for a long moment.
He, again, needs elevator-level alcohol for this. Penthouse elevator-level alcohol.
Maybe stratospheric, given this goddamn headache of an alien.
What the hell is wrong with Superman? Even if there actually is some sort of strange, baffling Kryptonian imprinting or "bonding" instinct happening here, something like that couldn’t possibly be this overwhelmingly effective on an adult sapient being. The Kryptonian species would never have advanced enough to have a civilization at all, much less advanced that civilization and its technology to the point that they had. Genuinely, there is no possible way that this level of attachment to progeny could be standard behavior in a functional society. Even just a functioning society. If anything, the progeny should be the one getting "attached"; as a basic fact of survival and self-preservation, children need at least one adult available. Adults, very obviously, do not share that particular need.
That’s likely another point in the “yes” column for yellow-sun Kryptonians having some manner of latent mental power inclining people to respond positively to them, Lex notes to himself. Especially given that Lennox has still shown absolutely no interest in Superman whatsoever, and thereby given Superman nothing in return for the interest Superman has expressed in him. And yes, obviously Lex does appreciate that his offspring isn’t as pathetically easy to impress as most of Metropolis has decided to be, but he also does find it . . . odd, at this point.
Lennox has met Superman multiple times now. Lex would’ve expected him to at least occasionally engage with him. Grudgingly, perhaps, but at least occasionally. Lennox had engaged with him from the start, long before he'd ever bothered actually saying anything to him.
Lex is obviously the superior choice of parent, of course—especially because Superman does not have any actual parental claim on Lennox, dammit, theoretical alien imprinting and/or alien telepathy be damned—but at this point he’s spent more time actively engaging with Superman than Lennox has even acknowledged noticing that the man exists for.
So that does seem . . . odd, at this point. Or at least somewhat unusual.
If nothing else, Lennox should at least be being practical enough to attempt to source information on how Superman's powers work from the source. But he still hasn't even acknowledged the man, even after weeks of clockwork-regular visits.
And Superman displayed a deviation in behavior in response to that, today.
Lex rests his chin in one hand and half-eyes the place on his desk where a tequila sunrise could’ve been sitting, if he’d only thought that far ahead, and then just sighs. He’d glance heavenwards in exasperated supplication just to illustrate his aggravation, but that’s where Superman tends to be these days.
“For god’s sake,” he mutters under his breath.
What the hell is wrong with Superman?
“Father,” Lennox announces. Lex reflexively flicks his eyes to the opposite side of his desk, but Lennox isn’t there this time. He turns his head sideways and finds the other standing beside his desk chair instead. Bit of a fault on his part, but in his defense, Lennox is much shorter than the other people he’s used to tracking the presence of.
“Yes?” Lex inquires, raising an eyebrow at him. Lennox stares up at him blankly for a long moment, then holds up a piece of paper towards him.
“S’yours,” he informs him. “S’a force field maker. An’ a dog.”
Lex internally prays that Lennox will never want a dog and takes the paper in his free hand, inspecting the drawings on it with a critical eye. The schematics, again, are more recognizable than the dog is, but Lex considers that logical. If nothing else, Lennox has certainly encountered more schematics in his life than dogs.
“Hm,” he muses assessingly. “This might work for the backup generator, if we scale it down a bit. The current one’s not maintaining max power levels long enough anyway."
“Do you love me, Father?” Lennox asks, and Lex drops the schematic and nearly knocks his own chair over.
“What,” he says incredulously, staring down at him in absolute bewilderment at the question.
“Superman keeps sayin’ you love me,” Lennox says, just barely frowning. “But he’s Superman. So do you?”
“Superman wouldn’t know my opinion from a dollar store tabloid's if it threw Lois Lane off a building,” Lex replies reflexively instead of why in hell do you think that I care about SUPERMAN’S opinion?, still staring back at him blankly and not entirely certain that this isn't what people are talking about when they describe the concept of "panic".
"Oh," Lennox says. "Okay."
". . . why do you ask?" Lex asks warily, and Lennox shrugs.
"Jus' wondered," he says.
". . . and why did you . . . wonder that, precisely," Lex asks slowly.
"‘Cuz," Lennox says, and then turns away and heads back towards his cornerful of art supplies.
". . . alright, then," Lex says even slower, then leans down to reclaim Lennox’s schematic from the floor and lay it neatly on his desk. He’s running out of refrigerator magnets to hang these things up with, by which he means he’s running out of the bits of scrap metal that he’d deliberately magnetized to use as refrigerator magnets. It’s not like he’d had any lying around before, after all.
Lennox walks past both of Superman’s blankets where they're folded on the floor without sparing so much as a glance for either of them, then kneels down on the floor himself and starts rearranging his art supplies again. Lex imagines asking Lionel a question like that as a child, and just what that “conversation” would’ve been like.
And Lennox had asked him a question like that, and he’d wound up thinking about needing to invest in refrigerator magnets, of all things.
What ARE you getting for loving Kon-El?
He still hasn't even burned down the PR department about that damn article yet.
He will be making the stratospheric-shelf tequila sunrise that this city owes him as soon as Lennox's designated television time for the afternoon is distracting him, Lex promises himself, and he will be making the damn thing a double.