a bit of nothing much
Feb. 21st, 2007 03:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xparrotHave you ever written the start of something, then abandoned it, only to find it years later and reread it and realize you have absolutely no memory of where it was supposed to go?
So I suddenly recalled I had a snippet of SV from back when I first got into the fandom, and I remembered, vaguely, the premise, but upon reading the story itself I can't for the life of me recall how I was planning to end it. I don't know why I never write endings down. I've done this enough times that one would think I'd at least scribble an outline, but no, I always think I'm going to finish it before I forget. And then I don't. Anyway, in the spirit of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wip_amnesty (yeah, I know I'm a couple days late, sue me) here's the opening of an unfinished fic. The date for the file creation is January 17, 2002 (SV's first season) and while most of it was probably written sometime in the year after that (though before "Achilles' Heel", I'm pretty sure, as their themes are so similar I think I abandoned this to write that), it still was way before "Asylum" aired. I mention this because the basic plot is that Lionel subjects Lex to an "'accident" such that he loses most of his memory of Smallville, thus allowing him to become Lex Luthor of legend - because even in first season it was obvious that there was no way Lex wouldn't recognize Clark when Superman came out.
It's pretty dark, with a bit of NC-17 man-on-man smut (possibly the first I ever wrote) and Lex-being-evil. I believe it would have had a Clexy ending eventually (really, in my mind every SV fic ends, "And then they had sex, and lived happily ever after") but here there's just angst. And Superman strippers. Also a bit of awkward writing I didn't edit; my style has changed in the past five years. Though really not as much as I'd expect. I don't know if that's a good sign or a bad sign. I rather like the jarring quick-cuts here, I've been impatient with my overly prolix prose of late. (oo, triple word score, 'prolix' used in a sentence for the win!)
Third (unfinished)
The first time he was responsible for someone's death, he was sick for two days.
He said it was a touch of the flu. Never gave a hint that he wasn't sleeping, not from any pain in his stomach, but from fear of dreams. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the man's face--he hadn't even met him, but he had photographs, had attended the funeral.
His father knew he never got sick. He came the next day, after the funeral. When Lex had almost convinced himself that he couldn't have known the building was unsafe. He had only greased a few palms to pass regulations, but he had needed to, those codes were outdated and idiotic and slowing production would have sunk the company. An inspection might not have changed anything. No way to know. He hadn't known.
His father stared at him over the desk, told him, "It wasn't an accident. Luthors don't make mistakes. We make decisions."
He was sick, but it was a little easier the next time. Easier still after that. By the time his father died he had learned to face those truths more directly. Certain decisions simplified matters. Not journalists, not competitors; the ramifications were too complex. But sometimes the only way to undo a knot was to clip threads. And guilt was for lesser men.
By the time his father died, he understood how much greater he was. He took the reins of Luther Corp knowing it was only a step on a long ladder. Beginning to see what he truly had been born for.
His third incarnation. Immediately after the accident he had written it in his journal, the old pocket notebook in which he had at one time kept sporadic entries. That was one of the final notations. "My third rebirth."
When he read it after leaving the hospital he hadn't understood what he had meant. It took him a little while to understand. Third time's the charm. Once from the womb. Twice in a flattened cornfield. Third his return to life after the accident, a miracle even greater than recovering from the meteor.
He hadn't realized until after he was released from the hospital how close it had been, didn't comprehend until he saw the uncertain gazes around him. Dead man walking. Most hadn't expected him to survive. His father had had faith, at least. No surprise in his eyes. Not that there ever was; never anything but that smoothly calculating stone.
He hadn't hastened his father's death. No one would blame him publicly, of course, but most of his father's staff whispered the rumors. He let them say it. Put the fear of God into them--the fear of Lex. If any of them thought to act on their suspicions...he had eyes and ears, even among Lionel's loyal minions. The most loyal, of course, were out of the way before the wake. The rest he managed as required.
Just as he managed the corporation, taking it farther than his father had dared. His predecessor had been too steeped in the American systems, too trusting that his country would stay on top. Lex never trusted anything, anyone, not since his mother's death. He pushed the international sector, learned every language he needed to deal with any businessman who meant anything. Built outwards and upwards, stretching all the resources, but he knew it would pay off. For capital he tapped the funds his father had been too timid to do more than dabble in.
He slept four hours a night, barely had time to eat, except fancy dinners to kiss the asses of the week. He kept two celphones, the black with legitimate numbers, the gray with unlisted, but he never said anything specifically incriminating over either. He was on a first name basis with all the newspaper editors and state politicians. He had lawyers who didn't even know they worked for him. He had men without names or faces who asked no questions and refused no demands.
It was exhilarating. It wasn't his destiny but it was on the way, and it was all going beautifully.
And then he appeared on the scene. Man of Steel, world's first superhero. Superman. He of the bullet-racing and building-hurdles, and none of it was exaggeration, Lex discovered all too quickly. The man could fly. Could fly. He broke all physical laws, yet had no tolerance for those who would surpass the laws of man. As if those somehow had more meaning than the natural forces, as if the law were not an arbitrary rule-set to make decisions for those lacking the will to govern themselves.
He started out a hindrance and quickly became worse. Lex couldn't ignore him, began to plan around him. Then to deliberately design obstacles. Distractions, a showy crime to cover the more devious. Sleight of hand with grand stakes, bluffs and gambits. He had never enjoyed poker, but this was more interesting. More involved.
Like chess, the key was his opponent. Except there was so little to study. Superman, just as the name said. Very very strong, very very fast. Not too bright, but stubborn. Indomitable will. He could not be bought, would not be tempted. Uncovering his secrets would do little good.
Yet he found himself stockpiling information on the man. Clippings, photographs, recordings of every video, from news footage to amateur film. If he had something to hide it was in that, how he rarely let himself be captured in images. All shots were from a distance, following his maniac dives and impossible swoops through the sky, snatching people from drops, supporting buildings. He wouldn't be interviewed, wouldn't mug for the camera. Hard to see his face.
Lex waited. On his balcony, binoculars in hand. The crime set below was loud and obvious in the bright noon sun. He trained the lenses on the blue and red blur appearing from the east. It only took a minute for the woman to be saved, the paid attacker trapped in a bent half of a trash can and left for the police. Lex focused on the man below, smiling gently as the woman expressed her tearful gratitude.
Then he looked up, straight up, as if he could see through glass and metal rails and the binoculars to meet his observer's gaze. Straight into the scope of the lenses and he paused as if he were posing, fully aware. The features were almost too perfect to be human, but Lex could still read them, as easily as he could read any man's face. What he saw there shook him, for it was grief, so deep it could be tasted, bitter as flower petals.
The police came a day later, for something else altogether, an affair thwarted a month before. He went with them willingly. It wasn't as if they could keep him. By the time his lawyer arrived all evidence against him had vanished. No eyewitness testimony; Superman wouldn't make up what he hadn't seen, no matter how sure he was of the truth.
He was back at work by that evening, on all levels. There was something bold about it, showing off. Prove a few underpaid flatfoots couldn't scare him. He was annoyed with himself. But there was more than his pride at stake; he did need to prepare. A major shipment was already on its way and he couldn't afford to lose that one. Something big would be needed for the diversion. A drug bust, maybe, or a jail break. Watch the glittering ring and miss the card hid up the sleeve.
He hadn't looked stupid, no. But maybe gullible. Something foolishly trusting in the open emotion on that face looking up at him. Lex understood a little better than he had, looking his nemesis in the eyes. He had the advantage now, could roughly sketch the outlines of the man's convictions. Perhaps a train wreck. Occupy him with his first duty to the lives of Metropolis's citizens, pull the strings of his compassion.
Alone in his office, secretary on break, Luthor made the calls. Yes, it was possible. Not a problem, even on short notice. A few hundred dollars to make the necessary officials looks the other way at the crucial moment and he would have his accident. The main police force would be there when the ship came in. Superman would be busy there, saving lives.
Every detail was branded in his mind, the slope of his jaw, the cut of those flawless cheekbones. Face of the hero. Staring up at him with sorrow in his eyes.
He took his old notebook out of the safe in his desk. There was nothing specifically dangerous in it but it wouldn't do to give people ideas. He flipped to the end and read his scrawled words. "My third rebirth."
He remembered waking in the hospital. Surprising to open his eyes and find his father there, watching him. The doctors stood beside him, asking him how he felt, what he remembered, testing him, but what stood out starkest in his memory was his father's stance. His eyes were cold as ever but the tension in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, was telling. He had known his son would live but not guessed the scope of that life.
He interrogated him about the accident, long after the doctors' inquiries ended. Lex never told him anything, of course. Because he wouldn't. Because he couldn't.
Unbidden, his hands turned the page to the journal's final leaf, the page he never read. One sentence was scribbled on the paper, crammed between the blue lines. He couldn't ever recall writing it but the letters were in his angular hand. "Who died so I was born?"
He clapped the notebook shut, returned it to the safe in the drawer.
No one knew he owned the club he went to that night. No one noticed him, a shaved head almost too ordinary for the place amid the riot of other crowns under the strobes.
On the stage in the center a boy danced, a sleek young man rocked by the heavy beat of the omnipresent music. The paint dripped off him under the heat of the spotlights, red and blue mixing, tangling in his black hair. The crowd howled as he tore out of the scarlet cape, ripping the thin silk. He raised his hands, silhouetted in the electric glare, feigning flight. Men have no wings. But in the silence of the song's end, he threw himself into the air, arms spread and eyes closed, fearless.
The throng caught him, drowned him in hands reaching to stroke his flesh.
Lex paid good money after the act. The boy followed him to the rooms upstairs eagerly. Up close, divested of the paint, his face was too round, too young, and his eyes were more brown than blue. But his body was supple and firm, strong if not steel. He smiled when he saw Lex nude, not cruelly. "You got a good gym. But those Brazilian waxes have got to be killer."
Lex didn't tell him it was a natural condition. The boy didn't look him in the face, even when he took him in his mouth, sucked and stroked with practiced skill.
Later Lex took him, not fast, not hard. Gently, as if he were easing into a virgin, and the boy writhed with the unexpected pleasure.
He seemed surprised but not disturbed to find Lex still there in the morning, though he frowned when he saw the scratches down his back, craned his neck as he examined himself in the mirror and pressed his fingers to the long ruddy scores. "Shit. They won't let me paint these."
"Wait for them to heal."
"I need this gig."
"I'll hold it for you."
"How can you--" Then he looked at his face and finally saw it. "Holy fuck--you're--"
"I'll come back," Lex said as he walked out the door. The coppery scent of blood still lingered on his nails. Human blood.
He was there the next night, and the night after that. The boy wasn't afraid of him, or pretended well if he was. They fucked; they talked. It was almost like having a lover.
On the eighth night the boy rolled over on the bed, moaned. "Jesus. Three times a night--who do you think I am, Superman? --Sir," he added as he realized belatedly who he addressed. His face went pale under its artificial tan.
Lex dropped the bills on the table, double the agreed, and left. He dreamed that night for the first time in a week. In his dream the eyes were green-blue, and his nails left no mark. When he awoke he could feel his fingers running down the smooth broad plane of his back.
That evening he watched the news as the anchors reported the near-derailment of the subway cars. Only Superman's swift intervention had prevented the terrible disaster. It was not yet known if it had been sabotage or simply an accident.
It went so perfectly that he was unduly shocked to learn that on the docks, the smuggled shipment had been discovered. He had to pay triple the normal bribe to recover the two cartons from the police impound. They were supposedly untouched, but when opened he found that two items had not been left intact. The most valuable components. He had negotiated for months and now his careful efforts were reduced to so much bent wire. The plastic casings were crumpled like crushed soda cans. Upon closer examination he recognized the striations as fingerprints, a hand of steel closed around the assemblages.
So Metropolis's sworn protector wasn't such a law-abiding bastard after all. The police couldn't legally search the contents, not without a lawsuit fit to shut down the department. But he couldn't sue Superman. No one even knew the man's real name, let alone his address or the state of his finances. Damned vigilante.
And how had he known? How had he guessed what exact equipment would be the most damaging to lose?
How had the police found the shipment at all? No one had known. Just him, and the six men he had hired--and fired, in a fit of rage, when he had retrieved the cartons and discovered the vandalism. Let his anger rule him, stupidly. It took a day's work to track them down again. Two were already seeing about fleeing the country. Two others had been taken by the cops.
He brought them all together, and interrogated until he was satisfied. None of them. They were loyal, out of greed, out of fear. He let them go. Three he could use again. The other three were too terrified. He would handle them as needed.
The mystery yet remained. No one had known. They had told no one. He of course had told--
He had. Stupid. Stupid. The glass in his hand shattered against the mantelpiece when he threw it, crystal shards chiming on the stone floor before the fireplace. He could hear his own voice, lazy as he stretched out on the bed, satisfied. His fingers wound through the thick soft ebony of the boy's hair as he idly talked. "I might be late Friday. Business. There's a shipment coming in I have to personally verify. Hopefully the police won't delay me. They shouldn't be involved, if it goes well."
And then he had added, stupidly, smitten, "Don't take the subway Friday. I'll cover the taxi if you want to go anywhere." And the boy, the conniving wretched beautiful creature, had murmured a sleepy assent before tilting his face up toward his to claim a kiss.
No one else had known. So it had been his own fault after all. His own foolishness, underestimating that toy of his. Had he figured it out when he heard of the accident on the news? Or had he realized it immediately and called the police that night? Had he always been on their take?
Or was it more intimate? Did he service another in the daylight, perhaps, a cop? One of Luthor's own men? Or even greater treachery still. In his mind Lex could see them, boy and man, almost twins except for age, black hair and powerful arms entwined. Flying in their passion, literally, rising above the earth, wrapped in clouds. He could see the hero, the protector, the savior, pleasuring himself, that mask of selflessness pushed aside to revel in the boy's imitation. False worship. Had the boy dared kiss those lips, that face, his lovely ordinary mouth pressed to that inhuman perfection?
Lex had never been so angry in his memory, the fury pulsing through him like a boiling tide, fit to burn away his skin. He barely understood why that imagination scored him so deeply. Jealous, for a boy whore? A stripper who sold himself. He had paid well for him; he had no claim on him save the money. Felt no claim, no possessiveness now for his clear eyes and lithe body. No desire for the boy, yet still this rage, like betrayal.
...and that's all she wrote. Will Lex have his boytoy executed? Was Superman sleeping with the stripper to get Lex-sex-by-proxy, or were they just friends? Was it a set-up? Was Clark trying to provoke Lex's memory? I have no idea! Make up your own ending! Tell me what happens next! Because I'd sure like to know...
So I suddenly recalled I had a snippet of SV from back when I first got into the fandom, and I remembered, vaguely, the premise, but upon reading the story itself I can't for the life of me recall how I was planning to end it. I don't know why I never write endings down. I've done this enough times that one would think I'd at least scribble an outline, but no, I always think I'm going to finish it before I forget. And then I don't. Anyway, in the spirit of
wip_amnesty (yeah, I know I'm a couple days late, sue me) here's the opening of an unfinished fic. The date for the file creation is January 17, 2002 (SV's first season) and while most of it was probably written sometime in the year after that (though before "Achilles' Heel", I'm pretty sure, as their themes are so similar I think I abandoned this to write that), it still was way before "Asylum" aired. I mention this because the basic plot is that Lionel subjects Lex to an "'accident" such that he loses most of his memory of Smallville, thus allowing him to become Lex Luthor of legend - because even in first season it was obvious that there was no way Lex wouldn't recognize Clark when Superman came out.It's pretty dark, with a bit of NC-17 man-on-man smut (possibly the first I ever wrote) and Lex-being-evil. I believe it would have had a Clexy ending eventually (really, in my mind every SV fic ends, "And then they had sex, and lived happily ever after") but here there's just angst. And Superman strippers. Also a bit of awkward writing I didn't edit; my style has changed in the past five years. Though really not as much as I'd expect. I don't know if that's a good sign or a bad sign. I rather like the jarring quick-cuts here, I've been impatient with my overly prolix prose of late. (oo, triple word score, 'prolix' used in a sentence for the win!)
Third (unfinished)
The first time he was responsible for someone's death, he was sick for two days.
He said it was a touch of the flu. Never gave a hint that he wasn't sleeping, not from any pain in his stomach, but from fear of dreams. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the man's face--he hadn't even met him, but he had photographs, had attended the funeral.
His father knew he never got sick. He came the next day, after the funeral. When Lex had almost convinced himself that he couldn't have known the building was unsafe. He had only greased a few palms to pass regulations, but he had needed to, those codes were outdated and idiotic and slowing production would have sunk the company. An inspection might not have changed anything. No way to know. He hadn't known.
His father stared at him over the desk, told him, "It wasn't an accident. Luthors don't make mistakes. We make decisions."
He was sick, but it was a little easier the next time. Easier still after that. By the time his father died he had learned to face those truths more directly. Certain decisions simplified matters. Not journalists, not competitors; the ramifications were too complex. But sometimes the only way to undo a knot was to clip threads. And guilt was for lesser men.
By the time his father died, he understood how much greater he was. He took the reins of Luther Corp knowing it was only a step on a long ladder. Beginning to see what he truly had been born for.
His third incarnation. Immediately after the accident he had written it in his journal, the old pocket notebook in which he had at one time kept sporadic entries. That was one of the final notations. "My third rebirth."
When he read it after leaving the hospital he hadn't understood what he had meant. It took him a little while to understand. Third time's the charm. Once from the womb. Twice in a flattened cornfield. Third his return to life after the accident, a miracle even greater than recovering from the meteor.
He hadn't realized until after he was released from the hospital how close it had been, didn't comprehend until he saw the uncertain gazes around him. Dead man walking. Most hadn't expected him to survive. His father had had faith, at least. No surprise in his eyes. Not that there ever was; never anything but that smoothly calculating stone.
He hadn't hastened his father's death. No one would blame him publicly, of course, but most of his father's staff whispered the rumors. He let them say it. Put the fear of God into them--the fear of Lex. If any of them thought to act on their suspicions...he had eyes and ears, even among Lionel's loyal minions. The most loyal, of course, were out of the way before the wake. The rest he managed as required.
Just as he managed the corporation, taking it farther than his father had dared. His predecessor had been too steeped in the American systems, too trusting that his country would stay on top. Lex never trusted anything, anyone, not since his mother's death. He pushed the international sector, learned every language he needed to deal with any businessman who meant anything. Built outwards and upwards, stretching all the resources, but he knew it would pay off. For capital he tapped the funds his father had been too timid to do more than dabble in.
He slept four hours a night, barely had time to eat, except fancy dinners to kiss the asses of the week. He kept two celphones, the black with legitimate numbers, the gray with unlisted, but he never said anything specifically incriminating over either. He was on a first name basis with all the newspaper editors and state politicians. He had lawyers who didn't even know they worked for him. He had men without names or faces who asked no questions and refused no demands.
It was exhilarating. It wasn't his destiny but it was on the way, and it was all going beautifully.
And then he appeared on the scene. Man of Steel, world's first superhero. Superman. He of the bullet-racing and building-hurdles, and none of it was exaggeration, Lex discovered all too quickly. The man could fly. Could fly. He broke all physical laws, yet had no tolerance for those who would surpass the laws of man. As if those somehow had more meaning than the natural forces, as if the law were not an arbitrary rule-set to make decisions for those lacking the will to govern themselves.
He started out a hindrance and quickly became worse. Lex couldn't ignore him, began to plan around him. Then to deliberately design obstacles. Distractions, a showy crime to cover the more devious. Sleight of hand with grand stakes, bluffs and gambits. He had never enjoyed poker, but this was more interesting. More involved.
Like chess, the key was his opponent. Except there was so little to study. Superman, just as the name said. Very very strong, very very fast. Not too bright, but stubborn. Indomitable will. He could not be bought, would not be tempted. Uncovering his secrets would do little good.
Yet he found himself stockpiling information on the man. Clippings, photographs, recordings of every video, from news footage to amateur film. If he had something to hide it was in that, how he rarely let himself be captured in images. All shots were from a distance, following his maniac dives and impossible swoops through the sky, snatching people from drops, supporting buildings. He wouldn't be interviewed, wouldn't mug for the camera. Hard to see his face.
Lex waited. On his balcony, binoculars in hand. The crime set below was loud and obvious in the bright noon sun. He trained the lenses on the blue and red blur appearing from the east. It only took a minute for the woman to be saved, the paid attacker trapped in a bent half of a trash can and left for the police. Lex focused on the man below, smiling gently as the woman expressed her tearful gratitude.
Then he looked up, straight up, as if he could see through glass and metal rails and the binoculars to meet his observer's gaze. Straight into the scope of the lenses and he paused as if he were posing, fully aware. The features were almost too perfect to be human, but Lex could still read them, as easily as he could read any man's face. What he saw there shook him, for it was grief, so deep it could be tasted, bitter as flower petals.
The police came a day later, for something else altogether, an affair thwarted a month before. He went with them willingly. It wasn't as if they could keep him. By the time his lawyer arrived all evidence against him had vanished. No eyewitness testimony; Superman wouldn't make up what he hadn't seen, no matter how sure he was of the truth.
He was back at work by that evening, on all levels. There was something bold about it, showing off. Prove a few underpaid flatfoots couldn't scare him. He was annoyed with himself. But there was more than his pride at stake; he did need to prepare. A major shipment was already on its way and he couldn't afford to lose that one. Something big would be needed for the diversion. A drug bust, maybe, or a jail break. Watch the glittering ring and miss the card hid up the sleeve.
He hadn't looked stupid, no. But maybe gullible. Something foolishly trusting in the open emotion on that face looking up at him. Lex understood a little better than he had, looking his nemesis in the eyes. He had the advantage now, could roughly sketch the outlines of the man's convictions. Perhaps a train wreck. Occupy him with his first duty to the lives of Metropolis's citizens, pull the strings of his compassion.
Alone in his office, secretary on break, Luthor made the calls. Yes, it was possible. Not a problem, even on short notice. A few hundred dollars to make the necessary officials looks the other way at the crucial moment and he would have his accident. The main police force would be there when the ship came in. Superman would be busy there, saving lives.
Every detail was branded in his mind, the slope of his jaw, the cut of those flawless cheekbones. Face of the hero. Staring up at him with sorrow in his eyes.
He took his old notebook out of the safe in his desk. There was nothing specifically dangerous in it but it wouldn't do to give people ideas. He flipped to the end and read his scrawled words. "My third rebirth."
He remembered waking in the hospital. Surprising to open his eyes and find his father there, watching him. The doctors stood beside him, asking him how he felt, what he remembered, testing him, but what stood out starkest in his memory was his father's stance. His eyes were cold as ever but the tension in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, was telling. He had known his son would live but not guessed the scope of that life.
He interrogated him about the accident, long after the doctors' inquiries ended. Lex never told him anything, of course. Because he wouldn't. Because he couldn't.
Unbidden, his hands turned the page to the journal's final leaf, the page he never read. One sentence was scribbled on the paper, crammed between the blue lines. He couldn't ever recall writing it but the letters were in his angular hand. "Who died so I was born?"
He clapped the notebook shut, returned it to the safe in the drawer.
No one knew he owned the club he went to that night. No one noticed him, a shaved head almost too ordinary for the place amid the riot of other crowns under the strobes.
On the stage in the center a boy danced, a sleek young man rocked by the heavy beat of the omnipresent music. The paint dripped off him under the heat of the spotlights, red and blue mixing, tangling in his black hair. The crowd howled as he tore out of the scarlet cape, ripping the thin silk. He raised his hands, silhouetted in the electric glare, feigning flight. Men have no wings. But in the silence of the song's end, he threw himself into the air, arms spread and eyes closed, fearless.
The throng caught him, drowned him in hands reaching to stroke his flesh.
Lex paid good money after the act. The boy followed him to the rooms upstairs eagerly. Up close, divested of the paint, his face was too round, too young, and his eyes were more brown than blue. But his body was supple and firm, strong if not steel. He smiled when he saw Lex nude, not cruelly. "You got a good gym. But those Brazilian waxes have got to be killer."
Lex didn't tell him it was a natural condition. The boy didn't look him in the face, even when he took him in his mouth, sucked and stroked with practiced skill.
Later Lex took him, not fast, not hard. Gently, as if he were easing into a virgin, and the boy writhed with the unexpected pleasure.
He seemed surprised but not disturbed to find Lex still there in the morning, though he frowned when he saw the scratches down his back, craned his neck as he examined himself in the mirror and pressed his fingers to the long ruddy scores. "Shit. They won't let me paint these."
"Wait for them to heal."
"I need this gig."
"I'll hold it for you."
"How can you--" Then he looked at his face and finally saw it. "Holy fuck--you're--"
"I'll come back," Lex said as he walked out the door. The coppery scent of blood still lingered on his nails. Human blood.
He was there the next night, and the night after that. The boy wasn't afraid of him, or pretended well if he was. They fucked; they talked. It was almost like having a lover.
On the eighth night the boy rolled over on the bed, moaned. "Jesus. Three times a night--who do you think I am, Superman? --Sir," he added as he realized belatedly who he addressed. His face went pale under its artificial tan.
Lex dropped the bills on the table, double the agreed, and left. He dreamed that night for the first time in a week. In his dream the eyes were green-blue, and his nails left no mark. When he awoke he could feel his fingers running down the smooth broad plane of his back.
That evening he watched the news as the anchors reported the near-derailment of the subway cars. Only Superman's swift intervention had prevented the terrible disaster. It was not yet known if it had been sabotage or simply an accident.
It went so perfectly that he was unduly shocked to learn that on the docks, the smuggled shipment had been discovered. He had to pay triple the normal bribe to recover the two cartons from the police impound. They were supposedly untouched, but when opened he found that two items had not been left intact. The most valuable components. He had negotiated for months and now his careful efforts were reduced to so much bent wire. The plastic casings were crumpled like crushed soda cans. Upon closer examination he recognized the striations as fingerprints, a hand of steel closed around the assemblages.
So Metropolis's sworn protector wasn't such a law-abiding bastard after all. The police couldn't legally search the contents, not without a lawsuit fit to shut down the department. But he couldn't sue Superman. No one even knew the man's real name, let alone his address or the state of his finances. Damned vigilante.
And how had he known? How had he guessed what exact equipment would be the most damaging to lose?
How had the police found the shipment at all? No one had known. Just him, and the six men he had hired--and fired, in a fit of rage, when he had retrieved the cartons and discovered the vandalism. Let his anger rule him, stupidly. It took a day's work to track them down again. Two were already seeing about fleeing the country. Two others had been taken by the cops.
He brought them all together, and interrogated until he was satisfied. None of them. They were loyal, out of greed, out of fear. He let them go. Three he could use again. The other three were too terrified. He would handle them as needed.
The mystery yet remained. No one had known. They had told no one. He of course had told--
He had. Stupid. Stupid. The glass in his hand shattered against the mantelpiece when he threw it, crystal shards chiming on the stone floor before the fireplace. He could hear his own voice, lazy as he stretched out on the bed, satisfied. His fingers wound through the thick soft ebony of the boy's hair as he idly talked. "I might be late Friday. Business. There's a shipment coming in I have to personally verify. Hopefully the police won't delay me. They shouldn't be involved, if it goes well."
And then he had added, stupidly, smitten, "Don't take the subway Friday. I'll cover the taxi if you want to go anywhere." And the boy, the conniving wretched beautiful creature, had murmured a sleepy assent before tilting his face up toward his to claim a kiss.
No one else had known. So it had been his own fault after all. His own foolishness, underestimating that toy of his. Had he figured it out when he heard of the accident on the news? Or had he realized it immediately and called the police that night? Had he always been on their take?
Or was it more intimate? Did he service another in the daylight, perhaps, a cop? One of Luthor's own men? Or even greater treachery still. In his mind Lex could see them, boy and man, almost twins except for age, black hair and powerful arms entwined. Flying in their passion, literally, rising above the earth, wrapped in clouds. He could see the hero, the protector, the savior, pleasuring himself, that mask of selflessness pushed aside to revel in the boy's imitation. False worship. Had the boy dared kiss those lips, that face, his lovely ordinary mouth pressed to that inhuman perfection?
Lex had never been so angry in his memory, the fury pulsing through him like a boiling tide, fit to burn away his skin. He barely understood why that imagination scored him so deeply. Jealous, for a boy whore? A stripper who sold himself. He had paid well for him; he had no claim on him save the money. Felt no claim, no possessiveness now for his clear eyes and lithe body. No desire for the boy, yet still this rage, like betrayal.
...and that's all she wrote. Will Lex have his boytoy executed? Was Superman sleeping with the stripper to get Lex-sex-by-proxy, or were they just friends? Was it a set-up? Was Clark trying to provoke Lex's memory? I have no idea! Make up your own ending! Tell me what happens next! Because I'd sure like to know...
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Date: 2007-02-21 11:16 am (UTC)It's wierd. My one shots have improved immesuably, I can get a really nice writing style going. But my multi-chapter fics, my 'plotted fics' are just... gah! So hard to finish and so... blank! Gah.
I'm trying to write a mutlti-chaptered Seto story at the moment, (trying to write about his time with Gozaboru up to his coma,) and it's just so... well... IO *think* it's Ok. But I'm not sure. I need to get back to working on that.
(Oh, and may ask you for some help/advice on that one. Not much, just a couple of small questions...)
And I have an utterly appauling track record with WIPs. So annoying! I hate leaving things unfinished and I must have twice the amount of Yu-Gi-Oh unfinished fics as I do finished ones! Some of them I don't even know where they were going... grr...
I look forward to your next Smallville fic. In truth I prefer your Yu-Gi-Oh stuff, because I'm more 'into' that fandom. But I still enjoy your Clex, especially because you don't sugar-coat Lex at all, which I find nice.
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Date: 2007-02-21 08:01 pm (UTC)And sure, if you've got any Kaiba-questions, just ask. I have to admit, I'm not really reading any YGO at the moment (I tend to be fairly fandom monogamous...) but I still am terribly fond of the boy...
no subject
Date: 2007-02-21 10:05 pm (UTC)Also, I figured out in the bath what might have happened.
What if the boy decided, after Lex's waking out, (and being non too bright,) to sell his story to the paper.
So he goes for the biggest paper he can think of (The Planet) and tries there. They tentivly agree, though it's a bit low-brow for them and, when Perry asks for someone to volunteer to interview the kid, Clark steps in.
The boy mentions the taxie thing in an offhand manner and Clark picks up on it.
There. How's that for a vertion of how it happened?
(:
no subject
Date: 2007-02-22 10:31 am (UTC)