by Kitty Fisher
Disclaimer: not mine
Rating: NC 17
Summary: Lex, alive.
Author's notes: For the Crayola Challenge.
Ersatz music, corporate classics piped though the phone line, probably with subliminal commands hidden between the chords: buy more stock, buy more gas, buy more crap.
Ten seconds. Twenty. The Moldovan Philharmonic and Grieg giving way to a single piano; Chopin. Of a sort.
Half a minute.
Click. "Lex! Is there a problem with the plant?"
"Well..." Lionel paused. "Then what sort of trouble are you in?"
Lex remembered that tone of voice. He fingered the heavy crystal glass, leaning back at his desk, frowning at the deeply etched pattern of interlocking thistles. "So, I have to be in trouble to call you?"
"Yes." Ipso facto." Lex, you don't call without reason. Ever." Sudden, almost inaudible breath. "Unless you're on something. Are you?"
"Not your usual poison."
How would he know? Except the staff probably reported back on everything from what he ate and drank to how regular he was in the john.
"Cuervo Gold, Dad. No worm."
"Why, did you already eat it?"
"No." Sigh. He'd given up on supposedly hallucinogenic animal life when he was seventeen. Unfortunately only after he'd eaten the beetle. Somewhere, some club, blurred memories of a moment of insanity. He hadn't died. Though he'd felt as if he was going to. And taking throwing up to Olympic standards had never been a life goal. That was the year he'd looked like a walking skeleton. Ah, sweet joys of youth.
"Lex, I don't have all day, get to the point."
"Maybe there isn't a point."
"Dad." He picked up the glass, stared at the slender half inch of gold liquid. "Couldn't I just want to talk?"
"Like I said, goodbye, Lex."
"I nearly died today."
Silence. Lex bit his lip. Considered putting the phone down and letting his father wonder. But he'd only call back. Or talk to one of his spies.
The question so terse, Lex almost smiled. "I crashed the Porsche."
"It went off a bridge into a river. I was dead when they pulled me out."
"Dead." Deep sigh. "Lex, why do you have to exaggerate?"
"I died. Someone gave me CPR. The car's totalled."
"Another disaster to add to your ever growing list. Well done."
"Thanks, Dad, and I'm just fine."
"Curiously enough I assumed that from the fact that you are talking to me."
"Well..." Was he? Ah, an interesting question. Lex drank the last mouthful, feeling the liquid burn. He stared at the empty glass.
"Anything to report about the factory?"
"Bye, Dad." Lex slid the handset back into its cradle.
As if he had expected anything else. Like sympathy, or concern. Either concept was pretty wild. Enough to make him laugh, which in turn set his bruises aching. He sobered, and tapped the glass with one neatly manicured fingernail. No, no more. He pushed the glass away and stood up. Hands slipped into his pockets he walked out of the library, footsteps soft on marble. His bedroom was on the second floor. He headed there, going into his private space, closing the door, dull thud of wood perfectly fitting into wood. The key turned with a sharp metallic snap.
White space. Walls, carpet, furnishings, all a perfect shade of white, the tone all the same, white shaded towards blue. The colour of ice. Of snow when it was untouched by human hand. The bed had been his mother's; wide, antique, of course. Elaborate head and footboards. White linen. No frills, no patterns. White on white. Bleached wood. Spartan, simple, as only the most perfectly expensive things could be.
Fingers unfastening his shirt, he stripped it off slowly. Wincing as he let it drop to the carpet, walking into his dressing room. Snapping on the lights he went to the floor-length mirror. Stared at himself. He was pale. Dying clearly took it out of you.
His torso showed the dark beginnings of what was going to be spectacular bruising. A long line of them angling from behind his shoulder, around his chest to end somewhere under the waistband of his pants. The seatbelt had saved him from physical injuries that would have killed him, but it had left its mark.
Lucky he'd been wearing it as he crashed through the barrier, taking the boy with him. Or not.
He blinked. Pushed his fingers at the deepest bruising over his ribs, skimmed up to the almost circular patch over his heart. Cardiopulmonary resus - classic.
The finger marks were amazing. As if he'd been gripped so tightly, that... That what? He'd never be let go?
Maybe he just bruised more easily than he remembered. You could take fingerprints off his shoulder. Not that there was any point. The marks belonged to the boy. To Clark Kent.
Or was that himself? Lazarus or Christ?
He leaned into the mirror until he touched cold glass with warm skin. He stared into his own eyes.
Death was something that happened to other people.
He watched the fleeting pain trouble his own eyes. Dead man walking. Eight lives to go. Or maybe seven if the beetle counted for anything.
Lazarus. Though not called from the tomb, unless a watery grave and fifty thousand dollars of scrap metal counted. Called back. For a reason?
Was a pretty boy reason enough? And that was a question. For he was pretty. Shy, unknowing, unshadowed. And missing a life too. A bond between them deeper than the memory of cold lips on his own. Breath pushing hard into his lungs.
Lex pushed away from the glass with one hand. Unzipped himself, pulled out his cock, the flesh hard, hot in his hand. He let his pants and shorts pool down to his ankles.
There were two legends about Lazarus after his cursory summons; stories of his life, so different, so opposite. Lex looked at his cock being squeezed by his fist, took a sharp breath as he thumbed precum from the slit. In one, Lazarus was happy to be alive, and he walked from the tomb smiling, ecstatic, offering the rest of his life to the man who had gifted it to him. Lex started to pump his fist, watching the thick head jerking in the circle of his fingers, covered, uncovered, darkening with each squeeze. In the other he was maggot ridden, four days in the tomb and ripped from Heaven to live a life of hell on earth. He jerked faster, his breath misting the mirror.
A cross roads. Salvation or a whited sepulchre?
Groaning, Lex tensed, shuddering as he came, semen spattering onto the glass, the carpet, dribbling over his fist. Breath fast as a runner's. Standing still for a long time, he leaned his head forward. Slowly, his knees buckled and he landed curled on the floor, half-leaning against the mirror, his come smeared down the silvered surface.
The boy was very pretty.
And he was alive. The rush like China White. Purer than God.
Lex closed his eyes. Shivered once. Waited.
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