Smoked salmon, cream cheese, sun dried tomatoes, snow peas, bocconcini, iced tea
He had splinters in his left cheek from where it rubbed against the wall. They stung and itched just beneath the surface of his skin, and he scrubbed his face against the wood some more to ease it. The ceaseless movement of cracked lips didn't help much and his voice had long since gone hoarse, his throat parched from the endless litany of ingredients chanted into the emptiness of the room.
Empty but for him, and the foul-smelling puddle on the floor beside him, evidence of the last meal he'd eaten before he was
Snow peas, bocconcini, iced tea, smoked salmon, cream cheese, sun dried
He supposed if he got too hungry, there were some traces of solid food in the mess; flashes of green that might even still be crunchy...he couldn't remember having eaten any carrots, which was weird because he could swear they were in there too...
He gagged once, helplessly, saliva and bile spilling down his chin. The splinters from the wall worked their patient way through the layers of his cheek - much deeper, and he thought he might be able to feel them on his tongue. A little sharp pain would be welcome against the slimy, dead thing sitting between his teeth, tasting like vomit and fish and his own bitter blood.
Smoked salmon, cream cheese, sun dried tomatoes, snow peas
He liked snow peas. Despite the name, to him they always tasted like summer.
He didn't feel very summery. Weak light was filtering through one of the cracks in the boarded up window, but he was shivering and looking through a cloud of his own breath, and he thought maybe the sun had just risen.
Bocconcini, iced tea
As soon as Clark rescued him, he would take them both out for lunch. Something cheap and nasty, pre-digested and cooked in grease. A hamburger, maybe, with the patty cooked just enough to still be pink and salty in the middle, and the bottom of the bun would mash into a thick paste in his mouth, and the sauce would drip down his fingers.
And they'd wash the burgers down with some variation of generic carbonated crap, sugary and caffeine-loaded and watered down by melting chunks of ice, and Clark would grin at him through greasy lips and tell him he had sauce on his chin.
Sun dried tomatoes
His wrists had stopped hurting a while ago, though his shoulders still ached, arms pulled awkwardly behind him and bound with what he thought might be chicken wire. Apparently, he'd been kidnapped by farmers, and briefly he wondered if it had been Mr Kent, finally taking bloody revenge against The Evil That Is Luthor.
If that were the case, he was probably sitting in the Kent's storm cellar right now. The thought was...amusing, and took his mind off the crust of dried vomit and blood on his clothes.
He shifted, trying to escape whatever it was that was taking a bite of his ass. His nose itched, and he scrubbed it against the wall. More splinters.
Cream cheese, sun dried tomatoes
He couldn't remember what came next, and he was horrified by the frustrated tears that blurred his vision and stung when they hit the splinter-holes in his skin. It was only a day ago, and he was a genius! He'd had a sandwich in his office, discarded the bread because carbohydrates made him lazy, and he'd picked apart the innards of the meal and eaten them one by one by
One. Snow peas. He liked snow peas, they reminded him of summer. He couldn't get warm, and his shoulders ached, and he thought that next time he would just eat the damn bread, even the crusts - not that it would make his hair curly, but maybe if he altered his routine just a little it would change everything else, and the next person to be hit over the head in Smallville would be some nameless stranger who didn't know what a concussion felt like, who thought cranial trauma was watching one too many episodes of Dawson's Creek.
And he was trying really hard not to think about that one, because his throat was really very dry and his mouth tasted like his tongue had died and every attempt at a swallow felt like he was choking on sand.
He vaguely remembered that throwing up was one of the signs of a concussion. Blurred vision was another - he'd be worried if he couldn't still feel the wetness of tears and the burn of salt on his skin. No mirrors here, no way to check his own pupils, and no significant confusion in his thought processes, not as long as he could remember that damn list.
Smoked salmon, cream cheese, sun dried tomatoes, snow peas, something, iced tea
Biting down hard on his swollen tongue, tasting blood again, and he could do this, he knew what was missing, had probably repeated it a thousand times since he'd woken up in this place that probably wasn't the Kents' storm cellar, no matter how much he wished it was and if he could just remember that one thing everything would be okay, and Clark would come.
Smoked cream salmon cheese, snow dried sun peas
And okay, maybe he needed a little help, but that was okay because help was right there, the evidence beginning to congeal on the floor beside him and he threw himself sideways for a closer look, searching through the revolting puddle and retching at the smell until his stomach spasmed in protest, ticking off ingredients as he found them
Smoked salmon, check, snow peas, check, carrots that he hadn't eaten, shreds of something green
He blinked and twisted his head and there was Clark, crouched beside him and looking relieved, and vaguely disgusted.
"Geez Lex, that's...gross. Are you okay?"
He tried not to laugh, he really did but he couldn't help it, rolling onto his back and giggling until his vision blurred again and his head started to ache like he'd been hit with a blunt object of some sort.
He listened as Clark made concerned noises about hospitals and lifted him in strong farmer's arms, and just before his sight faded altogether he found himself with a sudden, inexplicable craving for a home cooked meal.
He wondered if Martha Kent would make him chicken soup.
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