May 23, 2003
Disclaimers: Nothing is mine. Not a thing.
Summary: Self image and expression.
Ratings Note: NC-17.
Author's Note: Jenn asked for Lex smut. The Spike *didn't* ask, but thought it really loud.
Acknowledgments: To Jenn, Devin, and the Spike for audiencing, and to Ladonna for putting the song "My Ritual" in my head.
Feedback: Yes, please. email@example.com
Lex is tired of feeling.
All of it. The pain of a dozen scrapes and bruises, the headache that doesn't seem to care that he hadn't hit his head -- or hit it very hard -- the horrible wrenched feeling in his back. That's the worst, he thinks. There's something terribly permanent about it, like an injury that's mostly meaningless now, but could lead to a future of canes. Bad posture.
Lex laughs to himself and presses his head a little harder against the cheap hospital pillow. Yes, he's going to be most disappointed if his posture is bad when he's thirty.
More than anything else, though...
There is Helen. Helen slipping something in his drink -- there was a great deal of Valium in his system, according to the suspicious doctor and sour-mouthed nurse -- and... disappearing.
He has an image of her -- very clear -- floating away and away from him, gorgeous hair spread out on nothing but air, laughing as she goes.
He hopes the image has more to do with the painkillers than anything else.
He is twenty-two years old and the veteran of two brief, horrific marriages. He thinks he should feel older than he does. More... something like hardened. Leathery on the surface of his emotions. Jaded and full of black humor. He has an image of himself:
He would be dressed impeccably, Italian shoes buffed to a mellow shine, scar smiling more than his actual mouth. He would have... a glass of something old and rich and bitter in his hand, more a prop than anything else. His father would look at him with eyes faded in a sharp and cynical kind of fundamental approval.
The woman on his arm would be as lovely and polished as any trophy should be.
In the image, he is... not happy.
He is satisfied, sated on some level that the Lex he is now would dearly love to understand.
Has he made some deal? Is Lexcorp making Luthorcorp nervous?
Has the woman just blown him with her prim, perfect mouth?
None of it seems like entirely enough, but the image remains.
He's forced to believe that the Lex in his mind is in some way older. More experienced.
Scraped so hard that there's nothing left to... hurt.
And wouldn't that be...
Clark is sitting at his bedside. Well, more accurately, he's slumped. Lex is reasonably sure the boy isn't entirely asleep, but he seems worn in a way that doesn't make very much sense.
There's a sense of exhaustion about him that doesn't touch the golden skin of his face, and doesn't do more than crumple his forehead. He has... oh, he has so many things for this boy. Thoughts, hopes, suspicions, fears.
He thinks Clark has nearly reached a boiling point in terms of all the things he doesn't say. He hopes Clark will just open his mouth and talk. He suspects and fears that the boy had more to do with Lex surviving the plane crash than any sane person could ever imagine.
And what he desires...
Clark opens his eyes, and makes Lex aware of himself in ways that aren't entirely comfortable. Whatever is written across his face, the new scars that probably... won't. It makes Lex want to be naked, if only to get it over with.
"How are you? I mean... well. But... are you feeling any... better?"
Lex tries on a smile. "Mm. I suspect I'll feel better when..." He trails off, even though he doesn't particularly want to make his words seem any more meaningful than they are. "When I get out of here," he finishes and wonders if it sounds as lame as he feels. Christ, had he broken anything?
"The doctors... well, they didn't want to say much." Clark fidgets a little, seeming all knees and elbows for a horrifically endearing moment. "They say you're going to be okay, though." Earnest look, queerly... bright.
"Clark." Lex closes his eyes.
"Yeah? Do you want... do you need anything?"
Just a few things. "I'm going to ask you a question."
Lex smiles, even though it feels a little fake. "Why were you there? I know I was banged up --"
"I think you must've bounced off every seat on the plane." Clark sounds almost amused. He can go with that.
"And the walls, and the ceiling... but that's not the question. Why were you there? I'm not going to ask how you got there --"
"Motorcycle." A mumble.
"Motor... okay. No, I don't want to know. But... why? Did you just kind of decide to skip school and catch a plane? Did you know..."
"Lex, we were nowhere near an airport."
Has to open his eyes for that, and Clark is looking at him with that same awful idiot innocence, but there's... more there. A glint of something hard and a little cruel behind his eyes. "Clark --"
"You know, Lex, I'm... tired. And you're hurt. And..." He rolled his head on his neck like he was stiff, or sore, but more like he was showing off. "Why don't we cut the bullshit?"
Lex blinks first. "I'm all ears."
"I found... something good. Something that feels good, makes me feel... it doesn't matter. We have time for that later. What I want..." A secret smile, more in his eyes than anywhere else. "I want to know when you're going to be ready to get out of here. I look older than I am, you know? But sooner or later, someone is going to ask questions."
"Like your father. I'm pretty sure I... overheard that he was on his way."
Lex feels his mouth twist involuntarily. "Making sure the heir can still... perform, no doubt."
"Yeah. Yeah, I bet he has all kinds of duties lined up for you. But I want you out of here. I want us out of here."
Lex raises an eyebrow. "And where would we go?"
Up out of the chair and leaning over him, brushing the IV aside carelessly and staring at Lex like there were answers inside his skull that Clark had every intention of battering out. "You tell me, Lex..." Breathed against his face with the scent of coffee and... mint? "I bet... I bet you know all kinds of places where people don't ask questions."
"Clark... are you --"
Clark stares at the hand Lex was about to reach out for him with and, after a moment's deliberation, presses it down against the mattress with his own. "I'm fine, Lex. A little tired, a little... sore. But good."
Lex clenches his hand and only succeeds in twining his fingers with Clark's own. This is... not entirely new. "That's... you know, you're reminding me a little of a certain conversation in my study."
"You betrayed me. Called in the 'rents like I had... pissed all over your carpet."
Calm. Calm is something very important right now. And perhaps a little easier to reach than he would expect. "I was worried about you."
Clark leans in closer, pressing the bed's railing down with a screaming series of clicks and creaks that don't sound at all natural. Lex resists the urge to check the thing and in that moment Clark is up and over him.
Straddling his waist, denim and muscle and pure impressive weight digging at his bruises. Lex feels a bandage rip free and represses a wince.
"You shouldn't do that," Clark says, and presses a thumb to the center of Lex's forehead, smoothing out the lines.
"Worry about you?" He could, he supposes, always just worry about his spine.
Clark closes his eyes, looking somehow both dreamy and inwardly focused. Shifts and moves and there's less weight on Lex and more... pressure. Clark smiles down at him, and Lex can see it's more like a parody of his usual sunniness than anything especially... true. "Seems to me like you should worry more about yourself."
And that was... a very thinly veiled threat, but with the way Clark is moving on him... "I heal fast," he says, and the grin this time is almost, almost right. It makes him... there's a part of him that leaps up and wants, more than the physical, more than the intellectual.
"Yeah. You do, don't you? Never thought I'd meet anyone that could get married twice in less than a year." That parodic smile.
"We never did go to Metropolis," he says, when he can manage it.
"I asked Lana," Clark says, blithe and easy.
Another one of those old, sly smiles. "You're supposed to be... kind of like a big brother, right?" A shift of the hips.
Lex forces himself to breathe. Think. "Kind of..."
"You should warn me about the kind of stupid, childish mistakes a guy can make when he thinks with his dick." Level look.
Lex blinks and he can see it, Clark pressing Lana up against a wall, forcing a leg between her own and kissing away every doubt, every hesitation... he shakes it off. "Some things we have to learn for ourselves." Helen and her smiles.
Hands on his chest, pressing down and sliding up and then peeling the sheet and thin, useless blanket down. Clark tugs at the papery gown he's wearing and it doesn't look like much effort was expended, but the thing tears away with a loud, damning noise. "I think... I think I want a new teacher, Lex."
Intellectually, he knows there must have been a point where he could have said, 'yes, things are clearly getting out of hand,' but that point is as dead and gone as his hospital johnny, and Clark's hands are. Warm. Hard. Insistent. This isn't a request. "Clark. I realize that this may not seem like the time to you, but perhaps we have a few things to talk about?"
Thumbs on his nipples, flicking them up hard and Lex doesn't bother to hold in a gasp.
Let him see it. Have it. Figure out on his own what he wants to... do about it. It makes as much sense as anything else, and...
It makes Clark's eyes flare again, and there's so much heat, here. Sweat prickling just beneath the skin and Clark breathing him in, staring at him and when Lex raises a hand again, all he does is force it down to his cock, hard and hot even through the denim. "Lex..."
And before Lex can say another word, before he can so much as think another word, Clark's mouth is on his, pressing hard and dragging a little and reminding Lex that he has bruises there, too.
The taste of blood is nothing compared to the tongue in his mouth, stroking against his own and shoving its way in, unsubtle and wonderful, and *he's* getting hard. He can feel it building, feel the way his hips want to move, thrust, and it's the easiest thing in the world to jerk his free hand hard enough to rip the IV free and drag it up to Clark's hair.
Old sweat and thick, silky strands between his fingers and when he gives a half-experimental yank, Clark just bucks up against his hand and... laughs.
"I knew you wanted this."
"I could have sworn I was circumspect."
"Some things you can just... feel." Clark's hand between their bodies, sliding down and down and cupping him. Inexpert and rough and --
"Perfect -- ah --"
"Yeah --" Long, wet lick up the side of his face and Clark yanks more of the johnny away and wraps his hand around Lex's cock and squeezes --
"Jesus fucking Christ --"
"Mm. Yeah, Lex, I'm a little slow sometimes. Not." Stroke. "Too." Squeeze. "Bright." And the blankets are flying and Lex lifts up just in time for the rest of the johnny to go the way of all things and then there's no hope for thought. No sanity, no intellect, just raw, incoherent need.
Get Clark's pants off.
Get his mouth back on his own.
Get this --
"Fuck, Lex, yeah. Can't believe I tried anything -- oh harder, do it hard -- had to have this, and you're the only one --"
"Say my name again."
Pause just long enough for Clark to rear up over him, wrap that big, hard hand around both of them and lick his lips and. "Lex."
Fuck the bruises, fuck the marriage, fuck everything but -- "Again."
Long, slow, hard upward stroke, and Clark is grinning and flushed and happy enough to be legal. "Lex."
Has to get his hand there, make it faster, better, more control, and he *won't* look away, not for this. "Again."
"Fuck oh fuck Lex --"
And that's it, Clark's coming hard and messy and unrepentant and there's a stab of... something. Some feeling he doesn't want to deal with, and it flares and dies in the spastic squeeze of his hands, in the stroke and wet and slick --
Clark looks at him, hungry and just a little dark. "Do it, Lex. Come all over me."
"Oh God Clark --" Throws his head back and loses it, jerking and shivering from the drugs or just the wrong and he doesn't care doesn't care doesn't --
Collapses back on the bed and pants, half-aware that he's bleeding and he only has a moment to worry about that before Clark makes a sound somewhere between a purr and a growl and slides down to lick a stripe up over his ribs.
Bloody smile. "I think it's time to go, don't you?"
And he has a moment to gasp at the sensation of being lifted, and the feel of wind, like flying, like falling, dark hair spread out on the wind and too-sweet champagne and. Sunlight.
Clouds, light, air, day and the world blurring past like a nightmare and the sound of Clark's laughter and all of it pressing him closer, pushing him up tight and warm and. Inevitable.
And then his vision starts to darken around the edges, starts to blur as much as everything else, and Lex... watches the blackness gather and fall.
Wonders if he's going to live through this.
And has to smile, just a little, at the fact that he honestly doesn't give a shit.
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