Fearful Symmetry	Fearful Symmetry

 by FayJay

 

 

  

 DISCLAIMER: Messrs Kent and Luthor are not mine. But you knew that
already. 

 COMMENTS: With thanks to the foamy PPO folks, for their Beta work. 

 Written in response to The Smallville X Titles Challenge.
http://www.debchan.com/livia/smallville/xtitle.html  

 "Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright
 In the forests of the night,
 What immortal hand or eye
 Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

 In what distant deeps or skies
 Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
 On what wings dare he aspire?
 What the hand dare seize the fire?" 

 William Blake Songs of Experience  

 Lex Luthor did not believe in gods or demons or weird sisters controlling
the warp and weft of life. He did not believe in fate or redemption, in
celestial watchmakers or miracles of nature; in life after death, little
green men or happily ever after. He had learned early on that shooting
stars did not grant wishes; that the figure hanging from the cross was no
avatar, just a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. Lex was a
scientist and a businessman; and all the empirical evidence accrued so far
in his short life pointed to a world in which nothing was inexplicable and
everything was for sale. 

 His Damascus was the former creamed corn capital of Kansas.  

 Consciousness returned with the pressure of large hands on Lex's chest
and the brush of warm lips against his mouth. For a moment he was all at
sea, scrabbling for a context for this sensation and unable to place just
where or when he was. Confusion. Then water welled up from aching lungs
and the world came rushing back as he spluttered gracelessly and scrabbled
for his bearings; Lazarus back from a watery grave. Everything hurt. 

 He recognised the boy immediately; the startled face that was the last
thing he had thought he'd ever see. But somehow, quite inexplicably, it
wasn't after all. 

 Lex knew beyond question that he had hit Clark Kent. He was in no hurry
to change his name, but Lex began to consider believing.  

 The figure still familiar from his darkest childhood dreams had
materialised in the present and shocked him to the core. Later he laughed
at the rush of stunned credulity that preceded recognition; for it was not
the same man after all, of course; nothing like the same. That first
crucifixion was all wonder and terror and disillusionment. This was -
something else. 

 This was Clark, his personal saviour, transforming anguish into art;
outstretched limbs and taut torso described in moonlight and shadow like a
lost Caravaggio. Chiaroscuro-sculpted flesh and feverish green eyes
peering pleadingly through the tangled curtain of bangs. So ridiculously
beautiful that Lex knew even then that there would be no more nightmares;
though there would certainly be more dreams. 

 "Help me." 

 The very same words gasped out in sweetly desperate entreaty; and so,
this time, he did. Suddenly his arms were full of bare and trembling
boyflesh, and the uncomplicated intimacy of need and warmth and
helplessness was entirely irresistible. Over in a moment. 

 He stared after Clark's vanishing back, trying to reconcile the burst of
renewed energy with the weakness of a moment before, and the necklace
caught his eye almost by accident. He picked it up and rested the chip of
rock against his palm, running the chain between his fingers absently.
Tried to see a world in this polished pebble and found only questions.	 
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