The End of the Beginning	The End of the Beginning

 by FayJay

 Written for Livia's Bradbury challenge. 
Thanks to the PPO folks, and to SA for her Beta. 

 

  

 DISCLAIMER: Sadly the denizens of Smallville belong to a whole host of
people who are not even slightly me - DC comics, the WB etc. Don't sue.  

 The sound of breaking glass pulled Lex Luthor out of a dead sleep. There
was a momentary sense of disorientation as he dragged reality back on like
Cinderella's slipper and consigned the tangled dream images to whatever
recesses of his id had produced them. He could hear his heart beating
shockingly loud in the silence that followed the crash and his brain was
automatically listing possible scenarios and running through his options,
even as he reached for the light switch and blinked in the sudden flood of
brightness. The faint recollection of red hair and dreams of falling all
melted away as Lex swung his legs out from under the heavy covers and slid
open the bedside drawer. His fingers closed over the handle of the 9mm and
the knot of tension in his belly eased slightly. He was getting better at
this. 

 Lex sat on the edge of the bed and listened hard. Nothing. He curled his
bare toes in the plush surface of the rug and cradled the cool metal of
the gun thoughtfully as he considered what to do next. In all probability
it was nothing to worry about; just some priceless Sumerian vessel or
Macedonian urn left teetering on its stand by the new maid and finally
overbalancing in a draft. An irritation, but nothing serious. It had taken
him a while to get used to the castle. Old buildings always made noises
for no clear reason and his father's grandiose folly was no exception. Lex
didn't believe in ghosts, but during his first weeks in Smallville the
distant creaks of elderly timber and rattling windows had kept him awake
with the sheer unfamiliarity of the place. And that was before he'd been
attacked by an invisible servant, or had three violent dropouts walk
through his walls. 

 To think Lex had expected Smallville to be dull. 

 Still no sound, and Lex was starting to question his senses. Perhaps he
had imagined it, the way he'd imagined seeing Clark Kent's startled eyes
staring into his own moments before the Porsche veered over the bridge.
The way he'd imagined Clark's long limbs windmilling as the kid was
smashed into the barrier and then flung out into empty air while Lex's
heart had clenched in guilt and incredulity just that fraction of a second
too late. 

 He rose to his feet and padded over to the door, conscious of his pulse
thrumming against the handle of the gun and wondering whether he could
kill someone in cold blood. Probably. The door gave the faintest of sighs
when he opened it. Lex leaned out into the corridor and strained to hear. 

 The second noise, when it came, was very faint - certainly not enough to
wake anyone up. It came from downstairs, he concluded. Near the Great
Hall, from the sounds of it. 

 So. 

 Lex crossed back over to the bed, plucked his cell phone from its place
on the nightstand and thumbed the button. He waited impatiently while it
connected to the network, and then thumbed one of the speed dial numbers.
The dialling tone purred in his ear. 

 "Sheriff's office." 

 "Sheriff Miller? This is Lex Luthor." He spoke quietly, and was pleased
to hear how steady his voice was. He didn't sound like a kid alone in a
draughty old castle. "Sorry to trouble you so late - yes. No. Sheriff, I
have reason to believe that someone is trying to break in to the building
right now. Yes. Yes, right away, please. Thank you." He set the phone back
on his nightstand and glanced at the clock. 3am. He'd been asleep for just
over an hour. The discrepancies in last month's figures were still not
wholly resolved and the strategy he'd outlined for retention of their
client base wasn't foolproof yet. Lex felt very tired, very young and
very, very alone. Nothing new there, but sometimes he just wished - well.
No point in that kind of self-indulgence, but he would have liked to get a
good night's sleep and wake up to nothing more disturbing than the
business of keeping Plant 3 afloat and in the black. That really ought to
be more than enough for one twenty-one-year-old to worry about, without a
series of ever more bizarre attackers doing him injury on a monthly basis.


 Another muffled crash followed by something like a groan. Whoever was
downstairs had gotten inside without activating the state-of-the-art
security system. For all the use it had been to him so far, Lex might as
well have saved LuthorCorp several thousand dollars and simply left the
front door wide open for any freaks or villains who happened to have a
grudge against him. The safest course would undoubtedly be to stay put and
wait for the cavalry. 

 Lex gave this serious consideration for a full ten seconds and then
headed for the door. With some vague notion of looking composed - and
because surfaces mattered - he paused to pull on a robe. He slipped the
hand holding the 9mm into one pocket and then stepped out into the
corridor. 

 * 

 The meteor rocks never ceased to amaze Clark. It seemed like there was
nothing they couldn't do, and in his more superstitious moments he
wondered whether they were actually magical, because nothing he'd ever
learned in science class came close to explaining the mineral's powers.
The Wall of Weird was just the tip of the iceberg. Take Mr Joshua
Anderson, for example, who was currently nursing a bloody nose and glaring
at Clark from the opposite end of the Great Hall. Maybe Chloe would be
able to come up with a scientific explanation of why the meteor rocks in
his well had enabled him to teleport himself across short distances, but
Clark couldn't make sense of it. It was kind of like watching somebody
being beamed away by one of those Star Trek transporters, only without the
cool wobbly noise. Certainly looked a lot like magic. Only Clark's
unnatural agility had enabled him to get any blows in, because as soon as
he touched Joshua the guy pulled a disappearing act. 

 "How did you do that?" asked Joshua petulantly. There was blood on his
shirt. "Nobody moves that fast." 

 "Well, nobody vanishes into thin air either," said Clark as he picked
himself up from the floor and fought off a surge of the familiar
meteor-induced nausea. Damn. He could hear his father warning him against
using his abilities in front of anyone. "Mr Anderson, please don't do
this. You need help. You're not thinking straight." He stepped forwards
slowly; avoiding the spreading lake of spilled water and the flower-strewn
wreckage of the vase he had knocked over a moment before, and tried to
look reassuring. 

 "I need money, that's what I need." Clark swung around as Joshua's voice
came from behind him. He was standing by the wall. 

 "Will you stop doing that? Please?" Clark was fairly sure that if he
really used his powers he could move fast enough to knock Mr Anderson
unconscious before the man realised he'd started to run; but his head was
spinning from having made even fleeting contact with the man's skin.
Besides, he felt kind of bad about the idea. Clark could remember the days
when his dad and 'Uncle Josh' used to hang out on the porch most every
Saturday night, back before Joshua's drinking problem had gotten out of
hand. It just didn't seem right to use his powers against the man. Clark
couldn't believe he'd just hit Uncle Josh. His mom would flip when she
heard. 

 "What's with you Clark? How did you get close enough to touch me?" 

 "I - " 

 "And why do you stick up for this lowlife Luthor all the time?" He pulled
one of the large swords down off the wall and looked surprised by its
weight. Clark watched with growing concern. 

 "Mr Anderson -" 

 "No. No, damn it, he's got this coming. He shouldn't have fired me. I
don't have any savings, Clark. Lucille took everything when we divorced. I
really needed that job." 

 Clark squirmed. "I'm sorry, I really am. But you shouldn't blame Lex." 

 Joshua Anderson looked genuinely surprised. "Who the hell else am I going
to blame, Clark? He's the guy that fired me." 

 "Well, yes, but - " 

 "No buts, Clark. Look at all this stuff - the kid doesn't understand
about having to pay bills. I need money. He has money. And he owes me." 

 It did sound worryingly logical when he put it like that. 

 "But stealing's wrong," said Clark firmly. He was going to have to make a
dash for it and knock the man unconscious. Maybe later on Dad could talk
some sense into him; right now Clark was just concentrating on the
immediate issue of keeping Lex safe from Uncle Josh and keeping Uncle Josh
out of trouble with the police. He was pretty sure that the effect of the
meteor rocks was only temporary; if it wasn't, then Clark had no idea how
any cell was supposed to hold him. Still, time to worry about that later. 

 "Lots of things are wrong. You're a good kid, Clark, but you've got a lot
to learn. Life isn't fair. Get used to it." And with that he vanished
altogether. Clark blinked and looked around the room with a sinking
feeling. Joshua Anderson was nowhere to be seen. 

 "Oh, crap." 

 * 

 The figure condensed out of the ether as Lex watched. It was like seeing
a photograph developing, but quicker: first a smudge of colour where no
colour should be and then, spreading as swift as one of Clark's familiar
blushes, contours filling out and features rising into focus to reveal the
prosaic and inexplicable form of Joshua Andrews (Anders? Anderton?),
formerly a warehouse employee at LuthorCorp's Smallville plant and
currently, it would seem, a freelance housebreaker. The man was standing
in the middle of the hallway with an antique sword clasped incongruously
in one large hand. Lex's grip on the 9mm tightened, but the scientist in
him was entranced, trying to fathom out how Anderton (Anderson? Anderson)
could possibly be materialising out of thin air; and meanwhile the
businessman was contemplating the potential profits to be gleaned from
patenting the process. He had scoured the grounds in vain for Jeff's
mysterious green rose and searched high and low for a clue to the
composition of the extraordinary tattoo ink; Hamilton was still working on
recreating the effects of both, but so far he had come up with nothing.
Now here was another unlikely goose with a brand new golden egg. 

 Somewhere behind both Lex-the-scientist and Lex-the-businessman,
Lex-the-21-year-old-alone-in-a-dusty-castle-with-another-angry-Smallville-
mutant experienced a rush of nostalgia for the simpler thrills and spills
of Metropolis nightlife, where the most a person had to worry about at 3am
was being poisoned by a bad supplier, or perhaps attacked by an irate
boyfriend. An irate, but quite emphatically non-teleporting, boyfriend. He
drew a deep breath. 

 "Can I help you?" asked Lex smoothly, a calculated lick of wryness in his
voice as he stepped forward into the light. Joshua Anderson squinted up
the stairs, fixed his gaze on Lex and smiled, before flickering out of
view as abruptly as a light being switched off, leaving a fast-fading
afterimage in the suddenly empty hallway. Lex blinked. He was already
turning when the blade sliced delicately through the top layer of skin at
the back of his neck and then stopped, and the unexpected ribbon of pain
froze him into place. He waited, maintaining something like composure with
difficulty. 

 "I thought I'd maybe help myself, Mr Luthor." Anderson was a large man;
Lex could feel the body heat bleeding into the air an inch or two from his
own skin, and there was no avoiding the sudden reek of cheap alcohol and
sour sweat. He forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, and ignored
the way the pressure of the metal against his flesh fluctuated in time
with Anderson's ragged inhalations. It was perhaps five minutes since he
had telephoned the Sheriff's office. He calculated the probable length of
time it would take for the police to arrive. Too long. 

 "What seems to be the problem here, Mr Anderson?" It was Anderson, he was
almost sure. Joshua Anderson; the name that had been on Gabe Sullivan's
lips far too often in recent weeks. Joshua Anderson: late. Joshua
Anderson: absent. Joshua Anderson: drunk. A sad little mantra, which had
eventually culminated in Joshua Anderson: fired. 

 As Anderson started to reply, and his concentration shifted to the
business of making demands, or perhaps gloating, Lex moved forward and to
one side, pulling the gun out of his pocket as he did so. It snagged
briefly on the slippery fabric as he ducked and spun away from the
wavering sword, and then he was standing ten feet away with the gun
levelled at Mr Anderson's chest and his left hand raised in a placatory
gesture. Anderson stared at him, looking more bemused than angry. Lex was
conscious of a thin line of blood welling up along his neck; he must, he
thought with a breathless trace of merriment, look like a French
aristocrat saved from the guillotine just a hair's breadth before
decapitation. 

 "Nobody has to get hurt here, Joshua. We can discuss this like reasonable
men, whatever it is. I understand that you're upset." Although the
severance package had been more than reasonable, under the circumstances,
and it was hardly as if the man hadn't had warnings. Still - the
possibilities were endless. "I think that we can help each other." 

 "You don't - " the man began, lifting the sword in the awkward manner of
someone whose experience of naked steel was entirely derived from old
movies. Lex backed up until he felt the wall's panelling bump against his
bare heel; then he leaned back, comforted by the solidity of the wood
against his shoulder blades, and trained the gun steadily on Anderson's
chest. The polished oak felt blessedly cool through the Japanese silk. 

 "I don't want to hurt you, Joshua, and I don't think that you want to
hurt me. Not really." Lex listened to himself using the man's first name
in a firm but sympathetic tone, just like a cop on a bad TV show; and then
realised that he was talking to empty air. Shit. "Joshua?" 

 Nothing. 

 "Lex?" Clark's voice sent another jolt of adrenaline through his veins
and he lowered the gun tentatively. He didn't waste time on wondering how
the hell Clark Kent had gotten inside the castle again without a key, or
how he could possibly have known that Lex was in trouble. Right now Lex's
main concern was the fact that Clark was six feet something of painfully
unprotected teenaged boy; and however impressive his muscles might be,
Clark was certain to be wearing cotton, not chain mail. Lex felt
physically sick at the thought of metal slicing through tender young flesh
and bone. 

 "Clark? Be careful. There's a man with a sword, and - look, I know this
sounds odd, but - somehow he can vanish into thin air." 

 "I know." Lex blinked. He'd been sure that Clark was in the hallway, but
the kid was already practically at the top of the stairs. "He found you?
Lex, please don't be mad at him. I know it looks bad, but he's just having
a hard time right now. He's kind of confused." 

 "He's not the only one," said Lex dryly. Clark, he noticed, looked quite
disgustingly fresh faced and bouncy, considering that it was the middle of
the night. He was wearing the regrettable powder blue sweater - and Lex
was quietly appalled to realise that he had memorised the entire contents
of Clark Kent's pitiful wardrobe. Still, at least he didn't have a
telescope trained on the boy's bedroom. There was no direct line of sight
from the castle. He had checked. "Clark, why are you here?" 

 "Something Chloe said - we figured out it was Mr Anderson behind the
practical jokes, although she still doesn't know how he's doing it. But I
saw him practicing through the - through a window. Um. And he came to see
my Dad tonight and Mom let him sleep on the couch. He was upset about Aunt
Lucille. Mrs Anderson. Although she's not Mrs Anderson any more, I guess."


 "Clark?" Lex really shouldn't be smiling, because there was still an
inebriated mutant with a grudge and a broadsword lurking somewhere close
at hand; but it was Clark, in all his disarming Clark-ness, and by this
point Lex had developed a thoroughly illogical and positively Pavlovian
tendency to feel safer in Clark's presence. Besides, he was always
surprised to find that Clark really was just as pretty as he remembered.
Possibly prettier. He felt the corner of his mouth twitching. 

 "Mmm?" Now here was an interesting thing: unless Lex was very much
mistaken, Clark Kent was checking him out. Not in any conscious
flirtation, to be sure, but Clark's eyes kept darting irresistibly down to
the bare strip of skin visible between the open edges of Lex's robe. Lex
felt his smile broadening. 

 "You aren't making any sense," he said, helpfully. Clark glanced back up
and the colour rose deliciously across his cheekbones. Fifteen years old,
Lex reminded himself with reluctance. Fifteen. And this was Kansas. 

 "Sorry. I - were you asleep?" 

 "Clark, it's three o'clock in the morning. In Smallville. Of course I was
asleep." 

 "Oh." The pause grew, and Lex reflected that loose black pyjama pants
would do nothing to hide a person's arousal, should a person be foolish
enough to find himself alone with a blushing underage Adonis in the early
hours of the morning. Just as well Lex wasn't that person. 

 "Sheriff Miller's on his way over," he said at last. "Do you think you
can calm Mr Anderson down? Because I'd really like to talk to him. I don't
think he realises how valuable this could be." 

 Clark stared at him blankly for a moment, and then an odd expression
crossed his face. "His powers, you mean?" Lex was nothing if not astute;
the stilted voice set off a dozen alarm bells in his head. 

 "His powers," agreed Lex, carefully. "Clark, think about this for a
minute. My God, just imagine the potential here. If we can replicate this
process in laboratory conditions the possibilities are endless; and right
now what your friend Mr Anderson really needs is to have something going
for him. This could make him richer than Midas." 

 "You, you mean. It could make you rich. Richer." By Clark Kent's
standards, this was positively scathing. The atmosphere was growing frosty
and Lex felt suddenly very tired. The shine on the golden egg was
tarnishing as he watched. 

 "I'm already richer than Midas, Clark." Although sometimes he got the
impression that everything he touched turned to dross. "But yes, this
could make me even richer. Is there something wrong with that? Do you
think that Mr Anderson could manage better on his own? Because he doesn't
look to me like someone who even realises he's on to a good thing, let
alone knows how to take advantage of it." 

 Adoption notwithstanding, Clark's resemblance to Jonathan Kent at this
moment was remarkable; a truly compelling argument for the primacy of
nurture over nature. The look of bull-headed pugnacity was incongruous on
his girlish features; but really, there was nothing girlish about Clark
Kent. Except for the eyelashes. And the mouth. Lex squashed the
inappropriately unfraternal images that Clark's mouth always conjured up,
and felt a wave of disappointment with himself for being so singularly
incapable of taking Clark's friendship at face value. Clark's friendship
was a cherishable thing; and just because sex was easier to deal with was
no damned reason to try to make this just be about sex. The truth,
unfortunately, was more complicated. 

 But he was so - Clark. So impossibly beautiful; and so wholly oblivious
to this beauty; like some displaced seraph briefly sojourning in
Smallville. Lex was only human, after all. How could it not be about sex?
At least in part? 

 Christ. It was a wonder he hadn't started penning bad verse in Clark's
honour. Lionel would laugh himself sick if he knew how far gone Lex was
over a wide-eyed redneck kid not yet out of high school; one who was
neither legally nor emotionally ready for anything Lex had to offer, even
if he might want to be; and one who mattered enough to instil Lex with an
uncharacteristic sense of compunction. 

 "Why does it always have to be about taking advantage?" asked Clark. His
clear brow was crumpled into an expression of pure kindergarten
disappointment with the world, and looking at it Lex felt unbearably old.
The synchronicity of the remark, he reflected, really ought to be amusing;
but Lex didn't feel much like laughing. 

 "Do you really think I'd cheat him, Clark?" He sounded almost
dispassionate. Lex would be lying if he claimed that the thought of
intellectual property rights hadn't fleetingly crossed his mind, but he
wouldn't actually harm the man. It would be unnecessary. Inelegant. Joshua
Anderson was no Harry Hardwick, and shooting fish in a barrel was simply
no challenge for a Luthor. 

 "I don't - I - no." Clark looked confused and faintly guilty. "No, of
course not. It's just that his gifts are - I mean," Clark stumbled to a
halt and stared at Lex. "I mean he's special. His abilities shouldn't be
used selfishly." 

 "Perhaps you should be telling Mr Anderson that," said Lex pointedly. "He
seems to be labouring under the impression that this is exactly how they
should be used." Clark sagged a little, and had the grace to look
embarrassed. 

 "He's - he's mixed up," said Clark at last. There was another little
pause, and it wasn't nearly as pleasant as the last one. "I'm sorry," he
added, looking shamefaced. Lex, who was deriving a certain bitter pleasure
from his unaccustomed possession of the moral high ground, shot a halfway
haughty glance at the teenager and promptly melted at the sight of Clark's
pathetically doleful expression. Damn. 

 "It's okay," he said with reluctant kindness. "He's mixed up. I
understand that. But he's also armed with a Jacobean broadsword, Clark.
Right now Mr Anderson could be looking at charges of breaking and entering
and of assault with a deadly weapon. Or he could calm down and start using
his brain - if it hasn't completely atrophied from lack of use - and
realise that he could make an obscene amount of money without breaking any
law at all. Now are you going to help me find him?" 

 "Yes." The syllable was uttered in a disarmingly chastened tone, and
accompanied by a green gaze through lowered lashes that undid Lex
entirely. Clark Kent did contrite very, very well. There were a
distracting number of ways Lex could think of for Clark to make it up to
him, but sadly none of them were legal in the state of Kansas. Besides,
Lex was too damned young to start playing the role of dirty old man. 

 "Good. But for God's sake stay back, Clark. I know he's a family friend,
but he's dangerous." 

 "Wait - assault with a deadly weapon?" Clark repeated, belatedly. "What?
Did he hurt you?" 

 "Nothing I couldn't handle - but this isn't a joke, Clark. I don't want
you getting hurt. I mean it." 

 Clark's eyes narrowed and he fixed Lex with a searching look. "There's a
gun in your pocket," he exclaimed a moment later. Lex's mouth quirked
involuntarily. 

 "Not exactly Mae West, Clark. You need to work on your delivery." 

 "What? Lex, you have a gun. Somebody could get hurt." 

 "And yes, you're right. But I'm still happy to see you." He smiled. Clark
wouldn't know how to flirt if his life depended on it; it was part of his
rustic charm. "Of course I have a gun." Lex produced the weapon for
Clark's inspection, automatically careful to point the muzzle away from
the boy. "There's a limit to how many times a person is prepared to be
attacked before they invest in some protection, Clark. Would you believe I
felt safer in Metropolis?" 

 "I'm sorry." Clark looked inexplicably stricken; he really did have an
inflated sense of personal responsibility. It was endearing. 

 "Don't be ridiculous, Clark. It's certainly not your fault. " 

 Lex didn't say: 'You saved my life. Repeatedly.' 

 He didn't say: 'You believe in me.' 

 He didn't say: 'Don't.' 

 He smiled. 

 And then Joshua Anderson materialised out of nothingness, running
straight at them with the sword outstretched. 

 Several things happened at once. Afterwards Lex would replay these
seconds in his memory over and over again, but he could never be sure how
much conscious thought had gone into the tiny squeeze of his finger on the
trigger. He wanted to believe that it had been to protect Clark, and it
might very well have been to protect Clark; but it might just as easily
have been simple and ignoble fear. Or it might have been nothing more than
surprise; just a reflex movement innocent of any intent at all. Whatever
impulse it was that flexed his finger, the bullet left the gun before
there was any time for second thoughts. The sound shocked Lex just as much
as it did Joshua or Clark. 

 But impossibly, firing at Joshua Anderson at point blank range, Lex
missed. Because, inexplicably, Clark Kent was somehow standing in the way;
and then Lex felt the impact of a bullet ripping through his own shoulder
before his astonished brain had time to process what his eyes were seeing.


 The floor felt very hard. Lex watched Joshua Anderson's startled
expression dissolving into nothingness as metal fragments scattered
through the air, but the receding likelihood of patenting Joshua's
new-found ability no longer seemed quite as important as it had only a
moment earlier. 

 He had shot Clark. There was no doubt in Lex's mind that he had shot
Clark. Even though Clark had not been in front of him when he fired - and
he was perfectly sure that Clark hadn't been there - still, somehow Lex
had definitely just shot Clark Kent. 

 But it seemed that Lex was the one lying crumpled on the floor with his
blood spreading across the rug like ink on wet blotting paper. They had
used blotting paper and proper fountain pens at school, he remembered.
Archaic. Clark undoubtedly used a ballpoint. 

 The pain in his shoulder was - considerable. 

 "Lex? Lex, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean - I didn't think - Lex, are
you okay? You're bleeding." 

 "I'm bleeding," Lex agreed, because this at least was inarguably the
truth. 

 "I'm sorry." Clark was on his knees, which was an image that had featured
in more than one of Lex's daydreams; but never in quite these
circumstances. His skin had taken on a greenish cast and he looked ready
to faint. Or throw up. Or possibly both. "I felt sick - I just wasn't fast
enough." 

 "Clark, don't be ridiculous," said Lex sharply. "And if you're going to
be sick, may I recommend this rug? It's already stained beyond repair. Mrs
Jenkins will have words with me when she comes in tomorrow." 

 "This is all my fault." Clark was perilously close to tears. For once Lex
really could believe his friend was only fifteen years old, physique
notwithstanding, and he felt another twinge of guilt for indulging in such
graphic daydreams on a regular basis. He was definitely going to burn in
hell. Lex mustered up a reassuring smile despite the pain in his shoulder,
and knew a sudden and unexpected sympathy with Martha Kent. Clark's
overpowering sense of personal responsibility and his determination to see
the good in everyone could be exhausting; but it was precisely these
qualities that made Lex want to protect him from too much reality. Lex was
very much afraid that the world was going to break Clark's heart. 

 "Don't be melodramatic, Clark. Of course it isn't your fault. The man had
a gun." But even as the words left his mouth Lex knew that they weren't
true, and he mentally replayed the scene with mounting confusion. It made
no sense. There had been no second gun, just an arc of silver metal
slicing clumsily towards him and then - Clark's back, where Clark's back
shouldn't be, and unexplained slivers of steel glittering in the air like
lethal confetti. "Didn't he?" Clark's changeable eyes were enormous and
his impossibly sweet mouth opened unhappily, only to close again without
uttering a word. 

 Lex stared at him and experienced a sickening sense of reversal. He
consciously took all the unquestioning faith that he had placed in Clark
Kent and put it to one side, lambasting himself for such sentimental
weakness as he did so; and he realised, with a lurch, that he had no idea
who he was looking at. The uncertainties and suspicions that Lex had been
so determinedly ignoring for months came crashing down upon him all at
once - not singly, in deniable dribs and drabs, but en masse and
inescapable. An avalanche of evidence. 

 Clark Kent was lying to him. 

 "He didn't have a gun, did he?" said Lex very slowly, never taking his
eyes from Clark's face. "So what just happened here, Clark?" 

 "I," began Clark, but he ground to a halt under Lex's gaze and glanced
miserably away. He still looked unwell; but on the other hand, for
somebody who had surely (hadn't he?) just been shot in the back at point
blank range, Clark appeared remarkably unscathed. "I'm sorry. I'm so -
Lex, you're bleeding. We should get you to a hospital." Lex pulled himself
to his feet, wincing, and clasped his arm gingerly. He ignored Clark's
awkward attempts to help. 

 "I shot him. But the bullet hit me. How could that happen, Clark?" The
memory of Clark Kent's startled face looking at him as the Porsche swerved
towards the barrier was as vivid as if it had been a few minutes ago, not
months. Imagination my ass, thought Lex angrily. 

 "I -" 

 "But then, how can a man appear out of thin air? How can somebody become
invisible, or walk through walls, or make herself into a mirror image of
somebody else? This is Smallville. People have secrets." Clark had stepped
in front of Joshua after Lex pulled the trigger, but before the bullet
could hit Joshua. This was blatantly impossible, but the laws of physics
seemed to be in abeyance in this particular corner of Kansas. Especially
where Clark Kent was concerned. Lex felt numb. "Do you have a secret,
Clark? And I suggest you think very carefully about how you answer me. I
mean it. If you're honest with me now, I'll forget about everything else."
Clark stared at him desperately. "You thought you had to hide this from
me. I can accept that. You were wrong, but that's okay." His mouth
twisted, and it was impossible to keep the bitterness entirely out of his
voice. "Why would you trust a Luthor? But I swear - I swear on my mother's
memory that I would never do anything to hurt you." There was a painful
little pause. "Talk to me, Clark." 

 The silence that followed was deafening. Everything hurt. Lex waited; and
waited; and waited; until it became all too clear that Clark did not
believe in him after all. At least he didn't try to deny that there was a
secret this time, but Lex was having trouble feeling grateful for such
small mercies. He stared at the shards of metal littering the floor and
admitted to himself that they were indeed the shattered fragments of a
Jacobean broadsword. Clark had been lying. Lex couldn't believe how much
this mattered to him. When had he ever let anyone get under his skin like
this? 

 "I can't," Clark said at last. "Don't ask me about this." Lex had never
seen a more imploring look on any face in his life. "Please?" 

 He turned his back on Clark, closed his eyes and rested his forehead
wearily against the cool surface of the oak panelling. He found himself
feeling grateful for the simple pain of the bullet wound; it was something
to focus upon, something concrete and manageable. Something he knew he
could endure. 

 "Go away, Clark," he said softly, without looking up. He heard Clark's
feet shift uneasily and could imagine, without needing to see, the stupid
earnestness of Clark's furrowed young brow. "Just go." 

 "But I - but what if Joshua comes back?" 

 "Clark," Lex said again, maintaining his even tone with some difficulty.
"Get out of my house. Now." There was surely no mistaking the anger just
under the surface. He had never spoken to Clark like this before - had
never been so cold or angry with the boy. Clark was used to being indulged
and cosseted at the Luthor mansion. Let him get used to this instead. "And
Clark?" 

 "Yes?" Clark's voice was thick with apology. 

 "Don't come back."   
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