Trinity: Three Things that Didn't Happen to Lionel Luthor	 Trinity:
Three Things that Didn't Happen to Lionel Luthor

 by Jayne Leitch

 

 

  

 Rating: R 

 Disclaimer: Would I want to own Lionel Luthor? Oh, hang on a sec...
(Also, ME for the #2 crossover and Dickens for #3. Not I.) 

 Notes: Many thanks to MaryKate for the beta, as usual. Many thanks also
to Thea, for listening to me whine a lot. Blame for #2 can go directly to
Cassandra and her Screen Saver of Evil. This act of depravity as a whole
is for the 5 Things Challenge. 

 TRINITY: Three Things that Didn't Happen to Lionel Luthor by Jayne Leitch
 Father  

 Black Mary Janes, polished and gleaming in the light from the fireplace.
White socks, trimmed with lace. A white dress with a pastel-pink pinafore,
the skirt bulging over thick layers of stiff crinoline, the sleeves like
cream puffs on her shoulders. A hairband, the same soft pink as the
pinafore, gathering her hair so it hung, straight and simple, down her
back. 

 She looked like a doll. It was a look she was too old for, but then
again, beside Lex, whose Excelsior uniform was a carefully-constructed
disgrace--tie half-undone, shirt half-untucked, slacks stained at the
knees--she might as well have been a doll, for all the life her look
suggested. Lionel ignored her, for the moment, turning instead to put the
full weight of his disapproving stare onto his lazily-fidgeting son. 

 "For God's sake, Lex, learn to show at least a pretence of shame. I
suppose you want me to demand an explanation for your appearance?" 

 He was certain that fourteen-year-olds weren't supposed to be able to
smirk like that. "You gave an urgent summons, Father," Lex drawled, hands
sliding into his pockets somehow managing to hint at the obscene. "I
thought it best to respond in kind, regardless of my current state of
undress." 

 "Because of it, more likely." Leaning back in his chair, Lionel tapped a
finger on the top of his desk for emphasis. "These stunts you keep pulling
aren't impressing anyone, son. Quite frankly, they're rather more tiresome
than shocking, so you might as well stop trying." 

 "Of course," and Lex quirked a knowing eyebrow, "when it comes to
scandals, you're speaking as one with a jaded palate, aren't you, Dad?" 

 Lionel glared. "Watch your tongue, young man. You're in a position to set
an example; it would behoove you to set a good one." 

 "You mean for her?" The chuckle that escaped Lex's mouth was the epitome
of bitter dissolution; it grated Lionel's nerves. Neither of them bothered
to look at her. "I think she knows better than to use me as an example for
anything." 

 "I should hope she does." Now Lionel spared her a glance; her fingers
were curling into the folds of her skirt, her eyes downcast, long lashes
black on her plump cheek. "She's been here long enough; I can't imagine
this is the first time she's come upon you in the throes of--your
peccadilloes. And I know she's familiar enough with stable etiquette to
know that your activities there aren't to be emulated." 

 He caught Lex's sinuous shrug out of the corner of his eye. "She's still
young." 

 "Lionel?" The voice, lilting with excitement, was enough to make Lionel
bite his tongue. Ignoring the baiting smile on Lex's face, he deliberately
swivelled his chair so his back was to his son before he stood up and
strode across his office; he greeted the new arrival with a warm clasp of
her arm, and let her kiss his cheek as they moved to stand together before
the children. "You haven't told them already, have you?" she asked
breathlessly, eyes sparkling in the low light. 

 "Of course not, my dear." He placed his hand over hers, but turned his
sharpest smile to Lex. "It's your news as much as mine." 

 Lex's expression had gone stony, his clever eyes fixed on the glitter
Lionel's hand wasn't quite covering. "You have news," he said, his tone a
studied neutral. 

 "We do." Glancing away from Lex, Lionel looked down into his companion's
eyes, delighting for a moment in the adoration and enthusiasm he found
there. "You see, son, we've been together--living together, spending time
together, simply being together--for a long time now. There's no reason
not to give our arrangement a little permanence, some genuine stability--"


 "For heaven's sake, Lionel," she interrupted, laughing. She batted her
hand playfully against his shoulder. "You're making it sound so
businesslike!" 

 "Am I?" He chuckled gamely. "I apologize. Perhaps I should cut to the
chase?" At her energetic nod, he turned again to face his audience's
expressionless faces. "All right, then. Nell and I have decided to get
married," he announced with a grin, and waited. 

 Lex was motionless for a very long moment. Then, as if someone had wound
him up, he straightened his shoulders, took a step forward, and held out
his hand, waiting until Nell took it--rather hesitantly--before saying
with mechanistic precision, "Congratulations, Ms Potter. Welcome to our
family." 

 Nell blinked, and she slid a sidelong glance at Lionel before smiling a
little wider. "Thank you, Lex." 

 "Very kind of you, son." Nodding with satisfaction, Lionel turned to the
other--very silent--occupant of the room. "How about you, Lana?" he asked,
benevolence or something he hoped approximated it shining from his eyes.
"I'm going to marry your aunt, which means I'm going to adopt you. You're
going to be Daddy Lionel's little princess--what do you say about that?" 

 Lana looked up from her continuous study of her shoes. Her eyes were wide
and glistening; her mouth opened, and her bottom lip trembled. A single,
fat tear slid over her cheek, and a choked-off sob wrenched out of her
throat before she turned on her patent-leather heel and ran out of the
room. 

 Nell gave Lionel a startled, concerned look, then let go of his arm and
hurried after her. 

 Lex turned to watch her go. When the door swung closed behind her, he
glanced back over his shoulder at his father with an arched eyebrow and
quirked mouth. "Well, I can't say I fault her instincts." 

 2. Son 

 The bottle of wine he'd placed outside before dinner to chill was coated
in a thin layer of fluffy snow; Lionel brushed it off, then clenched his
hands into fists for a moment to melt the lingering flakes. When there was
nothing left but water, he opened his fists and wrapped one hand around
the slender bottleneck, pulled it out of the accumulation and held it up
to the porch light, searching critically for crystals in the liquid. 

 "He's waiting for you." 

 Lionel started, almost dropping the bottle as he looked up, eyes
straining to see in the dark. He took in a sharp breath of freezing air
when he made out the shape of a woman: black-clad, silhouette blurring
into the nighttime shadows, she stood in the snow just beyond the reach of
the light from the door. "Who are you?" he demanded, tightening his grip
on the neck of the bottle, preparing to use it as a weapon if it became
necessary. "How did you get onto the grounds?" 

 The woman swayed a little, buffeted by an imaginary wind in the utterly
still night. "I walked," she said, as if it were the most obvious answer
in the world. "Crunch crunch crunch, through the snow and the bones." 

 She had an accent; it reminded Lionel of the girls he used to meet when
Harry Hardwick took him drinking in the less-reputable areas of London. It
was absurdly out of place in Metropolis. "I'll have to have a chat with my
security team. I was under the impression that I paid them to prevent
late-night strollers from wandering right up to my door. Don't come any
closer," he added sharply as she took a step forward. "If you leave now, I
won't call security." 

 "Won't do you any good," she lilted, continuing to walk slowly and
steadily into the sphere of light. As she approached, Lionel saw that she
was wearing a cloak, with a hood drawn up over her head that cast her face
in shadow. Her hands were bare, however, and almost as pale as the snow as
they hung limply at her sides. "Crunching through the bones..." 

 "What?" Lionel half-raised the wine bottle. "Miss, I said--" 

 "Lionel?" The soft voice, accompanied by the squeak of the door opening
behind him, made his heart trip. Reaching around with his free hand, he
pushed at the metal frame, pushing it closed again so his wife wouldn't
have enough room to come outside. 

 "Lilly, go upstairs, lock yourself in the bedroom, and call the police."
Without taking his eyes off the slim shadow making its way with catlike
precision through the snow on the deck, Lionel issued his steady orders.
"Tell them there's at least one intruder on the grounds." 

 He heard Lilly gasp. "But Lionel--" 

 "I'm fine. Go." She paused for a second--then, thankfully, she hurried
away, her steps echoing clumsily with her speed. Lionel shifted his grip,
his fingers quickly numbing on the cold glass of his bottle. Something was
very wrong; his guards were the best he could buy, they should have
responded to the security breach long before now... 

 "Shouldn't scare her like that." The woman came to a halt a few steps
away, tilting her head to the side as if listening to someone whispering
in her ear. "Her heart can't bear it. Might just stop." 

 "That's ridiculous." But there was a history of heart problems in Lilly's
family, Lionel suddenly recalled; a truly unsettling number of her elderly
relatives were on medication of some kind or another. How the hell did
this woman know that? "You stay away from my wife." 

 The woman, already halted in her steps, seemed to freeze all over; it was
as if she turned, suddenly, to stone. She stood with breathless stillness,
a long, thin shadow in the gathered dark, facing him in a way that felt
vaguely like appraisal. Lionel shivered involuntarily; he could feel her
eyes on him, even though he couldn't see them in the shadow of her hood.
He jumped when she spoke again, unexpectedly unfreezing with a jerky,
birdlike move of her head. "Okay." 

 "What?" 

 "It's not her, in any case." She swayed again, her bony fingers gripping
the edges of her cloak so she could swing the fabric, loose and free, as
if dancing with it. "He's waiting for you." 

 "Wh...who is?" Lionel put the stammer down to the fact that he was
ill-dressed for the freezing-cold night, standing in the dead of winter in
his dressing gown and slippers. He had no idea what she was talking about.
"Either explain yourself right now, or--" 

 He didn't see her move, but in the blink of an eye she was right in front
of him, one cold hand brushing his while it pulled the wine bottle out of
his grasp, the other flattening to his cheek, pushing him until his back
hit the wall of the house. Frozen bricks leeched heat through his clothes
in seconds. He struggled briefly--wondered why, when he was so much taller
and broader than she, he couldn't seem to even shift her iron-grip--but
then she lifted her face, and he could do nothing but look into her eyes. 

 He went utterly still, feeling at once lost and enthralled. 

 "Blood and rain," she whispered, and some distant part of him registered
the lack of body heat pressing against him, the lack of warm fog that
should have been her breath in the below-freezing air. "All the suns
falling dead, ashes and char, char and bone, bone and blood and rain." He
felt her other hand slip between the folds of his robe and press, cold and
clever, in just the right place; he gasped, and felt himself push forward
into her stroking. "Your wealth lies here," she murmured, and he couldn't
see her smiling, but knew she must be; she couldn't be anything but
amused, the way she sounded. "Just waiting to come, he is." 

 "...who...?" She scraped her nails over him, once, twice, and he jerked
hard against her hand. His breath was ragged, loud in the stillness, and
he watched with distant fascination as drops of it seemed to condense on
her face, bedewing her lashes, jewelling around those eyes... 

 "Oh, yeah." And now she was leaning into him, a full-body press of heavy
fabric and that incomprehensible strength, her mouth teasing over the line
of his jaw while her hand moved under his robe. Lionel sagged back against
the wall, unable to even think about trying to get away. "I can see it.
Kings and conquerors, gods and monsters, soldiers in green marching,
marching, marching..." 

 Lionel stared into her eyes and saw it, too: empires, glories, power and
importance and a trail of fire through the sky. "Mine?" he croaked, a
sudden blaze of covetousness forcing out the harsh gasp he hadn't known he
could vocalize with her touching him like that. 

 Her hand stilled, drawing a moan from the back of his throat. Pulling
back just a little, she gave him a look that seared through his brain and
asked, very softly, "Do you want it to be?" 

 Lionel saw sunflowers bloom and decay and bloom in her eyes. "Yes. Mine."


 She smiled, and changed. He watched, fascinated, as her face
contorted--her brow raised, her nose wrinkled, her eyes turned yellow and
catlike--and when she opened her mouth to reveal pointed fangs, he bared
his throat in automatic submission. 

 She bit him and he came, spilling uselessly into her hand and the frozen
deadness of the night. 

 3. Ghost 

 "Is this supposed to frighten me?" Lionel nodded contemptuously at the
gravestone bearing his name. "Every man must die, Spirit. The only matter
that should possibly concern me in life is the prospect of leaving a
suitable legacy." With an expansive gesture that seemed to encompass the
whole of the misty Christmas Eve night, he went on, "In any event, I've
always preferred Sun Tzu's practicality to weepy Dickensian sentiment. If
you'd read The Art of War, you'd know that any man determined for
greatness mustn't allow attacks on his emotions to succeed..." 

 His cowled companion's shoulders slumped. As Lionel lectured on, the
Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come gave an incorporeal sigh, threw its hands
into the air in defeat, and strode away through the fog. 

 End.	
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