"You can understand," Stark says, easy and matter-of-fact and only twenty minutes late to their meeting, "why my gut instinct is to assume an ulterior motive." He lounges back in his chair and splays his hands on the plush armrests, makes himself right at home in Lex's office.

Lex can't decide what's more off-putting: the fact that an arms manufacturer cum superhero cum environmental conservationist would automatically assume the worst of him, or that such a thing could still bother Lex after all this time.

In another place, long ago, he'd fought it; but now, he is all of him Lionel Luthor's son. He has more than lost the right to expect anyone to treat him otherwise. That ship launched when he left Smallville for good.

"Probably you're after something dangerous and highly weaponizable," Stark continues when Lex doesn't speak, making a complicated gesture with his hands. It might be the bastard amalgamation of pulling a trigger and pantomiming an explosion; it might be that he's just a restless man by nature. "That's how these conversations usually go."

The man does love the sound of his own voice, Lex thinks wearily, looking forward to the soothing silence of an empty office. He studies the flashy suit and the tinted sunglasses, the vibrant energy of Stark's spillover personality. The way he hardly appears a day over thirty-five, when Lex knows for a fact he's pushing fifty.

They've moved in some of the same circles for most of Lex's life, and the last time their paths had crossed—five years ago, give or take, at a charity event in Gotham—Stark had certainly looked his age. Lex files the observation away for later scrutiny.

"You should know, if you don't already—in which case, Lex, what rock have you been under—that present-day SI has very specific policies regarding weapons. Zero-tolerance policies." Stark hitches one of his heels up on Lex's desk and crosses his ankle over his knee.

"I'm aware, Mister Stark." Lex, somewhat irritated and vaguely intrigued by Stark's casual use of his first name, considers whether or not to take offense. He ultimately dismisses it; there are loftier aims at present, and he's almost certain that the overall lack of professionalism isn't posturing. It's more an impersonal, generalized disregard for socially acceptable behavior in polite company. "And, as I am sure you are aware, sometimes one gains the greatest reputation for the least of his ventures."

"So you're telling me," Stark says thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on the floor-to-ceiling windows that open to Metropolis, put her on display like a collection of precious stones, "that your humanitarian efforts somehow cancel out the fact that LexCorp double-deals with base criminals, terrorists, and extradimensional monsters? Allegedly, of course." He never once looks at the clock, several meters left of center on Lex's massive office wall, but he's glanced over his own shoulder twice now.

He doesn't like having his back to the door. Interesting.

"What I'm suggesting, Mister Stark," Lex says in careful, measured tones, "is that LexCorp isn't the only company with a bright future and a sordid past."

Stark stares at him hard, his brown eyes glowing dull gold in the afternoon sun. Lex prefers natural light to fluorescent; weather permitting, he'll often leave the lights off. Aesthetically, this now serves to warm Stark's pale skin and highlight the deep mahogany of his hair, pool on the rich curve of his mouth. "So this really is just a social call."

"Not at all," Lex says, inclining his head. "Stark Industries has become the number one name in clean energy. Is it so unusual to take an interest? From a business standpoint."

"It shouldn't be," Stark says, not without some bitterness. Hmm. "Usually we get people fishing around for backdoor military contracts. No one believes we don't manufacture anymore."

"Once a dealer," Lex murmurs. "And I'm sure it doesn't help that you still create weapons for yourself."

"Prosthetics," Stark insists, leaning forward. His feet fall to the floor with a dull thud.

"To be sure."

"Don't patronize me," Stark sighs, like it's an old argument he's long lost interest in. The general white noise of his body language intensifies: a heel knocking against Lex's marble floor, blunt fingers drumming on the edge of his desk. When he glances toward the door, there isn't even a pretext that he's doing anything but mapping an escape route.

"Then we have nothing further to discuss," Lex says, standing, "as that was the entire purpose for this meeting."

Stark's eyes lock onto his in surprise, flashing like bright pennies. Then he's getting to his feet too, bracing his hands on the endless surface of Lex's polished, gleaming desk. He's going to leave handprints, Lex is sure.

"You wanna buy stock in SI?"

"I want to integrate arc reactor technology into the Metropolis power grid."

"Metropolis," Tony says, curiosity written sharply into his body language with broad strokes.

"Yes."

"Not just LexCorp HQ."

"No."

Stark looks baffled. He straightens, smoothing his hands errantly over the clean lines of his suit, and gives Lex a once-over before stalking toward the windows. He cuts a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the luminous city. "Look, Lex," he says at length. "Arc technology isn't a money game. There are startup costs and core replacement costs—the one that powers Stark Tower goes for about a year—and yeah, it'll save you boatloads as replacement technology on operating costs you already have. But a city? Any cash LexCorp might save by phasing out traditional energy would go right back into support expenditures for running the rest of Metropolis. You'd be doing whole lot of people a favor just to break even."

"Is that something that concerns you?" Lex asks curiously, folding his hands. "Getting nothing in return for a corollary service while pursuing greater aspirations?"

Stark turns his head sharply, incredulous, sunlight tracing the curve of his cheek. "Of course not. But you—"

"Could stand to improve LexCorp's public image, apparently," Lex interrupts dryly. "In all honesty, Mister Stark, your particular brand of alternative energy would save my company millions annually. I have my thumb in a lot of pies, as it were."

Stark considers this. Then he says, idly, "It's my understanding that you own half of Metropolis."

"That would be an accurate estimation." It's actually closer to two-thirds.

Stark says nothing, but there's a subtle shift in his expression as he looks back out over the city: like he's seeing it for the first time, maybe.

"Please understand, Mister Stark—Metropolis is my home. Her best interests are my best interests. And a populace subsisting on free energy has it benefits. Gratitude, for one. Opportunity for growth. Greater disposable income."

"What's weird to me," Stark says, turning around, "personally, is that what you're saying is a sensible move for a philanthropist, ethical businessman, or humanitarian. But it doesn't fit my perception of you. I mean, christ," Tony adds, exasperated, "you're—what, thirty? Still just a kid. It's too early for you to have a change of heart and join the good guys."

Lex moves out from behind his desk to join Stark by the windows. He leaves very little space between them, a casual test of proximity just to see if it makes the man uncomfortable; if perhaps Stark will flinch or step away. It does neither of these things. Lex is taller by about three inches, but Stark will not be cowed. In fact, when he tilts his head to stare critically at Lex's face, their arms brush.

There's a difference between self-servitude and sociopathy. Lex mulls it over for a moment. "I will, now and always, prioritize my interests and the interests of LexCorp above all else. That is not a secret. That is a practicality." He meets Stark's eyes. "But that does not mean I would actively avoid helping others, especially if it came at little or no cost to myself."

They stand there together, looking out over Lex's city, for long enough that Lex isn't sure Stark will respond at all. But then he turns, mouth twisted in a strange half-grin. His eyes are bright with understanding, almost conspiratorial, and Lex finds himself leaning back in surprise.

"Does anyone else know?" Stark asks, with a kind of energy that Lex can't identify or comprehend. It seems to fill the room.

"Excuse me?"

"That you're an antivillain," Stark says, showing teeth. "You know, like an antihero, except—"

"I gathered," Lex sighs, quickly losing interest. "Now, about the arc technology—"

Stark reaches for Lex's elbow, his fingers thin but firm, his palm warm through the fabric of Lex's suit. "I've never met one before. I didn't even know they were a thing. Can they be a thing?"

"Mister Stark—"

"Tony," Stark says. "Call me Tony. If you have your people forward the electrical grid schematics to my office, Pepper can get someone started on the numbers. She's the one that runs things these days. You'll have a bid on your desk tomorrow."

Lex stares at him.

"What is it, eleven? We should get lunch. Any good bars around?"

"Mister Stark," Lex tries again.

"Tony," Tony insists, pulling out his phone and fluttering his fingers over the touchscreen. "Looks like there's a pub two blocks from here. You can tell me all about your bad-guy-good-deeds psychosis. I be it's fascinating stuff."

Lex presses his lips together. Then he presses the intercom button on his desk. "Reschedule my afternoon appointments," he says firmly. "And tell Mercy to pull the black Ferrari around."

Tony grins, slow and sharp and bright.

"Gotta say you surprised me," Tony's slurring hours later, his suit jacket folded over the backrest of his barstool. His cuffs are unbuttoned, sleeves folded up over his forearms; collar open, tie slightly rumpled. He practically gleams with affected debauchery, an impression that is only enhanced by the gin and tonic held loosely in his animated fingers. "Most execs, they hear, 'Stark's not making weapons anymore' and think it means, 'Stark says he's not making weapons anymore, but surely that doesn't apply to me', and they just. They keep coming, they keep calling, they get offended because we won't deal with them."

"Even if you were," Lex says over his highball, "it certainly wouldn't reflect well on Stark Industries if you made it a habit to act in blatant opposition to your public statement of purpose."

"Exactly!" Tony huffs. "I mean, questioning my morals is one thing, I totally get that—but assuming I'd be an idiot about it? Come on, man. Telling lies in the public domain 's just bad business. I'm insulted."

"Don't be too hard on the little people. They don't know any better." Lex crosses his legs. He had the bar cleared out around two, once he realized Tony wasn't interested in leaving until he smelled like a distillery. The only other company they have is the bartender, and she makes herself scarce unless she's mixing drinks.

Tony's phone makes a small, starry sound. "Ugh. Conference call. Gimme fifteen minutes?" He steps outside, and Lex uses the time to make a few calls of his own. He also cancels his evening appointments.

The idea of waiting on someone else's business is so novel that Lex isn't even angry about it.

"Sorry about that," Tony says, reclaiming his seat with remarkable grace. The slight wobble as he turns to face Lex spoils it, as does the hand Lex automatically reaches out to steady him. Tony pats Lex's knuckles where they curve over his shoulder, a well-practiced and nonverbal I'm-okay-nothing-to-see-here-but-thanks-anyway, and Lex lets his arm fall.

Then he takes a long pull from his highball, trying to remember the last person he'd been so casually physical with. The answer that comes to mind churns his stomach; he dismisses it abruptly.

"You'll have the bid in the morning," Tony says, tucking his phone away. "Where were we?"

"I believe," Lex sighs, "you were going on about sunglasses."

"Don't you think it's a weird coincidence?"

"That we commission the same designer? No."

"I just feel like we have a lot in common," Tony says. "You should come to New York. We have aliens now."

I'm good on that front, thanks, Lex thinks sourly.

"I'll show you Avengers Tower," Tony offers.

Lex raises his head. "Are you still an Avenger?" He'd read, briefly, about Iron Man's semi-retirement. Aldrich Killian's research with Extremis had been more relevant to his interests at the time, however.

"Well yeah," Tony says airily, in a way that implies he's not really all that sure. "I'm just—not really on the field much these days. More behind-the-scenes."

"A hero-consultant," Lex deadpans.

Tony scrunches up his face. "Well. I mean, I had this great girlfriend, so."

"So you dismantled your state-of-the-art—prosthetic—equipment," Lex muses. The thought of all that glorious tech going to waste breaks his heart. "Brilliant. I'm sure you've never regretted it once. Especially during your very public breakup—what, three months after the Mandarin incident was resolved?"

He almost regrets the cheap shot; it isn't worth either of them. Lex wonders if he's crossed a line, dragging Pepper Potts into a conversation about sunglasses and vanity license plates—but then, the Iron Man suits were a fucking gift to modern flight mechanics and weapons design. Lex entitles himself to a small amount of residual frustration.

Regardless, Tony only grins and leans in close. He smells like rubbing alcohol and Giorgio Armani. "You following me in the tabloids, Lex?"

"When the media circus that is US national news has its teeth in a Tony Stark story," Lex says, long-suffering, "short of sequestering myself in the wilderness until the frenzy passes, there can be no escape from the messy details of your personal life."

Tony doesn't laugh, but a smirk curls his mouth. Neither of them speak for long moments. Finally, he says, "I don't regret it. I can always build more. And at least this way I know I did everything I could." He shakes his head ruefully. It's the first time Lex has seen him with anything approaching sobriety, and this after Tony's been drinking hard liquor for two hours. "I had nothing left to give up for her. Iron Man—that was me. That was everything."

Tony's voice has gone dark, has sunk into the joints of Lex's elbows, has settled deep into the bones of his back. There's something here, growing between them in the empty places; something Lex half-recognizes, like an old familiar scent, a memory of safety from a past life.

Lex has had a lot to drink today.

Beside him, Tony's peering thoughtfully into an empty shot glass. "I tried my best and it didn't work out. No harm, no foul, no hurt feelings. Just a lot of exhausting paperwork."

"Speaking of Miss Potts," Lex tries, as delicately as he's able under the circumstances, "I was honestly expecting to meet with her today. You were a surprise."

Tony nods vacantly. "Yeah, technically the CEO handles corporate monsters like LexCorp. But, whatever, I don't have a lot on my hands now that the suits are gone—there are no earthly crises to keep me otherwise occupied—I was curious to hear what you had to say." He shrugs, his fingers curving over the polished wood of the bartop. He taps at the finish with his nail. "Pick any reason you like, Lex. What's it matter? I'm here now."

Lex says nothing, his eyes trained to his drink. It's an effort not to stare at Tony's hands: he's wearing his MIT ring, but nothing else. Even his wrists are bare. And he won't stop fiddling with everything in reach.

"So—fashion accessories, fancy cars, nice suits, binge drinking. I think we're up to the 'daddy-never-loved-me' conversation."

"Not on a first date." While the sentiment is sharp, the words are not; but then Lex realizes what he's said. He hazards at glance at Tony's face.

Tony's smirking at him. "Next time, then. How about steamy, antagonistic romances? I hear a lot of rumors about you and the big blue—"

"That," Lex says firmly, "I will absolutely not discuss."

"Back to ethics, then." Tony doesn't seem offended in the slightest, switches gears like he's changing lanes in his Audi R8 . He traces the pads of his fingers through pools of condensation and asks, "So, what, you clothe your naked anti-villainy, seem a saint when most you play the devil? Am I getting warm?"

Lex sips his drink, the perspiring glass cool against his mouth. "Though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man," he quotes experimentally, "it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain."

Tony smiles, surprised and pleased, luminous in the dim, deserted bar. "Well, there's your problem, Lex," he says softly, tossing back a shot of aged whiskey. There are three more glasses lined up next to his gin and tonic, each gleaming a different hue of amber. "Assuming anyone on this earth has the capacity to take another human at face value."

Lex knows all about living as a caricature of yourself just so people get the right idea. Subtlety is often lost on the masses. He turns to mention something along these lines, but Tony's squinting blearily at the last half of his gin and tonic. Then he's reaching for his phone.

"Think I'm gonna call it a night," he says, clapping an unsteady hand on Lex's shoulder.

"I can drop you off," Lex says. He doesn't even think about it first, a fact he should seriously examine later.

Tony raises an eyebrow. "Nice of you to offer, but I gotta make—uh, whoever replaced Happy—work for his salary. And, no offense, but Mercy terrifies me."

"Then she's doing her job admirably."

"I feel like she'll gut me if she catches me staring," Tony agonizes, "but it's really hard not to."

"And on that note," Lex says with a short laugh, standing and pulling Tony carefully to his feet. "I'll keep in touch about the contract."

"I'll be in town until Sunday," Tony says. "We can have date number two. I expect full disclosure." He leans in close, eyebrows scrunched together thoughtfully. "Hey. I think you're actually smiling."

"I do that sometimes," Lex says.

"Well. You've got my number." Tony staggers out of the bar. Lex watches him go, then finishes his drink. He's surprised to find that the new silence isn't appealing in the least.