A/N: with apologies to Ridley Scott, David Mamet and Anthony Hopkins. And I suppose also to Kevin Spacey since he crept in here too. (references are to the films "Hannibal," and almost entirely by accident, "The Usual Suspects.")
I can't apologize to Michael Rosenbaum and Tom Welling, though. They're too beautiful and they bring it on themselves.
Stalemate
In some ways it was a confrontation like any other, the two of them circling each other as they had so many times before. This was a dance they knew by heart, the steps familiar and the rhythm of the conversation almost second nature by now.
The lab lay in shattered chaos around them; Lex Luthor had spent weeks on his latest pet project and it had taken only minutes for Clark – no, Superman – to lay it to complete waste. Among the heaps of twisted metal, crumbs of pulverized glass and the crackling arcs of electricity bursting from rent wires they had found each other, exchanged their usual collection of heated words and mighty blows. Lex had a scratch over his left eye which was bleeding dramatically down his pale face, as head wounds tend to do. Clark's skin, exposed through the gaping tears in his silly costume, was lightly charred from the last and largest explosion.
As always, they were well-matched. Clark was stronger, faster; but Lex was well-trained and wily. They sparred as equals.
Until, of course, Lex managed to slip the kryptonite ring out of its lead box and onto his finger. Then things became decidedly easier.
The balance of power tipping once more in his direction, Lex couldn't help but think how much this felt like being back in Smallville. Oh, they had called it a friendship, but it had never been equal; Lex had always had the upper hand in age, guile, experience. Clark had been reluctant to do it, but when he'd had nowhere else to turn he'd always come to Lex for help, resources, guidance. And together they'd made quite a pair – Clark the brawn, Lex the brains.
But intellect was always superior to brute force. They both knew that. Clark might smash Lex's delicate instruments to pieces, frustrate his experiments and destroy the products of his research, but he could never stop Lex's mind. He'd never done it in Smallville and he'd never do it now.
Clark's strength flagged under the influence of the kryptonite and he stumbled; Lex threw himself forward with all his weight and together they crashed against the nearest upright object, a tall filling cabinet. They struggled briefly, but Lex soon managed to catch the shoulder of the stupid red cape in the topmost drawer and break off the handle, trapping Clark there. Powerless now and noosed, Clark could only glare into Lex's face as he seized him by the wrists and pinioned him back against the cabinet.
They were no more than a breath apart, and once again Lex felt memories of Smallville surging back to him. Looking into Clark's furious, beautiful face, he was transported back to the days of haylofts and high school football, of the colorful, chaotic atmosphere of the Talon, of stolen moments in the mansion's darkest corners and in the brilliant noontime gold of a cornfield.
For just one unexpected, visceral moment, Lex was overcome. They could always go back there … couldn't they? If they ran, if they left right now and left all this insanity behind, couldn't they find themselves there again?
"Tell me, Clark," he whispered conspiratorially, leaning in even closer to that delectable, forbidden mouth, "would you ever say to me, 'stop … if you loved me, you'd stop.'"
Clark's pulse quickened; he was acutely aware of every inch of Lex's body as it pressed against his, pinning him down. He felt the pull of those silvery eyes, inviting him – as they always had – to surrender to temptation. Lex himself had done it, after all … Lex himself was temptation.
Clark tried to speak but found himself floundering in memories of Smallville, of the careful and appropriate touches that friends exchange every day, and the heated glances and two-sided words that they don't. He and Lex had pushed that boundary dozens of times but never breached it, despite how badly they may both have wanted to.
If Lex was their temptation, Clark was their conscience.
"Not in a thousand years," he choked.
Lex exhaled, almost a soft chuckle. "Not in a thousand years?" he repeated, peering questioningly into Clark's face, as if he could discern there the evidence of a lie. He lifted his chin, hovering impossibly closer, testing … Clark's breath hitched, though whether from the kryptonite or some other force he could not tell with any certainty.
" … that's my boy," Lex whispered, and kissed him. He was neither rough nor gentle, tender nor forceful; it was neither a beginning nor a goodbye. It was just a kiss.
And yet, as he pulled away and watched a single tear travel down Clark's strong and perfect cheek, Lex knew he could not kill him now.
It was likely he never could.
For a moment the only sounds were the hiss of steam from ruptured conduit and the soft patter of still-falling debris. Then, through the shattered windows, Lex could hear the approaching police sirens. Oh, Metropolis' Finest always did have the most exquisitely bad timing.
"I've found this really interesting, Clark," he said softly, wiping away that tear with one elegant finger. "But I'm pressed for time … we can pick this up later, can't we?"
He slipped his fingers into Clark's hair and gently – almost lovingly – smashed his head back against the cabinet. Clark slid senseless to his knees, and Lex arranged him carefully so he wouldn't be strangled by the silly cape.
He lingered another moment over the prone form, and almost stooped to kiss those lips once more. "I'm sure we'll meet again," he murmured. And then, just like that, he was gone.
Once Lex and his kryptonite were a safe distance away, Clark regained consciousness and tore himself free from his entanglement. He could hear them coming, the voices of the officers shouting to one another from the pavement fifty stories below, and the thud of armored footsteps as the SWAT team ascended in the stairwells. And beneath it all, he thought he detected the purr of a Boxter engine – the 2.7 liter. That car had always been Lex's favorite.
Still weakened from the effects of the kryptonite, Clark crawled towards the gaping hole in the side of the building where a window had once been. Hand over hand, he hauled himself to the edge in time to see the silver Porsche slipping through the night just beyond the police barricade. An instant later, its taillights melted away into the glittering, sprawling mass of Metropolis; Lex's getaway, as always, was perfect.
Clark lifted a hand to his lips, which still burned.
They would meet again.