The party is a success, a high note on Metropolis's summer agenda. Outside the ballroom is a city cocooned in an uncharacteristic heat, wrapped in a night of no breeze. Perfect timing. Lionel mingles, accepting handshakes from his supplicants, enjoying how the others sweat a little bit more. And perhaps there's also a dash of fear under rose-scented makeup, rare flower perfumes, and overpriced aftershaves. It gladdens him to see how human they are.
He watches his son working the crowd, glad-handling princes and senators, canapé servers and countesses equally. Cool despite the heat, unaffected despite everything else. Expertly bringing the masses to heel. Whatever deal that doesn't come Lionel's way will go to Lex. After the last guest has been ushered out into the twilight, the two of them will retire to the drawing room and draw up battle plans. They will ride the adrenaline until dawn, then greet it with a vengeance.
Everything is going to plan. Lionel feels invincible, even the Fates dare not thwart his perfect night. Perfect in every way.
Well, except for one pesky detail.
Enter stage right, a dark-haired whelp. To date, Lex's only weakness that Lionel cannot seem to excise despite all his considerable efforts. Lionel has to hand it to Lex on that front, though. Other men would have capitulated, surrendered a long time ago. Lesser men would have been dead. Have died.
He smiles and shakes the hand of a woman he vaguely recognizes as a White House policy advisor, should be important except she's already on her way out of her office and into some do-gooding tent in a remote island somewhere. Lionel leaves her to his date-the Scandinavian girl from his secretarial pool with at least half a brain under all those hair bleach. She'll tell him if there's anything important. He doesn't think so.
He shakes three more hands, none of note, before moving his sights back to his son and that Kent boy, who are making their way towards his general direction. A few more people-handshakes here, airkisses there-and they materialize in front of him.
"Dad," Lex's voice cuts through the din of the room. "See you tomorrow."
Lionel aborts his nod of acknowledgment, does not alter his stance, pretends not to hear. As exits go, this is rather polite. As polite as Lex can manage with his left hand wrapped insistently around Clark's right wrist.
"Thank you, Mr. Luthor," Clark calls before he disappears out of earshot. It's no secret that there's no love lost between the Kents and the Luthors. But he suspects that Martha's child will never forget his pleases and thankyous even at world's end.
The hotel keeps the penthouse unoccupied all the time, all two floors at the very top. It stays empty most of the time, but the staff cleans it everyday just in case. Reserved for a Luthor for as long as one still lives, for when they can't be bothered to drive to their Tower penthouses. At the moment only those by the name of Lex and Lionel. The rest of the affluent world gets the suites below, except Lucas Luthor who will be turned away, politely, at the entrance.
Considering the speed of their exit, Lionel thinks that Lex will be abusing the hotel's hospitality this night. No one with eyes can't blame him. The Kent boy scrubs well enough when sufficiently motivated. The years away from Smallville has slowly stripped him of his charming, yet ultimately useless, village sensibilities. And this evening, he can see Lex's tutelage and money paying off in a big way.
Stepping out of the elevator onto the penthouse's reception room, Lionel stumbles over a discarded shoe that looks like a capsized black barge shined to a reflective sheen. Further down, a wreckage of bowties and shirts.
There are whispers from the master bedroom. Lionel smiles. He wonders whether the Kent boy has also shed his overly modest sensibilities. He doubts it. He supposes it is part of the things that endears the boy to Lex. His son always has a soft spot for strays and innocents, especially innocents that look like they tempt saints as sport.
The carpet feels extra thick today, fluffed up and perfectly set up to muffle his footsteps. Another shoe, more of Lex's size and preferred quality this time, which he manages to avoid.
The mutters become louder as he nears the door. He could probably hear some gasping and some moaning. He pushes the door wide open with a single flourish.
Various articles of clothing discarded carelessly. Some hanging helplessly off the clothes butler, a dress pant leg barely made it onto the trouser press.
There's a dying man on television, heaving and gasping on the lap of a beautifully disheveled heroine, pyrotechnics going off artfully around them.
Sheets pushed almost off the bed.
Two figures curled around each other, soundly asleep.
Lionel can't remember the last time he walked in on a sleeping son. He has walked in on debaucheries, orgies, even the odd "renewing the marital act" bit. He has walked in on deliriums, nightmares, insomniac stupor, forced recuperation and catatonia. But he sincerely can't remember the last time he walked into a bedroom where Lex is just asleep. Peacefully asleep in a room with no trace of stale sweat and sex in the air.
He makes his way deeper into the room, the television offers scant illumination. Dark otherwise. He picks his way through, always careful. Steps on a crisp piece of paper and wonders whether his son has grown careless. He picks it up, a thesis proposal form, still empty except for the name and class. Words materialize as his eyes adjust. The Kent boy. Almost a postgraduate student. MIT. Lionel is almost impressed, until he remembers what Lex's kind of money can buy.
He drops the paper, picks up one end of the discarded bedsheets. Finds an open laptop. Late model, lightweight, powerful. He picks it up and a slight jostle reveals an unprotected screen. A document filled with diagrams, tabs neatly at the top and bottom of the screen. He places it on a bureau, the closest flat surface that is not a floor. Cycles through several tabs to see more diagrams, 3D designs. One tab yields a list of themes and ideas. Fleetingly he notes fusion, propulsion, electron-splicing, neural regeneration.
The laptop rests over many pieces of paper spread all across the bureau, notes that correspond to those digital files he's reading. Several versions of thesis proposals, some half-baked, a couple he might steal, none coherent enough, but all held promise. So many of them, Lionel is tempted to wake the boy up and tell him to choose one and stick with it. The Kent boy, he muses again, not just a pretty face it seems.
He straightens the papers a little, closes the laptop, feels the computer go to sleep. He returns to the sleeping forms, this time pulling the sheet around them both. He stares at his son's profile, then shocked himself seeing how his son has grown. Changed. Peripherally he knows Lex is no longer the liability he once seemed to be. Even now, successful in making considerable in-roads into everything he puts his mind into. How does he miss this? A few more years, Lionel might not have LuthorCorp anymore. Lionel catches himself, maybe he's exaggerating.
Lex's breathing is long and deep, measured, paced yet unguarded. Suddenly, Lionel doesn't think he is exaggerating. He shifts forward a fraction, looks at the Kent boy now. Properly this time. Curled around Lex, strong, steady, and yet so young still. A certain chill wash over him. He looks back at his son. Who no longer seems to need anything from him. Who no longer seems to look for his approval, his direction.
His son has chosen his own path, his own destiny. Lex somehow sees something Lionel has failed to see. He doesn't like this realization, being caught unawares. It tastes bitter and dry. He struggles to clamp down a growing hysteria. How can he fail to notice this?
The bed shifts a little. Lex shifts, stretches, and settles around Clark. As though trying to shield Clark from something. The world, maybe. Lionel Luthor, instinctually. Lex the protector. Kent the white knight. They protect each other. And Lionel feels a nostalgic regret. Wonders, for the first time in over a decade, what it would be like to still have Lilian standing beside him.
Just like this. Looking down at their son. No longer a child.
If he close his eyes, he might be able to imagine reaching out to cool fingers, rounded shoulders, lilies of the valley. He might be able to imagine a slow smile of contentment.
But he doesn't. Dares not. So instead he tucks the sheet closely around the two, the way Lilian would have done on nights like this. Brushes a fleeting finger on each brow. He likes to think he's giving them a blessing. But he knows they won't need it. Might never need it. Will never seek it from him.
He steps back and manages to trample on a thing. The television flickers out suddenly, no more blue-red light dancing in the dark. He turns around. A few steps and he is back into the light. He crosses the living room, the elevator door still open.
He flips the light switch, finds sudden darkness a familiar ally. The elevator a lone box of light. He steps in, and is a little bit surprised that he doesn't feel any different.
They wait a few more minutes, then adds another fifteen just to be sure.
"He's gone?" a whisper.
A pause. The strong body disentangles itself from beneath him to look. "Yep. Driving towards the Towers." Lex wants to ask how far Clark can see nowadays. An exclamation stops him. "They're driving really slo... oh. Ew."
Lex chuckles. He can feel Clark blush even in near complete darkness. "Shouldn't you be past this now? You act like you still believe in stork babies."
"But your... this is different. This is Lionel we're talking about," Clark huffs. And apparently it's not a mental image he can banish from his mind soon either. "Like... fifty shades of no."
"Well." Lex thinks he should forgive Clark for his mommyporn sin because he clearly has been in a lot of emotional trauma. "At least he's gone now," he settles. Pretending to be asleep as a way to avoid a confrontation has paid off brilliantly. He even manages to fall asleep for a while. Truly, not every battle needs to be won, or fought at all. Capitulating, it seems, has great benefits.
Invigorated, Lex levers himself up and drapes himself across Clark's torso. Switches on the opposite bedlight. Smiles as Clark shows his insistent appreciation of Lex's gesture in such a pleasing way. "That's for me?" He test runs a wiggle, feels Clark's hand tighten around his shoulder. Hears a happy hum from the center of Clark's warm chest.
He spares a glance at the bedside clock, calculates the time they both have.
Not damn near enough, he thinks his last coherent thought.