Disclaimer: I don't own any of this.

A/N: If there is a running tally out there of how many times Lex has been pistol-whipped, someone please point me in its direction. I will LOL. There should also be a similar tally of car accidents in the series. I swear every ep has one.

Scars

Lex wasn't asleep, but he didn't open his eyes either as Clark's fingers began to move against his back. Instead he breathed in deeply, letting his imagination construct images out of the intricate patterns that Clark traced across his skin.

Moments passed, Lex breathed on, and Clark's fingers continued their exploration. Finally Lex became curious. Usually he did not question Clark's tender need to touch; but this was somehow less, or else more, than sensual.

Suddenly Clark skimmed across a ticklish spot just above Lex's hip; Lex flinched and turned in his arms. "Not that I don't love your hands on me," he murmured chidingly, "but what exactly are you doing?"

"Your skin is perfect." The words contained less admiration and more suspicion than Lex liked.

"Wow, thanks, Clark," he said with gentle sarcasm. "Only you can make a compliment sound like an accusation."

Clark's face softened, and he drew his thumb across Lex's cheek. "That's not what I mean, and you know it. It's just that ..."

Lex caught his hand and kissed it. "What?"

"How many times have you been shot?"

Lex sighed, made an offhand a gesture. "Oh, I don't know ... six, maybe seventeen?"

"I'm being serious. Anyway, it's way too many times."

"Can I help being brilliant, rich and devastatingly handsome? I just attract people who want to shoot me."

Clark didn't seem to find the joke very funny. "I wish you'd be more careful."

"I am careful," he replied with a smirk. "Besides, they don't always shoot me; more often than not they're content just to pistol-whip me."

"Lex ..."

"Well, it's true. In fact, I think it's funny you're so concerned with how many times I've been shot, and not at all with the number of times I've been knocked unconscious. Concussions have a tendency to pile up."

"My point is," Clark said sternly, "that you don't have any scars."

Lex blinked at him, his steely eyes deceptively lazy. "Neither do you."

"That's different," he replied dismissively.

"Is it?"

"You know it is. One of us is bulletproof, one of us isn't."

"I heal faster than anyone."

Gently, but inexorably, Clark took his face in his hands. "You can still be killed."

Lex smiled, broke free, kissed him. "No, I can't," he retorted, letting his own fingers trail enticingly down Clark's chest. "I've got you looking out for me … that's as close to invincible as I'll ever need."