2 A.M. on the clock + Bourbon in the glass + A decent playlist on slacker = me shaking up the toy box and realizing "Hey! There are other guys in here."
This is an out of my comfort zone song driven un-beta. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading.
Shaving with a straight razor was a bit of a forgotten craft. Perfect angles and precise pressure yielded a shave like no other. Reason enough to make it a skill worthy of a Luthor. His family didn't pride themselves on mastering the archaic. Rather the difficult or even better the impossible. Making it practically guaranteed that he was untouchable. There would never be anyone else like him on this planet.
Another careful swipe sent the final lathery white dollop into the sink. He snorted forcefully at its color, pure white, utterly devoid of reddish-brown specks.
"Nothing," he growled with disgust immediately running a stream of hot water. Steam burst forth into the cold bathroom fogging the mirror shielding him from view. Some days he was thankful for the simpler laws of science.
Not one ounce of the pounds of envy he'd lumped on high school peers granted him a single whisker. Nonexistent beard, hair falling out by the handful, and tear streaked cheeks were all markers of a tragically memorable father-son bonding moment. That was how he recalled it, in vivid detail, Lionel teaching him to shave with the straight edge. Laughing, the false mirror image of the boy he wished to be taunted the pale sickly-looking teenager weeping in the reality of the moment. Yet his fragile emotional state was less important to his father than honing a skill that would never actually serve any purpose. Still he could not figure out why he continued to shave every other day. Comfort perhaps. Sadly, it didn't remind him of better times.
With a warm towel he whisked away a few lingering specks of cream hand trailing as it always did to the faint brown scar on his right jaw line just below the ear. A faded gash fifteen years ago give or take, but the memory burned all the same. Rushing for school, he nicked himself on a haphazard pass. Despite its small size the wound spouted like a red fountain and his natural response was to run to Lionel. His father's immediate response was to slap him, twice. Once for a single red drop in the middle of the priceless Kerman and once more for a single showing of pain in the corner of his eye.
Sighing he removed some of the mirror condensation with his hand and set about the second part of his morning routine. In the quiet penthouse, the swishing bristles of his toothbrush echoed clear into the next room. There was no denying it. He was the perfect specimen of a man. Strong chiseled features, lean muscular frame, athletic ability rivaling some of the world's best athletes, superior intelligence. Every media touted characteristic becoming of the alpha male.
"Almost everything," he murmured between brush strokes.
Briefly, his free hand touched his scalp. Seemingly, with a mind of its own it parted before the actual feel of skin on skin registered. He chuckled sardonically with a deep rumble from his chest.
Glaring at the more cynical image of himself in the reflective glass he couldn't help asking, "Nothing to say Billionaire?" The hard spoken "b" sent a spray of mint green foam across the mirror.
The word was funny. He laughed whenever he spoke or thought it. Philanthropist, curer of cancer, billionaire, and near defeater of the common cold that was Lex Luthor; still the wavy red locks so integral to his boyish charm never reappeared. People hesitated when touching him. He could feel their nervousness in each handshake. Automatic tension that left even the most dignified and beautiful women stiffened. How could a man so masterful, so brilliant not cure his single greatest flaw? Something was seriously wrong. Was he contagious? There was nothing endearing about an infectious billionaire.
"Hmm," he mused softly switching off the bathroom light. Maybe that was why he shaved. To convince people, himself included, there was nothing wrong. This current state was somehow intentional.
Sparse furnishings cast odd shadows in the hazy blue light he navigated around them careful not to cause any undue commotion. Soon the large floor to ceiling would be awash in morning light and the city's inhabitants would blossom forth.
Placing a palm against the cool pane, he whispered to the few flickering brake lights below, "You used to be mine," the glass squealed as his hand slid across it, "All of you were mine."
LexCorp was directly responsible for the livelihood of half of Metropolis' population. They owed him and his father before him. Ants in a terrarium he was accountable for their care and the realization of some of their biggest fears. In the end, he always saved them because they were his. When the world came to realize a man, or more accurately, an alien pretending to be a man could fly they forgot him. The window vibrated mutely, same time every day, to the tune of a distant red and blue alarm clock rocketing through the sky.
"They could have been ours you know. They still can be."
Looking skyward, a tiny smile arched one side of his mouth when the rumble stopped and restarted an instant later. Lois Lane wasn't the only one with the alien's ear. Softly a moan and nearly silent ruffles of sheets behind him drew him out of his joyous moment. He walked to the bedside. Head buried beneath a pillow, sheet pulled clear to her neck, the only thing visible was the bare partly exposed alabaster back of his Amazon beauty. Sensing his watchful eye, she grumbled preemptively at the awakening.
"Not now my dear Mercy but in an hour," he replied to the unspoken threat, so softly he was sure she didn't hear him.
His hand hovered over the blonde hair. Often he contemplated touching her like this, but never did. Instead, he crossed to the empty side of the bed and retook his position on the far edge. Fortunately, the bed was large enough to fit another person between them. Most nights she was completely oblivious to his restlessness and constant pacing. Sighing he watched the ceiling, noting the subtle changes in lights cast against it as the sun made its way to Metropolis. Varying from faint shades of blue to soft yellows while the streetlights below went out and apartment lights around the city came on, millions of his little ants coming to life.
Another sigh parted his lips, stirring the bed next to him. She had her own room but some nights, like last night, she would come to his bed without beckon or demand somehow understanding his quiet thoughts. Apparently, the sounds of his inner turmoil were louder than he imagined. Gotham Policeman's Gala and his date refused hold hands for show, afraid to touch him. Rage and whiskey broke several pieces of art in the penthouse that night, their first night together.
"I am your bodyguard," she spoke evenly when the drunken fit roused her during the wee morning hours. Nearly emotionless despite the fact that she was wearing nothing more than the covers from her own bed. "My job is to protect you, even if it's from yourself."
He closed his eyes tightly. It took a few excruciating ticks of the clock for her to move from her side of the bed to lie atop him. Every inch of her exposed skin pressed against his. One of her hands danced softly up his chest, he knew its destination but the care in her touch still made him tremble. Gently her fingers touched the scar on his jaw, up past his ear, and ran smoothing across his head. He flinched. She sighed into his chest.
"Everything will be alright, Alexander. I've got you."
He grinned at that, a full bearing of teeth that still managed to look maniacal in the low light. Mercy was the only person allowed to call him that. Chest heaving he inhaled and exhaled deeply sending his worries and quivering anxiety into the room through the expulsion of air.
"And I you my dear Mercy," he mumbled in reply. Millions of ants, one queen, and they all belonged to him, "And I you."