Disclaimer: Own nothing in Smallville either. If I did, would I be writing this all for free--no profit, no $$$, no nothing--or would I be writing for whoever makes the series -- $$$$, profit and acclaim?
Lex sat idly at the wooden dining table in the Kent house, playing with a golden apple from the bowl in front of him. The smooth skin felt crisp and cool, taut against his fingertips. The fruit was heavy in his palm-real in a way that millions of dollars that he traded in the vast realm of cyberspace and exchanges did not seem to have.
Lex glanced through his lashes, watching around him as unobtrusively as he knew how. Jonathon, while not necessarily his number one fan, had welcomed him in the door with little ceremony and had left to check on a herd of cattle to see if any calves had been born in the past hour. Martha smiled at him as always, telling him that Clark was staying late at the school library for his midterm papers but he had called and was going to be home in half an hour. She had poured him a tall glass of lemonade from a sweating blue glass pitcher and told him to make himself at home.
For lack of a better direction, he plopped down in one of the sturdy chairs at the table and sipped his lemonade. Martha smiled at him again and then went back to washing a huge ceramic bowl on her counter. She pulled out a huge Tupperware container of flour and a slightly smaller one of rolled oats. A small radio with a rather crudely repaired volume knob sat on top of the refrigerator, blurting out a comfortable mix of various oldies-"Great Balls of Fire", "My Boyfriend's Back", and "Yakety-Yak"-at a soothing hum while Martha pulled out some milk, a stick of butter, a covered bowl and two eggs and plopped them on the sunlit counter.
"So how are things, Lex?" she called absently as she uncovered the refrigerated bowl and carefully drained water out of it into the sink.
"They are pretty much normal," Lex replied with an absent diplomacy, glancing up at her and dropping the apple back in the bowl. Yes, normal for the Luthor household, at least. Labor unrest in another country had kept him up and on the phone, pulling strings frantically to keep workers at their jobs, until somewhere around 2:30 that morning. He hadn't even seen his bed until around 3 and then at 6 Lionel had called him in for a "private chat". When Lionel began to heckle him about the wisdom of keeping the labor flowing smoothly and productivity high for the second hour, Lex couldn't take it any more. He had grabbed his keys and escaped to the highway.
Yes, things were "normal"-even typical-for Luthor Mansion.
Lex drove aimlessly for hours-watching the sun rise over the interstate, stopping for a quick cappuccino and a tasteless bran muffin at the Talon, a rather pointless meeting that he called in to from his cell phone, another quick call to one of his personal assistants to move his appointments around and clear his schedule for the rest of today, a quick drop in to the office to snatch up some papers and check the next day's schedule, another cappuccino, and then out to wander aimlessly around as the silver Porsche ate up the miles of Kansas back roads.
Martha snorted noisily-the kind of snort that in the local vernacular meant "I don't believe that you could say that with a straight face"-and began sifting flour into her huge bowl.
Lex let out an almost silent breath of relief. Perhaps he wasn't going to get grilled too badly. A sardonic bit of humor floated through his head and he pictured a fat chef with a huge grilling fork shouting, "Come get your freshly grilled Lex! Seared over hot coals by Lionel and then grilled to perfection by Martha! Come get your Lex!"
"So what brings you out here?" Martha asked, carefully measuring out the oats before adding them to her mix.
Lex felt the beginnings of a blush-and sipped his lemonade carefully. Apparently even Martha Kent wanted a go at him today. "I was just in the area," he said quietly and felt the words die down. For once, words were escaping him.
Martha glanced at him, the frowned. "What's wrong Lex? Is there anything that we can do to help?"
"I'm just at a lose end before I head to the Metropolis penthouse and thought that I'd stop by," he improvised quickly. His father had called four times-and left three vitriolic, poisonous voicemail messages demanding he return the call or not return to the mansion. At the moment, a strategic retreat into solitude seemed like a pretty good idea. In a day or two, Lionel would have cooled off enough that Lex could return.
"Oh?" she said, raising her eyebrows. She picked up a worn, blue tea towel and rubbed her flour covered hands-leaving ghostly prints on the sky blue fabric. "Nothing too bad, I hope?" She paused and then quickly added. "Nothing to do with the labor strike overseas? According to the news, it was over quickly and without much interruption."
He said with a smile, "I'm afraid that's confidential LuthorCorp information." LuthorCorp's overseas factories had lost three hours of full production because of the strikes. All in all, it wasn't bad-it beat being down several days-but it still had cost several million in lost revenue.
"I'll bet that LuthorCorp will weather it just fine with your guidance," she said with an uncertain smile, offering the best encouragement that she could.
Lex smiled wryly. Lionel didn't think so-but then he'd NEVER thought so and probably never would. "There are some who would probably disagree with your assessment, Mrs. Kent."
She smiled at him, cradling the bowl close to mix the thick batter. "If I were talking to Clark, I'd say that as long as he had done his best, then he could hold his head up high." She peered at him more closely, pursing her lips slightly. "But I'd also tell him that he looked like he hadn't slept in a week and that he needed to finish his lemonade and take a nap on the couch."
Lex took a huge swig of his lemonade, relishing the bits of pulp in the sludgy sugar that was settling in the bottom of his glass. His father would have a seething rage at the thought of his son sleeping on a random couch in a suit that cost more than the couch itself. His chef would have an apoplectic fit if Lex said that he relished this sugary, pulpy, bad-for-the-teeth-and-waistline sludge at the bottom of an old glass more than the finest cuisine.
It tasted like-like comfort and home...
Martha opened up the fridge again and refilled the drink, frowning slightly at the almost empty pitcher. A not quite dissolved crumble of sugar-with pulp sticking to it-plopped into Lex's glass. "I would have sworn that I had a full pitcher not an hour ago." She stared at the bottom of the pitcher, wrinkling her nose slightly. "I'm sorry, Lex. I'm going to have to make some more. I've got tea if you're still thirsty." Whisking a long wooden spoon out of a drawer, she poked at whatever was still in the bottom.
"No problem," Lex reassured her with a smile. Once Martha Kent was focused on something, she stayed stubbornly focused-a veritable mental bulldog-and for now she was entirely devoted to lemonade. Even his father said that she was phenomenally persistent.
"I thought there was more in there." She let out an exaggerated sigh of pretend disgust. "And I really thought that I had added only one cup of sugar." She stood for a moment, and then Lex was sure that he heard her murmur, "Jonathon!"
Lex felt a laugh burble up-and struggled to keep from laughing out loud. There was at least a whole cup of sugar still in the bottom of the pitcher.
Martha shook her head in amusement, taking a bag of lemons out of a cabinet and pulling an old fashioned juicer from her dish drainer. "Give me a second and I'll have some more ready," she commented over her shoulder as she pulled out a cutting board and began cutting up lemons.
Lex watched for a moment more. He could smell the faintly citrus smell of lemonade still and there was the peculiar tightening above his lip that could only come from good, homemade lemonade. "I'd be glad to help out," he offered suddenly.
Martha smiled at him. "That would be lovely, Lex." She hauled the cutting board, lemons, and juicer over to the table.
Lex took the first lemon and sliced it. A lovely lemon scent floated up from the cut fruit and seemed to seep into his hands. Each half fit into his palm-a juicy bit of fruity reality-and let out a satisfying spurt of juice into the pitcher. In a primitive way, it was soothing to grind the lemons against the raised ridges of the juicer and to crush the rind in his fist. In a moment of savage satisfaction, he raised one of the cut lemons over the pitcher and crushed the entire thing in his fist, crushing it and sending juice spurting all over his hand.
For a moment, Lex stared at the crumpled lemon in his hand and the thin tendril of lemon juice that trickled down his wrist. Taking the other lemon half in his palm, he squeezed as hard as he could. Juice burst from the fruit, exploding in the pitcher. Little drops of juice slowly slid down the sides of the pitcher.
If Martha noticed a few telling drops of lemon juice up his sleeve when he brought the cutting board and knife over to the sink, then she said nothing. Quickly, he dumped the empty rinds into the compost jar-the empty husks of lemons. Adding some cool water, he carefully mixed the remainder sugar at the bottom of the pitcher before adding more.
He was pouring another glass-and a glass for Mrs. Kent since polite people always served a lady before a gentleman-when something tickled his nose. A warm scent was gently floating around him-spicy and sweet.
Glancing over at the counter, he saw Mrs. Kent take a spoonful of batter and drop it on a metal cookie sheet. Plump raisins poked out of the lumpy oatmeal batter like lazy cats sitting on a pile of pillows. Mrs. Kent sprinkled a light brown powder on top of each cookie-cinnamon and sugar or brown sugar or something.
"That smells wonderful," Lex murmured appreciatively. He couldn't remember the last time that he had actually had homemade oatmeal raisin cookies. He occasionally indulged in one of the sweet treats at the Talon, but they were unendingly perfectly shaped and tasting of factories and accountants. These cookies sat in gloriously ugly lumps and smelled of home cooking. If he could bottle the feeling and smell and taste of "home cooking", he'd be outrageously rich.
More outrageously rich, he corrected himself-rich by even Luthor standards.
Mrs. Kent smiled at him. "Clark's football team is helping the cheerleading squad with their bake sale." A metallic ding sounded and she bent to pull out a tray of cookies. Dumping them unceremoniously out onto a wire cooling rack with little nudges from a spatula, she slid the next tray in. "I'm almost done with these."
"It looks like hot work," Lex said, offering her the second glass of lemonade.
Martha sipped her lemonade. "Manna from heaven," she sighed appreciatively. She thought for a moment. "I can't remember the last time that I fixed this recipe, but everyone seems to like it. It was one of Clark's favorites growing up."
"Honey, you will have the whole town up here if you're not careful," Jonathan laughed as he walked into the kitchen. Martha laughed back at him and began to spoon more batter on the empty cookie sheet.
Jonathan picked up a cookie and took a bite. "Mmmm...still warm."
"Jonathan!" Martha scolded. Snatching up a spoon, she smacked her husband's hand with an exaggerated outrage. "You know that Clark is counting on those to raise money for his fund raiser!" She sighed dramatically as Jonathan picked up another cookie. "You have to pay Clark for those."
"I'm good for it," Jonathan said good-naturedly. He pulled out a thin, worn leather wallet and pulled out three ones and plunked them down on the counter. "He'll make his first sale a bit early, that's all."
Martha smiled again warmly and turned to take the next batch of cookies out of the oven. Then she rummaged in the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk. Turning, she grabbed a glass from the dish drainer and shooed Jonathan away.
Jonathan poured himself a glass of milk and was wandering over to the kitchen table when the phone rang. Abandoning carton and glass and dumping his cookies on a napkin, Jonathan grabbed up the phone.
"Hello...Uh-huh...I see...Well, all right...Do you need anything?...All right. Everything is fine here and we'll see you soon...Bye." Jonathan hung up. "Clark says that he's going to have to go to the library to study." He nibbled his cookie. "Apparently, the teacher put a reserve on three of the books that Clark was using for his paper. He says that he'll be back to finish the cookies around 7 or so."
Martha glanced over at Lex. "I'm sorry, Lex. You're welcome to have dinner here, if you want to wait."
"Don't worry about it," Lex said with a wry grimace. "I'll catch him later." Lex picked up his car keys from the table. As much as he could use his friend's straight talking, any more exposure the wholesome, loving family atmosphere was going to drive him crazy.
Maybe he already was crazy-driven irretrievably mad from wanting this kind of love and acceptance.
"Don't go away without a cookie," Martha said behind him.
"I don't think that the cheerleading squad would appreciate losing on their profits," Lex said gravely with a slight turn as Martha rummaged in another drawer.
Lex met Jonathan's eyes for a moment and Jonathan shrugged at him with a lame grin. Hurricane Martha was on the move and was unstoppable.
"Then at least let me pay for them," Lex sighed in a soft voice.
"Oh, no, Lex," Martha insisted, snapping open a paper lunch bag. "It's the least I could do for a great assistant." She picked up several fresh cookies and dropped them in the bag.
"Then at least let me make an 'early donation'," Lex said, capitulating.
"I don't know," Martha said impishly. "I don't often have such great help in the kitchen..."
Lex heard Jonathan's muffled and choked laughter. Then with a wry smile and a cocked eyebrow, he said, "We can't have Clark beaten by a mob of angry cheerleaders can we?"
"Oh, all right," Martha capitulated with a laugh.
Lex sighed and took out his checkbook. "I don't have any cash, so I'm going to have to make out a check, if that's all right."
"I'm sure it is," Martha said absently, rummaging for a moment in the refrigerator.
Lex filled out the check with the ease of long (and frequent) practice. "I make it out to 'Smallville High', don't I?"
"Yes," Martha replied, turning back and folding down the paper bag.
Lex tore out the check and folded it over. "Tell Clark that I wish him luck with the bake sale." He handed the check over to Martha, who bundled it with Jonathan's dollar bills and placed the stack neatly by the tray of cooling cookies.
Lex picked up the bag and bade the Kents goodbye. Tossing it in the passenger seat, he slid into the silver Porsche. For lack of a better direction, he took the Metropolis exit, and slid into the highway traffic.
Lex swung the car onto the off ramp and into the Metropolis downtown area. LuthorCorp owned the condominium building, and both of the Luthor men were in and out of the area enough to warrant keeping the penthouse. The valet greeted Lex by name, and swept his car off into the reserved parking area.
Once he got to the penthouse, Lex tossed the slightly rumpled sack on the wooden nightstand and then flopped on the impeccably made bed. For a moment, his body sank into the down comforter and pillow-top mattress. Lex closed his eyes slowly, feeling the aches in his muscles seep away. He dug his toes into his heels to slip off his shoes and then crawled underneath the comforter.
The first thing that Lex noticed was the slight hum of the city. He cracked one eye and glared at the electric red numbers of the bedside alarm clock.
3:16 a.m.
For a moment, he felt the normal disorientation of sleeping in an unfamiliar place. He screwed his eyes tight for a moment and tried to get his thoughts together. Right...Metropolis. He had driven here yesterday after something resembling no sleep and surviving yet one more mental beating by his father.
Being a Luthor was overrated.
Lex forced himself to stretch out on the bed and try to relax. For a moment, he just lay there.
In the cold silence, he just lay there.
Actually, his practical, literal side argued, it was reasonably warm. The penthouse was kept heated and cooled, cleaned and scrubbed and whatever else places that were only sporadically occupied needed. And it was in prime Metropolis real estate-overlooking the fabulous skyline and within walking distance to the stadium, the opera, and many restaurants. In addition to the exclusive stores in the lobby, a rather exclusive series of shopping boutiques was only about five minutes away, as was a country club golf course to rival Augusta's.
Some other part replied that it just wasn't enough. It just felt a bit wrong-that there never was a speck out of place and that the room service food was never anything else but the best cordon bleu cuisine.
Curious, Lex looked around the bedroom. It was one of the three smaller bedrooms in the penthouse; though it still had it's own private bathroom and was connected to the small terrace patio outside. Some tasteful artwork hung on the walls and the rooms was tastefully appointed to be non-offensive and stylish. Someone came in each day to refresh the flower arrangements in certain rooms and a service came in to deal with the massive saltwater fish tank in the living room.
Lex glanced around the room again. It was just a place-a generic place waiting for someone to come and use it. The walls were an unobtrusive silvery gray-not the cheerful goldenrod of the Kent kitchen walls that were littered with candid photographs and framed, pressed flowers. The furniture was a comfortable neo-art-deco out of glass and matt black metal, rather than the worn and scratched wood of a family table.
Everything in the entire condominium spoke of having just oodles of money spent on some anonymous person to select things that were as impersonal and bland as they could possibly be while still being of the highest quality. Come to think of that, he couldn't remember having so much as a single candid photo on the walls or framed on a random table for his entire existence. Oh, there were the usual selections of posed shots-carefully orchestrated shots in the most carefully color coordinated formal clothing with professional backdrops that were supposed to show familial loyalty and continuity-but after his Mother had died, the only photographs taken were shots for various of LuthorCorp public relations materials.
He had never gone through a visit to the Kent's house without passing-either by design or by luck-a rather ridiculous picture that hung in the foyer. Clark with a rather persistently curly mop and impish blue eyes dressed in a cheap, fuzzy blue shirt and a pair of ragged red shorts with a pair of Jonathon's blue socks pulled up to his knees and waving a plastic flag with one hand and dripping his strawberry ice cream cone on his chest. Whether it was some bizarre Cookie Monster costume for a forgotten Halloween or a Metropolis home game or a July Fourth celebration, Clark stood in joyful, sticky, happiness, waving his flag unceremoniously at the camera. The whole picture was of messy boyhood innocence-a completely candid shot on a random afternoon with the slightest blurring showing a handheld camera. Carefully, someone had cut a square out of a piece of white poster board for a mat and then framed the effort.
Lionel had taken down all of the family portraits at some point-even the single portraits of Lydia Luthor or the ones of the family before the chemical accident had rendered his heir bald. And if Lionel had ever had a single candid picture of his son, Lex didn't know it.
Even now, in this sterile environment, it could be anyone's bedroom anywhere in the civilized world. The paintings were chosen from a group of paintings purchased at various points for their prospective future value-the rest were in a carefully controlled storage area. The silver gray walls were carefully matched to the neutral gray of the carpet and slate tiles of the floors, which were matched to the granite countertops, which coordinated with the white vertical blinds at the windows and French doors. The towels matched the washcloths, which coordinated with the dishcloths and napkins and sheets. The furniture was mostly antiques-more or less a solid investment-and was all very classical styles with simplistic lines.
In short-it stunk.
Lex wrinkled his nose. His stomach rumbled noisily in the silence of the penthouse. The traffic whizzed some 30 floors below him and never raised so much as a whisper here. Even the occasional emergency vehicle that blared through failed to penetrate the silent cocoon of the condominium.
Lex's hand reached blindly for the lamp's switch and clumsily collided with the paper bag he had tossed there hours before.
His stomach burbled even more rudely.
With little thought, he picked up the paper bag and unrolled the top of it. A cloud of cinnamon, sugar and spice smells erupted and washed over him. For a moment, he lay with the bag on his chest, relishing the scents of home-cooked goodness. Inspiration stuck him and he fumbled for a moment and grabbed the phone resting on the bedside table.
He dialed and after several rings-the late night staff must asleep at the switch-a sleepily confused voice said "Room Service and Catering. How may I help you?"
"A half gallon of milk to the penthouse," Lex replied in clipped tones.
"Right away, sir!" the voice suddenly snapped to attention. "Will that be whole milk, chocolate, 2 or skim?"
Lex thought for a moment. "Whole. And a chilled glass."
"Right away, sir. Will there be anything else?"
Lex chuckled at the scrambling at the other end of the line as he hung up. The condominium building boasted a very reputable catering staff and room service-but Lionel had never seen the point in having any perishable items in a condo that was kept largely empty. If Lex had called from Smallville, the catering staff would have provided him with some basics for his stay-a gallon of milk, a container of juice, a loaf of bread, butter, a whatever amenities he wanted the apartment stocked with for his stay.
But, for right now, all he wanted was a big chilled glass of whole milk-which appeared in a credible 5 and half minutes after he called.
Lex hauled the paper bag and his milk into the dining room. Sitting at the head of the table, he tore open the bag to spread out his bounty.
Two oatmeal raisin cookies spilled to one side-a loose oatmeal covered raisin bounced and rolled off into the carpet. A chocolate chunk cookie-there was no way those were "chips"-squatted towards the other side of the ruined paper sack. Two gooey looking cream cheese bars were wrapped in wax paper and were stacked against a large Krispy Rice treat.
Lex picked up the first thing he touched-an oatmeal cookie and took a tiny nibble. Fattening, delicious, imperfect home cooked goodness filled his mouth and he took a swallow of milk. Before he knew it, he was reaching for a cream cheese bar, unwrapping it and relishing the graham cracker crust, the creamy sweet filling and the stripe of strawberry sauce layered in the middle. The chocolate cookie just begged to be eaten and Lex happily obliged, refilling his glass and licking the bits of chocolate chunk that melted at his fingertips. The other cream cheese bar-this one filled with a cinnamon-maple-brown sugar mix-was next, followed by half the remaining oatmeal cookie.
With a start, Lex glanced at the pitcher and realized there was only a puddle of milk left in the bottom. Tossing that into his glass, he sipped it slowly, wandering over to the huge French doors that led to the patio.
The gleaming Metropolis skyline winked back at him like a sequins. He could make out the darkened outline of the stadium, and could vaguely glimpse the spinning globe of the Daily Planet from here. Traffic-a trickle compared to the daylight hours-rushed past thither and yon.
This penthouse would probably go for a couple of million without the furnishings-and probably five or six million counting the original artwork and antiquities. His car was just over the one hundred grand mark and his suit was just over four hundred dollars, plus the two hundred fifty for the shoes and eighty for the silk shirt.
Clark Kent lived in a house that was worth at most ninety-five thousand (although the land was worth around two hundred and eighty-three, if sold all at once at fair market prices), drove his father's ten-year-old GMC pickup, and the most expensive thing he wore was a pair of thirty five dollar slacks that he wore to special events and the shoes that he had to order out of a magazine in order to get the correct size for eighty dollars.
Clark would be lucky if he ever saw one thin dime in profit from his farm where the penthouse had appreciated more than ninety-two percent since Lionel had bought it. Clark would probably end up inheriting the backbreaking work of the farm and he'd probably never leave Smallville permanently. Instead, he'd probably go to some local technical college and come back after Jonathon and Martha died. At best, he'd get as far as some lower-end desk job in Metropolis and have to take a steep loss on selling the farm.
Clark Kent was one lucky bastard.
Martha fixed home cooked meals and treats. Jonathon frequently spent time tossing a football with him, and had fixed a basketball hoop on the side of one of the smaller barns with a couple of long nails through the backboard. Martha fixed homemade lemonade and baked cookies and Jonathon had spent hours setting Clark up in the loft of the barn. There wasn't a single crisis that the Kents hadn't rallied together and come out of the stronger.
Lex grimaced. He and Lionel had a tenuous-at best-relationship. If a crisis arose, they slid around each other, dancing for a better position and advantage as if they were dodging a cracking ice flow. There was no telling what the final blow would be-when the slippery ice would finally snap beneath one or the other of them. There was no telling if the other one would plunge his hand into the icy depths to offer help or if the waters closing in overhead would only echo with mocking laughter.
Clark Kent was the luckiest bastard in the whole world...