Dress My Face In Stone
A/N: Really sorry for the delay with this. I sort of gave up on it. Well, I totally did. I had this chapter written years ago *whistles innocently* and then used part of it for another fic in another account, and then deleted that in a fit of annoyance, and then realised the idea just wasn't going to leave me alone until it's all out.
And now real life has impacted, but I'm going to slowly try and finish all my unfinished stuff. So bear with me, there will be an end, but it might take another year, because I'm super busy.
(ii)
Lex Luthor liked to think that he was an observant kind of fellow, but never in his years of carefully watching his father had he fully comprehended how long his sire had sat behind a desk on the phone. Arching his shoulders and shifting the handset to his other hand, Lex looked longingly over at the sofa and the flickering firelight, longing to curl up with a damn good book and ignore the blathering fool on the end of the phone line.
"Look, Dr. Carpathian. It's three am in the morning. I'm sure your reports can wait one more day, and I doubt your wife can."
Hearing the tinny shriek from the other end of the line, Lex twisted his hand, hitting disconnect with a sigh of relief. The word wife raised a twisting feeling in his stomach for a second, and he let it go, feeling the throb of the scar on his back caused by the crash with the same internal anguish as he had the last three hundred and twenty-four days.
"That was a little melodramatic even for you, Mr. Luthor."
The smooth tones floating crisply through the dusk-soaked office made Lex jerk up quickly, distrust and fear darkening his eyes. Surreptitiously his hand slid under the desk, fingering the comforting edges of the security button.
"And sneaking up into my office uninvited isn't?" Lex stood up fluidly, keeping one hand on the edge of the desk after pressing the button, knowing his gun was nearby. He looked at the figure standing there. However much he wouldn't normally turn down a pretty girl in his office, he was damned tired and pretty damned crotchety. In his experience these things didn't translate to anything resembling 'great'. She was pretty, probably a doctor by the way her dark hair was swept away from her face, and the harsh hairstyle that normally made most women look unflattering seemed to soften her face.
Dark hair, pretty and a doctor. Instantaneous distrust for them from Lex these days.
Nervous brown eyes looked up from him above slightly pouting crimson lips, a nicely-cut mauve suede suit that she managed to pull off, tan panty hose and black high heels. She had a brown folder and a small black box tucked under her arm that she was clutching tightly, as if her life or sanity depended on it. "I've called security by the way."
The woman shrugged. "They had to let me in." She reached into one perfectly tailored pocket and brought out a badge. Lex managed to catch the FBI logo on it before she put it back carefully into her pocket.
"Nice fake," Lex lied, assuming his poker face. "You've gone to extremely great trouble to get here, Ms…"
"Sandy. Dr. Sandy Evans."
"A doctor?" Lex pretended to look surprised. "I'll give you two minutes before I have security come in and escort you out, Doctor."
A small frown appeared on her pretty face, and Lex winced inwardly. His dislike of doctors, albeit irrational, had continued since Helen's betrayal. Especially the pretty, determined ones. They were the ones you couldn't trust.
"Well, then," Sandy said easily, as if he hadn't fazed her at all. "I'm here about some readings my research company picked up a few months ago. We're researching adverse effects of the meteor shower thirteen years ago. You may have heard of us."
Of course Lex had, and Lex knew Sandy knew he knew. "Yes, of course. Dalton labs. I'd heard your research wasn't going well."
Sandy shifted edgily, her dark eyes flickering uneasily around Lex's office. "I was in Smallville the time of the meteor strike, and we have evidence of… an allergic reaction that has affected five people so far. Now, two years ago there was a spike of the energy that we now know is the… signature spike. It seems to come up in those who are also allergic. We tracked down the signal, to the day and time, and place, and have finally come up with the people present at that time. You, and a Mr. Clark Kent." She looked amused. "A car accident, or so I'm told."
Lex stared at her, Clark's name swimming in his head for a moment, causing that rush in his belly that part of the Kent mystery might come clear, then it all lurched away, and he felt sick. "That sounds rather vague on your part, Dr. Evans. I presume you have the evidence to back it up, and perhaps a more technical explanation too."
Sandy flushed. "Sorry. Mr. Luthor. I'm used to explaining myself to people of less… intellect than yourself." She stepped forwards delicately, as if he were a lion in the cage, and slid forwards the brown folder. "Have your scientists look over it if you like."
Lex nodded. "So. Why are you here? Why didn't you just send it to me?"
"Two reasons. One - I need you to take me seriously, take this seriously. Secondly - I'd like to test you. If you are not the infected one, I'll have to assume Mr. Kent is."
Lex made a sound in the back of his throat. "Sure. What do you need me to do?"
Sandy placed the box on his desk and stepped back to the middle of the room. Lex watched her progress with one raised eyebrow, and was relieved when he saw Antoine, his main security man, shuffling in the dark recesses of the room. "Open the left side of the box and touch the fragment of meteor within. I'd do it myself, but as a sufferer of this malady myself…"
She left it hanging. Feeling as if he was about to open a Jack-in-the-Box and have a grotesquely painted clown face spring up and leer at him, Lex gingerly opened the left compartment of the box and stretched out a hand to touch the meteor fragment. As usual, when his fingers brushed the smooth green crystalline rock, nothing happened. His skin reflected the incandescent green, and he flickered a glance up to Sandy. The petite doctor was looking a little frightened, and Lex recognised the expression. It was an expression the nine-year-old Lex wore around bees and wasps. Having a potentially devastating reaction to their stings, he'd been mortally afraid of them for years, and unwittingly he felt sympathy for Sandy Evans.
"Now close that side and open the right hand side," Sandy directed, now looking a little less sure of herself as she gripped the side of one of Lex's leather settees.
Lex nodded and opened the right, glancing at the red meteor fragment in surprise. "You managed to salvage some of the red meteor rock?"
Sandy nodded and stepped forwards. Was it Lex's imagination or did she suddenly look a bit more confident? Snapping the box shut, Lex looked at her questioningly, fighting the urge to yawn.
"Yes. We have some other samples. I'd be willing to send some over, for a small price of course."
"Of course," Lex agreed blithely.
"Research is expensive work after all." She looked faintly disappointed that he wasn't allergic to the meteor rocks.
"I don't suppose you know the side-effects of the meteor rocks on those affected?"
Sandy nodded. "The green seems to cause physical pain. The red… Well…" She winced. "It has a similar effect to the Nicodemus flowers that took over Smallville twenty months ago. Makes you lose all inhibitions."
Lex just about managed to restrain the gasp, but knew from Sandy's amused quirky smile that his slightly constipated expression must have given him away.
"Does that explain much?" Sandy asked, her head tilted on one side.
Lex nodded slowly. "You could say that."
"Thank you for your time," Sandy said, with a brief semi-curtsy. Lex realised she must have been in a thousand of these meetings – and knew when the rich and bored were going to refuse to elaborate on some points, and he briefly admired her observational skills. Knowing when to cut and run was extremely helpful in his business.
"I suppose you're going to go find Mr. Kent," Lex said smoothly, almost disinterestedly, as he fingered the brown folder she'd left on his desk. Flicking through the graphs and results, he was surprised, and had to fight to let it show.
"Yes," Sandy said, then clocked Lex's expression. "Why?"
"He's out of town at the minute," Lex said. "A business trip to Gotham City with Bruce Wayne."
He watched Sandy for her reaction, and was relieved to see her surprised. If she had known Clark was out of Smallville, he would have kept his suspicious level on high as she must have had some ulterior motive. But her surprise relieved him somewhat. Not enough for him to trust her too much, though.
"So unless you have a fake Rich Billionaires Club membership card," Lex said, casually, "then I suppose I'll have to accompany you there."
And despite his distrust of her because of her profession, her look of open-mouthed-socked-in-the-gut surprise mellowed his qualms of too much subterfuge on her part. But if she does have an ulterior motive for searching out Clark, Lex thought, while smiling cat-like at Sandy, you're hardly one to talk.
"We'll leave tomorrow at eleven o' clock sharp," Lex said, then fell silent, dismissing her with his eyes. He watched as she left, his expression unreadable.
-----
In his dreams, he's on the bike again. Adrenaline surges through his veins, thrilling up and down his body in waves that sweep him away to the horizon and back again. Feeling the effects of red Kryptonite, Clark is able to feel it take hold of his body for a little while, and after that he doesn't care. He lets his foot press down hard on the gas, speeding away along the route at nearly one-fifty k, the wind ruffling his hair in the daredevil style of motorbike owners who rode without a helmet.
Smallville swims away from him in the background, becoming a tiny dot on the horizon, and he drives and drives until the petrol in his tank runs out. He refills and runs from a tiny gas station, not paying, probably ruining the owner for the month, but at this time he doesn't give a damn, it's a dream, isn't it? And he's a murderer, in all but the actual act of striking his to-be-sibling, and with the rush of the Kryptonite it all seemed somehow clearer.
Destroying the ship couldn't destroy all the danger to Earth. He has to destroy all of the Kryptonian influence. Kryptonite, any evidence of the language, and the last of his kind.
The last son.
Himself.
The red Kryptonite obviously enhanced all destructive feelings as he drives along. Clark recalls in this dream the powerful urge to end it all, end it all wherever he can. Nothing can kill him, but maybe falling to the bottom of the ocean would be enough.
With that in mind, he's ditching the bike and running. Running faster and faster, Clark hits the coastline faster than he would have by road. The unnatural surges of hormones pushes his talent further, he's running so fast it was almost like flying down the road.
He wants to jump, wants to fly down to the bottom of the ocean to stay as long as possible before eternity claims him, the darkness swallowing the monster he'd been born to become, had he not seen the aeroplane pitching towards the sea.
Something inside him kicks in, suicidal instincts or whatever, the instinct to do something heroic, something big, something he can exploit afterwards. In his dream, he copies exactly what he did in person – swam out to the plane, and catching the single figure that tumbled out of it a few metres from the air before the plane pitched into the water and blew up.
Even in the dream world, Clark can still feel the fire scorch along his face.
Except, now the figure is not the thankful but prone form of a terrified businessman, but a tumble of red hair, a small innocent face, dark eyes blinking up at him, wide. Small. A baby.
You killed me, it says, you killed me. Its mouth opens wide, a toothless gaping hole into eternity, and starts to scream.
-----
Biting down hard on his pillow, Clark managed to wake up without letting loose the painful yell that writhed in his chest, clawing to get loose. He'd caused enough disturbances in the household already last summer to want to bring Alfred to his room.
Saving Lex out there, in the middle of nowhere, had brought Clark out of his Red Kryptonite stupor. His hero complex, as Lex so eloquently tagged it as, worked even when his inhibitions were stupendously clouded. The surge of pure adrenaline had given him just that small amount of clarity to save his friend.
But the adrenaline had not lasted long enough. He'd saved Lex, but the Red Kryptonite had so much hold on him that he hadn't saved Lex in time – Lex had been injured. And Clark had just dumped him off at the house of a surprised suburban housewife, and swanned off for Metropolis.
The adrenaline-break in the influence of the Red Kryptonite had done something to him, though. It didn't work in the same way any more. So he'd turned to other ways to get the buzz. Sex, first, had sort of worked, but as it turned out, danger was the real way that Clark ticked.
And when he was completely off the Red Kryptonite – Bruce's fault, of course – he realised that none of that had left him. Danger was still how he ticked.
Leaving him, effectively, an addict.
Although they don't exactly do group meetings for Dangerholics Anonymous, he thought wryly, stretching lithely, even though he wore little, and Bruce's closed-circuit television camera whirred as it focussed on him. Clark hadn't needed the Red Kryptonite so much after a while, because doing what he'd been doing… well, if Clark had to try and explain it to his parents (and oh how much he didn't want to have to do that) he'd probably explain it by just saying he'd lost a couple of inhibitions in his last summer vacation.
Like nudity. And especially public nudity. And if there was a sexual inhibition he still possessed, Clark decided he wanted to be informed of it.
Clark sighed, and decided to go back to sleep.
-----
"Master Bruce would like to see you now, young Master Kent," a voice comes from the doorway, startling Clark into being awake. He stretches languidly, and smiles at Alfred, who throws him some pants, a stiff but sort of approving smile, and then taps his watch. "He says he'll see you in the training room in fifteen seconds."
Clark arches a surprised eyebrow, sleepily unfolds the pants, and then realises Alfred said seconds.
"Seconds?" Clark yawns in a gasp.
"Seven of them left, sir," Alfred says, good-naturedly standing to one side as Clark tornadoes past him into the training room, deep in the building, a good distance away from Clark's room. Clark literally skids to a halt and grins goofily at Bruce, who shakes his head.
"To think I almost picked you up to shake off the rumours of me liking only teenage boys," Bruce says, rolling his eyes. Clark smiles, gnat-like, and then looks around. The place amazes him. Large, but simple; with a variety of apparatus on the ground and up high to leap around, jump on, swing from, anything. Clark thinks of a few interesting possibilities with some of the more interestingly shaped apparatus, especially on one cactus shaped one, and then he gets a mental flash of pale skin and lavender material and shakes it away.
Clark knew a long time ago he only got a crush on Lex because Lex is the most dangerous person he knows, and even if Lex did- if maybe the constant parade of murderous wives was just a show- well, if Lex ever responded like Clark used to think he might- Clark knows it wouldn't be fair. He would just be with Lex for the danger of it, not for the love of him. Clark knows enough about wrong and right by now to understand that.
"You're thinking too much," Bruce says, and lunges. Clark reacts instinctively, rolling to the side and hiding behind a tall climbing thing. The large katana that Bruce was wielding clangs harmlessly off the floor. "And thinking like a human."
"There's a first time for everything," Clark replies glibly.
"Bad cliché – after the lesson, I want a hundred lines – 'I must not speak so boringly'."
Clark knows from years of school the one thing you should never do was provoke a teacher during the first lesson in the morning. "You know that'll take me three seconds," he says. Clarks knows it, yes, but Clark doesn't always put what he knows into practise.
"A hundred lines carved in marble, then," Bruce says. "Close your eyes."
"Ah, the Bat-Man's leather fetish has its roots in a sexual kink after all," Clark says, earning him a narrowed glance before he closes his eyes. He tenses, waiting for Bruce to hit him while he's blind, and then remembers oh yeah he's not blind after all. He squints, setting off his x-ray vision, but Bruce isn't prowling around him attempting to hit him – he's putting a blindfold on Clark, like that would really…
Clark's x-ray vision splutters and folds like a television image disappears when you hit the power off button. Disorientated, it takes him a while to realise – there's kryptonite in the blindfold. Not enough to make him too sick and not enough to make him weak, just enough to make him blind in both senses – must be a tiny amount that normally wouldn't do much at all.
Clark flexes and discovers the kryptonite only really affects his sight and hearing and his sight and hearing related powers. So he stops still and listens – even though his super hearing is gone, he still has regular hearing, and it's all that saves him as Bruce yanks the katana out of the floor and swings it at Clark. He dodges just in time, hearing the whistle, and the clang as the blade hits another piece of apparatus.
The battle begins in earnest and ends only when Clark gets a stitch, so he takes off the blindfold to see the katana in pieces on the floor, and Bruce holding his hands between his knees.
"I didn't get out of the way fast enough, did I?" Clark says.
Bruce whistles between his teeth, and Alfred hurries over with a hypodermic needle full of something or other and quickly and proficiently stabs Bruce with it.
"And that katana was worth a lot, wasn't it?" Clark follows up with.
The whistling gets lower.
"Ah," Clark says in conclusion.
-----
To be continued