A/N: Here is the final part to this fic. I would greatly appreciate any and all feedback on these stories.

Chapter 4

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March 13, 2005

She goes with Clark to visit Alicia's grave on the one month anniversary of her death, stands beside him while he mourns in a quiet self-contained way. He doesn't burst into tears or recite poems of eternal devotion, just stands there looking at her headstone, so far away Chloe might as well not be there at all.

"I know none of you could ever understand, but . . ." he inhales sharply, "she was special."

He doesn't say anything else.

She wants to tell him she does understand, more than he'll ever know. Wants to tell him she knows exactly how special Alicia was, how special he is. Tell him she understands what its like to love someone, to know they're more than the worst thing they've ever done. But she can't find the words.

It's been a month now, and she still hasn't found the words. A month of knowing and lying and losing little pieces of herself to this secret.

She looks down at Alicia's grave and silently curses the dead girl.

What gave you the right?! What gave you the right to force this on me?

It feels like some cosmic joke. She spent almost a year of her life chasing this in one form or another, trying to solve the mystery of Clark Kent as though it would somehow bring her closer to him. And when she'd finally left it behind, could honestly say she didn't care to know at all, it's dropped in her lap, a neatly gift-wrapped grenade just waiting to blow her world to shambles.

She wishes so many things were different, wishes Alicia hadn't died, had forced Clark's secret out in the open for all to share; wishes she'd died earlier before Chloe could learn things she didn't want to know. She wishes Clark hadn't stopped trusting Lex, wishes he'd never learned to trust her again.

But more than anything she wishes Lex couldn't read her so well.

She doesn't know why she thought she'd be able to keep this from him. The strange things that happen in Smallville have always been a shared obsession with them, and they can spend hours deconstructing the latest occurrence, taking it apart and examining it from every angle. Only now she has a few more pieces.

It only took him two weeks to notice the change. She'd been lying next to him in bed, tracing his most recent injury (she wants to cover him in bubble-wrap and keep him locked away), while he recounted yet another series of events where he should be dead but isn't, where Clark shouldn't really be involved but is. They've got this down to a routine, he posits one theory, she responds with another, but this time she's so busy being grateful to Clark for giving Lex back to her she misses her cue.

He goes still beneath her, swipes back a lock of hair with questing fingers and searches her face with too knowing eyes.

"What do you know, Chloe?" He tries to keep his tone light, his manner teasing, but it isn't and he's not. Unraveling Clark Kent is a compulsion with him, a quest for understanding and self-knowledge he doesn't know how to quit, and until now she's always been on his side.

But Clark has saved her life, and more importantly he's saved Lex, more times than she can count, and though she'd give Lex all of her this isn't her secret to tell.

So she lies.

And he knows it.

And it feels like something died.

They never talk about it. They can't because she'll deny there's even something to talk about. Still the knowledge is there and its killing them by inches.

She's trying to ignore it and he's trying to let it go, but they're not always successful, and every time she acts like she doesn't know anything, and he pretends he believes her, she can feel another brick in the wall going up between them.

If only she could blame it on him. On his stupid obsessive need for complete control, but she knows better. This is about loyalties and sides and deep-rooted insecurities neither one of them knows how to shed. About the fact that for all his money and power, Lex has lived his life as a consolation prize, successor to his father's empire by default, married to a woman who loved his money more than him, making his way in a town which accepts him only as the lesser evil.

He's makes her feel like she's everything—the lottery and Charlie's golden ticket and King Solomon's Mines all in one. She's supposed to return the favor, to want him more than anything. She's supposed to choose him first.

And he thinks she's choosing someone else.

I'm not.

She whispers the words in her mind that night as she fucks him. Even as she says other things with her mouth, "God" and "Yes" and "Harder" and "Lex", they all translate one way—You. I'm choosing you. And at the end when words have almost lost meaning and sense, she holds his gaze as she rides him to completion, willing him to understand what she can't explain. I'm choosing you. I'm being who you need me to be the only way I know how.

Still when he looks up at her in the afterglow, with something close to awe on his face, and whispers "I love you" with something like a plea in his voice, she knows it isn't enough.

For one beautiful, terrifying second Clark's secret is there on her tongue, and she's going to tell him. She's wanted to from the moment it happened, wanted to share this discovery and see his excitement, and now she can't think why she hasn't. It's so simple, so perfect. She'll tell him and prove how much she loves him. She'll tell him and he'll know he comes first.

She has to kiss him to stop herself.

I love you, too. I'm sorry.

Four days later she stops returning his calls (she tried to say goodbye a dozen times but it never came out). A week later he corners her in the alleyway behind the Talon, traps her against the wall with his body, and lays siege with his mouth until she breaks, starts returning his kisses with a passion that negates every lie she's about to tell.

When Lex pulls away its only to whisper one harsh raw word against her ear.

"Why?"

Because even now she still wants to tell him. Because if she stays with him she will.

Because she can't do that and be the Chloe he needs, the Chloe he loves. Because with all the sins she's committed, all the wrongs she's done, she can't add betrayal to the list. Because she's already used up her lifetime's allotment of forgiveness and now she has to be worthy of the grant.

Because. Because. Because.

There are a hundred good reasons she's doing this, and she knows none of them will be good enough for him. Right now they barely feel good enough to her. So she just closes her eyes against the tears, buries her face in the crook of his neck, and shakes her head.

"I'm not going to let you go."

"You can't keep me."

He's not threatening and she's not protesting. They're just stating facts, basic immutable truths that echo against the pavement and brick.

So here they are clinging to each other in this alleyway. And she thinks some part of them might be here forever, trapped in this purgatory between heaven and hell, together and not, desperately holding on to something already lost.

In the end, no one moves first, they just part, slip through each others fingers like smoke, transient and intangible and suffocating. He watches her go, stands in the shadows as she makes her way back to the well-lit entrance of the Talon. And though laughter and music spills into the alleyway, the noise of happiness rings hollow, so she can still hear the soft threat he whispers like a promise.

"I won't forgive him for this."

It's the closest they ever come to talking about Clark.

----

Present

He takes her from behind, braced against the windows of his office, lips at her shoulder, green silk rucked up to her waist, palms tangled on the glass that makes it feel as if they're on display for anyone to see.

No one can (he values his privacy too much). The windows are mirrored and the office is ten floors higher than any other building, but all the same he likes the illusion, likes the fantasy of everyone knowing, bearing witness to the reality of this moment.

Sometimes it feels as if they never happened. They've gotten so good at the pretense, at facing each other across the fault line of Clark Kent as uneasy adversaries, that he if didn't wake up nights hard and aching and reaching for her, if he didn't sometimes find himself standing in front of a window display staring blankly at a child's stuffed animal, if he didn't have his morning paper opened to the obituaries first, he could actually believe his time with Chloe was little more than a passing dream, a momentary delusion of his fractured mind.

But she's here with him now, pliant and breathless and real to the touch as he brings her to climax, holds her shuddering body against his own, and tries not to get drunk off the power.

"Lex . . ." He loves his name on her tongue, the combination of sated need and expectant desire and blind trust all in one rough syllable.

He wants the world to her see like this, wants to put her up on a pedestal and bring civilization to its knees before her. But she'd never stand for it, so he'll settle for second best.

"Open your eyes, Chloe," he whispers the command against the nape of her neck, as he eases the zipper of her dress down those last few excruciating centimeters he couldn't be bothered with the first time. And when she obeys, lifts heavy lids to gaze out at the lights of the city scattered before her like jewels, he releases the silk he's been holding captive against her breasts, follows it down to the floor to kneel before her like a supplicant.

All of Metropolis at her feet . . .

I could give you this. If you'd let me, I could give you everything.

She closes her eyes against the offer, and the message is implicit, No you can't.

He presses his forehead against her hipbone in defeat. No, he can't. He's known that since the moment she closed the door of the Talon, all those months ago. There's something she keeps by choosing Clark (he refuses to believe Kent actually gives her anything), some essential piece he'd never be able to replace for her. It doesn't make her happy, doesn't even make her content, but it makes her Chloe. And for that reason alone, he can't bring himself to blame her.

So he blames Clark instead, justifies terrible acts and ruthless pursuit, as no less than his erstwhile friend deserves. Well earned punishments for believing his secrets are precious enough to ruin lives and destroy hearts.

Almost as though she knows where his thoughts have strayed, she drops down beside him and presses a kiss his temple, recalling him to the here and now, where Clark Kent is nothing more than a disembodied voice on a disabled cell-phone, and Chloe is naked before him, body awash in the city lights—beautiful and perfect and his.

With the first rush of need now calmed into a steady current of desire, he splays her out on the carpet, determined to go slowly this time, reacquaint himself with every patch of skin and curve of muscle. Starts at her feet like any true supplicant, pays homage to delicate points of her ankles, says a devotional along the line of her calf, and takes his communion at the juncture of her thighs.

She writhes beneath his ministrations, murmuring obscenities and endearments in the same gasping breaths, growing more erratic, more insistent with each passing minute. "Lex . . . God. Fuck! Lex."

He knows what she wants, the same thing he does . . . more. More of his mouth on her, his fingers inside. More sensation and more feeling. Wants to be pushed over the edge into oblivion.

But what he wants is more time.

She's letting him have tonight and he's trying to make it eternity by sheer force of will.

So he ignores her pleas, takes his time bringing her to the precipice, letting her see the edge over and over, until they're both incoherent and desperate. Until he needs her now more than he wants her later.

Chloe surges up the moment he releases her to fumble for another condom. Attacks and lays waste to his shirt, shoving it down his shoulders, until its cuffing his wrists and she's got him imprisoned and at her mercy. (She could have saved herself the effort). "My turn to touch."

The promise alone is enough to make him lose his mind. The reality nearly ends him, and when she drags her fingernail along his pectoral, scratching her 'Mine' back over his heart as she sinks down on him, it snaps the final threads of his already frayed control.

He bites down hard on the curve of her neck.

Chloe's gasp could be pleasure or pain or some combination of both, but the hand that flies up to his head to hold him there is as unambiguous as the, "Yes," that follows.

She'll have a bruise there tomorrow, will have to wear turtlenecks and scarves for a least few days, maybe more. He loves the idea, lathes the spot with his tongue, and worries it with his teeth and thinks about sending her a cashmere scarf in spring green.

He wants to mark her everywhere, give her five new bruises. As if the fact they're made in love could erase each of the ones that weren't.

But there are some things you can't take back.

---

June 16, 2005

The doctors oppose moving her, detail her injuries to Lex, as though her medical fragility would somehow sway him. She could have told them to save their breath. Lex above all people knows what she can withstand—hypothermia, bruised ribs, contusion to her lower back—they're all minor, inconsequential.

He has a very competent medical staff prepared to care for her needs on his jet.

And no painkiller will take care of her broken heart.

So she lets him check her out. Take her home.

Like she knows where that is anymore.

Three months ago, home would have been here on this jet, in that hospital room . . . anywhere Lex was. But he reaches out to steady her when they hit turbulence, and she flinches away. And this jet feels like a prison.

"I suppose I deserve that." It could be an apology, but there's a bite of accusation in his voice. He still views himself as the injured party in this.

And maybe on some level he still is. But he's let his wounds fester, let the infection spread and poison him, until he's become something she barely recognizes.

An animal might lash out because its hurt, but that only makes it more dangerous. Not less.

Suddenly tired, overwhelmed at how irrevocably damaged everything is, how badly she's fucked everything up, Chloe sinks down in the chair across from him and draws her knees up to her chest like they might protect her.

She should have known Lex would react like this, should have known all she'd do was cause him to pursue his obsession with Clark's secrets and his own destiny, with more tenacity than before.

And maybe on some level she had, but she always thought she'd have more time. She'd thought she could make everything turn out so differently. Thought if she could just get Clark to trust her, see her as impartial, eventually she'd be able to get him to trust Lex, too. Thought she could be their bridge. Instead she's become the wedge, the thing driving them further apart.

"What do you want, Lex?"

"You."

It's such a simple request and so impossibly complicated, that she can't stop the little hiccup of bitter laughter in the back of her throat. Unconsciously she rubs the spot on her left arm that just two days ago had been decorated with bruises in shape of his fingers, only realizing what she's doing when his eyes follow her gesture. "You have a funny way of showing it."

Lex looks away at that. "I suppose I've made it impossible."

He has, but not for the reason he thinks, and there's plenty of blame to go around. "You're not the only one."

It doesn't soothe him the way she thought it would. Instead he's off his feet and across the cabin, obviously wishing for his library, for the space that allows him grand gestures of anger without physical violence. As it is, he's coiled so tightly, she's afraid he might shake apart, finds herself pressing back against the seat, just trying to get out of the way of the shrapnel.

"Is this really what you want, Chloe?"

No, its not what she wants at all. But its what she can live with. What allows her to look at herself in the mirror every morning. And there's no way to explain any of that to him, without betraying Clark in the first place. So instead she answers the other question, the one that hangs unspoken between them.

Why won't you choose me?

"It's not about not loving you enough. If anything its because I love you too much." It's the truth. Loving Lex is like breathing. An unconscious involuntary act she'll repeat for as long as she lives.

He drops his head and sighs, "What am I supposed to do with that?"

She honestly doesn't know. Doesn't have the first damn clue what they do now. "Move on. You have to move on, Lex."

The moment she says the words, she knows its wrong. Lex goes still, so rigid he might shatter at the slightest touch, and then abruptly he shakes his head once, rejecting the premise. "No. I don't."

More than anything those three words scare her. There's a steely resolve in them, like he's making solemn oaths and sacred vows, pledging away his life to bitterness and destruction and she doesn't know what to say to stop it.

Lex has declared war, and Clark doesn't even know why.

And she's trapped on the wrong side.

And in that moment she realizes something. Loving Lex might be like breathing, but a person can learn to hold their breath.

Over the next few months with Lex's actions and Lionel's help she learns to hold it longer and longer, sometimes manages to stop for minutes on end.

-----

Present

She dresses with the dawn, stands by the windows and watches the sun turn the city gold. He phones for coffee and she lets him, but they both know he's just postponing the inevitable.

Sure enough, when he comes over she doesn't smile at him. Doesn't look at him at all. They stand there watching the sunrise, daybreak and new beginnings, and it feels like an ending instead.

"This wasn't a mistake," he argues against her silence.

She sighs and slumps against the glass. "That doesn't mean it can happen again." Then almost to herself, "I can't do this again."

"Is being with me that terrible?" He tries to make it a joke, but part of him is deadly serious, because honestly he doesn't know. Maybe its better for her with someone gentler, someone who doesn't have this insane need to claim her, to keep her, to fuck her in front of the city and mark her as his own.

As though her thoughts have followed his, Chloe trails her fingertips over the bite-mark on her neck in a way that's almost affectionate and undeniably erotic. Shaking her head, she replies, "No. That's always been the easy part. It's the leaving that's hard."

"So don't."

"Lex . . ."

Its a futile argument, a last ditch attempt, but he's a fighter and there's never been anything in his life more worth fighting for. "Just stay with me for the weekend."

"And then you'll want a week, and then a month, and then what a year? Two years?"

"Forever. I want forever."

She jerks her head away like he's slapped her. "I can't."

"No." Grabbing her arm, he spins her back around to face him, "You just won't." Too late he realizes what he's doing, how tightly he's holding on, giving her a fresh new set of bruises to match the old. Abruptly he releases her and spins away, grabbing onto the edge of his desk instead.

"You have to let me go."

They've had this argument before. It's tired and chewed over and the result is never going to change. She's the one good thing in his life, and he'll be damned if he gives up on it. "No. I don't."

"You do." Her voice has gone desperate and pleading, speaking to a part of him that should be long buried if he didn't keep digging it up every time he's within ten feet of Chloe. "It's killing you, Lex, eating you alive. You're holding on so tight you're strangling everything inside you that I love."

He can feel her behind him, her breath on his neck, her body close to his, can feel the truth of her concern. But it doesn't matter, because it changes nothing. Because she'll still be gone. And she might leave him empty, but he refuses to let her leave him weak. So he thinks back to those emails and what they mean, thinks about Clark getting her smiles and her hugs, about some anonymous college freshman getting her body, and his father getting her words, and all he's left with is love she's trying to transmute into something else.

"Well that should be convenient for you."

The bitterness in his voice makes her wince and the hand she'd been reaching out to him stalls, as though the walls he's throwing up have become physical. Impenetrable barriers separating them once again. She hates those walls, hates that's she responsible for at least some of them, wants to smash them, break through, tear them down, leave him open to someone again, even if its not her, even if she has to batter herself against them to do it.

"What are you doing with Lana?" The question is quiet. Tentative and tired. She scared of the answer. Whether its the one she expects or the one she doesn't, either way its going to hurt.

The question makes him turn, and the look he gives her is challenging. "We're just friends," With a quirk of his lips he adds, "Like you and Clark."

She flinches at that, at the implications and accusations in those words. So its what she thought. Lex is striking out, with poetic symmetry and his own twisted sense of justice. "Taking her from Clark isn't going to change anything."

Walking back over to her, he reaches out to brush the bruise on her neck. "Tell him I'm willing to negotiate a trade."

Despite the implacability of his words, his touch isn't quite impersonal, and she sucks in a startled breath as all the electricity comes back with frightening rapidity. Closes her eyes in shame as she realizes a little part of her is glad, is happy this is about them. Lex is working to destroy Lana and Clark's relationship out of no real emotion but spite, and she can't help but be a little bit pleased he's still entirely hers. Fighting the feeling, she forces herself to ask, "Do you at least like her?"

"She's not you." He says it like its an answer. And maybe it is. But she doesn't know whether its a point for or against, whether he needs the space or hates the distance.

She wants to tell him not to do this, not for Clark or Lana, but for him, because he deserves better, deserves to love someone who will love him back.

But he already does and look what that got him.

So here they are, just where they've always been and there's nothing she can say or do to fix it, to make it better or make it right. Maybe this is fate or maybe that's just a cheap way not to take responsibility for her own stupidity and selfishness. She doesn't know.

It doesn't change anything anyways.

So for once she just lets herself do what she wants. Holds his face in her hands, pulls his mouth to hers. Kisses him in a way she hasn't in a long time, soft and sweet and lingering. One good memory he can keep in his pocket and she can tuck under her pillow. A talisman against the coming storm.

And then because she doesn't want to screw it up, wants this to be the way he remembers her, she walks away.

He stays perched against his desk long after she's gone, staring at her fingerprints on the window and trying to figure out how long he can keep the janitorial staff from cleaning them.

Four months later he kisses Lana in his library and thinks of Chloe standing there earlier in the day, of her parting words. If you hurt my friend there will be consequences and you're looking at her. She meant it as a threat and he took it as a promise.

You have to let me go.

No, he doesn't.

He'll keep her anyway he can.

He deepens the kiss.

Do you hate me, yet?

I'm working on it.

End