Lex turns his head, hitches his breath at the sharp, shifting ache on his face. There's a pillow beneath his cheek, a vaguely familiar Matisse on the wall, and a blanket of darkness outside the windows. He's probably in one of the guest bedrooms. "How long was I out?"
"Who were those guys, Lex?" Clark asks, anger warring with confusion on his face, colored through with worry. But it isn't Clark at all; it's Superman. Lex wishes there wasn't a such a mortal difference between the two.
"Oh, we're back to using first names? I didn't get the memo." Lex pushes himself onto his elbows. The world stutters around him, skips a beat, and Superman gently presses him back down. "To what do I owe the honor?"
"Tell me what's going on," Superman orders, straightening. The heat of his hand hasn't left Lex's chest.
Lex wants to close his eyes and wake up somewhere else, preferably alone, or possibly in a universe where they are two completely different people having a completely different conversation.
Superman is scowling, but he must read something in Lex's face that concerns him. He relaxes into a regular frown. "Are you all right? That was a pretty hard hit."
Now you're asking? Lex thinks scathingly. "Don't you have a pair of would-be assailants to incarcerate?"
"It's taken care of." Superman's face is unreadable, but then he shifts his weight: a rare hallmark from the old days, when Clark could lie to you with his whole face but never quite mask the guilty language of his body.
Lex snorts. "Overzealous isn't your color."
"Lex," he says again, and that name, that voice—he can almost pretend they're kids again, like in the dream. Before the lies built up between them like rot, before dishonesty eroded their friendship from the inside out. "What did they want from you?"
"What do you think?" Lex snaps, more than ready for this conversation to be over. "Is it so hard to believe that some people just want my money?"
"So this isn't about the—arc reactor?"
Lex frowns. "The renewable energy project? Why would it be?"
"Iron Man is a hero and Tony Stark is a good man," Superman argues, like Lex might actually disagree. "Why is he working with you? "
"That's what this is about?" Lex demands, incredulous. "You pulled your big hero routine and sequestered me in a spare room so you could grill me about Tony Stark?"
Superman looks taken aback.
"Were you watching me sleep? Does Mercy even know I'm here?" Lex shouts. "Never mind. Go away."
Superman takes a stiff step back. "I'm not an idiot. I know something's up, and I'm going to find out what."
"Go. Away."
Superman goes.
Later, it isn't the dream that keeps him awake for hours. It isn't even the matter of Clark barging into his life like the old days, which shakes loose more than a few difficult memories.
It's the question, insidious and sick, of whether or not he meant to wait until Lex was knocked out before coming to his rescue.
"So I just had an interesting visitor. How is your face? Are you disfigured? Has it healed yet?"
"Good morning, Tony," Lex sighs.
"Were you just not going to tell me? Your boyscout's incredibly cut, by the way."
Lex's temper flares. He ignores whatever Tony's trying to fish around for about Cl—about Superman. "Tell you about w hat? The not-at-all unusual event of an attempt on my life? How about you? Have you received any death threats today that I should be made aware of?"
"Don't be a dick," Tony says flatly. "Are you in bed?"
Lex crushes his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. "No. I'm at the office," he says pointedly, "working."
"Did you see a doctor?"
Lex pauses, staring sightlessly at his laptop. It is quickly becoming apparent that he won't get any work done until Tony is satisfied. "Yes. No lasting damage. Are we finished?"
"Text me a photo," Tony demands.
"Goodbye," Lex says.
"If you don't, I'll have to come over and see for myself."
Lex pulls the phone away from his ear and glares at it angrily. Then he minimizes the phone conversation to take a selfie.
"Happy?" He growls after it's sent.
In the silence that follows, Lex can hear strange, mechanical sounds over the line—soft hums and faint chirps, a series of stilted, automatic beeps.
"Are you in pain?" Tony asks quietly.
Lex swallows at the unexpected concern in Tony's voice. There are people in his employ that manage his comfort and safety with a ruthless efficiency that is entirely worth their massive salaries. Genuine care for his well-being, however, is not something Lex typically experiences.
"I know it looks ugly," he says at last, "but it's not really that bad. The swelling has gone down and you won't even be able to see the cut in a few days. The only really tender spot is the heart-shaped bruise on the—on my cheekbone. The rest is superfluous."
"Okay. Okay," Tony says. "Call me when you're done working."
Lex does not call Tony when he's done working. Lex leaves his office around seven, changes into something comfortable and chic, and club-hops until he forgets his own name.
It's never a problem—everyone always knows exactly who he is.
He doesn't remember much after a pretty girl in a red dress sinks her nails into his neck; only that she has soft hair and sweet-smelling skin, and kisses him like they're on the set of Titanic. He isn't sure he's ever met a woman who could fake wanting him so convincingly, and solemnly promises to make her night worthwhile in every conceivable manner.
The problem is that, instead of drunkenly fumbling them up to his penthouse, Lex finds himself on the other side of the city, standing outside the old Cadmus labs, hunched over and cold and very much alone. The wind scythes through his light clothing, slinks beneath it like wet fingers, and his scalp prickles from the chill.
He doesn't remember coming here, if he drove or if he took a cab; he doesn't remember what happened to his pretty companion. He's sure he hasn't slept, so the feeling of coming awake coupled with the bonelessness of alcoholic exhaustion slowly chips away at the edges of his awareness. He could be dying in a gutter; he could be mindless in a cell at Belle Reve; he could be a snake dreaming of life as a dragon. It's not as though he'd know the difference.
Lex sighs, banishing the thoughts. Real or otherwise, he can work only with what he has.
His keycard lets him through a more sophisticated security system than an unused property should generally warrant. The complex is deserted and dark, and he picks his way through to the elevators by the light of his cellphone.
The smooth descent into the lower levels echoes distantly in the empty space, and Lex does not think; and does not think; and does not think. His glossy black shoes carry him by rote to the restricted test facilities furthest from the surface, from Metropolis and Superman, from the burden of the mantle of Lex Luthor.
The only sounds are the low rumble of a new, lethally powerful generator and the watery vibrations of oxygenated fluid. The only light in the room is a splash of bright teal staining the brushed-steel walls and floor.
Lex studies the stasis chamber for a long time. With access to a stronger and more consistent power source, the subject within has already reached adolescence. He places his palm against the glass, directly over the etched Kr, and tries to feel a human connection to the DNA suspended before him.
Then he slides to his knees, sets his phone alarm for four-thirty—two hours from now—and pillows his head on his arms.
It might have been love, or it might have been something else entirely. Regardless, between the black eyes and cracked bones—between Clark's violent, alien reactions to alien materials and his general propensity for disaster—between Clark's admiration and faith, his judgement and distrust—all Lex has ever wanted a piece of him that would last.
Lex has allowed the erosion of affection, the grimy buildup of mistrust and, later, abhorrence. But that doesn't mean he didn't take everything he could get.
Lex doesn't hear from Tony for the next week, but he catches glimpses of Clark and Superman both, peripherally, enough that he's gone beyond suspicion into healthy paranoia. Clark dogs him to all three of his media events, asking pointed questions about arc technology and the new power grid, tedious and completely unrelated to the topic at hand. Additionally, there seems to be an ever-present splash of red and blue outside of Lex's office window, though he never gets a clear look.
Thursday afternoon, he picks up his phone.
"What," Tony says shortly.
"What did he tell you," Lex asks.
Tony makes an incredulous sound over the line. "Oh, now you're interested. Painkillers finally kick in?"
"Did he tell you not to contact me?"
"Lex," Tony huffs, "The first thing I did was contact you."
Lex presses his forehead into his palm and closes his eyes.
"You doing all right? How's your face, are you pretty again?"
Lex snorts. "Everything's fine, Tony." Then he pauses, trying to put together the words he needs for the thing he wants. It would be easier if he had any idea where to begin on either front.
"Hey, so. That antique shop still around? Wanna go check it out this weekend?" Tony asks lightly, bypassing the issue of Lex's frustration and loneliness like it's nothing, like he's known all along or like he doesn't even mind it. Like he still considers them friends.
"I think so," Lex says slowly. "What time were you thinking?"
"I'll pick you up tomorrow."
"Tony—"
"Nine. Take the day off. We can have breakfast."
Lex has a conference call with the Russian prime minister at nine. He's rescheduled once already. "Sunday?"
"That is too many days from now," Tony says. "Ten?"
"I can probably clear my schedule for lunch," Lex compromises.
"Not good enough," Tony says flatly. "Unless you clear everything after lunch, too. And stay out of the office this weekend."
Lex waits.
"I have a surprise for you," Tony adds.
"You're relentless," Lex tells him, when what he means is exhausting and fantastic.
"I'm told it's my worst quality. See you tomorrow."
"Tony," Lex says, very clearly and slowly the next afternoon. "From whom did you steal this child."
"Harley, meet Lex," Tony says, tilting his sunglasses up. "He's also a mechanic. Mostly. Not as cool as me, though."
Lex presses his lips together.
"Does he always look like that?" The child called Harley asks curiously, his hair bright blond over brighter eyes. Tony's dressed him in a long-sleeved Iron Man t-shirt, because he is self-aggrandizing and egomaniacal.
"Mostly, but you get used to it," Tony says. "Lunch?"
The child called Harley, Lex puts together very quickly, is named for his mother. He is brilliant, contemplative, and enthusiastic. He has a lot to say, and between him and Tony, Lex can't manage to get a word in edgewise.
"Gotta pee, can you diagram the working model?" Harley asks. "I can't find one online."
"Yeah, someone keeps killing the guys who try to patent it." Tony says, reaching for a pen. When Harley leaves, Lex grabs Tony sharply by the elbow.
"Are you out of you mind," he hisses, low and serious.
Tony stiffens. "That obvious, huh?"
"To anyone with eyes who's ever been to Gotham," Lex snaps. "Do you think no one's going to come looking for him? Do you think he isn't?"
"I don't think he knows," Tony says quietly. "And since the kid was at a friend's house when they busted her—"
"Someone tipped them off," Lex says. "Someone knows. Quinzel's been under the radar for—what, eight years? Nine?"
Tony's mouth twists. "Ten. They aren't looking for him, Lex. They got Quinzel and Harley's little sister—"
"Jesus," Lex swears, trying not to imagine a terrified little girl watching as her mother is dragged away by a SWAT team.
"—but her dad's still alive, came to pick her up as soon as they called. I mean, I thought the guy was a deadbeat for walking out on his wife and kids, but if he was married to that lunatic—"
Lex tunes Tony out, fits the pieces together. Manhandles it into making sense just as Harley starts back over to them from the restrooms.
"He doesn't know who his real father is," Lex says.
"He doesn't know there's a real father to know about." Tony's lips flatten into a thin line, his fingers loose as he doodles on the napkin. He doesn't meet Lex's eyes.
"That's. That's not a hydrogen engine, Tony," Harley frowns when he joins them, up on his knees on the chair and leaning over the table. "That's a frowny face."
"Sometimes," Tony says testily, "things look like other things."
"But you gave it eyebrows," Harley points out matter-of-factly. "Mean ones."
Over the course of the next several hours—after they finish lunch, Tony insists on visiting the Museum of Science and Industry—Lex comes, very slowly, to a significant realization.
It starts with Tony and Harley bickering like little kids, except while also having complicated technical conversations and Tony talking to Harley like he's just a really tiny adult, rather than an innocent ten-year-old.
It ends with Harley falling asleep after dinner, in the back of Lex's car. Mercy is carefully expressionless when Tony asks her for her jacket.
"You can't keep him, Tony," Lex finally says. Tony's just tucking the severe military collar around Harley's neck. The kid's out like a light.
"The fuck I can't," Tony says. "He's—"
Lex waits, but Tony doesn't say anything else. He stands with his shoulders slumped, half under a streetlight, while the limo idles and Harley sleeps in the backseat. While Lex watches him without expression.
"Lex," Tony whispers. "What will happen if I don't?"
Lex closes his eyes and allows himself to imagine.
Worst case scenario, the ranks of supervillainy swell by one crucial number. And Tony goes around looking like he's lost a limb.
"You're absolutely sure," Lex says softly.
"She was using a forged birth certificate," Tony says. "Enough to get through school in Buttfuck, Tennessee, but it wouldn't've held up for a passport or a driver's license. There are no official records of him anywhere—no hospitals, no medical files, no social security card or state IDs. I checked," he says firmly. "And then I, ah. Erased his school records."
Lex exhales very slowly. "If you can wait until Wednesday, I'll have my people work up the documentation. I'm not sure how you'll want to handle the adoption or the resulting press frenzy, but once he has a new social security card, you can enroll him in one of the accelerated programs at—uhghck."
"Thanks," Tony says, his arms tight around Lex's waist for the barest instant, his face pressed against Lex's briefly enough that it might never have happened. "From a superhero to an antivillain. Sincerely. Thanks." Then he's looking into the limo again, his hands nervous, his face determined.
You're welcome, Lex tries, but the words won't fit around pressure in his throat. So he just nods, even though Tony isn't looking at him.
