"Bedtime for boy scouts," I thought to myself, nothing both Clark's exhaustion and my own eagerness to start the next phase. I'd cooked him dinner which he nibbled at politely.
"Clark, you look exhausted, you should go to bed." I hold up a hand at his look of protest. "I know, you don't think you'll sleep but at least it will be some rest."
"I guess so."
Pleased that he'd continued to follow my lead, I went over to him and put my hand under his arm. "Now." I said, mock-sternly. "Lex knows best."
"Uhm, where will you sleep?"
I'd hoped that he'd suggest that I sleep in his parents' bed, a symbol that he was starting to replace their role in his life with me, but naturally I couldn't suggest it myself. "Living room sofa looks good. I'll be nearby if you need anything, just give me a shout." I grinned wryly at him. "Just think, you're the only person in the world to have Lex Luthor as his personal Jeeves."
I was quite tense as he went upstairs. If he found any of the surprises in the bedroom, well, I'd have easily escaped but I'd have had to snarl, "Curses, foiled again," as I left, and then I'd have had to send my fair ladies to finish him off. I couldn't understand the workings of that moral mind but I knew that this particular setup he'd not forgive or forget.
If it's true that Lucifer represents Luthor interests, I decided, I'd have to drop him a note of commendation, perhaps one of those motivational mugs with a picture and platitude. I heard the creak as Clark got into his bed and did some more preparatory work for about an hour before setting off the remote that would open the lead containers that Grace had attached to the bedframe. I'd have liked to call it the Princess and the Plutonium but it wasn't quite right.
It was a massive dose, almost as much as the three darts had delivered. Fortunately for me, he cried out in pain so I had an excuse to rush up the stairs as loudly as I could. "Clark, what's wrong?" I turned the light on and whispered, as if to myself, "Oh, my God..." at the sight of him, which was quite bad.
I hauled him out awkwardly, and he stumbled as he tried to get his feet underneath him and working properly. A few times, I let him collapse on me, once even letting us both fall to the ground, me underneath him. I made appropriate pained noises and saw awareness of it in his eyes. As I got him down the stairs, I watched to see how he was reacting to the diminution of the pain.
He was panting and sweating but able to walk without my support, though of course I kept holding him up, and I guided him to the kitchen, which I knew was his family's place for confidences and earnest talks, at the rate of sixty cliches an hour. I settled him in a chair and got a washcloth, wiping his face.
"What happened?" he asked.
I pour milk into a mug and put it in the microwave. Martha Stewart would have been so proud of me. "I don't know. I think it's your body's reaction to tremendous unhappiness." I looked down. "God knows, when my mother died, I wanted to die myself. This might be a physical manifestation of that." I found nutmeg and honey and add those, then put the concoction in front of him. He looked at it dubiously and I told him, "Drink up. It will help you relax." He obeyed me, though again it was politeness as much as an accepted authority.
When he'd finished, I patted him approvingly and said that he should try to get some sleep again, adding firmly that I'd stay with him. He protested but I overruled him by saying that I insisted. I finished with, "I had to be alone, Clark, each time I lost the person I loved most. You won't."
I smiled to myself as his eyes softened. He thinks he's invulnerable except for the meteors. Emotional pressure works even better on him.
I walked him back upstairs and settled into a chair as he awkwardly got into the bed. I had a mixed response to the possibility of having sex with him, or as I would have had to portray it, making love or even becoming lovers. Certainly it would have cemented the bond quite strongly but on the other hand, if that was the appropriate appendage, I had profoundly disliked the times when I had been required to be a commodity in one of my father's deals. The first episode, during which my acting, drawn from self-preservation and fear, had led him to offer my father ten million in order to adopt me, had taught me a good deal in nearly every arena, but had emphasized my distaste for being helpless. It was to my relief that he didn't display any coyness or seem awkward beyond the situation's surface appearances.
That morning, when he woke up, he was startled that I was there, eyes wide, even alarmed. I realized that the situation had been perhaps too smooth on the surface, that, so to speak, the skin of the injury had healed but there was infection underneath. That just meant that I'd have to lance it.
"Clark, you look exhausted, you should go to bed." I hold up a hand at his look of protest. "I know, you don't think you'll sleep but at least it will be some rest."
"I guess so."
Pleased that he'd continued to follow my lead, I went over to him and put my hand under his arm. "Now." I said, mock-sternly. "Lex knows best."
"Uhm, where will you sleep?"
I'd hoped that he'd suggest that I sleep in his parents' bed, a symbol that he was starting to replace their role in his life with me, but naturally I couldn't suggest it myself. "Living room sofa looks good. I'll be nearby if you need anything, just give me a shout." I grinned wryly at him. "Just think, you're the only person in the world to have Lex Luthor as his personal Jeeves."
I was quite tense as he went upstairs. If he found any of the surprises in the bedroom, well, I'd have easily escaped but I'd have had to snarl, "Curses, foiled again," as I left, and then I'd have had to send my fair ladies to finish him off. I couldn't understand the workings of that moral mind but I knew that this particular setup he'd not forgive or forget.
If it's true that Lucifer represents Luthor interests, I decided, I'd have to drop him a note of commendation, perhaps one of those motivational mugs with a picture and platitude. I heard the creak as Clark got into his bed and did some more preparatory work for about an hour before setting off the remote that would open the lead containers that Grace had attached to the bedframe. I'd have liked to call it the Princess and the Plutonium but it wasn't quite right.
It was a massive dose, almost as much as the three darts had delivered. Fortunately for me, he cried out in pain so I had an excuse to rush up the stairs as loudly as I could. "Clark, what's wrong?" I turned the light on and whispered, as if to myself, "Oh, my God..." at the sight of him, which was quite bad.
I hauled him out awkwardly, and he stumbled as he tried to get his feet underneath him and working properly. A few times, I let him collapse on me, once even letting us both fall to the ground, me underneath him. I made appropriate pained noises and saw awareness of it in his eyes. As I got him down the stairs, I watched to see how he was reacting to the diminution of the pain.
He was panting and sweating but able to walk without my support, though of course I kept holding him up, and I guided him to the kitchen, which I knew was his family's place for confidences and earnest talks, at the rate of sixty cliches an hour. I settled him in a chair and got a washcloth, wiping his face.
"What happened?" he asked.
I pour milk into a mug and put it in the microwave. Martha Stewart would have been so proud of me. "I don't know. I think it's your body's reaction to tremendous unhappiness." I looked down. "God knows, when my mother died, I wanted to die myself. This might be a physical manifestation of that." I found nutmeg and honey and add those, then put the concoction in front of him. He looked at it dubiously and I told him, "Drink up. It will help you relax." He obeyed me, though again it was politeness as much as an accepted authority.
When he'd finished, I patted him approvingly and said that he should try to get some sleep again, adding firmly that I'd stay with him. He protested but I overruled him by saying that I insisted. I finished with, "I had to be alone, Clark, each time I lost the person I loved most. You won't."
I smiled to myself as his eyes softened. He thinks he's invulnerable except for the meteors. Emotional pressure works even better on him.
I walked him back upstairs and settled into a chair as he awkwardly got into the bed. I had a mixed response to the possibility of having sex with him, or as I would have had to portray it, making love or even becoming lovers. Certainly it would have cemented the bond quite strongly but on the other hand, if that was the appropriate appendage, I had profoundly disliked the times when I had been required to be a commodity in one of my father's deals. The first episode, during which my acting, drawn from self-preservation and fear, had led him to offer my father ten million in order to adopt me, had taught me a good deal in nearly every arena, but had emphasized my distaste for being helpless. It was to my relief that he didn't display any coyness or seem awkward beyond the situation's surface appearances.
That morning, when he woke up, he was startled that I was there, eyes wide, even alarmed. I realized that the situation had been perhaps too smooth on the surface, that, so to speak, the skin of the injury had healed but there was infection underneath. That just meant that I'd have to lance it.