LEX
Oh I'm feeling pretty fucking Godlike now.
Being humiliated is really the most effective way to dent an ego, even one as well established as mine. And how do I handle this humiliation? Quiet dignity has always been the wise choice, but when I'm hiding in the office all day, I'm sure people would fail to notice any form of dignity. And now, in the evening with the thoughts of the day in my mind and a promise to fire my personal assistant (I'm convinced she let slip 'Miss Sullivan' on purpose), I'm driving like a mad demon in one of my faster cars. Certainly no one would notice my quiet dignity in here either, zooming by before pedestrians could even see the LEX print on the license plate.
Am I running away from my own shame? Well, there's nothing to be ashamed about. I'm doing this as a favor to my best friend, who had once saved me from a watery death, if anyone cared to remember. Chloe is, albeit nosy, a pretty and intelligent girl, and there's nothing shameful about that either. And I have every intention to carry out this favor in the most honorable of methods. Never mind the fantasy in her kitchen.
But of course, people don't see that. All they see is that their boss, Lex Luthor, is taking a young girl to her Prom. And to make it all the more controversial, it's his plant manager's daughter. What a joke.
I swear to God, Clark better be fucking thankful.
I drive past the residential zone of Smallville in a black Ferrari blur, loud music in the form of angst-ridden bands banging against my windows, waking up the dead and anyone who's sleeping. This is my usual way of driving, I even remember Clark chiding me on this once, but it's a matter of breathing to me. Although right now I'll have to admit that I'm driving this way not for the simple matter of mechanics, but more like I'm trying to warp my humiliation to another world where I don't exist.
I'm also half-inclined to find suitable candidates for road kill, preference given to those who closely resemble my personal assistant.
When I reach the commercial area of Smallville (and I use this term loosely), I slow down at the sight of the Talon.
Driving by at a more decent speed, I can see Clark (the Proprietor of my humiliation) and Lana (the Cause of my Proprietor's scheme for my humiliation) by the counter laughing. A crowd of other teenagers mill about the area, all happy and excited. Of course. The Prom's tomorrow night.
Now I wonder why it was that I took a drive instead of locking myself up in my room to drown my sorrows away with the assistance of a very helpful man named Jack Daniels.
I'm unsure as to how it is that I end up at The Beanery instead of going straight home to start drowning away. My mind states two reasons: a desire for peace and quiet, and a desire for The Beanery's cappuccino (admittedly Lana's hard work makes her a good assistant manager but good effort does not good coffee make, and Lana makes the worst).
However, I see another incentive as to why I should go in.
There's only one other person that I'm familiar with in The Beanery tonight, looking down at the table in front of her forlornly. My date. The Reason for my humiliation.
After ordering a cappuccino, I glance at her again. She's still staring at the table and, at the state she's in, probably wouldn't notice me if I shoved my face in front of her eyes.
Daydreaming perhaps about well-built six foot three farm boys with floppy black hair and blue eyes who lifts hay by day and saves people by night.
You'd think that since I was taking her to the damn Prom that she'd show more appreciation and daydream about me instead.
I've found another suitable candidate for road kill.
I join her without any good reason why.
Her eyes are still glazed over when I slide into the seat in front of her. It's when she blinks that I'm satisfied that she registers me, somewhere in that controversy driven mind of hers.
I ask, "Can I join you?"
She blinks again and stammers, "Sure."
I take a sip of my coffee while observing her. She's looking ragged, maybe even more than myself. The blank and dazed look she has indicates that the customary dryness of her personality doesn't seem to be present tonight, and I wonder if I'll miss it.
Gabe must have given her hell. I'm tempted to ask her if this will result in the cancellation of our upcoming date tomorrow night, but for reasons that I'm unsure of, I decide not to.
Then, having fully rediscovered herself and the fact that it's her life purpose to be a smart ass, she says to me, "What brings you to this side of Smallville? Checking out other coffee shop competitors or looking for other damsels in distress to bring to the Prom?"
Knowing how monosyllabic answers tend to piss her off (knowledge I've procured from being in the company of too many reporters vying for more information on the life of a Luthor), I reply, "Coffee."
She looks distinctly annoyed, I feel fairly pleased.
"What brings you to the Beanery?" I ask her.
"Coffee," she answers sardonically.
I decide to ignore that. "They do serve good coffee here, don't they?"
"As opposed to the meteorite spiked beverages they serve at The Talon?"
"Oh, it's not just the beverages," I assure her.
"Then I guess interviewing you will be much more fun than I expected."
"And here I flatter myself that it would be a roll in the hay without the meteorite references." She doesn't reply. "Or does that bring forth images of a farm boy in a barn?"
She glares at me in a way that indicates that she's planning to kill me with the sheer power of her murderous thoughts as a weapon.
I take a leisurely sip of my cappuccino.
"No idea what you're talking about," she declares airily.
"Right."
She conveniently changes the subject. "Actually Lex, maybe it's a good thing that you're here." Maybe? "Did you see my father today?"
"I usually meet him most days."
"Did you mention the Prom to him? OR…" her eyes widen to a size I never thought possible. "Did he mention the Prom to you?" Then with a ceremoniously loud gasp, she sucks in a breath and holds it.
It makes me wonder if she's been taking any form of drugs, other than caffeine.
I assure her, "No. My assistant mentioned it to him. In circumstances I would have preferred to avoid."
She doesn't seem to register my last words, having omitted a sigh of relief at the mention of my assistant. "There's a good excuse to fire a person if ever I heard one."
"I am. On Monday."
She laughs loudly and appreciatively at this until she notices the grim silence on my part and stops abruptly.
We lapse into a silence, where on my side of the yellow Formica, I lean back in my seat and watch her. On her side, I cannot pretend to know. Her face is unreadable, and her eyes have wandered back down to the surface of the table.
Tonight is not the first time that I've seen Chloe in this position. Sometimes you can find her drifting off like this in the middle of a crowded café, her concentration strong enough to ignore the din around her. It makes you wonder what she's thinks so hard about.
What is it about this girl? Sometimes it seems like she could burn out the world with her energy. Other times, when you catch her naked like this, you feel this overwhelming urge to hug her, murmur safe words in her hair, and protect her from the world.
Or maybe it's better to just change the subject.
Unfortunately, making small talk is not one of my better talents.
"So," I start. "How's the…"
"…Torch doing?" she finishes for me, an amused look on her face. "Really, Lex, is there no other way for you to start a conversation with me?"
Now I wonder how it was that I would want to protect this girl from anything when I would, at this moment, willingly push her into shark- infested waters.
"But since you asked," she continues. "The Torch is doing fine. Might just do better after our interview tomorrow."
"It's not an interview," I remind her placidly. "It's a DATE."
"Details," she says with a wave of her hand. I'm prepared to shoot her down with a biting retort to silence her to the end of her days, when she looks up and flashes a smile at me.
It's the average Chloe smile, full of white teeth and quirky lips, with a dash of slyness. But strangely making me feel a bit... off. Momentarily.
But in that moment, a thousand thoughts course my brain. My God, she has a great smile. She could win over the toughest men with a flash of that smile.
Thankfully the moment leaves and returns my normal sanity back into my willing hands.
Thinking erratic thoughts of a girl's smile. That's a joke.
CHLOE
I was sitting alone in the Beanery, on the pretext of working on my interview with Lex Luthor tomorrow but in actuality mastering the art of staring a hole into the table in front of me, when the man himself slides into the chair opposite mine.
And my nerves, already shot, spiraled into the sky.
The man who is the subject of my new favorite fantasy involving very creative scenes in my kitchen manages to find me when I don't want him to be around.
To make the situation oh so much worse, he's managed to find me in my worst state of blanking out. Finger twirling around hair, pen in my mouth, eyes dry from not blinking in the past hour (it feels like), lost in no particular thought except for those of a bald rich wonder and how good he looks in a suit, when the subject himself materialized out of nowhere, seemingly, without an invitation, and smirks at me.
Obviously my mind came back before long (thank God for small favors), and the normal banter ensued. Actually it's more of a competition than banter. The one who manages to make the other feel the smallest wins the game.
But I can't ignore the fact that he is looking extra good in that jacket.
He's silent at the moment and I have no idea why. He's also giving me that serious look. The look I can only define as, for lack of a better term, the Lex Luthor Serious Look. Goes through your eyes and deep into your brain where it pokes around and studies you without your permission (how I imagine his scientists at the plant treat lab rats). It has an unsettling effect on me.
That, and how I can't get past the fact that he looks too damn good tonight.
And now I find myself wondering if staring at yellow Formica can be damaging to the brain and can induce the person to have imaginary visions of yummy bald men.
Maybe it's best to just change the subject.
Unfortunately, I suck at small talk.
"So," I say loudly, hoping to jumpstart him into movement. It doesn't. "Read any good books lately?"
An eyebrow rises. Success! "Plenty."
"100 Best Places To Bury Annoying Reporters?"
He gives me a weary look. "Can we save the interview for tomorrow?"
God. Can't even ask the guy what kind of books he reads.
What with my horrendous inexperience with men, I'm far from being the perfect person to tell Lex Luthor what he needs. But if he asked, I'd tell him to ditch the mysterious act and trade it for some livelihood.
I'm sorely tempted to tell him just so, horrendous inexperience or no horrendous inexperience, when he says, "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Good books?"
Wow. Lex Luthor just asked me if I've read any good books. I'm having inane conversation with Lex Luthor. Wow.
"Er…" I try to remember. "Not lately. What with the Prom Haze and all." The 'Prom Haze' reference sparks a questioning look in his eyes. "You know. The Prom Haze." Still nonplussed. My fault, sometimes I forget that my theories are not published material and are just the work of an insane girl with too much time on her hands. I explain, "The temporary fog that gets teenagers all giggly and jittery and unable to concentrate on anything else but the Prom and the preparations leading to the said Prom."
"Here I thought you'd be oblivious to things like that."
For some reason, I feel absurdly pleased to know that he doesn't see me conforming to normal teenage behavior, however untrue it is. "Well since I've found myself a handsome Prom date, I thought why not? So I just dove right in."
He smirks, probably at the handsome Prom date remark. You really can't underestimate an ego the size of his. Just look at his license plates.
"You know, you can call me a beautiful Prom date anytime now," I suggest.
He smiles. I feel pleased again. I mean it is a rare thing to see him smile.
And I can't help thinking about how well the smile suits him.
He tells me, "I thought I'd save it for tomorrow."
"I'd rather have my ego fix now, thanks all the same."
"We can't all get what we want."
"Oh, alright," I grumble.
Then feeling an odd kind of contentment at the lightness of the situation and the fact that he has, somehow, cheered me up, despite his foreboding, egotistical, crush-your-soul and dry personality, I flash a smile at him.
Then, unexpectedly, or more like a slap in the face, or an amazing head rush, he says, "You're beautiful, Chloe."
Oh I'm feeling pretty fucking Godlike now.
Being humiliated is really the most effective way to dent an ego, even one as well established as mine. And how do I handle this humiliation? Quiet dignity has always been the wise choice, but when I'm hiding in the office all day, I'm sure people would fail to notice any form of dignity. And now, in the evening with the thoughts of the day in my mind and a promise to fire my personal assistant (I'm convinced she let slip 'Miss Sullivan' on purpose), I'm driving like a mad demon in one of my faster cars. Certainly no one would notice my quiet dignity in here either, zooming by before pedestrians could even see the LEX print on the license plate.
Am I running away from my own shame? Well, there's nothing to be ashamed about. I'm doing this as a favor to my best friend, who had once saved me from a watery death, if anyone cared to remember. Chloe is, albeit nosy, a pretty and intelligent girl, and there's nothing shameful about that either. And I have every intention to carry out this favor in the most honorable of methods. Never mind the fantasy in her kitchen.
But of course, people don't see that. All they see is that their boss, Lex Luthor, is taking a young girl to her Prom. And to make it all the more controversial, it's his plant manager's daughter. What a joke.
I swear to God, Clark better be fucking thankful.
I drive past the residential zone of Smallville in a black Ferrari blur, loud music in the form of angst-ridden bands banging against my windows, waking up the dead and anyone who's sleeping. This is my usual way of driving, I even remember Clark chiding me on this once, but it's a matter of breathing to me. Although right now I'll have to admit that I'm driving this way not for the simple matter of mechanics, but more like I'm trying to warp my humiliation to another world where I don't exist.
I'm also half-inclined to find suitable candidates for road kill, preference given to those who closely resemble my personal assistant.
When I reach the commercial area of Smallville (and I use this term loosely), I slow down at the sight of the Talon.
Driving by at a more decent speed, I can see Clark (the Proprietor of my humiliation) and Lana (the Cause of my Proprietor's scheme for my humiliation) by the counter laughing. A crowd of other teenagers mill about the area, all happy and excited. Of course. The Prom's tomorrow night.
Now I wonder why it was that I took a drive instead of locking myself up in my room to drown my sorrows away with the assistance of a very helpful man named Jack Daniels.
I'm unsure as to how it is that I end up at The Beanery instead of going straight home to start drowning away. My mind states two reasons: a desire for peace and quiet, and a desire for The Beanery's cappuccino (admittedly Lana's hard work makes her a good assistant manager but good effort does not good coffee make, and Lana makes the worst).
However, I see another incentive as to why I should go in.
There's only one other person that I'm familiar with in The Beanery tonight, looking down at the table in front of her forlornly. My date. The Reason for my humiliation.
After ordering a cappuccino, I glance at her again. She's still staring at the table and, at the state she's in, probably wouldn't notice me if I shoved my face in front of her eyes.
Daydreaming perhaps about well-built six foot three farm boys with floppy black hair and blue eyes who lifts hay by day and saves people by night.
You'd think that since I was taking her to the damn Prom that she'd show more appreciation and daydream about me instead.
I've found another suitable candidate for road kill.
I join her without any good reason why.
Her eyes are still glazed over when I slide into the seat in front of her. It's when she blinks that I'm satisfied that she registers me, somewhere in that controversy driven mind of hers.
I ask, "Can I join you?"
She blinks again and stammers, "Sure."
I take a sip of my coffee while observing her. She's looking ragged, maybe even more than myself. The blank and dazed look she has indicates that the customary dryness of her personality doesn't seem to be present tonight, and I wonder if I'll miss it.
Gabe must have given her hell. I'm tempted to ask her if this will result in the cancellation of our upcoming date tomorrow night, but for reasons that I'm unsure of, I decide not to.
Then, having fully rediscovered herself and the fact that it's her life purpose to be a smart ass, she says to me, "What brings you to this side of Smallville? Checking out other coffee shop competitors or looking for other damsels in distress to bring to the Prom?"
Knowing how monosyllabic answers tend to piss her off (knowledge I've procured from being in the company of too many reporters vying for more information on the life of a Luthor), I reply, "Coffee."
She looks distinctly annoyed, I feel fairly pleased.
"What brings you to the Beanery?" I ask her.
"Coffee," she answers sardonically.
I decide to ignore that. "They do serve good coffee here, don't they?"
"As opposed to the meteorite spiked beverages they serve at The Talon?"
"Oh, it's not just the beverages," I assure her.
"Then I guess interviewing you will be much more fun than I expected."
"And here I flatter myself that it would be a roll in the hay without the meteorite references." She doesn't reply. "Or does that bring forth images of a farm boy in a barn?"
She glares at me in a way that indicates that she's planning to kill me with the sheer power of her murderous thoughts as a weapon.
I take a leisurely sip of my cappuccino.
"No idea what you're talking about," she declares airily.
"Right."
She conveniently changes the subject. "Actually Lex, maybe it's a good thing that you're here." Maybe? "Did you see my father today?"
"I usually meet him most days."
"Did you mention the Prom to him? OR…" her eyes widen to a size I never thought possible. "Did he mention the Prom to you?" Then with a ceremoniously loud gasp, she sucks in a breath and holds it.
It makes me wonder if she's been taking any form of drugs, other than caffeine.
I assure her, "No. My assistant mentioned it to him. In circumstances I would have preferred to avoid."
She doesn't seem to register my last words, having omitted a sigh of relief at the mention of my assistant. "There's a good excuse to fire a person if ever I heard one."
"I am. On Monday."
She laughs loudly and appreciatively at this until she notices the grim silence on my part and stops abruptly.
We lapse into a silence, where on my side of the yellow Formica, I lean back in my seat and watch her. On her side, I cannot pretend to know. Her face is unreadable, and her eyes have wandered back down to the surface of the table.
Tonight is not the first time that I've seen Chloe in this position. Sometimes you can find her drifting off like this in the middle of a crowded café, her concentration strong enough to ignore the din around her. It makes you wonder what she's thinks so hard about.
What is it about this girl? Sometimes it seems like she could burn out the world with her energy. Other times, when you catch her naked like this, you feel this overwhelming urge to hug her, murmur safe words in her hair, and protect her from the world.
Or maybe it's better to just change the subject.
Unfortunately, making small talk is not one of my better talents.
"So," I start. "How's the…"
"…Torch doing?" she finishes for me, an amused look on her face. "Really, Lex, is there no other way for you to start a conversation with me?"
Now I wonder how it was that I would want to protect this girl from anything when I would, at this moment, willingly push her into shark- infested waters.
"But since you asked," she continues. "The Torch is doing fine. Might just do better after our interview tomorrow."
"It's not an interview," I remind her placidly. "It's a DATE."
"Details," she says with a wave of her hand. I'm prepared to shoot her down with a biting retort to silence her to the end of her days, when she looks up and flashes a smile at me.
It's the average Chloe smile, full of white teeth and quirky lips, with a dash of slyness. But strangely making me feel a bit... off. Momentarily.
But in that moment, a thousand thoughts course my brain. My God, she has a great smile. She could win over the toughest men with a flash of that smile.
Thankfully the moment leaves and returns my normal sanity back into my willing hands.
Thinking erratic thoughts of a girl's smile. That's a joke.
CHLOE
I was sitting alone in the Beanery, on the pretext of working on my interview with Lex Luthor tomorrow but in actuality mastering the art of staring a hole into the table in front of me, when the man himself slides into the chair opposite mine.
And my nerves, already shot, spiraled into the sky.
The man who is the subject of my new favorite fantasy involving very creative scenes in my kitchen manages to find me when I don't want him to be around.
To make the situation oh so much worse, he's managed to find me in my worst state of blanking out. Finger twirling around hair, pen in my mouth, eyes dry from not blinking in the past hour (it feels like), lost in no particular thought except for those of a bald rich wonder and how good he looks in a suit, when the subject himself materialized out of nowhere, seemingly, without an invitation, and smirks at me.
Obviously my mind came back before long (thank God for small favors), and the normal banter ensued. Actually it's more of a competition than banter. The one who manages to make the other feel the smallest wins the game.
But I can't ignore the fact that he is looking extra good in that jacket.
He's silent at the moment and I have no idea why. He's also giving me that serious look. The look I can only define as, for lack of a better term, the Lex Luthor Serious Look. Goes through your eyes and deep into your brain where it pokes around and studies you without your permission (how I imagine his scientists at the plant treat lab rats). It has an unsettling effect on me.
That, and how I can't get past the fact that he looks too damn good tonight.
And now I find myself wondering if staring at yellow Formica can be damaging to the brain and can induce the person to have imaginary visions of yummy bald men.
Maybe it's best to just change the subject.
Unfortunately, I suck at small talk.
"So," I say loudly, hoping to jumpstart him into movement. It doesn't. "Read any good books lately?"
An eyebrow rises. Success! "Plenty."
"100 Best Places To Bury Annoying Reporters?"
He gives me a weary look. "Can we save the interview for tomorrow?"
God. Can't even ask the guy what kind of books he reads.
What with my horrendous inexperience with men, I'm far from being the perfect person to tell Lex Luthor what he needs. But if he asked, I'd tell him to ditch the mysterious act and trade it for some livelihood.
I'm sorely tempted to tell him just so, horrendous inexperience or no horrendous inexperience, when he says, "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Good books?"
Wow. Lex Luthor just asked me if I've read any good books. I'm having inane conversation with Lex Luthor. Wow.
"Er…" I try to remember. "Not lately. What with the Prom Haze and all." The 'Prom Haze' reference sparks a questioning look in his eyes. "You know. The Prom Haze." Still nonplussed. My fault, sometimes I forget that my theories are not published material and are just the work of an insane girl with too much time on her hands. I explain, "The temporary fog that gets teenagers all giggly and jittery and unable to concentrate on anything else but the Prom and the preparations leading to the said Prom."
"Here I thought you'd be oblivious to things like that."
For some reason, I feel absurdly pleased to know that he doesn't see me conforming to normal teenage behavior, however untrue it is. "Well since I've found myself a handsome Prom date, I thought why not? So I just dove right in."
He smirks, probably at the handsome Prom date remark. You really can't underestimate an ego the size of his. Just look at his license plates.
"You know, you can call me a beautiful Prom date anytime now," I suggest.
He smiles. I feel pleased again. I mean it is a rare thing to see him smile.
And I can't help thinking about how well the smile suits him.
He tells me, "I thought I'd save it for tomorrow."
"I'd rather have my ego fix now, thanks all the same."
"We can't all get what we want."
"Oh, alright," I grumble.
Then feeling an odd kind of contentment at the lightness of the situation and the fact that he has, somehow, cheered me up, despite his foreboding, egotistical, crush-your-soul and dry personality, I flash a smile at him.
Then, unexpectedly, or more like a slap in the face, or an amazing head rush, he says, "You're beautiful, Chloe."