Disclaimer: I don't own them and I will give them back (though I might put up a little bit of a fight for Lex).
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: This is slashy and you've been told so twice, so please don't complain. Thank you.
Feedback: Is there anything more delightful in the world of fanfiction? Please, send feedback.
In Clark's MindBy Lemur
Clark rested sprawled out on his bed, listening to the sounds of sizzling bacon coming from downstairs and idly scanning through the ceiling to the attic above his bedroom. Besides discovering that his parents had an embarrassingly large cache of clothes from the 70s, neither activity was remotely stimulating.
"Clark, time to get up," his mother called from below. "We've got produce orders to deliver today."
Turning his eyes from the ruffled shirts and what appeared to be a teal-green leisure suit, Clark glanced at his clock. They'd be leaving in fifteen minutes; they always left at the same time. Clark wondered how much time other mothers gave their sons to get ready. He figured it was more than fifteen minutes to wake up, get showered, dressed and eat breakfast, but his mother had adapted. Even to the point where twelve of those minutes were allotted to breakfast; eating was one thing he wasn't allowed to rush.
Standing slowly from his bed, he stretched, letting out a yawn and then his world became a blur. Three minutes later, he sat down to breakfast, hair wet from the shower and just finishing buttoning his shirt.
"Who's on the list today?" he asked, though he knew perfectly well who. He didn't need superpowers to be able to remember a list of twenty families they'd delivered to every Saturday for the last two years, but he also knew that his mother liked to say it aloud to remind herself, so he thought he might as well give her an excuse.
And so, as she launched into the list, he promptly stopped listening. However, as good as he was at not listening, one name caught his ear. He thought he might even have been waiting for it.
"…and we've got one crate to take over to the Luthors. We can do that on the way to –"
"I'll take it over later, Mom," he interrupted.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, it's no problem. I'll just walk it over when we get the other deliveries done."
"Great, honey. Thank you," she said and firmly crossed the name off the list. With that action, it seemed to Clark he had been committed to running an entire delivery route completely distracted.
***
The produce crate clutched in his fists, Clark let his mind wander along with his feet. He'd taken the crate from the truck ensuring his parents that he could run it over faster than he could drive it, which was true, if he were actually running and not aimlessly meandering over the pavement as he was doing now. But since there was no such thing as a "produce emergency," he doubted the Luthors were waiting anxiously on his arrival…though he wouldn't have minded if one of them were.
Some days he didn't offer to make the delivery to the Luthor mansion. Some days he didn't want to. Most days he wanted to and didn't.
It had been too confusing for a very long time and now, though it was no longer confusing, it was just…unusual. Clark realized that he was even avoiding saying his name in his mind, as if that alone would conjure up thoughts and imaginings he didn't want to deal with.
He looked down to the crate in his hands and pointed out to himself that he was carrying his produce. Lex's produce. The produce of Lex. It was the least sexy possessive he could give the man and there was comfort in that.
For in most ways, in Clark's mind, Lex was far too embroiled with sex.
As he had grown to know him, Clark had found it less and less coincidental that the man's very name rhymed with such a forbidden word. Well, forbidden in Smallville, anyway, and whispered, if not forbidden.
The way he moved with an effortless grace that somehow seemed calculated to his advantage. The cut of his clothes, the angle of his shoulders, the extension of his legs. His entire form was an exercise in power, agility and lust.
There was something electric about him, as if every word he said was a seduction attempt and perhaps it was. He seduced people to invest in his company, or trust his word, or just ignore his appearance. Clark had heard Lex refer to himself as a "freak," but he'd never seen it, though, "freakishly appealing" had occurred to him once or twice, because whatever the magnetism was, it was palpable, strong and possibly paranormal. When the theory had been presented, Clark wondered if the meteor shower had enhanced Lex's pheromones too. It would have explained a lot.
But that explanation seemed too simple for a man like Lex. A man who knew more Greek history than nursery rhymes and somehow managed to make a small smirk express more than a Shakespearean soliloquy…not that Clark really knew any. But he knew when a torrent of words was thrown his way without a word being said.
It seemed natural that a Kansas farm boy, even an alien Kansas farm boy, would find someone like Lex fascinating. His wealth alone secured that standing with teenage boys around the world, but then Lex was also highly educated, tossing out philosophical quotes with an ease more fitting a college professor than a corporate executive. He drove a Porsche and lived in a castle. He wore Armani and took fencing lessons. He was an intriguing jumble of the flashy and new, and the studied and ancient.
Lex was alluring in a way that the corn boys of Smallville could never be, and Clark wondered why every girl in Smallville hadn't pulled an Amy Palmer and become obsessed with him. But they hadn't. Even more bizarre, two of them actually preferred him. Well, one for sure, Clark reasoned, but then again, even with all her journalistic instincts, it was possible that Chloe was oblivious.
Perhaps Clark had an inside-view, saw Lex in a way others didn't. Six years his senior, Lex dispensed advice and Clark willingly deferred to that balance of power because, really, twenty-two seems so much older than sixteen and a childhood in Metropolis naturally made one wiser than a childhood in Smallville.
On those rare occasions when it was Clark who offered advice, the balance of power shifted only slightly, with Lex trying hard not to laugh at simple down-on-the-farm platitudes while wanting so much to believe in them.
They came from different worlds – as the saying goes, and actual alien origins aside – and both of them felt that keenly. Lex had experienced everything, the packaged deal: sex, drugs and rock and roll. Clark, for all his mysterious beginnings, knew little beyond the world of corn and sweet potatoes, though, like most teenagers, he would steadfastly declare that he knew far more than that.
It always seemed that within Lex, a particular debate raged. That, beside an idle intrigue with the simplicity of a provincial life, was the instinctive desire to disrupt it, to corrupt it. And that debate centered on Clark to the point where it became solely about Clark. Constantly, Lex battled two desires: one, to protect Clark from all corruption, and two, to just corrupt him himself.
But Clark never thought about any of that. He never really analyzed the emotional give and pull of a friendship with someone like Lex Luthor. He never gave much thought to what they did or did not have in common. He never thought out the pros and cons or the psychological components of it all. He knew he liked Lex and that was enough.
But what had driven him to extreme degrees of self-analysis was the physical – the pure, base physical because Lex wasn't just intellectually fascinating, Clark wanted him.
He'd startled himself out of his daydream the first time he realized that he had been musing over the feel of Lex's lips when he'd given him CPR. (And he couldn't help but feel that it was doubly bad to be reliving a life-or-death scenario as a sexual fantasy.) Clark had mistakenly thought that the pronoun "his" with all Lex's descriptions would have made him immune, but it did not.
Since deep in his soul he knew that one day people would find out what he truly was and because on that day he would have to rely on the open-mindedness of others, Clark liked to think himself open-minded. If asked, he would shrug and say it hadn't bothered him.
In truth, he had panicked. He was, after all, a sixteen year-old boy, and with inhuman speed, increased strength, x-ray eyes, and heat vision, he felt very strongly that he had filled his quota for "different." He didn't want to add another item to the list, however mundane or accepted.
But then between the gym showers since middle school and the occasional unexpected and unfortunately-timed burst of x-ray vision during math class, he had quickly ascertained that whatever it was about Lex, it wasn't his gender.
And then there was Lana. Clark thought her beautiful and desirable and just…hot. And it wasn't something creepy like wanting to be her. He daydreamed about kissing her, touching her, seeing another striptease, this time with Lana in her right mind. He had fantasies about her, and Chloe, too, that kept him up at night – or awoke him abruptly in the morning. In short, he knew he liked girls.
Therefore, it was with great intensity and purpose that he explored his fascination with Lex Luthor. He thought maybe it was because he'd saved Lex's life and so maybe, just maybe Lex looked at him in a way that made him feel like a hero. Or maybe it was that they had both had discovered something on that bridge that day: Lex that he was not indestructible and Clark that he evidently was. Or maybe it was a bit of hero-worship on Clark's part for an older-brother figure. Or maybe…
He had gone through about two dozen "or maybes," each of them with about a dozen sub-maybes and none of them had truly been able to account for it.
So, whatever it was about Lex, it was just Lex.
The man at the gate let Clark through without a word, barely glancing up from his newspaper. The tall farm boy hauling vegetables was a common enough sight at the imposing castle, despite how incongruous the two images really were.
When Clark had managed to boil all his anxiety and fears down, he had found the simple answer: Lex. And for being only three letters long, that answer wasn't so simple. He…desired Lex, though the sentence sounded bizarre even in thought.
More astonishing still was that Clark started to notice – or thought he'd started to notice – Lex thinking the same thing. Lex could hide many emotions behind his studied façade, but he could never hide when he was thinking and sometimes his eyes rested a moment too long on Clark, and his brow would furrow in confusion for just an instant.
It was then Clark realized with a flash of excitement and a decidedly un-manly sense of giddiness that Lex was rolling through the same list of "or maybes." There had been no acting involved in Lex's attraction to Victoria and as for Desiree, she was a gorgeous woman and Clark knew she would have caught Lex's eye, if not more, even without her meteor-enhanced uber-pheromones. Then, there was the story Lana had told him about catching Lex and another girl skinny-dipping.
Clark knew better than to think it was all a defensive act, if only because Lex had come through times in his life when he would have done anything – anything – to make his father angry.
The woman inside the house gave Clark as little notice as the gatekeeper. She idly waved him toward Lex's office and continued in the bustle of her activities. What sort of activities kept her so busy in a giant home inhabited by only two men had him rather stumped, but overseeing the cleaning alone would be a full-day's duty. And he suspected that since Mr. Luthor had moved in, the home fluctuated uncomfortably between roaring arguments and even louder silences.
Clark felt a twinge of guilt that calmed the delight sweeping through him. He hated how Mr. Luthor made Lex feel, but he had also been the catalyst for Lex's most human moments. Those moments when Lex's smooth and perfect façade dropped for just a moment and he did something wild like…grit his teeth in anger.
Clark liked knowing that Lex had that side, that side that wasn't crafted. He would just prefer to find another, less painful way to bring it out.
Sometimes he wished that Lex's former inner bad-boy would break free, slam him against the wall and show him how a kiss was really supposed to feel. Sometimes, he wished he could get over his own trepidation and slam Lex against the wall. Other times, there was no slamming and no wall. Clark had envisioned it a hundred different ways, but regardless, not one of them had ever happened.
Neither of them had done anything – at all. Clark wasn't sure they'd ever even touched and he understood why. They were both being cautious, feeling out each step before they took it because this experience, these reactions were so unusual for both of them and for Lex, Clark was still….what's the right word? Illegal. Clark didn't particularly care about that part of it, since he would certainly never tell, but Lex was a Luthor and newspapers all over the world had spies with the sole occupation of discovering Luthor secrets.
It was for the best anyway. The way Clark figured it, they were both still trying to puzzle it out. It was a simple change in spelling, but altering a fantasy's phraseology to include "him," "his," and "he," was…weird, not to mention the logistics were completely different. He didn't even really know what exactly men did together.
He felt heat rise to his face as he forced himself to acknowledge that, well, he knew some of what men together, but not all. The blush only grew warmer when his mind pointed out that Lex probably knew and could easily show him. Yet, it was still vaguely bizarre to have such thoughts be…exciting, which is why Clark never acted on them.
He knew Lex would have to make the first move, not only because Lex enjoyed power and would probably prefer it that way, but also because Clark was mortified by the thought of doing something wrong. With Lana, they were both inexperienced, so mistakes wouldn't matter so much, but Lex – Lex knew what he was doing.
Walking through the familiar corridors, Clark easily found his way to the office, trying to either calm the heat in his face or come up with some casual explanation about the Kansas sun if Lex happened to notice. Lex sat rigid at his desk, surveying the screen of his laptop computer with an intense expression better suited to brooding, though that might have been precisely what he was doing.
"Come in, Clark," he greeted, without even a glance up to realize that Clark was already in.
"Hey, Lex. I just brought over your order," he replied with remarkable coolness. He was quite impressed with himself.
Lex stood from his desk with a masculine grace and walked – no, Clark amended to himself, sauntered – Lex sauntered. Retrieving a book from his desk, Lex sauntered over to return it to the bookshelf, his back to his newly-arrived company.
Staring at the clean lines of Lex's lilac dress shirt, Clark resisted the call of evil. The call that sinfully suggested he use his special abilities to look right through that silk to see the smooth of skin across his shoulders, the sharp angle of shoulder blades as he moved. The even more sinful call that told him to peer thorough the black fabric of his slacks to see the taut muscles of thighs and the curve of –
"Thank you, Clark," Lex said calmly, turning round to him. "The chef's been desperate for another supply Kent Farm apples."
Clark shrugged and smiled a lopsided smile. "Well, this should keep him stocked for a while."
Lex stalked toward him, almost like a predator, but that wasn't unusual and fortunately, after a few nearly embarrassing moments, Clark had gotten used to it. Well, no, that was a lie. Clark was certain he would never get used to seeing that glint in Lex's eye. Lex had a way of seeming like a bird of prey coming in for the kill.
"I don't doubt it," Lex answered.
And with that, he knocked the crate from Clark's hands, apples and green beans thrown asunder. Clark's shoulders slammed hard against the wooden panels of the wall as Lex pressed against him, his mouth locking hungrily to his, his tongue sliding smoothly between his lips. Unskilled hands grasped eagerly to strong, narrow shoulders while warm, experienced fingers glided through the buttons of Clark's worn plaid shirt to stroke against his stomach, the thumb darting impatiently over the metal button of his jeans.
That's what happened in Clark's mind, anyway.
In reality, Lex stood still, his hands loosely in his pockets, the glint in his eye going sadly unfulfilled. "Do you know the way to the kitchen?" he asked calmly.
"No, not from here anyway," Clark answered, secretly thankful that the meteor shower hadn't given Lex psychic abilities in exchange for his hair. Lex gave him an enigmatic smile and Clark's stomach dropped, suddenly worrying that maybe the master businessman had bargained for such an exchange.
"Then, I'll show you." Lex strode past him, out the door and Clark followed, willing his blood to rise to his face again if only because that was the less embarrassing place for it to collect.
No, he was quite certain Lex had no mind-reading capabilities, but he did have the power of perception and Clark wouldn't flatter himself by claiming he was difficult to read. He had nowhere near Lex's skill at maintaining an unflappable demeanor. In fact, he was pathetically easy to flap. Though he might not have known exactly what Clark had been thinking, Lex had definitely understood the nature of his thoughts.
Clark sighed as he followed his friend, slightly disappointed at always being the shakable one of the two. Lex turned back to him with a small smirk and slowed his steps to walk beside him. He grabbed a shiny apple from the crate.
"Thanks for bringing it out yourself, Clark," he spoke smoothly. "You haven't made a personal delivery in almost a month."
"I know," Clark replied, shrugging as well he could with an armful of produce. "Things have been crazy on the farm."
I believe you," Lex answered, taking a bite from the apple. Then, he gave Clark a small soliloquy of a smile that told him very clearly that all the things he'd been thinking wouldn't be solely in his mind for much longer.
Clark grinned widely back, confident that his expression spoke just as loudly, even if what it was saying wasn't Shakespeare.
***
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