Alone On This Day
by
Kelsey
Disclaimer: Not mine. But, considering this is SV we're talking about, the people who do have claim to the idea are far too many to be named, so just be satisfied with 'not me,' okay?
Summary: Lex is always alone on Christmas.
Rating: PG
Lex doesn't quite remember why he still does this- just that he's been doing it for nearly seven years and it started as a way to rebel against his father, therefore, it must be a good thing.
It's Christmas Eve, and the younger Luthor is already thoroughly drunk. The evening started with copious amounts of wine at the dinner table, over which Lionel frowned but didn't mention as he heard them being poured, and progressed when Lex retired to his study to work and drink the supply of brandy he kept on hand. Now it's nearly eleven o'clock and the brandy's run out, so Lex stands, puts his hand on the desk to steady himself, and moves slowly into the kitchen to raid the liquor cabinet. There's scotch in there, he knows, and whiskey. Both of which, or either of which, will get him good and drunk.
He also thinks briefly about the cabinet in his bedroom, but dismisses it off-hand. He's not drunk enough to have lost all sense yet. Besides, drugs are for the weak-minded. And Lex may be many things, but weak-minded is not one of them, he reminds himself. Unfortunately, even a mere moment around Lionel is enough to dispel that notion, thus the illegal substances that have found their way into the younger Luthor's bedroom cabinet over the years.
It was the Christmas that he was fifteen he started this, he remembers. His mother had died two years before, but the Christmas Eve's of his thirteenth and fourteenth years had been spent with the nanny. On Lex's fifteenth birthday, Lionel had fired the nanny, and so, with his father in another country on business, the motherless teenager was left alone in a sprawling estate in the richest part of Metropolis on Christmas Eve.
Lex had been no stranger to drugs or alcohol by then, but both of them had been used solely for fun before that night. Drugs were for getting high on, alcohol was for loosening himself up and forgetting his inhibitions, what few he had. He'd never used them as an escape. But that year, his father's liquor cabinet had looked quite appealing, and he'd drunk until he was a sobbing, hiccuping mess curled on the couch in the appallingly rich living room of the appallingly rich mansion in which he lived.
In the morning, he remembers, he'd awoken with the worst headache of his life and still no one there to pay any attention to him. It had almost been enough to make him swear off drinking that heavily, but then he'd remembered that more alcohol was supposed to suppress a hangover, so he got more, and drank for the rest of the morning. At sometime around two that afternoon, he passed out, and when he woke up, it wasn't Christmas anymore. That alone was enough to make the splitting skull worthwhile.
He'd done it again the following year, this time making sure that the remainder of the liquor was within easy reach for when he awoke. Again, the headache was almost enough to make him want to split his skull open if it would just relieve the pressure, but the day was over, the dreaded day was gone, and Christmas was, instead of a sad and lonely non-holiday, mostly just a faint, alcohol-induced blur.
He doesn't remember the year that he was seventeen. That was when he realized that sometimes he didn't remember whole days at a time if he was high enough, and decided to try it out on what he was sure was the worst day of the year. So, he did the drugs first, but the sadness of the moment was so pervading that even the strongest dose he dared shoot into his veins wasn't enough to slide into that heavenly, blind oblivion that could be reached so easily on a different day. So, Lex raided the alcohol in the kitchen, and got his wish. Christmas passed without the faintest memory in the mind of Lex Luthor, that year. Though he does remember wishing that it wasn't a hospital that he woke up in, three days later with his mouth tasting of charcoal.
His entire life that he can remember, Lionel has never been home on Christmas. Never since his mother died. There are hazy pictures of a smiling person that might or might not be his father in his memories of the Christmas of the year he was two or three, but after that, it was just Lex and his mother on that very special day. Still, Lillian Luthor was a loving mother, and Lex has fond memories of sugar cookie-baking and Christmas caroling with the church group and hanging handmade ornaments on a huge, light-burdened tree in their living room. His father was never there, but it always felt like Lex still thinks it should: like a holiday.
Lionel is here, this year, but Lex could swear that his father doesn't know it's Christmas Eve. Business was done as usual all day, which was the norm for Lex anyway, and then dinner, and then the blind older man had felt his way up the stairs and into his bedroom, and Lex hasn't seen him since. He has no doubt that Lionel will forgo even the smallest consideration tomorrow of his feelings- even a plain old 'Merry Christmas' would be too sentimental for the old son of a bitch.
So that's how Lex ends up on the cold, hard floor of his enormous kitchen with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, an empty bottle of scotch on the floor, and spilled liquor all around him, crying his eyes out and wishing he were eight years old and his mother was still alive and he had his hair and he could go crawling into her arms and everything would be alright again.
The big, old, upright clock in the living room chiming one am is what wakes Lex next. He opens bleary eyes, takes in where he is, and raises the bottle to his lips again, because if the clock woke him up, he obviously isn't drunk enough, god damn it. All he wants to do is get enough alcohol in his veins so that he can pass out and sleep through the damned holiday! Can't the gods or the fates or whoever he believes in (because he's not really sure himself) just let him have that?
"You don't want to do that," says a soft voice from next to him, and Lex turns his head slowly, too drunk to start at the unexpected sound.
"Dad?" He slurs, and he knows it's Christmas, because he only gets smashed enough to slur on Christmas. A man has to be able to keep his reputation, after all, and Lex doesn't need anymore black marks on his.
"Lex. Put the bottle down and get up. You're going to bed."
Lex shakes his head slowly, watches, intrigued, as the world spins in his vision, and drinks another swig. "No."
"Lex." His father's voice is stronger, crisper, even more demanding. Lex's defenses kick into overdrive, and he's even more determined not to do whatever it is his father wants. If his father wants it, it can only mean more heartache and hurt for Lex, he learned that long ago.
"Not coming."
Lionel sighs, and Lex ignores him. They stay that way for a long time, father standing, leaning against the counter, and son, taking periodic drinks from a bottle of extremely expensive whiskey, with more expensive liquor spilled around him, seated on the floor.
Finally, Lionel gives in. Lex knows it drives him crazy to give in, but he also knows when not to fight. Don't fight if you can't win, he's always told Lex, and Lex knows he has the advantage right now. Even as drunk as he is, he's younger, stronger, and far more sighted than the old coot. So, Lionel will pick his fights, and Lex will stay passed out on the floor.
Morning comes and goes, and the whiskey bottle falls from Lex's sleeping grip and shatters on the ground, spilling more thousand-dollar liquor over the tile floor, but he's so deeply wasted that he doesn't even stir. At six am, Lionel Luthor rises, checks on his son only to find him still passed out, then makes a phone call to the Kents, and sits back to wait for them to arrive.
The doorbell rings around six-thirty, and Clark and Martha are on the other side. Jonathon isn't up yet, they explain, and he probably wouldn't like them being out on Christmas morning to help a Luthor, they don't explain. Lionel moves slowly, but he leads them steadily, and they head for the kitchen.
Lex has fallen over in his unconsciousness, and he breaths silently, mouth open, his limp form sprawled on cold tile. Clark rushes to his side, feels his pulse and looks up at his father. "How much has he had to drink?" He asks quickly.
Lionel shrugs. "I'm blind. I don't know."
Clark sends a look at his mother, then, and she kneels down and feels his pulse. After a second, she looks up and nods at her son. "His pulse is strong enough, he should be alright," she says, and Clark nods, as usual, trusting her judgment.
"I'll get him upstairs," he replies, and Martha nods, then moves Lionel out of the way as her son effortlessly gathers up the younger Luthor and carries him upstairs to his bedroom.
"Can you spare Clark for a couple of hours?" Lionel asks Martha as they follow at a slower pace. "If Lex needs help, I'm afraid I won't be much."
Martha nods reluctantly. "Have him call if he'll be home after nine," she says, then kisses her son good-bye, and leaves to go coddle Jonathon, who will no doubt be furious about having their Christmas interrupted by a Luthor.
Clark sits next to Lex's bed for an hour before the young billionaire even begins to stir. Lionel is two rooms away, having told Clark to call if Lex needs anything, but Clark is glad he's gone. Even sightless, the elder Luthor makes him nervous.
It's almost eight-thirty when Lex finally opens his eyes and blinks. He looks at the room, then focuses as best as he can on the face, which is just barely enough to make it out. "Clark?" He croaks, and Clark looks quickly up at him.
"Hey. You're awake."
"Yeah." Lex points at the water glass on his bedside table, and Clark goes to the bathroom to fill it, returning and helping Lex sit up to sip it slowly. "What are you doing here?"
"Your father called me. Well, us. He was worried about you."
Lex snorts, but doesn't argue, knowing by now that Clark will do almost anything to see his father as someone who loves his son. It isn't his fault, it's just the way he's wired. He can't imagine anyone not loving their own flesh and blood. "Thanks," is all he says.
He looks up at the head that hovers over him, and tries to squint harder. He's trying to make the details of that gorgeous face, but without success.
So far, Lex has yet to have found an aspect of alcohol he didn't like. It has to be used with the proper timing, of course, but so do most things. This, however, he doesn't like.
Nothing should be able to make Clark Kent's face blur, not even his alcohol-muddled brain. It should be against the laws of physics for anyone to be deprived of such a beautiful sight. Except his father, of course. Lex shudders a little at the thought. No doubt Lionel could find something utterly depraved to do to or with such a beautiful person, despite the fact that no one should be able to.
Lex frowns a little, and curses the alcohol. It shouldn't do this! Clark is the one good thing in Lex's life, and if it's going to make it even the tiniest bit hard to appreciate that, then maybe he should give it up.
Lex knows that he won't be drinking any more today. His father and Clark will see to that. But maybe... just maybe... he shouldn't drink next year, either. Because then he would be able to see Clark, instead of just a human-shaped blur, when he opened his eyes.
But if he didn't drink, then Clark wouldn't have come.
It's all too much for the billionaire's muddled brain, and he drops back on the pillow and closes his eyes.
"Lex?"
He wants desperately to ignore that voice, and that makes him think that maybe he really should give up the alcohol-in-mass-quantities thing, because it's making it hard to appreciate Clark again. "Yes?"
"You okay?"
Lex almost smiles at the concern Clark's voice carries, but he can't quite manage it. It's still Christmas, after all, and there's still so much to hate about this day. "No."
Clark is quiet, not quite sure what to say to that. "Can I do anything?"
"No."
Silence reigns in the room for a little while. Then Lex turns his head towards where he knows Clark is instinctively, without opening his eyes, and speaks. "Go tell my father I'm awake and not going to need my stomach pumped, okay?"
"Sure. I'll be right back." Clark's chair creaks as he moves his large form off it and starts to make for the door.
"No."
The footsteps stop. "'No' what?"
"Don't come back."
"But-"
"Just don't, Clark. Go home, enjoy your family, celebrate Christmas. I promise I won't kill myself."
"Lex-"
"Go, alright? Come back in a couple of days." He's opened his eyes by now, and is pleading with the teenager.
Clark looks at him seriously, as if trying to assess his sincerity, and then nods slowly. "Okay."
He turns and leaves the room.
Lex is alone on Christmas again.