Notes: Thanks to Margroks, Sparklyme, Debc75 and UltimateMother for the feedback!
Ruby Truth - Valentine Michel Smith
Minimalist décor didn't afford many MacGyverish opportunities. His household staff was too damned tidy, leaving nothing remotely appropriate handy. However, the staff was not to blame. Lex's insistence on "a place for everything and everything in its place" meant Spartan accoutrements. Given that, it occurred to him a search of the cleaning closet might bear fruit.
There, Lex came across a single, long handled mop.
Lex unscrewed the pole from the mop's roped bottom and went back into the bedroom.
Suddenly, he felt very stupid. Lex and stupid didn't fit. How long had it taken to come up with the idea to search the closet? Just one more thing to add to the mounting scenario of what was wrong. Perhaps the third sign of the apocalypse? An eyebrow quirked involuntarily. This was most assuredly not the moment for involuntary responses.
Lex ran through the mental list. He was ready for Clark, ready to do whatever it took, knowing what it would take, having an idea of those things of which Clark was capable. He was able.
But was he willing?
The word "willing" recycled itself multiply as Lex wedged the pole between the bookcase and the wall. He pried.
"Lex?" Clark's voice rose from behind him.
Lex didn't turn. He'd have to move quickly.
"Don't you know curiosity killed the cat?"
Lex loosed the pole with one hand and reached for his pocket. "But satisfaction brought him back. If we're going to speak in platitudes."
"What've you got there?" Clark's hand was suddenly atop his friend's, his grip tightening. Lex fought the pain, pain so expansive it shot through his body and threatened to beget tears. Was Clark actually breaking the bones in his hand?
Lex couldn't maintain his grip on the box. His damaged hand failed him.
Just as he'd failed Clark.
Events, rapid fire, aggressively tailed the failure.
A strong hand on his shirt -
jerking him from the floor -
slamming him back first into the wall -
Force so brutal, a nearby painting fell -
crashing to the ground.
Lex felt the concrete beneath the drywall, solid beyond his flesh.
One hand -
lifted Lex higher.
Clutching Lex, Clark stooped, unoccupied fingers gathering the box. He tossed it easily onto the bed.
Lex gritted his teeth, fighting through white-hot agony. "Why don't you open it?"
Though he was dressed, Clark's hair hung just showered wet. He smelled of Lex's soap. "Don't need to. Now, since you were so curious." Clark flicked a finger. The bookcase swung from the wall easily.
He dragged Lex, pulled the panic room door open.
Lex was in no way prepared. "Mrs. Kent?"
The words slipped free, representing the extent of the discourse before he was shoved inside, hard enough to land sprawled onto the floor. Unreadable, Lex rolled over, looking up at Clark as Martha Kent placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. She regarded the impersonator in her son's skin.
Clark grinned, not a sunny adolescent smile, but a display full of adult knowledge and superiority. He was winning. He might never convince the woman, but Lex might be swayed.
Given time and proper motivation.
Clark sealed the door again. The food supply would not last as long now. He imagined Lex, ever gracious, would do the right thing.
Besides, knowing Lex... He could almost hear the mellifluous tones: "Clark, a man must prepare contingencies.
Chortling, Clark shut the bookshelf again. This go 'round, he made sure it was properly aligned.