Disclaimer: I, sadly, don't own Smallville, though my love for Michael Rosenbaum burns with the fiery passion of a thousand suns. This story is simply for my own amusement, and no profit is being made from this unsolicited use of the WB's characters.

Truer Words

By Nameless

Notes: Congratulate me on my first Smallville fic! Also my first fanfic since moving into my dorm (thus the inspiration for this fic) – this story is just chock-full of milestones. Something far from new about this story, however, is that I am procrastinating on work while writing it. As for continuity, it's probably best to place this fic somewhere in early season 3. Now, on with the story!

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Clark Kent had known Lex Luthor for a couple of years now, and had developed a habit of letting himself in whenever the mood so took him to visit. He had therefore become accustomed to seeing some very strange things within the mansion his older friend called home – hell, the castle was a sight in and of itself, having literally been flown across the Atlantic and over half the country to its current home in Smallville.

But seeing Lex laying (vaguely) on his desk, his legs dangling over one side and his head upside-down and hanging over the other while humming the theme song to "Bridge on the River Kwai," took the cake. The half-empty bottle of scotch on said desk, sitting next to the not-quite-empty glass, seemed to provide the explanation for this unusual behavior.

Clark glanced at his watch, as if suddenly unsure of the time – no, it was definitely 3:30 on Tuesday afternoon, and yet, there was everyone's favorite billionaire businessman and semi-estranged heir, thoroughly and utterly drunk.

"Lex?" he asked worriedly, as Lex was staring straight at him but hadn't seemed to notice his entrance.

Lex's eyes widened briefly as he finally registered Clark's presence. "Hiiiii Claarrk," he drawled, and with concentrated effort managed to sit up on his desk. However, he now had his back turned to Clark, and after a few moments pulled his legs onto the desk as well and scooted about until he had made a 180-degree turn. All of this was done with great care, as Lex seemed at least to realize that he would likely fall or vomit should he move too quickly.

"Hi Clark," Lex repeated, tilting his head to the side in a way that reminded Clark strangely of Chloe's dearly departed beagle. Clark was fairly certain Lex wasn't going to get himself run over by a Mack truck while chasing a particularly obnoxious squirrel, but the resemblance was eerie all the same.

"Lex, you're drunk," Clark stated seriously. A Lex Luthor with any control over his faculties would have probably made some snide remark regarding Clark's grasp of the obvious. This Lex, however, merely nodded and grinned in agreement, a fact which troubled Clark to no end – he was quite certain he'd never seen that particular smile on Lex's face before.

"But," Lex said languidly, "not drunk enough…still sitting up…" Before Clark could react (obviously due to his utter astonishment rather than any physical speed advantage Lex had over Clark), Lex had poured himself another glass of diluted ethanol, spilling a good amount, and knocked it back in one loud gulp.

Clark moved across the room and steadied his friend, who was increasing looking like he would fall over, by the shoulders. "I think you've had enough for one day," he said, nearly rolling his eyes at the cliché he'd just realized he used. Again, Lex was entirely too far gone to make a sarcastic comment about Clark's choice of words.

Lex irately shrugged off Clark's hands, and proceeded to dump the remaining contents of the bottle into the abused shot glass, as well as all over the fine mahogany desk. Luckily, any paperwork has already been shoved onto the floor in what Clark could only assume was a drunken expression of frustration. Lex, in a display of intoxicated single-mindedness, didn't seem to notice that the alcohol was spreading across the desk and proceeding to soak his tailored grey slacks, concerned only with downing another drink.

Clark quickly snatched the glass – it seemed somewhat mean-spirited to use his super-speed simply because his inebriated friend probably wouldn't notice, but, he told himself, this was all in Lex's best interest. "I'll take that," he said firmly.

"No!" Lex attempted to snatch the glass back, and, failing, fell from his desk with a painful-sounding thud. Clark winced in sympathy and put the glass down. Lex, however, seemed undaunted and managed to stand (albeit shakily) with Clark's help before he continued. "You're undajed…undrag…you're too young!" He blinked slowly and shoved his index finger into Clark's chest for emphasis.

"I wasn't going to—" Clark was trying to explain that he had no intention of drinking the scotch when Lex lost his footing again and collapsed in an undignified heap. Clark sighed before kneeling down to once again help Lex off the floor.

"Are you alright?" Clark asked, immediately realizing how asinine the question sounded.

"The floor moved," Lex complained – it took every ounce of Clark's self-control not to laugh at the almost-pout on his face. He decided it would probably be best to move Lex to the couch in the (nearest) living room, if only to reduce the risk of Lex causing himself any more damage. As he draped Lex's arm around his shoulders and led him out of the office, Lex continued ranting. "Fucking ghosts always moving the floors and the furniture and the rooms around…this place has got to be fucking haunted…fucking fuckers…" Clark chose to ignore Lex's impassioned speech as it degenerated in to a string of profanities.

Eventually Clark managed to get Lex lying on his back on a long, black leather sofa. Lex closed his eyes for a few moments before looking up at Clark once again, who was standing over him concernedly. "Clark?"

"Uh huh?"

"When didja get so tall?" Lex asked, wholly earnest in his query.

Never mind Clark's earlier thoughts – in Lex's current state, he might very well have gotten himself flattened by an 18-wheeler if let outside.

Clark pulled a chair up next to the couch and sat, crossing his arms. "Lex," he said, opting to ignore young man's question, "why are you drunk on a Tuesday afternoon?"

"Wanna pass out," he murmured plaintively, squinting at the bright lights above him.

Lex's response was far from reassuring to Clark. "Any reason?"

"Phone call…" Lex answered, as if that simple response completely explained irresponsible behavior.

"A phone call?" Clark again blinked in surprise as he uncrossed his arms – he'd seen Lex keep a cool head in many a crisis, so it seemed more than unusual that a simple phone call would rattle him to the point that he would essentially seek to cause himself alcohol poisoning.

"Yeah. My dad…stocks…visits…stuff," Lex waved his hand about dismissively, as if trying to change the subject.

Clark couldn't help sighing one again. Lex still hadn't really answered his question, but in his impaired state, he supposed the semi-coherent response was the most he could ask for. Clark wondered how blurred the line between Lex and Lionel's business relationship and their personal relationship had become – or whether there was a line at all. He was increasingly beginning to suspect there wasn't. Suddenly, it didn't seem so bizarre that Lex would want to lose his grasp of the world around him for a few hours, even if it was Tuesday afternoon.

He was pulled out of his short reverie, however, by a loud snore coming from the direction of the couch. Lex had obviously succeeded in his goal of losing his grasp on reality – though perhaps that was apparent by the time he started rambling about how the castle was the home of restless spirits lamenting their deaths and moving furniture.

Then again, stranger things had happened.

Perhaps if Clark had had more experience dealing with alcohol and its effects, he would have woken Lex in an effort to minimize the effects of a now inevitable hangover. As it was, Clark thought it would be best to let his best friend sleep and, for the time being, forget who and where he was.

Clark's girl troubles, after all, could wait.

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Lex awoke that evening with a splitting headache, recalling after a few moments the events of that afternoon. He had gotten into yet another argument with his father over the exact terms of the LexCorp-LuthorCorp merger, which had inevitably turned into a back-and-forth barrage of personal insults and outraged claims about their less-than-ideal relationship, which in turn had ended with the determination that Lionel would drive into Smallville from Metropolis within the next few days in order to hold some sort of "emergency board meeting." Lex, irritated but essentially powerless to stop the visit, had slammed the telephone onto the receiver, swept all the paperwork and stock reports from his desk, and stormed to his liquor cabinet, intent on temporarily forgetting said conversation and the particularly stressful day leading up to it.

He vaguely remembered seeing Clark at one point after perhaps his ninth drink, but wondered if he had in fact dreamt the visit. It seemed unlikely, however, as his other dreams were significantly less coherent – he recalled one in particular about a purple cow being smuggled across state lines in a Volkswagen Bus.

Lex looked to his side, mostly to avoid the painfully brightly lights above him, and noticed a piece of paper folded on the stylish coffee table. He slowly got up from the couch and picked up the note, instantly recognizing the messy scrawl upon it as Clark's handwriting.

Lex,

Next time, at least wait till after business hours to get totally drunk.

Call me if you want to talk or something.

Clark

Damnit, Clark had been there – and, from what little Lex could remember, he had probably revealed something about that oh-so-irksome phone call and its contribution to his state of intoxication. It was one thing to relate to his best friend about the dysfunctional relationship he had with his only living parent; it was another thing entirely to do so without any real control over what he was saying and how he was saying it.

Lex Luthor, after all, had always prided himself on his self-control when it came to emotional matters.

Besides, he had just been lectured, albeit briefly and on paper, about drinking by a fucking seventeen-year-old. Someone up there had to have a profound (and sick) sense of cosmic irony.

Lex looked at the large clock mounted on his wall. 9:15.

At that moment, one thought filled Lex's mind: 'I need a drink.'

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Endnotes: Yes, I admit it, I went with the oh-so-clichéd drunk!Lex fic. I should be ashamed – but I'm not. Anyway, this story ended up significantly more serious than I'd originally intended; oh well. As usual, I hope you enjoyed, and please review! Comments, criticism, praise, and random thoughts are all appreciated.