Ronin – 3
See header for details and disclaimer.
'These are the teachings of Yamamoto Jin'emon:
Single-mindedness is all-powerful.
To ask when you already know is politeness.
A man exists for a generation, but his name lasts to the end of time.'
It was in college that she realized, one night after a moderately enjoyable dinner for two, that she'd been comparing all the guys she dated to Clark. She'd been instantly mortified. But it wasn't until just recently that she realized that, all these years, she's been comparing Lex to Clark as well. She thought she was over mortified, but what took her by surprise was the anger. She believed she was pretty experienced at mental games, and here she was, pulling the worst kind of mind-fuck on herself.
Because, contemplating it now, it seems ridiculous. For a start, his physical presence is so different. His outline is sharper, more defined, and the way he tends to avoid casual touch exacerbates this impression. Although still wiry, he seems stronger now – certainly he's developed a greater sense of power, coiled inside him like smoke, but physically he seems broader in the shoulder, more solid than she remembers. Old visualizations from when she was sixteen.
Or maybe it's because he's real, here, now, and her memories of Clark (and everyone else, for that matter) are all so out-of-date, even a little blurred around the edges sometimes.
His face has barely weathered in five years. Mornings, she sees herself in the mirror, maturing (ripening, she likes to think), and she can see laughlines and extra freckles and a few worn worried edges that haven't quite begun to etch deep. But Lex's face seems hardly to have aged. Still the blue chips-of-ice eyes, and full lips, and sharp angles at cheek and jaw and patrician noseline. Glissando skin, and she thinks it's because he keeps himself so guarded, keeps his face expressionless so much (not – usually – with her, she believes), as impassive and mask-like as when she first laid eyes on him.
Or maybe he gets facials. He doesn't seem the type, but god knows he doesn't seem the type to go in for Botox either -
And why the fuck is she even thinking about all this crap – about whether Lex Luthor gets disgusting poisonous toxins injected into his wrinkles, for god's sake – because it's got nothing to do with why she's sitting here at a cramped desk in a dusty corner of City Hall Records Division, poring over file notes about a guy named Jorge Louis Owens…
Actually, she's got the files on Owens and his cronies, she's just not looking at them at the moment. At the moment, she's been diverted by papers she found in relation to the Docklands buy-up, and other papers about a certain Walter Harrison, esteemed elder statesman turned real-estate magnate. She knows that this is Jeff's brief, she should be asking him, but she doesn't think he'd know the answers to the questions she wants to ask, and she's not sure she even wants to broach the questions with him anyway.
Harrison is a player. His stake thus far, from what she's made out, is about one-third waterfront and a tidy collection of warehouses and industrial offices scattered over four blocks around the main pier. He's also tendered for some of the plots adjacent to the rail-line. This puts him in a slightly bigger league than James, Morris and Valdez, but he's still vying for land that Locke Alliance had already laid claim to before the area became marked for re-zoning.
This she's gathered from a morning's perusal. But it's nearer to lunch now, and she's currently absorbed in more ancient history. Chloe rubs her eyes and sighs - dust motes billow skyward, swirling. Her face feels grimy, and she seriously hopes she's not coming out in a rash. At least she has her sports bottle for the sandpaper in her throat. She takes a swig and grimaces – tepid tapwater, generally not her beverage of choice. She puffs a limp strand of hair off her eyebrow and keeps leafing through.
Indictments, alphabetical listings – the People versus. Some of the information is suppressed. Witness statements – certain names are omitted for their own protection.
She swallows around dryness. She knows all about that. Sets her face and keeps reading.
Corporate records of Luthorcorp. Audits, tax statements, balance sheets. Share listings. Blah blah blah. More pertinent information. Characters references – personal statements on the nature of Lionel's magnanimity, his righteous honesty, good citizenship, praiseworthy admirability, general magnificence.
She curls her lip. Reads on.
Character references for Alexander Joseph Luthor, trusting son, unsuspecting dupe, and all round nice guy. At which point her eye falls on a name. Hold there. Pertinent information.
Nathaniel W. Harrison.
She scans through for dates and data – age is right, association seems right. Current acquaintance, old friends. She bites her lip and wonders how much coke Nate – son of esteemed elder statesman - and Lex – son of business czar - used to get through on an average night in college.
Damnit damnit damnit. She's so on the money it's scary. And this is kind of scary too, and the worst part is knowing that it's probably just the iceberg's proverbial tip. She slides back in the wooden chair, unkinks her neck, and thinks that Perry was right. It always pays to check the fine print.
She wonders if there'll ever be a right time to tell Lex that it's his fine print she's checking.
oOo
"If one makes a distinction between public places and one's sleeping quarters, or between being on the battlefield and on the tatami, when the moment comes there will not be time for making amends. There is only the matter of constant awareness."
"Dropped some."
"Did not."
"Did too – on your shirt."
"Where?"
"Other side. Hurry up – marguerita sauce stains, y'know. No, there…"
"Thank you." He flicks the scrap off himself. "Glad I'm not washing this myself."
"Rich boy."
"Fuck off. You have wasabi on your chin."
Like a cat, he rubs his toes into the thick pile of her rug. They are sitting on the floor of her living room, backs propped against the sofa, with cushions. Respective versions of surf and turf – pizza and sushi, a bizarre combination of course, but such is life – lie scattered like the shipwreck of a Roman feast. Plus, the essential element of every bacchanal – the booze. He lifts his glass.
"A toast."
"Here, here!"
She grins, wipes her chin with a stray napkin and raises her champagne flute. He'd brought the flutes, because he couldn't stand the idea of drinking Moet et Chandon out of tumblers. She'd rolled around laughing when he told her so.
He makes a very fake-looking frown into the air.
"What are we celebrating again?"
She slaps his arm with her free hand.
"Jerk. My soon-to-be-announced Pulitzer prize, of course."
"Ah, that's right. Awarded to Miss Chloe Sullivan, for outstanding achievements in the field of investigative journalism…"
"Keep going…"
"…and working above and beyond the call of duty…"
"You're damn right. McKellen's photo was crap."
"…and for finally –"
"Finally!"
"…reaching front page status." He smiles broadly and tings his glass with hers. "Congratulations."
"Yay me! No applause, just throw money."
She slurps her champagne and laughs, and he grins to watch. They are both pleasantly drunk. The stereo is playing to one side, with a CD he doesn't know, but with a title he feels is utterly appropriate, and now a deep voice is murmuring something about having a door in the back of one's head…
"Still can't believe you wanted to stay home instead of going out to celebrate properly…"
"Hey, this is properly. Properly celebratory, and I don't have to worry about dancing funny or having guys try and grab my ass." She looks at him before he has a chance to speak. "Don't start."
"I wasn't going to say –"
"You were, you can't help yourself. Death by innuendo is your modus operandi."
He mock-frowns again.
"Well, christ, that hurts."
She grins at him as he tops up his glass, then lays her head back and closes her eyes.
"Ah god…this feels so great…"
"Chloe, I think you need to get out more. Two bottles of champagne…"
"I started before you came, remember."
"That's true."
"I meant the front page…" She tests the words against her teeth. "Front page…front page…"
He sips his drink and extends a hand languidly.
"Orate for me."
"You've already heard it."
"Again. Please."
She laughs and tips herself forward, settles her flute on a cardboard pizza tray lid and grabs the broadsheet next to her. He has a copy to his right. She tucks her bare feet under her, loose cross-legged, and clears her throat.
"Ahem. 'Metro Midas –"
"They just love those catchy tags at the Planet, don't they?"
"Shut up. 'Metro Midas charged in Porn Raid.' By Chloe Sullivan."
He grins and makes a few opera claps. She gives him a look.
"Again with the 'ahem'. Okay… 'An anonymous phone call has resulted in the arrest of one of the city's most successful and prominent businessmen, and the exposure of a major organised crime ring, with links to money-laundering and child pornography. On the basis of surveillance and an anonymous tip, police this morning raided the Metropolis residence of casino entrepreneur Jorge Luis 'J.L.' Owens, sealing off the premises and seizing computers, cash and other materials. Mr. Owens, 54, is the owner of four gambling operations in Las Vegas. He is also the CEO of private company FortunaX, which both owns and operates Crown Casino in Metropolis and has substantial stake in the Old Gold Casino in Gotham City…"
She looks up briefly, but Lex is looking at the rug, making a rolling motion with his hand to encourage her to continue. She takes another breath.
"…The heads of both the Organised Crime division and the Sex Crimes squad made joint statements this afternoon, confirming that Mr. Owens has been charged and subsequent arrests have been made. As well as files on casino money-laundering and other gambling operations, police discovered information and images related to child pornography, with links to both local and interstate studios –"
"Fucking vermin," Lex mutters under his breath then sips his drink, like he's getting rid of a bad taste. She nods, with her eyes on the paper.
"Tell me about it…Supervising Detective Tony Souris from Sex Crimes said that 16 men were expected to face charges as a result of one of the biggest investigations leads into child pornography in the city's history. Police Commissioner Bill Henderson said blah blah blah…" There's the thrill of reading her own work in print, but then there's the fact that she wrote it, and proofed it, and re-read it about a million times, so she skips to the last bits. "…Mr Owen's law firm representative, Ms Angelica Sawyer, said that her client had chosen not to make a statement at this time, but that a press release could be expected over the next twenty-four hours, and blah blah dee blah. The end."
She exhales in a rush of denouement. When she looks up, he's smiling at her.
"Magnificent."
"You said that the first time."
"Grandiloquent, then."
"Lex, are you taking the mickey?"
"Always. You take yourself too seriously."
"You can talk."
"I'll have you know –"
"Oh, stop –" She jolts upright, eyes on the ceiling, easily distracted. "Wait – I love this song…"
She grabs for the stereo remote and turns the volume to 'vibrate the furniture'.
"Chloe, it's three o'clock in the morning!" he yells, but she is already in audio cosmic space, smiling and raising her arms, then the chorus starts and she jumps to her feet, shaking her ass all over the place. He just watches her. She is bouncing around on the rug, her head bobbing and blonde hair flicking. She dances with her eyes closed. She is the bright spark in his universe, the sharp tang on his jaded palate. He wonders if she knows that, from his position, he can see up her skirt.
She knows. Frankly doesn't care. This is her day, and she feels strangely and totally comfortable with him there, sole guest at her private party. He was the one she called first. How bizarre is that? She has no family to share this with, and all her old friendships have died away. He is the only constant.
And even if that weren't the case, she suspects she'd still be extending him an invite. Their camaraderie is tight, in that old 50's Ratpack sense of the word.
The song closes on a crescendo of cymbal crash and guitar feedback noise, and she throws herself back down on the floor, reclaiming her spot on the cushions, sighing happily and feeling lighter, airier, than she has in months.
"Ah god…" She thumbs the volume back down to 'respectably ambient' as a slow tune starts. "I've been wanting to do that all day – at the office, even…"
He is studying her, with his trademark smirk.
"I was waiting for the air guitar moment."
"Hey – not that drunk."
"Thought you said you didn't want to go dancing."
"I said I didn't want to go clubbing," she says as she sips. "Dancing funny in a club is all kinds of bad, but dancing funny in my own living room is perfectly acceptable."
"I could grab your ass if you'd like. To complete the atmosphere."
She chokes a little on her champagne. Sometimes his flirting is so over the top she has to blink to catch up. She clears her throat of the alcohol.
"Gee, would you, Lex? I'd really appreciate it."
But he says nothing, and when she looks at him, his eyes have narrowed, and he has a smile slow-burning its way over his face. Suddenly her insides give a shivery jerk. She knows she's wearing a deer-in-the-headlights expression. Then something in his face changes – he blinks and swallows, looks away to drain his glass and set it on the tray.
"It's late."
His quiet voice breaks the momentary pause, jolts her back into time.
"Um, yeah. Shit, I guess it is."
He sighs.
"I have a board meeting in five hours."
"You do?" She can't help looking disappointed. "Sorry, of course you do. I forgot it's only Thursday."
"Friday. We're into Friday now."
"Friday. Right. Well…" She reaches for the bottle and tips half the remaining dregs into his glass and the rest into her own. "…there you go. Last call."
"Another toast?"
"Why not." She's feeling reckless. He's leaving. She raises her glass, then frowns. "I was going to say 'to me', but it just sounds revoltingly precocious."
"Precocious is a nice change for you."
"Oh, you're a riot. All right then – to me."
He makes the glasses ring liltingly, a soft expression on his face.
"To you, Chloe Sullivan."
She knocks back her drink with her eyes closed, and when she opens them again he's still sitting angled towards her with his glass set down, staring in that way he does sometimes. She blinks in surprise.
"Hey – you didn't drink."
And then he leans over, swift and fluid motion, and takes her mouth, sipping the sheen of champagne off her lips before rocking back to his seat on her rug. Her eyes go big as an owl's.
"Sure I did," he says huskily, and he's not grinning.
Her arousal is so deep, so white-hot and immediate, that she knows that part of her has anticipated this. And his expression is so unfamiliar, all hunger and uncertainty, that she thinks she's losing her mind. She sucks her bottom lip, tasting him, knows she's in trouble when she doesn't recognize her own whispering voice.
"Do that again."
And the festive debris between them is cleared aside with one ferocious sweep of his arm as he reaches forward to claim her.