The amber glow of the setting sun streams through the ornate glass windows, offering a final bit of warmth to the day before the night wind blows in yet another bitter chill.

Lionel breezes through the double doors of Lex's private study, uncharacteristically dressed in a deep red sweater instead of his sweeping long coat.

"Even God took one day off, Son" Lionel bellows, making a line for the scotch. "Perhaps you could emulate Him."

"It's Saturday," Lex says, letting his eyes roll up to look at his father.

Lionel laughs heatedly, amused by his son's reverence to the Sabbath.

Lex slides the lid of his laptop down, almost annoyed at the sight of his father. "Don't tell me, Dad, you've dropped by to watch the Saturday movie on ABC?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what that is, but I do worry that the rift between us has widened into a trough," Lionel speaks into this glass of scotch.

"I thought you wanted it to be a trough, then you could pitch me in it."

"Why do you persist on inventing ways to cut me, son? I have simply noticed that it has been quite some time since we picked up our swords and sparred."

Lex can't help but smile. He knows that although fencing is never involved, he and his father spar regularly. Or, perhaps Lionel's also aware of this fact, and the metaphor isn't as sharp as Lex originally thought? Either way, Lex is not in the mood.

"Well, perhaps we'd have had more tender moments if every event we shared didn't involve some type of combat," Lex says, trying hard to not allow his eyes to roll back in his head.

"You would have been happy attending the opera? Or an art exhibit, perhaps?" Lionel asks slyly.

Lex knows exactly where Lionel is going with this, his last sentence barely slipping from between his lips when his body slides across the room to Audrey's painting.

"I'm intrigued by this lonely little piece," Lionel says checking for Lex's reaction. "I mean, it's not exactly extraordinary, but I find I can't take my eyes off of it. Wherever did you get it?"

Lex is tired, and not in the mood for this particular sparring match. "Dad, I suspect you know already know the answer to that question, but I'll answer it anyway. It was a gift from the artist herself."

Lionel purses his lips, hoping Lex will expand on his answer. If Lionel is forced to continue his interrogation, he may tip his hand. However, if Lex will tire of the silence, Lionel can play his ace later in the game.

"She's quite a remarkable woman," Lex finally says, taking Lionel's bait.

"Is she?"

"Besides being talented, she's attractive and she makes a mean Gespacchio," Lex practically shivers at the thought. He, in fact, doesn't know why he said that.

Lionel turns to this, the questions ringing through his head evident by his raised brow. Lex usually has a very good poker face, but the shock and amazement over his last words is evidently a puzzle to the younger Luthor.

"Gespacchio?" Lionel asks.

"I don't know why I thought of that. But, when I thought of her right now, I tasted gespacchio."

Lionel's lip curls. "That's odd, son."

Whatever Lionel was after, Lex fears he may have just given him. What's more perplexing, is that Lex doesn't know what he just gave.

"I'm sorry, son, I'll have to take a rain check on that, what did you call it? The ABC movie?" Lionel doesn't wait for the answer, he leaves the room abruptly.

x X x X x

Lex lays upon his silken sheets, his heavy eyes searching the ceiling, counting proverbial sheep as his mind refuses to sleep.

Alone in his bed, he feels the presence of another. All around him blooms the delicate scent of lavender, yet after thoroughly examining his entire room for its source he can only conclude that it's only his imagination.

Tormented by thoughts he does not understand, he feels as though he's in the company of a ghost, one that causes him to quickly turn his head, swearing for a moment he felt a mass of beautifully scented hair brush across his bare chest, teasing and comforting him in the same instant.

Trying to shake the odd chills present on his flesh, Lex rises to gaze out the window, hoping to clear his mind of the image he cannot escape. Yet, his view from high atop the mansion cannot obscure the picture burned in his mind. The painting, although resting on the desk two flights of stairs below, seems to be the source of the mystery in his mind, the woman who crafted it enrapturing his once unpleasant dreams, making him long to escape to a place where he can experience more.