Chapter Text
Lex can't seem to muster the sense of urgency he supposes he's meant to in this situation. He's driving 45 miles over the speed limit due to mere personal preference.
All four windows are down and he relishes the air of an August night as it whips against his skin. It's more difficult to think this way. To feel much of anything. He relishes that as well.
For a moment, all Lex has to know is the hum of an engine and the shroud of darkness being cut through by high beams, the open country road stretching before him.
He could almost be convinced this is a joy ride if one were persuasive enough.
Though it's possible persuasion would have nothing to do with it.
Along with his lost sense of urgency, he seems to have misplaced his self preservation as well. Which he'd find hilarious if he could feel anything beyond the numbing bite of the wind.
All that Luthor ruthlessness his father taught him. All those survival instincts. Where have they slithered off to?
Where is the man who survived three months on a deserted island?
Perhaps he simply grew tired of fighting for his life. Of having to.
Self preservation is an interesting term—in this case, anyhow. Is there anything left to preserve? Anything worth preserving?
Depends on who you ask, Lex imagines.
"Do you have a death wish?" Dr. Vaughn had demanded through the crackling line of his cell.
And Lex said he hadn't. Because he doesn't.
Though it would be a lie to deny that a part of him had wondered—had truly considered—what would become of him if he didn't make it home in time. If he were late for the dialysis.
Then he got in his car.
Because he's a Luthor. And Luthors survive.
Even when another Luthor has other plans for him.
Lex had survived. Against all odds. He knows he should be grateful for it. For both his fast healing and modern medicine.
And Dr. Vaughn, he supposes. If nothing else than for the fact that she seems just invested enough in him staying alive that the idea of bowing out fills him with an odd sense of guilt. He'd hate to disappoint her.
Strong, intelligent women have always been a weakness of his, after all.
Or at least one of them.
He's not allowing himself to think about the other one.
There are more important things to focus on. To do. And truthfully, Lex never had time for it—for him—in the first place. He had just chosen to make time.
Had made something out of nothing, maybe.
No—no. He isn't thinking about that. There is no room in his head for it. Never has been.
So where are all the other thoughts?
There has to be something—what happened to the feel of the wind against his skin? The speed? The night air? Hell, he'd even take thinking about the dialysis he's headed for over this.
Anything over this.
And perhaps there is a god, because Lex is given his distraction in spades.
The sound is somehow more startling than the flash of light as it descends on his vision, the shock forcing him to cut the wheel hard to the right and send his Porsche over the non-existent shoulder of the dark country road and directly into the grass.
Blinking the spots from his vision, Lex slowly regains his bearings. When he does—when the vertigo subsides, when his hands stop shaking—he looks up to see just how close he had been to hitting a fence head on.
Just another totaled Porsche—another casualty to this town. Though if the crash wouldn't have killed him, not making it back to Dr. Vaughn in time might have.
And there would be no one here to save him, either. Not this time.
Maybe never again, he reminds himself. You better get used to it.
Gripping the wheel with two gloved hands, he forces himself to survey the shadowed fields ahead of him and take a steadying breath. And another. And another.
Once that's over with and his heart is no longer attempting to bruise the inside of his chest, he moves one hand back to the gear shift, and for possibly the first time since moving to this cursed town, craves the feeling of just being home.
Fate, however, has different plans.
Naturally.
There's another fierce crack as a second bolt of lightning strikes a nearby field. Lex jumps, startled—though he'll deny it until his dying breath—just barely managing to save his head from an unfortunate collision with the Porsche's ceiling. With his heart back in double time, he wonders why he bothered with the breathing in the first place.
And, really—what the fuck?
If the universe is so adamant about him not making it to dialysis in time, is all this really necessary?
If you want me dead, do it yourself, coward.
Or maybe the lightning strikes were just two really bad attempts at doing just that.
Maybe a third one is on the way.
Lex can't help the chuckle that bubbles from his throat at the absurdity of his thoughts. They're quite narcissistic, really. And a fantastical explanation for what was, admittedly, a very strange occurrence.
Two lightning bolts striking ground within a couple hundred feet of each other? The odds of that have to be slim to none.
But this is Smallville. Stranger things have happened.
He's out of the car and halfway across the field before he remembers why this is a bad idea.
Do you have a death wish?
Of course not. Just a thirst for knowledge.
He also feels almost—for lack of a better term—compelled. As if he needs to see what's in that field.
Presumably nothing is in the field. Or if there is something, it's most likely dead or on fire.
You know, lightning strike and all.
He keeps walking.
Trudging through stalks of corn isn't exactly Lex's idea of a good time, but he forces himself onward, pushing them out of his path with efficient, agile force. The small blazes of fire are impossible to miss at this distance, even with the stalks blocking his view. His skin begins to buzz at the prospect of what could be waiting for him. He has to get there.
Finally breaching the cornstalks, Lex finds himself nearly stumbling into a clearing, no longer needing the momentum to fight his way through. Once steadied, he surveys his surroundings—what he's risking everything for.
Scattered bits of flame blaze, lighting what appears to be a perfect circle cut out of the corn stalks.
Right in the middle of that circle is—well—a contender for the most perfect ass Lex has ever seen.
Oh, and there's a body attached to it, too. A man's body.
A man's body with exquisitely toned back muscles seemingly sculpted out of more than mere human flesh. Tan skin spotted with soot. Dark, unruly hair.
Lex blinks, and suddenly he's 12 years old and the sun is out and someone is calling for help.
Shaking the memory away, Lex squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, he's not 12 anymore. He's 21. Someone is still calling for help. The sun is gone and he thinks it's night again and he's moving into a different clearing and there's a cross and he—
"Clark?"
He shakes his head again, but the memory only morphs into an uncanny version of itself. A field. A beautiful dark-haired boy. A moon-lit rescue.
He's seen it all before.
Suddenly, Lex isn't sure if he spoke out loud or in the memory. Possibly both, he reckons.
Maybe he really did miss his dialysis window and this is how he goes out. Hallucinating in a field. The last thing he sees before the end is a mirage of Clark. Naked.
It seems fitting, really.
How else would he want to go?
No matter how many times Lex blinks. Shakes his head. Digs nails into palms. The image doesn't fade. Doesn't change. That gorgeous back with an ass to match just stands there, mocking him.
Until it doesn't—because it's turning around.
Lex's heart plummets to the soil below his feet.
No.
It can't—it's not—this can't actually be Clark.
Perhaps Lex is already dead.
The man—Clark—faces him head on, and Lex can't deny what he's seeing. Who he's seeing.
Clark.
Clark, who Lex hasn't laid eyes on in three fucking months.
Clark, who just stares ahead, a vacancy like Lex has never seen in those green eyes.
Clark, who is—oh, that's right—bare naked.
Look at his face.
And fuck, does he try.
He really does try.
And fails. He's a failure.
Because somehow, dropping his gaze to take in Clark's—Jesus Fucking Christ—cock is significantly easier than meeting his eyes.
Which only gets harder—forgive the pun—after he's seen all of him.
Lex had known, somehow, that Clark would be well-endowed. It was inevitable. A universal imperative. Just as much as Lex thinking about it is.
No amount of fantasizing could have prepared him for this.
He feels a bead of sweat begin to drip down his forehead.
Snapping his gaze back up, an unmistakable warmth begins to spread along the back of his neck, his scalp. Lex is sure he's been caught in the act, that Clark will be staring at him with massive, horrified eyes, a look of disgust on his face.
Instead, there's nothing at all. And Lex can't comprehend it. Feels it tearing shreds into his abdomen.
He takes a step forward on shaking legs, unable to stand the distance between them for another second.
"Clark?" he tries again, but it comes out all wrong. Soft and meek and desperate. It's pathetic.
Those eyes—the same ones Lex has been dreaming about for three months straight—finally, finally move in his direction and settle on his face. No emotion floods into them. The hatred seared into Lex's nightmares nothing but a distant memory.
"Clark," Lex breathes, his throat catching on the name. The way it feels on his tongue; how the sound of it makes his pulse quicken, even in his own voice. He seems to have forgotten every other word in the English language. He may need to start digging around in his head for another one. German? French? Mandarin?
And for the way Clark cants his head, Lex may as well be speaking them all at once.
"What is Clark?"
Lex blinks. Blinks again. Runs a hand over his mouth.
"Come on, Clark. I understand if you're still mad at me, but this isn't funny."
He feels obligated to say it more than anything. Hoping for his words to make that reading of this situation the reality. Knowing better than to believe Clark would do such a thing.
He keeps looking at Lex's face, possibly studying him, though Lex can't be sure he's thinking much of anything, given his expression. And fuck—was Clark struck by lightning? Lex had forgotten why they were out here in the first place. Is this brain damage?
"Alright, we have to get you home. You're coming with me." Lex is rather proud of how steady his voice sounds.
"Home?"
"Yes. Home. To the farm. Where you live."
"No," is all Clark says.
"No?" Lex nearly hisses, incredulous.
"I am waiting for the sign."
Fucking shit god damn it. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Deep breath.
He can't lose it here. Not in this field. Not in front of Clark.
Not while Clark so clearly needs him.
Meeting Clark's eyes is almost like looking into those of a strangers, and it threatens to collapse Lex's lungs. But this is still the most familiar face he's ever known. There is no doubting that. He may be buried inside his mind somewhere Lex can't reach, but this is Clark.
Clark. Here. Mere feet in front of him. In the flesh. Alive.
Here. With Lex.
That grounds his resolve.
Taking the final steps needed to bridge the gap between them, Lex moves into Clark's space without stopping to second guess it. He reaches up, placing two frigid palms against the sun-hot skin of Clark's face.
And, God—
He never thought they'd stand this close again.
"Clark," Lex says once more. He swallows back the emotion threatening to claw its way out of him and forces himself to keep speaking. "You need to come with me. Please."
It's not a word he uses lightly. It's one he'd prefer not to use at all. The way it felt to cry it over and over—to beg—as a child. For his father to care. To listen. To stop—
That doesn't matter now.
He'll say it to Clark as many time as he needs to.
"I am waiting for the sign."
Lex grips tighter, demanding Clark's attention, though he's not sure what that would even look like right now. He doesn't care—pushes on. He peers directly into moss-colored eyes.
Eyes that were so filled with disdain. Betrayal—
Not now.
"I can take you to the sign."
Clark slowly nods once in assent. Lex extracts both hands from his space and takes a step back, apprehension tearing at his gut with each movement. He returns his own rigid nod, as if they've come to an agreement, fighting against the urge to close his eyes and wall himself off from this surreal moment. Instead, he takes one last glance around the field and turns on his heel.
"Let's go."
After a few cautious steps back toward the car, he hears Clark begin to move behind him and sighs in relief. And then in frustration as the sound dissipates just as he's about to reenter the cornstalks.
Turning around sharply, his irritation threatens to bubble over, but it all fades away when he sees that blank look on Clark's face again; head slightly cocked and looking at Lex with eyes that are both empty and curious at once. Which shouldn't even be possible. But impossible is nothing new for Clark Kent, is it?
"Clark?"
"Who are you?"
He really should have expected it. Isn't sure why he hadn't. Isn't sure why he thought Clark could possibly know who Lex is when he can't even remember his own name.
Yes—he really should have anticipated it. Should have seen it coming.
That doesn't stop his knees from buckling or ease the bile burning in his throat.
Doesn't make him feel any less like he just took a blow to the stomach. Or convince his lungs they're operational.
No level of hindsight can remove the blade as it twists deeper into his chest cavity.
Despite all of this, Lex refuses to acknowledge the stinging in is eyes, to show that level of weakness. How affected he is by the realization that Clark doesn't know him. He wrestles with the hollow ache threatening to swallow him whole until it submits, forcing it into the ancient lead box in his mind and locking it tight.
He sends the stranger wearing Clark's face a lopsided smile. "I'm a friend."
Clark blinks once. "You can take me to the sign?"
Lex turns away again, not trusting his expression as he says, "What are friends for?"
To his astonishment, those words had been enough. Clark—or whatever is left of him—had followed Lex back to his car without another word or sign of protest.
Thank the fucking Lord.
He had let Lex guide him into the passenger seat and drape a suit jacket over his lap without complaint.
Lex learned a long time ago to keep a change of clothes in his car. First, from his party days in Metropolis; and more recently, so he can change out of his bloody or ripped clothing after the next inevitable kidnapping or interrogation or head trauma. Unfortunately, as Lex pulled the outfit out of his trunk and looked it over, he quickly realized these clothes weren't going to be an option.
So—the suit jacket. Lex's suit jacket. Covering Clark's lap. Covering his considerable—everything.
Lex is sitting in the passenger seat, now, trying to gain his bearings. Trying to formulate a plan. His mind seems to be running on empty, sputtering out each time he gets a hold of a thought. There's a sense of panic clawing up his chest, squeezing tight, but he forces it down. Looks at Clark. Breathes.
With a shaking hand, he turns the key in the ignition.
"Alright. Okay. I have to get you home. No—a hospital?" Lex is far beyond caring about how he's being perceived, of how crazy he sounds talking aloud like this. Clark doesn't appear to be able to hear him anyway—and even if he could, he's undoubtedly the more mentally unwell of the two at this moment and has no room to judge. "No. You never go to hospitals. Though your father has been in the hospital all summer. But you—you never go. And your parents never take you. You always make an excuse when I suggest it."
He turns to Clark, as if this is an actual conversation. Clark, for his part, doesn't respond. Obviously. Lex puts the car in drive.
"The farm it is, then," he sighs, pulling back onto the road.
Irritation floods through his veins when the Porsche can't accelerate at the rate he's pushing it to. They need to be going faster.
Ah, there's that sense of urgency.
They're truly lucky he doesn't crash when Lex's cell phone rings, the high-pitched sound cutting through the still silence of the car. Lex fumbles to flip the phone open and answer the call, bringing it up to slot between his ear and shoulder.
"Lex Luthor."
"Where are you?"
Fuck.
He cuts the wheel, fishtailing the car back in the opposite direction.
"Something came up. I'll be there soon. Have everything ready."
"Something came up?" Dr. Vaughn asks, tone a mixture of admonishment and incredulity. It grates on his ears. "Lex, what's more important than your life?"
He grips the wheel tighter, keeping his eyes pointedly on the road. Refusing to acknowledge his passenger seat.
There are so many ways he could answer that question. None he would ever willingly say.
"Not much," is what he goes with, and it's more of the truth than he had expected from himself.
"Just get here. You're running out of time."
"I'm well aware, Doctor," he bites out, angry heat scraping down his skin, nausea beginning to set in. She doesn't respond, but doesn't hang up, either, and Lex forces a deep breath through his nose. "I'm going to have a guest with me."
Dr. Vaughn barks a sardonic laugh. "You're kidding, right? This little detour was to pick up a friend?"
"Something like that," he mutters. He doesn't owe her an explanation. She works for him, after all. "I'll be there in 10 minutes. Be ready."
"I've been ready for two hours, Lex."
He hangs up.
Hits the speed dial for his private line to the mansion staff.
Gloria picks up after 4 rings. "Mr. Luthor?"
"Gloria—I need you to go into the antique room in the west wing and grab a full outfit from the wardrobe I keep in there."
"An outfit, Mr. Luthor?"
"Yes. A complete set." He knows he's being short—colder with her than he typically allows himself to be with his staff. Unfortunately for Gloria, he simply no longer has the patience for pleasantries tonight. "Shirt, pants, underwear, socks, shoes."
"But what—"
"I trust your ability to put together a suitable outfit, Gloria. If you could bring it to the garage entryway, I would appreciate that. I'll be home shortly."
He ends the call before she can reply, knowing she'll get the job done.
His next call is much more important.
So, naturally, it rings and rings and rings and rings. No answer.
He supposes Martha could be asleep, but he's fairly certain the phone would have awoken her. Especially with what she's been going through as of late. It's much more likely she's at the hospital visiting Jonathan.
Another hang up. Another call. This one not being on speed dial making things a bit more difficult while driving.
"Smallville Medical Center."
"This is Lex Luthor. Can you tell me if Martha Kent is currently visiting?"
"I apologize, Mr. Luthor. I can't disclose that information."
Of course not.
Deep breaths.
"Fine. If she's there, just tell her I called and that it's important. Tell her it's about her son. That she can call me back or come to the mansion. I don't care."
He ends the call before he can lose his temper on an undeserving night nurse, finally setting the phone down in the center consol.
A glance at Clark tells Lex that he's still with him. Still here. That he wasn't some horribly in-depth hallucination. But it's all he can take. The absent look on that normally over-expressive face just looks wrong. Out of place.
Clark wearing his heart on his sleeve is one of the things that makes him Clark.
Well, that, and still being determined to lie despite it.
Oh, Clark.
He can't think the words. Won't think them. Refuses to think them.
They come all the same.
Oh, Clark.
I can't believe you're here.
I've missed you.
No—I miss you.
Come back to me.
The relief Lex feels as he finally pulls into the mansion garage is unlike anything he's ever known.
Now, if he can just figure out a way to make it inside.
He's—quite literally—drenched in sweat, the first few buttons of his shirt undone in an attempt to relieve his scorching skin. It's almost embarrassing how heavy his breathing is, though he's having a hard time focusing on anything but the act of opening the car door and stumbling toward the mansion entrance.
Clark, of course, drops the suit jacket on the way in. Because why would someone who doesn't even know who they are care about modesty? And damn, does Lex wish he weren't on the brink of death so he could enjoy this more.
So he could have material to tease a flushed Clark with later.
That's quite a bit of optimism—on two accounts.
He'll blame it on the whole poisoned blood thing.
Gloria shouts in surprise as they enter—whether due to the force with which Lex flings the door open or the sight of Clark's perfectly sculpted naked body, he's not sure. Either way, he finds himself giggling at her reaction, and fucking hell, he's really starting to lose it here.
Two of his body guards close in on them, grabbing Lex by each arm to steady him. And had he been falling? He hadn't even noticed.
The room may or may not be spinning.
"Take me to Dr. Vaughn," Lex manages, unsure if the words came out as words at all. It'll have to be enough.
And it must be, because he's suddenly being maneuvered down the hall and toward the East Wing.
"Gloria," Lex tries to shout, though he's sure he misses the mark. "Get Clark dressed and bring him to me."
That's—not how he would have typically worded that, is it?
Oh well. Everything's going a little black around the edges.
Lex comes to in a familiar, dark room. It's cold and sterile and gray and the perfect setting for such a depressing procedure, if he does say so himself.
It's also the setting for most of his recent nightmares. Both waking and asleep.
Dr. Vaughn had stared at Lex like he had three heads when he demanded they set up her equipment in here. He didn't care. It had been fitting.
Now, after everything that's transpired tonight, it just seems sad. Pitiful.
And if the shoe fits—
Or maybe he had been trying to punish himself.
Forced to look around this large, empty room, remembering everything that used to fill it, reliving that last day with Clark over and over and over each time his contaminated bloodstream is filtered clean again.
There's definitely a metaphor there. But Lex doesn't have the energy to make sense of it.
"That was a bit of a close call, don't you think?"
A soft groan escapes Lex against his will as he shifts to look toward the voice. He does his best to morph it into a considering hum. "Ah, Dr. Vaughn. Your bedside manner is impeccable as always."
"You could have died."
He closes his eyes. Yes, he could have. But he didn't. And Clark—
Clark is here. And also alive, if not completely present. So, all in all, Lex considers this a net positive.
The truth is—though he won't take the time to explain it to Dr. Vaughn—he hadn't planned to come back here. He had somehow forgotten where he was meant to be in the face of Clark and his condition. He had started driving toward the farm without a second thought for his own well being.
Some things simply never change.
As if reading his mind, Dr. Vaughn speaks again, and Lex forces his eyes to open once more. "You really almost sacrificed your life for that guy you brought home, didn't you? Who even is he?"
Lex isn't doing this.
"And if I did? That would have been my prerogative and my own fault, Gabrielle. Not yours. So stop with your chastising. I'm not a child. I'm well aware there are consequences to my actions."
He doesn't acknowledge her second question.
Two perfect eyebrows rising, Dr. Vaughn crosses her arms and stares him down. Lex isn't sure if it had been the use of her first name or the sudden sharpness of his words—though she should be used to the latter by now—that put her on the defensive.
Even when he's on edge, Lex usually has the sense to give her the respect she deserves.
He's just not willing to go through this with another person. To hear the questions. The accusations. The inability to comprehend what feels like second nature to him. Not now—not when his head is still foggy, his mind in a million different places.
There's a lot here about the Kents.
Just what exactly is your fascination with this boy?
We both know that you have an entire archive devoted to uncovering the mystery of Clark Kent.
What is it about this kid you're trying to protect?
I don't like your friendship with my son.
No, another conversation like that may be what sends Lex skittering right over the edge he's been balancing on all summer.
"You pay me to keep you alive, Lex."
He sighs, trying to soften the edges of his tone. "And you have. When it's in your control. I think monitoring a patient's whereabouts goes a little beyond do no harm."
When her only response is a huff and an eye roll, Lex adds, "If I mean that much to you, you can just say so." His voice is dripping with mock—well, mostly mock—seduction, and he doesn't expect it to lighten her mood in the least, but it'll hopefully have the desired effect of distracting her. Even if it does end with him being slapped across the face.
Though that may go against her oath. Damn.
They both turn their heads at the soft knock against the door across the room. Lex's aversion techniques are in vain, of course, as Gloria enters with Clark in tow.
Guess there's no avoiding the topic now.
Clark is fully clothed—thank God, or maybe not, depending on how you look at it—but his expression is still bare. He's wearing a well-fitted maroon button down that hugs his biceps just as Lex always imaged it would, and black slacks that do little to hide everything Lex already had the pleasure of seeing this evening.
"Great choices, Gloria," he praises, hearing Dr. Vaughn snort in response.
"They fit him perfectly." Her voice is full or mirth and Lex thinks there may be a hint of teasing thrown in there, and he can't help but crack a smile at it. The whole thing is rather absurd, and despite popular belief, Lex learned to laugh at himself a long time ago.
Because she's right. They do fit him perfectly. So perfect, in fact, it's like they were tailor made with his exact measurements and stored in the closet of a guest bedroom that never actually had an opportunity to house its guest.
That is, however, until three months ago, when they were moved into the antique room on the other end of the mansion. Because the person who picked them out and paid for them did have some dignity, after all.
It's almost like that.
"Can you give us a moment?" Lex asks, voice suddenly hoarse.
Dr. Vaughn peers at him, clearly weary of the request. "Sure. But you don't have much longer. I'll be back in 10 minutes."
"And not a second longer," Lex deadpans as Dr. Vaughn turns her back to him and follows Gloria out of the room. There's a sense of finality as the door closes, echoing against the lifeless walls. Lex almost regrets asking her to leave.
"You look great."
Fuck.
Hadn't meant to say that.
Has never said something like that to Clark before, no matter how many times he's wanted to.
But this isn't quite Clark, is it?
"Why are we here?"
That monotone voice slithers across Lex's skin, and he nearly rips the tubes from his body.
He bites the inside of his cheek instead, forcing a different sensation. "I needed to take care of something first. As you can see, I'm a bit tied up." He goes for light. Isn't sure he makes it.
Not like Clark notices.
He is looking around the room, though, and Lex wonders if it's triggering something for him—a memory, an emotion. Lex isn't sure whether he wants that to be the case or not.
Which isn't entirely true. He'd withstand anything to bring Clark back to himself—even his hatred.
"What is this place?"
Well, that answers that.
Lex presses his lips together, contemplating the best way to answer. Deciding how much he wants to get into right now, with limited time and Clark the way he is. But if it helps—
"This is the last place you and I talked to one another." Lex huffs a laugh. "Before tonight, obviously."
Clark doesn't respond, just keeps circling the room. There's nothing for him to see but hospital equipment and two crumpled bits of metal.
"Those are pieces of the Porsche you pulled me out of the day we met. That's all that's left, Clark. I destroyed the rest of it." His voice gives out with a mortifying crack, but he doesn't let it deter him. He has to say this. "Don't tell anyone, but I'm a sentimental bastard. I couldn't get rid of it."
Still nothing.
"I know there isn't anything I can do to earn back your trust, but I'm going to keep trying. As long as you let me. I just need you to come back."
Lex isn't sure why he's doing this to himself. It's like talking to a wall. So different from all the ways he has imagined this conversation going in his head.
Thought there'd be a bit more yelling.
He feels so incredibly lost.
Doesn't know whether to be grateful or frustrated that he can't get up from this hospital bed.
"Please," he whispers, so hushed that it shouldn't be audible, but Clark's head snaps up. His eyes are still distant, though undoubtedly trained on Lex.
It hits him—only now—that this would be a perfect opportunity. The perfect opportunity.
Clark can't remember who Lex is or what he's done or that he's someone who can't be trusted.
Clark may not even be aware he has anything to hide.
And Lex—
He hadn't even thought about it. Hadn't considered the potential of the situation until this moment. Could only focus on getting Clark somewhere safe. On seeing him again.
Maybe that's what Lex should tell him. Would the words finally be enough to get it through his thick skull?
I was never a threat to you.
Don't you see?
I would never—could never—hurt you.
Lex swallows. Clears his throat.
"Clark—"
"You talk a lot."
A surprised laugh echoes around the too-empty room, and Lex realizes belatedly that it's his own.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
"Damn, Clark. Tell me how you really feel."
He wishes he were making a joke.
Free of being hooked up to medical machinery for the night, Lex walks Clark through the mansion halls until they reach his study.
Another familiar space. This one with—mostly—good memories attached, at least.
It's a bit of a relief.
"You know," he says, leaning against the pool table, grateful when Clark stops moving to focus on him. Lex is fairly certain that when Clark is ready to leave, there will be nothing he can do to stop it from happening. Neither he nor his security. "I could call Toby. I know you don't like hospitals, but I really think you need to get your head checked out. He may not look like a medical professional, but he understands the value of discretion."
The truth is that Lex isn't sure he would trust anyone with Clark, not if there is indeed a secret important enough to keep him from going to the hospital. To make him lie to everyone who cares about him.
There must be something there worth protecting.
But Lex can't protect Clark if he doesn't know what is in need of hiding. He can't prepare for a threat without knowing the nature of that which is being threatened.
And now all the evidence is gone. Any clues he had to the truth.
How am I supposed to keep you safe if you won't let me in?
"I am fine."
Lex takes a sharp breath in, tying to keep his temper in check. "You're clearly not fine, Clark. You don't even remember who you are."
"I am not supposed to be here."
Lex scrambles away from the pool table, and it's not anywhere near graceful, but he can't be bothered with appearance when Clark is heading toward the door and back out of his life.
"Hey—Clark. Stop. Where are you going?"
"I am leaving now."
Lex makes it across the room and manages to slot himself between Clark and the space left from the open double doors.
"No—just wait, okay? Just a bit longer."
Lex thinks he may be prepared to beg. He really doesn't want to find out.
"I am not supposed to be here." Nothing in that voice. In those eyes. Nothing of his friend left to hold onto. To persuade.
"And where are you supposed to be, exactly?" He hears his tone rising. Doesn't think he has the capacity to control it anymore.
"Not here. I am leaving."
"No. You're not." Lex squares his shoulder, raises his chin to meet Clark's—but not really Clark's at all—eyes. He crosses his arms, radiating defiance.
And Clark—in what Lex swears may be the only hint of emotion he's shown all night—cocks his head to the side, eyes glinting with the smallest bit of amusement. Then he gives a little shoulder shrug and reaches his arms out toward Lex.
He doesn't know what he's expecting, exactly, but the way Clark's large hands come up to cup both of Lex's biceps isn't it.
Nor is the sensation of his feet leaving the ground, the smallest pressure squeezing his muscles as he's moved out of Clark's way and set back down.
Clark hadn't shown even a glimmer of exertion.
Lex could have been a pillow for how easy Clark had lifted him.
Indignation, rage, and something else entirely flood into Lex's gut, consuming him with heat.
He's not shocked, per se, he just—hadn't been expecting it.
Had never actually seen it. Whatever it is.
Not really.
He blinks rapidly, trying to make sense of what happened and not think too much beyond that. To focus on his mind, and not the effect it's having on the rest of him.
Later. That's for later.
But, right now, Clark is—
Gone. Clark is gone.
Fuck.
Lex races out the doors of the study and down the winding halls to the front entryway. He'd yell for Clark, but he doesn't think it would make a difference, and Lex can hardly breathe as it is. His body isn't back up to speed yet.
Turning the corner into the foyer, Lex skitters to a halt, watching as Clark is forced to stop walking as the front door flies open.
Watches as Martha Kent's face goes from determined to bewildered to relieved.
Watches as she puts both arms around her son, nearly sobbing into his chest.
Watches as her expression shifts again to anguish when Clark asks: "Who are you?"
"Wha—It's me—Mom."
God, it hurts to hear her voice filled with so much pain and confusion.
Lex clears his throat, making himself known before stepping further into the foyer. "Try not to take it personally. He doesn't even remember his own name."
Martha turns on him, whipping her body in his direction and pointing a single finger. "Lex—what happened?"
It's not quite as bad as what did you do?—which admittedly, is what Lex had been expecting—but the accusation is there all the same.
He raises both hands in a sign of passivity, and his mind flashes back to a simpler time.
I come in peace.
And he still does—though he's not sure she'll ever believe that again.
"I found him like this in a field off Route 31. There were two lightning strikes and I went to check it out and Clark was there. No memory, no clothes, no Clark, really."
"And you thought it would be best to bring him here?"
It stings. The implication behind the words. That Lex had ulterior motives.
Not that he blames her.
"I'm sorry," he sighs, closing his eyes for a moment to gather himself. "I planned on taking him to the farm, but I had a bit of a medical emergency. I called and you didn't answer, so I called the hospital. I did what I could to get ahold of you."
It's never truly faded. That horrific need to prove himself to any mother figure who will listen.
"Medical emergency?"
It's not what he expects her to say.
"It's not an excuse. I—"
"Are you okay, Lex?"
And that is definitely not what he expected her to say.
His chest is so tight.
"Yeah, I—I'm fine." She stares him down, and he feels compelled to explain, though he would rather do anything but. "A bottle of my brandy was poisoned a few months back. I survived, obviously, but I've needed regular dialysis ever since. I almost missed the window tonight."
"Lex."
When he can force himself to meet her eyes again, they aren't filled with the pity—or skepticism—he expects; instead, there's just earnest gratitude, and maybe even a little awe.
He has to look away again.
"I'm okay, really. Just—get Clark home safe, okay?" He moves toward Clark, a little surprised he hasn't tried to leave again. Maybe there's a part of him that knows his mother, that's trying to stay with her. Or maybe Lex is just a hopeless believer. "Clark—listen to me." When Clark turns his head, Lex grabs his face like he had in the field, trying hard not to think about Martha's peering gaze. "Go with her. She can take you to the sign. She is who we were waiting for."
Clark turns what may pass as an expectant look on his mother.
"You will take me to the sign?"
"Yes, I will take you."
It's impressive, how quickly she catches on. And somehow, Lex knows Clark is going to be okay.
"Thank you," she mouths, leading Clark toward the door.
Lex nods once and turns away, beginning his trek back down the hall.
He doesn't have it in him to watch them leave.