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lambourngb"Lessons in Compassion" : [2/3]
Previous part: [1/3]
* * *
“Bottled water, Pellegrino if you have it, and shelled peanuts please.”
The bored, gum smacking concession attendant stared at Lex. “This isn’t the country club, we have popcorn and pop. So what do you want?”
He wrinkled his nose, as the aroma of a ‘redneck shower’ wafted over him. Four sprays of Stetson didn’t take the place of a hot, clean shower, no matter what the guys standing behind him thought. The teaming press of hungry Crows football fans was violating his bubble of personal space. “Uh, coke and um… popcorn it is then.”
“Do you have anything smaller than a fifty?”
Lex peered into his wallet, counted out three different currencies, but not a single bill less than a fifty. “That would be a no.”
“Hey Kelly, I got it, okay?” Clark shoved a five at the girl, and collected the popcorn and soda. He gave her a shy smile, which made Kelly’s gum-smacking cease for a moment, before she turned her eyes to the next customer.
“Thanks Clark…” Lex began.
“If your next words are ‘I owe you one’ I’m going to dump this popcorn on your nice sweater, and keep your coke for my own.” Clark warned, walking back toward the stands where at least a hundred or more screaming Smallville Crows fans gathered.
He laughed, “No, just, thanks.” He dodged a mud puddle, saving his Italian leather shoes from an unfortunate dunking, and skipped to catch up with Clark’s long stride. “So this is a football game. Wow. I think I understand what I have missed.”
“Awe, the famous Lex Luthor wit, so are you going to deride this as well?”
“Deride. Nice word, very country club.” Lex looked around, “to answer your question, no, I’m not. I’m here to take in what everyone refers to as Smallville’s only legal past time. Football.” He turned to Clark, “I thought I might visit your planet.”
“You might regret that.” He tilted his head toward the stands, “I’m sitting with my parents, Pete, and Chloe.” Martha Kent waved at her son, while Jonathon glared suspiciously at Lex.
Lex shifted his Crows ball cap on his head, and slipped on his sunglasses. “Sounds as lovely as a firing squad. Lead the way.”
He tried not to think about the chewing gum that was now stuck to the bottom of his shoe as he followed Clark up the crowded, and rickety metal stands. Already he was regretting not wearing boots as he waded through split soda and popcorn to the section where the Kents were waiting.
“Mom, Dad, you know Lex… Lex, you’ve met Pete Ross and Chloe Sullivan right?” Clark handed his popcorn to his mother, and sat down next to his father. Pete scooted over for Lex; all the while shooting his friend very curious glances.
“A pleasure.” He brushed off the still warm metal, and sat down, vaguely wondering if the lines would be engraved permanently on his ass if he were there longer than an hour. “So who is winning?”
“The Barton Chiefs. 27-17” Jonathan pointed to the chalk scoreboard at the end of the field. He glanced at his son, before passing the popcorn to his wife. “You missed it, we got caught off-sides, and lost ten yards.”
Pete grumbled from Lex’s other side, “We’re losing to the nursemaids, it’s pathetic.”
Clark read the confusion in his eyes, “That’s Clara Barton High School, you know, the founder of the Red Cross.”
“And they said there wasn’t anyone famous in Kansas.” Lex mused, and watched as uniformed men jumped on each other, in no reasonable pattern. He jumped up belatedly as the crowd surged to their feet in cheers. Again, he turned and smiled at Clark, clapping along with the same enthusiasm, even if he didn’t quite understand what was going on, or why it was good.
“Fordman has quite the arm.” Martha mused, leaning around her husband to talk to Lex. “I’m not really too familiar with this game either, but I understand completing a pass is a good thing. It’s amazing, to think he almost died a week ago.”
Whitney Fordman. Corn-fed heartthrob of Smallville. He noticed that Whitney looked no worse for wear, under the black grease paint and grass stains. “Thanks to Clark, he didn’t.”
“He has a way at being at the right place at the right time.” Chloe added, her reporter’s mind taking down all the details.
“Most of the time.” Jonathan grunted, not bothering to hide his dislike of Lex. Clark’s reply was lost in the screams of TOUCHDOWN! “Come on! Run out the clock! Oh don’t send Abbott in to kick, he’s cross-eyed.”
He thought back to the few college football games he’d glimpsed on his way in and out of the university. Did it really mean anything that he didn’t know the finer points of this game, but could name each original position in fencing correctly in French? He made a mental note to ask his secretary, Rose, to put together a profile on the game. If this was Clark’s world, then he wanted to be familiar with it.
Clark tugged on his elbow, and spoke into his ear, “You’re not really having any fun, are you?”
Lex shrugged, “That kicker doesn’t look cross-eyed to me.” He squinted behind his sunglasses, and caught sight of Lana Lang doing a cartwheel in a scandalously short skirt. “You know, I can see why you like this game though.”
Clark followed his eyes to the cheerleaders, and blushed. “I’m thinking about trying out for the team.”
“No, you aren’t.” Jonathan put in, without turning his gaze from the field. “We already talked about it.”
Lex looked back and forth between the father and son, and replied for Clark’s benefit, “Will you get a chance to rub dirt in Whitney’s face?”
The argument that was spoiling within him went unsaid, as he grinned. “Only if I play for the other team.”
“There’s nothing stopping you from letting a two hundred pound linebacker through to tackle his ass.” Pete joked.
“Now that wouldn’t be good sportsmanship,” Lex protested, a tinge of mocking in his voice. He almost choked on his mouthful of popcorn at the look that Clark sent his way. “It would be fun, but it wouldn’t be good sportsmanship.” He caught the skeptical look Clark’s father sent his way, silently reading his doubts about whether a Luthor would know anything about good sportsmanship.
“Touchdown Crows!”
The crowd surged to its feet, cheering heartily as the local boys took the field. The game was blessedly over, and Lex had survived the experience intact. He was mildly disappointed that no one had crushed Fordman into the dirt, he might consider attending another game if there was a promise of that.
* * *
“So really, why did you come to the game?” Clark asked curiously, as they walked back to the parking lot.
“I had a rotten day, and I thought watching high school boys wearing tight pants chase each other around the field in order to score would make it better.” Lex tossed his drink away, and turned with a mischievous glint in his eye, “So Clark, is that what you want to happen? A guy to grab you by the waist and pull you to the ground? Are you going to be a tight end, or a wide receiver?”
He blushed, and glanced back to make sure his parents were still out of earshot, “Oh, and like prancing around in a tight white jump suit with a stick in your hand is so much more macho.”
“Hey, I never said I was a knuckle-dragging manly man. I mean, look at me, I’m a skinny bald freak.” He shrugged, “I do my battles in a board room, it’s not as impressive as a football field I grant you, but a seven figure income is really nothing to sniff at.”
Clark ignored the ‘freak’ comment, even though it bothered him. “What about in high school? Were you closing mergers and firing people even then?”
His eyes shadowed at Clark’s question, “I didn’t really attend high school like you. My father just shipped me off to boarding schools, whoever would take me. I was on the rifle team, really quite good with the clay pigeons and small arms.”
“No track and field? What’s that sport rich kids play, lacrosse? Or field hockey?”
“My asthma was a lot worse in high school than it is now, so,” he shrugged as he walked up to his car. “Least I’m a good shot, which comes in handy at Luthor Corp.”
Clark smiled, “I never know when you’re joking.”
“I never joke.” Lex replied seriously, before breaking off in a laugh. He spent the drive back to the castle thinking that it was a good thing Clark couldn’t read him as well as he’d like.
* * *
“There’s been three accidents in the last month. The safety gages on the Alpha 236 are shot and need to be fixed, or better yet, replaced… There’s a reason why production is down in Smallville, the equipment is ten years too old.” Lex frowned into the phone, leaning back in his soft leather chair, “If I cut positions again, move full-time to part-time, I’m still facing a loss of production… You sent me here to turn the plant around; I need capital to make capital… The union will strike, do you understand that?”
No longer able to take the dial tone anymore, he hung up the phone, ending his rehearsal to his father. Next time, he’d say all that and more when he actually dialed the phone. He pressed the call button to his secretary, rubbing his eyes. “Rose- I need to see the report on last month’s soil samples.”
Rose Phillips knocked softly on the oak door, before stepping inside. “I left it on your desk yesterday. It’s up to you, to find it.”
He rubbed his temples, sighing. “You could push the button, and tell me that through the intercom, you know. That’s why I spent money on the system.” He’d reminded her of that at least twice a week since arriving in Smallville, but he was slowly figuring out that Rose was her own character, where rules didn’t seem to touch her. That quality had resulted in many terminations of LuthorCorp employees, but not Rose. She had been his mother’s personal assistant, and for unknown reasons, Lionel had kept her on the staff ever since.
If Lex were the sentimental type, he might have thought his father didn’t want to give up another connection to his mother, but he hadn’t indulged in sentimentality in years. It was unlikely that Lionel even knew how to practice it. Rose was the last connection, she had known his mother, and she had known the boy he’d been before the accident.
Both were long buried in the past.
“Yes, but I like seeing your face once in a while.” She lifted her glasses from the bridge of her nose, and gave him a smile that never failed to remind him of a mother’s patience. Lex killed the fledgling feeling with a skill born of practice, and started searching the stacks of paper on his desk for the damned report.
She continued, her smile turned slightly disapproving in response to the play of emotions or lack there of over his face. “A Mr. Kent came by earlier today, with the produce. He asked to see you.”
He looked up from his search for the soil samples, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“You were consulting with Dr. Malkin, and I recall you left explicit instructions on not being disturbed.”
She had a point. Lex tore open a drawer, and snapped back at her, “Well my explicit instructions do not include Kent, okay? Next time, find me.” He slammed shut the drawer, narrowing missing his fingers, “Where the fuck is that report?”
Rose stepped around to his desk, and brushed aside his hands. Serenely she lifted the report from in front of Lex, and handed it to him. “This report?”
He snatched it, “Yeah.” He flipped open the file, and began to study the figures, dismissal evident in his actions.
She was immune to that action as well, “He seems young.”
“Who?” Lex asked, knowing, but feigning his ignorance. She was fishing, and he knew it.
“Clark Kent. He can’t be older than sixteen.”
“He’s fifteen.” Now Lex looked up, reading her expression. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but Clark is just a friend.” Just a nice, somewhat clumsy, oddly secretive, trouble-finding, beautiful friend who Lex desperately wanted to possess.
“Even if he isn’t ‘just a friend’ he has parents, and there are laws, Lex. Your father’s example aside, Luthors aren’t above the law.”
“Now you insult me.” He stood up and faced her, the soil report forgotten. “I haven’t touched him in any way outside of friendship.” Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Yes, friendship. I know what I’ve said, and I’m wrong. Even I like having a friend, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m here because I’m being punished. Clark saved my life, for some unknown reason, and he seems not to care that I’m a Luthor.”
The list of people who didn’t care he was a Luthor could be counted on one hand, with fingers left over.
“I’m sorry.” She reached out, and touched his shoulder. “I’m not on your father’s side, I never liked Lionel Luthor, and he knows that. I’ve never liked what happened after your mother died, and he knows that too. I also only want what’s best for you, Lex. If you say you are just friends with Clark Kent, then I believe you.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.” He brushed her hand away, shutting out her efforts to ‘bond’ with him. He hated it when she brought up his mother, and he hated even more when she played the sympathy card. Poor Lex, his mother is dead and his father never loved him, boo hoo, bullshit. “Let’s keep these discussion of my private life limited to just this one instance. Now, excuse me, but I have a lot of work I need to do.”
His eyes coolly returned to his desk, and this time he was pleased to hear the door close behind her. At first he thought Rose had been his father’s spy, now he realized just what she was, his punishment.
She showed little respect to him, and it made him crazy. Her unsolicited advice, her constant ‘You’re better than that’ attitude, he had fired her a thousand times, and meant it each time. Each time she returned to work, with the blessing of Lionel Luthor.
He kicked his desk with an explosion of fury. The wave of pain enveloping his leg didn’t improve his temperament. Control, Lex, control. He gripped the corner of his desk, two too deep breaths, and felt the sanity slowly return.
He hated it when she was right.
Clark, beautiful Clark, was what was jokingly referred to as ‘jailbait’.
Forbidden fruit, which he told himself, was half the reason why he wanted Clark. Lex Luthor wasn’t used to being told what he could and could not have. Results in the past had resulted in a sort of reverse psychology, with disastrous results. However, he did know better.
His father, in a rare moment of tolerance, had set him down for a talk, “Lex, I’ve seen juries acquit killers and bank robbers. Embezzlement, insurance fraud, tax evasion, killing a cheating lover, or stealing money to make the bills, those are crimes that Joe Ordinary understands. Sexual harassment and statutory rape are a whole lot harder to sell as ‘understanding’. Don’t embarrass me.”
It boiled down to two lessons ‘make sure she’s of age’ and ‘make sure she isn’t the help’. His father had imparted them with such fierceness, Lex actually obeyed them.
Of course, now his father knew to amend the rules to include ‘he’ along with she.
He glanced at his watch, and gave up the completion of paperwork as a lost cause. Friends, he could handle it as just friends. He didn’t have much of a choice, considering how the Kents felt about him, they would go after him and test the law which dictated the age of consent being fourteen. Small-minded courts would be what his father called a ‘hard sell’. Small-minded courts in farm country involving a gay relationship, he could save himself the call to the lawyers, he was screwed.
* * *
Clark shuddered, the feeling of nausea rising in him. He was close to the Creekside Foundry, the last place he had seen Greg Arkin alive. The building was silent, except for the chattering of crickets.
Normally, the sound wouldn’t have disturbed him in the least, but his last glimpse of Greg dissolving into a carpet of insects, left him nervous around anything that had more than four legs. He pushed the sliding metal door aside, and stepped into the abandoned building.
At night, he couldn’t sleep. During the day, he couldn’t concentrate. His conscience wouldn’t let him rest, and he knew exactly why. Greg Arkin’s death was his fault. He could have acted, saved Greg the way he had saved his father, Whitney, and Lex in the past.
He could have tried harder.
A wave of dizziness overcame him; he grabbed the wall for support. It was a familiar feeling from his childhood, playing with Paul and Greg. Falling down in a game, missing catches, nearly toppling out of a tree once, he was Clark the Klutz. He had a vague suspicion that the cause was not simply poor coordination, but something more biological. Something connected to his arrival on Earth, like Lana’s crystal, or the minerals the Foundry used.
Clark had grown used to the teasing from his friends. As socially inept as Greg was, he still outclassed him around Lana Lang. Good old Clark, always good for a laugh or another embarrassing moment. Good old Clark, always a source of entertainment.
That was why his conscience was bothering him.
He didn’t try harder to save Greg, because he was angry. Angry that Greg had hurt Lana, angry that his father had been threatened, and angry that once again he was put in a place of action, of responsibility. If he didn’t stop Greg, then no one would and that rankled him. So perhaps he was unconsciously resentful. Resentful that Greg had made him the judge, jury and executioner.
What could the courts have done? Lock him up? What type of prison was there that could hold something like Greg? In the meantime, people were going to die, unless he stopped Greg. The only way to stop him was to kill him. At fifteen, he never dreamed he would ever be placed in that role. Clark had spent his life rescuing lost calves, raising infant chicks, and nurturing the land so life could flourish.
He wasn’t a killer.
He also wasn’t going to be Greg’s savior. It was easier to let Greg die, than commit the crime himself. At least, he thought it was going to be easier. His nightmares spoke otherwise, explaining in detail to his subconscious that active or inactive, he had caused Greg’s death. He was a murderer. Two weeks of sleepless nights later, that truth was yammering at his soul.
Again, what choice did Greg leave him? There lay the root of his anger. He had no choice, and then, he had no one there to tell him that he did the right thing. No one was there to judge him guilty for his part. No one was there to make him feel better.
He had power, and it he could use it to save a life, or in Greg’s case, let a life die. Now he learned, he was capable of something darker.
Clark lifted pieces of scaffolding, and began a methodical search for Greg’s remains. He needed something to bury with his guilt. The headstone could read ‘Here Lies The Last of Clark Kent’s Childhood Innocence’. Lex would find that funny, he thought.
Lex would laugh, explain to him that the greater good was served and that didn’t make Clark a bad guy, and then tease him with the knowledge that he could be bad. Lex would understand, call him foolish, and then tell him to visit another planet, his planet.
Suddenly, that was all he wanted to do, see Lex, and have him show him around ‘Lex’s Planet’ where winning was what mattered, and not how you won.
* * * Previous * Next [3/3]
Previous part: [1/3]
* * *
“Bottled water, Pellegrino if you have it, and shelled peanuts please.”
The bored, gum smacking concession attendant stared at Lex. “This isn’t the country club, we have popcorn and pop. So what do you want?”
He wrinkled his nose, as the aroma of a ‘redneck shower’ wafted over him. Four sprays of Stetson didn’t take the place of a hot, clean shower, no matter what the guys standing behind him thought. The teaming press of hungry Crows football fans was violating his bubble of personal space. “Uh, coke and um… popcorn it is then.”
“Do you have anything smaller than a fifty?”
Lex peered into his wallet, counted out three different currencies, but not a single bill less than a fifty. “That would be a no.”
“Hey Kelly, I got it, okay?” Clark shoved a five at the girl, and collected the popcorn and soda. He gave her a shy smile, which made Kelly’s gum-smacking cease for a moment, before she turned her eyes to the next customer.
“Thanks Clark…” Lex began.
“If your next words are ‘I owe you one’ I’m going to dump this popcorn on your nice sweater, and keep your coke for my own.” Clark warned, walking back toward the stands where at least a hundred or more screaming Smallville Crows fans gathered.
He laughed, “No, just, thanks.” He dodged a mud puddle, saving his Italian leather shoes from an unfortunate dunking, and skipped to catch up with Clark’s long stride. “So this is a football game. Wow. I think I understand what I have missed.”
“Awe, the famous Lex Luthor wit, so are you going to deride this as well?”
“Deride. Nice word, very country club.” Lex looked around, “to answer your question, no, I’m not. I’m here to take in what everyone refers to as Smallville’s only legal past time. Football.” He turned to Clark, “I thought I might visit your planet.”
“You might regret that.” He tilted his head toward the stands, “I’m sitting with my parents, Pete, and Chloe.” Martha Kent waved at her son, while Jonathon glared suspiciously at Lex.
Lex shifted his Crows ball cap on his head, and slipped on his sunglasses. “Sounds as lovely as a firing squad. Lead the way.”
He tried not to think about the chewing gum that was now stuck to the bottom of his shoe as he followed Clark up the crowded, and rickety metal stands. Already he was regretting not wearing boots as he waded through split soda and popcorn to the section where the Kents were waiting.
“Mom, Dad, you know Lex… Lex, you’ve met Pete Ross and Chloe Sullivan right?” Clark handed his popcorn to his mother, and sat down next to his father. Pete scooted over for Lex; all the while shooting his friend very curious glances.
“A pleasure.” He brushed off the still warm metal, and sat down, vaguely wondering if the lines would be engraved permanently on his ass if he were there longer than an hour. “So who is winning?”
“The Barton Chiefs. 27-17” Jonathan pointed to the chalk scoreboard at the end of the field. He glanced at his son, before passing the popcorn to his wife. “You missed it, we got caught off-sides, and lost ten yards.”
Pete grumbled from Lex’s other side, “We’re losing to the nursemaids, it’s pathetic.”
Clark read the confusion in his eyes, “That’s Clara Barton High School, you know, the founder of the Red Cross.”
“And they said there wasn’t anyone famous in Kansas.” Lex mused, and watched as uniformed men jumped on each other, in no reasonable pattern. He jumped up belatedly as the crowd surged to their feet in cheers. Again, he turned and smiled at Clark, clapping along with the same enthusiasm, even if he didn’t quite understand what was going on, or why it was good.
“Fordman has quite the arm.” Martha mused, leaning around her husband to talk to Lex. “I’m not really too familiar with this game either, but I understand completing a pass is a good thing. It’s amazing, to think he almost died a week ago.”
Whitney Fordman. Corn-fed heartthrob of Smallville. He noticed that Whitney looked no worse for wear, under the black grease paint and grass stains. “Thanks to Clark, he didn’t.”
“He has a way at being at the right place at the right time.” Chloe added, her reporter’s mind taking down all the details.
“Most of the time.” Jonathan grunted, not bothering to hide his dislike of Lex. Clark’s reply was lost in the screams of TOUCHDOWN! “Come on! Run out the clock! Oh don’t send Abbott in to kick, he’s cross-eyed.”
He thought back to the few college football games he’d glimpsed on his way in and out of the university. Did it really mean anything that he didn’t know the finer points of this game, but could name each original position in fencing correctly in French? He made a mental note to ask his secretary, Rose, to put together a profile on the game. If this was Clark’s world, then he wanted to be familiar with it.
Clark tugged on his elbow, and spoke into his ear, “You’re not really having any fun, are you?”
Lex shrugged, “That kicker doesn’t look cross-eyed to me.” He squinted behind his sunglasses, and caught sight of Lana Lang doing a cartwheel in a scandalously short skirt. “You know, I can see why you like this game though.”
Clark followed his eyes to the cheerleaders, and blushed. “I’m thinking about trying out for the team.”
“No, you aren’t.” Jonathan put in, without turning his gaze from the field. “We already talked about it.”
Lex looked back and forth between the father and son, and replied for Clark’s benefit, “Will you get a chance to rub dirt in Whitney’s face?”
The argument that was spoiling within him went unsaid, as he grinned. “Only if I play for the other team.”
“There’s nothing stopping you from letting a two hundred pound linebacker through to tackle his ass.” Pete joked.
“Now that wouldn’t be good sportsmanship,” Lex protested, a tinge of mocking in his voice. He almost choked on his mouthful of popcorn at the look that Clark sent his way. “It would be fun, but it wouldn’t be good sportsmanship.” He caught the skeptical look Clark’s father sent his way, silently reading his doubts about whether a Luthor would know anything about good sportsmanship.
“Touchdown Crows!”
The crowd surged to its feet, cheering heartily as the local boys took the field. The game was blessedly over, and Lex had survived the experience intact. He was mildly disappointed that no one had crushed Fordman into the dirt, he might consider attending another game if there was a promise of that.
* * *
“So really, why did you come to the game?” Clark asked curiously, as they walked back to the parking lot.
“I had a rotten day, and I thought watching high school boys wearing tight pants chase each other around the field in order to score would make it better.” Lex tossed his drink away, and turned with a mischievous glint in his eye, “So Clark, is that what you want to happen? A guy to grab you by the waist and pull you to the ground? Are you going to be a tight end, or a wide receiver?”
He blushed, and glanced back to make sure his parents were still out of earshot, “Oh, and like prancing around in a tight white jump suit with a stick in your hand is so much more macho.”
“Hey, I never said I was a knuckle-dragging manly man. I mean, look at me, I’m a skinny bald freak.” He shrugged, “I do my battles in a board room, it’s not as impressive as a football field I grant you, but a seven figure income is really nothing to sniff at.”
Clark ignored the ‘freak’ comment, even though it bothered him. “What about in high school? Were you closing mergers and firing people even then?”
His eyes shadowed at Clark’s question, “I didn’t really attend high school like you. My father just shipped me off to boarding schools, whoever would take me. I was on the rifle team, really quite good with the clay pigeons and small arms.”
“No track and field? What’s that sport rich kids play, lacrosse? Or field hockey?”
“My asthma was a lot worse in high school than it is now, so,” he shrugged as he walked up to his car. “Least I’m a good shot, which comes in handy at Luthor Corp.”
Clark smiled, “I never know when you’re joking.”
“I never joke.” Lex replied seriously, before breaking off in a laugh. He spent the drive back to the castle thinking that it was a good thing Clark couldn’t read him as well as he’d like.
* * *
“There’s been three accidents in the last month. The safety gages on the Alpha 236 are shot and need to be fixed, or better yet, replaced… There’s a reason why production is down in Smallville, the equipment is ten years too old.” Lex frowned into the phone, leaning back in his soft leather chair, “If I cut positions again, move full-time to part-time, I’m still facing a loss of production… You sent me here to turn the plant around; I need capital to make capital… The union will strike, do you understand that?”
No longer able to take the dial tone anymore, he hung up the phone, ending his rehearsal to his father. Next time, he’d say all that and more when he actually dialed the phone. He pressed the call button to his secretary, rubbing his eyes. “Rose- I need to see the report on last month’s soil samples.”
Rose Phillips knocked softly on the oak door, before stepping inside. “I left it on your desk yesterday. It’s up to you, to find it.”
He rubbed his temples, sighing. “You could push the button, and tell me that through the intercom, you know. That’s why I spent money on the system.” He’d reminded her of that at least twice a week since arriving in Smallville, but he was slowly figuring out that Rose was her own character, where rules didn’t seem to touch her. That quality had resulted in many terminations of LuthorCorp employees, but not Rose. She had been his mother’s personal assistant, and for unknown reasons, Lionel had kept her on the staff ever since.
If Lex were the sentimental type, he might have thought his father didn’t want to give up another connection to his mother, but he hadn’t indulged in sentimentality in years. It was unlikely that Lionel even knew how to practice it. Rose was the last connection, she had known his mother, and she had known the boy he’d been before the accident.
Both were long buried in the past.
“Yes, but I like seeing your face once in a while.” She lifted her glasses from the bridge of her nose, and gave him a smile that never failed to remind him of a mother’s patience. Lex killed the fledgling feeling with a skill born of practice, and started searching the stacks of paper on his desk for the damned report.
She continued, her smile turned slightly disapproving in response to the play of emotions or lack there of over his face. “A Mr. Kent came by earlier today, with the produce. He asked to see you.”
He looked up from his search for the soil samples, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“You were consulting with Dr. Malkin, and I recall you left explicit instructions on not being disturbed.”
She had a point. Lex tore open a drawer, and snapped back at her, “Well my explicit instructions do not include Kent, okay? Next time, find me.” He slammed shut the drawer, narrowing missing his fingers, “Where the fuck is that report?”
Rose stepped around to his desk, and brushed aside his hands. Serenely she lifted the report from in front of Lex, and handed it to him. “This report?”
He snatched it, “Yeah.” He flipped open the file, and began to study the figures, dismissal evident in his actions.
She was immune to that action as well, “He seems young.”
“Who?” Lex asked, knowing, but feigning his ignorance. She was fishing, and he knew it.
“Clark Kent. He can’t be older than sixteen.”
“He’s fifteen.” Now Lex looked up, reading her expression. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but Clark is just a friend.” Just a nice, somewhat clumsy, oddly secretive, trouble-finding, beautiful friend who Lex desperately wanted to possess.
“Even if he isn’t ‘just a friend’ he has parents, and there are laws, Lex. Your father’s example aside, Luthors aren’t above the law.”
“Now you insult me.” He stood up and faced her, the soil report forgotten. “I haven’t touched him in any way outside of friendship.” Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Yes, friendship. I know what I’ve said, and I’m wrong. Even I like having a friend, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m here because I’m being punished. Clark saved my life, for some unknown reason, and he seems not to care that I’m a Luthor.”
The list of people who didn’t care he was a Luthor could be counted on one hand, with fingers left over.
“I’m sorry.” She reached out, and touched his shoulder. “I’m not on your father’s side, I never liked Lionel Luthor, and he knows that. I’ve never liked what happened after your mother died, and he knows that too. I also only want what’s best for you, Lex. If you say you are just friends with Clark Kent, then I believe you.”
“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.” He brushed her hand away, shutting out her efforts to ‘bond’ with him. He hated it when she brought up his mother, and he hated even more when she played the sympathy card. Poor Lex, his mother is dead and his father never loved him, boo hoo, bullshit. “Let’s keep these discussion of my private life limited to just this one instance. Now, excuse me, but I have a lot of work I need to do.”
His eyes coolly returned to his desk, and this time he was pleased to hear the door close behind her. At first he thought Rose had been his father’s spy, now he realized just what she was, his punishment.
She showed little respect to him, and it made him crazy. Her unsolicited advice, her constant ‘You’re better than that’ attitude, he had fired her a thousand times, and meant it each time. Each time she returned to work, with the blessing of Lionel Luthor.
He kicked his desk with an explosion of fury. The wave of pain enveloping his leg didn’t improve his temperament. Control, Lex, control. He gripped the corner of his desk, two too deep breaths, and felt the sanity slowly return.
He hated it when she was right.
Clark, beautiful Clark, was what was jokingly referred to as ‘jailbait’.
Forbidden fruit, which he told himself, was half the reason why he wanted Clark. Lex Luthor wasn’t used to being told what he could and could not have. Results in the past had resulted in a sort of reverse psychology, with disastrous results. However, he did know better.
His father, in a rare moment of tolerance, had set him down for a talk, “Lex, I’ve seen juries acquit killers and bank robbers. Embezzlement, insurance fraud, tax evasion, killing a cheating lover, or stealing money to make the bills, those are crimes that Joe Ordinary understands. Sexual harassment and statutory rape are a whole lot harder to sell as ‘understanding’. Don’t embarrass me.”
It boiled down to two lessons ‘make sure she’s of age’ and ‘make sure she isn’t the help’. His father had imparted them with such fierceness, Lex actually obeyed them.
Of course, now his father knew to amend the rules to include ‘he’ along with she.
He glanced at his watch, and gave up the completion of paperwork as a lost cause. Friends, he could handle it as just friends. He didn’t have much of a choice, considering how the Kents felt about him, they would go after him and test the law which dictated the age of consent being fourteen. Small-minded courts would be what his father called a ‘hard sell’. Small-minded courts in farm country involving a gay relationship, he could save himself the call to the lawyers, he was screwed.
* * *
Clark shuddered, the feeling of nausea rising in him. He was close to the Creekside Foundry, the last place he had seen Greg Arkin alive. The building was silent, except for the chattering of crickets.
Normally, the sound wouldn’t have disturbed him in the least, but his last glimpse of Greg dissolving into a carpet of insects, left him nervous around anything that had more than four legs. He pushed the sliding metal door aside, and stepped into the abandoned building.
At night, he couldn’t sleep. During the day, he couldn’t concentrate. His conscience wouldn’t let him rest, and he knew exactly why. Greg Arkin’s death was his fault. He could have acted, saved Greg the way he had saved his father, Whitney, and Lex in the past.
He could have tried harder.
A wave of dizziness overcame him; he grabbed the wall for support. It was a familiar feeling from his childhood, playing with Paul and Greg. Falling down in a game, missing catches, nearly toppling out of a tree once, he was Clark the Klutz. He had a vague suspicion that the cause was not simply poor coordination, but something more biological. Something connected to his arrival on Earth, like Lana’s crystal, or the minerals the Foundry used.
Clark had grown used to the teasing from his friends. As socially inept as Greg was, he still outclassed him around Lana Lang. Good old Clark, always good for a laugh or another embarrassing moment. Good old Clark, always a source of entertainment.
That was why his conscience was bothering him.
He didn’t try harder to save Greg, because he was angry. Angry that Greg had hurt Lana, angry that his father had been threatened, and angry that once again he was put in a place of action, of responsibility. If he didn’t stop Greg, then no one would and that rankled him. So perhaps he was unconsciously resentful. Resentful that Greg had made him the judge, jury and executioner.
What could the courts have done? Lock him up? What type of prison was there that could hold something like Greg? In the meantime, people were going to die, unless he stopped Greg. The only way to stop him was to kill him. At fifteen, he never dreamed he would ever be placed in that role. Clark had spent his life rescuing lost calves, raising infant chicks, and nurturing the land so life could flourish.
He wasn’t a killer.
He also wasn’t going to be Greg’s savior. It was easier to let Greg die, than commit the crime himself. At least, he thought it was going to be easier. His nightmares spoke otherwise, explaining in detail to his subconscious that active or inactive, he had caused Greg’s death. He was a murderer. Two weeks of sleepless nights later, that truth was yammering at his soul.
Again, what choice did Greg leave him? There lay the root of his anger. He had no choice, and then, he had no one there to tell him that he did the right thing. No one was there to judge him guilty for his part. No one was there to make him feel better.
He had power, and it he could use it to save a life, or in Greg’s case, let a life die. Now he learned, he was capable of something darker.
Clark lifted pieces of scaffolding, and began a methodical search for Greg’s remains. He needed something to bury with his guilt. The headstone could read ‘Here Lies The Last of Clark Kent’s Childhood Innocence’. Lex would find that funny, he thought.
Lex would laugh, explain to him that the greater good was served and that didn’t make Clark a bad guy, and then tease him with the knowledge that he could be bad. Lex would understand, call him foolish, and then tell him to visit another planet, his planet.
Suddenly, that was all he wanted to do, see Lex, and have him show him around ‘Lex’s Planet’ where winning was what mattered, and not how you won.
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