Chapter Text
December 2005
It's strange seeing Bruce Wayne the adult after all these years. Stranger still to see him in rural Kansas, flawless Oxfords stained. And yet he did not look the least bit uncomfortable as he followed Lex through the muddy slush that covered the back entrance to Level Three. In fact, he looks more uncomfortable sitting on Lex's couch by the fire than he did in the dirt.
"And have any of the treatments seen success?" he asks, nursing a Scotch that he doesn't drink.
"We're still figuring out how to neutralize the effect of the meteors," says Lex. "It's slow progress. Treatment has become more of the rehabilitation kind than trying to remove their abilities. It seems those affected by the meteors have a higher likelihood of developing violent aggression and psychosis."
Bruce snorts. "I'm all too aware. Gotham has always had a high crime rate but . . . the caliber of violence, the strangeness of its perpetrators, in the last few years or so has concerned me."
"I've heard the stories. What's the latest — a woman who can control plants?"
A grimace twists Bruce's face. "Among others."
"And what about the masked vigilante?" Lex asks, taking a careful sip of his own glass. "Does he have a meteor ability?"
"That violent lunatic?" Bruce's voice drips disdain. "No, and thank God for it. Every person he's tossed in Arkham has broken out. He's a temporary solution to a permanent problem and a shit one at that. I don't want to put my faith in someone who is probably as unstable as the people he targets."
Interesting answer. Lex files that away for later, to compare with his other suspicions.
"And that's why you're here?" he says, changing the subject. "To see if there's another way?"
"There needs to be another way. I doubt you'll need help with funding. But if there's anything that Wayne Enterprises can do to contribute . . . I'm not above partnering up for this. It's a problem that's not going to go away and that the government will happily ignore until it's too late."
Lex feels like this might be a strangely specific dream. Bruce Wayne — older, aloof, untouchable Bruce Wayne whose sharp eyes did not ever miss Lex's suffering at school even when Lex wished he would — coming back into Lex's world like this. Looking to Lex for some kind of guidance, offering a partnership like they were equals . . .
A very strange turn of events, indeed.
"I would welcome any help you could provide," says Lex. "Once I start seeing some successes, we could think of spreading out to Gotham. I can't imagine Arkham is any more rehabilitative than Belle Reve."
Another cynical snort from Bruce. It's strange, also, to see Bruce the Adult so invested in a cause like this. He had kept so much to himself at school, in the brief year that their paths had crossed.
Lex wonders, as he always does, about ulterior motives. Wonders how to phrase a particular question in his mind or even if it's the right time to ask it. But before he can take that step, the double doors to the study fling open in a way that can only announce Clark Kent's presence.
"Hey, are you still meeting us at the Beanery?" he asks, striding in. "Chloe and Ryan are already there and— oh."
He stops short, finally catching sight of the back of Bruce's head.
"I'm sorry," he says sheepishly, "I didn't know you still had your meeting. I'll, um, wait in the kitchen."
"It's alright," says Bruce, as he rises up and buttons his suit jacket. "We were just finishing up."
He glances over at Clark — who is staring at Bruce as if someone had hit him in the back of a head with a hammer. Eyes wide, face frozen in almost comically exaggerated shock that would be funny if it wasn't so strange.
"Bruce?" he blurts out.
Like they know each other. Instantly, Lex's curiosity stretches up within him like a lazy cat.
Bruce's brow furrows as he steps towards Clark. "I'm sorry, have we met before?"
Lex didn't think it possible for Clark's eyes to get any wider, but it is the season for miracles.
"No!" Clark says, voice climbing in register. "I just— recognize you. From a magazine."
The same magazine that featured Lex on the cover earlier this summer, and Clark gave him a month's worth of constant ridicule instead of this awe-struck reverence.
But no. If this was just about a celebrity crush, Clark would not have called Bruce by his first name with such familiarity.
"This is Clark Kent," Lex introduces, standing up and stepping towards them. "A close friend of mine. Clark, this is Bruce Wayne, as you're apparently already familiar."
Bruce gives Clark a wide, million-watt smile that looks so out of place on him if you had known him from before his six-year-long globe trot.
"Always happy to meet a fan," he says, holding out a hand that Clark shakes numbly. "And more importantly, a friend of Lex."
Clark certainly does look star-struck, but Lex highly doubts it's because they plaster Bruce's face on the New York Times from time to time.
"Do you— do you want to get coffee with us?" Clark asks.
Bruce's eyes dart over to Lex, bemused and a little taken aback. Lex gives a minute shrug — Clark's ability to pull people into his orbit mystifies him even three years later.
"That's very kind of you, but I wouldn't want to intrude on you and your friends. Besides, I need to get back to Gotham before the snow hits again this evening."
"It's not an intrusion," says Clark, with that patented, painfully earnest sincerity. Even someone as walled away as Bruce Wayne wavers ever so slightly in its presence. Lex can tell from the way he hesitates for just a second.
He fishes his wallet out of his pocket instead and offers Clark a glossy black business card. "Tell you what," he says. "Next time you find yourself in Gotham, look me up, and I'll take you to the best coffee in the city."
Clark takes the card and gives Bruce the bloom of a shy, sweet smile that would make the possessive beast in Lex howl in rage if he didn't already have suspicions of another nature.
"Thank you," he says, rubbing his thumb over the gloss. "I will."
Bruce nods and then turns back to Lex, offering his hand. "It was good to see you again, Lex. I'll give you a call after the holidays. Merry Christmas."
Lex gives Bruce one of his own rare, genuine smiles as he shakes the man's hand. "Happy Chanukah."
"It was nice to meet you, Clark," says Bruce as he shakes Clark's hand one last time.
"Yeah," says Clark faintly. "You, too."
Lex does not miss the shrewd, calculating glint in the man's eyes as he leaves. For someone carrying around such huge secrets, Clark has the worst poker face on Earth.
"How do you know Bruce?" Clark asks barely a minute after the door shuts.
Lex doesn't answer at first, instead stepping into Clark's space to kiss him sweetly on the mouth. Clark melts into it, questioning mouth softening under Lex's touch, as he always does. They can only kiss in these stolen, snatched moments of quiet, their relationship Clark's biggest secret to date, the only one he keeps from his parents. Only Ryan knows — because there's no way to hide from a mind reader — and Chloe because apparently older Clark told her.
It's not Lex's favorite secret to keep, but it's the most practical. And it keeps Clark safe from the kind of cold rejection and judgment Lex knows terrifies him in his dreams. Even if Lex grows weary of finding platonic ways to justify time spent together, of balancing how much alone time they steal against what rural Kansas would consider "normal" for male friends, of always schooling his face into neutral expressions so he doesn't give away the gaping maw of love he feels when Clark is near.
They kiss until Lex hears the noise of Bruce's chopper lift into the air, safely confirmed out of eavesdropping territory. They kiss until Lex is sure not a thought of Bruce remains in Clark's blissed-out expression before he pulls away.
"I think the bigger question is how do you know Bruce?" he says, thumb skating over the line of Clark's jaw.
He can feel Clark swallow.
"From . . . from ahead," Clark says slowly.
"How curious." Lex's thumb trails upwards until it brushes over Clark's delicate earlobe. The boy's eyes flutter shut in response, clueless. "Because the only man you've ever mentioned from the future is Batman."
Clark's eyes snap open, catching on too late the trap Lex has laid for him. "I— he's—"
His voice falters in the face of their No Lies policy, unable to find a loophole or omission after getting put on the spot.
"Batman is Bruce Wayne . . ." Lex murmurs. "I had my suspicions, but . . . I never thought it would be confirmed. No wonder he's interested in Level Three."
"I would have told you," says Clark, shame-faced, "but I didn't think it was my place to spill another person's secret. And I didn't think you knew him."
Those last two words sound almost as accusatory and jealous as Lex felt earlier. Lex allows an indulgent smile to cross his face.
"We met at Excelsior. He was a senior in my freshman year. We weren't friends — I didn't really have friends, as you know. But he would step in when he saw me tormented by Queen. Eventually, right before he left, he showed me the best place to hide and taught me how to get onto the roof of the school."
"That whole time . . . he never said he knew you," Clark murmurs.
"Despite whatever persona he's projecting now, Bruce has always kept his feelings close to his chest. You never really know what he's thinking."
Clark snorts. "You don't have to tell me that. But you two knowing each other certainly explains some things."
"Like what?"
"Like why he believed me when I said you were worth saving."
A strange feeling flutters in his chest. To think that Bruce would still hold any regard for him, any understanding, in that dark future where Lex became his worst nightmare . . .
More and more often he's starting to believe there is hope for him.
Lex wakes up on the morning of Christmas Eve to the sound of music. Light piano notes trickle slowly through the crack in his door, forming into a familiar melody that takes Lex a moment to piece together—
Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light.
Pale winter sunshine filters past the gauzy curtains — sheer so Clark can see the beside lamp from the road and know that Lex has stopped work and is waiting for Clark in the still quiet of the night; to know that no one is looking for either of them. He spends a moment, a long moment, laying in bed and luxuriating in it. It's Christmas Eve, and there is no work to oversee, no meetings to be held, no obligations.
It's Christmas Eve, and Lex's staff won't be reporting in until after the New Year. If he wants breakfast and coffee, he has to fling the covers off his bed and step into the chilly mansion — always drafty and cold, no matter how much modern heating was installed — to get it himself.
He slides on a pair of sweat pants, slings the knitted cardigan Martha made for him last Christmas around his shoulders, and shoves his feet into shearling house shoes before padding downstairs.
The music grows louder with each passing step. Lex follows it to his study, where Ryan sits in his housecoat and flannel pajamas (because all Kents must own flannel; it's a law as irrefutable as Newton's) at the piano, fingers slipping over the keys with slow, deliberate strokes. Already a fire roars in the grate.
Lex learned piano from a retired French pianist who'd performed in the Orchestra de Paris. He taught Lex technique more than soul, bore down on Lex while his fingers stumbled then flew over Bach and Scriabin and Ravel. Lex learned complicated, bombastic, dramatic pieces designed to impress, to show off, to stroke egos.
Ryan learned the basics from Lex and then from Mrs. Marsters, a retired music teacher who played piano at the Smallville Presbyterian Church's Christmas Cantata so soft and sweetly that Lex almost cried. And then offered the woman an unholy amount of money to personally tutor Ryan in a way that fit the boy's quiet soul.
She'd do it for free, but Lex wouldn't allow it, so she is paid a small sum and then the rest goes to church donations. Which is how Lex Luthor, descended from notoriously skeptical Catholics, became a Protestant church's biggest donator.
The music starts to shift into Silent Night under Ryan's fingertips.
"You've gotten started without me," says Lex, but Ryan has always been a morning person. Partly because of his time living with the Kents, and partly because early morning is when the least amount of people — and their minds — are awake.
"I just wanted to get some extra practice in," says Ryan, not taking his eyes off the keys. "And you always sleep in on your days off."
That's because more often than not he's entertaining secret visits from Clark the night before— a fact Ryan must be well aware of on the nights he spends here and yet feigns ignorance of because he's a literal angel.
"Let's run through it a couple more times, and then I'll make us breakfast," says Lex.
Ryan scoots down on the bench, and Lex slides in next to him. He flips the sheet music back to the first page and allows Lex a moment to orient himself. It was Ryan's idea to perform a duet with Lex at the Christmas party tonight. He'd approached Lex shyly in the kitchen as they cleaned up Thanksgiving dinner and offered the idea with deceptive nonchalance.
Lex had offered to play together before, but he could tell his skill and background intimidated Ryan. It didn't matter how much he tried to explain that soulless technique does not equal actual talent. But perhaps some of that was starting to stick because Ryan knew Lex's delighted answer before it even left his mouth.
They've practiced together at least two nights a week since, and it's the first time Lex has loved playing the piano in years. There is no audience to impress, no bar to clear, just music that flows effortlessly between them, a magic that only they create.
After an hour or so, Lex makes them breakfast, and they eat at the kitchen island — a place that sees far more use now than the formal dining room Lex used to use when he wasn't scarfing something down in front of his desk.
Ryan still remains slight, will never reach Clark's or even Lex's stature, but the evidence of his looming adulthood show in the peach fuzz on his face, the deepening of his voice, the weight in his eyes. Though the Kents formally adopted him roughly a year and a half ago, his presence has effused so thickly in the mansion used for his homeschooling that it feels as though he is a part of Lex's family just as much as Clark's.
In fact, Lex isn't sure what he will do when Ryan heads off to college in two years, except to commiserate with Martha, since she's had to see Clark off to Met U four months ago.
But Lex can put his constant worries of the future aside for a few more days, in favor of discussing the rumors of a Warrior Angel film on the horizon.
The scent of snow and pine and hay invade his air just as big, warm hands circle his waist. Clark's nose, the only cold part of him, brushes against his temple before warm lips press a soft kiss just below.
Soapy water sloshes over the lip of the frying pan as Lex jerks against the sink. After three years, Clark's abrupt presence should no longer startle him, and yet Lex can't help but feel the jolt of shock followed by delight each time.
The fact that the room could be empty one second and the next literal second Clark could be pulling Lex into his arms will never feel normal. But Lex doesn't love Clark because he's normal.
"Clark," he greets.
Warm air brushes against his ear, and Lex shivers.
"Where's Ryan?" Clark murmurs.
"In the shower," he says.
"Oh good."
That sinfully hot mouth tugs at Lex's earlobe, eliciting another gasp, before descending slowly down his neck, soft licks and the barest scrape of Clark's teeth making Lex's hand spasm against the sponge, sending soapy water running over his knuckles.
"Clark," he gasps, a warning. "I'm trying to—"
"Put it in the dishwasher." Clark licks a stripe from mid-neck back up behind Lex's ear before pressing another hot kiss on the delicate skin there.
"You can't put this in the dishwasher—"
Clark gently tugs the sponge out of Lex's limp grasp before spinning around to face him and smothering the protest with the sinful press of his mouth. It did not take long at all for sweet, innocent Clark to learn how to kiss with expert filth, to kiss Lex's breath away, to kiss Lex until he's hard and aching and dampening the front of his trousers.
"Mom's on her way, but we got about five minutes," Clark murmurs against his mouth.
"Five minutes," Lex hisses. "That's not enough time for—"
"Don't care."
And then Clark's tongue is delving into Lex's mouth, sliding against his teeth, curling over his own tongue until whatever protest dies with a whimper in his throat. He clenches soapy hands against the counter so he doesn't leave any damning marks on Clark's shirt, though he longs to grab at that god-like waist and dig hard enough to leave finger shaped bruises on any other body just to marvel at the fact that he doesn't.
Clark has no such restrictions, his hands roaming freely under Lex's shirt, blunt nails scratching over the planes of his chest, his torso, stopping infuriatingly at the elastic of the sweatpants. The other hand cups Lex's face with shocking gentleness, even as teeth catch against Lex's bottom lip and he kisses Lex like he wants to devour him like a snake.
And then Clark stiffens a split second before Lex hears the distant thud of a truck door slamming shut — a sound that has crept past all barriers of his awareness, like a dog and a whistle.
Lex has just enough time to spin back around to face the sink, erection pressing painfully against the edge of the counter, before a high pitched squeal echoes down the hallway.
"ES!"
By the time Laurel bursts through the side door to the kitchen, Clark innocently nurses half a glass of orange juice at the kitchen island. Lex locks his legs just in time for Laurel to body check him from behind, her hands — already sticky somehow — hugging at his knees.
"Good morning, Laur," he says, darting a glare over at Clark who just smiles innocently back.
"Wash the hands!" she shouts.
Laurel has two volumes — shouting and sleeping.
Lex dutifully picks her up, careful to keep her squirming, kicking legs away from his crotch, and holds her up to the sink before squeezing hand soap into her tiny, grimy palms.
How is she so dirty at roughly ten in the morning?
Martha comes just as Laurel rinses her hands with the furrowed concentration of a neurosurgeon.
"Good morning, Lex," she says in a light cloud of rose-scented perfume, giving him a peck on the check.
A flush quickly blooms in its wake, more from this one kiss than all the borderline pornography he performed with Clark mere moments ago.
"Clark, can you get the bags from the truck?" she asks.
"Of course." He hops down and speeds away when he knows Laurel has her back turned.
Though it often pains him to hide, even at home, Clark agreed with his parents and Lex when they said three was definitely too young to understand the delicate intricacies of Clark's secret. The fierce desire for his sister to grow up free of the burden of secrets and the responsibility of lies also keeps Clark's mouth shut and his presence suspicion-free.
It's much easier now that Clark lives in his dorm at Met U, but his senior year and her terrible twos did not coexist easily. Clark spent more nights at the mansion with Ryan and Lex than not, which Lex plans to repay her back in full when it comes time to buy her first car.
"Es!" she says, squirming in his arms like a wriggling puppy to be let down. "I want an apple juice!"
Even after she could probably pronounce the "x" in his name, Laurel insists on calling him Es. Now Martha embroiders the letter "s" on handkerchiefs and Clark writes "dear S" on his emails.
"What's the magic word?" Lex asks, though he's already heading towards the fridge.
"Abracadabra!"
He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Well. He walked into that one.
"Laurel," Martha warns.
The last three years Lex has gotten front row seats to how exactly Martha drilled etiquette into Clark's head, and it's fascinating to watch. She is relentless and particular, more so than Lex's own parents ever were.
"PLEASE!" Laurel shouts, loud enough to startle Lex with a jerk, and then cackles as he reaches into the fridge for a juice box.
"Thank you again so much for letting us use your home for the party," Martha says, for about the fifth time this week. "I had hoped it would be a last resort, but Hurricane Laurel just does not quit. Every time I get the house clean, ten minutes later it looks like I didn't touch it."
"I told you a week ago when you asked and every day since that it's no problem," says Lex. He stabs the straw into the juice box with honed precision before handing it down to Laurel. "It's my pleasure, really. I can't wait to see what you do to this drafty old place."
Martha scoffs, an embarrassed smile on her face. "I'm sure it won't be like anything you're used to in Metropolis, but . . ."
"Metropolis is soulless," he says. "You'll make it beautiful."
Clark hauls the bags and totes of decorations into the study. Yesterday afternoon he cleared out most of the furniture and decor, leaving behind only the the couches, chairs, wet bar, and piano. Lex offered the ballroom initially to Martha when she first asked if she could use Lex's house for the Kent's annual Christmas Party, but she was drawn to his study, to the lived-in intimacy of it, and Lex couldn't deny it to her, just like he can't deny anything to any Kent.
By this time Ryan has reappeared, dressed warmly one of Jonathan's old Carhartts and one of Lex's sweaters. Though he has a closet full of his own clothes, both in his room in the Kent's house and his room here, he prefers stealing other people's clothes — Clark's flannels, Lex's Henleys, even Martha's gardening gloves when he works on his farm chores. He claimed, in terrified stutters the first time Lex caught him, that it makes him feel like he belongs with them.
"You ready?" Clark asks as Ryan steps through the double doors. "You got your gloves?"
Ryan pats the front pocket of the coat. "Yes."
"Boots?"
"Yes."
"Scarf?"
"I don't need a scarf, Clark," says Ryan with an eye roll. "It's not that cold."
"You need a scarf," says Clark, and he doesn't wait for Ryan's dying protest before blinking out of the study and returning a second later, one of Lex's cashmere scarves in hand fresh from the coat closet. He wraps it carefully around Ryan's neck before tucking it into the front of the coat.
"And here's a hat, too."
Clark brandishes one of Lex's beanies, shoving it down over Ryan until it covers his ears and dark hair peeks out from underneath like sticks of hay.
Ryan sends a long-suffering look over to Lex, who just shrugs. Surrender, he thinks loudly. You know its a fight you won't win.
Ryan's battle with his brain cancer took almost two years, and they'd nearly lost him more than once before he finally pulled through. It left Clark with an almost pathological sense of protectiveness and deep-seated anxiety that Lex has been trying to gently coax him into getting therapy for without much success. All the god-like powers in the world could not have saved Ryan, and it's the first time Clark fully realized his own helplessness. He did not take it well.
Each day of the boy's quiet, tender presence is a miracle in and of itself. Lex had prepared himself for the blow of his loss, for the hollow emptiness of it, for holding up Clark through it, and the fact that it didn't happen — this time — feels like a dream. Even now, through Ryan's recovery, through arranging the adoption with the Kents, through homeschooling him at the mansion, through now three Christmases and two birthdays, the roots that Ryan has grown into Lex's life doesn't feel completely real yet. Just temporary.
"Remember," Lex says as they head towards the hallway, "the ceiling may be vaulted, but the double doors are only seven feet wide."
"We'll make it fit," Clark promises ominously, and Lex blanks his mind before Ryan can pick up any double entendre. Though from the way he snorts, Clark must have tried and failed to do the same.
The double doors burst open, Laurel standing at the edge like a guard, chugging the last of her juice box at the threshold because even she knows better than to bring snacks into the study.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
"We're getting a tree," says Clark. "A Christmas tree."
"At the store? I want to go to the store!"
Laurel loves to go to the store because every time she leaves, there's a piece of candy clutched in her grimy hands.
"In the woods," says Ryan, smiling down at her. "We're going to chop one down."
Her eyes grow wide.
"I want to go!" She squeals. "I want to go! I want to go!"
"You gotta stay here," says Clark. "It's too dangerous for you to go with us. Maybe next year."
Which is complete bullshit — Clark just doesn't want her to witness carrying an eight-foot-tall tree with one hand. But Ryan snaps a warning look to Clark just a second before dark clouds gather in Laurel's eyes. It's the worst thing to say.
"I break sticks!" she says with a fierce glare. "I can go!"
"It's not the same," Clark tries to explain while Lex bites back a smirk. "We'll be using axes and they're big and very sharp and they could cut you—"
"I'll be careful! I break sticks with Daddy! He lets me use a axe!"
Which is an absolute baldfaced lie, and Lex has to admire the sheer balls it takes to utter it.
"No, he does not," Clark says, a familiar furrow starting in his brow. Lex has never seen someone so consistently and successfully rage-baited by a toddler.
"Ryan's going and he doesn't break sticks!" She flings an accusing finger at Ryan, a boy she usually adores, and he raises his eyebrows in mock hurt as a result.
Clark's jaw clenches. "Ryan is bigger than you, and we aren't having this conversation. I said no. That's final."
The problem, Lex has tried to explain before to no avail, is that Clark thinks he can reason with a toddler.
"IT'S NOT FAIR!" Her voices echoes against the stone walls, as does the stamp of her foot.
Right on cue, Martha steps through the side entrance, a thunderous expression on her face that promises punishment. And even though she fully deserves all the time outs that Martha metes out, Lex scoops Laurel up before the tantrum can gain a foothold. Laurel has been known to hold her breath and beat her head on the floor.
"You're right, it isn't fair," he says. "But I actually need your help more than Clark. Can you stay and help me instead? Please?"
He attempts his own version of Clark's wide-eyed pleading expression that makes it impossible to deny him.
The distraction works. She looks at him with wary hope. "You need my help?"
"I need a lot of help," he says somberly.
"Okay." She pats his cheek, a queen bestowing a favor. "I'll help you."
Clark uses this moment to slink away with Ryan before another argument can erupt. Laurel sticks her tongue at his retreating back.
Lex sets her up in the loft, which has grown more and more into her space as the months go on. The bottom shelves are now stocked with picture books and coloring sheets and the biggest box of Crayola crayons on the market. He had bought a Nutcracker-themed coloring book two weeks ago when he and Martha took a trip to see the ballet in Metropolis. He'd intended to use it as one of her Christmas presents, but the blessed, determined quiet in the loft as she aggressively colored several pictures for Lex to "use as decorations" is worth more than gold and Apple stock.
It leaves him and Martha free to tackle the study.
Though she continually insists that she didn't intend on putting Lex to work when she asked him to host, Lex insists on helping anyway. It's not as if he has work to do this close to Christmas, and he isn't going to sit idly by as Martha decorates by herself. He puts on a CD of Christmas music, the kind of classical hymns that Martha loves, and O Holy Night filters softly through the speaker system.
They get to work.
Martha's right — the decorations are nothing like what festoons the five-star hotels and opera houses and penthouse apartments in Metropolis. Most are homemade: hand-sewn felt garlands, a carved and painted wooden nativity scene, burlap letters, cross-stitched and embroidered ornaments, corn husk angels. The only inorganic material comes from the occasional foam snowflake with Clark's elementary school pictures glued to it, a cellophane-covered plastic candy garland, a metal tractor ornament with the date 2002 stamped on it, clearly a gift from Clark.
And iridescent glass icicles, set lovingly in a worn velvet box.
"These were my grandmother's," Martha says. "I didn't hang them up the last couple of years because of the Hurricane," she says with a nod to Laurel upstairs.
She brushes a fingertip over one reverently. Lex can only imagine the careful vigil for these keepsakes that passed from mother to daughter to keep them in such good condition for so long. And the fact that she is sharing them with him, an outsider, a tainted Luthor, makes his throat tight.
"They are stunning," Lex says quietly.
She looks up and gives him a soft smile. "I thought they could hang down from the garland over the mantle. If that's alright?"
"Of course. Treat this place like your own," he says, almost begs.
And Martha does, wrapping garland and lights over the library railing, down the spiral staircase. Setting candles in the recesses of the painted glass windows. Placing the nativity scene on the piano.
By this time Laurel presses herself against the bars of the railing like a drunk in a jail cell.
"I'm done!" she shouts at Lex, waving brightly colored paper like a flag. "I'm done! Come see it!"
But rather than wait for Lex to climb the stairs, she shoves the paper through the cracks and lets it flutter down to the floor at his feet before hopping down the staircase one thudding jump at a time.
Thank god it's solid antique oak.
Lex bends down to pick up four different pictures scribbled with a riot of colors. Though she treats the boundary of lines the same way Lionel treated the confines of the law — trampling over them in pursuit of her own vision — her sense of color has potential.
"These are beautiful," he says as she approaches.
She's barely got her hands in the air before he scoops her up into his arms — the habit so ingrained now that it happens more on instinct than any conscious decision. She settles against his side as if there has been a groove cut out of it just for her.
"You like them?" she asks.
"Your use of color is inspiring," he tells her as they gaze at a picture of the Rat King, the sash of his uniform colored bright pink. "Especially the red on his mouth."
"That's blood," she says helpfully. "He ate the Nutcracker."
Martha shakes her head, lips pursed in a line, in the corner of Lex's vision. Laurel's imagination has been developing a bloodthirsty tint, and no matter how many Disney Princess movies Martha plays on the VCR, it doesn't look to be reversing any time soon.
The fact that Laurel always cheers for villains in her cartoons and books doesn't warm a dark corner of Lex's heart. Not at all.
"A flawless victory," he pronounces. "Let's celebrate it by putting it on the fridge."
"Yes!"
He carries her into the kitchen, and together they hang up the pictures with magnets in the shape of various farm animal butts because Chloe thinks she's hilarious.
"I want more juice," Laurel says, squirming in his arms. "And a orange. Please and thank you," she adds, tacked on hastily, like it's the words to a magic spell.
Which is how Martha finds them sitting side by side, splitting the fattest mandarin in the fruit bowl, matching juice boxes in front of them at the kitchen island as Lex listens to Laurel's borderline incomprehensible rambling about the Rat King's battle.
"A spare orange slice for an old woman?" Martha asks, leaning behind Laurel.
She plucks a half-squished orange slice from Laurel's fingers as her daughter holds it up over her head like an offering.
"You know, Lex, you're very good with children," Martha says, almost speculatively. "More so than I ever expected, especially with her."
Lex shrugs. "I think it's just her. I'm not sure how well I'd handle a stranger's child."
"Was Ryan not a stranger's child?"
Something squirms in his gut — a strange guilt, as if he must fight against praise lest he lead someone astray. As if accepting it would be akin to lying.
"Ryan was thirteen when he came back to us. It's practically an adult."
"It is not anywhere close," Martha says sternly, corrective, somehow knowing exactly how and where Lex internalized that belief. "What about your own? Have you thought of having children in the future?"
Lex coughs into his juice box.
"I don't think the Luthor genes should be inflicted on an innocent," he says blithely.
Martha hums, almost in soft agreement, before saying softly, "I don't know the whole story with you and Lionel, but I saw enough. Anyone would be lucky to have had a child like you. It was his deficiency that he couldn't see that, not yours."
The words slip under his skin like needles, like medicine, hurting and healing, taking his breath away. He swallows back the sudden tightness in his throat.
"I— that's—" he flounders for words, struck dumb in a way that only Clark usually manages.
"Hey!" A tiny hand slaps lovingly against his cheek. Laurel glares up at him. "It's Christmas. No crying."
She wipes his cheek, smearing it with tears and sticky juice, her brow furrowed in such intense focus that Lex has to crack a smile.
"Thank you," he says, and it's so inadequate, and it's all he's got. "I don't think it's likely in my future, though. Regardless."
Martha shrugs. "You can always adopt," she says, a smirk gleaming in her eye worthy of any Luthor.
Lex is saved from answering that by the sound of the front door swinging open and Jonathan's voice echoing through the hallways.
"Where's the monster?"
"DADDY!" Laurel screams before hopping off the stool and careening out the side door.
Lex also hears a tell-tale rush of wind as Jonathan distracts his daughter, and he knows, before they make back to the library, that a tree sits already set up in its stand and covered in lights in the space usually occupied by Lex's desk.
"IT'S A TREE," Laurel yells behind them, squirming free of Jonathan's hold and dashing ahead of them just to stop and stare up in wonder.
"Wow," Lex drawls as he and Martha step through the double doors. Pine needles scatter the floor under his feet. "How did that get here?"
"It's magic," says Clark, leaning next to Ryan against the wet bar.
Melted snow glistens in his hair, his cheeks flushed. Lex dares to step close in his space to swipe away the pine needles off his shoulder. This close the scent of pine and snow mixes hypnotically with the Irish Spring soap of Clark's usual smell in a way that makes Lex faintly dizzy.
He wants, more than anything, the freedom to kiss Clark without concern. Not just with passion. With the kind of quiet intimacy of his parents. With the aching fondness of their friendship. With the soft well of love that seems endless in his chest.
Clark's gaze darts over to his parents and Laurel, just for a fraction of a second, before smiling down at Lex in that way he can only do when they are alone or around Ryan because the love that shines out of it is a beacon you could see from space.
Lex basks in it for a brief, glorious second before stepping away to admire the tree. It's almost disturbing in its perfection — taller than Lex by at least two feet and sufficiently rotund.
"It took forever to find the right one," Ryan says, coming up next to him. "Jonathan was so picky. We must have passed over at least thirty trees to find this one."
Lex smiles to himself. "The Kents take Christmas very seriously," he says.
His mother did too, starting up the day after Thanksgiving with music and lights. Each year the decor had a different theme, and she'd start her meticulous plans in October. He doesn't know what she would make of Martha's homespun, traditional aesthetic, but Lex can't help but fall in love with it. He's seen it from the outside in, but never like this, never an accomplice to the delicate care with which Martha builds it. His own mother didn't allow him to decorate either — she dispensed her vision to a small crew of staff until the stairs and hallways and great room transformed.
Now Lex helps wrap the fake candy garland, passing it back and forth between himself and Ryan on either side of the tree. Now he ties worn velvet bows to the edges of the branches, watching in fascination as the Kents divy up "their" ornaments like talismans only they can bestow on the tree.
Clark blushes beatifically as he hangs up one of the foam snowflakes with his first grade photo on it, and Martha winks when she catches Lex's eye. Laurel rests on Clark's shoulders as she hangs up the nutcracker ornament Martha bought her in Metropolis just two weeks ago and directs him with all the command of a military general which colored balls to hand her. Ryan hangs up a Hallmark edition Warrior Angel ornament that Lex is only a little (okay, wildly) jealous of.
If there is a pang of loneliness that echoes in his chest at the exclusion, at once again feeling like the beggar at the window of a warm bakery, it's easy to smother it in the gratitude of him bearing witness to any of this at all. Ryan returned to their lives barely a month after "his" Clark switched back and irrevocably connected Lex to the Kents as they banded together for his care. But there's a difference between being invited to the Christmas party or the Christmas dinner as a guest, and preparing it as a part of the family. To listen to their gentle ribbing, to Clark's arguments with Laurel that he always loses, to Martha and Ryan humming the same song under their breath.
He just has to remind himself that he has so much more than he did three years ago. That he has Clark, both in ways that the light can touch and ways that only the shadows should know. That he has Martha slowly but surely teaching him how to cook when he comes over for Sunday dinner. That he has Jonathan's ever burgeoning, slowly growing respect in their shared duty of protecting Clark. That he has in Ryan's companionship the little brother he thought he had lost forever. That his cheek still bears the sticky mark of Laurel's attempt to cheer him because he's found a strange kinship in a barely civilized toddler.
It's enough. It's more than enough. It's more than he ever thought he would ever have. He's not his father; he's not going to look at what joy his life can offer him and only see the lack.
Somehow, in only three hours, Martha manages to create a spread of desserts and hors d'oeuvres that cover the kitchen counters and island. She put Lex to work at the cutting board, Clark on oven duty, and Ryan for plating, and banished Jonathan and Laurel out to the Talon for a coffee date after their hands snuck one too many apple slices for the pie. Then, as they surveyed the fruits of their labor, she hugged all three goodbye before heading back home to change for the party.
They follow suit, heading upstairs to their respective rooms, Ryan splitting off to the left end of the hallway while Clark and Lex head right. In the walk-in closet Lex has an emerald green silk shirt hanging up, tiny silver snowflakes embroidered on the edges of his collar. And next to it is Clark's dark red sweater, blue dress shirt, and black chino pants.
Even though Lex has had close to two years to become accustomed to the mouth-watering beauty of Clark's body, it never fails to arrest his attention, his eyes glued to the casual ease in which Clark kicks his dirt-crusted jeans to the floor, the way his hair sticks up after he pulls off his sweatshirt. His own shirt hangs neglected and unbuttoned on his body as he watches, hungry thoughts crowding his mind and leaving no room for rationality.
(Thank God the range for Ryan's ability doesn't extend past a hundred or so feet. There's a reason why he, as one of two people in the world who know of their relationship, picked the room on the opposite end of the hallway.)
Clark dresses quickly, covering up skin made for milk and honey with his pants, his dress shirt, his sweater. Lex mourns the loss of it, thinks of chiding Clark for not allowing him to savor it, before Clark turns his attention on him.
The complaint dies in his throat as Clark steps into Lex's space and kisses him with unbearable softness. Even after three years such affection sends Lex's heart pounding in his chest, a rush shared only by bank robbers and jewel thieves after a score. Clark's tongue dips into Lex's mouth with three years of honed expertise as his hands slide warm and tender over Lex's chest. Clark just put his clothes on, and already Lex wants to tear them off of him, wants to get on his knees and risk staining his shirt.
But Clark's hands aren't slipping the shirt from his shoulder, or pulling the zipper down on his slacks. They button up Lex's shirt from the bottom up, each slide of a button through its hole matched by the hot slide of Clark's tongue in his mouth, or a suckle at his bottom lip. It's torture of the most exquisite kind as Clark's hands rise up the length of his torso until his thumb rests with such precious delicacy at the base of Lex's throat. Then Clark's mouth slides away from his until his breath presses hotly against Lex's ear and then—
"Later tonight, when everyone is gone or asleep, I'm going to take you apart. Piece by piece," he whispers.
Lex's knees go weak. His breath comes out in harsh compliance. He pulls back to look at Clark, expecting a smirk, a flirty tilt of his mouth and instead gets—
An intensity he hasn't seen since— since that night in the stars, on the windmill. With a Clark that looked at him with old, old eyes.
It had felt like a loss, when his Clark first returned. A Clark that still needed guidance, a Clark still so painfully young and naive, without the depth of understanding only maturity could bring. A Clark still ruled by his fears, who couldn't trust anyone, especially Lex.
But as the years have passed, Lex has seen glimpses of that older Clark in his Clark more and more often. That quiet self-assuredness, steady as the oak in a storm. That cocky playfulness. The shameless flirtation, the sweet begging. The attempts to understand, to break out of the rigid mindset Jonathan has tried to instill in him.
As Clark grows into his adulthood, the memory of that older Clark and the Clark that Lex sees nearly every day has morphed and bled into the same person. The only difference is the lack of desperate guilt that radiated off of that older Clark, and Lex has worked hard to ensure that his Clark will never know it.
"Is that a promise?" he says instead.
Clark just smiles, the small, sweet one reserved just for Lex. "You'll find out."
It takes less than half an hour for the library to be filled. Laurel jumps and twirls in any open space, fascinated by the way her dress flares around her. Lois and Clark are deep into a heated discussion by the fireplace about which Home Alone movie is the best. Lana sits with Ryan at the piano and discusses his online literature class while Whitney talks with Pete about his plans for applying his sports medicine degree after his graduation in the spring. Chloe is not so subtly grilling Nell Lang for potential connections at the Daily Planet, where she plans on interning again over the summer.
Jonathan disappears for several minutes and then reappears by the stairs of the loft with a small, smug little grin on his face. He guides Martha towards the underside of the loft, near the middle, and then exclaims,
"Mistletoe! Now how did that get there?"
Everyone turns their head to watch Jonathan scoop Martha up in his arms, lean her down, and kiss her just like an old movie. Lois lets out an ear-splitting whistle between her fingers that sends Martha's flush from her hairline to her neck.
After this, Laurel takes it upon herself the sacred duty to screech anytime two people are caught underneath, which happens fairly often as it's situated near the door that leads to the kitchen and bathroom. Clark goes white when he and Lois step past it in a passive-aggressive race for the last thumbprint cookies from the kitchen. She kisses the knuckles of her fist and then punches him hard enough in the arm to give her a head start.
Despite his careful awareness, even Lex gets caught beneath it. He only gets the briefest of warnings—
"MISSLETOED FOR ES!" Laurel shouts, pointing her finger at him like a sword—
and a breath of Martha's rose perfume before he feels lips press sweet and swift on his own mouth.
That's two kisses today. It's his own turn to feel the flush creep down his throat as Lois lets out another wolf whistle.
Eventually, as the night deepens, Lex skips up to the loft and leans over the railing, basking in the softness of the evening. Taking inventory of all the little joys laid out before him: Laurel fast asleep in Clark's arms on the sofa while Ryan plays Silent Night on the piano like a lullaby, Lois and Whitney softly arguing about football while Pete and Chloe split the last gingerbread man. Lana, Nell, and Martha admiring the tree and sharing stories of Lana and Clark's early school days.
"Beautiful party this year," says Jonathan, coming up to lean against the railing beside him.
Lex starts, so caught up in his own reverie that he didn't even hear Jonathan come up the stairs.
"All thanks to your wife," Lex says. "I just provided the space."
His gut tightens. Lex has felt more nervous around Jonathan, especially when alone, than he had with his own father. Jonathan feels more like a landmine than Lionel did — at least with Lionel, Lex knew what the wrong steps were. With Jonathan, his disapproval could come out of nowhere for things Lex only saw as innocuous.
"Yes, my wife," Jonathan says contemplatively, casting his gaze down to his wife in the crowd. "You and Martha have gotten close over the last few years. And now you're taking her to see the Nutcracker for the third year in a row, you offer your home to decorate, you kiss her under the mistletoe . . ."
He turns to give Lex a hard, piercing stare. "Do you have designs on my wife, Lex?"
In a split second he has replayed the entire day back in his head — laughing with Martha, helping her decorate, blushing furiously at both kisses — seeing it through Jonathan's eyes and not even the irony of that question can stop the horror and mortification from running through him like a bayonet.
"I'm kidding," Jonathan says, shoulder checking Lex and grinning. "God, the look on your face. I know what's happened, Lex. Martha's adopted you just as much as she has Clark and Ryan — there's just no papers for it."
"Mr. Kent, that was . . . the most afraid I've ever been in my life," Lex admits, pulse still racing. "And that's including the testimony I gave at my father's trial."
Jonathan chuckles. "No, its not my wife I should have concerns about," he continues, oh-so casually. "It's my son you're in love with."
Lex, mid-gulp on a long sip of wine to settle his nerves, chokes. Jonathan waits him out with infinite patience as Lex catches his breath, even offering a hardy slap on the back. Once the tears clear, Lex searches the man's face desperately for any sign of fury or hate or disgust and finds nothing. Blank as a freshly tilled field.
"I— of course I love Clark," Lex stammers. "He's my best friend. He was my first friend. He saved my life. He's given me the closest thing to a family I've had in a long time. But — that doesn't mean—"
"Yes, it does," says Jonathan simply.
Lex just stares. Terror starts to churn in his gut. They had worked so hard to keep it quiet, keep it close to their chests. From Jonathan more than anyone. And yet he is the one who noticed?
"It's just me," Lex says, throwing himself on the grenade. "Clark doesn't— he only sees me as a friend."
Jonathan rolls his eyes. "If you actually believe that, then you're even stupider than I've given you credit for."
Lex doesn't know what to say to that either — so he says nothing.
"You don't have to look so afraid, Lex," says Jonathan gently. "I admit the idea of it took some getting used to. I've never really known anyone who's admitted to those kind of . . . habits. And I'm always going to worry about Clark sticking out, and God knows he doesn't need anything else drawing negative attention to him. But . . . I've seen the way he smiles at you. How much he craves to be in your space. I know what love looks like."
"So it doesn't . . . upset you?" Lex ventures.
"Its not what I would have picked for him," admits Jonathan, and Lex can't even be offended by it because he knows exactly the kind of hateful scrutiny Clark could have gotten at his rural high school if anyone knew. What could still await him if anyone else finds out.
"But I can't deny that you have done so much for this family without any expectations or strings attached. You've paid for Clark's college, Ryan's treatment, you arranged for his foster care and his education, you paid for the addition built onto the house when Martha got pregnant, not to mention all her hospital bills or clearing out her entire baby registry . . . I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but . . . I realized I might be waiting forever."
Lex swallows. "I would do anything for Clark. For your family. For you," he adds softly.
"And it would be stupid of me to deny us that because the underlying reason is not something I completely understand," says Jonathan. "Clark is going to need a powerful ally when he finally decides what he's going to do with his abilities. I trust no one more than you to look out for him in my stead." He reaches out a hand and squeezes Lex's shoulder.
"You honor me," Lex says, throat tight.
Jonathan shakes his head. "I've demeaned you, kept you at arm's length, blamed you for the sins of your father. I've been deeply unfair to you, Lex, and I regret it. I hope you can forgive me for it some day."
The shock of those words hits Lex like water onto dry earth. He almost can't process them, the way packed dirt will reject the rain. It feels like a trick, like standing on a cartoonishly obvious trap door.
But Jonathan doesn't play tricks the way Lionel does. He's never hesitated to tell Lex his deficiencies, and he certainly doesn't compliment Lex off the cuff.
"It's already happened," Lex says hoarsely.
A wistful smile crosses Jonathan's face. "At least Clark can recognize a good thing when he sees it. He gets that from his mother. Speaking of which, I was under orders to bring one of your Christmas presents to you early."
He slides his hand into his suit coat pocket and pulls out a small box hand-wrapped in brown paper with a brightly colored bow.
"Go ahead and open it."
Lex meticulously undoes the ribbon before sliding his finger under the wrapping and lifting it from the box. He was never a ripper, even as a child with store-wrapped gifts, and he certainly isn't tearing the paper Martha hand-wrapped herself. Inside the box is a small painted wooden ornament — a red-haired angel holding a sword in one hand.
A warrior angel.
"Martha picked it out. She saw it at the farmer's market in Granville. Said it reminded her of the way you protect this family."
Lex tips his head back and bites the side of his cheek because he is not going to break down and cry in front of all these people, in front of Jonathan—
Who must sense something, because he gives Lex a gentle pat on the back.
"Put it on the tree when you're ready. And if you two can ever get married — I expect you to take the Kent name," he adds before heading back down the stairs.
It's enough levity to make Lex snort, to lay calm the roil of emotion in his chest. As if he would ever turn down the chance to rid himself of the Luthor curse if given the opportunity.
By the time Lex makes it down the stairs again, Clark has extracted himself from Laurel's monkey grasp, letting her cozy up in his sweater and leaving him only in the blue button-down. He meets Lex as he heads toward the tree, towards Martha, when Lois yells out:
"MISSLETOAD!"
Clark and Lex freeze as everyone's gaze swings towards them. Lex swallows, putting all his effort into keeping his face perfectly neutral. It's one thing if Clark's parents noticed something. It's another for all of Clark's friends and acquaintances to get its confirmation or even suspect it.
He scrambles to think of some joking way to kiss Clark — like Lois and her kiss to the fist — in a way that would throw off any suspicions. But his mind comes up terrifyingly blank, a failure under pressure no Luthor should tolerate, and—
But Clark sweeps him up into his arms, cradles his face in one hand, and kisses Lex soundly, unflinchingly, unrepentantly on the mouth. Kisses him so thoroughly, tongue fluttering over Lex's upper lip, that no one could mistake it as a joke or an uncomfortable dare or anything other than a kiss from a man to the person he loves.
Lex is so paralyzed with shock that it takes long seconds before he is kissing back. Distantly he hears another wolf whistle and someone crying a win on a twenty buck bet and Laurel telling someone to shut their mouth because she's trying to sleep and Santa won't come if she's awake —
Clark pulls away, face beautifully flushed, eyes bright with joy and terror alike, his thumb pressing into Lex's cheekbone with a possessiveness that makes his chest flutter.
"Clark?" Lex breathes.
"We hide so much as it is," Clark whispers. "Let's not hide this."
The conversations erupting around them fade to a dull roar. Lex can barely remember that anyone else exists. "Are you sure?"
And that soft grin blooms across Clark's face. "I think it's a little late to backtrack now."
He slips his hand around Lex's shoulder and turns to the rest of the party.
"Guys — I'm in love with Lex Luthor," he says. "And we're dating."
Several people appraise them with new eyes — Pete looks as if someone hit him with a frying pan — but quite a few do not look surprised in the least, including both of Clark's parents.
Lois rolls her eyes. "You don't have to announce it like you're running for mayor, Clark. Nobody cares that much."
"As always, I appreciate your support, Lois," retorts Clark.
They exchange deeply sarcastic smiles, but Lex knows that if anyone would drop a slur on Clark, she would drop her fist on their head.
"You don't look a bit surprised, Chloe," Lana says accusingly.
Chloe just shrugs. "I mean, do you guys not have eyes in your head? Looked pretty obvious to me."
She winks at them, and the anxiety in Lex's chest starts to ease. He's not going to be able to stroll down Main Street or even down 4th Avenue in Metropolis holding Clark's hand, but the people who matter the most don't seem to care, and that's enough of a start.
Clark stays long after everyone else has left or gone to bed on the pretense of helping clean up, but one knowing smirk from Martha kills that illusion. Still, Ryan leaves with them, carrying a passed-out Laurel to the car, so that Clark and Lex have the mansion to themselves.
The promise whispered in Lex's ear earlier still echoes, but he's not in any rush to drag Clark upstairs. Instead he stands in front of the Christmas tree, looking for one of the bald spots Martha bemoaned earlier. Then he pulls the angel from his pocket and places it with the reverent care it deserves.
"You like it?" Clark asks.
"You knew about it," Lex accuses softly.
Clark grins so brightly his canines show. "Only for a few days. Having an ornament is like basically getting adopted but with less paperwork, so congratulations."
"So, does that make us brothers now?" Lex says dryly.
"Ah—" the smile drops. "Okay, so the metaphor needs some work. But until we can get married . . ."
Marriage. Trepidation and joy twist together in his stomach. "You are way too young to talk about marriage even if it was legal."
"Oh, come on. Getting married within a year of graduating is, like, Smallville tradition. Lana and Whitney's wedding is in four months."
"You do know that's not something to brag about, right?"
"At least you can't get me barefoot and pregnant."
Lex snorts. "Judging from some of the things your mother's been saying, that would be her ideal outcome for us."
And boy does that conversation have a different meaning in this new light. You can always adopt — Jesus.
"Is she hitting you up for kids already? Like Laurel isn't enough of a handful as it is."
"For you, perhaps. She doesn't give me any problems."
"That's because she's obsessed with you. It's only going to get worse, you know."
"Don't be jealous of a toddler, Clark. It's crass and pathetic."
Clark's arms come around him from behind, pulling him flush against that strong, warm chest, chin resting on Lex's shoulder.
"I'm not jealous," he says unconvincingly.
Lex just hums in response, one hand coming up to rest on top of Clark's.
"What if it's not possible?" he asks softly.
"To not be jealous? I'm working on it."
"To not have children. It's very difficult for a gay couple to adopt. Or marriage, which may never become legal in this state in our lifetime. What you'll have with me is a half-life, a shadow, compared to what you could have with a woman. Can you be happy with that?"
Silence falls between them as Clark digests this. Lex never pushed for them to be an open couple, always complied with Clark's need for secrecy and caution — not because of the worries of the present, or the potential rejection from Clark's parents and friends, or the target it would put in on his back — but because of the future. The very concept Clark tries his hardest not to think about and that plagues Lex constantly.
"I think," Clark says slowly, "that that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say. And you've said a lot of stupid stuff over the years."
"It's not stupid, Clark. It's the truth of our future."
Clark tightens his hold on Lex. "I am an alien from outer space with superpowers. In what universe am I getting a normal future? Did you forget about Superman?"
"Is that not what you've always wanted — a normal life? You could have it this time around."
"When I was fifteen and scared, sure. But it was made pretty fucking clear to me that I want nothing to do with a future that you're not in. I don't care what the future doesn't have as long as it has you."
It's everything that Lex needs to hear and yet it terrifies him all the same. Because what if it changes? What if their destiny is to split, to become enemies? Foils? That he is just Clark's dark reflection and eventually the love they have cannot withstand their differences?
But he knows what Clark would say if he voiced this aloud: I change my mind — that is the stupidest thing I've ever heard you say.
And if what Clark said about his future self is true, if he threw away his grand schemes and plans for another chance to have Clark again, then perhaps—
Perhaps there is hope after all.
"And you?" Clark asks quietly. "Are you alright with a half-future?"
"There is no future without you," says Lex. "Half or otherwise."
Clark nuzzles his face into the crook of Lex's neck. "Then we're stuck with each other."
Lex reaches up and slides his hand into Clark's hair. Closes his eyes.
"I suppose we are."