Title: Every Time
Length: 1,161 words
Spoilers: future fic, post-series, not sure for DCU
Warnings: slash, first attempt at another fandom
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. Just for fun.
Summary: Lex thinks that he is making history. He's just repeating it.
A/N: This is all Sofia's fault. I blame her entirely. Except for this particular fic. That's all my fault. That only makes sense in my head.
It's a day like any other day. Superman stands above the eagle rug in the Oval Office. "You may think that you got away with it this time, Luthor..."
Not Mr. President, a title which he has won quite legally. This is his by mandate; Superman the intruder here. That caped freak may think that he stands for truth and justice, but it's Lex who stands for the American Way. He embodies it.
And if this parody of humanity can't understand that a chemical spill in the Indian Ocean is a matter for the U.N. and LexCorp contractors employed by an unaffiliated corporation, then he doesn't understand much about politics.
Superman is a much more direct creature than that, all fists and fury and saving the human race one soul at a time. Can't he see that he couldn't possibly win?
So Lex pours himself a scotch, a toast to victory. He pours one for Superman as well, just for the pleasure of seeing the crystal fly into the wall and shatter.
And when Lex oh so patronizingly hands that tumbler over, expecting the familiar scenario to play out as it has so many times, something shifts. Just like that.
"It's just a drink, Clark."
The word is out, the weapon that he's been hoarding all these years, savoring on the back of his tongue for the press conference that he has never called, but could.
And Superman doesn't deny it. His mouth just settles into that grim line, and he takes that drink, pounds the whole thing down and hands the empty glass back.
An almost imperceptible nod, and Lex pours the second drink, hands it to him.
How does he do it, he always wonders? Fools them all with some Kryptonian mass hypnosis, most likely. But he's never fooled him.
This day is inevitable.
"Come on," Lex says, "We haven't much time." And he turns, opens those double doors, nods to the agents as he sweeps past. He only hears the footsteps behind him, the soft whoosh of fabric, billowing. Oh Clark, always so dramatic.
They walk down corridor after corridor, twists and turns and stairs, until they come to an unmarked door. Lex opens it and steps inside, places his glass on the plain nightstand that flanks a plain double bed. Servant's quarters once, but they would do for this. Without turning, he says, "Come in, I don't bite."
And with a hum that he feels more than hears, he knows that Clark is scanning the room.
"There aren't any surveillance devices here. I've seen to that." He sits down on the bed and starts undoing the buttons of his shirt, removes the cufflinks.
Superman stands in the doorway, one arm crossed, and sips his scotch. "You've never been the trusting sort, Lex."
"You would never hurt me, Clark. That's always been your weakness." He undoes his belt, drapes it on the back of a threadworn Queen Anne chair. "Come in, won't you? And close the door."
The latch clicks. "I've hurt you many times."
"True, but you've never been able to land that final blow." He unlaces the shoes. "Still trying to save me, hero? Make me a better man?"
He sets his glass down beside Lex's. "I stopped a long time ago."
"Well, then get that ridiculous thing off and come here." Lex folds the boxers, puts them on the chair. He turns down the bed.
And Superman strips off that outfit, that alien thing. Stands there naked and Clark, no less beautiful than he had been at sixteen. "How do you want this?"
Just one simple word and he could have Clark on his knees. He's had him on his knees in battle, watched the lines of pain caused by all manner of weapons that he's devised. Too clever by far, when all it takes is a name.
"Surprise me," he says.
And he does. In human time, Clark presses up against him, pushes him down. Hands that could crush Lex's skull, simply hold it and kiss him.
They have always done this through the women before.
'That's my private bathroom,' he's told Lois. 'Go wash at home. I'm sure he'll appreciate it.'
And he should say something, gloat over this triumph, but Clark is moving down, spreading his thighs and he can't find any words. And that spot, oh god, that one, like that yes and he's bucking like some goddamned teenager and fuck, he knows, how does he...
"This isn't the first time, is it?"
Clark lifts himself up, and his eyes, those amazing eyes, are just so fucking sad like he has truly lost. "No."
And Lex is laughing, laughing and the questions he should be asking, because shit, he's more articulate than this, always been more articulate, the questions don't come.
He should ask how many times, how do you do it, how could you take this from me?
Oh you glorious, glorious son of a fucking bitch. You have read that book I gave you.
And oh fuck he's still hard, still wants this, wants it even more.
"Do I always remember?" he asks.
And Clark crawls up, still cupping Lex's balls, stroking, gentle. "No."
He closes his eyes and imagines them clashing, combat, all teeth and spit, and oh god he knows that it was good—which surprises him. He thought that he'd always hated the hero but loved the man, that he could strip away everything, take everything, and be left with the man.
Lex rolls over and runs his thumb along that luscious mouth. "God, I hate you."
Clark closes his eyes briefly. "I know. I'm sorry."
Asshole. Fuck, just so easy to roll over and grab that gun, always with the kryptonite bullets, and shoot the bastard in the head. See if he could survive a full chamber round. And don't think he wouldn't do it. Don't think...
But Clark's veins dance, know the gun is there.
Christ, he'd let him do it. Lex knows this as much as he knows that he'd save the last bullet for himself. Just romantic and stupid and he's not ready for that kind of commitment.
So he lets his hands wander over that body, lets his muscles remember what his mind has forgotten. Because, apparently, he knows where all the spots are too. Doesn't want to think how far back this actually goes, but he bets that it's a long, long fucking time because this is the most intimate thing he's experienced in his entire life.
And he clings as he comes, thinking frantically about all the tricks of memory and illusion and chemicals that he can formulate to undo this. Doesn't want to live in Clark's fucked up Groundhog's Day. He'll change this if it's the last thing he does.
Doesn't stop him from being proud.
As he looks into that sweet and seemingly guileless smile that he thought he'd never see again, he asks, "Is it worth it?"