Yes, I went to the game last night. Why do you ask? *g*
And yes, I quoted myself. But you do not know that since I lifted my own quote from a fic I have NOT posted. Ha! *stealth*
As he sat one evening in his office, swirling single malt within the inevitable Austrian crystal, Lex Luthor had come to a rather pathetic but nevertheless monumental conclusion: He needed to get Clark Kent drunk. This was neither whim, wish, compulsion nor even desire, but the distillation of all those into simple need.
And like all needs that did not factor into immediate survival or his betterment, he questioned it.
He suffered under no illusion that Clark would shift from his firm heterosexuality to lie languid in his bed from the mere provocation of alcohol. Smallville had more two-beer queers than it would care to admit, and Lex knew the difference.
So no, Lex did not need sexual release from Clark although that thought had wandered into his bed, even if his next pair of diamond earrings graced it. Lex simply needed to get Clark drunk for the truth. For the truth of a man could be beheld in the warp of the glass, the curve of the bottle.
Lex had indulged in countless fantasies of what Clark would be like drunk, buzzed, inebriated, wasted off his ass.
Would he be a mean drunk, yelling and cursing, coming at Lex with fists raised until the two of them were nothing but cuts, bruises, pain, the two of them tumbling into the heated swimming pool? Would they come up for air together, gasping, struggling for the edge?
Would he be a maudlin drunk, sinking into crushed hopes and dreams, blaming someone besides himself for the course of his life? Would he whisper regrets as Lex placed a hand on his back in sympathy?
Would he be a funny drunk, telling bawdy jokes and laughing at everything Lex said? Would he find everything so amusing that he would laugh until he was almost sick, until Lex couldn't help but laugh as well, joining him in a heap on the floor?
Would he be a loving drunk, leaning forward in the embrace of friendship, promising never to let go? Would he offer up his secrets, whispering in Lex's ear, breath warm with trust?
And of course, Lex had placed himself in every scenario. The thought of Clark, cheap plastic cup in hand at some high school kegger, leaning back on a log, a threadworn couch...the thought of him lit, beautiful, laughing, drove him to furious distraction. The thought of Clark giving that kind of honesty to anyone but himself hurt him in ways that he never thought possible.
For even in this scenario, where by all rights Lex should be absent, he imagined himself coming forward, extracting Clark from the arms of a girl, the camaraderie of boys, and simply stating, “Let's go somewhere.”
“Why, Lex? I'm having a good time here. Come on, have a beer or something. Join us.”
“No, Clark, we need to go. Trust me.”
And Clark would only nod, leave the light of the campfire, the heat of pressed bodies, and join him in the encroaching darkness, walking towards the car.
They would drive to a field, the edge of Crater Lake, the softness of the forest, lay back and get drunk underneath the stars. Just the two of them in companionable silence.
Lex needed this. He needed this more than anything. And like all needs, he would fill this one.
He would have this, this desperate companionship that he had observed with disdain the world over: in the clubs of Metropolis, the bars of Tokyo, the beer gardens of Munich, the cafés of Paris. All the bar fights, the carousing, the exultation, the tears--the bonding of men that can only be achieved through drunkenness or war--he understood it now. And he would have this. And he would have it with Clark.
He couldn't imagine handing Clark a tumbler of scotch. As much as he loved it, the welcome burn down his throat, he understood it to be an acquired taste. And Lex knew with every day that Clark seemed to pull away that he didn't have that amount of time.
Nor could he imagine opening a bottle of wine, letting it breathe, tipping the glass just so and pouring, handing it to Clark, the heady sweetness of it, the legs slowly running down the side. Clark couldn't understand that. Not yet.
So Lex would follow the time-hallowed tradition plied by every sad, pathetic pedophile that haunted high school parking lots and house parties, here in this glorious heartland called Kansas.
He would buy Clark beer.
I owe comments! Off I go to supply them!
ETA: I forgot to properly attribute this lovely icon to icefinger. Bad Romany, no puck for you.