As for this, it's dark. Even for me.
Title: When You're Done
Rating: Adult, NC-17 for sex and violence
Length: 1125 words
Spoilers: future fic, no particular spoilers
Warnings: slash, dark. Dark. Seriously, I mean it. Proceed with caution.
Disclaimer: Not mine, seriously. All belongs to Al & Miles, WB/CW and DC Comics.
Summary: Lex finds himself on the bridge. Clark is there. Life goes on, but maybe it doesn't.
He finds himself back on the bridge. Clark is waiting for him, sitting on the unbroken rail. No longer fourteen, but thirty-eight. The air is crisp, early spring. He looks over the edge, roiling water.
"We always seem to end up here," he says.
"It seems appropriate, don't you think?" Clark's legs, long, dangle. He's dressed for work back on the farm, blue t-shirt visible beneath the flannel.
And they don't say anything after that. A truck rolls by, the draft fluttering his suit jacket.
"Maybe we should head back," he says.
Clark looks over at him, silent for a moment. "I want to be buried next to my father, Lex. You know, when you're done." And he leans back, graceful arch, as he disappears over the side.
Lex never hears the inevitable splash.
It's always like this.
"Are you ready, Mr. Luthor?"
Lex leans back in the operating room amphitheater, clear view of the dissection table. Clark's body, without so much as a sheet, is splayed across it.
"You may begin, Mr. Carter," he says as he takes a slow sip of his coffee, black, no sugar.
The bone saw, equally laced with diamond and kryptonite dust, whirs to life, cuts across the skull.
So little blood, only a slow trickle.
Superman has been dead for three days, the alien blood already drained for analysis.
He's down in the caves. Clark is there with a flashlight. The beam rests across the painting of Naman and Sageeth, their bodies still entwined.
"So, Lex, what do you think?" Clark asks, sixteen again but in shadow.
"Destiny is what you make of it, Clark," he says. Summer outside, but always a chill here.
"You use that word a lot." He turns, smiles, wistful. "I just wanted a life."
The light always plays tricks here. Lex's eyes never seem to adjust. Clark's eyes are green and focused on him now.
"Life is what you make of it too," he says.
A crevice opens, a shaft of light. Clark turns and disappears into it.
Lex follows and finds himself amid crystal and snow and a slowly fading sun.
"Excellent procedure, Mr. Carter. When will we have the results?" Five hours have passed, with only one break for lunch. Lex had the Lobster Florentine delivered from LaRocca's. The sauce, although excellent, had grown cold.
Stripping off the neoprene gloves, Mr. Carter looks up. "The initial results should be available within hours, Mr. Luthor."
"Fine work, gentlemen," he says. "That's it for today."
Someone drapes a cloth over the body. The bank of lights are turned off, one by one.
Lex rises and goes home.
He's above him, his cock driving into an almost frictionless heat. He needs to drive deeper, meet resistance.
Clark's eyes are open. "Lex..." he says.
Lex's hands slip against the red blanket that seems to go on forever. "Am I hurting you?"
Clark's face turns slightly to the side. "Not anymore."
"Sew him up," he says. "We're done." Lex is down in the lab today, surgical mask and gloves.
"But Mr. Luthor, we haven't finished extracting..."
"No, Mr. Carter, we're done. We have what we need. Sew him up." Lex finds himself looking at the nails of Clark's right hand, the cuticles lengthened, the thumbnail edged with toothmarks.
"As you wish," Mr. Carter says, hesitant but obedient. "Okay, people, you heard Mr. Luthor, wrap it up."
When the last of his staff leaves, Lex traces one glove along a suture line.
He's sitting at his private table in the back room of Angelino's. Clark sits across from him. A bottle of wine, half empty, rests between them.
Clark raises his glass along with an eyebrow. "Odd place to grant an interview, Lex. Didn't you propose to your wife here?"
"We're divorced now," Lex says as he raises his own glass.
Clark drinks, puts his wine down. "Yes, but I'm not." He raises his left hand, wedding band glinting just so in the candlelight.
"That's not what this is about," he says.
"Isn't it?" Clark rises to go. "I'm happy, Lex. Just leave it."
Lex's hand is on the neck of the bottle as it crashes into Clark's head. The only blood he draws is his own.
"Oh Lex," Clark says, Merlot seeping into his collar. "Now look what you've done."
And he fades away. Lex's hands reach out, grasp nothing.
"How many viable embryos do we have?" Lex stands near a bank of electron microscopes, the frigid air of the clean room.
"Ninety-seven. The genetic sequencing was...difficult. These were the only ones that made it." Dr. Givens hasn't left the lab in three days.
"Good. If we pay five times the market rate, we should have more than enough surrogate mothers."
Dr. Givens hesitates. "Mr. Luthor, the stem cell lines...we need to reserve at least..."
"No," Lex says. "We won't."
He turns to go. "And Dr. Givens, keep aside four for Ms. Lane...Mrs. Kent."
"That's insane! We'll be shut down within the hour." Dr. Givens trembles, from fatigue perhaps. "What does the Planet have to do with..?"
"I have my reasons," he says. "It's not your place to question them."
Lex sits on the couch in Clark's loft. Clark stands by the telescope, twenty-three this time. It's late afternoon.
"I miss this," he says.
Clark turns, sits beside him. "Me too."
Lex leans back, rests his head and closes his eyes.
The alarms have been ringing for fifteen minutes. All of his staff have fled. Lex, standing in front of the body, faces the doors alone.
At least half of the Justice League bursts in. One week too late.
"Luthor..." Batman starts to say, but then he sees the body behind Lex. And with eyes that must mirror Lex's own, he only finishes with, "What have you done?"
Lex doesn't reply. He doesn't move.
"What have you done?!?" Batman's gloved hands curl into Lex's lapels.
Lex stares into his eyes. "Just do it," he says. Motion all around them, but all he feels is this.
"Gladly," Batman whispers.
The last things he sees are Batman's boot and two of his teeth in a glorious arc of blood towards the floor.
He's on the bridge. A later spring now. Clark is waiting, leaning against the rail. Thirty-eight still. Again. He turns and smiles. "I wasn't expecting you so soon."
He smiles in return. "And here I thought I was rather late."
Clark holds out his hand, large and still uncalloused. "Are you ready?"
He hesitates, feels the pull of darkness behind him. "Is it allowed?"
Clark grasps his hand, holds him there, steady. "I don't know. Let's find out."
They walk forward into the dappled light, trees in the distance.