Trigger

Category: very weird AU

Pairing: CLex

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Clark goes after what he wants.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Smallville and all characters belong to WB, etc. The article and professor included are based on an actual news story in the December 9 issue of the Daily Californian.

(Thanks to Li’l for beta!! Yay!)

Chloe called him on it.

“Jesus, Clark,” she said in that way most women did when they’d run out of patience, “if you want to go after this guy, then go after him, for God’s sake. Just don’t sit there all day, making vague allusions about ‘mysterious venture capitalists’ and staring at me with big, droopy eyes, okay? I’ve got better things to do than feed your obsession on—“ big, sarcastic eye-roll “—whoever.”

It all started with Clark’s first assignment as a staff writer for the Met Journal.

Professor Linberg’s office was typical of its kind: cramped, stuffy, filled wall to wall and floor to ceiling with books, journals, and an almost suffocating atmosphere of condensed knowledge. Clark never felt comfortable going inside professors’s offices; he always felt stupid and provincial, like he’d grown up in a farm milking cows, instead of in the city dodging traffic.

Professor Linberg looked typical of his kind, too: sixty-five years old with a shock of white hair brushed away from his face, wise faded blue eyes behind gold wire-framed glasses, forehead wide and furrowed in constant thought. Clark smiled and tried not to fumble too much while introducing himself and thanking the professor for agreeing to an interview.

“Not at all, Mr. Kent,” Linberg smiled wryly, “in fact I’m the one who should be thanking you for this opportunity. I can’t even remember the last time a reporter—even a student reporter—had asked about my work and research. Although I suppose it is only to be expected, when one’s theories question universally accepted ‘fact.’”

There was a segue if Clark had ever heard one. Clark made a few sympathetic noises and the interview began in earnest.

AGAINST THE NORM

Professor’s Controversial Kryptonite Theory Leaves Him Isolated

By Clark Kent

Met Journal Staff Writer

There are no graduate students working on their theses in Metropolis University professor Christopher Linberg’s lab. No post-doctorates advancing their mentor’s work. No research assistants working round the clock. Only Linberg and two part-time assistants, working on a $250,000 annual budget supplied entirely by a mysterious Metropolis venture capitalist, out of a single cramped room in Donner Lab that is overflowing with test tubes, petri dishes and incubators.

The biology professor was once the campus’s golden boy, celebrated for his work on isolating cancer-causing genes and retroviruses: tenured at thirty-six, invited to join the National Academy of Sciences at forty-nine and swimming in research grants.

Then came his proclamation that Kryptonite does not cause malignant physiological mutations—and his subsequent fall from grace.

Martha had cut out the article and stuck it on the refrigerator door, beside that picture of Clark on his tenth birthday, while Clark finished off the last of the Cherry Garcia.

“I’m so proud of you, honey,” she said with a sincere smile that was nonetheless strained around the edges, “but wouldn’t it be better if you stayed away from working on stories on—you know.”

Clark threw away the empty container and started washing his spoon, his back stiff and defensive. It was never pleasant when he got into the whole “I just need to know” argument with his mom.

“Sweetheart,” Martha said, smoothing a gentle hand down her son’s back, “I understand how much you’d like to find out more about—yourself… and prove that you aren’t—“ Clark could see his mother forcing herself to say the words “—part of some kind of evil invasion, or something; that there is something good in the meteorites that fell with you… But, honey, what if there isn’t? What if you’re the only good thing to come out of that meteorite shower?”

It was funny how his mom always forgot to mention that it was his space-pod-thing, the one hidden under tarp in the basement with the canned goods, that killed her husband.

Clark couldn’t stop thinking about Linberg and his ‘mysterious venture capitalist.’ He wanted to go (fly) up to the top of the Campanile and shout out that “Here! See! Two people who don’t think that everything that crashed down from space is evil!” Well, four, including Chloe and his mom. But it wasn’t like he could count his best friend and mother.

Clark dropped by to see Linberg thrice more after the interview, asking semi-intelligent questions about his research and his unknown benefactor. Clark would like to think that Linberg enjoyed his visits, except that he knew he was only probably annoying the old guy.

So Clark made a list of all the people in Metropolis rich enough to afford to give away a quarter of a million for five years to fund research that was most likely never to go anywhere. It was a pretty long list, Metropolis being what it is, but only three people on it had ever expressed interest in Kryptonite research in the past and only one who was ballsy enough to back a pariah in the scientific community, even anonymously.

Clark leaned back in his chair and stared at the computer screen.

Alexander J. Luthor.

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Wishful thinking much, Clark? We both know you’ve had a crush on the guy ever since you finally decided what team you wanted to bat for. Look,” she continued, “if you want to meet ‘Metropolis’s answer to Bruce Wayne’—and I still can’t believe the Planet would publish a piece like that in the City section—fine and dandy. Especially now that you’re not, you know, jailbait. Just don’t go making up flimsy excuses.”

Clark threw popcorn at her and asked why wasn’t she interested in finding out who Linberg’s secret billionaire was.

“Because stories like this never get anywhere,” Chloe said, fishing out the kernel that fell inside her blouse, “you wrote it yourself: Linberg’s theory on Kryptonite isn’t any kind of substantial minority view, 99.99% of the scientific community think it’s a load of crap. There is no amount of financial support that can float Linberg’s theory into the mainstream; besides, a quarter of a million a year isn’t really anything when we’re talking about the kind of work scientists like Linberg do. At most, whoever is really funding Linberg would just be seen as eccentric.” Chloe smirked, “but if you really want to go and chase after your bald beauty, I know for a fact that he’s gonna be at that new club on Liberty tomorrow night.”

The next day Clark turned in his Rhetoric paper and risked running home instead of taking the bus. He studied for a midterm, ate dinner, worked on an outline, and proofed his next article. At twelve he pulled on his tightest black shirt and the jeans that were ripped just below his butt.

He still couldn’t believe he was actually going to do this.

Chloe had left three snarky messages on his phone.

Clark remembered being shocked when he first went out clubbing and found out he was good at it. Yeah, sure Chloe had kept telling him that he was going to be very popular, but he never really believed her. That first night out, the two of them didn’t even have to stand in line, Chloe just dragged him to entrance, made sure the bouncer caught sight of him and the next thing Clark knew, this hot guy in leather was buying him margaritas.

It was really kind of cool.

He’d never been to this club, it was more for the rich trust fund twenty-somethings than for the poor college barely-legals, but the same rules applied to every club. Clark went past the line just close enough to the entrance to be visible to the bouncers and then flirted like mad with anyone who caught his eye. Three minutes later, he was in.

Considering he was a geek for the majority of his waking hours, he never felt bad for letting his inner-slut loose during the few times he went out at night.

Inside, the club was pretty much the similar to every club he’d ever gone to, except this one had better music, pricier booze, and more surgically enhanced body parts. He had a phone number two steps in and a drink in his hand before he even leaned against the bar. After thanking the girl who got him a drink with a smile and a light hand on her arm, he melted into the shadows in between two couples making out. A few minutes of making use of his height and the x-ray thing, and he found Lex Luthor dancing with some blond shirtless guy.

Clark gulped his drink, barely feeling the tickle that was supposed to be a burn as it went down his throat, and stalked toward that bald head glinting with glitter and club lights.

It was bizarre. Clark had spent years jerking off to this man’s eyes and smirk and here he was, sidling up to Lex Luthor, putting his hands on slim hips, his lips against a sweaty temple.

Chloe was right. Linberg was an excuse. He wanted this, just this. It really was, just all about Lex. Wanting Lex.

Clark bit an earlobe and waited until the body under his hands stilled.

“Dance with me.”