Author: alee
Title: Dark and Lovely
Rating: PG for some potentially disturbing imagery
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Disclaimer: CK, LL, and everyone else are the property of DC Comics, and SV is the brain-child of Millar & Gough, and the WB
Feedback: GothPhyle@aol.com
Note: part of the ClexFest at: http://www.kardasi.com/Lexclusive/ClexFest
Summary: Lex is tormented by his dreams, and Clark begins to realize that what he feels for Lex is more than friendship.
Challenge: 15000 words/30 pages in 30 days (15,339 words)
Beta: The ever talented and much adored moss!  Thanks for acting as editor, sounding board, and all-around cheer leader on this one.  You are awesome, love, and I'd never have completed this without you.

DARK AND LOVELY

ONE

He drove more slowly than usual, the wind whipping the dust into a swirl around the sleek black metal as he sliced through the night. The evening's early twilight blanketed the road in smoky dusk, though the illuminated dial on his dash proclaimed the time at a mere 6:47 p.m. The radio blared a melancholy tune, something about love and loss that had him angrily flipping the channels in disgust. What was meant to be a quick exchange of one wavelength for another rapidly turned into an agitated scan as each choice revealed itself more dismally unappealing than the last.

Salvation finally arrived in the form of pounding, rhythmic syncopation, and he settled back into the soft leather with a sigh of relief. He didn't hum along, didn't sacrifice his dignity to the pleasure of mouthing the words, savoring the mindless satisfaction of familiar kinesthetic feedback the act would have afforded, but instead tapped the slender fingers of his right hand in time with the beat, intricate patterns formed and erased on the gearshift of the Jaguar.  Such a simple thing really, his head tipped back against the headrest, eyes drooping at half-mast as his thoughts turned to the accomplishments of today, the challenges of tomorrow, of next week, of-

He jerked the wheel, the tires burning bits of their rubber flesh into the Kansas hardtop as the breaks screamed in protest. Fishtailing to a stop half off the roadway, he wiped a shaky hand over his suddenly clammy brow as the white tails of the three frightened deer winked in victory, bounding in terror as they faded farther and farther from view.

"Shit!" he muttered succinctly, the word bitten between clenched teeth and shaped around a bleeding tongue.  He rolled his neck slowly, trying to ease the ache from the force of the car's abrupt stop.

"A little more concentration would be good. Wouldn't want to give Dad the satisfaction of winning by default."

Realized he was talking. To himself. Out loud. Stopping, shaking
his head with a wry chuckle as he slumped back into the upholstery, running a hand over his head once more before easing the car back onto the path towards home. Or at least back to the mansion, because where was 'home' after all? Could he really say he had one? Really identify any place that offered the comfort and security that the myth of "home" was supposed to... snorting in disgust, he cut off the maudlin train of thought. Apparently, there *were* more pathetic things he could do than talk to himself out loud, or off himself via fatal wildlife collision, and this self-pitying train of thought ranked high on the list.

He pulled into the long driveway, the last few moments of the approach spent scouting the windows intently, hoping to find the lights snuffed in the east wing. No such luck. The cheery glow from the second floor beamed mockingly into the night, the illusion of welcome belied by its cause: his father, still there. There had been the possibility of Lionel's departure for Metropolis that day, held above his head like the proverbial carrot if he but jumped through one more hoop, debased himself in another minute way. Fire Gabe Sullivan, hire his father's choice of replacement, and reduce the plant's employee roster by five percent. Of course he'd refused, delivered his rebellion with the sharpest of serpent's teeth.  And now he would pay the price, another evening of his father's charming company.

Slamming the engine into park, he opened the door, stretching tired muscles briefly before closing the door and striding towards the back entrance, shoulders squared for confrontation. No, this wasn't 'home' if he had to gird himself for battle to breech the entryway, he mused darkly. He punched the security code into the alarm panel, resetting the system as soon as the heavy oak door clicked into place behind him.

Glancing quickly around the foyer, he was relieved to see no sign of Lionel as he crossed to the stairway, relishing the anticipation of a long, hot shower. He was going to relax, to go over his game plan, to prepare for any contingencies, to... have it out with his father before he ever cleared the landing.

"Hello, Lex. Avoiding me?" The dulcet tones smirked, their venomous concern matched by the amusement in the eyes that twinkled sharply into his own.

"Not at all, Dad, I just thought I'd shower before we had our little father-son chat for the day."

"I'm surprised you didn't want to shower *after*, son." He sneered, the barest trace of contempt slicing through the mockery. "After all, you seem determined to continue this ridiculous attempt to wash your hands of me, so why stop there, hmmm?"

"Feeling a little superfluous, Dad?" The mock contrition coloring his tone a perfect foil for his father's oily insinuation.

"Just concerned that your stubborn determination to cut off your nose to spite your face will lead to your ruin, and to losses for the LuthorCorp stock holders."

"I don't think the investors have anything to worry about. The plant is turning a profit, and I'm confident that the direction I'm taking will lead to greater gains in future."

"Really? So then you've decided to take my... advice... and let Gabe Sullivan go?"

"No, Sullivan's staying. As is the rest of the workforce."

"Lex, Lex, Lex..." A deep sigh, an expression of feigned affection and exasperation in the chiding head shake, "when will you ever learn that business decisions can't be based on sentimentality? I know you see yourself as some kind of savior for these people, but the truth is you're just delaying the inevitable. You need to hire McKenzie to run the plant, make the job cuts, and--"

"That's not going to happen. I'm not going to give your puppet free reign to spy on me, and I'm not going to change my plans for the plant. Sullivan stays."

"Then so do I, Lex. At least until I'm satisfied with your executive prowess." A final parting shot as he wheeled on one elegant heel, ending the evening's skirmish. Not sure whether his was the victory or the loss, Lex trudged wearily up the remaining steps and into his suite.

The first to go was his tie, fine silk whipped through his collar like so much string and tossed across a chair back. His shirt received a little more care, lavender linen unbuttoned at front and cuffs before being haphazardly folded and tossed into the basket. His slacks were folded, draped over a mahogany hangar before being replaced in the closet. Shoes followed next, left outside the door until morning so the faintest traces of perspiration did not evaporate into his other garments. Wool socks balled together and dropped atop the shirt along with paisley silk boxers as he strode naked into the bathroom, the cool tile chilling unpleasantly against his bare feet.

He stepped into the shower, the water gurgling through the pipes for several seconds before gushing from the showerhead, instantly hot. He sighed with relief, closing his eyes and tipping his face into the flow as the steaming liquid embraced him. He spent five minutes in hedonistic languor before resolutely retrieving the washcloth from the bar in back of the stall, lathering the cloth quickly before completing his ablutions. He
stepped from the tub and into a thick towel, quickly dashing the moisture from his skin with a few deft swipes of the absorbent fabric. Exchanging the damp towel for a dry one, he draped it around his waist before padding over to the sink, reaching a hand to clear swipes of condensation from the mirror.

The face that greeted him bore mute testimony to the fatigue that plagued him more and more these days, the dark shadows under his eyes accentuating the gaunt pallor of his skin. Deciding rest was more valuable than food at the moment, he squeezed a line of paste onto his toothbrush, cleansing the bitter taste of the confrontation with his father from his mouth before tugging on a pair of pajama bottoms and flopping into bed. Ridiculous to be so tired after just another ordinary day, to tumble into bed at 7:30 at night. Absurd, but the weariness weighting his eyelids made it a bizarre necessity. Drawing the comforter against the chill of the castle's airy rooms, he burrowed his face into the pillow. Maybe tonight the dreams wouldn't come.

Something woke him shortly after midnight. His eyes snapped opened with a sudden, unwelcome intrusion into wakefulness. He sat up, tossing back the blankets as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, springs creaking softly in protest. He blinked against the sudden brightness of the room, flooded by too much illumination for the hour. Treading hesitantly to the window, he drew back the drapes and... found himself standing in a field, the same field he had stood in so very many years ago when the meteors buffeted Smallville, forever altering his life and his appearance.

He found himself tracing the route once more, his present self melded, yet somehow distinct from this other-self of time past, the wind blowing all about whipping through his hair in an almost-forgotten sensation. He walked into the corn field, his own/other hand trailing against the coarse stalks, waiting with quiet dread for the inevitable. He turned, facing the sky at the first strange/remembered sound, the sharp whine and sonic boom of the deadly fragments of a giant, cosmic corpse streaking to the ground in a brilliant conflagration. His molasses-slow steps pounded once more in rhythm to his trembling heart and faulty breathing, a futile attempt to escape his fate aborted before it really began. The acrid scent of ozone, of corn scorched in the hot Kansas sun, the recoil of air, thrashing him into the soil with overwhelming strength. A lapse in consciousness,
wisps of uprooted hair floating about, the sad, dandelion puffs of his forever-altered childhood, and then... his father, looming over him like a disheveled giant, wild eyes and labored breath belying his agitation.

A quick, kneeling inspection, cold hands pressing slightly here and there, and a rapid straightening to full height as he lay there, stunned
and disoriented and so afraid.

His father turned to leave; he would go and get help, and there would be flashes of a bumpy ride and days spent in the hospital-- except that this time his father did not go stalking through the ravaged corn, didn't run in search of aid for his ruined son. This time Lionel turned back and approached him once more, a quick darting glance to make sure they were alone before he knelt by his son once more, easing the slight shoulders
into his lap, hunching over his limp form protectively, and... driving a steel spike through his skull, the agony brief and blinding, splatters of crimson blood mingling with the russet tendrils floating in the air still. Another blow, and another, and the agony faded to blackness as his labored breathing stopped, stilled with the faltering beat of his heart.

He sat up with a cry, the sweat dripping down his brow blinding him with stinging efficiency for tense moments as he struggled for breath, the memory of the dream combining with the darkness of the room, swirling into a disorienting reality. Gasping for breath, he wiped a shaky hand over his eyes, throwing the perspiration-damp blanket from his body with a violent toss of his wrist. Rising shakily to his feet, he staggered into the bathroom, brightening the lights and splashing cold water on his face in an attempt to shake the lingering horror of the dream. Glancing at the clock, he chuckled mirthlessly at the digital numbers that announced the time as 11:27, mocking him with the promise of another sleepless night, any prospect of slumber chased away by the disquiet of the nightmare.

Wrapping himself in a thick velvet robe, he made his way downstairs to the office. If he couldn't sleep, he could at least get some work done before daybreak heralded the start of another twelve-hour shift spent fighting fatigue, subsisting only on caffeine and adrenaline.


TWO
Clark woke uneasily, a sense of foreboding warring with the soft sunlight filtering across the foot of his bed. Stretching slowly, he arched his neck, pressing his head into the downy softness of the pillow for a few extra seconds before rising with a resigned groan. Another day loomed, a day filled with class, and chores, and...

... Lex.  He brightened, a smile curving his lips as he gave the comforter a quick tug, making the bed in haphazard fashion before he bounded down the hall to the bathroom. He was supposed to meet Lex at the Talon after school. Lex had been mysteriously absent lately, never around when he arrived with the weekly produce, no impromptu visits to the loft in the evening, no rendezvous for coffee and chitchat. It had begun to concern him, had him scouring his memory for what offense he could have perpetrated, what insult given, and coming up empty.  So, he'd finally succumbed to the worry gnawing at his insides, finally called Lex and asked him to meet that afternoon for coffee.

He had felt a bit awkward about it, all the easy acceptances he had given to similar past invitations fleeing his mind in a rush of social awkwardness, but Lex had accepted without comment. Whistling cheerfully, he finished his morning ablutions and descended the stairs, striding into the kitchen as his mother placed a tray of toast onto the table and turned back to tend the pan of eggs sizzling on the stove.

"Morning, Mom." A quick smile his repayment for the perfunctory kiss pressed to her cheek.

"How are you this morning?"

"I'm fine. How about you?"

"I'm fine, too." She paused, a whimsical smile playing about the corners of her mouth as she ladled the steaming eggs onto a plate, placing them before him and grabbing a glass from the dish rack in the same movement. The egg-spattered pan was lowered into the sink, filled with water and detergent in preparation for the next act in the morning ritual. Crossing the small kitchen, she took a seat across the table from Clark.

"What's got you in such a good mood? You haven't exactly been Mr. Cheerful the past few mornings."

He shrugged, glancing down and back up quickly. "Just... stuff. School. The usual."

"This 'usual' wouldn't have anything to do with your plans at The Talon this afternoon, would it?"

"How did you -- oh, right, the phone *is* in the kitchen, huh?" A weak chuckle escaped as a soft flush brightened his face. "I guess I've just been worried, you know? Every time I go over to Lex's place, he's not there, and he hasn't been by here in a couple of weeks, and I wanted to make sure that... that it wasn't me, something I did."

"Oh, honey, why would you think that?"

"It's hard to explain, it's just... Lex doesn't have a lot of friends. I mean, I know I'm not exactly Mr. Popularity, but at least I have Pete, and Chloe, and Lana. But Lex -- he just has..." He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly realizing how arrogant this might sound to his mom.

"He just has you." She finished softly, sadness and warmth vying for center stage in her solemn gaze.

"Yeah." His breathed rushed out on a sigh as he met her understanding gaze with gratitude. "The thing is, Lex is always talking about how important our friendship is, how it's the stuff of legend -- it gets a little overwhelming sometimes, but I know what he means. How important it is to him to have a friend who likes *him*, and not his name, or his reputation, or his... whatever. So I can't understand why he's suddenly not *around*,
you know?"

She held his gaze for long moments, the serious look of contemplation making his scalp prickle vaguely with uneasiness.

"And so you automatically thought that Lex was avoiding you. Because of something you did." A statement, not a question, a hint of censure peeking through the calm.

"Not really, it's just that... why else would he be avoiding me?" Plaintive plea for a mother's reassurance, edging into his voice despite his best intentions.

"Clark, Lex is very busy. You know that; you know how hard he works at the plant, how much time and energy he puts into his job. Into proving everyone wrong. You of *all* people should understand that sometimes work comes first... even before friends."

"I know, it's..." Deep sigh, his forefinger tracing the edge of the table as he stared at it sightlessly. "Sometimes I wonder: why me? Why does Lex w-- spend so much time with me? And then he stops, and-- I'm not making much sense, am I?"

A slightly work-worn hand cupped his chin, tilting his face to meet hers as tender eyes scanned his.

"You're worried that Lex has finally decided he's too good for you."

"H-how did you--?" A soft gasp, a hasty throat clear as the realization of what he was giving away hit home. "I mean, what are you talking about?"

A chiding shake of her head, soft auburn strands dancing against her collar in rhythm to the soft tsking of her tongue.

"Don't try to fool your mother, Clark, that's one you can't win."

"Yes ma'am."

A final caress of his cheek, and a quick peck against his forehead and she was back to work once more, bustling about the kitchen with irrepressible energy.

"Finish your breakfast. And, Clark?" She stilled once more, turning from the sink to fix him with a level stare. "Everything will work out fine with Lex, you'll see." Humming softly, she continued scrubbing the pan soaking in the sudsy water.

Consuming the last bite of food, Clark carried his plate over to the sink, sliding it carefully into the water to avoid splashing her with a tidal wave of food-spattered dishwater.

"Thanks, mom." *For everything.* The words unspoken but heard nonetheless, as she smiled in pleasure.

Grabbing his book bag from its resting place atop the island, he headed out the door, jogging slightly to catch up with the bus as it pulled away. He couldn't help the silly smile plastered on his face.  Pete and Chloe harassed him all day about his giddy mood and his wandering attention. Mr. Andrews had to call his name three times during roll-call before he answered, much to his chagrin and Chloe's amusement.  When-- finally-- the last bell had rung, he skipped down the stairs and walked quickly to The Talon, vibrating with nervous energy and anticipation.

Arriving in front of the majestic store front, he was taken aback to find no familiar, low-slung import parked on the street. He headed inside, securing a table near the wall and settling in to wait for Lex. Smiling distractedly at Lana when she came to take his order, he requested two hot chocolates, extra whipped cream for Lex. He grinned to himself as he recalled his friend's inordinate fondness for the confectionary topping, and all the times he had seen him surreptitiously lick a foamy moustache from his elegant upper lip.

Two hours later he was no longer smiling. Lex had never shown up.  Heartsick, he paid his tab and started to leave.  He looked back at the unclaimed cocoa, a sad reminder of what was not to be.  The melted cream had slipped below the congealed surface.  Just like his aching heart, sinking within his chest.



THREE

Lex stared blankly at the computer screen dancing before his eyes, trying to make sense of the figures scrolling in never ending columns across its surface.  The quarterly projections were in, and he didn't relish the next verbal skirmish with his father that the numbers were sure to generate.  He went over the calculations one more time, planning his attack, his defense, but found the lines blurring into an incomprehensible mess.  Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, rubbing against his heavy lids for a moment before blinking his eyes open once more.  Returning his bleary gaze to the quarterly report, he acknowledged defeat as the numbers swam together once more.

He closed the laptop with a frustrated moan, head falling back to rest against the cool leather of his chair as he stared aimlessly at the white tiles lining the ceiling overhead.  Swiveling slowly back and forth, he contemplated his next course of action.  Clearly, he couldn't get anything done in this state.  He briefly considered running or swimming, anything to break the monotony of the task or shake his body out of its current malaise, but shuddered at the thought of such exertion. 

He was exhausted, another two nights with little sleep added to the already large tally, and eleven days of inadequate rest finally taking their toll.  So different from the weary lassitude that had followed a night or two at the clubs, a world removed from the infrequent experience of worn exuberance following an all night study session, this feeling weighted his soul with opaque coils of fatigue. He let his eyes close, thinking to catch a moment's rest.  Surely the dreams would not plague him here, could not find there way into his dreams when sleep would be so fleeting.

He relaxed into the chair, its supple folds embracing him with familiar arms, and let his mind drift.  In that twilight state, neither sleeping nor fully awake, he felt the impossible brush of cool, gnarled fingers ghosting across his brow.  He frowned, shifting restlessly as the sensation intensified, as his dream gained substance and he slipped deeper into the sea of Morpheus, powerless to stop his descent.

The fingers returned, this time cupping his cheeks and turning his head towards the apparition to which they belonged.  Cassandra.  He opened his mouth, tried to shift away from her chilled flesh, and found himself immobile, his dream-self locked in place.

"You wanted to know," she crooned, her sightless eyes boring into his intently, "you wanted to know, so I'll show you."

*Show me what?* he cried, the silent scream trapped within his throat, within his mind.

"This is the only way, the only way..." The sing-song voice of madness painting her gentle smile with the brush of terror.

A quick twist of her thumbs, long nails buried into tender flesh and twisted outward, and the agony ratcheted through his skull.  The world went black as his ruined eyes were pried from their sockets.  He arched, the pain loosening the paralysis that held him, but his attempts at escape were thwarted by the soft pressure that pushed him flush against the chair once more, breath stolen by the billowy fabric clogging his mouth and nose.

The pillow pressed more firmly against him, deprived tissues screaming for oxygen as consciousness faded, the incongruous lullaby sung by his murderer the last sound he...

Lex jolted awake, his harsh cry echoing through the office.  Clenching the arms of his chair with sweaty palms he stared wildly about the room, looking for his assailant.   The reality of the situation crashed home.  There was no Cassandra, no assassin lurking in the corner, nothing so simple as a mortal enemy-- there was only him, and the demons locked within his mind.

Moaning softly, he dropped his head into his palms, wondering despairingly how long he could continue to go without sleep, how long it would take for sleep deprivation to accomplish what his dreams could not.  There was no one to save him from this, no Clark to--

Clark.  The only friend he had.  The friend he was supposed to have met for coffee two hours ago.  Shit.  Fuck.  Damn.

Grabbing the phone from its cradle, he hastily punched in the familiar numbers, drumming the fingers of his free hand against the smooth surface of the desk with nervous tension as he counted the rings.  One.  Two.  Four.  Then, the click of the receiver followed by --

"Kent residence."  The feminine tones not the ones he had hoped to hear.

"Mrs. Kent, it's Lex.  Is Clark around?"

Moments of silence, stretched uncomfortably long.  "Clark's outside helping his father."

"Could you ask him to give me a call?  I was... held up at the office, and I was hoping he might be able to stop by for a few minutes tonight, say around eight?"

"I'll let him know you called, Lex, but he might not make it over tonight."

"Is eight o'clock too late?" A sudden thought that perhaps the Kents might regard that as an improper hour for a friendly excursion on a 'school night' flitted briefly though his mind.  "If so, then please tell Clark to let me know what time would be better."

"Eight would be fine, I'm just not sure if..." A soft sigh filled the silence in lapsed conversation, the sound conveying worry and just the slightest hint of censure.

On edge, he swung slowly in his chair, frown creasing his forehead as he rubbed vainly at the knot of tension turning the muscles of his neck to steel.  "Not sure of what, Mrs. Kent?"

"I'm not sure if Clark will want to come over tonight."  The brutal honesty in her softly delivered statement overlaid with the faintest hints of sorrow and... pity?  "He was really hurt when you didn't show up this afternoon at the Talon."

His heart ached as he heard those words, fatigue and regret warring within him and bringing him perilously close to tears of regret, of self-pity.

"I know.  I need to apologize, and thought we could talk about whatever's bothering Clark.  That is, if he's willing to come over."

"I'll pass that along to him."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, and Lex--"

"Yes?"

"Be careful with Clark."

A quiet click, and the connection was severed.  Lex replaced the receiver in the cradle, his hand lingering on its smooth plastic surface as he pondered her cryptic warning.  Be 'careful' with Clark?  As if she thought he would be *careless* with him, and how could he, anyway?

Shaking the last of the cobwebs from his mind, he shut down the computer, printing a few relevant files before gathering keys and jacket.  He turned off the lamp, leaving the office bathed in the eerie glow of the safety lights illuminating the parking lot.  He glanced at his watch as he locked the door, shrugging into his jacket as he balanced the files in one hand.  Six thirty-five; plenty of time for a quick trip home and a hasty shower to revive himself before Clark arrived.  *If* Clark arrived.  

Walking to the lot's solitary occupant, he clicked the keyless entry, the soft chirp strangely comforting in the stillness of the night air.  It wasn't fear, exactly, that curled within the pit of his stomach, but his apprehension over Clark's disappointment combined with the isolation of his surroundings to put him on edge.  It was with relief that he sunk into the welcoming confines of sleek German engineering, closing and locking the door to complete his comforting shell before starting the engine and slipping smoothly onto the road.  It was ironic, really, to feel so safe in a car, when past experience had taught him time and again that the metal creatures held a vast array of peril within their frames.

Of course, maybe when you got right down to the heart of the matter, the reason he always felt safe when he was driving was because of... Clark.  True, he had almost died in a car very similar to today's selection, its twin save for color, but in the end the *almost* held a world of difference, and the spaces between possibility and fact had brought Clark into his life.  The one person who judged him for *what* he was rather than *who* he was, who was always ready to forgive, to give another chance.  Please, let him give one more chance, one more opportunity to apologize and rectify. 

His musings having carried him all the way to the mansion, he parked the car and headed inside.  Fate was kind, and no ambush waited for him.  Breathing a sigh of relief at having avoided his father for another few, precious moments, he made quick work of showering and re-dressing, descending the stairs in dark slacks and a gray sweater.  He was headed towards the kitchen, the faint stirrings of hunger guiding his course, when Lionel's voice stopped him cold.

"Alexander, a word if you please."

Turning, he was met with the sight of his father sprawled elegantly behind his desk, casual posture belying the intent gleam in his eyes and the impatient tapping of one long forefinger against the cold smile curling his lips.

"What do you want, Dad?" The blunt question testament to the fatigue dulling his mind and loosening his concentration enough to violate the first lesson his father had ever taught him-- don't go on the offensive until you're certain it's a battle you're willing to fight.

"Why, Lex, what makes you think I 'want' anything?"

"Do I really have to dignify that with a response?" Derision colored the sarcasm-laden question.

"You wound me!" The mock horror blended with genuine amusement and satisfaction.  "I just want to hear about your day."

"What you want is to debate the quarterly reports.  Not tonight."

"The word 'debate' implies the existence of two, equally valid positions.  I think you'll agree that's a bit generous, given the fact that there's only one answer to your current dilemma."

"Interesting definition of 'dilemma'; I have everything under control."

"Not everything, Lex" the silky menace in his tone banishing the banter of moments before.  "You don't control *me*, not yet, not EVER.  It would be prudent of you to remember that."

He stood frozen, gaze locked with his father's neither moving for long moments as the battle lines were drawn once more.  Finally, with a careless smile Lionel stood, striding past Lex without a second glance.

"I'll be gone for the evening, business in Metropolis.  I'll expect those reports by noon tomorrow."  The parting shot echoed down the hall as his father strode to the door, leaving him more drained than the relatively congenial encounter warranted. 

Appetite gone, he decided to spend the remaining time before Clark (hopefully) arrived going over the documents he planned to present the next day.  Time slowed to a crawl, the tedium of the task warring with the mental exhaustion plaguing him, and sending him into a doze once more, head pillowed on folded arms atop the desk.



FOUR

Clark stood in the open loft, gazing out at the night sky.  It was strange how the stars sometimes seemed to sparkle more brightly when viewed through his own eyes, without the telescope's sharp focus to mute their light with the distraction of their perfect form.  His thoughts swirled, a chaos of longing, and anger, and hurt, and a thousand other emotions all bound by the same thread... Lex.

His mother had delivered the message, relayed Lex's request that he come over to the mansion, and Clark accepted it for what is was; a peace offering, and an apology from someone who would probably never say the words "I'm sorry", or consider that they might be needed, who would never... judge him as unfairly as he now judged.  He sighed, recognizing the pettiness of his thoughts, the memories of so many sincere apologies over the course of their friendship filling him with shame.  Lex *would* say the words if they were warranted, to him if to no one else, and thinking otherwise was just the petty spite of hurt feelings and wounded pride.

Soft footfalls on the rough steps heralded the arrival of an interloper, and he turned to see Lana's face rising above the banister, hesitant smile in place.

"Clark?  Do you have a minute?"

"Sure, Lana, come on up and have a seat."  Walking over to sink into the old upholstery of the sofa, he gestured for her to take a seat at the opposite, turning to place his back against the armrest and face her profile.  "What did you want to talk about?"

"You."  A single word, commonplace really, but so shocking falling from her lips, dripping in concern.

"Me?"  Nervous laughter shading his tone.  "What about me?"

"Well... you seemed upset this afternoon at the Talon, and I thought you might want to... talk about it."

"Lana, that's... I appreciate the concern, but it's nothing.  I'm fine."  Tension creeping into his voice and adding an edge of falseness to his denials.

"Really?  Then why are you out here staring at the sky for answers?  Like it's your last hope?"

"My last hope? Lana--" another anxious chuckle "that's-- I don't have any idea where you're getting these ideas, but--"

"Clark, I know you were waiting for Lex, and--"

"How did you know?" Blurted words, bitter with embarrassment and denial, confirming the truth they sought to evade.  "I mean, I d-don't know..." Trailing off into silence, he met the level gaze directed at him.

"You were waiting for Lex.  And he didn't show up.  And you were hurt.  Believe me, Clark, I know the signs and the emotions behind them; how many times did I complain to you about Whitney's absences, about all the times he didn't come through for me?  I just wanted you to know that I'm here, to talk or to... whatever."

The conversation was too much, the emotions hitting too close to a truth that he wasn't ready to acknowledge, not to Lana.  Standing abruptly, he strode back to the window, staring sightlessly into the night once more to evade her suddenly too-knowing gaze.

"Lana, that's just... this is different.  Whitney was your boyfriend.  Lex and I-- we're not-- we..."  He stopped, at a loss for words to explain himself further.

"Aren't you, Clark?" The soft question sounding from his shoulder, the near-silent tread of her feet having brought her to his side unaware.

Mute, no denial to give, he turned eyes bright with emotion to face hers, grateful for the clear gaze that met his own.

"I wondered why you never asked me out again, especially after Whitney left.  Wondered why you never dated Chloe, why you never dated *anyone*, and then today... it just all fell into place."

Wetting his lips and clearing his throat against the huskiness that seemed to have taken permanent residence there, Clark shook his head slowly as a frown creased his brow.

"Lana, Lex and I are not... dating..." A blush swept his cheeks at the words. 

"Not yet."  Said with such unshakeable assurance that he was left speechless in its wake.  "Let me know when you're ready to talk."

A small smile, a quick peck on the cheek, and she was gone, vanished from the barn so swiftly and silently that he wondered briefly if he had imagined the entire surreal conversation.  He stood for long moments, thoughts stilled by confusion, and then small sparks of clarity began to seep through, sorting the disarray in a beautiful, complex pattern.

What if Lana was right?  What if the reason his other 'relationships' had failed so miserably was because his thoughts and affections were already committed elsewhere?  What if it all came down to Lex?  And the reason he was so distressed by Lex's recent distance had more to do with a breaking heart than a neglected friendship?  Was there even a question?

Dropping to sit on the sofa once more, he pondered how much things had changed since Lex's arrival in Smallville two years ago, how much *he* had changed as result of his friendship with the aloof Luthor heir... who wasn't really aloof with him at all.  How many times had he stopped by the Beanery after school to find Lex waiting there with a smile and a genuine concern about the events of his day?  With the opening of the Talon, there was a shift in venue but the content and quality of their time together never changed.  How many produce deliveries had turned from two minute drop-offs to two hour conversations about history, or politics, or the nature of the world?  More and more he found himself confiding in Lex, looking to Lex for advice and opinion, turning to Lex to provide the warmth and companionship that seemed far more than the friends of his youth could provide, and the sustenance his soul craved.  Not for the first time, he shuddered to think what his life would be like had Lex drowned in the river, had he not been standing on that bridge...   

Why, then, was he even considering denying Lex's request?  Lex wanted to see him, he wanted to see Lex... amazing, how simple it all was.  Ironic that from the mouth of his childhood infatuation should fall the words that brought this newfound clarity. This dawning appreciation for the person he was beginning to realize he loved as no other.  With a quick word to his parents he was off, headed towards the mansion.

The night air whispered through the open window of the truck as he drove, the muted sounds of crickets melding with the occasional rustle of cattle in the fields.  He smiled, a reflection of the anticipation that lifted his spirits in synchrony with the tuneless song he hummed.  Finding the gates of the manor standing open in stately welcome, he pulled into the circular drive and strode up to the front door.  A quick press of the doorbell summoned the butler, and he was ushered into the main hallway.  A softly spoken acknowledgement of his welcome, and he was directed down the hall and into the study.

"Lex?" He rounded the corner, voice softened in deference to the echoing caverns of the architecture.  "Lex, are you..."

The question went unfinished, his train of thought stopped by the sight before him.  Lex was asleep, slumped over the desk so that his face rested against his folded arms.  One cheek bare in the light, with creases of exhaustion lining his expression and with dark circles under his eyes, he was the most welcome sight Clark had ever seen.  Stepping closer, Clark opened his mouth to wake him, and stopped once more, growing cold as the details of the face before him grew clearer. 

Lex's eyes were not merely circled, they were ringed with black and sunken in his face.  The always-pale complexion was blanched to a waxy hue, and slack with weariness.  Most concerning of all, the angular planes were more prominent than usual, all suppleness gone from the flesh stretched tightly over its skeletal frame.

Pondering whether to leave Lex to his rest, or wake him up so that he could go to bed and sleep more comfortably, his focus changed in an instant as the pounding of Lex's heart began to thunder in his ears.  Far too loud, far to fast, and matched by the rapid rhythm of his respiration, it alarmed him.  He closed the remaining distance, placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking gently.

"Lex, wake up."  No response, save a soft whimper, mouth opening as unintelligible words were muttered.

"Lex--"

He was in the field, his arms spread wide and fastened to the rough wooden crossbar.  The coarse laughter stabbing through his head in time to the blows from booted feet.

"Take that, freak!" One voice taunted, its sneer of disgust pricking at him like a knife.  "We told you not to come here, that you didn't belong here.  Maybe you'll finally get the message."

Harsh hands, yanking the ropes tighter until they cut into his wrists, the tender flesh tearing and bleeding beneath the coarse hemp.  A sudden, vertiginous arc and he was placed upright, the makeshift cross dropped with a sickening lurch into the hole.

He cried out, the agony from his shoulders as his weight sagged against their unnatural angle excruciating in its intensity.

"Shut up!" Another voice, this one accompanied by a hard slap that rocked his head back against the center post, scraping the delicate skin of his scalp and embedding it with a host of splintered fragments.

A blow to the ribs, this one more directed than the last, cracking ribs and stealing his breath.

"Your money and your fancy cars won't help you now, Luthor!"  Jeering laughter, and more blows--

"Lex!  Wake up!"  He was becoming frantic, his pleas falling on deaf ears and the escalating heart rate of his friend growing more concerning with each second.  "Lex, *please*..."

The torture ended, and they left as quickly as they had ambushed him.  He was alone, his breathing more and more labored, the knowledge that he would die here, surrounded by corn and drowning in his own blood, seeping into his lungs through rib-punctured tissue, left to--

"LEX!" The voice not right, the name not part of the dream...

Gasping, Lex lurched upright, fighting against the hands that clasped his shoulders.  His eyes snapped open, meeting green eyes filled with a terror to rival his own.

"Lex!  Are you OK?"  The question breathed in a trembling voice, anxiety blanching the golden skin to an ashen hue.

"Cl-Clark?"

"Yeah, it's me.  I was so scared!  I couldn't wake you up, and your heart was racing, and I thought... God, Lex!"  His words shuddering to a stop, he closed his eyes tightly for a moment, never releasing his grip on Lex's shoulders.  Drawing a shuddering breath, he opened his eyes once more and straightened, searching Lex's face before releasing him, coming to rest with his hip against the desk.

"Just a bad dream, Clark.  I get them from time to time."  Self-deprecating smile to cover the understatement, and Clark's eyes narrowed.

"Just a 'bad dream', huh?  Care to tell me what that one was about?"

"No."  Shorter than he meant to be, more curt than he wanted to be, but the details were still too vivid, to *real* to discuss, and... "It's nothing.  I'm fine, really."

A snort, a look of frank disbelief that held more than a touch of anger, and Clark was calling him on the bullshit of that line.

"You're not 'fine', Lex; people who are *fine* don't look like death warmed over."

A sigh, and he tried to deflect once more.  "Look, I appreciate the concern, but this is something I deal with from time to time.  Insomnia, restless dreams..."  Unwilling to say more, he attempted to redirect the conversation.  "Thanks for coming over, I was worried that you wouldn't."

"I almost didn't."  Evenly stated, no hesitation or bashfulness clouding the words.

Cold settled in his gut, more chilling than the terror of the dreams.  "Oh?"

"I was upset, and angry.  I was really counting on you to show up this afternoon, and when you didn't...  it hurt, Lex."  Unguarded expression, the sorrow and pain veiling the eyes sharper than the blows of his somnolent tormentors.

"I'm so sorry.  Things haven't been going well at work, I've been tired and--  Where are you going?"  The words directed to a retreating back.

"To the kitchen."  the words floated back at him, tossed carelessly over a shoulder.

He rose to follow, face painted with perplexity.  "Haven't you eaten yet?"

"Yeah, but I'm hungry again and I'm betting you haven't eaten, so... stay there, and I'll be back in a minute with some sandwiches.  You'll eat, and then we'll talk."

With a bemused smile, he settled into the plush cushions of the sofa nestled by the fireplace.  Scant moments later Clark returned, burdened with two sandwiches and water.  Setting the tray down on the glass top coffee table, Clark took a seat next to Lex, their thighs brushing lightly together as he sat.  They ate in companionable silence, conversation postponed in favor of turkey on rye and the cold, sweet glide of ridiculously expensive imported water.  Finishing the last bites of his sandwich, Lex leaned his head back against the cushions, feeling languor flood his limbs once more.

Not opening his eyes, he turned his head towards Clark.  "So, you said you almost didn't come... what changed your mind?"

"A lot of things, really.  I was thinking about how much it hurt that you didn't meet me today, and about how much I've been missing our time together.  I know you've been busy lately, and I know that the company takes up a lot of your time, it's just... I was beginning to think that you didn't want to spend time with me because you'd finally decided to stop wasting your time with a small town kid, and then Lana came by and really put things into perspective for me.  I started to realize that you were more than--" 

A soft snore interrupted him, the first evidence that his audience was less-than-attentive.  Turning his face away from the wall he had been staring at so fixedly in an attempt to get through the rushed speech without faltering, he saw that Lex had dozed off once more.  His head was tilted to the side, mouth ajar as he breathed deeply and evenly, soft puffs of breath striking the upholstery. 

With a soft smile, Clark contented himself with watching Lex for long moments, enjoying the shifting shadows made by the flames in the fireplace, dancing their way across the planes of Lex's face.  A closer glance revealed eyes moving restlessly beneath their lids, and his smile faded with the worry than another disquieting dream plagued his sleep.  A slight frown and a fretful murmur added weight to that fear, and he shifted closer, shoulder buttressing the frame beside him as he hummed softly, reassuringly.  Lex seemed to settle into a deeper sleep, eyes stilling as he slumped against Clark with a sigh, the boneless melting of his body mute testament to its overwhelming need for sleep.

Bracing a hand against Lex's shoulder, Clark stood carefully, shifting Lex to lie against the arm of the sofa.  Pausing when he stirred, Clark waited until he sank into the cushions once more before lifting his legs and stretching his form more comfortably across the furniture.  A quick glance around the room showed no convenient blanket or throw, and he strode quietly out the door in search of something to ward off the chill that shivered through Lex's frame when he stood.

The house was eerily silent, its chambers pulsing with an overwhelming isolation.  The butler who had admitted him a half hour past was nowhere in sight, and all evidence pointed to their solitude.  Making his way up the stairs, he found Lex's room by instinct, the subtle scent confirming the validity of his choice as he stepped within its cool confines.  Smiling bemusedly at the soft chenille throw tossed across the foot of the bed, he grabbed the large square of cloth and made his way back downstairs.

Reaching Lex's side once more, he draped the cloth over his motionless frame, bending to tuck it more firmly about his shoulders and freezing mid-motion at the realization that Lex's stillness was more than the reflection of deep sleep and comfort-- Lex wasn't breathing.



FIVE

It was another dream.  He knew it with the strange clarity that only the subconscious could provide-- this was fantasy, a vision of life that had never been nor would ever be-- yet is seemed so startlingly *genuine* that he could not doubt, not even in the face of so much conflicting evidence.

To start with, he 'woke' to a room painted in sunny hues and furnished with childish abandon.  He had never seen such a room, much less owned one; the Luthor heir would never be permitted such frivolity, even in passing.  Yet, just as surely as this fantasy could not be genuine, this room was undeniably *his*, and far more tangible than any true memory.

Aside from the room itself, the other reasons that he knew this halcyon vision false were draped across the foot of his bed, twisted together in a tangled, sleepy mass of plump limbs and burnished fur.  His brother dozed contentedly, one small thumb pressed deep within his cupid's-bow mouth, legs curled beneath him as he lay on his stomach.  Julian's other hand was clasped in the copper strands of the dog's hair, attached to an arm that draped over its round belly, elevated and lowered with the animal's even breathing.

The smile that broke across his face hurt, the joy painful as it sliced through his soul.  Here, then, was the life he could have known, perhaps *would* have known had the tiny baby lived all those years ago.  His heart swelled with half-remembered falsehoods; the first toddling steps towards him, his mother's voice blending with his own to cheer chubby legs to victory.  Swift, hot tears falling onto his soothing hand as he wiped away the pain of a scraped elbow.   The trembling lip banished by a watery smile, his repayment for a big brother's job well done.

A shift in venue, and the first glimpse of Julian's enraptured face when Sassy arrived, a bouncing, energetic mass of silky ears and clumsy feet, pink tongue lolling with pleasure at his sweet giggle.  Long, lazy games of tag, his stride shortened in deference to the shorter legs churning after him, the three of them collapsing into a puddle of sweet, sweaty flesh and smelly fur.

So many days to cherish, so many opportunities missed and mourned... a lone tear wound down his cheek, prescient grief for the moment when this lovely vision would be nothing but a dream once more...

"Alexander?" That voice, that cherished impossible voice, and his fondest wish was complete.  Quick tap of heels across the floor, swift press of lips on his brow, and she was there, seated next to him as if the very axis of his world were not tipping away.

"M-mom?" Hesitant question, breathed softly into the air.

"It's time, Alexander."  Calm even statement, acceptance expected in every syllable.

"Time for what?" A note of fear creeping through-- was it time to leave so soon, to wake to his colder, starker reality? No!

"Time to go."  No other explanation offered, and suddenly the warmth was stripped away, frozen beneath the chill in her arctic, profaned eyes.

"Mom?  MOM!"  a scream of denial, of angry demand, of pitiful pleading, but to no avail.  The wind whipped about him, stealing his breath more surely than the asthma of his youth, flesh chilling beneath the icy air that swirled around him, buffeting his body with frozen rain.  He could see them behind the foggy window, mother, father, and son in a perfect family portrait, laughing and loving as the dog played about their feet.

He banged against the pane, his fist bruising and splitting, trailing crimson rivulets down the transparent squares separating him from the solace of home.  He shouted, pleaded, begged, his voice gone hoarse from the strain as the dropping temperature and falling snow drained the warmth from his body, burying his tortured flesh in a sinister blanket.

Finally, his cries ceased, his ruined voice no longer able to continue its futile mission.  As he slumped against the window, defeated, she turned to him once more, meeting his eyes for the first time since she cast him out into the cold.

"Time to give up, Alexander."  The last words he heard as he faded into the darkness.

It was strangely calming, this realization that he was all alone, that he had been forever cast aside, that he could at last abandon the struggle which had made much of his twenty-three years seem an interminable sentence.  So easy, really, to just... let go.  It was a moment of revelation, an epiphany for his same/other self, as he realized that all his problems, his doubts, were so much dust in the cosmic wind.  It didn't matter what he wanted, what he didn't want, what he strove for, what he fought against -- in the end, he was just another piece of chaff, flotsam in the river.  This perfect/other place would exist after he was gone, the dream/real family would share a life safe from his tarnish, and Clark... a soft sigh, an exhalation of imagined breath as the first tinge of regret crept into his contemplations.

Clark would miss him, would genuinely mourn his passing, but was it enough?  Could the ties of mere friendship tether him to this world?  Was it even fair to Clark to stay?  Things would be so much easier for his friend if he were gone, if Clark were free of his association, and his reputation, and his-- love.  For the first/last time he let himself think it, let himself name the emotion that kept him rooted in the moment, that tied him to the banks of mortality with the thinnest gossamer strings.  Named, acknowledged, and released, and peace settled over him once more.  He could go, he could leave knowing that Clark would be better for his absence, and would never know the disillusionment of friendship turned bitter by unrequited passion.  Better to long for that never attained than regret that which was unwanted. 

The darkness beckoned closer and closer.  He embraced it, greeted it with empty arms longing for a long-departed lover.  The chill filled him from within, and the cloying midnight swirled, a panoramic ebony kaleidoscope.

One...

Last...

Breath...

Sudden, shocking jolt.  The painful press of powerful hands clasped over his sternum.  A flash of moist heat, and the disorienting puff of air between his slack lips.  Coughing, gasping, he opened his eyes.  His vision was filled with the sight of Clark's face.  Tears dampened his eyes and a few had made their way down his cheeks, marking a path of frustration and terror.  Around his eyes and mouth the skin was blanched, the rest of his face flushed with hectic color.  The breath heaving in and out of his chest bore mute testimony to his frantic efforts, as did the fine trembling in the hands clasped so fiercely over Lex's chest.

Time froze for a moment, neither seeming to breathe as they stared at one another, and eternity of questions and demands volleyed back and forth without a word spoken.  Finally, the need for air reasserted itself with the painful thundering of his pulse, throbbing within his head, and time resumed its natural course, the spell of anguish broken as quickly as it was cast.

Inhaling in a shuddering gasp, he closed his eyes.  With Clark's face now blocked from view, the reality of the situation became painfully clear.  The welcome relief of that dark abyss was not his.  

He was not dead.

He had tried, had tried *so hard*.  Reached for the goal with everything he had, done everything he could to take her advice, to obey that final dictate, to "give up", but... he had failed.  In an irony he was sure his father would appreciate, he couldn't even manage to die properly.  So close to the goal, the prize within his grasp, and he faltered, called back to life once more by the mute entreaty in the hands and lips of his 'savior'.

"Lex?"  Sputtering cough, and a voice roughened with slowly fading terror. 

"Lex?!"  A demand, punctuated with a sharp shake of the limp torso beneath him, and Clark's eyes narrowed in anger. 

"I think you're a little old to play this game, Lex.  Care to tell me what that little scene was all about?  'Cause walking into a room to find your best friend *not breathing* is a bit... unsettling." A snort of self-directed laughter underscored the understatement, and Clark calmed, hands clasping the shoulders beneath them more gently as the tension flowed from his arms.

"Lex?"  The uncertainty was back, anger's quick assurance fading into concern once more.  "Please?"

It was the 'please' that did it, softening the walls of denial he hid behind.  Clark should never sound that way, so sad and... broken.  It was a tone reserved for the inner-dialogue of the wayward Luthor heir, and so far removed from Clark's disposition as to make the heavens weep-- a wry grin tugged the edges of his lips as Lex directed an inward chuckle at his own hyperbolic excess, and he opened his eyes once more.

The naked concern mirrored in Clark's eyes stunned him for a moment.  It was one thing to know, intellectually, that your safety was important to another, but this... this was far more visceral, and somehow more *real* than anything he could recall.  No subterfuge, no polite veiling of concern, no thought given to propriety or etiquette, just the bare essentials of emotion swimming in a tear-dampened gaze.  The pain there, and the fear, were overwhelming, and demanded some ease, some succor.  It was an entreaty that he could not ignore.

"Hey, it's okay." He soothed, sliding his right palm up the arm that still gripped his shoulder.  His palm came to rest against the side of Clark's neck, fingers tunneling through the sweat-dampened strands curling softly at his nape as his thumb shielded the thundering pulse.  "Everything's fine, I'm fine."

"You're *not* fine!  God, Lex, you're anything *but*... you weren't, y-you just, you weren't, and I couldn't, and I... oh, God."  A full body shudder, weakness traveling through his frame as he collapsed onto Lex like a deflating balloon, hitching gasps puffing softly against his neck as Clark's face slumped against his shoulder.

"You weren't breathing." 

So much fear in that whispered statement, in the trembling hands that tunneled their way beneath his torso to clasp against the small of his back.  He returned the embrace, circling his own arms around Clark's back and flattening his palms on either side of his spine, stroking slowly up and down its rigid length, the caresses metered to the rhythm of the furtive tears falling hotly on his chest.

"I'm sorry I scared you."  Shifting his hands, he tugged softly on Clark's upper arms, raising his frame slightly so that Clark could see the truth of his words reflected in his face.

"You don't have to apologize."  A shaky smile teased Clark's lips. "It's not like the whole not breathing thing was something you planned.  Or had a lot of control over."

"No, it wasn't something I planned." 

The words fell easily from his tongue, the unspoken denial of control the most believable of lies, couched within a truth of sorts.  He had not planned to die this evening, had not thought his dreams would take him so far down the dark path, but when they did... if he were honest with himself, he would admit the truth; he chose to surrender to death, chose the abyss with greedy abandon, and that was a choice that he shied away from examining too closely in the harsh light of consciousness.  Too disturbing to fully contemplate himself, much less share with Clark.

A searching glance was Clark's response, his eyes sweeping over face and form before apparently satisfied with what he saw, he disentangled his arms from about Lex's waist, rising slightly before relaxing onto his knees alongside the sofa.  Lex straightened, swinging his legs over the edge of the cushion, sitting slumped against the plush backrest.  A cleared throat and hasty swipe of hand over tear-streaked face, and Clark resumed the conversation.

"I think I should take you to the hospital."

"No hospitals, Clark.  I told you, I'm fine."  The firm finality in his tone earning him a chiding glare.

"You.  Weren't.  Breathing.  I'd say that's about as far from 'fine' as you can get.  You need a doctor."

"As I'm breathing now, I hardly think a doctor is necessary.  Or of any particular use.  What I *need* is to get some sleep, and *you* need to get home.  I'm sure your parents are--"

"No."  Quietly spoken, the calmly delivered refusal was shocking in its serenity.

"No?"  He couldn't stop the trace of frustrated arrogance that colored his question with sarcasm, and the faintest, sneering hint of condescension.  "You're telling me than Jonathan and Martha Kent don't expect you home at a reasonable hour?  I'm sure they would disagree with you on that point."

"And I'm sure they'd want me to take care of a friend in need."

"In 'need'?  Clark, I don't 'need' anything other than a good night's sleep.  Forgive me if I seem rude, but you-- what are you doing?"

Glancing up from dialing a number on the cordless phone, Clark put the receiver up to his ear, holding up a finger to elicit Lex's silence as he counted the measured rings.  One, two, three, and then his mother's voice filling the line.

"Hello, Mom?  Yeah, we talked... yes ma'am, everything's fine, well... No!  Not that!  it's just... Lex is having nightmares, bad ones, and he stopped breathing in his sleep.  NO!  He's okay now, I mean I woke him up, and... no, I don't think so... no, he won't go to the hospital.  Yeah, that's what I told him.  So, I was thinking I should stay over tonight and-- Mom!  Please, I need to... Oh.  Oh, OK.  Yes ma'am... about twenty minutes.  Sure.  Thanks, Mom.  Love you, too."  Pressing the button to end the call. he replaced the phone in its cradle before crossing the room to stand beside Lex, hands on hips as he looked down from his vantage point.

"Mom says you're coming home with me."

"I appreciate the invitation, but-- "

"It wasn't an invitation.  You don't get a chance to say no."

"Clark, while I admire your conviction, and your desire to help, I really don't think that's necessary.  I'll be fine here, and you don't need to-- "

"Stop."

"--worry about me.  I assure you that it--"

"Please, Lex."

"--won't happen again, and there's no reason for you and your family to--"

"STOP!"  The pain crackling through the command, yelled over his words, stopped his denials far more quickly than anger ever could.  "Just... stop, OK?  Don't try to change the subject, or close me out, just... let me help you.  Let me, let *us* take care of you for once."

Staring into Clark's face, the skin flushed red as embarrassment over his impassioned speech twisted his features into a nervous grimace, his decision was made.  Giving in as gracefully as he could manage, he nodded once, a silent agreement to the proposed plan.  Standing, he headed out of the room, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

"Give me a minute to get a few things together."

He wasn't expecting the sound of Clark's footsteps following him up the stairs, but neither was he surprised by Clark's silent presence in his room as he went about the task of gathering a few requisite items in preparation for an overnight stay.  All the while, his mind was turning, considering and discarding plan after plan that would keep him away from the Kent farm and in his familiar bed this night.  Maybe if he...

"Don't even think about it."  The quiet voice was almost a shock, a reminder that however silent his companion's presence, he was not in fact alone in the room.  Far more jolting was what the statement implied.

"Think about what?" he asked nonchalantly, casual distraction dripping from every syllable.  He just needed to keep his composure a little longer, convince Clark that he would be fine on his own, and then...

"Forget it."  The words delivered more forcefully.  "You *are* staying at our house tonight, and that's final."

With a sigh, he nodded in defeat, resuming his packing as he tried to decide if this was an example of the better part of valor, or merely another verse in the saga of "he who fights, then runs away".  Regardless, his surrender on the issue would have been ludicrous, even unthinkable, if the recipient of the white flag had been anyone else.  Clark clearly felt the need to hover, to reassure himself that Lex was going to be all right, and if that's what Clark needed... well, such a simple thing, really, to mean so much to him.

Moments later they were ensconced in the pickup, heater blasting gamely against the autumn chill as they bumped along the back-country road that led from the mansion to the Kent farm.  Turning his head to face Clark, he watched the silvery play of moonlight on his profile.

"Why are you doing this?"  Real curiosity shading the words as a slight frown formed between his eyebrows.

A quick, disbelieving glance from Clark, and then his eyes returned to the road, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter, tight enough so that the tendons and sinews in his knuckles and hands stood out in stark relief.

"Because you're my friend."

"Yes, but if another of your friends, say... Pete, for example, if Pete were having bad dreams, would you feel compelled to invite him over to your house to sleep?"

"First of all, I think going into respiratory failure is a lot more than having 'bad dreams', and second..."

"Second...?" He prompted, prodding Clark to continue when the pause stretched into minutes.

"You're important to me."  This was almost whispered, the hushed truck cabin reverberating with the muffled syllables as Clark bit his lower lip nervously.  The ramifications of those four simple words struck a new silence between the two, contemplation and unease warring for supremacy until...

"You're important to me, too."  An unspoken declaration to match the first, the last words spoken until they pulled to a stop in front of the wooden frame house.  The front door swung open as Martha came out to meet them, face creased with worry. 

She hurried over to the truck, coming to halt next to the passenger door.  Carefully eyeing Lex, searching for any obvious ill-effects of his recent brush with death, she waited patiently until he alighted from the truck and Clark strode around the front of the vehicle to stand beside Lex with his bag in hand.  Then she voiced the question scalding the back of her throat.

"Lex!  Are you all right?"  A quick brush of her hand along his arm, a brief squeeze of his wrist and she took a small step back, but the ghostly imprint of her anxious touch lingered on his flesh.

"Mrs. Kent, I'm fine, thanks to Clark.  I'm sorry to impose on you like this, I told Clark I didn't think it was necessary to--"

"It's no imposition, Lex."  The firm tones cut him off, good manners and politeness eschewed in favor of concern.  "I agree with Clark that you shouldn't be left alone if there's a danger of another episode like the last, and since you won't go to the hospital you'll have to stay where someone can keep an eye on you."

"Really, I don't think..."  He trailed off, conceding gracefully when faced with two equally implacable expressions.  With a sigh, he nodded in defeat.  "Thank you, all the same."

"You're more than welcome, Lex.  Now, if you don't mind, I think we should continue this inside.  It's getting a little chilly out here for my taste.  Come on inside and have a seat."  Turning, she made her way back to the door, stepping inside and heading for the kitchen to retrieve coffee and cream.

Walking a pace behind Clark, Lex followed him into the house.  Stopping by the couch, he paused, the momentary silence turning awkward as he caught sight of Jonathan, glancing at the newspaper in a low-slung chair.  The paper rustled warningly, and then was folded and set aside, revealing the face of the man hidden moments before.  Rather than the thinly veiled hostility he had come to expect from this quarter, he was met with a studiously blank expression, a carefully schooled calm that seemed foreign, far from the typical volatility that had governed Jonathan's face in the past.

"Lex."  Nothing more, nothing less, just his name spoken in a neutral tone that matched the mask.

"Mr. Kent."  Thrust and parry, greeting for greeting, and the sudden surge of panic that he was unable to quell, the disorienting realization that the rules of engagement had changed, though how and why he was not sure.

"Martha tells me you had a close call."

"Yes, sir."  He stood still, guarded, unsure where the conversation was headed and unwilling to elaborate further until he knew.  He felt strangely bereft when Clark slipped quietly past to carry his bag upstairs, leaving him alone with the elder man.

"Take a seat, and tell me a little more about exactly what *did* happen."  The command in that edict was impossible to ignore, and, issues of politeness in another's home non-withstanding, Lex had no desire to antagonize Mr. Kent any more than his mere presence had doubtless accomplished.  He sat, the armrest pressed against his side.

About to suggest they wait until Clark and his mother returned to begin this conversation, he slumped with relief as he heard Clark's steps descending the stairs before straightening once more.  Short seconds later found Clark situated next to him on the couch, pressed close to make room for Martha who returned from the kitchen laden with carefully balanced coffee mugs she placed on the table before taking a seat next to Clark.

"Well?" Jonathan prompted once more, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice.

"It's difficult to know where to begin... I've been having a great deal of difficulty sleeping lately.  Insomnia, which is nothing new, and my dreams have been... disturbing.  That in and of itself is also not that unusual, but these dreams have been quite vivid, and seem to have physical repercussions."

"So you're telling me that you almost died because of something you dreamed?"  The skepticism in his voice stated more clearly than his words did that he found the idea ludicrous.

"I realize that this sounds incredible, unbelievable even, but I have no other explanation."

"And just what have you been dreaming that was so frightening it almost killed you?"  Condescension colored the words, complimented by the scoffing smile that teased the edge of his lips and crinkled his eyes in the slightest show of humor.

"I'd... rather not discuss that." He swallowed heavily, the horror of the vision weighing on his mind.  A slight shiver worked through his frame, raising goose bumps along his skin as he thought about the last one, about his mother casting him out, leaving him to die, killing him as surely as...

"Dad, this isn't something to laugh about."  The quiet intensity in Clark's voice cut through his reverie, returning his attention to the people and events at hand.  Accepting the warm mug Martha passed in his direction with a grateful smile, he hugged the heat close to his chest, clasped between chilled hands.  Idly, he wondered how Mr. Kent would take Clark's not-so-subtle reprimand; he didn't have long to wait.

"Oh, come on, Clark, even you have to agree this sounds like something straight out of a fairy tale!  Those myths about actually dying because you dreamed your death are just that: myths.  I can't believe that--"

"Myth or not, he wasn't br-breathing."  The soft hitch in his voice was unmistakable, at least to Lex, who turned to face him, noting with concern the fine sheen of sweat dotting Clark's brow and the glisten of moisture in his over-bright eyes. 

"He was just lying there, so still, and I... I couldn't wake him up, I couldn't get him to start breathing again, to *move*, and I thought--"  A ragged sigh escaped through his lips, his eyes clenching tightly at the memory.  Pausing to regain his composure, Clark raised a hand to shield his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before directing his gaze towards his father once more. 

"Whatever caused it, whether it was the dreams or something else, the fact is that Lex almost didn't wake up.  He almost died.  I'm not going to let that happen again!"

Surging to his feet, Clark strode over to the fireplace, pacing back and forth with barely leashed nervous energy.  Whirling to face them, he braced one hand against the mantle, fist tightly drawn.  He focused on Lex, green eyes fixed unwaveringly on blue. 

"It's not. Happening.  Again."  The words were soft, a simultaneous vow and plea for reassurance. 

Caught up in their own tableau, they were oblivious to the look that passed between the room's other two occupants, a silent communication that spoke of questions to be asked later and a tacit agreement that enough was enough for the time being.  Clearing his throat slightly, Jonathan broke the tension, calling Clark's attention back to himself once more.

"You're right, son, this *is* serious.  I didn't mean to make light of what happened.  It's just a little odd, that's all."  The soothing tone of his voice seemed to get through, and some of the anger in Clark's eyes died away, to be replaced with a touch of humor.

"So you think *this* is hard to believe, Dad?" 

A nervous chuckle, a blush, and answering furtive grins from the Kents were enough to convince Lex that there were more questions here than answers, but those were questions for another day.  The rush of adrenaline that had kept him going for the last hour was fading and exhaustion was creeping ever closer once more.  He tried to fight it off, dreading what dreams would come if he fell asleep once more, but the utter weariness was overwhelming, his lids falling against his volition, heavy and weighted.  The steaming cup of coffee tipped perilously in his grasp, snatched to safety by hands quicker than his own as Clark seemed to materialize at his side.

"Clark..." The warning in Martha's softly uttered rebuke was puzzling.  He forced his eyes open to see what had caused the censure but found only Clark, standing nearby as he placed the rescued ceramic on the table.

"Yes ma'am?" The practiced innocence in his face and tone calling forth an answering grin on Lex's face.  It was silly, it made no sense, but he was just so tired...

A quick sigh and shake of her head and Martha stood, gathering the mugs together as she started for the kitchen once more.

"Why don't you take Lex upstairs and get him settled?" she called over her shoulder.

"There's no rush, Mrs. Kent."  Years of deportment and good manners demanding the token refusal, "I'm not that tired."

A snort of disbelief could be clearly heard over the soft clatter of the mugs being placed in the sink. "Lex, you're practically falling asleep on the couch.  Please go upstairs and lie down."
 
Following Clark, he trudged up the stairway and into the room Clark indicated.  His bleary eyes gazed blankly at the furniture and personal belongings scattered about until the realization finally hit.

"Clark, this is your room."

"Yeah." 

"Why are we in your room?"

"Because this is where you're going to sleep."

"I can't take your room!  Surely there's another..."

"Nope."  The refusal was delivered with a grin as Clark moved to turn down the bed.  "Mom converted the spare room into a work room, and the barn's too cold for you, so my room it is."

"I will not take your bed!  The couch downstairs will be fine."  Turning to leave, he was halted by the gentle pressure of a hand clasping his shoulder in restraint.

"Lex, please."  The hushed entreaty was spoken at his ear, warm breath ghosting across its shell.  The hand tightened, drawing him back into the room and towards the bed once more.  Clark turned him, his shoulder pivoting in his grasp as Clark loosened but did not release the contact. 

"Why is it so important that I sleep here?"  Honest inquisition colored his tone, a curiosity sparked by Clark's earlier actions and intensified by the naked emotion in his eyes now.

A faint blush stained Clark's cheeks and he looked away briefly, dropping his hand from Lex's shoulder and taking a step backwards before replying.

"Because... I just feel like you'll be safe here, like nothing bad can happen if you're sleeping in my bed."

He opened his mouth to respond, but Clark cut his words off.

"I know it's silly, Lex, I *know* that where you sleep won't make a difference, but it just... makes me feel better to think that you're sleeping here.  I can't explain it."  He finished, arms spread helplessly. 

He looked at Lex anxiously, clearly expecting some scoffing comment, or argument, but Lex merely nodded and walked over to the bed to rummage through the hastily packed overnight bag.  Turning to face Clark with toothbrush and change of clothes in hand, he smiled tiredly.

"Well, then, if I'm going to be sleeping here, might as well get ready for bed."

A quick trip to the bathroom down the hall, a brisk shower, and he returned to the room.  Clark was gone, the room seeming strangely empty without his presence, and he tried to shake the prickling unease from his mind as he wearily climbed between the sheets.  Burrowing his head into the pillow, he drifted to sleep.


SIX

Silence.  It was the first thing he noticed as he awoke with a start, the cloying, stifling silence of a world in pause.  The air was filled with such stillness, with such choking anguish, and he shivered in the cool, quiet house.  Rising to his knees from the pile of pillows and blankets nested haphazardly on the floor next to his bed, he rested his forearms on the mattress, the soft creak of box springs a welcome addition to the eerie peace.  Yawning widely, he reveled in the subtle grind of jaw and tendon, edging up towards the head of the bed, his intent to check on Lex with careful hands and watchful eyes.

Lex lay motionless against the pillows, but the rise and fall of his chest beneath the comforter assured him that no repeat of the night's earlier horror was occurring.  The evenness of his respiration and slow, somnolent heart rate were comforting, dispelling the last of the unease with which he had awakened. 

Seeing him there, tucked securely in his bed, Clark was struck by the utter *rightness* of it all.  He knew that Lex had been puzzled by his earlier insistence that he sleep here, in this bed, and his explanation for that insistence had sounded weak to his own ears, and yet... It had been the truth, or at least as much of the truth as he was comfortable sharing. 

Yes, he did have the inexplicable feeling that Lex would be safe in his bed, that somehow the room itself would act as a talisman against the terrors that tormented him in his sleep, but more than that, he had been unable to shake the sense that this was where Lex *belonged*.  It was a wonderfully frightful revelation, a confirmation of all the questions Lana had posed to him in the barn, all the questions he asked *himself*--  he wanted Lex, wanted him as more than a friend, more even than a lover. 

The word that came to mind was *shieldmate*, an archaic term relegated to the annals of his history book that summed so perfectly what he felt for the man sleeping before him.  *One warrior bound to another by something more than trial and blood.*  Lex had told him theirs was to be the friendship of legends, and inherent in that promise was the epic scope of brothers, of comrades in battle, of partners in life... and even in love.  It was so easy, to fall into these thoughts in the quiet, hushed hours of the night, so seductive to imagine all the possibilities, dimly drawn and barely acknowledged. 

Caught in the spell woven of his own musings, he shifted to trail the fingers of one hand over brow and cheek, gliding feather-light over nose, and lips, and the curve of ear.  The skin beneath his hand was pearlescent in the moonlight, covered in a fine sheen.  Lex rolled his head on the pillow, turning towards the direction of his caresses, lips parting slightly as the tip of his tongue darted around their surface.  Drawn to him, to the sweet, welcome evidence of life that flowed between those lips, Clark leaned forward to press a swift kiss against his mouth. 

Lex sighed, turning more fully into the kiss, and Clark let his lips linger for a moment before drawing back, savoring the tingling in his lips and the warm rush of pleasure.  Another press of lips to the back of the palm draped atop the comforter, and he laid back down.  He drifted to sleep once more, content that no further ill would happen this night.

He was wrong.

He awoke to the sounds of screaming, of harsh gasping sobs.  His eyes opened, but little light penetrated the thick, liquid haze covering his vision.  He struggled to move, frantic as he realized he was held immobile.  Twisting against the ropes that bound his hands, he tried to make sense of his surroundings, tried to remember how he had come to be bound, why the simple rope restraints held him so effortlessly.  The roiling nausea churning in his gut was equally disorienting, the symptoms experienced so often in conjunction with meteor exposure incongruous to his slowing thoughts.  Why was he bound?  Whey were there meteor rocks here? *Where* was here?  How did he...

The choked screams returned once more, the sound of sobbing and retching penetrating the fog.  Swinging his head slowly towards the sound, he forced his eyes wider, attempting to blink the haze away.  What he saw was more frightening that his helplessness, more sickening that the nausea bubbling inside.

Lex.

Bloody and bruised, a dark blemish marring his cheek and standing out in contrast to the red, swollen flesh surrounding his eye.  He was shirtless, tatters of cloth hanging on the ruined cuffs of his shirt, still buttoned about his wrist.  His shoes were nowhere in sight, the raw, abraded soles of his feet visible as he knelt on the floor.  His back was a mass of crisscrossing welts, some bleeding freely and some oozing the blood of old injuries re-opened.  He was crying, begging, the words falling in a harsh tumble from a torn throat, voice ruined from screaming.

Clark struggled anew, determined to get to Lex, to get them both out of this torment, but found he couldn't move.  He succeeded only in shifting the pile of meteor rocks stacked atop him, a fresh wave of sickness lapping through his body.  He coughed, trying to draw in enough air to speak, but could only gasp against the crushing pressure of the stones.  Lying still once more, winded, he heard fragments, shards of supplication.

"...*please*!  Please, no more.  I'll do anything, anything but this!--"

"I told you, you don't have a choice.  You never did.  This is what you were meant for.  If only you'd stop fighting your destiny, Lex--"

"This isn't my destiny!  God!  Please let him go.  I'll do what you want, anything you want, but I can't--"

"Oh, but you can.  You will.  You will do exactly as I say, or you will pay the price, Alexander."

"...better me than--"

A roar of rage, and Clark lifted his head once more, vision swimming sharply into focus.  What he saw...  Lex was bent double, trying to shield his head with little success.  The whip sliced through the air with a shrill whistle, the bits of glass in its barbed tail leaving crimson trails along his back and scalp.  The wielder of the weapon showed no signs of tiring, no signs of mercy as his victim cried out beneath the force of his blows.  Most horrifying of all, Lex's tormentor wore the face of his father.

Pausing to wipe a trickle of sweat from his brow, Lionel dropped to one knee, patting Lex's shoulder in a parody of comfort.

"You can end this at any time, Alexander."  He crooned, malice coating the false tenderness.  "Just do what I say, and it all ends here."

"No."  The word was barely whispered, exhaled on a laborious breath as he fought to stay conscious, but it was heard all too well by the demon who crouched beside him.

Fine!" Lionel snarled, surging to his feet once more.  "If you want to be a martyr, then you'll die to play the part!"

The blows resumed once more, but Lex no longer tried to cover his face,  He slumped on the ground at his father's feet, body flinching less and less with each fall of the whip.   Clark began struggling once more, spurred on by the increasing limpness of the form on the ground.

"Lex..."  Only a whisper, his throat too parched for more, but somehow Lex heard.  A slight movement of the head, rocked by the force of his father's arm, and he opened one weary eye.  A soft smile played about his lips, and even through the glaze of pain Clark could see the affection in his gaze.

"For you."  The words mouthed silently, the last effort of a weary soul.  Clark watched his face slacken into unconsciousness, or death, and found the strength to roar his outrage to the heavens.

As abruptly as the tableau had appeared, it vanished, Lionel disappearing like so much smoke and the bonds holding him melting away into nothingness.  Scrabbling to his feet, he lurched across the distance separating him from Lex, hauling the battered body into his arms.  Trembling, he huddled over his precious burden.  Scarcely daring to check for a pulse in fear of what he would find, he was immeasurably reassured by the steady throb that beat against his hand.  He called Lex's name, patting his face gently as he tried to rouse him.  They sat that way for long moments before his patience was rewarded with the slight fluttering of swollen lids and the faintest of frowns.

"Clark?" Lex croaked.

"I'm here."  A soothing murmur, a reassurance in contrast to the swelling panic filling him.  They needed help, *Lex* needed help, but how could he get it?  Where were they?  A quick glance at their surroundings offered no suggestions.  The weight in his arms shifted, and he jerked his attention back to Lex.  His color was fading, and his heart was slowing.  As his breath began to stutter, Clark felt panic welling up once more.

"Lex!  Come on, don't *do* this!"  His entreaty fell on deaf ears, the rhythm of Lex's heart growing more erratic, his breath more shallow.  In desperation Clark leaned down, molding their lips together as his tears fell on the face below.  Lex couldn't leave him now, couldn't abandon him when he'd only just realized...

"I love you, Lex." 

A swirling vortex of colors and sounds overwhelmed him, the shocking assault disorienting and frightening.  He felt as if he were falling, a force beyond his control sucking him where he did not wish to go.  He cried out in terror, no way to stop his momentum, or decipher his destination.  Throughout, he clutched Lex's limp form against him, arms locked and taut.

The sudden stillness was unnerving, as frightening as the cacophony of moments before.  He kept his eyes tightly shut, lids pressed defiantly closed against whatever new terror awaited.  The warm weight within the circle of his arms was oddly reassuring, the thumping of Lex's heart seeming to steady with each passing moment.  A subtle shifting of his form, a slight murmur, and Lex stiffened in his arms, freezing motionless against him.

"Clark?"  The same query of moments before, but in his usual, melodious tones, a voice not ruined by gasping screams.

Daring to crack one eye open, Clark was stunned to see familiar walls.  Opening his eyes wider he was met with the sight of his room: door ajar, weak early morning sun streaming through the window, abandoned pile of pillows and blankets on the floor beside the bed...  The bed he currently occupied with Lex, arms clasped around his waist, legs tangled together beneath the sheets.  Flushing with embarrassment, he loosened his grasp, sliding back and away until he could stare into Lex's face.  He was stunned by what he saw there.

Peace.

Lex's eyes brimmed with contentment, and peace, and a quiet joy.

"What just happened?" Clark asked, his voice hushed in deference to the quiet solitude of the moment.

"I think... no, I *know*, you were in my dream.  You were sharing my dream."

"God!  Lex, is that what--"  He paused, unsure how to phrase the question, unsure if he should even ask it.  But Lex seemed to understand, moving to glide his hand slowly up and down Clark's arm, nodding solemnly.

"Yes.  That's what they've all been like lately.  Not exactly the same, but... intense."

A soft bark of laughter and Clark shook his head, arms tightening reflexively as Lex shivered.

"Yeah, 'intense' is one word for it.  Just now, in the dream, why didn't you... why didn't you do what he wanted you to?"

"He wanted me to kill you."  Simple words, simple thought, but chilling to hear.

Swallowing heavily, Clark searched his face for an answer, and finding none asked "Why didn't you do it?  It was only a dream..."

"Was it?"  He lifted his brow in challenge.

"Sure, I mean--"  Remembering what he had seen earlier that day, how Lex had stopped breathing because of one of these 'dreams', he wasn't so sure.  If Lex *had* killed him in the dream... "I'd be dead, wouldn't I?"

"Yes."  No sugar-coating, no spin on the truth, just the cold, brutal reality of what could have happened.  What had almost happened.  "You would have died.  I almost did, but you wouldn't let me go.  Again."

Shaken, Clark licked suddenly dry lips, fighting the fear welling within him at the thought of Lex, dying in a dream.

"What about next time?  Or the time after that?  What are--"

"There won't be a next time."  In the silence that fell, Clark struggled to accept the reassurance. 

"How do you know?" He whispered.

"Because I know... you'll never let that happen.  I couldn't kill you, and you'll never let the dreams claim me."  The unshakable faith in that declaration was daunting for a moment, more responsibility than Clark felt he could take.  But then...  the realization of the reason for that assurance washed over him, confirming what he already knew in his heart.

"Shieldmates."  Complete confidence in that one word, and a promise made to Lex, and to himself.

A quizzical smile formed on Lex's face, smoothing into a solemn gaze once more as he nodded slowly.

"Yes, shieldmates.  Each protecting the other.  *That's* how I know this won't happen again; we won't let it.  And..."  He paused, seeming unsure.

"And?" Clark prompted, unwilling to accept the hesitation.

"Because I think I finally understand what these dreams are about."

"Oh?" Clark asked cautiously.

"There's one thing that they all have in common, one thread that runs through them all, one fear that I've been unwilling to face."

"What's that?"

"That I wasn't wanted, that I didn't belong, that I couldn't have..." He trailed off, eyes closing once more.

"You couldn't have *what*?"  Clark asked, pressing closer.

Those eyes opened once more, and the promise in them took his breath away, weakened him in ways the meteors never could.  A warm palm cradled his cheek, thumb stroking slowly over his lips.

"I think you know the answer, Clark."

A slight tilting of his head, and their lips met once more, the almost-chaste contact no disguise for the banked emotion behind it.

Maybe he did know the answer.  It seemed to be right here in his arms.


## Finis##

Author's note: the definition of "shieldmate" used here was provided by the ever excellent moss, and comes from the following source: http://minkland.dreamhost.com/ria4.htm