Title: Some Other Beginning
Author: alee
Feedback: GothPhyle@aol.com
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Basic Season 1, with a twist (or two, or three... *g*)
Summary: How would we be the same, and different, if our pasts had taken  another path? Lex meets Clark, and things are both familiar and novel.
Disclaimer: Sadly, the boys do not belong to me.  Thus, I must relinquish all claims to the WB, DC, and others... however, I reserve the right to borrow and play.
Author's Note: Thanks to all the writers for the inspiring quality of their work, and to the CLFF for letting me play in the sandbox, too!
The Challenge: What if it was *Lionel * that died when Lex was 12/13? What would a Lex that was raised by Lillian (and Pamela too, probably) be like? Would he still meet Clark the same way? And how would he be changed? (Vanessa)

SOME OTHER BEGINNING
by Alee

ONE: Leaving Childhood Behind

It was the day he stopped being "the heir", and became Alexander.  He stood next to his mother, her cool hand clasped in his equally chill palm as the burnished mahogany casket was lowered into the ground.  The turn-out for the grave side service was impressively large considering the blustery winter day that blanketed Metropolis in myriad shades of gray.  But then, who would dare shun Lionel Luthor, even at his own funeral?  The guests milled about, none really mourning the passing of the man who had been by turns a competitor, a rival, and an enemy, and all but ignoring the trio huddled next to the headstone waiting to be erected once the grave was filled.

He shivered slightly, the biting wind slicing through his coat and raising a chill on the flesh beneath.   The tremor drew his mother's attention, and Lillian refocused her gaze, turning away from the loamy earth to eye him with concern.

"We'll go soon", she murmured reassuringly, a soft smile briefly lighting her somber gaze before it returned once more to supervise the final placement of Lionel's tomb.

Snippets of conversation drifted on the wind, the sharp speculation of hungry dogs circling a wounded deer.

"-- wonder what'll happen--"

"--the kid can't run it, and Lillian--"

"-- could be the chance we've been--"

"--Sir Harry certainly--"

"-- couldn't have come at a better time--"

He shivered again, with more intensity, the involuntary movement a reaction to more than the weather.  A warm, soft weight ghosted across his scalp before draping his shoulders.  The subtle scent of Pamela's perfume filled his nostrils as she settled the fine wool of her scarf around his neck, her hand remaining behind to clasp his shoulder.  The warmth that suffused the fabric faded quickly, its comfort lost to the winds of fate.  It was impossible to shake the chill from his soul, impossible to dismiss the cold reality brought home by the overheard words.  

He was no longer "the heir", because there was no longer an empire.  Alexander would have to find his own greatness, and forge a destiny that even his father, driven to an early grave by a heart too mortal to survive its own grandiose ambition, would envy.


TWO: A World More Full of Weeping

It was the day that Alexander disappeared, and Lex took his place.  He stood by the open grave, eyes reddened by the tears he had shed the night before, but dry now in the face of the relentless sun that beat down from the summer sky.  The heat was oppressive, small beads of sweat trailing across his scalp and down to his neck as those gathered spent a moment in silence, mourning their loss.  Lillian was gone, his mother was gone, and what had seemed so simple before, now was... not.

It was as different from the memorial for his father as night was from day.  The crowd was small, but united in such sorrow that it filled the air, silencing even the insects' hum.  There was no idle conversation, no quiet business dealings availing themselves of the opportunity for corporate detente.  Instead, there was silence.  The broken breaths of  her friends, punctuated by occasional, muffled sobs, sheltered him in a cocoon of sadness.

He reached his arm around Pamela, clasping her sobbing form close as she swayed, buffeted by grief.   Five years since he stood by a parent's grave, and he felt so young still, and yet so old.  A man more than a boy, but a child nonetheless, an orphan, saying good-bye to the mother who had loved and nurtured him.  And driven him to greatness.

"You're destined for great things, Alexander.  I'm only sorry I won't be here to see you accomplish them."   Her voice a dry whisper across parched lips, the intensity in her gaze a stark contrast to the lack of color in her pale, leeched flesh, drawn paper thin over frail bones as she battled encroaching death the week before.

Those words echoed through his mind, louder and louder until the cacophony drowned out the words of those around him.   Senseless words, meaningless platitudes, empty assurances that this, too, shall pass.  He brushed them aside, turning a remote smile towards them, fulfilling his duty of well-bred social gentility before gently herding Pamela into the waiting vehicle.  Alone in the silence of the car, both he and Pamela shunning conversation in favor of their own thoughts, the rest of his mother's words haunted him.

"Remember, my love, nothing is greater than love itself.  Don't lose sight of that, and don't forget that the road to greatness should be paved in love."  As a final admonition, it was achingly appropriate coming from Lillian.  The mother who loved him for himself, who encouraged his dreams and not just his ambitions.  The friend who supported and counseled, but above all, loved.  Yes, he would find love, an amazing love to outshine all others, because his mother wished it.  He had fashioned him mind into a shrewd businessman for the sake of his father's ambition, he could do no less than mold his heart into the image of his mother's.


THREE: Winter in July

It was the day that Lex ceased to be, and was replaced by Luthor.  He came home to find Victoria in bed with another man, and his dreams for the future shattered as surely as the forgotten crystal decanter lying in pieces on the floor beside their drunken sprawl.  It was to have been a surprise, his arrival from New York two days early with ring in hand.  A surprise it was, but not the kind he had ever wished to receive.  A few well placed words, a remote stare aimed at tearful pleading, a quick call to security to aid in the removal of her stuporous paramour, and she was gone.  Out of his life as if she had never been so firmly entrenched that he couldn't imagine his future without her.  As if she hadn't been his choice to reach the Holy Grail of his mother's last wish.

In the wake of her departure, he felt... empty.  It had been so hard, so mind-numbingly impossible to find someone to love, someone whom he could be certain returned his affections for their own merit, and not the material wealth he had amassed as his parents' heir and an influential junior VP with the late LuthorCorp, now run by Sir Harry.  In Victoria, he thought he had found the exception, someone whose own personal wealth canceled the need to pursue him for anything other than himself.  He had been wrong.  It seemed this fabled "love" his mother spoke about was more rare than even his father had intimated.  Maybe too rare to exist outside the fragile world of dreams and longing.

Shaking off feelings of self-pity, he faced the future resolutely.  Love had failed him, had failed to find him despite these past four years of searching, and it was time to face the crossroads.  He could stay in Metropolis, continuing his bid to slowly assume control of the business from Sir Harry, or he could venture out on his own, truly forge his own destiny.  With Victoria's betrayal ringing through his mind, there was really never any doubt as to the path he would choose.  After a quick call to Pamela, living across town in his mother's old penthouse, he packed an overnight case and headed to the garage.  The rest of his belongings could be shipped later -- tonight, he was going to Smallville, and to the plant and estate that his mother left as his personal legacy.  Smallville was going to be the foundation of his empire, an empire built on something far more tangible than love.


FOUR: Sent Here to Fly

He was racing home to the mansion, speeding past the bucolic countryside on his way to Pamela's birthday party, really a quiet celebration for the two of them, when it happened.  An unexpected phone call, a glance away from the road, a roll of barbed wire dropped unnoticed in his path, all combined to send his hurtling out of control, gears grinding in a desperate attempt to halt his forward momentum.  It wasn't supposed to be this way, wasn't supposed to end with him so young, with so much to accomplish, with so much living to do...  As he crashed through the guardrail on the bridge, his last regret was for the young man crushed against the front end of his car.  He wondered, fleetingly, if Pamela would be called to identify his body, and hoped he would not be too badly mangled if that were the case.  Poor Pamela, left alone again, left alone, alone...

He came to moments later, coughing the river water from his lungs, the images of flying above the countryside fading rapidly.  Blinking his eyes open, he met the gaze of his savior.  Clear, piercing eyes, gazing intently into his own with single-minded focus.  More unnerving than a boardroom of corporate sharks, this unflinching regard drank in the sight of his face, cataloguing every injury and seeking more.  The minutes that followed blurred together in a swirl of confusion.  The emergency workers arrived, checked his pupils, asked questions he had no memory of answering, and then draped him in a red blanket, the twin of the cloth draped about his rescuer.

A soft cry of relief was his only warning, and then Pamela was enveloping him in arms that trembled.  He felt the fall of her tears against his head, burning drops that scalded briefly before evaporating in the air, as he stared numbly at the wreck of his car pulled from the murky water.  Another man arrived, face tight with concern.  He strode over to the boy, a hand turning his face to assure safety and health before wrapping the younger man in a tight embrace.  Rising somewhat shakily to his feet, he made his way over to the couple, catching the last part of the man's sharply worded question.

"--was the maniac driving that car?!?"

"That would be me, Lex Luthor", he offered, hand extended.

After a startled moment in which apprehension and anger ran unchecked across his face, the older man smoothed his expression into an expressionless mask.  

"Jonathan Kent", he replied, shaking Lex's hand briefly before dropping it unceremoniously, "and this is my son--"

"Clark.  Yes, I know, we were introduced after --"

"After you damn near killed him!"  Jonathon bit out, the frantic, angry aftermath of terror lacing his words.

"Dad," Clark interjected, "it's not his fault, there was something in the road."

Drawing a deep breath, the elder Kent seemed to visibly struggle for control before speaking again.  "I know, son, it's just that..."

"Mr. Kent", Lex ventured, stepping into the awkward pause that followed, "I would really enjoy the opportunity to thank your son more thoroughly, and--"

"You don't have to thank me," Clark interjected, a flush of embarrassment staining his cheeks, "I'm sure you would have done the same thing.  I'm just glad I was here."

"Nonetheless, you have my gratitude, and I would welcome the opportunity to become better acquainted with you, and your family.  Please come by for dinner tomorrow night.  All of you."  With a final smile, Lex turned and walked back to a waiting Pamela, clasping her hand firmly as they walked up the embankment and towards her vehicle, an unfamiliar warmth furling within.

Lex had no way of knowing the full extent of the debate that raged at the Kent household regarding his invitation, or the eventual acquiescence negotiated by Martha Kent, but was still vaguely shocked when the trio arrived on his doorstep the following evening.  Escorting his guests into the formal dining room, he noted with no surprise that the correct number of places had already been set.  Nothing ever escaped Pamela's attention, and it appeared this was no exception, though he thought, ruefully, that he might have to start teasing her about her pre-cognitive abilities.  Taking a seat between Pamela and Clark, he deferred the head-of-table position to Mr. Kent, and settled back to enjoy the meal.

Surprisingly, dinner WAS a pleasant affair, with Pamela and Martha carrying much of the conversation, while managing to include everyone.  There were no uncomfortable silences, and none of the guarded probing that accompanied so many of his meals, whether officially or unofficially "business".  In fact, it was the warmest meal involving someone other than Pamela and himself that he could remember since... his mother died.  He smiled slightly at the thought of how much she would have enjoyed meeting these people, letting the simple joy of the moment wash over him.


FIVE: Revelations

Summer was coming once more to Smallville, and with it the faint stirrings of fall.  He frowned at the reports before him, the words blurring together as his mind wondered.  That happened more and more often these days, and there was a single culprit every time -- Clark Kent.  It was becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore the way his heart leapt when Clark was near, and the way his thoughts drifted to Clark when they were apart, and that was just... unacceptable.  He had never faced such a distraction, never been forced to strive so mightily to marshall his thoughts, never loved so strongly...

Freezing, he reflected carefully over his thoughts.  Could he really be in love with Clark?  Really feel such an overwhelming emotion for someone as young, as completely unsuitable, as Clark Kent? After all, he had spent the better part of a year trying to help him woo Lana, would he really have done that if he had feelings for Clark himself?  Would he have been so quick to aid in Clark's advancement with Ms. Lang if he truly cared for him in that way?  The answer was terrifyingly simple: yes.  Yes, he helped Clark try to win Lana not in spite of his feelings for him, but because of them.  In so doing, he had done the only thing his heart would allow.  He had tried to make Clark happy.  He smiled sadly as he realize that perhaps THIS was what his mother had spoken of years ago.  This putting of others before yourself, this need to insure Clark's happiness with no thought to his own, this was love.  Everything else had been but a pale imitation.  

This revelation made the words in front of him all the more damning.  Sir Harry had sent an informant to Smallville, his task to gather information on Lex's far too competitive company, and anything that might be used against him in the business arena.  Apparently the investigation extended to Lex's friends and acquaintances, and contained within the folder was a host of evidence implicating Clark in activities that, if not illegal, were certainly irregular, in much the same way many of Smallville's inhabitants were "irregular".

What set these events apart was that, in each and every case, Clark had lied to him.  Lied about what happened.  Covered up the truth with vague half-truths and deceptions, and that hurt.  More than Victoria's trifling betrayal.  More than the loss of his mother.  More than the loss of himself.  Feeling as if his heart was frozen, he rose from his desk and went to open the office door as he heard Clark's knock, his presence arriving scant minutes after Lex's phoned request.

"Clark!  So glad you could make it", he greeted brightly, his false smile tightening his face and leaving his eyes cold.

"Sure, Lex, what's the..." Clark trailed off, standing straighter as he met Lex's gaze.  "What's wrong, Lex?"

"What's wrong?  Hmmm, difficult question.  Global warming?  The world economy?  The political situation in--"

"Cut the crap, Lex, I meant what's wrong with YOU."

"Interesting choice of phrase, that, what with us being in Smallville, where manure abounds, and with me being the head of a fertilizer plant.  Then there's the colorful use of the euphemism 'bullshit', really another form of crap, to describe a pack of lies.  Rather poetic, don't you think?"

"Lex, what are you..." Clark's voice trailed off, stunned into silence by the contents of the folder Lex handed to him without preamble.  He thumbed through the report slowly, face blanching with every new discovery, tongue wetting suddenly dry lips nervously.  Finally, he looked up, his troubled gaze meeting Lex's.  "I can explain, I just..."

"Just lied to me.  Yeah, I pretty much figured that out for myself, Clark.   The question is, why?"

"Why?  Jesus, Lex, this isn't something that you can just come right out and tell someone!"

"Not even your friends?"

"No!  It's not that simple, I've kept this secret for so long, and--"

"Were you ever planning on telling me?  Or were you just going to keep on lying, spinning ever more elaborate fables to amuse yourself with as I believed every word?"

"NO!  It wasn't like that!  I didn't like lying to you, I just... "

"Just what, Clark?!?  Just couldn't decide when to let your so-called friend know a little about the real you?  How can I trust anything you say, how can I--"

"That's not fair! It's not like you've been completely honest with me, either!"

"--ever trust you... What?!  What the hell are you talking about?  I've been nothing but honest with you from the day we met!"

"Oh, really?"  Clark asked with sarcastic amusement, his eyes glittering with hurt and rage.

"Yes!" Lex spat back, his tone and expression a perfect foil for Clark's.

"Then why didn't you ever come clean about the fact that you didn't really want me to be with Lana?"

"I-- wh-what did you say?"

"You heard me; why weren't you honest about the fact that you didn't really want me to date her."

"I don't-- I don't know what you mean", he stammered, anger washed away in a sea of sick confusion.  Did Clark know, had he somehow seen more deeply into his motivations that he, himself, had been able to do?

"I think you do", Clark continued more quietly, tossing the folder onto a chair before taking a step closer, never breaking eye contact.  "I think you've been keeping secrets of your own, and I think you've been keeping them from yourself."  This last was whispered, the breath ghosting from Clark's mouth to dance across his lips from where Clark now stood, scant inches away.

Lex stared into Clark's eyes, his world narrowing until it was comprised only of those blue orbs.  Up close, he could see the faint flecks of gold and green that most often went undetected, but now jumped out in stark contrast.  It suddenly seemed vitally important to catalogue every facet of the expression in those precious eyes, to analyze it until it made sense, until he could be sure that he wasn't merely seeing what he wanted to see, wasn't merely projecting his own helpless desires into the gaze that met his, wasn't...

Thought fled as Clark lowered his head and brushed his lips across Lex's before raising his head, glancing quickly at his face before lowering his mouth once more.  The plush texture of Clark's lips settled more firmly against his own, the slightly rough skin at the perimeter, chapped from so much time spent speeding through the corn, contrasting sharply with the soft slickness at the center.    Clark's tongue darted out to trace the seam of his lips, coaxing them open so that it could probe behind his teeth, stroking his palate with a steady rhythm, and he was lost.  Raising his own tongue to brush the underside of Clark's, he wrapped around it, suckling hungrily as his hands rose to clasp Clark's shoulders.  The kiss turned quickly fierce, as Clark cupped one hand behind his head and wrapped the other around his waist, pulling their lower bodies together as their tongues continued to mate.  The arousal that rachetted through his body was sharp and sweet, and clouded his eyes with lust as he broke away, gasping for air.  Seeing the same dazed expression on Clark's face, one of stunned ecstasy and tenderness, he allowed the joy within, tightly caged for so long, free reign.  The smile that spread across his face coaxed an answering grin from Clark, who trailed the hand at the back of his head around to cradle his cheek.

"What?" Clark asked bemusedly.

"I think this is going to be the stuff of legend." Lex replied, tracing Clark's brow with the tips of his fingers.

"How do you know?"

"My mother always told me I was meant for great things, and she also told me nothing is greater than love.  I think this could be love."

"You're lying, Lex" Clark replied softly, smiling gently at the look of confusion and apprehension on Lex's face.  "You KNOW this is love.  And so do I."

It was the day that what he had been ceased to be, and what he was meant to be was formed: Alexander Luthor, the heir of his mother's legacy, the Lex that would love Clark forever.

END