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Reminders and Regrets Author: Kate
Elizabeth I. When Lex had Clark folded at the hips, when Lex bent him forward and pressed against him from behind, when Lex pushed in sudden and hot and deep, he always slid his right hand down Clark's back. His palm skated down the tendon beside the spine that stood out beneath the skin in high relief. His fingers dipped into the long sweaty furrow and bumped over vertebrae. Lex stroked Clark and his hands were appreciative, he thought, like gentling a fine horse or tracing a line of sculpture. The arch of Clark's back made him moan. He knew Clark would hear that noise and picture him making it, jaw unhinged and lips open. Knew that Clark would whimper beneath him and that the sound would be familiar and sweet. He liked the look of his hand on Clark's skin. Liked the feeling of it, smooth and possessive. Because if he could still touch Clark like that, if they could communicate with sensation and soft noises, then probably nothing important had changed. At the very beginning of their last fight - though of course Lex didn't know it would be their last fight - Clark's hand lay flat against his own stomach, splayed out like he was holding himself together. Holding his insides in. But Lex didn't notice that. He thought about leaning forward and licking at the negative spaces of belly between Clark's spread fingers, golden slivers of flesh. Clark was speaking, and Lex hadn't been listening. He said, "I'm sorry, what?" Clark's eyes opened. Lex hadn't realized they were closed. Clark said, slowly: "I'm tired of secrets."
II. Clark stood at the screen door, hands jammed in his pockets. Sentinel-still, head tilted slightly. Listening hard like only he could, and even though she couldn't see his face, Martha knew by heart the crinkle between his eyebrows, the shocked look of his disappointed eyes. She could see months of tension in his shoulders. The muscles there were cranked tight with anxiety and hurt. When he was a little boy, she'd rubbed his back to help him go to sleep, little soothing circles of her palm. She'd told him stories about moons and stars and children who sailed on solar winds. But now he was earthly, up to a point, and she couldn't console him with stories about space. Clark had too much space. Too many powers, and the muscles in those shoulders weren't the physique of a boy. She couldn't chase this sorrow away with motherly fingers. Martha leaned on the strip of counter in front of the kitchen sink. The edge of the formica creased her palm, and she pushed harder. In a moment Clark would realize that Lex was not coming. Lex was not ever coming back to Kent Farm. Martha took her hands off the counter. She looked at the pile of forks and spoons and knives on the table, waiting to be set out shining and orderly. She rubbed her numb palm on her denim-covered hip, tugged her lips into a gentle smile, and tried to look busy.
III. Outside, in the barn, Jonathan waited. Clark was inside helping Martha with dinner. Thanksgiving meant pies and potatoes and stuffing and turkey and also meant that Jonathan had been sent out of the kitchen around noon. He'd already fed the cows, finished all the chores he'd set aside for this afternoon. Finished some of Clark's chores after that. And still he was waiting in the barn. Just not quite ready to go inside yet. Jonathan leaned against the wall beside the tractor, let his head fall back against the rough wood. Stared at the tractor. Clark had given him so many things. A family, Martha's happiness. The joy of raising a child who loved him and held him above everything else. Maybe that wasn't entirely healthy, but Jonathan had never been able to deny himself Clark's love. And now, this. This tractor. Green and gold, colors of corn at harvest, and Jonathan couldn't stop looking at it. Clark had been anxious when he brought Jonathan out to the barn the day before, ducking his head and shooting nervous glances around. Honestly worried that his father would think he'd done something immoral to get the tractor. Hard to admit that maybe he'd given Clark reason to doubt him. Hadn't accepted Lex, had taken far too damn long to let Clark know he accepted Clark's preferences. Jonathan turned away from the tractor, looked through the open barn door back toward the house. Sunlight struck the kitchen window and he saw Martha's hair glinting between the curtains. Soon they would call him in for dinner. Martha would light candles and turn off the overhead light and they would all settle down at the glowing table and talk for a moment about the things for which they wanted to give thanks. He could give Clark this one thing. This acceptance. Like swallowing the sun, choking down years of hate and letting them boil in his stomach. But it would make Clark smile. Clark's smiles were rare these days, and they were still the sweetest thing Jonathan had ever seen. And if the pie and the potatoes and the stuffing and the turkey couldn't settle the worry in his belly, well. Clark didn't need to know about that. Jonathan pushed away from the wall and went to get a cloth to polish the tractor's perfect shine.
IV. Bruce sat with his back to the expansive windows. Reinforced glass, miniature wires woven through it. No sense asking for trouble. The threads of metal dimmed the view slightly, but Bruce didn't mind. He rarely looked out the windows. It was a bright day outside and the warmth of sun grazed the back of his neck. Bruce didn't turn. If he looked, he would only squint against the glare from the snow, floors and floors below his office. No use in looking into such a brilliant light. Day was a deceptive thing in Gotham. Night was real, and blood. Bloodfeuds. Not family holidays, children around a lush table, parents smiling proudly above their heads. Bruce didn't feel thankful, exactly. Perhaps mildly pleased. Bounty on his desk, in the form of an inch-thick stack of paperwork, all scanned by the careful eyes of his accountants. In a few minutes, Lex would arrive. They would divide the corporate treasure up with forms in triplicate, heavy pens and thick ink. After it was done he would return to the mansion, collect Dick, go into the darkness again. Lex would go off to do whatever Lex did in Gotham, now that he'd sworn off clubs and heirs and heroin. No reason to pretend he didn't like Lex. He did. Liked his cocky attitude, his callused hands. Fencing, archery. Genteel sports that drew blood in pinpricks and sharp thrusts. Lex and his father had mastered the art of phallically symbolic competition. He saw the way Lex wore his father's treatment like a cape and cowl, a costume he could don at a moment's notice. Lex's life had been hard. Bruce's had been harder. But Bruce still had his own bright-colored boy, and Lex did not. They had never spoken of their similar situations directly, of course. Bruce simply knew; simple as a limousine driver with a gambling habit, simple as a maid who'd been glad to trade toilet-scrubbing for a secretarial position on the fifth floor of Wayne Enterprises. The door opened soundlessly. Lex looked fragile today, but he walked bold and strong, playing up the prowl. Bruce recognized that bravado. Remembered Dick snarling around a name. Crying later, while he took off the suit for the first time. Snuffling his tears like a child with his wet nose pressed into Bruce's neck as he realized that revenge was an incomplete thing, that lost things would remain lost no matter how cold and brave he became. "Lex," he said. There was nothing of the memory in his voice. He liked Lex, but there was no room for pity in their level of business. Instead he shook Lex's hand solidly, offered his blandest smile. "Let's get this done," Lex said, smiling and impatient, and looked away from Bruce, into the light.
V. Mr. Luthor would return at four p.m. precisely. No cars could be parked near the entrance to the building. Security swept the penthouse and its private elevator for listening devices. A guard took up his station in the entryway of the apartment, yawning, and wished he was allowed to have a chair. The housekeeping staff cut flowers, arranged them perfectly in sleek modern vases. Changed the sheets, even though they hadn't been slept on. Replaced any items in the refrigerator which seemed vaguely off. Filled the brandy decanter, brought up another bottle of the Scotch Mr. Luthor favored. One of the housekeepers raised her eyebrows at another briefly, then looked back to the counter she was polishing. They had to be gone by three forty-five. The apartment waited in spotless silence. Once there had been badly aimed dirty socks next to a wicker laundry hamper. There had been smudges of toothpaste on the marble counter in the bathroom. Mr. Luthor had insisted on a constant supply of soda. Sometimes he had even bought it himself, brought it up in the elevator and tossed a can to the surprised guard, who had usually been too startled to thank him. Empty and gone now. Utterly clean and utterly quiet. Outside the door, the guard began to hum to himself, blinking against sudden sleepiness. Downstairs, down through all the floors fast as the elevator. Out through the concealed metal detectors and the two sets of glass doors. No gilding here, only cool steel and elegant lines, like the limousine pulling up in front of the entrance. Men in grey suits rushed toward it. No one stepped forward to open the door. Mr. Luthor liked to do that himself. Bright as a star when he rose beside the car, white and black and that habitual smirk on his face. But the red mouth smoothed out, the cool eyes opened wider. Mr. Luthor didn't flinch as one of the men in gray moved forward to close the car door. He was looking at a boy who stood on the sidewalk across the street. A young man wearing a jacket as rich and red as heart's blood. There was one moment in which they stood, silent. Sentinel-still, each of them listening for something the other would never say. And perhaps Mr. Luthor's lips parted to speak. And perhaps the young man stared without blinking, even after Mr. Luthor turned away. Stared hard as only he could. If so, no one else saw it. end Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to their owners/creators/copyright holders. This fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights. |
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