scribblinlenore | WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Four)

Title: You Can Call Me Al
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: This part G, eventually NC-17
Category: AU, Romance
Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him.
Links to Previous Parts:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three

Part Four:

You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore

Part Four

When Clark gets home, the house smells like dust, a good strong whiff of it as he opens the door, days of accumulation. Okay, weeks, if he's being honest. He still has boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling in the living room, even after all these months, twine scattered here and there from the few things he has managed to unpack, a growing mountain of crumpled newspaper in one corner that desperately needs to be hauled to the recycling center. He heads for his desk, the one island of order in the midst of the chaos, to turn on a lamp, banging his shin on an old trunk he hasn't found a place for in the basement yet.

Every time Pete comes over, he just shakes his head. "This room is a serious window into your subconscious, man. You know that, right?"

Clark always catches a hint of something in Pete's voice when he says it, something that's not all joking, and he'd like to reassure him that his unsettled state is no reflection on Blue Cove, not some sign that he secretly doesn't want to be here. But that would mean admitting out loud that he can't feel at home anywhere right now, and it's bad enough just knowing that, without hearing himself say it.

He retreats to the comparative oasis of the kitchen, the one room that's in something like good shape. At least the dishes are out of boxes and in the cabinets--when they're not piled up in the sink, that is. He roots around in the fridge, pushing scary looking containers of who-knows-what out of the way, holding his nose, until he finds the last beer hidden behind some half-rotted bell peppers on the bottom shelf.

Beer is a habit he's picked up from Pete, something that has come to stand for relaxation, even if it has no physical effect on him. Clark drinks it standing at the sink, looking out the window. From here, he has a perfect view of the fields and the grapes vines in their neat rows, leaves glossy in the last, orchestral splash of daylight, stray tendrils floating on a gust of wind. There's something peaceful, almost innocent about them, and it makes Clark want to laugh at the deceptiveness of the picture.

Grape vines, in his limited experience, are an ongoing conspiracy of disaster. If it's not some kind of fungus it's an insect, if it's not mold spores it's an early frost. Clark worries about them the way he imagines normal people must worry about their children, constantly, with a sick feeling in his stomach. He's spent more evenings than he cares to remember pouring over pest management journals. Last week, he sat up five straight nights out in the fields, keeping the smudge pots going, nursing the vines through a dangerous cold spell.

Clark squeezes his eyes so tightly shut that all he sees is an after-image of the vines moving in the wind, carefree and strangely beautiful. He can go back to worrying about root rot tomorrow. He's already had a bad day.

The phone rings, and he pads over to pick it up, "Hey, Pete."

"Hey, man. I just ran into Bill Reid," Pete and the harbormaster are good friends, "and he said the Luthor yacht pulled out of port a whole day ahead of schedule."

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose, even though his headache is only metaphorical. There is nothing that goes on in this town that Pete doesn't hear about, and mostly Clark finds that amusing, except for times like this, when he's on the wrong end of the scuttlebutt.

"So what happened?" Pete wants to know. "Did their decorative emergency turn out not to be such a big deal?"

"Um, well--" He doesn't know how to tell the story and skirt the subject of the interrupted blowjob, which is surely more than Pete needs or wants to hear. "Let's just say there were some-- issues."

"Issues?"

He sighs. "They're Luthors, Pete."

"And?"

"They weren't too happy with the way things turned out. Let's just leave it at that."

"Did they at least pay you for the time you spent?"

Clark lets out a wry little laugh. "No, and Lionel Luthor threw my tools overboard."

"Man. Luthors are crazy. Haven't I always said that?"

"You always have."

"Well, don't worry about the tools. I've got some down at the plant you can borrow. Sorry I got you hooked up with those people. I really should have known better."

A picture flashes through his head, the look on Lex's face as the yacht pulled out toward sea. He closes his eyes. "I'm the one who should have known better, Pete. Believe me."

After they hang up, he's at loose ends, not hungry, not nearly time for bed, too restless to actually pay attention to anything. He wanders into the mess of his living room and half-heartedly digs through a box, old football trophies and a tangle of computer cables and keys to things he probably doesn't even own anymore. He has no idea what to do with any of it and manages to waste a lot of time getting absolutely nothing done. It's the same old problem, and eventually he just gives up, the way he always does.

Thoughts of Lex won't go away, and he checks the clock. It's getting late in Metropolis, but then, Chloe is practically nocturnal.

"Hey. It's me," he says when she picks up.

"Clark?" Her disbelief would probably be funny, if it didn't make him feel like such a jerk. "It's good to hear your voice. How are you?"

Memories of the time right after the accident flood back to him, people asking that question endlessly, and it gives him a sudden, unexpected shot of pain.

"I'm doing okay," he says, brushing past the subject. "How about you? Keeping out of trouble?"

"I wouldn't be doing my job if I were."

He smiles. "Some things never change."

"Clark Kent beating around the bush, for instance." Her tone is teasing, like old times, and that's strangely comforting.

He feels himself relax a little. "There is something I wanted to ask, now that you mention it."

"Let's hear it."

"What do you know about Lex Luthor's stint in Belle Reve? You covered it, didn't you?"

There's silence on the other end of the line, and Clark remembers just a beat too late that some of their more apocalyptic fights as teenagers came precisely because of moments like this, Clark treating Chloe like his "research monkey," her term for it.

"Um--" He tightens his grip on the phone. "I mean, if you wouldn't mind--"

"Wait," she says, unaccountably excited. "I'm booting up my computer to get a look at my notes. Try not to lose interest before the operating system loads."

He laughs. "I'm not that bad."

Chloe takes the diplomatic approach, not reminding him that he hasn't returned her calls or been interested in much of anything for the better part of a year. "Okay, here's what I've got on the younger Luthor's mysterious breakdown--"

Clark sits up a little straighter. "Wait. Mysterious?"

"I thought so, at least. People just don't develop paranoid delusions overnight. It's a gradual process. But in Lex Luthor's case, he went from high-powered businessman to drooling psychiatric patient in little more than a week."

"Do you think he could have been drugged?"

"I-- don't know," Chloe says hesitantly. "I can't say I never considered it, but his admitting psychiatrist is very well known in the field, widely respected. She's even published several books on medical ethics."

"People choose money over their own conscience all the time," Clark reminds her. "Did you try interviewing her?"

"Of course, I did," she says, slightly offended. "Didn't get anywhere with her, though. Doctor-patient confidentiality. But I guess I could check into her background, see if there's anything that would make her more susceptible to the Luthor family money."

Clark shakes his head in disgust. "Why would Lionel Luthor do that to his own son?"

Chloe lets out a little laugh. "Why does he ever do anything?"

"Money, of course. Power." The conversation he overheard on the yacht plays back in his head. "Self-protection."

"So the question is: what did Lex have on him?"

"Wouldn't I love to know?"

"Assuming, of course, that Lex was actually drugged and not simply the victim of a psychotic break. It'd be impossible to prove anything at this point. All the evidence is long gone." She sighs. "You know the last thing I want to do is discourage your renewed enthusiasm for reporting, Clark, but there's no story here. Not one you could ever publish at any rate."

"I don't care about that," he tells her. "I just want to get to the truth."

"You realize I am obligated to ask why you're so interested in this."

"Can't I just be curious?"

"In my experience? No."

He laughs. "Then how about you humor me just this once?"

"This once?" She sounds playfully put-upon. "Well, I suppose so. But don't get used to it."

He smiles. "I promise not to take your indulgence for granted."

There's a moment of silence, the kind that naturally falls in any conversation, but it comes at a particularly awkward moment, reminding Clark of things he really should have said already, things he owes her.

He clears his throat. "I just-- I want you to know. I never meant--"

"Clark," Chloe says firmly, "grief isn't an apology situation. I'm just glad you called me."

"Thanks, Chloe," he says softly.

"I'll let you know what I find out."

After they hang up, Clark sets out to do some research of his own, goes online, and tracks mentions of Lex Luthor in the press for the past year. Before the breakdown, or whatever happened to him, Lex's profile was definitely on the rise. He'd taken on considerable responsibility at LuthorCorp, in charge of their day-to-day operations, widely quoted in business publications, even gracing the cover of Fortune magazine. Reading between the lines, Clark finds hints of a possible takeover bid, or failing that, splitting off to start his own company.

Lex Luthor wanted out of his father's shadow. That much is clear.

His collapse, when it came, was a spectacle, painfully public, in a conference room full of board members, with threats and a brandished weapon. The pictures taken of Lex being led away make Clark's chest hurt; he looks so hollow-eyed and lost. Clark is probably the last person in the country to see them. The story was splashed over the front page of every major paper, including the Planet, for close to a week. News of Lex's release from Belle Reve after a three-month court-ordered stay was, predictably, buried at the bottom of a column on page twelve. Just the facts and a quote from his father, "I'm committed to doing everything possible to see that my son is whole and well again."

It makes good copy, but it doesn't gibe in the least with what Clark witnessed on the yacht, the menace in Lionel's voice when he threatened Lex with a return trip to Belle Reve. There's something not right about any of this. Clark is convinced of it.

His conviction grows when he gets an email from Chloe with her notes attached:

Here's everything I have. Looking back through it, something stands out that I never really noticed before. Several people close to Lex Luthor remembered him complaining of neck pain in the days leading up to the break. I'm not sure if it means anything, but I've got a contact, a chemist at a pharmaceutical company. Maybe he can tell me something.

Talk to you soon,

Chloe

P.S. I've missed being your research monkey! :)

It makes him laugh, and for the first time in a long time, that doesn't feel wrong.

He saves Chloe's notes to read in the morning and shuts down the computer. He kicks off his shoes, turns on the television, and stretches out on the couch. Night is the only time when he doesn't prefer the quiet, when he actually dreads it.

It's late by Blue Cove standards, and the only channel Clark gets is the family-owned station in town. They're showing a rerun of the Andy Griffith Show, and he closes his eyes and listens as Barney tries to explain how he lost his gun yet again. Afterwards, the Star Spangled Banner starts to play. Out here, TV still goes off the air in the wee hours. The last note dies out, and then there's the familiar buzz of the test pattern, the only lullaby that ever seems to work for Clark.

He lets out a tired sigh and falls sleep at last.

Page 1 of 2 << [1] [2] >>

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

rivkat.livejournal.com

Awww. Dueling woobies. I'm looking forward to Lex's reappearance!

From:

Not a homecoming queen

WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Four)

Navigation

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags