WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Eleven)
Jul. 17th, 2005 09:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scribblinlenoreI have the feeling my poor little story is going to get lost in all the Harry Potter excitement, but, hey, I'm finally on a roll again! And I just don't have the self-discipline to wait to post this. *g*
Also! I recently went back todrool over enjoy the manip ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lapetite_kiki made of Lex in his skimpy swimsuit, a scene from earlier in the story. And I realized that she'd made me an icon of it for me! I never saw that before, because I guess I didn't scroll down far enough. But I've seen it now! And whee! I do so love it. :)
Title: You Can Call Me Al
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: 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
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven:
You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore
Part Eleven
The dry-walling job at the McCoy's turns out to be pretty straightforward, no tricky angles to maneuver around, just putting up the panels and hammering them into place in endless succession. It requires no actual concentration, not a good thing for Clark after the morning he's had. He always seems to fare best when he doesn't think too much about how he must appear to Al, but today it's next to impossible to avoid it. Don't make half gestures, Clark's father used to say. People won't know where they stand with you. Only a few weeks together, and Clark has already sent Al enough mixed messages to seem downright schizophrenic.
Of course, he knows the right thing to do. He does. It's just that no matter how much he resolves to keep his distance there's still a screening room in the stubborn part of his head where memories play, moments from that day on the yacht and after Al's first stint in the fields and from earlier that very morning, Al naked and wanting in Clark's bed. The more he thinks about it the more vivid the pictures become, and the more danger he's in of developing a reputation as someone who gets way too excited about drywall.
He exerts what feeble self-discipline he has to wipe his mind clear, just think about nothing. The work goes faster that way, and he finishes up in good time to make their dinner with Mrs. Henderson.
At home, he's surprised to see Pete's truck parked in the driveway. He's even more startled to find Pete and Al sitting at the kitchen table, bent over a stack of papers, matching expressions of concentration on their faces. For a split second, there's a clench in Clark's chest, not jealousy exactly, more a sense that there's been some development and he's missed out on it.
He clears his throat, and they both glance up, Al with a smile, Pete slightly sheepish.
"Hey," he says, sliding his hands into his pockets, rocking forward on the balls of his feet, feeling rather awkward himself.
"Clark," Al's voice does a smooth glissando into a more intimate octave.
Clark is not such a clueless husband that he fails to understand the meaning of this. Pete gets it too apparently, narrowing his eyes, the weight of his scrutiny like an extra presence in the room. Clark looks from Pete back to Al. He doesn't want to be on the wrong side of either of them, but in the end, it's Al he has to live with. He walks over, bends down for a quick kiss. Al looks pleasantly surprised, as if Clark might not be such a hopeless case after all. Pete takes the opportunity to examine the tablecloth in greater detail.
"So..." Clark says, adopting a breezy tone he hopes will convince someone. "What have you two been up to?"
"Pete's been helping me with our grant application," Al says, holding up a form for Clark to see.
Clark can't help sounding surprised, "Hey, Pete, that was really nice of you."
Pete shrugs, trying not to look embarrassed. "I went through the same thing when I was getting the factory up and running. I just thought I could save you guys some of the screw-ups I made."
"We really appreciate it," Clark tells him.
Pete gets to his feet. "No problem, man." He glances from Clark to Al and back again, shifting his weight indecisively. "Um, well, I guess I'd better get going. I'll see you guys later."
"I'll walk you out," Clark offers.
They're silent all the way to the truck, and then Clark struggles to explain, "Look, Pete, I know you must think--"
"We already went through this, Clark. I can't say I think you're doing the right thing here, but it's your call, not mine." He shakes his head, a wry smile. "I will say this, though. If you had to hijack a husband, at least you got one who knows his way around a business plan."
Clark smiles at that. "I really do appreciate your coming over to help."
Pete holds his eye. "I would have done it a long time ago. All you ever had to do was ask."
Clark nods. "I know, Pete. I know."
He heads back inside and finds Al on the screened-in back porch, at the worktable, amidst a profusion of wild poppies and purple coneflowers and feathery white asters that he's gathered from the fields, arranging them into a bouquet.
"So you and Pete seemed to be…getting along," Clark ventures.
Al shrugs. "I still don't think he particularly likes me. But I suppose if you must have a best friend who merely tolerates me, at least he knows his way around a business plan."
Clark breaks into a grin. "You know, you guys might actually have more in common than you think."
Al does not appear particularly convinced, but he doesn't argue. He finishes up the bouquet, tying it up with a brightly colored strip of cloth that Clark recognizes as having come from one of the ill-fated thrift store shirts.
"I figured we don't actually own ribbon," Al explains.
"And you figured right." On impulse, he leans in and gives Al an appreciative kiss. "You're really good at this kind of thing, you know."
"It's hard to go wrong with flowers, Clark, even when you are taking them to a manipulative old busybody."
Clark shakes his head. "I may have given you a somewhat misleading picture of Mrs. Henderson. She is, at heart, a nice lady."
"We'll see," Al says coolly, not ready to forgive her for the morning's interruption.
That thought brings back pictures, which in turn brings the blood rushing to Clark's cheeks. Al shoots him a quizzical look, and Clark tells him hastily, "I'd better go get cleaned up if we're going to make it over there by six."
Clark darts back inside, although not quickly enough to miss Al's exasperated sigh.
He takes a quick shower, wraps a towel around his waist and pads into the bedroom, over to the closet. He's dithering, trying to decide whether his blue sport coat is too much or his favorite jeans too little, when Al comes breezing into the room.
He nudges Clark aside. "This will go faster if you let me." Two seconds later, he's pulled out an outfit for Clark and laid it on the bed, along with a clean shirt and jacket for himself.
Getting dressed proves awkward. Clark tries to find ways to stall, waiting for Al to finish up, but even after he's ready, he stays put. His eyes rest on Clark, as if this is a test of some sort, and finally Clark just gives in, lets the towel drop. He'd think nothing of letting his husband look at him, and he's tired of making up stupid excuses why he needs to go get dressed in the bathroom. He pulls on his clothes, and as he's tucking in his shirt, he meets Al's eyes, silvery with appreciation.
"You look nice," Al tells him, reaching out to straighten his collar.
Clark shouldn't let himself wrap an arm around Al's waist and pull him close. The near miss of the morning should have taught him not to start things he can't finish. But then, Clark is a walking testament that a person really can learn nothing from his mistakes. He thinks, Just one kiss. Even though he should know that's never going to be enough.
It's Al who finally pulls away, breathing too hard. "If we don't leave now, we're never going to go."
They gather up the bouquet for Mrs. Henderson and a bottle of wine that Al put into the refrigerator earlier to chill. Al is unusually quiet on the short ride there, watching out the window distractedly, fingers drumming on the seat beside him. It's not until Clark is turning into Mrs. Henderson's driveway that it occurs to him: Al might actually be nervous.
He takes his hand as they head up the front walk. "She's going to love you."
They step onto the porch, and Mrs. Henderson throws open the door, too impatient to wait for them to knock. "There you boys are. Right on time. Clark, so good to see you." She rises up on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. "And this must be Al." She smiles at him with unrestrained delight.
"Mrs. Henderson, it's nice to meet you at last. Clark has told me so much about you." Al extends his hand.
But Mrs. Henderson isn't having any of that. "Oh, let's no stand on ceremony. I feel like we're already old friends."
She wraps her thin arms around his neck, and Al is so startled that he barely manages to save the flowers from her enthusiasm.
Mrs. Henderson pulls back and holds him at arm's length. "I just want to get a good look at you now." She studies him admiringly. "Oh, such a handsome young man. You and Clark sure do make a fine couple. Now you boys come on inside and make yourselves comfortable. It'll be just a little while before we're ready to eat."
She bustles them into her formal front parlor, keeping a proprietary hand on Al's arm as she leads the way. Clark has to hide a smile, pretending to cough. He's beginning to think he'll have a war on his hands at the end of the evening when it's time to reclaim his husband.
Mrs. Henderson's parlor is even tidier and more sparklingly clean than usual, and every inch of the coffee table is crowded with plates of hors d'oeuvres, stuffed mushrooms and cheese pinwheels, and yes!, crab puffs, Clark's personal favorite.
"You boys go on and sit down and make yourselves comfortable. We'll have a little snack while we're waiting for dinner to finish up."
"Before I forget, Mrs. Henderson," Al holds out the bouquet, "these are for you."
"And this too," Clark hands her the bottle of wine.
"Oh, my." Mrs. Henderson is practically beside herself. "So thoughtful." She lifts the flowers to her nose and takes a deep breath. "Mercy, I don't know when I've seen anything so beautiful."
Clark slips his arm around his husband's shoulders and smiles proudly. "It was all Al. He's the artistic one in the family."
"Well, I should say so. Very talented, indeed." She gives him a bright, appreciative smile, before her face clouds over. "And to think what you've been through, you poor boy. I haven't even asked how you're feeling."
"Much better, thank you," Al tells her. "Although I haven't really made any progress getting my memory back."
Mrs. Henderson nods sympathetically. "I know that must be a burden to you, but you'll remember everything in your own good time, I'm sure. And in the meantime, you have Clark here to look after you." She shakes her head, smiling. "Such a fine couple."
Al seems rather overwhelmed by the attention, doubtlessly never so fussed over in his life.
Fortunately, Mrs. Henderson takes a deep breath and says, "Well, now, I'd better go look in on dinner." She nods toward the sofa. "You two go on and sit down, and I'm going to put these lovely flowers in some water and the wine in the refrigerator to keep cool. And when I come back, we'll have a nice chat."
After she's gone, Al says under his breath, "The two of you have a pact to embarrass me to death, don't you?"
Clark shrugs, smiling.
Al narrows his eyes. "I knew it."
Clark pulls him close, kisses him lightly. "I can't help it if I'm proud of you, can I?" he asks, still smiling, stroking his thumb affectionately along Al's cheek.
Al's gaze catches on Clark's, his eyes turning a dark, interested shade of blue. He leans in, and the next kiss is far more urgent than the last.
They reluctantly break apart at the sound of Mrs. Henderson's footsteps in the hall. She sweeps into the room, carrying a tray of wineglasses, and Clark hurries to take it for her.
"Oh, thank you, dear," she says. "You can just put it down over there on the sideboard, and help yourselves."
They all settle in with a glass of wine, and Mrs. Henderson says with a happy sigh, "Well, now, here we are."
There's a moment of silence, the kind that naturally settles in a conversation when people are still getting acquainted, and they look from one to the other, smiling politely, waiting for someone to break the ice.
It's Clark who finally does, "Everything smells really good, Mrs. Henderson."
"Yes," Al quickly agrees. "Absolutely delicious."
"Oh, please," Mrs. Henderson urges them, "you boys go on and have some of this," she waves her hand over the platters of snacks, "before it gets cold."
Clark doesn't have to be invited twice where crab puffs are concerned, and he cheerfully digs in.
Al glances around, taking in the details of the parlor with his usual sharp-eyed observation. "You have a lovely home, Mrs. Henderson."
She turns decidedly pink. "Oh, thank you, dear. Mr. Henderson and I and our two boys, Sammy and Richard, we all had many good years here together." She casts an appraising eye around the room. "I always think that's what gives a house its character, the life you've lived there." Her expression grows wistful for a moment, maybe even a little sad, reminded of happy days since past, but then she quickly regains her chipper composure. "Clark's been telling me about all the improvements you're making over at your place. That must be very exciting."
Al nods. "It is, really," and he goes into some detail about wainscoting and the advantages of travertine over limestone.
Mrs. Henderson nods along with every word. "That just sounds lovely, dear."
"We still need a focal point for our living room," Al tells her. "I love that when you come into this room the first thing you see is that Javanese dowry chest. Have you been to Indonesia, Mrs. Henderson?"
"Why, yes, dear, I have," she says, looking rather amazed, and even more smitten with Al then she was before, if that's actually possible. "It was a very special place for me and Mr. Henderson. We spent our honeymoon there and went back on our anniversaries whenever we could."
Clark blinks in surprise. "I didn't realize you were such a world traveler, Mrs. H."
She smiles at him. "Oh, yes, dear.
"When you were visiting Indonesia, you must have been to Lake Toba."
"My, yes, dear. Such a spectacular sight. The views and all the plants and that clear blue water. I assume you must have visited there?"
Al nods. "Yes, several times. It was--" He frowns and turns to Clark. "Why was I in Indonesia?"
Clark freezes, mouth full of shrimp. "Um, well..." He thinks frantically in the brief space while he finishes chewing. "It was-- when you worked for your father." He nods vigorously. "That's it. You were there on business. He owned," Clark waves his hand in the air and goes the vague route, "some sort of importing and exporting company."
Al's eyes spark with interest at this previously unmentioned detail of his personal history.
Mrs. Henderson says, "Well, now, that must have been very interesting. Where else have you had the opportunity to visit, I wonder?"
Al frowns as he ponders the question, and then details just start tumbling out of him like the narrative of a travelogue. He and Mrs. Henderson fall into an animated discussion about the cuisine of Hong Kong and the beauty of the Norwegian fjords. Clark takes a deep breath of relief, another question safely dodged, and goes back to his appreciation of the potato fritters.
At last, Mrs. Henderson bustles off to the kitchen to check on dinner and comes back a few minutes later declaring it time to eat.
Al offers her his arm. "May I escort you?"
"So gallant," Mrs. Henderson says, sounding girlishly breathless as she accepts.
They pass along the hall en route to the dining room, and Al stops to point out a black and white photograph of a ballerina on stage. "That's Coppellia, if I'm not mistaken. And is that you as Swanilda, Mrs. Henderson?"
"Why, yes, dear. It certainly is."
Clark goes up to the picture and stares at it rather slack-jawed. He must have walked through this hall...well, who knows how many times? And he never noticed the likeness before, never even realized there was a photograph hanging there. "I didn't know you were a ballerina."
"Rather a successful one, dear, if I do say so myself. That was before I met Mr. Henderson, of course. Four glorious years with the New York City Ballet. I'll never forget a moment of it."
Mrs. Henderson's good china and crystal gleam in the soft light from the dining room's chandelier. Proudly displayed in the center of the table is a porcelain vase with the flowers they brought arranged in it. Over dinner, an extravagant six courses that leaves even Clark declaring himself stuffed, Mrs. Henderson regales them with stories from her days on the stage.
"Is that how you met Mr. Henderson?" Al asks. "When you were dancing in New York?"
She nods. "It was at one of Howard's parties. Whenever he was in town, he would always throw a big soiree, invite all the well-known actresses and dancers. To impress his business associates, you know. Howard had quite a way with the ladies. Such a charmer! That was before he got all mixed up and started fretting about germs and all that nonsense."
Clark stares at her. "Are you talking about Howard Hughes?"
"Oh, yes, dear," she says, as if that should be perfectly obvious. "I met my dear Walter on the balcony of Howard's hotel suite. I'd gone out for a breath of fresh air, and poor Walter was hiding out there, trying to blend in with the potted palms. He was always a shy man, and he'd only come to the party because he was in the middle of some business negotiations with Howard's company and didn't want to offend him. So I struck up a conversation, more as a good deed than anything else. But my dear Walter soon won me over."
"I wish we could have met him," Al tells her.
She puts her hand on his. "I do too, dear. Such a good, fine man. He would have liked you and Clark very much." She gets a faraway look for a moment, as if lost in some private memory of her husband, then she smiles at them and continues on with her story, "Anyway, my Walter wouldn't let me leave that evening without agreeing to see him again the next day. We went for a boat ride in the park. The following evening, he took me for dinner at the Magnolia Club, that was the place to go back then, and when the cherries jubilee arrived for dessert, Walter pulled out a little velvet box and asked me to be his wife." She gets a sparkle in her eye at the recollection. "I said yes just as quick as I could before he had the chance to change his mind."
"What a wonderful story," Al says.
Mrs. Henderson smiles. "Love always is, dear."
At the end of the evening, Mrs. Henderson won't hear of letting them go without taking leftovers home with them. "Oh, mercy. I'll never eat all this food. You boys need to help me with it."
She packs up two large shopping bags for them, with enough crabs puffs to keep even Clark happy. "I know how you like them, so I made some extra," she tells him with a wink.
"You should come for dinner at our house next week," Al tells her. "Although I should tell you that we haven't done much entertaining lately, so we may be a little out of practice. Just to give you fair warning."
Clark shakes his head. "Don't listen to him, Mrs. H. He's a great cook."
"Oh, I had a feeling," she says. "You can always tell a person who has culinary flair. And I'd be delighted to join you. My peonies should be in bloom by then. I'll bring you some for your table."
They say their goodbyes, and on the way home, Al wants to know, "Why didn't you ever tell me what a remarkable woman she is?" He frowns at Clark, as if he's purposefully kept this information to himself. "You always make her sound so...tedious."
"You've never seen her when she has corroded pipes and water damage," Clark says, a touch defensively. "Besides, she never told me any of those stories before. She must like you better."
Al regards him skeptically. "As if that's possible. You are the soul of likeability, you realize, Clark."
Clark gives him a soft, sidewise smile. "I think you underestimate your own charm."
Al's eyes meet his, and the intensity in them gives Clark a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. He lets his gaze slide back to the road, but he can still feel Al watching him the whole way home.
They carry the food into the kitchen. Clark starts to keep the crab puffs out, but Al gives him such a pointed look that he finally lets out a sigh and consigns them to the refrigerator along with the rest of the leftovers. Even after everything's put away, Al still lingers at the counter, a distracted air as he stares out the window.
Clark drifts over to his side. "It was a nice evening, huh?"
Al nods, but it's clear his mind is on something else.
"It seemed like you and Mrs. Henderson had a lot in common. You sure do know a lot about ballet."
"That was a strange experience," Al says, "having all those details come pouring out of me, not even knowing where I picked up any of that information."
"Ah," Clark says, beginning to understand why Al looks so contemplative. "It must have been kind of unnerving."
Al nods. "It was." He frowns, and his voice grows quiet, "Help me, Clark. Please. I need to understand what kind of person I am."
"Well," Clark says, letting his hand rest on Al's back, trying to be comforting, searching his memory for everything he knows about Lex Luthor. "You're an incredibly determined person. If there's something you want to know, want to do, there's no standing in your way. You're very smart, very curious. You have an elegant way about you. You know about the arts and history and what makes the perfect chocolate soufflé." He smiles fondly. "The truth is I'm just lucky you didn't mind marrying beneath you."
Al frowns, "Don't, Clark. Don't joke."
He presses close, and Clark's natural impulse is to slide his arm around him, like he's been doing that all his life.
"Maybe it's just because of the amnesia, but since I woke up in the hospital," Al says, "I've had this solitary sense of myself, like I've always been alone, and that's my life, not this. But tonight." He looks Clark squarely in the eye. "Tonight, I really felt like your husband, for the first time." He pauses. "And I liked it."
Clark freezes, in over his head again, and he starts to stutter, "Al--"
"Make me feel it some more, Clark," Al begs him. "Please."
He lifts his chin, and Clark practically falls into the kiss, fingers catching clumsily in the folds of Al's shirt. The touch of their mouths is raw, uncompromising, and Al is suddenly all over him like a man convinced he can find answers in Clark's skin.
Clark doesn't pull away immediately, probably a mistake, because the longer it goes on the more inevitable it feels. When he does finally to try to say something, it comes out feeble, "Al, I can't--"
"Yes, you can. You can," Al says breathlessly between kisses. "Unless," he goes still. "Only if you want to."
It's more than Clark can stand, the aching doubt in Al's voice, when that's so very, very far from the truth. "I do. You have no idea how much."
"Then please, Clark."
He isn't the same man Clark met on the yacht that day, but there is the same frayed desperation in his need. Clark kisses him resolutely, pulls the shirt from his waistband, sinks to his knees. He did have Lex Luthor's consent for this once upon a time, and he tells himself they're just picking up where they left off.
Clark backs Al against the counter and unzips his pants. Al must be expecting the usual last-minute freak out because he seizes up like he's been hit at the first touch of Clark's tongue.
Clark hasn't done this a lot, and he's never had another moment when it meant so much, too many dead-ends in his life, always so much to hide. But Al is still going to be here in the morning, and the next day, and if Clark is very lucky for a long time to come. They'll have breakfasts together, and they'll have fights, and maybe even a future. If Clark couldn't convince himself of that, he couldn't do this.
He moves his mouth along the shaft of Al's cock, wanting to make him gasp, make him tremble, his hands splayed over Al's hips, thumbs perfectly fitted to the hollows of his bones. This is the way Clark always thought sex would be, back in the innocent days when his only experience was what he'd imagined. Al doesn't clutch at him, as if Clark is just too convenient and he can't let him get away, the way other men have. His hands glide lovingly over Clark's shoulders, through his hair, brushing the side of his face, as if Al can't get enough of him, not just his mouth.
Al says Clark's name, a tortured half-groan, half-scream when he comes, and Clark realizes he would do anything to hear him sound like that again.
After it's over, Al's hands stay curled around the edge of the counter, knuckles white, his eyes wide and kind of spacey. Clark gently tucks him back into his pants, zips them, and stands up to give him a kiss.
But Al slides out of his arms. "I just-- I have to--" He hurries off to the bathroom.
Clark paces outside the door, torn between frantic confusion--hadn't that been what Al wanted? what he'd been wanting?--and berating himself for being careless and selfish and an idiot. He waits for Al to come out with a rising sense of panic, and when he finally does, his face is damp, as if he's been throwing water on it. Clark hovers at his side, wanting to reach out, reassure him, but he's not sure if it's okay to touch him.
"I'm sorry."
Al shakes his head. "It's not that. I just--"
"I shouldn't have just done it like that, right there in the kitchen. You probably weren't ready for--"
"I remembered, Clark."
Suddenly there's no air in the room, and Clark's whole body clenches like it's the end of the world. "I can explain."
But Al doesn't hear him, too absorbed in his own sense of revelation, "Not very much. Just you touching me. Kissing me. Going down on me. I don't even know where we were. But it was real, I'm sure of that." He meets Clark's eye, his expression shatteringly hopeful. "I remembered."
Clark swallows, and his throat is so tight it hurts. He opens his arms to Al and holds on, clutching at him, the way people always hold on to things that aren't really theirs. "I'm happy for you," he says, in a hoarse voice.
Al kisses him, both hands on Clark's shoulders, like maybe there's some subconscious part of him that realizes this doesn't belong to him, either.
If there is, though, he isn't listening to it. He pulls back and takes Clark's hand and says, "Come on."
In the bedroom, Al starts stripping off his clothes at once, with the kind of determination it's useless to argue with, not that Clark has any inclination to do that. He pulls off his own jacket, lets the shirt Al picked out for him fall carelessly to the floor. Al works more quickly than he does and is soon naked, while Clark is still half dressed. It's too much torment to wait even the few seconds it would take to get the rest of his clothes off. He pulls Al against him, and there's something so desperate, so illicit having bare skin pressed to khaki and leather he can't get his hands all over Al fast enough.
They kiss in a fever, the room silent except for the rasp of their breathing, their softly murmured exclamations. The only light is a pale splash of moonlight on the floor, neither of them bothering to turn on the lamp.
Al draws in a harsh breath and says, "I want you to fuck me. Do I like that?"
"Yeah," Clark tells him in a thick, slurred voice, utterly shameless. "You like that."
Even in the dim light, Clark can tell Al is smiling. "I thought so."
He goes to lie down on their bed, and Clark pulls off the rest of his clothes. It feels like a dream, like he's underwater, his body lumbering and weightless. He kneels on the bed and stretches out over Al. His skin is already so hot, and when it meets Al's, an inferno.
Every kiss is like diving into very deep water, the long plunge into darkness, the sense that nothing else exists, the only sound in Clark's ears the pounding of his own heart.
Time is watery too, meaningless, and when Al finally braces his hand on Clark's shoulders to push him back, it could be a minute later. Or an eternity. Clark can feel Al's eyes on him, even if he can't really make out his features in the dimness, and he would panic, terrified that more telling memories had come trickling back, but Al's gaze feels too inquisitive for that.
He twines his arm around Clark's neck, fingers playing in his hair. "I thought maybe-- we had problems. You wouldn't touch me."
"I just-- I didn't want to do the wrong thing with you." It's probably the most honest and most useless thing he's ever said to Al. Or anyone.
Al tightens his hold on him. "Don't, Clark. I don't want you to be careful. I don't want you to treat me like I'm going to break--"
Clark cuts him off with the force of his kiss, no chance of being careful after all this. He slides his body against Al's, cock pressed to cock, and says against Al's ear, "I'm touching you now."
"God!"
There's a bottle of lubricant in the bedside drawer--Al put it there pointedly one day when Clark was there to see him do it--and it proves both prescient and handy now. Clark has never been any good at this aspect of sex either, all clumsy fingers and spilling sticky stuff on the sheets and worrying that he's going to hurt the person beneath him. But Al kisses his neck and says "that's so good, Clark" the whole time, to everything he does, and when Clark finally eases his way inside him, God, it is. So good.
Afterwards, after the honest sweat and the urgent promises and the feeling Clark has like this is going to burn him up from the inside out, they lay weak-limbed and tangled together.
Al says Clark's name with a contented little sigh, as if that's all he really needs to know. Clark strokes his back, a profound quiet settled inside him, and after a while he realizes that Al has fallen asleep.
When he's certain he won't be heard, he tells Al, "Maybe I've done the wrong thing with you." He closes his eyes, corrects himself, "Okay, I definitely have. But you're mine now." He whispers a fierce promise, "And I'm keeping you."
Also! I recently went back to
lapetite_kiki made of Lex in his skimpy swimsuit, a scene from earlier in the story. And I realized that she'd made me an icon of it for me! I never saw that before, because I guess I didn't scroll down far enough. But I've seen it now! And whee! I do so love it. :)Title: You Can Call Me Al
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: 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
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven:
You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore
Part Eleven
The dry-walling job at the McCoy's turns out to be pretty straightforward, no tricky angles to maneuver around, just putting up the panels and hammering them into place in endless succession. It requires no actual concentration, not a good thing for Clark after the morning he's had. He always seems to fare best when he doesn't think too much about how he must appear to Al, but today it's next to impossible to avoid it. Don't make half gestures, Clark's father used to say. People won't know where they stand with you. Only a few weeks together, and Clark has already sent Al enough mixed messages to seem downright schizophrenic.
Of course, he knows the right thing to do. He does. It's just that no matter how much he resolves to keep his distance there's still a screening room in the stubborn part of his head where memories play, moments from that day on the yacht and after Al's first stint in the fields and from earlier that very morning, Al naked and wanting in Clark's bed. The more he thinks about it the more vivid the pictures become, and the more danger he's in of developing a reputation as someone who gets way too excited about drywall.
He exerts what feeble self-discipline he has to wipe his mind clear, just think about nothing. The work goes faster that way, and he finishes up in good time to make their dinner with Mrs. Henderson.
At home, he's surprised to see Pete's truck parked in the driveway. He's even more startled to find Pete and Al sitting at the kitchen table, bent over a stack of papers, matching expressions of concentration on their faces. For a split second, there's a clench in Clark's chest, not jealousy exactly, more a sense that there's been some development and he's missed out on it.
He clears his throat, and they both glance up, Al with a smile, Pete slightly sheepish.
"Hey," he says, sliding his hands into his pockets, rocking forward on the balls of his feet, feeling rather awkward himself.
"Clark," Al's voice does a smooth glissando into a more intimate octave.
Clark is not such a clueless husband that he fails to understand the meaning of this. Pete gets it too apparently, narrowing his eyes, the weight of his scrutiny like an extra presence in the room. Clark looks from Pete back to Al. He doesn't want to be on the wrong side of either of them, but in the end, it's Al he has to live with. He walks over, bends down for a quick kiss. Al looks pleasantly surprised, as if Clark might not be such a hopeless case after all. Pete takes the opportunity to examine the tablecloth in greater detail.
"So..." Clark says, adopting a breezy tone he hopes will convince someone. "What have you two been up to?"
"Pete's been helping me with our grant application," Al says, holding up a form for Clark to see.
Clark can't help sounding surprised, "Hey, Pete, that was really nice of you."
Pete shrugs, trying not to look embarrassed. "I went through the same thing when I was getting the factory up and running. I just thought I could save you guys some of the screw-ups I made."
"We really appreciate it," Clark tells him.
Pete gets to his feet. "No problem, man." He glances from Clark to Al and back again, shifting his weight indecisively. "Um, well, I guess I'd better get going. I'll see you guys later."
"I'll walk you out," Clark offers.
They're silent all the way to the truck, and then Clark struggles to explain, "Look, Pete, I know you must think--"
"We already went through this, Clark. I can't say I think you're doing the right thing here, but it's your call, not mine." He shakes his head, a wry smile. "I will say this, though. If you had to hijack a husband, at least you got one who knows his way around a business plan."
Clark smiles at that. "I really do appreciate your coming over to help."
Pete holds his eye. "I would have done it a long time ago. All you ever had to do was ask."
Clark nods. "I know, Pete. I know."
He heads back inside and finds Al on the screened-in back porch, at the worktable, amidst a profusion of wild poppies and purple coneflowers and feathery white asters that he's gathered from the fields, arranging them into a bouquet.
"So you and Pete seemed to be…getting along," Clark ventures.
Al shrugs. "I still don't think he particularly likes me. But I suppose if you must have a best friend who merely tolerates me, at least he knows his way around a business plan."
Clark breaks into a grin. "You know, you guys might actually have more in common than you think."
Al does not appear particularly convinced, but he doesn't argue. He finishes up the bouquet, tying it up with a brightly colored strip of cloth that Clark recognizes as having come from one of the ill-fated thrift store shirts.
"I figured we don't actually own ribbon," Al explains.
"And you figured right." On impulse, he leans in and gives Al an appreciative kiss. "You're really good at this kind of thing, you know."
"It's hard to go wrong with flowers, Clark, even when you are taking them to a manipulative old busybody."
Clark shakes his head. "I may have given you a somewhat misleading picture of Mrs. Henderson. She is, at heart, a nice lady."
"We'll see," Al says coolly, not ready to forgive her for the morning's interruption.
That thought brings back pictures, which in turn brings the blood rushing to Clark's cheeks. Al shoots him a quizzical look, and Clark tells him hastily, "I'd better go get cleaned up if we're going to make it over there by six."
Clark darts back inside, although not quickly enough to miss Al's exasperated sigh.
He takes a quick shower, wraps a towel around his waist and pads into the bedroom, over to the closet. He's dithering, trying to decide whether his blue sport coat is too much or his favorite jeans too little, when Al comes breezing into the room.
He nudges Clark aside. "This will go faster if you let me." Two seconds later, he's pulled out an outfit for Clark and laid it on the bed, along with a clean shirt and jacket for himself.
Getting dressed proves awkward. Clark tries to find ways to stall, waiting for Al to finish up, but even after he's ready, he stays put. His eyes rest on Clark, as if this is a test of some sort, and finally Clark just gives in, lets the towel drop. He'd think nothing of letting his husband look at him, and he's tired of making up stupid excuses why he needs to go get dressed in the bathroom. He pulls on his clothes, and as he's tucking in his shirt, he meets Al's eyes, silvery with appreciation.
"You look nice," Al tells him, reaching out to straighten his collar.
Clark shouldn't let himself wrap an arm around Al's waist and pull him close. The near miss of the morning should have taught him not to start things he can't finish. But then, Clark is a walking testament that a person really can learn nothing from his mistakes. He thinks, Just one kiss. Even though he should know that's never going to be enough.
It's Al who finally pulls away, breathing too hard. "If we don't leave now, we're never going to go."
They gather up the bouquet for Mrs. Henderson and a bottle of wine that Al put into the refrigerator earlier to chill. Al is unusually quiet on the short ride there, watching out the window distractedly, fingers drumming on the seat beside him. It's not until Clark is turning into Mrs. Henderson's driveway that it occurs to him: Al might actually be nervous.
He takes his hand as they head up the front walk. "She's going to love you."
They step onto the porch, and Mrs. Henderson throws open the door, too impatient to wait for them to knock. "There you boys are. Right on time. Clark, so good to see you." She rises up on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. "And this must be Al." She smiles at him with unrestrained delight.
"Mrs. Henderson, it's nice to meet you at last. Clark has told me so much about you." Al extends his hand.
But Mrs. Henderson isn't having any of that. "Oh, let's no stand on ceremony. I feel like we're already old friends."
She wraps her thin arms around his neck, and Al is so startled that he barely manages to save the flowers from her enthusiasm.
Mrs. Henderson pulls back and holds him at arm's length. "I just want to get a good look at you now." She studies him admiringly. "Oh, such a handsome young man. You and Clark sure do make a fine couple. Now you boys come on inside and make yourselves comfortable. It'll be just a little while before we're ready to eat."
She bustles them into her formal front parlor, keeping a proprietary hand on Al's arm as she leads the way. Clark has to hide a smile, pretending to cough. He's beginning to think he'll have a war on his hands at the end of the evening when it's time to reclaim his husband.
Mrs. Henderson's parlor is even tidier and more sparklingly clean than usual, and every inch of the coffee table is crowded with plates of hors d'oeuvres, stuffed mushrooms and cheese pinwheels, and yes!, crab puffs, Clark's personal favorite.
"You boys go on and sit down and make yourselves comfortable. We'll have a little snack while we're waiting for dinner to finish up."
"Before I forget, Mrs. Henderson," Al holds out the bouquet, "these are for you."
"And this too," Clark hands her the bottle of wine.
"Oh, my." Mrs. Henderson is practically beside herself. "So thoughtful." She lifts the flowers to her nose and takes a deep breath. "Mercy, I don't know when I've seen anything so beautiful."
Clark slips his arm around his husband's shoulders and smiles proudly. "It was all Al. He's the artistic one in the family."
"Well, I should say so. Very talented, indeed." She gives him a bright, appreciative smile, before her face clouds over. "And to think what you've been through, you poor boy. I haven't even asked how you're feeling."
"Much better, thank you," Al tells her. "Although I haven't really made any progress getting my memory back."
Mrs. Henderson nods sympathetically. "I know that must be a burden to you, but you'll remember everything in your own good time, I'm sure. And in the meantime, you have Clark here to look after you." She shakes her head, smiling. "Such a fine couple."
Al seems rather overwhelmed by the attention, doubtlessly never so fussed over in his life.
Fortunately, Mrs. Henderson takes a deep breath and says, "Well, now, I'd better go look in on dinner." She nods toward the sofa. "You two go on and sit down, and I'm going to put these lovely flowers in some water and the wine in the refrigerator to keep cool. And when I come back, we'll have a nice chat."
After she's gone, Al says under his breath, "The two of you have a pact to embarrass me to death, don't you?"
Clark shrugs, smiling.
Al narrows his eyes. "I knew it."
Clark pulls him close, kisses him lightly. "I can't help it if I'm proud of you, can I?" he asks, still smiling, stroking his thumb affectionately along Al's cheek.
Al's gaze catches on Clark's, his eyes turning a dark, interested shade of blue. He leans in, and the next kiss is far more urgent than the last.
They reluctantly break apart at the sound of Mrs. Henderson's footsteps in the hall. She sweeps into the room, carrying a tray of wineglasses, and Clark hurries to take it for her.
"Oh, thank you, dear," she says. "You can just put it down over there on the sideboard, and help yourselves."
They all settle in with a glass of wine, and Mrs. Henderson says with a happy sigh, "Well, now, here we are."
There's a moment of silence, the kind that naturally settles in a conversation when people are still getting acquainted, and they look from one to the other, smiling politely, waiting for someone to break the ice.
It's Clark who finally does, "Everything smells really good, Mrs. Henderson."
"Yes," Al quickly agrees. "Absolutely delicious."
"Oh, please," Mrs. Henderson urges them, "you boys go on and have some of this," she waves her hand over the platters of snacks, "before it gets cold."
Clark doesn't have to be invited twice where crab puffs are concerned, and he cheerfully digs in.
Al glances around, taking in the details of the parlor with his usual sharp-eyed observation. "You have a lovely home, Mrs. Henderson."
She turns decidedly pink. "Oh, thank you, dear. Mr. Henderson and I and our two boys, Sammy and Richard, we all had many good years here together." She casts an appraising eye around the room. "I always think that's what gives a house its character, the life you've lived there." Her expression grows wistful for a moment, maybe even a little sad, reminded of happy days since past, but then she quickly regains her chipper composure. "Clark's been telling me about all the improvements you're making over at your place. That must be very exciting."
Al nods. "It is, really," and he goes into some detail about wainscoting and the advantages of travertine over limestone.
Mrs. Henderson nods along with every word. "That just sounds lovely, dear."
"We still need a focal point for our living room," Al tells her. "I love that when you come into this room the first thing you see is that Javanese dowry chest. Have you been to Indonesia, Mrs. Henderson?"
"Why, yes, dear, I have," she says, looking rather amazed, and even more smitten with Al then she was before, if that's actually possible. "It was a very special place for me and Mr. Henderson. We spent our honeymoon there and went back on our anniversaries whenever we could."
Clark blinks in surprise. "I didn't realize you were such a world traveler, Mrs. H."
She smiles at him. "Oh, yes, dear.
"When you were visiting Indonesia, you must have been to Lake Toba."
"My, yes, dear. Such a spectacular sight. The views and all the plants and that clear blue water. I assume you must have visited there?"
Al nods. "Yes, several times. It was--" He frowns and turns to Clark. "Why was I in Indonesia?"
Clark freezes, mouth full of shrimp. "Um, well..." He thinks frantically in the brief space while he finishes chewing. "It was-- when you worked for your father." He nods vigorously. "That's it. You were there on business. He owned," Clark waves his hand in the air and goes the vague route, "some sort of importing and exporting company."
Al's eyes spark with interest at this previously unmentioned detail of his personal history.
Mrs. Henderson says, "Well, now, that must have been very interesting. Where else have you had the opportunity to visit, I wonder?"
Al frowns as he ponders the question, and then details just start tumbling out of him like the narrative of a travelogue. He and Mrs. Henderson fall into an animated discussion about the cuisine of Hong Kong and the beauty of the Norwegian fjords. Clark takes a deep breath of relief, another question safely dodged, and goes back to his appreciation of the potato fritters.
At last, Mrs. Henderson bustles off to the kitchen to check on dinner and comes back a few minutes later declaring it time to eat.
Al offers her his arm. "May I escort you?"
"So gallant," Mrs. Henderson says, sounding girlishly breathless as she accepts.
They pass along the hall en route to the dining room, and Al stops to point out a black and white photograph of a ballerina on stage. "That's Coppellia, if I'm not mistaken. And is that you as Swanilda, Mrs. Henderson?"
"Why, yes, dear. It certainly is."
Clark goes up to the picture and stares at it rather slack-jawed. He must have walked through this hall...well, who knows how many times? And he never noticed the likeness before, never even realized there was a photograph hanging there. "I didn't know you were a ballerina."
"Rather a successful one, dear, if I do say so myself. That was before I met Mr. Henderson, of course. Four glorious years with the New York City Ballet. I'll never forget a moment of it."
Mrs. Henderson's good china and crystal gleam in the soft light from the dining room's chandelier. Proudly displayed in the center of the table is a porcelain vase with the flowers they brought arranged in it. Over dinner, an extravagant six courses that leaves even Clark declaring himself stuffed, Mrs. Henderson regales them with stories from her days on the stage.
"Is that how you met Mr. Henderson?" Al asks. "When you were dancing in New York?"
She nods. "It was at one of Howard's parties. Whenever he was in town, he would always throw a big soiree, invite all the well-known actresses and dancers. To impress his business associates, you know. Howard had quite a way with the ladies. Such a charmer! That was before he got all mixed up and started fretting about germs and all that nonsense."
Clark stares at her. "Are you talking about Howard Hughes?"
"Oh, yes, dear," she says, as if that should be perfectly obvious. "I met my dear Walter on the balcony of Howard's hotel suite. I'd gone out for a breath of fresh air, and poor Walter was hiding out there, trying to blend in with the potted palms. He was always a shy man, and he'd only come to the party because he was in the middle of some business negotiations with Howard's company and didn't want to offend him. So I struck up a conversation, more as a good deed than anything else. But my dear Walter soon won me over."
"I wish we could have met him," Al tells her.
She puts her hand on his. "I do too, dear. Such a good, fine man. He would have liked you and Clark very much." She gets a faraway look for a moment, as if lost in some private memory of her husband, then she smiles at them and continues on with her story, "Anyway, my Walter wouldn't let me leave that evening without agreeing to see him again the next day. We went for a boat ride in the park. The following evening, he took me for dinner at the Magnolia Club, that was the place to go back then, and when the cherries jubilee arrived for dessert, Walter pulled out a little velvet box and asked me to be his wife." She gets a sparkle in her eye at the recollection. "I said yes just as quick as I could before he had the chance to change his mind."
"What a wonderful story," Al says.
Mrs. Henderson smiles. "Love always is, dear."
At the end of the evening, Mrs. Henderson won't hear of letting them go without taking leftovers home with them. "Oh, mercy. I'll never eat all this food. You boys need to help me with it."
She packs up two large shopping bags for them, with enough crabs puffs to keep even Clark happy. "I know how you like them, so I made some extra," she tells him with a wink.
"You should come for dinner at our house next week," Al tells her. "Although I should tell you that we haven't done much entertaining lately, so we may be a little out of practice. Just to give you fair warning."
Clark shakes his head. "Don't listen to him, Mrs. H. He's a great cook."
"Oh, I had a feeling," she says. "You can always tell a person who has culinary flair. And I'd be delighted to join you. My peonies should be in bloom by then. I'll bring you some for your table."
They say their goodbyes, and on the way home, Al wants to know, "Why didn't you ever tell me what a remarkable woman she is?" He frowns at Clark, as if he's purposefully kept this information to himself. "You always make her sound so...tedious."
"You've never seen her when she has corroded pipes and water damage," Clark says, a touch defensively. "Besides, she never told me any of those stories before. She must like you better."
Al regards him skeptically. "As if that's possible. You are the soul of likeability, you realize, Clark."
Clark gives him a soft, sidewise smile. "I think you underestimate your own charm."
Al's eyes meet his, and the intensity in them gives Clark a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. He lets his gaze slide back to the road, but he can still feel Al watching him the whole way home.
They carry the food into the kitchen. Clark starts to keep the crab puffs out, but Al gives him such a pointed look that he finally lets out a sigh and consigns them to the refrigerator along with the rest of the leftovers. Even after everything's put away, Al still lingers at the counter, a distracted air as he stares out the window.
Clark drifts over to his side. "It was a nice evening, huh?"
Al nods, but it's clear his mind is on something else.
"It seemed like you and Mrs. Henderson had a lot in common. You sure do know a lot about ballet."
"That was a strange experience," Al says, "having all those details come pouring out of me, not even knowing where I picked up any of that information."
"Ah," Clark says, beginning to understand why Al looks so contemplative. "It must have been kind of unnerving."
Al nods. "It was." He frowns, and his voice grows quiet, "Help me, Clark. Please. I need to understand what kind of person I am."
"Well," Clark says, letting his hand rest on Al's back, trying to be comforting, searching his memory for everything he knows about Lex Luthor. "You're an incredibly determined person. If there's something you want to know, want to do, there's no standing in your way. You're very smart, very curious. You have an elegant way about you. You know about the arts and history and what makes the perfect chocolate soufflé." He smiles fondly. "The truth is I'm just lucky you didn't mind marrying beneath you."
Al frowns, "Don't, Clark. Don't joke."
He presses close, and Clark's natural impulse is to slide his arm around him, like he's been doing that all his life.
"Maybe it's just because of the amnesia, but since I woke up in the hospital," Al says, "I've had this solitary sense of myself, like I've always been alone, and that's my life, not this. But tonight." He looks Clark squarely in the eye. "Tonight, I really felt like your husband, for the first time." He pauses. "And I liked it."
Clark freezes, in over his head again, and he starts to stutter, "Al--"
"Make me feel it some more, Clark," Al begs him. "Please."
He lifts his chin, and Clark practically falls into the kiss, fingers catching clumsily in the folds of Al's shirt. The touch of their mouths is raw, uncompromising, and Al is suddenly all over him like a man convinced he can find answers in Clark's skin.
Clark doesn't pull away immediately, probably a mistake, because the longer it goes on the more inevitable it feels. When he does finally to try to say something, it comes out feeble, "Al, I can't--"
"Yes, you can. You can," Al says breathlessly between kisses. "Unless," he goes still. "Only if you want to."
It's more than Clark can stand, the aching doubt in Al's voice, when that's so very, very far from the truth. "I do. You have no idea how much."
"Then please, Clark."
He isn't the same man Clark met on the yacht that day, but there is the same frayed desperation in his need. Clark kisses him resolutely, pulls the shirt from his waistband, sinks to his knees. He did have Lex Luthor's consent for this once upon a time, and he tells himself they're just picking up where they left off.
Clark backs Al against the counter and unzips his pants. Al must be expecting the usual last-minute freak out because he seizes up like he's been hit at the first touch of Clark's tongue.
Clark hasn't done this a lot, and he's never had another moment when it meant so much, too many dead-ends in his life, always so much to hide. But Al is still going to be here in the morning, and the next day, and if Clark is very lucky for a long time to come. They'll have breakfasts together, and they'll have fights, and maybe even a future. If Clark couldn't convince himself of that, he couldn't do this.
He moves his mouth along the shaft of Al's cock, wanting to make him gasp, make him tremble, his hands splayed over Al's hips, thumbs perfectly fitted to the hollows of his bones. This is the way Clark always thought sex would be, back in the innocent days when his only experience was what he'd imagined. Al doesn't clutch at him, as if Clark is just too convenient and he can't let him get away, the way other men have. His hands glide lovingly over Clark's shoulders, through his hair, brushing the side of his face, as if Al can't get enough of him, not just his mouth.
Al says Clark's name, a tortured half-groan, half-scream when he comes, and Clark realizes he would do anything to hear him sound like that again.
After it's over, Al's hands stay curled around the edge of the counter, knuckles white, his eyes wide and kind of spacey. Clark gently tucks him back into his pants, zips them, and stands up to give him a kiss.
But Al slides out of his arms. "I just-- I have to--" He hurries off to the bathroom.
Clark paces outside the door, torn between frantic confusion--hadn't that been what Al wanted? what he'd been wanting?--and berating himself for being careless and selfish and an idiot. He waits for Al to come out with a rising sense of panic, and when he finally does, his face is damp, as if he's been throwing water on it. Clark hovers at his side, wanting to reach out, reassure him, but he's not sure if it's okay to touch him.
"I'm sorry."
Al shakes his head. "It's not that. I just--"
"I shouldn't have just done it like that, right there in the kitchen. You probably weren't ready for--"
"I remembered, Clark."
Suddenly there's no air in the room, and Clark's whole body clenches like it's the end of the world. "I can explain."
But Al doesn't hear him, too absorbed in his own sense of revelation, "Not very much. Just you touching me. Kissing me. Going down on me. I don't even know where we were. But it was real, I'm sure of that." He meets Clark's eye, his expression shatteringly hopeful. "I remembered."
Clark swallows, and his throat is so tight it hurts. He opens his arms to Al and holds on, clutching at him, the way people always hold on to things that aren't really theirs. "I'm happy for you," he says, in a hoarse voice.
Al kisses him, both hands on Clark's shoulders, like maybe there's some subconscious part of him that realizes this doesn't belong to him, either.
If there is, though, he isn't listening to it. He pulls back and takes Clark's hand and says, "Come on."
In the bedroom, Al starts stripping off his clothes at once, with the kind of determination it's useless to argue with, not that Clark has any inclination to do that. He pulls off his own jacket, lets the shirt Al picked out for him fall carelessly to the floor. Al works more quickly than he does and is soon naked, while Clark is still half dressed. It's too much torment to wait even the few seconds it would take to get the rest of his clothes off. He pulls Al against him, and there's something so desperate, so illicit having bare skin pressed to khaki and leather he can't get his hands all over Al fast enough.
They kiss in a fever, the room silent except for the rasp of their breathing, their softly murmured exclamations. The only light is a pale splash of moonlight on the floor, neither of them bothering to turn on the lamp.
Al draws in a harsh breath and says, "I want you to fuck me. Do I like that?"
"Yeah," Clark tells him in a thick, slurred voice, utterly shameless. "You like that."
Even in the dim light, Clark can tell Al is smiling. "I thought so."
He goes to lie down on their bed, and Clark pulls off the rest of his clothes. It feels like a dream, like he's underwater, his body lumbering and weightless. He kneels on the bed and stretches out over Al. His skin is already so hot, and when it meets Al's, an inferno.
Every kiss is like diving into very deep water, the long plunge into darkness, the sense that nothing else exists, the only sound in Clark's ears the pounding of his own heart.
Time is watery too, meaningless, and when Al finally braces his hand on Clark's shoulders to push him back, it could be a minute later. Or an eternity. Clark can feel Al's eyes on him, even if he can't really make out his features in the dimness, and he would panic, terrified that more telling memories had come trickling back, but Al's gaze feels too inquisitive for that.
He twines his arm around Clark's neck, fingers playing in his hair. "I thought maybe-- we had problems. You wouldn't touch me."
"I just-- I didn't want to do the wrong thing with you." It's probably the most honest and most useless thing he's ever said to Al. Or anyone.
Al tightens his hold on him. "Don't, Clark. I don't want you to be careful. I don't want you to treat me like I'm going to break--"
Clark cuts him off with the force of his kiss, no chance of being careful after all this. He slides his body against Al's, cock pressed to cock, and says against Al's ear, "I'm touching you now."
"God!"
There's a bottle of lubricant in the bedside drawer--Al put it there pointedly one day when Clark was there to see him do it--and it proves both prescient and handy now. Clark has never been any good at this aspect of sex either, all clumsy fingers and spilling sticky stuff on the sheets and worrying that he's going to hurt the person beneath him. But Al kisses his neck and says "that's so good, Clark" the whole time, to everything he does, and when Clark finally eases his way inside him, God, it is. So good.
Afterwards, after the honest sweat and the urgent promises and the feeling Clark has like this is going to burn him up from the inside out, they lay weak-limbed and tangled together.
Al says Clark's name with a contented little sigh, as if that's all he really needs to know. Clark strokes his back, a profound quiet settled inside him, and after a while he realizes that Al has fallen asleep.
When he's certain he won't be heard, he tells Al, "Maybe I've done the wrong thing with you." He closes his eyes, corrects himself, "Okay, I definitely have. But you're mine now." He whispers a fierce promise, "And I'm keeping you."