scribblinlenore | Happy Valentine's Day! (Reply)

Wanted to wish a happy pink holiday to everyone on my flist, and a special thank you to the lovely anonymous flower-senders. I wrote you a little something-something to say Happy Valentine's Day in return. One of you mentioned Sam and Dean and the other Clark and Lex, so I wrote one of each.

Valentine's Day sucked. At least, this was Clark's opinion on the subject. For a good week leading up to the big pink holiday, everyone in the newsroom seemed incapable of talking about anything but flower arrangements and dinner reservations. In years when Lois had a boyfriend, Clark was treated to endless volleys of "what do you think he got me?" Before Clark could even hazard a guess, she would always add, wholly unbelievably, "not that it really matters, it's the thought that counts, after all." In lean years, there was a lot of heavy sighing, wistful hearts doodled on Lois' notepads, the inevitable, "hey, Clark, how 'bout us hapless singles go out for a pink drink and commiserate about our empty, meaningless lives?"

Superman received thousands of Valentine's, mostly crayoned tributes from small children, all sent care of the The Planet. It was sweet, really it was, except for the part where it made Clark feel like an even bigger loser in real life.

First thing Tuesday morning, the floral excess started arriving in perfumed waves. Clark kept his head down, eyes on his computer screen like he expected it to try to escape or something. Squeals of "oh my God, he remembered!" went up from more than one desk, and Clark had to keep reminding himself, it's not a real holiday, it's just a Hallmark marketing tool.

So it came as rather a surprise when a voice inquired, "Are you Mr. Kent?"

He glanced up. "Yes?" And eyed the messenger suspiciously. He couldn't think of anything he was expecting for work, certainly no one had gotten him flowers, and occasionally one of the city's super villains got a kick out of sending exploding packages to the newsroom. It would be just like The Joker to pick Valentine's Day for one of his tricks.

"Sign here, please." The messenger held out his clipboard, and Clark scrawled his name, and the messenger handed over a large, flat envelope. "Have a nice day."

He whistled as he walked away. Clark frowned as he tore into the envelope. His fingers fastened on what felt like a photograph, and he pulled it out and…no, definitely not anything he was expecting. He blinked a few times, and then flat-out stared, and then the blood began to rush to his face from as far away as his toes. Even the tips of his ears felt hot.

Belatedly, he thought to turn it over so no one else would see, hands scrabbling in his hurry, and that's when he found it, the note, in that slanted, familiar handwriting.

Clark,
Tonight, eight o'clock, my place.
Don't be late, and no primary colors, please.

Lex

Clark narrowed his eyes at the inked words, just the way he'd look at Lex if he were there in person. He had no idea what his nemesis was up to this time, but he was certainly going to find out.

***

Clark considered flying over to the penthouse right then, blasting his way into Lex's study just to see the look on his face. Alternately, he mulled the possibility of simply not showing up at all, thwarting Lex's scheme, whatever it was, before it even got started. At last, he decided that the element of surprise was too valuable an asset, and the most surprising thing he could do was simply to follow Lex's instructions.

He arrived precisely at eight, no spandex suit, no flying up to the balcony, breaking through the French doors. He walked up to the desk in the lobby of Lex's building like a normal person. Take that, Luthor, he thought.

The doorman nodded when Clark gave his name, directed him to the far elevator. Lex was waiting to meet him when the doors opened upstairs.

"Ah, there you are," Lex said, perfectly casually, as if Clark had not recently destroyed a LuthorCorp factory secretly manufacturing Kryptonite suppositories, for what purpose Clark didn't even want to guess. "Right on time. May I take you coat?"

Clark handed over his overcoat. "I don't know what you think you're doing…"

Lex seemed puzzled by the remark. "Having you to dinner, naturally." He ushered Clark into the living room. "Make yourself comfortable, won't you?" He swept out his arm toward the sofa.

Clark ignored him. "You have some explaining to do. This…" He waved the envelope at Lex. "What is this?"

"Your invitation," Lex supplied helpfully, as if the form the invitation had taken was in no way unusual.

Clark stared at him like he was crazy. "That picture…you're," he whispered in a hiss, "naked."

Naked and stretched out on a dark fur throw, a single red rose in his hand, a look on his face like…Clark couldn't think about that right now.

"Yes, well," Lex said rather matter-of-factly. "This is really the closest thing either of us has to a committed relationship, so I thought we should observe the traditions of the day."

There was none of the usual mockery in Lex's expression, no sign that he was taunting Clark. In fact, he seemed perfectly...serious.

Clark took a step closer, put his hands on Lex's head. "Hold still."

"I assure you that's not necessary," Lex told him.

Clark moved his fingers lightly, carefully over Lex's skull, checking for bumps, contusions, a behavior-altering skull fracture. "Did you fall, or did someone hit you?"

"I'm perfectly fine."

Clark preferred to judge for himself rather than take Lex's word for it, but at last, after careful examination, he had to agree. Whatever had gotten into Lex, it wasn't caused by a head injury.

Lex clapped his hands together. "Well, now that we have that settled, let's have some champagne."

He moved over to the bar. An ice bucket sat on the counter there, a bottle chilling.

"But we're enemies!" Clark blurted out.

Lex shrugged philosophically. "Every relationship has its downsides."

"We're at war!"

Lex was undeterred. "Do you have any idea what the average marriage is like, Clark? Trust me. We're in good company."

He twisted the cork. It made a delicate pop when it came out, and Lex filled two flutes. He handed one to Clark and clinked their glasses together. "Happy Valentine's Day."

He took a sip of his champagne, and Clark did too, before it occurred to him that he really shouldn't be going along with this insane charade. He scowled and began, "I don't know what kind of trick this is--"

But was cut off by the entrance of Lex's butler bringing in a cart of food, like room service in a fancy hotel. The butler arranged the meal on the table by the windows, made a slight bow and said, "Dinner is served, sir."

"Thank you, Henderson." Lex smiled at Clark, "I hope you're hungry. I had cook make all your favorites."

They sat down to eat, and Lex hadn't been kidding. There was chicken and dumplings, pot roast with mashed potatoes, pork chops and applesauce, peas with little bitty pieces of carrots in it, two kinds of pie for dessert, apple and cherry, with vanilla ice cream. Lex kept pouring the champagne, and any time they were about to veer onto a sensitive topic, Clark's work or LuthorCorp's current research projects or pretty much anything about their past, he quickly changed the subject. By the time Clark had polished off the last of the ice cream, he was surprised to realize they'd spent a pleasant enough dinner together, talking about the weather, the Sharks and how stupid reality television was, perhaps the only thing they'd ever truly agree on.

After Henderson had cleared away the dishes, Lex poured them both snifters of brandy and invited Clark to join him on the sofa by the fire.

Clark accepted the glass, sniffed at the amber liquid. "You can't get me drunk, you do realize that, right?"

"Mmmm," Lex said absently, staring at the flames.

Clark had been waiting all evening for the other shoe to drop, for the threat or bribe or extortion attempt, to find ground-up meteor rock in his food, something, anything that would explain all this. But Lex had much the same expression now as he did in that photo--God, that photo!--his face open in some way that Clark wasn't used to seeing anymore, hadn't seen in a long, long time, unguarded, almost vulnerable. It was that expression that had made Lex seem truly naked in that photograph, more so than simply being unclothed.

Lex took a sip of his brandy, still lost in his contemplation of the fire. It seemed it was Clark's move now, and a list of reasonable responses filed through his head: leave, force the issue, make an excuse about going to the bathroom and do some snooping. All these possibilities had merit, but Clark always had been more of an impulse shopper. He set their drinks down on the coffee table, tilted Lex's chin and kissed him.

The actual experience of the kiss was lost at first in a rush of Oh my God, I'm kissing Lex! and What the hell am I doing? and Oh my God, I'm kissing Lex! When Clark calmed down enough to take stock, he found he rather liked it all. Lex's body felt solid, warm beneath his exploring hands. Lex tasted like cherries and sugar and brandy, and he smelled so damned good that Clark kept pressing his face against his neck to breathe in more of him.

In the early years of the end of their friendship, Clark would sometimes go into fancy department stores and cruise the men's cologne counters, trying to find that scent, never succeeding. A sales clerk would inevitably give him a commiserating look, "miss him, huh?", like he knew what Clark was doing, like he'd seen it all before. It was that pitying glance that always sent Clark scurrying home.

I am not mooning over a criminal, he would tell himself.

That reminder was like cold water in the face, and it made him pull away. "Are you trying to seduce me?" he asked breathlessly.

Lex covered Clark's face in a flurry of kisses. "No, no, of course not."

"Tell me this isn't a trick. Tell me you don't want anything."

"Nothing but--" Lex laid his palm flat against Clark's erection.

Good enough. Clark had asked the questions that needed to be asked, done his due diligence. He pushed Lex back against the cushions, leaned over him, and reclaimed his mouth. Lex's hands worked their way under Clark's shirt, calloused fingers moving delicately over his skin. Clark shuddered at the touch, so good, so long since anyone had done that, and his body just sort of took over, his hands roaming at will over Lex, his hips rocking insistently. So lost in how good it felt that it took a while to realize the word Lex kept saying was his name, little hitch in the middle of that single syllable. Clark thought once more of the photograph, how Lex had looked in it, the pristine arch of his back, all that flawless skin just begging to be touched, the way his legs had been softly parted, like he'd let-- Like it would be okay if--

Lex pushed up against Clark inistently, and it occurred to him then that if they kept going like this it was going to be over all too soon.

"No." He extricated himself from Lex and stood up.

Lex just blinked, not comprehending.

Clark held out his hand, before Lex could get that shuttered look in his eyes again that he hated so much. "Not on the couch."

He led Lex down one corridor, then another, all the way to his bedroom door, before it occurred to him that he really wasn't supposed to know where it was.

He turned to Lex guiltily. "I didn't-- I wasn't-- Not when you were--"

Lex smiled, leaned close to whisper, "I wouldn't have minded if you had."

He pulled Clark by the hand into his room, and Clark stopped in his tracks at the sight of the fur throw (the fur throw!) folded neatly at the end of Lex's bed.

Lex's hands were already moving on the buttons of his shirt. "That's right, Clark. Life is about to imitate art."

Clark pushed Lex's shirt off his shoulders impatiently, pressed a kiss to the warm hollow of his throat. Maybe Valentines Day doesn't suck so bad after all, he thought.

Valentine's Day sucked, at least it did when ghostbusting was your gig. Funny thing about being unlucky in love, it was like some secret formula for immortality. The scorned and betrayed and jilted never really died, they just grew more resentful, and Valentine's Eve in particular tended to get them all riled up. Sam and Dean had already tangled with three Women in White that night, a Tearful Tilly (spirits of brides left at the altar that drowned their victims with their copious weeping), and two harpies, which were the worst. They preferred a very personal sort of maiming to killing, and it was hard to salt and burn bones when you were trying to protect your privates from their vindictive talons.

Almost four in the morning, and Sam hoped things would start to settle down now that the dark hours had passed and the balance was shifting from night back to day. He took a hit of his coffee, eyes scanning the quiet block. Beside him, Dean was doing the same, jiggling his leg to keep awake.

"Maybe that's it for tonight?" Dean ventured hopefully

Before Sam could tell him to shut up, not to jinx them, a scream came from a nearby house. They ran from the car, up the sidewalk, and Dean kicked in the front door. The commotion was coming from upstairs, and they took the steps two at a time. At the end of the hall, an eerie glow was coming from beneath the door, and they ran toward it.

Inside, they found a terrified man and woman being faced down by a Nevermore, a forlorn soul who'd never found love in life and turned spiteful in death, preying on devoted couples. The wife huddled in bed, phone in hand, frantically dialing 911. The man was futilely trying to defend them with a baseball bat. Nevermores went straight for the heart, would rip it right out of a person's chest while it was still beating, and the only way to kill one was something sharp and metal through whatever was left of its heart.

The Nevermore started to lunge at the man, and Sam shouted, "Hey, ugly face, over here!"

It--he? Sam thought this particular Nevermore might have been a man in life, but its spirit was so malformed in death it was hard to tell--turned its icy glare on him. Then its hand shot out, aiming for Sam's chest, to take his heart, not what Sam had been expecting since Nevermores rarely if ever attacked people who weren't part of a couple.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, springing into action.

He got there just in time, just as the Nevermore's icy fingers brushed Sam's shirt. Before it could claw through skin and flesh, Dean shoved the business-end of an ice pick into the dark blur of its chest. It rocked back, made a high screeching noise, and in the split second before it exploded into black dust, Sam saw the face of the person this monster had once been, a rather sad-eyed man with neatly parted blonde hair, some poor schlub, not a monster at all.

For several long seconds after it had been destroyed, the homeowners just stared at the pile of dust left behind, and finally the man looked to Dean. "What--" He ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Why-- Who--"

Dean put on the aw-shucks charm. "Nothing to worry about now, folks. Sorry to have disturbed you."

He and Sam backed out of the room and raced back to the car before the couple decided the police really should be notified that someone had just been reduced to particles in their house. Dean drove with precise turns of the wheels, his jaw set, and Sam knew what that meant. Dean was pissed.

"Yell at me or something," Sam told him.

Dean just shook his head, his shoulders tensed.

"Come on. You know how much you enjoy lecturing me when you think I've done something wrong."

Dean's head snapped around. "You just stood there while it came at you."

"I didn't expect it to attack me! They don't usually go after single people. I did my research."

Dean shook his head. "That's just fucking terrific, Sam. That would be so much comfort to me if you'd gotten killed back there. Hey, at least Sam studied up on that Nevermore that tore the heart right out of him."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest, stubbornly. He refused to say he was sorry, because it was too fucked up to apologize for almost getting killed, and they drove the rest of the way back to the motel without a word.

The second they were inside their room, though, Dean was on him, breath hot against the back of his neck, hands grappling at his clothes. Just Dean being Dean, expressing his concern the way he did best, non-verbally. He pushed Sam down onto the bed, and their bodies twisted together as they bit kisses onto each other's lips. Too urgent to linger, and Dean pushed Sam up onto his hands and knees. Tear of foil, bottle of hand lotion frantically grabbed for, and then Dean was taking Sam over, inch by little inch, pain and pleasure like rings in a magician's trick, impossible to separate.

Dean's breath came in labored puffs against Sam's shoulder as he moved inside him, Sammy! murmured against his skin like a prayer. There were so many ways Sam could try to explain whatever this was between them: fear, loneliness, adrenaline, comfort, the simple confluence of genes. So many ways, but mostly he didn't try. Mostly he just accepted that whatever else it might be it was utterly necessary.

Afterwards, when they'd both come and the mess had been cleaned up and they knew how to breathe again, Dean could have gone back to his own bed. Most times he did.

Tonight, he flung an arm across Sam's waist. "Try not to get yourself killed, huh, Sammy?"

Sam smiled bleakly into the darkness. "Okay."

"Good," Dean said in a sleep-rough voice.

A few minutes later, he was snoring, drooling on Sam's shoulder.

***

Morning came too quickly, and Sam opened one eye warily. Pale sunlight spilled in through the gap in the drapes. It couldn't be much later than seven. At least, there was the smell of fresh coffee. He pushed himself up on one elbow. A Starbucks cup sat on the nightstand beside him. Dean sat on the opposite bed, a bag of miniature Mars bars flung down beside him, hot pink packaging decorated with a swirl of hearts. Sam reached for his coffee, raised an eyebrow at his brother.

Dean shrugged. "We survived another year of the spurned and the damned. I say we deserve some candy."

Sam cracked a grin. "That's sweet, dude. It really is."

Dean fixed him with a look. "I got it for me, bitch. You'll be lucky if I let you have even one little-bitty chocolate bar."

"Mmm-hmmm." Sam sipped his coffee.

They both knew if Dean had gotten it for himself it'd be a bag of Butterfingers.

There were few things Dean hated more than being accused of sentimentality, and he tore open the bag in a huff, started downing Mars bars to prove his point.

"You're going to make yourself sick," Sam sensibly pointed out.

Dean flashed him a chocolate grin.

Sam shook his head, but he couldn't quite keep from smiling. He took his time finishing his coffee, and then he got to his feet, stretched lazily.

A diversion like that would have worked on anyone else, but Dean knew him far too well. He shoved the bag of candy behind his back just as Sam made a move for it.

"Too slow, little brother." Dean smiled at him with cheerful smugness.

Sam tilted his head, considering the situation. "Okay. Plan B, then."

He caught Dean's jaw in his hand, tilted his chin with his fingers, and kissed him, deep and searching, licking at the chocolate on his lips. He didn't stop until Dean was all he could taste.

When he pulled away, he caught Dean's eye, the steady, considering look there. Maybe he was thinking the same thing Sam was. That whatever this was, the two of them, it was enough to make a Nevermore want to kill for it.

Sam grabbed for the bag of Mars bars and was halfway to the bathroom with it before Dean could even manage, "Hey!"

Sam closed the door and heard a soft thud against it, the pillow that Dean had thrown at him. He grinned. Okay, so maybe Valentine's Day didn't suck so bad after all.

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