Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1996, Smallville, KS

Clark was pissed. Yeah, pissed. Hear that, dad? “Pissed,” he grumbled, stomping through the woods, all righteous defiance, chewing on that forbidden—stomp!—swearword.

Why couldn't he play dodgeball with his friends? With all the other normal kids? Clark's life sucked. “Suck!” he raged, nearly tearing up.

It wasn't his fault he was stronger than other kids. Why should he be punished because they weren’t strong like him? His parents told them his abilities made him a very special boy, but he didn’t feel so special right now. And anyway, Clark didn't always use his super strength; he was big now and could modulate his abilities.

Also, he'd never ever hurt his friends. What sense did that make?, he liked them! The very thought of causing harm to Pete made him queasy, like he’d come too close to Lana from class again. But mom and dad were unbending, and at this rate he might just cut his losses, since he doubted anyone would wanna talk to him anymore, and he’d be left to die a lonely, sad loser.

It’d been a while since he’d veered off the familiar trail, anticipating that his parents would first look for him there. Now, he was beginning to regret it as his stomach began to rumble and he could envision no clear path back towards home. Surrounded by tall trees on all sides, there was nothing to guide his steps and everywhere looked about the same, green and boring. 

The light filtering through the leaves in gossamer, latticy patterns was turning more orange by the second as sunset approached. The predators Clark had been warned about in school—snakes, coyotes, venomous spiders—began to loom taller in his imagination than even the elongated shadows of the oak trees around him.

When the sky began to bleed purple, Clark finally seemed to reach the edge of these endless woods, and emerged in front of a large outdoor swimming pool. Civilization at last! He only took a moment to feel relieved before his eager eyes glued themselves to the pool in wonderment. Clark had only ever seen one of those in the movies, so big it rivaled actual lakes. It seemed to belong to the ginormous castle-mansion standing right behind it, so maybe the pool wasn't so big as it was rather modest-sized. You know, in proportion.

“Wow!” Clark marvelled to himself at the size of the manor. The buildings in town that were comparable in hugeness, like the high school or the hospital, were designed to house a bunch of people. Hundreds! But homes, even castle homes, only held a single family in them, so did this mean that the children had, like, fifty rooms each? 

If Clark had fifty rooms to fill as he saw fit, what would he fill them with? A playroom, for certain. Or, rather, two playrooms, one full of toys and the other filled to bursting with arcade games and coin-ops. Another room, an indoor soccer field. Then a personal cinema. And…

“Hey!” he called out in greeting. 

He hadn’t noticed at first, but there was a boy with his feet dipped in the swimming pool. His pant legs were rolled over his knees and there were dark shoes and socks discarded at his side. 

He was bald, Clark registered with some surprise. He’d never seen baldness in someone so young.

The boy had been staring in silent contemplation at the water around his ankles. He startled at the sound of Clark’s voice and rose to his feet, standing tall and defiant. He’d scrambled for the beanie next to his shoes and shoved it onto his head, clumsy-handed.

“Who’re you?” he spat. “What are you doing here?”

Clark walked nearer and squinted at the boy.

“Don't I know you?”

There was no spark of recognition in the boy’s eyes, only contempt.

“Har har,” he spoke without humor. “What is it now, from the circus? Your aunt's bald chicken? ACS?” He drawled, “Surprise me, shrimp.”

“Ay-cee…? No, I…” Clark frowned, upset at himself for his shortcomings. He wasn’t making himself understood, and he had the impression that something he’d said had upset this boy. “... Nevermind.” 

He came to a stop next to the baldheaded kid, who stood a little taller than him. Clark made sure to stand at his full height, resenting the shrimp moniker.

The boy was most likely older, Clark assessed, and thrust his hand forward. He was dressed all fancy, so Clark felt the need to be on his best behavior. 

“I'm Clark Kent.”

The boy looked distrustingly at the proffered hand but Clark persevered. In the face of Clark’s resoluteness and propriety, the boy folded, as Clark knew he would, and they shared a grown-up handshake, a firm grip one up one down.

“Alexander Luthor. Lex for short.”

“My name doesn't have a nickname,” he commented enviously. “Yours is cool.”

Lex blinked quickly a few times.

“How old are you, Clark?”

“Ten!” Clark said proudly, having only recently reached double digits. “And you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Ooh.”

Clark was somewhat awed at such an advanced age. He was a grown boy now, but Lex was already a preteen. Everyone in class was really looking forward to thirteen, while the thirteen-year-olds in school wouldn’t give them the time of day except to pick on them. And here Clark was, making friends with one! A rich one, no less!

Pete would be so jealous when he heard.

“Is it true you have fifty rooms?”

Lex frowned, baffled, and his reddish eyebrows rose on his forehead.

“I… there are about fifty rooms, but only, like, twenty of those are bedrooms. If that was what you meant.”

Clark was disappointed. “Oh.”

They stood there in awkward silence.

Lex broke it eventually, saying, “You said you know me…?”

Afraid that Lex would take offense again, Clark backtracked.

“Must’ve been someone who looks like you! Just. Forget it.”

Clark’s eyes caught on the top of his head like fabric on a pointy corner, jerking and snagging. He was made fully aware that Lex was a little too distinguishable for that excuse to work.

He chewed on the inner lining of his cheek while Lex assessed him head to toe, Clark waiting to be screamed at again. However, Lex surprised him by saying, at last, “It’s getting dark. You wanna come in?”

The tone was snotty and Lex didn't seem to care much either way, but Clark was curious enough—about the house and about its owner—that he'd overlook that.

His mind flitted guiltily to his parents, wondering if they were too awfully concerned about him by now. If they were roaming the woods somewhere calling out his name in despair.

“I can show you what rooms I do have,” Lex dangled the offer in front of his face like a tasty carrot, a little smirk on his lips.

Clark answered with one of his own.

Lex led him into the manor with a quiet, “Don't make noise.”

As they stepped inside through a side door, Clark marvelled at the interior even more than he had at the sandstone and ivy outside. All dark wood and thick carpeting; Clark's shoes, dirt-stained soles turned muddy by walking through poolside puddles, left faint marks behind as the boys walked further into the heart of the castle. Lex either didn't notice or chose not to mention it, so Clark averted his eyes quickly from the mess he was leaving in his wake and followed with silent enthusiasm.

“Are you a prince?” he asked in a loud whisper, turning in a circle to look every which way.

“No.”

“Why the castle, then?”

“Beats me.”

Clark frowned, uncomprehending, but let the matter drop.

Up a set of stairs and they entered a bedroom in the same dark coloring as the rest of the house. Sadly, there was a distinct lack of toys.

“This is my room,” announced Lex grandly.

Clark found it a bore, but took a minute to walk around and survey the space for politeness’ sake. He imagined Lex kept the fun stuff all in his playrooms in order to keep things tidy.

Next, Lex led him to an enormous room filled floor to ceiling with bookshelves. A few volumes laid open on top of the large table in the center, next to a bust of a hairy man and a yellowish globe mounted on a wooden base.

“The library.”

He would've found it cool were he not so impatient to get to the fun.

Clark spun the globe on its axis, then ran his fingertips absentmindedly over the spines of a row of books. Finally, too eager to hold back anymore, he asked:

“Where do you keep your stuff?”

“My… stuff?”

Lex was a little slow, Clark thought in good humor. Mom had always told him to be patient with the other kids who couldn't keep up, so he clarified:

“Yeah, your stuff! Your toys and, and stuff.”

Lex twisted his mouth in some emotion, likely embarrassment—Clark too would have been embarrassed in his position—and said, “I don't have. Any. It distracts me from what's important.”

Clark was horrified.

“Playing is important! My teacher said so!”

Integral to the healthy development of children, he'd been told. He recited those words to stretch his playtime for another ten minutes whenever mom and dad told him it was bedtime.

With more grandeur than the situation required, Lex sniffed, “I'll inherit my father's company. That's more important. I don't expect a hillbilly kid who'll inherit nothing but a handful of cows to get that.”

Clark blinked at him for a few seconds, then rolled his eyes.

“You're silly.” 

The farm had lots of things, not just cows, and his parents had talked to him about college once. Clark was the one who was gonna choose whether to take over the farm or not, and he’d only have to make that choice when he’s like, eighteen. Clark began to explain it all to Lex, until he grew tired and got back to the matter at hand.

“I'll come back tomorrow with some toys and we'll play, okay?” he suggested. “You'll like it.”

Clark had imagined Lex would be showing him incredible, amazing things hidden behind his fancy doors. He was richer, older. But it seemed that it was Clark who had the most to teach. He didn't mind; felt quite smug, actually, to take on this mentoring position with an older kid.

“You'd do that?” Lex asked in a small voice.

“Sure. Especially if it'll get you to unwind, grumpface.”

Clark didn't get the affronted, amusing reaction he'd been waiting for. Instead, Lex wasn't even paying attention, glancing around the library as if afraid someone might appear.

“What is it?” Clark looked around as well, but there was nothing out of place.

“Thought I heard…”

Lex took in a deep breath and seemed to yield full-body, shoulders slumping.

“It'll have to be our secret,” he said, walking closer to Clark, prompting a beaming grin out of the younger kid. “There's a greenhouse to the left of the pool. I can meet you there at the same time tomorrow. A little before sunset. Can you make it?”

Clark nodded animatedly. Then, he remembered that in order to come back, he had to leave first, and he had no idea how to accomplish that.

“Ham, about that…” his smile was a yellow, mortified thing. “I don't know how to go back home. I sort of… got lost. And stumbled upon. Eh, here.”

Lex pursed his mouth in thought, and here in the warm but strong lighting of the library, rather than in the dimness of outdoors, Clark was able to see the shallow scar bisecting Lex's upper lip.

Had he gotten it playing tag or something? It would've made sense, since he had no toys to play with, but hadn't Lex said he didn't have time for fun of any kind?

Clark opened his mouth to ask how he'd gotten the scar, but Lex spoke first.

“We’ll do it this way. I'll take you out the same way we came in. You knock on the front door and pretend you don't know me. Tell Mrs. Harolds you were lost, and ask for help getting back home.”

“But why—”

“They can't know.”

“Why? I'm your friend.”

Lex seemed to chew on his words, flushing across the bridge of his nose. He puffed up his cheeks before releasing the air and said:

“Dad doesn't want me to have friends here, so it'll have to be our secret.” He leaned forward to get on Clark’s eye level and asked very seriously, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes! I'll be the best secret-keeper in the history of secret-keeping. Like, a… a vault of secrets!”

Clark kept lots of secrets very well, like his own abilities! Only Clark couldn’t tell how good at it he was, because then he’d have to share the secret first… secret-keeping was a frustrating ordeal, but Clark already knew that.

Lex snorted. “We’ll see.” Clark grumbled, displeased at the dismissal, and Lex continued: “I dunno if someone will drive you home or if they'll call your parents to come pick you up. But since you don't know the way here, you could pay attention to where the car goes. And then you retrace the steps and come back. Tomorrow, I mean.”

“Good idea,” Clark nodded with a smile. “You're so genius!”

“Thanks.”

“I already have a best friend, but you can be my second best friend. Okay?”

Lex nodded. “I have a best friend too… though we haven't spoken in a while.” If Clark wasn't mistaken, he looked sad about it. Without knowing more, Clark fumbled for words of comfort to offer him. 

“Wh—”

“So… I guess you can be my second too. Now c'mon.”

Clark did as he was told, scrambling after him. Without usage of his super speed, his shorter legs had a hard time keeping up. Once outside, he rang the bell on the large, stately front door, having to press the button four times before someone answered. The insistence must not have endeared him too much to the housekeeper, who eyed him head to toe and twisted her nose at him, like something about him stank. 

“I got lost when I was playing in the woods next to my house,” Clark said in his best impression of innocence, modeled after Bambi. “Could you help me find my parents, missus?”

She was gracious enough to let him in, though she grumbled half-audible curses about ill-behaved brats and something-something the Lord all the while.

Allowed to sit perched on a high stool, Clark examined the kitchen while he waited. His baldheaded friend peeked over the frame of the door at one point when the housekeeper had her back to it, and Clark, fancying himself very smart and naughty, giggled soundlessly and winked at Lex.

His parents were irate when they came, as he’d imagined they’d be, and mom teared up when she hugged him. He felt guilty, but not so much that he regretted the events that led to his meeting Lex. The Kents thanked the housekeeper profusely and spirited the son away from that immense castle, chastising him the whole ride home. Clark kept his face glued to the window and made a mental map of the path he'd have to take tomorrow. 

He didn't even mind the dodgeball that much anymore. How could he, when he now had something so much better? When his parents came by to check up on him before bed, figuring that the missed game was still front and center in his mind, he promised easily enough that he wouldn't try to play again. He was even saying the truth. After all, he would much rather teach Lex to have fun in a huge castle, anyway. They could play king and knight. Did Lex have any swords, even though he wasn't a prince?

For the first time, Clark had a secret he could share with a friend, and life looked brighter, more exciting, than ever before.

Clark fell asleep with a smile on his face.

Clark planted his feet securely on the ground like some humongous dinosaur, like his footsteps were capable of leaving craters in their wake. Meanwhile, he held up the fingers of one hand, opening and closing in mimicry of a beak.

“Five little ducks,” he was chanting, “went out one day. Over the hills— and far a-way! Mummy duck said ‘quack quack quack quack’. But only four little ducks. Came back!”

He put one finger down to demonstrate the loss of a duckling.

“Four little ducks…”

Mom and dad allowed Clark to play around in the barn and in the fenced fields by himself and unsupervised, but only after he'd gotten his schoolwork done and before it was time for dinner. Clark was taking advantage of that window of time to escape to Lex’s castle, and time was of the essence. This once, he’d be walking slowly on the way there to get acquainted with the mostly-unfamiliar path. Going back, however, he planned to use his super speed to get back in a few moments, so, he hoped, his parents would be none the wiser regarding his escapade.

Finally, the fence surrounding Lex’s manicured gardens came into view. Clark circled it and came to a stop in front of what he assumed was the greenhouse, a pretty little house built all in metal beams and transparent glass, with rows of plants on the inside and basketfuls of plants on the outside.

Clark jumped the fence and walked nearer, seeing the back of Lex’s head as the boy sat down on a stool, waiting for him. Clark’s heart raced in his chest in excitement; what did the afternoon have in store for him and his new friend?

“Lex!” he called out upon entrance.

Lex looked up from the book on his lap. A shadow of surprise had crossed his face, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared.

“You came,” he breathed out.

“I said I would,” Clark countered with a grin. “And I brought treats! Watcha reading?”

He dumped his backpack on the ground, opening the zipper with some fanfare. Toys spilled out over the floor, an assortment of vehicles, superheroes, horses, and spaceships, and Lex’s eyes widened in awe.

“History,” he mumbled absentmindedly.

“Let’s race,” Clark proposed, and picked up two racing cars. 

One was newer, fancier, his birthday present from this year. The other was a cheaper model. When he played with Pete and they only had Clark’s toys to share, Clark always chose the best for himself, as was his wont as their owner. Seeing Lex, though—a boy who, for all his wealth, seemed unfamiliar with the concept of toys for children—staring at his Hot Wheels with a look of raw covetousness softened Clark’s heart some.

“You can take Brian,” he offered, mumbling. He rather hoped Lex either didn't hear it or didn't take him up on the offer. 

“Who?”

Clark sighed, put out. No such luck. He might not be cut for this selfless, heroic thing, if the way he felt now was any indication.

“Brian. The blue one.”

“Really? Can I?”

Lex looked so happy that Clark's heart thawed, and he nodded with a smile.

Once they’d taken their positions and Clark had convinced Lex to sit cross-legged on the floor, Clark began:

“Brian, Brian, Brian. So we meet again.”

Lex looked at him in question.

“I'm speaking. As George.” The name of his red convertible. “Don't tell me you've never seen anyone play.”

“No, I have, just…” Clark waited impatiently for him to elaborate. “So I'm not driving the car? I am the car?”

“Duh. And you're the good guy. I'm the villain.”

Skeptically, Lex deadpanned, “Really.”

“Well, Brian can’t be the villain.” And so Clark announced grandly, “You'll never catch me!”

Though he preferred to always be the good guy, what could he do? He’d make the evilest, most devious foe Brian had ever seen!

He dragged the wheels of his car on the ground, the screeching tires signaling the toy getting wound up to run, and then he released. George drove on his own for a few feet before coming to a stop.

After too long gone without action, Clark shot Lex an encouraging look.

“My vehicle,” the older boy began, a little unsure, “eh, body, is so much superior and, uh, faster than yours. There's no way you're getting away,” he said.

Clark blinked.

“C'mon.”

“What?” Lex said, defensive.

“You’re good! You're supposed to talk about being good. Like… Crime doesn't pay! You've crossed the line! In the name of justice and truth! You save the people and lock up bad guys.” Put out, Clark whined, “Don't you know any heroes?”

“I read comics! Sometimes. The hero always says ‘you're safe now’ when he rescues someone.”

“And when he beats the bad guy?”

“Eh… not something very specific?”

Getting frustrated with the conversation, Clark felt his attention wander, and he took notice of the milky, flawless skin at the top of Lex's skull. The air in the greenhouse was moist and warm, and Lex had gotten overheated in his beanie, removing it a while ago.

“Can I touch your head?”

Lex's annoyed but open expression shuttered, and he mumbled, “No.”

“Why?” asked Clark.

“Cause I don't want to.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Clark would've let it go, knowing it was the polite thing to do, but the lamp light was hitting Lex's skull, making it look near transparent, and he really wanted to.

“Pretty please?”

Lex didn't respond, contenting himself with a mild glare Clark's way, body language hostile.

Upset, Clark tried the second best thing, “What does it feel like?”

Maybe Lex could describe it to him so he wouldn't be so curious anymore.

“Any other body part. Like my cheek.”

Clark’s eyes lit up.

“Oh! Can I—?”

“No,” Lex shot him down for the third time, and Clark deflated in defeat.

He fiddled with the toy horse laying next to his knee, eyes prickling a little in humiliation.

“You'll never get away with this,” Lex's voice cut through the awkward silence that had built up between them.

Just that easily, Clark perked up again.

“I already have,” he replied in his best menacing voice.

“Vvrroooommm…” Clark dragged out the sound as he wound up his car.

“Neeooow!”

Clark burst out laughing.

“What was that?!”

Lex sniffed and said, “Mine is—”

“Brian,” Clark interjected.

“—Brian is a race car.”

Not only had Lex taken Brian from him, but he'd also made him into a better sort of car than Clark's. Clark tried not to let it get to him, but it was difficult.

“I wanna be a race car too…”

“So be one,” shrugged Lex.

With a little smile, Clark resumed the rightful pursuit, going, “Neeooooow!” as he ran away from justice.

They played for a long time. Once, Ms. Janine, Clark’s teacher from last year, had had the students doing a science experiment called magic milk. They’d poured milk into the dishes they’d brought from home, added drops of food coloring, and then dipped their cotton swabs bathed in dish soap into the center of the milk.

The colors began to run away, as if it were scared of Clark’s Q-tip, swirling and mixing and pooling near the edge of the dish.

The sky looked much like that right now. Shades of reds, and oranges, and pinks, and later on purples and blues, began to spread over the sky like the sun had become a soaped up cotton swab.

“I need to go back home,” Clark said mournfully, eyeing up the advancing blue.

Lex, who’d been curled over his toy, straightened up in an imperious manner and looked at Clark.

“Why?” he demanded.

“I gotta… My mom…”

Lex scoffed.

Dumbfounded at the reaction, Clark looked at Lex for a cue, a sign as to what he was feeling, and found nothing.

“See you tomorrow?” he asked tentatively, gathering up his toys.

“Go,” Lex said, not lifting a finger to help.

“Same time tomorrow?” Clark asked.

His tone had been hopeful, but he had to go away when it became clear no answer would be forthcoming.

But Clark did appear the next day, and Lex seemed pleased to see him. As he did when Clark showed up the day after that, and the day after that, for over two weeks.

Today was a day unlike any other. Lex said it was the employees’ wedding anniversary (a stupid concept as far as Clark was concerned, but he couldn’t argue with the results), which meant that they, as well as their son, were out of town until tomorrow.

Clark was allowed inside for the first time since the afternoon he and Lex had met. This time, he came in through the front door, marveled at the double staircase, the chandelier, was able to make as much noise as he wished just to see how much it echoed. Lex stood at his side, proper like he was above childish things such as fun despite evidence on the contrary. When Clark began to run down the hallways, he followed behind, first yelling out warnings to be careful, and then laughing as they skidded along a sharp turn.

“Hey, do you wanna see the secret passages?”

“The—? Yes! Yesyesyes!”

It turned out that Lex’s castle did not have swords, or even one of those life-sized knight sculptures Clark had always wanted to poke at, but it did have secret passageways like in a detective story. He ooh'ed and ahh'ed in turns, hopped down to the hidden storage room below a trapdoor, which they'd had to join forces—Clark at a fraction of his real strength—to uncover from underneath an empty wardrobe. He’d especially marveled at the hidden door they found behind the sliding bookcase in the main office, leading to a side corridor and sets of staircases that connected everywhere in the house to the office, like a textbook picture of the body and the heart at its center. 

The kitchen was also ripe ground for ransacking, and the boys took fruit, cakes, cookies, and every sort of little treat that they could get their hands on. Except for a few choice favorites, Lex didn't eat much more than a nibble of each, while Clark swallowed everything down in a way that left Lex perplexed.

“How can someone so little…” and shook his head.

When Clark asked if he could drink milk from the bottle, Lex merely shrugged, so he chugged the drink with gusto, having only the sense not to belch once he was through.

Afterwards, Clark suggested they head outside, what a beautiful day it was, don’t you wanna run around now that no one can stop you? Lex acquiesced, agreeing that, yes, it was a sunny day out, and it would be a pity. If Clark was to be Lex’s teacher in all things childhood, then it’d be remiss of him not to include playing outdoors, right? And what better opportunity than this? He’d taught Lex to run around making trouble at home, an essential part of youthful fun, but could a kid even call themselves such if they’d never played hide and seek? hopscotch? tag? Simon Says?

With the exception of hopscotch, the other games presented difficulties due to a lack of participants. Despite going in fits and starts, they made do, and played every game Clark could remember the rules of. With no mom and dad to grill him on safety and the importance of hiding his abilities, Clark had more fun than he could remember in… maybe ever.

He wasn't alone in it. Lex had a small smile on his face, as well as a perpetual air of satisfaction about him. He particularly enjoyed Simon Says when it was his turn to be Simon, all too eager to boss people around. But Clark was clever and could listen well to commands, never falling for Lex’s little tricks, so the first round ended in a draw.

When it was Clark's turn, he was frustrated to see that Lex was also very smart and good at following commands, catching Clark's sneaky attempts at fooling him with a bored air. When it became clear that the game was headed towards another draw, Clark upped the ante and challenged, “Simon says… climb that tree there!”

Obediently, Lex spun on his heel to see what tree Clark was talking about, and was met with the densely leafed plant Clark had chosen for him. It possessed an easy foothold for an initial impulse and quite a few sturdy branches to perch on once he was up there.

Lex seemed to be hesitating, so Clark insisted, “Simon says—”

“I know!” snapped Lex. “I'm thinking.”

“You can do it. It's easy.”

The encouragement seemed to yield few results.

“I'll go first and you come up behind me, how about it?” Clark offered. Kept a close eye on Lex until, sullenly, he agreed. “Good! See…”

Clark marched ahead and got his foot on the V formed between two of the thicker arms of the tree, pulling himself up towards the upper branches. When he'd settled at a nice distance from the ground, confident that the branch was sturdy enough to hold both of them, he looked down.

“C'mon!” he cried out in encouragement. “It's no biggie!”

“Easy for you to say,” grumbled Lex, but wiped his palms on his pant legs and approached the tree.

His first attempt was a failure, as was his second. Despite having several inches on Clark, he couldn't seem to propel himself with enough strength to leave the ground, always falling back down with a frustrated frown.

“You have to—”

“I got it!”

“Jeez, okay, then.” Clark pouted up on his branch, wishing for Lex to keep embarrassing himself if he liked it so bad.

Before long, however, Lex seemed to get over his fear and threw his body into it, moving up the branches awkwardly. As he did, his hat slipped out and fluttered to the ground; he looked back down, like he was thinking of going after it. Anger forgotten, Clark cheered and clapped, saying “Forget it, you’re nearly here,” and Lex pressed on. Clark settled down closer to the edge of the branch so Lex could take the space closest to the trunk.

“Wasn't so hard, heh?”

Lex glared, making Clark muffle a giggle into his own shoulder. It wasn’t wise to take even one hand off the tree, not unless he felt like falling like a ripe fruit.

They looked down, Clark marveling at the way things looked from above. He felt so big and so small at the same time. Like maybe there was some giant creature who would look down someday, head literally in the clouds, and see humans like tiny ants. Maybe the giant would even step on Clark. It was a cause of wonder for all of twenty seconds before a stone dropped to his stomach and those thoughts became not so much fun anymore. 

Clark bit back a whimper. 

He wanted to get down, and maybe go back to his parents, but it wasn't time to leave just yet. He didn't want to miss out on time with Lex, especially not today of all days, so he tried to think happy thoughts.

With his eyes fixed on Lex, the stone was easier to bear, and he began to forget the panicky feeling the more he looked.

A ray of sun the color of a marigold squeezed through the leaves and illuminated half of Lex's face. Sunset turned that spotlit section a tanned color that the rest of him wasn't. Clark was awed at it and at the images it brought forth: Lex burned brown from the sun, skin peeling off, tacky and white cast from sunscreen. Suddenly, Lex was not so strange anymore, closer to the other boys that Clark knew. If it were possible, Clark would like to see it, but Lex's pool was off limits, and as far as Clark knew he wasn't allowed to leave the mansion or its grounds.

A fact even more startling than the possibility of a sunburnt Lex made itself known, shining like fairy dust across Lex’s cheeks. Clark’s eyes widened.

“Were you a redhead? Before you lost your hair?”

Reclined against the tree trunk, Lex narrowed his eyes. He was still suspicious of Clark's intentions even after weeks of knowing him, but Clark didn't take it to heart. If he wasn't mistaken, Lex had softened since their first meeting, and logically, he'd be even more open in a few weeks’ time. It felt satisfying, even, to earn Lex's friendship by degrees, bringing forth a sense of accomplishment.

“Yeah, how do you know?”

“Your eyelashes. And your eyebrows.”

They were a light shade of ginger, with a hint of gold where the sun struck Lex's left eyebrow and lashes.

“They're implants. But yeah, they're modeled after my real hair color.”

Clark looked confused.

“What?” Lex prompted, nose turned up like he already knew the question that Clark meant to ask.

“Why didn't you implant your.”

“My hair?”

Clark nodded.

Sprawled against the tree, Lex appeared very at ease, but his expression spoke of discomfort, as it always did when the subject of his father was broached.

“You'ven't met my dad. He thinks baldness is… whatever he might think of the way I look, hair implants, wigs?” Lex shook his head. “He wouldn't abide by it. He's got the most pompous mane of hair you've ever seen, like he thinks he’s a lion.” A sneer. “Lionel.”

Lex snorted, “Eyelashes, eyebrows keep stuff out of my eyes. It’s practical, and he only asked for this color in homage to my mother, I imagine. Anything further would be… Luthors don't do coddling.”

Clark blinked once, twice. He had only understood about half of Lex's tirade, and when the blur of words began to hurt his head, and his own ignorance, to frustrate him, he brushed it aside as grown-up talk. 

“I'm glad he did it,” he said simply. “It's pretty. Kinda golden, too, and orangey.”

He wanted to ask to touch them, see if they felt like real ones, but he'd learned his lesson from asking to touch Lex's skull. The answer would most certainly be a resounding no.

“You're a weird kid, Clark.”

Weirdness was a stigma Clark was quite familiar with. He pouted, never happy to be the odd one out. Weird boys were kept out of playtime and Gym class for fear that they might let slip some of their abilities. He wanted to be a normal kid that got to run around and play all sorts of once-forbidden games.

“I didn't say it was a bad thing,” Lex added.

Clark tilted his head to the side, still unsure.

With a sigh, Lex clarified, “I like it, okay? Jesus.”

For all of Lex's exasperation, Clark wasn’t alone in his happiness, both kids with matching grins painted on. 

Perched on the tree as they were, Clark had a fleeting thought that they’d appear to an onlooker like a pair of silly monkeys.

Clark walked into the greenhouse that afternoon to odd, muffled sounds he couldn’t identify at first.

“Hi, Le—oh, Lex, what’s wrong?”

Clark ran to Lex’s side, where he had his shoulders curled inwards, shaking with quiet sobs. He wasn’t loud when he cried, but he was very conspicuous, flushing and making faces.

Lex shook his head.

“Nu-nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, you’re crying!”

“Why are you here?” came the nasally demand. “Lemme be.”

“I’m here cuz we agreed. Every day at this time, remember?”

Lex shrugged off the hand Clark tried to place on his shoulder, but didn’t reject him further. Though he was itching to pry, Clark forced himself to be patient by bouncing on the soles of his feet and counting back from ten.

He’d had to repeat the count three times when Lex finally spoke.

“Can you keep a secret, Clark?” he whispered.

Clark smothered his excitement at the idea of a secret.

“I’m a sealed vault,” he promised with tactful gravitas.

Still avoiding Clark’s gaze, Lex said, “My mother died. Two months ago today.”

“Oh…” Clark had never dealt with death in his family. It was just his parents and him. The most he had to go off of was the time one of his classmates’ dogs died earlier this year. “I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t go wrong with that, right?

“Everybody says that.” Lex’s words were tinged with impatience. “Why? You didn’t kill her.”

Lex had a point. Clark had never stopped to think about the stupidity of I’m sorries.

“It’s… I…”

When words failed Clark, Lex gave up on him and sighed. “Nevermind.”

Clark didn’t want to be given up on; he knew he'd arrive at a conclusion if only Lex would wait.

“No, I…” He looked into himself to find what it was that he felt. “I’m sorry you’re sad. It makes me sad too.”

As best as Clark knew how in this awkward position, he hugged Lex, tapping his back in comfort like mom and dad did for him.

“You should be with your dad.”

So he could hug him, better than Clark could.

A bitter laugh. “Who do you think sent me here? I’m here to get over it away from his sight. That it’s Smallville of all places just to rub a little more salt into the wound.”

“At least being Smallville, and not anywhere else… you met me.”

Lex smiled. “Yeah, at least that.”

Clark knew that Lex didn’t like talking about his dad. “... did you like your mom?”

A pause, and then Lex nodded.

“How was she like?”

“She had red hair—”

“Oh, mine too!”

“And she was very beautiful.”

So was Clark’s ma. He smiled, picturing Mrs. Luthor as a Martha Kent lookalike in his head. How nice it would’ve been, to be brothers, he and Lex, though between the two of them they might have one dad too many. And, well, Clark would really rather keep his own, thank you.

“And kind. She was so gentle, all the time.”

“I think it’s a mom thing,” Clark confided, and it pulled a smile out of Lex, genuine if wet around the edges.

“And I think,” Lex whispered, “she secretly didn’t want me to take over the company; she was always fighting dad over it. She was always going on about—”

Did any great happenings ever occur, bar their last encounter, on a Wednesday afternoon? The last day, unremarkable on any account, starts like any other. 

It was a day he would replay incessantly in his head for years to come, starting from the moment he arrived thinking it would be just another cool afternoon spent with his new friend behind his parents’ and Lex's employees’ backs. Though, given that they'd passed the month mark a while ago, he figured their friendship wasn't so new anymore. Clark, feeling inordinately pleased about that, headed straight for the greenhouse, hoping to see Lex waiting for him with a book opened across his lap, like a dozen other times before.

But there was no sign of Lex. No sign of Lex anywhere, even after Clark had waited about ten minutes tapping his foot impatiently to hurry time along.

With a huff of frustration, he left to go search for Lex, telling himself he'd hold himself back just short of entering the manor.

As he circled around the house, Clark heard the muffled sound of voices, speeding towards a corner where he'd remain hidden while being afforded a good view. He'd emerged near the swimming pool, with its endless waters he'd always wanted to swim in, and where Lex was hanging out with a boy he didn't know. 

For a moment, a very nasty feeling burned its way up Clark's throat, choking him with anger, that Lex would choose another boy over him to play with. Oh, to leave him stranded in the greenhouse like an old toy! The boy was bigger, too, stout like he indulged during meals but didn't have Clark's fast metabomism. Metamolism. Whatever.

Ha, Clark boasted to himself. Who’s cooler now?

Clark looked at the pair, then stared some more. Frowned. Why was Lex struggling against his friend? Was it a type of cops and robbers? 

“Stop it.”

“Stop it stop it stop it!” whined the older boy in mockery. 

“I mean it.”

“You mean it? Or what? You'll tell your mommy?”

Clark's eyes widened; did the boy not know that Mrs. Luthor had died, or was he being cruel on purpose?

“I'll have you, and the rest of your piss-poor family, thrown on the streets so fast y-AH!”

The boy had kicked Lex, who fell onto the ground, his hands too slow to break his fall. His forehead bloomed red at the site of impact.

“Motherff…!”

“Freak!” the older boy screamed. “Think you're so awesome, right?” He grabbed Lex by the collar of his shirt and dragged him, Lex scrambling against the stone floor, towards the swimming pool. “Faggot! Fucking freak! Rat-looking piece of shit!”

The bully straddled Lex from behind, sitting on his back, and began to duck his face into the water repeatedly. Shocked out of his stupor, Clark stepped away from his hiding place, yelling out:

“You! Le-let go of him!”

The boy froze for a second before a wide smile split his face in two. It was a nice boy smile, but his eyes were all wrong.

“Look! Pinky’s here, hear that, Brain?”

The boy pulled Lex's head up, out of the water and towards Clark. Lex closed his eyes, teeth gritted together.

“Let him go!”

“You want a go too, kid? Or is that your little boyfriend, Lexie?”

Lex remained silent, and then was shoved face first into the water again. A force quite sudden and uncommon took hold of Clark then, and he used his abilities with little care for the consequences, rushing towards the boy and pushing him off Lex with a good bit of his strength. The older boy flew several feet away, over a reclining chair and collapsing to a stop almost near the treeline.

In the process, Lex had stumbled fully into the swimming pool, falling face first gracelessly. It took him a few heart-wrenching seconds to pull himself out. For a moment, Clark had even begun to fear he'd drowned.

When he emerged at last, all at once like magic, a poisoned apple plopping up from the bottom of the caldron, Lex was quick to throw himself at the lip of the pool in two breaststrokes. He hoisted himself up, shivering and coughing and rubbing water out of his eyes. His hand flew instantly to his head, seeming to look for the beanie, but it must’ve fallen at some point. Lex flushed. 

Clark’s heart was a heavy thing loaded with worry. Lex’s expression, however, was unfamiliar and most of all unexpected; no fear or gratitude, but rather a burning anger—directed at Clark of all people.

Through his squinty-eyed glare, he hissed, “Get out.”

Still reeling from pushing the boy away, Clark wasn’t sure if he’d understood correctly.

“What?”

“Out of my house!”

But he'd—he’d helped him!

“What did I do?”

“My father will—just, get out! Are you deaf?”

“I was only trying to…”

Shrill, “I don't need your stupid help! Look at you!”

Shamefully, Clark's bottom lip began to tremble. He wished to insist, but Lex was getting redder and redder, and Clark would be really sad if Lex said any more mean things.

“I'll… I'll come by tomorrow.”

Lex turned his face away.

“Don't.”

“Day after, then. Okay?” When Lex didn't respond, Clark nodded to himself and said, “I… bye.”

Sniffling, Clark left as quickly as he could without using his super speed. On his way out, he noticed that the older boy was disoriented and struggling to get up, and that Clark should better leave before the teen could begin to make sense of it all.

Clark cried for a long time in bed that night, not understanding where he went wrong about it. He couldn’t have left Lex to drown, so what else? Maybe there was something he was unable to understand, but while mom and dad might be able to shed some light on the situation, and were the only ones he was allowed to talk to about his abilities, the fact remained that he still couldn’t talk to them about Lex. He was on his own here.

At school the next day, he wasn't feeling much like himself, something both Pete and Ms. Kathy pointed out in worry. He brushed their concerns aside, trying to focus on schoolwork and failing spectacularly. 

Two days later, when Clark had promised to go back, he waited all day for the moments before sunset, when it'd be acceptable to speed off away from home. 

At his destination, he found not only the greenhouse empty, but Luthor Manor deserted, windows and doors practically bolted shut. Even the employee houses were cold and lifeless, and Clark wondered if he hadn’t imagined his strange friend after all.

Chapter Text

1997, Elbert County, CO

Bruce had once wondered if anyone was born singular. Before he’d turned sixteen, he’d been inclined to think no, humans were all knee-faced toddlers and snot-nosed children until the waves eroded the shores into a personality. That, in turn, could be remarkable or not, but he'd always dismissed the notion of something innate. There ought to be some nurture in the nature even of child psychopaths, he’d believed.

If Lex had ever been an ordinary kid, he didn’t look it—and Bruce didn’t even mean his baldness. Rather, the way he had of acting like one of those timeless creatures of folktale that assumed a child’s form, it sent goosebumps racing up and down Bruce’s arms. An isolated child, conspicuous in his otherness, elusive, to spite Bruce’s old beliefs, taunting him with how undeniably inborn. 

Lex must’ve left the womb that way, or been swapped, changeling, for the real, perfectly lovely, perfectly normal Alexander Luthor who was no more.

In spite of Lex’s distinctive appearance (and strange ways), Bruce only took real notice of him late one night during a rain storm. It had been keeping him awake, the odd flash of lightning, the clouds rumbling in a timbre much like Gotham’s near-nightly growl. To Bruce, it came as a comfort. So one might understand why he’d been reckless and prone to foolhardiness, when not long thereafter the screeching of tires forcibly pulled him from the bosom of memory. The loss of home was something between bereavement and a physical ache. Cast out of bed by the disturbance, he found himself with his face pressed to the chilly window pane, frowning down at the ground floor outside.

Was that…?

He shrugged off homesickness in favor of curiosity: something had disrupted the metronomic pace of life at Excelsior Academy, bringing to his doorstep this man who now stepped out of a dark sedan. In the small hours, no less, just enough of unpredictable and dangerous to put Bruce on edge. He checked to confirm his roommate’s continued state of slumber, threw a coat over his shoulders, and left the dorm room.

It was not difficult to go unnoticed. The corridors were unlit and the thick carpet swallowed up the sound of his footsteps. Nighttime and lightning cast spectral shadows on the walls, and Bruce kept so close to them his arm nearly brushed plaster with every step, so that if worse came to worst, his silhouette might be mistaken for a trick of eyesight.

One of the classrooms had its door ajar. If Bruce’s ears didn’t deceive him, there came voices from within. He tried to strain his hearing to make out words, but before he’d caught anything substantial, Principal Reynolds was stepping out of the room. Bruce pressed his back harder against the wall, not ten feet away from the man, and cursed quietly when Reynolds closed the door behind him. The intruder remained inside, safely shut away from Bruce’s nosiness.

Still glued to the wall, Bruce waited for the Principal to amble past. Once his silhouette had vanished around the corner, Bruce slipped into a classroom adjacent to the first and took stock of the room, or as much of it as he could make out. What to do, what to do… Bruce looked up at the pouring rain, skeptical, and figured he could maybe try to balance himself on the parapet if all else failed.

He wasn’t ashamed of the sigh of relief he let out when he found that there’d be no need. There was a round little balcony he could climb through or see into that gave access to the windows of three different classrooms, the mystery man and Bruce’s two of them.

Bruce unlatched and pulled up the window slowly. On the balcony, there was only a child, sunken into himself, and the sedan man looming over him. It was a sight that ignited blind fear in Bruce’s gut, with an aftertaste of familiarity, as though every nightmare he'd forgotten upon awakening had happened thus.

“Lex,” said the adult to the child. A boy, who cradled a roll of fabric against his chest, going back and forth like a rocking chair. “If this is an attempt to get yourself expelled, it’s not gonna work.”

The man had a nasally, imperious voice, with a mane of full brownish hair falling over the shoulders of an expensive suit. In contrast, this Lex kid wore silk pajamas soaked through with rain and was entirely bald, like a cancer patient. He wasn’t, though, or at least Bruce didn’t think so, under the impression that chemo made one appear sickly, and this boy looked as though someone had taken a shaver to a cherub. Even under heavy rain and the night cold, his was a ruddy, chubby-cheeked face. 

It wasn’t unusual for younger kids to lash out when they first arrived at a school such as Excelsior, deep in the middle of nowhere. They’d miss home, and family, and free time. Free time never felt like so past the gates, though that had never been the part Bruce opposed about his predicament. He felt a pang of sympathy for the boy, accompanied by a roiling thunder of anger, sudden as to match the storm. 

How ridiculous of this sniveling little child, so lacking in real life problems that he could afford to throw a tantrum over nothing! and what heartlessness of this man… a man who was likely the boy’s father. Bruce was certain that his own would never have been so unsympathetic to his son’s suffering.

Bruce raised his arms over his head to pull the window back down. He figured he’d seen enough.

“Shh,” Lex shushed shakily. For a moment Bruce thought he was addressing him, and let go of the window at once. “You’ll wake the baby.”

Impatiently, the father drawled, “Lex, Julian’s gone.”

“He’s right here,” Lex argued. “I found him inside of my dorm crying. I told him I’d never let anyone hurt him again.”

If Bruce wasn’t interpreting the conversation incorrectly, there was a deceased baby whose death was not being easily accepted by Lex. They had to be close for the boy to be out of his mind with grief, Bruce figured. Family, most likely.

“Julian is dead, Lex.” The man seemed to say Lex’s name an awful lot. “We both know why. You have to come to terms with that now.”

Not only was the man unsympathetic, but also had a flair for the dramatics. Bruce disliked him intensely.

Next thing Bruce knew, Lex had rushed to the edge of the balcony, standing on the gap between two sections of balustrade. His body swayed slightly in a vague threat, liable to go where the wind blew.

“Just go home!” Lex was screaming.

Bruce’s heart rate sped up, fight or flight kicking in. Split between running back to his dorm and hopping onto the balcony to push Lex to safety, the third option—freezing where he stood—won out.

“Lex, come out of that ledge,” warned the man.

“Stay away from us!”

Even in insanity, it was not natural for a kid to react like that to a father. It should be Lex and the man against the world, not Lex and an armful of blanket against their father.

The man’s heavy-handed verbal attempts to get Lex to come down on his own were a failure. To his credit, however, he did manage to pull the kid back among ear-splitting cries of “Julian! Julian! Julian!”

By then, Bruce had already dawdled too much, putting himself at great risk of being found. Therefore, he slithered back out of the classroom before father and son got themselves together enough to follow, and hurried back to his dorm.

What a strange child.

It took his heart and breathing a few minutes to slow down, but the mind had always been the most unwieldy, the hardest to control. Rather than Gotham or the storm outside, Bruce fell asleep thinking of a bald little boy. A bald little boy and the mournful scream that tore out of his chest when his baby brother fell from a height.

1998, Elbert County, CO

As for the first time Lex Luthor appeared to notice Bruce Wayne, it happened about a year thereafter. The circumstances, once again, were less than ideal, which were the seeds of what would one day become a pattern.

Mid afternoon, most students had just finished enjoying their free break times, while Bruce, an adolescent recluse, was returning from the forest glade across the street. He’d long since claimed a secluded patch of grass to while away the moments of leisure. There, he’d eventually indulge in whatever book he'd last borrowed from the library, and more often would replicate some movement he'd learned in Phys Ed or Gymnastics. 

This narrow window of time was the only opportunity he had to work on his physical fitness, aside from the few nights a week agreed upon between him and his roommate; then, he'd be allowed to keep the lights on for a while longer while he worked out. Though Bruce held a fondness for nighttime, he hadn’t quite gotten the hang of exercising in pitch darkness yet, a weakness he sought to overcome eventually, as well being right-handed rather than ambidextrous.

His body and his mind were daggers whose sharpness was his burden to maintain and to hone. He felt it as certainly as he felt the tug of the umbilical cord stretched taut, pain at the core of him pulling him back towards his city's inhospitable womb.

There was urgency in that sense of duty. He pushed him to do more every time he bent, ran, lunged, stretched, with singlemindedness of a person weighed down by purpose.

Yet the source of all that sense of purpose was ill-defined. It was only vaguely connected to that night in the alley nine years ago and the half-formed declarations of intent that had altered Bruce down to the cell. He’d vowed to spend his life fighting crime, but what did that mean? An officer? A benefactor of public security? A politician? The answer, he felt, might lie within himself, but the potential for bruising an open wound made Bruce hesitant to probe any deeper. 

Whenever Bruce was too frustrated with his prolonged stay at Excelsior Academy, he blamed Alfred. Alfred had sequestered Bruce in this blasted school, kept him apart from Gotham and his own obscure oath, and ultimately rendered him a coward.

Meanwhile, Bruce bent, ran, lunged, stretched.

As he stepped away from the glade and walked past the cover of the trees, the sight that greeted him froze the marrow in his spine. A blond kid was pulling another from a body lying prone on the ground, face mauled to a pulpy, gruesome thing. They were all inside school grounds, wearing the same uniform as Bruce, but for all the coherence of the individual elements, Bruce couldn’t make sense of the scene.

“Dude… psycho much?” said another teen, uneasy, from where he stood nearby.

The boy who’d gotten beaten was curled into himself, making tiny noises of pain Bruce could hear all the way from here.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you,” said the boy who’d pulled the assailant away—Bruce knew him to be called Oliver Queen.

The bullied boy struggled his way up to his feet, and the aggressor (the changeling Lex Luthor) tried to reach for him, this time without visible ill intent.

“Get away from me!” the boy yelled, and Bruce flinched; he identified him as the kid Lex was always hanging out with. They'd appeared quite the close friends from what Bruce had been able to tell.

What had happened between the two that it should come to this?

“You wanna be one of them so badly, Lex?!” he was nearly shouting, walking backwards past the side gate and into the street. “Is that it? You can’t stand being a loser like me?”

The sound of screeching tires, (everpresent when it came to Lex, it seemed), alerted Bruce to movement on his right. He moved away from the treeline, stepping up to the edge of the road and watching in impotence the fast approach of a car. For a moment, he wished aimlessly that it’d slam the brakes, a prayer with no recipient, that the driver would turn the wheel and circumvent the kid… but if fortune existed, it’d never favored Bruce.

“Well, congratulations, buddy, now you’re their friend!”

The car was nearly upon the boy.

“KID!” he yelled, but of course, the boy didn’t run.

He only turned back to the source of the sound, towards Bruce, so Bruce took off, ran faster than he ever remembered running, and leapt into a somersault to cross that final stretch.

He tackled the boy down in a ridiculous fashion, like an acrobat had decided to try out for the rugby team. Ended up sprawled on top of the boy just past the iron gate, both Bruce and the kid safely out of harm’s way. Now the boy was dirt-stained on top of tenderized, Bruce had scraped his elbows bloody, and the sound of the car's horn echoed in Bruce’s ears, near-deafening.

There was a pair of shoes standing right before his eyes, and Bruce’s eyes traveled up, up, past the shoes, past the pants, and into the shocked eyes of one Lex Luthor.

Heart pounding in his chest, nauseated with self-recriminating thoughts—too slow, froze up, nearly killed him—Bruce sneered up at Lex.

Everything he could think to say, like this, on the spot, had too much vitriol for the offense, and that was saying something. Bruce’s ire transcended even the vilest teenage bullying, and Lex, for all his disgusting faults, wasn’t to blame for Gothamite violent crime. So Bruce closed his eyes, inhaled, and chewed on the words fighting for their way out, swallowing them through a suddenly uncooperative throat. What he spat back out came out in chunks, inarticulate and insufficient.

“I better not see you, any of you,” his voice sounded too rough, like he’d just awoken; he ran his eyes over Lex, Queen, and the rest of their little thug group, “getting up to any more trouble.”

Without waiting for a response, he helped the kid up and left hurriedly, palms damp; went back straight to his dorm, tacky with sweat from working out earlier and shaking with small shivers of adrenaline. Before jumping into the shower, Bruce paced back and forth in his bedroom, nearly wearing a hole in the carpet. His thoughts were deafened by the hubbub of a million memories, plans, half-elaborated feelings that he'd for too long neglected.

He'd set the water to freezing cold, and when he stepped out the bathroom, he felt calmer once again. There was still, however, a fever dream quality to his urgency, which led a dazed Bruce out of the dorm room, down to the library, and into one of the computer booths, booting up the machine with a foot tapping impatient patterns on the floor. While his blood was still pumping, while adrenaline left no room for doubt, he opened up the tab and began to draft his message.

Phones were not allowed in Excelsior, which made e-mails and letters the only means of keeping in touch with his guardian. There was the communal phone, but it was located in the middle of the common area, and Bruce would rather keep his private business private. It was non negotiable even in trivial matters, let alone in this.

Alfred, he wrote. Stopped. 

I hope this e-mail finds you well, in good health, and content. I come to you for I, myself, am not feeling very much the latter. 

How could he convey in words the horror of the afternoon, the sounds of fists hitting flesh, Bruce’s deer in the headlights helplessness? Like a child, expecting a parent to swoop in and handle the situation, for he was not so grown or so strong that to do it himself came as instinct.

Stunted. Which was a problem.

An accident, if one can call it that, as it was the product of severe bullying, nearly resulted in the death of a schoolmate. I was almost too late to save him. Not because I wasn’t nearby, but because I hesitated to act.

Lex’s frantic violence, the car speeding towards the kid, the crucial moments of fear that could've cost so much.

Bruce’s hand clenched around the plastic body of the mouse, nearly damaging it, and he had to make a conscious effort to loosen his grip on the device finger by finger.

It seems my shameful failure has been useful for something at least, that is, to knock something loose in me, not a memory but the understanding of where I'm supposed to be headed. What this amorphous desire to avenge my parents means, what you refused to indulge before I could rightly articulate. I've realized: it’s never been directed at their murderer as much as the city at large, has it? That is what I struggled to understand for so long, because all the obvious answers (cop, mayor) to the desire I manifested that night in Crime Alley and later over their fresh graves didn’t seem to fit. Have you always understood? You always had that air about you as though you saw more than I.

I’ve found that I want to help Gotham, to heal it, not as a benefactor, because, for all of my parents’ virtues, they’d been fools: what good did philanthropy ever do them, or the city? Healing often involves cutting out the putrid flesh, lest the necrosis spread through the whole of the body. I want to ACT, I want to be on the streets, on the alleyways where it is happening, where it has happened to mother and father.

He was not, however, yet the man he knew he must be.

Your intentions were not misguided, as I imagined at first. I’d just been too young to understand your reasoning. I needed to come into this understanding naturally, rather than strong-armed. If I’m too young to understand the destination, then I might be too young to start on the journey.

I’m surrounded here by the future Forbes 500s, the teenaged plutocracy whose businesses will, one day, be mostly above board… and only by being exposed to their wrongdoing, and specifically their brutalising of a weaker, poor student, could I begin to extrapolate what sort of impact our crime families are capable of. Their business most certainly is anything BUT above board, and who are the Queens and the Luthors compared to the Falcones and the Berettis? 

Maybe accidentally on your part, but my time in Excelsior has served me in that sense as well. This I learned: crime in Gotham, and maybe everywhere, is a feedback loop that kickstarts with the big fish, not the small. They make bigger ripples.

Of course, the education was a nice bonus.

Bruce could imagine Alfred's dignified, British gentleman's amusement at the joke, and huffed at the disconcerting torrent of fond feelings that assaulted him.

Regarding my education, I am seventeen now, and have already gone through the syllabus for the next school year. I am more than adequately learned, and can continue to study elsewhere, while I also work at skills I’ve woefully neglected so far. You can even see to it, hiring private tutors and requiring that I perform tests to prove my proficiency in the subjects of your choosing. I only require, in return, that you arrange for me to train with the best teachers, tutors, instructors in the world in matters of physical prowess, so that I may be prepared to return to Gotham one day.

I ask this not in my name, but in the name of parents and in the name of our city.

My deepest regards,

B. W.

Bruce shut the computer and resigned himself to waiting. And wait he did. Over the next few days, he went down to the library to check the computer compulsively, some days once every few hours. 

Meanwhile, people had begun to take notice of him, in a way they hadn’t in a while. A couple of years ago, the allure of the Wayne name had made some people interested in befriending him, even if he’d been an introverted orphan who didn’t speak unless necessary. He knew they’d soon lose interest again, when it became clear he had no interest in them or their affections. Bruce had gone mostly unnoticed by his schoolmates so far, neither adored nor bullied, the last of which he attributed to being taller and stronger than most anyone in class.

The boys who’d been involved in the beating up of Duncan—that’s the name of the kid—weren’t among the newly interested, though, and gave Bruce a wide berth. It was just as well, since he felt sick just thinking of that day, and wished he could’ve had the presence of mind to throw a punch, see how they, especially Lex, liked it. Or, at the very least, he thought, the presence of mind to throw more eloquent, reproachful words at their faces.

But the one he wished to see the least, Lex himself, seemed to be everywhere, tailing Bruce as he went about his business. Though he avoided Bruce’s eyes, hiding beneath the brim of his hat, when their gazes did meet, Lex’s wasn’t fearful, or contrite. He appeared furious.

Finally, it came to a head one night during dinner, the dining hall packed full since it’d gotten too windy to dine outside at the height of autumn. 

Bruce noticed Lex trying to sit next to Duncan, who’d just been discharged from the hospital. Duncan had taken a secluded table for himself, looking like he wanted nothing more than to be left alone, but not everyone was respecting his non-verbal (and now verbal) requests for peace and quiet. Bruce watched the confrontation with bated breath, ready to intervene if things took a violent turn. But Lex was just trying to reason with his former friend, while Duncan remained resolute and irate, which eased some of the tension from Bruce’s shoulders. Not only did he relax because his intervention wouldn't be necessary, but it was also somewhat reassuring to know that a schoolmate wasn’t a psychotic violent machine all of the time. 

Then, things took a turn for the worse. Duncan seemed to have had enough, got up with a pained wince, and poured his bottle of juice all over Lex. While Lex was still gaping a fool’s gape, Duncan grabbed his tray and stormed off, leaving the dining hall to find someplace empty to eat.

The room erupted in laughter and unkind jeering. Still, somehow, Bruce was the only one Lex glared at, snarling, “The fuck what?!”

He hadn’t even been smiling.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

As Lex nearly fell on his ass climbing out of his seat, storming towards Bruce under heavy laughter, it all made sudden sense to him. The staring, the rage. Lex could only be ashamed. His father’s influence had kept him from being suspended, but everyone knew what he’d done, and the sordid tale had reached even Bruce’s ears: he’d tried to bribe his way into a friendship with Oliver Queen and his posse so he wouldn’t be an outcast anymore, and Duncan, a person more principled than him, hadn’t been on board. So Lex had snapped in that ugly, violent fashion.

Why was Bruce’s quiet regard more abrasive than the others’ scorn, he wondered. That he’d be self-conscious was understandable, but the focus on Bruce was odd, made less so by the fact that Bruce had saved Duncan from certain death. 

Lex must have gotten used to this, the laughter all around the dining hall, the whispers, like a burglar got used to the looming threat of the police; but Bruce might just be the unknown factor. Did it have something to do with the threat he’d left behind as he left? Did he expect Bruce to jump out of the shadows, an ever watchful eye? 

Could the mere suggestion of a mysterious presence, of mighty retribution, be so effective? Lex was just insane enough that all it seemed to do for him was to drive him further into schizophrenic paranoia, but as a concept, Bruce would have to give it some thought.

“You got something to say?”

Bruce stopped, tilted his head to the side, watched how Lex fought not to squirm. He wasn’t so transparent for a fifteen-year-old, Bruce would give him that.

Fear might be worth looking into. If, when he went back to Gotham, he had the option to make a name for himself, rather than to act undetected and uncredited, would the absent presence work towards his goal while and where he couldn’t?

“Huh?!” Lex prompted, impatient.

To be truthful, he didn’t even remember the question anymore, lost in musings. Instead, he said the first thing that came to mind:

“It’ll probably stain.”

“St—?” Lex looked almost hysterical, blood rising to his pale, soft-sharp face. “You’re a piece of work.” Lex worked his throat for a second, eyes averted, and then said, “You can stop watching me like a creep. I’m not gonna do it again. Not like anyone’s gonna let me within five feet of them now, so.”

Was Lex looking for a pat in the back?

“You brought this on yourself.”

Lex’s mildness gained thorns again and he hissed, keeping his voice down. All around, students weren’t even trying to hide their eavesdropping.

“I know that. I don’t want your pity. I want you to keep your—your freak eyes to yourself!”

Lex, who was standing, had lowered his face nearly to Bruce’s level. Bruce saw quite clearly when his nervous, quicksilver eyes flitted to the left, ever concerned about others’ ideas of him.

Bruce said, figuring he might offer one piece of advice, “You make it too easy on them.”

The kid had it rough, he’d give him that, what with the father, and the dead brother, and the baldness, and the rumors about the dead brother and the baldness, and all the bullying. Charitably, Bruce thought that he was still fifteen, still a chance that he might be able to grow into someone halfway decent.

“Lose the cap. Every weakness is a weapon, the only difference is whether it’s a weapon for you or against you.” Like Bruce’s grief. He’d never let it paralyze him, but rather use it as his driving force. “You have a neon sign on your head saying, I’m ashamed, mock me for this.”

Lex sneered.

“You sound like my father,” and his tone would’ve made it clear, even if Bruce hadn’t known Lionel, that it wasn’t meant as a compliment.

Bruce remembered the man in the rain storm, and felt deeply offended at the comparison. “Well, you acted like him.”

Lex’s eyes widened and then narrowed, comically so, and he took his cap off, throwing it in Bruce’s bowl of soup. A little splashed over Bruce’s shirt, and he looked down at the blooming mark, barely noticing the blistering heat on his skin. Whispers grew in a crescendo all around them.

“I think it’ll stain,” was Lex’s snitty comment.

Bruce’s eyes traveled from his own shirt, to the cap-in-soup, to Lex, bald and furious above him.

Lex had changed a lot in just one year. Gotten leaner and sharper, notably about the waist and the eyes. His bareness accentuated those traits, giving the impression that he was edges all around.

“Much better,” Bruce said, eyeing his bald scalp. It was said as a taunt; that he agreed with it was ultimately a moot point. 

Rather than anger or revolt, Lex’s only reaction seemed to be shock, eyes widening, feet stumbling backwards. He stepped away, putting some distance between their faces. 

“Whatever,” he said, but his heart wasn't in it.

Before he spun on his heels and dashed away, Bruce saw that he had blushed all over the exposed skin, of which there was a lot for a person buttoned up to the throat. His blush, oddly enough, went further back on his face than where a natural hairline would sit.

It was the day of Bruce’s departure. The Principal had been made aware of it, as had the faculty. No one else would miss him, other than the Phys Ed teacher who wanted him to join his team badly enough to beg, and the Gymnastics teacher who had in Bruce the only truly dedicated student in school. The other boys were either uninterested or self-conscious, as there seemed to be an incomprehensive culture around Gymnastics and effeminacy.

No, that was a lie. There would be someone who might miss him, in a twisted sense.

Ever since Bruce had spoken to him in the dining hall over a month ago, Lex had taken to watching him out in the open. No more hiding behind a hat. The hunted became the hunter, and Bruce was now the one to chafe under his eyes. He didn’t know what it was that Lex wanted, why he kept watching, and he confessed that it had bothered him at first.

Lex didn’t wear a hat anymore. Ever. Winter had sunken its icy nails into the school grounds, the temperature dropped by the day, and skulls were notoriously sensitive—there was a reason for the abundance of body hair on top of the head compared to everywhere else—but still Lex refused. He pranced around the hallways, chin lifted up, daring anyone to question him, and no one did. Granted, Bruce had the feeling it was more because of how unsettling a person Lex was, but the end result was the same. Like Lex had prophesied, no one would come near him, and he was the bald, bold little leper, and his eyes seemed to zero in on Bruce whenever they entered the same room, like he had a built in sonar system.

It had taken some time for Alfred to arrange the details of Bruce’s training overseas. He hadn’t written back until he’d had at least one destination planned, and it had been a torturous few weeks for Bruce. When he did, however, Bruce smiled into the computer screen, smiled the truest grin that had split his face in recent memory, and pushed back from the desk in a fit of joyous energy looking for an outlet. 

And then he saw him. In the corner, half-hidden behind a hardcover on Appalachian birds, eyes spying on Bruce over the rim of the book, Lex Luthor. He was quick to hide behind his book, but not so quick that Bruce didn't see him. Bruce’s smile dimmed a little with uneasiness but he brushed it aside. Let Lex have his obsession. His revenge, even, for the way he’d likely felt after Bruce threatened him; though Lex’d be left wanting if he counted on Bruce being afraid of a short, scrawny kid two years his junior.

Now, Bruce had already packed his bag and was only waiting for the driver to come to drive him to the airport. In the half hour or so that he had to kill time, he thought about idling outside the main entrance, done with everything Excelsior had to offer. However, a bout of sentimentality dispossessed him of legs and will, and led him to the side yard through which he’d used to exit to go to his forest glade. It was empty this early on a Saturday, most students sleeping in, and Bruce forewent visiting the glade in favor of sitting on a bench and watching the place where he’d tackled Duncan to the ground, likely saving his life.

“I heard you’re leaving,” said a voice at his side.

Bruce was proud of the fact that he didn’t jump out of his skin.

“Lex,” he said, more of a statement than a greeting. 

Lex circled him and came to a stop right in front of Bruce. Forced himself into his line of sight, robbing Bruce of his quiet moment of reflection.

That was Lex. Mostly inobtrusive, easily dismissed by some, but possessed of a suffocating presence. For better or for worse, he made himself known, which was why it struck Bruce as ridiculous the way people had begun to act as if he didn’t exist, now that he had begun to boast his baldness. About as effective as ignoring the elephant in the room.

“Are you changing schools?”

“No. Graduating early.”

“You bought your diploma? Didn’t know the Principal was for sale.”

“Why, looking to buy?”

“Oh, if only.”

Lex had a weird way of speaking that Bruce hadn’t noticed the first time around. His eyes would get very, very still, eerily so, while his mouth became more agitated, more articulate. It made Bruce feel like there was a non-verbal aspect to this conversation that he wasn’t quite grasping.

Taking his hands out of his pockets, Lex crossed the short distance between them and sat at Bruce’s side on the bench. Bruce turned his torso towards him, finding the thought of holding a conversation while staring straight ahead to be unbearably silly. Even more unbearable was the notion of turning his unprotected side to Lex.

“I took some tests,” he explained, “proved that I knew the seniors’ syllabus, and my guardian took over the bureaucracy.”

Lex huffed out a laugh.

“Yeah, so much for that dream.”

“Come on. You could do it.”

Lex raised an eyebrow.

“My challenge is mostly my guardian's cooperation, but thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“He'd force you to stay even if it's…” He wanted to say ‘hurting you’, but settled for, “not what you want?”

“He wouldn't do it precisely because of that. Something-something weakness and weapons.”

His raised eyebrow was a nod to their last conversation. 

Bruce shook his head in response. There was some amusement in the gesture.

“You know, you make everything harder than it has to be.”

If Lex pretended to be too arrogant to be subjected to this level of education, if he acted as though studying under a leveled down curriculum was offensive to his intellect, then Lionel's response might be different.

“Excuse you?”

“Even the cap. I didn’t mean to say make it a statement—”

“You so did!”

“I…” Bruce revisited the month-old memory, and yeah, he might have. “I didn’t mean engage in self-harm during winter.”

Lex tsk’d. “Well, winter was around the corner. You should’ve paid attention to the fine print.”

Was this banter? Bruce hadn't taken Lex, and especially not himself, for the type, but here they were. 

“You'd have it easier if you were a little…” Bruce mused, looking away from Lex to fix his eyes on where he’d seen him beat up Duncan. 

Such skewed priorities on Lex—popularity, ego, external validation—but sadly fitting for the troubled boy that he seemed to be. There weren't many words to describe him that fit the bill, other than, “… Less. Less-er, I guess, is the word. As it is, you're just dangerous. And a pain in the ass.” 

It was a tad fanciful to call a fifteen-year-old any sort of ‘danger’, but that was a fifteen-year-old he’d seen nearly become a murderer a while back. 

Maybe the first humans had looked at a serpent, strange creature that it was, and startled at the fact that it did not walk or swim or fly; that it made strange noises unlike any critter in nature; that it was too uncanny to be beautiful, too uncanny to be prey, too uncanny to be predator. Maybe these early hominids felt the same as Bruce did when confronted with Lex, sibilant and brash. Not quite fearful, but a little mesmerized as it crawled closer, flashing a tongue that had to be dangerous, but he couldn't yet understand how.

“‘Lesser’?” Lex asked with a scornful curl of his upper lip.

“Only about… twice as smart as people fear you are. Thereabouts.”

Bruce’s small smile seemed to take Lex by surprise.

He wasn’t sure why he was sweet-talking Lex other than the fact that he feared that Lex might get into too much trouble when Bruce went away.

Lex’s brow twitched. “You hold me in high esteem.”

“You sound disbelieving.”

“You don’t know me. We’re not even in the same class. Don’t mind if I take your words with a grain of salt.”

“I make a habit of running background checks on everyone who, you know. Stalks me.”

“Hey! You’re one to talk.”

“I hadn’t been.”

“Riiight.”

Now it was Lex’s body language that had gotten weird, chin a little tucked into his chest, though his eyes were still on Bruce, slate blue and burning ice.

“And what did you find in your little research?” he asked with ravenous intensity.

Bruce blinked, uneasy. Still, he responded truthfully:

“Straight As. Star student, but a real troublemaker. The Principal isn’t fond of you—” Lex scoffed. 

“Understatement of the year,” he drawled.

Most of the information Bruce had gotten had come from Mr. Reynolds himself, who’d always liked Bruce and had been even more easily coaxed after Bruce had saved Duncan’s life. “The kind of intellect your teachers haven’t glimpsed the ceiling of. Any subject that hasn't been too easy for you.”

“Charmer.” Lex sounded derisive, but his ears were flush with blood. He looked away, back, kept his eyes never quite solid.

“I did mention the scumbag thing.”

“Flew right over my head. Tell me more how genius I am.”

Bruce snickered despite himself, then, remembering where he had to be very soon, took a look at his wristwatch. Almost time.

“Look…”

Lex interrupted the departure, a hint of hesitation in his voice: “If I ask you to write…”

“Write? As in…”

“Correspondence,” Lex declared boldly.

At first, Bruce was at a loss for words and for thoughts. Then, he boggled at the request. They weren’t friends. This was the third time they’d spoken, and the first consisted of Bruce barking a one-sentence threat at him. Why did Lex even want him to, anyway?

Bruce wondered, and looked Lex up and down, and suddenly it was there: once seen, he couldn’t unsee it, like an optical illusion. The way Lex spoke, the way he held himself; Bruce had been too slow on the uptake. Lex was flirting. Granted, in a more convoluted and demented way than any of the girls who’d tried their luck on Bruce, but Bruce should still have been able to tell. Another shortcoming he’d have to address eventually, like working out in the dark and becoming ambidextrous. 

Though Lex was most likely unpracticed, the edge of derangement made his interest a little more intriguing than those girls. At least, Bruce didn’t feel like a kindergartener receiving a piece of paper asking whether he’d be their boyfriend ▢ YES ▢ NO.

If Bruce was reading this correctly, Lex was coming onto him when Bruce’s car was maybe ten minutes away, destined to sweep him off to Japan. Was it on purpose? Did Lex want to avoid the fallout in case of rejection?

Bruce didn’t want Lex’s regard, per se, inasmuch as he’d never wanted anyone’s, but he might be less opposed to it than he’d ever been before. This in itself was concerning, given that Lex was the sort of boy who spelled trouble even at such a young age. Any relations between them, friendly or—otherwise, were unadvisable.

Bruce went to place a hand on Lex’s shoulder, but the movement was so incongruously fatherly that Bruce jerked the arm back as if he’d been burned.

“Take care,” he said, brusque, ignoring Lex’s request. “My car should be here by now.”

For all his restraint, Bruce couldn’t help glancing over one shoulder as he walked away. He was reminded, ridiculous thought that it was, of Orpheus and Eurydice. Lex had stood up from the bench, drawn up to his full lanky height, pointy chin pointed up and skull bare even in the freezing cold.

Bruce hoped that he would age into someone good, because if he decided to weaponize his rage and his wit, if he got in the habit of throwing his weight and wealth around, then, well. Bruce feared what might become of the world.

Chapter Text

2001, Smallville, KS

Bruce walked into the en suite, maybe thrice as large as some of the houses he’d stayed at over the years. Martial arts masters were of a more ascetic disposition. Even a king might be more ascetic than a Luthor, though, Bruce thought, eyeing up the clawfoot bathtub front and center, raised on a three-step platform. A very unsubtle rendition of a throne room if he ever saw one.

And marring the marble-floor, porcelain-appliance idyll was the sight he’d dreaded but expected to see. Lex—crounching over the toilet bowl, awful sounds of retching echoing off the walls—shook like a wounded thing, a sick thing, a thing on its death throes.

“You look like shit,” said Bruce, shoulder against the doorway. He didn’t bother hiding the revolt at the sight of him.

Bloodshot eyes peered over the lip of the toilet bowl.

“Fuck you too.” Raspy response pushed past a bruised throat.

Bruce took a second to look around, carefully catalogue the space. Mentally, he did a different inventory: Lex was retiring to a city called small ville of all places for a rehab, a strange, Midwestern little town that had been known for its cream corn… up until when the meteors came crashing down. As far as the detective had been able to gather, the day that Lex spent with his father in Smallville's cornfields a decade ago was the only connection he had to the place.

Bruce was concerned, since Lex should rightfully have been admitted to a facility or at least have a full medical and support team at his disposal, but he'd seen neither as he sneaked in.

“Are you taking detox medication?”

“Toby's got it handled,” Lex said during one of the lulls of his vomiting. Let the words hang for a beat too long, waiting for Bruce to ask the follow-up question.

It was a pause deliberate and unapologetic enough that Bruce knew it'd been purposeful. 

“And Toby is?”

“Private physician.”

An old, childish trick, withholding information to make the interlocutor feel ill at ease with his inferior knowledge, but Lex would have to try harder; Bruce was unselfconscious and patient. He was used to doing stance training for hours, and it wouldn't be a spoiled drug addict that would break his cool.

He didn't see how Lex could drive him away, not if he delayed his words, not if he prodded and insulted and sought to unsettle Bruce. Short of an express order to leave, nothing would dislodge him from this bathroom.

“What're you doing here? Ran out of postcards in Buttfuck Nowhere, South Asia?”

Insults now. Bruce ignored him, grabbing a face towel and wetting it on the sink. Lex appeared feverish, and only struggled a little when Bruce tried to place the wet fabric on his head.

“It'll help,” he insisted.

The resolution he’d made in Excelsior, to have nothing to do with Lex, lasted but a few months. At one point, his attempt at smothering his self made for an ill-adjusted collection of wants and needs, which was when the last seventeen years of Bruce’s life came crawling back, and in the unlikely form of an obsession with Lex. 

After a grueling round of training one night, body broken from the sort of exercise that would kill a lesser man (Bruce hadn't been one hundred percent sure he wasn't dead himself), he stared up at the ceiling panels and remembered a boy who he’d once said would have it easier if he were lesser, who was so much more than others believed. A fascinating concept when Bruce often worried he might be falling short.

It was an odd time to reminisce, and an even stranger place, a sweat-slicked mat on a Thai dojo. The subject was no less strange, daydreams of a person who meant little to him affection-wise. This purposeless curiosity was an indulgence, fat that a plump, content cat built up because it could, and critters like Bruce couldn't afford to.

But still Bruce wondered. How was Lex doing, had he spoken to Duncan again, did he still beg for popular kid scraps? Wondered whether Lex's father would truly not allow him to graduate early, since it seemed the sort of thing to entice a man like that, the opportunity to parade about, see how amazing my son is? Genius prodigy heir.

It was not to say that Bruce had fully isolated himself over the past four years. He contacted Alfred once in a while, and not always for merry christmases and happy birthdays. But his guardian was a part of Gotham, and to talk to him was to be reminded that Bruce couldn't go back yet, and be made aware of the endless road ahead. He was very far from ready.

Lex was a mostly-clean slate. Bruce had a handful of memories, something that amounted more to morbid fascination than fondness, and the need for an anchor to the person he'd been across the Pacific Ocean. An anchor, however frail. If only he'd agreed to exchange correspondence. Bruce wanted to know what kind of dinner Lex was having, certain it'd be so much more interesting than the goop the masters forced on the disciples to teach them austerity. But it was certainly for the better, as Bruce couldn't afford the distraction of mail.

Despite those considerations, Bruce had been unable to let go of the idea once it'd taken root. After too long agonizing, and a few stern reprimands from his master over his distraction, Bruce reached a compromise, picked up a postcard in a tourist shop, and sent it before he could second-guess himself. Unable to come up with anything better, he took a line from the book he was currently reading and wrote it on the back of the Ko Tapu:

If something external is causing you distress, it’s not the thing itself that’s troubling you but your judgment about it, and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.

He'd figured that the one that went ‘No more abstract discussions about what a good man is like: just be one!’ might be a little on the nose.

Very rarely, Bruce would even send a small anecdote of his day, or a description of some food he'd tried for the first time. Harmless and untraceable, so that even if he couldn't justify his own behavior, he couldn't so fully condemn it either.

After nearly two years of this unilateral conversation, the silence on the other end, however self-imposed, began to bother him. Lex might not even remember him anymore, might throw away the postcards without even reading them, and the person Bruce sent the letters to might be trapped in time and space in a ‘98 Colorado winter morning. Yet stopping seemed inconceivable, as sometimes the act of picking up a postcard and a pen every few weeks was the only thing reminding him that he was somewhat human still. A human who knew people and could write to them, and had favorite book passages and could write them down, and had a remnant of will unrelated to Gotham that drove him to head over to the post office and address the card to an old acquaintance.

He'd only been able to rationalize it as his Eros, the life drive of whatever individuality he still had. In the end, it was an irresistible gravity.

A quick call to Alfred later, Bruce was in touch with a private detective hired to investigate one person only. Nothing too invasive, he requested, only what any skilled and upright journalist would dig up doing their investigative due diligence. Deal closed, the reports began dropping into his e-mail monthly; biweekly had been on offer, but it'd sounded almost obscenely self-indulgent, so Bruce had denied.

Bruce had followed Lex's exploits, his graduation with honors that made Principal Reynolds turn his nose up at him, his entrance and posterior expulsion from Met U, the partying, the drugs and the drinking, the whoring around. Although displeased, Bruce had been content to watch from the sidelines, disappointment tucked into his chest while he frowned at his e-mail inbox reading the last of Lex's escapades.

And then Lex had overdosed. It had prompted an unscheduled e-mail from the private detective, the first Bruce had gotten since they'd started this two years ago. It came with photographs, the reports often did, but even tangible proof was difficult to believe.

Bruce was quick to request a personal leave in order to help out a friend in need, an excuse that was easily accepted by his taekwondo master. 

“Come back when you settled your heart.”

An odd turn of phrase, likely due to the man's precarious grasp of English—with Bruce's shaky Korean, they made do; still, the words struck a cord. When Bruce had described Lex as a friend, he'd been trying to simplify matters for simplicity and language barrier's sake, but he actually did see him as such, Bruce realized. At some point over the past year, knowing everything that went on in Lex's life through a detective's filter and a computer screen, sharing small bits of himself, and there was so little left that it might actually be all of Bruce written in those postcards, Lex had become the closest person in his life. Maybe in virtue of an appalling lack of competition, but fact still stood. 

And they hadn't exchanged a word in four years.

“You told me to write,” said Bruce smartly.

Lex seemed to laugh mid-puke.

“I'd say the… me wri—” he retched, loud and wet, his lips too pale, “writing back was pretty heavily implied.”

Ignoring the barb, Bruce pondered, “Have you turned your attention to the countryside? Bath-England too far away?”

He didn't expect Lex to be upfront about his reasons, not the person who'd chafed at being shown up even four years ago, at an age most people didn't seem to have that many defences built up. But he was circling Lex, testing the air for a more direct line of questioning.

“I OD'd, not a—a fit of the vapors.”

“I dunno, I heard those hot springs are quite healing.”

Lex snorted. “I need to puke my guts off and sweat out a great deal of heroin and coke. And a few others no one bothered to name.” Bruce turned around to face the closest cabinet, hiding his expression from Lex's perusal. He didn't think he'd show any overt displeasure, but better to be safe. “Unhygienic to lay around in water.”

Bruce turned back around, twisting his nose. The bathroom stank of rotten food and sewer, and the toilet bowl was a mess. “You crossed that bridge a while ago.”

He had to wait a while for an answer, as Lex began to vomit anew, and with renewed strength. After nearly a minute of it, Bruce thought fuck it and kneeled down at his side, brushing his hand up and down Lex's back. He remembered his parents doing that for him when he had a stomach bug.

“What the—” Lex tried to bat him away, weak but stronger than Bruce had expected, surprising like the grip of a newborn around a thumb. “What’s your deal.”

“It helps the—uh, peristaltic…”

“You're full of shit.”

Bruce shrugged and removed his hand, but stayed kneeling at Lex’s side. He noticed that his touch had been helping settle the tremors, and that Lex had begun to shake again. The rancid smell wafting off the water was hard to get past, but Bruce persevered by Lex’s side.

“I don’t know which I’m more curious about.”

That long pause again. Bruce let Lex enjoy lording the anticipation over him.

“Hm?”

“Why you came, or how you knew to come.”

Bruce knew which question he’d least like to answer, as it would implicate him in alarming behavior over the course of the past two years, but he also knew which one Lex would want to know.

“Pick one and I promise I’ll be truthful.”

Lex ran his red-rimmed eyes up and down Bruce, assessing. His face was slicked with sweat and his position was one of complete indignity, but his gaze was still as limpid and cutting as Bruce remembered.

“What are you doing here.”

It was interesting how he didn’t question the trustworthiness of Bruce’s promise. Did he come across as an honest man? Was it only so to Lex, or would the average man feel the same?

“I want to help you to sobriety.”

A sarcastic grin. “Yeah, the heartfelt back rubbing clued me in. Why?”

“Because I worried. Don’t want to lose my penpal.”

“Your—!” Lex's nostrils flared in rage, eyes flashing. “You said you'd be honest.”

“I am.”

Lex narrowed his eyes at him and demanded:

“And how did you know to come? What are you doing in Smallville?"

In a few years’ time, Bruce figured, Lex would be able to choose more wisely even in this half-dead state, no matter the temptation of the more straightforward question.

Bruce raised his eyebrows in silent reprimand, signaling that the promise of honesty was no longer in effect.

“Maybe you were a little hasty to dismiss Buttfuck Nowhere. They have good tabloids.”

“Funny how I haven’t heard of my state being on the news, and I’m sure my father would’ve dropped by. Some way he could make it about him.”

“Like I said, the wonders of Nowhereville.” 

Lionel Luthor. Whatever information Bruce had gotten on him over the years had come from the pages of international magazines, and none of them reflected the memory Bruce had of a malicious father terrorizing his delirious son. 

“Isn’t it about him?” he asked, genuinely wondering.

“Isn’t about anything. I like to party, and drugs are part of the experience, and then I had a few too many. Not really rocket science.”

Bruce let his silence speak for itself.

Dropping the ennui, Lex said, “Don’t start with me. You’ve twice the complexes as I do.”

Undisturbed, Bruce pointed out, “And yet.”

That didn’t seem to merit a response, Lex ignoring him in favor of curling over the open mouth of the toilet bowl to dry heave. After a few attempts, he stopped and half-slurred, “Think ‘m empty. Leave, mn gotta shower.”

Bruce eyed the distance to the shower cabin.

“Can you walk?”

“Out.”

Bruce left without another word, leaning against the wall outside the bedroom. He told himself the order didn’t imply leaving the manor, and even if it had… he’d see to it before he left that Lex was well taken care of. He had to at least check the doctor’s credentials, maybe wait out the ten or so detox days to make sure Lex pulled through alright. 

After twenty minutes or so, the door to the master bedroom swung open and Lex stepped out, dressed in a long-sleeve tee and trousers. He still looked ill, but the sweat and filth had been washed away, turning him closer to the guileful teenager Bruce had met in Excelsior, as well as the debonair playboy in Bruce's monthly e-mail updates.

It was hard to reconcile all the images he had of Lex with one another. None too unlikely on their own, but then he was the boy hallucinating a baby, the outsider beating his best friend nearly to death, the teen coming onto the boy who threatened him, the young man exiting a nightclub and climbing, piss drunk, into a limo with a beautiful woman on each arm. And now the miserable bastard mid detox eyeing Bruce carefully from across the hallway.

Lex had too many people in him at once, and it was maddening and humbling, as Bruce wasn't even the one—Gotham's protector—yet. A project of a person, maybe.

“You're still here.”

“You told me to let you shower.”

“And you as a very literal and accommodating man, acquiesced,” to which Bruce responded with a tilt of his head.

Lex squinted at Bruce for a second and then walked away towards the staircase. Bruce followed behind, approving of the destination (kitchen) and of the choice of drink (electrolytes).

“There's water, some protein bars, frozen food, and the fresh produce is coming by tomorrow. I’m all set. So you can go back now.”

“I'd rather wait it out if it's not an abuse of your hospitality.”

“I'm lousy company right now,” Lex warned.

“You've been worse.”

Less quick to anger than before, Lex smiled tiredly.

He begged off any further activities and locked himself in his room to, “curl into a demented ball and shake until I fall asleep.” Free rein of the manor was given to Bruce, and he took the time to get acquainted with all of its nooks and crannies not only for Lex's safety, but as training. Luthor Manor was a large and convoluted organism, of all the houses Bruce had been to, second only to Wayne Manor, and mastering it was to come a step closer to the mastery of any edifice.

Late at night, when Bruce had been at it for hours, he came across the door to the master bedroom left ajar. He peered inside, found the bed empty, checked the bathroom, then left to search the rest of the house. 

If Bruce's private detective was able to find out about Lex’s overdose, others also might, the temptation of a young, vulnerable billionaire isolated out in the sticks too great. Liable to draw opportunists and thugs. Still, it was likely only Lex roaming about the house, Bruce reasoned.

When Bruce was in the hallway just outside of the library, he sensed faint movement to his right. A fist aimed at his head; Bruce intercepted the fist and spun the assailant with his own weight, pinning them to the wall. It was Lex, Bruce made out with eyes that had grown adapted to the dark a few hours ago, Lex struggling without effect against Bruce's hold. He had good footwork and agility, but didn't seem overly concerned about keeping quiet. It made sense, even beyond Lex's state of abandonment, that he would not excel in stealth; as far as Bruce knew, his physical background was all in boxing and fencing. 

“Easy,” he grunted when Lex seemed intent on dislocating a shoulder to break free, all desperation and no technique. 

“Did my father send you?” hissed Lex.

That caught him off guard.

“Your—what?”

“Are you spying on me?”

Of all the harebrained things Lex could've come up with…

“Don’t flatter yourself. You're not much to spy on.”

Lex stopped fighting back and Bruce stepped away, never turning his back on Lex. He flipped the switch on and light flooded the hall, illuminating how wild-eyed Lex was. Sclera red and inflamed, globes bulging out of the sockets.

“Untouchable Bruce Wayne,” mocked Lex resentfully. “So much better than the rest of us.”

Bruce reminded himself that paranoia should be setting in right about now in Lex's detoxification, and began to herd him upstairs by advancing on him, forcing Lex to retreat like a cornered animal. 

“I'll tell you why I really came if you get some more sleep.”

“Was it Oliver? He sent you?”

Bruce frowned. “Has he been bothering you again?”

“That supposed to be rhetorical?” Lex sneered.

“Like pulling teeth, I swear,” he whispered to himself. “I mean before today.”

“He must've been planning this. Well, I must admit,” he glared at the far off distance, snarling, “well played, Ollie.”

They'd reached the bedroom. Lex laid back down without Bruce needing to insist.

“I'll get this out of the way,” Bruce said, staring down at Lex. 

Lex had laid on top of the covers and, for an insane moment, Bruce imagined himself tucking him in like a father readying his son for a bedtime story.

“It wasn't Queen, and it wasn't your father.”

“Then why?”

“Tomorrow, remember? If you sleep.”

Lex’s eyes flickered all over Bruce's face, as if looking for the answer there. “Tomorrow,” he agreed. And, “My pills,” in a non sequitur.

“What?”

Lex pointed to his bedside table, where a medicine bottle and an empty glass rested. “Sleeping pills.”

Nodding, Bruce took the glass and headed for the bathroom, filling it up with tap water. When he came back, Lex had slipped under the covers, eyes no longer suspicious but foreign. He tracked Bruce’s approach across the room like a hawk.

“Sit here,” he said.

Bruce did, helping Lex drink one of the pills. Then, figuring he was no longer needed for the night, he set the glass back on the bedside table and made as if to get up. Before he could, though, Lex began to raise his left arm, slow, freezing him in place. 

The arm rose agonizingly unrushed, telegraphing his intent. Both of them stared at the ascent of that alien limb, Bruce wondering if Lex was in control of it at all. When fingertips touched the side of his neck, Bruce lowered himself a little, make it easier on Lex, and when a cool palm clasped his nape, sending sparks of goosebumps raining down his spine, he let himself be led by it.

Despite the slowness and the telegraphing, Bruce still had it in him to be surprised when their lips touched. Lex’s were chapped, dehydrated, damp with water, and the scrape of them against his own made Bruce shake.

No longer than an instant and Lex was pulling away, settling down to sleep.

“Take any room you like,” he said. “I had the whole thing cleaned, so they should all be good to go.”

Bruce left in a daze and took the room closest to Lex, in case he needed him during the night. His suitcase had been left outside, so he dragged it up to his room, showered, and drifted off to sleep. Over the course of those actions, which took about twenty minutes to get done, he touched his fingertips to his lips around five times or so.

The following morning, Bruce found Lex in the kitchen in a slightly better state than yesterday, nursing a cup of coffee and a few pieces of bland, butterless toast.

“Yummy,” Bruce deadpanned.

He strolled into the kitchen, casual as he could make it, and surreptitiously searched Lex for clues to his mood.

“I'm starving but the mere thought of flavor turns my stomach. So.”

Eyeing him warily, Bruce filched a slice from Lex’s plate and took a banana from the fruit basket.

“Hey!”

“Eat some fruit.”

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of chewing and swallowing in the kitchen, interspersed with the trilling of birds. It was pleasant, it was a fine morning; it grew to a deafening roar in Bruce's ear. The soundtrack to a memory he couldn't dislodge, and he gritted out:

“Do you… Um, last night. We…”

Why did you kiss me, he wanted to ask, though the reason should be self-evident. 

“What? Anything happened?”

Bruce stared him down humorlessly.

“You're growing sober, not more drunk.”

Lex took a bite out of his toast, a sip of his drink, stalling, and this time it did bother Bruce. Finally, he said:

“And if you look at things from my perspective, if you're not my father or Oliver's henchman, and you came ‘cause you were worried, and you can't seem to let go of what was barely even a kiss, really, well. One must conclude I must be the sweetest apple of your eye.”

Every thought ground to a halt. 

“I—”

It wasn't that, but it was closer to it than he would've liked—that the kiss had meant something, and so did the worry, even if the meaning was ill-defined.

“I'll drop it if you will,” Lex suggested, every inch the magnanimous liege lord.

Bruce let the matter drop (obediently so, with a scowl aimed Lex's way), and focused on finishing his breakfast.

“Any further questions?”

“Will you tell me why Smallville?” Bruce tried.

Lex regarded him in silence. Then, “Very well. I once read about a rich man who survived a hotel fire. He hung onto the ledge for an hour before the fire department rescued him.” Bruce frowned, wondering where this was going. “Afterwards, he bought the hotel. Always stayed in that room. When they asked him why, he said he figured fate couldn’t find him twice.”

“So you came where you nearly died ten years ago.”

“You’re well informed.” Bruce smiled toothlessly. “Well, it was either this or camping outside the nightclub.”

“Not an environment very conducive to a detox.”

Lex aimed a heavy-lidded version of Monalisa's smile his way. Then, once he’d finished his food, he got up, gathering their plates to put in the sink.

“Take it easy, I came to help,” Bruce said, rushing to his side to take the weight off his hands.

A knock on the kitchen door.

 “Great, go take that.” Bruce didn't move. “Go, I won't even wash it! I've people that work here, I'm sick. Who do you think I am? Some Mother Teresa?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“Isn’t it time for your meds?”

The doorbell rang again, a juvenile voice calling out, “Um, hello?”

“I take them after meals, which means, now.” Lex waved at the door. “He'll leave!”

Bruce opened the kitchen door, aggravated, to find an unexpected sight. A big, green-eyed youth looking so awkward he might as well be shifting his weight from foot to foot, but stood tall and proud, a basket full of fresh produce on his hand.

“You're not Lex,” the boy stated somewhat accusingly.

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“I am aware. Good morning.”

The boy’s large eyes widened further.

“Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry! It just—”

Lex left the innermost part of the kitchen and came to join Bruce on the doorway, elbowing him aside for some space. It was a tight fit for two grown men.

“Clark.”

The kid, who'd been flushing in embarrassment at his own faux pas, reddened further at the sight of Lex, fumbling to hand over the basket.

“Thank you. I see the Kent aubergine looks as juicy as you used to boast about.”

Bruce arched an eyebrow, running his eyes over both of them. “You two know each other?”

“We go way back,” Clark said, as Lex explained, “Playmates for a little over a month, back when we were kids.”

Clark brow twitched like he was fighting back a frown. 

“We were friends.”

A sensitive kid. Rather than mocking him, like Bruce half-expected, Lex smiled brilliantly. 

“That too.”

Clark stood there looking pleased about himself, while Lex had a knowing half smirk on. Telling himself he was feeling charitable rather than curious, Bruce asked, “Won't you invite him in?”

Lex blinked. “I'm sure Clark—”

Bruce took the basket and brought it inside, resting it on the counter.

From the door, the heard:

“I'm actually free. For an hour or so. Actually.”

He was so transparent. Bruce saw the slight similarities between the Lex he'd met in Excelsior and Clark, how Lex had grown interested in an older boy, the result of which were heavy-handed, clumsy attempts to come near. Unfortunately for Clark, though, he was a little artless for Lex's tastes. Bruce was not proud of the spark of satisfaction he felt at that.

When Clark joined them in the kitchen, Bruce made an effort to be friendly.

“So, do you live nearby, Clark?”

“Not a lot, but nothing is that far here. Especially not on car.”

“It’s really not. He used to come and go from the Kent farm to here when we were kids. Every day.”

“Wow,” Bruce said, surprised. “As a kid?”

“Ten,” said Clark.

“That’s some friendship,” he said, and Clark grinned.

“And how old are you now?”

Clark stalled, showing signs of discomfort, and Lex stepped in, “Three years younger than me.”

Sixteen, then. Older than Lex had been, and a lot more imposing physically speaking, but he appeared to have the innocence of someone either very young or very sheltered. 

“And you?” Clark asked, a touch of defensiveness in his voice. 

“Two years older,” he said, referencing Lex’s age as well.

“The big ol’ drinking age,” Lex agreed.

Bruce thought of the reason he was here in Smallville and said, “Like it ever stopped you before.”

Maybe Clark was more perceptive than Bruce had given him credit for, since the boy stopped, squinted at Lex, ran his eyes all over him, and asked:

“Are you okay, Lex? You look…”

Bruce said under his breath, “Like shit.”

Clark stared at him accusingly, like he'd been the one to stick the needles in Lex's arm.

“No, just a little… under the weather.”

“Stomach bug,” Lex said. “Nasty stuff.”

“Why aren't you at home, then?” Clark sounded appalled. 

“Well, the—”

Lex began to answer, the charismatic, sweeping movements kind of reply, but he stilled like his strings had been cut. Tensed up imperceptibly, gaze growing distant. Turned the shade of gray he did when he was on the verge of vomiting, and Bruce knew he had to step up.

“Our four-year trip. School friends.” Bruce smiled winningly and laid a hand over Lex's on the tabletop. “Alexander here just had to go and eat something rotten.”

Predictably, Clark was quick to bid his goodbyes after that, rushing through an inane excuse, and it was a good thing that he was barely glancing their way. Bruce was otherwise preoccupied and Lex didn't even look up from the table, lips pressed shut.

The door had barely closed behind Clark before Bruce, who'd seen him out, made a grab for the trashcan. Then he ran towards Lex just in time for him to puke out his breakfast and stomach acid, Bruce soothing him with a hand up and down his back. This time Lex didn’t oppose the comfort.

After Lex had washed his face and brushed his teeth, they settled down in a sitting room, Lex sprawled on the sofa, Bruce sitting on an armchair nearby.

“You provoked him,” Lex said casually.

“I needed him to leave.”

“Before.”

“I was following your lead.”

Lex waved an insouciant hand, like he hadn’t been to one to bring it up.

“Eh, it builds character to be rejected by one’s infatuation at that age. He’s a gorgeous boy. Young, nice. Will break many hearts yet.”

Bruce didn’t want to talk about Clark.

“It builds character, huh? You’d know?”

“I…”

Speechless Lex was like a rare sighting. Something to gawk at, almost.

He laughed, sheepish. “Nothing gets past you.”

Bruce, feeling self-satisfied, said nothing, only took out his laptop and settled it across his lap. 

Even through the chaos of Lex’s latest vomiting session, Bruce, who’d seen Lex’s medicine on the counter, had kept half a mind to memorize the names on the labels of the bottles. Now, he fired off the composition of the meds and the name of the prescribing doctor to his private detective.

“And yet, you kissed back,” teased Lex as Bruce pulled the laptop closed.

He settled the device aside, narrowed his eyes at Lex. 

So they were talking about it now?

“Barely,” he parroted Lex's earlier dismissal. “And what monster would deny a sick person?”

“That’s you, God’s gift to junkies. Mr. Make-A-Wish.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth lifted up in humor; Lex’s eyes shone with mirth. The mutual amusement lasted for a beat too long, eye contact seeming to hum with the tension of an elastic band pulled taut. With a suddenness that startled him, Bruce found himself enjoying the banal where he’d once only felt disconnect.

He wasn’t sure where all this circling around would lead, but he thought he'd like to wait and see. Strange and unfamiliar though this domesticity was, he could almost see the two of them like this, teasing each other, for a long time, locked in this isolated pocket of the world. That is, if detox were not a relatively speedy process.

Being with Lex, this back and forth, was. Fun.

The past few years hadn’t been fun. Fulfilling, at times, constantly painful, often lonely, sometimes boring. Never fun. 

The reminder of the life waiting for him back in Korea, and how many days it had been since he'd left, came with the odd thought that he hadn’t yet worked out since landing in America. This brought about a sense of urgency. How could he be wishing for his personal leave to last longer, for Lex’s detox to be drawn out when his duties laid elsewhere? Fun was, ultimately, a diversion from giri, hindrance to the senses, noxious rather than desirable.

He knew he was wasting time, running out of it: Gotham’s violent death rates at an all-time high, the crime families encroaching on the elections and on the city council, drug cartels growing stronger, new illegal brothels, petty criminals like thousands of sewer rats, multiplying. And Bruce playing house. 

Bruce’s muscles spasmed, tingling, and with it the nauseating impression that he’d grown flabby all over in the space of a heartbeat. All the years of training rendered useless, muscle memory, lost; muscle tonus, lost—to start all over again?

He was being fanciful, he knew, but the physical discomfort was maddeningly vivid, as was the knowledge that such things did get lost if one didn't keep at them every single day.

Lex spoke as if through water: “Do… think you… like to—”

“Lex, do you mind if I excuse myself?” he interrupted, voice too loud. “Just an hour or so. The fitness room.”

A surprised blink, Lex's mouth opening as if to ask a question. Then he blinked again, face shuttering. The smile was distantly pleasant.

“Of course. Mi casa su casa.”

Bruce knew he’d been just barely polite, a nagging guilt biting at him. He reassured, “Shout. If you need anything,” but it had little impact in Lex’s sudden distance.

He took his leave and trained for over three hours. His body burned but delivered as much as he demanded of it, capable as ever. The panic he’d experienced earlier wasn’t new, but it was rare, at least since he’d made it past twelve-years-old. Now, exercise and adrenaline had settled him back into his own skin, neurosis safely out of mind. 

Lunch was a pleasant enough ordeal, but the easy dynamic Bruce and Lex had cultivated throughout the morning was gone. Instead, they kept the topics of conversation neutral, Lex regaling him with stories about the locals that he’d gathered over the years.

It seemed that, much like Bruce, Lex had developed a strange obsession with a piece of his past, driving him to want to learn everything he could about it, surround himself with it literal and figuratively. Like Bruce, he'd be better off if he learned to let it go.

It was a work in progress.

Lex, resting upon an outdoor chaise lounge, held a book open with only one hand, pinky and thumb spread wide to keep the pages apart. The free arm rested on top of his belly, and he looked every inch the well-rested cat, despite the unhealthy pallor of his skin. Bruce had taken the chair at his side, where he settled down to catch up on his e-mails and the Gothamite newspapers of the week. 

He was appeased at the detective’s report that Lex’s medicine was the real deal, and concerned that the doctor was almost, but not quite, a real physician. Revoked license or not, he seemed knowledgeable enough, if morally bankrupt.

Lex snickered quietly nearby.

“Hm?”

Lex waved him off. “Just remembered something.”

Bruce ignored him, not in the mood for humoring Lex right now.

Lex spoke anyway, “It’s said that the women in Königsberg, Prussia, used to adjust their clocks to Kant’s passage through the streets. He’d supposedly never broken his work routine as a local college professor and never left the little town where he was born, up until his death—unmarried—at the ripe old age of seventy-nine. A scarily anal man.”

“Interesting,” Bruce commented, though it wasn’t. Likely a false anecdote, too, the type Lex was so fond of.

“So it suddenly hit me.” He spoke as if in amazed realization. “Bruce could very well be his bastard great-great-great-great-whatever-son. Or host his reincarnated, scarily anal soul. Right?!”

Bruce’s lip almost twitched, but he smothered the reaction. He pressed the back button and opened up the next message in his inbox.

“There are worse people to host, I suppose,” he said, dismissive.

“You’re familiar?”

“... A little.”

Lex shot him an impish look out of the corner of his eye.

“And how do you feel about the kategorischer imperativ?”

Lex’s German was perfectly accented, which led Bruce to wonder if he only knew the pronunciation of certain key concepts or if he had a grasp of the language. Of how many languages.

“Not exactly what I subscribe to, but I’m favorable to the idea of an imperative that guides our moral actions. Freedom as acting according to that rather than utilitarianism. Or hedonism,” he said the last part in a pointed manner, and Lex acknowledged the jibe with a smirk. 

“Instead,” Bruce continued, “a rational being obeying self-established laws.”

“Yeah. Scarily anal,” Lex repeated for the third time, which had Bruce battling an eyeroll.

“I’ll admit that his imperative is a little… strict, and too bound to rationality, and leads to some weird outcomes, but in theory, it was one of the best I’ve seen put to paper.”

Lex hummed in response, splaying the open book on his chest face down.

“If you had to choose one, what would be your imperative?” he asked at last, turning his attention fully on Bruce.

“Don’t have one.”

Lex snorted.

“Yeah, I figured. But if you had to choose. Pick one now.”

“Do you have one?”

It was a somewhat transparent diversion, but surprisingly effective most of the time. He didn’t like being put on the spot, and most people conversed waiting for their turn to speak anyway. 

He should’ve known better with Lex, to whom conversation was never about ego—or, if it were, only incidentally so.

A smirk, and then Lex said, “Can’t think of one? That’s okay.” Condescending. “Mine, I stole.” A second of suspense. “‘I can resist anything but temptation’.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“Oscar Wilde?”

“The one and only.”

“I would laugh, but I get the feeling you’re being serious.”

Lex laughed and didn't bother denying.

The conversation petered out after that, but Bruce couldn’t seem to let it go. He stared unseeingly at his laptop screen until it darkened. 

He’d never gone so far as to elaborate any sort of moral, mental groundwork for his future in Gotham, and to have that oversight brought to light was like pouring salted water over a wound he hadn’t even noticed was there. By the time Lex was once again fully engrossed in his copy of ‘Critique of the Judgement’, Bruce spoke, for his own peace of mind:

“If I had to have an imperative, as Kant’s is… guiding the method, not the ends…” 

The end, to rid Gotham’s streets of the insidious crime that had taken Bruce’s parents away from him. The end, of preventing anyone from ever experiencing that same despair. 

No matter the ends, there was one line he knew he could never cross.

Lex tilted his head to the side, expectant.

Finally, Bruce said, “... To never kill,” aware that that was the long and the short of it.

To do everything in his power to fulfill his duty, but never to kill. The mere thought of murder was repulsive to him, snuffing out a life just as had been done right in front of him.

“Never kill,” Lex repeated, then set his book aside. Sat up from his half sprawled position and said, “Even my hedonistic approach sounds more grown-up.”

“You’d kill?” Bruce asked, and regretted the question immediately. Of course he would; Lex almost had, once, and he'd been even less of a jaded man then.

“If I had to,” Lex said, a hint of savagery in his words.

“There’s no coming back from that.”

“C’mon. You can’t be serious.” Bruce stared him down. “Okay. Let's ignore petty motives for the sake of the argument. There’s self-defense, which even the law allows. There’s the possibility that you'll stand right in front of a monster, someone who’s done something awful. There’s—”

“If you kill somebody, even if they’re the worst of the worst, the number of criminals will stay the same.”

Lex snorted.

“Oh fuck off with your false equivalence.”

Bruce grit his teeth, trying not to lose his temper. This was someone who’d only just felt well enough to get some fresh air outside. Bruce was here to take care of a sick person, not to antagonize him.

“Killing doesn’t truly solve the problem of criminality,” he argued calmly. “More likely to perpetuate it, creating a cycle—”

“Hah. Worried not because of the consequence in the particular case, but because you don't want it to become the norm of conduct? You really are the great Immanuel Kant.”

“Mock all you want.”

Lex shrugged. “Child abuser. Serial killer. Rapist. Pedophile. Genocidal maniac. Torturer. Mu—”

“Will you shut up?!”

Lex smiled a shit-eating grin. 

“It might not solve anything, but it’d sure as hell feel good. Would you’ve killed Hitler?”

“I think we’re done with this conversation,” Bruce said with a hint of menace in his voice. 

“Imagine you have a kid. Lovely kid.”

“I don’t want to—”

“You love him to death! You often go out to play sports or whatever lame entertainment you’d do with a child. He loves it. One day, you go grab you both some ice cream, for the heat, you know, and when you come back he’s gone.” Lex’s words were harsh, almost as much as his feverish, hateful eyes. “Nowhere to be found. You search, and you pay off your pocket, and you bribe and you hire every living soul you think may help, but you’re just too late, and you learn that the maniac who took him tortured him for days. His body is barely recognizable as one. Minced meat.”

Lex’s chest rose up and down in agitation, his upper lip pulled back in a snarl that transformed his whole face. Sweat had pooled underneath his nose. Chills traveled down Bruce’s spine, and he couldn’t help but visualize the image Lex had so skillfully painted.

“You put your son in the ground,” he continued, too quick, “your life is over, you’ll never forget the sight of his skull cracked open or what his guts looked like. 

“You catch the man. The maniac is in your hands, helpless; he’s mocking you, telling you how your little boy screamed. There's a knife in your hand. Do you kill him?”

“Enough!”

Their heaving breaths were too loud in the quiet afternoon. 

The back of Bruce’s throat wouldn't stop itching for some reason. He’d always had a fondness for children, which was maybe making this sadistic fantasy of Lex’s harder to digest. It was taking everything Bruce had not to truly explode at Lex.

He closed his eyes, tried to divert the conversation back to Lex.

“Would you?” he asked instead of replying, affecting composure. His voice was a little too rough.

Lex settled back down against the backrest like a Venus flytrap that had caught the fly.

“Eventually,” Lex said, breezy.

With his maw pressed shut, he might even pass for a pretty, inoffensive plant, exotic rather than deadly. Languid once he'd gotten what he wanted out of the conversation, what he wants out of any conversation: victory. 

“After I had my fun,” Lex continued. “Like I said. Can never resist a good temptation.”

Bruce stared at him warily, still upset at the questions he’d shot, dagger-like. 

“Oh don't pout, Bruce. I'm done. Just a friendly bout of devil’s advocate, stretching the brain muscles. Don’t take it so personally.”

“I wouldn’t if you hadn’t made it personal,” he said, voice low.

“Your hypocrisy and infantile views do frustrate me, but the insistence was just boredom. Scout’s honor.”

“Pick up your book,” Bruce ordered, and Lex acquiesced easily enough. Now that he’d gotten his way, he played at being an accommodating man, pushed the role of unreasonability onto Bruce. 

“Okay.”

“And keep your nose out of my business.”

“You're the boss.”

The following day, things took a turn for the worse.

It was lucky that Bruce had chosen to work out when he had, while Lex had been stable, and not during the night. Otherwise, he might’ve not heard him over the sound of one of the fitness machines.

This next cycle of detox was said to be the worst, as Bruce found out for himself as he caught Lex at half past two in the morning standing on his balcony dangerously close to the edge, pleading to the wind.

“Don't!” Lex was saying, staring off into the distance. “Mother, please, don't—”

“Lex…” Bruce began, taking a gentle hold of his arm to guide him back to bed.

He’d assumed Lex had been sleepwalking. But Lex spun on his heel and screeched at the sight of Bruce, horror-struck; collapsed to the floor and stuttered out in frantic prayer, “I swear didn’t—I didn’t mean to-to, she did it, didn’t, I didn’t mean to hurt him, sh-she, I—”

He held both hands over his eye like Bruce had punched him, groaning in pain. A hallucination, then, one where Bruce was, he assumed, Luthor the father.

Bruce kneeled at Lex’s side, ignoring the way Lex curled away from him with a childlike whimper. He tried to get him to come up with as much tact as he could manage, which was nowhere close to the gentleness he wished he had. He’d never had to use his hands for caring for someone in such a fragile state. Even the act of rubbing Lex’s back, which he did stiffly, only came to him through conscious effort.

Proof of his inadequacy, Lex began to struggle, and between one heartbeat and the next, the movement to push Bruce off had become a full-body spasm, and another, and Lex was having a seizure.

“Shit,” Bruce muttered, foamy vomit bubbling up in Lex’s mouth.

He ran into the bedroom, took a pillow out of the bed and rushed back to Lex’ side. Pillow under his head, Bruce turned his body so that he laid on his arm, with his mouth pointing to the ground, and while Bruce began to count the duration of the episode.

… forty-one, -two, -three…

Lex stilled at last. Bruce checked his breathing and wiped his mouth dry with a cloth. Lex came to slowly. The responses Bruce got to the checkup questions were disoriented, marking what was the start to a very long night.

The departure was in two days’ time and Bruce still hadn’t told Lex he’d be leaving. He had to imagine, of course, but it was not a conversation he was keen on having, and it only grew more daunting as the time grew nearer.

What would he do, slip away during the night? 

He’d been here a week. Far too long to be away from his honor-bound destiny (giri, as Yoru-sensei had called it), and if it’d been a whole week caring for a sick Lex, Bruce might feel less guilty about it. But Lex was quick to recover, and yesterday afternoon had already been up and about as if he’d never overdosed at all. 

He’d challenged Bruce for a bout of fencing, one Lex had won without much difficulty, but Bruce still took pride in Lex’s surprise over Bruce’s level of proficiency after only the most basic of lessons.

They sparred without helmets, Lex’s sneer of effort unexpectedly attractive on his newly-healthy face. He had such a presence, a self-assuredness, that Bruce—did not get distracted, no, but—didn’t mind the loss. Not when, after dodging and parring the best ways he knew how within the rules of the sport, he ended up sprawled against a footrest, sabre pressed against his chest. Not when Lex’s own was heaving, his mouth open and panting, impressive sight behind the length of the blade. Avoiding Lex’s sweeping swipes had been one thing, but to parry with his own was another, and he couldn’t run forever.

Blood pumping from the exercise, he said, “You win.”

“That I do.”

Smiling broadly, Lex thrust his hand at him to help him to his feet. He didn’t let go once Bruce was up, their sweaty faces too close.

Now, Bruce knew, was the time to say he would be leaving. That would throw the familiar shroud over Lex’s eyes, a distance so cold and absolute it seemed someone had pulled the sun far, far away and covered it up besides.

That would be good, ending things on a bad note. No more postcards. And—though the thought left a bitter aftertaste—no more monthly reports. 

Instead, he said, a hint of teasing in his voice, “Do you fence like this with all the boys? With Clark?”

Lex snorted. “Knock it off. He could be here any minute now; said he'd drop off some fruit. And what then? I met his father about town yesterday, red pickup truck, likely shotgun on the backseat, the works.”

“The princess guarded by a dragon.”

“He's a teenager, Bruce,” Lex laughed. Then his eyes flickered down-up-down Bruce’s body whip-fast. “Besides, I like my men older.”

Maybe, he didn’t have to leave so soon… maybe a good memory was what Bruce needed to hold to his chest like a locket. 

He’d read of soldiers who’d been saved from bullets because of prayer books kept close to the heart, projectiles lodged in the pages. Could the remembrance of someone’s heat warm him, and guard him, from the many cold nights to come? 

And did it even matter?

These were the facts: Bruce’s eyes wanted to flutter at the smell of Lex’s clean sweat. Lex’s antagonism thrilled him to the bone marrow like the electricity before a lightning bolt. 

Everything else was affectation, rationalization in a place where reason didn’t seem to have a turn. 

Every motive for staying just sounded like a convenient excuse for an indulgence. But excuse or not, Bruce was helpless to do anything but indulge.

“Lucky me,” Bruce breathed out, and kissed Lex.

Unlike their first kiss, this one did not know hesitance, did not play at being chaste. No sooner had their lips touched than their mouths were opening, their hands clawing at clothing and getting clumsily tangled up in each other. 

Bruce was inexperienced but eager; he’d only laid with two people, a few times with a disciple in the apprenticeship of the same master, and once with a girl who’d propositioned him around town on one of his rare free days.

He allowed Lex to take over the kiss. Bruce could tell he was infinitely more experienced, just like he’d been at fencing, and the smug grin against his lips let him know that Lex was thinking the same. The arrogance irked, and Bruce tried to wrestle control back, reclaim some measure of dominance, but he was a man who knew how to acknowledge superior skill, as well as appreciate how good it felt to be led.

The beast with two backs stumbled up the stairs, neither Lex nor Bruce letting go long enough to make sense of limbs or direction. By no merit of theirs, they made it to the bedroom, and then Lex pulled away to a frustrated grunt from Bruce.

“Down, boy,” Lex smiled and nodded at the bed. “Wait for me there.”

Backing away without turning his front away from Lex, as if this was still a fencing match, Bruce laid down, half-up against the headboard, watching Lex—now clad only in navy briefs—roam through his cabinet for something.

“Wh—”

“I could’ve sworn I put it here…”

“You put condoms all the way there?”

“No, those are, eh, bedside table—and would you, please? It’s just the lube.”

Bruce froze with his hand stuck in the bedside drawer.

“We are using lube,” Lex said pointedly, “unless you wanna nurse me back to health for another reason.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

He took a couple of packets out of the box, put them atop the bedsheets and repeated, “Okay,” willing his heart to slow its mad beating.

“There you are.” 

Bottle in hand, Lex stalked close, slick and panther-like.

“You seem too pleased about this.”

“Oh, fifteen-year-old me is creaming his pants,” agreed Lex, voice rough.

Bruce shivered.

Lex sat on Bruce's side, their positions an inverted mirror of their first kiss. A strange, possessive smile, narrowed eyes, a hand slithering down Bruce's chest, and he was already throbbing, in his cock, his veins, everywhere. 

“Falling asleep here,” Bruce taunted.

The hand slid all the way down and cupped his boxers, squeezed cruelly. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Bruce arched his back, thrusting against the pressure, but just like that—it was gone. 

“Damn you.”

Lex got up again, shimmied off his briefs, and swung one leg over Bruce's waist. He settled on Bruce's lap like it was a birthright, like there was a crown missing on his forehead and Bruce was the stallion he rode into battle.

Without Bruce realizing it, his hands had reached out to caress the smooth skin of Lex's thighs. Exquisitely smooth, like silk, the skin bare; actually Lex was bare all over, even where Bruce himself had a wiry thatch of hair surrounding his prick and leading up to his navel.

Instead, there was a pale mound leading down to the length of Lex's cock, and underneath, the sack pulled tight in arousal, brownish-pink and hairless.

Bruce felt soft in the head at the sight. Any moment now, his brain would begin seeping out of his ears, thick melted wax. 

Lex poured lube over his fingers and reached behind himself, mouth falling open and eyes fluttering in tandem with his flexing arm. Bruce found himself opening his own mouth in agonized sympathy. 

“Who knew Excelsior’s star athlete was such a slacker.” Lex's voice was an improbable blend of rough and breathy.

Tired of being jerked around, and feeling a spark of power catch on his chest when Lex began to swivel his hips, he asked:

“Can you blame me?”

Lex frowned down at him with hazy eyes.

Bruce thrust up, “Some view.”

It wasn't enough to dislodge Lex, but apparently enough to make whatever he was doing to himself more pleasurable. He threw his head back and moaned, long and drawn out.

After that, he seemed to get more frantic, slicking up another finger, then another, rushing through preparation with one hand on his cock and both eyes pinning Bruce to the mattress, butterfly to corkboard. He even slapped Bruce's hands away when he tried to touch Lex's dick, and this was starting to feel a little unfair.

When Lex finally judged himself done, he scooted down on the bed and pulled Bruce's boxers off, tossing them over one shoulder with a little flair.

“Come on,” he reasoned. Lex, in usual fashion, touched him in contradictory ways, firm grip on the base and kittenish lick on the head. “Let me touch you. I can—”

“I told you. We're acting out my fantasy. You can have next time.”

The fire at the pit of Bruce’s stomach cooled some; there would not be a next time.

“And what's my next line, director?”

“You’d look down on me from up there,” Lex begun, “go like this,” he scowled darkly, “those eyebrows over your eyes, and then,” slick fist over him, then a mouth closing over the head, sliding down the length, and back up again, twisting, sucking heat, like Lex’d done this a hundred times, maybe he had—

“Then you’d look like that,” Lex rasped out, pulling off. “Exquisite.”

Bruce wasn’t sure how he looked, but if it were anything like what he felt, it couldn’t possibly be flattering. Like a scruffed cat or a rabbit flipped onto its back—frozen under his own animal nature, tranced against his will by the hand of a predator.

Lex swallowed him down again, vulpine eyes squinted up in challenge, mouth thinned to a white ring around Bruce’s cock. The thought came unbidden, that the scar on Lex's upper lip was pressed tight to his skin, sending a bolt of near-painful heat searing through his gut. He tried to thrust upwards, fuck Lex’s mouth, but Lex held him down not through brute strength but by digging his thumbs into the hollows in Bruce's hips, hard.

Lex kept at it until Bruce's thighs began to shake on either side of his head, ominous edge looming so near. His toes were tingling, the pockets behind his eyes, his gums, his ears. His hands, fisted on the sheets, were clenched so hard they burned. Bruce's head thrashed against the pillow. And then Lex came up, pulling Bruce cruelly back to earth; he bit back a whimper of dismay.

Lex laid over Bruce's body sweetly, a kiss to the collarbone, weighted blanket with knives hidden in the stuffing. His grinning eyes unapologetic and his red, red mouth was swollen and slick with Bruce.

“Beast.”

Playfully, Lex bared his teeth. 

Time stood still for a few moments. The breath caught on Bruce's chest, arousal forgotten, just Lex's face and the endless expanse of his sinuous body.

“What you looking at?”

“I told you. The view.”

Lex's brow twitched minutely, and Bruce could tell that he didn't agree.

“Humility doesn't suit you.” As that hat hadn't either, back in Excelsior. “You know what you do.”

“Are you setting me up to fish for a compliment? You should know I find it awfully gauche.”

Bruce thumbed absently at Lex's abused lower lip.

“When you move, people watch.”

“You watch, you mean,” said Lex boldly, taking the thumb into his mouth and biting down.

Bruce remained silent.

Lex let go of the thumb and countered, “You watch everything.”

It had the sound and implications of a shrug.

Did Lex really think that? That a friend to all was a friend to none, and that it was a maxim that applied to them of all people? How could Bruce showing up here unannounced after sending postcards for years not clue him in? 

“I watch you more,” Bruce said, honest but vague. 

It would be unwise to say more when he was on his way out, and would only invite more madness.

Lex's eyes still widened like it'd been some great confession.

“I'm gonna need you to fuck me now.”

Bruce couldn't take another how many minutes of Lex dictating pace, rhythm, and mood, not when Lex’s preferred everything was that it be as torturous as possible for him. With that in mind, he took Lex by the hips and spun them around, landing on top of Lex with a huff. The unimpressed stare aimed his way didn't hold up against Bruce's sudden vindictive streak, rutting their cocks together. There was only so haughty that a person could look with their eyes fluttering like that, Lex Luthor or not. 

A leg broke free from the neat alignment of their limbs, and Lex used it to wrap around Bruce's hip. “Come on.”

Bruce pulled away, got the condom on and poured lube over himself. When he slid his hand under Lex to check his readiness, he got distracted by the fact that all around his hole he was as soft and hairless as everywhere else. 

“Anytime this century,” Lex snarked, and Bruce realized he'd been caressing Lex over and around his ass but never dipping into where he was wet and wanting, still a little open from earlier and catching on his fingertips, like it was hungry.

Blinking the haze out of his eyes, Bruce pressed inside. He had to go slow, Lex a tighter fit than he'd seemed, and he'd seemed snug.

“Slow, slow—!” Lex hissed, saying, “Tightened back up, shi—”

Nearly shaking with effort, Bruce stilled, frowning down at Lex. A drop of Bruce’s sweat dripped from his hairline onto Lex's cheek. 

After the first expression of agony, Lex had smoothed his face into a mask, one that Bruce might dislike even more than pain. Wary of jostling him if he tried to get fancy, Bruce nosed at his jawline, prompting him to tilt his head aside. A surreptitious sniff of Lex's warm musk later—irrationally pleasing to the senses—Bruce began to press open-mouthed kisses to the skin of Lex's throat. He found him to be sensitive, and when Bruce took his teeth to the skin, the shivers he got were full bodied.

“Go on,” Lex said roughly.

Bruce pressed further in, slow, and Lex took it without protest, exhaling audibly. When he was all the way in, Lex ordered, “Move.”

For all his imperiousness, he seemed to melt into the sheets the more Bruce moved, his hips in gentle counterpoint.

In dissonance with his bearing, he snapped, “If you gonna fuck me like a wife, at least put your damn back into it.”

Annoyed, Bruce slid Lex’s knee over the crook of his arm, changing the angle, and clutched Lex’s chin with his hand, squeezing hard.

“Why should I? You like it, ’ve gone easy.”

Contrary to his word, he gave one long hard thrust to taunt Lex with it. Only Bruce hadn’t anticipated the consequences and nearly collapsed, knees gone weak.

“Fff—you got so…” tight, unbearable heat around his cock, too much of a good thing that the body couldn’t take it.

When Bruce opened his eyes, searching for the look in Lex’s face, he found him blissful, brow collapsed, mouth slackened. His body seemed to yield to pleasure easily, like for him there was no such thing as too much.

He’s gone liquid, Bruce thought in something like awe. He dragged his lips across Lex’s cheek and whispered into his ear, “Like it?”

Lex clenched around him again, and Bruce squirmed, breath hitching at a sharp pang of pleasure in his stomach.

“What, that?” asked Lex.

Bruce found he’d grown tired of banter.

“Do you ever,” he grunted, “say what you fucking mean.” He punctuated his words with a harsh thrust again, and Lex yelped, arching his back. The leg that hung free wrapped itself around Bruce’s waist and his arms went around Bruce’s shoulders, holding on for dear life.

“Please,” Lex begged.

Bruce was given no time to bask in the victory. A strange sound from behind, crackling almost, diverted his attention. 

He looked over one shoulder and saw orange, movement, fire starting to lick its way across the curtains over the balcony wall. Through the alarm and whiplash, he noticed a strange whoosh of air, color flickering like something too quick for the eye to catch.

“Wh…” Lex began, squirming to look over Bruce’s body. “Oh, f—”

Bruce pulled out hastily, both of them cringing at the too-fast of it.

He asked, urgency straining his voice, “Where’s an extinguisher?”

“Out in the hall. Near the sunroom.”

Bruce ran, feeling a little stupid with his softening dick swinging about, but the fire was spreading, and Lex, who’d sat up in bed, hadn’t looked particularly inclined to get up and head someplace safe, no matter the fire closing in.

He found the extinguisher where Lex said it would be and ran back to the master bedroom, the curtains now entirely eaten by flames that had begun to spread to nearby furniture.

Bruce sprayed the fire until it’d been fully suppressed, then headed outside to the balcony to see if there was someone there. It was empty, as were the grounds below, and he looked and he looked before giving up. 

Bruce walked back inside with a frown. That shadow… he could’ve sworn…

“You could’ve helped,” he grouched, annoyed that Lex had stayed so close to the danger.

“It only takes one set of hands to work one of those, and my ass is gaping open. So.”

Bruce squinted at him, insults trapped behind his teeth as he watched Lex eye his groin with amusement and a spark of interest.

“You look ridiculous. My hero.”

“Shut up.”

“Get yourself over here.”

Bruce did, falling into Lex as easily as before, curtains more than forgotten.

“Never let it be said that you’re not a man of habit,” came the voice from behind him.

Bruce froze where he was loading the truck of his car with his suitcase.

“Lex.”

He spun around, expecting to see rage or betrayal, some trace of the inhuman that he knew was in Lex.

Lex looked perfectly pleasant in his half-opened robe and nothing else. Mouth relaxed into an almost grin, nothing in his countenance indicated resentment. Bruce hadn’t imagined he was capable of causing this much hurt in a man like Lex.

“Though I’ll admit, the whole four in the morning, leaving while it’s still dark? You’ve grown dramatic with age.”

Rendered nearly speechless, Bruce said, “I don’t do goodbyes very well.”

“Understatement of the century.”

“I have to—”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” Lex countered easily. Like he thought that Bruce had, and that the fact that he wouldn’t was a grave insult.

“There are things I must do.”

Lex stepped forward, barefoot over gravel, nakedness taunting Bruce with every shift of the robe, and pressed himself chest to chest to him.

“Maybe you’ll send me a birthday card in a few years, heh? A man can dream.”

“I—”

“January 19th. If you were wondering.”

The kiss was slow and sensuous and, they both knew, most likely their last. Bruce curled his hands into fists to keep from grabbing at Lex and deepening it further. It was enough. Lex was well now. Bruce had lingered too long already.

“Take care, Lex.”

Feeling out of sorts, he shut the trunk with calculated force and got into the driver’s seat.

“Always do,” he heard Lex say, and drove away.