Fic: Spooky Stuff (5/7, complete, all parts linked)
Art by sanadafaye
Back to Master Post
Back to Part 4
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Lex listened to Clark trudge up the stairs, and wondered how the young teenager managed to make it sound so obstinate. He smirked into his mug a little as he took another sip, and tried very, very hard to ignore the creeping, shivery feeling up his spine. He listened to Clark rattle around upstairs, doors opening and closing, pressurized water audibly running through the pipes up to the bathroom, and finally a final door pull, walking, and definite closure of a door, the sounds of movement now far muted from what they were before.
The shivery feeling moved from his chest out to his limbs as the frequency of the noises petered out, and he realized that he really was going to be by himself on the ground floor for an indeterminate period of time without interruption. He'd been left to his own devices in the general vicinity of a spacecraft of unknown alien origins without any supervision whatsoever, and trusted to conduct himself in a manner becoming of a sane, rational adult individual who was known to be able to satisfy rigid standards of proper comportment under any circumstances, no matter how strange or unexpected.
Clark had left him alone, in the same room with a spaceship, and expected him to... to... behave.
Was Clark out of his fucking mind?!?
...Well, he had made a promise, though.
Didn't say anything about staying out of trouble, though, Lex mused as he turned in his seat and stared over the back of the chair at the all-but-forgotten lump in front of the fireplace. He took another sip of his cocoa and started to smile. Then grin. Then had to stop because he was grinning so wide it almost hurt. He rubbed a hand across his lower jaw, trying to knead out the unfamiliar ache.
He bit his lip absently as he tried to think of what he could do to the thing that wouldn't involve touching it, with the objects at hand.
...Well, not touching it himself, anyway. Just looking, seeing things: like how it might react if…
...And maybe not involving breaking anything, taking anything else apart, or leaving some nasty stains on the living room rug. That wouldn’t do, making trouble for Clark almost immediately…
--Ok, maybe Clark knew what he was doing after all, because the ideas were coming so fast and furious that he couldn't decide where to begin, there was just too much to do and so many possibilities!
Lex took a deep breath and told himself that it was probably not a good sign that he was almost bouncing in his chair. He put his sugar-spiked beverage down on the kitchen table carefully and stood, fingers nearly white in a death grip on the back of the chair as he pushed himself up all at once, feeling a bit of a headrush.
He took a step, felt a sudden odd sensation of vertigo, and found himself fighting nausea.
When his surroundings finally stopped spinning, Lex realized he was in a partially-crumpled heap next to his chair, leaning against it for support with one arm sprawled across the seat, the other hand braced on the floor. His arms ached a bit, and his knees hurt, and he blearily looked down at the traitorous things for a moment. He had not given permission for his legs to give out on him, damnit.
...Wait, there's something wrong there. It took him a moment, and another moment before he figured it out.
He'd collapsed. He counted it up, and it was… the third time that evening: first time on the porch, second just inside the door -- except Clark had caught him then -- third just now... unless he counted by the car earlier as number zero, and in the barn by Clark when he'd panicked as zero-point-five. Although maybe those last two didn't have to be counted, because he'd only had a little trouble getting up either of those times, and oh dear god something was wrong with him, he was trying to talk himself out of counting up hits like a battered housewife. He paled and tried to shake off that entirely unwelcome thought as quickly as it had come upon him.
He sucked in a shaky breath and took stock of himself and tallied up the physical trauma. He’d been tasered by the Jude Royce lookalike and had still had mild shivers and spasms from that at the Club, though it had worn off by the time Clark had arrived and gotten him settled. He also doubted he’d been handled gently by him while being abducted and he certainly had been manhandled when being shoved into that straightjacket and hung from the ceiling; he’d been aching at the time. He’d taken a few blows to the head before Rothman had shot him down, and he’d dropped hard onto a hard floor. Then he’d taken another longer fall onto a none-too-soft old beaten-up couch trying to avoid gunfire. He’d had a full body ache going even through the buzz of adrenaline, which had slowly worsened during the ninety minute car drive back to Smallville, and he’d started to stiffen up. He’d been about ready to bow out and head home - get away from everyone, get some space to lick his wounds, take a few aspirin, get really damn drunk, and maybe call in a specialist for a deep tissue massage -- when he’d taken that header in the backroom of the Talon, too. Individually, none of those things were enough to do more than sneer at and brush off, but now after having finally tallied up everything in his head in a nice, neat row, he slowly began to realize why Clark had nonverbally indicated that he’d wanted him to go to the hospital earlier.
Now, on top of that, he had been laying unconscious on a cold hard floor for hours and stiffened even further; though the almost scalding hot bath had helped quite a bit, he really needed a professional to work over the knots and bruises before he started getting muscle spasms or worse. He’d also been out in the middle of a horrid freezing cold and blustery rainstorm, walked several miles through it with scant protection against the elements, then stayed in wet clothing for an indeterminate period of time and been chilled to the bone. Only recently had he warmed up a little and eaten -- well, drank -- something that even he could barely call 'substantial' for the first time in hours, and only under Clark’s eagle-eyed and rather pushy direction. Lex winced slightly at the last.
And Lex belatedly remembered that when he’d dropped on the porch he’d hit his arm. He shifted on the floor, curling his legs under him and straightening, leaning a little less against the chair and brought his arm towards his chest, rubbed carefully at it to lessen the ache from having hit it again just now. He’d be lucky if he wasn’t black and blue from head to foot tomorrow morning.
He wasn’t actually all that sure about how badly bruised he was, because he had been too out of it earlier upstairs to pay close attention and take stock of his injuries. He also realized that part of the reason he hadn’t thought through his physical state any earlier was because to do so he had needed to think about Rothman and everything that had happened, something that he had absolutely not wanted to mentally revisit ever again. Funny how the sudden development of aliens on Earth seemed to make that little concern seem so very silly and meaningless. …Well, he was facing it full-on now, wasn’t he?
And, of course, this was completely discounting all the mental knocks he’d taken, even in just the last twenty-four hours. Plus, aliens.
Lex resisted the urge to smack himself in the head, because he really didn’t need to finish off the evening with a full-blown concussion. Was it any wonder why he wasn't in top form? With the battering he'd taken and all the stress involved, he'd be lucky if he didn't end up sick, or wasn't already just that despite a killer immune system to the contrary.
He sneezed spontaneously, once, surprising himself, and then sniffed slightly. His head was starting to get that muzzy feeling again he'd felt earlier...
Oh, goddamn it!
Lex's eyes widened as he realized that this shouldn't have taken so long to work out, either.
...Perhaps I am not in the best frame of mind and state of body to be performing Science on anything right now, he realized with a grimace, glancing woefully at the spaceship, and the impatient feeling that accompanied that thought almost felt like a spiking pain in his chest.
Then he grimaced and rubbed the heel of his palm over his sternum as he realized that that hadn’t been a psychosomatic feeling, either.
Damn it all to hell! Lex cursed under his breath. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d been sick, and his childhood memories were vague though he’d supposedly had asthma for some time before he’d grown out of it. However, he had a suspicion that this was more than just a mild cold he’d managed to grant himself as an incubator for. He took a careful breath, as deeply as possible, and realized that it felt far different than earlier at his poor, ruined car, towards the end when he’d been marveling at his ability to breathe properly after his short-lived hysteria. His lungs didn’t feel quite as… full? There was also an odd hitching feeling in his diaphragm at the end.
So, whatever it was must have gotten into his lungs. He resisted a second urge to sneeze again, but doing so shortly had him shuddering and coughing instead. Upper and lower respiratory tract infection. Wonderful. And he had work tomorrow.
He glanced at the stairs and stifled another wince as he realized what Clark might say to that. Something starting with explosive disbelief at how Lex could even consider going in, then a few choice pointed remarks about needing to safeguard his own well-being, and some final-sounding judgment made for him underscored with undeniable common sense, no doubt.
It’d probably sound something like ‘What? You can’t possibly be thinking about going in! You’re sick! And you went through a horrible experience and need some time to recover, everyone will understand that. They should be able to survive a day without you having to come in and micromanage them, if you’ve been doing your job in getting the plant back in working order.’
…Well, ok, maybe he wouldn’t sound exactly like that, that was far too adult and up-front. …He supposed a more Clark-like thing to do would be to just huff a little and talk his staff into helpfully disappearing the alarm in his bedroom for him so he’d wake up too late to go in tomorrow, and top it off with calling Chloe’s dad in the early morning and talking Gabe into calling in sick for him and covering for the day, all behind his back.
…Ok, maybe not quite that either. Maybe some combination of the two, though. And he probably shouldn’t be getting warm feelings from the idea that Clark might be perfectly willing to go out of his way to blatantly sabotage Lex like that.
It would probably be a good waste of effort and energy to go through all that with him, so I might as well take tomorrow off, Lex decided. Though, now he was a bit curious to know what Clark would actually do if he thought otherwise…
He thought of calling in at the plant to let them know now before he changed his mind - they had the security staff and a night secretary, someone would be available - and reached for his cellphone.
And he felt confused for a moment as his hand slid across soft cotton batting.
He stared down at the too-large, warm cardigan sweater and remembered that he was wearing borrowed clothing.
Then he glanced around for his jacket. Clark had picked it up from the bathroom earlier.
He frowned as he realized he couldn’t see anything from his seated position on the floor, braced both hands on the chair seat, and slowly pushed himself to a kneeling, then a standing position with a grimace.
He swayed slightly, but this time stayed upright.
…He was reminded again that he was ill, and should be taking it easy. So, first order of business: find his phone. Call in sick. Then take care of himself a little and rest.
He swallowed as his stomach clenched slightly for a moment and he felt a faint lightness in his head. He supposed that included getting himself something more substantial to eat. He glanced at the stairs but he doubted Clark would be coming down for awhile. He hoped that it would be all right if he just helped himself to something from the fridge; historically, the Kents had always offered him food when he visited. Well, at least Mrs. Kent did, with Clark giving him puppy eyes whenever he looked like he might be considering saying ‘no’ in as polite a manner as possible.
Glancing around the kitchen, Lex didn’t see it. He slowly moved away from the bracing chair and cautiously focused on keeping himself up and moving. He moved into the living room, past the back of the couch, trying to ignore the spacecraft and being only partially successful. He finally spotted it hanging carefully off of two coathooks near the door, spread out to facilitate its drying, he assumed. He lifted it up and slid his hand into the rather damp breast pocket. Then he frowned.
His cellphone wasn’t there.
What the hell?
Eyes narrowed with suspicion, Lex lifted the jacket off and over, and searched the pocket more thoroughly. Nothing. …In fact, there was nothing in any of the pockets, upon further inspection.
Lex gritted his teeth, hung his jacket back up, and tried not to feel violated somehow. In a sense, it was silly to feel that way, he knew - he wasn’t some Victorian-era, frail, fainting girl type who would be one to screech about vile men taking liberties with her person, or her things, but that was about as close as he could come to describing the sensation he was feeling just then.
He was even less amused when, after sweeping his gaze over the nearby tables he didn’t see any of his things, either, nor inside any of the closest drawers after he lost his temper enough to start sliding a few open and rifling through them to look.
He silently slid the final drawer closed with a subvocal growl and fumed. He didn’t know what kind of game Clark was playing here, but when he got back downstairs…
Well, fine. He could always use the house phone, instead. He strode back to the kitchen, ignoring the slight dizziness he felt at moving a little too fast, and reached out to pick up the phone.
Holding it to his ear, he heard a dial tone, and got a thin mean smile. Clark hadn’t cut him off from all his immediate resources, if he hadn’t unplugged and hidden the means to access a working phone line.
He held his fingers up to press the buttons to call the plant, and then the mansion for a ride home, but then paused as he realized that he was having trouble remembering the nighttime number for the plant. He glanced down, thinking… and then paused, feeling ashamed.
On top of the small bookshelf, under the phone, all of his things had been carefully laid out to dry. Cellphone, wallet - open, with soaking wet bills and credit cards spread out - and car keys, house keys, handkerchief, and all other manner of assorted odds-and-ends; a few of them were from his pants pockets, as well. Everything was there, he realized, touching things one by one and shifting a few others aside absently; nothing was missing.
He quietly put the phone back on the receiver with a soft click.
He felt horrible. Why had he jumped to such a conclusion, and so quickly? Clark wasn’t like that.
He generally doesn’t go through your pockets when you’re not looking, either, a small voice said, but he squashed it. That was just wrong. There was no reason for Clark to do that. There was nothing to look for; why would he be searching for something, and what for?
Lex scooped up his cellphone and snapped it open. He sighed at the dark screen and hit the power button. Then he frowned as he got no response. With a sinking feeling, he turned it over and opened the back panel and slid out the battery. It felt damp, and upon closer inspection, he could see a thin film of water inside the compartment.
How lovely, he thought darkly. Stupid weather; how had people managed before coats and umbrellas, besides possibly not carrying around any portable items to ruin? That made two, or maybe three of the small electronic devices he’d been carrying dead due to water, if he counted the car remote as possibly malfunctioning along with the miniature flashlight. Then he felt a bolt of sheer panic and he dropped the phone in parts back onto the counter before frantically sliding the sweater and flannel shirtsleeves up his arm, checking his mother’s watch.
Oh thank god, Lex breathed, watching the second hand move across the face with its usual tick-tick-ticking motion. He’d not checked it earlier upstairs, either before or after the bath. If it hadn’t been working…
He collapsed slightly against the table behind his back, letting out a breath in relief. Then something occurred to him and he glanced down at his watch again, this time paying more careful attention to the time.
Dear god, it’s that late already? Lex realized. If he could remember the proper nighttime plant number, he could have called there, but the day number routed to the plant manager’s phone at night, and his calling in sick for tomorrow wasn’t an emergency that required Gabe’s attention. Calling the mansion to send someone for him would probably involve waking up the entire household at this point, and he belatedly remembered his earlier line of reasoning on why he hadn’t asked for them to do that before. Nothing had really changed enough to warrant him having changed his mind, he wasn’t ‘trapped’ here and needing an escape route, so to speak, and without a proper justification...
He supposed that he could call the main office in Metropolis and have them take care of passing the message along at the proper time, but he didn’t like bringing the main branch into things that he considered an internal plant affair. Calling them for the directory search would bring nearly the same result, and alert the same people, with similar consequences.
He leaned his head back and then quickly brought it down level again when that immediately gave him vertigo. He shivered and passed a hand across his face, rubbing his eyes.
Right, he supposed he could wait to call out. What had been the next thing to do?
Lex shakily slid upright and moved over to the refrigerator. After opening it and puttering through it, he found a Tupperware container full of what looked like homemade chicken soup, which he slid out onto the counter, and he pulled out a gallon of milk for good measure.
He felt annoyed as his arms shook slightly after even that small exertion and realized exactly how low on energy he was. He shut the fridge door behind him, then went looking for a bowl and ladle. To his surprise it didn’t take long - apparently he knew the layout of this kitchen better than the one at the mansion. …Although, considering how militant the new cook was about people entering her domain and mucking about, maybe he shouldn’t be. He’d been more or less chased out a few times by her, and he knew better than to annoy the people making his meals, so he had stopped trying to explore on his own. Clark was a good distraction for her when he showed up for deliveries, but they generally didn’t hang out in the mansion’s kitchen all that often.
After spooning himself out a good portion and popping it in the microwave - he was so glad that the Kents had gotten one of those recently - he pulled open a cabinet door and reached for a glass before pausing contemplatively and pulling out a large mug instead. Once the microwave was done, he carefully removed the warm bowl with a towel and put a mug full of the milk inside, setting it for a few seconds and smirking to himself. He knew that the tryptophan in warm milk was supposed to be good relaxant, converting into a small amount of sleep-inducing serotonin and melatonin in the body, and he could really use something to help his mind settle at the moment.
He slid open a drawer and selected a spoon, pushed a chair away from the table, and sat down with the soup, digging in while waiting for the milk. When the timer went off, he retrieved the mug and, taking a sip, frowned at the temperature differentials, and had to take another moment to find a knife to stir the liquid into a more homogeneously distributed temperature.
The warm meal helped quite a bit, he realized only after he stopped his intermittent shivering. He slid his hands across his face and felt more than a little foolish. He wasn’t even able to read his own body state properly at the moment. He decided that he really, really hated being sick.
He spooned himself out another bowl of soup and curled his cold hands around the warm mug while he waited. After the second bowl, he was feeling significantly more relaxed and warm throughout, and he finished off the last of his milk with a sigh and put everything away - soup Tupperware closed and back in the fridge, milk too after refilling his mug, dirty dishes in the sink under water.
Lex put the mug in for heating the new serving and turned to face the rest of the room. He glanced back at the spaceship - still there, hadn’t gone anywhere - and then his eyes slid back over to his cellphone… and lit on the little built-in camera.
Now that would be a reason to go searching for your phone - make sure there could be no photographic evidence, that damn little voice piped back up again.
Lex gritted his teeth. That was a stupid thought, and he had no reason to think that. He could have just as easily called in all sorts of people to come and grab the spaceship, and he wouldn’t have needed to give a reason why they needed to come and with what resources, he could have just told them to come, period. Clark hadn’t disconnected the landline; that should be proof enough of his intentions.
But your things were awfully far away from your jacket; how did they end up all the way over in the kitchen?
Probably because Clark carried them over with him when he started the hot water going for the hot chocolate. …Despite the fact that it probably would have been easier to just lay things out by the door near where his jacket hung.
No, he decided, there was nothing sinister there. And any too-damn-paranoid part of me that might think otherwise can just shut the hell up.
…Though, why shouldn’t he call someone to come and retrieve the spacecraft for him? It was a real find and--
What the hell am I doing?!? Lex realized with a start, pulling back from the phone as if it were on fire and clutching his hand to his chest. The microwave dinged and he gratefully grabbed the mug to give himself something to do with his hands. He backed away slowly into the living room with it, away from the phone.
It wasn’t his. It simply wasn’t his, to do anything he wanted with, and he didn’t know the situation. They’d kept the damn thing a secret for what was fast approaching twelve years now - assuming it came down with the meteor shower that took your hair - and nothing had gone wrong - that you know about - and waiting a bit to get a better read on the situation would not kill him - unless the Kents don’t like the idea of you knowing, and they decide no-one will miss you, or ever suspect...
He resolutely walked himself over to the end of the couch closest to the door and the staircase and sat down. Then he put the mug down and snagged a blanket, wrapping it around himself before picking his mug back up again, curling his legs under him, and trying to stop shaking.
I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into, Lex realized. What the hell do I do?
…Well, a good first step would probably be to stop panicking and start using your brain. Idiot.
He took a deep draught of the warm milk, then leaned back hard into the couch and shuttered his eyes.
The problem with thinking, though, was that his attention was currently split between all of the things he wanted to do to the spacecraft, and all of the feelings of paranoia that were screaming at him to run like hell, and he’d already gone down several false lines of reasoning just within the last few minutes. He wasn’t sure if being sick had impacted him more, or all his banging about that day, but the original cause of it was not nearly so important as its impact on his thought processes.
So do nothing. Observe. Gather data, and force yourself to wait to evaluate it once you’re feeling better and up to the task. Risk nothing, for now.
Ok. He could do that. Probably. He finished his mug and set it on the table, then pulled the blankets in about his shoulders a bit more.
The decision to essentially ‘hurry up and wait’ having been made, he felt marginally calmer, and was able to relax back into the couch a bit more. Without feeling so restricted by trying to determine what he had to do right then, he was finally able to let his thoughts drift and mused with very little tension now over the things he wanted to test: light refraction, heat and electrical conduction, hardness, surface roughness, and then advanced imaging techniques to map the interior and exterior, just as a start before even thinking about taking samples or trying to crack it open.
Then he started trying to tally the fastest and safest ad-hoc alternative methods for how to test them: the view of flashlight beams under colored lenses and through glass prisms, reactions to matches and candles, or battery wiring, the resistance to an edge of steel or diamond, the friction or stickiness of the flow of flour or water or sand over the surfaces, measurements of the gouges and pencil rubbings of the etchings, pull it up in chains and weigh it, maybe do some water displacement tests for density.
He had a sinking feeling that the latter list might become necessary, because he was doubtful of his ability to convince the Kents to let the thing out of their sight, let alone off their property. If he couldn’t even manage that, then it would undoubtedly be nearly impossible to convince them to let him bring in advanced equipment either, because that might draw unwanted attention.
He thought about the contents of the kitchen and wondered if he could get away with experimenting around a little, starting early. Clark couldn’t really expect him not to poke and prod the thing now that he’d seen it, could he? …Though it had been by accident -but still! It was right there, and it would be so easy. And he really wouldn’t have to touch it, technically, it would just be other substances and… he was doing it again. He rubbed at his eyes and tried not to groan. He’d just decided that he wouldn’t do anything until after talking with Clark, and he’d already made a promise to him earlier that--
With a slight start, he realized what he’d really been about to do right before he’d collapsed in the kitchen - he’d sworn not to touch anything while Clark was absent from the room, but just prior he’d said something to imply that meant that he wouldn’t do anything as well, a far more restrictive vow than he’d originally intended to make to Clark at the time. Lex made it a point to keep his promises, and not just to the letter of them. He groaned and ran a hand over his head as he realized that he’d nearly broken his word to a friend due to his greed for knowledge.
He had nearly unwittingly trampled over Clark’s friendship and trust in the course of getting what he wanted. He understood now that he’d been so excited that he’d been ready to say or do damn near anything in order to convince Clark to let him have a chance to be alone with the ship for a little while. And, to his dismay, upon reflection he couldn’t remember at the time caring much what he was saying in order to do just that. And that was… unforgiveable.
Lex pulled the blanket closer shakily, then his breath caught on what was supposed to be a deeper breath and he coughed weakly a few times. He wondered what dire straits he must be in that he ought to be grateful to be suffering from a cold nasty enough to slow him down.
He absently wondered if the Kents had conducted any of their own tests on the craft.
…Then he spent a few minutes trying to choke down laughter, which nearly morphed into another weak coughing jag.
All right, humor aside, he hoped that close proximity to the thing wasn’t toxic, radioactive, or otherwise lethal. If he assumed correctly, it had been on the farm for years, so he doubted it was or it would have impacted their produce and possibly poisoned the water table, or otherwise hurt the Kents and they all seemed healthy enough. He wasn’t sure that they would have thought far enough ahead to handle it with gloves, and even if they had, most types of chemicals would easily soak through leather. …No, it was probably ‘safe’ enough so long as it was inactive.
…Assuming it was inactive. Taking twelve years to build up to an explosion of some sort seemed a bit unlikely. Even cascading system failures would probably have collapsed and set something off long before now. Breaking it open without an idea of its innards would probably be a bad idea, though, if it had an isolated power source that could power spaceflight that was malfunctioning.
Though, for some reason, Lex got the feeling that it wasn’t broken. It didn’t seem dead, just… resting? And watching. Was it locked down and on standby, waiting for someone to turn it on? …Did it turn on? How did it turn on?
The thing really did look like an escape pod, or some sort of odd egg. Or maybe it was a seed. Lex cocked his head sideways slightly for a moment and tried to imagine it planted in the ground. Could it grow a metallic tree? A metallic alien tree? Or two, or three?
Was it alive and sentient itself? Was it possible that the ship itself was the alien, rather than a mere carrier of such foreign unearthly creatures?
And what the heck did the aliens look like?
Lex rubbed his forehead and wondered why he felt so cold. Was it himself, or was it the room temperature? Could the alien ship be sucking up the heat? It was in the way of the fireplace, so he wouldn’t be able to light one until Clark came downstairs, because doing so would involve first shoving the spaceship out of the way, and that would involve touching it.
There were too many what-ifs. He really needed to know what Clark and the elder Kents knew about it - where it came from, how they got it, and what they had seen when it came down.
…And yes, he was probably assuming a lot here, but upon reflection, worrying about the elder Kents’ reaction to his accidental induction into the role of fellow secret-keeper probably did not merit much time or energy. Clark had actually taken it all rather well earlier, considering -- almost in stride -- other than being highly annoyed with him… and the ship… but mostly the ship, and Lex had no reason to assume that he would feel differently later. And, considering Clark’s protectiveness of his person, which had lessened not at all, if his behavior both in the barn and in the house had been any indication, he doubted that his parents would do anything drastic to which Clark would be so thoroughly opposed.
Otherwise… well, otherwise he was, quite frankly, screwed, because he doubted that anything in this world could stop the Kents if they felt truly threatened. Hiding behind his security staff would probably only buy him a little extra time. This, of course, assumed that the raging Kent leading the charge was Mr. Kent, and not Mrs.Kent. He doubted he’d stand a chance against another redhead, and especially not her. Hell, she could probably lure him out of the mansion with the promise of pie and a smile of forgiveness, and he’d fall right into the trap. Knowing her, the pie might even be worth walking into it willingly, he mused ruefully, punctuated with a soft sigh.
When it came right down to it, either they would or they wouldn’t have a problem with him knowing, and there was probably nothing he could do about that. All he could hope for was that he’d have two-out-of-three in favor of a sane response, and that that would be enough to drown out the vocal, bitterly hateful third.
It finally occurred to Lex that despite all the warm comfort food, his bone-deep fatigue, the perfectly-functional cushioned couch, and the soft thick quilted blanket, he still wasn’t able to relax enough to wind down and rest. His brain just would not let go of the fact of the spaceship’s existence and the idea of aliens on Earth, and he couldn’t keep his eyes closed for more than a few seconds at a time. He tilted his head into the armrest and wondered if trying to lay out flat instead of half-sitting up might help, as he blinked lazily at the ship.
Maybe he should think about getting home after all. It was possible that Lionel might be looking for him, he supposed. Was he supposed to be coming in to town that weekend? Lex couldn’t remember, but…
Without warning, a firm strong hand came down on Lex’s shoulder.
What-- Dad?!?
Lex stifled a yelp and stiffened, and his head whipped around and up so fast that he had trouble focusing his eyes for a moment. Then his vision cleared at the same time that he realized that the touch had been gentle, far too gentle to be confused with Lionel’s steely grip, and Clark was looking down at him with a worried frown as Lex gasped in a few breaths and drooped back into a more relaxed posture in sheer, utter relief.
“Are you ok?”
Lex nodded. “I, ah, didn’t hear you come down.”
“Sorry.”
“No, no, that’s…” Lex waved it off with a blanket-covered arm. “That’s…” Fine tremors ran through him as his mind caught up with the implications of his confused mistake, and he resolutely tried desperate-hard not to think of what might happen if his father had been the one behind him. If he had seen the spaceship.
Lex felt the blood drain out of his face.
But, as he failed to push Lionel from his thoughts, it also slowly dawned on him that he honestly had no idea what Lionel would do. Nothing Lex could come up with seemed even remotely realistic. All he knew, with a feeling of utter certainty akin to knowing that the sun rises in the east, was that whatever it was would be bad. Very, very bad. And the Kents would be caught in the middle of it. Lex could almost see Lionel’s face, the look of pure want, morphing into the smug satisfaction of knowing that he would be able to obtain it, no matter the cost, human or otherwise. Lex realized with a sick feeling that whatever would need to be done to the Kents to ensure it would more than likely only sweeten it for Lionel. No love was lost between either of their families.
Then Lex was reminded of his own greed, his own earlier response, and he started to shake even harder.
“Lex? What? -Lex??”
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On to Part 6