Carol

[nonotthatone]

Pairing: Clex
Genre: Drama, Romance, AU/Holiday fic
Rating: PG
Word Count: 8,981
Summary: After an argument with Clark on Christmas Eve, Lex is visited by a series of spirits who show him what he has to lose. With great apologies to Charles Dickens.
A/N: This is set in a somewhat AU S4, I think. I've fudged the series timeline in places to suit my own purposes.

This was a tremendous amount of fun for me to write (lit nerd) and I hope you enjoy it too.

Clouds rolled in, as they sometimes do in December, and began to scatter peaceful snow on Smallville. It made the prospect of the Luthor estate even prettier than usual; amidst the feathery flakes, the castle's every window was set with a single candle, and the front entrance was a bower of evergreen wreaths and vivid red poinsettias.

Inside, however, the scene was far from beautiful. In the library, Clark and Lex clashed - again - with voices raised.

"I don't know how you can call this a friendship," Lex snarled, "when all you ever do is tell me lies."

"You're one to talk!" Clark retorted angrily. "We both know you haven't stopped investigating me. Don't even bother to deny it."

"You don't leave me any choice! You never give me an honest answer."

"And you never learn that some questions aren't yours to ask."

They glared at each other. Then Lex turned his back. "You might as well leave."

Clark's temper flagged as quickly as it had risen. "Lex. You're still coming over tonight, right?"

"What would be the point?"

"It's Christmas Eve."

"It's no different than any other day."

"But it is. Or it should be." Clark paused, but Lex didn't answer. He set his jaw and exhaled impatiently. "I don't want to fight with you."

"But you don't want to tell me the truth, either."

The impasse was familiar, but Lex's anger seemed more intense than usual. More final. Clark didn't know how to respond; so he just stood there, saying nothing and staring at Lex's back.

Finally Lex turned to face him again, but there was no reversal in his words. "Goodbye, Clark."

He went. There was nothing else to do.

Lex watched him go with a sinking heart. He didn't want to fight with Clark either; he had to push off the urge to run after him. But he couldn't, wouldn't do that. He was tired of always being the one to follow, always being the one to apologize. He loved Clark as he was - loved him more than he knew. And he wasn't asking what Clark asked of him - he wasn't asking him to change. He just wanted to be trusted in return. Why was that so difficult?

He had no idea; and Clark wasn't telling.

Maybe this bottle of scotch would know the answer.

It grew later and darker, as it tends to do. How stubborn of time to just proceed like that, heedless of Lex's troubled thoughts. He lingered in the library, drinking in front of the fire. He tried to distract himself, go do something else; but for some reason he could not shake off the compulsion to return there - as if holding vigil in the room where they had argued could somehow change it.

Maybe he believed that if he stayed there, Clark would come back, burst through the doors like he always did and force the conversation to continue until they were both satisfied with its outcome.

But he didn't. And frankly, Lex couldn't even imagine an outcome that would leave them both satisfied.

The clock in the hall struck five, then six, then seven. Each time Lex reached the bottom of his glass and found no answers, he simply refilled it. After his third drink he loosened his tie; after the fourth, his top two buttons. At some point he removed his jacket. Dinner at the Kents' was long over by now; they would be making merry without him. Maybe his absence made them even merrier. He suspected Martha only smiled at him for Clark's benefit, and he didn't deceive himself far enough to believe he had Jonathan's good opinion.

When the clock struck eight he considered his options. He could give up pretending he wasn't waiting for Clark - or that he wasn't drunk - and go to bed early. Or he could throw his glass into the fire, then get another one and keep drinking. In the end he decided on a compromise; he left the library to change into some pajamas, then returned to his armchair. He spared the glass.

The bottle of scotch was empty now though, so he reached for the next nearest thing. But the switch to brandy didn't make him any drunker; it just made him sleepy.

Lex startled; he must have drifted off. He was slumped in the chair, his head against his chest. The library had already been in full darkness when he last had his eyes open, so that was no indication of the time; but the fire seemed to have burned lower. He straightened, and turned to crane his neck in the direction of the clock ...

... and flew from his chair in unadulterated shock.

There, before the French doors, stood Lillian Luthor.

"Mother?" he breathed, incredulous.

"I was your mother," she answered, "when you were my Alexander." Her tone was like her posture: colder, more rigid than he remembered.

"I'm drunk," he said sadly. "Oh, Mother, I'm sorry - but I'm drunk and I'm imagining you."

"No."

"Oh, I definitely am drunk."

"You're not imagining me, Alexander."

"But you aren't ..." He took a timid step towards her, his outstretched hand trembling; he remembered how often he felt this way as a child, how often he had desperately wanted to touch her and yet felt that somehow he shouldn't. " ... real."

"Stop," she commanded. "In life I was Lillian Luthor, but now there is little left of me. And my spirit rests uneasily - because of you, my son."

"I'm sorry," Lex whispered miserably. "There are so many things I should have done differently, Mother - so many things I wish I'd said to you -

"Your mother loved you," she said, not unkindly. "But that is not why I've come."

Those words both soothed and seared him. With difficulty, he replied, "Tell me why."

"The time is coming when you must decide between love and power. These forces that drive you are too disparate to coexist; only one can truly rule your path. And each choice you make, no matter how small, binds you tighter to a destiny - a destiny which, by the time it is upon you, will be too late to change."

Lex's head was swimming with liquor and doubt. "I ... don't understand."

She looked at him with something like sadness on her pale, lifeless face. "I am sorry that I left you, Alexander. There is much I meant to teach you, and I regret ... your father never was a tender man."

His throat grew tight. "I know. It wasn't your fault."

"Nor was it yours," she said softly.

Somehow that gave him heart. "What must I do?"

"You will be visited tonight," she said, "by three spirits."

"To show me those choices you mentioned?"

"Yes."

"Will I ..." he faltered. "Will I see you again?"

"No," she answered faintly, already becoming less substantial. "But remember what has passed between us - and that I love you, Alexander."

Lex felt something tear free in his chest, and he moved forward quickly, thinking to embrace her before she disappeared. But by the time he reached the spot where she had stood, it was inhabited only by the air.

Lex was still on his knees, shaking, when he noticed the soft music. He twisted and peered through the shadows towards the source of the sound: his piano, where a figure dressed in long diaphanous robes played a haunting tune. The tender notes - "Lo How A Rose E'er Blooming" - stirred something distantly familiar in Lex's mind.

He rose slowly and moved closer to the instrument; he could not see the spirit's face, just its slender form in flowing white and its cascade of long dark hair, which was crowned with a diadem that sparkled like everlasting snow.

It played on until the end of the phrase; then it lifted its pale hands from the keys. Lex found his voice. "Who are you?" he asked.

The figure turned to him and Lex drew a breath in surprise; it was Lana.

"I am Christmas Past," she answered.

"Christmas Past?" he repeated, bewildered.

"Your past," she affirmed, and rose from the piano bench.

"But you look like Lana," he protested.

"I have things to show you," she replied serenely, extending her hand. "Walk with me."

He hesitated, then placed his hand in hers. "What do you have to show me?"

Her long fingers curled around his in a grip that was surprisingly strong. "Your happiest Christmas."

As she spoke, the contents of Lex's library seemed to blow away like mist, and the tune he had so recently heard on his own piano began to repeat in his ears. It grew louder as their surroundings became substantial once again, and suddenly they stood in a different room - one very different, but still familiar. Lex released Lana's hand and stepped forward in awe.

They were in his mother's library at the Luthor home in Metropolis - a room which for years now had been closed, its books dispersed into Lex's own library and its furniture shrouded against dust. But here it was, exactly as Lex remembered it, with the curtains flung wide to admit a stream of light through the tall windows.

And at the piano - the same piano that should have been standing in Lex's library at the mansion - sat Lillian, playing Christmas carols with gusto. Her skin was still taught and too pale, her eyes too bright; but then she turned their way and smiled.

By reflex, Lex moved to shrink against the wall - he felt, as he often had, as if he were intruding on her. But she slid off the piano bench and opened her arms. "Alexander!"

His heart lurched, and for a moment he almost ran to her. But Lana's hand was suddenly on his again, holding him back, and as he turned to protest another figure darted past and into Lillian's waiting embrace.

Lex suddenly remembered, and realized what he was seeing.

"I'm eleven years old," he whispered.

"Yes," Lana said.

"She's already ill, but I don't know it yet," he continued.

"Yes."

"Can they see us?" he asked her.

"No," she said, sounding somewhat sad. "But it's for you to see them, and learn what you can."

As if prompted, the younger Lex began to speak. "Mother!" he demanded. "What are you doing? You never play Christmas carols!"

"Well, this isn't a usual Christmas," Lillian whispered conspiratorily.

Young Lex clung to her, childish despite his age; older Lex's heart wrung, recalling the hyserical heights of his love for her then. He hadn't known, and yet he had somehow, that something wasn't quite right with her. It was something that had always hinted, and would only become clearer in too short a time.

"It's because Father is away, isn't it?" he asked her seriously.

"Yes," she answered just as honestly. "You know what a Scrooge he can be. But I've just had a call from him - he's staying in Belgium for the rest of the week."

His eyes were so wide and innocent, his scalp so ridiculously white. He had forgotten how she was the only one he'd allow to see him without the cap in those early days. "So we'll have our own Christmas," he said with a fragile smile. "What will we do?"

"We're going to have a party," she announced, sweeping him a deep, dramatic curtsey.

The scene shifted again, and the house's Great Room materialized. Every square inch seemed to dazzle with garland and greenery; the company was merry, but not so thick that the dancers were crowded. In the center of the room, young Lex led his mother gracefully to The Waltz of the Flowers.

"I had forgotten she had so many friends," older Lex murmured. "So few of them came anymore, after she ..."

"Your father kept them away," Lana interrupted him.

He turned to her sharply. "Did he?"

She brushed him off. "We have not come here to talk of Lionel. Look."

Young Lex was bowing to his mother on the dance floor; but the crowd turned their attention elsewhere and began to applaud. Through the foyer and into the room burst a jolly figure in red; older Lex recognized him now as the butler, but young Lex was too transported to reach the same conclusion.

There were other children too, well-dressed, well-mannered children who flooded towards Santa like a tide. From nowhere, it seemed, a chair was produced and one by one Santa took them into his lap, let them whisper their dearest wishes in his ear.

But young Lex hung back. His hand still held his mother's, but his eyes were on the only other hold-out against Santa's power: a little girl, perhaps four years old, her puffy pink skirts betraying her as she tried to hide behind a dark, graceful woman.

Lillian interlaced her fingers with Lex's and drew him with her towards the pair. "Nell," she greeted the other woman gently. "I'm so glad to see you."

"It's a wonderful party, Lillian," Nell Potter replied, dropping to one knee to comfort her cowering charge. "Lana," she coaxed. "Don't you want to see Santa?"

The little girl's eyes were full of tears; she shook her head furiously.

"You'll have to excuse her," Nell addressed Lillian again. "She's still ..."

"Please," Lillian interrupted, clasping Nell's shoulder kindly. Then she too knelt to speak to the little girl. "Lana," she said, reaching out to smooth her long dark hair, "you look so pretty in your dress. Like a princess."

Lana sniffled, but remembered her manners. "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Luthor."

"Merry Christmas," Lillian smiled in return. Then she reached out again, this time to draw Lex close. "I have an idea. Would you feel braver with a handsome prince to escort you to Santa's lap?"

Lex let his mother place Lana's small hand in his. Lana eyed him appraisingly for a moment, then nodded her agreement. Lex, in turn, looked pleadingly at his mother; she just kissed him on the forehead, straightened his tie and smiled. "Off you go."

The two women watched the children move off to join the queue, their love a presence to which the youngsters remain innocently unaware. As they took their place in line, young Lex turned to young Lana and asked, "Why didn't you want to see Santa?"

Her eyes were brown and huge, almost too large for her small face; her lashes still sparkled with the remains of her tears. "Because Santa can't bring what I really want."

Such conviction from someone so small took Lex by surprise. "What is it you want?"

She blinked at him. "I want my mommy and daddy to come back."

"Where are they?"

Her lip began to quiver again; he panicked. "Here," he said, fumbling for his pocket square. "I'm sorry. Don't cry."

"I won't," she insisted, lifting her chin proudly. "It was the meteors. They died."

Lex was moved as only a child can be. His hand trembled, but he reached up and pulled off the stocking cap. "The meteors did this to me," he confided.

Lana stared at him in wonder, the threatening tears now entirely forgotten. "I'm sorry," she said. "Does it hurt?"

"Not that way," Lex told her. "But people whisper."

"I know," Lana said, squeezing his hand.

"So what will you ask Santa for?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "What about you?"

"Me either."

"Do we have to?" she asked him, her tone imploring.

Lex looked over his shoulder; Lillian and Nell still stood close together, talking. His mother noticed his glance, though, and gave him a small wave.

"I think we do," he answered. "It will make them happy."

"All right," Lana sighed. "Then I guess I'll ask for a pony."

The children's voices, so clear a moment ago, began to drift back into the general noise of the party; older Lex realized he was still holding older Lana's hand. "Do you remember this?" he asked her dreamily.

"I am not Lana Lang," she said crossly.

"I'm sorry," he retracted, looking her up and down. "It's just uncanny."

"The resemblance makes it easier for you."

"It does," he agreed. "But, then - does she remember?"

"She was very young," Lana answered. "Her memory is indistinct. But there is one thing she does remember quite clearly."

"What is it?"

The scene wavered again, and now it was the end of the evening. They were in the foyer and young Lex, at his mother's prompting, was helping young Lana with her coat. She spun in his arms, letting the full skirt of her princess dress unfurl. Then, her upturned eyes fell upon the sprig of mistletoe that dangled far above their childish heads.

She had to stand on her tip-toes, and she was suddenly too shy to kiss Lex on the mouth. But his cheek still tingled where her lips had touched it.

Older Lex couldn't help the hand that drifted to that same cheek. "I had forgotten."

"She never has," the spirit responded. "Now, come."

"Are we going back?" Lex asked with relief. His heart felt uncomfortably full.

"Not yet," Lana answered. "There is one other Christmas we must visit."

Her fingers tightened on his and they took a step forward, and the scene shifted once again. From the gilded atmosphere of the festive Luthor home, these new surroundings seemed dull and colorless. The room felt empty, though it was inhabited by some hard and uninviting tables and chairs; its high ceilings were untouched by the weak light that drifted reluctantly through the windows.

At one of these windows a figure stood. Its posture, though outwardly easy, did not belie an air of tension. It was a boy, perhaps fifteen years old; he was somewhat tall, but bony. He stared out the window expectantly, his hands held in his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. His ears stuck out oddly thanks to the cap he wore.

Lana tried to draw him closer, but Lex resisted. "I know where we are."

"All the same," she said, "we must observe. Come."

She pulled him so close that they could peer over young Lex's shoulder, out the window to see what he saw. The street below was busy with traffic, and at the curb many fine cars were idling. Adults in merino and mink stepped out of these in a parade, and children in uniforms dashed into their waiting arms.

Young Lex's mouth twitched at one corner as he surveyed the receiving line. He continued to wait.

Behind him, rowdy voices in the hall heralded more departures. Trunks and cases banged against the floor, dragged carelessly by boys whose excited brains were full of home and Christmas. Most of the traffic was downward bound, towards the yard and their parents; but then, one set of footsteps slowed, turned back, and made for the empty dining hall.

Both Lexes knew these were not the footsteps he waited for.

"Hey, Luthor!" a mocking voice called from the doorway. "Daddy's forgotten about you, has he?"

"Shut up, Queen," young Lex hissed, though he was dismayed to find it sounded more plaintive than commanding.

"It doesn't surprise me," Oliver laughed cruelly. "Who'd want a freak like you around for Christmas anyway? You'd spoil the good cheer."

"I'll spoil yours," young Lex threatened, turning towards him with one fist cocked.

Oliver's manner changed immediately. He stepped fearlessly into the room. "Go on then," he offered, spreading his hands. "I know how much you want to; but you're always too much of a coward to do it."

As he drew nearer, the difference between their sizes became even more pitifully apparent. Lex's arm lowered ever so slightly. "It's never a fair fight; you always have your goons around you."

"It's just you and me now," Oliver observed. "Go ahead, take your shot."

Lex just stared at him for one long moment, then turned his back and resumed his watch out the window.

"I thought so," Oliver sneered.

"Fuck you," Lex snapped, the profanity tasting cheap and coppery in his mouth. "He'll be here."

"Poor him."

"At least I have parents to come for me," Lex cried viciously.

A little color drained from Oliver's face, but he recovered quickly. "Well, only one, really. And maybe that's why he's not coming, huh Lex? Who wants a reminder of his dead wife at Christmas?"

The misery in Lex's face was not obscured by his swirling rage. He turned on Oliver again, and would have punched him this time, but the older boy was already laughing and backing out of the room.

"See you next year, Luthor," he grinned, then took off down the hall again. Once his footsteps disappeared, young Lex brushed back his tears.

"Why are you showing me this?" older Lex growled, turning on Lana.

"So you can see," she responded, "what choices can do."

Time seemed to shift, although the scene did not. The light from the window became even more sickly; the traffic outside began to drift away. Young Lex remained unmoving at his post. Older Lex remembered how tired he felt.

Finally, just as night was falling, a car slid smoothly up to the curb and a tall figure emerged. A moment later a door banged below; low voices exchanged information and orders, and Lex heard the brisk rhythm of his father's approach.

"Lex," Lionel called from the doorway - impatiently, as if he were the one who had been kept waiting - "come on."

"No," Lex answered, his defiance small but strong.

Lionel huffed, took a few more steps into the room. "I don't have time for this, Lex. Get your things, and let's go."

"I'm not coming," Lex repeated, a little more loudly this time. He turned and stared his father down. "I'll stay at school this Christmas. There are a few others."

Lionel slapped his leather gloves against his palm. "Don't test me, son."

"I'm not."

"Very well," he replied with a bemused bow of his head. "I'll have your presents sent along. Merry Christmas, Lex."

And with that, he was gone. Young Lex turned back to the window and watched dispassionately as the car pulled away.

"He never came for you at Christmas again," Lana said.

Older Lex's mouth was dry, and his voice a bark as he replied, "I remember."

"You were unhappy at school," she observed.

"Yes."

"Then why did you refuse to go with him?"

"He didn't want me to," Lex sighed. "Not really."

"You thought he would be sorry, if you punished him."

"I suppose I did."

"And now?"

"Now ..." Lex answered with difficulty, "I suppose I know differently."

Lana's expression remained placid, passing no judgment on his words. "Your past cannot be changed now," she said, "though you may learn its lessons."

"Am I finished?" he asked wearily.

"With me," she affirmed. "But others await you. Come."

Lex's library swam back into view; Lana stepped aside and released her hold on his hand. He was too distracted by the sight before him to notice as she dematerialized.

A huge feast had been spread across every surface in the room. The desk, the bar, even the pool table was covered in a vast assortment of food. There was everything Lex had ever seen at the holidays - turkey, ham, roast goose; vegetables of every sort and color; pies, cakes and puddings both sweet and savory. And amidst it all, seated cross-legged in the very center of his desk and eating with great relish, was ... Chloe.

"Hi," she greeted him, holding out a turkey leg. "Are you hungry?"

He'd had nothing but scotch for dinner; but he wasn't sure the food was any realer than she was. "No, thank you."

"Fine, then," she grinned, looking happily around her, "more for me!"

She was dressed in garish green and gold, with red and white striped stockings and high combat boots. She wore jingle bell earrings and there was holly in her tousled hair.

"You look ... festive, Chloe."

"I am Christmas Present," she answered him, taking a huge drink from an even huger mug of coffee. "And no, not that kind of present, before you even think to make that stupid joke. Honestly, Lex. This is serious."

"I'm beginning to see that," he replied. "I suppose you have things to show me too?"

"I do," she said, and leapt down lightly from his desk. "And I'm sorry to say they're probably going to hurt." She reached his side and looked up at him with one corner of her mouth turned in. "But it's for your own good, you know. Come on."

She took his hand and his library faded once more, reassembling itself into the warm and familiar interior of the Kent farmhouse.

"Oh," Lex sighed. "Please, Chloe, don't. I'm already sorry I didn't go, must we ..."

"I'm afraid so," she insisted. "They're in the living room."

She pulled him through the kitchen, past its sky-high stacks of dirty dishes and towards the murmur of voices in the next room. It was a scene of homely, homey perfection: a tall tree glittered in one corner, beside a window through which you could just glimpse the falling snow. The coffee table was laden with trays of mugs and cookies; the fireplace roared, its mantelpiece hung with evergreen boughs and handmade stockings. And around the piano, a crowd was clustered; Martha played "Joy To The World" with many mistakes and much laughter at them.

Jonathan was there, one hand on Clark's shoulder; the Rosses were too, Pete grinning up at his friend and belting right along with Martha's fumbling, joyful playing. Just then the front door opened, no knock required, and in streamed the Sullivans with tins of cookies and jugs of apple cider. Chloe was talking with great animation and pulling Lois along with her; Lana drifted in behind them too, and closed the door against the chill wind.

Hosts and visitors exchanged hugs; coats were taken and refreshments offered. Lois shrugged and joined the singing with her off-key alto. Clark announced he'd make another pot of coffee; Chloe followed him to the kitchen.

"Here," she said without preamble, shoving a messily-wrapped package at him. "I know it's a little silly, but I made them myself."

"Thanks, Chloe." Her knitting was lumpy, but Clark's smile was completely genuine. "I always have trouble finding gloves to fit, but these are perfect." He kissed her on the forehead, and she closed her eyes briefly, the expression on her face bittersweet.

"Oh, Chloe," Lex whispered. "I understand."

"They can't hear you," not-Chloe reminded him.

"I know," he said. "I ... don't suppose I'd say it, if they could."

Real Chloe, having taken as much as she dared, made to break the hug first; but Clark held on. She lifted her chin to look into his face. "What's the matter, Clark?"

He finally dropped his arms, turned and busied himself with the coffee. "Lex didn't come."

"You fought again?"

"Yeah." He pressed the button on the coffee maker, turned and leaned back against the counter. "I don't know what to do, Chloe. He keeps on asking the same questions."

"That's Lex," she answered, her brow wrinkling sympathetically.

"I know," Clark sighed, crossing his arms. "I think ... I think I'm losing him."

"You might be," she said in soft agreement. "But you don't have a lot of options."

"I don't have any options," Clark said hurriedly, as if by reflex. "I can't tell him."

"She knows," Lex hissed, his hands balling into fists. He wheeled on his companion. "He told you!"

"Lex," she replied, a note of pity in her voice. "You remember I'm not really Chloe, right?"

"Still," he snapped, "You know what they're talking about - tell me!"

For someone who wasn't Chloe, she copied her sorrowful expression perfectly. "You still haven't learned the cost of that question?" She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek, turned his face back towards the scene before them. "Listen."

"That's not true, Clark," real Chloe was saying. "It really is your choice - and you could choose to tell him. It's just, you don't like the consequences that could have. And I don't blame you - I mean, how well do you really know Lex?"

"I know him." Clark's protest was vehement, almost defensive. "I do."

"Well," she said, tucking her mouth in at one corner, "then you know what your options really are. You can tell him, or you can lose him. I'm not sure there's any in-between."

They stood silently as the coffee finished brewing. Chloe reached around Clark to pour some for herself. She was shoulder-deep in the refrigerator, looking for the cream, when he spoke again. "I just wish ... he didn't need to know so badly."

"If he didn't," she said, lightening her coffee, "would he still be Lex?"

"No." Clark's eyes were sad and certain. "No, I guess he wouldn't be."

"And ..." She looked at him searchingly, as if she sought some courage. She seemed to find it in her mug. "... And if he weren't Lex, you wouldn't love him like you do."

Clark jerked his head, as if surprised. But Chloe just moved closer, and he wrapped his arms around her again. "No," he whispered at last. "You're right about that, too."

Lex couldn't stand it. "Stop," he cried, clutching at his brow. "No more."

"There's still time," Chloe answered. "But there may be less of it than you believe."

"I tell you I can't bear it," he shouted. "Please, take me back."

"We have one more stop to make first," she said, and took his hand again.

The air around them grew dark and indistinct, but did not lighten again as it resolidified. Lex was confused at first by the dimness, but then recognized the cold, glittering glass and steel around him: they were standing in his father's office atop LuthorCorp Tower. Puccini played softly in the background, but the only real light in the room came from the skyline - and from the screen of Lionel's computer, where he sat working.

He paused, leaned back in his chair, and idly flipped the pages of his desk calendar - only to make a face of vague surprise. Then, he reached out and pressed a button on his desk.

"Yes, Mr. Luthor?" a voice came over the intercom.

"Can you come in here, please," he answered. Though the words contained a question, his tone indicated it was not a request.

A moment later a young man stepped through the glass door. He was well-dressed, but nervous - maybe even a little frightened. "Yes, Mr. Luthor?"

"Apparently," Lionel said imperiously, removing his spectacles, "it's Christmas Eve."

"Yes, sir," his assistant swallowed. "I ... should I have reminded you, sir?"

"No, no." Lionel waved dismissively. "I'd just lost track of the hour. I have one small task for you, and then you can go home for the holiday."

"Thank you, sir," he said with relief. "What can I do for you?"

"Take this," Lionel said, tossing something light and shining across the room; it landed on the floor and slid towards his feet. The young man stooped to retrieve it; it was his platinum card.

"Sir?"

"I need a present for my son."

"A ..." He looked bewildered and somewhat affronted. "I'm sorry, Mr. Luthor, but it's rather late. It might not be possible ..."

"I'm sure you'll manage. Drop my name if you find that helpful."

The young man cleared his throat, but made no further remark on the date or time. "Yes, sir. Did you have anything particular in mind?"

"No," Lionel replied nonchalantly, turning back to his computer. "There may be a list somewhere of past occasions; you might check that for ideas."

"But ... excuse me, sir, but what does your son like?"

Lionel peered at him from beneath his eyebrows. "Luthors," he said slowly, "do not give those sorts of gifts. Find something ... unique, and meaningful. Philosophical, perhaps. Expense is no object."

"Yes, Mr. Luthor." The poor man's eyes boggled at the task before him. "I'll ... I'll have something for you shortly."

"No need for that," Lionel chastised him, replacing his glasses and returning to his work. "Have it sent directly to Smallville."

His assistant looked genuinely puzzled now. "... Forgive me, sir, I thought you'd like to deliver it yourself."

"Oh, no," Lionel said, waving him off. "I have work to do."

The young man nodded and turned to leave the office. As he passed them, Lex saw a strange mixture of disgust and pity on his face. He didn't like to think which of those sentiments was for him.

This time Chloe was the first to speak. "I'm sorry, Lex."

"This is not news to me, Chloe," he replied coldly.

"Maybe not. But it's still terrible."

"It's what I know."

"That doesn't make it ..."

"All right," Lex snapped. "So I suppose it's meant as a dire warning? Beware of becoming your father? Don't worry; the thought never leaves my mind."

"If that's true," she said sadly, "then why doesn't it influence your actions?"

A vein twitched in Lex's neck. "Are we finished?"

She looked at him once more with those woeful eyes. "I am, yes. Come on, I'll take you back."

Lionel's office disappeared more quickly than the other scenes had; Lex wondered if Chloe had done that out of kindness. But as his library rematerialized, the sight that greeted him was, surprisingly, worse.

"I'm sorry, Lex," Chloe whispered again, and gave his hand a gentle squeeze just before she faded away. "Good luck."

Lex stood in the glowering presence of his father.

He recalled, as a child, feeling terrified of Lionel; his height, his sternness, his dour expressions and swift temper never failed to set him trembling. He was somewhat ashamed to think of how long his father had inspired that fear, of how old he'd been before he'd learned to stand up straight in his sight.

He fought off the urge to slouch now.

They stared each other down, but Lionel did not speak. Finally, Lex drew a breath.

"I suppose," he said, in the tone of drawling insolence that came so easily when he addressed his father, "that you are Christmas Yet To Be."

Lionel made no reply, but unbuttoned his suit jacket to place one hand in his pocket.

"And you're here to show me ... what?" Lex sneered. "The monster I'll become if I don't reform my ways?"

Lionel only glared, and extended his other hand.

"Very well," Lex huffed, and took it.

The air around them became dark again, and Lex found himself standing once more in the executive office of LuthorCorp Tower.

"I've just been here," Lex objected. "What more is there to see?"

Lionel released his hand with contempt, and pointed towards the desk. Its high-backed leather chair was turned away from them, and its inhabitant gazed out over the Metropolis skyline. There was an air of watchful waiting that hung over the scene, and an uncomfortable undercurrent of resignation.

"It's bad enough you won't speak to me," Lex groused. "I have to watch the real you brood, too?"

Lionel's pointing hand changed its trajectory, and indicated the nearest wall. Turning, Lex noticed something he never had before: a large portrait of his father hung there.

"Vain of you, Father," he smirked.

Lionel said nothing, but continued to point.

"Oh, all right," he conceded, and moved towards the photo. There was a brass plate hanging just below the frame:

Lionel Luthor
(1944 - 2008)
Veritas est subjectio

Lex blinked back surprise. "So if this is the future ... then who ..."

Suddenly a woman's voice shouted in the hall. "Let me through, damn it!" There was a fleshy thud, then a louder thump, and finally the glass door slammed open. Through it stalked Lois Lane, her hair unruly and her face smeared with dirt - or was it blood? It was too dim in the office to tell.

"You need a beefier bodyguard, Lex," she quipped. "Your current one can't even take a little old snakeskin pump to the groin."

Lex gaped. "But you're not supposed to be able to ..."

But then the desk chair began to swivel, and Lex had the sinking realization that he was right; she couldn't see him after all.

The version of himself that sat behind his father's desk looked no different from the one that stared back at him each morning from the mirror. He showed no signs of aging. The only curiosity was the single black glove he wore on his right hand.

"Miss Lane," he said smoothly, his manners elegant and mocking. "How nice it is to see you, though I must admit the hour is somewhat inappropriate for a visit. Then again, propriety has never been your strong suit."

"Can it, Lex," she snapped. "I'm not interested in playing with you."

He folded his hands before him and smiled icily. "Then to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wanted to tell you myself," she said, storming forward and driving her fingertip into his desk. "I've finally got it - the evidence I needed. I wanted you to know it was me who brought you down."

"Forgive me, Lois. I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about."

"The Blur," she continued, her voice growing thick - but she spoke on, despite the tears that began to stream down her cheeks. "I've known since he disappeared that he'd never leave us of his own free will; and I suspected all along you were responsible. Well, now I can prove it."

Future Lex seemed barely interested. "Prove ... what?"

"That you killed him," she cried, hysterical. "And now you'll spend the rest of your life in prison, though with any justice I'll live to see you with a needle in your arm."

Lex made no answer, nor even any indication that he'd heard her tirade. Then, as if on cue, the office door burst open again and a team of armed guards surrounded Lois.

"See Miss Lane out," Lex said evenly. "Be careful not to muss her hair."

Lois tore her elbow out of the grip of the huge man who tried to overpower her. "Get your hands off me," she hissed, then spun on her heel and marched out of the office. The security team's leader glanced to Lex for orders; he made a vague gesture, and they turned and followed her.

The office door closed behind the last man with a soft click; the gentle sound was incongruous next to the near-violence of the scene it concluded. Present Lex, who still lingered near Lionel's portrait, broke the hush and addressed the figure of his father. "Who is this Blur I'm supposed to have killed?"

Lionel didn't answer.

"Damn it!" Lex cried, storming towards him. "What's the point of your bringing me here if you won't speak to me?"

Lionel simply raised his hand once more. Lex followed his pointing finger to his future self, who sat still and contemplative behind the desk. He had not moved since Lois made her exit, but his eyes were closed; his lips moved faintly, almost as if in prayer.

Lex skirted the desk to stand at his own elbow, curious to catch his words. But as he stood there, future Lex reached out slowly and opened the desk drawer. Lex peered over his shoulder and felt ill at what he saw.

The drawer contained only two objects: the first was a framed photograph of Clark, resplendent in his youth and red flannel, smiling easily and leaning against a fence post on Kent Farm. The second was a long silver pistol, it handle mother-of-pearl.

Future Lex's fingers found the photo first, ran over it with a tenderness that bordered on worship. Present Lex watched and realized with horror that his future self had begun to weep.

He gave a final caress to Clark's frozen face, then reached with detachment for the gun. He flipped open the chamber and peered inside briefly. A strange green glow emanated from within. Present Lex was confounded; why on earth would the bullets be made of meteor rock?

Then, in a motion that was almost careless, Lex Yet To Be placed the gun's muzzle against the underside of his chin and pulled the trigger.

Lex screamed; his vision went red, then black, and still he screamed.

The clock was striking nine, but Lex didn't notice it at first; he screamed until his breath ran out. But when it did, he gulped the air and looked around him, slowly realizing what had happened.

He was sitting in his own armchair, in his own library, in the present. He was alone; there were no spirits around him. And he was all in one piece - he fingered his own jaw to make sure.

His empty glass lay on its side on the carpet where he had dropped it. The shock had sobered him up pretty well, but the fact seemed to be ...

He had dreamed it all.

And yet ... the memory of what he had seen was burned into his brain. It had to have been real, it had to ...

The stroke of nine fell, and Lex suddenly knew.

It didn't matter, whether it had been a dream or not.

What mattered was what he did next.

He jumped from his chair and dashed through the halls, pausing only to throw on his coat. The Porsche stood ready and waiting in the car port. He'd loaded it earlier, long before Clark's visit had even begun let alone become an argument, with a wide assortment of completely extravagant gifts. All he had to do now was turn the key in the ignition.

How many times had he and Clark joked about the drive time between the mansion and the farm? How many minutes was the current record? Lex couldn't remember; but he must have blown it away.

The snow had ended while he slept, but it had left behind a thick blanket in which Lex had to struggle to maintain control of the car. He roared down the dirt track that let to Kent Farm, fishtailing the whole way; the ground was potholed and unplowed, and the Porsche too light to maintain any sort of traction. He counted himself fortunate when he pressed the brake and the car actually stopped, though some yards from where he'd intended.

A crowd was in the process of gathering on the front lawn when he threw open his door and stepped out into the snow.

Oh. He'd forgotten to put on shoes. Christ that was cold.

"Hey Lex," a saucy voice called from the porch. Lois clomped down the front steps in a parka and boots. "Nice jammies."

Lex looked down, then around himself, and cleared his throat. It suddenly occurred to him that there was a good chance he was making a fool of himself. But he couldn't care about that - it shouldn't matter, anyway. This was where he needed to be.

"Merry Christmas, Lois," he answered brightly, and found that he honestly meant every syllable. "If you like them, you can have a pair in every color."

She blinked in surprise, but made no retort; it must have been Christmas spirit that held her tongue. "Clark said you weren't coming ... but, the more the merrier I guess. We were just choosing up sides - I challenged everyone to a snowball fight, it's not a holiday without a good old-fashioned ass-whooping." She reached out lightly and tweaked the lapel of his coat. "You can be on my team if you want. But you'd probably better go get a little more dressed first."

"Take it easy, Lois." All eyes flew to the front door, where Clark was framed by the glow from within. "You'll melt all the snow if you keep blowing that hot air all over the place."

"Oh, it is so on, Smallville," she retorted over her shoulder. "I'll make you eat those words, along with white stuff."

He was passing her now, his eyes focused only on Lex. "I'll watch my back," he answered, then reached out. "Come on, Lex. You must be freezing."

He was cold; but then Clark's arm came around his shoulders and he didn't notice anymore.

Dazedly, like two people helping each other away from the scene of a disaster, Clark and Lex moved into the house. They passed Chloe in the hall, and though her eyes widened in understandable surprise, the rest of her expression softened. "Merry Christmas, Lex," she said quietly, then slipped outside to join the others.

In the mud room off the kitchen, they found some coveralls of Jonathan's and some galoshes of Clark's that would fit him. Hat, gloves and thick wool socks were even easier to come by. "What are you doing anyway, going out like this?" Clark asked.

"I was in too much of a hurry to think about my clothes."

"You, not think about your clothes?" He smiled. "Whatever it was has to have been important, then."

"I had to see you," Lex said solemnly. His eyes held enough intensity to light the small space as bright as day.

Clark glanced away, but pleasure colored his face. "I'm glad you're here. I ... didn't feel like celebrating, when I thought you weren't coming."

"I realized how stupid it would be to not be here. Or to leave things the way we left them."

Clark's answering smile took his breath away.

"Come on," Lex continued, reaching for Clark's elbow. "Let's go give Lois the ass-whooping she wants so badly."

"Lex," he answered, hanging back a little. "I'd rather ..."

"You don't want to see her get a face-full of snow?"

Clark cracked. "Pete will get her good," he chuckled. "And I guess we can talk on the porch, if you want to watch them."

They settled on the swing, but Clark insisted on a blanket for Lex's shoulders and a cup of coffee to warm his hands. Lex made no comment on the fact that Clark himself wore only his thin barn coat and no gloves at all. For a while they sat in companionable silence, watching the others tussle in the snow. It was bright and sparkling in the yard; the sky had cleared, and the moon threw a crisp glow over the world. But it was dim beneath the eaves, and the half-light made it somehow easier to consider all the things Lex had to say.

"I'm sorry, Clark." He held his mug at his chin and breathed deeply, letting its steam warm his face. "I know I've said it before, so you might not believe me; but I am sorry."

"Lex," Clark sighed, making a gesture of frustration. "I know you think that I don't trust you. But ..."

"Please," Lex interrupted, putting down the coffee and turning to face him. "Let me finish?"

Clark paused, then shut his mouth and nodded at him.

"It isn't easy to be your friend," Lex continued. "You're ... the sort of person one wants to hold closer than most others, to give everything to without reserve." The honesty was cold and frightening in his mouth, but he pressed on. "I never feel that way for anyone - but I feel it for you. And it terrifies me."

Clark looked stricken, but he reached out and put his hand on Lex's arm. The contact made him braver. "I know that it sounds crazy, and that it's unfair to expect the same from you. I just wish there was some way for it to be all right - how much I want from you. I want you to be mine; I want to keep you safe. And I feel ... like that would keep me safe as well."

"Lex." Clark spoke with apparent difficulty. "I want to keep you safe too. That's why I ... hold back."

"There's no way on earth you could be dangerous," Lex smiled.

"You have no idea," Clark said, though it seemed half to himself.

"I wish you'd let me be the judge of that," Lex said, shifting so Clark's hand slid down his arm. Their fingers met, then laced together with shocking ease. "If what you're protecting me from is yourself, I'm telling you: I don't want that kind of protection. Even if it killed me, I'd want your trust - and I'd accept death happily if that were the cost."

Clark squeezed his fingers. "What if I told you something that only made you want to ask more questions?"

"It's in my nature to ask questions," he answered apologetically. "And it's in your nature to be mysterious. So either we're doomed, or meant to be."

There was a pause; a chilly breeze blew the laughter of the snowball fighters over them. Then Clark took a deep breath, and said, "You don't know how much it means, Lex - that you came tonight after all. I was afraid that might have been our last goodbye."

"So was I," Lex confessed. "And that made me want to show you how desperately I never want to say goodbye to you."

Clark seemed touched, but his reply was unexpected. "I'm not human."

Lex wrinkled his brow. "Clark, don't say that; you're -"

"No," he interrupted. "I mean, I'm from another planet."

Lex looked at him mutely, then down to where their hands still lay intertwined. When he lifted his gaze again, Clark returned it with urgency.

"That," Lex whispered, "is the best Christmas present I've ever gotten."

There were already half-a-dozen emotions warring in Clark's expression; now surprise joined the party. "You ... I mean, I'm glad, but ... that's all you have to say?"

"No," Lex admitted. "There's also ... cool."

Clark burst out laughing, and then without warning, kissed him. It was an act of pure unconscious joy; but Lex was never one to let opportunity go unexploited. He took Clark's face into his hands and kissed him back, no longer afraid to let his own great secret show.

He trusted Clark. And it seemed Clark trusted him. It was perfect.

They kissed for a long time, long and deep interspersed with bursts of short and gentle. Their eyes kept meeting and they kept dissolving into embarrassed laughter, only to catch their breath and each other's mouths again. At some point Lex broke free long enough to say, "I have a confession to make - I was lying just then. This is the best Christmas present I've ever gotten."

"Me too," Clark breathed, and moved to kiss him again - just as a snowball smashed against the porch siding only a few inches away from his head. They both jumped a little, and Clark shouted, "Hey!"

"Sorry!" Chloe hissed from just beyond the shrubs. "I missed on purpose! I just thought you'd like a warning - they're coming in."

"Oh, good," Lex remarked as she dashed away again. "I can hand out my presents. Come on," he said, and got to his feet with a tug on Clark's hand. "It's all still in the car; you can help me carry it in."

"Lex," Clark chastised him. "You weren't supposed to."

"I know," he smiled. "But since when have you known me to do what I'm supposed to?"

Clark conceded the point. "Don't be offended, though, if my parents won't accept theirs."

"I won't. But I'll never stop hoping, either."

They met the others on their way to the car; they were flushed and laughing. Pete and Chloe shoved each other playfully. Martha and Jonathan had their arms around each other, and as they overtook Lana, Martha slipped an arm around her waist as well. Lois was crowing her victory and taunted Clark for failing to show up. He gave a noncommittal reply as they passed each other, but then stooped swiftly; a second later a snowball burst against the back of her jacket. She howled with rage. "Smallville! You cheater!"

"Come on," Lex said, putting himself between them and pushing Clark towards the car. "I'm not interested in getting caught in the crossfire."

They reached the Porsche and Lex threw open the doors with an air almost like Santa opening his pack. Clark's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Lex," he breathed. "There's absolutely no way."

"I went a little crazy," he admitted.

"I feel even worse now," Clark added, reaching out and gathering him gently in. "I don't have anything for you. Because we said no presents, remember?"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." He was grinning now.

"You're right." Lex grinned back.

"Clark!" called Martha from the porch. "The Rosses are saying goodnight!"

"Oh," Lex sighed, "I wish the party wouldn't break up already. I only just got here."

"It doesn't have to end." Clark's voice was almost devious. "Let me come home with you."

Lex was intrigued - but also scandalized. "Your parents would never - "

"I can't think of a better present," he said, "than waking up with you on Christmas morning."

Lex made a small strangled sound and threw himself at Clark. Clark caught him, laughing, and returned the kiss with enthusiasm.

"Come on in and say Merry Christmas," Clark offered. "I'll wait until they've gone to bed, then run over; they'll never miss me."

"But how - "

Clark kissed him once more, and the heat flowed all the way down to Lex's toes. "There's a lot I still have to tell you," he said. "For one, I can run really fast."

** Veritas est subjectio - please forgive my pidgin Latin. "Truth is subjective", or, "Veritas is a lie."