Colin Luthor!Verse Outtake(s)
Disclaimer: Smallville and certain characters belong to Miller-Gough et al. No profit is gained from this writing-only, hopefully, enjoyment.
Spring Cleaning in July: these are portions of an abandoned crossover fic, which takes place post-Smallville season 10 (with some canon adjustments) and That Hawk is Dead (CL!Verse).
Clark Kent & Colin Luthor
“There are no time-continuum mix-ups to avoid?” Clark asks, trying to just pin this down one final time. “No, uh, dire warnings against messing with the way things might, someday, eventually play out but only if the stars align and I make sure to do the specific series of movements after you’ve gone or say the magic Kryptonian phrase or yada yada yada. . . ?”
Colin kind of smiles in response, that Mona Lisa smile that says absolutely nothing about what the guy is thinking or feeling, and Clark is going to wind up practicing that look in the mirror when he gets home because it’s so amazingly aggravating not to be able to tell if this Clark, well, this Colin, this other version of him is smiling because he actually gets the Seinfeld reference and that he even maybe, odd enough as it is to picture with the clothes and hair and housing upgrade this guy had over Clark, had loved that show as much as Clark had when he was young, too young to be watching it and not getting all the jokes, back when- when he and Pete would sneak into one of Pete’s sister’s rooms, usually Cleo’s, to watch reruns after school. . .
Or maybe he gets the reference, just without the emotional attachment. This guy had never been best friends with Pete Ross, after all.
Or maybe Colin doesn’t get the reference at all and is simply trying to speed things along by not overanalyzing every single thing his doppelganger says-unlike said doppelganger, who can’t get over the surreal changes because Clark’s met other versions of himself, has met and tangled with other versions who were raised, more or less, by Lionel, yet this guy is still so unimaginably weird. And that’s saying a lot because Clark Luthor is one weird son of a bitch.
Colin’s smile has shifted a bit, digging in deeper into the corners of his mouth and higher up into his eyes, which makes Clark wonder what his own face has been doing in the few seconds his mind wandered away down scary, Chloe-like paths of in-depth contemplation.
Does this technically count as an out of body experience?
“This will still be your world,” Colin says, and that reassuring tone of voice is familiar, although Clark’s always been on the other side of it, “not mine, and it’s still your own time, your own-reality.”
“And yours?” Clark asks, carefully. “It’ll be yours you go to, right? Not some other version of, uh, us?”
Clark tries to imagine Colin in Clark Luthor’s world and grimaces. No one deserves that shithole, not even Clark fucking Luthor, honestly.
Colin’s smile vanishes, like his face has been factory-reset, and the nod he gives is underwhelming. And while Clark’s 100% sure Colin’s still hiding something from him, and knowing or kind of knowing himself, it’s undoubtedly something that will cause bigger problems further down the line, and he’s still dubious about the efficacy of this whole improvised reversal process in the first place, they’re also not looking at a whole lot of better options, and at least this version of himself isn’t homicidal and so far hasn’t seemed interested in replacing Clark or making more of a mess of Clark’s life than Clark himself already does just by getting up in the morning.
And this version does dress really, really well, even if Clark’s not a huge fan of the long hair.
It occurs to Clark that Colin is kind of who Clark Luthor wishes he were.
Colin is also probably, and Clark immediately regrets thinking this but it’s so true, the guy Clark’s own version of Lex probably wishes Clark were. And that’s pretty skeazy because Colin probably considers Lex, well, his own respective version of Lex, to be his brother or something, but Clark never thought of Lex that way. Clark and Lex are and have been a lot of things, but Clark doesn’t think they ever quite managed to successfully pull off brotherly.
“It's not 100% a done deal,” Colin says eventually, and the phrasing kind of makes Clark smile a little, “but I think I’ve got it. And I’m confident enough,” he says, with a conspiratorial look, “to actually jump through the damn thing, which has to count for something, right?”
“Right,” Clark says. “You know what they say: another day, another cross-dimensional portal-jump.”
“Return trip through alternate realities: better than the Spears Street Bridge, my old man used to say.” Colin’s face is wholly serious for just long enough that Clark almost catches himself wondering if Lionel actually would say something like that.
Colin smirks.
(SV) Lex Luthor and Colin Luthor
Lex walks into his office, spine straight and shoulders thrown back in preparation for yet another shouting match and guilt trip, briefed beforehand out in the hall by his assistant Lanie, if not exactly spared for some reason beyond him, but Clark isn’t pacing like Lex had expected.
He’s over by Lex’s desk, but he isn’t snooping in his files or drawers. Instead, he’s paging through a book from one of the nearby shelves.
And he’s dressed up.
Lex doesn’t slow down or falter, keeps right on walking to his desk, but he is definitely internally stumbling.
It isn’t until he’s set down his briefcase that Clark looks up from his seemingly intense perusal of-Derrida’s Chaque fois unique, la fin du monde.
In French, of course, because Clark can read French now.
Well, why the hell not?
He and Lex make eye contact, and Clark’s hair is strange, and there’s an unfamiliar small smile playing around his mouth, and a chill runs spiny fingers down Lex’s back because here he is again, jumping through hoops trying to figure out exactly what kind of trap, what especially implausible scenario he’s somehow landed in this fucking time, wondering why Clark’s here at this time of day wearing designer clothing and how he managed to talk his way past Lanie when she knows enough about Lex, about Clark, and about Lex and Clark not to just let the ass waltz in here like he owns the place anymore, especially when Lex isn’t already here to keep him from digging around. . .
Something exceptionally strange about this impromptu visit by an exceedingly well-dressed Clark, which isn’t the weirdest thought he’s had lately but is certainly up there.
“Morning,” Lex says, desperately struggling for cold and detached. He turns tail and flees to the relative safety of the drink cart. “Care for a drink?” he tosses over his shoulder, waiting for a scoff or remark on Lex’s drinking habits, the latter not totally unfounded, as it is just past ten in the morning on a weekday.
What he gets is a quietly polite, “Sure.”
Lex almost fumbles the glasses, briefly closing his eyes and counting primes until he’s rallied.
He feels insulted. How could anyone even believe this is Clark? How can whoever this is, mutant, meta, transferred consciousness, clone, or doppelganger have so little faith in Lex’s observational skills that they believe they can pass as Clark and Lex wouldn’t be able to fucking immediately tell something was up?
How out of the loop is this person, besides, to think Clark paying a visit to Lex is going to end well?
“How adventurous are you feeling today?” Lex's mouth asks without his permission. Not calm, cold, or suave but kind of-sleazy. Sure. Fine. What's wrong with aiming a come-on at someone who looks like but in fact is not Clark?
In response, the impostor chuckles, something light and somehow genuine, a sound that takes Lex back years and miles to a small town and a castle and a coffee shop.
Lex almost turns to see, wants to more than anything, but it isn’t Clark here standing within reach, and it isn’t really Clark who Lex misses, at least not the one who currently works across the street at the Daily Planet; it’s Clark from Smallville and it’s who Lex was when he was that Clark’s friend that he misses.
It’s all an illusion, anyway, as nothing was ever as rosy back then as he paints it now, but in Lex’s experience illusion is always preferable to reality.
“I think it's safe to say at this point,” ‘Clark’ says, now having wandered over to the wall of windows behind Lex’s desk, “that I'm open to new experiences. Surprise me.”
“Right,” Lex mutters. He plucks the white rum, rye, and brandy. Something strong so Lex can plow through this mess and not feel anything on the other side.
“Need any help?” ‘Clark’ asks, slowly walking closer and playing at being unassuming, but Lex is rather reminded of a circling shark. Whoever this is masquerading as Clark, they have teeth, even if they’re trying to downplay it for some reason. “I make a great assistant.”
“I just bet you do,” Lex says, giving in and glancing at him.
A slow blink and that same contented smile, this version of Clark’s face is nearly opaque, which is unsettling. Like an iceberg, Lex can tell there’s more to this impostor than what he’s purposefully showing on his face, thoughts, plans, a personality beyond refined fascination, but knowing a whole lot is under there isn’t knowing what that is, and Lex is only really able to detect a certain slyness, a specific type of intelligent that isn’t Clark at all.
Clark isn’t dumb, but he only rarely puts his brains on display and almost never around Lex.
Anymore.
It’s only when Lex is just finished pouring the cocktails that he dares ask, “Who are you really?”
And he startles at the sudden hand on his shoulder, the alien cologne, the unbearable realization that this is the closest he’s been to Clark in years, and this isn’t fucking Clark.
“Aren’t you going to demand to know what I’m after?” the impostor asks, reaching out and taking one of the drinks, his hand brushing Lex’s.
“Money,” Lex says to the vintage amethyst cocktail glass, “or revenge or most likely both. Power or some resource you think I have that’s rightfully yours. Did I miss something?”
He takes a quick gulp of his drink, too big, uncouth, but then Clark wouldn’t even be able to tell, let alone care. . .
The other man is silent but still so close as he looks around the room, at the carpet and rugs Lex spent months picking out, the desk he commissioned, the collection of books he put up and organized himself, the unique artwork, custom furniture and lighting. Lex finds himself hoping the other man is impressed or at least appreciates the time and effort Lex put into remaking this space to reflect his own aesthetic. As the heat pours into him from the man’s arm pressing against his, as he tries not to stare, as he drinks just for something to occupy his hands and mouth, Lex has the strongest feeling of déjà vu, trapped in his own personal Hell because all of this is so unbelievably familiar. . .
And yet not.
“Where I’m from,” this ‘Clark’ says, and while his accent is the same, his cadence differs slightly, “this isn’t your office. It’s Lucas’s.” He turns his head, so he’s talking quietly right into Lex’s ear. “Yours is next to mine down the hall. Only three up here. None of the conference rooms or whatever else you’ve got stashed behind those big glass doors.”
Lex makes some kind of inquisitive scoffing sound, before bringing his glass up to his mouth and finishing the drink just to drown out the other man’s winking conspiratorial smile
Voice rough from the booze, not emotion or uncertainty, Lex says, once more into his glass, “You’re delusional.”
“What do you know about alternate timelines, Lex?”
He looks up and meets those eyes again. “Who are you really?” he repeats.
‘Clark’ smirks.
Clark Luthor and Brooke Wayne
She comes in as an appointment, refuses his offer of a seat in favor of the view, and then proceeds to drop a figurative bombshell right there in the office. Truth is, he'd have much preferred the literal kind of attack to the blunt warnings leveled at him over the course of perhaps 15 minutes during his lunch hour on a Tuesday in the middle of September. It's his third week back in the city, back with the company, back with-family, and of course it's too good to be true. Of course everything turns to shit right in front of his nose.
The worst isn't the threats or who's making them but rather the fact that she'd used an alias when booking the meeting, and so Clark had actually looked into this fictitious person ahead of time, had spent a few hours researching her bogus position, her fake background, everything he could find out about this, in retrospect, surprisingly thorough sham. He'd been prepared, and then in walks Brooke Wayne instead of Gretchen Hemingford, and that's the end of that farce.
Afterward, once she's taken her leave as silently as a ghost and just as chilling, Clark collapses into his chair, the chair behind his desk in his very own office in the tower with his last name on it and forces himself to face the fact that all the power this family has accumulated over the years through ruthlessness and violence and, yes, sacrifice, is absolutely nothing when put up against what just walked out his door. Clark knows who and what he is, and he damn well knows his family inside and out, but he's terrified, scared out of his fucking mind, and he doesn't frighten easily these days, hasn't for a long time, and all it takes is Brooke Wayne saying in an evenly paced monotone, "You've been operating under the delusion of immortality, invincibility even, I'd wager, and, simply put, Mr. Luthor, that is not the case. I have the means necessary to hold you accountable for any, shall we say, future indiscretions of the illegal or unethical variety, means I will hesitate not the slightest to-execute. Consider this, Clark, if I might be so bold, as your formal notice: harm another human being, and you'll pay for it."
Spring Cleaning in July: these are portions of an abandoned crossover fic, which takes place post-Smallville season 10 (with some canon adjustments) and That Hawk is Dead (CL!Verse).
Clark Kent & Colin Luthor
“There are no time-continuum mix-ups to avoid?” Clark asks, trying to just pin this down one final time. “No, uh, dire warnings against messing with the way things might, someday, eventually play out but only if the stars align and I make sure to do the specific series of movements after you’ve gone or say the magic Kryptonian phrase or yada yada yada. . . ?”
Colin kind of smiles in response, that Mona Lisa smile that says absolutely nothing about what the guy is thinking or feeling, and Clark is going to wind up practicing that look in the mirror when he gets home because it’s so amazingly aggravating not to be able to tell if this Clark, well, this Colin, this other version of him is smiling because he actually gets the Seinfeld reference and that he even maybe, odd enough as it is to picture with the clothes and hair and housing upgrade this guy had over Clark, had loved that show as much as Clark had when he was young, too young to be watching it and not getting all the jokes, back when- when he and Pete would sneak into one of Pete’s sister’s rooms, usually Cleo’s, to watch reruns after school. . .
Or maybe he gets the reference, just without the emotional attachment. This guy had never been best friends with Pete Ross, after all.
Or maybe Colin doesn’t get the reference at all and is simply trying to speed things along by not overanalyzing every single thing his doppelganger says-unlike said doppelganger, who can’t get over the surreal changes because Clark’s met other versions of himself, has met and tangled with other versions who were raised, more or less, by Lionel, yet this guy is still so unimaginably weird. And that’s saying a lot because Clark Luthor is one weird son of a bitch.
Colin’s smile has shifted a bit, digging in deeper into the corners of his mouth and higher up into his eyes, which makes Clark wonder what his own face has been doing in the few seconds his mind wandered away down scary, Chloe-like paths of in-depth contemplation.
Does this technically count as an out of body experience?
“This will still be your world,” Colin says, and that reassuring tone of voice is familiar, although Clark’s always been on the other side of it, “not mine, and it’s still your own time, your own-reality.”
“And yours?” Clark asks, carefully. “It’ll be yours you go to, right? Not some other version of, uh, us?”
Clark tries to imagine Colin in Clark Luthor’s world and grimaces. No one deserves that shithole, not even Clark fucking Luthor, honestly.
Colin’s smile vanishes, like his face has been factory-reset, and the nod he gives is underwhelming. And while Clark’s 100% sure Colin’s still hiding something from him, and knowing or kind of knowing himself, it’s undoubtedly something that will cause bigger problems further down the line, and he’s still dubious about the efficacy of this whole improvised reversal process in the first place, they’re also not looking at a whole lot of better options, and at least this version of himself isn’t homicidal and so far hasn’t seemed interested in replacing Clark or making more of a mess of Clark’s life than Clark himself already does just by getting up in the morning.
And this version does dress really, really well, even if Clark’s not a huge fan of the long hair.
It occurs to Clark that Colin is kind of who Clark Luthor wishes he were.
Colin is also probably, and Clark immediately regrets thinking this but it’s so true, the guy Clark’s own version of Lex probably wishes Clark were. And that’s pretty skeazy because Colin probably considers Lex, well, his own respective version of Lex, to be his brother or something, but Clark never thought of Lex that way. Clark and Lex are and have been a lot of things, but Clark doesn’t think they ever quite managed to successfully pull off brotherly.
“It's not 100% a done deal,” Colin says eventually, and the phrasing kind of makes Clark smile a little, “but I think I’ve got it. And I’m confident enough,” he says, with a conspiratorial look, “to actually jump through the damn thing, which has to count for something, right?”
“Right,” Clark says. “You know what they say: another day, another cross-dimensional portal-jump.”
“Return trip through alternate realities: better than the Spears Street Bridge, my old man used to say.” Colin’s face is wholly serious for just long enough that Clark almost catches himself wondering if Lionel actually would say something like that.
Colin smirks.
(SV) Lex Luthor and Colin Luthor
Lex walks into his office, spine straight and shoulders thrown back in preparation for yet another shouting match and guilt trip, briefed beforehand out in the hall by his assistant Lanie, if not exactly spared for some reason beyond him, but Clark isn’t pacing like Lex had expected.
He’s over by Lex’s desk, but he isn’t snooping in his files or drawers. Instead, he’s paging through a book from one of the nearby shelves.
And he’s dressed up.
Lex doesn’t slow down or falter, keeps right on walking to his desk, but he is definitely internally stumbling.
It isn’t until he’s set down his briefcase that Clark looks up from his seemingly intense perusal of-Derrida’s Chaque fois unique, la fin du monde.
In French, of course, because Clark can read French now.
Well, why the hell not?
He and Lex make eye contact, and Clark’s hair is strange, and there’s an unfamiliar small smile playing around his mouth, and a chill runs spiny fingers down Lex’s back because here he is again, jumping through hoops trying to figure out exactly what kind of trap, what especially implausible scenario he’s somehow landed in this fucking time, wondering why Clark’s here at this time of day wearing designer clothing and how he managed to talk his way past Lanie when she knows enough about Lex, about Clark, and about Lex and Clark not to just let the ass waltz in here like he owns the place anymore, especially when Lex isn’t already here to keep him from digging around. . .
Something exceptionally strange about this impromptu visit by an exceedingly well-dressed Clark, which isn’t the weirdest thought he’s had lately but is certainly up there.
“Morning,” Lex says, desperately struggling for cold and detached. He turns tail and flees to the relative safety of the drink cart. “Care for a drink?” he tosses over his shoulder, waiting for a scoff or remark on Lex’s drinking habits, the latter not totally unfounded, as it is just past ten in the morning on a weekday.
What he gets is a quietly polite, “Sure.”
Lex almost fumbles the glasses, briefly closing his eyes and counting primes until he’s rallied.
He feels insulted. How could anyone even believe this is Clark? How can whoever this is, mutant, meta, transferred consciousness, clone, or doppelganger have so little faith in Lex’s observational skills that they believe they can pass as Clark and Lex wouldn’t be able to fucking immediately tell something was up?
How out of the loop is this person, besides, to think Clark paying a visit to Lex is going to end well?
“How adventurous are you feeling today?” Lex's mouth asks without his permission. Not calm, cold, or suave but kind of-sleazy. Sure. Fine. What's wrong with aiming a come-on at someone who looks like but in fact is not Clark?
In response, the impostor chuckles, something light and somehow genuine, a sound that takes Lex back years and miles to a small town and a castle and a coffee shop.
Lex almost turns to see, wants to more than anything, but it isn’t Clark here standing within reach, and it isn’t really Clark who Lex misses, at least not the one who currently works across the street at the Daily Planet; it’s Clark from Smallville and it’s who Lex was when he was that Clark’s friend that he misses.
It’s all an illusion, anyway, as nothing was ever as rosy back then as he paints it now, but in Lex’s experience illusion is always preferable to reality.
“I think it's safe to say at this point,” ‘Clark’ says, now having wandered over to the wall of windows behind Lex’s desk, “that I'm open to new experiences. Surprise me.”
“Right,” Lex mutters. He plucks the white rum, rye, and brandy. Something strong so Lex can plow through this mess and not feel anything on the other side.
“Need any help?” ‘Clark’ asks, slowly walking closer and playing at being unassuming, but Lex is rather reminded of a circling shark. Whoever this is masquerading as Clark, they have teeth, even if they’re trying to downplay it for some reason. “I make a great assistant.”
“I just bet you do,” Lex says, giving in and glancing at him.
A slow blink and that same contented smile, this version of Clark’s face is nearly opaque, which is unsettling. Like an iceberg, Lex can tell there’s more to this impostor than what he’s purposefully showing on his face, thoughts, plans, a personality beyond refined fascination, but knowing a whole lot is under there isn’t knowing what that is, and Lex is only really able to detect a certain slyness, a specific type of intelligent that isn’t Clark at all.
Clark isn’t dumb, but he only rarely puts his brains on display and almost never around Lex.
Anymore.
It’s only when Lex is just finished pouring the cocktails that he dares ask, “Who are you really?”
And he startles at the sudden hand on his shoulder, the alien cologne, the unbearable realization that this is the closest he’s been to Clark in years, and this isn’t fucking Clark.
“Aren’t you going to demand to know what I’m after?” the impostor asks, reaching out and taking one of the drinks, his hand brushing Lex’s.
“Money,” Lex says to the vintage amethyst cocktail glass, “or revenge or most likely both. Power or some resource you think I have that’s rightfully yours. Did I miss something?”
He takes a quick gulp of his drink, too big, uncouth, but then Clark wouldn’t even be able to tell, let alone care. . .
The other man is silent but still so close as he looks around the room, at the carpet and rugs Lex spent months picking out, the desk he commissioned, the collection of books he put up and organized himself, the unique artwork, custom furniture and lighting. Lex finds himself hoping the other man is impressed or at least appreciates the time and effort Lex put into remaking this space to reflect his own aesthetic. As the heat pours into him from the man’s arm pressing against his, as he tries not to stare, as he drinks just for something to occupy his hands and mouth, Lex has the strongest feeling of déjà vu, trapped in his own personal Hell because all of this is so unbelievably familiar. . .
And yet not.
“Where I’m from,” this ‘Clark’ says, and while his accent is the same, his cadence differs slightly, “this isn’t your office. It’s Lucas’s.” He turns his head, so he’s talking quietly right into Lex’s ear. “Yours is next to mine down the hall. Only three up here. None of the conference rooms or whatever else you’ve got stashed behind those big glass doors.”
Lex makes some kind of inquisitive scoffing sound, before bringing his glass up to his mouth and finishing the drink just to drown out the other man’s winking conspiratorial smile
Voice rough from the booze, not emotion or uncertainty, Lex says, once more into his glass, “You’re delusional.”
“What do you know about alternate timelines, Lex?”
He looks up and meets those eyes again. “Who are you really?” he repeats.
‘Clark’ smirks.
Clark Luthor and Brooke Wayne
She comes in as an appointment, refuses his offer of a seat in favor of the view, and then proceeds to drop a figurative bombshell right there in the office. Truth is, he'd have much preferred the literal kind of attack to the blunt warnings leveled at him over the course of perhaps 15 minutes during his lunch hour on a Tuesday in the middle of September. It's his third week back in the city, back with the company, back with-family, and of course it's too good to be true. Of course everything turns to shit right in front of his nose.
The worst isn't the threats or who's making them but rather the fact that she'd used an alias when booking the meeting, and so Clark had actually looked into this fictitious person ahead of time, had spent a few hours researching her bogus position, her fake background, everything he could find out about this, in retrospect, surprisingly thorough sham. He'd been prepared, and then in walks Brooke Wayne instead of Gretchen Hemingford, and that's the end of that farce.
Afterward, once she's taken her leave as silently as a ghost and just as chilling, Clark collapses into his chair, the chair behind his desk in his very own office in the tower with his last name on it and forces himself to face the fact that all the power this family has accumulated over the years through ruthlessness and violence and, yes, sacrifice, is absolutely nothing when put up against what just walked out his door. Clark knows who and what he is, and he damn well knows his family inside and out, but he's terrified, scared out of his fucking mind, and he doesn't frighten easily these days, hasn't for a long time, and all it takes is Brooke Wayne saying in an evenly paced monotone, "You've been operating under the delusion of immortality, invincibility even, I'd wager, and, simply put, Mr. Luthor, that is not the case. I have the means necessary to hold you accountable for any, shall we say, future indiscretions of the illegal or unethical variety, means I will hesitate not the slightest to-execute. Consider this, Clark, if I might be so bold, as your formal notice: harm another human being, and you'll pay for it."