Seventh Inning Stretch by Sori
Title: Seventh Inning Stretch
Author: Sori
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: R
Word Count: 3000
Spoilers: None
Notes: First time, happy college!Clex. For me, this is S5 schmoop therapy. *g* Many, many HUGE thanks to estrella30 for a stunning beta! (And for, errr, NOT killing me when I sent her the wrong copy of the story to beta. *hangs head in shame*) All remaining mistakes are my own!
Inspired by this picture. *g*
“You’re going to have to change, Lex.” Clark says, walking into Lex’s office without knocking. “You’ve got jeans, right? Plain jeans, not designer. You’ve got to have jeans.”
Looking up from the phone on his desk, Lex watches Clark stroll into the room. Relaxed and comfortable, grinning that same smile Lex remembers from teenage days long gone, the teasing in Clark’s voice obvious to anyone that knows him well. Just inside the door, he’s leaning against the wall, head tilted, watching Lex like he’s in no particular rush. A lazy look, an almost easy sprawl and it’s a piece of Kansas that age will never take away from the man.
Shaking his head, Lex sighs and holds up his hand. Giving his attention back to the man on the phone he says, “Henderson, I don’t have time for this right now. I want the numbers on my desk in the morning. Include the cost analysis and a summary of the statistics.”
Hanging up, Lex turns toward Cark. “Is there a specific reason you’ve suddenly become interested in my wardrobe, Clark?” Leaning back in his chair, crossing one knee across the other, Lex eases the question with a smile.
“Sorry, Lex. Did I interrupt?” Clark tries to look guilty, but the years have changed Clark enough that trivial guilt no longer rests quite so heavily on his shoulders.
“Not particularly. Just the usual afternoon -- incompetent help and information that I should have had last week, but beyond that....” Lex doesn’t add that Clark’s interruptions are always welcome. Some things go without saying. “So Clark, is there a reason you’ve suddenly become interested in my wardrobe?”
Clark lips are quirked in an almost-grin and he casually stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans, entirely unconcerned. Lex knows his sarcasm has failed to intimidate Clark for at least 6 years. “Not so much interested in your wardrobe, but very much interested in making sure that you dress appropriately. You can’t go…where we’re going in a suit. That’d be almost sacrilegious.”
“Sacrilegious?” Lex asks, and then pauses, realizing that Clark unexpectedly standing in his penthouse distracted him enough that he focused on the rhetoric and missed the point. “We’re going somewhere?”
Clark shuffles his feet and grins, all teeth and lips. “Going somewhere, yes. You and me. In my truck.” Clark walks his fingers through the air and Lex remembers why he has always disliked gentle mockery. “So -- go change, Lex. Our day’s activity will wait for no man.”
Pushing his hands into his pockets, Clark rocks back on his heels for a second before turning and walking out the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” he says over his shoulder, like there’s nothing strange about the events.
Lex is not quite sure what to say. “Wait, Clark. In your truck?”
Apparently so, Lex thinks, as he gets up to go change. He can only assume that Clark’s laugh was an answer to the question.
“Baseball? Clark, in the truck you told me you felt my cultural education had been neglected.” Lex stares up at the Metropolis Minor League Metrodome, home of the - Lex squints as he reads the sign - Mighty Prairie Mice. “Odd, I didn’t know that prairie mice were ever mighty. Nor, did I realize that they hold a vital significance in cultural education.”
Grabbing the edge of Lex’s borrowed MetU sweatshirt, Clark rolls his eyes and drags him toward the entrance. “Lex, shut up, would you? You’re killing me.” Clark reaches into his pockets and pulls out two tickets that he hands to the woman at the turnstiles. She smiles at Clark and Lex shakes his head at her quiet giggle when Clark smiles back.
“Clark. A baseball game. A minor league baseball game, at that. No major league team would ever demean themselves enough to be called Prairie Mice.” Lex can’t help but notice that Clark just shakes his head, still holding onto Lex’s sweatshirt, leading them both into the small stadium. Smells of hotdogs and popcorn; beer and garlic fries; wet dirt and that damp, slightly musky odor that lingers in crowded places. In the years since Lex had attended a baseball game, he had forgotten that ballparks are universal -- the smells and the sounds are all mostly the same.
“Devil Rays, Lex. And the Mariners. And the Marlins. Why exactly are those names better,” and Lex amazes for a moment at the sarcasm Clark has learned in recent years, “than the Prairie Mice? This is Kansas. We have prairie mice. And if you had ever seen the damage that a hoarding pack of prairie mice could do to a crop, then you would understand the term mighty.”
Clark’s hand wraps around the base of Lex’s neck, turning him, guiding him into a row of seats near the back of the stadium. The late afternoon sun is still bright, casting shadows across their section of bleachers. Lex stumbles a little when Clark rubs his thumb softly along the back of Lex’s neck. It takes him a moment but Lex asks, “Hoarding pack of prairie mice? I could have lived a long and prosperous life without that image, Clark. Exactly what does -?”
“They’re playing a Yankee farm team, Lex. I couldn’t afford the tickets to the actual Yankees game. Therefore, we get the Mighty Prairie Mice battling against the Trenton Thunder.”
“Clark, if you had said something, I would’ve gotten you the Yankees tickets.”
“I realize that, Lex, but would have come with me? Or would have handed me two tickets and told me to enjoy?” Lex can see the answer in Clark’s eyes because he would have handed Clark the tickets and told him to take the gorgeous redhead that had been following him around campus for the last six months.
Lex can’t think of a response; instead, he stands up, flipping his finger against the bill of Clark’s baseball cap. “I’m assuming they have food and drink here. I’m going to get a beer. I’ll bring you back something.” Not waiting for Clark’s response, he follows the smell of hot dogs and garlic fries toward the concession stands. He already knows Clark likes Miller and eats hotdogs with mustard and relish.
The line is short but moves deceptively slow. By the time Lex returns with three hotdogs, two beers and a bag of peanuts, the game is well into the second inning. Clark is leaning forward on the metal bleachers, eyes intent on the game. He’s turned his baseball cap around backward, oblivious to the world away from a ball and bat.
Sliding onto the bench next to Clark, he hands over a beer and a dog, letting his hands brush Clark’s skin, lingering a second longer than normal. Clark glances over at him, eyebrows raised. “Lex?”
Lex shakes his head, an answer to the question Clark doesn't bother asking. “I’m fine. Yet, I’m wondering about this newly discovered Yankee interest.”
“I’ve always liked the Yankees.” Clark finishes his hot dog off in three bites, wipes his fingers on his pants, leaving grease spots that Lex can just see on the thighs. He leans back and spreads his arms out along the back of the seats so that Lex can feel Clark’s arm, warm along the back of his neck, not quite touching, but close enough that Lex shifts a little in his seat. Clark smiles, presses his leg against Lex and Lex can’t help noticing that Clark seems different today.
What’s going on, Clark? Lex wants to ask but before he can get the words out, Clark says, “You’d like baseball, Lex. If you gave it a chance. It’s a game of strategy and tactics, after all: defeating the enemy, displays of powers, the art of deception.”
Lex doesn’t want to be interested; he doesn’t want to listen, because the day shouldn’t be about tactics. “Just watch the Mighty Prairie Mice, Clark. Leave the stratagems to Sun Tzu.”
Clark snorts. “Seriously. You don’t believe me, do you?” Clark’s hand briefly rubs Lex’s head, a friendly pat and Lex can almost believe that it didn’t feel like a caress.
Smiling again, and Lex can’t remember the last time Clark has smiled this much. In fact, he can’t really remember spending this long in Clark’s company since Clark started his senior year at MetU six months ago. He relaxes back, letting his shoulders push against Clark’s arm. “So, convince me.”
Clark shifts closer, turns his head back to the field, paying attention to the game. “It’s strategy, Lex. The entire game. It’s not just skill; it’s using the skill to your advantage. And at the most basic level, it’s balancing displays of power with the more reliable moves that ensure victory.”
“Clark, not to belittle your classical education regarding tactical theorems but this,” Lex gestures at the field with his hand, feeling Clark’s eyes following his movements, “is just grown men playing with balls.”
Beer splatters onto Lex’s leg and into the seats in front when Clark says, “Since when is grown men playing with balls a bad thing, Lex?”
Legs pressing together, Clark’s arms brushing his shoulder and Clark’s looking at him with seemingly wide-eyed innocence. He wonders when Clark mastered the delivery of not-so-subtle innuendo.
Lex tries to wipe the beer drops off his thighs. Dark hands, tanned and too smooth for a man raised on a farm, try to help with long strokes across the dark denim of his jeans. Deep breath and Lex nods at Clark. “I got it, thanks.” Clark leaves his hand on Lex’s leg, pressing just hard enough that Lex can feel the weight.
“The homerun, for example,” Clark says and suddenly it’s like the rabbit hole and Lex is spiraling down because Clark’s hand is on his thigh, Clark’s leg is pressed close, Clark’s delivering innuendo like a man that Lex doesn’t know. He’s even making sports metaphors sound vaguely lewd.
“In baseball, that’s the ultimate display of power. A long ball that sails up and out of the park, all the fans cheer because the power that takes… well, that’s impressive.” Clark’s shoulder shifts, his thumb moves softly against Lex’s jeans. “It’s all muscle and quick reflexes and, yeah, I like homeruns as well as the next person. But teams don’t win championships with only homeruns.”
Lex thinks he should interrupt, argue for the necessity of pure power, comment on big risks reaping big rewards, but he thinks there’s more to this conversation than the obvious. How much more Lex has yet to decide.
“You win with the little things. You know, the stuff that takes less luck, more commitment. All the hit-and-runs, stolen bases, and squeeze plays. Not as impressive as a grand slam,” Clark’s hand leaves Lex’s leg, reaches across Lex’s chest and grabs the bag of peanuts from the next seat, “but the results are usually better.”
Clark pops open the bag of nuts, holding it out to Lex.
“And the results are?” Reaching into the bag, Lex grabs a peanut and sucks it into his mouth, lips puckering from the saltiness.
Staring at Lex’s mouth, Clark swallows hard, once, twice. Lex watches, fascinated. “The results…ummm…, well,” the words seem to lodge in Clark’s throat.
“Clark, the results?”
“Right.” Clark clears his throat, stares back down at the field where the clean-up batter is just stepping up to the plate. Lex feels a soft thumb rub against his knuckles, slow and deliberate, knows that Clark is calmly himself. “The little things - they make it so you don’t just score once.” Clark releases his hand, looks right at Lex and says, “Instead, you hopefully get to score repeatedly.”
“Well, that’s a definite benefit.”
“Yeah, that’s what I think.” Clark adjusts his hat, flips his shirt away from his body like he’s trying to cool off, although Lex doesn’t know if Clark’s ever really sweated.
Baseball is having a moment.
The seventh inning stretch brings bathroom breaks, a butchered rendition of America the Beautiful and a fan-led drunken burst of Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Lex gets more beer and a bag of popcorn. Clark saves their spot on bleachers, despite the lack of any other group sitting in their immediate vicinity.
Lex returns to find Clark sitting, shoulders hunched, head in his hands. His lips are moving and Lex thinks Clark must be talking to himself. For a moment, Lex stills and considers trying to listen. But this is Clark, and spying, however innocent, seems like a line he doesn’t want to cross again. Instead, he clomps a little louder on the cement, jostling into Clark and slopping beer onto his tight blue t-shirt.
“Oh,” Clark says, like maybe he was paying attention and not staring at dirty cement while carrying on a conversation with his inner self.
Lex raises his eye, gives Clark his best smirk and sits down close enough that Clark has to move his arm and lay it along the back of the bleachers. “Beer, popcorn,” and Lex makes sure fingers brush as he hands the goods to Clark. “Eat.” Moving his legs, Lex hooks his foot around Clark’s heel, getting long legs into position, fitting then both into a crowded space despite the lack of a crowd.
Lex has let Clark watch the game on the field and lead their own game off the field. Innings have changed and a new game is about to start. Lex knows a little about baseball -- the seventh inning stretch can change everything.
“You never said why you like the Yankees?” Lex asks, leaning back and letting his head rest on Clark’s arm. Lex wonders if Clark will answer with names of the big players or maybe the ghosts in the team’s history. Instead -
“They remind me of you.” Clark drinks his beer, and casually does not glance toward Lex.
“They…what?” He’s not sure if he should be offended, but maybe it makes sense. “Because they’re wealthy? I can understand that.”
“Not really. They’re rich, sure, but that’s not what I mean.” Clark seems to think he doesn’t need to explain so Lex nudges him with his arm. Clark continues to look out over the field, watching a player strike out, while the man on first takes a good lead off the bag.
“I’m an alien,” Clark says, when the next batter steps into the box and hits a double.
“Okay,” because Lex isn’t really surprised. He’s not a fool and there’s been too much circumstantial evidence lying around for Lex to ignore. A little odd that Clark chooses now of all times to confess but Clark has taught Lex to sometimes just accept and not question.
“Well, okay,” and Clark is smiling, Lex can hear it in his voice, could see it if he looked over at Clark. He gives Clark his privacy and keeps his eyes on the game.
“It’s because they flaunt their wealth, right?” Lex asks and Clark’s shoulders shake. Lex can’t help but feel pleased.
“No. That’s not it, at all. Although, the Yankees do flaunt their wealth. So do you.” Clark glances over and his eyes are somehow lighter than Lex has ever seen. The green is clear and almost see-through and Lex realizes that Clark looks truly content.
Lex finishes his beer, puts his empty cup inside Clark’s empty cup and sets them both in his cup holder. Two runs scored and he’s starting to think that the eighth inning may go on forever.
“You hit me with your car.”
Clark and his skewed reality, Lex thinks, because only a fool believes that I’m an alien is somehow less shocking than you hit me with your car. “And then you ripped off the roof of my car.”
“Yeah.” The batter at the plate strikes out.
“Is it because they’re arrogant?” Even Lex knows that’s not going to be the right answer, but normal conversations and witty rejoinders are difficult when his mind is still stuck on secrets finally revealed.
“Arrogance isn’t always a bad thing. Especially not when referring to the Yankees.” Clark’s arm drops down onto Lex’s shoulder, curling around, pulling bodies closer together. It should feel awkward; instead, it just feels comfortable. “The Kent’s aren’t my biological family,” and even Clark can’t keep a straight face at that particular revelation.
“Shocking. I’m not sure I believe you.” Lex shakes his head and rolls his shoulders back, loosening Clark’s grip. “This game is as good as over. Sorry, Clark, but your Yankee farm team is down 2-0 in the ninth. Let’s leave.” Clark’s fingers winding around the back of his neck, his thumb rubbing the base of Lex’s skull stops him from getting up.
“Game’s not over yet, Lex. They’ve still got a few batters left.” The first batter strikes out.
The next batter gets a walk and the batter after that reaches base on an error. Clark is grinning, slightly manic, sitting forward in his seat. Hands clasped between his legs, eyes focused on the field, the space separating their bodies obvious to Lex.
“I’m in love with you,” Clark says, casually, as the batter rips a homerun.
“Okay,” Lex says.
Game over and the Yankees double-A team takes home the win, and Lex thinks it must be the most interesting of all baseball games. They’re walking back to Clark’s beat-up, hand-me-down pickup, the temperature has dropped and Lex finds himself starting to shiver.
“That’s all people see, usually. Just the wealth and the confidence.” Moving closer, shoulders brushing as they walk, and Clark sounds like he has more to say.
When he remains silent, Lex prompts, “Who? The Yankees?”
“Yeah. People see the big payroll and the superstars on the team and they think that’s why the Yankees win. But, that’s not right.” Stopping in front of the truck, Clark turns his body, crowding Lex into the side of the cab. “People stop looking when they think they know the secret of success. They stop looking and they miss the real answer.”
Lex watches as Clark lowers his head, brushing his mouth along Lex’s ears, down his neck and back to his jaw. Biting a little, enough that Lex gasps because it hurts just perfectly and Clark swallows the gasp with his lips, licking into Lex’s mouth with unhesitating tongue. Arms around Lex, hauling him closer, pressing him into the truck.
Fingers winding into Clark’s hair and Lex fights to take back control of the kiss. He pushes against Clark’s body, finds it unmovable, and thrusts his hips instead. Clark is hard - so fucking hard - and Lex groans as Clark grabs his hips, holding them tightly together.
Out of breath, feeling Clark shake around him, Lex pulls back. “What’s the thing with the Yankee’s, Clark?” Lex can feel the rumble of Clark’s laughter along the length of his body.
Hips rolling, thrusting a little, Clark says, “I don’t have a fucking clue, Lex. I just know that they’re not good just because they’re rich and arrogant. Sort of like the fact that I love you despite you being rich and arrogant.”
Lex smiles and realizes that can he can think of a hundred responses to Clark’s statement. He turns a little, pushing Clark away and reaching for the door handle. “Good to know. Take me home, Clark. I’m interested in studying this concept of repeated scoring.”
--End--
Author: Sori
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: R
Word Count: 3000
Spoilers: None
Notes: First time, happy college!Clex. For me, this is S5 schmoop therapy. *g* Many, many HUGE thanks to estrella30 for a stunning beta! (And for, errr, NOT killing me when I sent her the wrong copy of the story to beta. *hangs head in shame*) All remaining mistakes are my own!
Inspired by this picture. *g*
“You’re going to have to change, Lex.” Clark says, walking into Lex’s office without knocking. “You’ve got jeans, right? Plain jeans, not designer. You’ve got to have jeans.”
Looking up from the phone on his desk, Lex watches Clark stroll into the room. Relaxed and comfortable, grinning that same smile Lex remembers from teenage days long gone, the teasing in Clark’s voice obvious to anyone that knows him well. Just inside the door, he’s leaning against the wall, head tilted, watching Lex like he’s in no particular rush. A lazy look, an almost easy sprawl and it’s a piece of Kansas that age will never take away from the man.
Shaking his head, Lex sighs and holds up his hand. Giving his attention back to the man on the phone he says, “Henderson, I don’t have time for this right now. I want the numbers on my desk in the morning. Include the cost analysis and a summary of the statistics.”
Hanging up, Lex turns toward Cark. “Is there a specific reason you’ve suddenly become interested in my wardrobe, Clark?” Leaning back in his chair, crossing one knee across the other, Lex eases the question with a smile.
“Sorry, Lex. Did I interrupt?” Clark tries to look guilty, but the years have changed Clark enough that trivial guilt no longer rests quite so heavily on his shoulders.
“Not particularly. Just the usual afternoon -- incompetent help and information that I should have had last week, but beyond that....” Lex doesn’t add that Clark’s interruptions are always welcome. Some things go without saying. “So Clark, is there a reason you’ve suddenly become interested in my wardrobe?”
Clark lips are quirked in an almost-grin and he casually stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans, entirely unconcerned. Lex knows his sarcasm has failed to intimidate Clark for at least 6 years. “Not so much interested in your wardrobe, but very much interested in making sure that you dress appropriately. You can’t go…where we’re going in a suit. That’d be almost sacrilegious.”
“Sacrilegious?” Lex asks, and then pauses, realizing that Clark unexpectedly standing in his penthouse distracted him enough that he focused on the rhetoric and missed the point. “We’re going somewhere?”
Clark shuffles his feet and grins, all teeth and lips. “Going somewhere, yes. You and me. In my truck.” Clark walks his fingers through the air and Lex remembers why he has always disliked gentle mockery. “So -- go change, Lex. Our day’s activity will wait for no man.”
Pushing his hands into his pockets, Clark rocks back on his heels for a second before turning and walking out the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” he says over his shoulder, like there’s nothing strange about the events.
Lex is not quite sure what to say. “Wait, Clark. In your truck?”
Apparently so, Lex thinks, as he gets up to go change. He can only assume that Clark’s laugh was an answer to the question.
“Baseball? Clark, in the truck you told me you felt my cultural education had been neglected.” Lex stares up at the Metropolis Minor League Metrodome, home of the - Lex squints as he reads the sign - Mighty Prairie Mice. “Odd, I didn’t know that prairie mice were ever mighty. Nor, did I realize that they hold a vital significance in cultural education.”
Grabbing the edge of Lex’s borrowed MetU sweatshirt, Clark rolls his eyes and drags him toward the entrance. “Lex, shut up, would you? You’re killing me.” Clark reaches into his pockets and pulls out two tickets that he hands to the woman at the turnstiles. She smiles at Clark and Lex shakes his head at her quiet giggle when Clark smiles back.
“Clark. A baseball game. A minor league baseball game, at that. No major league team would ever demean themselves enough to be called Prairie Mice.” Lex can’t help but notice that Clark just shakes his head, still holding onto Lex’s sweatshirt, leading them both into the small stadium. Smells of hotdogs and popcorn; beer and garlic fries; wet dirt and that damp, slightly musky odor that lingers in crowded places. In the years since Lex had attended a baseball game, he had forgotten that ballparks are universal -- the smells and the sounds are all mostly the same.
“Devil Rays, Lex. And the Mariners. And the Marlins. Why exactly are those names better,” and Lex amazes for a moment at the sarcasm Clark has learned in recent years, “than the Prairie Mice? This is Kansas. We have prairie mice. And if you had ever seen the damage that a hoarding pack of prairie mice could do to a crop, then you would understand the term mighty.”
Clark’s hand wraps around the base of Lex’s neck, turning him, guiding him into a row of seats near the back of the stadium. The late afternoon sun is still bright, casting shadows across their section of bleachers. Lex stumbles a little when Clark rubs his thumb softly along the back of Lex’s neck. It takes him a moment but Lex asks, “Hoarding pack of prairie mice? I could have lived a long and prosperous life without that image, Clark. Exactly what does -?”
“They’re playing a Yankee farm team, Lex. I couldn’t afford the tickets to the actual Yankees game. Therefore, we get the Mighty Prairie Mice battling against the Trenton Thunder.”
“Clark, if you had said something, I would’ve gotten you the Yankees tickets.”
“I realize that, Lex, but would have come with me? Or would have handed me two tickets and told me to enjoy?” Lex can see the answer in Clark’s eyes because he would have handed Clark the tickets and told him to take the gorgeous redhead that had been following him around campus for the last six months.
Lex can’t think of a response; instead, he stands up, flipping his finger against the bill of Clark’s baseball cap. “I’m assuming they have food and drink here. I’m going to get a beer. I’ll bring you back something.” Not waiting for Clark’s response, he follows the smell of hot dogs and garlic fries toward the concession stands. He already knows Clark likes Miller and eats hotdogs with mustard and relish.
The line is short but moves deceptively slow. By the time Lex returns with three hotdogs, two beers and a bag of peanuts, the game is well into the second inning. Clark is leaning forward on the metal bleachers, eyes intent on the game. He’s turned his baseball cap around backward, oblivious to the world away from a ball and bat.
Sliding onto the bench next to Clark, he hands over a beer and a dog, letting his hands brush Clark’s skin, lingering a second longer than normal. Clark glances over at him, eyebrows raised. “Lex?”
Lex shakes his head, an answer to the question Clark doesn't bother asking. “I’m fine. Yet, I’m wondering about this newly discovered Yankee interest.”
“I’ve always liked the Yankees.” Clark finishes his hot dog off in three bites, wipes his fingers on his pants, leaving grease spots that Lex can just see on the thighs. He leans back and spreads his arms out along the back of the seats so that Lex can feel Clark’s arm, warm along the back of his neck, not quite touching, but close enough that Lex shifts a little in his seat. Clark smiles, presses his leg against Lex and Lex can’t help noticing that Clark seems different today.
What’s going on, Clark? Lex wants to ask but before he can get the words out, Clark says, “You’d like baseball, Lex. If you gave it a chance. It’s a game of strategy and tactics, after all: defeating the enemy, displays of powers, the art of deception.”
Lex doesn’t want to be interested; he doesn’t want to listen, because the day shouldn’t be about tactics. “Just watch the Mighty Prairie Mice, Clark. Leave the stratagems to Sun Tzu.”
Clark snorts. “Seriously. You don’t believe me, do you?” Clark’s hand briefly rubs Lex’s head, a friendly pat and Lex can almost believe that it didn’t feel like a caress.
Smiling again, and Lex can’t remember the last time Clark has smiled this much. In fact, he can’t really remember spending this long in Clark’s company since Clark started his senior year at MetU six months ago. He relaxes back, letting his shoulders push against Clark’s arm. “So, convince me.”
Clark shifts closer, turns his head back to the field, paying attention to the game. “It’s strategy, Lex. The entire game. It’s not just skill; it’s using the skill to your advantage. And at the most basic level, it’s balancing displays of power with the more reliable moves that ensure victory.”
“Clark, not to belittle your classical education regarding tactical theorems but this,” Lex gestures at the field with his hand, feeling Clark’s eyes following his movements, “is just grown men playing with balls.”
Beer splatters onto Lex’s leg and into the seats in front when Clark says, “Since when is grown men playing with balls a bad thing, Lex?”
Legs pressing together, Clark’s arms brushing his shoulder and Clark’s looking at him with seemingly wide-eyed innocence. He wonders when Clark mastered the delivery of not-so-subtle innuendo.
Lex tries to wipe the beer drops off his thighs. Dark hands, tanned and too smooth for a man raised on a farm, try to help with long strokes across the dark denim of his jeans. Deep breath and Lex nods at Clark. “I got it, thanks.” Clark leaves his hand on Lex’s leg, pressing just hard enough that Lex can feel the weight.
“The homerun, for example,” Clark says and suddenly it’s like the rabbit hole and Lex is spiraling down because Clark’s hand is on his thigh, Clark’s leg is pressed close, Clark’s delivering innuendo like a man that Lex doesn’t know. He’s even making sports metaphors sound vaguely lewd.
“In baseball, that’s the ultimate display of power. A long ball that sails up and out of the park, all the fans cheer because the power that takes… well, that’s impressive.” Clark’s shoulder shifts, his thumb moves softly against Lex’s jeans. “It’s all muscle and quick reflexes and, yeah, I like homeruns as well as the next person. But teams don’t win championships with only homeruns.”
Lex thinks he should interrupt, argue for the necessity of pure power, comment on big risks reaping big rewards, but he thinks there’s more to this conversation than the obvious. How much more Lex has yet to decide.
“You win with the little things. You know, the stuff that takes less luck, more commitment. All the hit-and-runs, stolen bases, and squeeze plays. Not as impressive as a grand slam,” Clark’s hand leaves Lex’s leg, reaches across Lex’s chest and grabs the bag of peanuts from the next seat, “but the results are usually better.”
Clark pops open the bag of nuts, holding it out to Lex.
“And the results are?” Reaching into the bag, Lex grabs a peanut and sucks it into his mouth, lips puckering from the saltiness.
Staring at Lex’s mouth, Clark swallows hard, once, twice. Lex watches, fascinated. “The results…ummm…, well,” the words seem to lodge in Clark’s throat.
“Clark, the results?”
“Right.” Clark clears his throat, stares back down at the field where the clean-up batter is just stepping up to the plate. Lex feels a soft thumb rub against his knuckles, slow and deliberate, knows that Clark is calmly himself. “The little things - they make it so you don’t just score once.” Clark releases his hand, looks right at Lex and says, “Instead, you hopefully get to score repeatedly.”
“Well, that’s a definite benefit.”
“Yeah, that’s what I think.” Clark adjusts his hat, flips his shirt away from his body like he’s trying to cool off, although Lex doesn’t know if Clark’s ever really sweated.
Baseball is having a moment.
The seventh inning stretch brings bathroom breaks, a butchered rendition of America the Beautiful and a fan-led drunken burst of Take Me Out to the Ballgame. Lex gets more beer and a bag of popcorn. Clark saves their spot on bleachers, despite the lack of any other group sitting in their immediate vicinity.
Lex returns to find Clark sitting, shoulders hunched, head in his hands. His lips are moving and Lex thinks Clark must be talking to himself. For a moment, Lex stills and considers trying to listen. But this is Clark, and spying, however innocent, seems like a line he doesn’t want to cross again. Instead, he clomps a little louder on the cement, jostling into Clark and slopping beer onto his tight blue t-shirt.
“Oh,” Clark says, like maybe he was paying attention and not staring at dirty cement while carrying on a conversation with his inner self.
Lex raises his eye, gives Clark his best smirk and sits down close enough that Clark has to move his arm and lay it along the back of the bleachers. “Beer, popcorn,” and Lex makes sure fingers brush as he hands the goods to Clark. “Eat.” Moving his legs, Lex hooks his foot around Clark’s heel, getting long legs into position, fitting then both into a crowded space despite the lack of a crowd.
Lex has let Clark watch the game on the field and lead their own game off the field. Innings have changed and a new game is about to start. Lex knows a little about baseball -- the seventh inning stretch can change everything.
“You never said why you like the Yankees?” Lex asks, leaning back and letting his head rest on Clark’s arm. Lex wonders if Clark will answer with names of the big players or maybe the ghosts in the team’s history. Instead -
“They remind me of you.” Clark drinks his beer, and casually does not glance toward Lex.
“They…what?” He’s not sure if he should be offended, but maybe it makes sense. “Because they’re wealthy? I can understand that.”
“Not really. They’re rich, sure, but that’s not what I mean.” Clark seems to think he doesn’t need to explain so Lex nudges him with his arm. Clark continues to look out over the field, watching a player strike out, while the man on first takes a good lead off the bag.
“I’m an alien,” Clark says, when the next batter steps into the box and hits a double.
“Okay,” because Lex isn’t really surprised. He’s not a fool and there’s been too much circumstantial evidence lying around for Lex to ignore. A little odd that Clark chooses now of all times to confess but Clark has taught Lex to sometimes just accept and not question.
“Well, okay,” and Clark is smiling, Lex can hear it in his voice, could see it if he looked over at Clark. He gives Clark his privacy and keeps his eyes on the game.
“It’s because they flaunt their wealth, right?” Lex asks and Clark’s shoulders shake. Lex can’t help but feel pleased.
“No. That’s not it, at all. Although, the Yankees do flaunt their wealth. So do you.” Clark glances over and his eyes are somehow lighter than Lex has ever seen. The green is clear and almost see-through and Lex realizes that Clark looks truly content.
Lex finishes his beer, puts his empty cup inside Clark’s empty cup and sets them both in his cup holder. Two runs scored and he’s starting to think that the eighth inning may go on forever.
“You hit me with your car.”
Clark and his skewed reality, Lex thinks, because only a fool believes that I’m an alien is somehow less shocking than you hit me with your car. “And then you ripped off the roof of my car.”
“Yeah.” The batter at the plate strikes out.
“Is it because they’re arrogant?” Even Lex knows that’s not going to be the right answer, but normal conversations and witty rejoinders are difficult when his mind is still stuck on secrets finally revealed.
“Arrogance isn’t always a bad thing. Especially not when referring to the Yankees.” Clark’s arm drops down onto Lex’s shoulder, curling around, pulling bodies closer together. It should feel awkward; instead, it just feels comfortable. “The Kent’s aren’t my biological family,” and even Clark can’t keep a straight face at that particular revelation.
“Shocking. I’m not sure I believe you.” Lex shakes his head and rolls his shoulders back, loosening Clark’s grip. “This game is as good as over. Sorry, Clark, but your Yankee farm team is down 2-0 in the ninth. Let’s leave.” Clark’s fingers winding around the back of his neck, his thumb rubbing the base of Lex’s skull stops him from getting up.
“Game’s not over yet, Lex. They’ve still got a few batters left.” The first batter strikes out.
The next batter gets a walk and the batter after that reaches base on an error. Clark is grinning, slightly manic, sitting forward in his seat. Hands clasped between his legs, eyes focused on the field, the space separating their bodies obvious to Lex.
“I’m in love with you,” Clark says, casually, as the batter rips a homerun.
“Okay,” Lex says.
Game over and the Yankees double-A team takes home the win, and Lex thinks it must be the most interesting of all baseball games. They’re walking back to Clark’s beat-up, hand-me-down pickup, the temperature has dropped and Lex finds himself starting to shiver.
“That’s all people see, usually. Just the wealth and the confidence.” Moving closer, shoulders brushing as they walk, and Clark sounds like he has more to say.
When he remains silent, Lex prompts, “Who? The Yankees?”
“Yeah. People see the big payroll and the superstars on the team and they think that’s why the Yankees win. But, that’s not right.” Stopping in front of the truck, Clark turns his body, crowding Lex into the side of the cab. “People stop looking when they think they know the secret of success. They stop looking and they miss the real answer.”
Lex watches as Clark lowers his head, brushing his mouth along Lex’s ears, down his neck and back to his jaw. Biting a little, enough that Lex gasps because it hurts just perfectly and Clark swallows the gasp with his lips, licking into Lex’s mouth with unhesitating tongue. Arms around Lex, hauling him closer, pressing him into the truck.
Fingers winding into Clark’s hair and Lex fights to take back control of the kiss. He pushes against Clark’s body, finds it unmovable, and thrusts his hips instead. Clark is hard - so fucking hard - and Lex groans as Clark grabs his hips, holding them tightly together.
Out of breath, feeling Clark shake around him, Lex pulls back. “What’s the thing with the Yankee’s, Clark?” Lex can feel the rumble of Clark’s laughter along the length of his body.
Hips rolling, thrusting a little, Clark says, “I don’t have a fucking clue, Lex. I just know that they’re not good just because they’re rich and arrogant. Sort of like the fact that I love you despite you being rich and arrogant.”
Lex smiles and realizes that can he can think of a hundred responses to Clark’s statement. He turns a little, pushing Clark away and reaching for the door handle. “Good to know. Take me home, Clark. I’m interested in studying this concept of repeated scoring.”
--End--