Work Text:
"Don't leave me here alone. Don't go where I can't follow..."
- Samwise Gamgee, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
While the rest of the world mourns, Lex goes to work.
He doesn't go to the funeral. Not because he wasn't welcome: he'd had assurances from the League, Lois Lane, and Martha Kent herself that there would be no scenes if he was to attend, and he believes them. Well, maybe not Lois, entirely, but he can trust that she'd keep anything she might do off camera.
But he declines; sends a massive yet tasteful floral arrangement and stays in his lab, running numbers and simulations and hypotheticals until his eyes hurt too much to continue. Then he goes back to the penthouse and drinks until he blacks out - not an easy task for a man with his tolerance. He wakes in a puddle of his own vomit for the first time in years, takes a shower and brushes his teeth, and goes back to the lab.
The melodrama drags on for weeks. The pile of flowers and memorials left at the site grows into a mountain: the mayor pleads for the public to stop. It continues to grow until Lois does a press conference, asking that any further donations go to the Metropolis Hospital for Sick Children or other such places. The city hires a Lexcorp subsidiary to help clean up the mess of rotted bouquets and bedraggled teddy bears. Lex doesn't know about this until the financial reports cross his desk two weeks after the fact.
He's watching a simulation, idly massaging his temples. The headaches are worse than they've ever been, but there's no mystery to it: weeks of not enough sleep, too much blue light; not enough food, too much alcohol; not enough water, too many amphetamines. He's not worried.
Mercy appears at his elbow. “Lois Lane is here.”
It takes a minute for that information to filter through to the parts of his brain that are still functioning beyond the scope of his obsession. “What? Why here?”
“She says she's left a dozen messages and emails, and that she's done waiting for you to sober up.” If Mercy wasn't Mercy, there might be a tone to read in her voice. He looks up from the screen.
It's probably true: he's been ignoring anything Lexcorp-related that doesn't actually require his specific input or approval, which in hindsight is actually a lot, especially of the day-to-day nonsense. He's had competent people around him for years and has just ignored them in his pathological need to address everything himself. Once he'd come to that realization, the emails and phone calls and every other pointless bit of minutiae became a waste of time. Time better spent on his mission. He's mildly surprised that someone hasn't just put Lois off somehow - but then, she's never been the kind of woman who is easily ignored.
Mercy is patiently waiting in parade rest. If he tells her to get rid of Lois - carefully phrased, of course, because he doesn't actually want to get rid of Lois - she'll get it done. “Let her through.”
If Mercy is surprised, she doesn't show it: she just touches her earpiece. “Let her through.”
There's a brief burst of chatter that he can't really hear properly - Hope clearly is surprised and is having no trouble letting Mercy know it - but in short order, Lois Lane stalks into the lab, heels thudding hollowly on the metal floor.
He blanks out the screen with the simulation - it warrants a proper second look, when he isn't distracted - and turns to greet her, signalling Mercy to leave. She gives Lois a warning look as she passes, but Lois ignores it. “Miss Lane.”
She tilts her head as she observes him. “You look like actual shit.”
“You never fail to charm me, Miss Lane. What can I do for you? I'm afraid I'm very busy at the moment.” He looks her over as he replies, not above his own potshots if she won't go away. Unfortunately, she's polished and perfect, the very picture of feminine strength touched with grief: her make-up soft and subtle, her hair in a neat chignon, her smart suit a sombre navy, her heels a respectable three inches instead of the usual five. There's just a hint of tightness around her eyes.
She digs in her bag for her recorder. “I want to know why you haven't been seen at Lexcorp in over a month.”
He arches an eyebrow, silent. She glares at him and drops the recorder on the countertop so he can see that it's not running. “That's my business, isn't it? Anyways, I don't recall promising you an interview recently.”
“It is your business,” she snaps, “and that's what makes it newsworthy. You've stepped away from your business, Luthor. Why?”
“What exactly about the running of Lexcorp is concerning you, Miss Lane? As far as I'm aware, there are no scandals, no crises, no corporate espionage.” He smiles. “I know that the Planet is accustomed to having its headlines handed over on a silver platter. Is that the issue? Slow news day? Sometimes business is just not that interesting, I'm sorry to report. You'll have to do some actual work if you'd like a story, instead of just leaping on every move Lexcorp makes.”
Her fingers flick like she's ashing a cigarette and he suppresses a grin. “What's interesting is that all of the uninteresting crap coming out of your PR division doesn't show a single sign of your input anywhere,” she says. “Every quote, every photo, every drop of news has got one of your flunkies in the foreground. You never miss a photo-op, Lex. Why are you hiding down in your lab like Dr Frankenstein?”
He laughs. “Miss Lane, Lexcorp is a multinational corporation with over three hundred subsidiaries and interests on every continent. I can't be there for everything. I've spent years building the best teams at every level of the business. It would be a terrible waste not to let them do their jobs.”
“Bullshit.” She steps towards him. “You're a control freak. You don't let a single thing happen around here without your mark on it in some way. Why the change?”
She's like a bulldog with her jaw locked around someone's leg. It would be discomfiting if he wasn't used to it. Still, she's wasted enough of his time. There's work to do.
“Maybe I'm just learning to let go, Miss Lane.” He says it softly, but she jerks back like he's struck her. “If you need some advice in that department, I'm happy to provide.”
She doesn't even fire a parting shot, which is a bit astonishing - she simply snatches up her recorder, turns on her heels, and storms out of the lab.
He hasn't read the Daily Planet since it happened: the first few articles were so nauseating he hadn't bothered picking it up again. But the day after Lois’s visit, he reluctantly asks for the morning edition.
He purposely ignores the top story - they're all the same, sickening reminisces and fluffed-up accounts of unimportant encounters, all under a dramatic black banner that makes him want to shred the entire thing into bits - and finds her piece on the second page. Galling for her to lose the space above the fold, never mind the first page entirely, but the article is pure speculation. Perry White wouldn't dare run it on the front, not even for his media darling.
Is Lex Luthor Leaving Lexcorp?
Corporate Mogul Seems To Be Withdrawing From Company Bearing His Name
The recorder may have been switched off, but her memory is like a steel trap, so while there are no direct quotes, she's paraphrased everything quite neatly. His line about building a team and letting them do their jobs is nearly verbatim. Still, the tone comes off wishy-washy, with all the unsubstantiated claims, so he's not overly worried. He's a bit surprised she'd even submitted it. She hates leaving any room for doubt.
He tosses the paper aside. Let them speculate and invent and write flimsy articles that don't even warrant the front page and do whatever they want. The stock is holding steady, no one on the board has raised any concerns, and he has work to do.
“Miss Lane is here. Again.” Mercy is less than impressed. “Should I teach her how to use a phone?”
He grits his teeth. The woman is a harridan. How Clark had ever -
He cuts that line of thought off and looks up at Mercy. “I imagine you already told her to go away.”
Mercy snorts. “Of course.”
“I imagine she was less than receptive to the idea.”
“She tried to punch me.”
“Did she succeed?” He's not sure who would win in a battle of pure will.
Mercy shifts, almost imperceptibly, and he raises an eyebrow at her. She drops her eyes and scowls at the floor. “Not with the punch.”
Lois Lane kicks like a horse - he's been on the receiving end before. He almost feels bad for Mercy: the blow to her pride would be worse than anything else.
He sighs. He's not in the mood for Lois, despite the faint amusement she's brought. Still, she's relentless and they all know it. “Let her in.”
Mercy's eyes flare just a bit, but she goes. He doesn't bother turning back to his work.
Her heels pound on the floor - she's back to the usual towering ones, he notices. She's not short without them, by any means, but they put her at his eye level, and would get her closer to -
“What do you want, Miss Lane?” She's making him think about things he doesn't want to think about, so he doesn't feel like he owes her any courtesy.
She stops on the other side of the metal table and folds her arms. “Got a call from the League about you.”
“And yet you're here.”
“They said you're up to something. That you're ‘erratic’ and ‘not to be approached’.” Her air quotes leave the impression that she's less than impressed with the warnings.
He gives her a flat look. “And yet you're here. Do you have a death wish?”
She snorts. “Please. I've never been scared of you, Luthor: what makes you think I'll start now?”
He walks around the table, slowly. “I don't think you are scared. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't be.” She's watching him. “Your protector is gone, Miss Lane.”
Her eyes narrow. “I never needed Superman to fight my battles. I do just fine on my own.”
A grain of truth there - this is a woman who rushes headlong into active warzones. And not many people can land a blow on Mercy. He doesn't reply and she pushes on. “What are you doing down here, Luthor? You've got the League worried.”
He's behind her now: she twists around to keep him in her line of sight. “And yet…you're here.”
“I already told you, I'm not afraid - ”
He's got a hand around her throat before she can get another word out, dragging her up and slamming her onto the metal tabletop. She twists and fights like an alley cat, gets in one good swipe with her nails across his face, but he pins her wrists down with his other hand and traps her legs between his body and the table before she can land a kick.
She's glaring at him without fear, just rage, and he'll give her that - she's not afraid of him. Doesn't mean she shouldn't be. He tightens the hand on her throat and leans in. Blood drips down onto her neck - he can feel the sting where she's sliced him open, just below his left eye.
“You should have listened to the League,” he hisses. She's still fighting his grip, but he's got her. “Not to be approached: what do you think that means, Lois? If even that group of costumed idiots is telling you to stay away? Do you not have an ounce of self-preservation?”
“You'd never - ” she forces out, but he just tightens his fingers further and she stops, her throat flexing under his grip.
“I would,” he promises, leaning his full weight into her. “There's nothing to stop me now. Not you, not the League - nothing.” Another drop of blood falls, lost in her hair. “I could snap your neck and bury you under one of my construction projects and silence anyone who tries to find out what happened to you. You - the League, the city, the world - you’ve only ever dealt with the Lex Luthor kept in check by Superman. And now he's gone.”
His words hang in the silence that falls over them.
When she speaks, her voice is soft and strained and still not afraid. “Lex - I know. I know.” Softer now, so he has to lean in to hear her. “I miss him too.”
Her words hit him like a Mack truck and he rears back. Her eyes are glassy with tears. “I miss him too,” she says again and he drops his hand from around her neck to slam in a fist onto the tabletop, fighting for control. There's a sound filtering through the rush of blood in his ears - a wail of rage and despair and hurt, and it's not until Lois cranes upwards and seals her lips to his that the sound cuts off and he realises that he had been making it all along.
He gasps against her lips, body going slack with surprise, and she gets her hands free but doesn't shove him away - she just grabs the collar of his lab coat and pulls him closer, mouth opening under his, and some part of his brain wakes up and he's kissing her back, fierce and hard. She bites his lip and he tastes blood before she licks it away.
She's twisting under him again, like before, and this time he's too distracted by her tongue in his mouth to keep her pinned. She frees her legs and wraps them around his hips, dragging him against her, and he discovers that he's hard, aching, and he pushes helplessly back into her and she moans around his tongue.
“Fuck,” he gets out, dragging back enough to breathe, and she huffs something that might be a laugh against his cheek, sharp and wild. His hand moves to her chest, sliding under her blazer and blouse and pushing the lace of her bra aside, fingers tight on her breast and she groans and pushes up into the touch. She shoves at him, making enough space that she can work on his belt, ripping it off and getting his pants undone with remarkable speed.
He grabs her hair with his free hand, pulling her head back and following the still livid marks of his fingers on her throat with his mouth instead. Her nails scrape against his stomach as she fights her hand down into his underwear and he shudders at the sensation as she pulls him free, dripping and pulsing in her grip. Her hand slicks over the head and he jerks against her.
She mutters something he can't make out and shoves him back again, and he's stunned enough to let go and step backwards. She catches the hem of her skirt and wriggles it upwards. Her panties are a scrap of black lace and satin and when she yanks them roughly to the side, revealing her glistening folds, he feels all the air leave his lungs like a punch to the gut.
“Come on, come on,” she pants, glaring like he's an idiot and it's a few seconds before he can make himself move. He drags her down the table by her knees, lines up, and slides home where she's wet and warm, all the way to the hilt, and she shudders and wraps her legs around him again, her shoes clattering to the floor, heels digging into his thighs.
The animal part of his brain kicks in and he fucks her in long, hard strokes, her hips rising to meet every one. His hand is back in her bra, fingers rolling and pinching her nipple, and she tosses her head and digs her nails into his shoulder, clamping down like a vise.
He has enough sense to get his other hand between their surging bodies, seeking out her clit, but his fingers tangle with hers and she swats him away, clearly preferring to take care of herself, so he slides away and moves both hands to an underhanded grip around her shoulders, giving himself the leverage to get even deeper into her. She's gasping with every thrust, her nails scratching low on his belly as she touches herself, and he swears and curls his hips under, fucking up in short stabbing motions and she cries out and quivers under him, rippling around his cock as she comes. He buries himself as deep as he can get and stays there, rocking his hips until he tenses and pours himself into her.
He slumps down onto her, their chests heaving together, his head tucked into her neck. She smells like sweat and cigarette smoke and Miss Dior. He wishes she smelled like hay and sunshine, and figures that she wishes he smelled the same way.
She pushes at him. “Get the fuck off.”
Well, so much for the afterglow. He pulls out, rough, and sees her shudder all over, like a horse bothered by flies.
He tucks himself away and buttons his pants, watching openly as she shuffles herself off the table, yanking her skirt down. There's no embarrassment on her face as she scans the lab and finds a box of tissues, grabbing a wad and wiping his come off the insides of her thighs. She pauses to shove her feet back into her shoes before dropping the damp clump into a wastebasket.
She looks at him. “Next time you threaten me, make sure you're not on tape.” She pulls out her recorder and hits stop, then yanks out the tape, throwing it across the table at him.
He clenches his fist around the tape. “Get out.”
She goes, heels hitting the floor like hammers as she walks.
She doesn't come back. He doesn't listen to the tape, although it's a near thing - he rips out the thin filmy strands and then chucks the whole thing into the incinerator.
He returns to his work, but it's getting more and more desperate, more and more farfetched. He can't get anything to function the way it needs to. He can't solve for any of the missing pieces.
It's two in the morning and he's about to go back to the penthouse and drink enough so he can fall asleep for a few hours when the alarm goes off.
Proximity alarm at the gravesite. He stares at the video feed, trying to make sense of the grainy images. There's movement at the base of the monument.
He watches for a moment longer and then runs for the door.
The tires of the Porsche shriek as he pulls up in front of the site. There's a security guard standing a few hundred feet away. He beckons the man over, but he won't move, so he snarls under his breath and stalks towards him.
The man is wild-eyed and shaking. “There's something - it just came up - like Night of the Living Dead, man!” He won't move another step towards the grave, so Lex goes alone.
He can make out the shape of something at the base of the monument; something big and unmoving. He'd taken the guard's flashlight off him and as he gets closer, it shines onto red and blue.
“Oh, you idiot,” he breathes, running the last few feet and collapsing next to the body. It is a body - still and slumped and not breathing, but there's disturbed earth and fragments of polished oak from the casket and how the hell he'd had anything left to get out -
“And it's hours to sunrise,” Lex snarls, “you fucking moron.”
He digs in his pocket for his phone and dials a number from memory. “Luthor.” The voice is cold and unwelcoming.
“I need your plane,” he snaps, “and before you say anything, I do mean the plane. My jet isn't fast enough. He needs sunlight.”
There's a second of hesitation, then Bruce says: “On my way.”
There's a tense argument when the Batplane touches down, but eventually they come to an agreement. Lex kicks himself for not buying the private Hawaiian island when it had come up for sale, but it doesn't matter in the end: Bruce owns it and it's the nearest place they can get to where the sun will be rising.
Bruce knocks out the guard and they load the body onto the plane. Bruce offers the copilot seat, but gets a middle finger for his trouble and leaves well enough alone.
Lex is shaking by the time they land, so badly that he can barely get a grip on lifeless limbs to get the body off the plane, but they manage, stumbling in the sand, the sun just peeking up over the horizon.
There's a lone beach lounger under a palm tree and he laughs when he sees it, hysteria breaking through, the mental image of Batman in cowl and swim trunks too much for him. He collapses in the sand. Bruce glares at him and carries the body the last few feet, easing it carefully onto the lounger and dragging it to face the sun.
He collects himself enough to stagger over to the lounger and sink back into the sand beside it.
Bruce is hovering, which he does exceptionally well. “I'll bring you - ”
“Just go away,” he hisses, fingers numbly working on the hidden catches that hold what's left of the stupid suit together. The sunlight needs to hit as much skin as possible. He jerks his chin towards the nearby palm tree. “You can watch from that camera, you fucking voyeur, and if I make one wrong move…”
The catches finally come loose and he strips away the ruined fabric - fabric he's always wanted to study; Kryptonian tech at his fingertips at last - but he just flings it aside. He looks up, but he's alone. Thank God. He glares at the camera in the tree for good measure.
The sun is rising steadily, rays still not quite high enough to hit the wounds. He stares at them, horror churning in his gut. He'd seen the photos, obviously, but those had been pixels on a screen, ink on paper. These are real: massive tears and gashes, in some places so close together that there's barely enough flesh to separate them. His stomach flips over and he looks away, resting his head on the cushion. He can't afford to sleep, but until the sun erases the worst of the carnage, he'll just close his eyes…
“...Lex?”
The voice is faint, but it jars him awake like a slap to the face. He jerks upward from where he'd slid down onto the sand. Fuck, he'd fallen asleep.
The sunlight makes him squint, but he turns to the figure on the lounger.
The wounds have shrunk to faint pink lines crisscrossing the golden skin. He exhales and is grateful that he's already on his knees. He forces his eyes upwards to catch bleary blue-green.
“Oh, fuck.” The words slip out without permission, in his addled state, and the eyes are already barely open but they narrow a bit in what he hopes is amusement.
Chapped lips move. “Where…?” The question looks like it takes all the energy he's gained back.
“Shut up,” Lex insists, shaking his head wildly. “Hawaii. Bruce's private island. We needed to get you to the sun - it was hours to sunrise in Metropolis, you fool, why did you pick that time - and then that pointy-eared jackass kept insisting on Green Lantern taking you to space, because he didn't think about you needing to breathe just as much as you needed the sun, so I had to fight to get him to understand - and you, how did you - ”
“Shhhh.” Movement - one thick finger rising to press clumsily against his lips, cutting off his babbling, and he hears himself whimper and resists the urge to kiss the finger as it drops away.
The pink lines are fading. It'll take hours more until his energy is fully restored, judging by the sluggish movements - but he's moving and talking and breathing and watching Lex just a bit suspiciously from those blue-green eyes and oh God -
“What…did you do…”
He blinks - he's not sure if he's meant to answer for bringing him back, or killing him in the first place: not that he had done either, but who knew what he could remember or how accurate the memories would be? He opens his mouth, closes it, and turns away from those eyes to look out at the ocean instead.
“Nothing,” he says flatly. “I didn't - I didn't kill you, to start. And I tried - I tried - ” his voice is breaking, “ - God, I tried everything, I couldn't find the right answer, I couldn't get any of it to work, I - I failed.”
Something is twisting painfully in his chest, making his breath come hard and sharp, and it's so stupid: he's back anyways, he's here, solid and real, and so why should Lex feel bad for his failure, why should he have tried at all, why should he even care?
Then there's a big, warm hand on his shoulder, pulling weakly, and he turns under the touch to find a faint smile on that beloved face.
“Lex,” Clark says, still haltingly. “C’mere.” He tugs at his shoulder again.
“I don't - ” He doesn't know what to do now that he's gotten what he wanted. He doesn't know what to do with that look in Clark's eyes.
Clark shifts on the lounger, slowly, painfully, and he springs up out of the sand. “Don't move, you idiot.” He puts a hand out to hold the fool still, but fingers wrap around his wrist and yank with more strength than he's expecting and he topples onto the lounger, trying not to fall on top of sprawled golden limbs.
He finds himself in a loose embrace, his face mashed into that broad (healed, whole, perfect) chest. It rises and falls in a slow but steady rhythm, the heart underneath pounding strong and solidly, and his throat is tightening alarmingly.
“Can you shut up…until I'm at least a quarter recharged?” Clark's voice rumbles under his cheek. He swallows down his instinctive retort and just nods, realising that he's essentially just nuzzling into Clark's chest and not caring one iota.
A big hand curls around his waist and he closes his eyes against everything inside him that's threatening to spill out.
There's a faint prickling on his scalp when he wakes up, annoyed that he's fallen asleep again without meaning to. He shifts and opens his eyes to golden skin and stiffens. “Uh…”
The prickling on his head resolves into fingers, trailing gently over the bared skin. “I think you're sunburnt,” Clark says quietly.
“Oh God.” He's still half-asleep and emotionally wrung out (and probably fairly physically unwell, considering the way he'd been running himself ragged for months) and he can't get himself under control quick enough to lock down against the full body shiver that rolls over him when he realises that Clark is stroking his (apparently sunburnt) head. The exclamation also slips out before he can stop it.
“It's not that bad,” Clark assures him, but he doesn't give a fuck about the sunburn. He levers himself upwards so he can stare down at Clark, long body stretched out with Lex half on top of him, looking hale and whole and entirely recovered - and discomfitingly at ease with the way they're practically cuddling on a sun lounger on Batman's private beach.
“Clark,” he starts, and gets pinned by blue-green eyes, alert and bright, if squinting a bit against the sun that's now quite aggressively beating down on them from well overhead. No wonder his head is burning. His face feels like it's also burning, but he's not sure if it's sunburn or just the weight of that stare. He wishes Clark would yell at him or throw him into the ocean or something, instead of just lying there with their legs tangled together and his arm still loosely draped around Lex's waist.
He's wildly off-balance and he hates it.
“I'm more than a quarter recharged, I think, so go ahead.”
He narrows his eyes. The little shit is teasing him. “You…”
He's on his back before he can blink, Clark leaning over him, pressing him into the cushion with intent that makes him stop breathing entirely. “Or we can do something else.”
There's worry creeping in now, under the relief - and the rising desire, which he's doing his best to ignore. Clark is back - but maybe not back right.
He'd considered that, in his tests and simulations: what to do with a Superman zombie, or one without a soul, or without his memories. He just didn't account for - whatever the hell is going on here.
“Are you…feeling okay?” He can hear that his voice is about an octave too high and he thinks about just walking into the ocean himself, the hell with waiting for Clark to throw him.
“I didn't actually really die, you know.”
He blinks. “Excuse me?”
Clark shrugs. “I know what you're thinking: that I came back wrong. Well, I wasn't really gone - not entirely - so I'm fine. Not a zombie or anything.”
“You weren't…entirely gone.”
“Nope. Some kind of Kryptonian out-of-body thing. I can try to explain it, if you really want me to.”
He nearly says yes, because who wouldn't want to understand it, but the dubious note in Clark's voice leads him to believe that Clark doesn't actually fully understand it, and that his attempted explanation would probably be painful for both of them. “No, that's okay.”
Whatever the explanation is, he's sure it can't account for the way Clark is hovering over Lex, braced on one arm, the other hand on his hip, thumb moving in very distracting circles that he can feel through the material of his slacks - or the way he's looking at him as though he's half a thought away from ripping all Lex's clothes off. He can recall a variation on this expression from all the way back in Smallville, Clark watching him with hot eyes from across the pool table or the desk in his office. He'd been so good back then, shown such restraint - and for what? For them to end up hating each other; for their friendship to erode into enmity; for years of distrust and despair and mutually assured destruction. What a waste.
He's still not entirely sure that Clark isn't off in some kind of way - but he is sure that Clark is hard against him, that Clark is warm and here and alive, and that he's through wasting time.
He drags Clark down and pushes himself up to bring their lips together, and gets an eager sound and a tongue in his mouth almost immediately.
His arms go around Clark's neck instinctively, fingers spreading out on that hot skin, pressing in as though he can force more of the healing sunlight into him. The wounds are gone, but he estimates it'll take another few hours of exposure before Clark is fully healed again, and now is the time to explore the idea of putting him in orbit so he can really soak it in - but now is also the time where Clark is crushing him down against the lounger, hips grinding into his own, and has his tongue so far down Lex's throat that he might be able to lick his tonsils, so maybe the space idea can just wait.
“Mmmph.” He makes a noise to remind Clark that one of them still needs to worry about breathing, and Clark tears away from his mouth and starts biting his ear instead. His back curves upwards at the touch, as far as he can get while still being smashed under Clark's weight.
His hands slide down to the waist of the suit's bottom half and then further down, grabbing a double handful of Clark's ass through the slick material, and Clark says what he's pretty sure is a dirty word in Kryptonian and grinds harder down into him.
“I fucked Lois.” It's uttered on a gasp as Clark rips his shirt open, buttons scattering, and leans in to bite and pinch at one nipple, and he doesn't even mean to say it, doesn't know why he says it.
Clark pauses with his teeth still clamped around Lex's left nipple. “While I was mostly dead?” he clarifies around his mouthful of skin.
“Uh huh,” Lex confirms, writhing at the touch, one hand flying back upwards to dig into Clark's hair, gripping the strands hard enough to match the pressure of the teeth.
“Okay.” Clark releases the nipple and moves onto the other one and Lex makes a wildly undignified sound and thrashes as far as he's got room. The biting is making him rethink the zombie scenario. Maybe they'll end up eating Bruce's brain together.
Clark's hand is between them, grasping at his dick through his pants and he sobs and bucks into the touch, half out of his head. “Please,” he finds himself begging, “God, Clark, please just - ”
There's a faint crunch of metal and his belt comes away with the buckle mangled. He slaps the hand away and gets his pants unbuttoned and shoved down along with his boxer briefs, then gets his own hands shoved aside as they struggle with the lower half of that stupid, useless suit, and of course Clark goes commando underneath it - someone owes him money on that bet, but he can't scrape the brain cells together to recall who at the moment - and then Clark's got his hand wrapped around them both, slick with pre-come, jerking them hard and fast and fuck, this isn't going to take long.
He gets in a bite of his own, sucking at the skin of Clark's throat like he could leave a mark. Clark says the dirty Kryptonian word again and thrusts faster into his hand around them, sliding their cocks together, and Lex groans and comes all over their bellies.
He's still twitching and shaking and thinking that he should probably be embarrassed at blowing his load after approximately two-point-five seconds of touching, but Clark is still holding them tight and the sensation is too much; he's biting his lip to keep from yelling and grits out, “Come on, Clark, fucking do it,” instead and Clark chokes and erupts over his hand, still grinding in until Lex twists away.
They're panting, sweaty and sticky and there's sand involved, because it's the fucking beach and the sand gets everywhere just by looking at it, and Clark drags him close and collapses, heedless of the mess.
There are so many things he wants to say, so many questions he wants to ask, but none of them manage to swim up from under the waves of post-orgasm bliss. He's content to just lie there, crushed under the warm weight of Clark's body.
Clark doesn't seem to share his contentment. “You've lost weight.”
He's not wrong, but it feels like a strange thing for him to have noticed. “Probably.”
“How long has it been?”
His voice wavers when he answers and he hates it. “One hundred and sixty eight days.”
A heavy sigh gusts across his skin. “I knew you wouldn't handle it well.”
Outrage rises in him, but it's tempered by something else that he can't quite pin down. A feeling of being seen, maybe - a feeling he should hate, but somehow just feels akin to being loved.
He speaks past the lump in his throat that is apparently taking up permanent residence. “I handled it just fine.” Empty words and they both know it; just a stock response, his next step in the dance they've been doing for so many years now - only Clark seems to be making things up as he goes now, because he doesn't snark back like he should. He just shakes his head and runs one finger gently over the skin where Lex's ribs are a bit more visible than usual.
“Liar,” Clark says, and the familiar accusation would normally set Lex's blood boiling, if not for the soft tone in Clark's voice. All it does is make him start to tremble.
“I - I missed you.” And blurt out his innermost secrets, apparently. Is this some new power Clark's picked up in his brush with near-death?
Clark just smiles at him. It's the same as it always has been: like the sun. “I know. I'm sorry.”
“I tried.” God, he'd already said that. It had to be a new power.
A thumb strokes along his cheekbone, under his eye, and dear Lord, he isn't crying, is he? He doesn't think he is. “I know. I wouldn't expect anything else.”
“I hope Bruce wasn't watching this.” Well, at least that's just the normal truth and not some sort of horribly soul-revealing one.
Clark winces. “I don't think we're going to get off that easy.”
Fuck.
“We should go inside or something. You really are burning.”
It's nothing his accelerated healing won't soon fix - with the help of some soothing aloe vera gel. “Just - not yet.”
“Okay.” Clark settles down onto the lounger, turning his face to the sun and closing his eyes, his head against Lex's shoulder.
There's no sound except the rustle of the wind through the palm fronds and the crash of the ocean onto the shore.
Until…
Lex sits bolt upright. “Hang on.” He glares at Clark. “Did you say mostly dead? ”
Clark opens his eyes and looks puzzled for a second until the question sinks in. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Are you kidding me?” Lex is incandescent. “You put me through all that and then you brush it off with a joke from The Princess Bride? ”
“You love The Princess Bride!”
“Of course I do, it's a modern classic!”
“So then what's the problem?”
“You don't get to make jokes about dying!”
“I didn't die: I was mostly dead! And besides, you'd just told me that you fucked my girlfriend!”
“And all you said was ‘okay’!” He says it in his dopiest, most Superman-mocking voice.
“Well what did you want me to say?”
“I brought some aloe vera.”
Lex twists around so fast he nearly kinks his neck. Clark sits up with enough force to make the legs of the lounger collapse under them.
Bruce is watching them with a blank face. He's not wearing the cowl, for which Lex is both thankful and resentful - just a black linen button down and slacks. His feet are bare in the sand, which is somehow completely absurd.
Clark is flushing a shade of red that Lex hasn't seen since Smallville (although he's willing to bet that his scalp is probably a similar shade by now) - all over his nearly naked body. He's fumbling with the remains of the suit, which, like any piece of clothing - Kryptonian or otherwise - is proving to be impossible to yank up over a sweaty, sandy body.
Lex purposefully does not move to put his dick away, and just reaches out for the bottle of aloe vera. Bruce hands it over. “There's food up at the house.”
Clark's stomach growls as if on cue, while he's still trying to wriggle back into his tattered leggings.
“And towels in that basket.” Bruce points to a wicker basket under another nearby palm tree.
A towel would probably help a lot. Lex climbs to his feet, zipping his pants smoothly. “Thanks.”
Bruce just nods, and somehow in the few seconds Lex turns away, he's disappeared silently. It's truly impressive for a man without superspeed.
“Oh my God.” Clark has given up fighting with the suit and is lying with his hands covering his crotch. Lex takes pity on him and crosses the hot sand, coming back with a big white towel.
“Here. Let's go get some breakfast.”
Clark wraps the towel around his waist and rolls to his feet. “The next League meeting is going to be hell on Earth.”
“Aren't they already?” Lex grins at him as he thumbs open the aloe vera and squirts some into his hand, rubbing it over his head. “God, that feels good.”
Clark grips his towel more firmly. “Don't make noises like that right now!”
“I'll save it for when we get home.” It comes out before he can stop it, the words light, but falling from his lips with unintended weight. His stride falters. He blames the sand.
But Clark is smiling at him again, bright as the sun and with all the promise a new day brings. “Home,” he echoes, and Lex can only smile back.