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"Lois," Clark hissed, "why didn't you tell me Mitchell was a billionaire?"
Lois looked at him over her plastic cup. "Mitch is a what, now?"
"A billionaire."
"Smallville, Mitch is a government studies grad student. He's got more debt than the national budget."
"Really?"
"You think he moonlights at Starbucks for kicks?"
Clark squinted across the crowded dance floor. "Then why does he keep giving me billionaire looks?"
"What looks?"
"Billionaire looks," Clark said, gesturing covertly. "With his eyes going up and down and then focusing on my eyes, and the little smile. It's how billionaires look at people."
"Billionaires."
"You know, like Ollie does." He belatedly realized Ollie wasn't a kosher topic around Lois, hastily continued, "Or that Graham guy, the, uh, assassin." That she had dated. "Um, sorry—"
Lois shook her head, dismissing the memories and the apology at once. "Smallville," she said carefully, "Mitch isn't a billionaire."
"He's not?"
"Mitch is checking you out."
"Checking...me out?"
"Mitch is gay."
"Gay?"
"Gayer than the opening act at the Birdcage. That would be why he was hitting on every single guy who walked through the door, up until he caught a glimpse of you across the room. His eyes haven't moved since." Lois pursed her lips appraisingly. "Well, they have gone up and down a lot, but..."
"Mitch is..."
"You're not gonna freak out on me here, are you?" Lois asked, her eyes narrowing. "'Cause Mitch is a friend, and if you're going to pull some idiotic Bible Belt homophobic dumbassery, I'm going to boot you. After I've gone out and bought a pair of stiletto heels."
"I'm not—it doesn't bother me, it's just—he's seriously checking me out?"
"Seriously."
"But...if that's how guys...what about...uh, Ollie?"
"What about Ollie?" Lois asked, dangerously.
"I—uh—maybe I should ask him myself."
"Good plan, Smallville."
Clark knew he should give himself time to reflect, should wait until tomorrow at least—oh, who was he kidding. He was back in the loft precisely three seconds after excusing himself from the party, citing nausea from the beer he hadn't actually gotten around to drinking. The unsettled stomach wasn't quite a lie, anyway.
Clark could hit phone numbers rather faster than his speed-dial and didn't want to waste time with it tonight. The phone beeped at him irritably but finally put the call through.
Oliver answered after three rings. "Hey, Clark, what's up?"
"Are you busy? Not blowing something up or anything?"
"Nah, I got a few minutes. What's on your mind?"
"I just was wondering..."
"'You're not ready to join the crew, are you? Because I've been thinking about the codename—"
"No, not yet. There's still some stuff I have to do. This is...personal."
"Yeah? Go ahead."
"So you've. Um. When you. A couple times, I. Think. Uh. ...Ollie, have you been checking me out?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah."
"No, I mean—checking me out. Like, looking at my...me. Like you're interested in me. Like that."
"Yeah, I know. And yeah, I have."
"You have?"
"Uh, sorry, that's not a problem, is it?" Ollie asked, suddenly anxious. "Crap, I forget you're from the sticks—I didn't mean anything by it, honest, just looking. If I was coming on to you, you'd have known a lot sooner—"
"No, it's okay. Really. Just...why?"
"What do you mean, why?"
"Why were you..."
"...Dude, you're hot."
Clark felt himself blush so hard he was positive Ollie's phone would melt. "But you—" he stammered desperately. "You like—you dated Lois—"
"I'm bi."
"But—"
"Not that that would make a difference anyway, because seriously, dude. Hot. Bart's straight like one of my arrows and he still sneaks peeks. And AC—"
"So—so when you were looking at me all those times, when your eyes got all...intense, searching my face. You were...checking me out. Like, getting turned on, by looking at my...lips. Or something."
"Actually I was probably picturing you decked out in nothing but whipped cream and caramel sauce."
"Ulnh," Clark said succinctly.
"And not your lips, either. I mean, they're great lips, but they're nothing compared to the arms. Or the abs. Or the ass. Or the—"
"Umm."
"Sorry," Ollie said, sounding far too cheerful to genuinely mean it. "Seems like you need an education, if you want any pointers... Geeze, if you really don't know...well, it does explain the clothes, I mean, I thought even a farm boy would know how to heat-shrink a pair of jeans to fit—"
"Umm, Ollie," Clark finally managed to get in, "if you think I'm...if you sort of find me..." He considered a moment, then blurted out, "if I, say, said, 'Let's have sex right now,' would you say—"
"Yes, yes, oh God yes," Ollie said.
"Oh."
"You don't want to run across the ocean to New Zealand right now, do you?" Ollie asked hopefully. "I'm in a penthouse suite in Auckland, I could give you directions—"
"Um. No, sorry," Clark said. "E-excuse me, Ollie. There's...someone I have to..."
"Well, shoot," Oliver said, as Clark hung up. He shook his head regretfully and bent back over his laptop.
Lex heard a whoosh of air. He looked up to see Clark Kent standing before his desk.
This would have been a perfectly ordinary happenstance, if it hadn't been almost three AM, some two years since he and Clark had had anything resembling a real conversation, and also if the office door hadn't been locked—and was still locked, Lex noted. Though he felt a draft of air behind him and suspected the window had not been properly latched.
He hadn't heard it open, hadn't seen Clark enter. But then, he wouldn't, would he; not if Clark had decided to get serious.
Lex leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers. "Clark."
"Lex," Clark said, and left his mouth open, his lips just barely parted, tempting gap of darkness between them. His eyes were wild.
Lex wondered how long it would take him to die. Would he even be aware of the heat of Clark's fingers around his throat, or would he feel nothing at all?
"Lex," Clark said again, and swallowed. He was in a silk shirt, the top three buttons undone. The blue was more vivid than he usually donned when he was under the influence of—whatever it was he got under the influence of; usually he was more for black leather then. But this night it was just the shirt, and navy jeans, closer fitting than anything he recalled from Clark's usual wardrobe.
The top button of the jeans was undone, too, a golden glitter drawing Lex's gaze for a moment. But Clark's extraordinary green eyes brought him back to his face. They always did. He never could relinquish that sight for long, no matter how intriguing the rest of the view might be.
"Are you waiting for my security to come and stop you?" Lex inquired. "Even if you set off a proximity sensor, which you never do, they'd still be looking outside, not in here." He had yet to design an effective system to bar Clark from the mansion. He knew himself too well to bother analyzing the reasons for that failure.
"Lex," Clark said a third time, reached up and undid the next button on his shirt. "Do you. Um." His voice was dropping lower, not just quieter but deeper, too, thick and strange and Lex's body was humming with it. "When you look at me..."
He stopped.
Lex angled his head. "When I..."
"Let's have sex right now," Clark said, and made a fumbling motion that somehow managed to not only rip off the remaining buttons but actually tear the shirt right off his body, his muscles flexed and perfect under the rent silk.
Lex stared.
"Lex?" Clark asked. "Do you..."
"Yes, yes, oh God yes," Lex heard himself say, recorded and registered with the time and date, with the infinitesimal portion of his brain still capable of taking stock of such things. The rest of his barely functioning intellect was occupied with launching his body up and out of his chair and towards Clark.
Clark grinned, sharp teeth remarkably bashful in the lamplight. "I was hoping you'd say that," he said happily, and caught Lex in his arms.