Strip Minefield

by rivkat

Summary:

In which pretending to be your own stripper ex-boyfriend turns out to be more trouble than it’s worth.

Notes:

• For celli.

For the prompt from celli: “characters combining the legal field and the orgasm-creating field.” I take as a fundamental premise that, had Clark and Lex met later on in life, it might have gone better for them. Also if Clark had been a stripper.
NB: Do not base your ideas of the law on Smallville fan fiction. Thanks to geekturnedvamp and rheasilvia for beta.

“Oh good,” Chloe said with relief. “Oliver is tied up, and not in the fun way, so you’re our headliner tonight.” She was thumb-typing as she talked, tweeting Clark’s presence. It’s a great promotional tool, she’d explained to Clark. You’re like a food truck, only with really amazing abs.

Clark nodded acknowledgement and went to change into his work outfit. One thing about being a stripper, along with not needing to keep regular hours due to his forgiving boss: it didn’t require much from him in the way of prep, given his Kryptonian biology.

He had three sets that night, first as a cowboy, then a firefighter, then a police officer. (There had been a tearaway Superman costume available from the same company that made those and a discount for buying four, but just no.) Midway through the second set, while he was doing a backbend with his legs locked around a pole, he noticed that Mystery Guy was wearing a wig.

Mystery Guy showed up whenever Clark did, one of a small but flattering group, mostly women. He always sat in the back and tipped well, at least according to the servers. He never asked for a private dance (not that many guys did). Clark wasn’t about making anyone feel uncomfortable, so he’d never singled MG out the way he would sometimes tease a person who sat up front and looked like they’d be happy to trade a few twenties for a closer experience. Anyway, something about the angle, with Clark upside down and staring out at the upended world, made absolutely clear that MG’s hair was about as natural as Chloe’s haircolor.

Clark straightened himself, tore off the velcroed arms of his red jacket, and took another look at MG. Intense grey-blue eyes, sensitive mouth with a scar that wouldn’t have been visible to anyone else in the low light—

Holy cow, Clark realized as he snapped his suspenders against his now otherwise-bare chest. That’s Lex Luthor. He’d done something to change the shape of his face, but now that Clark had seen through the disguise, it was undeniable.

The younger Luthor had been in the news a lot since his first major act as state attorney general had been to send his father to jail, despite Lionel Luthor’s ace legal team and its arguments about how Lex was pursuing a family vendetta through the mechanism of the law.

Clark understood about trying to escape legacies. He still wasn’t sure how much of his father’s computerized ghost and Brainiac’s lectures had been accurate, but whether he’d been sent here to conquer or not, it wasn’t going to happen. Stripping by night and saving the world by day let Clark make money, increase the happiness in the world, and save lives. Also, if he didn’t show up for a set because of a monster eating lower Manhattan, it would be written off by people who didn’t know his secret as standard flakiness or at worst drug addiction, not as something suspicious. Honestly, it was hard to think of a better scenario.

Unless Luthor was trying to shut Chloe down. He hadn’t run on a morality platform, but there was always a chance that he would try to win points with the reddest of the red voters. Clark shimmied out of his velcroed pants while considering what he should do.

If this was some sort of sting, Luthor would’ve sent a few agents and had them do more than sit in the back and drink whiskey all night. They would’ve acted drunk and grabby and waved money around, trying to get a dancer to do something that could be construed as solicitation. (Clark remembered a period when that had been common, back when Chloe was just getting started and there was a corruption problem with the Metropolis police. He’d had to do some superheroing to clean that up.)

So he was here for Clark.

Clark knew how he looked. Whether in the Superman outfit/image enhancer or out of it (pretty much all the way out, when he performed), he was a good-looking humanoid. He could only hope he hadn’t been designed that way.

But Luthor was risking an awful lot—more than the flirty college girls or the bored office drones looking for a thrill—and Clark felt both flattered and protective. He didn’t want to derail a reformer in a sex scandal, especially one that would be completely made up, since Luthor had never said a word to him.

Clark finished up his set, smiled at a bachelorette party and let them feel his biceps, and collected his tips.

It seemed he’d found another job for Superman.

****

Except that Luthor wasn’t particularly receptive when Clark showed up outside his office window.

Luthor cranked open the glass, which moved with a screech that matched the annoyed look on his face. “Aren’t you supposed to wait for my signal or some such?”

Clark flew in and touched down on the carpet. “That’s Batman,” he pointed out. “Also, you don’t have a signal.”

“I wonder why that is. Other than that if you’re in any way a state actor Kansas is on the hook for roughly a billion dollars in damages, not to mention some very happy defense lawyers. I don’t suppose you’d consider taking a course in Fourth Amendment law?”

Clark folded his arms over his chest. “I’m not actually here in an official capacity.”

Luthor grimaced. “You don’t have an official capacity.”

Clark took a deep breath. “Look, I’m just here to say—” He stalled out. This had seemed much simpler in his imagination. “Uh. Clark Barr recognized you at the Metropole. He didn’t tell anyone, and he’s not going to, but he thought you should know.”

Luthor went very still. “Didn’t tell anyone,” he repeated, after a long and painful silence. “Then what are you?”

Clark devoutly hoped that the illusion projected by his suit didn’t blush. He had no good explanation for how a stripper and a superhero would—“We used to date,” he said, desperate. Superheroes were kind of like sports stars, right? And everyone knew the sports star-stripper connection. “He’s not—he wouldn’t try to exploit you. But you obviously don’t want anyone to know, so. You could try a better disguise?” Offering Luthor the use of the same technology he used to maintain his secret identity was impossible. As a government representative, Luthor would probably have to turn it over to the military—not to mention the fact that Clark didn’t want anyone to know that he had a secret identity.

All this contemplation had him distracted enough that he didn’t notice Luthor rising from behind his desk and moving so that they were nearly face to face (though Luthor, like almost everyone else, had to look up a bit). “So, Superman is gay?”

Clark blinked a few times. Yeah, okay, maybe he hadn’t thought that one through.

“Arguably,” Luthor mused, clearly sensing that Clark wasn’t yet prepared to respond, “it’s not a meaningful concept across species. Still—” and Clark could just tell that something insulting about strippers was going to come out of his mouth, no matter how attractive a mouth it was.

“Clark is a good guy,” he said defensively.

“But not good enough to hang on to you,” Luthor rejoined.

When did this get to be about Clark’s love life? Oh, yeah, when he came to Luthor’s office to tell him to ignore his apparent crush on Clark. “That’s not what happened,” Clark said. Honesty to this stranger wouldn’t do him harm. “I’m a terrible boyfriend. I have to run out all the time.”

“I’m not unfamiliar with the problem,” Luthor said, smiling slightly now. “Of course, putting corrupt politicians in jail isn’t quite at the earthquake level.”

“No, I admire the work you do,” Clark said, again letting his mouth run ahead of his brain.

Which was how he found himself with a dinner invitation. Luthor—‘call me Lex’—had a penthouse, so apparently he hadn’t lost everything in the split with his father. “If I stand you up—” Clark warned, because bitter experience had taught him that he needed to remind people about his unreliability to at least slow the accumulation of resentment.

But Lex just nodded.

****

Clark made an extra effort—Wonder Woman and Green Lantern had the situation with the manticore well in hand, anyway—and showed up on time for what was possibly a date.

Five minutes in, Clark had upgraded ‘possibly’ to ‘probably,’ though there was still the chance that Lex plied everyone he met with expensive wine and the sweet heat of tapered candles. He stopped worrying about it when Lex asked him about his recent move from local to international rescues, and they were off. Lex didn’t trust international bodies, from the UN to ICANN, whatever that was (Clark made a mental note to look it up), and he was unprepared to accept that the Justice League might be something different.

“Who do you want directing superhero activities?” Clark asked, somewhat miffed.

Lex raised an eyebrow. “Me, of course. I mean, the President of the United States,” he conceded, and Clark again wondered why a man of such obvious ambitions would risk everything to ogle a stripper, even one as admittedly a fine example of the humanoid form as Clark Barr, er, Clark Kent. Yes, public opinion was changing, and maybe Lex could get away with being gay, but Clark was pretty sure that male strippers would be a bridge (or a backbend) too far.

And then he realized that he might as well ask; after all, Lex already had what he thought was a similar revelation from Clark—that is, from Superman—about Superman’s own dating habits.

Lex looked down at his wineglass. “I suppose … I’ve always been too attracted to secrets. And my father has either paid off or seduced everyone I’ve ever had an intimate relationship with, so I decided it was better just to look.”

“Ugh,” Clark said, once he’d processed that. Lex’s quirked mouth suggested he appreciated the reaction. “But … couldn’t you use the Internet to look?”

“First of all,” Lex said, and took another sip while staring directly into Clark’s eyes, “I think you underrate your ex-boyfriend’s charms. Second, leave an electronic trail in this day and age? I might as well take a picture of my own dick and post it on Facebook. As I’ve learned from Metropolis’s drug gangs, the analog world offers much more in the way of privacy and plausible deniability.”

Clark didn’t have much to say to that. He left the serious hacking to Chloe, and sometimes the Fortress would deign to help him out (usually with some snark about Earth technology; also it didn’t really understand how humans thought, so it could be surprisingly unhelpful without even trying to annoy him, which meant that mostly he left it alone when dealing with human villains). He looked down and found that, without quite noticing, he’d cleaned his plate.

“I have to admit,” Lex continued, “I never thought I’d be part of a fanclub, however hidden, with you.”

Clark swallowed. Pretending to be his own ex was more awkward than crushing on Lana had ever been, and that was saying a lot. Also, he wasn’t comfortable praising himself, even for something as trivial as his appearance. “The thing is,” he said, “I’m not particularly good at dating either. Thinking about the publicity makes me want to fight Brainiac instead. I’m a symbol and I’m not elected, and that means a certain kind of press coverage. I look at the British royal family and think, that could be me.”

“I trust without the Nazi uniform,” Lex said, gently enough that Clark knew it was a joke. “You’re already pushing it with ‘Superman.’”

“I didn’t pick the name,” Clark said with the weariness of practice. “Blame The Daily Planet.”

“Oh, I do,” Lex said, and Clark remembered that they’d all but accused him of putting his father away in order to disguise his own corruption. “So, we’re in agreement. Public romance presents some difficulties for us, and yet we are both subject to the weaknesses of the flesh.”

Clark didn’t want to misread the situation. He was Superman; he didn’t get to suggest anything that might sound coercive. “Yes?”

“Well then,” Lex said, pushing back from the table. His mouth was very pink; the curve of his head seemed to invite a caressing hand. “Nice boots. Want to fuck?”

****

“Why are you smiling?” Chloe asked, in pretty much the same tone Wally had used earlier, before his set.

“What?” Clark asked, wondering if he could fine-tune his superhearing to listen in on Lex. It wasn’t creepy if the guy knew he had superpowers, right?

“You have that dop—I mean, you seem very happy. Like, should I be looking for the Red K happy.”

“Just in a good mood, I guess,” Clark said. Though their own awkward not-relationship was years behind them, he wasn’t ready to tell her about Lex, not just because of Lex’s need for privacy—it was very well established that Chloe could keep a secret—but because he didn’t know what he was doing with Lex. Well, beyond specific and very pleasurable acts, but he wouldn’t have shared those details with her anyway. Were they dating? Did he have a secret boyfriend to go with his secret identity?

Chloe cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him. “Well, go on and convey that good mood to the customers. A bunch of regulars tonight, plus two bachelorette parties, and some woman who thinks she’s being sneaky about being a reporter for Newsweek, doing some human interest story on how the battle of the sexes is being fought via poledancing or something. I tell you what, anyone who wants not to be outed as a reporter probably shouldn’t be liveblogging.”

Tonight, Clark’s first set was the police officer. He walked onstage twirling his baton (the mock handjob was later in the song) and almost sent it spinning into the audience when he saw Lex in his accustomed position in the back.

Clark was an accomplished performer at this point, his skills burnished by several years’ experience avoiding and assisting too-drunk patrons who thought they could stagesurf. Also, he was used to fighting evil under often chaotic circumstances. Self-control when confronted by the unexpected was standard.

Still, each piece of clothing he ripped off renewed his questions: Why was Lex back, after having been warned? Did this mean that Superman was just a one-night stand? Could anyone be dumb enough to want Clark over Superman?

He couldn’t go over to Lex, drawing unwanted attention. But Superman was definitely going to pay him a visit after the show.

****

“Just how ex is Clark Barr?” Lex asked, his brow furrowed quizzically, after he’d let Clark back into his office and before Clark could explain his concerns. “Not that I wouldn’t take advantage if Superman were at my beck and call, but surely you have better things to do.”

“You can’t go back to the Metropole,” Clark said, a little desperately. “You’re going to get caught!”

Lex shrugged. “I haven’t yet.”

No one could be this annoying by accident. Clark was sure of it. Half of why he’d put on the costume instead of sticking with street clothes was because people took uniforms more seriously. They tended to obey a superstrong alien whose appearance signalled that he was not just an ordinary Joe, and while Clark would never abuse that power (not while he was in his right mind, at least), he was realizing just how useful that deference was, now that he was confronted with a non-villain who nonetheless was ignoring his completely valid concerns.

“Of course,” Lex said consideringly, “if you really wanted to save me from myself …” His hand went to the knot of his dark purple tie and tugged, a motion so suggestive that Clark made a mental note to remember it for when he did his Wall Street executive act.

“Here?” Clark asked, feeling his better judgment draining away.

Lex let the tip of his tongue show through his teeth. “Perhaps not,” he conceded. “Tonight?”

Compared to sex in the attorney general’s office, it sounded reasonable. “Yes,” Clark said, wondering if he sounded as relieved to Lex as he did to himself. “But—”

“Standard disclaimers apply, I know,” Lex said.

There was a knock on the door; Clark supersped away as Lex began to turn.

****

Clark made it that night.

Repeatedly.

And somehow it became a habit, flying by Lex’s penthouse to see if Lex was there or instead, as happened regularly, pulling an all-nighter with the KBI agents about to raid a drug dealer’s warehouse or prepping for a trial. Lex was a very hands-on attorney general, as well as a very hands-on—Clark’s mind skittered away from the term ‘lover,’ but he didn’t have a better one. Anyway, he couldn’t complain about Lex’s frequent absences. Clark wasn’t exactly Mr. Availability himself. There were entire weeks when their schedules didn’t match. The battle with the mutant baby chicks and the wererabbit alone ate up six whole days, and then Lex chewed him out when he showed up because the mutant down was clogging up the city’s drains, as if Clark was responsible for them being both fluffy and evil.

Getting to see Lex, though, was almost better for the anticipation—okay, the frustration. Not that, when they did manage to get together, it was quick. Early on, Clark worked up the courage to say outright that he wanted to be told what to do—not a kink, not really, but a way of making sure that he wasn’t using his strength to get what he wanted.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Lex had said, as if the very thought of Clark being stronger than him was somehow amusing instead of a scientific fact. Then later, when Lex had him on his knees with his hands behind his back, whimpering for Lex’s touch, Lex had asked, “Are you sure it’s not a kink?” before he’d told Clark to come.

Okay, so maybe just a little bit.

Lex himself had a thing for being marked, though he usually didn’t ask until after they’d gone a few rounds and Clark was feeling relaxed. “Don’t worry,” he said when Clark bit so high up on his neck that no collar would cover it, “I heal fast.”

And sure enough, the next day he gave a televised press conference, and even in HD there was no sign, and no evidence of makeup (something Clark was now well able to detect given his experience at the Metropole).

So apparently Lex hadn’t just lost his hair in the meteor shower. That was a matter of public record, an event so bizarre that Lionel Luthor hadn’t been able to suppress it.

Quick recovery—which, come to think of it, explained a lot about Lex’s ability to keep up with Clark—was far from the worst thing the meteors could’ve done to Lex. And he was old enough now that any other abnormalities should’ve manifested themselves. Meteor mutants tended to decompensate quickly once their powers developed. Clark double-checked with Chloe about that, because though he didn’t want to invade Lex’s privacy they’d had too many bad experiences to trust anyone with significant Kryptonite exposure without further investigation. After ten days and God knew how many database hacks, she tentatively agreed that staying away from Smallville since the meteor shower seemed to have protected him from the nastier mind-altering effects.

Either that, or Lex was naturally a megalomaniac and the Kryptonite, having no work to do, had given up. Listening to Lex’s postcoital speculations about his next political moves, Clark had to give that theory at least a small chance of being correct.

In some ways—no, okay, the sex was truly amazing. But afterwards (or between rounds) was nearly as good, when Clark could manage to stay that long.

Early on, he’d asked how Lex managed to break away from the Luthor empire. Lex, sprawled back on his couch and with one hand outflung to cradle his glass of whiskey, had snorted inelegantly and rubbed his free hand over his mouth. “My father had me kicked out of Princeton’s chemistry program—all right, to be perfectly honest, my behavior made it possible for him to contrive to have me asked to leave. He thought it’d drive me back into his ever-so-loving arms. But there was a woman, a friend of my mother’s, who’d looked after me for a time when I was a child.” He paused and drank, his eyes grey with remembrance.

“Not long after my mother’s death, she left—I thought she’d abandoned me. But then, after Princeton, she sent me a message telling me that she hadn’t wanted to leave, and that I could be more than I was. For whatever reason, knowing that she still believed in me, even when I was at my worst—I started thinking about what it would take to undo the corruption I saw every time I visited my father. Thus, the law.”

Clark’s heart ached for the motherless child and the young man hounded by his father’s directives—it was a familiar story, except without family who’d believed in him all along. “It was brave of you to come back here.”

Lex smiled, thin but real. “It was arrogance. Don’t mistake me for some disinterested enforcer. I came back to beat him.”

“Then why have you stayed?” Clark asked, and Lex put the glass down on his coffee table and slithered into Clark’s arms, straddling him and answering the question with his mouth.

That was how most of their conversations ended, and Clark couldn’t honestly say he minded.

Some nights, Lex took the opportunity to get some additional work done while Clark investigated Lex’s extensive media collection. When he watched a classic film, Lex would deign to join him on the couch, correcting briefs and occasionally commenting on the action although he never appeared to look up from his laptop.

More than once Clark was torn away by some emergency. Even the time when they were literally nearing the climax of the proceedings, Lex never protested. Though his frustrated groans as he had to finish himself off echoed distractingly in Clark’s superhearing in the first minutes of the resulting fight with the Toymaker, and Clark might’ve been a bit rough as a result.

And when Lex snuck back into the Metropole, Clark told himself that Lex wasn’t doing anything he didn’t have a perfect right to do. Lex might have been risking his reputation, but he was breaking no promises.

Clark performed his routines no matter who was in the audience. He kept his smile on, the one for all the customers, and he didn’t tell Lex to go home to his boyfriend because, of course, there was no one there waiting for him.

****

Chloe regularly called a staff meeting to discuss current investigations and make sure everyone was up to date on each other’s activities. In the early years, they’d occasionally ended up working at cross purposes, him and Oliver and Arthur and a few of the others who drifted in and out of the group.

After one particularly colossal screwup (and yes, Colossus had been involved), there’d been a big blowup about trust and secrets, and Chloe had negotiated a settlement about disclosing various categories of information even if they didn’t seem like other people’s business. Since email was insecure, the staff meeting was the main vehicle for sharing supervillain-related or -adjacent events.

Right now, he and Oliver were the only superhero types operating in Metropolis on a daily basis. (Chloe was in negotiations to open a franchise in Central City, except that they’d have to change the name; anything Metropolis-related was likely to get vandalized every time there was a football game.) This meant that the staff meeting was Chloe, Oliver, Clark, and Lois Lane, despite the fact that she wasn’t actually on staff and would cheerfully report anything she deemed worthy of a byline on the home page of the Daily Planet, other than Oliver and Clark’s identities.

Oliver hadn’t bothered to change out of his costume, probably because Chloe liked it the best of all his outfits. It had started as a joke—Oliver in a silvery feathered headdress and showgirl outfit, with lipstick and heavy eye makeup—but had quickly become one of his most popular gigs. Even Clark had to admit that Oliver carried off the headdress and G-string that ended the routine with panache, though Chloe maintained that he looked best mid-strip, when he was bare-chested but still wearing a silver-fringed loincloth. ‘I like a little mystery in a man,’ she always said.

Regardless, she was leaning into him with every appearance of enjoyment, and his feathers were gently bobbing as he whispered something into her ear and she laughed, tipping her head up with uncontrolled delight. Oliver could be intensively annoying, but Clark was glad she’d found happiness with him.

“Big news tonight, strippers and strippees,” Lois announced, bringing the meeting to (dis)order.

“What does that even mean?” Clark asked, but she wasn’t listening.

“I tracked the company that offered to buy the Metropole through more shells than Georgia in pecan season. Turns out Chloe’s not the only one who’s gotten an offer that seems too good to be true in this area. And all the offers come from different names, but they trace back to the same place: LuthorCorp.”

Oliver cursed softly, and Chloe straightened, pulling away from him. The implications were obvious: LuthorCorp had plans for the Slums, plans that probably involved words like “redevelopment” and millions—maybe billions—in profit for whoever owned the land when the news went public.

“We already knew Lionel Luthor hasn’t let prison cramp his style, no matter who’s the figurehead at LuthorCorp,” Lois continued. “I’m working on finding out who on the city council’s still in his orange jumpsuited pocket. In the meantime, you guys keep an eye out. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Metropole suddenly became a lot more hazardous.”

Which was why Clark was ready when he had to put out a fire that had somehow started in the back alley later that night. He used his superbreath (mockable name, useful power) to douse it and then helped Chloe install security cameras around the entire building. Apparently LuthorCorp still had some clever goons on payroll, though, because two days later they were fighting a rat infestation that very nearly made it out into the patrons, which would’ve shut them down for days officially and killed half their business, at least, what with the social media repercussions. Only Ollie’s extremely good aim and then some quick thinking by a non-superhero stripper who used his top hat as an impromptu cage saved them from total disaster.

“This is gonna be bad,” Chloe observed as Clark threw the last tiny corpse into the dumpster, late that night. His X-ray vision had doomed him to the task of catching all the invaders.

They couldn’t go to the police. They had no concrete evidence linking the attacks to LuthorCorp, and Lionel Luthor had enough of a hold on the city that only the clearest of cases—the kind Lex had built over three years, and then three months in open court—could stop him.

Briefly, Clark considered telling Lex, asking him for help. He had intimate knowledge of his father’s methods.

But bringing Lex deliberately into the world of the Metropole would risk exposing his secret. Lex was too smart, and Superman too high-profile.

No, they’d have to take care of this without Lex. That was probably for the best anyway. Lex didn’t need a further reputation for carrying out a vendetta against his father’s company.

****

Still, the thought of trying to work with Lex in some way didn’t leave him.

“So, theoretically, if I did want to tell the police about, say, a meth lab, what would I do?”

Lex’s hands didn’t stop their motion across Clark’s back. Lex’s bed was really very comfortable, Clark thought. Especially with Lex in it, straddling him and giving him an entirely unnecessary but enjoyable massage.

“Theoretically, you wouldn’t coordinate with any law enforcement officer at any level, though unsolicited tips are welcome. I would have thought that fighting Brainiac and Godzilla and the like kept you too busy for doing police officers’ jobs.” Lex’s voice was even, but Clark had spent enough time around him that he could hear the tension.

“Metropolis is my home now,” Clark said, because if he’d said ‘my city’ Lex’s reaction would not have been good. Lex was a bit possessive at times, and just as prickly in interviews about Superman’s relationship with law enforcement as ever. Which at least said something for Lex’s ability to cover up his own activities. (At Lex’s pointed suggestion, Clark had taken to superspeeding into a corner of Lex’s balcony that didn’t offer any line of sight for nosy photographers, even those who could get sixty stories up with a telephoto lens. The chances of getting caught, as Superman, were low … which made Lex’s continued attendance at the Metropole even more ironic.)

Lex made a considering sound. “If you left law enforcement to the civil authorities, that would make it much easier for the people who distrust you to change their minds without having to admit they’d done so. Superheroes fighting supervillains and monsters, that they understand. It’s the stuff of summer blockbusters. Superheroes dumping drug dealers in front of the precinct house … that’s penny-ante, and it smacks of a kind of deep interference that makes many people afraid.”

Clark frowned. Lex wasn’t entirely mistaken. But then wasn’t Clark doing the wrong thing even using his X-ray vision? Yes, he invaded people’s privacy all the time. But he was trying to do what was right, just as he’d been raised.

“Relax,” Lex suggested. “You don’t have to solve all your ethical dilemmas tonight. Just the ones that affect my political prospects.”

And that was just selfish enough that Clark could laugh, and forget anything but the feel of Lex’s hands on his skin.

****

The Daily Planet ran a story about Lex’s heavy-handed tactics, hinting that he didn’t rein in the use of coercive interrogation techniques and that he’d tacitly approved the suppression of defendant-favorable evidence.

He was in a nasty mood that night. But Clark had never gotten anywhere by hiding from the tough calls. If that was really happening, Clark couldn’t be with him. Not as Superman, and not as himself.

Lex finally raised his head after Clark had stood in front of his desk for at least five minutes, arms folded across his chest.

“What the story doesn’t say,” he said, “is that all of those accusations have been tested in court, unsuccessfully, by people my office has convicted.”

Clark waited, because Lex sounded like he was trying to convince himself. And Lex did like to hear himself talk.

“Do you know just how much is legal for the police to do? It’s legal to lie to suspects. It’s legal to imply that there will be leniency if only the suspect confesses. It’s legal to use their silence against them before an actual arrest and Miranda warning. It’s legal to decline to follow a line of investigation that might provide exculpatory evidence. Practically the only thing I can’t do is bribe a witness. Unless it’s with a promise of leniency or immunity for their own crimes, because that’s perfectly legal. There’s no real need to bother with behavior that crosses the line, because the line is in the upper atmosphere.”

Clark waited a bit longer, but Lex appeared to be done. Breathing hard, fists clenching on the desk in front of him, but done. “Legal isn’t the same as right, Lex.”

Lex’s eyes flickered closed, then open, looking past Clark and into the bright lights of a Metropolis night. “And when my conviction rate goes down? When some brutal crime has been committed and the people are calling for blood?”

“I’d want to know what makes you sure it’s the right blood.” As he said it, Clark thought uncomfortably of his own extralegal activities. Maybe it was hypocrisy to ask Lex to follow a law he disregarded. But Lex was a representative of the law. He dealt with humans, and human crimes. That had to be different. Right?

Lex didn’t call him on the potential double standard. “Accuracy and due process aren’t always the same thing,” he said, and he sounded tired. “If all you want’s the former, everybody wins. I don’t want a murderer out on the street and an innocent man in prison any more than anyone else does. It’s when the rules cost money or convictions that everyone starts to squirm.”

“That’s why you have to make the tough calls,” Clark told him. “The people trusted you to do that. They never elected me.”

“So I’ve noted,” Lex said, but he looked thoughtful. And when, next week, Clark caught an item deep in the Planet’s Metro section saying that from now on the police would be recording all in-station and in-car interrogations, with a quote from Lex about how studies had demonstrated the security it gave to citizens and police both, he felt a warm glow of pride.

****

“Impressive acrobatics out there today,” Lex said as Clark fell back into the pillows, panting. (Not that he needed the oxygen, but instinct apparently overrode actual requirements.)

Clark vaguely remembered the day’s fight—some glowy probably-alien thing that could change its shape, but only slowly, like it was made out of Play-Doh. Toxic, nasty-smelling Play-Doh. Oh, and it fired flaming globs of itself at its targets, not slowly. Chloe was doing the followup of identifying it and seeing if there were protective chemicals that they could use if it showed up again.

“Thanks?”

Lex skimmed his hand over Clark’s abs, not quite tickling. “So just where does an invulnerable being learn to dodge with such athleticism?”

Clark wasn’t in a good position to shrug, so he just frowned. “I can still get hurt,” he reminded Lex. “And knocked through walls.” One of the side benefits of working at the Metropole had been added flexibility. Being able to do a split could offer a real advantage when your opponent didn’t expect that.

“Hmm.” Lex’s hand continued to move over him slowly. “In any event, you looked good.”

“I was covered in flaming purple debris,” Clark pointed out.

Lex moved lower, and Clark started to lose focus. “It didn’t obscure your finer attributes,” Lex said, and curled over him to demonstrate just which ones he meant.

****

Alcohol deliveries had been tampered with, bottles tainted with ground glass and turpentine. There were strange fluctuations in the electricity that only abated when Chloe installed a generator. They suffered through six different surprise inspections by three different city agencies in seven days.

And then there was Lex. “Your secret admirer just bought out the Champagne Room for you,” Chloe said, after his last set of the night.

Clark didn’t do many private dances, though he’d been known to give it a go for a particularly insistent and spendy bachelorette. But this was Lex, doubling down on his flirtation. Was it because Superman had hardly had time to visit in the past week, what with the trouble at the Metropole and other villainy? Clark was offended, on Superman’s behalf.

“Tell him no,” Clark said, wiping glitter off of his cheeks.

Chloe whacked him on the shoulder, then hissed in pain and wrung out her hand. “I took his money already! I don’t know what your issue is, but he’s practically paying the electricity bill on his own, and you know I have my eye on a new server rack. So go out there and smile pretty. If he breaks a rule you can break his wrist, but the Metropole delivers what it promises.”

Clark thought, not for the first time, that Chloe and Lex had a lot in common. Lex too had very little tolerance for excuses.

“Fine,” he said. He was still wearing his black leatherette short-shorts, and he put the sleeveless vest back on, along with the ten-gallon hat. Tipped over his eyes, it might disguise his annoyed expression, at least as he moved to the Champagne Room. He had to strut across the club floor to do so, because that was part of the advertising for the “individualized services” the room offered. (He’d only been solicited for actual prostitution three times in there, and he was pretty sure that two of them had been mostly dares. The third had gotten a little ugly, but that was why Clark doubled as his own bouncer.)

It was dark in the room, and Lex was backlit so that only the curve of his skull and the sharp edges of his expensive shirt were visible—he’d left his jacket behind somewhere. The champagne, which Clark knew for a fact Lex thought was little better than cold piss, was ignored on a side table. Lex’s legs were sprawled, casually taking up space.

“Clark Barr,” Lex said, purring out the name with amusement that Clark couldn’t really begrudge him; stripper names were often difficult to say straightfaced. “I was beginning to wonder if there was any way I could get your attention.”

“You bought my time,” Clark said shortly. He didn’t move further into the room. Then he shook himself internally. Chloe was right, they’d taken his money, and it wasn’t really Lex’s fault that he was giving Superman an inferiority complex.

He came to within touching distance of Lex, standing between his legs. “I’m sure you know the rules,” he said. “We take them seriously.”

Lex nodded.

As if Chloe was listening in on them (and she might well have been), the music came on, slower and more sultry than the music Clark stripped to.

And if Lex wanted this body, Clark’s body, more than the superhero, then Clark was going to show him just what he was never going to have, he thought resentfully, knowing that he wasn’t making the most sense even in his own head. He began to dance, undulating back and forth like he was riding a horse—or, he supposed, a man. He brought his hand up and carefully removed the hat, then tossed it away.

Dancing on stage was inherently ridiculous, but if you thought about it, a lot of what people did day in and day out was just as ridiculous, so Clark had learned to go with it. He slid his hands down his own chest, lingering over each muscle.

Lex wasn’t even breathing hard, according to Clark’s superhearing. Which was extra insulting considering that Lex had come here just to see Clark Barr.

He shed the vest, and turned around to show Lex his back and wriggle his ass. There—a hitch of breath, a shift of fabric. He squatted, getting so close that Lex might’ve expected him to lose his balance and land on Lex’s lap, but he was in control, moving from side to side effortlessly.

“You’re very beautiful,” Lex said, only the slightest strain in his voice.

“Thank you,” Clark said coolly.

“Please know that this won’t affect your tip, but is there any chance you’d have dinner with me?”

Clark stood and spun around, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that would probably have been more intimidating had he been wearing his uniform, or even a shirt. “Aren’t you seeing Superman?” He had the sudden and inappropriate realization that he was cockblocking himself, but pushed it away.

Lex tilted his head to one side. “Superman knows I’m here.”

Clark goggled at him. “You’re saying you have a pass to cheat?” Clark was an idiot. He knew this. Never more so than in matters of the heart—not that what he had with Lex went that far up, but—

“No, I’m saying I’m not cheating, and Superman knows it.” Lex’s heartrate was the same, his skin unvarying in temperature. He was either a sociopath or completely convinced of his own narrative. Or both.

“You know, most people wouldn’t find a stripper more interesting than Superman.”

Lex stared at him. “Do I look ordinary?”

How Clark was being the insulting one in this conversation was beyond him. “I’m just a guy,” Clark said, half desperate now. “What could you—I mean, you could have anyone.”

“Flattering, if inaccurate,” Lex said with precision. “Let’s say I’m interested in a man who spends his limited free time volunteering at a shelter, seems to give all his money away to people in need, and has managed to keep everyone who’s ever known him frighteningly loyal, which is not really standard for a sex worker.”

Clark’s mouth fell open, but no words came out.

“I’m sorry, did that sound stalkerish?” Lex did not in fact sound sorry. “As far as I can tell, you are a force for good in the world. Is it so strange that I’d find that intriguing, especially combined with your obvious physical charms?”

Clark took a calming breath, then another.

Lex sighed. “You really need to work on your self-esteem, Clark,” he said. “I know the comparison with Superman can be daunting, but you of all people shouldn’t have a problem with that.”

“… What?” Clark managed.

Lex’s expression was smoother than heavy cream. “Just keep it in mind. You know how to reach me.”

It wasn’t until the door had shut on him that Clark realized that no, only Superman knew how to reach Lex, at least via Lex’s private number instead of the AG’s office.

He left a big cash tip, which was just typical.

****

Life went on. Clark captured criminals, fended off vandals at the Metropole, took off his clothes for the customers, and visited Lex when he could. Lex continued to attend Clark Barr ‘s performances, but didn’t give him serious trouble until nearly two weeks had passed.

That night, as usual, Clark scanned the Metropole, looking for potential trouble before he went off shift. A few patrons with pills in baggies—he’d tell Chloe to have the bouncers keep an eye on them, but after that time with the allergy medicine he didn’t presume, and it wasn’t worth the effort to attempt spectroscopy on the chemicals. It was packed, only the promise of alcohol allowing the waitstaff to wriggle swiftly through the patrons.

“Where is Arthur?” Chloe asked through his earpiece. This had to be a rhetorical question, as Chloe was the one who kept track. She made a sound of frustration that promised revenge; Clark winced on Arthur’s behalf, even though he was kind of a jerk. “Clark, we are down two dancers, and we have a party in the Rumpus Room that is starting to wonder where their entertainment is. I’m gonna need you to take one for the team.”

Clark sighed. He’d already done three sets—the gladiator with the extremely inauthentic and ineffectual armor, the ever-popular firefighter, and the bad-boy biker with the improbably zippered jacket—but it was true that he was both invulnerable and very speedy at changing. “What did they order?”

“Businessmen,” Chloe said. “I’ll try to send someone else in once you’ve warmed them up. Wear the glasses.”

He didn’t get the appeal, but it was true that using the chunky black frames with his suit did increase his tips by more than 20% (Chloe also kept track of this). “Okay,” he said, and he supersped back to his changing room to get into costume. At least the body glitter and hair gel didn’t need reapplying.

His entrance was greeted with cheers and wolf whistles. According to the writing on the cake by the door, this was a thirtieth birthday party. “Hello, ladies,” he said, which got its own applause. They were in a good mood, though there was one brown-haired woman next to the apparent birthday girl who was frowning—she was probably the organizer, the one who knew there were supposed to be two dancers. Oh well.

“I had a rough day at the office,” he continued. “How about you?”

He stepped forward through the roars of approval, tugging slightly at the knot of his tie. “You know, when I work too hard, I find that I really just need to relax.” (No one ever said he was good at patter.) “And to relax, I like to dance.”

He bit his lip, always a crowdpleaser, as he loosened the tie further and stepped to the center of the room. The hipshimmy was next, then a turn so that he could work the jacket slowly off of his shoulders. When it finally started to fall, he caught it and slung it over his shoulder, shaking his ass to highlight that it was now much easier to see, and turned back, grinning at the crowd.

He was down to just his boxer-briefs, with the thong still concealed underneath, when Lex walked in.

Clark stopped for a moment, then continued his circuit of the room because he was a professional, dammit, and not everyone had yet had a chance to get up close and personal with his chest and arms. The brunette went over to Lex and said something in his ear. Lex’s face changed, smoothing into something pleasant and terrifying. He did something odd with his feet—he was toeing off his shoes, Clark realized—and stepped forward.

“Am I too late to join the party?” he asked, his voice pitched to be heard by everyone, and Clark remembered that he was used to talking to large groups. Convincing large groups, because he had the room now; even the girl with her hand on Clark’s bicep was staring at Lex.

Lex wasn’t wearing a tie, but he was wearing a vest under the jacket and he made a production of removing first the jacket, then the vest, button by button. Clark had already known just how much lean muscle was concealed under those well-tailored suits, but now the entire birthday party was getting the idea. And they weren’t at all sad about it.

Standard policy was to confiscate camera phones, and warn guests that they’d be ejected if they snuck pictures. But if someone evaded the ban, this could be a disaster—yes, the wig changed the entire look of Lex’s face, giving him a squarish hairline and turning Lex’s unforgettable sleekness into someone you might expect to encounter at a frat party. And Clark knew that the small alterations he’d made with putty to his cheekbones and nose would fool facial recognition programs. Still, he couldn’t shake the dread that someone would recognize Lex. It was like when he’d first gone out as Superman, expecting other people to intuit that he was Clark Kent despite the different appearance.

It was the same now as it had been then: no one was really looking at Lex’s face.

Clark forced himself to continue smiling invitingly and moving to the rhythm of the music.

Lex unbuttoned his dress shirt with a seductiveness he rarely showed Clark when they were alone, since they were usually too hungry for each other and short on time. Every move was heavy with sensuality, and Lex’s eyes were locked on him, like the room was otherwise empty. Lex removed one cufflink, sparkling with diamonds that the audience must’ve assumed were fake, and tossed it to Clark, who snatched it out of the air and stashed it in his waistband tip pouch, then did the same with the next.

When Lex shrugged off the shirt to reveal a tight white sleeveless undershirt, the women roared like concertgoers. Lex’s hips did something that ought to be illegal, and he slinked over to Clark.

Lex nodded at him and the birthday girl yelled out “take it all off!” Clark reached out, slowly enough to give Lex time to dance away, and settled his hands on Lex’s hips. The noise reached levels that probably threatened human hearing, and redoubled when Clark began to tug Lex’s undershirt free from his pants, up over his torso. The cotton was so smooth and soft under Clark’s fingers that Clark expected it had been woven from plants that had been given massages on a daily basis.

Clark drew the undershirt up as Lex raised his arms. Lex didn’t have a weightlifter’s six-pack, but his abs were defined, and the clean lines of his pelvic cut disappearing into his pants were like a Greek statue’s come to life. The reveal of his pecs drew further screams, and his upper arms flexed as Clark tangled the shirt around his forearms and then gave up as if that had been his intention all along.

Lex shifted backwards, opening up some space between them, and tossed the undershirt at the woman Clark had pegged as the party planner, her frown long disappeared. His shoulders were blocky with muscle and slick with sweat, the contours standing out even in the low light.

Lex brought his hands to his belt, sliding the leather out of the buckle like he was giving a handjob. Clark knew he should be doing more than swaying to the music, but honestly they were lucky he was even standing given the display Lex was putting on. Lex let the belt fall to the floor, buckle gleaming with the sheen of pure silver, and did something complicated that let the pants fall open just enough to get a peek of his boxer-briefs, which were dark gray.

Then Lex swiveled back towards Clark and hooked his fingers into Clark’s waistband. Clark gasped, louder in his ears than the cheering surrounding them, as Lex pulled their lower bodies together, his groin brushing up against Clark’s thigh. Clark thought he could feel Lex’s half-hard cock, but that might’ve been imagination; Lex was giving them a show, wriggling his ass in a way designed to tease the onlookers rather than give himself maximum contact.

Clark had already known that Lex could move, but he hadn’t known this. Lex started to bend backwards from the waist, his hand still curled around Clark’s boxers, stretching the elastic dangerously until Clark grabbed his wrist to make sure he didn’t rip the fabric and give himself a concussion. Lex let go, relying on Clark’s grip, and bent until he was in an arc of gleaming flesh, his pants slipping a few inches down his hips. From Lex’s belly to his chest to his neck he was a long vulnerable curve, stretched out in front of Clark like a sacrifice. His thighs bracketed Clark’s, squeezing enough to give himself some stability and to make Clark remember just how good those thighs felt when they were naked.

If he wasn’t careful, that thong was going to be a lot less concealing than he needed it to be.

When Lex came back up, he put his hands on Clark’s shoulders and stared into his eyes. Clark barely felt the tug at his hips, but he noticed when Lex began to squat, keeping his face so close to Clark’s torso that he might as well have been licking it, peeling the boxers down as he went. The women were whooping continuously now, and a few of them were throwing balled-up dollar bills, pinging softly off his skin.

Clark thought about Kryptonite, and about Lionel Luthor, and about shoveling cow shit as the boxers puddled on the floor and he stepped out of them on autopilot. The thong was the same red as his tie had been, and when he looked down he was not violating any indecency laws, so he pulled away from Lex and began his circuit of the room. If he thought about Lex at all he was going to be arrested, propositioned, or both, and so he concentrated on doing his job, smiling at the customers and letting them touch him (they mostly followed the rules and stayed above the waist unless they were stuffing bills into the thong, which was good because he was in no condition to respond to any real violations).

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lex, now pantsless, collecting tips of his own. He didn’t seem to be aware of the rules, and more than once Clark saw a woman’s hand wrap around his ass—over the boxers, or Clark would’ve had to act—or linger on its way down the center of his chest.

The brunette nudged him. “The cake?” she prompted. Clark agreed that it was time for something else to happen, so he headed over to the waiting birthday cake. With his back to the customers, he saved time by lighting the candles with his heat vision, and turned to present it, wearing his biggest and most practiced grin.

The celebrant wanted to eat her cake off of Clark’s chest, which was against club rules and probably Department of Health regulations too. But when Clark tried to explain this, Lex stepped up and volunteered himself, as long as she limited herself to frosting (“crumbs just get stuck in the strangest places, you know”). And then Lex was spread out along one of the tables, looking almost like a vampire’s victim as at least eight of the partygoers took him up on his invitation. Lex had his head turned so that he could watch Clark’s reaction, and Clark couldn’t look away. The bulge in Lex’s boxer-briefs was substantial now, not all the way hard but getting there, and Clark could all but hear Lex saying, this is for you, even as the women bent their heads to swipe their wet tongues all over his legs and abs and nipples.

Clark stood there, frozen, until the party planner started handing out the favors—Clark stopped looking when he saw that everyone was getting the novelty vibrator that was cherry-red and had Superman’s crest on it (Lois had done a human interest story on it a week ago under the heading ‘Does Superman Need a Trademark Lawyer?’). Then he managed to give the birthday girl the standard peck on the cheek and escape to the back.

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door of his dressing room. Lex didn’t wait for an answer before entering, carrying his suit and shirt carefully folded over his arm. There was still a patch of skin on his left pec that looked a little sticky, like he needed some extra oral attention.

All Clark’s prepared lectures escaped him. “What—where—how—?”

“You sound like a newspaper reporter,” Lex said, not unkindly. “I came in looking for you, the brunette thought I was the rest of the entertainment, and I thought, I’ve been watching you for a long time and, how difficult can it be? No offense intended.”

“None taken,” Clark snapped, then felt his shoulders droop. “You weren’t bad,” he admitted.

Lex smiled, small and secretive. “I have many hidden talents. I’d like to show you more of them.”

Really?

“Also,” Lex said, extending a hand filled with wads of cash, “I can’t legally accept gifts of this sort, so consider them my contribution to your take for tonight.”

Clark accepted them, for lack of anything better to do. The money was still warm from contact with Lex’s body.

“You said you were looking for me,” Clark realized.

“Looking for you, looking at you—nothing more urgent than the usual,” Lex said, his eyes running up and down Clark’s body in a way that made Clark realize that he was still only thong-clad. “Have a drink with me.”

Clark blinked a couple of times. “That’s still not a good idea,” he said carefully, since Lex obviously wouldn’t know a good idea if it stripped naked in front of him wearing body paint that said ‘Good Idea.’ Or didn’t strip, which was really more the point.

“I’m wealthy, respectable, and only occasionally accused of felonies,” Lex said calmly. “Also, according to your patrons, I’ve got a great ass. What’s not to like?”

The part where you’re already sleeping with Superman? Clark thought. “I don’t date customers.”

“Make an exception,” Lex suggested.

That might work for him most of the time—okay, Clark was willing to bet that worked for Lex Luthor almost all the time—but Clark had too much experience with what happened when he broke his own rules. People got hurt. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Lex must’ve been able to see the finality in his expression. “All right,” he said. “Just remember, it’s not an offer with an expiration date.” And then, right there, he began to put his clothes back on, dressing with the same grace he’d used to strip. He’d even retrieved his shoes, though the socks were lost, which didn’t surprise Clark—nobody without X-ray vision could’ve found a small object like that on the floor of the Metropole, and nobody with X-ray vision would want to.

He put his dress shirt on and tucked it into his pants, then stopped, as if waiting for Clark to change his mind.

“Um,” Clark said.

“My cufflinks?” Lex asked. “They have sentimental value.”

They had to be worth six figures, if what Clark knew from various robberies he’d stopped was any guide. “Right!” Clark said, and scrabbled in his tip pouch. “Here you go. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lex said, his fingertips warm on Clark’s palm as he retrieved them. “I’ll be seeing you.”

And he was gone before Clark could formulate instructions about how he needed to see less of Lex, in pretty much every way possible. Clark looked glumly at the money crumpled on his makeup table, then finished emptying his tip pouch. Rent was due in a few days, after all.

The next person to barge in on him was not unexpected, and at least he’d managed to put on some pants. “What the hell was that?” Chloe demanded. “I checked the cameras and your mystery fan was gyrating—nicely, I’ll concede—up against you. Did you take in another stray without telling me? And more importantly, how much did you promise we were going to pay him?”

Clark swallowed. “He’s not—it was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding like all those times I misunderstood seeing you use your powers before I knew your secret? Or some other kind of misunderstanding?”

“It won’t happen again,” Clark promised.

****

They kept fending off minor vandalism. There was a visit from a bunch of college guys who’d clearly been paid to come in, drink heavily, and be disruptive. They would’ve been a bigger problem if Chloe hadn’t somehow contrived to have them get up on stage and strip, amateurish and almost charming—Chloe actually hired one of them for a substitute gig, and she said the Metropole made money overall that night since she confiscated all their tips, along with their clothes. There were a host of other, less amusing nuisances, though Chloe insulated Clark from many of the details.

And then, not much more than a week after Lex’s impromptu introduction to stripping from the other side, Chloe alerted him when the police scanner spat out the information that a team of gunmen was attacking the main courthouse. Clark knew Lex was there, supervising jury selection for a high-profile case against a local businessman who’d bribed his way out of safety inspections and then tried to cover up the resulting deaths. Clark dropped the supplies he was hauling out of the basement and flew across town.

Painful experience had taught him to stop and assess a situation before charging in. Sure enough, the assailants didn’t just have automatics. They were wearing Kryptonite bracelets, which suggested that whoever was giving the orders had included anti-Superman measures.

No one was getting shot right at the moment. They were systematically tying up all the security guards and searching the building. Clark focused and heard clipped words, reporting to each other, all in the negative: they were looking for someone in particular. Since all the judges were already rounded up and there were no high-profile criminals in the building, he had a pretty good idea of whom that might be.

Clark needed to beat them to Lex. But where—

Lex had made it into the ductwork.

And was stuck, because Metropolis courthouse ductwork wasn’t movie ductwork. He’d quickly come to a point at which there was nowhere else for him to go. Clark could see that his temperature was higher than normal. He was probably sweaty and covered with grime, but at least he was temporarily safe.

Except that Metropolis courthouse ductwork also wasn’t designed to bear the weight of an adult man. Every time Lex twitched, the framework groaned and got a little closer to collapsing through the ceiling.

He called Chloe. “Where’s Oliver?”

“On his way—four minutes out.”

Four minutes might be too long, judging from the flakes of paint drifting down to the floor under Lex’s hiding spot.

Clark plotted a path that would keep him away from the Kryptonite-enhanced gunmen and then executed his entrance. The noise of him breaking through the window would bring them running, so he didn’t pause, just barrelled down the corridor. When he punched through the ceiling to grab Lex, Lex screamed and tried to flail, but Clark was already bringing him out and setting him on the ground, just out of sight in an alleyway across the street from the back of the courthouse.

Lex, who was exactly as grubby as Clark had expected, nonetheless tugged at his suit jacket, as if that would help. He didn’t look entirely steady on his feet, but he pushed himself free of Clark’s grasp anyway. “Thank you.”

“I have to go back,” Clark told him. “Once they figure out you’re gone, they could do just about anything.”

Lex nodded, and Clark felt a flash of deep affection for him; Lex knew when to postpone questions. “Wait,” he said, before Clark could take off. He grimaced. “The police have an experimental lead-lined riot shield. It’s not here, but it can be brought.”

Telling him this was, in some ways, a breach of confidence, and they both knew it. The police still hadn’t decided whose side Clark was on, and Clark doubted Lex had made up his mind on the issue either. “You should make some calls,” Clark said. “But I have to go.” Back in the building, the gunmen were almost done rounding people up. They weren’t panicked by Clark’s smash-and-grab; they were professionals. They would likely have demands soon.

At that moment, Oliver’s bike screeched to a halt next to them. Lex turned away, reaching for his phone, and Clark gave Oliver a quick situation report. Oliver frowned. “Do they have gas masks?”

Clark scanned and didn’t see anything; he shook his head.

“If you tell me what windows to fire through, I’ll put them to sleep.” Oliver brandished an arrow, presumably armed with knockout gas.

“They’re not all together, but you could take out the ones guarding the hostages,” Clark said. He gave Oliver quick directions and set himself to the task of figuring out what to do with the five gunmen still patrolling the halls.

He didn’t like to do it because of the potential for permanent injury, but with Kryptonite in play his safest bet was superheating their weapons at a distance great enough that his powers were still mostly intact. He waited for Oliver’s signal that the men guarding the hostages were down, then got the job done fast—staying just long enough to make sure that each gun was too melted to be of use—and then let Oliver know so he could work cleanup and secure the Kryptonite before the police arrived.

It was stressful, yes, but not really terrifying, the way these situations had been when he’d just been a kid with no experience and no thought given to his next move.

His self-satisfaction lasted until he got back outside, where he’d left Lex.

Lex was gone.

Clark focused his ears—Lex would have to be giving instructions to his various minions, after an incident like this—and heard nothing. Looking around, he saw Lex’s phone, dropped in the gutter.

There’d been a second team, and Clark had delivered Lex straight into their hands.

He hit his communicator and updated Chloe. “Okay,” she said, in the calm voice that let him know that he was not hiding his agitation, “Oliver’s still busy with the other goons. Can you check the phone?”

Clark wanted to yell at her for wasting time instead of magically solving his problem, but he followed her advice. He’d seen Lex put in his passcode before, so he unlocked the phone—and it opened to the camera. Lex had managed to capture a few moments of video of the men grabbing him before the phone spun and went black as Lex tossed it aside, to bear witness for him.

Clark closed his eyes and thanked Chloe. Then he sent her the file. He hadn’t seen anything on first viewing, but she had technology and more patience than he presently possessed.

Inside the building, all the remaining gunmen had been knocked out and hogtied; the police were just arriving as Oliver leapt out of a third floor window, sliding down to the ground on wire from one of his special arrows. Clark zipped over to join him.

“That went well,” Oliver said, panting a bit, and then noticed Clark’s expression.

****

Back at the Metropole, Oliver reloaded his quiver while Chloe tried to identify the men in custody and who they might’ve been working with.

“You know,” Oliver said as Chloe opened her back door into the NSA facial identification database, “this might just be some PR move. ‘Prosecutor faces down shadowy attackers.’ Bet that plays well in the next election.”

Clark looked away from the computer screen. “He’s not his father.”

“Sure seems like he learned a bunch of moves from him, though.” Oliver was still smarting from the revelation that Lex Luthor had been visiting the Metropole for months, which Clark had come clean about not too many minutes ago. (Chloe was going to have words of her own about that development later, Clark knew, but she was too busy hacking to add them just now.)

“Would you want to be judged by the worst things your parents ever did?” It was a sore point with both of them, since the Queens had apparently been involved in some of the same shenanigans as Lionel Luthor, trying to crack the secrets of the alien Kryptonians. And Jor-El had been one of those Kryptonians. Clark wasn’t entirely sure just how conquer-y his father had truly been, since reports were somewhat confused, but the point was that they both needed to judge people on their own merits.

Oliver scowled and muttered something about flexible morals, but dropped the issue in favor of making a plan to requisition a lead-lined shield for their own use. He was examining diagrams of the police HQ when Clark remembered something.

He checked Lex’s phone: Yes, Lex had made a call just after Clark had left him, presumably summoning the shield just as they’d discussed.

Telling whoever was on the other end exactly where to find him.

“Chloe,” he said, and her head jerked up. “Can you pull the information from this number? And outgoing calls made just after this call, either on that phone or any phone near it?”

The corrupt police captain Lex had called had been smart enough to use a burner to reach his confederates at the scene of the kidnapping, but he hadn’t been able to get around geolocation. Now they had at least some of the who, and Chloe tracked the phone the captain had called to the warehouse district, not terribly far from the Metropole itself.

After that it was a matter of flying over and scanning the area for Lex’s distinctive bone patterns—it wasn’t creepy to know that, Clark told himself. He’d long ago learned to memorize the distinctive shapes of all his friends’ skeletons, for when rescue inevitably became necessary. He found Lex on the second floor of a nondescript dry goods warehouse, one of LuthorCorp’s recent acquisitions. Lex was surrounded by a clot of other people. His left arm was broken, but he was breathing and his temperature was within standard parameters. His captors had the same Kryptonite wristlets that the other team had worn.

“—have to go through this,” the man in front of Lex was saying when Clark tuned him in. “You won’t run out of real criminals to go after. The farmer and the cowman can be friends, Lex.”

“Eat my shit,” Lex said, his tone more inviting than Clark had ever heard except at press conferences. The contrast with the content was jarring enough that it took the man a moment to process, too, and then he hit Lex sharply across the cheek, snapping his head around. Clark was so focused that he could see Lex’s blood vessels tear.

Clark made his fists unclench. Oliver and Chloe pulled up, Chloe riding behind Oliver on his growly green cycle. Not for the first time, Clark wished that he had a bigger team, maybe with genuine superpowers, so that he wouldn’t have to risk his fragile friends every time some jerk associated with Lionel Luthor showed up with Kryptonite.

He didn’t think the configuration of the hallways leading up to the room where Lex was being held would allow Oliver to pull the same knockout gas trick that had worked at the courthouse. It would be too difficult to get close without being noticed.

Except—

Lex, he knew, made a study of Superman’s exploits, which were a frequent topic of pre- and postcoital conversation. To be honest, Lex’s occasionally vicious post-mission critiques were pushing Clark to improve his strategy more than Chloe and Oliver’s go-team enthusiasm, as welcome as the latter was. Something Lex had said, about exploiting three dimensions in arenas other than air combat, came back to him now.

“This is the plan,” he told Oliver, while Chloe worked to make sure her cameras would capture the face of anyone who escaped the building, for later identification.

Clark was affected by the Kryptonite even one floor down, but the bad guys couldn’t see and exploit that, and so they had the element of surprise when Clark cut a hole through the floor and Oliver popped out of it to shoot smoke grenades.

The main goon grabbed for his gun, determined to shoot Lex before visibility disappeared, and Clark tried to leap up to protect him, but he was still slowed past human frailty by the Kryptonite. Lex had been waiting for his opportunity and lunged to the side, landing hard but out of the line of fire, and then Oliver made good use of his night vision goggles to use knockout darts on Lex’s captors.

Oliver might still have had some prep school resentments against Lex, because he basically shoved Lex through the hole in the floor, trusting Clark to catch him. Which was no picnic with the nausea still running through him, but Lex was whole and Clark could move out of range easily enough. Clark left Oliver and Chloe to handle cleanup and sped Lex back to the penthouse. If there was a third team waiting to strike—well, then, Clark was going to get angry.

****

In the event, Clark’s scans didn’t turn up any more lurkers, and he was able to deposit Lex on his very own couch.

And then he realized that Lex needed treatment. “I’ll take you to a hospital,” he said, but Lex shook his head and gestured for silence, already dialing on his land line. Lex was holding the broken arm motionless and using his right hand, but he didn’t seem to be in need of immediate care, so Clark waited while Lex told his colleagues that he was alive and directed them to coordinate with the feds, who’d have to handle the case against the men now in custody, since there was an obvious conflict of interest for Lex’s own office.

Clark used his vision to make sure Lex wasn’t suffering from internal bleeding, and discovered that the break now looked as if it had occurred two weeks ago. He’d known Lex had some extra bounceback factor, but this was more than a few disappearing bruises.

“Your arm,” he said as soon as Lex hung up.

Lex tilted his head to examine the named appendage. “I told you, I heal quickly,” he said.

Clark swallowed. He’d never asked just how much Lex knew about Smallville’s poisoned gifts.

Lex snorted and went over to the bar, pouring himself a drink right-handed with none of his usual grace. “You know, if my father understood that I was a mutant, he would use that against me instead of all this drama. I think he’s too used to the more flamboyant manifestations of meteor-induced metamorphosis.” He took a deep swallow and closed his eyes, not even wincing at the burn of alcohol.

“Do you have any proof that this was him?”

Lex gave him a look that indicated that Clark probably should have been held back a few grades. “Other than the threats demanding that I back off my investigation into LuthorCorp, which I was the only one to hear? No.”

“LuthorCorp owns the building you were held in,” Clark offered.

“I’m sure LuthorCorp will deny all knowledge of how the building was being misused. With all those shell corporations, they can pretend they didn’t even know which specific buildings they own.” Lex smiled, knife-edged. “Knowing how my father works, at least it’s probably underinsured.” His fingers twitched, as if he wanted to rub his hand over his head but was dissuaded from further motion by the pain of the break. “I can’t even figure out how he’s passing orders from prison,” he muttered.

“You can start with Jake Frost. He’s the one who called to let your father’s men know where you were.”

Lex nodded jerkily, thin-lipped. Furious with himself and with the world in general. “He’s not done,” Lex said, looking out the window at the bright Metropolis night. “He’ll keep after me until one of us is dead.” He sounded almost proud, despite himself.

“He didn’t get away with anything today,” Clark reminded him.

“Because of you.” Clark couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be a rebuke or not. Then, as if sensing Clark’s uncertainty, Lex continued: “Thank you.”

“On behalf of the people of Metropolis?” Clark asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“On my behalf.” Lex turned to him, eyes intense, the tiny scar on his lip standing out more than usual. “I know you don’t trust me. I don’t trust me either. But I am not my father. I will not let him take anything more from me.”

“Lex—”

Lex snorted, reaching for his abandoned tumbler, still half-full of alcohol. “Superman.” The way he said it made very clear that what he meant was: I don’t even know your name.

“Kal-El,” Clark blurted, because it was as close to the truth as he could give Lex. “My birth parents, they named me Kal-El.”

Lex froze, fingers still tight around his glass. Then, deliberately, he drank, and smiled at Clark. “Some days I wish I’d been sent to a different world.” His expression said that his words were supposed to sting.

Clark’s throat tightened. He hadn’t said that name to many people. He’d expected—Lex was the one running around trying to get someone else to sleep with him; Lex was the one who told people that Superman meant nothing to him, and the fact that Lex had only said that to Clark Barr didn’t change what it meant.

This was just another way that Superman wasn’t enough for Lex. But Lex’s own father had likely just put him in mortal danger. And Clark couldn’t make him feel what he didn’t feel; the superpower to do that wasn’t worth having anyway. Clark swallowed his own distress. “Come to bed, Lex.” It was the one thing Clark could give him that was all the way real.

****

As soon as the young woman who was actually not getting mugged smiled and handed him the papers, Clark knew exactly where he needed to go.

Lex read through the lawsuit quickly, his face giving nothing away. “It’s a class action,” he said.

“A class action?” Clark asked, still confused.

“On behalf of all the people you’ve put in jail, with a subclass for those who’ve had property destroyed in the course of your activities.” Lex looked up. He’d scanned the thick document almost as fast as Clark could’ve, given that Clark would’ve needed to stop and get definitions of every third legal term. “They’re asking for roughly three hundred million dollars. Plus attorneys’ fees.”

Right, wouldn’t want to leave those out.

“Is that … possible?”

Lex shrugged. “Define possible. If you default, you’ll either have to pay up or remind everyone that you’re blatantly defying the law every time you show up for a rescue in the U.S. I know the firm; they’re vicious and clever. If you can get a decent firm to represent you, you’d have some chance of negotiating a settlement. O.J. Simpson lost his right of publicity in a lawsuit. If you agreed to some sort of trademark licensing deal and sent the proceeds on to your putative victims, you might not ever have to notice that there was a legal claim in the first place.”

Clark felt his stomach twist. There weren’t enough big tippers in the world to cover the costs of hiring a real lawyer to defend himself in what would undoubtedly be a bigger news story than the Olympics.

“You don’t look pleased,” Lex observed. “Did you have other plans for the Superman brand?”

“It’s not just the money!” Clark took a deep breath. Yes, Lex was distrustful of Superman’s popularity and power, but that wasn’t the issue now. “These are bad guys, Lex. You sent most of them to jail. I can’t let my name, my House’s name, be used to pay them off. I can’t agree to that!”

Lex tilted his head a fraction, as if he were looking for a flaw in Clark’s disguise. “Point taken,” he said. “Let me make a few calls.” He took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his head. “The initial hearing is next Tuesday, at 9. Be there. Even if there’s a disaster somewhere else, get one of your super-friends to cover it. You can be a murderer, an embezzler, or just a real creep and still get your day in court. The one thing judges can’t stand is people—or in your case, aliens—who ignore them.”

This was obviously a dismissal, and Clark accepted it.

****

Chloe insisted on dressing up for the hearing, black wig and scarf and pearls that made her stand out more than if she’d just gone in her usual business casual. Then again, in the crush of people, she was just one more glamorous and mysterious figure in the crowd. They’d arrived separately, of course, with Clark touching down just in front of the entrance (the reporters barely pulled back enough to let him land, and frankly he’d had less inappropriate physical contact during most of his lap dances).

Once he was inside the courthouse, security kept the press back, even as he could hear them insta-analyzing the fact that he’d showed up at all. A very polite young man showed him to the correct room.

Lex was standing by one of the tables at the front of the courtroom, bending to say something to a black-haired woman in a bright red suit. Lex’s eyes gave nothing away, ocean-ice blue as he regarded Clark with less warmth than the two men at the other counsel table. Clark recognized them from his internet searches: Lanson and Hogue, the lawyers suing him.

The woman gestured him over. Up close, she had only a little of that glazed ‘I’m next to Superman’ look that a lot of people got. Better than most people were on first contact. “I’m Kensington Steinfeld,” she said, shaking his hand and speaking softly, so that no one else in the room heard the introduction. “I don’t usually take clients without meeting them first, but Lex—Mr. Luthor—was persuasive.”

I’ll bet, Clark didn’t say. “Thank you” seemed much wiser.

“All rise,” the bailiff said, and they did. Clark could hear the click-click-click of digital cameras. He never knew what to do with his hands when he wasn’t in motion, rescuing people.

The judge came in, a middle-aged man with a frown and jowls like a bulldog’s. “Be seated,” the bailiff said.

The judge rubbed his hands together like a gourmet faced with a five-star meal. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I understand we have quite a case today.”

Lex stood. “Your honor, Lex Luthor, on behalf of the state of Kansas. I respectfully request permission to intervene.”

“On what grounds?”

“Under the Crime Victims Act, the state is entitled to pursue any assets of convicted criminals—a group into which many of the putative class members fall and more certainly will as the trial date approaches—including the amount of any recovery in tort, up to the amount of restitution ordered at the time of sentencing, plus the costs of their confinement. The amount recovered by the state should of course be excluded from any calculation of attorneys’ fees ultimately awarded,” Lex said.

Clark blinked.

Over at the other table, Lanson and Hogue were starting to sputter.

“I’ve prepared a motion and a supporting brief setting out the relevant statutes and caselaw,” Lex said, sounding for all the world like a man who only wanted to be helpful.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” the judge said, accepting the papers Lex handed up.

“You might not need to resolve the question, Your Honor,” Kensington said. “The defendant moves to dismiss all claims as completely preempted by the Federal Aviation Act.”

“What?” the judge said—echoed by, it seemed, half the people in the room, Clark not among them only because of his hard-won ability to shut his mouth before reacting.

“The FAA defines ‘aircraft’ as ‘any contrivance invented, used, or designed to navigate, or fly in, the air.’ My client, as plaintiffs themselves allege, flies on his own power, routinely transporting passengers, including most of the plaintiffs themselves: he is used, and quite arguably designed, to fly.”

“He’s not a plane!” one of the lawyers—Lanson, Clark thought—interjected. The judge didn’t seem to mind.

Kensington looked bored, like she’d heard that one before. “He’s not a bird, either. As I was saying, as an aircraft, my client is subject to the FAA, and any fair inspection of the complaint will reveal that none of the claims plead failure to meet the safety standards imposed by the FAA. Absent a violation of the FAA itself, no tort claim can survive.”

The other lawyer stood, tugging at his suit jacket to make it settle properly. “Your honor, even if this preposterous argument made any sense, Superman isn’t being sued in his capacity as an aircraft.”

“That’s irrelevant,” Kensington replied smoothly. “The FAA covers claims brought ‘relating to’ the operations of aircraft. If it were possible to replead a complaint against an airline in its capacity as a corporation, the preemption provision would be a nullity. And if you’ll examine our memorandum, you’ll see a number of cases in which the FAA was applied to claims based on events that occurred entirely on the ground, though of course many of the allegations in the complaint, including every claim of intentional and negligent infliction of emotional distress, depend on my client’s flight capabilities.”

“Well,” the judge said after a moment, “my clerk and I seem to have our work cut out for us. I assume we can set a briefing schedule that works for both sides?”

Clark tuned out after that. Kensington, who appeared as sated as a lion after bringing down a gazelle, agreed to various deadlines, and reporters rushed out of the room.

Eventually the judge got up again, and so did Clark. Lex glanced over at him, then put a careful hand on his arm. “Walk with me,” he suggested, and Clark and Kensington followed him into a room that was evidently set aside for the prosecutors, outside the boundaries where the press was allowed to go.

“What just happened?” Clark asked.

“In fairness, it was Lex’s idea,” Kensington said with a small shrug. “There are ways around FAA preemption, but I’m prepared to argue that the FAA has specifically determined that ultralights shouldn’t be regulated, and based on your presumed weight and lack of motor you’re clearly an ultralight. Which is a good thing because otherwise you’d be in need of a pilot’s license.”

Clark looked at Lex. “The federal government decided that states can’t have their own rules for airplanes,” Lex said, “because airplanes go everywhere and so the rule has to be the same nationwide. Since they didn’t argue that you violated the federal rule, they don’t have a case. No, Congress probably wasn’t thinking about you. But by the time anyone wades through the statutory text and decides that you are more like a bird than a plane, the Superhero Protection Act that Senator Kent is introducing today will be the law. It’s almost ironic: having these idiots be the first to actually sue you makes the best possible case for giving you immunity.”

Okay, Clark basically followed—Senator Kent? His mom hadn’t breathed a word. It was a huge conflict of interest, but he guessed she couldn’t really admit that. He needed to call her—but in private. “Wow. Um, thanks. So, what do I do now?”

Kensington produced a business card. “You can check in any time. I really should have a way to contact you—” She shut her mouth as Lex gave her a glare that indicated that this discussion had already taken place, and that she hadn’t won. “If I need to talk, I’ll go through Lex, given the unusual circumstances.”

Clark agreed, and Kensington left. Lex watched him for a minute, until Clark broke. “What?”

Lex smirked. “I’m just wondering where you’re going to put Kensington’s card. I’ve never noticed any pockets—and I think I would have.”

Clark rolled his eyes, then looked at it just long enough to memorize the contact information. “Thank you,” he said, more relaxed now. “I know you don’t really approve—”

“Vigilante justice isn’t my thing, no,” Lex said sharply. “But you’re excellent politics, so there we are.”

“There we are,” Clark repeated, suddenly feeling the distance between them increase. “Lex—” He reached out.

Lex stepped back. “You understand that this—us—just got even more foolish. If I’m using the power of my office to protect the man I’m fucking—”

The word was harsh, and not just because of the profanity. Clark said the only thing that came to mind. “I thought I was an aircraft.”

Lex’s eyelashes fluttered, and then he sniggered. “Honestly, in Kansas that’s probably better.”

“So—” Clark said, not quite brave enough to ask if he was still welcome at Lex’s apartment.

And like that, Lex was pressed up against him, hand on the back of Clark’s neck, pulling him into a quick kiss. “I’ve done worse for less,” Lex said, millimeters from his mouth, before he backed away. “I have to go talk to the cameras.”

Clark nodded. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, and let Lex leave.

****

“I made you an apple pie,” Mom said when he dropped in at the farm. She’d refused to give up Smallville for a more central location, but given how easy it was for Clark to see her, he didn’t worry that much.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said, kissing her cheek before diving in.

“So, Lex Luthor,” she said.

Clark stopped with the fork in midair. “Um?”

“He came to see me and told me that he knew my son, and that I could trust him.”

“Oh,” Clark managed. “Well—I guess that’s, it’s not untrue. I mean, I know him. And he’s been—he was a big help with the lawsuit even though he criticizes Superman all the time, so.”

“Clark,” his mom said, leaning forward, “he said he knew my son.”

Clark thought about that for a bit. “He knows me too, sort of.”

His mother frowned. “And which ‘me’ do you mean?” She watched as Clark squirmed. “Clark, I’m concerned that you’re splitting yourself in two. I know why you have to have a secret identity, even if I’ve never gotten used to that high-tech thing you use to conceal yourself. But you are still the same person, no matter what clothes you wear. Or don’t wear.”

Clark winced. Mom was never going to get over the Metropole, and Clark couldn’t blame her.

“I think he truly likes you, Clark.”

Clark took another bite of pie and stared down at his plate. “That doesn’t mean my secret is safe with him.” No, he didn’t think that Lex would arrest him. But Lex was going places, and those places had security details and possibly, someday, the power to order drone strikes, and he’d made very clear what role he thought Superman should play in the American system.

Clark started when his mom’s hand settled on his wrist. “I trust your judgment, honey. But you were meant for a bigger stage than Metropolis. And I think you need to start deciding how you’re going to deal with that, and who can be trusted.”

She was right, of course. And what she wasn’t saying, but was running under the surface, was also right: that he couldn’t be with someone who didn’t know the truth. It wasn’t fair to either of them. Especially Lex, who didn’t know he was being fooled and who wouldn’t take kindly to deception, however well-intentioned. He’d once watched Lex chew out a subordinate over the phone just for implying that she’d read a case she hadn’t. And from what Lex said, his father had engaged in a years-long campaign to make Lex doubt everything in his world. So no, Lex wouldn’t appreciate the revelation, even if it was that he was actually with the guy he had been chasing.

“Thanks, mom,” he said, even though he wanted to go up to his room to brood. Those years were over.

****

He owed Lex, if not the truth, then some respect.

Lex was busy the next two nights, and then there was a tornado that required Clark’s attention for roughly seventy-three hours. When he finally managed to find Lex in his apartment, he hesitated before entering.

Lex looked up and smiled, a small rare thing, unfair to give him when Lex had been hitting on Clark Barr. His face changed as Clark emerged from the shadows. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this any more.”

Lex’s expression flickered. “I see.”

“You should be with someone you really want. You obviously aren’t satisfied, and I—I deserve someone who wants me,” Clark said, knowing how ridiculous that sounded. Before Lex, he’d thought that people would only want Superman, and that was why he’d stayed away from entanglements. Turned out, the opposite was no better.

“You do,” Lex agreed, which was infuriating. “I don’t suppose it would help to say that I do want you.”

“That’s hard to believe when you’d rather spend your time at a strip club,” Clark said, and the venom in his voice surprised him. He’d meant to be distant. Superman-like.

Lex closed his eyes briefly. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Clark felt his teeth grind together, well past diamond-crushing. “I came here to tell you it’s over. So I’m sure.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Lex said, so cryptic Clark’s fingers actually ached to shove him up against a wall and do something that didn’t need interpreting. “I know what I want. I want you. And when you’re ready for that, my door is always open.”

****

He told Chloe that Lex—still Mystery Guy to the bouncers—wasn’t welcome any more, and she gave the appropriate instructions, and only asked him if he wanted to talk about it four times. After that, she just gave him looks when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Sometimes there were significant downsides to keeping the friends you had in high school.

“Turned him away again tonight,” she said, two weeks later, while Clark was rearranging his costumes. “That’s the third time. You’re either going to need a restraining order or a real conversation, and while ordinarily I’m all about antistalking laws I’m gonna have to go with door number two in this case, Clark.”

“I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing,” Clark said, angry and helpless, which he hated. Tsunamis and bank robberies, he knew what to do with.

“Thus the need for conversation,” Chloe pointed out. “Look, he may be obsessed, but unlike most of the people who’ve been obsessed with you, he essentially has taken no for an answer. There have been no kidnappings, attempted kidnappings, assaults on people you love he blames for your lack of attention, assaults on people he thinks are making your life difficult—”

“I get it,” Clark interrupted, since he didn’t need a recap of the last ten years of his life. “Kryptonite poisoning didn’t rot his brain, which is good, but—he’s still the attorney general and I’m still—I can’t have that.”

“Have what?” Chloe said, gently. “God knows I am not all about sharing your secret, Clark, but I think you should talk to him.”

Even if Lex weren’t both a Luthor and a politician on the way up, Clark wasn’t sure he could’ve admitted his secret. Alicia, whom he might have loved, had died protecting him; Lana, whom he had loved more than life, had left him, because it was too much for her.

Time and again, clever villains discovered Clark’s weaknesses, including the people he loved, and used them against him. Adding to that list was just selfish. A relationship with a human was as out of reach as lost Krypton.

“He already knows that it can’t happen,” Clark said, feeling his life stretch out before him, full of duty and the satisfaction of saving people but empty of so much else. “That’s all there is to say.”

****

Two weeks later, Clark touched down in front of the main police station with another Suicide Slum arsonist (yet another LuthorCorp stooge, if anyone could prove it). Chloe had already forwarded the footage proving his guilt to the police; just another skirmish in their hidden war.

The grim-looking officer coming out to meet him was wearing an especially bulky Kevlar vest, moving like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Clark hesitated, feeling something off. Why would—

When the explosion came, he whirled to put his body in between it and the arsonist.

But instead of the delicate patter of metal and debris he expected, there was only pain, lighting him up from head to toe. The world went the green-white of a Kryptonite strike, then black.

****

He was jostled back to horrific consciousness by the bright, familiar lights of the Metropole’s sign. The writhing man wrapped around the ‘l’ had never looked more sinister.

He was pretty sure he was dying. He’d come close before, back in Smallville. He’d been shot with a meteor rock bullet once. This was like that, a thousand times. The air was heavy in his lungs, like he might be drowning in it.

Somehow, Lex and Oliver were on either side of him, dragging him through the empty main room. Lex was shouting for help, louder than Oliver. It would’ve hurt his ears if there’d been room for so small a discomfort.

Chloe came running out, and her face changed when she saw them. “Get him up here,” she ordered, gesturing at the bar, and they did. He could feel every jostle and bump as his head hit the counter. He felt sorry for ruining Chloe’s custom-ordered wood. He was pretty sure that alien blood wasn’t going to wash out that easily.

“It was a lead-lined IED packed with meteor rock along with ball bearings,” Lex explained to Chloe as they stripped Clark. Vaguely, Clark realized that was why he felt like he’d been stabbed in about eight thousand places. He was making noise, a kind of keening sound. He would’ve been louder if he could’ve, but one of the places that was hurting was his throat.

They said a lot more, something about forceps and scalpels and having to use the Kryptonite itself to keep Clark’s body from healing over with bits still embedded in him. At one point Chloe apologized to him for chaining him down. Maybe more than once. It was hard to be sure. The pain was worse than usual because it was coming from inside him, like a solar system of agony had taken up residence. Through it all, Lex’s voice was even, but not at all calm. He narrated what he was going to do, which for Clark was just a catalog of pain: now I’m going to get inside your shoulder; now I’m going to remove a large fragment from your upper thigh.

Oliver asked something about Lex knowing what he was doing. Lex’s answer involved a college bio lab and a lot of cross-examination of forensic pathologists.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Lex said at one point. “Any chance of a transfusion?”

Clark was still in the green tide of pain up to his eyebrows, but individual spikes were being removed at a fairly fast pace. With great effort, he coughed, and when the agony from that had subsided, he managed a few words: “I’ll … heal. In the sun. When it’s gone.”

“Pretty big ‘when,’” Chloe said, her voice shaking as she dropped another piece into the lead-lined box they used.

“You should consider autologous donation, for future reference,” Lex said, pulling at something that made Clark’s whole body seize up. “Hold his shoulders.” Oliver’s hands pressed him down, stronger than Clark right now, and Clark felt the knife-blade Lex was using wriggle, like he was trying to extract a tooth that didn’t want to go.

Finally, blessedly, Clark passed out again.

****

The first thing Clark saw when he opened his eyes was Lex perched on a chair, pecking rapidly at his phone. Clark was on the tiny daybed in his own dressing room, curled up in a way that he would’ve called uncomfortable if he didn’t have very recent memories of what real discomfort was. There was a new mirror hanging at a strange angle on the wall, reflecting light from the window directly onto him. He was naked except for the dried blood that crackled unpleasantly when he shifted. The clock indicated that more than seven hours had passed.

“Lex?”

Lex froze, like some sort of predatory cat that didn’t want to admit it had been surprised. His mouth thinned, somewhere between anger and concern. “I presume you’re feeling better,” he said, and it didn’t escape Clark’s attention that Lex hadn’t used a name, any name.

“How did you know to bring me here?” Clark asked, grabbing for a sheet to cover himself even though Lex had seen far more of him than what was on offer now, and to better advantage than the bloody, recently green picture he presented now.

“I’m not an idiot,” Lex said sharply.

He could just mean he’d figured out that Superman’s home base was the Metropole, but Clark could tell that there was more. He sat up, pulling the sheet up to his lap. “You know?”

Lex closed his eyes. “About three months after we started sleeping together, I saw you do the same backbend to dodge a missile that you do in the middle of your firefighter routine. Then I correlated your missions of mercy with Clark Barr’s performances, and they were never at the same time. Everything added up: a secret identity, some alien technology to change your appearance, why Clark Barr had no personal life.”

Added up if you were a twisty-minded genius, Clark thought, but he guessed that Lex qualified.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, quietly.

Lex’s mouth tightened. “When would’ve been good, Clark? When you were still afraid I was going to have Superman arrested? When you were lying to me again and again about who you were?”

Some of Lex’s behavior made a lot more sense now. But other parts—“Then why did you keep pushing to get to know Clark Barr?”

Lex looked at him, as unguarded as he’d ever seen. “Is it so strange to think that I wanted to know the real Clark Kent? The person and not the icon? I wanted you to want to tell me. But I suppose that was too much.” He stood, turning towards the door. The motion had the feeling of finality.

“Wait,” Clark said. Lex froze.

“If you know who I am, then you must have found out—I have a bad history with letting people get close. I thought—if I told you my secret, the same thing would happen that always does. I thought I’d lose you.”

“So you gave me up,” Lex said.

Put that way, it did sound less than smart. “Do you really—?”

Clark didn’t know how that question ended, but Lex apparently did, turning back and coming to stand over Clark. He picked up Clark’s hand, wrapping it in both of his own. “I want Clark Barr and Clark Kent, Kal-El and Superman. Everything you have to give, and then more than that.”

Possibly that should’ve sounded scary, but Clark felt a hot pulse of want instead. Only lingering weakness kept him from grabbing Lex, but unfortunately, reality seeped in before Clark could work up the energy. “But—your father. Your career.”

Lex’s lip curled. “I intend to have it all. You, by the way, are a big part of the ‘all.’ This latest trick will be enough to get the feds fully invested in LuthorCorp-sponsored domestic terrorism, which should help with my father. The rest of it’s just a matter of spin. And I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.” He paused and sat down on the daybed, his thigh brushing Clark’s. This close, Clark could see the striations of his irises, blue-gray-blue, like the skies on some other world. “I’m not saying I wouldn’t support you if you decided you wanted to use your brains instead of your equally fine brawn to make a living as Clark Kent. But I try not to negotiate from a position of weakness, so I’m not going to ask.”

Clark smiled at him. “‘Equally fine’?”

Lex pursed his lips consideringly. “You’re not a bad leader, all told, though you could use some more people to lead. Not that I’m advocating vigilante justice, especially not some sort of organized posse.”

Of course not. Clark couldn’t keep his grin from widening. Still—“Being with me is dangerous,” he cautioned. It had to be said, despite the epic eyeroll he got in return.

“Only one of us is covered in his own blood because of my father.”

Okay, effective counterargument. “This is why you win so many trials, isn’t it?” Clark asked.

Lex moved to cup his jaw and bring him in close enough to kiss. “That, and jury tampering.”

“Not funny,” Clark chided, even though that too wasn’t exactly true. Then their lips met and Clark had better things to consider.

No way was this the end of their troubles. There were bigger explosions ahead than Kryptonite bombs. But Lex wanted him, superhero and stripper both. In a world that could deliver that to him, maybe, just maybe, everything else was possible too.

END