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Naked Villainy (SV, PG-13)
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slodwick made me yet another wonderful new icon, with the most fabulously creepy Lex/Lionel manip on it, and a Luthorworthy quotation from the Bard. And as I stared at it this morning in rapt admiration... it started telling me a story.
Slod, this is for you.
Naked Villainy
Familiar strangers; there are so many of them.
None are quite babies... toddlers, then school-aged boys -- he's no good at guessing children's ages -- prepubescents, several young teens, a couple maybe Clark's age.
They all have hair, even the drooling youngest.
One who looks maybe 10 or 11, if his own looks at that age are anything to gauge by (and he knows they aren't) comes forward, looking him in the eye unlike the others who only stare when his head's turned.
This one he knows.
"Alexander," he says, voice impossibly soft, insubstantial.
He opens his mouth to answer, but can't, breath lodged uncomfortably between lungs and throat.
His brother reaches out, up, grazes cold, never-callused fingers along his bare scalp.
Tears rise behind his eyes, and he whispers, "Julian..."
Lex wakes in a cold sweat, pulse pounding so hard it seems almost to restrict his panicked breathing. An impression of being swarmed under a press of angry bodies lingers, but makes no sense, the rest of the dream already faded by his flight back to the safety of consciousness. He gropes blindly towards his nightstand, not even sure what his fingers are seeking: a glass of water, the lamp switch, an inhaler out of the long-buried past, some human contact.
His hand brushes against the cool metal of his watch, and he picks it up and slips it on, despite the dark and the likelihood that he'll be back to sleep within minutes. Like the sachet of heather under his pillow, it has nothing to do with his mother chasing nightmares away.
Pushing up, he leans against the headboard, the carved wood pressing its pattern gently to the skin over his skull. He tries to keep his mind clear as his breathing evens out and his heartrate returns to normal, knowing that it's disturbing thoughts at bedtime that lead to such dreams in the first place.
The mansion is quiet around him; and then it's not. A door opening, or closing, creaks faintly, somewhere beyond his suite. Tick, tick, shuffle, tick, shuffle, snick... His father's cane, the faint sound growing less so as he approaches Lex's door. Shuffle, tick, pause, fumble, tick. Slowly and almost silently, the movement just barely visible to his newly-adjusted eyes, the handle of his door opens, and the slab of oak shivers inward.
Tomorrow he'll have the hinges wiped dry.
Without really thinking about it -- without considering at all -- he's swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, covers swept aside, and sitting fully upright. Lionel stops in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, the other holding the cane free of the floor, an ear cocked into the room.
"Lex?" he whispers, barely louder than a breath.
"I'm awake, Dad," he answers quietly, voice sleep-deepened. Lionel straightens, smooths down the front of his robe before turning to the bed. The dark glasses are... not on, are somewhere else, and Lex notices for the first time that they've come to be a welcome screen against the naked vulnerability his father's face now too often reveals. Recalcitrant, the silk of Lionel's robe shifts open again, revealing the gently swinging drawstring ends of his matching pyjama pants. Or Lex thinks they match; in the midnight dimness all colours are the same, variations of venous blue-violet.
Soft slippers repeat the shuffling sound he'd heard before as Lionel starts forward. He stops, cane still idle in his right hand, and reaches out his left. "Lex?" he says, the gratingly expectant tone that normally accompanies this gesture absent.
It's only now, when he doesn't resent getting up to take his father's arm, that the extent of the resentment which being made to do so usually evokes becomes apparent to him. He wishes that didn't just make him resent the whole situation that much more, but it does.
Like Lionel, he's wearing only the bottoms of his own pyjamas, but it's too late to grab the top or a robe by the time he's close enough to raise his forearm up under Lionel's waiting palm. This close, the blind eyes are dark-rimmed -- red-rimmed -- and bloodshot, and the aroma of scotch on his breath is stronger than Lex has smelt on him since... he can't remember when.
"Dad," he says after a moment, when they still haven't moved. "Couldn't sleep?" It's better than 'Are you all right?' and 'Do you want to talk?' would simply be impossible.
"No," Lionel says. "Hadn't tried to sleep yet, actually." His eyebrows arch upwards but he tilts his chin down, mouth working as if trying out more words and rejecting them all. Lex turns to lead them towards... there's a settee across the room, and across the room from his bed, but Lionel's hand closes on his elbow.
Blinking rapidly, then slower, he says, "Your skin is clammy, Lex." A pause, then "Lex..." then Lionel shakes his head, words still eluding him, it seems. If this were anyone else, Lex would assume they were unnerved by the revelations of the past few days, perhaps mourning the loss Lionel had revealed only to him. If his father grieves, though, he's never seen it and wouldn't know what to look for. There was only the hardness Lionel had held to with clenched jaw for Lillian's funeral, and the distaste he'd let slip while Lex was being shunted from hospital bed to hospital bed, and -- there's an abrupt flash of some forgotten dream, maybe the one that had woken him. Eyes he'd recognised in the dream, yet waking did not know.
The hand gripping him eases, then drifts upwards; he can't help the wince when Lionel's age-roughened fingertips skim across his collarbone and up his neck, but he manages not to pull away. Lionel was laughing, mocking, the last time he touched Lex's face like this, but there's no amusement in his expression now as he traces the part of Lex's lips, strokes his cheek, cups his jaw. Thumb grazing the corner of Lex's mouth, pained-looking furrow deepening between his brows, he sways forward, eases back. "Lex, I..." he begins before trailing off once more, then he leans in, shifting his thumb out of the way to press his lips to Lex's.
Unnerved more than startled, Lex stays still, lips loose under Lionel's, neither returning the kiss nor pulling away. Maybe, just maybe, this display of... affection? is a sign that his father does, after all, feel some regret over the loss of his sons, living and dead. The hand on his cheek slips down, down; curls around his side. He's lifting his own arm to return the embrace when Lionel tilts his head, opening his mouth to drag the moist inside of his lower lip along Lex's, and the sandpaper scrape of his fingers dips inside the waistband of his pyjamas.
"Jesus, Dad," he blurts out, jerking free, backing a few steps away and wiping at his mouth. "What -- what the hell...?" There's another half-remembered resonance here, but whether this time it's from a dream or otherwise he can't tell.
Lionel already has his back to him, cane held forth to mark the borders of the door. He shuffles out, then pauses in the hall, hand on Lex's doorknob to pull it closed behind him, facing down the corridor towards where his own rooms are. "Goodnight, Lex," he intones, voice heavy with disappointment, a scolding tone Lex knows all too well.
Locking the door and stalking back across the room, he strips the watch from his wrist, barely managing to settle it lightly on the nightstand. His hand moves to extinguish the lamp, which is already off; he resists the urge to fling it against the door. Instead he wraps himself back under the bedcovers, curling on one side with his head buried in the pillows.
He's never been so glad to have no siblings left alive.
other fiction on my LJ
slodwick made me yet another wonderful new icon, with the most fabulously creepy Lex/Lionel manip on it, and a Luthorworthy quotation from the Bard. And as I stared at it this morning in rapt admiration... it started telling me a story.Slod, this is for you.
Naked Villainy
Familiar strangers; there are so many of them.
None are quite babies... toddlers, then school-aged boys -- he's no good at guessing children's ages -- prepubescents, several young teens, a couple maybe Clark's age.
They all have hair, even the drooling youngest.
One who looks maybe 10 or 11, if his own looks at that age are anything to gauge by (and he knows they aren't) comes forward, looking him in the eye unlike the others who only stare when his head's turned.
This one he knows.
"Alexander," he says, voice impossibly soft, insubstantial.
He opens his mouth to answer, but can't, breath lodged uncomfortably between lungs and throat.
His brother reaches out, up, grazes cold, never-callused fingers along his bare scalp.
Tears rise behind his eyes, and he whispers, "Julian..."
Lex wakes in a cold sweat, pulse pounding so hard it seems almost to restrict his panicked breathing. An impression of being swarmed under a press of angry bodies lingers, but makes no sense, the rest of the dream already faded by his flight back to the safety of consciousness. He gropes blindly towards his nightstand, not even sure what his fingers are seeking: a glass of water, the lamp switch, an inhaler out of the long-buried past, some human contact.
His hand brushes against the cool metal of his watch, and he picks it up and slips it on, despite the dark and the likelihood that he'll be back to sleep within minutes. Like the sachet of heather under his pillow, it has nothing to do with his mother chasing nightmares away.
Pushing up, he leans against the headboard, the carved wood pressing its pattern gently to the skin over his skull. He tries to keep his mind clear as his breathing evens out and his heartrate returns to normal, knowing that it's disturbing thoughts at bedtime that lead to such dreams in the first place.
The mansion is quiet around him; and then it's not. A door opening, or closing, creaks faintly, somewhere beyond his suite. Tick, tick, shuffle, tick, shuffle, snick... His father's cane, the faint sound growing less so as he approaches Lex's door. Shuffle, tick, pause, fumble, tick. Slowly and almost silently, the movement just barely visible to his newly-adjusted eyes, the handle of his door opens, and the slab of oak shivers inward.
Tomorrow he'll have the hinges wiped dry.
Without really thinking about it -- without considering at all -- he's swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, covers swept aside, and sitting fully upright. Lionel stops in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, the other holding the cane free of the floor, an ear cocked into the room.
"Lex?" he whispers, barely louder than a breath.
"I'm awake, Dad," he answers quietly, voice sleep-deepened. Lionel straightens, smooths down the front of his robe before turning to the bed. The dark glasses are... not on, are somewhere else, and Lex notices for the first time that they've come to be a welcome screen against the naked vulnerability his father's face now too often reveals. Recalcitrant, the silk of Lionel's robe shifts open again, revealing the gently swinging drawstring ends of his matching pyjama pants. Or Lex thinks they match; in the midnight dimness all colours are the same, variations of venous blue-violet.
Soft slippers repeat the shuffling sound he'd heard before as Lionel starts forward. He stops, cane still idle in his right hand, and reaches out his left. "Lex?" he says, the gratingly expectant tone that normally accompanies this gesture absent.
It's only now, when he doesn't resent getting up to take his father's arm, that the extent of the resentment which being made to do so usually evokes becomes apparent to him. He wishes that didn't just make him resent the whole situation that much more, but it does.
Like Lionel, he's wearing only the bottoms of his own pyjamas, but it's too late to grab the top or a robe by the time he's close enough to raise his forearm up under Lionel's waiting palm. This close, the blind eyes are dark-rimmed -- red-rimmed -- and bloodshot, and the aroma of scotch on his breath is stronger than Lex has smelt on him since... he can't remember when.
"Dad," he says after a moment, when they still haven't moved. "Couldn't sleep?" It's better than 'Are you all right?' and 'Do you want to talk?' would simply be impossible.
"No," Lionel says. "Hadn't tried to sleep yet, actually." His eyebrows arch upwards but he tilts his chin down, mouth working as if trying out more words and rejecting them all. Lex turns to lead them towards... there's a settee across the room, and across the room from his bed, but Lionel's hand closes on his elbow.
Blinking rapidly, then slower, he says, "Your skin is clammy, Lex." A pause, then "Lex..." then Lionel shakes his head, words still eluding him, it seems. If this were anyone else, Lex would assume they were unnerved by the revelations of the past few days, perhaps mourning the loss Lionel had revealed only to him. If his father grieves, though, he's never seen it and wouldn't know what to look for. There was only the hardness Lionel had held to with clenched jaw for Lillian's funeral, and the distaste he'd let slip while Lex was being shunted from hospital bed to hospital bed, and -- there's an abrupt flash of some forgotten dream, maybe the one that had woken him. Eyes he'd recognised in the dream, yet waking did not know.
The hand gripping him eases, then drifts upwards; he can't help the wince when Lionel's age-roughened fingertips skim across his collarbone and up his neck, but he manages not to pull away. Lionel was laughing, mocking, the last time he touched Lex's face like this, but there's no amusement in his expression now as he traces the part of Lex's lips, strokes his cheek, cups his jaw. Thumb grazing the corner of Lex's mouth, pained-looking furrow deepening between his brows, he sways forward, eases back. "Lex, I..." he begins before trailing off once more, then he leans in, shifting his thumb out of the way to press his lips to Lex's.
Unnerved more than startled, Lex stays still, lips loose under Lionel's, neither returning the kiss nor pulling away. Maybe, just maybe, this display of... affection? is a sign that his father does, after all, feel some regret over the loss of his sons, living and dead. The hand on his cheek slips down, down; curls around his side. He's lifting his own arm to return the embrace when Lionel tilts his head, opening his mouth to drag the moist inside of his lower lip along Lex's, and the sandpaper scrape of his fingers dips inside the waistband of his pyjamas.
"Jesus, Dad," he blurts out, jerking free, backing a few steps away and wiping at his mouth. "What -- what the hell...?" There's another half-remembered resonance here, but whether this time it's from a dream or otherwise he can't tell.
Lionel already has his back to him, cane held forth to mark the borders of the door. He shuffles out, then pauses in the hall, hand on Lex's doorknob to pull it closed behind him, facing down the corridor towards where his own rooms are. "Goodnight, Lex," he intones, voice heavy with disappointment, a scolding tone Lex knows all too well.
Locking the door and stalking back across the room, he strips the watch from his wrist, barely managing to settle it lightly on the nightstand. His hand moves to extinguish the lamp, which is already off; he resists the urge to fling it against the door. Instead he wraps himself back under the bedcovers, curling on one side with his head buried in the pillows.
He's never been so glad to have no siblings left alive.
other fiction on my LJ