TITLE: A STEP TO THE LEFT.

AUTHOR: shinan76

PAIRING: clex

SUMMARY: This is an extreme A/U - invasion fic - and extremely warped. Feedback will give me a happy.

WARNINGS: This hasn't been beta-read, all faults, errors, and crappy writing sits upon my head. The characters are not mine, nor do I make any profit from my measly attempts at writing.

I've got a symbol in my driveway, I've got a hundred-million dollar friends, I got you a brand new weapon let's see... how destructive we can be.

- Nice Car, Boy

Sixteen years old and on his knees in an alley.

The rain doesn't let up, a low level drizzle that soaks through bone and clothing, a permanent chill that had nothing to do with the blood in his throat.

Tooth, he thinks, and tries to spit it out before he's pushed onto his back, dirty rain-water in his eyes and the bright pain of broken glass. This close to the ground and the scent is overwhelming - piss and vomit - dark fingers stretching out from shadows and the scurrying form of rats among gutted refuge. He presses to his side to avoid the kick - not fast enough, never fast enough - and the pain blossoms white and furious.

The voice is guttural.

It occurs to him too late that stealing from the invaders wasn't all that bright, scuttling against bitumen crab-like until he's grabbed and shaken like an unruly child.

Too much. Too tight. Too intense. The world fades into black with the bark of a distant gun and the rain falls blood-warm.

He pushes the corpse off, rolling from under the weight until they're eye to eye. Shattered bone and grey matter and hey, look, their blood was red after all. He can feel it splattered across his own cheek-bone, distant awareness that doesn't quite make it past the natter of hysteria.

Dead. No, never dead. You could fire a nuclear arsenal at them and they never died, but... dead. Yes. Certainly dead.

How about that.

Sixteen years old and he'd offered his body to the invader, services rendered for a night off the street. Swipe the wallet and out the door by four am. Down the fire-escape and he'd made it to the alley before the Kryptonian caught up with him. Bruising hold and terrifying strength - and martial arts had fuck all on that, but... dead...

His head twists slowly like a wind-up doll, brushing rain-water from his eyes and smearing blood. He can hear the distant blast of a horn, sirens fading, and focuses on the man lowering his arm, the gun held negligently in his left hand. Ivory skin and granite eyes, the smile is all mockery: "Waiting for an invitation, Lucas?"

Animal instinct and Lucas is up, getting the fuck away from a murder scene his number one priority - the mystery guy in the black coat and waiting limousine can feature as number two.

Edging down the alley-way like the fugitive he is, Lucas slips into the car and feels it accelerate instantly.

NINE YEARS LATER

Brother, Lucas mouths the word silently, almost religiously, puzzling it out.

The T.V screen flickers, earlier events looped into replay. Hope is a silent presence beside him, stripping the guns and cleaning them with mechanical efficiency, whiskey-colored eyes sweeping over him indifferently.

He doesn't care for her much and knows the feeling is mutual.

Two a.m and he arrives almost on the dot. Brother, Lucas mouths, and levers himself to his feet. Nine years ago Lex Luthor saved his life, and Lucas lets himself smile.

"You sent the assassin." Blunt accusation.

"Yes."

"You didn't think to warn me?" There was anger there, storming through slate eyes, but the body was still. Lex Luthor in motion was infinitely more safer.

"Better reaction if you didn't know," Lucas flicked the ash from his cigarette and shrugged. "You're a Judenhashcer, Lex. They'd be suspicious if someone wasn't trying to kill you. Better one of our operatives than a rogue."

A measured stare: "They killed her."

"I guess she got too close."

Lucas knew how close, could see it on a small screen, had watched it for hours. Lois Lane was dead and Lucas had never told her the mission was bogus.

Like the rest of the population, Lois was of the firm belief that Alexander Luthor was a traitor to humanity.

Hope, Lucas, Mercy - they were the people in the know - and not one of them would compromise Lex's cover.

Lucas shifted, eyes drawn to his brother's face. Nine years ago and he'd been saved by an unknown with a kryptonian-plated gun and expensive tastes. It wasn't until the limousine ride that he'd recognised his saviour, the switch-blade coming out sure and quick, pressing against the lines of an exposed jugular. Nine years on and Lex didn't look much different, but Lucas did. He could feel the twist in his stomach, the perpetual edge of hunger. Leather and some expensive cologne, Lex's face was unmarred by lines. Sixteen years old and to the Lucas of then, it seemed he'd been saved by a giant or demon. Now, when he looked at Lex, Lucas saw someone caught on the edge of adulthood. The upward momentum having never developed into the same bulk that Lucas himself carried. Smooth, smooth, and he could feel his fingers curl inward with the need to touch.

Lois Lane had fired a shot at almost blank range, and it was the raven haired Kryptonian by the name of Kal-El who had saved Lex's life.

He could feel the blood in his throat, having bitten the inside of his cheek open.

"You send your operatives out to get killed and you're not going to have an army left, Lucas."

"It was worth it. You're in tight with them now... aren't you?" There was a bruise on his brother's throat, bands of color on his arm, finger shape, and Lucas had seen the look in Kal-El's eyes, like to like.

A sharp scent just below the leather and wealth, something... foreign.

Lucas stepped forward, standing close, closer, catching a pale wrist and breathing in.

The kiss is almost chaste.

"Are you whoring yourself, brother?"

The click of a gun is huge in the silence. Lucas estimates Hope's position and backs off slowly. Lex merely tilts his head. "You're a disturbing fuck, you know that."

"Yeah." Lucas breathes, and lets himself smile.