Date: May 2003
Disclaimer: This story is for entertainment only. It is not for profit. Smallville is the property of Alfred Gough, Miles Millar, Tollin-Robbins Productions, and Warner Bros. Television, and based upon characters originally created by Jerome Siegel and Joe Shuster. Acknowledgments: Thanks to skaterboy, fizzabith, yavannuk, lastscorpion, stopawhile, and alymalone for audiencing this in unbeta'd form over at livejournal.com. And hugs and special thanks to sugarrush for the beta and helping with the title.

As he tightens his grip around himself, his breathing becomes ragged. He looks up and takes in the sight of Clark's face one more time.

His strokes become longer, harder, and then before he knows it, the deep blue light turns blindingly white. Gasping Clark's name, he comes.

Exhaling loudly, he relaxes his fist and lets his hand fall to his side. He feels the cold floor against his ass, which, up until a half-minute ago, was slapping rhythmically against the dark blue tiles as he imagined himself bucking into Clark to possess him.

Still flat on his back, he looks around and surveys it all.

There's a cobalt glow that highlights an octagonal disk spinning on an imaginary axis. Geometric hieroglyphs that speak something he can't hear. Seemingly random numbers that parade across screens. Barely decipherable charts. Wire-frame animations.

They're all puzzle pieces that don't fit together into a cohesive whole, yet they say enough to let the reader know that here lies some unnamed obsession.

He pushes the thought away and, twisting carefully to avoid spreading the runny stickiness on his flat belly, he reaches down around his ankles and pulls his slacks up to his knees.

He stays prone and jams a hand into a pocket to search for a large handkerchief. Carefully unfolding it, he then re-folds it so that the embroidered "LL" is on the inside. He wipes his stomach.

Slowly, he stands and pulls his pants up. He wads the handkerchief and places it gingerly in a pocket before he zips, buttons, and buckles himself into some semblance of propriety.

He's just finished tucking in his shirt when he hears the doorknob turn with a dull, metallic crunch. He whirls around.

"Is everything okay?" The eyes are wide, very wide, and the voice is urgent.

"That door was double-locked!" he growls, causing Clark to freeze in the doorway.

Clark doesn't answer, and hesitating only for another second, walks in and sweeps his gaze quickly, without interest, over the large, back-lit headshot of himself and the flat-panel displays. Clark's eyes don't widen again until they meet his.

It occurs to him that this isn't the first time Clark has seen this room. He wonders how that's possible. The room is always kept locked, as ordered.

And now he can't help but wonder if Clark can see through walls or something. There's also the more pressing question of how Clark opened the door just now.

He's a Luthor, so he reminds himself that the best defense is a good offense. "You can't possibly have a key. How did you open that door? And how did you know where to look for me?"

He fights the urge to take a step back as Clark approaches. His eyes lock with Clark's, and he takes an angry gulp of air. "Want to tell me what you're doing in here?"

Clark's face tightens, and those incredible lips part to spit out a retort. "I was going to ask you the same exact thing, Lucas. And when the hell did you get back into town?"

~End

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