*

Film at Eleven

*

Ever smuggle a camera into a working slaughterhouse? Or shoot decent footage with it strapped to your thigh? I had to, once, and I still got better shots than this.

There's no audio. Luthor's barely recognizable, standing amidst the rubble. Everything's white with dust, even his usually-impeccable suit.

He's smiling.

Color flares on the screen like a stop-motion rose blooming. Whatever it regards, their conversation is brief. Thirty seconds max till Superman disappears, leaving only a few dark handprints on Luthor's suit. The dust kicked up by his departure is already beginning to erase them.

I hit rewind. Play the footage again.

Luthor smiles.

*

Spin

*

The heat makes people do crazy things. Strange, or brave-- Lex's lips taste like water, like he's been licking them. Clark moans, pulling him close, and then there's a sudden bang like a gunshot. He jerks away, but it was only Lex's water bottle, falling. "Sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Clark, wait." Lex kneels to pick it up, then pauses. Smiling quietly, he spins the bottle with a flick of his wrist.

Clark watches dizzily. He doesn't have the breath to laugh. The bottle finally stops, pointing just past Lex.

Who starts to unbutton his shirt. "Ever played this one?"

"Oh, God..."

*

Last Son

*

Kryptonian records immortalize Lionel Luthor as a short-sighted xenophobe. According to his widow, he was a hero and martyr. Lex's mother owed her life to Kryptonian technology, but lived like she'd rather be dead.

Despite Lex's green wristband, the kneeling Kryptonian looks determined. Arrogant. Lex wants to chain him in the base's deepest warrens till he sees fear.

"Believe me. I just want to help."

"You'd betray your own kind?"

"I was born here."

A ridiculous lie. There are no young Kryptonians. "You're one of us, then." He smiles. "Welcome."

Lex can wait. The spy may be of use somehow. And the warrens aren't going anywhere.

*

Letting Go

*

"Your father's worried, Lena."

"Like he even cares." I slam the door. It bounces off Superman's hand.

"He knows where you live. He knows what kind of groceries you buy, when you go to sleep at night, and if you're worried about this neighborhood at night? Don't be. You've still got bodyguards; they're just subtler."

"Daddy owns a lot of people," I sneer, "but I didn't know he owned Superman."

"He doesn't--" Superman starts, then stops. "He doesn't. He... let me go. And he'll let you go, if it's what you want... but, Lena, he'll always take you back."

*

Young Love

*

There was something about the Farmers' Market. Heat. Movement. White teeth flashing, biting into an apple... He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the breeze.

Slowly, his hand slid over the counter. "I know a place--"

The apple with one bite missing fell to the ground.

Hot, furtive kisses were traded. Clothes were stripped off, discarded. Callused hands met pale skin. "Oh, please..."

Then Mrs. Dorsey, who ran the food bank, happened to need something out of the back of her truck.

"Oh dear Lord!"

After that day, Jonathan and Martha earned the name "the reclusive Kents."

*

Standing On Ceremony

*

The Key to the City was a gaudy bauble. "This tribute," Lex said, angling towards the photographers in the crowd, "cannot equal what you've given, Superman, and what you continue to give."

He offered his hand. The hero accepted, his smile artless and open. Contact. The alien flesh was too hot, and vaguely clammy. Lex reminded himself that Superman was just as uncomfortable. If not more.

His new ring was pretty and useful.

Neither let go for several long moments. There was actually a blind item in the Inquisitor's gossip column the next day. Lex laughed until he felt sick.