Scowling at the slowness that is the schools' internet connection, Chloe waits for the rest of the tabloids' website to load. She has a small dossier on most of Lexs' Bond-girls, a photo, name, age, financial standings. The only thing that connects any of them is appearance. Despite what Clark related from his encounter with Lionel, these women do not look like Lillian Luthor. While her dark auburn waves were close, the softer features and less full lips aren't anything alike.

She isn't getting anywhere with this. Deciding to take a new track, she looks up the process of sublimation of desire in the WebArchives of the New York Psychoanalytic Journal. She has last period free to work at the Torch, but this will never see publication. Investigating the mind of your personal savior? Definitely not something she wants to be public knowledge. Despite what Clark had once said about her, some things she wouldn't make headlines out of just because people would want to know.

She has a narrow time frame for what the link could be. She was at Clark's house party when Lex had a stunning Asian woman on his arm, so his fascination went next-level after that, but before Desiree Atkins. She's looking for it in plain sight this time, following it like any reporter with a lead.

The final bell rings fifteen minutes into a paper on how being in denial of an obsession leads to an obsession with finding substitutes for that object or person. Chloe could see in Lexs' string of one-nighters the cycle of finding a substitute, becoming displeased with the difference between it and the real thing, and abusing or getting rid of the substitute. It all fit.

"Displays of irrational behavior are also common for the object of the repressed obsession."

The hallmarks are all there, Chloe just isn't seeing where that fits in with whatever it is that Lex is really looking for. The only things she knows about Lex's irrational behaviors are his pointless competition with his father, his determination to get around Mr. Kent's ban on giving things to Clark, and his tendency to put everything in terms of ancient warfare. Sighing, she closes down the browser, and prints and shuts down all the dossiers and pictures, wishing for a sign.

Her eyes widen when Clark walks in.

*

If karmic debt were a credit card, she's being collected on.

Giving Clark a lift home isn't part of their routine. He barely fits into her tiny car, and why, today of all days, does he want to strike up an in-depth discussion of Lexs' habits? And then she remembers this isn't a new conversation, just a new setting. She wishes this wasn't happening now.

"Lex has said he's done things he wasn't proud of. What did you think he was talking about, breaking the speed limit?"

"No, I know he's proud of that."

Chloe knows her smile looks fake, and that Clark won't comment on it. She's pretending not to freak until Clark leaves. His reluctance will be really funny or really piss her off, once she gets a chance to think about it.

"So, if the women of Metropolis are looking for some fun yet meaningless sex, it's his fault if it turns out that's not all they wanted from him? It's a bit demeaning that you think these women don't know what they're doing."

Clark has the grace to look chastened for a whole second. Sometimes you just have to drag him along with questions until he can see both sides of things. If she could beat it into his head to think before overreacting, she'd make a reporter out of him yet. She turns off the county road onto the Kent's drive and thanks any passing gods for small mercies.

*

Chloe Sullivan walks into his office on Monday afternoon at 4:10 p.m.

Such interruptions of his routine are usually welcomed, but this day her manic grin is markedly absent. Chloe won't meet his eyes, and her fingers clutch the file she carries as though forcing herself to go through with some unpleasant necessity. Lex closes his laptop and turns his attention to her.

"Chloe. To what do I owe the honor?"

Her eyes flicker up to his face and away to the glass desktop, where she lays a series of headshot photographs from the manila folder. A collection of his ex wives and one-night-stands is laid out in a rough, open square. Seen together the resemblance is more noticeable, but still . . . she's usually more insightful than this. Lex allows himself a moment of disappointment in his investment.

"You're hardly the first to comment that I date true to type." But her stance doesn't change, and she won't meet his eyes. This isn't why she's here.

"I was in the Torch office doing research, trying to figure out what you saw in all these women. What does Lex Luthor see in these golden-skinned, leggy brunettes who wear too much red?" Her tone is distant and contemplative. She throws down a final picture in the middle of the square. "Then the answer walked in the door." If it weren't next to eight other pictures of pouty red mouths and sharp cheekbones, the picture of Clark would look out of place among the polished debutantes. She looks up at him. "I was going to figure it out. You could have told me."

She is flushed, her struggle to control her upset obvious. She turns insulted hazel eyes to his. Now that she will look at him there is no expression on his face to greet her. He is as blank as a sheet, and as pale.

This hadn't occurred to him. It should have. Lex plans for every eventuality, lets nothing surprise him. He's had enough surprises to last . . . That he misled himself into dismissing this possibility is further evidence of the irrational behavior he is being unspokenly accused of.

"Did you think I wouldn't understand? That I would give you away? I don't need you to explain why you haven't told him."

"I wouldn't imagine so." Something like an expression has formed itself, tight around his eyes.

"So what else am I going to figure out, Lex? With this new piece of the puzzle, what other revelations am I set up to have in this little game?"

"Calling something a game implies the possibility of winning. There is no advantage to be had from your involvement in this issue. This is my private life, and has nothing to do with our agreement." His words come out unconcerned, as smooth and level as glass. He gathers up the pictures of the eight women, leaving the ninth picture on his desk. "I believe these belong to you."

It's a dismissal, and she knows it. She can see right through the glass of his tone into the broken glass of his eyes. She knows he's being hurtful to distract her from his own wounds. Chloe ignores his attempt to divert her attention, and cedes his point with a nod.

"If anything ever points his thoughts this way, I'll do what damage control I can." It's offered as comfort. She's learned several lessons this year. When to leave bad enough alone is one of them.