Chapter Text
In the end, Lex Luthor spent exactly 180 days in prison. And most of it hadn’t even been a very good prison, at that.
Belle Reve had held him for two months before he was transferred to a local Metropolitan jail with the plea that despite his credible threat to the metahuman population—the most powerful metahuman, at that—he himself was not one, and therefore didn’t need the extra security, an idiotic lie that the judge seemed to find no issue with. Clark watched from above the clouds, peering miles down onto the Earth and through the jailhouse walls, as Luthor sat there, perfectly innocuous, for all those 118 final days.
It was that move that made him decide, with confidence, that Luthor was still up to something. To be asked for a transferal to a prison someone with half Luthor’s intellect could escape from, and then do nothing—suspicious. He hadn’t thought Luthor capable of not doing something.
Lois was vindicated at this change of mindset, to say the least.
“I’ve been telling you for the past two months that he’s obviously not given up on you,” she had fumed when Clark meekly told her about Luthor’s official transferral and subsequent laziness. “Just because you have eternal faith and hope in the human race doesn’t mean people actually take you up on it.”
“It was worth giving him a shot. To show real penitence, you know,” Clark mumbled. He had known it’d been unlikely from the start, given that Luthor was hardly some trembling kid trying to hold up a gas station or even a low-level goon with bills to pay, but giving everyone a chance was important to him. And Luthor had looked so apologetic during his televised press conference a few days after his arrest, while he was still squirreling around the city on bail, although now Clark is sure that the waterworks he had turned on had probably been accompanied by a steady heartbeat and sneering behind the eyes.
Lois scoffed. “Luthor doesn’t have a penitent bone in body. A penitent cell in his entire self. If he had really been interested in any kind of repayment for what he did, he wouldn’t have accepted that ridiculous sentence. Six months. Six months! He should be in Belle Reve for life for the murder alone. If he really gave a shit, he would’ve locked himself up in that stupid penthouse of his and thrown away the key.” Privately, Clark didn’t think that was how prison time or penitence should really work, but Lois was on a tear now and it didn’t seem wise to put himself in her sniper sights. “Four months left in a city jail. What a fucking joke.” And she went to get more coffee.
It hadn’t only been six months in jail, of course; there’d been the repayment scheme to Metropolis for damages (paid from LexCorp coffers), the public tour of apologies while he’d been out on bail (he was a man ruled by fear, by the unfortunately very real message from Clark’s biological parents, and who could blame him?), and the immense political and legal endeavor LexCorp had funded to set up Jarhanpur rebuilding efforts (ignoring, of course, that Luthoria had almost been a reality). All of those things, plus six months prison time, was enough for the American justice system.
And now, the Daily Planet had received their official invitation to LexCorp’s press conference, being held in two days time on the steps of the company’s main building—still with their massive, jagged crack from the dimensional rift, as Luthor had deigned not to fix them as a reminder to himself and his company to always be reminded of past mistakes. It was to be Luthor’s first public appearance post-release, although the Planet and a few other papers had caught a few shots of him being transferred from prison to limo, looking none the worse for wear.
“It’s actually not a Daily Planet invitation, it’s my invitation. My story,” Lois says, acerbically, after Clark had taken ten minutes to hover around her desk, talking animatedly about how they were going to see Luthor, they were going to investigate, and hoping she wouldn’t say anything.
“Lois,” he whines.
“You’re Superman…’s known associate,” Lois continues, because they’re in the middle of the Daily Planet newsroom, “and coming to Luthor’s press conference is just going to make him zero in on you. On us. How are we going to investigate whatever it is he’s up to if he thinks you’re there, reporting his every move back to Superman?”
“He’ll think that whether I’m there or not! The fact that he’s inviting the Daily Planet at all after that exposé you and Jimmy wrote shows he’s ready to rub any investigation into our faces.”
The expression on her face makes it clear she knows he’s right, but she wheedles another two cups of coffee and a sandwich from her favorite place in France during his lunch break before cracking.
***
The Daily Planet has front-row seats. Front-row standing position. A burly security officer looks at their passes (or pass, singular, but Clark clings enough to Lois that he doesn’t have to ask if they’re together) and personally escorts them to the space at the very foot of the LexCorp stairs, a corral of red rope and more security dividing the press from the empty podium five steps up. It’s packed—wall to wall people, not only from Metropolis, but a pack of gloomy-looking folks from Gotham, a New York City reporter that Clark recognizes from a subway disaster last year, and a battalion of international press, all chattering so loud and in so many languages he has a hard time filtering his world out to just Lois.
“See, front-row. He knows exactly what we’re up to,” Clark says after getting his bearings—mostly—but Lois doesn’t respond. She’s busy scoping out the area; he can tell she’s counting security guards, counting reporters, counting cameras. Checking for places nearby that Luthor could be hiding—something. Anything. There isn’t anything—Clark’s already checked, there’s only a teenager with a knife running the nearby food truck alone, and that’s fair enough—but he knows she needs to check herself to feel better. “Lois,” he says after another moment.
“Uh-huh,” she says, a minute later, and Clark gives up.
He lets his eyes wander to the space beyond the podium, filtering out the rock and granite and few structural steel repairs, and sees the shadow of Luther in the lobby of the LexCorp building, talking animatedly with a woman holding a sheaf of papers. His pre-planned speech. Clark can catch snippets of words from the woman among the chatter of the world: sincerity, eye contact, face open. Luthor’s always been a good actor, that’ll be annoying to see. And he’ll have the whole speech memorized, of course, and everyone online will crow about how he spoke from the heart, but he knows better. Luthor’s heart rate is steady, an easy pulse that shows how little this endeavor really means to him. Even his face doesn’t look remotely blushed.
“What do you see?” Lois whispers in his ear and he jolts, blinking away the X-ray vision.
He nods to the entrance of the building. “He’s right there, cool as a cucumber.”
Lois makes a disgusted noise.
When Luthor comes out five minutes later, he looks flushed and a bit worried: a little tired, smile tremulous, suit perfectly tailored but artfully rumpled. Only Clark can see that his heart remains steady, that the bags under his eyes have been painted on with some kind of makeup, and the sweat worrying where his hairline should be is just tap water, probably spritzed on him moments before. A dozen hand-crafted details, all to make him look the fresh-from-prison, newly-reformed person he’s absolutely not. “I appreciate you all coming out today,” he begins with no introduction, and the room quiets to a fuzzy silence in moments, only the whir of cameras and rushing of sewer water belowground grinding softly away in Clark’s peripherals.
“I won’t keep you all long. It is my intention to open myself and LexCorp up further to the press in the coming months, years, and indeed for its entire future, and this is the first step to doing so, one of my first steps as I return to LexCorp’s CEO position and reintegrate myself within my company. Many thanks to the board and many individuals within the company for keeping the lights on, my people employed, and our customers served in my months of absence.” Luthor punctuates this with a smile, nodding to the few people that accompanied him down the steps; flunkies and henchmen, no doubt. His voice is light, still with that firm tone and lilting speech pattern Clark knows so well.
Then his mouth turns slightly down: nothing so ugly as a frown, but pensive. “And it’s not my intention to beat around the bush in regards to that absence. I was serving my time in federal prison for the crimes committed against the people of—well, many places. Metropolis, our neighboring cities, and our Jarhanpurian allies overseas. I have taken responsibility in court when I pled guilty and I’ll do so here as well: I was blinded as to how severe and unwell my own actions were. Blinded by my own terror, as my people discovered the message left by Superman’s parents and I became convinced the only way to save humanity was to destroy him. And I lost sight of how I was destroying you as well.” With this, he spreads his hands outwards, gesturing to the crowd, and then raises them to Metropolis as a whole. “While my actions are unforgivable, I have served my time and now look forward to doing what I can, beyond the reparations remitted to me during my sentencing, to make this world a better place, as LexCorp always intended to do. My vendetta against Superman is finished, and I welcome his help towards the citizens of Earth as we take this mutual step forward into allyship. I’ll take a limited number of questions, although everyone is more than welcome to reach out to our newly-formed LexCorp Journalistic Relations department for any further information.”
The lights flash. The hands go up. The crowd pushes forward. The security pushes back. Clark seethes.
“Doesn’t sound even remotely unhinged,” Lois mutters. “He’s good.”
Too good. His heartbeat hadn’t stuttered once, even with all that about Superman’s allyship; an obvious lie, although it’s not like any of the reporters here would know that. The perfect statement, self-deprecating but not graphic, focusing on redemption, not forgiveness, while still also managing to entirely dodge any real responsibility or concrete steps to action. Beyond the Journalistic Relations department, which is whatever.
The reporter behind him murmurs how honest he had seemed, how it was good to hear someone speaking from the heart and not a stack of notecards. Clark pushes his feet lightly into the stone below to ground himself and hears the floor crack. Lois elbows him in the gut.
“From the Gotham Gazette,” Luthor says finally, gesturing an upturned palm to Vicki Vale.
“How do you expect the general public to trust you reinstalled as the head of LexCorp, regaining access to your billions of dollars and position of power, after such an event?” Vicki says smoothly, her voice only slightly raised.
“I don’t,” Luthor says, managing to pull off a look of bafflement. “That’s the goal I’m setting for the rest of my life: to regain the trust of the citizens of Metropolis and the people across the world. I’m well aware it’s an uphill battle, and one that I may never win, but it is not the reward that drives me to do so, Ms. Vale, it’s the journey itself.”
He finishes with a benevolent smile at the crowd.
“Stop grinding your fucking teeth,” Lois hisses. “It sounds like you’re gargling chainmail.”
“From the Metropolis Star,” Luthor calls next.
“Many of LexCorp’s business ventures ended up being fronts for unsavory business, or legitimate transactions aimed at accruing political power. Now that the ruling has put a limit on LexCorp’s interference with these ventures, where does the company intend to go from here?” from a young ginger man in a tweed coat.
Clark hears the slick rush of Luthor’s salivary glands activating; he doesn’t quite know what that means, but it’s nothing good. “To begin, our business dealings will now be made public. While the company remains private, you can contact our aforementioned Journalistic Relations department for more updates. But our current plans remain unchanged from before my arrest: to bring a technology-forward approach to many of the issues surrounding the globe. My recent experiences have granted me an inner eye into the workings of the criminal justice system; we’re aiming to secure new contracts for effective reform within that sector in the coming months.” He doesn’t say anything more, which is interesting, and lets the reporter furrow his brow and open his mouth before abruptly turning away.
“And one more. Let’s go with you, Ms. Lane,” Luthor says, his gaze alighting on Lois in an instant, although her hand hadn’t been up.
Clark hears a strand of someone’s hair fall to the floor, a churn of stomach acid following a hearty meal, the low shriek of metal-on-plastic as every tripod swivels to face them. Clark makes his face as blank as possible, trying his best not to look like a man who wasn’t invited to the function, but Lois, as usual, boldly goes. “The testimony of several LexCorp employees revealed that your vendetta against Superman was highly personal. Regardless of whether it was motivated by terror, as you say, it’s an established fact of your case that your life in its totality revolved around Superman,” Lois begins without pause, and Clark tries to step on her foot as lightly as possible to get her to shut up or switch course. What happened to laying low? “Are we meant to understand that this obsession has reached its end, with no win on your end, or mental health treatment relegated to you by the court?”
It’s a bit of a nasty move, bringing up mental health treatment. That had been one of the primary criticisms of the sentencing, as it was pretty obvious to anyone with a brain and/or eyes and/or ears that Luthor had problems. He had apparently been processed through the psychiatry department at Belle Reve, who had washed their hands of him with no issues, categorizing him as some kind of savant but nothing that might make his actions more palatable or understandable. The Metropolis Star, that absolute rag, had ran stories on the lack of diagnosis for weeks.
“I do resent the statement that the totality of my life was about Superman,” Luthor responds, slowly. “I retained control of my company and all its many avenues until the moment of my incarceration, I continued traveling for both work and leisure, and supporting my sister. It’s true that I was fixated on Superman, but my goal remains the same: to help the people of Earth. I was convinced that destroying the alien known as Superman was the best way to go about that. I know now it’s not, and so have shifted to other ventures. It’s really as simple as that.”
His tone is still light, almost veering into self-deprecating again, and when accompanied by the little smile, it’s a convincing tale. It’s also condescending and sharp, but Clark can tell by the lack of murmuring that he’s about the only one to pick up on that.
His heartbeat is still steady. No lies detected. Clark doesn’t know how to puzzle that one out.
Lois hasn’t been taking notes. She releases one slow breath, keeping Luthor’s gaze, and inclines her head ever so slightly in acquiescence. A boon for Luthor, for her to understand this isn’t the venue for a rapid-fire question showdown to the death. Luthor’s eyes flicker in self-satisfaction, a quirk of his mouth, and then that gaze shifts abruptly to land on Clark.
It’s only for a moment. Luthor blinks, and then moves on.
By the time he bids his farewells, six questions later and no real information granted, half the journalists are clapping for him.
“Thank you, all. Again, please reach out to our new department for further questions and ongoing updates. LexCorp remains committed to an open relationship with the press,” Luthor says, raising a hand in farewell, and turns slightly away from the podium. “And Mr. Kent. A word,” he finishes, with the ponderous aura of an afterthought, and then walks up the steps and back into the building, leaving the eyes of every single reporter swinging to Clark.
Ten microphones descend in his direction immediately, but the security guards are already working to usher the reporters back towards the exit and saying things like no further questions and please see our new department. Two of them approach Clark, and he senses a bodily haul up the steps in his future if he doesn’t move quick.
Clark turns to Lois, who’s already trying to do the work for them and shove his immovable body up the stairs. “What if he knows?” Clark whispers under his breath.
“He doesn’t, he can’t, just go. This is our chance. Don’t be Superman, be a reporter, go!” She’s resorted to swatting him ineffectually in the arm, and he leaves her with a mournful look, walking into the arms of the two guards and letting himself be escorted up the steps.
***
The interior offices of LexCorp are a freaking nightmare. Rebuilt almost entirely from the ground up and refurbished, post-dimensional rift destruction, they’re pretty much every single thing Clark hated about Metropolis when he first moved here.
Glistening chrome coating every surface, abstract, mass-produced art on the walls, very few windows, black and white marble flooring that never quite stops looking like someone spilled coffee on white tile. Endless repetitions of the same rooms, glittering, opulent displays of wealth. A few dying snake plants in corners. The only thing that seems slightly normal is that the employees puttering around are dressed down, some of them to t-shirts and shorts, but Clark knows that’s as much of a red flag as any. Most mad scientists don’t have flashy outfits. Luthor certainly doesn’t.
He’d asked where exactly he was being taken and received a resounding silence in return, which is just as well, so Clark can focus on scanning the rooms behind the walls. They’re all disappointing ordinary: servers and conference rooms, lunch desks and individual offices, scattered and decorated through with the little things employees bring to make their cubicles less dead. If anything, the place is weirdly empty.
Finally they usher him into an elevator and click the top, unlabelled button, and back out. He takes the trip up alone, palm sweaty against the recorder in his pocket.
When the doors slide open, Luthor is on the other side, his coat jacket thrown over the back of a chair and in the middle of rolling up his sleeves. He looks more like the Luthor Superman confronted at the end of the rift ploy, less pressed and steamed and more casual. He’s sweating for real now, although still only a little. “Mr. Kent,” Luthor says when he spots Clark hovering by the doors, brightening, “come in.”
Lois has to be right. He can’t know anything. The glasses are foolproof, and frankly even when he doesn’t have them on—the few times he’s fumbled or dropped them or had a soccer ball from nearby playing kids knock them off his face—people tend not to recognize him. But this is Luthor, and one can never be too careful.
Clark sits where Luthor gestures for him to: in a chair across from his, on either side of a desk. They’re in some kind of living quarters, with the mini-study the first thing that greets visitors off the elevator, to his left a large living space, a sofa pit sunk into the floor, two televisions, and a hallway leading away, further into the building. A quick look beyond the walls shows a reading room and a bedroom, both sparsely furnished. Not a place to remain, but a place to crash. “Mr. Luthor,” Clark begins, trying to sound a little more tremulous than usual. “If this is about me tagging alongside Lois Lane’s invitation, I absolutely forced her to take me and I hope you don’t hold it against the Daily—”
Luthor is already waving his hand, shaking his words away. And it’s not like Clark actually thought that was the case, but it’s the right thing to say; the muscles around Luthor’s shoulders ease. “I can’t say I wasn’t surprised to see you, but it’s hardly a problem. I would’ve invited the entirety of the Daily Planet if I thought that number of people wouldn’t clog up the roads. I just got out of jail, I’m hardly trying to cause traffic violations.” He gives Clark a gleaming smile that rings entirely false. “I imagine you’re here as Superman’s resident reporter, getting intel for him later.”
“It’s only that I’m typically on the Superman beat. Which has, in the last six months, included you,” Clark says, noncommittally. “Do you mind if this conversation is on the record?”
Luthor flaps a hand.
“I’ll need a verbal yes, Mr. Luthor,” Clark says, giving a small smile he hopes doesn’t look as strained as he feels, and Luthor rolls his eyes.
“Yes, of course. Journalistic Relations and all that.”
Clark turns on the recorder and places it between them, sitting plastic and ugly on the smooth brown wood of the desk. He can’t see any devices in the walls that might scramble the recording or otherwise stop it, so might as well make use of it. “So, as I was saying. The Superman beat includes you these days, so I am here in a professional capacity. I’m not here to get the scoop for Superman himself. I don’t serve as a source of intel for him.” It’s the truth. Technically. Superman usually serves as a source of intel for Clark, not the other way around.
“Ah. Well, I hate to disappoint on both fronts. My life now isn’t likely to be an interest to Superman personally, and the proposition I was going to give you isn’t professionally Superman-related either.” And then Luthor waits.
Clark doesn’t grind his teeth. Luthor’s really going to make him ask. “If there’s any way I can help on behalf the Daily Planet, Superman-related or otherwise, I’m happy to,” he manages to get out after a few seconds, and is proud his voice sounds exactly as innocuous as he wants it to.
Luthor gives a little clap. “Excellent! I won’t lie, my publicity department has been very worried about LexCorp’s relationship with the Planet going forward. After all, we’d hate for you to think that something like publishing a little exposé would tarnish our ability to work together, which it obviously hasn’t.” He gives Clark a commiserating eye roll. “That’s journalism, I can hardly hold it against your people for doing their jobs. And doing it. And doing it so well. And so thoroughly! Anyway. They were thinking a profile.”
Clark blinks. “A profile?”
“Long-form, of course. And who better to do it than Superman’s favorite reporter? That way the readers know you’re not going to take it easy on me.” Luthor winks at him, a move so out of character it would disgust Clark, except that he’s always been a bit jealous of people who can wink. “I was planning on reaching out to the Planet, but here you are. Sorry to snatch you away from your… partner.”
He says it with a look over his steepled hands that looks appropriately apologetic and makes Clark want to go back in the elevator and die. Luthor’s really going to make him say this, as well. “Lois isn’t my partner. We’re just—” and stops.
“Your coworker, then,” Luthor says when Clark doesn’t continue, in the pleasant tone of someone who knows the exact time and date of his and Lois’ public breakup. The walls of the Daily Planet offices were so thin, and it’s never a great idea to have your blowout arguments where twenty journalists can hear you. “I know this is all a bit forward, but someone’s going to write a profile in the wake of my return, and I think this will be a fortuitous partnership for both our companies. Do you need to talk it over with Perry?”
Clark doesn’t like that he’s on a one-sided first-name basis with Perry. Clark doesn’t like that he’s been made to talk about Lois and feels like a skinned fish. Clark doesn’t like that Luthor is dangling the one thing he wants right in front of his face, and he’s going to be made to take it.
“No,” he says finally. “I think this’ll be great. I’m happy to do this, thank you for the opportunity. Is there a particular angle you’re hunting for?” Not like that matters, but it would be interesting if there was a goal at the end of the line here.
There’s not. There’s not much Luthor wants to say at all. The next ten minutes are absorbed with unpleasant small-talk, organizing schedules and cars, Clark texting Perry under the table and trying to ignore the all-capital messages he gets in response.
He’s going to get three interviews, tagging along with Luthor throughout three days of his life, getting to see the inner workings of LexCorp and whatever he’s currently working on. He’s going to get a sleek black passcard that will let him into any room in the LexCorp towers. He’s going to get Luthor’s full, undivided attention for three days in the next two weeks.
He’s going to get a panic attack.
“You’re looking a little alarmed, Mr. Kent,” Luthor says, a vein of glee throbbing in his voice, and Clark takes a deep breath. “I hope this hasn’t taken you too terribly by surprise.”
“I’m a regular at interviewing the most powerful man on Earth, Mr. Luthor. I think you and I will be just fine,” Clark says, just to be a jerk, and doesn’t love that the jab misses Luthor entirely.
He shrugs, still smiling. “I suppose that’s true. If that’s all, then, I’ll have a car pick you up from the Planet come Monday. My publicity team will be so pleased.” He stands, brushing off imaginary dust from his pants, and circles the desk to extend a hand to Clark. Clark takes a moment to himself, just to eye it like Luthor had offered him a dead animal, before shaking. His skin is warm and dry. “Excellent. I’ll forward all the relevant legal paperwork to Perry, and you and I will be good to go.”
It’s a dismissal if Clark’s ever heard one, and the part he’s playing means he needs to respect it. “Thank you, Mr. Luthor,” Clark says, standing also. It’s not part of his act to fumble with the recorder as he turns it off and stuffs it in his jacket pocket, and Luthor’s smile widens like a shark. “Although I do have to ask, off the record.”
“I’m all ears,” Luthor responds, already walking towards the elevator.
“As Superman’s personal correspondent, I have to warn you away from any ideas regarding… my own safety. I’m frequently the target of attempted kidnappings and assassinations, and you know, they never seem to work out for the bad guys.” Luthor doesn’t know that Clark knows Luthor already threatened to kill him once, because that was when Superman was busy dying of Kryptonite poisoning in a pocket universe, but it doesn’t hurt to make sure he knows. There’s also a nasty little voice in the back of his head that says if anyone was going to work out that the surprisingly-sturdy reporter who keeps surviving assassination attempts might have some tricks up his sleeve, it would be Luthor, and the man doesn’t need anymore evidence. When Luthor doesn’t immediately answer, still facing the elevator, Clark adds, “In the spirit of Journalistic Relations, I just thought I’d let you know.”
Luthor turns back around. His face is thoughtful. It’s a new expression, one he’s clearly invented for his post-prison return. Certainly the Luthor frothing at the mouth during the Ultraman fight never looked thoughtful. “I do deserve that, I know. But I would hate for you to think you’re putting yourself in any form of danger by meeting with me.” He takes a few steps back towards Clark, and he has a panicked thought that Luthor might put a hand on his shoulder or arm and feel how solid he is, but all he does is sigh. “Any hostage situations you have to fear won’t be enacted by me. Nor any assassination attempts, etc. I’m really not interested in Superman any longer.”
Clark waits for his heart rate to change. For any indication, bodily, phermonally, emotionally, that this isn’t the case.
“I really am looking forward to entering into a new age of allyship with him.”
Still nothing.
“You can tell him you’re doing the profile, if it’ll make you feel better. I hardly have an issue with him knowing,” Luthor finishes, and Clark swallows to get saliva back into his mouth.
“Have you told him this?” Clark says, and when Luthor raises his eyebrows, he clarifies, “That you’re going to enter into… allyship?”
Luthor’s face goes thoughtful again, but in Clark’s direction specifically. Like Clark is some strange puzzle he never asked for, being dropped into his lap. He’s never seen Luthor from this close, for this long. The eyes fixed on him are an icy blue, a ring of black around the edges. An oil spill in foaming waters.
“I haven’t,” Luthor says, abruptly. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. I assumed he would see the press conference, but a personal apology might go even farther. Yes. Go ahead and tell him, and if he deigns drop by for a visit I’d be happy to talk with him personally. He can even open the door this time.”
Clark nods. He doesn’t know what else to do.
Luthor rides the elevator down with Clark, insisting on escorting him outside and back to an inevitably pissed-off Lois Lane. Clark stares straight ahead, listening to Luthor’s steady heartbeat, a crisp seventy-two beats per minute. It hadn’t faltered once in their conversation, no hint of nervousness or lying. Even now, standing next to Clark, it only slows further as Luthor checks his watch. Clark takes a deep breath. The LexCorp elevator smells like bleach and leather. Luthor smells like expensive cologne and lemon laundry detergent, and below that, like wax.
The elevator releases them back onto the ground floor, and Luthor weaves Clark effortlessly between his streams of employees, who either genuinely don’t notice their boss steering a fumbling journalist through the halls or have been expertly trained to pretend otherwise. Luthor takes him as far as the front door, eyeing Lois through the glass paneling. “You’ll forgive me if this is as far as I take you. Something tells me your colleague won’t let me slip away so easily, and I do have places to be. See you Monday,” he chirps, and turns on his heel, and leaves Clark standing there dumbly until Lois comes and drags him away.
***
Clark endures Lois surveying him like a prey animal for the rest of the afternoon, Perry taking up his after-work walk home with a severe phone call, and his early evening hours talking Ma and Pa off a ledge after Lois kindly told them he was doing something stupid, before taking off for the Fortress and the one person who can’t judge him.
“I literally have no fucking sympathy for you,” Kara says flatly.
The Gotham Gazette, with its Wayne-backed glossy, hyperquick printing presses, ran an emergency mini-issue that Clark had grabbed on his way over, and the headline stares up at them both: LEX LUTHOR ABANDONS SUPERMAN SCHEME!
It’s a terrible headline. What scheme? Abandons? Exclamation points, on a front page headline? And Luthor needs an identifier— “Are you even listening to me?” Kara demands.
“Yes,” Clark lies.
She rolls her eyes. Everyone’s been rolling their eyes at Clark today. He sinks down lower in his chair. “You’re pouting around like Luthor killed your dog—no, not you, stupid Lex Luthor could never kill you, you almost killed him and it was so beautiful. Yes you did, yes you did.”
“I’m not pouting,” Clark says loudly over the sound of Krypto licking her face. It’s a sound he’d rather not hear. “I’m concerned. This is my face of concern. He’s up to something.”
“I’m sure,” Kara says, surprising him. “It’s just not your problem right now.”
“Luthor is my problem, Kara. It’s his megalomania towards me that makes him so—” he makes a circular motion to his head that he immediately feels bad about, “—weird,” he finishes, lamely.
“He becomes your problem,” Kara says, “when he blows up a nuclear reactor, or tries to drop Metropolis into a sinkhole, or tears a hole into spacetime.”
“Again,” Clark mutters.
“He is not your problem until he does any of those things. You’re not the guy who stalks people trying to uncover their nefarious schemes. You’re the guy that stops them when they get too nefarious and start hurting people. Let the guy be crazy to someone else for a change.”
“And what if that someone else can’t handle it like me? What if it’s another country that breaks under his—his whole thing? He engineered the beginning of a world war to get to me, Kara. His new ‘I don’t care about Superman’ thing is just weird. I mean, it’s,” Clark gestures wildly to the newspaper, the ugly headline still staring up at them, “Lex Luthor. He’s an obsessive. If he’s not fixated on me, he’s got to be fixated on something else. Something not good. Something—why are you looking at me like that?”
Kara shrugs. “Sounds like your pet psychopath has moved on, and you’re just jealous.”
“Kara,” Clark sighs, but doesn’t protest further. Even Krypto looks up at him from the floor with an expression Clark can only interpret as chastening, and that’s a bit too much for him. He turns in the swivel chair and faces out into the Fortress, the open front doors that lead to the icy tundra.
Jealousy is the entire wrong word for it, but in a way, she’s right: he does want Luthor focused on him. Luthor focused on anyone else would be dangerous to the extreme. The man is unwell, that’s a certainty, but he’s undeniably the smartest man Clark’s ever met if not the smartest man on Earth, and anyone who doesn’t have Superman’s skill set is at high risk for being crushed under the steamroller of his quest for power and control. And taking on the risk for others is what Superman does.
Whoever or whatever Luthor’s new obsession is or is going to be isn’t going to be able to handle it. That’s for sure. Clark drags a hand down his face.
Kara snatches the newspaper, ignoring his feeble protests as he tries to swivel back and grab it from her, and rolls it up into a ball. “Chill out. Maybe he’s taking a break while he decides what his next move is going to be. Y’know, having a drink and a fuck since he’s been locked up for six months. Maybe he’ll even come back around to obsessing over you, and then you can go back to being the same self-sacrificial idiot you’ve always been.” She throws the ball and Krypto goes hurtling after it, taking a chunk of the wall with him where he didn’t turn soon enough.
Clark is the one who takes the soggy newspaper ball back from him a few seconds later, not wanting to think or talk about Lex Luthor having a drink and a fuck. “Maybe you’re right,” he relents as he punts the ball clean out the door to the Fortress and lets Krypto skid into the snow. “His focus was pretty narrow.” And, coming around to the idea, “He’ll have to come back to Superman eventually. I mean, who else would pose the same challenge?”
***
Lex Luthor picks up Clark on Monday morning with a sleek, narrow limo he parks outside of the Daily Planet’s office. The reporters all press their faces to the window to watch Clark walk out into the sunlight like a man to the rope. The narrow line of Luthor’s body where it leans against the side of the car straightens, ramrod, as Clark shuffles down the curb. The hand that shoots out and seizes his upper arm to guide him into the backseat is tight and greedy.
Ah, Clark thinks as Luthor gets into the backseat as well, those bright and manic eyes landing on him. Question answered.