"Snared"
By Viridian5
10/19/01

RATING: PG; Lex/Clark. If m/m interaction bothers you, walk on by.
SPOILERS: Pilot.
SUMMARY: Lex comes back.
ARCHIVAL/DISTRIBUTION: Please ask me first.
FEEDBACK: can be sent to Viridian5@aol.com.
DISCLAIMERS: All things Smallville belong to Tollin-Robbins Productions and Warner Bros. Television 2001. Superman and various parts of the mythology originally created by Jerome Siegel and Joe Shuster. No infringement intended. Any big, strong lawyer folk looking askance at my loving borrowing should have much bigger fish to fry than little ol’ sporadically employed me.
NOTES: This is all Te’s fault. All. Te’s. Fault.

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"Snared"
By Viridian5
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When Lex had been eight years old, his father had brought him to Smallville’s fishing hole for a father-son fishing day to show everybody that they were "just folks," the better to earn the trust of local farmers with attractive land. Both Luthors had hated it, Lex from the combination of boredom and pressure to produce fish and his father for the lack of pro-active possibilities in the sport. Hoping for a target to arrive and decide to take the bait wasn’t the Luthor way.

At some point Lex had wandered away a bit and heard a terrible, pathetic noise. Compelled to follow it, he found a small drab bird caught in a tangle of fishing line, slicing its wings and body on the line in its efforts to free itself, its heart pounding almost visibly in its tiny chest. His father watched with a distant kind of interest, making no move to help it, but Lex felt driven to do something. Panicked, it pecked and clawed his hands as he tried to free it, and he didn’t know how long he struggled through the pain before he untangled the line at last. It pecked him one last time before unsteadily flying off. For all he knew, it had died of its injuries later.

His father watched him with a sour amusement as he fumbled for his inhaler with bloody, torn hands before saying that this would be an excellent story for his memoirs. A fable on gratitude. His father didn’t believe in using metaphors himself, feeling them to be a crutch needed by the less intelligent. A smart man should understand a concept on its own without needing to compare it to something else.

Lex felt that a smart man should have an imagination to better deploy his intelligence, so he rather enjoyed metaphors.

This one came to mind as he stood in the cornfield he’d faced two life-altering events in. Combine those with his recent near-death, thus life-altering, experience in the Porsche, and he could only conclude that returning to Smallville had returned him to the starring role in a bizarre melodrama.

But he certainly couldn’t complain about his mysterious and alluring co-star. If Smallville ever felt the need to expand its population, posters featuring a picture of Clark Kent, perhaps with the caption "home-grown," would do the trick of recruitment nicely. Who could resist stunning good looks paired with a total, sweet unawareness of said stunning good looks?

Even if Clark did seem to be slightly broken. But he was broken in such a pretty way that Lex didn’t know if he wanted to fix him or break him more. It only added to his allure.

Lex leaned back against the wooden post and ran the odd little necklace through his fingers. Prior to last night, Lex had only seen Clark in drab, worn-out colors. Amazing how the bright green of the small pendant at Clark’s throat had brought out the color of his eyes and made Lex want him to wear it full time. Then again, the sheen of sweat on his skin as he’d hung from the post on display half-naked had done wonders for everything else.

Jocks in most towns taunted kids, threw them into lockers, or messed with their lunches or books. In Smallville jocks apparently stripped their victims to their boxers alone and tied them to posts to freeze overnight in a field as a kinky offering to the corn god or something.

And Lex had thought Smallville would be boring.

But, again, he couldn’t argue with the results in this case. He would never forget the sight of that taut body in its gorgeous suffering, or the glory of Clark’s soft voice begging him to help, free him. This time he was the savior.

Though being the victim to be saved last time had included Clark’s mouth on his breathing life into him.

He’d thought the flying dream he’d had in those moments before he’d started breathing again had been the epiphany, but last night had shown him that he’d been thinking too modestly. He’d only wanted Clark before, but now he saw that somehow they’d been truly linked. After all, hadn’t he known that he had to come here to Clark’s aid?

Lex would continue to do that. Something was stifling Clark, leaving him a shy, weirdly fragile shadow of the person he could be, stunting his potential. It was all wrong. He could be molded and improved, lifted out of his loneliness and isolation. He could be made more confident, stronger.

He would belong to Lex, and he would be happy.

Lex might never return to Metropolis.

He didn’t see himself losing interest in this new toy any time soon, not when Clark fascinated him as well as attracted him. Clark was so earnest and ingenuous, and yet....

Sometimes Lex was certain that he remembered seeing Clark’s body fly to the side as the Porsche hit it at full speed.

Lex knew that Clark would always fly back to him. He had no choice.

***********************THE END**********************