This ficlet exists because it kept me awake at 2am and wouldn't let me sleep
until I wrote it
Amber liquid sloshes and swirls into the glass. The red glow is constant now in the crystal. He shivers slightly as the heat dies away from the room, the innate cold of stone reasserting itself eagerly. Too much effort to rebuild the fire. Too much of an invasion to call someone to do it.
Scotch gives a pleasant laziness of thought, filing away the sharp edges of rage. Just pure cold clarity now; detached, analytical. Perfect balance between sobriety and inebriation, achieved with ease after years of practice.
A manila envelope lying casually on a table, photos back inside out of sight.
Lex wants out of his father's control. Wants it with a sleek velvet hatred that burns slow as the whiskey in his throat.
The images vivid in his mind aren't hidden away so easily. Victoria, head thrown back, his father's lips at her throat, hand twisted in her hair. Doesn't give a damn about her but -
He's not used to seeing cowardice in himself the last few years, usually thinks it's better to know and face truth. But he couldn't ask. Wouldn't ask Nixon when. Was it after the last time? Or before?
Feels the nausea rising, bitter and poisonous.
Okay, so maybe the Laphraoig's not doing quite so well after all. It's going to take a lot more alcohol to drown that particular thought. He reaches for the bottle, watches the level in the glass rise. Elbow resting on hip, glass held high, he stares across at the best form of oblivion he still allows himself. Considering.
He sips cautiously, not yet ready to exchange contemplation for drunkenness. Sharp liquid heat trails across his palate.
He wants a world without his father in it.
Not exactly a simple task. Oh, he has his plans; several of them actually, allowances made for some of the inconvenient variables. The early stages are already in motion, the finance and the power trickling his way with a steady inevitability. But it's slow, it has to be; eight years, more or less. And right now that's way too long for Lex.
Chilled air moves across his wrist past the open cuff. Draught through the doors behind him - Nixon left them open. He feels his skin try to react, the goose bumps that should be there and aren't. Eight years being watched, every move double-checked, every decision questioned. No way out of it. He's thought this through a hundred times and he isn't expecting any new revelations.
Eight years.
Takes a somewhat bigger slug of the whiskey, the satisfying jolt as it hits his throat all too brief. He can use a distraction. Something unconnected with his ambitions, his father. A project.
Clark's sixteen in just another couple of weeks.
He's been watching Clark; knows he's there whenever he wants him. All he has to do is push and Clark will cave. And Lex wants that too - wants to watch as the naked fear succumbs to the lust almost as much as he wants the sex.
Clark Kent's just a normal kid, with no place in Lex's plans.
Clark Kent's just a normal kid and Lex's intentions haven't changed at all. He still knows exactly what he wants to do with that innocence. Wants it just as fiercely even without a secret to chase, a destiny to bind.
And maybe he has worse problems than his father.
He drains the last of the Scotch deliberately and reaches for more. At least it will stop him feeling the cold.
The end