Sixty-Eight Blocks, Take Two
"Clark? Are you cold?"
Clark jerks at the sound of Lex's voice, tearing him out of a particularly interesting daydream, involving this warehouse, Lex, and the magical appearance of chocolate fudge sauce, the stuff that the waitress spilled on them in the restaurant, leading to the ruination of cashmere and Clark's first genuine kink.
When Lex had said, let's go to a movie, Clark had been thinking, movie. With Lex. No frightening ex-wives hovering over their heads, no mutants on the horizon, since they seemingly didn't enjoy depredations in Metropolis nearly as much as they did in Smallville, no parents to make uncomfortable remarks, and no friends to give unhappy looks. Oh no, this was supposed to be a *good* night, which really, they haven't had all that much of this year, and Clark really doesn't think that was a lot to ask. One movie, one dinner, one ride home, without disaster. Bonding, Clark and Lex style, of course, never happens that way. They do their best bonding in dangerous situations right before Lex starts Asking Questions.
"A little," Clark answers, because he supposes he should be, what with no shoes and no shirt and if he hadn't been having that hot fudge fantasy and all. Not him. He's thinking of Lex Luthor fully clothed and everything. "You?"
Lex pauses, possibly to do a quick internal check of all systems. "Okay, but a little cool." A hand touches his shoulder, and Clark *does* shiver then, taking in the feel of long, callused fingers, the scrape of a semi-dry sock bandage, and a puff of warm breath against his skin. "Drier?"
"Sure," Clark says, having no idea what he just answered. "Um, you think our clothes are dry yet?" Oh, that's a stupid question. That would mean they should get *dressed*. Which is against everything Clark believes in right now.
Lex pauses thoughtfully, and his hand is *not moving*. "I don't think so." The hand does move then as Lex shifts to up to his knees, reaching over to check out the state of the spread out jackets. "Not quite. What time is it?"
Clark looks down at his bare wrist thoughtfully. "I have absolutely no idea."
Lex sighs, but he doesn't sound unhappy, exactly. More resigned, like it's finally caught up with him, that this is one of *those* kinds of nights. "Me either."
They sit in companionable, timeless silence while outside, newspapers around the world announce the disappearance of Lex Luthor and some guy from Smallville. Maybe there'll be a press conference, covering their mysterious disappearance, and pleas for their return from their respective parents. Or threats, as the parent might be. Perhaps they'll put up a memorial when they find Lex's long lost shoe beneath the city, and people will bring flowers.
Maybe Clark has skidded past the intangible edge of insanity and is heading into that deeply frightening territory known as 'balls-out-crazy'. Clark likes that word. Pete used it once, and Clark's always wanted the opportunity to use it. "You know," Lex says, shifting back to sit beside Clark, tailor-style, so one knee presses against Clark's, "I was thinking I wanted a night off. But this isn't really what I had in mind."
"Yeah," answers Clark, trying not to think of how much bare skin is under those cashmere pants. They're still on, and Clark has to bite to keep from suggesting that they would dry *much* faster if they were, say, hung up on a box somewhere. Clark twitches uncomfortably, reaching down to rub at his zipper quickly enough that Lex doesn't see, if he should happen to be looking in the direction of Clark's crotch.
"Clark?" Huh. So Lex saw something. "Is something wrong?"
"Jeans," Clark says, locking his hands together before they, all on their own, go check out the state of Lex's pants. It could happen. At this point, Clark doesn't trust a single limb of his body not to make things even weirder.
"Ah. Chafing." A thoughtful silence. "You should take them off."
And he makes it sound so *reasonable*. He always does. Lex can make almost anything sound reasonable when he uses that tone of voice. Clark's fingers are already at the button fly of his jeans before some sort of stupidly sane thought penetrates. "Um, won't it be weird?"
"Of course not," Lex answers, like it's silly to even think such a thing. Clark listens to the merry sound of a zipper being pulled down. "I'll take mine off, too. That better?"
Absolutely. Coordination goes to hell, and Clark knows he hears denim tear, but it really doesn't matter. Standing up, he peels off his jeans, trying to keep his shaking hands from further destruction, since one day, far in the future, he just might want to put them back on. Sitting back down, wet cashmere brushes his face as Lex lays them over the top of the upper crate behind them, then Lex sits back down right there beside him, almost completely naked.
Yes, right there. Almost. Completely. Naked.
Leaning back into the box, Clark keeps his eyes stubbornly focused on air straight ahead of him
"So," Lex says, completely at ease in his almost-nakedness.
"So." He can do better than that. He knows he can. "Um. Think the rain will let up soon?"
They can just hear it, if Clark listens carefully, still pounding down outside. Clark blesses bad weather with every fiber of his being.
"Maybe." Lex doesn't sound too sure. "Maybe soon."
"Yeah." Pointless conversation. Always fun. Clark pretends that a single movement won't bring him pretty much in full body contact with a mostly-naked Lex, because God alone knows what would happen if he really thought about it. Which he isn't. At all. "So. The bar. You remember that?"
"I usually remember being thrown out."
Clark grins. "I mean, the night you and your friends went there."
Beside him, Clark thinks he can see Lex smile. "Like I said, I usually remember being thrown out. Into the grateful arms of quite a few Metropolis policeman, as the case might be." Lex sighs, but it sounds more nostalgic than anything. "Quite a night."
Clark grins, imagining a younger, but no more sane Lex, getting into fistfights with bar patrons with large poolsticks. At this distance from the actual scene of the event, it takes on a glow of warm nostalgia, very different from the bone deep terror of earlier. "Yeah, it was."
Lex shifts beside him. "Uncomfortable?" Clark asks, when Lex rearranges his legs, knees to his chest, before leaning back into the crate behind him. Clark thinks he can almost see the smile on Lex's face.
"No more so than usual. Are you still shivering?" Somehow, Lex's voice sounds closer when he says that, like they aren't almost touching right now. All mostly-naked warm Lex, and if Clark turns his head, he could probably see him smiling.
He *is* smiling, and if that isn't a sign of just how bizarre this night is, nothing could be. "You know, it could be worse."
Oh God. "Don't *say* that, Lex." Clark can imagine worse. Attacked by hordes of homeless persons after Clark's workboots. The roof falling in. Crates randomly tumbling down on top of them. Lionel Luthor showing up to see them, sitting here, naked.
*Dad*, coming in after a long, fruitless search for his only child, finding them naked, and jumping to all the wrong conclusions. Which really, there is a perfectly logical reason for all of this, and not just Clark's hormones, either, but would anyone believe them?
Would Clark believe himself? If Dad and Lionel and Smallville are going to come in here and jump to all the wrong conclusions, which should happen any minute, *second* now, the way that Clark's life is going, it's damn well going to be jumping to the right conclusions.
Leaning over, and it's not far, Clark's nose bumps Lex's, but the angle's easy to correct this close, and Clark kisses him.
It's *really* been a long night, full of shocks for Lex, who has lost all his worldly possessions, so it's no huge surprise that at first, Lex just sits there, like he can't imagine how his life got to this point-- to wit, half-naked in a condemned building, making out with his best friend--but Clark's okay with that. After losing two shoes, a sock, his watch and wallet, one stalled Porsche, one ruined pair of pants, and one disastrous movie, he's going to be a little shock over the entire series of events. Clark licks the soft lower lip, catching the taste of dried blood, sliding his tongue just inside to run over the tight line of Lex's teeth, picking up the almost indiscernible remains of the soda Lex had with their hamburgers just before the hot fudge incident.
Lex's mouth is wonderful and would probably be even better if he kissed back, but Clark takes what he can get, relaxing when fingers twine in his hair. A quick jerk, however, tells him that Lex isn't quite as copasetic with this turn of events as hoped.
"Clark." Lex sounds breathless. He's also licking his lips, like he's looking for Clark's taste, which is encouraging, though the hold on his hair is less so. "Clark, maybe we shouldn't--"
"We passed shouldn't hours ago," Clark says, reaching out to cup Lex's jaw. Warm, *soft* skin, and Lex's grip loosens when Clark runs his thumb over the parted lips. They'd passed shouldn't, and couldn't, and will not, and even cannot, and damned if Clark's going to hear another thing that sounds even vaguely like good sense. Good sense does not live here. Good sense is one parallel dimension over, where the movie worked, dinner was unremarkable, and Clark got home at a decent hour.
It's not nearly as good as this.
"Clark. I think. We should. Talk about this." And Lex even *sounds* like he means it, but he's opening his mouth when Clark kisses him again, and oh, tongue, and Lex is diminishing the space between them until they're skin on skin, which just makes this so perfect that Clark expects the crates to start falling *right now*.
But they don't, so Clark wraps an arm around Lex's waist and pulls them both up on their knees.
"Let's not," Clark answers breathlessly, ducking his head to lick along Lex's jaw. He tastes like rainwater. "Let's really, really not." Lex is wearing *silk* boxers that slide when Clark's hand slides down to rest on his lower back, fingers just brushing the damp material. Smooth, but not nearly as good as Lex's skin, and Clark's vaguely aware they're skipping rapidly past the making-out part, which is kind of strange but excusable, and skidding right into serious business, which is Lex pushing him back on a warm bed of wet wool and grinning down at him.
Even in the dark, Lex seems to almost glow, looking down at him with that vaguely shocky expression that's been running beneath every emotion so far tonight. Just this sense of disbelief, that this is happening, happening to *him*, and Clark shouldn't enjoy the wide eyed incredulity as much as he does.
"This," Lex says, one hand on Clark's thigh and moving slowly upward, "is a really bad idea." He sounds pleased, like he gets that bad ideas right now are the best ideas ever. If only those pesky crates will stay in place.
"Definitely." Lex's fingers slide into the leg of his boxers, fingers stroking just *there*, and Clark wonders about the tensile strength of wet cotton. "Um. Could you--"
Lex moves like water, a slow slide up Clark's body, not touching until his mouth is just a breath above Clark's, elbows nailing the ground firmly on either side of his shoulders. "Clark," he says softly, and Clark catches his breath at the press warm hardness against his hip, the same time his cocks' pressed to wet silk through equally wet cotton. "Oh." That definitely wasn't part of tonight's schedule of events.
Lex kisses him, soft and closed mouth, chaste compared to the interesting twists of his hips under Clark's hands, slick and sharp, making Clark catch his breath. All that skin, up Lex's smooth, damp back, getting warmer by the second, the vulnerable throat, the silky back of his head, to that perfect mouth that's taking air and what little sanity Clark has left, tongue quick and smooth, teeth catching Clark's and making him arch, sucking in Clark's little moan.
"Lex," he whispers into the night air, head going back at the pull of his hair, Lex's teeth tracking his shoulder, tongue soothing behind, and Clark throws a leg over Lex's, locking his ankle behind his calf, just in case Lex's long-lost sense returns and he thinks about just how very *weird* this is, and how possibly disastrous, what with crates above them, rain outside and oh-my-*God*-don't-stop-Lex-don't-stop.
"Lex," Clark whispers, arching into the steady pressure, wondering if there's any chance he can pry his hands off Lex's skin long enough to pull his boxers off, peel off Lex's, and check out these mind-blowing sensations via skin to skin. It could be good. It could be *incredible*. Clark just might not last long just *thinking* about it. "Lex--"
Lex's wonderful, wonderful mouth closes over his nipple, cool skin in an impossibly hot mouth, and Clark whimpers, scrabbling to keep touching skin, something, locking on Lex's shoulders when he gives the other a sharp bite, still going down in an unmistakable direction, hands hooking Clark's boxers in passing, skinning them off so fast that Clark can't be sure they survived intact and can't quite bring himself to care.
It occurs to him, panting on insanely warm wool, that he's naked, very, very naked, just when Lex whispers something into the skin of his hip that sounds like "Breathe."
It's a stupid command, Clark knows that, the second those soft lips wrap around the head of his cock, a monumentally stupid command. Breathing's overrated, and so is thinking, so Clark gives up on both, gasping when Lex cocks his head and goes down, hard and fast, swallowing Clark to the base, one hand braced on Clark's thigh, the other sliding between his thighs and doing deliciously new things to that tiny patch of skin just behind his balls, cupping his sac, making him wish that he could just stay here, just like this, forever, brilliant light filling his entire line of sight like beacon--
"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?"
--or maybe, a flashlight.
Clark watches Lex sit up, wiping his reddened mouth casually with one elegant hand, turning toward the source of the light. It's been a long night, Clark thinks inanely, unable to move, even when Lex sits casually back on his heels, almost naked, mostly dry, and unsurprised, because it wasn't going to be falling crates after all.
It was going to be *policemen*, or one policeman, singular, staring down at them with a dawning expression of horror as he recognizes Lex and maybe sees tax fraud charges in his future.
Lex smiles, slow, dark, and utterly calm. Standing up, Lex reaches for his shirt, pulling it on with precise flickers of his fingers.
"So good to see you again, Bailey. Can you give us a ride back to Luthor Towers? I'm afraid we got lost."
Lex getting dressed is a tragedy, only equaled by the fact that seventeen does not allow for erections to fade, even in the face of a shocky police officer. "Could you please turn away while my friend gets dressed? Our clothes may be dry by now."
The light flicks off, and Clark listens to the man stumble backward, apparently wondering if he can get out of here without Lex promising retribution and rains of toads on him and all of his progeny for all time. "I'll just, uh, wait, um outside, Mr. Luthor."
"Excellent idea," Lex says, so very calm that Clark's wondering if they dodged the bullet or if, actually, this night isn't really over yet.
The footsteps fade, and Clark moves into action, pulling on his t-shirt and shucking into his jeans--no boxers anywhere in sight, and man, *this* is going to be brand new vistas of uncomfortable--tying his wet flannel around his waist. When he pulls on socks and shoes, he looks up to see Lex, looking--completely not himself. Wrinkled, half-buttoned silk shirt, suit jacket over one arm, bare feet, and grinning like this entire night has been the Smallville State Fair, complete with cotton candy and five hot dogs.
Grinning when he extends a hand, hauling Clark to his feet and jerking him close.
"Think we can make it?" he whispers, and Clark thinks, yes, they can. Of course they can. And he'll answer just the same if Lex actually clarifies the question.
"Come on," Lex says, sock-tied hand laced through Clark's pulling him in the opposite direction of the policeman. "Let's get out of here."
"Lex." Clark comes to a stop, blinking down at glowing blue eyes and a brilliant smile. He couldn't say no to Lex if he tried. But he can at least figure out why. "Um. You want to walk home?"
Lex laughs, jerking him into motion, and they stumble through a darkened warehouse, ducking back outside into endless rain and a wet, deserted dark street, and pulls Clark into a hug that would crack bones if he wasn't invulnerable.
"Why not?" Lex grins up at the sky, then into Clark's face before kissing him, warm and wet and sweet. "It's a perfect night for a walk. Let's go before he figures it out."
Clark hears himself start to giggle. Because it's really been a good night. "Why not?"
He wonders if they'll make it back before morning, and then decides he just doesn't care.