TITLE: Bitter Spirits

FANDOM: Smallville

PAIRING: Clark/Lex implied

NOTES: writers_choice: drink

Lionel POV, AU from the beginning of Season 2.

He sits, and he waits. He could wait forever if that’s what it would take. The cold settles deep down inside, and the ticking clock marks out every second with perfect clarity. He needs the clarity, the unity.

He laughs, reminded of Greek tragedy – the classics always slip so easily to mind. Unity of time, of place, of plot – yes, he can make it so, let it all take place here, now, and it could be true tragedy. Suffering is art in so very many ways.

Rising as the clock strikes ten, he feels the sense of drama, the anticipation. He reaches out with his cane, moving slowly through the room, feeling the changes around him as four senses guide surely, and his probing fingers find the dresser’s catch. Smoothly, the compartment opens and cool glass falls beneath his gentleman’s touch.

The small delicate bottle is easily opened, then set aside, as he takes a glass from where he knows it to be and the whiskey is deftly poured, the splash splash splash guiding him. Perfect. With unerring precision, he retakes his secret pride, and hovers it over the glass.

Naturally, first for Lillian...drip...then, the dark meteors from Hell...drip...for the storm, for hesitation...drip...and of course...drip...Clark Kent.

Oh, he’s the very end, isn’t he? The curious puzzle, the riddle, the enigma – and he likes a challenge, oh yes. But Lex has forgotten himself, hasn’t he? Objectivity is the key to all good experiments, and his boy always claims to be a scientist. He has never held with it himself, but what matter? Let the boy play, for sure, let him have his fun.

But the fun became deep and sacred, and now, the boy is more than he should be – a friend, a companion, a...love? He knows his literature too well, his classics, his heroes. Alexander and his Hephaistion, his son and the...mutant. For it dances there for anyone to see – and if Lex weren’t blinded by his lust and his furor, he would see, damnit, he would see.

Disgrace – that’s all that plays before his unseeing eyes these days, and he can’t face much more disgrace. His son with that - NO! Forbidden, cast aside – HE WILL NOT ALLOW IT!

Drip...he pulls away his prize, and replaces it in the dresser, sliding the panel back in place. The glass, pregnant with purpose, slides gently across the dresser. Hands steady, without weakness, he pulls down another glass, pours another measure of whiskey with the gentle splash splash splash.

The door swings open, groaning softly. It is time.

“Dad?”

He smiles then, open honesty with clear eyes, childlike innocence leaching from every pore.

“Lex.”

His hand casts outwards, to where he knows the glass lies, where the future lies.

“Join me for a drink.”