Notes:
Dedication: To zahra for the Lex inspiration. To Beth for the beta and having faith.
If things kept up the way they had been, Lex was going to seriously consider investing in a pharmacology firm. Not the underground type of his college years, which he could honestly say had been an immeasurably creative and profitable venture, should anyone care to ask. Strictly legal this time. The manufacturers with factories that annually churned out Vicodin and Demerol tablets by the metric ton.
After all, if he was going to continually be in need of pain meds, he may as well make a profit off the company providing them.
Strain in his arms and back from the straight jacket. Shoulder showing the beginnings of a spectacular bruise from bearing the brunt of his weight when the chain suspending him upside-down had been shattered with a gunshot. Just an all over ache from the fall off the balcony. That sofa hadn't been as soft as it looked. And it hadn't looked all that soft in the first place. Such are the shortcomings of use-abused club furnishings.
He did a quick check on the prescription bottle. Two tablets every four hours as needed. Take with food. Do not combine with alcohol.
Palmed four of the blue pills and washed them down with the last of his scotch. He had tolerance to rely upon and no stomach for food. And really, if disobeying prescription drug orders hadn't killed him yet...
Someone else would. Seemed pretty much inevitable at this point. Even Lex's luck didn't generally fall to this level of bad. Might be easier to just consume the whole bottle of pills with a scotch chaser and have done with it. But he'd never been one to take the easy way, at least not when it smacked of cowardice rather than calculated intelligence.
He'd lived through worse pain than this and done so rather recently, thank you very much. Your son is no cop out, Lionel. No matter what you chose to believe.
A quick trip to the bar to refresh his drink, and Lex sank slowly into his desk chair. Not as much pain as he was expecting, and although logic said the drugs couldn't possibly have kicked in yet, he wasn't about to look a gift (placebo-effect) horse in the mouth.
A glance at the clock told him he still had five hours of peace before he had to get ready and leave for the opening. Five hours to prepare himself to face the public, to put on the evening's selected mask -- Lex Luthor, neither shaken nor stirred -- and meet his "business partner" at the Talon. The pain in his muscles was nothing compared to the raging headache of dealing with the young Miss Lang and her nervous enthusiasm.
An uncharitable thought, and not exactly accurate. Lana had kept up her end of the deal thus far. Lex provided the funding and other resources; she handled the coordination of the day to day drudgery he didn't have time for and honestly couldn't be bothered with. Lana wasn't really the problem. Having to watch Clark make cow eyes at her was the real source of his headache.
His life was beginning to resemble a never-ending episode of "Dawson's Creek On Acid", complete with moping, hormonal teenager and rejected subplots from "The X-Files". Mutants and Melancholy. The thought was not pleasant. Far from it. But the comparison was there, and that led to the construction of a mental list.
One car accident. Caused by himself with a lot of help from Anonymous Truck Driver, who had been blissfully unaware of violating the "load properly tied down" law, probably until he reached his destination one roll of baling wire short. End result: downing and revivification by one Clark Kent.
One near fall to his death. Caused by his father's complete dissociation from the truth and an enraged former employee with serious health issues. Resulting in a pair of abraded rotator cuffs and various strained muscles, tendons and ligaments in his arms and back. Also a nice lump on the back of his head from being pistol whipped. Death narrowly averted through rescue by Clark Kent.
One episode of highly unpleasurable bondage in his own home. Caused by invisible teenager's Jolie-esque relationship with his slightly unbalanced stalker sister. Resulting in near decapitation, ala "Bedknobs and Broomsticks", and a concussion. Rescued, while unconscious, by Clark Kent.
One near choking death. Caused by blackmailing thugs with the unexplained ability to walk through walls. Resulting in near asphyxiation. Rescued by arrival of Clark Kent.
One episode of highly unpleasurable bondage outside his own home (though Zero had been his closest thing to home for a year or so). Caused by, blah-blah. Various injuries, yadda-yadda. And you-know-who coming to the rescue. Again.
There are patterns and then there are *patterns*.
Considering the list, the previous television analogy suddenly seemed inaccurate. This was more like what passed for "reality" television. "The Real World -- Smallville": A version of life scripted and edited into an entertaining medium. But not really. Lex was far from amused, and there was too much... else. Too many coincidences, too many people who seemed like they were more in the loop than Lex was. Maybe "The Luthor Show" instead -- shot in the world's largest mutated Astrodome. Everyone getting a copy of the script except him, and maybe if he drove far enough and fast enough, he'd find the painted backdrop and the door to escape.
Lex nearly raised his glass in a toast to the mirror. Not quite far enough into the haze to give in completely to the flight of fancy. Or maybe, he just wasn't up to entertaining the people behind the lipstick camera.
Clark. Always there. Always wide-eyed and helpful and so damned sincere that it was almost impossible to look at him without being blinded. Burned retinas from staring at the sun too long, certain if he just looked long enough and hard enough that the mystery would crack open and explain itself.
Hadn't happened yet, but Lex wasn't ready to give up before searching out every possible angle. Even with the knowledge that Clark *could* be hurt, seen with Lex's own analytical eyes, there was something there. Something unique. Lex holding off from aggressively pursuing something he wanted, and for such a long time, was certainly different. But this went beyond the conflicting impulses to protect and consume that he felt every time he was with Clark. More than that. The pattern was *there*. So was the explanation.
He just had to dig deeper.
But maybe it all came back to that first day. Snatched away from death and given a second chance. That's where the pattern started. He and Clark had been doing their bizarre "rescue from peril" routine ever since. It meant *something* -- Destiny. Karma. A death angel pissed off and determined to finish the job.
Or maybe this was simply Lex's own personal version of hell. Trapped in a cycle of near death experiences until the one day came when Clark wasn't around to keep him there. To keep the pattern going. Or maybe Fate, enjoying a truly twisted sense of humor, was just laughing her ass off at them both for assuming that this time, things would be different.
Lex shook his head and took a drink. All patterns could be broken, fatalistic musings aside.
One day, he'd solve the puzzle. That would break the chain, shatter the pattern.
And then Lex could get back to something a little closer to reality.
~The End ~