Quid Pro Quo
Disclaimer: Elements from Smallville belong to the WB, DC comics, Millar Gough Ink, etc. "Silence of the Lambs" belongs to Thomas Harris and Orion Pictures, script by Ted Tally, whose words contribute heavily to the composition. The bizarre combination thereof in this story is the only thing I can claim as mine.
Notes: Inspired by Livia's Bradbury Challenge.
Thanks to: Hope and Wendi for constant support and beta duties. *hugs*
He hears his (second-rate) shoes clacking lightly on the tiled floor as he crosses the foyer of the courthouse. Police guards surround him, stationed at the front exit, the stairs, and the doors of the single elevator. He reaches the check-in desk and makes his request, badge in hand and open for inspection.
A sergeant examines Clark's ID. He looks up from his command desk, a bit of skepticism in his expression. "Access to Luthor is strictly limited, Agent Kent. We've been getting death threats."
Clark nods, doing his best to appear calm. "I understand, sir."
He hands Clark a clipboard. "Log in and check your weapon."
The officer picks up a phone, murmuring instructions to the upstairs guards. As he does so, Clark removes his service revolver from its holster and sets it on the table. He keeps an eye out for Chilton, pulling a speedloader from his belt and depositing that on the table as well. Bending down to sign his name on the log-in sheet shields him from view as Chilton walks past, talking to a group of reporters.
Once they catalog Clark's weapon, a young patrolman escorts him to the old-fashioned, metal-cage elevator. Clark tries to focus on his notes through the ride up, despite the creaking noise the gears make as the car rises.
The officer standing next to Clark -- bouncing on his toes and looking like he's about to burst with questions -- doesn't help either. Curiosity must get the better of him, because he clears his throat and speaks, breaking Clark's concentration. "Is it true what they're sayin'?"
Clark snaps his head up. "Hmm?"
Now that he has Clark's attention, the eagerness in the cop's expression dims. He speaks in a low tone, like a child worried about raising a boogeyman by speaking its name. "That he's some kinda vampire?"
Clark pauses, considering. "They don't have a name for what he is."
This seems to be exactly what the young cop didn't want to hear. He swallows hard just as the bell chimes and the elevator comes to a stop.
Down the hall to a doorway. Clark stops at the second check-in desk and hands over Luthor's drawings for inspection. The cop checks them over carefully for paperclips or any other potential danger. Clark knows they're being careful. He also knows it will never be enough. These men have no idea who... or rather *what* they're dealing with.
"You do know the rules, Agent Kent?"
"Yes, Lieutenant. I've questioned him before."
The cop nods and places the roll of drawings back in his hand. Clark crosses the big, spare room, inspecting it with a deceptively casual eye. A massive iron cage has been installed upon a raised dais in the center of the space. The officer stationed nearest the cell rises, moving away to allow some relative privacy. Razor-wire crosshatches the open top of the cage, and police barricades surround the base of the raised platform, enforcing a safe distance from the bars.
As though any distance could be safe.
Clark examines the inside of the cage for errors in their security. The barred area contains a cot and a small table, each bolted to the floor, and a flimsy paper screen, hiding a toilet.
Luthor sits at the table, his back to Clark, reading a book. He's no longer wearing the coveralls from Chilton's institution. His garb now consists of a white t-shirt and matching pants of the same material, the color contrast lending the pale skin of his bare scalp a more almond glow.
He doesn't even bother to turn around. "Good evening, Clark."
Cultured voice, superficially polite. Clark stops at a striped police barricade. "I thought you might like your drawings back. Just until you get your view." He completes the offering by setting the bundle on the floor within reach of the cage.
Luthor still hasn't turned around, and Clark can read the meaning of that quite easily, given the man's obsession with courtesy. "How very thoughtful. Or did your supervisor send you for one last wheedle, before you're both booted off the case?"
"No, I came because I wanted to."
Luthor spins in his swivel chair and stops neatly, facing Clark and offering a coy smile that bites. Intelligent, dangerous blue eyes pierce Clark across the short distance. "People will say we're in love." He pauses a moment, letting the barb find its mark. Then his eyes narrow, the familiar lips offering an insincere smile. "Anthrax Island. That was an especially nice touch, Clark. Yours?"
Eyes burning into him, and Clark feels a trickle of sweat run the length of his spine. "Yes."
"Yeah. That was good. Pity that you decided to deceive me, though. So little time for these games we play. Tick-tock, tick-tock..."
Clark clenches his jaw, trying to keep his impatience in check and failing. "You're the one who insists on playing them."
An arched brow, which could mean he's impressed by Clark's courage or that he's simply enjoying the blatant desperation. "Clark... Your problem is you need to get more fun out of life."
Clark struggles to keep his nerves from showing, but he has the very real suspicion that he's already lost that particular battle. "You were telling me the truth before. Please continue now."
Luthor stays silent for a moment, eyes piercing him. "I've studied the evidence, have you? Everything you need to find him is right there."
"Then tell me how."
"First principles, Clark. Simplicity. Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular thing, ask: What is it, in itself, what is its nature? What does he do, this man you seek?"
So twisted to have to play this word game, but Luthor insists on the pronoun facade. The obvious answer is never the right one, but Clark forces it out anyway. "He hurts people. He-"
"No," uttered in a sharp tone, obviously annoyed by the lack of insight. "That is incidental. What is the first and principal thing he does, what need does he serve by his actions?"
Motivations... Clark searches his mind for the key answer. "Anger, sexual frustration-"
"No, he covets." Luthor pauses, smirking as he allows this truth to settle in on Clark. "That is his nature. And how do we begin to covet, Clark? Do we seek out things to covet? Make an effort to answer, now."
Clark paces impatiently, knowing that this is no game, that there's something here that will solve the puzzle if he can just get the right angle. "No. We just -"
"No. We begin by coveting what we see every day. Don't you feel eyes moving over your body, Clark? And don't your eyes seek out the things you want?"
So incredibly uncomfortable to answer, because Luthor's eyes are moving slowly over Clark's form. It feels like a physical touch, one than makes him want to cringe away. The coldness in the eyes... so different and wrong. He covets? Covets what? "All right, yes. Now, please tell me how -"
"No. It is your turn to tell me, Clark. You don't have any more vacations to sell. Why did you leave?"
Clark fists his hands. They'll find out that he's here under false pretenses any second now. "We don't have time for this right now."
Cold, calculating eyes and a crocodile smile meet his entreaty. "But we don't judge time in the same way, do we, Clark? This is all the time you'll ever have. Quid pro quo, yes or no?"
"Later, now please, listen to me. We've only got five-"
"No! I will listen now. At the age of four, you were orphaned. You went to live with adoptive parents on a farm. When you were sixteen, you fell in love with a man. The summer you turned eighteen, you moved in with him against your parents' wishes... And?"
"And one morning, I just ran away..."
"Not 'just,' Clark. What set you off? You started at what time?"
"Early. Still dark."
"Then something woke you, didn't it. Was it a dream? What was it?"
"I heard a strange sound... it was... humming... calling to me."
"What did you do?"
"I went downstairs... left the house, went back to the farm... I crept up to the storm cellar... I was so scared to look inside, but I had to..."
"And what did you see, Clark? What did you see?"
"The... ship... *my* ship... it was hovering..."
A slow, predatory smile spreads across Luthor's face, but Clark notices it only peripherally, lost in his memories. "Your ship. It activated."
"And it was hovering... glowing... making that humming sound... It was talking to me, somehow... I understood it..."
"What did it say, Clark. What did it say?"
"I... I don't remember. I heard a noise... outside. I went to find out what it was. He'd followed me, somehow. Found me at the farm. He could see the light glowing behind the door and reached out to me, said that everything would be okay if I just told the truth."
"And did you?"
"No... I... I wanted to, but I was so frightened... so frightened..."
"What happened then?"
"He... he couldn't understand. Wouldn't believe that I loved him when I wouldn't tell the truth. He... he left me. I can still hear his tires spinning on the driveway, like a scream."
"And you let him go?"
"No. No, I tried to follow him, but I couldn't run. My legs felt heavy... I was just... frozen there. I was still there an hour later when my dad found me."
"But what became of your lover, Clark?
Clark shakes himself out of the memory, turning his eyes up, glittering with anger, fear, and loss. "I never saw him again. You know-"
"You still wake up sometimes, don't you? Wake up in the dark, seeing his face just before he walked away?
"Yes..."
"And you think this will make that stop, don't you? You think, if you find the answer you're looking for here, that you won't wake up in the dark, ever again, to that disappointed face?
Clark shudders, feeling that predatory smile washing over him like a toxin seeping into his blood. "I don't know! I... I don't know..."
Luthor studies him silently, then settles back in his chair, seeming oddly at peace. "Thank you, Clark. Thank you."
Clark shakes himself. He allowed that to go on far too long. There's no time... "Tell me-
"Dr. Chilton, I presume. I believe you two know each other."
Clark turns, startled, and the fuming Chilton seizes his elbow. Two officers stand beside him, looking grim.
Chilton seethes as he tugs on Clark's arm. "Okay. Let's go."
Clark resists the pull, staring into Luthor's eyes. "It's your turn, Luthor."
One of the officers takes hold of Clark's other arm. He knows they're preparing to drag him away. "We've got orders to have you put on a plane."
"Quid pro quo. Tell me how to find him!" Clark struggles, pulling free of the restraining arms for a moment.
Luthor meets his fury with calm arrogance. Eyes crackling with triumph that sparkles, like indirect sunlight glancing off mineral deposits deep within a cave. "Brave Clark. You will let me know when this face stops haunting you?"
As he's pushed toward the door, Clark turns, screaming over his shoulder. "Where is he, Luthor? Where is LEX?"
Clark slams into consciousness, muscles reflexively clenching with tension. Breath rasping his throat, Lex's name echoing in his mind and on his lips. He's in his boxers, not a government employee's economy-grade suit, and yes, he's in bed. The fact that his sweat has soaked through the light sheet has nothing to do with Kansas humidity on a summer night. He glances over. Lex lies sleeping next to him, shifting slightly but apparently not ready to come awake from Clark's minor disturbance.
Dream. Just a dream. So damned vivid, though. Real in a frighteningly surreal way with all the details -- moving into the castle and the ship. Clark's breath shudders, and he lets his eyes drift closed a second, trying to shake off the dream that's still clinging to him like a shroud. Snaps his eyes back open when he sees the Lex-but-not-Lex face of Luthor smirking at him on the black picture screen inside his lids.
Though the prospect frightens him, Clark prods the dream for clues to its source. Needs to know what this means, although he's fairly certain the meaning is as obvious as it is ominous. Wiping sweat from his brow with an unsteady hand, he lays back against the pillows and looks over at Lex. Studying the serenity of Lex's face while he sleeps, Clark knows he can't wait. He'll never be able to get past this until they talk. He leans over, shaking Lex's shoulder lightly. "Lex? Lex, wake up."
The eyes don't open, but a deep frown line appears between Lex's brows as he mumbles, "I really like you, Clark. Please don't force me to hire an assassin."
"Come on, Lex. This is important. I have to tell you something." Clark gets out of bed, pulling on his t-shirt and locating his jeans on the floor. Glancing over, he sees Lex propped up on his elbows in the bed, wide awake now and staring at him. "You need to get dressed."
Lex gives him a puzzled look, but stands up and crosses to the closet. "This revelation of yours requires a field trip in the middle of the night?"
Clark zips his jeans, thoughts drifting to the storm cellar. "I need to tell you the truth, to show you something." Slight hesitation as he takes a deep breath. "Trust me?"
He watches Lex pull on a sweater reach for his slacks, not questioning where they're going or why. "Always."
-- The End --