FIC: Smallville - The Paint Job

[fajrdrako_fic]

Title: The Paint Job
Author: fajrdrako
Fandom: Smallville
Genre: Slash
Characters: Clark/Lex
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims, all property of Warner/DC.
Note: This story is a companion piece to The Painting Project by acampbell. Thanks especially to acampbell for giving me permission to play in the world of her story, and with thanks to acampbell and gem225 for beta-reading. Originally posted at The Smallville Slash Archive.


The Paint Job

Clark wanted Lex Luthor to paint a house.

He wasn't talking about visual arts. Not a new opening at the Luthor Pavilion of the Metropolis Museum of Art. He was talking about Home Improvement and do-it-yourself work, just like those TV shows Lex used to make fun of with Victoria. Earnest men with tool-belts and bad shirts. This was all about applying paint to walls so they would look better. This was all about work.

The kind of work Luthors never, never do.

He said, "I've never painted a wall in my life."

"You'll love it. You'll be good at it, Lex," wheedled Clark. "Besides, you know if you're there, more people will come out to help. We'll be done in no time."

That was flattery, and stupid flattery at that. Flattery that would get him nowhere, knowing that half of Smallville would leave any room Lex entered and the other half would stay only for profit or revenge.

No, it wasn't the flattery that did it. It was those eyebrows. Clark was able to give his eyebrows an upward curve. Accompanied by an anxious look, large soulful eyes full of sincerity, in case Lex was in any doubt that he really, truly wanted him to do this with all his heart. It was the sexiest thing Lex had ever seen, and he had seen many sexy things. It made no sense at all, but Lex was a sucker for those eyebrows.

Lex was not a weak-willed man. A weak-willed man could not have defeated Darius of Persia and conquered the whole of the ancient middle east. Lex opened his mouth to firmly say "no" and said, "All right, Clark, I'll do it. When do you want me there?"

Clark's dazzling smile compensated for the loss of Persia, figuratively speaking. For that smile, Lex would have been willing to do anything. He'd have given up caffeine. He'd have let Darius of Persia have the palace and would have walked into the sea barefoot. He was a pathetic case. "Saturday morning," said Clark. "Eight o'clock."

"Thanks, Lex," said Clark enthusiastically. "It'll be fun. You'll see. I hope you don't feel as if I railroaded you into it."

Lex thought vaguely of that future day when Clark would graduate from high school or college, and Lex could offer him a job in sales. That job would be his, the day he asked for it. "I'm not afraid of getting my hands dirty, Clark," Lex assured him.

After Clark had left, Lex buzzed his assistant and cancelled all appointments for Saturday.

"Are you sure, sir?" she asked, in total astonishment. She knew how significant some of the appointments for Saturday were.

"I'm sure," said Lex, with total confidence.

Eight o'clock. On a Saturday. It would wreak havoc with his plans for the reorganization of production relays, but it was worth it. Just knowing Clark gave him a different sort of outlook on life, one that occasionally resembled happiness. He didn't understand it yet, and it might have frightened him more if he did.

Luthors never painted walls. They shipped walls from Scotland and paid people to paint them. They were Popes who hired Michelangelos to do the ceilings. They didn't touch paintbrushes themselves.

Nor was he, but that didn't mean he was often called on to prove it. He decided not to wear the T-shirt with the LuthorCorp logo or the one with the Sharks design. He had jeans and T-shirts left over from his days as a student. He dug them out and settled for basic black; he had a lot of black jeans. There was a tear at the shoulder of th shirt. All the better.

On Wednesday he went to talk to some LuthorCorp contractors who gave him some tips on painting walls, and let him use their equipment to hone his skill. There was something sensuous in the movement of smooth, oily paint over plaster. Lex could see himself getting into it, mesmerized by the smoothness of white on white, wet on dry, the brush slick and frictionless.

On Thursday he took a break from work to try it on his own, finding a patch of wall in the back pantry at the Manor to endow with green latex.

On Friday, he put extra effort into finishing Friday's work and then the work he'd been planning to do on Saturday, just to make sure the time would be free. He did his best to leave instructions that would cover every possible emergency that might crop up at the plant. Praying that there would be no more disasters on the scale of a Level Three, he managed to cover every obligation, real or potential, that had fallen into his agenda. On Friday evening, he drove by the old Mason house to see what it looked like. The renovations seemed to be mostly done, and competent at that.

He would make sure the Smallville High Academic Team kept their side up. Bad metaphor: that they kept their end up. No, worse. He'd make sure they looked good. Ah, hell, everything he thought made him think of Clark, who always looked good. He'd never seen a human being who could do so much for jeans and flannel.

He'd make sure the Smallville High Academic Team underwent no embarrassment. At last, safe phraseology. "You can depend on me, Clark," he could say, but he wouldn't say it, even though he wanted to. He knew he couldn't help saying it with too much meaning, a hint of significant gruffness, a knowing stare. A longing stare. A lustful stare.

In the past he had been able to remind himself of the difference between work and play, and keep them separate. Mostly he had done it by differentiating in time: when he lived in Metropolis, all life was play. In Smallville, all life was work. Only sometimes it wasn't so simple - Victoria sprang to mind, business-related fun and games that had ended badly for both of them.

Clark didn't feel like either work or play. Lex didn't have a category for him. He fit into all aspects of Lex's life.

On Saturday morning, Lex made allowance for traffic and got to the Mason House ten minutes early. It would have been twenty minutes, except he didn't want to seem too eager, so he stopped for an espresso at the Talon on his way through town. Rise and shine. Or at least . . . be alert. Hell. Why did every phrase in the English language sound like innuendo when he was thinking about Clark?

And when, lately, was he not thinking about Clark?

It was time to focus on the Academic Team and the work at hand, not on thoughts of Clark and his seductive mouth. "Hi, Clark," he said.

Clark smiled. "You're early! I mean - you're not late."

"It would be rude to be late,"said Lex. "And also unbusinesslike."

Clark looked pleased, as if he thought Lex was taking this work seriously. He didn't seem to mind the way Lex was devouring him with his eyes: the white Tshirt fit snugly on his large frame, setting off the dark hair and the healthy skin. In his own black shirt and jeans, Lex felt like a chess piece on the opposing side. "Come on, then," said Clark, and led Lex into the hallway. It smelled of wood and varnish and coffee that some students were sharing. Clark's friend Pete Ross was there, too. Lex gave him his friendliest smile and said, "Hi, Pete." He got a curt nod in return. It was probably the best poor Pete could do. Lionel Luthor, vicious bastard of a father, had shafted Pete's family, but that was the least of it. Ever since Pete had tried to kill Lex for befriending Clark when he was stoned on Hamilton's weed, relations between them had ranged from icy to bitter. Maybe it had been the same before that, and Lex hadn't noticed. Did he care? Only if Clark did, which he didn't seem to, much, so Lex was cool with it.

Pete stuck to Clark like a shadow and Lex didn't want to be a third wheel, so he left them to work on the dining room walls and took up a place in the hallway just outside. He could keep an eye on Clark that way - and hear him, too - without looking like a stalker. The other students were upstairs, their voices and footsteps like background noise. Someone had a radio, but Pete, Clark and Lex worked in silence.

Mostly in silence.

When Clark broke the silence, he did it with a stunner.

Lex was actually working on the doorframe then, and in the perfect position to clearly hear him say, "Question for you, Pete. I was watching SNL last night, and someone asked one of the characters if she'd ever given anyone head. What does that even mean? Everyone in the audience seemed to think it was a big joke."

Lex bit his lip to stifle his laughter. It was so off the wall, so absurd, so cluelessly Clark-like. Clark could win debates in the Philosophy Club and remember novels verbatim, but he didn't know about giving head?

The boy needed an education.

Pete dropped his brush with a splat. Messy. Clark, sensing something wrong but not getting it (yet), made matters worse by pressing it. "Well?"

Everyone was young once. There must have been a time Lex didn't know about giving head, but he couldn't remember that far back.

Pete didn't even try to explain. "Clark, man, we can't discuss it here." He laughed awkwardly. "I've got to get some thinner," he said, and bolted with a glare in Lex's direction. He rushed by Lex so fast that Lex wondered what his problem was. What, he couldn't explain a simple word to his best friend? Was he shy about sex, all that midwest puritanism? Could it be that young Mr. Ross had impure thoughts of his own, or was Lex projecting?

When he was the age of Pete and Clark, Lex had given head more often than a chorus boy and his vocabulary had ranged from intellectual to filthy, depending on his mood. But he was not a well-brought up member of the Academic Team of Smallville High, and even his experience at Excelsior Prep couldn't be expected to be the equivalent. Did Pete and Clark not talk about sex? Apparently not. Lex put his paint brush carefully down on the newspaper.

Puzzled by Pete's departure, Clark said ruefully, "I guess I said something wrong. Do you -"

It was time to educate Clark Kent.

"Need some help. Clark?" Lex wandered over to him. "You missed a spot, here." He jabbed a finger towards the wall, and shook his head. "And you've dropped some paint on the floor." He was close enough to hear Clark's breathing, close enough to feel his body heat.

"No, I'm cool," said Clark. "And that was Pete who spilled the paint. That's what he needs the thinner for."

Seen this close, he was beautiful. No artist could paint skin with that shade of perfection, the delicacy of color, the smoothness. "Cool, or hot?" Lex asked, teasing. "Make up your mind."

"What do you - oh. Nothing." Clark flushed slightly, as if picking up on Lex's warmth. He didn't move away.

It wasn't invitation, of course. Clark had no idea of the temptation Lex had been enduring for months. "He wasn't able to answer your question," Lex said. "But this is what it means, Clark."

Lex dropped to his knees, his face level with Clark's crotch. He breathed a soft breath against the paint-stained khakis, then rubbed his cheek against the surface of the cloth. Through the fabric he could feel the heat and hardness of Clark's cock as it reacted hard and fast to the pressure.

He had not intended to move so fast. There were a thousand reasons to be careful, the most important being the fragility and infinite importance of his friendship with Clark. He must not scare Clark away, even though the smouldering warmth he could sense through the cloth against his face was too exciting to resist. Lex wanted to touch skin on skin, to taste, to savor.

Dear God, Lex told himself: I have to stop. Now.

But how?

Lex nuzzled Clark's erection and heard his intake of breath. He outlined Clark's cock with his mouth, tasting blue Latex and cotton, his body aching for the flavor of Clark that he could barely sense below that. He clenched his fists because he wanted to use his hands but that couldn't be on the agenda, not yet, not now, with a house full of students and Pete about to come back into the room. Lex could hear his footsteps already - damn, how could he be so fast?

Clark moaned.

Lex almost whimpered himself, but someone had to keep control. Clark's paintbrush fell out of his hand, splattering the beautiful floorboards. Dropping his eyes, Lex picked up the paintbrush and handed it back to Clark.

"That's basically what it is," he said, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry. "You get the idea. Usually with less clothing. Not sure of the origin of the term. Any more questions?"

He had to look at Clark again, his expression under control. After twenty-two years of getting into trouble, he had learned to master his face. Clark shook his head, his eyes dark with emotion. Lex felt a surge of joy: he had taken his leap off the cliff, and Clark hadn't decked him. Clark hadn't been horrified. Clark was looking at him as if he had just received an undreamt-of revelation and didn't know what to make of it.

Lex wanted to take Clark in his arms and kiss him. Instead he chuckled at his surging hopes. "You can see why Pete left in such a hurry. Hope he gets back soon with that turpentine." He picked up a roll of masking tape and used it to prepare the hall window for painting. The exercise helped to keep his fingers from shaking. A strip here, a strip there. . . and Clark, behind him in the adjoining room, looked like an erotic statue from another world, enough to drive anyone mad.

Clark's eyes had been dark and luminous. No, not shocked or appalled. Surprised, certainly. Not angry. Curious, hungry, hopeful.

Everything Lex might have wanted. He smiled at Pete as Pete passed him in the hall on the way into the room. Lex wished he could dump him out the window and be done with it. He didn't dare glance back at Clark.

When opportunity knocks, only a fool would let it slip by. It was time to think about the next move. Lex's hand wielded the paintbrush up and down against the wood trim, delicately, lightly, while his brain planned the next move. Soon. It had to be soon. He couldn't bear it otherwise.

They all took a break for lunch. Lex wanted to stare at Clark, and so distracted himself by talking with the other students. They were easy to talk to, and he sat with them, sipping the sift drinks and munching sandwiches. He took a bite of his chicken salad sandwich and made a mental note of thanks to his cook. Haute cuisine did not get better than this.

There was something comfortable about the situation; it reminded Lex of his own college days, times he's managed to fit in, conversations he'd had that weren't tainted with greed or lust.

Not that he was innocent in that regard. He didn't need to look at Clark to feel his eyes, resting on him and then slipping away, the color rising in his cheeks. He could sense Pete glaring at him while stealing Clark's uneaten chips, but Pete's enmity didn't matter. What mattered was Clark biting his lip, swallowing, looking without interest at the sandwich he wasn't eating. Martha Kent made the best sandwiches in Smallville, but Lex couldn't regret the waste.

Clark wanted him. There was every indication Clark wanted him. Lex had already discounted the possibility of slipping him away, unnoticed, over the lunch break. But if they could pause for coffee later - and he would make sure they could - he might be able to offer Clark something more interesting than a hot drink.

When the lunch break was over, Pete started back towards the dining room. Lex followed him. Pete stopped, blocking the doorway. "What are you doing?"

"I was going to help you with the walls in here," said Lex.

"You were working on the hallway."

"There's just the window frames to finish here."

There was a moment of silence as their gaze held, one will against another. Pete didn't want Lex around. Lex wasn't going to let Pete chase him away. Unless Pete wanted to make a verbal battle of it - something he wouldn't do without the influence of Nicodemus, and certainly not in front of Clark - he was powerless, and he knew it.

Muttering something unflattering, Pete pushed past Lex and went to work on the outside of the house.

Lex worked on windowsills. Other students did their part, chatting with him a little. Clark worked on walls silently, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

Two windows were left. Lex said to Kathy, the pretty student working with them, "I can finish off here, if you want to get a start on the second bedroom."

"Okay," said Kathy. "Coming, Jim?"

They went out, Kathy and Jim with a rather large girl named Mickey, and the boy from Florida whose name Lex hadn't learned. When they were gone, the room was silent.. Lex savored the sensuous presence of Clark Kent, wordlessly intent on the paintbrush in his hand, up and down on the woodwork, dipping in the paint can, back to the woodwork. Lex would have been willing to bet that Clark wasn't even noticing what he was looking at. Lex hoped he was remembering what had passed between them before lunch. He thought so. The faint flush in Clark's cheeks, the awkward stance, the quick breath - oh, yes. Clark was remembering. Clark was feeling what he felt then: arousal, barely kept in check.

Lex smiled slightly, thrilling to the thought. Oh yes, Clark was ready for him, and he was more than ready for Clark.

Clark gave no sign that he noticed Lex's presence, but Lex was sure he was absolutely aware. Suddenly clumsy, Clark dropped his paintbrush. He cursed under his breath as he caught it. He glanced anxiously at Lex, who smiled.

"So," said Lex, "just the two of us, now."

He wanted to run his fingers down the line of Clark's cheek. He wanted to kiss those lips, red, slightly parted, so hungry for him he could almost taste it. Stalling, he looked down at the spotted floor. "Some drop-cloths would be a wise investment for this group, for next time."

Clark nodded. He moved a little closer, for no obvious reason. Lex could feel his tension from inches away, that mesmerizing heat.

Clark swallowed.

It was a little movement, but Lex felt it like a touch. He grinned, knowing that Clark was within his grasp, feeling it with such force that his heart picked up its beat and his cock hardened to the point of pain. He leaned closer, whispering into Clark's ear: "Clark, your productivity has really slipped since this morning. If I suck you off, can we get back to work?"

Getting back to work was the last thing he wanted. The first thing he wanted . . . was about to happen.

Clark's quick intake of breath was as eloquent as a speech. He touched the ledge, oblivious to paint on his hand; bit his lip, shut his eyes, opened his mouth as if to speak; and Lex memorized every motion with avid concentration.

He had to swallow before he could speak properly, but his voice was still under perfect control. "There's a lot of dust in here, Clark, and we've almost polished off the water supply. Close your mouth." He put the tip of a finger to Clark's upper lip, imagining it as a kiss, as if his fingertip could taste those lips he could barely recall from the riverbank.

Clark was watching him carefully, not sure what to expect, dazed and wanting.

"Come on," said Lex.

He took the paintbrush out of his hand, letting his fingers brush Clark's skin. He put the brush on top of the bucket, and rose, putting a hand lightly on Clark's arm. Through the shirt, he could feel warm skin and hard muscle. "Come on," he said again.

He didn't look back as he left the room. He didn't need to, to know that Clark was close behind him. He had already checked the house over, and doublechecked after lunch. The pantry was perfect: it could be locked, it was lit by a high window, and was as close to soundproof as anything in the old place. It had been painted earlier; Lex didn't know when, but the harsh smell of fresh paint had faded. As he pulled Clark inside with him and closed the door, he could smell the fresh cleanliness of the space and the spicy tinge of Clark's arousal. "No one will come in, but just in case, there's a lock." He turned the key with a theatrical gesture, since he wanted to give Clark time to object, if Clark intended to object.

Clark did not object.

He tested the doorknob, which was firm. He felt almost shy, now the moment was upon him. He had wanted this for too long. He was aching too hard.

Clark said, "Lex, you don't. . . ."

"Shh," said Lex, putting a finger again on those lips he'd fantasized about so much. He didn't know what Clark had been going to say. If it was an objection, he couldn't bear it. Whether it was an objection or not, there was no uncertainty in Clark's eyes, which devoured him.

"Don't talk." Lex pushed Clark gently against the counter, caressing his face with both hands, cradling his jaw, leaning forward. He saw Clark's lips part as he leaned forward to kiss him, felt the rush of excitement through Clark's body. He meant to make it gentle and slow, but he couldn't, his tongue and lips had minds of their own, and they were greedy for touch and taste and texture.

Lex broke the kiss, running his hand through Clark's dark hair. Clark's eyes were full of wonder and hope. All those unasked questions, the need for experience, the desire for touch.

He could oblige. He ran his hand down Clark's chest, lightly, then cupped his erection through the khaki. "Ah, to be fifteen again," he said.

"Sixteen," said Clark insistently, his voice low - it seemed he had lost control of his voice in the past few seconds. "I'm sixteen, now."

Lex chuckled. "Sixteen, excuse me. Anyway. . ."

He watched Clark's tongue moisten his lips, a quick, needy gesture. It was almost too much, and he forced his attention to the trousers - belt, button, fly - keeping his hands steady and his breath even. Then the boxers, pulled aside with Clark's cooperation, and. . . Bingo.

For a moment, he could think of nothing to say. Uncut, dark with the pressure of blood within, wet at the tip, Clark's cock was overwhelming in its perfection. Lex had imagined this moment, often, but his fantasy had come nowhere near the reality. The ache in his own cock spread in response and he groaned slightly, silently, as he slipped to his knees between Clark's legs.

"Nice," he whispered. The inadequacy of the syllable was irrelevant. He brushed his lips across the cock-tip, feeling a jolt at the taste and heat. He licked Clark's balls and the underside of the cock, moving upwards. Clark's first time, he thought; this was not to be rushed, this was to be prolonged as long as Lex could bear it. This was for Clark, not Lex. If it was good enough, he'd want more. If it was good enough, this wouldn't be the last and only time.

Lex glanced up at Clark, who was flushed, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide in wonder.

Good signs.

Lex's lips reached the tip of Clark's cock once more. He blew gently on the moisture there, and heard Clark gasp.

This boy liked sex.

Clark's hand grasped the counter top. His body gave a little jerk. "God, Lex!" he said aloud. The words were strained.

"Easy, Clark," Lex whispered. He steadied Clark with a hand on his hip, keeping his mouth close to the tip of Clark's erection. "Just relax."

Instead of relaxing, Clark froze as Lex took his cock in both hands. It was time for the fireworks now, time to show Clark what he could really do if he put his mind and his mouth to it.

It was a knack Lex had learned young, and honed. Clark's size made it challenging, but he relished a challenge, in love as in war. Breathing carefully, he got his lips around Clark's cock at just the right angle, and plunged down all the way. His throat resisted, then adjusted, and stretched further again.

He slid his mouth up, timing his breathing to match the rhythm. Down again, feeling his throat fill, straining, so that Clark's hot flesh consumed all his attention. Down, up, getting the patterns of motion right, using instinct and lust in an overwhelming combination. Then he lifted his head just a little, and began to suck. Hard. Harder.

Lex glanced up. He had the odd impression that Clark had stopped breathing entirely, but at that moment Clark exhaled, shuddering, so he must be all right. He raised a hand and touched Lex's head. The touch was gentle, but Clark's hips suddenly thrashed with no control at all. Prepared - since he had, after all, been inviting it - Lex took it all, sucking, and Clark climaxed, hard.

He cried out with the force of it. He tasted like no one Lex had ever been with, which was unsurprising, since Clark was unique in every other way. Lex swallowed it all. Clark groaned again, loudly, and Lex closed his eyes, hardly daring to watch the beauty of Clark's face in orgasm. He wanted to remember it forever, a photo implanted in the brain.

Success.

Time for stage two.

Lex stood, wiping his wet mouth on his sleeve. "There, learned your lesson?" He raised an eyebrow, striving for self-control.

Clark focused on him, looking a little dazed.

"Think you can be productive in other ways, too, now, for the rest of the afternoon?"

Clark swallowed. "Think so." He paused. "Thanks." Recalled to self-awareness, he tucked himself away and zipped his fly. He was not moving with much efficiency, his hands unusually slow, as if his mind were elsewhere.

"Come," said Lex softly. He smiled, pulling Clark into his arms, kissing him. It was a gentle touch of the lips, at first. Then a gentle touch of the tongue, a little firmer and more insistent, so the tongue was in Clark's mouth, a welcome guest rather than an invader. He held Clark in his arms, feeling the warm chest against his, feeling the hard muscles in back and ass, wishing that he never had to let go. He felt Clark melt against him. He whispered, "This will have to count as our afternoon break."

He felt Clark's intake of breath. "Okay," he rasped, pulling back. Lex released him without showing his reluctance. Clark's eyes were bright.

Lex mused, "Good thing everyone else was outside. You're kind of loud when you come."

He saw embarrassment color Clark's skin as the eyes widened again. "God, Lex, I didn't. . . ."

Fighting a laugh, "It's okay, Clark," said Lex. "No one heard." Except him. He would never forget the incredible sound.

Clark sighed, and looked at his watch. By the surprise on his face, he hadn't realized how long they had taken.

Every minute well spent, though Lex with satisfaction, as he went out the door. He crossed the kitchen to the sink and washed his hands and face, rinsing his mouth with reluctance.

IV

The rest of the afternoon was long. Lex didn't return to the dining room walls; he knew he couldn't bear to work beside Clark without touching him. He had infinite faith in his own control, but he knew only too well the cost of that control: brittle temper and bad attitude. He was feeling good about what happened - Good? Fuck! Alexander achieving godhead was nothing on this!

But he was only human, and it was difficult enough to glimpse Clark's magnificent body as it moved under khaki trousers and paint-stained white Tshirt. It was enough to see the arms, so well-muscled and powerful for a person so young. He watched the patch of dark sweat on the T-shirt at the small of Clark's back, and thought how it would feel against his cheek. He wanted to touch that hair again - could it really have been so soft? Could that ass really be so firm? Could that skin taste so perfect?

Lex wondered when desire had become obsession. He wondered how he had managed to last so long and to bear Clark's touch without climaxing. Fearing the total collapse of his self-control, he had kept himself from begging Clark for a touch. Not yet, definitely not yet.

He went to the second bedroom, and joined the students painting the walls offwhite. They made jokes about the color, or lack thereof, and joked about politics, and joked about sports, until Lex told a howler and excused himself politely, leaving the sound of their loud laughter behind as he went into the upstairs bathroom and silently jerked off to the images of Clark in his head.

He leaned against the door, regaining equilibrium. It wasn't just Clark whose mind had been messed with today.. What had he done to himself? Emotions running on full throttle, playing with fire. . . . Playing with his future. . . . Jeopardizing everything he had looked for in Smallville.

Worth it, to see the light in Clark's eyes. To hear him cry out as he came. To feel the touch of that hand on his head.

His father would be disgusted.

But his father wasn't capable of this kind of joy, was he? He only knew the thrill of victory, and this was something else. Conquest, yes, but also surrender. Was he the seducer? He had thought so at first.

Clark was a paradox in too many ways. Innocent, but seductive. Naive, but quick. A dangerous savior.

Lex was accustomed to being able to control his own feelings. Clark had sent him reeling out of control . . . and dear god, how he loved it.

He was still thinking about it when the afternoon's work ended. Brushes were cleaned and trays were scrubbed, drop-clothes rolled up with smocks and rags, the house left to settle and dry in its new shining beauty.

Lex went to his car and pulled off the T-shirt which would never again be basic black: instead it was now a mottled mix of whites, blues, and grey smudges that even Riopelle would reject.

Then suddenly Clark was beside him. Lex pulled on his clean white shirt and began to quickly fasten the buttons. "Pretty good afternoon, Clark?" He let the implications of that sink in before he casually added, "We're all caught up to where your group wanted to be by the close of day." He opened the trunk, and hefted in the cooler and the paint-splattered shirt. "Hmm," he said thoughtfully. "I could just pitch that shirt - but I think I'll keep it. Sentimental value."

He smiled slightly, leaving Clark to make of that whatever he wished.

Clark looked down. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking or feeling. Surely he was not regretting. . . "Going out tonight?" he asked.

He had noticed the suit in the back of the car. Observant. "Dinner in Metropolis. Business," said Lex shortly. He wanted to kiss Clark, hard and long. He wanted to take Clark home with him to explore his body. He wanted . . . things he would have to wait for.

"Oh." Clark bent, fiddling with his box of brushes and tools. Lex hoped for a moment that the syllable was one of disappointment, but there was no way to tell. When he looked up again, Lex made sure he was fastening his cuffs, not staring. Not staring at all.

"Lex," Clark said, and hesitated. Lex waited patiently. He did not swallow, though he wanted to. He did not move. Still as a statue, waiting. He reminded himself to breathe normally. Usually he could read people well, including Clark. But now, his emotions engaged, his intellect reeling, confused by desire, he could only hope that Clark wanted him as much as he wanted Clark.

He said nothing to prompt Clark, and Clark continued, "Lex. It was cool. I liked it. Really." There was a but coming. Lex could feel it. He resisted the impulse to slam his fist into the Porsche and dent the metal. He kept his feelings from showing on his face. There could be so many buts. Which would it be? But I'm not ready, Lex. But I don't really feel that way about you, Lex. Bur you're not my type, Lex. But I'm really stuck on Lana.

He swallowed, and waited for Clark to continue.

"But," said Clark, and there it was, his greatest fear, that "but", "could you please not embarrass me again like you did this morning? It's kind of hard, being turned on in front of my whole class."

Relief flooded through him. "Very hard, I suppose," he said, and that made Clark blush again. If he knew what it did to Lex every time he blushed, he might blush more often, just to torment him. To make it worse, Clark bit his lip, making Lex want to whimper. Instead he pretended not to notice.

"Then next time," he said, taking the upper hand, "don't bring up inappropriate topics at a school work project. Stick to more innocuous topics. You really did it to yourself. Follow your friend, Pete's, lead next time. Watch your mouth." And don't let any other fast boys from Metropolis seduce you because I couldn't bear it. . . .

"Okay," said Clark, in a disgruntled tone. Was he regretting what he had said, and what it led to?

There was an endearing pause as he eyed Lex with suspicion and - was it possible? - lust.

"So," said Lex casually, "do I get an invitation to the next class work session?"

"Sure, if you want," said Clark.

It was hard to tell from his tone whether he was eager, or simply accepting. "Wouldn't miss it," said Lex. He kept his tone neutral, but his eyes feasted on Clark's magnificent body, the exquisite face, the captivating eyes. It wasn't subtle, but today they'd entered a space where subtlety was immaterial.

The warmth came back to Clark's eyes. He smiled. "Thanks for coming, Lex."

Lex met his eyes. "But Clark. I didn't."

The word "yet" hung silent between them. It was a lie, but a lie that pulled future possibilities in its wake.

Clark flushed harder than ever. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Oh, Christ, thought Lex, look at me like that and I'll forgive you anything. "Don't be," he said crisply. "Just come over to the Manor next week and you can return the favor. We can spend a little more time at it, there and then. Can skip the painting, too, unless you're really feeling creative."

There it was. He'd propositioned a High School student, one of Smallville's finest, a fine upstanding young virgin till today. Invited him home for illicit acts of license and fleshly indulgence.

The former virgin didn't seem to mind. He broke into a smile. He gave a little laugh. "I'd like that," he murmured, and once again Lex had the feeling of tables turned, the seducer becoming the seduced, the prey devouring the hunter. It was the light in Clark's eyes, hungry and alluring. Needy and unafraid.

Was this disorientation, or was the earth moving under his feet?

He swallowed again, and caught his breath. Things shifted into balance. "Then, that's all that matters," said Lex. No one was watching. He gently touched his forefinger to Clark's cheek, feeling the warm skin and the promises it contained. "Come on, get in. I'll drop you off at home on my way to Metropolis."

Clark got into the car with an easy smile, and Lex couldn't help smiling back.