Summary: Smallville High has a new teacher

Warnings: Rated NC-17. m/m

Lex bends over his lesson plan, trying very hard to tune out Mr. Worley's drumming fingers on the arm of the worn-out sofa. Or the way Mrs. Rayburn sucks her coffee in through her teeth like a human strainer. It's only third period, more than half the day still to get through, and while going on a homicidal rampage, picking off all the teachers whose personal habits annoy him, sounds so much more rewarding than trying to figure out how to impart the majesty of world history to a bunch of vacant-eyed, grain-fed tenth graders, it's hardly going to pay the bills.

If anyone had told Lex six months ago that he'd someday be holed up in the Smallville High teacher's lounge with a ragtag collection of second-rate hacks, he would have laughed. Not a dry little huh-huh-huh, either, but a full-out guffaw of amused disbelief.

That was before Lionel decided it was time for a change and promoted the dark-horse Lucas from obscurity to heir apparent.

"You've lived off my largesse long enough," Lionel had said to Lex, as he delivered the blow. "Go out, make something of yourself, and if I'm sufficiently impressed, perhaps you'll earn your way back into my good will."

That was it. No further explanation, no grace period. One moment Lex was a LuthorCorp vice president, the next he was languishing on the curb outside their Metropolis penthouse, relieved of his credit cards, sports cars and all the influence he'd ever had in that town.

The prospect of begging for a job from people he'd made good sport of intimidating in the past was too humiliating to even contemplate. His mother had left him the house in Smallville, so he'd taken refuge there, searching for some way to make a living. The LuthorCorp factory was out for obvious reasons, and most everyone else in town viewed him with suspicion when he showed up, resume in hand. The high school, however, was desperately short of teachers and willing to consider even a Luthor to round out its faculty. His master's degree in biochemistry got him hired, although in the administration's infinite pedagogical wisdom he'd been assigned to teach World History.

The bell rings, and Lex tries not to sigh too loudly. Back to the academic salt mines. He gathers up his books and papers and makes himself smile at Mrs. Rayburn on the way out, even though she's gone from coffee-slurping to picking her teeth, a sound that is only marginally less grating than fingernails on a chalkboard.

He closes his eyes for a moment, stalled just outside the door, while he reminds himself why he's doing this. To show his father he can make his own way in the world. Prove the old bastard wrong. Get back to where he really belongs. He sighs again, opens his eyes, and continues up the hall.

At least, there is something to look forward to in fourth period, third row, fifth desk from the front, trying to hide at the back of the room, although how a boy who looks like that imagines he can escape notice is beyond his wildest guess. Lex has been able to think of little else since that first day when Clark Kent came shuffling into his classroom, five minutes tardy, red-faced as he stuttered, "Sorry, Mr. Luthor. Got out of gym late."

Oh, that had given him fantasies, all right. It's the rare night when he doesn't jerk off to thoughts of a steamy locker room, the way those dark curls would look in the humid air. He likes to imagine the entire strip tease, from start to finish, sweaty shirt being pulled over strong shoulders, shorts pushed matter-of-factly down to golden-brown ankles and kicked away, the straps of an athletic cup framing firm cheeks, because only a pervert would fantasize about a fifteen-year old probable virgin, and if you're going to be a pervert, you might as well go all the way. Once the cup comes off, Lex likes to tease himself, allowing only a quick peak of a long, thick cock, before the boy swaddles a towel around his hips and heads off to the showers. Here, Lex lets himself linger, picturing the hot spray streaming down a well-muscled chest, large hands gliding soapily across bronzed skin...

He has to shake his head hard to clear away the thoughts. He unlocks the door to his classroom, goes inside, arranges his books and notes on his desk. Today, they'll be talking about Alexander the Great, a subject dear to Lex's heart. Sadly, he can even now picture the bored look of incomprehension that will greet his namesake. Really, teachers deserve danger money. Spending too much time in the company of teenagers, Lex is convinced, has to be bad for your mental health.

Slowly, the students start to trickle in, taking their places, chattering on about some inane nonsense that Lex doesn't even bother to listen in on. Just as the final bell rings, his favorite student comes bolting through the door, knocking into a neighboring desk in his haste to take his seat.

"Good morning," Lex greets the class.

The students mutter in response, all except Clark, who keeps his head down, eyes riveted on the floor. Lex smiles faintly to himself. He knows what that means. Somebody didn't do his homework, yet again.

Lex gets up from his desk and begins to pace at the front of the classroom. The students sit up straighter, eyes fastened on him, their expressions tense. They know what's coming.

"Who can tell me what year the Battle of Issus took place?"

There is silence, and Lex points to Maria Callahan, front row, acne problem, a diligent student who always gets the right answers. He makes it a habit to call on her first, or Brad Johnson, the brownnoser who sits by the windows. He hates starting things off on a bad note.

"333 B.C.?" Maria's voice lilts up at the end, making it a question, although Lex is certain she knows every detail of that battle as intimately as she knows her own name.

"Confidence, Miss Callahan. There's no need to apologize for being right." He turns down the far aisle, walking slowly, making the students on either side of him shuffle their feet. "Now who can tell me who commanded the Persian army in that battle?"

He glances deliberately around the room, making them all wait for it. Clark ducks his head even lower, starting to look like a frightened turtle. Apparently, he didn't do the reading, either. Lex lets him marinate in his own dread. Perhaps it's not a fair impulse, wanting to make the boy pay for arousing such unseemly desires in him. But then, who ever said the world was fair?

"Mr. Clayton," he calls on the hero of the school's wrestling team, a brazen Neanderthal with an insulting penchant for dozing off in class.

"Um, it's, like, that commode guy, right?"

Lex sighs. "If by 'that commode guy," you somehow mean Darius III Codomannus, then yes, that is correct."

Roy Clayton pumps his fist in the air, missing Lex's sarcasm entirely. Lex pinches the bridge of his nose. He's not sure how long he'll survive living among people who have no sense of irony.

"All right," he says, taking a deep breath, "let's move on. Where did Alexander proceed after this battle?" He whirls around. "Mr. Kent."

Clark stares up at him, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, obviously no idea what Lex is talking about.

"Down the Mediterranean coast," Lex answers for him. "Name one city he attacked."

Clark starts to turn pink.

"Tyre," Lex tells him. "How long did that siege last?"

Clark blinks helplessly.

"Seven months. Tyre was a rocky island fortress, considered by many to be impenetrable. How did Alexander finally prevail?"

The boy bites his lip.

"He used rubble from the abandoned mainland city to build a causeway out to the island and then battered the city walls until he breached its fortifications."

He moves back to the front of the room and addresses the entire class, "And what can we learn from this?"

They stare back at him with expressions that are so terrifyingly vacant he has a flash of panic about the future, the day when these dimwits will be in charge of the world.

"The lesson is that patience, determination and creative problem solving are tools that can be used to accomplish even those things that have long been considered impossible. You'd do well to remember that." He opens his textbook to begin his lecture, and adds as an aside, "That's five points off your class participation grade, Mr. Kent."

Roy Clayton snickers, silenced a second later by Lex's icy stare. Clark doesn't dare look up, but he focuses on his notebook with an air of diligence, as if he hopes to make up for his shortcomings by assiduously taking notes. Lex launches into his lecture. As feared, the students' faces glaze over. He sighs inwardly. They just don't understand the profundity of history, and he's at a loss for how to communicate it to them.

He finishes a few minutes before the bell rings. "Pass your homework up to the front."

There is a flurry of searching through backpacks, the sound of pages being torn out of spiral notebooks, and then a sea of white paper heads his way. The only person who remains motionless is Clark.

Lex goes to stand next to his seat. "And where is your assignment, Mr. Kent?"

Clark glances up hesitantly. "Well, you see--" He swallows hard. "I did do it, but we had this problem at my house. A pipe burst in the kitchen early this morning, and that's where I always do my homework. At the table. I'd left my papers there when I went to bed last night. And then the pipe thing happened. By the time we got it under control, the whole kitchen was pretty much wrecked. And--" A sheen of sweat has broken out on the boy's forehead. "My homework-- I didn't have enough time to redo it."

"Hey, Kent," Roy Clayton calls out to him in a mocking voice, "maybe if your folks got real jobs they could afford some decent plumbing, and you wouldn't have these problems." He breaks out in a loud, smirking laugh, looking to his jock buddies for encouragement, and they don't disappointment him.

"Mr. Clayton," Lex says sharply, and the boy's laughter instantly evaporates. "Since you seem to enjoy diagnosing other people's difficulties, you can give me five pages analyzing the battle plan of 'that commode guy,' and why it wasn't successful."

Clayton opens his mouth to protest, but quickly thinks better of it.

Clark shoots Lex a grateful look, but if he thinks that's going to get him off the hook, he has so much yet to learn in life. "And you, Mr. Kent, can spend your afternoon with me, learning to improve your work habits. Or at the very least not to insult my intelligence by offering ridiculous excuses for your slatternly scholarship. Report back here when school is over."

Unlike Roy Clayton, Clark shows no impulse to argue. "Whatever you say, Mr. Luthor." His tone is compliant, almost submissive.

That certainly fills Lex's head with ideas. Mercifully, the bells rings, and the students erupt out of their seats, making a beeline for the door. The last one to leave is Clark, who casts one backward glance, before ducking his head shyly and hurrying away.

Half an hour after the end of school, and the whole building has gone silent, the student body, even the faculty, having fled like the place was burning down. It is Friday, after all, and everyone else has something better to do, everyone but Lex, and his recalcitrant charge.

The large, round clock on the wall ticks unnervingly loudly in the stillness. Clark sprawls at his desk, not the usual one at the back of the room, but right up front, at Lex's insistence. It's easier to keep an eye on him this way. Not that this is really the challenge. Making himself pay attention to his book is so much harder.

He's rereading Habits of the Roman Empire, in anticipation of the next unit he'll be teaching, but his mind keeps wandering, improvising a story of its own. In it, he's a Roman general, banished from the capital by his duplicitous father, sent out to the hinterlands to try to achieve what glory he can. He leads a raid on a small village in Germania, which falls easily to his superior forces. The villagers, the rebellious ones at least, are killed, the rest taken as slaves, but there is one boy who catches his notice, wide green eyes that follow Lex's every move, a mouth that begs to be kissed, to be used. He gives the boy a choice, be sold to strangers or serve him, and takes him into his tent that night to show him what such servitude means. Afterwards, the boy bends his head in quiet acquiescence, accepting his place by Lex's side, in his bed, and for the first time since his bitter exile began, Lex feels a lightness in his heart, as if there's some hope of recovering all that he's lost.

The sound of a throat being a cleared and a tentative "Mr. Luthor?" snap him out of his pleasant reverie.

He scowls, not happy to be interrupted, even by the object of his fantasy. "Yes?"

Clark seems abashed by Lex's brusque tone and stammers, "I, um-- I finished the exercises at the end of the chapter. What should I do now?"

Lex studies him a moment, considering the possibilities. At last, he says, "You can answer some questions for me."

Clark shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I'll try."

"You can start by telling me what you have against history."

Clark frowns. "I don't know what you mean."

"I did some checking," Lex tells him, and Clark fidgets more restlessly. "You're doing well in your other courses. Turning in your homework. Answering questions when called on. Getting high marks on your tests. So why aren't you doing any of that in my class?"

The boy stares miserably at the top of his desk. "I'm sorry, Mr. Luthor."

"I'm not looking for an apology, Clark," Lex says impatiently. "I'm asking for your help. What am I doing wrong? How can I make this more exciting for you?" He hastily adds, "And for the rest of the students?"

Clark's eyes go wide. "It's not that!" He leans forward, very earnestly. "I think you're a great teacher."

Lex smiles tiredly. "Then why aren't you learning anything?"

"I'm learning stuff," Clark insists, his chin lifted stubbornly.

"Oh, really? Care to demonstrate this mysterious knowledge you've acquired?"

"Well..." He takes a deep breath. "I was thinking a lot about what you said before, you know, how Alexander lived such a short time and yet he made such a big impact on history, and that had to do with how good he was at coming up with strategies and battle plans and stuff like that. So I got that book you recommended out of the library. You know, The Generalship of Alexander the Great. And I thought what was really interesting about it was not the battle stuff--although that was good, too--but how politically smart Alexander was. How he could be a statesman when he really needed to be, and that contributed to his success almost as much as being a great military guy."

Clark is out of breath by the time he finishes, by far the most he's ever had to say in Lex's classroom. He watches Lex with a nervous, hopeful expression, searching for approval.

"That's a very intelligent analysis of the book," Lex tells him.

Clark's face lights up, and his cheeks turn pink.

Lex's tone turns sterner, "I do, though, have to wonder why I don't see more of this initiative in your school work. You're obviously an intelligent person, Clark. Why are you achieving so much less than you're capable of in my class?"

"Um, well," he gives Lex a shy, hesitant glance, "maybe I just need special attention?"

Lex presses his lips together. "If you needed more help, why didn't you come to me sooner?"

"I was embarrassed?"

Lex sighs. "Never let something like that stand in your way, okay?" Clark nods, and Lex says, "Good. Let's meet after school two afternoons a week until you're caught up. Say Tuesdays and Thursdays?"

Clark breaks into a huge, luminous smile. "Thanks so much, Mr. Luthor. I really appreciate it."

Lex nods. "Now why don't you start by writing me a thousand words on what you learned from the book you read, in more specific detail. I have a copy of it over there on the shelf."

"Sure thing, Mr. Luthor." Clark bounces up from his desk and goes to get it, happier than Lex has ever seen one of his students to get a writing assignment.

Lex goes back to his own book, but it's getting hot in the classroom, and it's hard to concentrate. They turn off the air conditioning as soon as the school day ends, and the windows don't open. Lex pulls a bottle of water out of his backpack, his usual Tynant, because he may be a pauper, but he refuses to act like one. He twists off the cap and takes a long swallow, resting the bottle against his lips as he continues reading. A half-strangled little noise from Clark makes him glance up.

"Is everything all right?"

The boy is staring at him wide-eyed, face flushed, pulling self-consciously at the hem of his shirt. "I, uh-- I have to go to the bathroom."

He jumps to his feet and hurries from the room, knocking into several desks on his way out. Lex continues to stare in confusion at the empty doorway after he's gone. Minutes tick by as he waits for Clark's return, and when that doesn't happen, Lex gets up to go check on him. Perhaps the boy took ill. He was certainly acting strangely.

In the bathroom, he finds Clark at one of the sinks in the long row against the wall, water running, a wad of paper towels in his hand, dabbing frantically at the front of his jeans.

"Are you all right?"

Clark must not have realized he was there, because he jumps and hurriedly turns his back on him. "I'm fine," he says in a strained voice. "I'll be right there."

Lex frowns and takes a step closer. "Clark, if you're not feeling well, I can--"

"No!" Clark sounds panicked. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. If you'd just go."

But he doesn't seem the least bit fine. Nothing has prepared Lex for a moment like this, responsibility for another person's well-being solely in his hands, but even he can figure out that just walking away like nothing's wrong isn't the right thing to do.

He closes the distance between them, reaches out for Clark's shoulder. "Just let me--" Clark shudders at his touch, and Lex draws his hand back.

Clark closes his eyes and whispers, "Please, Mr. Luthor. I don't want--"

But Lex can't let it go now, too worried, too curious. He turns the boy around by his shoulders. Clark's face has turned so red it looks dangerous. There are dark spots on the front of his jeans and he's...

Lex stares, understanding at last, what the problem is, what it's been all along.

He pats Clark on the shoulder. "It's okay. It's just-- the way things are when you're fifteen. I remember it well."

"That's not it," Clark says hotly, eyes locked onto Lex's, the expression in them so earnest it makes Lex feel intolerably old. "I like you." Lex opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, and Clark must think he misunderstands. "I mean, I like-you like you."

The air hangs heavily in the bathroom, humid, with the scent of industrial disinfectant and the slightly gamy odor of teenaged boys. Clark is the only truly clean thing in the room, smelling like fresh sweat and jeans damp with arousal and nervous anticipation, his heat shimmering in the space between them. Lex wants so badly to be the good man he imagines inside himself, the man who would let the boy down gently and walk away, integrity firmly intact.

"Maybe you just need some special attention, Clark," he hears himself say instead.

Clark's eyes widen, and then a wild hope rushes into his face, and he practically lunges at Lex in his eagerness.

Lex holds a hand to his chest, stopping him. "Unzip your jeans. Show me your cock."

The thoughts going through Clark's head play out on his face, shock and confusion and finally lust. His breathing grows heavier, the dark spot on his jeans gets wider. His hands shake as he pops the button, pulls down the zipper, pushes down his underwear.

"God," Lex mutters, staring.

It seems his fantasies were accurate, all right. Clark is big all over. The boy lets out an impatient noise, and Lex smiles. He's not sure when he's ever enjoyed having power so much.

"Show me what you like," he tells Clark, a voice in his head insisting that this can't be so wrong if he doesn't actually do the touching.

Clark doesn't understand at first, and then he does, coloring spectacularly, even the rims of his ears turning a violent pink.

When he hesitates, Lex adds in a silken voice, "You got hard thinking about me. Don't you think I should get to watch?"

The boy lets out a strangled groan, his cock a deep shade of violet, and he bites his bottom lip, puts his hand on himself, starts to rub and stroke and pull at the head.

"Yes," Lex encourages him, "like that. Just like that."

It has the desired effect. Clark's confidence picks up, and he works himself harder, faster, his soft pink lips moist and parted, his warm, humid breath coming in puffs against Lex's cheek.

Clark's pliant nature encourages all those dangerous impulses in Lex, the part of him that drives too fast and risks money on questionable investments and always has to push just a little bit too far. "I think about you," he finds himself saying, against all better judgment, against any claim to sanity. There is no safety net to catch him anymore, no one to bail him out of this mess if it careens out of control the way everything always does for him. But that just makes it all the more delicious, all the more undeniable. "I think about all the things I would do to you if I ever got my hands on you."

Clark whimpers like a helpless puppy, hand clenched around his cock, his knuckles white, lips pressed together in a thin line of need.

Lex leans closer, brushes his mouth against Clark's cheek, telling himself this doesn't count, that it isn't really touching. He whispers urgently in his ear, "Come for me."

Clark obeys, eyes wide and almost frightened, his whole body rigid, a severe expression on his face, as if he is in actual pain. Afterwards, he holds onto the white porcelain sink, gasping hard, his back rising and falling with the effort, and Lex brushes the sweaty hair back from his forehead. "It's all right. You're all right."

He tucks Clark's cock back into his underwear and zips him up, almost clinically. Now that the scorch of the moment has receded, the survival part of his brain is racing with the need to get out of this bathroom, distance himself from what just happened, not end up registering as a sex offender for the rest of his life. Clark understands none of this and launches himself at him, mouth finding Lex's, hands going everywhere at once, all over his body. Lex tries to pull out of his arms, tries to say something, denial, rebuke, but Clark's insistent tongue steals his words, the heat of his body sinking deep into Lex's bones.

Clark's hand settles on his erection. "Let me." He strokes Lex's cock through his pants.

Lex takes a shaky breath and then an emphatic step back. "No, Clark. No." He runs a hand over his head. "Come on. I'll drive you home."

He turns his back on the boy and walks purposefully out of the bathroom. He doesn't wait for him, won't look. He refuses to give in to the hurt he knows he'll see in Clark's face. Because this is about survival now, and he can't afford any weakness.

Back in his classroom, they collect their things, not talking, not looking at each other. Clark trails behind him outside to the car, and Lex starts to apologize for the battered, second-hand Toyota Celica, but Clark just settles into the passenger seat, without seeming to give it a second thought. Lex starts the engine, rolls down the window, drives, the tension in the car like something he's drowning in, something he can't escape. He doesn't have to ask directions to Clark's house; he's driven there before, out of curiosity, and feels a sudden, intense stab of dislike for himself.

He turns onto Route 12, not far to Clark's house now, and he starts to anticipate being able to breathe again.

Until Clark's voice breaks the uneasy silence, begging, "Please pull over. I need to talk to you." When Lex doesn't respond, he grows more urgent, "It's really important. Please, Mr. Luthor. Please?"

Lex knows he shouldn't, but he braves a glance over at the boy. His eyes are shining, intent, and Lex lets out a heavy sigh. "We're just going to talk," he says in his sternest teacher's voice.

It becomes clear rather quickly that he's truly not cut out for this profession. The moment the car comes to a stop beneath a grove of trees, Clark is on him, kissing frantically, any authority Lex ever thought he had a complete mirage.

"No, Clark," he tries to say, "I did the wrong thing. I was wrong. Do you hear me?"

But Clark doesn't seem to care. He latches onto Lex's throat, kissing and sucking and leaving what Lex is sure is going to be the mother of all hickeys.

"Not wrong," Clark mutters under his breath. "It feels so good. You feel good.

A better man would try harder to stop this, Lex feels certain, but when Clark impatiently pulls his shirt out of his waistband, fumbles with the opening to his pants, he doesn't say no. Clark pulls his cock from his underwear, a little awkwardly. He stops and stares, licking his lips. Then his broad palm closes around Lex's erection, and all Lex can do is curse, with heart-felt vehemence.

Clark looks very pleased with himself. He says with a confidence Lex would not have expected after his near tearful reaction to being discovered in the bathroom, "I knew you wanted this. I could tell. The way you look at me."

"I shouldn't have." Lex draws in a shaky breath. "I should have been more discreet."

"I don't want you discreet," Clark says, frustrated, maybe even a little angry. "I just want you."

Before Lex can say anything else, use words like "impossible" and "dangerous," notions he doesn't even believe in, Clark kisses him again, all aggressive tongue and teenaged enthusiasm, and Lex can see that he lost this battle a long time ago.

Clark pulls away, his lips a messy pink, bright spots of color glowing in his cheeks, energy vibrating off him, pure sex. He moves his hand on Lex's cock. Lex has certainly had more practiced partners, but nothing has ever felt as jarringly real as Clark's strong, surprisingly gentle touch.

"I love the way you look, Mr. Luthor," Clark whispers, "so much."

"Lex," he says, his voice harsh, grating in his own ears, distorted by need. Being called Mr. Luthor at a time like this is more irony than even he can handle.

Clark's gaze is locked onto his face. "I want to-- Let me--" He starts to bend his head.

"You don't have to."

"Just tell me if I do anything wrong."

"Clark--"

The boy's name ends in a loud, drawn-out hiss, the hot, wet touch of his mouth jolting through his entire body. How could this ever be anything but right? His fingers tangle in Clark's hair, holding him there, the angel of his better nature forgotten completely. He wants this boy's mouth, and he's going to have it, if it's the last thing he does. Clark offers no protest, lapping contentedly, clumsily. The wind whistles outside the car windows. A flock of starlings sings in the tops of the trees. The rural road winds though the countryside, only a scant few yards away. The boy's head bobs in Lex's lap. Anyone could happen by, see them, realize. It's the hottest damned thing Lex has ever experienced, and when he feels the orgasm building, he fights away the impulse to give warning, because he wants, needs to come in this boy's beautiful mouth.

If Clark is surprised by it, he hides it well, swallowing in long gulps, then sitting back, wiping his mouth with his hand. It takes Lex a little longer to recover, breathing hard, tucking his shirt back into his pants with shaking hands.

"Was it," Clark casts a hesitant glance over at him, "okay?"

Lex gives him a tired little smile. "Nothing has ever been more okay, I assure you, Clark."

Clark beams. Lex is already composing his resignation letter in his head. He'll go see Principal Kwan in the morning, say he's urgently needed back in Metropolis. He'll put his dignity aside, beg for one of those jobs from one of those people he was too proud to pander to before. He'll get the hell out of Smallville, forget all about this, like it never even happened. Maybe he'll write Clark a note. Maybe he won't. Maybe it will be better that way, so the boy can truly see what a mistake this was.

He starts the car and drives, can feel the weight of Clark's eyes on him, that yearning, admiring gaze. Lex absolutely won't do this again, he's resolved. He won't ruin Clark's sweetness any more than he already has. Won't become the same human stain his father has always been.

They turn down the long lane to the Kent's home, and Clark directs him, "Pull over here. I want to kiss you goodbye."

Lex does, and Clark does, and Lex holds onto him a little too long, tucking a stray curl behind his ear before letting him go. The resignation letter remains inked in his head, but the rest of his plans start to blur, other possibilities presenting themselves. With the LuthorCorp shares he inherited from his mother, he could throw in with the workers, buy the fertilizer plant from his father, make a go of it, become somebody in this town. In the afternoons, Clark could come by, delivering produce from the family farm, and they could spend those long after-school hours together, completing his education.

Clark kisses him again, opens the door, and glances back over his shoulder. "Whatever you think you did to me, you didn't. Really."

He slips from the car, and Lex calls after him, "Clark!" The boy turns, and Lex tells him, in a voice that's not nearly as authoritative as he'd like it to be, "Do your homework."

Clark's smile is goofy and pleased and so filled with light it's hard to look at it for very long. He heads on down the driveway and into the yellow house at the end of it. Lex turns the car around, and as he drives away, he thinks that he's not quite as good a man as he'd like. But he's not quite as bad as he could be, either. And maybe that's just the best he'll ever be able to hope for.