Author's note:
My very first SV fic. :) I was just thinking one day and I had this idea and here it is.

Patterns


Lex never announced his return home. He never came in, saying “hello” or “I’m home” or any other nothingness which was so common for the Kents house. He didn’t have a habit of calling home beforehand, saying if he would make it to the dinner or would stay up late at work. He wasn’t used to being met at the door, greeted by a smile or a brief kiss. Clark stopped doing that after the first time, he noticed Lex flinch, when he caught Lex looking at him as if he hadn’t expected to see Clark. He flinched, because he was so used to living alone and having nobody to wait for him, that it felt as if, even after all those years, he still wasn’t used to the thought that he wasn’t alone.


Hadn’t been alone for more than five years.


But the old habits die hard, as people say. And it was a habit also, a habit of forgetting that there was someone waiting for him at home and a habit of ignoring someone’s arrival, as if he couldn’t hear his car’s engine miles away.


In all those years Clark had plenty of time to memorize all Lex’s habits, all his patterns, all possible scenarios. He learned to recognize anger in Lex’s steps, hear exhaustion in Lex’s breathing, read annoyance in Lex’s jerky movements. He would know Lex’s mood, before he saw him.


He would watch the city scenery from the penthouse window, listening to the elevator going up and finally stopping, and he’d escape the room, before the door would even open. Lex would come in, immediately discarding his shoes on the floor and enter the living room, making his way to the bar. There he would pour himself a glass of brandy or whiskey or a thirty-year-old cognac, something to suit his mood. And Clark would watch him from the shadows and the corners, always staying in the periphery of his sight, watching him move, watching the tight line of his mouth, giving him time to wind down.


There were times, when Lex would come home wired and jumpy with the suppressed tension. Clark would watch his movements, more brisk than usual, the way he would let out a frustrated hiss or bite his lower lip. He would see the way his knuckles would whiten, the grip inhumanly strong around the glass. He would know to stay away, longer than usual, letting Lex ride out his anger alone. Clark would become even more discreet, he would close his eyes and pretend not to hear the yells and the sounds of the breaking glass. And then when it was finally safe enough to enter the tiger’s cage, he’d come in and see Lex sitting in the leather chair or leaning to the edge of the table, the debris littering the floor. He would come up to him and see the flames of the rage fade in the blue eyes, and, no words being said, he would drop on the floor before him, open his pants and suck him or maybe let Lex bent him over the table.


Raw and burning, bites instead of kisses, bruises instead of caress, sex with Lex when he was on edge and adrenaline high was nothing like their usual love-making. It was rough and hurt in too many ways to forget, but they would succumb to it every time Clark felt Lex needed it. It was like riding a storm or trying to tame a wild mustang, it was exhausting, draining, but satisfying in its wildness. It was about taking, claiming, showing who was in charge, who was the owner and who was the owned.


“You know, a dog meets its master at the door, when he comes home.” Lex’s hand was twisting Clark’s wet strands of hair with the strength that bordered on pain, but thus was even more pleasurable. His cheek pressed to the warm wool-clad thigh, he almost purred.


Lex let out a barking laugh. “Even a cat does”, he added, bringing a glass to his lips. The room was dim, and he could barely make out the features of the man sitting at his feet. “But you don’t.” Clark rubbed his cheek on his leg, enjoying the feel of the moving muscles beneath the material. “I never thought of you as a cat, Clark. Though you do have some kind of independent air around you.” Lex was stroking lazy patterns on the other man’s scalp, his face unreadable, his voice smooth and guarded. “But in the end you’d always come back, when called, don’t you.”


Clark hissed, when Lex suddenly pulled at his hair, making him crank his neck and look into his eyes. Watching the slightly parted full lips and green eyes, which were almost black in the darkness, he mused: “So, what are you, Clark, a cat or a dog?” And the younger man knew that it was an order, heard it as one, so he crawled up his body, sprawled on the chair, to feast hungrily on the thin mouth and whisper into it the words, Lex longed him to say: “Whatever you want me to be.”


But sometimes Lex would be gone for more than a day, two or even three days, and then he would come home, so much exhausted, burned down, that the moment the door closes behind him, his shoulders would slump, the dark circles under his eyes would become even more prominent, and Clark would know that it was only his pride that kept him up on his feet. While Lex would stumble to pour himself a drink, Clark would run him a bath, preparing him fresh clothes and bed. He would silently appear behind the tired man, massage his neck and shoulders, willing him to relax, carefully helping him to remove the tie and shirt.


He would whisper in his ear, if he wanted him to heat the supper, and watch Lex, shake his head. Then Clark would lead him to the bathroom, unbuckle his belt, unbutton and unzip his fly, help Lex step out of the pants, then remove his socks and briefs, gently rubbing sore muscles. He would leave then, taking a bundle of clothes to dump in a laundry basket, taking a mental note to tell the help in the morning to do laundry. Clark would change and wait for Lex in bed, watch him exit the bathroom, a towel in a hand, his skin still mostly damp after bath. He would get the clue and take the towel to rub the other man’s back dry. Then Clark would throw the towel in a corner and join Lex in bed, sliding under the sheets and moving to wrap himself around the cool body, his lips briefly grazing over the back of the head.


Clark would feel most happy in those moments, feel that he belonged, know that he was worthy. He didn’t need words, didn’t need false promises or skillfully crafted lies. The man in his arms, his even breathing and the steady beating of his heart was all he ever wanted, ever needed.


Clark had long got used to waiting for Lex, never showing excessive happiness when the man came home early, never feeling surprised when sometimes he didn’t come at all. He spent days, waiting for him to come home, knowing that he eventually would, because he had long ago learned all Lex’s patterns.


And coming back to Clark was his most conspicuous one.





ended: Sunday, August 21, 2005