fandom. smallville/one tree hill.
pairing/character. brooke. lex. zod. | lex/brooke.
spoilers/warnings. vessel. (sv. 5x22). au.
disclaimer. not mine.
word count. 797.
written for. _touched ♥.
prompt. “bittersweet angst”.
originally posted. here and here.
summary. word of advice? you should go.
notes. feedback is ♥.
Turn the knob and the door opens and he’s there, back suddenly tense and she knows there’s scotch in his hand. She walks a little further in, usually this is when he turns around — sans the scotch — with a small smile on his face and there’s light shining in his eyes.
Lex doesn’t turn, doesn’t seem to even make a noise as he keeps breathing in and out, shoulders sigh up and down and she has to walk more into the room, wishing her boots wouldn’t click against the expensive tiles. “Lex?” He breathes in a sigh before he swirls around, scotch in his hand and she knows this is bad news. “What’s going on?”
He swirls the scotch a little, and this suddenly feels like a business proposition, a thing Lana Lang used to be to Lex Luther, the Talon the only thing keeping them together until some Isabella possess the highschool princess and their partnership becomes deeper.
It’s like a screwed-up fairytale and she happens to be awkwardly planted in the middle of it
Lex sips at the scotch, takes his time and this really can not be happening. He’s cold, the ice in the scotch seems to melt like the global ice-caps and she runs her hands up and down her shivering arms, “It’s not safe here,” beats his dead voice, monotonous, and his eyes lack the light that helps her find her way through the darkness.
“What do you mean, Lex?”
“You should go,” comes his cryptic voice, “the helicopter is waiting for you.”
“Tell me what’s going on!” she demands, and he looks down at her shoes. “Lex, you’re scaring me,” she forces out, presses the words into him as hard as she can and he does not seem to crumble.
He simply finishes off the scotch, “You should go,” he repeats, and he places the scotch gently back onto the counter, reaches for the bottle. The liquor slowly licks the cup, tips up then slides back down and he seems a little mesmerized.
“What about you?”
“It’s not safe for you to be around me,” he says it again, a repeat of ‘when Luthor meets Davis’ and there’s a grin, giggle, tip of a lip and a slick little kiss. This doesn’t follow the usual pattern, takes a turn into the darker side of the two-path ‘which way should I go?’ question, and all she can see is dark trees and no bread crumbs to follow home.
“I think I can handle you,” she repeats, though her eyebrow is arched and her voice is almost questioning the phrase.
“I don’t believe you can,” and this isn’t the rehearsal, this isn’t scripted and her heart seems to pound more ferociously in her chest.
She licks her lips, finds her voice and even though the beats of her heart seem to deafen out this ugly silence, she can hear something that doesn’t register words in her mind, but a tingle in her feet as she doesn’t move to close the distance. Through the storm of beats, she manages, “Lex —”
“I’ll call you when it’s over,” he holds the glass, hands seem a little too tight around it and perhaps it’s starting to crack.
She sees the cracks more vividly, not in the glass but in the armour of someone she thinks she should know, “When what’s over?”
“I’ll tell you when it’s over,” he opts for, swirls the glass and watches it form a little cyclone. “It’s best if you leave, Brooke,” her name almost sounds like something you say on a regular basis, a ‘hello, how are you?’ and she really doesn’t like how it makes his lips twitch — it’s not a Lex Luthor smile and she’s not sure what it is, doesn’t want to wait to find out. “I’d like to know that you’re safe and as far away from me as possible.”
“You’re being incredibly cryptic, Lex,” she tries to laugh it off, “it’s scaring me.”
He looks up at her, eyes a little less guarded and maybe there’s a slip in there, “It’s scaring me, too.”
There’s a man at the door, her name is called and there’s a blur of something, a kiss, a hug, a little bit of a whisper and then there’s a mask — hard, foreign, almost alien — as she’s being whisked away by a man named ‘Tom’ to her pumpkin carriage planted on the grass, ready for her midnight escape. There’s heat on her cheek, lips had pressed into her skin and now she feels suddenly cold; the helicopter starts to move, grass blades kick at the ground and there’s a swell in her stomach as the Luthor Mansion — home — slips away from her fingertips.