Title: Speak Not In Whispers
Author: danceswithgary (danceswithgary@yahoo.com)
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: R to NC-17
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Shattered, Asylum, Whisper
Word Count: 14075
Archive: Fine, just let me know
Summary: It is time for Clark and Lex to see the truth.

Notes: Started as an entry for the old_school_clex Challenge, this story refused to fit the prompt. I finally gave in and let it have its way.

Standard Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters herein. The characters of Lex Luthor and Clark Kent as well as any supporting characters are the property of their creators and DC Comics. Gough/Millar Inc and the WB Network TV own Smallville. Any deviations (or deviant behavior) from the originals, however, is mine.

Feedback is both welcome and appreciated.


Cover by danceswithgary
Screen cap by oxoniensis





Speak Not In Whispers - Part 1


"People who whisper, lie." Swedish proverb

The sun is always with me, its rays warming and filling me with life even now. Standing at the window in my loft, eyes closed and face lifted to the fading light, the brilliant colors of the sunset are painted across my memory. The sound of footsteps rises behind me, first to one side and then to the other as my visitor navigates the stairs and landing.

It is a game, to stand here with my eyes closed and try to guess who it could be from a myriad of clues. The click of heels says my visitor is wearing leather shoes, not the work boots or sneakers favored by my family and most of my friends. The tread is light with a scuff that says the feet skim the ground, neither the stomp of Pete or my father, nor the rapid tap of Chloe who never walks up the stairs, instead preferring to meet them in a rush.

At the top of the stairs now, they're silent, waiting for me to speak. This tells me they're not my mother who is always courteous and calls out to warn of her approach, giving her teenage son the chance to tidy away anything that might be embarrassing. A puff of breeze brings a unique scent to me and there's no longer any question. Without turning from the sunset, I speak his name as an invitation to join me at the window.

"Lex?"

There's a hesitation, a shift of feet without moving forward that surprises me because Lex is never anything less than confident, always secure about his place in the world, always calculating what it owes him. At least that was how he was before, before he had that same privileged world ripped out from under his feet, before I betrayed him.


. . .


He's standing there at the window, just as I've seen him so many times before, looking out over the fields at the sunset, his form limned by the dying light, surrounded by a nimbus of gold. He is holding himself so still, and that disturbs me, because he is rarely quiet. It isn't that he makes large, sweeping gestures or speaks in a shout, but he's always moving, watching, touching something, unable to stand in front of my desk without a shuffle of his feet or fidgeting at his clothing. Now, it is as if the greater part of his vitality has been diminished, torn away, and he holds himself strictly in check. I'm surprised at how relieved I feel when I see his hand clench on the windowsill, the subtle movement betraying his agitation.

My heels click as I walk across the loft floor to him, making no effort to conceal my approach. I come to a stop next to him, my hand rests on the small of his back and he flinches, just a small jerk, before leaning back into it. I can feel the warm muscles under my palm flex, and then relax, the trigger for him to release the breath I wasn't aware that he was holding. I don't know what to say to him. I don't how to begin to tell him how sorry I am that he's hurting, or the right way to ask how I can help. I'm speechless in his presence because he has always been the strong one, until now, my personal savior. Now, I finally have a chance to repay him, and I don't know how this is supposed to work, but I have to try.

"I don't know where to start, Clark."

His head turns, he looks toward me and he smiles, and I'm sure that his eyes are smiling too, behind those dark glasses. I'm sure because that's how Clark is, always giving to others, despite his own pain.

. . .


He was always the strong one, the one who always knew what to do, how to solve the problems I brought to him, my personal savior. When he needed me the most, when I might have made up for the other times I failed and hurt him in the past, I failed again and he is still paying the price for my cowardice.

Holding tight to the windowsill, I wait, holding my breath and willing him to come to me. I can feel the warmth of his body next to me and it takes everything in me not to lean against him, to let him bear some of my burden, but he's hurt, too. I must be content with the hand that has settled on my back, that necessary pressure that lets me breathe again, and simply hope that the connection won't be withdrawn any time soon. I hear the quick intake of breath that precedes his apology for not knowing what to say to me, I hear the despair in his voice, and he should never have to live with that word, because he is always seeking to help others. I need to let him breathe, too. I turn my head toward him and I smile and tease him with a chuckle.

"I think 'hello' would work just fine. Behind these sexy Ray Bans, I'm still the same old dorky Clark who was breaking things by accident in your office last week."

I feel his hand tremble against my back before it stills and presses still more firmly, keeping us connected.

. . .


The Kents are stubborn and filled with a pride unmatched by any Metropolitan socialite. I've never been able to give them anything, beginning with the day Clark and I met for the second time. Of course, we didn't know we'd met previously until much later on. All I knew then was that a young man had saved my life at the risk of his, and I wanted to repay him. Odd, how I once thought my life was worth at least as much a new truck. Lately, there have been days when I'd be hard-pressed to consider it an even trade, even for a less than new, three-year-old truck. I've depreciated much faster.

They will not take, but they will give, and today is no exception. Clark gives me his smile, and a humorous reply to my less than articulate stammering, saving me from further embarrassment. His bravery overwhelms me and I struggle to control myself, to prevent myself from pulling him into my arms. My hand trembles, and I press it more firmly against his back to keep the only contact I can allow myself.

I have to try once more and hope that the Kent pride will not keep Clark trapped in the darkness.

"When my father was...blind, I...I brought in some of the world's top ophthalmologists. I'd like to do the same for you. Will you please let me do this for you?"

As Clark shrugs and turns his face away, telling me that he needs to learn to live without sight, I can feel my heart begin to break. I smile to hide the pain, but it's foolish to pretend to smile at a blind man. He insists that he can hear the concern in people's voices and that he doesn't want to talk about it.

I touch his face, still heated from the sunset, and try to make it clear that I understand his reluctance.

"Clark, I understand what it's like to have people treat you differently because they perceive you as being damaged. I've been dealing with it everyday whenever someone finds out that I've been under treatment for mental illness. The only way I can get beyond it is to prove I'm still me, that I can still function after everything that has happened."

. . .


Lex once declared that friendship was a fairy tale, and that I was no different from the rest of the town that despised him, right before attempting to kill me with an automatic weapon. If I had been anyone else, he would have succeeded. He doesn't remember that happening, any more than he remembers thrusting a gun in my face after shooting Morgan Edge and telling me that I had to die because I had betrayed him. I'd never told him how I'd spent that summer in Metropolis, what I did while he struggled to survive under a tropical sun. Lex didn't know why Morgan spoke to me as if he knew me, all he knew was that his enemy had greeted his friend and another section of Lex's view of the world was warped and curled until the pieces of the puzzle would never fit together.

He doesn't remember and so he wants to help someone he believes is a friend, because one of the most important things he doesn't remember is finding out what I am. His doctors can't help me. No one can and I need him to understand that he should stop trying.

"I appreciate that, Lex, but this isn't a problem to be solved with money. This is something I need to learn to live with."

I hear the quick intake of breath that almost sounds like a sob and I know I'm breaking his heart...again.

He doesn't remember the first time I broke it, broke him, when I visited him in the asylum and I wouldn't use my powers to help him escape. He shouted that he would never forgive me, and a few days later, he was hurt because he tried to escape by himself. I could have prevented that, if not for my fear. I chose to protect myself, my secrets, at the cost of his mind. I don't deserve his kindness and I try to make it clear I don't want his pity, either.

"I really don't want to talk about it, Lex. Even when people don't say anything about my being blind now, I can hear the helplessness and pity in their voices."

I could have prevented what Lex's father did to his own son to save himself from murder charges. Was I any better, abandoning Lex because I was afraid to expose what I am, what I can do? I listened to my parents and my friends, but I didn't pay attention to that part of me that said Lex deserved a chance. I finally tried to help him, but it was not enough and too late and I died a little inside when I saw he'd forgotten everything that happened. The knife carved a little deeper into my soul when he told me he hadn't forgotten how important our friendship had been to him. His hug as I welcomed him home tore through my heart, his simple gratitude for my friendship only making it more apparent how I'd been anything but a friend to him. I wonder if it would have been better if the electricity that had jolted through my body, as I struggled to free him, had erased those months from my mind also. Perhaps it would have let us both start over, and maybe get it right the second time.

He touches my face, his fingers cool after the heat of the sun, and tells me that he understands what it's like to overcome prejudice against disability and that he's going to succeed despite it. I don't want to lose his touch, my hand covers his, and I try for an encouraging smile as I ask him to explain.

"How are you going to do that, Lex?"

When he tells me, it is as if those bullets were striking me once more and I can't catch my breath between each impact. I can't let him go back there, can't let him enter that world again unarmed, unprepared. I can't betray him, can't fail him again, because this time he may not survive. The wood under my other hand cracks and so does my shield of lies.

Part 2