TITLE: Sail You Home

AUTHOR: Jade Okelani

E-MAIL: jadeokelani @ gmail.com

WEBSITE: http://www.vanishingscroll.com/talon/

RATING: Light NC-17 (for the fun)

CATEGORY: SRA

SPOILERS: Very vague spoilers for . . . well, anything Lex/Lana related.

KEYWORDS: Lex/Lana.  

DISTRIBUTION: My fic is archived solely at The Talon. Anyone who desires 
to do so is more than welcome to link to me. Drop me a line first, though, 
please. 

DISCLAIMER: I'm not bitter toward the creators of Smallville (yet), so this 
isn't 
a funny disclaimer. Give me time, everyone; give me time. For now -- Don't 
own. Don't sue. Don't do drugs.

FEEDBACK: Duh. I'm such a whore.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Big non-slashy smooches to Sarea for her Big Red Pen 
and general moral support during these our most trying times. (Life sucks, but . 
. 
.at least we've got each other.) I'd thank Pheebs, too, but she won't deign to 
watch Smallville, so . . . fuck her.

AUTHOR'S NOTES II: The lyrics (and title) come from the Uber Cool (if 
slightly disconcerting) Tori Amos. 

SUMMARY: "I can't afford a weakness like Lana Lang."

~

Sail You Home

~

I'm aware what the rules are/But you know that I will run/You know that 
I will follow you/Over Silbury hill/Through the solar field/You know 
that I will follow you/

~

It's been years since I've cried.

My mother's death was the last time I can recall the burn of salt and 
deceased hope rolling down my cheek. Forget tears for a moment, 
though; it's hard for me to remember the last time I even felt hopeful 
about something as silly as a romantic relationship. As I stand here, on 
the brink of something unimaginable in its scope -- I am left humbled, 
cast adrift amid my own confusion and melancholy. Is this love? Am I in 
love? Am I even capable of it? 

It would seem that I am about to find out.

To say that finding her on my doorstep had been a shock would be the 
understatement of the century, and I am not a man easily shocked. She 
was soaked to the skin, and given the bloodshot quality to her eyes, I'm 
betting she won't share my despondence over being unable to cry.

There are so many reasons I should bundle her in a blanket, fix her some 
hot chocolate and call someone to come pick her up. Her aunt is in 
Metropolis for the weekend, but I know that with just a few words ((Lana 
needs you)), Clark would be here faster than a speeding bullet.

Only one thought keeps me from picking up the phone:

Lana doesn't want Clark. If she did, it would be his couch that was full of 
one seriously beautiful drowned rat; his brain desperately trying to come 
up with excuses why he shouldn't go to her, hold her, touch her. 

And Clark has fewer reasons than I do.

First: My best friend is in love with her. Granted, that would be one of 
Clark's reasons, too, but he doesn't know it and I intend to keep it that 
way. Love is a weakness and I can't afford to have weaknesses.

Lana might be the biggest weakness I've ever come up against. Normally 
I would hesitate to back down from a challenge, but in this case, I have 
no choice but to pass it by. Clark is the first real friend I've ever had and I 
love him like a brother. He is my brother. I can't do this to him, betray 
him in this way.

Second: I don't know if she's really interested. Obviously there's an 
attraction there, but she can't -- I'm Lex Luthor, for God's sake. Doesn't 
she realize that I'm a bad man who'll only end up hurting her in the end? 
Hasn't that point been rammed through every mind in Smallville? Sure, I 
saved the Talon ((For her, I saved it for her because Clark loves her and 
now I know why because she's so easy to love)), but as far as she knows, 
it was nothing more than a sound business decision. 

She can't want me. I refuse to believe it. End of story.

Third: Lana's too young for me. Her own well being aside, I can see the 
Daily Planet headlines now: "Luthor Rapes Farms and Daughters of 
Local Smallville Residents!" Nell would have me up on statutory rape 
charges before Lana's hair dried. 

No, thank you. I can do without another scandal; for the rest of my life I 
can do without another scandal.

I'm just not sure if I can go another minute without Lana Lang.

"I'm sorry," she chatters from the couch and I mentally berate myself -- 
she needs to dry off. Snatching a blanket off the recliner, I drape it over 
her shoulders, then seat myself a cautious distance from her on the sofa.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I assure her gently. "That couch is a 
piece of junk, anyway."

She nearly smiles at me. "Not for that, though I think you're lying," she 
indicates the eight-thousand-dollar couch my father had flown in from 
Paris. "I mean that I'm sorry for just . . . showing up like this. You were 
probably ready to go to bed . . ." Her voice trails off and I'm glad that I've 
chosen to sit so far away from her because otherwise I wouldn't be able 
to stop myself from touching her.

Now is the time. I should offer to drive her home. Yes, Lana, I was about 
to go to bed. It's been a hell of a week at work. Is there someone you'd 
like me to take you to? Clark should still be up and unlike when I come 
over, the Kents always seem to enjoy a visit from you. 

My mouth opens and--

"Would you like some coffee?"

~

There is no reason on this Earth for me to be here and even if I weren't 
about to freeze to death, nothing could make me go back out into that 
storm.

Lex Luthor has kind eyes. No one else really sees it. Clark does, I 
suppose, but then Clark sees the good in everyone so that doesn't surprise 
me. He sees the good in me, even though sometimes I can hardly stand to 
look at myself in the mirror. 

Tonight is one of those nights where I can't stand myself. Twelve years 
ago, a meteorite came crashing through the sky and took my parents 
away from me. They splattered my sobbing face on the cover of every 
major magazine of the time and turned me into the face of Smallville's 
grief. I barely understood what was going on. The only thing I knew was 
that I wanted my mommy and Nell told me that mommy couldn't tuck 
me in anymore. 

Twelve years ago, my parents died and I -- didn't. 

But I don't want to think about that right now. I don't want to be a 
cheerleader, Whitney's girlfriend or a fairy princess. I don't want to be Nell's 
niece or even Clark's boyish crush -- I just want to be Lana. Not the Lana that 
everyone else knows, but the one that's inside me that *I* barely know. 

The Lana that Lex knows.

I see it in his eyes sometimes, at the Talon or when he's taken Clark and 
me out somewhere. He doesn't know I can tell when he's watching me, 
but I can. In the beginning, his little probes, the way he'd try to get 
underneath my skin, was his way of getting information for Clark. Lex 
wanted to help his best friend win the girl, and I thought it was kind of 
sweet. 

Then one day, the way he looked at me, the way he spoke to me -- it 
shifted. I didn't feel like he was pushing me toward Clark anymore. I felt 
like he was trying to keep me from gravitating toward him. It's ridiculous 
for either one of us to feel that my sitting here is a betrayal of Clark, 
because it isn't -- Clark and I are just friends ((Good one, Lang -- tell me 
another)) and I can sit shivering in the home of any man that I like.

God, I *like* Lex. Most people don't, but that's because they don't know 
him. They only see the surface and he's so closed and hard that they don't 
bother to find his squishy underbelly. Of course, Lex doesn't want them 
to find his squishy underbelly -- that would mean he'd let someone close 
enough to destroy him, and he doesn't do that; his father isn't close 
enough, I doubt even Clark is close enough. 

Would he ever let me close enough?

Do I really want him to?

Why am I here? 

Do I want coffee?

"No," I answer out loud. "I wouldn't mind something to change into, 
though." I meant it innocently enough, but when I see a muscle in his jaw 
twitch I realize what it must have sounded like and blush. "That is -- if 
you have anything," I start to babble and he smiles a little.

He stands and holds out his hand to me. My fingers are like ice and they 
start to warm the second they come in contact with his. I shiver again and 
pray he believes it is because I'm cold.

"Follow me," he murmurs quietly ((everything about him is so quiet)) 
and, God help me, I do.

~

I can't afford to have weaknesses. It's a mantra, like I'm trying to remind 
myself. As though I could ever forget. I can't afford weaknesses. I can't 
afford a weakness like Lana Lang.

God, please, just this once, let me be weak and have it work out. 

She follows me to my bedroom. Why I brought her here, I don't know. 
It's as though there wasn't enough temptation downstairs and I wanted to 
give myself a real test. 

When she emerges from the bathroom, wet hair curling around her 
cheeks, clad in one of my royal blue sweaters and nothing else, I realize 
I'm going to get an F.

"This room is lovely," she comments, gesturing at the décor in my 
bedroom.

It is lovely. I've never paid much attention to it. The house was my 
father's folly and I'm happier on the road, in one of *my* cars. I feel free 
when I'm speeding down the highway. It's the one thing my near-death 
experience should have taught me, and the one thing I am totally unable 
to give up. When I'm behind the wheel, nothing can happen that I don't 
control. Nearly dying because of something in the middle of the road, out 
of my control, didn't change that feeling for me. Maybe it should have; 
I'm just relieved it didn't.

Lana's hand brushes over my big four poster bed.

"It's Greek," I say automatically. The room's designer lived in Athens for 
fifteen years and it showed. Warm, Mediterranean colors accented the 
bedding, and the frame itself was carved out of marble. 

"Big bed," she notes and immediately blushes, and I wonder what she 
was thinking. 

"Nothing in small measure," I mention. "It's the Luthor way."

All of a sudden, she's sitting on my bed and I feel irrational panic 
crawling up and down my spine. It's not like she's doing anything 
threatening. The bed is the only flat surface in the room; of course she's 
going to sit on it. 

Except that I've spent a lot of conscious time trying *not* to imagine her 
draped in my sheets, her cheeks flushed with all the pleasure I've given 
her, long, black hair spread over the pillows as she sleepily entreats me 
to come back to bed . . .

"Do you ever want things you know you shouldn't have?"

Her question mercifully puts an end to that unattainable picture in my 
mind and I join her on the bed -- once again, at a safe distance from her 
delectable flesh.

"All the time," I answer. 

She snorts. I give her a look and she shrugs.

"It's just . . . I doubt there are very many things in this world you can't 
have."

"You'd be surprised," I tell her softly. I'm looking straight into her big, 
dark eyes and I'm drowning. "Besides -- we aren't talking about what I 
can't have. We're talking about what I *shouldn't* have."

"Is there really that much of a distinction?" she asks guilelessly.

How can she not know? Doesn't she feel how much I want to . . . There's 
no way she's playing with me. Games aren't Lana's style and she's so 
innocent I doubt she'd know how to play them. Before I can think better 
of it, I bring my hand to her face and tuck a few strands of drying hair 
behind her ear. The very tips of my fingers take a few seconds to 
memorize the texture of her cheek before my hand falls at my side again.

"There's a distinction," I murmur and my voice is lower than it had been.

There's a bead of silence and I watch her face. She's so expressive. Like 
Clark, she puts everything she's feeling out there for the world to see. 
Unlike Clark, there's more to Lana than meets the eye. Right now, she 
looks like she's working up the nerve to do something. Her hand reaches 
up and flutters against my chest and I shut my eyes. She's only touched 
me a handful of times and only once before like this. Then, there'd been 
something wrong with her -- chemically wrong -- and I'd been forced to 
push her away.

Nothing is wrong with her now, and she's making me long to be touched 
and loved and healed . . . and weak. 

I am longing to be weak with her.

~

I'm kissing him in my mind.

In my delusion, I've already pressed my lips to his and finally seen for 
myself just how soft they were. I touched them once, though I barely 
remember it. I want to touch them now.

Then, suddenly, I am touching them. I've brought my hand to his face 
and the tip of my index finger is testing the pliancy of his lower lip and 
it's the softest thing I've ever felt and I've touched rabbit fur before. 

Why am I babbling? I hope I'm not saying any of this out loud and 
judging by the look on his face, shocked and smoldering, I'm guessing 
it's a pretty safe bet that my dialogue has been internal. A man couldn't 
possibly look at a woman who sounded so absurd the way he's looking at 
me right now.

He certainly wouldn't purse his lips until he's kissing my fingertip so, 
yes, I must be keeping all this on the inside. Good.

Or bad, depending on your perspective, because he's taken my hand in 
his and pressed my palm to his mouth and he's being so reverent, almost 
worshipful. Lex Luthor is worshipping my hand. There's nothing in the 
world like his mouth against my skin until his lips move to my wrist and 
then his tongue comes out to taste the pulse point there and I'm lost.

Any thought of stopping him is gone and I break my hand away from his 
mouth. I watch him tense because he thinks I've rejected him, and that 
won't do at all. I bring my hand to the smooth skin on top of his head, 
stroking gently until I cradle the back of his skull in my palm. Then I'm 
pulling him toward me while I'm leaning closer and he doesn't fight me. 
He looks wary and hopeful, and as I press my lips to his for the first time, 
he sighs. I just made Lex Luthor sigh, and I'm pretty sure it's with 
pleasure.

I think I could kiss him forever. His lips are so much softer when they're 
pressed against my own, and he's kissing me like he thinks I might break. 
One of his hands moves to my bare thigh, the other reaching out to clasp 
around my free hand, and that's all we are now, mouths gently touching, 
fingers entwining, his hand on my leg, my hand pulling him closer, 
closer, closer . . .

There is such gentleness in him, such tragic beauty. He touches me like 
I'm precious, and I feel truly wanted for maybe the first time in my life. 
Nell loves me, I know that she does, but the honest truth is, I was foisted 
upon her life and she had no choice but to take me in. My mother may 
have been happy, but this life was not her first choice, and I feel like I 
was forced upon her, too. 

Lex has a choice. He doesn't have to peel away the shirt he gave me, to 
press his lips to places on my body no one but me has seen since my 
parents died. If anything, there are a thousand reasons for him to push me 
away, to send me home. The fact that he doesn't, that he risks so much, 
must mean that there's something in me worth wanting. 

As he brushes soft fingers over my nipples, as he looks at my body like 
I'm someone beautiful, like Helen of Troy or Cindy Crawford, I no 
longer feel like I'm in some big, foreboding mansion with Lex Luthor.

I'm just with Lex.

And I think he loves me. 

~

Lana is all soft curves and enticing secrets and all the things I've never 
had that haunt me in my dreams.

The women I've been with -- they have been intentionally hard. There's 
no room for softness in my life. Amanda had been soft and look how that 
went down. Victoria and all the others were like me; our relationships 
were easy and adversarial. They understood my world and the part I had 
to play. They never understood *me* and that's exactly how I like it. 

This woman ((girl, she's just a girl and you're a devil for what you're 
about to do)) kissing me like she might love me isn't going to be easy, it's 
going to be messy and heartbreaking and I'm about to welcome one hell 
of a complication into my life. 

Her hands are at the hem of my shirt and she's pulling it up, up and away. 
The flat of her palm presses against my heart and it beats double time, 
just for her. Lowering her head, she presses her mouth against the skin 
above my heart, her actions tentative and unsure. I raise a hand to her 
head and run my fingers through her hair, soothing, gentle movements I 
hope encourage her to do whatever she likes.

A moment passes, then her mouth, soft and unsure, pressing over one of 
my nipples. Her tongue, wet and rough, laving over it before moving on 
to new territory. Lana's hands rest on either side of my abdomen and I 
don't think I've ever been touched like this before. My senses are on 
overload, and I wonder if it's possible to die from wanting someone this 
much.

There's something I have to do before this goes any further, and it takes 
all the strength I possess to lift her head away from my skin. I frame her 
face with my hands and make sure she's looking straight at me.

"Lana," I murmur, then I lean forward and kiss her mouth once, hard, 
because I can't help myself. "Be sure that you want this." I don't give 
voice to the other thoughts and concerns in my mind. I'm not going to 
underestimate her that way. She knows exactly what it means if we take 
this step and she knows how complicated it will make -- everything. 

Silence stretches between us for a moment and I look into her eyes. I can 
see her mind working; she's actually doing it, she's weighing everything, 
figuring out if it's worth it; if I'm worth it. 

Please, God, if you've ever heard me, if you're even out there, let me be 
worth it.

"I'm sure," she says after a moment, and I believe her. I take all thoughts 
of Clark and tomorrow and my list of Reasons Not To and set them 
aside. 

Nothing is important enough to me to risk clouding this moment with 
anything but her.

Then I can't really think anymore because she's kissing me again and 
somehow my pants are off and we're lying on my bed on our sides, 
pressed close together. One of her legs is thrown over mine and my 
fingers are tracing patterns on her hip. Her still-damp hair is spread over 
the pillows and she's taking liberal tastes of my neck and shoulders. 

We've been like this for awhile, gently touching, kissing softly, then with 
more desperation, before backing off again. Over the past few months, 
we've had a lot of 'getting to know you' conversations at the Talon. I've 
learned things about Lana's life -- about Lana's heart -- that I don't think 
she's shared with anyone else. In return, I've shared things with her I 
barely realized I felt. She knows about my mother and how my father 
never loved her. Lana knows the greatest pain in my life is the 
knowledge that nothing I ever do will be good enough for my father and 
that it's never really bothered me all that much to be bald.

I know that she likes to make up stories in her mind and every once in a 
while pretend that her parents aren't dead for a few minutes. She's told 
me that breaking up with Whitney was the most freeing thing she's ever 
done and that she still doesn't know why she was with him in the first 
place. 

"Lex," she breathes against my mouth, and I don't think I'll ever get tired 
of hearing her say my name.

"Hmm?" 

"Do you . . . I mean -- do you have . . .?"

"In the drawer," I murmur, gently rolling her onto her back so that I can 
reach my nightstand. I extract a small foil packet and let it rest beside us 
on the bed. I'm on top of her now and she's brought one of her legs up 
and around my waist to keep me there. 

"Lex," she says again, and this time, she's just sighing my name.

I kiss her forehead. "Lana . . . is this your--"

"Yes," she answers.

I can't do this. I can't take something so precious from her. I'm not that 
kind of man. I don't bed virgins. That sort of thing demands more 
attention than I've ever given anything in my life. I can't do this.

Can I?

"Lana," I mutter helplessly, "are you sure you want -- with me . . ." I've 
never been at a loss for words before. Lex Luthor, rendered as nervous 
and stuttering as a sixteen-year-old boy during his first time.

"I want you, Lex," she says clearly, wrapping her arms around my 
shoulders ((when was the last time someone *held* me?)), her hips 
moving restlessly against mine. 

I actually fumble with the condom for a minute. I've done this a thousand 
times, and I fumble. What the hell is she doing to me? I slide my hand 
between her legs and bite back a moan at how wet she is. Lana is not so 
reserved, and she cries out softly. I use two fingers to gently rub her clit 
and her eyes widen, fingers digging into my shoulders. Leaning down, I 
kiss her mouth, her cheeks, regretfully abandoning her clit to slip two 
fingers inside her body. I swallow one of her moans and begin gently 
stretching her, preparing her. 

Nothing could possibly taste as sweet as her skin and I can't stop going 
back for more of her shoulders and her throat and that little spot behind 
her ears. She comes against my hand while I've got her earlobe in my 
mouth, and as the pleasure is making her writhe beneath me, I tilt her 
hips forward and slide inside her body with one firm, easy stroke. 

Tears spring to her eyes and I kiss away the one that slides into her hair. 
Her hands are clutching at my forearms and she's so tense beneath me. I 
hate that I have to hurt her to love her and vow to do this again and again 
to prove to us both that maybe love doesn't have to hurt all the time. I'm 
almost beginning to believe it myself. Because I don't feel weak right 
now; I'm inside her and I don't feel weak. I feel strong enough to conquer 
the world and delicate enough to blow away in the wind.

Hell, right now, I think maybe I could fly. 

Her mouth opens against mine and her hips start to shift beneath me 
restlessly. Her hands on my back no longer clutch; instead they wander, 
learning new territory so lightly it makes me shiver.

Then, I kiss her desperately so I won't whisper that I love her.

~

When I was ten years old, I looked in on Lex Luthor with the most 
beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my life. They were naked and pressed 
together in an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and he was kissing her like 
he couldn't get enough of her. 

I was ten and barely understood what sex was, beyond the basic idea that 
it was something two people who loved each other did. Yet still, 
watching them in the pool, I felt a longing like I'd never known before.

I wanted to *be* her. 

I wanted Lex Luthor to hold me and make me feel safe. I wanted to be 
wild and free and allowed in expensive restaurants and fancy hotels with 
big swimming pools. I wanted my parents to be alive, and while I 
watched Lex and that girl, all my wants got tangled up in my head for a 
minute. 

It's not like I've harbored a Lex Luthor infatuation since then. He was 
barely a blip on my radar until he became Clark's best friend and Clark 
became mine. I wrote off anything I might have felt as a girlish crush and 
nothing more.

Until now.

I've been starting to wonder a lot of things lately. I wonder who I really 
am and whether Nell and Clark and everyone else will like the woman I 
turn out to be. Twelve years later, I'm finally starting to realize that my 
parents really aren't ever coming back. Something inside of me, some 
childish fantasy, still held onto the hope that it was all a big mistake and 
they weren't really gone. I think what happened tonight, what sent me 
into the rain and straight to Lex's door . . . I think I finally felt that hope 
die and it killed something in me.

With every door that closes, another opens, and while that part of me is 
gone, Lex is bringing something else inside me to life. Or maybe that's 
overstating it. Maybe he's just waking it up. 

I'm not ignorant about sex. I've read all the facts, accumulated every little 
particle of data I could find. Friends I've talked to explained that the first 
time, it hurt, but that later, it got much better. 

I really doubt anything could get *better* than what Lex is doing to me 
right now.

There was no pain. Maybe a pinch, like when you get your ears pierced, 
but certainly not the agony I'd been imagining. Something to thank Lex 
for. I feel like I should thank him for so many things -- for the Talon and 
his friendship and his ((love)) affection. 

For making me come so hard I'm about to break both our eardrums with 
the scream I'm going to let out.

He's beautiful above me and I keep my gaze on his as pleasure washes 
through my body for the second time tonight. One of his hands holds my 
hips in place as he moves against me, the other brushes against my face 
like I'm precious to him. He groans, and his thrusts are growing 
unsteady, his face screwed up in ecstasy. I bring a hand up to his face 
and let his jaw rest against my palm. He kisses the inside of my hand 
again, then bites down gently as he comes. 

Lex collapses over me, and I wrap my arms and legs around his body to 
hold him close. I'm afraid that if I let him go we'll realize what we've 
done and feel guilty and I'm really not ready to feel guilty for sins real 
and imagined; not yet. 

His face is buried in the crook of my neck and he's trembling in my arms. 
My shoulder is wet and I stroke the back of his head until he looks at me, 
and I realize he's crying. I pull his head down to mine and kiss his closed 
eyelids, his cheeks, his mouth, then let my fingers brush his tears away. I 
urge his head down to rest against my chest.

"I'm crying," he says against my breast, as though he's surprised.

"Everyone cries," I assure him, stroking his head. I feel so calm, so right. 
I feel like me. Whoever that is.

"I don't," he insists, raising his head to look at me in confusion. 

"Maybe you do now," I offer gently, running the length of my hand along 
his face. 

He doesn't answer; just lays his head back down against my breast. He 
falls asleep before I do, which is something I'm sure he's never done 
before. It's still raining and I hear it pelt against his window. I measure 
the rain against the rhythm of his breath against me and it lulls me to 
sleep soon after him.

I do not dream. 

In the morning, he's watching me when I wake up.

And he's smiling.

~

These tears I've cried/I've cried 1000 oceans/And if it seems/I'm floating 
in the darkness/Well I can't believe that I would keep/Keep you from 
flying/So I will cry 1000 more/If that's what it takes/To Sail you 
home/Sail you home/Sail you home/

~

The end