When I touched my face, I was surprised that it was wet. It seemed like my skin really should have been frozen, brittle and sharp, like the ice cubes spewed from the automatic icemaker in my top-of-the-line stainless steel freezer at home.

At home...where I rightfully should have been at that moment, wrapped up in my silk pajamas and robe, toasting my toes and sipping a sinfully expensive and aged brandy in front of the fireplace in my bedroom, browsing through the latest issue of Fortune magazine and listening to the pleasant crackle of burning logs.

Instead, I watched with distant amusement as my foot disappeared into another snowdrift, and then another, and meanwhile I plotted how I would find a way to make the Autoclub stock plummet. And once they'd declared bankruptcy, I'd follow up with the cell phone company. What good is the fucking Autoclub if they can't get somebody to come tow a Porsche out of a ditch on County Road 17 in the middle of a Kansas blizzard anyway? And if they can make cell phones that connect to the Internet, why can't they figure out how to make one with a damned battery that can last?

Damn this unpredictable Kansas weather anyway!

It wasn't even supposed to snow that night. Rain! They'd predicted rain! Instead of forty degrees and three inches of rain, we end up with twenty degrees and thirty inches of snow (slippery snow, to which my poor abandoned Porsche would attest). At least it seemed like thirty inches after walking through it for a couple hours. I wondered how I could get the meteorologist on Channel 8 fired. Idiot!

The anger helped, I could tell. It kept me going, kept my blood hot and my adrenaline flowing, even when all I really wanted to think about was how wet my clothes were and how cold I was. How I wished I had a warmer pair of gloves. And maybe how lost I was. (Why in the world did I decide that a shortcut across the cornfields was a good idea?) I swallowed back the sour taste of panic and despair, knowing that I had to stay in control, had to keep moving.

But I was really so, so tired.

It takes a lot of energy to walk a couple miles in a blizzard. The wind was blowing loud and hard, racing unfettered across the open fields the way only the Kansas wind can. It was a testament to how heavy it was snowing that any snow at all was able to accumulate on the ground, and not just continue whipping across the flat landscape until it simply evaporated again into the air. The wind was pelting my face with icy snowflakes so hard that I could hardly keep my eyes open long enough to see a few yards in front of me. I began to wonder if leaving the Porsche was a mistake. But after trying to weather out the storm for a few hours while waiting for a tow truck that never materialized, the gas had finally run out, and it had gotten painfully cold in the little car quite quickly. I hadn't been sure that I'd make it through the night without freezing to death if I stayed until some low-paid greasy-nailed mechanic finally ventured out and found me. It hadn't seemed like I was all that far from home when I'd started walking. But I sure wished I'd thought to bring along a flask of the good brandy before leaving Metropolis.

The hem of my coat caught on something as it flapped in the wind, and I yanked on the fabric to pull it free of a sharp metal barb, cursing as I heard the dark fabric tear. I didn't care about the expense of ruining the coat, but I sure didn't want any unexpected ventilation holes in it, not when I was so cold I couldn't even chatter my teeth any more, only clench them together until my jaw ached.

I looked closer at the barb, my coat threads still hanging on it, and realized that a string of barbed wire could only mean that I had come to a fence. A fence meant that somebody wanted livestock in, or trespassers out, but either way, it was a vague but welcome sign of civilzation. I blinked into the wind, trying to detect any lights, any shapes that could be buildings. In spite of the whiteness all around me, it was too dark to make out anything. But I decided that I'd take my chances that the natives would be at least friendly enough not to let even a Luthor die of exposure on their property, and I pushed the wire down so I could step over it to the other side.

I walked away from the fence, trying to wrap the long length of my tattered coat around me better, but my frozen, numb fingers didn't cooperate very well. My thin leather driving gloves were nowhere near adequate for this type of adventure, no matter how stylish they were, or how soft they were, or how much I paid for them.

A few minutes later, I slipped and fell headlong into the snow as the ground suddenly sloped away and down. The little ravine had been obscured under all the monochromatic whiteness, and I cursed again, feeling the cold wetness of the snow soak into my light wool Armani slacks, chilling my legs even more wickedly than the wind had.

I have to admit I contemplated for a small instant just giving up and lying there until death or discovery by whatever yahoo owned this land. But I managed to muster just enough anger to get me going again.

This time, I was angry with myself. I'd been so stupid, driving foolishly fast for conditions. I should have been prepared for a sudden skid on the slick road. I'd been a life-long resident of Kansas--why didn't I carry any emergency items in my car? Why does a bald man venture out in winter without a cap or scarf? And, instead of wasting all that time with the Autoclub.... Why hadn't I called Clark?

It would have made sense to call him. He lived somewhere between the curve where I'd slid off the road and the Luthor mansion. The Kents had a decent truck that might have been able to come out and find me. And, somewhere deep inside, I knew...I knew...that even if they wouldn't have been able to get the truck through the snow, somehow Clark would have found a way to help me.

I knew it. Knew it with the same certainty that I knew that I'd see the sun come up in the east tomorrow. If I lived that long.

But I'd screwed up my chance at calling Clark, and now the cell phone battery was dead, and the phone itself was somewhere in a snowbank back near the Porsche, where I'd flung it in a fit of anger and exasperation.

I pushed myself back up to a standing position and started forward again, heading the rest of the way down the incline. I thought I ought to go across the little ravine and climb up the embankment on the other side and try again to see if I could make out any buildings on the property. It didn't look very steep, but it might be high enough to get a better vantage point once I reached the top.

My feet again slipped on the snow on the downward slope--Italian leather shoes are simply not made for the purpose of trekking through a Kansas blizzard--and I stumbled forward the last few feet, grateful when I finally skidded to a stop that I hadn't fallen again.

My gratitude lasted not even a second when I heard the brittle snap of cracking ice beneath my feet, and an instant later my right foot plunged downward into about eight inches of water. There was a little creek that ran the ravine, buried under a thin coat of ice and blanket of snow. The water was shockingly, indecently cold, and I immediately yanked my foot back up and out of the water, gasping. This must have been where I lost my shoe, but my foot was so cold now that I never noticed. The air and the snow felt so much warmer than that insanely icy water that I never missed the shoe until much later.

I tried to scrabble up the incline away from the creek, but with one slippery Italian shoe, one numb stockinged foot, and a coat that wanted to catch the wind like a sail, I was propelled backward and down again by a sudden strong gust. I reeled and stumbled, unable to catch my footing, finally landing ungracefully on my ass... which then proceeded to crash through the thin ice until I found myself sitting in eight inches of hell.

I shouted and cursed at the top of my lungs. The water was so cold it hurt, the intense pain of it indistinguishable from that of a burn. Driven by instinct and adrenalin, I scrambled on hands and knees out of the water, and then crawled on all fours up the slope until I was safely away and out of danger from falling into the creek again. Then I lay down flat on my belly in a snowbank to catch my breath.

My hands, my feet, my legs, my butt, and the whole bottom of my coat were soaked, and I found it impossible to keep the edge of panic out of my profanity. I cursed the weather and the weatherman and my car and the autoclub and my cell phone and some guy named Luigi who I imagined must have made my damned shoes. And when I felt the panic start to turn to despair, when I heard the self-righteous anger in voice begin to quaver, I shut up and tried to think.

I had to keep going. This had quickly become more than just a miserable walk through a snowstorm. Now it was life or death. I had to keep my blood circulating, had to keep trying to find shelter of some kind, any kind. Things were getting kind of fuzzy in my head. I couldn't remember what direction I'd been going, or where the road was anymore. And it was snowing and blowing so hard that my tracks were quickly disappearing, leaving me little clue as to where I'd already been.

I pushed myself up to stand, listening to myself grunt with the effort of moving my numb feet and legs. As I began walking--more like stumbling--I had to concentrate hard on just putting one foot in front of the other. It was hard, because with the snow getting so deep, I couldn't really see my feet most of the time. I didn't even pay attention to where I was going, just knowing that I had to move or die.

Every minute seemed like an hour, but I kept moving as best I could. The chill of the wind on my soaking wet clothing was brutal. I could hear my breath shaking as I trembled violently. I think I may have even cried a little bit, just from sheer misery and exhaustion and self-pity. I was so cold, and so tired, and so tired of being cold. I just wanted it all to stop.

The thought occurred to me that with all this wet clothing, I was now, literally, going to freeze my ass off. I wondered if it froze solid enough, could it actually fall off? I pictured some tobacco-chewing potbellied farmer in overalls next spring, squinting confused at the frozen, skinny white ass he just plowed up in his cornfield. Could the family jewels be far behind?

I began to laugh. In that crazy way that things strike a person funny when they're stressed, I began to laugh at the idea of some poor Kansas farmer unearthing a long lost Luthor ass. What a story for the Inquisitor! I know now that it was just because hysteria and hypothermia had simply set in, but at the time, it was the funniest thing I'd ever imagined. I hooted raucously, tears of laughter freezing on my cheeks. I laughed so hard I fell to the ground, and I turned around and laid there on my back, chortling up at the whirlwinds of snowflakes above me. My scalp burned with cold where the bare skin of my head touched my pillow of snow, and I laughed even more at the thought of the farmer tilling up my bald scalp and skinny white ass in the spring.

And then it came to me, shockingly. Somehow, I suddenly understood with clarity what was wrong. Clark. Where was Clark? Over the last year or so, he'd been there when I needed him more times than I'd ever realized. He'd saved my hide and been my friend and defended me...he was like one of those guardian angels that one hears so much of. I'd always thought that angel kind of thing was just a load of bullshit (and I do know my bullshit--I run the factory)....but....if angels were bullshit, then how could I explain Clark? Clark, who ripped me out of a sinking car in a way I couldn't humanly explain. Who appeared from out of nowhere to save me....how many times?

He was an angel. He had to be. Beautiful face, perfect body, good heart, innocent, strong, kind, humble, naive, and full of sweet romantic notions for the untouchable girl-next-door. Clark. My guardian angel, whom I'd loved on instinct from the very moment I first saw him. Lovely apple-cheeked boy bound to earth but created from a much more heavenly venue...

Where was my guardian angel?

I had to call him. Had to let him know I needed his help. Sure, it sounds crazy now, but back then, it made the most beautiful sense ever. It was the answer.

So I began to make a snow angel. I flapped my arms and legs in the snow, insanely certain that if I made this kind of "calling card" that he'd just appear, out of nowhere, just like so many times before, and take me away from there, take me somewhere warm. I was so elated that I'd figured out the right thing to do that I was laughing again, quietly this time, but with a very real and certain sense of joy.

I don't know how long I was out there behaving like a lunatic, but suddenly I heard footsteps and a shadowy figure loomed over me. Snow was still pelting my face, and I blinked, trying to focus through the flakes, giddily thinking that my guardian angel had finally arrived, anxious to be warmed by his touch, by his smile...

"Lex?"

Uh-oh. It was not Clark. It was an older man's voice. "Lex, my God. What the hell are you doing out here? How long have you been out here, son?"

Son?

Well, shit.

"D-Dad?" I asked, and was ashamed at the tiny peep my voice was. "Dad?"

I was scared now, and filled with regret. So this was it. This was the way it would end. No guardian angel to save me. I must have had a few too many sins on my soul (probably because of all those lewd fantasies I'd had about one of God's true angels), because the devil himself had sent Dad to come and get me. Dad, who had sold his own soul to the devil years ago, was now going to bring him mine,too.

Well, at least I'll be warm, I thought with bitterness.

Somewhere about that time, what remained of my train of rational thought seriously derailed. I felt strong hands grip my shoulders and pull me up to a sitting position, but suddenly, I didn't want to go. At least, I didn't want to go with him. I don't know if I had a clear idea of who he even was--part of me reacted as if I thought he was my Dad, yet part of me knew it couldn't be the blind old bastard. I was afraid of him, afraid of going with him, but I don't remember why. I think maybe I just wanted to stay in my pathetic little snow-angel carving and wait for Clark, but I'm not really sure. Anyway, I remember not wanting to go anywhere, and then I started to try to fend off the big gloved hands that were trying to haul me up to stand, slapping them away clumsily.

I flailed and kicked around in the snow a bit, and then finally I felt myself grabbed roughly around the waist and hauled up, until I was ass-up in the air, finding myself in the no-nonsense end of a secure fireman's carry. I shouted in defiance, all awkward, futile struggles now. At least I think I shouted. I don't really remember, except that I know I heard loud voices. Shouting, and then more shouts, more voices, and lights, lights so bright my eyes burned, and there was so much commotion that my confusion and rebellion quickly rose into a very real terror. I struggled harder and babbled some more gibberish that I'm not even sure was in actual words.

The shouts and voices around me were a blur. "Clark! Lex, stop fighting me! Martha! Martha, get Clark!" "Oh my God! I'll get some blankets." "Dad, what happened to him? Lex, what's wrong, what were you doing out there? Lex are you drunk? Dad! Dad, what's wrong with him? Why is he acting like this?"

I heard the alarm in the voices around me, especially the last one, the gentle, familiar voice laced with sweet panic, and then two rough, burly hands grabbed me on either side of my head and a big face loomed in close to mine, blotting out the lights and everything else. The hands shook me a little, trying to capture my attention.

"Lex! Lex, you're going to be all right! You're not thinking straight because you're hypothermic! Now calm down and let us help you!"

I blinked at the big face. Weathered Kansas skin, sun-blonde hair, snapping blue eyes...and fatherly concern. His voice was gentler when he spoke next. "That's right, now look at me. Do you know who I am?"

I drew a breath and tried to obey the determination I heard in that voice and saw in that face. "Mr Kent?" I whispered finally, as recognition suddenly came to me.

His expression softened, and little lines crinkled around his eyes. His hands loosened their tight grip on my face, one of the hands brushing against my cheek almost affectionately as it withdrew. "That's right, son. It's okay. We'll get you warmed up."

I blinked again, as if clearing my eyes would somehow clear my head. I was still disoriented, but I was starting to make some sense of things around me. I cast my eyes around and saw that I was in the middle of the Kent kitchen, with Mr Kent kneeling on the floor in front of my chair , Mrs Kent standing at his shoulder with a motherly expression of worry.

"Clark?" I whispered. I liked the Kents fine, but I wanted Clark, and I was too dazed to remember to hide the fact.

"I'm right here, Lex," he answered softly, a fleck of humor coloring his comforting tenor. I snapped my head back and around, surprised at the closeness of his voice, and found myself not even two inches from his face.

He was here. My angel. My guardian angel. I fought to keep my thoughts coherent and not give in to the sudden giddiness I felt. I glanced about at my surroundings again and realized that I was sitting in Clark's lap, his long strong arms wrapped securely around my middle, warming me in a way nothing or no one else ever could. I turned and met his eyes, and they were filled with concern and caring.

For some reason I still can't fathom, I started weeping. I have no idea why. Probably the hypothermia. I should have been happy that I was out of the cold, and I should have been elated to find myself in Clark's arms...but something uncontrollable just bubbled up from inside me and made me cry for no good reason. Clark's sweet expression just blurred up in front of me and I felt like I just crumbled into a million little pieces. I curled my legs up and hugged my knees and tried to make myself as small as possible, hoping that no one would notice my tears.

"Ssshh. It's all right, Lex. You're safe now," Clark whispered to me, his breath warm and moist next to my ear, as he folded his arms around the little huddle I'd become. He cupped the back of my head in one of his big gentle hands and pulled me to his shoulder, pinning me there with the warm weight of his cheek on the top of my head. I just shut my eyes tight and fought those shameful tears, burying them in the warm flannel of his shoulder that still smelled cozy with sleep.

The weight and warmth of a large thick quilt fell over my shoulders and wrapped around the both of us. "That's good, Clark," Mr Kent assured softly, "keep him warm with your body heat." His hands were surprisingly gentle as he tucked the blanket around us, thoughtfully making sure even my bare head was covered.

"Martha, fill the bathtub with warm water. Be careful you don't make it too hot. Get the water as deep as you can. Let us know when it's ready. And we need something warm for him to wear for the night."

"I've still got some of Clark's clothes he outgrew upstairs, I'll find something."

"And find the thermometer. We need to know how low his body temperature is."

Snuggled in Clark's arms, shivering uncontrollably, I heard her scurry off, then a moment later came the sound of water rushing from the bathtub faucet.

"Lex, you're sopping wet," Clark's anxious voice breezed over the top of my head as his hand stroked down my side to find my drenched coat and slacks.

"We need to get him out of those wet clothes as soon as possible, Clark. Let's get him undressed and then we'll wrap him up in a dry blanket until the bath is ready."

As much as being cuddled up naked in Clark's arms had been a major fantasy of mine in the past, there was no way I'd ever imagined that it might happen like this. Never had I entertained the idea of being stripped naked by Jonathan Kent while in the middle of the Kent family kitchen, with Martha Kent in the room down the hall, with no closed door between us. Needless to say, I wasn't very cooperative about the situation. I let Jonathan pull off my lone shoe, and my socks, and I let him and Clark help me out of my soaked outer coat and suitcoat, but then it just started to get too weird. And cold. I'd almost gotten used to the icy wet fabric clinging to me, and now they wanted to take it all off and expose my bare skin to the cold air? This didn't seem like a good idea to me. So I struggled a bit to keep the last of my clothes on; not enough to hurt anyone, but enough to let them know that I wasn't on board with their plan.

Besides, it was mortifying. In all my fantasies, when Clark saw me naked, he would always be so impressed with my erect leaking cock standing so tall and fat just for him....and now...and now there was nothing. It was like George on that Seinfeld episode--it was all shrinkage due to the cold. My genitals were pulled up so snug to my body it was as if they were trying to find a way inside. With just the few downy-soft pubic hairs my meteor-ravaged body could muster, I probably looked more like a ten year old boy to Clark, not fantasy material. And sitting on Clark's lap, being stripped by Clark and his father, made me feel about ten years old, too.

To make things even worse, they were just pulling my soggy silk boxers off my legs when Martha came barreling around the corner with a thermometer in one hand and an open book in the other. With her nose buried in the book she didn't even see me at first .

"The medical book says we should--Oops!" She finally noticed me and spun around to stand with her back to the room.

"Mom!" Clark scolded as he wrapped me in a dry blanket so fast that for a minute I thought I must have blacked out from humiliation. How had he moved so fast? Had I missed something?

Mrs Kent's embarrassment shook her voice as she bumbled through a quick apology. "Lex, I'm sorry. I-I should've--I wasn't thinking--"

"It's all right, Martha," Mr Kent sighed as he stood up with the dripping mess of my clothes and deposited them in the kitchen sink. He didn't want to make a big deal out of it, and he was right. My shriveled genitals weren't worth it. "What does the book say?"

Embarrassment forgotten as quickly as it had happened, she flipped a page and read a section out loud. Something about different levels of hypothermia related to different body temperatures, with the lower the temperature, the more serious the situation. I didn't pay much attention because for the time being I found I liked very much where I was, wrapped up in Clark's arms, and wanted to simply savor the moment. It wasn't until I heard something about rectal temperature that I poked my head up from under the blanket draped over me.

As much as I'd always dreamt of having a certain Kent invade my asshole, it certainly wasn't going to be that Kent, and it wasn't going to be with any thermometer.

As exhausted, cold and shivering as I was, I was glad I was still able to muster a deadly glare.

Jonathan noticed and snorted a laugh. "Martha, I think rectal temperatures are out."

She glanced up from the book at him, then at me, and then rolled her eyes impatiently. "Of course I know that. The book is just giving us a baseline. Oral temperatures will be a degree or two below that."

Okay then. I was okay with that. Then the air of the kitchen became just too cold for my poor bare head, so I dipped back under the blanket and snuggled into the warm skin at the side of Clark's neck. Clark noticed my renewed shivering and stroked his hand over my cheek and the curve of my neck. I closed my eyes and sighed at the beauty of it. I wished I could stay like that forever.

"Mom, you're not going to be able put a thermometer in his mouth the way his teeth are chattering. If he accidentally bites down, he might break it."

There was a moment of silence and I waited it out anxiously, knowing with certainty that I'd never let any of them come near my butt with any thermometer, but not wanting to budge from the warmth and comfort I was finding in my best friend's arms.

"Clark's right, Martha," Jonathan agreed solemnly. "If that thing breaks in his mouth, he'd end up with a mouth full of mercury."

"Mercury's really poisonous, isn't it Mom?"

There was another moment of silence, and then Martha sighed. "Well, I guess you're right. I guess it'll have to be rectal then..."

"NO!" I blurted loudly in half a panic, throwing the blanket off from over my head and sitting up straight, suddenly feeling cornered. "I mean," I took a breath and tried to rework my rudely shouted refusal to a more polite response. The Kents were good people and I didn't want to risk offending them, especially not while sitting half naked on their son's lap. "I mean I appreciate everything you're doing for me, but I'm afraid that I'll have to respectfully decline."

I looked from Jonathan to Martha, and couldn't quite decipher the odd expressions on their faces. Then I heard a low, repressed rumble from Clark beside me and I finally got it. Just as the three of them burst out laughing, it finally occurred to me that they were pulling my leg.

It was really pretty funny, come to think of it. I wish I'd been able to see the look on my face too.

I gave Clark a fake slug in the arm, and he grinned at me with that schoolboy face that reminded me of how young he really was. But God, I loved that look, loved that sweet face. I just grinned back at him, feeling a warmth starting to grow on the inside, despite the cold that still shook my body.

And then he hugged me. Not because I was still shivering with cold, but just because we were two best friends sharing a laugh. Not a romantic hug, just a quick "buddy" hug full of good humor and mischief...but it was... wonderful. He didn't even care that it was in front of his parents. I'm not someone that people feel comfortable casually touching--maybe it's the money, or maybe it's the shiny head, or maybe it's just something innately untouchable about me--but this felt so good. So good that I might have lingered against him maybe a second or a second and a half too long, but no one seemed to notice.

Martha left the room, and we could still hear the amusement in her voice when she called from the bathroom that the tub was full and ready for me. I managed to get myself off Clark's lap (a feat which was much harder to accomplish emotionally than it was physically) while still wrapped securely in the blanket, and I shuffled towards the bathroom, Clark and Jonathan hovering behind me as if they thought I'd fall and break at any moment. Or maybe they were just worried I'd drop the blanket.

Feeling a little light-headed from the short walk, or maybe from the heat and humidity in the little room, as soon as I entered the bathroom I sat down on the closed toiled seat and tried to steady myself, breathing heavily. Clark's mother was concerned for me, and all business now as she finally did manage to take my temperature by placing the thermometer in my armpit and then holding my arm still against my body. I tried to smile at her to reassure her I was all right in spite of my continued shivering, but mostly I just felt embarrassed. I knew this was how she'd have taken Clark's temperature when he was probably about three years old. I sat patiently, modestly clenching the blanket together around me, as she pointed out the clothes she'd gathered for me to put on afterward, and the whole time she kept gently stroking my arm, holding it still and warming my goosebumps at the same time.

She didn't tell me what my temperature was when she finally checked the thermometer, but her face was serious as she showed it to Jonathan. They exchanged a look and then he just nodded and said he'd go get some wood for the fireplace. She said she'd go heat up something warm for me to drink. Before he left, Mr Kent turned to Clark and told him to stay and keep a close eye on me. I knew the Kents well enough by now to realize that they were worried about me but didn't want to embarrass me any further by fussing over me in such a private venue as the bathtub.

And then it was just me and Clark, a blanket and the bathtub. Alone at last, I thought with a certain amount of bemusement, but refrained from commenting out loud. Clark started to pull the blanket from around my shoulders.

"Clark, wait," I objected, clutching the blanket around me.

"Lex, I know the air feels cold, but once you get in the tub it'll -"

"Close the door."

"Oh. Right," Clark turned and complied quickly. "Sorry about before."

"It's okay. It's not like your Mom did it on purpose, or got a kick out of it or anything..."

Clark grinned and shrugged. "Nah. She was pretty much in mother-hen mode at the time."

I stood and slipped the blanket off my shoulders, trying to discreetly keep my back to Clark and hide the embarrassing shrinkage of my private parts. He took the blanket from me with one hand, and with his other he took a firm grip of my right bicep as I stepped into the large, old-fashioned tub.

The water was deep, and as I began to plunge my second foot into the water, it suddenly caught up to me that the water was scalding hot. I hissed and tried a quick exit, but I was too clumsy and the tub was too slick, and I slipped and nearly fell in the process.

Clark caught me though, like the guardian angel I imagined him to be. The blanket hit the floor and I was standing on one leg in the tub with Clark's arms around my waist and my belly pressed up against his---

Well. If I hadn't been so preoccupied with my cold body and the hot water, and it hadn't happened accidentally, I might have tried to stage this anyway. This was damned nice.

"Lex. It's just lukewarm water. It's not going to burn you. It just feels hot because you're so cold."

I looked up into his eyes. Just concern, and maybe a little amusement there, but no sexual heat, no romance. I nodded my head and looked down, feeling self-conscious and a little disappointed. I grit my teeth and slowly lowered my body into the tub, hissing again from the sensation in my balls when they contacted the water.

After the initial shock of the warm water began to wear off, I realized that Clark was right, that the water wouldn't hurt me, but was luxuriously warm. I hunched over until I could submerge my shoulders and then closed my eyes and sighed with pleasure as I hugged my knees.

"Feels good now?"

I cracked my eyes open at him and smiled lazily. "Mmm-hmm."

Clark knelt on the floor beside the tub and leaned his elbows on the rim. "Why don't you lie back and relax for a while?"

I was enjoying the liquid warmth of the the bath so much that I had to think about it a minute. I liked it like this, with my arms around my legs I could brace my body against the wicked shivering that just wouldn't stop; but the thought of resting my back against the curve of the tub and letting the warm water lick at my neck and the back of my head was very appealing.

"Come on, Lex. I'll brace you up so you don't slip under."

I opened my eyes and Clark was pushing up his sleeves, revealing deliciously large, hard biceps. He didn't wait for me to agree, he just started easing me back, slowly, gently, until the back of my neck was snug and secure in the crook of his elbow. Then he slowly lowered me further into the water until it lapped around the back of my head, my continued shivers still making little waves in the water's surface.

"How do you feel now?" he asked, and I looked up into his eyes as they assessed me to see if I was in approval of this. Nothing but total innocence and concern was revealed in those beautiful eyes.

"A little weird," I winced as I realized his face was just inches from mine. I suddenly hoped the shrinkage would continue and not let me betray myself to him. This whole predicament was just making things too close for comfort. I needed my distance, needed my walls and defenses, but here I was stripped bare, physically and emotionally, in front of the one person with whom I needed them most.

"Weird?" A little cloud of worry darkened his expression.

"Well, yeah," I shrugged my shoulder as I tried to explain my embarrassment in terms that wouldn't make him throw me through the window and back into the cold outside. He didn't need to know everything. "I mean, your Dad finds me out of my mind in a snowbank, has to carry me here kicking and screaming, the entire Kent family has now seen the Luthor family jewels, and here I'm stark naked in your tub and you have to hold me up because I can't even seem to manage to take a simple bath by myself. And I don't know what the hell that crying thing was all about..."

"Come on, don't worry about it, Lex. It was just the hypothermia."

His voice was so soft, as if he knew that even talking about it was embarrassing (it was). I didn't want to talk about it, but I needed to make him know that I wasn't completely wimpy. I hardly ever cry. Father taught me long ago as a child that crying has no useful purpose, it's just messy and embarrassing, and a silly self-indulgence that just wastes time that could be put to good use calculating alternatives and/or revenge. Sure, I've messed up a few times here and there, but really, for the most part, I just don't cry.

I was just about to assure Clark of that fact when he brushed his thumb gently over my left cheek, his fingers wet and warm, dripping with bathwater, his expression wistful and sweet. Before I knew it, he then scrubbed his fingers over my right cheek, careful not to get water in my eyes.

I froze as I realized he was washing the tear tracks from my face. I looked up to try to read his expression, to see if he was overcome by pity for me, or affection, or what...but he didn't meet my eyes, and only concentrated his gaze on his gentle touch to my face. I didn't know what to make of this, and only managed a dry swallow, unable to speak.

Then he gave a sad little moan and whispered, "Your skin is still so cold..." He leaned in closer to me and rubbed my shoulder and upper arm gently, measuring my temperature with his touch; and then he cupped his hand under the water and bathed the crown of my head with the warmth of the water and his hand.

I closed my eyes and pretended that the warmth on my head was exquisite--and it was--but I really just wanted to hide from him that my eyes were tearing up again from the unnerving tenderness of his ministrations. All the explanations I'd been prepared to give Clark just moments ago about never crying were very, very close to becoming moot.

As he continued to bathe my head with such sweet care, I turned my face in towards the steely arm that cradled me, trying to hide the fact that my lower lip was starting to tremble. I tried desperately to think of a way to get out of this before I humiliated myself again.

Then he cradled me even closer and leaned his cheek against my forehead. "So cold yet....," he whispered again, as if it really worried him that I continued to shiver out of control.

That was it. His affectionate, innocent attention was going to make me lose it in some spectacular fashion if I didn't get the hell out of there. And if I lost it, he'd know. Know that I wanted the unattainable. He'd know that he'd just given me a little piece of my own private heaven; that he'd just tempted me with the apple of my Eden. He'd know that it was more than lust, more than obsession. He'd know...

I burst out of his grasp so fast that water splashed wildly over the rim of the tub.

"My watch!" I lied, hoping I was convincing enough. "I lost it somewhere!" I managed to stand up without slipping this time.

"Lex! It's--" He interrupted himself as he stood and grabbed my arm to ensure my safety as he offered me a soft, well-worn towel.

"I have to find it, Clark. My mother gave it to me!" I wrapped the towel around me as I stepped out and stood shivering on the little bath rug. Was he buying this little act?

"Lex, it's okay. It's on the kitchen table," Clark assured me as he grabbed a second towel from the rack. "Don't you remember me taking it off for you?"

I did remember. I knew exactly where it was. But I shook my head 'no' and hoped I looked innocent.

"Well, it's there, stop worrying about it." He grabbed the little stack of makeshift clothing his mother had gathered for me. "Do you want to get dressed now, or would you like to get back in the tub and warm up some more?"

The air against my wet skin made my shivering worse, and I just clenched the towel around me helplessly, my teeth and knees clattering.

"Dressed."

"You sure? I can make the water warmer again..."

"Dressed."

I wasn't able to meet his eyes, I was still too embarrassed about what had almost happened, so I just stared at the floor. He hesitated a moment, probably wondering what the hell got into me, and then he took the other towel, gently draped it over my head, and began to tenderly rub my scalp dry.

I just stood there and let him, loving it and hating it at the same time.

"Lex, I'm sorry if I was being too..."

Too what? Familiar? Sweet? Angelic? It didn't matter what he thought he was being--the fact was that he could see right through me. He knew I'd bolted because of him, because of his touch, his closeness, his affection... not because of any watch.

"It's okay," I whispered through chattering teeth as he continued to dry me and dress me like a child. I suppose I could have managed it myself, but...he didn't seem to expect me to, and my shivering really was bad, and part of me was sort of curious to see if there was anything that he wouldn't do for me, if there was anywhere he drew the line when helping me.

There was long-legged, well-worn thermal underwear, covered then by flannel pajama bottoms that looked like they might have been Clark's when he was maybe thirteen. A very tall thirteen, but still young enough to wear flannel pj's with cowboy printed fabric. He gave me a shy grin when he saw me noticing, but before I could comment, he pulled a long sleeved thermal t-shirt over my head, and covered that with a faded hooded sweatshirt with a broken zipper in front.

As he bent to slip some thick white sport socks on my feet, he asked "How do you feel now? Any better?"

I sat shivering on the closed toilet seat, looking down at him as he sat on one knee slipping socks onto my feet in a bizarre twist on the famous Cinderella/Prince Charming scene. I grimaced a wry smile at him. "Still feel weird. Not used to being so helpless."

He stood and grinned as he picked up the damp towels from the floor. I loved that charming, disarming grin of his. "Don't be embarrassed, Lex. It's okay. I don't think it's weird."

"Well I do."

He sopped up the water I'd splashed onto the floor. "You know what was weird though?"

"What was?" I swallowed back a feeling of panic and felt my heart stutter.

He didn't answer right away as he hung the towels up to dry over the shower curtain rod. Then he turned to me and gave me a wicked smirk. " 'Respectfully decline'? Now that was weird."

I grinned back, relieved. He was right, that was a pretty odd thing to say. "I was pretty weirded out at the time. That's my only defense."

He just chuckled and gave me that impish grin again, showing that beautiful white smile with the little overbite and the slightly misaligned teeth which hinted to me that Daddy could only afford braces if they were really, really necessary. He pulled the sweatshirt hood loosely over my head, and I felt a flutter of something in my stomach as I realized he was just being considerate of my poor chilled head. Even when he was teasing me he was still taking care of me, still being my guardian angel.

Then he opened the door and we stepped out, leaving the moist warm air of the bathroom behind us and venturing into the kitchen where Martha was setting out mugs on the table, a large saucepan steaming on the stovetop behind her.

"Hey guys, this is just about ready. Sit down, Lex, have some cookies and I'll bring you some hot milk in a second. Clark, Dad wants you to help him get the fire going in the front room."

I sat at the table, in a chair that I hoped wasn't Jonathan's regular spot, and stared at a large plate of cookies in the center of the table. Suddenly I felt tired, and almost overwhelmingly sad. My moments with Clark were over. The crisis had passed, there would be no more need to share body heat, or to care for me with a tender little touch, or to hold me in his arms. I would have to live on the bread of memories for the rest of my life.

They were wonderful memories...but I couldn't help but want more, even though I knew it could never be.

He'd been gone only about a minute when Clark returned to the kitchen with Jonathan behind him. As he took a chair next to me at the table, he grabbed three cookies off the plate and began eating as Martha poured hot milk for everyone.

"You okay, Lex?" he asked quietly, rubbing some crumbs from his chin with the back of his hand.

I made a face at the hot milk because....well, aren't guys supposed to make faces at hot milk? But then I wrapped both hands around the mug and took a sip. It was hot, and good. I suppose that means something about my manhood, but I don't care.

"I'm fine, Clark. Just really tired now." I kept my eyes on the hot white liquid in my mug, but could feel all their eyes on me. They were probably afraid I'd do some nutty thing again like start crying. Which I kind of felt like doing anyway. So I decided to change the subject. "You got that fire started pretty fast."

There was a moment's hesitation before anyone answered. Then Clark cleared his throat and mumbled "Dad had it just about going already when I got there."

They all started making small talk around the table as they sipped their milk and nibbled their cookies. After they got me to describe as best as I could where I'd left the Porsche, Jonathan explained how he'd found me when he went out to close the barn door that had blown open in the storm, how he'd heard laughter coming from the far end of the field where Martha planted her sunflowers in the summer. Then they talked about how there would be a big job of snow-plowing the next day, and how Jonathan had a contract with the county to assist in the plowing; that Clark would have to help...

I just kind of sat there and listened, letting it all wash over me like a warm wave of water. This was middle America, this was family values at work, this was Norman Rockwell in the real world. Contrary to popular Luthor theory, this kind of life really existed. This was the kind of family whose father would risk going further out into a storm than he should in the middle of the night on the off chance he might have to rescue someone from the cold; and whose mother would gather cast-off clothing and draw a warm bath and make a hot snack at 3 am in the morning, and fuss with maternal care over a young man whom she didn't quite trust; and here was a boy who thought nothing of lending his own body heat to his best friend, and could care for him like a small child without insinuating any insult to his adulthood or masculinity. As I sat, still trembling from the cold, I could feel the warmth of these people around me. I could feel their love for each other, and even, in their own way, for me.

All these years, I'd thought I was rich because I had things. But I was wrong. I was poor, dirt poor. These people--this family in their little farmhouse, around their little wooden kitchen table--these people were rich, not me.

And the realization didn't seem corny, or trite. It only made me sad, and resent the fate that had borne me into the Luthor household, and not the Kents'.

Jonathan drained his mug and announced he needed to get to bed before he had to turn around and get up again. "Those cows won't milk themselves, you know." As he left, he kissed Martha on the cheek, gave Clark's hair an affectionate tousle, and then he set his big hand on my shoulder and squeezed.

"I'm glad you're okay, son."

Son. Maybe it was just a casual slip, because I was almost as young as his son, but it felt good to me. Made me feel as if somehow I belonged here.

I looked up at him and met his tired eyes, and let my gratefulness show in my face as I thanked him.

After he disappeared up the stairs, I felt Clark's knee under the table bump mine.

"You sure you're okay, Lex?"

I nodded my head and took another sip of the milk. My melancholy must have been showing. "I'm just very tired." I let my eyes drift shut as if to prove it to him, but it wasn't much of an act.

Martha's hand seemed to come from out of nowhere and she pressed her palm gently to my forehead, and then my cheek. "Good. Your skin feels warmer now. But you must be exhausted. I made up the couch in the living room for you. Clark, you want to get him settled in, and make sure he has everything he needs?"

The couch was a little too short to stretch out in, but the blankets were warm and the pillows soft and fresh-smelling. I curled up under the covers and sighed, feeling heavy-limbed and awkward in my exhaustion. The logs in the fireplace were burning brightly ten feet away, and there was a real chance that finally, finally, I might feel warm again, even without Clark's arms around me.

I was half asleep already when Clark bent over me and tucked the blankets snugly around me, making sure the sweatshirt hood was still in place to keep my head warm. I opened my eyes to find him just staring down at me for an extended moment, with a thoughtful shimmer in his eyes, flickers of firelight reflecting on his skin, making it even more golden than usual. He was beautiful. The most beautiful man I'd ever seen. The most beautiful angel I'd ever imagined.

What was it that his mother had said? Make sure he has everything he needs...

As he straightened up to leave, my hand snaked out from under the covers, completely of its own volition, and grabbed Clark's wrist. "Clark--"

I need...

He bent over me again, questioning silently. I tried to say something, something that made sense, something that wouldn't give me away, that would cover for my desperate hand clinging to him, but I couldn't think of a thing. My mouth opened and I took a breath to speak, but nothing came out.

He waited for a moment, then seemed to realize I'd been struck mute. So he just touched his forefinger to my face, tracing the outside curve from the crown of my head, past my temple and cheek, and down to my chin. "Sleep well, Lex," he whispered, then went over to the overstuffed chair across the room and settled in, still watching me.

Still watching me watch him watch me...I fell asleep with the calm, sweet, doe-eyed expression of a drowsy Clark imprinted on my eyelids.

When I awoke a little while later, I could see he was asleep. His big long-limbed frame was scrunched up awkwardly in the chair, but his expression was peaceful enough to tell me his inelegant position didn't bother him. His face was so relaxed, so beautiful, that he seemed even more angelic to me than ever.

I felt chilled again. The fire had burned itself down to just a few slowly dying embers, lazily flickering away. I thought about getting up to put another log on the fire, but I knew that I wouldn't be able to do it quietly enough to not disturb Clark, so I just grabbed up the blankets around me and went to sit just in front of the hearth to soak up the last waves of heat.

I don't know how long I sat cross-legged in front of the fading fire, absorbing the dwindling heat that radiated out to me. I became fascinated by the play of colors and light as the fire slowly worked its way through a piece of wood, yellows and oranges as the flames licked into the air, remnants of woodsap snapping brightly in the heat, the burning edges outlined in thin ridges of glowing red as the heat and flame bent and split the bark, and then the log, then slowly mutating to white ash flakes over the blackened, charred remains. I was too tired to really think about much. My mind kept replaying little bits and pieces of the evening, but I tried hard to forget everything except the feel of Clark's arms around me and his gentle, caring touch. I wanted to remember everything about that--how strong he was, how warm he was, how gentle, how good his hair smelled, how soft the skin on his neck was... And then I was struck by how many times in just one evening he'd held me and touched me--On his lap in the kitchen, where he'd comforted me and warmed me, and undressed me with concern and caring; and in the bathroom, when he'd kept me from falling, and when he'd cradled me in his arms, and then he'd dried me and dressed me; I remembered his knee bumping mine under the table and his quiet concern; and finally I remembered him tucking the blankets around me and soft stroke of his finger outlining my face.

Was it possible there was more to his feelings for me than friendship?

I shook my head sadly at the fading fire, as if it had asked the question aloud. No. It wasn't possible. There was still Lana Lang. Whatever he felt for me, it wasn't the same as what he felt for her. Probably not even close. Hoping for anything more than friendship with Clark would be a stupid waste of time and emotion.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly in a quiet sigh, pulling the blankets a little tighter around my shoulders, and tried to comfort myself with the memory of his face as he'd looked at me before he'd said good night. Even if it was just friendship, it was still more than I've ever gotten from anyone else.

He moved in the periphery of my vision, but in my sleepy state I paid no attention, thinking that it was merely the wisps of a dream closing in on me. But then the fire grate opened and he set some fresh sections of split logs on the fire, practically smothering what little flame had been left. Then he bent down in front of the fireplace, blocking my view, and must have blown on the last of the embers and re-stoked the fire. When he stood up again, I could see the logs burning brightly behind him.

I was going to thank him, but was so tired that I could only do it mentally as I gazed up at him. Making my mouth move, creating words, was just too beyond my capability at the moment. The soft smile that played about his lips told me he understood. The renewed heat felt so good that my eyes closed automatically in pleasure, and I'm sure that I was well on the way to sleeping while sitting upright there on the floor.

Maybe he saw, and understood that too, because the next thing I knew, he had seated himself on the floor behind me, with his long legs stretched out to either side, and he wrapped his arms around me blankets and all, gently coaxing me to lean back against his chest.

Relaxing in his grasp, I let myself sink back into him, and at long last, I finally felt warm. The shivering stopped. It was the kind of warm that soaks into your skin and permeates clear down to your bones, the kind of warm that I always imagined a litter of puppies feels when they all curl up together to nap. I felt just like that--safe, comforted, accepted, and loved.

Yes, I realized, I did feel loved. Clark loved me, and if only as a friend, it was enough. Clark's love for his friends was clearly much more than anything I'd ever felt from any other friend, or even any of my past lovers, including my short-term wife. It was just another little piece of heaven that I'd been able to grab this night. With his arms around me, one hand reaching up to smooth softly down the side of my chin, I wouldn't have been surprised to find that I had actually frozen to death outside in the storm, and that I was now enjoying the after-life in my own little corner of heaven, complete with my own private angel. Of course, how anyone had let someone with a past like mine inside the Pearly Gates was a mystery.

I wanted to stay awake so I could savor this and remember every detail come daylight, but the warmth and comfort Clark gave me lulled me quickly into sleep.

I may have slept an hour, or I may have been out only minutes, but I gradually pulled myself up from my exhaustion and back to awareness when I thought I felt...something...touch my forehead. Something that was warm and moist and soft...Something that felt much like a very tender, very hesitant kiss. It was enough like a kiss to rouse me, but I didn't even open my eyes, knowing intuitively that I must have been imagining it.

I felt Clark's fingers soothe over the crown of my head and gently stroke my cheek, and I decided that it must have been his fingers I'd felt. His sweet, delicate petting was almost as good as a kiss anyway. He lightly stroked my head again, starting at the crown, slowly sliding past my right temple, my cheek, and finally my chin. It felt so astonishingly good, so warm, so real. Nobody else had ever caressed my bald head like that. I'd had lovers who avoided touching my scalp as if it were some kind of diseased pustule; alternately, I'd also had lovers who petted my head as if they were trying to prove something, or to meet a dare. But nobody ever touched me like this.

I think Clark was just touching my head because it was part of me, and he liked me.

I luxuriated in his touch, and with my eyes still closed, I tried to memorize every little detail of this moment. For all I knew, this might be the one single most notable moment of my life. I gradually realized that I must have slid sideways as I slept, or perhaps Clark had moved me to a more comfortable position--but now I found my head and shoulders were cradled securely in the crook of Clark's arm similarly to when he'd held me in the bathtub. My legs had shifted a little and I could feel that now my right leg rested innocently over Clark's strong thigh. It was a little bit like sitting on his lap again, and that realization delighted me even more. How many slices of heaven could be served up for me in one night?

And then, in the midst of my contented reverie, I felt that mysterious touch once more, this time on my left cheek. Again, it felt like a kiss, but I didn't think it really could be, so in my curiosity, I slowly opened my eyes, taking my chances that Clark wouldn't drop me like a hot potato once he realized I was awake.

I found him looking right back at me, sleepy and calm. His eyes met mine easily, and I nearly gasped when I saw the undisguised tenderness of his expression. There was no embarrassment in those beautiful eyes, no shame...only a deep, rich, glow of affection. I could see it easily, and he made no attempt to conceal it. I could almost see right down into him through those eyes; he was completely open to me. I could have asked anything of him at that moment, and he would not have denied me, and we both knew it. He would have told me all his secrets, I had only to ask.

And if he had asked anything of me at that moment, it would have been his. Anything. No limits whatsoever.

And yet neither of us said a word. We didn't have a need to ask. Secrets are trivial, pointless, when you know they're yours for the asking.

He just kept looking at me, and I at him. There was...an understanding of sorts between us. We knew there was no need to speak our thoughts, because there was this visual line of communication between us, wide open, and honest, and real.

One of our secrets was out now. I knew. He knew. There was love between us. It was shimmering in his eyes, glowing in his skin, and as I watched the reflection of the firelight flicker on his face, I knew that he could see that same love in my eyes too. There was no need to hold back anymore. We both knew.

Not that it wasn't scary. We knew there would be consequences tomorrow. But for that instant, that one slim, exquisite moment in time, it was out there and couldn't be denied.

His eyes followed the path of his fingers as he brushed them down the side of my face again, his lips pursed in a little 'oh' of discovery. Then he lifted his hand and started over, just ever so lightly caressing over my head, my forehead, tracing my eyebrows and cheekbones...and finally my lips.

He touched my lips so softly with his fingertips...he was hesitant, but he wanted this. I could see the yearning in his eyes as they studied my mouth, felt it in his touch as his forefinger mapped my lips. His want and need sailed through our connection clearly. But he was hardly more than just a boy yet--he was nervous, uncertain. He needed to be reassured that this was all right.

I gazed up at his innocent farm-boy face and tried to get him to meet my eyes. My eyes would tell him it was all right, and then he'd know.

Go for it, Clark...

Suddenly worried that my lips were still chapped from earlier, I nervously darted the tip of my tongue to moisten them. I wanted this moment to be perfect, not marred by cracked, dry lips. Clark blinked when he saw that, made a little gasp, and slowly leaned in closer, and I could feel the arm that cradled me start to tremble.

Come on, Clark. Closer. It's all right. Go for it.

He was so close now, his eyes darkly studying my mouth, his sweet milk-and-cookie breath tickling my chin, and I wanted him so much it was all I could do not to snag my arm around his neck and pull him down to me. But I didn't. I wanted this to be his decision. I didn't want him to ever regret this, to ever feel like I coaxed him to go where he wasn't sure he wanted to go. But, oh God, I wished he would go for it!

He was so close now that I couldn't focus on his eyes anymore, and I could feel the warmth of his full lips just a hair's breadth away from mine. I closed my own eyes and tried not to wimper from the overwhelming desire to be kissed by this handsome young angel.

Is this what Lana feels, every time he starts to get close?

Just when I was beginning to think Lana was right, Clark always holds something back...it happened. His lips touched mine, a feather-soft touch that lasted only the span of a deep, thudding heartbeat (I know, because it was my own heart I heard.) Even in that short moment, I could feel how his lips trembled. Then he pulled back suddenly, and I opened my eyes to find his wide and looking back at me, wary, watching for my reaction; ready to back off and pretend it never happened, pretend that somehow his lips had just tripped and fallen into mine...

But he must have seen in my face how much I loved him, how much it meant to me that he had kissed me. I wanted him to see it, wanted him to know it was all right. After a few seconds' hesitation, Clark bent close again and closed his lips over mine, no longer afraid.

And it was everything I ever fantasized it would be, and more. He loved me, and was kissing me because he loved me. I hadn't had to resort to tricks or lies or extortion--apparently all I'd needed to do was almost freeze to death in a snowbank. But I was no longer cold. I was warm through to my soul, in front of the fireplace, wrapped in his arms and his clothes, and thawed by his sweet lips.

I wrapped my arms around him tightly and pressed my lips to his. He reciprocated by cradling me closer in his arms and cupping his free hand over the back of my head, holding me securely so he could press his mouth to mine more firmly. His lips were so soft and warm, and even though they still trembled a little, I knew it was no longer because he feared rejection. He kissed my lips thoroughly, then alternately my top and bottom lip, and when I felt the moist tip of his tongue delicately peek out to taste my lower lip, I opened my mouth to him, anxious to taste him.

He didn't seem to know what to do with me then. I felt an acute sense of panic. *He has done* this before, hasn't he? I didn't know whether tongue-kisses were something new to him, or whether he was experiencing some kind of doubt again. It's okay, Clark.

His tongue was just timidly stroking my lips and occasionally poking at my teeth, so I took pity on the poor boy and decided to make it easier for him, whether this was something new to him or not. I would show him what I liked, and test to see what it was that he liked. I would make him see there was no need for him to be nervous about kissing me like this.

I kissed his lower lip and then softly sucked it into my mouth, swabbing it with my tongue and dragging it gently over my teeth. I savored its taste and softness and fullness, and then I drew in his upper lip and paid it equal, careful attention.

The hand that cradled the back of my head grew sweaty and hot, and pressed me even more fervently to his mouth, so I knew he was liking this.

He then took a turn at it, kissing me decisively and tenderly nibbling at my lips. The tenderness with which he kissed me knotted me up inside it was so wonderful. He put so much feeling in his kisses, so much of his heart and soul. If kissing me like this was a new experience for him, then he was certainly not alone, for it was new to me too. I've had all kinds of sexual experiences using all kinds of body parts and all kinds of toys in all kinds of ways in all kinds of places...but I never, ever felt anything more satisfying than being kissed by this young virgin farm boy.

When I felt the tip of his tongue dart out once more to probe delicately past my lips, I opened my mouth to him again and sucked him in, wanting him to feel the same exquisite delight to which he'd treated me. We both groaned with pleasure at the same moment. He was ambrosia to me, richer than any of Dad's finest brandy, still flavored with his milk-and-cookie midnight snack, and with a honeyed, rich essence that I would always fondly remember as just being Clark. I was in heaven, being loved and kissed by an angel. With my eyes closed and my mouth sealed to my handsome, sweet Clark, I could have sworn that I was floating in his arms in mid-air, half-way to heaven already. It was just like that feeling I'd had after I drove off that bridge... Coincidentally, Clark's lips had been on mine back then, too, though I didn't know it at the time. It felt so real, as if we were completely weightless. I felt that if I opened my eyes, we'd be close to the ceiling, but I kept them shut, afraid that I'd come crashing back to earth if I opened them.

I suckled on his tongue, and tickled it with my own, feeling high, almost as if I were dreaming. Soon he slowly began to draw back, luring my tongue past his lips and into his mouth, offering it a similar, tender treatment. He was holding me so tightly in his arms it actually hurt, but I had no complaints. I couldn't ever remember feeling so loved in all my life, not even on my own wedding night. All the sonnets and all the poetry and all the classics I've ever studied weren't enough for this moment. As much as I always admired their words, and hoped to someday achieve the kind of emotion they described...it wasn't like that at all. No one had ever gotten it right, no one had ever really been able to capture in words what this felt like. This feeling was...indescribable.

Our lips parted finally and he gasped for air while I listened to my own heart thud, and we both gazed into each other's eyes. Then he began kissing my face again, and lovingly pressed kisses all over--my forehead, my cheeks, my eyes, ears, the tip of my nose, the top of my head, and then along my jawline. His kisses were tender and careful, always returning and paying special attention to my eyes. It wasn't until I felt the moist tip of his tongue lick tenderly at the outside corner of my left eyelid that I realized I'd been weeping again, out of happiness this time.

I don't know where I got the idea that I never cry. I do. All the time, apparently. Maybe I just like to pretend I don't, but now I know it's a lie. And Clark knows it, too.

I wanted to touch his face the way he touched me, wanted to hold his face solidly between my hands and look at him, gaze into those lovely hazel eyes and stare at his well-kissed mouth, memorize everything about this night, about how we crossed a line on earth and landed in heaven. I wanted to lay back with him in my arms, and feel the cold floor underneath and his sweaty, passionate young body over mine. I wanted to press myself against him and feel the hardness of him, and scrabble at his clothing until I felt the searing heat of his smooth skin. But as I looked into his wide, earnest expression, I suddenly remembered how young he was, and how new this all was to him. I couldn't even be sure he'd ever french-kissed before this night. I didn't want to frighten him away by overwhelming him with my own desires. And this was enough--floating in the arms of an angel who loved me was definitely enough. For now.

We kissed again, and again, and when we needed air, we hugged, and oh, I even loved the way he hugged, holding me so tightly in his arms, his big farm-boy hand cupping the back of my head and pressing me to his cheek. I could have spent the rest of my life like that if I could.

But I couldn't. At some point, without even being aware it was coming, I fell asleep.

When I awoke in the morning, I was a little disoriented. The room was bright, sunshine beaming in the windows, and the world outside the glass was whiter than white. Considering how late the sun rose during the winter months, it was likely that it was late morning already. A radio played softly in the kitchen, and I could hear Clark's mother occasionally singing along a few words with the music. The house felt warm and cozy, and smelled wonderful with the aroma of baked goods.

I was back on the couch where I'd started out last night, swathed in mounds of blankets. I shifted and looked toward the floor in front of the fireplace, and then at the chair where Clark had slept earlier, and he was gone. I felt a pang of disappointment at finding myself alone in the Kent living room. It would have been nice to wake up to that beautiful face, to find myself still wrapped in his arms. But I realized that it would have been impossible, not in broad daylight here in his parents' house. The image of Jonathan Kent standing in my doorway cocking his shotgun and aiming it at me was still just a little too fresh in my mind to entertain any fantasies about being open about what had happened between Clark and me last night.

As I lay there trying to muster my resolve to get up from my cocoon on the couch, I almost could convince myself that I'd dreamed the whole thing. Could it really have happened? I couldn't deny being caught in the snowstorm and then thawing out here at the Kents'. But maybe I hadn't awakened during the night at all. Maybe I'd slept right through, and I'd just had a really vivid dream, probably because the object of all my fantasies had been so close and had been so amenable to taking care of me last night. It had just been wishful thinking evolving into a very pleasurable, very sweet dream.

It had to be. Otherwise, if Clark really loved me as much as he seemed to last night....why wasn't he here?

No. Come on, Lex, you know better.

No, that wasn't it. It had happened. It all had happened. Okay, well, maybe not the floating thing, not really, but the rest... I raised my fingers to my lips, and they felt swollen and tingled at my touch. The blankets were wrapped around and under me as if Clark had carried me to the couch and settled me there. It had happened. I'd spent hours last night in the most exquisite state of bliss, kissing and being kissed by the object of my affections, this sweet, naive boy from a farm town barely large enough to be a dot on a map.

So where was he?

I sighed and rubbed my forehead, and tried to swallow back the nausea that grew in the pit of my stomach. It was time to get real. I knew what was really going on. I'd had enough one-night stands, made enough foolish mistakes in my life to know that what can seem so right in the dark of night usually turns out to feel very, very wrong under the light of day. It didn't matter where he was, only that he was gone. He'd had to get away from me. He'd probably awakened and taken a good look at me sleeping on his family couch, saw the spoiled rich brat who looked more like an old man than one in his early twenties, and he'd in all probability practically run from the house. He was likely up in his loft wondering what the hell he'd done last night and how he was ever going to be able to look at me again. He probably thought I was some sniveling, pathetic faggot who used tears to seduce him into feeling sorry for me.

Shit. Everything was ruined.

I took a deep breath and swallowed back the pain, and pasted my best face on. You're too soft, Lex. Don't let your emotions get in the way. I could get through this. I've dealt with loss and disappointment before, many, many times. I've lost my hair, my brother, my mother, and my wife and lived through it. I've been taunted by classmates, by reporters, by enemies, and by my father and still maintained my dignity. I'd been kicked out of schools, out of bars, and out of homes, and still kept my pride. I've been beaten, kicked, hung upside down, kidnapped, shot at, thrown from speeding vehicles, and burned, and I've always made it through. I would make it through this.

I sat up and uncoiled the blankets from my legs. Come to think of it, this was probably all for the best. Yes, it would definitely be best this way. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was of it. Clark was too young to be involved in the kind of relationship I wanted with him. Regardless of the sexual factor, Clark wasn't ready to commit to me, or to anyone. He hadn't even finished high school yet, much less college. He wasn't thinking in terms of lifelong commitments. He was probably more interested in just losing his virginity, no matter who it was with. He was as horny as any teenaged boy, and what happened last night was merely a product of his hormones and his naive notions of romance. He didn't need the complications of a relationship with a man. He didn't need the complications of a relationship with me. Relationships with Luthors are nothing if not complicated.

We hadn't said a word to each other last night. There were no regrettable confessions of love, no whisperings of sweet nothings, no sappy poetry or sonnets, nor even a limerick. This was still a fixable situation. If we were careful, we could pretend that it had never happened, and in time, we could come to believe it. I would tell myself it was all due to the hypothermia, and he would tell himself he had just been moved by pity. I could even hope for some kind of continued friendship with Clark, albeit likely strained, and tentative at best.

If we could still be friends enough to see each other occasionally, then at least his parents wouldn't get suspicious and start to pester him with questions about what had gone wrong between us. A teenaged boy just trying to find his place in the world didn't need to have to deal with that kind of embarrassment. And knowing Clark, he'd probably fess up with the whole story, and old Jonathan would be back at my door with his shotgun again.

Yes. This was the best way to deal with this. And maybe Clark had come to a similar conclusion when he'd gotten up and left me this morning. Status quo. Nothing's changed. Pretend it never happened.

It would be okay. I'd still have the pretense of Clark's friendship, and I'd still have my memories. It would be okay.

I stood up, a little wobbly at first, and I ventured out to the kitchen, feeling vulnerable in the little-boy pajama bottoms, sweatshirt, and stockinged feet.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kent." I was surprised my voice sounded so small and raspy.

She whirled around and smiled at me. It looked genuine, so apparently Clark had deposited me back onto the couch before his parents had risen. So far, so good.

"Good afternoon, Lex," she corrected amiably. My watch was sitting on the kitchen table, just where Clark had left it, and I grabbed it up and checked the time. It was after one o'clock already.

"You shouldn't have let me sleep so late--" I started to say, fastening Mother's watch around my wrist. It was important to me that the Kents didn't think I was lazy and slept my mornings away all the time.

"Nonsense, Lex. You nearly froze to death last night. You needed the rest. The cold takes a lot out of a person." She wiped her hands in a towel and gestured to the table. "Come sit down, Sweetheart. You must be starving."

Sweetheart. The affectionate endearment just glides from her lips so easily, just like the night before when Jonathan called me Son. I couldn't imagine what it must be like to live in a household that used such endearments so freely, even to an outsider like me.

She brought me a mug of steaming coffee and a small plate and set it before me, and then began to set a variety of muffins on a serving plate.

"Thank you, Mrs. Kent," I sighed as I sipped the coffee, closing my eyes with pleasure for a moment. "Are you baking for the retirement center again?"

"Yes, but with the weather, there will probably be plenty left over today, so you be sure to eat as many as you want, okay?"

I gave her a little smile and helped myself to one that looked like an apple muffin. It was still warm and smelled heavenly.

As I took a bite, she continued to get out more placesettings for the table, preparing for lunch. She was a wonderful study of organization and economy of movement as she worked. No wonder my father was so impressed with her as an assistant. "The boys should be back in a little while. They got up early this morning to do the plowing after the chores were done--"

Right. Now I remember. They'd talked about that last night.

"--and they said they would try to dig out your car and get it back here if they could. I called and left a message for your father this morning to let him know where you are. And--Oh!" She disappeared to another room and came back in a few moments carrying clothing on some hangers. "Your shirt and slacks are dry, and I ironed them, but they're supposed to be dry clean only, so there's no guarantee that they'll even fit you anymore."

"You didn't have to do that, Mrs. Kent. But thank you anyway." I suddenly felt eternally grateful that I wouldn't have to wear these kid pajamas all the way home. Even warped woolen slacks were preferable.

"Your suit jacket and overcoat are still pretty wet though. And I couldn't find your other shoe..."

"You won't find it. I lost it somewhere last night."

"Oh, you poor boy." She ran her hand over my forehead, and then pressed it against my cheek in a motherly let-me-check-your-temperature gesture. "It's a miracle you didn't freeze." I knew she felt pity for me, for wandering lost in the snow with wet clothes and a missing shoe. I didn't much want to dwell on anything from last night at the moment, so I quickly tried to change the subject.

"You look busy, Mrs Kent. Can I help you with anything?" Right. Like I even knew how to turn on her oven or make muffin batter.

She smiled at me. I think she knew I was a bit kitchen challenged, but appreciated the offer anyway. "No, Lex, that's okay. But I think I will take a little break and sit with you a while."

She poured herself a cup of coffee and joined me at the table, sighing as she sat down as if she'd put in a long day of work already...and I realized that she probably had, all while I slept in the next room. We made small talk while her next batch of muffins baked in the oven. It was nice, this small, inconsequential, friendly conversation. She told me about how she got started baking as a side job, and what her spring plans for her garden were, about a class she wanted to take next fall, and about the book she'd been reading. Surprisingly, I actually relaxed a little and started to feel comfortable, in spite of the memory of her seeing me weeping and naked the night before.

"Lex, you're just picking at that muffin. If you don't like that one try a different one. Or I can make you something else..."

I looked down at the broken pieces and assorted muffin crumbs on my plate, unaware that I'd left it half-eaten. "It's delicious Mrs. Kent, really. I guess I'm just not very hungry this morn--afternoon."

"You didn't have any cookies last night either. Come on, Lex, you should eat. You're too thin."

I picked up a piece of muffin from my plate and forced myself to eat it, just to please her. After I'd eaten a couple more pieces, I gave her a little sideways grin. "I suppose worrying about my weight is the price you pay for seeing me naked."

She looked a little surprised by my frank jest at first, but she recovered quickly without even a tint of pink to her cheeks. She smiled back at me, covered my hand with hers and patted it. "I guess it's just a testament to my age and how long I've been married that I even noticed your weight."

She'd caught me off guard and I know I gaped at her in surprise. Our eyes met and we stared at each other for about five seconds before we both burst out laughing. And just like that, she put me completely at ease. I didn't care anymore that she'd seen me naked. In her own benign way, she'd obliquely reminded me of the old nurses'adage seen one, seen 'em all.

That was how they found us when they came in from the bright, cold outdoors--Martha and me sitting at the table snickering into our respective coffee mugs. They made quite a clatter as they came in, stomping snow off their boots on the porch, peeling off layers of cold weather clothing, and blowing their noses loudly before they finally made their way into the kitchen.

And Clark smiled when he saw me, a big, happy, rosy-cheeked smile that warmed me from the inside so much that I didn't even feel the rush of cool air they brought in from outdoors.

I couldn't help but smile back, but I couldn't read him. What did it mean? Was it a pretense for his parents' sake? Why would he smile at me so widely? Did I look that dorky? Was he overcompensating in the pretend-nothing-happened game?

He came over to the table and snagged a muffin, taking a huge bite of it.

"Hey, Sleepyhead. Thought you might sleep all day," he mumbled through a mouthful of muffin as he stood over me, his eyes looking gently amused as he chewed.

I couldn't keep staring up at him, not without giving something away, so I looked down to check my watch again. "I almost did. You should have made me get up when you did, I could have come along and helped."

His hand perched on my shoulder and squeezed. "Nah. You were tired. We had it covered."

As his hand lingered on my back between my shoulder blades, I ventured a glance up at him again. Even with the second half of the muffin stuffed in his mouth, I could tell he was looking at me with sincere affection.

I felt uncomfortable under his amorous gaze, his chilled hand still resting on my back. I stood up and made an excuse to go change back into my own clothing.

"I don't know, Lex. I think you look pretty cute in the clothes you have on."

He said it in a teasing way, with a smirky kind of grin on his face...but I saw his eyes when he said it. I think...I think he meant it.

I grabbed up my clothing that Martha had left draped over a kitchen chair and made a hasty retreat to the bathroom. I closed the door and took a deep breath. My heart was pounding.

What was Clark doing? In flirting with me, he was flirting with disaster. Didn't he know this wasn't how the game was supposed to be played? Didn't he know we were supposed to play it cool today, to pretend that nothing had changed?

I stood in the bathroom, feeling a twinge of something in my gut just seeing the towels from last night still hanging on the shower rod. I used the toilet, washed up a little, and tried to brush my teeth with my finger and a washcloth. I didn't look myself in the eye in the mirror.

What was going on? Did he actually think he was in love with me? Did he actually think we had a snowball's chance in hell of making a go at a relationship together? No matter how much I'd wanted it and fantasized about it, I'd always known it was impossible. I'd had it all figured out before. It was for Clark's own good. Status quo. Never happened. I'd been so sure Clark would be on board with me with this plan. Now how was I supposed to make him understand without hurting him? How was I supposed to make him understand that last night had to be just an isolated incident, without making him feel guilty and used?

And how was I supposed to convince him when, in reality, it was everything I ever wanted, and wanted so bad it hurt deep in my belly?

I splashed water on my face and glanced at my reflection in the mirror. My lips were noticeably red and swollen from his kisses. I could only hope that the Kents thought their condition due to my excursion into the snowstorm last night. I touched my lips and closed my eyes, remembering... And then I cursed silently at the ironic circumstance I found myself in. For Clark's own good, I would have to throw away the one relationship in my life that I truly desired.

There was a knock on the door. "Lex?"

Dammit. It was Clark. Couldn't I find a moment to think, even in the bathroom? "I'll be out in a minute, Clark."

"You're gonna need these."

Need what? I sighed and opened the door a crack, peeking out. He held my boxers and socks in one hand, my belt in the other, his mouth quirked in a shy little grin. His mom must have washed and dried my wet underwear from last night. I grabbed them from him without fully opening the door. "Thanks."

He shouldered half-way into the doorway, preventing me from closing the door again. "Need any help?" he grinned at me impishly, with no attempt at subtlety.

I was tempted. He was just so fucking cute he was nearly impossible to resist. I wanted to give in and just go for it, and see where this road might take us...but I couldn't. Damned things, consciences. Mine knew that this sweet angel-faced boy was a far too precious gift for me to simply toy with. I had to be careful with this one, or I might break him. And unlike so many other things in my spoiled-rich-boy's life, Clark was just too valuable, too priceless, and could never be replaced.

"No. I'm fine, Clark. Now please excuse me so I can get changed..." I started to push the door closed, trapping him in the doorframe. He'd have to back up and leave now.

And he did leave, but as he left, he reached his fingers to capture my chin, lifted, and pecked my lips with a quick kiss.

It was so charming, and so sincere, and I hated it and loved it all at once. When I finally closed the door I wondered if I should just find a razor, slit my wrists and get this over with, because giving up this boy was certainly going to kill me anyway.

Oh, this is not good. This is so not according to plan.

I dressed quickly, half-worried that Clark might find some excuse to just come barging in the door. My slacks had lost a bit of their shape, and maybe a had shrunk some, but they were still wearable enough to get me home. A bit more appropriate than childish pajamas. The shirt was fine, and Mrs Kent had ironed it so crisply that it was almost better than new.

I left the borrowed clothing folded neatly on the countertop. I knew Clark's mother would wash them, but I wanted to make the effort to show her I appreciated everything she'd done. When I finally opened the bathroom door and stepped out, Clark was gone. I looked over to the kitchen and saw him helping his mother set steaming bowls of soup on the table. There was a tray of sandwiches in the center of the table too, and I sighed to myself. There were four placesettings, which meant that no sooner had I finished forcing myself to eat a muffin to be polite, I would now have to force down a bowl of soup and quite possibly a sandwich too.

I chose to step into the living room in an effort to stall, but I can't be sure whether I was trying to hide from the food or from Clark. The blankets that I'd slept in last night were still lying in a disheveled heap on the couch where I'd left them, so I decided that the polite thing to do was to fold them. Mrs Kent worked hard enough, I didn't like the idea that I'd made any more work for her.

In the middle of folding the second blanket, I heard "Hey Lex. Think fast," and I turned to find a small dark shape hurtling at me. I snagged it from the air and saw that it was my cell phone, still feeling cold and brittle from the night spent in the snowstorm.

"How'd you find it?" I asked incredulously. I know I'd thrown it hard in my frustration last night, so it should have been a long ways from the car.

He shrugged as if it was nothing. "It was just out there on a snowbank about fifty yards from where we found your car. Pretty easy to see that black against all that white snow."

I slipped the phone into my shirt pocket, feeling a little confused. If I'd thrown it fifty yards, why wouldn't it have been embedded inside a snowbank?

But Clark picked up a corner of the blanket and started to help me fold, and it took all my concentration to not react to all the 'accidental' brushes of his fingers against mine as we worked together. When we set the last folded blanket on the end of the couch, Clark's hand settled in the middle of my back.

"Come on," he said quietly, almost seductively. "Mom said lunch is ready."

And he walked me to the kitchen without breaking contact. Jonathan was already seated and looked up when we entered, and I shrugged away from Clark a little before I sat down, nervous about the scrutiny I seemed to be under. I'd worked so hard to get Jonathan to simply tolerate me, and I didn't want anything to spoil that now.

Martha had made a nice lunch of soup and sandwiches, canned fruit and, of course, fresh muffins, and it was good, but I couldn't eat much again. My stomach was in knots from worrying about Clark's antics. It was more than worry about whether his parents would notice. I worried about how things would go when I finally had to tell him that it would never work between us. As much as I knew it was the right thing to do, I was going to hate having to do this to him. He was just so sweet, and so full of the stuff of teenage romance. It was a miracle that the Kents didn't notice that something was going on, simply from looking at the glow in his eyes.

He sat close to me at the table, and right under his parents' noses, right while we were all trying to eat our soup, his hand slid into my lap and clasped my leg under the table. I did my best to ignore it. When I passed him the butter, he slid his fingers over mine and let them linger for a moment that was so long and so increasingly uncomfortable that I broke out in a little sweat. As we listened to his parents tell a story about some really huge Kansas snowstorm from when they were our age, Clark's big stockinged foot slowly slid over and covered mine. I coughed softly into my hand and moved my foot.

Mr Kent was telling me that they'd pulled my car out of the ditch and towed it home, and it was in the barn until...until I don't know, the auto club could come for it or something. I missed what he said because the side of Clark's thigh was pressing into my leg while he shamelessly squeezed my knee, and I was terrified that Jonathan would catch on to something.

By the time Jonathan suggested Clark drive me home , I was a nervous wreck, and believe it or not, relieved to be heading home to the Luthor mansion. Maybe I could get away without having to say anything. Neither of us had actually said anything in words yet. Maybe if I just continued to play the game on my end, he'd start playing along. Once home, I could ignore his calls for a while, stop dropping in on him so often, and he'd eventually catch on. It seemed the least painful way to do this, and I would be spared having to actually say the words that would break his naive school-boy heart. Maybe he would hate me a little less this way.

But Clark continued to push his version of the game. Before we left, Martha found a coat I could wear since my coat from last night was still wet, and Clark took over and practically dressed me in it, making sure it was buttoned to the top, and then he took a little knit cap and fit it over my head--dressing me like some Barbie doll right in front of his parents. It didn't help that I didn't have any dry shoes to wear home, and ended up getting from the porch to the truck by piggy-backing on Clark. Okay, so I didn't mind that all that much. I let myself enjoy that a little--I told myself that I could indulge since it was probably my last opportunity to ever do so. And it was innocent enough--there was a logical reason for me to climb up his back, hang onto his neck, for him to hold my thighs open in his hands--and it didn't even matter that Jonathan and Martha were watching as Clark trudged to the truck, his big boots crunching in the snow.

Sitting in the truck beside Clark, swimming in his good "going-to-church" overcoat, I even began to have second thoughts. Clark just seemed so happy beside me, smiling at the rutted road, occasionally singing softly with the radio, now and then reaching to touch my shoulder or squeeze my hand...Would it be so wrong if....? No. No, I told myself as I squelched the doubts back down. I had to stick to the plan. I loved Clark too much to let him get mixed up in a relationship with me that could never come to any good. It might hurt him now, but it would hurt him worse if we tried to make it work and it all fell apart later.

And I knew it couldn't work. I was a Luthor. I don't think a good, healthy, loving relationship is in our genes.

But, God, he looked so much like an angel to me again, sitting there in the driver's seat with the sun shining so brightly all around him, his whole being just oozing with goodness and happiness and romantic dreams. I was destined to love this boy--how could I not? But it wouldn't work, couldn't...fate had set too many important years between our ages, and had made us find each other too early. Why couldn't this have happened between us when he was an adult?

I tried to take off his coat and hat so I could leave it for him in the truck, but he made me wear it until we were inside (he teased me that he didn't want me turning into a 'Lexicle' again). Clark then treated me to another piggy-back ride all the way up to the mansion, and he was hardly winded. Once inside the door, he let me down gently and I slid to the floor, my thin socks not much protection against the chill of the cold marble floors.

As I stuffed the little knit cap in the pocket and handed him the coat, I told him to thank his parents for everything. I'd already thanked them sincerely before I'd left, but I didn't know what else to say to Clark at that point. I kept my eyes on the coat, hoping that he'd just take it and go, and spare me the conversation I didn't want to have. Please Clark. Please. Just once, please play the game.

He took it in one hand, hesitated, and then tried to scoop his free arm around my shoulders and pull me close. I wanted it, his body so warm and tempting, wanted it enough to take a step toward him before my resolve kicked in. Then I placed my hands on his chest and gently pushed myself back.

"Lex--" he started, and why I looked up into his eyes at that moment, I'll never know. But the look I saw there--want and confusion and the beginnings of hurt--will haunt me forever. I didn't answer him. I just stood there, hoping that he'd understand somehow.

His good coat dropped to the floor as now both arms circled around me and pulled me to him. "It's okay, Lex. There's nobody around..."

I pushed back again, and was surprised at the amount of muscle I had to use to get out of his grasp. "Clark," I sighed, focussing on a frayed spot on his flannel shirt collar so I wouldn't have to see his eyes when I spoke the words I knew would hurt him. You're too soft, Lex. "Clark, we can't do this."

"Why not?" he asked, and oh, his voice was so full of sweet naivete and innocent confusion that my eyes stung at the sound of it. I would have sold my soul to my father to not have to have this conversation.

I stared at the threads of his frayed shirt collar and swallowed, trying to work up a decent answer for him.

"Why not?" he repeated in a rough-edged whisper.

I met his eyes--God!--and ground out the first thing I could think of, feeling totally shattered by what I saw in them, hating myself for this. "Because it's not right, Clark."

I could see the sting of my words as the rejection sunk in. He let go of me suddenly and took a step back, looking down at the floor. I could almost feel the resonance of his thudding heart in my own chest. I knew this feeling, too well, and knew how much it hurt.

He bent to pick up his coat where he'd carelessly let it drop, and folded it neatly over his arm, brushing at non-existent dust on its collar.

"It's because of me, because you think I have secrets I won't tell."

"Clark, no," I denied quickly, reaching to clasp the arm of his jacket, his wounded expression making me anxious to reassure him of this at least.

"Ask me anything, Lex. I'll tell you anyth--"

I put my fingers over his lips--his soft, lush, trembling lips--and stopped him from saying more.

"Don't, Clark. I wouldn't extort that kind of price from you. I--I'll admit I'm curious. But I'm not Lana, and I won't hold our relationship hostage for secrets. I'd like you to trust me enough to tell me someday, but if you can't, it's okay." I tried a little grin, trying to sound upbeat. "I like a little mystery."

His eyes lifted and he gazed at me darkly, still suspicious and hurt.

"Then why not?"

"Oh, Clark," I sighed, feeling utterly exhausted by this, my self-loathing growing so heavy it seemed I could barely stand under its weight. How can I make you understand? I dropped my hand from his face and took a step back again. "It's--It's just not right . You're too innocent and wholesome to go skulking around in a relationship like this."

He looked back down at the coat folded over his arm and picked at a thread, thinking hard. When he spoke, it was just a defeated, pleading whisper.

"I thought... I thought you loved me."

I do. I _do_. Dear God I wish I could tell you how much. I knew that he was just one small step away from crying; and for that matter, so was I. I tried to steel myself to this, but my voice just came out with a tired, strained tone. "It's just not that simple, Clark."

"No Lex, I get it. It's like you told me once--relationships aren't always about love."

His bitterness was palpable, and I couldn't help but wince when I heard him throw my words of long ago back at me. He may have just been a high school boy, but the hurt I was inflicting on him was very adult.

"No, Clark, it's not like that. Something really..." I cradled his cheek in my palm, "...really profound and wonderful happened between us last night. But no matter how wonderful it was, we have to face the real world now. And the real world can be pretty tough on a kid who's a little different. Trust me on that one."

His eyes closed and he reached up to cover my hand on his cheek, leaning into my touch with such fervent need that I felt it burn right through me. It was as if he knew exactly how awful it was for me to be different.

I continued, hoping somehow he would be able to understand the logic of my argument. "You're just still so young, you're not even out of high school yet. There's so much still ahead for you. You can change your mind a million times yet about what--and who--you want in your life. We should wait, Clark, wait until we're sure."

He turned slightly against my hand and kissed my palm, and I felt his mouth trembling.

"But I am sure," he protested beseechingly, and his eyes opened and I could see the wounded determination in them. Clark always chose his paths with so much moral certainty that I almost believed him. He let go of my fingers when I dropped my hand to my side, but then he raised his hands to stroke over my shoulders, as if trying to coax me to come to him like a frightened puppy.

"I am sure," he repeated softly. The temptation for me to give in was strong, and it was heartwrenching to resist.

"Clark," I swallowed drily. "I know you think you're sure, I don't doubt that. But your perspective can change very quickly at this age. Two days ago, you thought you loved Lana. Now look at you, look at that sweet, lovelorn face of yours."

A pink blush rose in his cheeks at my choice of adjectives, and he tried to look away, but I tucked my fingers under his chin and made him look at me again.

"The only time I've ever seen this look on you was when Lana was around. You've never looked at me like this, not before last night. And tomorrow, or the next day, it could all change again, like the way your feelings for Chloe changed and then changed again. It just means we shouldn't jump into this too quickly, Clark. We should be careful."

"I thought you were the one always telling me to go for it."

I sighed tiredly. This boy was tenacious, and I loved that about him, but I wished he would simply give up. How long was it possible to resist him if he continued like this? Damn, I hate doing the right thing.

"Yes, Clark, I have. But I've also learned that sometimes it's better to be cautious. I once jumped in head first following my passion when I married Desiree. And I got burned, figuratively and literally. And I made a hasty decision about my Father's surgery, and he ended up blind. So now I'm afraid. I don't want to make that same mistake again, Clark, not with you. I don't ever want us to hurt each other. We need to take our time."

He was quiet, and wouldn't look at me for a minute, just simply stood there stroking the cloth of his Sunday overcoat. I waited in silence, knowing in my gut that he was nearly ready to give in, and was desperately searching for another objection that might sway the battle his way. I knew he wouldn't find any. I'm too good at this, and have had too much practice keeping people at arm's length.

"But how will we know when it's right? Couldn't we just take the chance? Lex, I know we both feel this. I know you felt real passion for me last night. And I know you've felt it for a long time now... How do you know we haven't already waited long enough to be sure?"

He knew?! Did he know before last night, or was it just that he could tell last night that I'd probably been nursing those feelings for a while? I couldn't be sure of his meaning, so I decided to ignore that comment. "Sure, we feel it. We both have hormones. We're only human, Clark." He made an odd grimace at that which I couldn't quite decipher. "But what do you know about real passion yet, and all the pleasure and pain that goes with it? You're so young, and inexperienced..."

His face darkened and he looked away impatiently as soon as I mentioned his youth again, and his hands dropped to his sides, his good coat scrunched in his right hand. Then he shrugged and met my eyes again, this time with a shy, hopeful, almost adventurous expression.

"You could teach me..."

I sighed, and couldn't resist reaching to touch that face once again. My fingers slid gently down his cheek. "I could," I agreed softly. "I think you know I have the experience. I know a lot about how it's done, Clark. I could take you upstairs right now to teach you everything I know. But we both know that's not what would really happen."

"It's not?"

I shook my head and reached for him again, this time with two hands to gently frame his face so I could be sure he'd understand. "No, it's not, and we both know it. I wouldn't be teaching, and you wouldn't be learning. We'd be making love. And I've never... I've never really done that before. I don't even know if I know how to do that."

He was quiet, and I watched his long lashes brush his cheek as his eyes looked down again. I backed up a step and waited while the significance of my words sunk in, waited while he recognized the distinction between sex and love-making that I'd made. Waited until he fully understood how frightening it was to me. How scared I was of opening myself up to that kind of relationship, how terrified I was of the possibility of being hurt by him, and of the possibility of my hurting him. It was nerve-wracking, waiting to see if he'd accept an honest answer. I'm not used to giving those.

Finally, he nodded his head slowly, and shifted his coat to his other arm. "So you're not saying 'no' to me, you're just saying 'wait'?"

I smiled at his hopeful expression and nodded. "Yeah, in the Cliffs Notes version, that's pretty much it."

He just stared at me a moment, his solemn dark eyes assessing me, assessing the reality of the hope I'd offered him. Then he blinked and a small smile curled his lips. "Okay," he sighed and nodded again. "I guess I can live with that."

"Good."

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, revealing to me that he was as relieved as I was that we were through with the really intense stuff for now. "I should get back so I can make Mom's deliveries to the retirement center."

"Okay. Be sure to thank her and your Dad again for me."

He nodded and shifted on his feet again, edging slightly toward the door. "Is it okay if I give you a hug?"

The youthful shyness in his question emphasized again for me how really young he was, and how right we were to put this thing between us on hold. I grinned back easily.

"Just a hug, you promise?"

"I promise." His face was bright and eager again.

"Okay," I answered with a sideways grin. "I guess I can live with that."

With his big winter boots and my feet only in socks, it about doubled our usual height differential; but when I reached up to him and he bent to meet me, it made no difference at all. I melted against him, and his long arms surrounded me with warmth and careful strength. I held him tightly, and couldn't help but think about how this might be the last time I'd get the chance to do this for awhile. My fingers dug into the fabric of his jacket, and I buried my face in the prickly softness of his lambswool collar. Clark's fingers had grabbed handfuls of the back of my shirt (the one that Mrs Kent had so painstakingly ironed), and clutched me to him so tightly I swear I could feel his heart beating next to mine.

We held to each other for a long minute, neither of us really wanting to be the first to let go. Then finally, Clark sighed, his warm breath breezing over my bare scalp, and loosened his arms. I read his signal, and likewise loosened my embrace around Clark, taking a regretful step backward.

And then he took a breath, met my eyes, and reached for me again, capturing my face between his hands in a firm grip, and pulled me to him. His mouth covered mine and he kissed me forcefully, desperately, while my hands made a futile and half-hearted attempt to dislodge his grasp. His lips were hot and needy, they moved over mine with determination and purpose. His tongue pried its way past my lips, and then pressed forward into my mouth so far that I swear he was tickling my toes with it.

I was swept away again, floating, and all my resolve melted; I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him kiss me to his heart's content. His mouth was knowing and hot, and if last night had been the first time he'd ever done this, then he was a very bright student indeed. And if he could learn this so well, and so quickly, how great was it going to be when we went on to other things?

Wow.

He pressed me to him, holding me tight in his arms again, and I felt the floor give way under my feet. I was floating again in his arms, and with my eyes closed it was almost like the night before. He cupped his hand over the back of my head, and his palm was hot against my scalp. He was burning against me, his lips, his hands...and his body. I could feel the heat of him oozing through his clothing, and I could feel the steel of him pressing hard into my groin, and suddenly I knew that he was perhaps not quite so innocent and naive as I'd once imagined. I must have on some level always known that there was this between us, this murky dark current, hidden just beneath the surface; much like the ice-cold creek under the snow last night.

He finally lowered me back to my feet, and even though he'd only lifted me by the few inches difference in our height, it felt as if I was coming down from a long, long way up. He held his hands to my waist for a moment while I caught my breath, just to make sure I could hold myself up before he let go. Then he grinned at me slyly, touched a finger to my cheek, and backed out the doorway.

I stumbled after him a few steps, trembling, gasping for air, my cock hard as a rock, my knees weak as jello, and had to brace myself up in the doorframe, watching him back away from me into the cold outdoors.

"Clark, you promised," I whined petulantly as I gingerly touched my scalded lips. It would have been so much easier to let him go with just a friendly hug...

His eyes danced with a mischievous glint as his lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk.

"I lied."

And then he turned and walked back out to the Kent family pickup truck, full of confidence and playfulness.

Well.

Perhaps I had been a tad bit too full of romantic metaphor all this time when I'd imagined Clark to be an angel. It seemed this angel had a little bit of the devil in him.

And I liked it. Very much.

I stood braced in the doorway, still wobbly from his kiss, and watched as he reached the truck and opened the door. Before climbing in, he looked back at me and smiled, made a loose fist, and touched it to the breast of his jacket.

I mimicked his gesture numbly, squelching a sudden urge to run down the walk to him in my stocking feet and beg him to stay.

I love you, too, Clark.

And then he got in, started the engine, and was gone without even a glance back. And I still just stood there in the doorway, dumb-struck, the crisp cold air rushing past me not even registering.

Go on, angel-boy. Go and indulge, and suffer all the joys and pitfalls of growing up. Sow your oats. Experience it all to the fullest. Go, and let someone else be your first lover, and let someone else be your first heartbreak. Let someone else tarnish the shine on those wings. And when you're ready, come back to me.

I think I can bear the loneliness until then.

As I watched the truck disappear down the drive, somewhere inside, the selfish part of me wailed and lashed out that I had just sent away everything I'd ever wanted, that my one chance at happiness had just passed, and I might never have that opportunity again. The voice of my conscience, the part of me that knew I'd done the right thing, seemed very, very small in comparison.

And when I touched my face, I wasn't at all surprised to find that it was wet.

The end

With thanks to Cpher42 and MiCrazy2 for their encouragement, and for dragging me into this fandom while kicking and screaming; and to jas for her suggestions and encouragement.