Neither Lillian Luthor nor Rachel Dunleavy got invitations since, for various reasons, they wouldn't be able to attend anyway. Flowers, yes. Lillian's memorial stone spent Christmas under a blanket of the usual white roses and tulips; one may if one wishes, assume her spirit appreciated the gesture. Rachel got hemlock and black hellbane, with a sprinkling of bachelor buttons and babysbreath, which (after her warders checked for contraband) she sang a little song to, and then ripped apart, flinging leaves and petals everywhere, shrieking; Mrs.-Rochester-Meets-Morticia Addams.

The living and relatively sane members of what Lionel Luthor liked to call ma famille weren't as lucky as the saintly dead and criminally insane. They got invitations.

In a Miami, Florida, penthouse overlooking the emerald sea, DEA, INS, and SEC agents were busily pounding down the door while Lucas Luthor, Marisse Luthor, and assorted business associates were equally busy shoveling documents, bankbooks, passports, and baggies into the fireplace and shredder.

Lucas had just grabbed another random pile off the marble credenza and prepared to toss it into the flames when his wife shrieked, "Sweetie! That's the mail!"

"Sort it, then, " he said, for there might be checks in the mail, and there was almost certainly a letter from his attorney. One of his attorneys.

" Sweetie! Here's something from your father!" She tore open the envelope. "Oh, what fun! He wants us to Christmas with him in Smallville!"

"Fun," "father," and "Smallville," were not words Lucas would all put together in one sentence - not, at any rate, without the words "no" and "not" also figuring prominently. The only worse thing would be if the word "Lex" was also in the -

"He says he expects your brother to be there. And your brother-in-law. Luke, sweetie-pie, won't that be just dishes of fun?"

Marisse thought her brother-in-law was a big ol' dish of fun all by himself. This was not, to Lucas' mind, an added inducement.

"I'd rather have my fingernails pulled out with pliers."

"Don't be silly." In her mind's eye, Marisse was already at Bloomie's, T. Carlyle, and Axium, trailing an entourage of overburdened salesgirls. "Would you rather spend the holiday sweating out a Grand Jury appearance?"

H'mm. There was that. This being Miami - where law enforcement methods owed far more to Latin American secret police than to Miranda - his fingernails might actually be pulled out with pliers.

The sound of the front door giving way decided the issue.

Leaving his business associates to continue destroying the paperwork, he and Marisse hotfooted it down the hidden interior staircase to the floor below theirs, took a freight elevator to the parking garage, and ran for the Lincoln, their ever-ready getaway car, with prepacked suitcases in the trunk and secret compartments full of jewels, gold bullion and a number of alternate identity documents.

"Call Raoul, tell him we need the plane."

"Ooh," Marisse squealed. "Kansas!"

Marisse had lived her whole life in southern Florida. To her, Kansas was exotic.

Clark Luthor had a 20-page senior thesis proposal due by the start of Winter Semester. True to his habit all through high school and the undergraduate years, he'd waited until the last possible moment to start working on it. Lex called him a Crisis Queen, and it was true he needed the threat of a looming deadline to get his creative and analytical juices flowing.

Clark's thesis was tentatively titled, "Metamemes: Overarching Mindmap Paradigms and Multicultural Fusion." Lex had asked if he couldn't fit in a few more trendy buzzwords; Clark had inserted "Conceptual" before "Mindmap" and stuck his tongue out at Lex. This had led to a steamy and prolonged make-out session, and more delay getting the proposal outlined, never mind written.

Fortunately, Clark could type 1000 words a minute on the modified keyboard Lex had had made for him.

"Trendy, okay, maybe," Clark said now, over a Saturday breakfast, "but it's a topic I'm serious about. I mean, look at me."

"I do. As often as possible. I may give up blinking."

(Kiss.)

Clark took another croissant, heaped jam on it. "My point is, as an alien raised to be human, I have a outsider's perspective on the whole," he waved the knife, "meme thing."

"What's your perspective?"

"Observing how oppositional value structures use memes to achieve conceptual and cultural hybridization."

Lex smiled to himself as he refilled their juice glasses. You could tell Clark was a college senior. Nobody talked like that outside the halls of academe.

"I'm not sure how you 'observe' a process that doesn't happen consciously. The effects, yes, but you can only infer what caused them."

"Yeah, well, that's the fun part. Actually, there's a whole new field in neural studies trying to do exactly that; directly observe the meme process."

"Good god." He meant the neural research, but he could have meant the breakfast table. Clark had performed his usual culinary Attack of the Golden Horde, down to the last roll. Sometimes Lex thought Clark's parents had consented to the marriage - at all, much less before Clark was done college - out of despair at the thought of feeding him for two more years.

"It's pretty funny. Nobody really understands how memes work, but they're already trying to use 'em in advertising."

Lex snorted and pushed his plate aside. The morning mail was next to his table setting; he began sorting through it. "At which point, my guess is, they won't work anymore."

"Why not?" The mail was mostly Christmas cards, and quite a few were addressed to Clark directly. Lex gave him those and he piled them carefully, to open when Lex opened his.

"Because, if I understand the meme 'thing' correctly, it's similar to Heisenberg processes, where the act of observation itself skews what is being observed."

Clark put his elbows on the table, propped his head on his hands. "You mean, once we know what we're doing, we can't do it anymore?"

"Something like that." Mail sorted, and nothing apparently of special importance, he started opening the cards. So did Clark.

"I hope not. That'd kind of blow my hypothesis out of the water. Hey, here's one from Chloe - a picture of her on the beach in Tahiti."

"Someone should tell her it's unseemly to gloat in a Christmas card...good god," Lex repeated. He held a card out by one corner, as if it might bite.

"What?"

Lex opened the card again, still keeping it at arm's length, and stared at it. "My father has summoned a Christmas Court."

"What?" Clark took the card and read it his brow furrowing. "'Gladden an old reprobate's heart and join me in the mansion for a Smallville Christmas. Tout le famille will be there." You know, he's been kind of weird since the coronary."

"He's been a character out of a Hallmark TV show since the coronary." Lex reclaimed the card. "'Tout le famille'' he's gone beyond weird to completely insane. You and me, Lucas and Marisse, your parents -"

"They can't've gotten theirs yet. They'd've called for sure."

"Clark. He says Arielle will be there."

They stared at each other. Obviously, Lionel had completely slipped his sprockets.

"Well...we were going to be in Smallville anyway."

"If you want to see a crash and burn disaster, we can rent Terminator 6."

"Lex. We can't be in Smallville and not at least drop by. He's making an effort, and we should respect that."

It never failed to amaze Lex when Clark's mouth opened and Martha Kent popped out. "Call your folks, Clark."

The Kent kitchen was a smorgasbord of fragrances guaranteed to drive the most ascetic foodophobes out of their wheat-grass-and-tofu minds. If the smell of baking fruit pies didn't get 'em, the chocolate chip cookies would; if they managed to get past that with resolve intact, they still faced the brown-sugar-and-cinnamon coupe de grace.

Jonathan had insisted on QA'ing each batch. Kent family honor in such matters had to be upheld, and now that the bottomless pit named "Clark" was married and gone, the heavy burden fell to Jonathan alone. Heh.

But there were limits. Up to his gastric gunwales in pies and cookies, he was now engaged in a staring contest with a snickerdoodle, and the snickerdoodle was winning.

It didn't help at all that every so often, Martha would chortle, reach over to his plate, and waggle the cookie at him.

The phone rang. Thank god. When Martha went to answer it, he snuck the snicker back onto the cookie tray and tried on a smug look.

"Hi, honey. Did you two decide what time you're...Lionel? No; I didn't even know he was in --- he what? Invited everyone? Well, no, not yet. Hang on." She put a hand over the phone. "Jonathan, please go check the mail."

Not a bad idea. Provided he could get up, a walk down to the mailbox would probably do him good.

When he came back, Martha was still on the phone."...waited this long, so no, I will not be happy if you lock yourself in your room to work on it...Clark, they can only watch so much football. It'd help if they rooted for the same team - your father's back and, well, he's holding something as if it's an audit notice."

Cookies and pies rode uneasily in Jonathan's stomach. The envelope was thick and creamy-fine, and branded with Lionel Luthor's assertive calligraphy.

"Well, open it for pity's sake."

He did so, scanned the contents, grimaced, and handed the envelope to her.

"Clark? Yes, here it is. No, nothing about gladdening anyone's heart. Um...warmest regards and would we do him the honor. I'm checking...yes, there's the list. Oh my god." She handed the envelope and card back to Jonathan. "I don't know, honey; what do you think?"

He read the list of invitees. 'Oh my god' indeed. Give Lionel credit, when he decided to do something, he went in boots and all.

"-well, yes, but it's not just Lionel we'd be - oh, Clark, do you really--? But if we go, we have to just go."

We do?

"-feelings will be hurt and no, I never thought I'd ever say that, either." Pause. "Oh." Longer pause. "I know it's not the money. What? He wouldn't...because he'd run it into the ground within a year, that's why...well. Look at him...no, me neither."

Jonathan had a bad feeling about this conversation.

"... I understand; I do. Yes...yes... okay. Well, of course; I'm sure they need a head count." Martha took a deep breath. "It's settled then. See you Thursday morning at the mansion. Love you, too. Love to Lex. 'Bye."

Jonathan watched her hang up. "We're going?"

"Yup."

"We're spending Christmas locked in the mansion with Lex's crazy family?"

"We could take a few disreputable relatives of our own. If we had any."

"Your folks--"

"Are in Europe, otherwise I'm sure Lionel would have invited them."

"What was that part about money?"

"Oh. Clark says Lionel might be worried about another heart attack, and dying before he decides who gets what."

"So he'll be...deciding." Jonathan thought about it. "Sure. That'll make for a warm family gathering."

"That's a nasty grin, Jonathan."

"Sweetheart. If I have to spend Christmas boxed up with a bunch of Luthors, I think I'm entitled to all the amusement I can find."

The VIP Lounge at Metropolis International Airport was full of executive travelers making a last sprint before the tradition of family-oriented holiday clamped its iron jaws upon them; the socially elite travelers form whom the holidays were a chance to reconnoiter who they were and were not speaking to, sending cards to, and/or spending money on; and airport employees glassily polite over boredom. All conversation, and drinking, was suspended at the sight of a small train of servants entering the lounge, each carrying a pile of gift-wrapped boxes higher than his or her own head, which one bearer got rid of the instant her feet touched the lounge carpet by simply letting her arms go limp and dropping the lot.

"Cassell!" From beyond the entryway came a contralto yodel that managed to be melodious yet threatening, and one of the servants huffed and crossed her arms. "That," the sweet menacing yodel continued, "was the family crystal!"

After the bearers, the bride.

Well, she was wearing all white.

From the white fur hat on her head, down past the white fur wrap around her shoulders (trailing the legs and tails of many luckless mink), continuing on past the thick white velvet pantsuit (if anything so beautifully tailored could be called a "pantsuit") to white silken stockings ending in white satin slippers.

Oh, and diamonds.

Lots of diamonds.

Arielle LeChambion dazzled the eye. If you'd been spending a layover sucking down martinis, she hurt the eye.

It was a wonder her eyes dared be deep, vivid blue.

"Is this my cousin's widower's notion of exalted treatment? Being shuffled past security scanners like cattle to slaughter, into a dimly room full of dimly lit people? I require a cart. And a car, quite a large car. With, I think, a driver."

"A. Cart," a waitress echoed doubtfully.

Arielle gestured grandly at the piles of Christmas loot. "My dear. Perhaps you think my servants should continue in their role of beasts of burden; but I have democratic principles."

A distress call had already gone out and now produced the lounge concierge, entering at a fast trot.

"Ms. LeChambion, a pleasure to -" He fetched up short. A white-gloved hand had been worked free of the fur and was now held out imperially to him. Clearly, she expected it to be kissed, not shaken. "-er."

He bowed over her hand. Diamond rings flashed on every finger, pushed down over the gloves.

One of the mink raised its head and snarled at him.

"Ah, now, Mignon; down, my angel."

Not a mink. A dog. A white fluffy dog, held in the crook of one white-sleeved arm.

And one of the boxes on the floor - the one with, he now saw, airholes - had its top pushed off, and two more white fluffy faces peeking out to grin up at him, tongues lolling.

"Frederic! Do scoop them up, little scamps, before they escape and eat," she shuddered, "pretzels."

Frederic did so, crooning and not minding as they lapped his face.

The concierge debated telling her about airport rules regarding dogs, and decided against it.

"A cart," she repeated. "And a car, fully equipped with driver. We are expected in Smallville."

"Suitcases."

"Check."

"Laptops."

"Check."

"Dad's present."

"Check."

"Your parents'--"

"Lex, if we gave to verify every single gift, we'll be here until New Years."

"Make sure we have Arielle's. Last minute and so forth."

Clark sorted through the boxes. "Here it---Lex. Do I see a Christmas stocking with 'Mignon, Abigail and Joey' embroidered on it?"

Lex cleared his throat. "They're like children to her."

"Uh-huh. Okay, check."

"Baskets for the house staff and for Arie's servants."

"Check...um, what about Lucas' people?"

"Lucas' people, as you put it, are pockmarked, speak no English, and go armed even to the bathroom. If he brings any - and even he has to have better sense than that - I can't imagine what they'd want for Christmas and I don't want to try."

"Right."

"Wine."

"Check, and I don't understand why, since the cellars at the mansion--"

"My father has wonderful taste in brandy, execrable taste in wine, and I took the good stuff with us when we moved to the city."

Clark shook his head. "Check."

"Arsenic."

"Lex."

"Just a thought."

"That's everything?"

"God, I hope so. I think Napoleon marched with fewer impedimenta."

They packed the car - the Mercedes sedan, Lex's single gesture towards automotive utilitarianism - unpacking and repacking due to a disagreement about the physics of fitting x packages into y square feet of trunk and backseat space. The disagreement was conducted with full benefit of equations, historical examples and rhetorical flourishes.

By ten they were on the road.

"Marisse and Lucas Luthor?"

"That's right."

The Metropolis International gate agent nodded uncertainly.

The private plant - a seaplane -- which deposited the pair had scarcely waited for clearance from the tower before taking off again. There had been a small contretemps at the security scanners when Mrs. Luthor, rather than let go of her cosmetics case, opted to ride through the scanner with it. (The scan revealed no weapons, just an awful lot of jewelry.)

"See, sir, the thing is. Your driver's licenses? They say you're Marcia and Robert Suarez."

"Oh? Heh. My mistake -"

"His mistake," Mrs. Luthor echoed, and punched her husband hard in the shoulder. "Silly him."

Mr. Luthor had...more drivers licenses. He had, in fact, a gin rummy hands' worth, which he fanned out and stared at. "Ah. Here we go." Smiling, he handed over the ones that said Luthor.

"Sir, this really isn't--"

"I'm a Luthor. I like to travel, you know, incognito. For safety reasons."

That was a new one on the agent, who was accustomed to Lionel Luthor's comings and goings. Incognito? Lionel all but had a brass band precede him wherever he went.

"And, see, you're in from Miami, sir. Miami, Florida; it's on the List."

"The List?"

"Of suspicious cities, sir."

"Miami, yes, awful place," Mrs. Luthor said. "Eighty degrees, sunshine, not a drop of snow; pfui, who wants to spend Christmas there?"

"We're not holding...er, I mean we don't have any drugs or guns or whatever."

"Or explosives."

"That's right. No explosives. We're here to spend Christmas with my father. Lionel Luthor? You can call him."

"He invited us."

"That's why we're here."

The agent rubbed his eyes. He'd already had to deal with Arielle LeChambion - her piles of luggage; her dogs, which had gotten loose; her servants, who had gotten drunk while waiting for the dogs to be recaptured; the barking, yodeling, tiddly-carol-singing trip on a courtesy tram through the airport to the waiting limo - he really didn't need more aggravation.

"Okay. Welcome to Metropolis. Have a good day. Merry Christmas."

"Thanks."

The agent watched them walk away. They seemed to be having an argument, judging by the amount of hissing and shoulder-poking.

"--have to go shopping; we didn't bring anything--"

"To wear?"

"To give, you imbecile; you expect your father to hand over his estate when we don't even give him a card?"

"Who else is he going to leave the lot to? Lex?"

"Why not Lex?"

"One word. Grandchildren."

"Don't you dare. Me, have babies, are you nuts?"

"You don't have to have any, just say you will."

They found the rental care counter.

"Um. It's under Luthor or Suarez. Maybe DeNoyes. Not sure." Then, as the rental care agent scrolled through her reservations lists, "This is Kansas, do they even have stores?"

The agent lifted her eyebrows at him.

He looked puzzled. "What? Can't find the car?"

"Of course there are stores. And hotels - we'll need a room."

"It's nine in the morning, Mari! How long can it take to buy a couple of presents?"

"They have to be good presents. What, we're supposed to give your father a tie?"

"Here you go, sir. Lucas Luthor, Mercury LX, please sign here."

He scribbled his name. "Isn't there anything in the luggage? Don't we have some old gold coins? Dad likes that kind of stuff."

"I'll look when we're in the car."

Once in the car, Mari climbed into the back seat to tear through their luggage and search for potential Christmas presents. Lucas drove fast - a Luthor trait, though neither of them knew that - and without the slightest idea where he was headed - not a Luthor trait.

"I found the coins."

"How old are they?"

"I'm not sure. They're from some other country. One with weird writing."

"Great. That'd work for Dad. See what else we've got."

Marisse opened a string bag and spilled out unset gems. Diamonds? Arielle loved diamonds. The Kents? From what she knew of the Kents, they'd just trade the jewels in for a tractor or something. Honestly; some people. She put the gems away and restowed the bag, then went through the suitcases.

The getaway bags were packed for an assumed getaway to somewhere in South America. But maybe that was a good thing. The Kents could get practical, boring items without leaving their cornfield or whatever. Maybe a breath of the tropics was the perfect Christmas present. This dress, for instance. She'd never even worn it, and she thought it'd go well with Martha's hair...

She put everything away, the potential presents in a separate pile, then looked out the window. Endless fields of flat went by.

"Where are we?"

"We're not lost."

"Lucas--"

"We're on Highway 30. Smallville has to be around here somewhere."

A road sign chose that moment to go by. "Lucas! We're on 306!"

"What's 306?"

"You're asking me?"

"306? Are you sure?"

He wore his hair rather long. Long enough for her to lean forward, grab a handful, twist, and say, "Pull in at the next gas station."

"Lionel. Dearest." Arielle thrust her face forward, kissed the air on either side of Lionel's face, then drew back. "Well. Aren't you a testament to 21st Century medicine. New eyes, new knees, new heart valves. What next, one wonders? Conscience transplants: now there's a happy thought. Not that you'd need one--"

"Cousin, you astonish me. You must be the only person in the--"

"-yours being so little used it should still be covered under the original warranty."

Lionel chucked. "Much better; that's the Arielle I remember."

"Oh, I've barely begun, dear. Where are my rooms?"

Lionel called, "Fenton!"

Arielle's servants, luggage and dogs took up most of the salon. The servants were bleary-eyed and the dogs exhausted by their impromptu safari through the airport. Only the luggage was still perky.

Fenton appeared, flanked by housemaids.

"Mde. Arielle will be in the Yellow Suite."

"Very good, sir. And her dogs, sir?"

Arielle answered. "Three water dishes, three food dishes, and I do hope the Yellow Suite has a balcony, otherwise it'll live up to its name more than we really want."

Fenton looked faint but rallied. "I will arrange walking schedules with Madame's staff."

"Get everyone sorted and settled, Fenton."

"Sir."

Lionel escorted Arielle to the smaller salon, the one he thought of as "his": one that Lex had never used during the years he'd lived here. It had a fireplace (so did every other room in the mansion; some had two); parquet floor beneath antique Chinese carpet; heavy dark wood furniture, and a full bar. He poured drinks. Arielle divested herself of the hat and a few furs. She inspected the room, touching an item here and there, frowning at photographs.

Lionel handed her the drink. She gestured with it at the photos. "I see you keep Lillian on view. Tell me, 'cousin': will you turn her to the wall when that bastard you got on her nurse arrives?"

"I don't confuse image with presence, Arie; nor conscience with shame."

"The invitation to these festivities shocked my major domo near to fainting. My first impulse was to burn it, and possibly send an incantation up with the smoke. But both your boys are married now, and no number of clever surgeries will keep you breathing forever. I didn't need a Ouija board, Lionel. You're playing a Yuletide Lear, summoning the hopeful heirs to see who best flatters you. Lillian's son might need an advocate."

"You must have missed the guest list, or you'd know he hardly lacks them. You're right: I've given up any notions of immortality. But this isn't a contest to see who loves Daddy best. I already know who loves Daddy best."

"See how long that lasts if ever you stop bailing out and propping up sweet little Lucas."

"You're remarkably well informed for someone who's wanted nothing to do with me since Lillian died. Arie. I merely hope to reconcile with all of the warring factions. Maybe neither of my sons will grieve for me, but I don't want them to dance on my grave."

"Then have yourself cremated dear, and the ashes scattered."

"Are you okay, Jonathan?" Martha asked the stack of cookie tray carriers.

"I'mg f'ing."

She lowered her arm to allow the three pie-carrier straps to slide down, set the carriers on the ground, then lifted the top two trays, revealing Jonathan's face down to the pie carrier strap clenched between his teeth.

"Honestly, we can do this in two trips."

"Hust offen guh door."

Martha sighed and picked up the three pie carriers. With the other three dangling from her other arm, she looked like someone modeling six particularly large, round handbags. "Okay, follow me."

Modeling her hand bags, and trailed by a bakery stack on denimed legs, she led the way to the mansion kitchen door. Their Subaru, and Lionel's custom limo, were the only vehicles in the drive. They must be the first guests to arrive. She wished Clark and Lex had already gotten here.

She also hoped someone was in the kitchen to see them coming and open the door. She head a shout from inside and called, "Hello; it's us, can you open the--"

More shouts - "no, no, grab them!" - the door opened, and three small white furry missiles erupted outward, yapping and barking.

"Oh, lord--!"

Mignon, Joey and Abigail smelled the baked goods. Their barks and yaps went up the register as their bodies went up in the air. They became canine superballs, sproinging at the carriers. Martha swung her pies at them. "Out! Down! Bad dogs! Go away! Down!"

"Helff!" Jonathan did a complicated little dance of Kick the Dogs But Don't Drop the Cookies. "Fuffing yaffing rats!"

A tall hollow-cheeked fellow ran out in a tangle of waving arms and uncoordinated legs. "Mignon! Joey! Abby! Come to Daddy this instant!"

They ignored him.

Jonathan performed an intricate cross-leg-hop-kick. The topmost cookie carrier performed a grand jete. Martha shrieked, Jonathan swore, and the carrier landed with a thump that threw its cover off.

With joyful noises, the dogs fell upon the revealed booty. The tall fellow tried to pull them away, then yelped and drew back a bitten hand.

Martha and Jonathan left him to it, and fled into the kitchen.

Lionel's chef Giscard had a butcherpaper-wrapped parcel clutched to his chest and was waving a large knife. The parcel had chew marks on one corner. Giscard was yelling - in French, but probably not Welcome to Luthor Mansion; here, let me help you with those.

They found an unoccupied counter and spread the carriers out on it. A few cookies had crumbled and one pie had an impact dent, leaking multiberry filling.

"Good thing," Martha said, "I made so much."

"Yoo hoo," a contralto yodel sounded from the side hall. "What's all the fuss? Frederric?"

"Mon dieu, le Duchesse."

Arielle sailed in, sparking and snowy and minktails flying. "Well, and by all that's marvelous. Jonathan and Martha Kent."

"Nice to see you again, Mrs. LeChambion."

"Arielle, dear; Arie to my intimates; which status Lionel, god rot him, presumes by marriage, never mind the wench is dead. I'm so pleased you remember me."

"You're hard to forget, Arie - excuse me, could you step aside just a little, so we can put the cookies away? Thanks - you were at my son's wedding."

"Wearing white," Jonathan added.

"Well, dear, someone had to. Whatever happened to this pie?"

"Your dogs happened to this pie."

"If you're looking for them, they're outside eating two dozen oatmeal raisin cookies."

Actually, they had finished the cookies, and were now returning indoors, cradled in Frederic's arms. He, and they, sported cookie crumb coatings.

"Frederic. You let them get away."

"I'm so sorry, mum."

"He was bitten, I think."

"Two dozen...oh, my babies are going to regret that," she singsonged, tapping each quivering muzzle. "We're going to have terrible tummies later, aren't we? Frederic. Take the problem children to their room. Have Cassell see to your bite."

"Aye, mum."

"And then, you poor dear, relax. Unpack and take a nap."

"Aye, mum. Thank you." Exuent Frederic and dogs.

Arielle eyed the damaged pie. "My babies couldn't resist the lure of home-based goodies; why should we? There's coffee in the other room and, I believe, fresh whipped cream in the fridge."

"You want to eat it now?"

"Dear, we certainly can't serve wounded, bleeding pie at dinner. Entirely too apt a martial metaphor, don't you think?"

The next gas station on Highway 306 was one of those quaint, picturesque, roadside attraction-y establishments, a stubborn holdout against the creeping plaque of modern, clean, convenient, indistinguishable pavilions where you could get gas, groceries, and e.coli from the fast food joint next door, all in one easy trip.

Stanley's Fuel and Finds boasted, besides the requisite pumps, a flaky-paint exterior, a dust coating on every surface interior, a pawn-and-miscellany shop to the left as you walked in, and a vacant-eyed, perpetually-chewing proprietor.

The rickety door slammed shut behind Lucas and Marisse, releasing a small cloud of paint-flakes and grime.

Stanley stopped chewing for a moment.

Getaway packing for South America had not included items for Kansas in the winter. Somewhere along the way, the Luthors had scavenged through their luggage again.

Lucas' layers started with flannel plaid p.j.s, then the business suit, then teal fleece sweats over the business suit, then a v-necked pullover, topped with a raincoat. He wore multiple pairs of socks under plastic bags tucked into slush-soaked bedroom slippers.

Marisse's base coat was a sliver-gray spandex leotard with three pairs of tights and sport socks, then a beige linen pant-suite, then a gold-threaded cashmere sweater under a narrow-waist black leather jacket sporting fake-leopard fur lapels. She, too, had opted for the plastic-bag-and-bedroom-slippers look in footwear.

They smiled at Stanley.

"Hi; we're lost."

Stanley nodded slowly.

Marisse jabbed Lucas with her elbow and nodded towards the pawn shop area.

The pawn shop wares included piles of clothing and a rack of justifiably-abandoned coats. It also include wall racks holding guns of every caliber and muzzle length. Above the gun racks, from one end of the wall to the other, staring down with glass-eyed disillusionment, were heads. Animal heads. Deer, mostly; along with one pronghorn, a couple of elk, and one moose. Head.

"We're looking for Smallville."

"Clothes," Marisse hissed.

"And, um, some warm clothes." Lucas gazed at the moosehead. "Hey. Is that for sale?"

The Mercedes parked next to the Subaru. Clark looked around, drumming his hands on the steering wheel. "My folks're here. I don 't see anyone else's car." Lionel's limo didn't count.

Lex stretched, feet against the floor, head and shoulders against the backrest. He took Clark's hand. "Arielle, count on it. She's waited years for Dad's deathwatch. This is the next best thing to actually attending his funeral."

They sat for a while, holding hands, the cooling engine going tink tink.

"You know, Lex, there's good memories in there, too."

Lex nodded. It wasn't that. He pulled a little on Clark's hand, leaned over and kissed him. Clark sighed and shivered, as always at the first touch and taste of Lex's mouth. He cupped Lex's head, moving further into the kiss.

"Arielle's in there..." kiss..."your Dad"...kiss..."my folks"...kiss. He pulled back, smiling. "Much as I'd like to spend the next two days making out in the car..."

"Mmm?" Lex pulled him in again.

"It'll get kind of...mmm... cold--"

"Turn on the heater."

"And cramped."

"Push down the seat." Lex glanced aside, licked Clark's upper lip. "Clark."

"Yeah?"

"Why is there a cookie tray in the driveway?"

A trail of crumbs, raisins, and a few half-gnawed cookies led to the kitchen door. Inside, Giscard and the sous-chef were chopping and mixing. Clark put the carrier by the sink. Voices came from the breakfast room just off the kitchen. They followed the voices.

Martha, Jonathan, Arielle and Lionel were all seated around the damask-covered table. The wounded multiberry pie was half-gone. Everyone had a berry-smeared plate in front of them.

"-Devonshire, or clotted, but no further. Melting cheddar cheese onto a perfectly good pie is yet another culinary atrocity perpetuated by the English."

"It has always been my contention the English conquered the world in order to acquire some decent cuisine. Well. That and historical imperative."

"Did you ever try Stilton with apple pie? It's really -- Clark! Oh, my baby!"

Martha flung herself at her son, was thoroughly hugged, and then hugged Lex. Jonathan, surprised in the act of sneaking a fingerscoop of whipped cream from the bowl, swallowed hastily and got up to offer Clark a hug, Lex a handshake and shoulder-squeeze. Arielle, without getting up, offered both young men a cheek for dutiful pecks. Lionel astonished everyone by springing up and throwing his arms around his son (who returned the embrace as if his father might shatter, or the universe come to an end), and ruffling Clark's hair.

These transports of familial affection concluded (and Lex still looking rather boggled), Clark said, "Hell of an example you grown-ups are setting. Pie in mid-afternoon. You'll ruin your appetite."

"We saved you some. Plates and forks are over there."

"Lex. I didn't know you liked berry pie."

"If Martha made pie out of duck feathers and tire tread, it would be delicious and I'd eat it."

"Don't take that as a challenge, Sweetheart."

"No, the rubber'd ruin my oven."

"We brought in the cookie thing from outside."

"Oh, dear. Blame my babies for that one. They attacked your father on the way in and made off with two dozen cookies. The wages of sin are, in this case, doggy barfs. Poor Abby has already -"

"Arie, not while they're eating."

"They're young males, Lionel. An autopsy right here at the table wouldn't faze them." She sounded enthusiastic, as though it wouldn't faze her, either.

Lex swallowed a mouthful of pie and said, as neutrally as possible, "We seem to still be short two guests." Then, less neutrally, "Maybe they changed their minds."

"No," Lionel said, "A gate agent at the airport called to confirm they'd arrived."

Arielle smiled. "They're lost, of course. What a shame no wild Indians are left in Kansas. How one can get lost between a major airport and a major highway -"

"Arie. May I point out that you were driven here in a hired car."

"Dear, even I can read road signs. Perhaps little Lucas et ux. were confused by the signs being in English. I am told no one in Miami speaks English anymore."

"The road signs could be covered in snow."

"Honestly, Lionel. Why not just admit the get of a crazy adulterous nurse probably isn't the brightest--"

Clark said loudly, "Wonderful pie, Mom. Hey, whoops, we didn't unload the car."

"We'll help, son. Sweetheart?"

"H'mm?" Martha had been shamelessly following the Lionel-Arielle exchange. "What? Oh."

"Lex?"

"Um. Right."

"-not adulterous; she wasn't married--"

"-all right, dear; you were adulterous; she was just a whore--"

"Martha. Come on."

Outside, a fine snow had begun to fall. The gray-dirty-yellow overcast promised much more where that came from.

Clark popped the trunk and opened both rear doors. "There's a long one in the trunk that goes into the back seat. It's the one in red foil, leave it for last."

"Clark, that big green one--"

"Wait; I'll take that."

They sorted packages among persons. Clark didn't carry nearly as many as he could - not with so many outsiders in the vicinity - and Jonathan led the way to the main salon, formerly Lex's office, where the tree was. They arranged the gifts among the impressive piles already there and trooped out for another load.

"Good lord, son, what are these, skis?"

"Find out Christmas morning."

"Oh, look, honey; a stocking for the dogs."

"Yapping rats."

"Don't forget the suitcases. And the laptops."

"Which room are we in?"

"Ask Fenton." Lex turned at the sound of a car horn.

A big dark sedan lumbered slowly up the drive. It was mud-spattered, slush-caked, trailed the remains of a filmy-fabric nightgown from a rear door, seemed to have suffered a luggage meltdown in the back seat and, on its roof, lashed with bungee cords, a moosehead stared sternly at the sky.

"That has to be--"

"What the hell is that on the roof?"

The driver-side window rolled down. "Hey, bro," Lucas said cheerily, "Am I glad to see you."

"There's a first," Jonathan muttered to Clark, who muttered back, "Mark the date and time."

"Can someone give me a hand with Bullwinkle, here?"

Lionel and Arielle were in the main salon, seated on separate sofas, sipping Scotch quietly with an air of hostilities-suspended-never-ended, when Lex came in, dropped off more presents, and said," The Luthor Family Gathering is now complete."

Arielle sighed. Lionel stood up.

Martha entered next, put down boxes, and found a hook on the fireplace to hang the doggie stocking. "They'll be right in. They needed help with a few things."

"I'm sure they did."

"Arie."

Jonathan carried in the last of the presents from the Mercedes. Clark set suitcases and laptops in a corner. Then both men left again, Jonathan muttering under his breath.

Arielle cocked her head. "'Moosehead'?"

Then, finally, the missing Luthors.

Lucas was a vision in orange wool hunting pants, red aprs-ski boots, and Norwegian sweater under a deflated parka. Marisse was in a striped turtleneck under a sheepskin vest, with yellow ski pants and bright blue moon boots.

"Dad!"

"Papa Lionel!"

Lionel blinked a few times but gamely continued his new custom of hugging people. "We were beginning to -"

"Heavens, dears; were you attacked by a rummage sale on your way here?"

"-worry. Lucas. Marisse. This is Arielle, a ...cousin. Of mine."

She advanced, eyes glittering, re-gloved hand extended. "Cousin by marriage, actually. Lillian - Lex's mother; Lionel's wife -- was my aunt's girl."

"Oh. Oh." Lucas held her hand as if it were a cobra. "If I could undo my birth-mother's injury to your cousin--"

"Well. To be fair," Arielle glared at Lionel, "she had--"

"-but then I wouldn't be here, and the whole thing would be moot. So. You know. Water under the bridge and all that."

Arielle, poised to graciously accept (or coldly decline) an apology, looked thunderstruck, then thunderous. Lex choked on a sip of Scotch. Martha clapped a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes, shoulders quivering.

Clark and Jonathan reappeared, bearing the moosehead between them. "Where do you want this?"

"Er," Lionel said, "What is it?"

"What's it look like?"

"Dad. I know wine is the customary house gift. But Mari and I had to, um, leave Miami in sort of a hurry. So we, um. Got you this. Instead."

"A...moosehead."

Lex gazed at his brother with something like awe.

"Yes, Papa Lionel. What's a big old medieval mansion without some dead things hanging in it?"

Martha was now rocking back and forth. Tears glistened on her eyelashes.

"Like a day without sunshine," Jonathan growled. "Lionel?"

Lionel gestured vaguely, unable to take his eyes off the glass ones.

"Dad," Clark said. "Next to the fireplace. Against the wall. We can, um, hang it on the mantle. Later. Maybe."

Moose stowed, Clark sat next to Lex and Jonathan next to Martha. Lex clutched Clark's hand. Martha hid her face against Jonathan's arm and made snuffling noises.

"Well." Lionel clapped his hands together. "We are, at last, one family, gathered to--"

"Papa Lionel? Luke and I could sure use a drink. Please?"

"Help yourselves; the bar's right over there. As I was saying, as I said in the cards sent to all of you, it is my earnest hope we spend the next few days getting past recriminations and grudges. I am not a perfect man; I have not led a perfect life. Now that I'm in the twilight of my life, I regret many things I have done in the past. I hope to do better from here on out. I want us to...rediscover ourselves as a family." He refilled his drink and sat down.

"Thanks, Dad. We appreciate the opportunity to," Lex took a deep breath, "try making a new start."

Clark gave him an I'm-proud-of-you kiss and said, "We've managed to do it before," with a significant glance at Jonathan, who acknowledged the point with a hmph and a nod. "Ah... what time is dinner? Lex and I haven't unpacked yet or anything."

"Or been told where we're unpacking. Lucas and Marisse could probably use a rest, too."

"Hell, yes; get out of these damned clothes. Oh. We might have to go shopping. We didn't pack for Kansas."

"No? Where did you think you were--"

"Arie."

"There's a Town & Country downtown," Martha said.

"Downtown? Metropolis downtown?"

"Here. In Smallville. They should be open tomorrow."

"Really? Christmas Day? Wow. That'd be great. If you'll give us the address."

"And," Marisse said, "a map."

Fenton came in to let them know dinner would be served at 8:00 in the Grand Hall. Also, the Lex Luthors had been given the Isley Suite; the Lucas Luthors, the Glasgow.

Lex and Clark carried their suitcases and laptops in and shut the door. Isley was a four-room suite: sitting room with couch, table and floor lamp; bedroom, with baronial four-poster tucked into a wall alcove opposite the stained glass window; and dressing room, with full bath off to the side.

"Bigger than our old rooms. Which we're not in." Clark unlimbered his laptop, plugged it in.

"Neither is Lucas. Significantly or not." Lex shrugged. "Dad might be trying to play fair."

"You know, if the world didn't end just then, when you said that, it never will."

They put their clothes away and turned on the gas fireplace. Lex bounce-tested the bed and grinned. "Eight o'clock. Three hours. How will we pass the time?"

"I should probably work on my outline." Clark waited for the outraged reaction, then laughed and tackled Lex backward onto the mattress. "Okay, maybe I should work on your outline."

They made out for a while, more affectionate and sensuous than urgent. The proximity of so many relatives wasn't inhibiting, exactly, but did put a naughty-teenager spin on things. Now was probably not the best time or place for one of their pedal-to-the-metal screaming fuckfests.

For one thing, they didn't know how soundproof the Isley Suite was.

For another, Lex was feeling weirdly...nostalgic.

They'd stripped each other's shirts off, but only unzipped and opened their pants, to lazily tease each other. Clark lay half on Lex, sucking on a nipple and caressing him through his briefs.

Lex said," Mmm...Clark..."

Clark gave the nipple on last lick, said, "Yeah?" and then began moving downward.

"...I was thinking..."

Lex's skin was thin and fine and, like the rest of him, deceptively fragile-seeming over sinuous sleek muscles. Clark lapped at his belly like a cat. "Mmm?"

"About the first time..."

Clark paused, tongue-tip in Lex's navel. "Leh?" The first time? His? Lex's? Theirs?

"...in the library.." Lex sighed at the ceiling. "Remember?"

Okay. Their first time. "Like I'd forget."

"Who was it you needed woo advice for that time? Sandy? Tracey?"

"Um...to tell you the truth..."

"Sonnets. 'Lex, I need a really good sonnet.' I felt like Cyrano deBergerac."

"That why you almost threw a book at me?" Clark propped himself up on an elbow.

"Two years, Clark, and you were still a man without a clue."

"Actually, ah, no..."

"I did everything but take out a full-page-no? What no?"

"I had a clue. I had a lot of clues. That's why. I mean, why do you think I kept asking for something by DeVere?"

"DeVere." Lex lifted his head. "I did think that was strange. I thought you were in some kind of trendy anti-Shakespeare phase."

"No, I was a 'phase' of trying to get you to find a love sonnet a guy wrote for another guy, so you could read it and, you know: know."

Lex let his head fall back. "Jesus, Clark. Even for you, that's...torturous."

"Yeah, well. Coming right out and telling someone how I felt didn't usually work out too well."

"You finally did, though."

"Yeah, after you were ready to pile us both into the car and run off to the Metropolis Library, all for a girl who didn't even exist."

Lex narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. "Excuse me?"

"Girl. Guy. I wasn't sure which one to make up, even."

"You made her up. Her. Him."

"Ah, Lex? Can we skip that part of Memory Lane? Go right to the part where I back you up against a bookcase and start kissing you?"

"Did I say torturous? Sorry. I meant Byzantine."

"That's good, right?" Clark leaned over, kissed him soundly and smiled. "It worked, didn't it?"

"Yes. It worked," Lex admitted. He pulled Clark down atop him. "Now. About backing me up against the bookcase..."

Jonathan heard his name - "Jon-a-than" - his whereabouts questioned - "Where aaare you?" - and then an insinuating splish-splash.

The bathtub at home barely fit one person.

The one here was ten feet around. And jetted.

And when Martha had said," A soak would be nice, don't you think?" there'd been a distinctly evil glint in her eye.

Gulp.

"This is Lionel Luthor's house," he'd said.

"This isn't Lionel Luthor's room," she'd said. And she'd just looked at him funny when he mentioned security cameras.

It wasn't that he was inhibited. The flowerbeds behind the farmhouse, the barn stalls, and even the truck flatbed could attest to Jonathan (and Martha) Kent's lack of inhibition.

But this...was Luthor Mansion.

"Jonathan Kent, if you're not in here in the next 10 seconds, I'm coming out after you." Martha...naked and soaking wet...chasing him around the suite? That was...that was...

Not a bad idea, actually.

"Oh, yeah?" He unbuttoned his shirt. "I dare ya!"

"-moosehead; the boy has no more sense of proper form than my canary."

Arielle stood in front of the chervil glass mirror, Cassell and Anna assisting in the complicated process of readying Madame for her bath and nap. This involved removing silk, velvets and furs, and wrapping each item in tissue paper and/or folding it away and/or hanging it up.

"You ask me, he's kind of sweet."

"Cassell."

"Mum?"

"Did I ask you?"

"Thought I'd say anyhow." Cassel caught her eye. "'Democratic principles', mum?"

Then Madame's hair had to be unpinned from its coronet and the long silky black braid unfolded, not left to drop untidily down her back.

"I'm not even convinced he's Lionel's. I would not be at all surprised if that Dunleavy creature wasn't off debauching other impending widowers." Arielle raised her chin as Anna wrapped the white-and-silver brocade robe around her. "To see which one would stick," she snapped as she tied the sash.

hurk hurk hurk

"That's -"

"Joey, mum."

hurk hurk ghlargh

"We'll be needing another coverlet, mum."

Lionel quite liked the tree.

Blue spruce, 14' tall - with an angel up there somewhere, but who could see it?-Fenton and the houseboys had needed a scaffold to decorate the higher branches.

Lionel had decreed the decorations look as if they'd been acquired over the years to grace many a loving family gathering. This had presented certain logistical difficulties. The small collection of Christmas tree ornaments accumulated before Lillian died had vanished years ago: consigned to an attic, or disposed of as sentimental rubbish, or confiscated by Lex never to be seen again.

Fenton had to send his staff out to thrift stores and yard sales in search of other families' cherished mementos. As a result, some ornaments were engraved with things like "Tiffany's First Christmas 1997" and "Happy Kwanzaa" and "Edda and Tor 35th Anniversary." There were ornaments of cut-out felt, childishly stitched with yarn and adorned with dried glue bits where sequins had long since fallen off.

The important thing was, there were a lot of them.

Lionel eyed the presents, noting the ones addressed to himself. The one from Arielle was very large and (when pushed tentatively with hi s foot) very heavy. A gravestone? A long slender box with a "From Lex and Clark" tag both panged and relieved him. Lex could be inventively, subtly venomous - of course he could, Lionel; he learned from the master, didn't he?-but Clark would never sign his name to such a thing. Clark, on the other hand, could be distressingly sentimental, especially when trying, therapeutically, to encourage warm-heartedness in the recipient; Lex, to his credit, would prevent anything like that.

"-oh. Papa Lionel."

He turned around. Marisse, in flannel pajamas at least two sizes too large, smiled awkwardly over a sparse armful of packages.

"I thought everyone'd be in their room and I could just, you know, sneak these under the tree."

"Go ahead, my dear. I believe any moment up to midnight is considered sufficiently on time."

She set down the packages, arranging them with the rest. Lionel raised his eyebrows at the wrapping paper.

"I wasn't aware that duck hunting was a popular Miami motif." Or a popular Christmas motif, for that matter.

"It was this or Barbie," she muttered obscurely and, with another smile, retreated.

"Tisha," Fenton said. "The soup."

The Grand Hall had an equally grand dining table, meant to seat a laird's family down to the last aunt and random cousin. It accommodated eight in lonely splendor. Or would have, if Arielle had gotten away with changing the seating arrangements. She'd sent Anna to "fix up the cards, dear," intending to strand Lionel and the Lucas Luthors somewhere in the hazy reaches beyond the centerpiece. Fenton caught Anna at it and put the cards back where they belonged.

Tisha served Lionel first, at the head of the table. His sons were kitty-corner to him, then their respective spouses. Jonathan was next to Clark, and Arielle next to Jonathan. Martha satisfied compassion, curiosity, and the need to balance the table, by sitting next to Marisse.

Tisha was still ladling soup into bowls when Arielle commenced fire. "Lex. It's a pity you lost your salle when you moved to Metropolis." To Lucas: "Your brother used to fence in this very room. The sword rack was kept...right there." She pointed to the wall behind Lionel.

"Really? Fence? You mean, fight with swords?"

"Fight with swords; yes, dear. After Lionel was blinded, of course, Lex had to give it all up so he could take care of his father."

This occasioned a thoughtful silence, as nearly everyone at the table remembered those tender care-taking days for the open warfare between Lionel and Lex, the contest to see if Lionel could bring Smallville to its knees faster than Lex could save it, the Anvil Chorus back-and-forth of plot and counterplot.

"I wish I knew how to fight with swords. All Miamians do is shoot each other. It's not nearly as interesting."

"But oh so final," Lex noted. "Are you an accomplished marksman?"

"Me? God, no." Lucas chuckled. "That's Luis' job."

"Luis..."

"You know. My bodyguard. For, you know, business meetings."

Martha leaned forward. "What kind of business meetings do you need armed bodyguards for?"

"He lives in Miami, dear. He must be a drug dealer or an arms merchant; isn't that what they all do down there?"

"No, Arie. Some of us are...finance and documentation specialists. Consultants."

"Drugs. Weapons. Ick. Luke never touches that stuff. This soup is delicious, Papa Lionel."

"I'm glad you're enjoying it, Mari. True turtle soup is very difficult to--"

"Turtle?" She dropped her spoon and looked at her bowl in horror. "I'm eating turtles?"

"I assure you, no endangered species--"

"I used to have turtles as pets!"

"I used to keep pet rabbits," Clark said. "That never stopped me from eating rabbit stew."

"You were raised on a farm. You can-you can feed Fluffy in the morning and fricassee him that night."

"Well, no; we never ate one of my--" Clark stopped, frowned and looked at his mother. "Um. Did we?"

"Oh, Clark, honey; of course n--"

"Jesus, son, where did you think they went?"

"Dad!"

"Jonathan!"

Lionel cleared his throat. "Fenton. I believe we're ready for the next course."

Marisse pressed her napkin to her mouth and frantically waved away her soup bowl.

Lex gave up biting his lip and let the grin loose. "Dad. Were any household pets used in the making of the next course?"

Clark leaned over and whispered," Counted your cousin's dogs lately?"

The next course, mushroom-and-pork roast pie with chutney, proved non-controversial. Tisha refilled wine glasses.

Arielle tried again. "Lex, I must thank you for sending me all those newsletters and reports about LexCorp. Your mother would be so proud. Lex's company," she told Lucas," has quadrupled in size and revenues this past year."

"Really?" Lucas looked impressed. "Where're you finding growth-opportunity industries?"

"I don't 'find' them; I create them. I'm concentrating on new technologies, particularly in applied physics and the biosciences."

"Oh, right; all that Dr. Frankenstein stuff. Dad always said you'd be better off in a lab than a boardroom."

"I'm quite sure Lex can hold his own in any--"

"And not going bang up against LuthorCorp's probably good strategy. Leave, you know, mass media and major finance to the established players."

Lex smiled a smile that had Clark check to make sure the place settings didn't include steak knives. "Like yourself, perhaps?"

"Me? In media? God; I wish. Oh, I do, you know, peripherals. Promotions, collectibles. I had this great deal, for the Ring trilogy, you know? Not the big stuff, not the action figures or, um, swords..."

He prattled on about cloak clasps and commemorative coins, to a mesmerized audience. No one with a single Luthor gene could be this artless.

"-anyway, the established players, now, you don't want to compete with because there's, you know, the dinosaur behemoth thing versus the quick new predator thing. Right, Dad?"

Lionel's brow puckered as he tried to translate the Gospel of Corporate Strategy According to Luthor, as re-interpreted by St. Lucas. "I believe the point I wished to make was that entrepreneurial innovation must be pursued to prevent a large corporation from becoming a dinosaur. Certainly, the pursuit of innovation is key to LuthorCorp success."

Visions of lawsuits, scandals, toxic chemical contamination and federal investigations danced like sugarplums in Jonathan's head. "That depends on how you define success."

"Market domination," Lionel said," is the only meaningful--" he took a deep breath "-but, of course, good community relations are also very important."

"I'm sure," Martha said," Lucas didn't mean to imply that LuthorCorp is a dinosaur."

"No, of course not, but, you know, come to think of it, maybe."

"I beg your--"

"No, really. How many layers of management does LuthorCorp have?" Lucas squinted and counted on his fingers. "Departmental, local office, regional, market, product, global, the Executive Board, and then you. That's seven. Isn't anything more than three supposed to be too many? I mean, no wonder LexCorp's running rings around you, Dad. Lex wants to do something, he just does it, he doesn't have to convince, you know, six layers of management to do it."

Lex muttered, "Self-immolation at Christmas dinner: another Luthor innovation."

Clark muttered back, "I think your Dad's gonna stroke out."

They both smiled at Lucas. Arielle positively beamed.

"Fenton!"

"Sir."

"The next course, please."

"Yes, sir."

Tisha and another kitchen maid went around with platters of roast duck and roast beef (already dismembered and sliced), while Fenton set the vegetable dishes on the table. For a while, no one said anything more inflammatory than "Thank you, Tish," and "Oh, yummy."

Then Marisse licked her lips and said, "Clark, you've been awfully quiet."

"I have?"

"How's college?"

"Collegial."

"Don't be rude, honey."

Clark glared at his mother from under his eyelashes, but said, "Senior year's kind of intense. I'm interning at the Daily Planet and working on a thesis for Communications Theory."

"The which? I thought Papa Lionel owned the Inquisitor."

"He does."

"Well, then, why aren't you interning there?"

"Well, one, the Inquisitor's focus is more--" scandal-mongering? scum-sucking? Bottom-feeding? "-human interest oriented, and I want to cover more national and international issues. Two, I'd rather get by on my own merit."

"That's so...ambitious. Individualistic. Cool."

"Uh. Thanks."

"Bet it doesn't leave you much time for fun and games."

"No," Lex said, "Clark's party animal days are, sadly, behind him."

"Do you want to be a war correspondent? I love those. You know, Amanpour and Riallo and that dishy Ben-Avi. They're so brave. It must be so exciting."

Clark, surprised, said, "Yeah, it is -"

"-but Clark's interests are far more pacifistic in nature."

"Actually, Lex, I think covering a war's a pretty good way to find out how the war got started."

"Soldiers don't make war, Clark; they only do the fighting. The people who let things go to hell are never anywhere near the shooting."

"Yeah, and all they do is make speeches justifying themselves and to tell us we're winning against whatever third-rate country we decided to pick on. I want to report on why we're fighting, cover the truth behind the pretty speeches--"

"But, Clark, war zones are dangerous. What if you get shot at? Or...you're near a bomb when it goes off. Or you're taken prisoner and--"

"Mom, god, I won't-they can't-I mean--" Oh, he could see it now. Reporting from Qatar and a missile lands on him right there, live, on camera, in front of God and everyone, and when the smoke clears he's still there, smiling at the folks back home. Never mind being outted on world-wide television; he'd have every mercenary outfit in the world, not to mention the US Selective Service, beelining for him. "I'll be...careful?"

His mother, his father, and Lex, all gave him A Look.

Marisse giggled. "Sorry. Looks like you're stuck with the pretty speeches. Too bad. You'd give Ben-Avi a real run for Scud Stud."

Lucas gave her A Look.

"Truly, Clark, if you want to contribute to the cause of greater peace on Earth, your current research project is potentially more useful."

"I do not understand why conflict is considered an evil. The strongest must prevail, whether by force of superior arms or superior ideas, and we are the better for it."

"Easy to say if you're not one of the casualties."

"I concede the point, Jonathan, but the point in no way changes the fact. The fact is, war is selection. Of the fittest."

"No, it isn't. Just because you can destroy a whole city doesn't make you better than the people who built it. It just means you're willing to go that far."

"For a just cause; yes, I would."

"All causes are just to the idiots throwing the bombs. Ask those poor folks in the Middle East where fifty-odd years of blowing each other up's gotten them."

"I would rather ask the good people of New York if we should not have bombed Afghanistan."

"Yeah, and ask the Russians about Afghanistan while you're at it..."

All eyes swiveled to Lionel.

"-no, I'd rather ask the Russians if they regret our defeating Germany for them--"

...to Jonathan...

"-better step back when you do, they sort of think they defeated Germany for us."

...back to Lionel...

"-the atomic bombs over Japan saved at least half a million American lives."

...back to Jonathan.

"-at the cost of as nearly as many Japanese lives."

Martha set up, smiling brightly.. "Clark: how is your research going?"

"-the RAF defending London!"

"Um. I haven't started much actual research yet. I'm still -"

"-the Luftwaffe bombing London!"

"-writing the thesis outline."

"-atrocities in Belgium--"

"They've worked their way back to WWI," Lex observed. "Sherman's march can't be far behind."

"What's your thesis about, dear?"

"Ah...meme theory."

"-the betrayal of Aguinaldo in the Philippines--"

"-regrettable but necessary for American hegemony--"

"What on Earth is meanie theory? It sounds dreadfully jejune."

"Memes. They're concept fragments--"

"-Sherman burning Atlanta!"

"Dad. If you're finished reciting War's Top Forty Hits..."

"Yeah, Dad. Knock it off."

The two men beetled at each other but subsided.

"Now. What were you saying, dear?"

"Memes are concept fragments encapsulated in minimal cmu-packets that propagate--"

"Clark." Lex made a turn-it-down gesture.

"Sorry. They're ideas, new ones, that just seem to spread throughout a population all at once. The act a lot like viruses and in fact some people call them metaviruses."

"Do they."

Clark nodded eagerly, warming to the subject. "And, well, what interests me is finding out whether the tendency of memes to spontaneously propagate can help competing concept sets fusion into hybridized value systems."

"Hybridized...value...systems..." Arielle had been raised in the iron tradition of keeping a conversation going, come hell or high water.

"Right. You know: thesis-antithesis-synthesis."

"Oh."

"Only, with memes, the process isn't that logical. More like a cascade or coalescence--"

"Ah."

"-that you might not even be aware of, consciously."

"And this meme theory would be useful...how?"

"I think memes could help people communicate better."

"They're doing a hell of a job so far, dear."

Clark blushed and smiled. "Sorry. I get kind of carried away."

"Clark is of course a brilliant young man. We expect great things from him."

"You have been warned," Lex said; Clark grinned again.

"-as we expect greatness from Lex, as well."

"We," Martha said, "want them to be happy."

"Well, of course--"

"One can be both, Martha."

Lionel and Arielle nodded at each other in a rare showing of agreement.

Fenton took advantage of the peaceful interlude. "Sirs, Madames; if you'd care to retire to the salon, we can clear the table for dessert."

Getting up from the table brought forcefully home just how much rich food they'd packed away. Tottering a bit, they adjourned to the salon, where even Arielle sank into a chair with something less than her usual rectitude. Martha curled up next to Jonathan, her head on his shoulder and her eyes not very focused; Jonathan's head kept drooping. Marisse and Lucas were in similar poses and conditions. Even Lex looked a little glazed, though that could be due to having Clark stretched out full length on the sofa and across his lap.

Semi-somnolent, the lot of them, Lionel thought, and said, "An aperitif will clear our palettes and minds."

"Maybe it'll clear your mind," Martha yawned, "But it'll put Jonathan and me right out."

"We'll pass, too, Dad. It's almost one in the morning our time, and we were up with the sun this morning."

"Ah. Very industrious."

"'Industrious.' I guess." Marisse chuckled. "Your tax dollars at work and all that."

Lionel, pouring cognac for himself and Arielle, looked up. "How are my tax dollars responsible for your early rising?"

Marisse sat up quickly. "Oh. Um, nothing, really - it's just--"

Lucas gathered her hands in his and squeezed. "It's just the Port of Miami, Dad. When the cruise ships come in, they blast their horns."

"Right! Cruise ships. You know--" and she let out a bray that was no doubt intended to sound like a ship's foghorn, but which actually sounded like a cattle-prodded donkey.

Everyone jumped.

"Thank you Mari," Lionel said, as he handed Arielle a napkin to dab at the spill of cognac on her sleeve. "I believe we're all awake now." He walked over the fireplace, where he sipped his drink and gazed into the fire. Cruise ships? He'd been to Lucas' condo; it was nowhere near the port. Lucas was in trouble. Again. And would expect him to make the trouble go away. Again.

"--war correspondent, Clark? Where did that come from?"

Lionel glanced sidelong. Lex was stroking Clark's hair, smiling.

"Would it shock you to know I wish I could put myself on the line?"

"For something bigger than yourself? Nope. Never had the slightest clue."

Clark chuckled. "Well. That and being an international media star."

"Fame. Fortune." Lex grinned. "Groupies." Clark winked up at him; he chuckled. "There are opportunities which don't automatically put you in...all kinds of danger. UN work. The International Red Cross."

Lionel turned round. "That could be advantageous, when you run for public office." Lex's brows rose and Clark arched his head back to look at Lionel upside down. Lionel cleared his throat. "Should you wish to. I realize that was my ambition for you--"

"'Was'?"

"--not one you necessarily shared."

Lex twined his fingers in Clark's. "Would it make you proud, Dad?"

The difficult child. The scornful, unloved - and which had come first, the cold battle of wills or the lack of affection? He'd never been demonstrative; that had been Lillian's role - they were too much alike in their character; the harder he drove Lex, the harder Lex fought him. Until, back against the wall, Lex had abruptly changed the rules of the game. Lionel knew Clark had had a lot to do with that. But it was Lex who'd recognized that chance, saw its worth, and risked everything to grasp it.

Lionel stared into the fire again. "You have already made me proud..."

Clark felt the shock go through Lex.

"...though, of course, seeing you in the Oval Office would be very gratifying."

"Only," Lex said slowly, as if trying out the words, "if you're around to see it."

Fenton announced dessert.

Lionel looked around and smirked a little. "Horatius has fallen asleep at the bridge. Martha, Jonathan." He joggled their shoulders. "Wake up."

Gently reheated, sliced, and served with side offerings of whipped cream and cinnamon sauce, the pies looked, smelled and tasted like entry tickets to Heaven. But the day had been long and eventful. The family ate desert less as though taste-testing Heaven, more as though completing a final set of hurdles.

"As we are all adults here," though Arielle shot a sharp look at Lucas and Marisse when she said that, "I trust we will be permitted to sleep to a decent hour before presents must be opened."

"I'm all for that."

"Fenton."

"Sir?"

"Coffee and pastries while we open gifts; breakfast at ten."

"Very good, sir."

Marisse ate a single mouthful of pie, pushed her plate away. "Martha, that place you mentioned. Why is it open Christmas day?"

"Jackie doesn't have family. She says she'd rather open the store and see who drops in than spend the day alone."

"She'll probably have the game on," Jonathan offered. "The Corndog."

"The Corndog?"

"Met U versus Kansas State. Big rivalry, always a lot of fun to watch."

"If by 'fun,'" Martha said, "you mean 'lots of penalties and fights.' On the field. In the stands." She glowered at her husband and son-in-law. "In the living room."

Both men gave her a "who, me?" look.

"Football on Christmas Day, what an appalling tradition." Arielle snorted. "And shopping."

"Sorry, but this is only good sweater I've got." Marisse patted it, groaned at the pressure on her stomach. "And after all this food...nothing's going to fit."

"Get used to things not fitting, Mari." Lucas kissed her cheek. "Someday, hopefully soon, you'll outgrow everything you own."

"What? Why would I do - do you mean get fat, why would I get fat?"

"Because pregnant women do, you know."

Forks dropped all 'round.

"Pregnant? Marisse, are you--"

"Dear god, you swilled enough wine and brandy to float a battleship, and you're carrying?"

"Oh, Mari, that's so exciting; when are you due?"

"Never!" she shouted. "I mean, not yet. I'm not--"

"Now, love," Lucas patted her hand. "You can't know for sure, one way or the other--"

"Luke, don't you dare--"

"It's not as if we haven't been trying," he said merrily.

"Trying? When have we been trying? Did you do something to my--"

"Dad? Wouldn't you like to have a grandchild to dandle on your knee--"

"--pills, I swear I'll kill you."

"---someone to carry on the Luthor name and line?"

"I have a show in April, I can't be out to here!"

"Lucas, did you sabotage your wife's birth control? As much as I applaud initiative, that particular form of it is perhaps not --"

"-no, of course I didn't-- Mari, remember what we talked about?"

"I remember, and don't you remember, I said--"

"Mari."

"I said 'not yet, darling; maybe next year,' that's what I said."

"For god's sake," Jonathan said, "are you pregnant or aren't you?"

"No!"

"Then what's he talking about?"

"I was referring to when she would be. Which I hope is soon. I mean, we both hope is soon. After the fashion show, but still soon."

"Modern manners are a never failing source of fascination to me. Is discussing one's reproductive plans with comparative strangers the usual thing nowadays?"

"Not so far as I know," Lex said, "But I'm pretty sure you're supposed to discuss them in advance with the prospective mother."

"Advisable in any case," Lionel said, "and all the more so when there are dynastic issues to consider. A Luthor heir is not to be carelessly conceived."

Everyone stared at Lionel, and then at Lucas.

"Lionel. Leading by negative example again?" Arielle asked.

"I wasn't carelessly conceived, Arielle. Dad said I'm the best unplanned thing to ever happen to him."

"Lucas, dear, the other unplanned things that have happened to him were the meteor strike and Lex's coma, Lillian's illness and death, and the tornado which left him blind. Not, shall we say, an unalloyed endorsement." Arielle stood up. "I am going to bed, while I'm still awake enough to make it upstairs under my own power."

Vacating the downstairs before another explosive conversational topic could be introduced seemed like a good idea to everyone else, as well.

The snow the sky promised fell, and kept falling. Snow turned buildings into wedding cakes, landscapes into Currier & Ives prints, and driving into a madcap adventure of bumper cars.

Snow caused an emergency meeting of Smallville's municipal maintenance crews, to discuss their sand, salt and snowplow resources. They had plenty of sand, salt, and snowplows. What they lacked, as an inspection of the snowplows revealed, were engines that didn't skip, stutter and stall. They sighed and prioritized. The main roads, and the road to the hospital, came first. Assign the most reliable plows to those routes, and just hope for the best elsewhere.

Snow closed Metropolis International Airport. Incoming flights were diverted to Kansas City; outgoing passengers either went home or camped out in the airport. Most people took the inconvenience in stride - this was the Midwest, after all - except for one airport official, dealing with an irate phone call from Kansas City International.

Tie askew, hair disarranged from repeatedly raking his fingers through it, he finally yelled into the phone, "I don't care what goddamned federal agency you're with, who you're after, or how far you've come; you're stuck in KC till the weather clears, and if you don't like it, you can damned well turn around and fly the hell back to Miami!"

"Wow," Clark said happily, "it's a big one."

Lex yawned, threw the covers back and looked sleepily down at himself. "Not right at the moment--" then realized Clark was sitting up, looking through the stained glass window - and, likely, the wall - at the great outdoors.

"Two feet, easy. And nobody's even been out in it yet."

"Not everyone shares your fascination with virgin snowfields. Particularly not at seven in the morning."

"Gotta get out there before Frederic walks the dogs and ruins it." Grinning, eyes sparkling, practically bouncing, Clark kissed him and said, "C'mon, Lex. Snow-angel time."

At seven in the morning, the only other people up and moving were the staff. An early breakfast was set up for them in the conservatory. They ate, drank, enjoyed the usual below-stairs disquisitions on their employers, and commiserated with Frederic as he wondered how the hell he was going to walk dogs in snow twice as deep as they were tall.

The conservatory overlooked what had been flower gardens and was now a field of white so deep and pure it glowed in the thin dawn light. There's nothing quite like the hush and beauty of a really good snowfall, and they appreciated the aesthetics even as they shuddered at having to go out and deal with it.

"Yee-hah!"

"Whoo-hoo!"

Two figures appeared, stage right, galloping and hopping and wading through the snow. They laughed and windmilled their arms and threw handfuls of snow at each other.

They were stark naked.

All twelve staff people gathered in the conservatory looked at each other, looked outside, and sniffed their coffee suspiciously.

"Motherfucker, it's cold!"

"Yeah! Great stuff!"

Unaware of their transfixed audience, Clark and Lex stopped and stood at attention, backsides to the conservatory. They threw their arms out, fell backward, and vanished from sight. Snow thrashed and churned, sending up puffs and driftlets.

There was a bottle of brandy on the sideboard. Anna grabbed it. She went from coffee cup to coffee cup, pouring until liquid slopped over the rims. Then she took a shot straight from the bottle.

Clark reappeared first. He rose from the snow, supine, limbs still akimbo. He hovered briefly, rolled over, then floated to Lex's patch, where two arms extended towards him. He plucked Lex out from his snow-angel. They both hovered, arms and legs entwined, admiring their handiwork. Then they...flew...away.

"I'm really not-big now, Clark."

"Don't worry; I'll warm you up."

Twelve cups of coffee-flavored brandy went down twelve throats as if there was a prize for who finished first.

Tisha, both hands gripping her cup, said, "Was that--- were they--?"

Everyone nodded.

"Do we-should we-tell? Someone?"

Everyone shook their head.

Lionel untied a dark green velvet pouch and shook out a handful of gold coins. He lifted his eyebrows at them.

"Merry Christmas, Papa Lionel. Those are from-oh, gosh, I don't know which country. See the funny writing on them?"

Lionel's lips twitched. "They're lovely, Marisse. Lucas. Let me pass them around."

He handed them off to Lex, who took one polite look before his face went determinedly blank. When he gave the coins to Clark, though, his eyes were way too bright.

Clark couldn't control himself nearly as well. His eyes widened and he just barely caught the guffaw before it left his lips, emerging as an odd cough instead. "Um... Foreign country?"

Marisse and Lucas nodded. Clark smiled at them as he passed the pouch to his father. He leaned back in the loveseat and whispered to Lex, "Middle Earth? Yeah. That's foreign."

"Like elvish is funny writing?" Lex whispered back.

"Are you gonna tell?"

"No. Too cruel, even for me. You?"

"What are you boys whispering about?" Jonathan asked.

"Nothing," they said in unison, and watched with heroically repressed glee as the pouch of movie memorabilia coins made its way around the family circle.

The 14' tall blue spruce overlooked a crinkly scatter of tissue paper, wrapping paper, ribbons and bows. Arielle's dogs, fully recovered from their cookie orgy, chased one another through the gaily-colored wreckage, fighting over chew sticks, pull-tassels and self-rolling rubber balls from the stocking.

The human and humanoid family contingent sat amid already-opened Christmas presents, working their way through the last few.

Martha had come downstairs in her usual, sensible v-neck sweater and slacks. She now had a glittering ruby-and-carved moonstone necklace draped across the sweater and an emerald-green brocade silk jacket over it. Slippers matching the jacket warmed her feet. On the floor nearby, standing 3' tall, was an assembled cardboard model of the Eiffel Tower. The tower had concealed an envelope containing the particulars for a 2-person, 2-week visit to Paris, and a workshop at the Cordon Bleu.

Jonathan, beside her, had his customary plaid shirt and (formalwear) black jeans set off with a long camel-hair coat, high-collared, deeply cuffed, and with a capelet off the shoulders. Across his lap rested an elephant gun and, between himself and the sofa arm, rested an elephant. Both the gun and elephant were toys; the envelope in the elephant's trunk contained the particulars for a 10-day photo-safari to Africa, also for two.

Arielle had arrived in more white - raw silk, no furs, few diamonds; her version of sedate morningwear - and her hair in a simple French twist. The simple French twist now sprouted a quantity of antique jewel-tipped hairpins. A muffler-scarf - beautifully and intricately hand woven, of white silk ribbon and floss and silver thread and individual strands of creamy cashmere, with freshwater pearls somehow worked through - draped dashingly over her shoulders. And on her bosom, hanging from a thick chain, glittered an enormous crucifix studded with every gem imaginable, none smaller than one carat, a jaw-dropping bit of peacockery once owned by a Medici, and rumored to be so deeply cursed the Italian government had been happy to see it go.

Clark and Lex (both recovered from the snow-angeling, though still dreamy-eyed from the warming-up afterwards) looked commanding, if overheated, in Cossack cavalry coats, wide-lapelled, deep-cuffed, tight to the waist and flaring to the calf, with chains slung between double-breasted buttons. The coats had come with matching hats. God knew what Arielle had been thinking, as Clark never wore hats and Lex looked like Yul Brynner as Taras Bulba in his. The martial effect was somewhat diluted by the Metropolis Zoo Endangered Species Series bedroom slippers: black and white for Clark, with happy little panda bear faces grinning up from the instep; spotted for Lex, with happy little snow leopards. (Lex had looked incredulously at his parents-in-law when he opened the box; but now, when no one was looking, one of the snow leopards growled and attacked one of the panda bears.) (The panda giggled.)

No one was looking because Arielle had not given Lionel a coat, and he had just unwrapped what she'd given him instead.

"Arie. This is..." Lionel had a vast vocabulary, in six languages. Surely the right words were in there somewhere. "...an extraordinary piece of work."

"Four tries, before the artist achieved the proper effect."

Jonathan whistled.

There were portraits - painted, sculpted, cast. There were even portraits done in glass. This one...

A block of glass, looking exactly like ice, down to the bluish tone and melt-rounded corners, contained a life-sized reverse carving of Lionel's head. Not painted, not stained, scarcely even frosted; a ghostly and exact replica of Lionel's head filled the block. Its expression overall was rather cheerful, as though Lionel was delighted to find himself a bodiless spectral presence in a frozen shell.

It was beautiful. And spooky. Really spooky.

Lionel smiled at her "Zoroastrian influence?"

She smiled back. "Or Ninth Circle, dear."

"Where shall I put it, I wonder."" For the moment, on a side table. "What's left? Martha, here's another for you." He gave her a box wrapped in duck-hunt paper.

Martha smiled at Marisse and Lucas. The gifts they'd given, and gotten, were mostly the kind you give people you barely know or like: inexpensive and anonymous. Martha felt a little badly about it and was therefore inclined to effuse over whatever they'd given her. She opened the box and saw something with...ruffles? She picked it up by the ruffles...

"Oh, it's a dress; what pretty colors." She stood up, the better to see and show. The dress unrolled: a wraparound, with bright tropical flowers on a dark background of thin fabric, so low cut the "neckline" ended practically at the waist; and what she'd thought was a wide ruffled skirt turned out to be the wraparound end of the dress, cut to hang open in a side-slit up to the waist, bordered with a three-layer flounce from knee to hem. Martha had never worn anything like it. She wasn't sure she'd even seen anything like it.

"It's...it's..."

"To dance in, you know? Flamenco. Or tango."

"...very colorful. And...festive."

"Right! Festive. It's a dress to have fun in."

Jonathan noted the down-to-here neckline, the up-to-there slit and said, "I'll just bet it is."

"It's lovely. Thank you so much." She carefully refolded and restashed it. "Next? Um...Lex, here's one from your father."

The box was a couple of inches wide by about a foot long. Lex took it, glancing at the other gifts from his father. "I've already opened the dirk and sgian dubh, and this is much too small to be a matching sword..." His brows rose at the rolled-up, ribbon-tied scroll inside. "Dad. Did you bully someone into giving me an honorary degree?"

"Go ahead and read it, Lex."

Lionel sounded anxious. Lex unrolled the scroll, read it, and stared at his father. "The President's Council of Advisors on Science and Technology? How...Dad, how did you do that?"

"Lex. I've spent the better part of the last twenty years cultivating these people. And the greater part of the last three years hearing you talk about how biosciences will be to this century what information technology was to the last, if only that, quote, illiterate moron in the White House would allow it."

"God. Dad."

"Mind you, the Council is strictly advisory; there is no guarantee you'll have any effect on policy. But you'll be meeting people who will be useful to you, whether you aspire to high office or merely," he smiled, "to rewriting the human genome."

Lex couldn't have been more stunned if Lionel had signed LuthorCorp over to him then and there. He gathered his wits about him, and his feet under him, and got up. "This is...great. Thanks."

More hugging. Less stiff than the one yesterday.

Lex disengaged. "There's still one from Clark and me," and he picked it up; a long, slender, heavy box, "to you." He sat back down, looking as nervous as Lionel had sounded.

Lionel opened the box. Thin cloth, rather than tissue paper, concealed what lay within. He unfolded the cloth. Then it was his turn to stare.

"Do you, ah, recognize...?"

"Yes. Oh, yes." Lionel lifted a sheathed sword from the box. "This was...jumping over the sword when one marries is...an old custom. Lillian and I didn't...well, our wedding was a society affair, with no place for such blatant paganism. But we did so later." He ran his fingers along the inscribed leather.

"After Mom was first diagnosed," Lex told the others. "She and Dad took a last trip to Europe. Renewed their vows, the old way. But Mom had a --- they had to come back right away, and forgot the sword."

"Lex. How did you find this?"

He grinned. "It took some doing. You'd be amazed how many unclaimed wedding swords they keep in that chapel. Clark helped me go through cubbyholes no one had even opened for years." They never would have found the sword without Clark x-raying the cubbyholes.

Lionel put the sword back in its sheath. His and Lillian's names were engraved entwined together on the blade. He'd look at that later, when he was alone. "Lex. This means... a great deal to me. Thank you."

Another hug. They were definitely getting better at it.

Geoff Todson, SEC field agent, had his own definition of Hell, updated hourly.

Hell was having to work on Christmas Day at all, much less having to forsake the semi-tropical splendors of south Florida for the Midwest, where they were having such a White Christmas that someone really ought to dig Bing Crosby up from his grave and punch him. Hell was being stranded in Kansas City International Airport while his quarry was in Metropolis International. Hell was commandeering a helicopter and choppering into Metropolis International, only to learn the sonofabitch had lammed it to Smallville. Hell was trying to get to Smallville when the main highway was closed, due to an accident involving a truckload of beef cattle, a truckload of hay, and an ice patch. No one had been seriously injured, least of all the cattle, who dimly realized this feast was likely to be their last and were, therefore, determined to enjoy it, as a number of butted, kicked and lightly trampled State Troopers could attest.

There were alternate routes, of course.

And you could tell exactly where, on those alternate routes, Metropolis' responsibility for keeping the roads cleared ended and Smallville's responsibility began, by the way the nicely cleared road suddenly became a not-so-nicely cleared road. By the way the single snowplow, laboriously churning along, plowed a drift to clear the center lane, which Todson was not in, and piled the snow into the right lane, which he was in.

A huge plop of snow fell onto the SUV's hood and windshield. Thus blinded, he veered onto the shoulder, and into the very tall snowbank waiting there.

"Jesus Christ!" Oh, yes; this was Hell. Here he was, buried in a snowbank while Suarez or DeNoyes or Luthor or whatever the fuck he called himself was absolutely, no doubt about it, comfy and snug. Printing off more fake bonds. Counterfeiting passports and coins and...and probably holding hostages at gunpoint while he was at it.

He climbed into the backseat, forced open the door. The snowplow, chugging and roaring, was heading away. Hadn't even noticed what had it'd done to his car.

"Hey! Hey, you in the snowplow!"

He ran after it. Or tried to run: the ground was frozen and bumpy beneath a thin layer of snow, forcing him to mince along quickly on tippytoe. Fortunately, the snowplow was no faster.

"Hey! I'm a Federal Agent! Slow down! Stop!"

He caught up, hammered his fist on the passenger side window. The driver glanced at him, frowned, and pulled plugs from his ears. The window rolled down. "What?"

"My car. It's buried in the snowbank. Back there."

"Call Triple A or the State Patrol, mister--"

"I don't have time. You going to Smallville?"

"Yeah, so?"

"I'm riding with you."

"No, you're not. I got a route to run and I'm not supposed to take on--"

"I'm a Federal Agent." He flashed his badge. "In pursuit of a known criminal. Or I was, until you buried my car." He reached in, unlocked the door, and pulled it open.

"Hey! What do you think you're-"

"I am requisitioning this snowplow in the line of duty, that's what I think I'm doing."

"Known criminal? Jesus. On Christmas Day? What's wrong with you people?"

"Just take me to Smallville."

The driver shrugged.

On his way. Closing in at last.

At a stately 15 mph.

The banner hung above Jacklyn Ambrose's Town & Country store shop window read: T&C 'No Family Christmas' Welcomes Corndoggers!

A line extended from the still-closed doors all the way down the block. The people waiting didn't look like last-minute shoppers or first-minute returners. They clutched, not unwanted presents, but thermoses and stadium seat pads and large foam rubber hands, in Met U and K-State colors, with pointing fingers. A few sported large foam rubber corndogs on their heads.

Quite a few people in line had families; perfectly good ones. Just...families who agreed with Arielle that watching football on TV was an appalling way to spend Christmas Day, and thus had decreed that the TV be kept turned off, if not actually unplugged.

Inside, the store was transformed. Sales racks of clothing were off in the back room to clear the floor for folding chairs. Shelves now offered, instead of fashion accessories, Met U and K-State sweatshirts, sweatpants, baseball caps, pennants, mugs, keychains, license plate frames, and other accoutrements of Corndog fever. The window display manikins had been hustled off in favor of a large-screen TV flanked by home-theater speakers.

And behind the cash register counter were barrels of cider. Hot cider, spiced cider...hard cider.

Jacklyn didn't have a liquor license. She got around that by given the crackerjack away "for free" - with the purchase of any Corndog memento.

She did a lot of business.

"No Family Christmas" had become almost embarrassingly lucrative since its beginnings three years ago as a way to not be alone on Christmas Day.

The first sign that not all was well "belowstairs" was when Fenton entered the main salon to announce breakfast.

He had a jaunty smile and an unsteady step. He leaned heavily against the salon's double doors, sort of hanging from both doorknobs, and said, "Breakfast is served in the...breakfast room." The announcement evidently stuck him as hilarious, because he repeated it and laughed hard enough that he bent over, still gripping the doorknobs, straightened, still laughing, and overbalanced backwards, which resulted in the doors swinging shut with Fenton out in the hall.

"Lionel. You've driven your butler to drink."

"Nonsense. He's been corrupted by your notoriously dipsomaniacal staff."

They filed out for the breakfast room - having to open the doors and step over Fenton in the process; Clark hauled him to his feet as he went by - Arielle saying, "My servants may become a bit jolly on occasion, but I resent--"

The second sign was when Frederic, coming down the staircase to take the dogs for their mid-morning walk, let his own unsteady feet get out from under him and wound up sliding down the rest of the way, like riding a luge, landing practically at Arielle's feet; limbs splayed, leashes clutched in his fist, smiling beatifically.

"Oh, that was fun," he said, and passed out.

"Frederic--"

Clark bent over him, running his hands over Frederic's limbs to camouflage knowing what x-ray had already told him. "He's okay; nothing's broken or anything; he's just...um..."

"Drunk as a skunk," Jonathan said.

"...yeah."

Clark grasped Frederic under the arms; Lex took his feet; they carried him to a couch in the side-hall den and left him there.

Lucas chuckled. "Looks like the help's been hitting the holiday grog."

"Well...it is Christmas..."

"I hardly consider two inebriated servants enough evidence to assume a general bacchanal."

Maybe not, but breakfast pretty much nailed it.

Giscard considered breakfast beneath him, and had left it to the sous-chef, who had drafted Wes and Anna to assist. They had decided the eggs, pancakes, ham, bacon, and waffles should all follow the holiday theme. Anything that could be shaped had been, into stars and trees and hearts...and...and...

"What on Earth?" Martha poked a fork at a very large, very strangely shaped waffle. "A Christmas...bat?"

"I think it's supposed to be an angel, Mom."

Shapes weren't enough; breakfast should also be color-themed. Red and green. Everything was red, or green, or red and green, including the ham; except the pancakes, which were...

"Yellow?"

"Closest they could get to gold? Maybe?"

The effect was suggestive less of festivity, more of some spectacular spoilage.

The flavor theme of Christmas was, evidently, cinnamon and nutmeg and brown sugar. Stirred into the eggs, glazing the ham and, when further combined with dried fruit in the waffle batter, producing red and green glazed nubbled wheels which looked inventively, prettily, and inedibly like stained glass.

Lex picked one up by the edge, with his fingertips. It flashed in the sunlight. "Are we supposed to eat these? Or hang them on the tree?"

Jonathan broke off a piece of green bacon, popped it into his mouth. He chewed and his face sort...froze. He swallowed, hard, and reached for a glass of what, being red, he assumed was cranberry juice. It wasn't. He choked and sputtered and gasped, "Cough medicine?"

Arielle took the glass from him, sniffed it, and said, "Not quite. Apple juice with grenadine syrup." She surveyed the glistening red eggs, the carbuncular waffles, the crimson ham, and added, "They must have run out of food coloring."

The others, who had been watching Jonathan closely, now pushed their plates away.

"I'm...not really hungry."

"Me neither."

"All those cookies this morning...and that dinner..."

"Luke and I really should go downtown before there's more snow."

"Will you be all right, driving?"

"We should be. The drive's shoveled, the roads are plowed."

"We'll be back in less than an hour, Papa Lionel." Marisse kissed Lionel on the cheek. "Don't worry. We know exactly where we're going, this time."

Arielle watched them go. "One can always pray for a sudden whiteout."

"Arie."

"Hmph. Poor Frederic being hors de combat, I'll walk my babies myself - if the servants did shovel the driveway before their 'bacchanal.'" She rose.

Lionel said, "One can always pray for an undiscovered ice patch."

"Do so, dearest. I've always felt left out, being the only person on the planet who's never sued you for anything."

"Don't forget to wear your cross."

"Such a lovely bauble. But a bit much for daywear." She left.

Lionel sighed. "Remarkable woman. She never gives an inch."

Martha put her unused napkin back on the table. "Jonathan, why don't we take our presents upstairs and start packing them up."

"Clark and I were going to hang the moose--" Then he saw the glint in her eye. "Oh. Right. 'Packing presents.'" All those years they'd hosted Christmas, he'd never seen action like this one; amazing what Martha could get up to when she hadn't spent four days cooking.

Clark, blissfully unaware that "packing presents" was about to join "a nice hot soak" among Kent marital euphemisms, let fly one of his own. "'Sokay, Dad, we can do that later. I was thinking Lex and I should work on my outline."

Lionel, however, was not tuned in. "Actually, Lex, I need to speak with you. Privately."

"Oh. Sure, Dad."

At first, Jonathan was puzzled, wondering if he'd misinterpreted the glint.

Because they had stopped in the main salon, and they had gathered up their Christmas presents and taken them up to the suite. Whereupon Martha, looking thoughtful rather than seductive, had simply vanished into the bathroom. He heard water running and the shower stereo being tuned.

He began to fold things, put them in their boxes, stack the boxes.

He was trying to stuff the elephant back into its box when he heard the bathroom door open. "Honey, "he said, "the damn trunk keeps--" and then he turned around and forgot all about the elephant.

Martha stood, hip-shot and slinky, in a sheath of brightly colored fabric. From within the bathroom, music played, something with a heavy beat. She raised her arms over her head (which caused her to nearly pop out of the very low neckline) and began snapping her fingers and rolling her hips. The skirt rolled with her, flouncing and falling away to reveal a bare leg all the way up to the thigh. Well past where he could have seen her panties. If she'd been wearing panties. Which she was not.

"Come on, big guy. Come show a girl a good time."

The snow plow had many charming features -slow, noisy, and reeking of diesel - but the one that really stood out in Agent Todson's mind was the driver compartment heating system. To say it was functionally imperfect was to pay it a high compliment.

From the knees up, he felt as though he'd long ago died and been cryofrozen. From the knees down, he'd long since died and been roasting in Hell. He'd spent the hour, or eternity, of the ride to Smallville alternately leaning forward to let the hot air get at his hands and pulling his feet up onto the seat to let his legs cool down.

His teeth chattered. Ceaselessly.

When the driver finally said, "Okay, here's your stop. Downtown Smallville. Now go on and get out and ruin someone's Christmas," all Todson heard were the magic words Downtown Smallville.

He struggled with the door, got it open, and climbed painfully to the ground.

H'mm. More logistical problems. He had no idea where Suarez/Luthor/DeNoyes was, no vehicle to go after him even if he did, and he was in the middle of a completely shut down small town in the middle of what had to be the coldest day on Earth since the last Ice Age, wearing, over his business suit, the cheapest thinnest down jacket they'd had at the airport men's shop.

He stood on the street corner, hands in his armpits. He turned around and around and saw no signed of life. He felt alone. He felt hopeless. He was -

"...Danegger's running! He's picking up blockers! He's at the 45, the 40, the--"

--hallucinating a football game?

He turned around and around, hands cupped to his ears.

"-25, 20--"

"GO DANEGGER!"

"Where's the WALL? Where's the WILDCAT WALL?"

"-touchdown!"

The sound was coming from a store. A store called Town & Country. A store with a banner advertising "No Family Christmas" - whatever that was - and which, above all else, seemed to be open.

Like a man in the desert, dying of thirst, who sees water in the distance, Todson staggered forward, arms outstretched.

Inside, all was bedlam.

The score had been 21-3 by the middle of the first quarter, K-State. Met U played like the cast of an elementary school Christmas pageant. The K-State fans were in ecstasy, high-fiving and woo-wooing each other, while the Met U fans shrieked libelous charges at the quarterback, coach and referees.

Then Met U's quarterback remembered what day it was, what city he was in, and by golly that there was a game going on here. From 3rd and 24 on Met U's 30, he threw a high spiral, peerlessly caught by Kaster in the end-zone. The crowd at the stadium, and in the shop, went so nuts they missed Met U recover its on-side kick, and came up for breath just in time to see another touchdown, this one a slant-run, bringing the score to 21-17. K-State then scored a field goal on a 48-yard kick. 24-17. The run by Danegger into the end zone, the homing signal Todson had used to find warmth and shelter, was Met U's tying touchdown, scored just as the quarter ended.

People were yelling and jumping up and down on their folding chairs, falling off of and knocking over their folding chairs, waving foam rubber over their heads, whacking K-Staters over the head with foam rubber. They ran around in circles with hands aloft in V-for-Victory and We're-Number-One. Todson entered just in time to be grabbed, hugged, and twirled in a do-se-do by a big truck-driver type who then yelled in his face, "21 points in four minutes! 21 points!" with breath redolent of fried chicken and hot cider.

Todson smiled weakly before his eyes rolled up and his legs gave out and he sagged in the guy's arms.

"Hey! Jackie! I think we got a casualty here!"

Jackie left her perch on the cash register counter, where she'd been chugging cider and cheering both teams impartially. She helped guide Todson to the display window ledge, sat him down by a speaker, and chafed his hands. "Spence: bring me a cup of cider."

"Yo," the truck driver said.

When Todson could focus again, he saw a cheerful, broad-cheeked woman smiling at him, saying "You're gonna be just fine," and holding a cup of something fragrant and warm to his lips. He gave her that nerveless adoring look freshly-rescued people give their rescuers, and drank off the cider in one draught.

Agent Todson was cold. Tired. He hadn't eaten for a while.

And he'd just tossed back 6 ounces of "Jackie's Ambrose-ia," the finest homebrew in Lowell County.

"Oh, for god's sake, Spence," he heard the angel say as his vision went soft-focus and his bones buttery, "you gave him the hard stuff."

First they tried putting the block on a table in front of the fireplace in Lionel's sitting room. All that accomplished was to make Ghost Lionel appear to be burning rather than freezing. Then they found a black lacquer wood light-up display stand, small enough to fit within Ghost Lionel's neck hole. But the bulb, as they discovered when they plugged the stand in, was pink. This had the effect of making Ghost Lionel look as though he were: a) made of cotton candy; and b) wearing a collar.

They were both gazing critically at this when Lionel said. "I am considering dividing LuthorCorp between you and your brother."

Lex almost pulled a muscle snapping his head around to stare at his father. "'One man, one empire' has been the Luthor credo for as long as I can remember."

Lionel pursed his lips and nodded. "You are the elder. You are certainly the more intelligent. But I get the feeling, Lex, you are not the more...ambitious."

"If I lacked ambition, I'd want LuthorCorp handed to me on a silver platter. Instead, I'm building my own empire."

"Ah. Then you had motives beyond spite."

"Spite? Whose, Dad, mine or yours?"

Lionel nodded again. Yanking Cadmus away. Shutting down the Smallville plant and blaming Lex's "mismanagement." Trying to cajole, force and threaten Lex into a partnership - which Lex had obviously seen for what it was, an attempt to absorb LexCorp. "Everything I did, Lex, I did to make you strong. I never meant...Well. I did hurt you in the process, and that I truly regret."

"I know, Dad. I believe you. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."

"Everything I withheld from you, I gave Lucas. Love. Approval. Support. You could have hated him for that alone."

Lex didn't know what to say to that. Between loving the idea of having a brother, envying the brother for having everything Lionel hadn't given him, and stunned incredulity at how Lucas had turned out...

Lionel reached out, put a hand under Lex's chin and lifted it to stare into his eyes. "And yet, Lex. You are strong, whereas Lucas... is not."

Dying, Lionel might be. Loving, he might be doing his damndest to be. Disconcertingly telepathic, he still absolutely was, dammit.

"He's charming, gregarious - and feckless. I can hardly criticize any son of mine for cutting corners, for skirting the edge of lawlessness..."

"Not after a lifetime's training in how rules and laws are for lesser men, no."

"...but those are supposed to be tactics, not the whole of the endeavor. We build, Lex. We do not launder money for others, forge documents for others, become mere accessories of other men's actions."

Lex smiled. "Does it bother you that he's corrupt? Or only that his corruption is incidental and small-time?"

"It 'bothers' me that he is needlessly corrupt. That argues a ...lack of proportionality."

"I hope you don't expect me to argue on Lucas' behalf."

Lionel chuckled. "What a conflict of interest that would be."

"It's not that. I don't know him, Dad. I don't have any sense of what he's capable of." Lex wondered if Lionel intended to ask Lucas for his take on Lex. Very likely, and wouldn't that be interesting. He wondered if Clark's ethical code regarding the use of his abilities could possibly stretch far enough to allow for some eavesdropping.

"He's had everything too easy."

"Has he?"

"What parts of LuthorCorp do you want, Lex?"

"You're seriously considering this."

"Tell me."

Talk about cutting to the chase. Take a chance? Tell the truth?

He could hear Clark urging him to be daring, be truthful. Not for Clark's reasons - that, if you could tell the truth, it was better to do so; or even for purposes of reconciliation - but because, as Clark had also pointed out, Lex had already won the war with his father. Lex was loved, happy, engaged in work he enjoyed for its own sake, and rich by his own efforts. There were parts of LuthorCorp he wanted, of course; there was nothing in LuthorCorp he needed.

"You want to protect your legacy," he said. "How does splitting LuthorCorp serve that end?"

"A legacy is more than mere lists of assets."

"You already know what I'm interested in. Engineering. Science. Politics. I'm not going to just put a dent in the universe, Dad; I'm going to knock its doors down. Finance won't get me there; owning sports teams and media outlets won't get me there. The sciences will... and the power to develop them freely."

"I won't make any promises, Lex. I'm still thinking this through. But I appreciate your candor." Lionel was quiet for a little while. Then: "Cotton candy?"

Lex nodded. "And wearing a collar."

One mile from the mansion, Marisse told Lucas that if they didn't change places and let her drive, "You won't be in any condition to promise Papa Lionel grandchildren, know what I mean?"

Probably the fence-post, two wall-eyed cross-country skiers scrambling to get away, and a border hedge (bits of which were still mated to the Mercury's rear fender) had something to do with this.

Driving in snow was a lot trickier than it looked.

Lucas grumbled, let himself be talked into the switch, and would never ever admit he'd been a little, well, worried about making it downtown in one piece. Luthors don't admit fear. No sir. Not even when fishtailing on ice at 40 mph with the world spinning by and the brakes not braking.

Marisse took the wheel and they continued on at a sedate pace that, any other time and place, would have driven him buggy.

They arrived downtown without incident and had no trouble finding Town & Country Fashions, thanks to the huge banner over the window and the dull roar of sportsfans in full cry coming out the door. The display window offered a fine view of many, many people, all seemingly staring at, shouting at, and gesturing excitedly at, the street.

Marisse giggled. "Luke, it's like she turned her store into a sports bar."

"Yeah." He was impressed. "I wonder how much action they've got going on the side. Nice little neighborhood store, all respectable locals; I bet the state gambling commission never even thinks of checking up on her."

"Maybe we should open a 'clothing store' back home, huh?"

Lucas, with his happy shark smile, for once looked very much like a Luthor. He was already thinking in terms of a whole chain of quaint, unassuming clothing stores as fronts for gambling on professional sports. Plus, he could write off Marisse's inexhaustible appetite for new clothes as a business expense.

"Come on, let's go in."

Until this day, Agent Todson neither knew nor cared about college football - not even in Florida, never mind Kansas. But being half-frozen, then rescued and cosseted and filled to the brim with hard cider and then plunked down amid raving sportsfans had wrought an amazing change in him.

"-interference?" He stood on his chair. "Fucking pass was uncatchable! You can't interfere with an uncatchable pass!"

"Yeah!"

"You go!"

"Tell 'em, Geoff!"

"Worst officiating ever!" he bellowed, and high-fived a woman standing on her chair behind him.

Just about everyone was standing on the chairs. The score was 38-30, and it wasn't even halftime yet. Jackie had run out of keychains, mugs and caps; at this rate she'd be out of sports memorabilia before the end of the 3rd Quarter. And she'd had to send Gerry in his truck back to her place, to get more barrels of cider from her garage; at this rate, she'd be collecting people's car keys before the end of the 3rd Quarter.

Lucas and Marisse came in just as K-State fumbled the punt return, setting off a mad scramble on-field and an epidemic of St. Vitus Dance in the store. Todson howled along with everyone else, oblivious to the presence of the two people he'd crossed the country to hunt down.

Jackie ducked through the demonstrations to greet the newcomers.

"Hi," Marisse said, "we're looking for some nice warm clothes."

"Well, kids, all my regular stock's in the back. Can I interest you in some team-themed sportswear?"

Marisse looked horrified; Lucas forestalled her indignant response by saying heartily, "Sure! That'd be great! And, um, while we're on the subject, tell me: what's the over-under run, receipt-wise?"

"I beg your pardon? The what?"

"You know. Point spreads and all."

Her welcoming smile faded and her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me. Do you mean gambling?"

"Well, sure; a game like this--"

"I. Do. NOT. Permit. Gambling. In this. Establishment."

Jackie's voice had a piercing quality.

"How Dare You Suggest I Allow People to Bet on the Corndog Bowl."

Lucas raised his hands placatingly, all too aware of the sudden funereal hush as all eyes turned to see who had upset their hostess so much.

"Now...come on...I don't mean to offend, but...come on, I was just asking--"

Agent Todson got back up on his chair, the better to see who Jackie was asking, in stentorian tones, "Are you out of your goddamn mind?" He peered and blinked and peered some more.

"...about those clothes..."

"OUT! Get OUT of my STORE!"

"Hey." Todson squinted. "I know those two...that's..."

"...but..."

"OUT! NOW!"

"You! Suarez! DeNoyes! Whatever! You sonofabitch!"

Marisse grabbed Lucas hand; Lucas grabbed for the door; Todson started running for them, but forgot he was still up on the chair; Lucas and Marisse dashed outside; Todson fell down in a clatter of refolding chair legs.

Lucas and Marisse ran for their car, dodging a pale green pickup truck that had just pulled up.

Todson got up and pelted after them.

Lucas and Marisse threw themselves into the Mercury; Lucas started it up and gunned the engine.

"Car," Todson said, "I need a car."

Gerry got out of the truck and went into the store to tell Jackie the extra cider was here and he'd drive around to the back door soon as she unlocked it. He left the truck unlocked, and the engine running.

The Mercury jackrabbited away from the curb, fishtailed, swung around so it faced the wrong way, and stalled.

Todson ran for the truck and climbed aboard, slamming the door shut.

The Mercury restarted, Marisse screaming and punching Lucas' arm; the car slid forward, sideways, backward.

Todson pulled away from the curb just as Gerry came bolting out of the store, yelling, "Hey! What do you think you're--"

"Federal Agent!" Todson yelled back. "Requisitioning!"

Lucas executed a wild, swerving three-point-turn that took out the ornamental planter outside an antique store.

Then he floored it and the Mercury shot off like a greased goose.

Gerry ran for the truck; Todson pulled away; the sportsfans realized the drama outside was even better than the one on TV and came spilling out in time to see the truck take a semi-controlled turn around the far corner and vanish, and Gerry run back and forth like a target duck in a shooting gallery yelling, "My truck! Sonofabitch stole my truck!"

The sportsfans frowned.

"Stole my truck! Stole Jackie's cider!"

"My cider?"

"My truck!"

Jackie spun to glare at the sportsfans. "You heard the man. After that truck!"

They scattered to their vehicles.

Lex stood quietly in the doorway to the sitting room. Clark had once told him his presence was like a beacon, or a lodestone: a brightness, a pull, impossible to miss or ignore. Lex grinned. Clark was doing a fine job of both right now. He moved his fingers blur-fast over the laptop keyboard, wholly focused on the thoughts tumbling out of his mind to fill screen after screen with text at breakneck speed.

Beauty is nice; superhuman powers and a personality at once tough-minded and idealistic are nice; so is bone-melting ardor. But, Lex being Lex, that wasn't enough; wouldn't have been enough, if there hadn't also been someone very much awake and aware in that lovely sweet house. So take as a necessary given Clark was bright. College had still been a revelation. He hadn't previously encountered pure intellectual challenges that grabbed him, sucked him in, and had him waking Lex up at all hours of the night to talk about some new idea he'd just had.

Lex enjoyed watching that mind at work almost as much as he enjoyed playing with that body.

So he waited until Clark leaned back -- stretching, arms over his head, fingers laced together for a satisfying knuckle-crack - to walk over and run his hand up the length of bare belly invitingly uncovered by the stretch. Clark's eyes opened, his smile flashed, and he lowered the loop of his arms over Lex as Lex slid onto his lap.

Clark hauled him in for a kiss, then said, "You don't look nearly as dazed as you should, after a private talk with your dad."

"It must be a trick of the light. Clark, he's considering dividing LuthorCorp between Lucas and me."

Clark's eyebrows arched.

"He said there's more to a legacy than assets."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I think your dad's gone beyond Hallmark Special straight to podperson. What did you say?"

Lex shrugged. "I told him which parts I wanted, and I doubt I told him anything he didn't already know." Lex squirmed gently on Clark's lap, and smiled when muscles tensed beneath him. "It's not anything we need, but...we could step up the rock hunt." Lex's billet-doux to Clark, collecting green meteor rock with the fierce dedication of a crystal hunter scouring caverns and the discretion of a mole spying on Cabinet meetings. They'd heard rumors of weird green rocks found in Siberia, the Gobi desert, even ANWR, of all places. Clark's brainstorming sessions weren't the only things that kept Lex awake at night; the thought of green meteor rocks scattered all over the fucking planet did the trick very nicely.

"You keep squirming like that, there'll be another rock and you won't have to hunt far for it."

"But not green." Lex licked along Clark's jaw. "We've definitely established, whatever planet you're from, it isn't Vulcan."

"You want pon farr? I can do pon farr."

"H'mm. When we're home. Not here. A good pon farr is a noisy--"

Clark lifted his head and tilted it, listening hard. "Lex. Something's happening downstairs. I don't-there's a lot of yelling."

Fenton, mortified as any proper butler would be, upon realizing he spent the morning doing Jim Carrey routines in front of his employer, had made up for it by upbraiding the entire house staff, notably the ones who'd presented that inedible garish Op-Art exhibit as breakfast. The kitchen was a quiet place, Giscard simmering along with the soup, and the sous-chef wondering if she'd ever again be allowed to make so much as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without supervision.

Having subdued and pacified the kitchen, Fenton was now inflicting himself on Wes, making him clean and polish, tile by tile and stone by stone, the mansion's mosaic-and-marble entry hall.

"I want to be able to see my face in each and every one," he told Wes, who consoled himself with the mental image of forcibly pressing Fenton's face to each and every one.

He got his wish. Sort of.

They both heard a car come roaring, skidding and screeching up the drive to a halt.

Fenton straightened his jacket and stood a little taller. "That will be Master Lucas returned - keep at it, lad," he added, as he walked with magisterial tread to the arched double-doors.

He never had a chance to open them. Both doors flew open, sending him ass over teacup onto the floor as Lucas and Marisse blew past.

"Hi, Fenton - gosh, sorry about that--"

"Shut the door! He's after us!"

"What?" Fenton sat up, winced. "Who?"

Wes watched Marisse and Lucas vanish down the main hall at a dead run. He watched Fenton groan and clutch at his head. He saw, through the still-open doors, a light green pickup truck careen to a halt behind the Mercury and disgorge a man who: a) looked like the fourth day of a three-day binge; and b) had bared teeth and blood in his eye and was headed for the open door as fast as feet sliding out from under him and involuntary almost-straddle splits and frantic grabs at truck and car to steady himself would allow.

Wes' eyes got big and round.

This couldn't be good.

He and Fenton exchanged glances, enmity forgotten. They got up and threw themselves at the doors, slamming them shut just as Really Angry Guy reached them.

Really Angry Guy howled. The doors thudded.

His back to the door, bracing it closed as Fenton threw the bolts, Wes asked, "Think it's a werewolf?"

"How long have you lived in Smallville?"

Shriek. Howl. Thud.

"Long enough to know it could be a werewolf." Slam. Screech. Many, many swearwords.

"Right, then. You go find something sharp and silver. I'll tell the Master."

They raced from the entry hall.

Lionel was in his old office, seated in a wingchair in front of the fireplace, hands steepled at his mouth, and the wedding sword laid across his knees.

"Fairness" was a cultural conceit; a concession granted to the weak by the strong for reasons he'd never quite grasped. And now he must be "fair" to his sons - one loved, but weak; the other strong, but...not loved, not really; not since Lillian's death. Lex was his weapon against the world, carefully wrought and meant to ensure the name Luthor would sway all who heard it long after he was gone. You don't "love" weapons; you burnish them and keep them sharp.

Lionel glanced down at the sword. Never used; quite sharp, thank you, Lex. To borrow one of Jonathan Kent's tiresome aphorisms, swords cut both ways. This gift, which wrenched his heart every time he looked at it, would have meant something else altogether, would have cut entirely the other way, if he and Lex had still been enemies when Lex gave it to him.

Legacies. He hadn't built LuthorCorp over the course of a tumultuous lifetime in order to snap it into pieces now. But he hadn't built it to hand it over to someone like Lucas, either. God knew what Lucas would do with LuthorCorp, whereas Lex...

I'm not going to just put a dent in the universe, Dad; I'm going to knock its doors down.

And here's a hard truth: Lex would, and he wouldn't need LuthorCorp to do it.

There is fairness, there are legacies... and then there is backing the winning horse.

Someone knocked his door down.

Well, that's what it sounded like.

He turned his head, to see his butler, white-faced and panting.

"Fenton. Please tell me you haven't had another go at the--"

"Sir! A werewolf is trying to break into the house!"

"What, again?"

"...Sir?"

Agent Todson was not having a good day.

Running and slipping from his requisitioned truck to the front doors had pulled some very personal muscles; flinging himself against the slammed front doors had bruised his entire frontage and a fair bit of his sideage, and when he ran around to find an unslammed, unlocked door, he slid on an ice patch and found out, firsthand, that Arielle didn't scoop up after her doggies.

By the time he found the kitchen door, "werewolf" would likely have been an improvement in temper, and certainly one in demeanor.

He kicked the door open and stomped into the kitchen.

Two people in toques and aprons, and two more in aprons, stopped whatever they were doing, stared at him pop-eyed....

"Where are they?

"Um. Where's who?"

"Don't lie to me! I know they're here!" He swept his arm over a nearby counter. Breadboard, sliced bread, and cold cuts went flying. He grabbed something, brandished it menacingly. "I'm a Federal Agent!"

He was a bloodshot-eyed, teeth-bared, tousled, jacket-ripped, soggy-shoed and doggy-do'd Federal Agent brandishing a ...soup ladle.

They stopped staring at him, stared past him, and....

--dropped whatever they were doing, screamed and fled.

He turned around, ladle held high.

A whole gaggle of vehicles had pulled up outside, unleashing a small army of sportsfans who saw him, pointed, "tally-ho!"d at each other, and surged forward.

He dropped the ladle and ran after the kitchen staff.

Clark and Lex hurried out of their suite just as Marisse and Lucas stampeded past them, down the hall -

"Lucas--?"

"Hi, bye, gotta pack, see ya--"

-- and disappeared into the Glasgow Suite.

Lex and Clark exchanged glances.

Then there came a soprano yodel from further down the hall of "Thief! Stop, thief! Stop that man!"

-- and Wes emerged from Arielle's suite, with a loop of garlic over one shoulder, rope over the other, a letter opener clutched in his right hand, and the Medici cross in his left. He ran forward, saw Clark and Lex, cried "Werewolf!", spun around and sped the other way, pirouetting once more to evade Arielle's attempted flying tackle. She let out another high-pitched yodel and went after him.

So did Clark and Lex.

Another door opened, revealing Jonathan and Martha, looking very much as though they'd just thrown on whatever happened to be at hand. Clark's impulse to superspeed after Wes withered and died at the shock of the sight of his mother in nothing but a brocade silk jacket and boxer shorts with little Santas on them.

"What's the commotion?" Jonathan, in bathrobe and boxers, wanted to know.

"Werewolf--" Lex passed them by.

"-stole Arie's cross--" from Clark, hard on Lex's heels.

Martha and Jonathan exchanged glances. "Why would a werewolf steal a--"

Then, from downstairs, thundering footsteps, a bellow "Lemme at 'em! I know they're here! I'm a Federal Agent!"; both footsteps and bellow receding into the depths of the mansion.

Martha pursed her lips. Jonathan frowned. Then they both took two steps backward and closed the door.

Clark reached the ground floor first, by simply leaping over the banister, bypassing the staircase. He saw Arielle and Wes running down a side-hall just as four servants in kitchen mufti and two housemaids came pelting down the main hall where the side-hall intersected it. Wes executed some very nifty broken-field running to avoid colliding with anyone; Arielle just shrieked, and servants flattened themselves to the walls as she zoomed past.

Clark went after Wes.

Lex arrived downstairs in time to see the servants pick themselves off the walls and keep running, pursued by a bunch of total strangers wearing sports-theme clothing, who shouted something about "cider," "Gerry's truck," and "sonofabitch who made us miss the second half."

Probably not a werewolf among them. On the other hand, they were intruders, and Clark could deal with the werewolf, wherever it had gone.

Lex went after the sportsfans.

Todson was still in pursuit. Yes, he was. The fact that a tally-ho'ing band of inebriates was after him did not mean he wasn't still in pursuit, even if it did mean he'd had to hide in a coat closet until they went by.

He emerged from the coat closet after a brief but violent struggle with a coat hanger. Victory didn't come without cost: he hadn't lost his tie, but he had gained a coat hanger, tangled in his tie and bobbing on his chest.

His pursuers were nowhere in sight. A cacophony of voices far up the hall reassured him they'd missed him completely and were still haring after the cooks.

He knew better than to run in plain sight of people chasing him; doubtless Suarez/DeNoyes/ Luthor also knew better, and was probably hiding in one of these rooms.

A human-shaped shadow indicated someone was - aha!-hiding in that alcove by the stairs. He lunged. The someone was a suit of armor. Holding a pike. He kept it and himself from toppling over by the simple expedient of riding it and going smash into the alcove wall and bouncing back to an upright position. Okay, he felt a little dazed, and he had to rescue his parka from the pike, but hey: things could be worse. He put the parka back on, not noticing it was inside out and leaking pin feathers from a series of rips.

No more jumping at shadows. Got it.

He heard a voice. A low, male voice, speaking in soft soothing tones. Aha! Obviously, DeNoyes/Luthor/Suarez reassuring his wife. Coming from... that room, there.

Run. Lunge. Grab.

"Aiiieee!"

Frederic - whose day, really, wasn't turning out to be much better than Todson's - went over backward, Todson atop him. Dogs went flying from his arms.

"Help! Help! He-mmph!" as Todson's hand clapped over his mouth.

"Where are they?" Todson hissed. And lifted his hand away.

"Help!"

There was a growl behind him. He looked over his shoulder.

Three adorable white fluffy faces with button-bright eyes regarded him, lips drawn back to reveal teeny tiny fangs.

Daddy was on the floor. This man was on Daddy. Daddy was upset. This was a...Bad Man.

The growls rose to a crescendo of snarls.

Todson scrambled to his feet. "Stupid mutts. Get lost." He kicked at them.

Oh, bad move. Very bad move.

They went for him.

It was amazing how much teeny tiny fangs could hurt.

Todson fled down the hall as best one can with dogs clamped to one's calves.

Marisse tiptoed down the servants' backstairs, to the ground floor, coming out right by the abandoned kitchen. She heard and saw nothing, no one. Emboldened, she scampered out the kitchen door, around front to the Mercury, where she opened all of the doors, felt under all of the seats, and pulled out all of the bags of bullion, false papers, and unset gems.

She tiptoed back inside - coast still clear - and back upstairs, where Lucas was tossing items into suitcases and yelling into the cell phone.

"Sea-plane, ski-plane, what's the difference? It can land in the snow, can't it? Raoul, just fucking show up, okay?"

He turned off the phone, closed the suitcases, sat on the suitcases while Marisse fastened the hasps.

"We're really leaving?"

"Yeah. Fucking feds, who thought they'd chase us across the fucking country?"

"What about Papa Lionel?"

"We'll call him when we're settled, he'll get Parmenter out to arrange a deal, just like always. Don't worry, Mari. We'll be home in time for your fashion show."

Servants ducked into doorways; the main salon; the media room; the powder room; anyplace they could find.

Sportsfans followed them.

Into the main salon, where the servants hid behind the tree, burrowing into the branches, pursued by "Where is he?," "Screw him; where's the truck?," "Hey, lookit the moose," and "Whose place is this, anyway?"

Into the powder ro-

Well, not quite. The door slammed in their faces, and from behind it came two voices raised in indignant chorus: "We're girls. Don't you dare try to break in here."

"Just tell us where's the truck."

"What truck?"

"The one with the cider."

"We have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't give us that crap!"

"S-stop yelling at us!"

"Then open the freakin' door and we won't have to!"

"Ch-chasing us through our own house -"

"-- and, and yell at us about, about a truck -"

The feminine voices quivered, collapsed, and were replaced with noisy weeping.

The guys sat on the floor and stared at the closed door.

"Ah, jeez, Josh, you made 'em cry."

Into the media room, where...where...

"Holy god, is that a 60" widescreen?"

"Plasma," someone murmured reverently, "Surround sound."

"Instant instant replay," another one said, hushed. "Multi-screen inset."

The giant plasma TV shone before them.

"Wow."

"Betcha...betcha...we could still see the last few minutes..."

Where they cowered behind a sofa, Katrin hissed into Tisha's ear, "Turn the game on."

Tisha reached out one hand, trembling, to the remote control. She pushed buttons.

The TV came on in a blast of color and a roar of sound.

"-thanks, John, and here we are at the top of the 4th Quarter, with the score 49-39, and folks, I've never seen a Corndog like it--"

Sportsfans fell to their knees.

Tisha and Katrin stayed on theirs, crawling away quietly and unnoticed behind them.

Fenton, hurrying toward he knew not what, sped on his way by a terse order to "find out what the devil's going on and report back," collided with Wes; they went down in a welter of garlic cloves, ropes, and wildly-swinging Medici cross. The letter opener went flying; Arielle, primed to pounce on anything shiny, did so; and when she saw what she'd pounced on, hit A above high C, and lunged at Wes with the letter opener-

--only to be hauled back by Clark. Wes' shivery sigh of relief was cut short when Clark hauled him up with his other hand, none too gently, and said, "Werewolf? This better be good."

Wes looked over Clark's shoulder, said, "eep!" and fainted.

Lex ran into the main salon. It looked empty, which was impossible, because he'd seen at least seven people scamper this way. He gaze swept the room: sofas and chairs, empty; bar, no one hiding behind or under; tree--

Four human rumps, three in denim and one in faded workpants, stuck out from under the tree. The persons to whom the rumps belonged were...genuflecting?... to the tree, all but hidden by the lowermost branches.

"C'mon! You're in there somewhere. Come out and tell us where the truck is."

"We won't hurt you. We just want the truck."

"And the cider. Don't forget the cider, man; Jackie'll kill us."

Branches around the tree's mid-level rustled. Lex had a very bad moment - this being Smallville and all, Christmas trees coming to life and doing a "Great Burnam wood to high Dunsinane has come" number wasn't completely beyond the range of possibility - before he made out, very faintly through the foliage, the shapes of more people, standing on and clinging to branches.

Well. Okay. He hadn't happened upon intruders gripped by a sudden urge to Druidism. They'd just treed Dad's servants, that's all.

And those rumps made such inviting targets.

H'mm. Foot? Or fireplace poker?

Oh, hell. Why not both?

Clark and Arielle turned around.

"I. Am. A. Federal. Agent."

Clark could kind of understand Wes' mistake.

He'd seen a few federal agents in his time - not many, granted; by no means a statistically valid sample, but still - in his experience, they did not generally smell of booze, sweat, and dogshit; nor did they have twisted wire thingies hanging from their necks; nor were they covered in pinfeathers from neck to waist and in blood from knee to ankle; nor were they usually short one shoe and most of a pant leg.

On the other hand, while Clark's experience with werewolves was also quite limited, this guy didn't match that description, either. Unless the Loupgarou & Skinwalker Local 101 was recruiting among the homeless and deranged these days.

"Hah!" Arielle said, "Then I am Marie of Roumania!"

Todson lunged towards her, only to find a very strong arm very quickly across his collarbone, pinning him very hard to a wall.

"Wouldn't do that," Clark advised.

He huffed and puffed and inadvertently inhaled pinfeathers. He tried to spit and speak at the same time. "I apth here to apththrehend Rothert Suareth ack ack Lu cough Lu cough Lpththr."

"Robert Suarez Luthor? Dear god in heaven, how many little bastards does Lionel have?"

"Aliapth! Aliapth!"

Clark shook his head. Oh, boy. This could be bad. "On what charge?"

"Countherfeipthing coinpth."

"Coins?"

"Nonsense. Nobody counterfeits coins. Nobody bothers counterfeiting anything less than a twenty dollar bill."

Todson spat out the last pinfeather. "Collectibles. Movie tie-ins. Limited edition Lord of the Rings coins. Gold.."

Clark thought: Oh. My. God. "Um. Arielle? Shouldn't you get your cross back from Wes?"

"Hmph. Yes. Before this disgrace to the public sector decides a Luthor stole that as well." She turned, crouched over Wes, yanked the cross from his limp fingers, and draped it over her head before turning back to heap more scorn on the -

--unconscious man draped over Clark's arm?

"What happened, dear? Did he faint, too?"

"Um. I guess so." Clark lowered Todson to the floor, hoping he'd conked him hard enough to keep him down for a while but not so hard as to addle what few wits the man had left. "We should tell Lionel and Lex about this. I'll tell Lex."

"But I'm not sure where Lionel is."

"Ah..." Clark looked around, as if for inspiration. "He's in his old office. Down that way." He pointed.

He waited until she'd started walking "down that way" to zip off in the opposite direction.

He slowed to normal speed when he heard voices. Many voices.

Jonathan, now fully dressed and assisted by the vengeful kitchen staff, was herding people out of the media room towards the main salon. The herdees craned their necks, peering at the TV still blasting away for as long as possible, and complaining. One asked, "Couldn't you at least wait until the game's over?"

"No," Jonathan said, "If I can't watch, you can't watch. Hi, Clark."

"Hi. Have you seen Lex?"

Jonathan chuckled. "Yeah. Your husband sure has a way with a fireplace poker."

"Huh?"

"Funniest thing I ever saw. Follow me."

There were more people in the main salon. Martha - also, thank god, sanely dressed - was off by the other set of doors, leaning against them with her arms crossed. In the middle of the room were yet more people Clark had never seen before, a few sitting sideways and massaging their read ends, all talking at once while never taking their eyes off Lex, who paced back and forth, holding a fireplace poker rapier-style, flourishing it every once in a while as he listened. Two vengeful housemaids divided their attention between watching him (admiringly) and the captives (hostilely).

Jonathan added his herd to the mix, then took up station at the doorway. Looking, really, far too amused.

Lex saw Clark. He stopped pacing, said, "All of you. Shut up," and raised the poker for emphasis. Then, "Clark?"

"There's a guy kind of, um, passed out at the other end of the west hall. He says he's a federal agent, looking for somebody who, ah, counterfeited Lord of the Rings gold coins." (Lex's eyes widened.) "Arielle's letting your dad know about it."

"Federal agent, my ass," one of the captives said, "Mr. Luthor, that's the one, the one we told you about."

"Yeah! He stole Gerry's truck. And Jackie's -"

Lex raised the poker again. "Do you want to not be able to sit down again until New Years day?"

"Lex? What the hell?"

"They say this...Geoff? Geoff...came in to Jackie's store to watch the game, had some kind of fit and ran out, stole one of their friend's truck, and drove off. They, brave and loyal souls all, took it upon themselves to go after him. And followed him. To this house."

Martha noted, "There is a green truck outside. With barrels in the back."

"There! See?"

Clark nodded. "And there's definitely someone calling himself a federal agent out cold in the hall."

"Not a werewolf?"

"Sorry, no. Unless werewolves have village idiots?"

Lex tapped the business end of the poker against his palm. "He sounds well matched to the people he was chasing."

Ouch. "Lex...about that. Are they still...here?"

"They damned well better be. Clark...my dad; this could--"

"I am bloodied but unbowed."

Jonathan and the housemaids jumped and moved away from the doorway. Framed perfectly therein was SEC Field Agent Geoff Todson - with his back to them, moving smartly backwards, until he stumbled over the threshold, and then kept moving on his ass and elbows, as fast as he could, eyes fixed on Lionel - or rather, on the sword Lionel pointed steadily at his throat as he paced him step for step.

"Dad. That's kind of..."

"Dramatic?" Lionel grinned fiercely.

"...illegal."

But wait. There was more.

Right behind Lionel were Lucas and Marisse, looking as freaked as Todson, despite the fact that Arielle had no weapon other than the steady hiss of invective with which she herded them.

"--dare you bring such disgrace to your family. It's not enough you're criminals, but incompetent criminals? Give your father credit - if he is your father and you're not a cuckoo's egg laid by a cuckoo: he's never embarked upon a swindle, scam or sheer thievery without knowing precisely what he was doing--"

"Compliments, Arie? You'll spoil me."

"Don't be ridiculous, dear; now you, and you, go in there and sit down with the rest of the rabble."

There was a respectful silence. Arielle was enough to silence anyone. Lex and Lionel, both armed with dangerous pointy objects and, for once, not aiming them at each other, were enough to make everyone take a deep breath and hold it.

Arielle smiled delightedly. "Well. This is the most invigorating Christmas I've had in a very long time. What do we do now?"

Martha cleared her throat. "Lionel? I don't think that man is going anywhere. Maybe you could...take the sword away from his throat?"

Lionel thought it over. "You're right, Martha. This is my wedding sword, and deserves a worthier target."

Fortunately, he didn't see any worthier targets in the room just then, and simply stepped back.

Todson squeaked, "This is...obstruction of justice. Interference with a federal..."

Clark had been staring oddly at Todson. He now nodded to himself and said," Tell me something. Do you have a warrant?"

"Of course I have a ...." Todson paused, "I did have..." He swallowed. "I think it's in Kansas City."

"Fat lot of good it'll do you there," Jonathan commented.

Clark smiled. "You stole a truck, broke into this house, scared people half to death...and you don't even have a warrant. That's about a dozen different kinds of illegal."

"If we want to press charges," Lex mused. "If we didn't have any reason not to press charges."

Todson quivered....

"All this fuss over some cinematic rubbish. Young man, if you have the sense god gave a potato, you will take the hint and leave quietly."

"While you still have a career," Lex added, "if not your dignity."

Oh, dignity was a distant, distant memory. There were more immediately pressing things he didn't have. "I...ah...don't have a car."

"There are," Martha pointed out, "a dozen or so in the driveway."

"Including the one he stole! You're just gonna let him go?"

"Right: the truck. The one with the barrels in the back, filled with hooch." Martha grinned. "Jackie's awfully sweet and generous and kind, but I don't think she's licensed to brew her hooch by the barrel."

One of the sore-bottomed sportsfans said, "So...say, if we all leave quietly..."

"And take Mr. Todson with you," Lex said firmly.

"Then I will, in keeping with the spirit of the season, overlook such matters as moonshining, trespass, destruction of property, and fear of bodily harm." Yes, Lionel seemed in great fear of bodily harm, standing there with the cheeriest grin they'd ever seen, sword held aloft suggestively.

The sportsfans had the sense god gave a potato. They collected Todson (already arguing over who'd have to ride with him) and filed out. Fenton, lurking in the hall, saw to it they actually left, rather than, say, wander back to the media room.

Which left Marisse and Lucas.

Martha looked at them pityingly, then tugged at Jonathan's arm and nodded toward the door. Arielle gave then a final baleful look, Lionel a very long and thoughtful look, which he returned, then walked out. Lex squeezed Clark's hand, whispered to him, and Clark left.

Lionel kept looking thoughtfully at Marisse and Lucas. It was enough to unnerve a more iron constitution than theirs; they kept their eyes downcast.

"Dad," Lex said, "Do you want me to stay?"

Lionel lifted his head. "In my life? In my house? Or in this room, at this moment?" He smiled and handed Lex the sword. "The sheath is in my office. Thank you, Lex, but this is between them and me."

Lex exhaled, nodded and left.

Lionel waited until he was sure Lex was gone.

"Today, Lucas, someone asked me if I objected to your corruption merely because it was too small scale. I was reminded that I have always believed the rule of law to be for lesser men."

"Dad--"

"I have not asked you to speak. What troubles me about your underhanded dealings is, quite frankly, that you're so inept at them. This time, you allowed a law enforcement official to follow you to my doorstep. I am given to understand you made me an accessory to your scams, without my knowledge, Lucas, and certainly without my consent."

"What? Dad, no; I'd never do anything like that, let you in on a deal without even telling you. God, I'm not that stupid."

Lionel had begun this discussion more in sorrow and pity than anger, but now his eyes blazed a little. "Forgive me," he said softly, "but what do you call giving me a sack of counterfeit coins - the very coins that jackass was looking for- if not making me an unwitting accessory after the fact?"

Lucas opened and closed his mouth a few times before saying, in a strangled voice, "Coins? Those coins, the...they were the collectibles?" And he glared at his wife.

"Don't look at me, Luke. What were they doing in our getaway kit, anyway? I thought they were foreign!"

"Jesus Christ, Mari; don't you know Tolkien coins when you see them?"

"No! Why should I? Like I pay attention to that stuff?"

"Enough."

They quieted and resumed their study of the carpet. Lionel studied them. It was good to know he could be back on his game at need, if regrettable to realize who he was playing it with this time. "What am I going to do with you," he murmured

He already knew what needed to be done. The trick was making sure it happened in just the right way.

"Ah...send us back? To Miami?"

"Weren't you in a hurry to get out of Miami?"

"Yeah, but everything should be burnt and shredded by now."

"Oh, yes, they were nearly all done when we...left."

"Lucas. Satisfy my curiosity. Are you involved in any legitimate business enterprises?"

Lucas looked puzzled. "Dad. It's south Florida. There are no legitimate business enterprises. I mean, nothing you can make real money at."

"Then sending you back to resume your fumbling attempts at a life of crime strikes me as counterproductive."

"Dad! Look, I was a little careless; things got a little away from me, but that's just business, you know? We can fix it."

"'We.'"

"Like we always do. Parmenter talks to the DA, I turn in a few partners, everything's fine."

Lionel's vision did a strange thing. Lucas was still there, still talking, it was still Lucas, but Lionel's eyes refused to recognize him. It was like looking at him for the first time, as if they'd never met. Lionel didn't see the baby he'd doted on, the youngster he'd cherished, the teen eager to follow in his footsteps.

He saw a losing horse.

Time to cut the rope. And this, yes, this he knew how to play. He'd done it before. One son had surprised him. He doubted this one would.

"No, Lucas. I'm not bailing you out this time, nor am I underwriting you any longer. I've done you a disservice by raising you at arm's length. I believe you will benefit from a more direct mentorship."

Lucas' eyes narrowed. "You're...not letting us go back? You're keeping us here?"

"Not in Smallville. In Metropolis, where I can keep my eye on you."

"Like you did to Lex? No way."

"I'm not giving you a choice."

"I thought you loved me!"

"Lucas. Don't be maudlin."

If the Titanic had somehow, miraculously, survived her encounter with the iceberg and made it to port, her captain could not have issued the disembarkation notice with more relief than Fenton announced the last meal for this year's Christmas gathering. A (very late) lunch of soup and sandwiches was served buffet style in the conservatory.

The Lucas Luthors, to no one's surprise, had lunch in their rooms.

"Sulking, no doubt." Arielle assembled a sandwich. "When they should be grateful you're keeping them," as though Lucas and Marisse were unsatisfactory dogs who should be returned to the pound they came from.

"I can hardly say 'let's learn to be a real family' one day, and the next day disown one of my sons."

"You always go overboard, Lionel. You're supposed to turn over a new leaf, not upend the entire forest." She shot a glance at Lex, who calmly spooned soup. "What did you have to say about this?"

Quite a lot, actually. "I wished Dad luck," boiled it down accurately, albeit leaving out the you'll need it and keep him away from me portions of the discussion.

"But, Lionel, are you sure you're up to it?" Martha asked. "We've been so worried about your health."

Jonathan looked a little startled at being included in the set of persons worried about Lionel's health. Lionel noticed, and the warm smile he gave Martha had a sardonic twinkle. "Thank you for your concern. But I do enjoy a challenge."

Jonathan snorted. "Rehabilitating another son" - who you ruined in the first place - "yeah, that's a challenge. If this works out, maybe you can open up a camp." He ignored his wife's elbow in his side. "Lionel Luthor's Re-Education Center for Wayward Offspring. Ow; Martha."

Martha sighed. "Clark, how much longer will you and Lex be staying in town?"

"We thought we'd pack the car and head home after lunch."

"Could you drop by the farm for a while? We have so much food, from when we thought we'd be hosting Christmas."

Lex smiled. "A post-Christmas Christmas dinner?"

"Oh, no." She chuckled. "My system couldn't take it. Just a nibble, maybe, and I'll send you both home with care packages."

"Lex? Do we have time?"

"To accept care packages from your mother? Always." Food bribes, more likely. Martha wanted a chance to debrief them on who'd said what to whom, and what they thought it really meant.

"Lex, must you leave so soon? We've scarcely had a chance to talk." Arielle also wanted a debriefing, though in her case it would be more along the lines of a tactical planning session.

"Unfortunately, I need to finalize the New Years party my company is hosting. You're welcome to come see us in Metropolis, Arie."

"That's sweet, dear, but I'm staying here another day or so."

"You are? I mean-"

"Poor Frederic's nerves are still somewhat shattered. Your father agrees he's not fit to travel."

"He does? Dad, that's...generous of you."

"Not at all. Arie and I still have quite a few things to say to each other." He seemed undisturbed by the prospect. Anticipatory, even.

Clark carried the cavalry coats over one arm and a couple of boxes under the other. He and Jonathan had already packed the Subaru, except for the elephant and elephant gun, which would have to be wedged beside Martha, and/or on her lap.

"Someone explain to me," Jonathan said as they dropped the gifts off into their respective cars, "why the car's as tightly packed now as when we got here."

Clark grinned, closed the trunk, then looked quizzical. "Dad. Do you hear a funny noise?"

"Just those damn dogs barking."

"No....more like a drone..."

"Son, with your hearing, it could be someone using a mixer five miles away."

"Hey. I can tune out, too, you know."

They went back inside, where Martha had completed her drill sergeant sweep of their suite and now reminded Clark to check the bathroom and under the bed and in the closet of his and Lex's.

"Already did. Found the hats where Lex tried to hide 'em, too."

"Sweetheart, are you ready to say our goodbyes and go?"

"Almost. I want to look in on Lucas and Marisse."

"Your mother's capacity for pity," Jonathan said as he followed Clark to the Isley Suite, "surpasseth understanding."

"Pity, yeah, but I think she's curious, too." Clark frowned. "And I think that noise is a plane."

Lex came out of the suite carrying the laptops. "Smallville Muni just re-opened. A lot of small planes will be coming and going."

"Yeah, but this one sounds like it's headed--"

"Clark! Lex!" Martha ran out into the hallway, looking wildly left and right. "Where are they?"

"Mom? We're right--"

"Not you; Lucas and Marisse." She pointed back into the suite. "They're gone!"

Lex, Jonathan, and Clark all looked at each other, chorused, "The plane!" and, with Martha, ran for the stairs.

"This is really getting old," Jonathan said.

The reached the first landing; Clark peered through the walls and saw the errant pair beating it across the mansion's rear grounds. "There they are!"

They reached the bottom of the stairs. Lionel and Arielle, in the den, turned and saw them thunder by.

Arielle raised her brows. "More excursions and alarums?"

They heard Jonathan yell, "They're getting away!"

Arielle shot to her feet. "Who--them? That...those..."

"Sputtering, Arie? You astonish me."

She slewed around. "Lionel! You rip, you're not surprised?"

He only smiled and extended his hand. She laid her own on it, glaring at him. They followed the others through a side door, observing the scene with regal calm while Jonathan, Martha, Clark and Lex pointed and exclaimed.

Lucas and Marisse, suitcases in hand, garment bags slung across their chests bandolier-fashion, and shoulder bags flapping, were showing just how fast even the most tropical lifeform can skedaddle over two feet of snow when properly motivated. They leaped. They waded. They grabbed each other and pulled. They waved frantically at a seaplane that banked sharply and then flew around in circles, searching for a good landing spot.

"Don't everyone run after them at once," Jonathan said.

Clark looked at Lex, Lex looked at Clark; Clark put one foot forward; Lex grabbed his wrist and shook his head.

"But--"

The plane swooped low; Marisse and Lucas leaped high over a snow-covered shrub. Marisse didn't quite clear the mound and lay on her belly, shrieking and thrashing her legs, until Lucas dragged her the rest of the way over.

"Lex," Clark hissed.

"No. Trust me."

The plane was equipped to land on the snow; its pilot, not so much. It kept sort-of landing, pontoons brushing the snow like a swimmer testing the water, before bouncing back up again. Lucas and Marisse ran in circles under it.

Lex watched, smiling faintly. No surprise there. But Lionel, Clark noted, was also unperturbed. Clark stopped pulling at Lex's grip.

Lucas abruptly vanished.

"Ah," Lionel said. "The pond."

"Pond?"

"This time of year," he said as Marisse grabbed Lucas' hands, tugged, and fell over backward, "a drained hole in the ground."

"I'm surprised," Jonathan said, "one of them hasn't just taken off and left the other."

"Deny them what you will, they do love each other." Lionel added, "Also, I believe she has the jewel case, and he has the papers."

"Oh."

The plane finally set down. Marisse and Lucas, now a pair of animate snowpersons, floundered and scrambled the last few yards towards it. The side hatch opened and a man emerged - to help them aboard, except he was laughing too hard. Marisse swung the cosmetic case at him; he ducked; her momentum carried her head-first through the hatch. The two men climbed in after.

The plane rose, roared overhead, and was gone.

Arielle waved. "Mal voyage, dears. Don't forget not to write."

"Dad. You knew they'd run off." Lex shook his head. "I don't understand."

"It's good to know I'm still capable of surprising you, Lex." He patted Arielle's hand. "Shall we go back inside?"

Jonathan was at the wheel. Beside him, in the passenger seat, sat a giant stuffed elephant, behind and under which one could sort of see Martha.

"The excitement's over," Clark said.

"For now. Your mother and I are leaving before it has a chance to start up again."

"You should, too, honey," the elephant said.

"We will. We'll see you in a little while."

"Dad. You probably should get rid of those."

Lionel had a small pile of gold coins on the desk in front of him. As camel-back breaking straws go, they were prettier than most. "After all the trouble they've caused? No, they're far too valuable."

Lex grimaced at them. "I won't say I'm sorry Lucas and Marisse are gone. I am sorry they...disappointed you. Will you go after them?"

"When they solved my dilemma for me, and so neatly, by running away? Now, why would I ruin that by attempting to find them and bring them back?"

"Because you love Lucas?"

"I love Lucas; that's a habit. But I value you, and that's earned." He smiled at Lex's expression. "Besides, Lex.... Presidents are supposed to have embarrassing brothers, not brothers actually serving time in federal prison."

Lex had to laugh at that. "Point taken. Dad. This was a good Christmas. Thanks."

"All in all? Yes, it was."

Arielle said goodbye to Lex, telling him his mother would be proud and promising to visit him in Metropolis very soon. Then she went after Lionel, stalking into the study and all but slamming its doors behind her.

"Arie. How are Frederic's shattered nerves?"

She set her fists on the desk and leaned forward. "You knew this would happen."

"What?"

"You never wanted Lucas to have LuthorCorp; you were stuck with promises made in a fit of filial madness, and now you're unstuck. Don't lie to me."

"I 'knew' there would be blizzards and coins and strangers turning my house upside down? Acquit me, Arie. I gave up pretensions to omniscience along with immortality."

"I don't mean that. I don't know how you did it, but you pushed them. You counted on them to run off, and now you're delighted with how the situation turned out!"

"'Delighted' is putting it too strongly."

"Then why are you grinning like a cat in a cream pitcher?"

"Because you're yelling at me over an outcome you advocated. Refresh my memory: you did want to ensure Lillian's son got everything, yes?" He smiled at her in a most annoying manner. "You arrived girded for a battle events have deprived you of the necessity to fight. That must be frustrating. My sympathies."

"You are not getting off that easily."

"I don't understand," he said innocently; and she wanted to throw a paperweight at him. "Lex wins, Lucas loses; what more is there?"

"Don't be smug. I distrust road to Damascus conversions, and I loathe smugness."

"Ah. Then we will be spending the next two days discussing the defects in my character. Excellent. I'd hate to be deprived of the chance to be raked over the coals simply because--"

"Two days? Dear, I've waited fifteen years for this--"

"So much to say, so little time to say it; fortunately, there's always next Christmas."

"Next Christmas? You self-satisfied, manipulative, calculating..." He was smiling, the swine; nodding in agreement and smiling..."bewildering man!"

Lionel laughed.

The End