Chapter Text
What is Superman’s favorite ice cream flavor?
It depends on the mood of the day, but mostly chocolate.
What does Superman use for his hairstyle?
It’s natural, actually. Oh, and FYI, I use heat vision when I do my hair because I don’t want to contribute to environmental contamination by throwing away another pair of scissors.
Why is Superman called supershit?
No one calls me that unless you choose to stand with Lex Luthor even after his reputation as a traitor precedes him. I’m not that, I’ve never been THAT!
Clark furrows his brow and moves on to the next item, hoping a fresh and harmless question will be waiting for him this time.
Not long ago, he has discovered a new way to overcome post meal languor, in addition to caffeine consumption and pleasant conversations with colleagues. Each former approach has its own limitation. With coffee, he has to pretend it wakes him up, even though the substance is incapable of affecting a Kryptonian metabolism. Conversation, on the other hand, proves far more effective than caffeine, but only when Steve Lombard is too busy to insert himself into it. While Steve’s old jokes have an undeniable power to awake Clark, what he actually needs is a lighthearted refreshment, not a tiresome irritation that forces alertness through annoyance.
But hosting a private inner AMA session himself using a list of auto suggestions seems like a valid option so far. The only issue is a faint pang of conscience about spending work hours typing the name of his more public identity into a search engine, but Clark finds a way to rationalize it. Well, he is Clark Kent. Consider how much his past Superman interviews have boosted the Planet’s circulation. It has been skyrocketing ever since the very first exclusive. Taking a short break for what amounts to a voluntary service for curious citizens does not feel unreasonable, even if none of the answers will ever be posted anywhere—the session is unofficial, after all.
The next autocomplete question, however, falls far short of his expectations.
Clark stares at the screen, refusing to think about how many times it must have been searched to appear there. Why, his inner self screams, does everyone want to know whether Superman sleeps with alphas?
He keeps his gaze fixed on the monitor until a faint realization surfaces in his mind. What it displays in an emotionless sans-serif font is not a simple yes-or-no question. His reporter’s instinct tells him there is a catch. Now that he notices the word “only” lodged between his name and “sleep,” a detail he somehow missed at first, the suggestion suddenly feels wrong.
Clark is fairly certain there is no Superman-approved article addressing the hero’s sexual orientation because neither he nor Lois has ever written one. Perhaps some lowbrow tabloids have speculated without his knowledge, but nothing, as far as Clark knows, has ever gone viral enough to be added as a new autocomplete suggestion on a major search engine. If someone who does not know Superman is attracted to the same secondary gender wants to dig deeper, they are far more likely to begin with “Does Superman also sleep with alpha?” rather than “Does Superman only fuck alphas.”
Unless—
Unless that person already knows.
Clark hastens upstairs towards the rooftop.
No one can pay for all the expense of flooding a search engine’s servers with enough requests to manipulate its most browsed questions. No one wants to say hello in such an expensive and meaningless way instead of sending a simple message with an emoji. No one has a personality warped to this degree, enough to carry out this ridiculous plan in real life.
No one but him.
Once Clark makes sure he is alone on the Planet’s roof, he dials a number he memorized the moment he learnt it. The ringing goes on endlessly. He paces across the concrete, squinting towards the LuthorCorp building that looms over the rest of the city. Despite the bright September sunlight, he can clearly see Lex staring down at his phone with a self-satisfied smirk, deliberately ignoring the call. If Clark had any less restraint, he would already be crashing through the glass of that spacious office, the way he did when Krypto was kidnapped. Instead, he exhales slowly and makes a second attempt after hearing the answering machine. This time, it takes no more than seven rings before the familiar arrogant voice greets him.
“Who is this?”
“That’s it, I’m not in the mood to play games.” Clark snaps, irritation slipping through despite his effort to control it. “You know exactly who I am and why I am calling.”
“An interesting accusation,” Lex says smoothly. “But do I?”
Clark could swear he sees the other’s grin widen on the very first syllable, just as certain that Lex knows he is being watched. The billionaire rises from his chair and comes closer to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Planet’s iconic globe.
“Setting aside the fact that I’m not a mind reader, you must understand it’s hard to tell whether I’m talking to an alien or its ridiculous fake identity over the phone.”
Clark closes his eyes and forces himself to remember how badly things end the last time he gave in to the urge to storm in and confront the high-ego, ill-mannered man standing right there. Yes, he is the brawn in their world, but at least he is the kind of brawn that can learn from past mistakes.
A deep sigh buys him a few seconds to regain his composure.
“Fine. Go on, Lex, do as you please. I’m not falling for it.” Lex snorts under his breath, and Clark has to take extra care not to let his irritation creep into his voice, especially not after what he has just said. “There’s no chance I’ll show up in front of you as long as you want me to… well… do whatever it was we did that day. Again.”
Clark’s professionalism turns on him the moment the last sentence leaves his mouth. Do whatever it was we did again. What a dreadful, clumsy choice of phrasing. Redundant, too. As a journalist, he should know better than that. While it is fortunate that he is the only one of the two with eyesight sharp enough to catch even the faintest hint of red spreading across a face at this distance, it is unfortunate that Lex is the one with insight sharp enough to know exactly where to poke when he wants to make someone squirm.
“So it was true the Daily Planet really is suffering from a staffing shortage. They’re hiring reporters who struggle to assemble a sentence that is both imaginative and coherent?”
Despite the mildness of his tone, the amused mockery is unmistakable. It’s a shame that rewinding time is not among those abilities a Kryptonian raised under a yellow sun can possess. However much Clark wants to retract his remark, all he can do is shove the responsibility of coming up with an “imaginative and coherent” phrase onto the other man.
“Like you have a better idea to explain what it was.”
“Sex.”
The flush on the poor Smallville reporter’s face is now official. Even though Lex must have heard a shocked gasp, he continues placidly, as if nothing happened. “Intercourse, if you prefer a more decent word. Making love, if you want a more accurate description.”
“I—what? No, we did not make love. Absolutely not!”
Every effort and every measured breath Clark has made to avoid facing his emotional turmoil since ‘that day’ crumbles to dust in an instant. A shriek escapes him, his voice cracking in a somewhat pathetic way, yet the man on the other end of the line is known for a significant lack of sympathy for a nemesis in trouble. Or anyone in trouble, for that matter.
Inevitably, another snort follows before Clark can begin to understand how this man can still sound triumphant, still so smug, after what happened in the penthouse on the day he was released from Van Kull.
“Fair enough. That was inappropriate. After all, it was only you who bit my nape to bond with me.”
Oh, God.
“Okay, Lex, I get it.” Clark cuts in hurriedly, but Lex doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he sounds even more amused.
“One-sided hardly qualifies as making love, does it? Let’s just say—”
“Your place, at eight!”
Without much thought, Clark blurts out a desperate suggestion. The bravado he started the call with has completely evaporated, replaced by Lex’s low, satisfied chuckles declaring the winner of this conversation.
“Shame. I’ve already prepared myself.” Lex pauses before adding another word, as if he can see the journalist testing the limits of how flushed his face can get from a distance. “But better late than never. See you then.”
Clark shifts his gaze from the phone screen to the tallest skyscraper in Metropolis. Lex has already returned to work, as though the call that ended only seconds ago had been nothing more than an ordinary business exchange. From that familiar posture, no one but Clark would ever guess what awaits the CEO later tonight—or that it will hardly be the first time he spreads his legs wide open willingly for the most renowned alien, alpha.
Clark wonders whether he would have added an absurd autocomplete suggestion, like “Does Lex Luthor like being fucked by alphas,” if he were as obscenely rich and morally warped as Lex. Then he turns and heads down the stairs.
Back to work. Just like Lex.