Clark was up at 5 am, not in itself an unusual occurrence, but on this particular rainy morning he was busily cleaning, cooking, and baking pies. His honors Survey of Western Civilization class had a tradition of holding monthly group meetings at students' homes and it was his turn. The entire group, including the section TA and the head of the whole honors program, was coming here.
Clark admitted to being flustered because the professor was, frankly, hot. Tall and ascetic looking, passionate about his subject, yet terse and somewhat sarcastic, Clark didn't need to pretend to pay attention in class—Adam Pierson was sex on a stick. Dr. Pierson reminded Clark a lot of Lex due to his slim but muscular build, his habit of frequent references to classical myths and texts, and his sly wit.
Clark already knew the subject matter thoroughly after hanging out with Lex for so long, but all freshmen had to take Western Civ, and it was a privilege to be taught by the head of the entire honors program. Not to mention a treat for the eyes. After being exposed to Dr. Pierson's enthusiasm, Clark experimented with ancient languages and found that he could read the authors they were studying in the original Greek or Latin. Clark was also fascinated by Dr. Pierson's viewpoint and his wide range of knowledge—it really almost sounded like he had *been there* when he spoke about ancient Greece or Rome or the Renaissance. Besides all that, there was something about Dr. Pierson that Clark couldn't quite put his finger on, even after close (very close) observation. Something almost—mysterious.
For one thing, Dr. Pierson wasn't exactly the mild-mannered man that he appeared. Clark no longer had any qualms about using his x-ray vision on people, and he had never seen Dr. Pierson unarmed. The professor always carried at least a small gun and a knife, even in class, and most of the time he carried a really *big* knife in his coat. Why an academic would need such protection was unclear, but it only added to the older man's allure.
Unfortunately, Dr. Pierson had noticed Clark's unusual note-taking style and started giving him pointed, searching looks. Since Clark didn't take notes in written format like other people he listened carefully and tried to draw the *shape* of the lecture he was hearing. It didn't work in every class; sometimes he took very few notes. He wasn't worried. He read the material and knew he could repeat every word of every lecture if he needed to. He used his Kryptonian biometric science to catalog information, and watched the teachers carefully for clues to exams and expectations. But he didn't like to attract attention. He normally sat in the back of the class and participated only enough to make sure of his grade.
Clark felt a little tingle of anticipation in his gut. Dr. Pierson was so damn attractive and compelling. It didn't matter that nothing could come of it; this attractive man was going to be in his home. It would be fuel for his rather vivid and varied fantasies, a side benefit of his Kryptonian instruction in sex. Someday, when the time was right, he hoped to share some of these fantasies with Lex.
Clark sighed in satisfaction as he took the last pie out of the oven. He had beverages ready for his guests, and had also made chili and cornbread in case some stayed after the study session. He looked around his home, pleased with it, and was amused by how domestic he had become. He had learned more from his mother than either of them realized, apparently. Having this whole house to himself had been an adventure, and he was enjoying it immensely. He owed Lex so much.
As Clark made a mad last sweep around picking up and cleaning, his cell phone rang. He snatched it up as he looked at the time with a frown. 6:45 a.m. "Hello?"
"Hello, Clark?" It was Lex. He sounded terrible; hoarse and congested.
"Lex! You sound terrible!"
"Yeah." Weak chuckle. "Are you doing anything special? Because I'm coming to visit you."
Excited, Clark clutched the phone. "When?"
"How 'bout now? I'm sorry, Clark, I got sick, and my doctors have released me to bed rest only. I didn't want to be in some hotel room."
"Oh, god, Lex! Why didn't you call me?"
"I *am* calling you. I'm here." And he hung up.
Clark's heart did a funny little flip, sinking and leaping simultaneously. Why now? And sick!
The next thing Clark knew, there was a sleek limousine pulling up to the front of the bungalow. Clark dashed to the door and down the steps into the rain to open the door for Lex. He peered into the car and saw Lex lying back against the seat, smiling wanly, but genuinely at him.
"Geez, Lex, you look like shit. But you're a sight for sore eyes, too!" Clark smiled shyly, "Come on; let's get you in the house." Clark reached in and helped Lex out of the car. Lex paid the driver, and Clark got the bags and guided Lex into the house.
"So, what's up? I thought you didn't get sick much." Clark was worried.
Lex began coughing as he eased himself down onto the couch. "I know, but this is some kind of super flu going on. Believe me, I was surprised too, but I don't have it near as bad as everyone else. I was in quarantine for a while, but I'm no longer contagious."
"What? Oh, Lex, you should have called."
"And, what?" Lex challenged, pinning Clark with a look that was sharper than it should be, given his condition. Then he slumped a bit. "I wanted to come see you, okay?"
Clark sat down next to Lex on the couch. He ran his eyes over his friend, noting the rumpled suit, and dark circles under the eyes. He longed to put his arms around the other man and comfort him, but merely said, "How about we get you upstairs and into bed. Maybe a shower? There's that seat thing in the shower you can sit on. Have I thanked you yet for the wonderful house wonderful house you got me, not to mention the wonderful bathroom?"
Lex chuckled as he followed Clark up the stairs to the bedroom loft. "I believe you mentioned it once or twice."
When they got to the top of the stairs, Clark said, "Listen, Lex. I have to go to class this morning, will you be okay?"
"Yeah, if I can just get into bed, I'll sleep."
"Here's the shower. Do you, uh," Clark hesitated, looking at his friend, "do you need help?"
Although Lex looked very tired and ill, he appeared capable of disrobing himself. Damn.
"No, I'll be fine, Clark. But if you could bring my suitcase so I can change?" Lex took off his jacket, and sat on the toilet to take off his shoes.
"Okay, but let me know. And, oh yeah! I also have a bunch of people coming over this afternoon. I'm sorry Lex." Clark continued to talk as Lex stepped into the shower, trying not to look. "It's for my Honors Western Civ class, and it's my turn, and it's been planned for a while, and my professor's coming, too." Clark ran out of breath.
"It's okay," Lex called over the shower. "I'll be invisible."
Clark scoffed. "You, invisible? That'll be the day. I’ll be back at 3, okay?"
He left for class a little while later. Lex was conked out in his bed next to tea and tissues. The thought of Lex snuggled up in his bed in his silky lilac pajamas did funny things to Clark's insides. It was strange; although he had let a few dates end up at his house, he never invited anybody into his bed. That was *his* exclusive territory. And now Lex's, apparently. He realized he never even considered putting Lex in the guest bedroom, which would have been far more logical.
He just hoped Lex would sleep well and wouldn't be too disturbed when his study group showed up later.
Methos glanced at the sky and scowled faintly as he folded his lanky body into Tom Rosemont's tiny Civic hatchback. It was a dreary day fading into a drippy, dreary night and he was heading out to the Honors Western Civ Section 2 monthly meeting. It wasn't that that he minded these study groups appearances, exactly. On the contrary, he chose to continue his predecessor's policy of having each honor student host in turns. It brought the students together, an especially important function for these freshmen, as well as providing an opportunity for the instructors to spot potential problems. Gotham U had an express policy of taking care of their freshmen, particularly those in the Honors program. Therefore, he tried to make as many of the study group sessions as he could, delegating the rest to his graduate TAs, like Tom, when he couldn't attend.
For most of these freshmen hosting the group meant everyone cramming into a very small dorm room. Doable, except Methos hated to go to the undergraduate men's dorms. They smelled. Like pizza and dirty laundry and jizz. Although the girls' dorms were fractionally better, most of these kids had little inclination to clean, and their hospitality left something to be desired. Methos sighed, remembering when the offering of hospitality was a way to gain favor with the gods, a sacred duty. Of course that was a millennia or two ago. "Tom, tell me again whose place we're going to this time? Is it a dorm room?"
"No, it's Clark Kent's place. He lives off campus, on Buggy Whip Lane. Do you know where it is? This says it's near the intersection of Oxford and 4th." Tom squinted at the written directions in his hand, narrowly missing sliding into the rear of a bus stopped in his lane.
"Pay attention, please Mr. Rosemont. Just because it's raining, doesn't mean you should treat the road as a giant slippy slide. I could drive myself you know, and be reasonably assured of getting there in one piece." As an Immortal, a car accident wouldn't be permanently fatal to Methos, but Tom had no such protection. The graduate student just chuckled, used to the brilliant professor's biting tongue.
"So, Kent, Clark. Tall guy in Section 2 with dark hair? Sits in the back and doodles all the way through class?"
"That's the one. He doesn't always participate in class discussion, but knows the material exceptionally well if called on. We really got into it the other day--on, of all things, Alexander and Hephaiston."
"I remember." He remembered noticing the attractive, well-built guy with dark hair sitting in the back. Just his type, if he weren't a student, he thought with a bit of a twinge. Of his cock or his conscience, he wasn't quite sure. He remembered asking Kent a question on the *Aeneid* assignment at his last lecture, since he looked like he was just drawing instead of taking notes, and that Kent answered correctly, if a trifle awkwardly. "He's a freshman, though, right? Maybe this off-campus housing will be a little larger than the dorm rooms." And cleaner, he hoped.
The little car splashed into one of the older neighborhoods near the university, with large trees, large single homes and homes converted into apartments. When they reached the Smallville Square Townhomes, Tom, glancing again at his directions, turned into the driveway and followed the arrow to the manager's quarters. "Hey, these look new. They're nice condos, aren't they?" Tom said, as they pulled up in front of the house in the rear.
They certainly were. The grounds were neat and well kept, the construction looked new, and the cars parked behind the units were late models. The house they approached was similarly well favored. Methos gazed at the snug little house with approval and some surprise. This is where Kent lived? It could be a family home, perhaps, but Kent didn't seem local to him. Methos' sharp eyes took in details like the truck and gleaming muscle car safely protected from the weather in the carport.
As Methos and Tom climbed the porch steps, the front door, adorned with a large cornhusk wreath, was flung open. There stood the tall boy he remembered, grinning cheerfully. "Professor, Mr. Rosemont! Come on in!" Kent, who was very tall and *very* good looking at close quarters, stood aside and directed them toward a large kitchen table where two girls from the study group were already sitting, pulling out their books. There was a delectable smell in the air, and there was a fire glowing in the fireplace.
"Whoa, man, this place is awesome!" Tom was standing open mouthed, gazing at the interior of the home, with its wooden floors, overstuffed furniture, and loft overlooking the living room.
Methos' immediate thought was, "There's either a woman here or the boy's gay." Tucking that hopeful thought away as unworthy, he assessed priorities and followed his nose to the kitchen. "Kent, you have a great place, here," he said, sticking his prominent nose into a pot on the stove. Yum, chili. Too bad he couldn't ask for a beer at a student's home.
Turning, he studied his host. Kent was wearing track pants, a muscle shirt, and flip-flops, but didn't seem cold, even in this weather. Relaxed and in comfortable clothing which didn't hide his extremely well-built physique, Kent's presence was far larger here in his element than in class. He fairly glowed with good natured vitality, his long hair curling around his shoulders, and his arms, exposed by the muscle shirt, well—the only description Methos could think of was, "thews." He let his eyes trail down to the kid's powerful buttocks. He'd seen seasoned warriors with less muscle. He grimaced inwardly, uncomfortably reminded of another mighty warrior with tousled dark hair. This one was obviously cut from the same cloth as the Highlander. Probably a boy scout uniform.
Kent spurred him out of his remembrance and gestured toward his kitchen counter, where beverages were laid out. "Thanks, Dr. Pierson. Would you like some coffee? Or water?"
What a difference in hospitality! No stale pizza or laundry lying about here. He may never leave. And were those . . . ? He gazed rapturously at three golden rounds sitting on the black granite. "I'll take some coffee, if you don't mind. And do I spy pies?"
"Yep! Blueberry, lemon, and apple. Made 'em myself just like my mom taught me!" Kent was beaming like a fool, but the pies did smell divine. Plates were set out—actual matching stoneware and cutlery. He'd rarely known students to have more than paper plates or a few mismatched pieces. A bachelor freshman who was this gorgeous, and who could clean and cook? What was wrong with this picture? Helping himself to a big slice of the apple pie, he asked, "Do you live here with your parents, Clark?"
"Oh, no. I'm from Kansas. A little town outside Metropolis, called Smallville."
"Oh?" Methos looked around at the tidy house and the fine appointments. "You live alone?" Kent just smiled and leaned against the granite counter, rather flirtatiously Methos thought. Perhaps his subtle ogling hadn't gone unnoticed and Clark would be interested in a little . . . personal mentoring. Although Mentor himself had been an unpleasant old queen, the concept had merit. Such a shame young men no longer believed wisdom was passed along in the semen of older, more experienced men.
"Yes. I'm the resident manager for the townhomes here. On call 24 hours to unclog toilets—Have Plunger will Travel, that's me! The house, uh, really belongs to a friend of mine who developed the condos. He got me the job, so I get to live here. Sweet, huh?" Distracted by the door bell, Kent said, "Oh, sorry, excuse me." Kent darted off to answer the door.
Methos finished his pie, promising himself a piece of blueberry later, and took his coffee to look at the rest of the house. It certainly was *sweet* if he understood current usage. He noted the quality construction of the house, the high-end amenities, and the coordinated furnishings. He shook his head, thinking again that something was off. It was out of character for a freshman to have digs this nice; not only was the place clean, it looked almost—decorated. Whimsical touches, like the posters adorning the wall, matched well with the furniture, scale, and color scheme of the room. Small odds and ends from around the world were on display. A far cry from the haphazardly tacked up junk that was the norm for most students. Maybe his parents were very wealthy? And, some part of him thought automatically, is that a resource he could use?
As more students came, the noise level rose. He could hear Kent saying, "Shush, you guys. Do me a favor? I have a sick friend, and he's sleeping upstairs. I'd appreciate it if you would keep your voices down, okay?" His ears perked up Sick friend, eh? Glancing up at the loft, he let himself imagine for a moment a sweet young co-ed lounging in the rumpled bed after an exhausting romp. No wait, Kent had said "he." With no woman present, things were definitely tilting toward the gay side. Maybe he had a rich old sugar daddy up there, recuperating after strenuous activity. That would explain the fancy entertainment system prominently featured in the boy's living room.
Sighing, he ignored both the commotion and the temptation to let his fantasies get away with him and wandered through some double doors off the living room. At first, he wasn't sure what he was looking at. Oh, he recognized a scholar's nest, all right, with the computer and the books, but what were all these things hung around the room? He was suddenly reminded of the time Shakespeare & Co. was flooded, and he had to hang all the precious old manuscripts up on lines to dry out, as if they were laundry. These papers didn't look damp, though. Was Kent an artist?
He stepped farther into the room, craning his head around the space to take it all in. There was a fluttering swirl of color and shape from an abundance of large drawings—they were hanging from a cable on the side of the room, tacked on a bulletin board, or drawn on whiteboards attached to the wall. Large drawing pads were spread out over high and low drafting tables. Looking closer at some of them, he recognized themes and information taken from his class, as well as what looked like biology and social science, all boldly drawn with colorful arrows, squares, and other figures.
Tom appeared at the entrance to the room looking for him and he gestured his TA over. "Tom, come here. What do you make of this?" Tom glanced casually around as he stepped into the room, but his attention was immediately riveted by the dozens of books lying open on the U-shaped configuration of tables. Checking the spines, he said after a minute, "Prof. My god, it looks like he's got the entire supplementary reading list for the course here. They all have notes in them, too." Continuing to look around, he moved up next to Methos, looking at a large sheet of paper with arrows and balloons and writing . . . "Dude, I mean, Professor, that's in Latin!"
"Yes. It's a thematic diagram of the *Aeneid*. With direct quotes from the Latin, including source data." Methos now realized that the awkwardly quoted response from Kent during the lecture wasn't an error, it was simply literally translated directly from the Latin. Off the top of the kid's head, apparently.
"You're kidding." Tom looked around, seeing the numerous drawings, the computer set up, the reference books. "I've never seen anything like this." He picked up another drawing laying on one of the tables. "Look at this. This is – I think this is one of the test prep questions from Chapter 4. It looks like an outline of an entire response, with quotes from several sources. Students never actually do this shit. Wow!" He grinned in excitement.
It seemed fairly unusual to Methos, too. Oh, he had seen these types of relational drawings before, they were handy for problem solving and as memory aids, but they were usually applied to computer science or math. He moved around the room, looking at the reference material spread out. "Our Mr. Kent has been holding out on us, it seems. This is brilliant work."
Just then the doors opened a little further and Kent poked his head in. "Oh, I didn't realize you were in here. I kind of didn't want anybody in here to see this mess—it's just my study area."
Methos gazed thoughtfully at the young man. "I'm glad I did see this. Would you care to explain some of these drawings?" indicating the various papers spread out all over the room. "Is this what you're doing in class when you should be taking notes?" Although his tone was baiting, Methos was carefully watching the reactions of his student.
Looking embarrassed, Kent glanced behind him, then stepped into the study. "Well, it's something I learned to do in high school. You see, I uh . . . I'm a fast reader and have a pretty good memory. I have no trouble remembering what's in the books or in the lectures, but . . . " he hesitated a bit, looking apprehensive. "Just because I can recall the facts, doesn't mean I really understand them. In class I mainly listen for themes and relationships, which I try to sketch. Then I come back here and try to place all that stuff, all the concrete details, into greater context with these mindmaps."
Reaching up to clap his hand on the tall young man's shoulder, Methos smirked a bit. "Congratulations, Kent. You've just given our study meeting a new direction. Think you could show the group how to do this? Using some examples from our current material?"
Kent looked unsure. "Uh, I dunno, Dr. Pierson. It's really nothing."
"Really?" Eyes glinting, Methos held out the mindmap of the *Aeneid* in Latin. "And this? I recognize the passages from the original Latin. This passage here –" and he pointed to one of the reference balloons – "is the one you quoted me in class. I just didn't realize you were translating directly from the source text." Now his student looked really uncomfortable. The blushes and stammering would be cute, really, if the young man wasn't so tall and . . . formidable looking. Okay, it was cute anyway, but he let that slide.
"It's nothing, really," Kent repeated. "I'm just—I'm pretty good with languages, is all."
Trying not to wonder what else young Kent was "pretty good at," Methos said, "Nevertheless, I'm sure you have some insights on this process you can share with the group. Why don't we get them all in here so you can show us, hmm?"
Blushing and grumbling, Kent went off to gather the rest of the group into the study. The tall student's presence filled the room, yet he appeared to try to fade into the woodwork Methos watched him with interest, noticing several more puzzling inconsistencies in the young man's movements and affect. As he watched, Kent stumbled overtly, apparently on nothing, while moments later he moved lightening-quick to save someone's tumbled drink from spilling. His façade of bumbling good nature was belied by the constant wariness in his eyes. And then there was the matter of his self-effacing invisibility in class, contrasting sharply with the evidence of a brilliant mind in his study. Methos' instincts, refined through 50 centuries of survival, were suddenly screaming at him. There were things about Clark Kent that just did not add up.
After a great deal of shuffling around, punctuated by worried glances upstairs from young Kent, the entire study group was gathered in Kent's study. Kent himself was standing at one end of the room, blushing and trying to get everyone's attention. "Okay, guys. Dr. Pierson has asked me to explain some of my study methods to you, so I'll try to use some examples of stuff that might be on the mid-term. Basically, what I use is called a Mindmap. It's a way of taking notes in a non-linear fashion. It lets me consolidate all the information from the books and the lectures, and identify the themes and relationships. You can use it for note-taking, problem solving, and for outlining essays."
Kent suddenly broke off his explanation, looking past the group with an alarmed look on his face. "Lex!" All heads swiveled to follow Kent as he practically bounded through the assembled students toward the man gingerly making his way downstairs. "Excuse me," Clark called over his shoulder to the group. "Lex, what are you doing out of bed! Did we wake you? I’m sorry."
Methos felt his eyebrows climb up his forehead involuntarily. Unless he was very much mistaken, the tall, pale man dressed in a lilac dressing gown with matching pajamas was none other than Lex Luthor, darling of media and industry, and one of the wealthiest men on the planet. And he didn't think he was mistaken.
"Uh, Lex, this is Dr. Adam Pierson, the director of the Honors Program and my Western Civ professor. Dr. Pierson, guys, this is my friend, Lex. He's recovering from a bout of flu and he's *not* supposed to be out of bed." He glared affectionately at his guest.
Luthor was glaring rather less than affectionately at Methos during this introduction. Perhaps he sensed a rival for the gorgeous young man's affections. Suddenly, a lot of the things about Kent which had been bothering him made sense. He no longer wondered why this freshman lived off-campus in such posh digs. Looks like he hadn't been too far off the mark with the sugar daddy thing.
The students were all giggling and talking to themselves as they watched Clark fuss over the invalid. "It's all right, Clark," said Luthor. "I'm okay, I've been sleeping all day, and I just want to hear your presentation."
"Oh. Uh, all right. I wish you'd stayed in bed though. Why don't you lay down on this couch and you can watch from there." Unselfconsciously, Kent manhandled the couch around so it was facing the study. Catching a look from his friend, he said, "What? It's got those little slide-y disks under there."
"I apologize for inconveniencing you all; I didn't mean to interrupt. Clark, please go on with your presentation." Luthor gestured regally, reclining at ease on the couch like a Roman senator at a feast.
Kent finally stopped fussing over his guest and returned to the study to continue. Part of Methos' attention was on Kent's well-presented explanation of how he used the mindmaps to prepare for tests and papers; the other part was busy observing the interaction between Kent and Luthor. Luthor was following Kent's every move avidly, with a proud expression on his face. Kent was glancing frequently at Luthor for approval.
So, that was the way of it. Methos philosophically abandoned his tentative plans for the boy's fine ass. Although it was obvious that Kent was destined for far greater things than his classmates, whatever mysteries he was hiding were manifestly not his concern. The boy was taken.
He made a mental note to snag another piece of pie and maybe some chili before he left. Whatever else he was, the boy was a damn good cook. Next week, he would talk to the kid and the department heads about accelerating his curriculum. And later, in the privacy of his apartment, he would think about what went on in the loft of the snug little cottage between the too-pretty–to-be-true boy and the billionaire. After all, even a five-thousand year old man could dream.
End