Title: "Turf"
Author: monimala
Fandom: "Smallville"
Rating/Classification: SAC, CLex, ficlet, second person pov.
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Nope.
Summary: Everybody and their mother is writing "Prodigal" fic. So...hi, Mom! Clark, Lex, the barn, a ficlet. A little HoYay for Valentine's Day.

His gray t-shirt rides up as he bends over the next hay bale and the pale, never-seen-the-sun, strip of his exposed skin makes your mouth go dry in a way it never does when you're hanging out at Talon, trying to get Lana to look at you...to look at you exactly the way Lex does as he straightens and turns.

"Hey, Clark," he murmurs, with that big, rare, smile...the one that has been muted to a tight, little, smirk ever since Lucas moved into the mansion.

"Uh...hey, Lex!" you manage to stammer...and you have to kick yourself because you sounds so frigging stupid. 'Gee, duh, hi, Lex...you look so lickable when you're engaged in manual labor.'

You're not gay. Really. You tell yourself this every morning when you wake up. How can you be gay when you like kissing Lana and Chloe? When you flip through contraband issues of "Playboy" in the dark and strokes yourself under the sheets? But Lex is beautiful. And Lex makes you feel gangly and too-tall and awkward and when you realized Lex would be under the same roof with you tonight, you locked yourself in the bathroom and stood under the cold spray of the shower for fifteen minutes so you wouldn't be embarrassingly hard at the dinner table. But you're not gay. Really.

You just like that strip of skin above Lex's designer jeans. It's fascinating. So fascinating that you trip and sprawl in a pile of straw near the tips of his Italian leather boots.

"Watch it there, Kent." Lex smiles and then offers you a hand up. He already has calluses and the rough feel of them against your palm makes you tingle. "I thought you were raised in this barn. Aren't *I* the one on foreign turf?"

"I...I was...you are..." And you know you're blushing. And you also know you're suddenly tugging Lex down instead of hefting yourself upwards. If it was Pete, you would be holding back to one-tenth of your strength and be putting him in a full Nelson in two seconds flat. But when the slender body crashes against your chest, wrestling is the last thing on your mind. In fact, there's not much on your mind at all. "Not so foreign now, huh?" you gasp, blissfully without a single stuttered syllable.

"No," Lex agrees, softly. "Not so foreign at all. In fact...this feels vaguely like home."

And no matter how much you've wanted it, Lana has never kissed you...never kissed you exactly the way Lex does right then.


February 14, 2003.

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