Spare Change
There was a time when Lex knew nothing about the magic of exact change.
Part of the reason was because someone who had so much money rarely had to actually deal with its physical presence. Even when he did have cash, however, it wasn't something he had to actually think about. To consider money in its raw, unvarnished state held no pleasure for him.
Then one day, he bought a cup of coffee with Clark standing beside him.
"That will be $2.16, sir," the girl behind the counter smiled, and when Lex simply threw down a twenty, Clark seemed on the verge of a fit.
"No, wait- I'm sure I have sixteen cents." He began digging in the pockets of his coat, while Lex looked at him like he was a very large crazy person.
"Thanks, Clark, but I think twenty dollars should cover it. I know you hate math class, but twenty," he pointed at the bill, "is more than two and sixteen hundredths."
Clark's expression, however, matched his own for incredulity. "Lex, don't be stupid. You don't want to be carrying eighty-four cents around with you- it's heavy. It's noisy. Besides, it's much nicer for people who have to make change for you if you make the math a matter of bills instead of nitpicky pennies." He dropped a nickel and a dime on the counter, and moved the search into his pants pockets.
Lex sipped his coffee, totally at a loss. "Tell me, Clark, is the hassle and inconvenience of waiting for you to empty every one of your pockets really equal to the inconvenience of carrying around some change? Furthermore, isn't the fact that you have change in your pockets proof enough that you yourself have failed to make exact change at some point in recent history?"
Clark ignored him as he dug deep. "Yes, I think I have a penny..." he pulled out, alas, another dime, and his face fell.
The barista smiled. "Hey, take a penny from the tray. That's what it's there for."
Clark did so, she took the twenty dollars and hard won sixteen cents, and Lex found himself holding eighteen dollars in change as Clark beamed. "You see? Much more portable, right?"
Lex smiled, then proceeded to put it all in the tip jar. "You're right. That was a valuable lesson."
Clark scowled at him as they left the store. "You always have to have the last word, don't you?"
"Please come again!" a delighted voice called out behind them.
**
There was this one time when no one was blackmailing the Kents- no cops, reporters, or cocktail waitresses (one of Clark's favorite predictions for their next money grubbing visitor)- no one was hustling them for money, and he hadn't lost his powers, but he did his chores at normal speed anyway. He might have used his strength on the sly, but never once did he attempt to rush the job.
That was the day Lex came over during chore time.
It hadn't been planned that way. It wasn't as though Lex's secretary had called and asked for Mr. Kent, saying that Mr. Luthor would like to set up an appointment, and would Thursday afternoon be convenient? It wasn't as though Lex had come over on one of his jaunts, then, upon seeing Clark ensconced in the thrilling world of farm maintenance, had insisted that he be allowed to remain and observe so that he might better understand his Kansas neighbors.
Lex had come over on some pretense or other, should anyone wonder as to his real reasons for being there, and both of them had been sitting in the barn, laughing over something stupid. Maybe it was just to much for Jonathan to handle, maybe he was fed up with seeing gorgeous cars sitting in the dust of his driveway like they belonged there. Regardless, he took that opportunity to remind Clark he had chores to do.
Normally, that would have been Lex's cue to leave. He would have put on his resigned face that he always wore when Jonathan's dislike for him whispered in the rafters of the barn, and he would have gone out to drive home to his own father's animosity which tainted every room of the mansion.
Normally.
But on this occasion, Lex stopped at the top of the stairs and turned back. His hand rested on ancient wood, and the rough-hewn banister didn't seem to notice its own good fortune. "You know, Clark, you never seem to complain about your chores. What are they?"
Clark shrugged, somewhat confused, as he retied his bootlaces. "Just- you know. Chores. Stuff that needs doing for the farm to stay intact."
The look on Lex's face was so painful to see that Clark didn't think he should leave. "You wanna come with me?"
"What?"
The question hurt, because for a moment, Clark had forgotten whom, exactly, he was talking to. To offer Lex Luthor, billionaire playboy, the once in a lifetime chance to watch a teenager do rather disgusting things around livestock and actually expect that he might want to-
"Yeah, actually. You don't mind?"
Clark had never loved his chores so much. He did them very well, and his father could seethe about the distortion of his orders, but he could hardly criticize Clark for keeping his secret and behaving like a normal kid. After all, his powers didn't make him who he was.
**
The first time Lex caught Clark singing Muppets songs, Clark turned so red that Lex took pity on him and confessed that his mother had managed to get Frank Oz to come to one of his early birthday parties. It does him good, he thinks, to think about his childhood, and think about Clark watching movies targeted at an audience of children.
Lately, however, Clark has only been singing "The Rainbow Connection", and the look in his eyes as he serenades Lex with lyrics about rainbows, connections, and lovers ("Someday we'll find it, Lex. We will succeed where Kermit failed, because we don't have to deal with the burden of being green. It's not easy, you know.") does not make Lex think of Sesame Street. Not the PBS version, anyway.
Whoever designed that particular nightclub had a seriously twisted view of pop culture.
**
Clark had a buzz cut once, when he was about four years old. There are pictures, and Lex is looking at them and laughing. "Wait- Clark, you have a forehead? It's true- you really do learn something new every day."
"Shut up. There's no point in showing off my forehead- it isn't as eloquent as yours."
Lex lifts an eyebrow, proving Clark's point even as he mocks it. "An eloquent forehead? How you flatter me. Of course, I have always considered my nose rather bombastic."
Clark stands up. "Okay, this time I mean it- the friendship is really and truly over." He heads into the kitchen.
Lex is still laughing. "My father once called my cheekbones loquacious, but he might have just been jealous."
It's funny. It is. Except that his long hair isn't a choice- his mother can only cut so far before her scissors break, the deceptively soft strands becoming as invulnerable as the rest of him as she traverses closer to his scalp. Clark had been unspeakably jealous when Whitney cut his hair, knowing that until he can figure out some way to overcome his own ridiculously tough tresses, everyone will just assume that his dorky haircut is a reflection of his dorky interior. He would love to have the choice of a buzz cut.
"Clark, please tell me this is not a picture of you punching Santa Claus."
To be honest, that guy in the suit had been a real jerk, telling Pete his name was Dwayne and Santa didn't exist, and therefore had it coming. Perhaps not from an inhumanly strong preschooler, but still...
He returns to the living room, and Lex doesn't have a say in his hairstyle either, so Clark sits down and runs his fingers through his bangs, wishing he could just stop wishing.
**
Clark is shaking his head in despair. "I understand that not everyone can have an equal appreciation for literature, but if we have to discuss poetry in English for one more day, I might have to start killing people."
Lex smiles. "I was never partial to poetry myself."
Clark looks at him with a startled expression, as if Lex misunderstanding him is something he hasn't experienced in a long time. "No, I love the poetry. I sometimes get lost in it and forget where I am. It's when I tune back in and hear Samantha Carlisle saying, "So what is the *point* of this poem?" that I begin to feel homicidal."
Lex wonders how Clark's murderous rage manifests itself, and imagines it would be imperceptible to the human eye.
"What is the point of this poem- could there be a stupider question? Any poem with a solitary point is, I am certain, a pretty crappy poem. And how on earth can you not like poetry?" Clark seems to be taking it personally, and Lex feels like explaining that if Clark should write a few verses, Lex would be happy to cherish them always. That, however, would not be an answer to the question, and Lex rarely gives others superfluous information.
"I'm more of a science person, Clark. My kind likes the idea that there is only one right answer- the subjective vagueness of poetry isn't really our field of expertise." Stalking, maybe, but not poetry.
"Oh, but you're so wrong! Words can be so carefully chosen that the poem *is* the right answer. Words are the most powerful variables, and they make the most vital equations..." Clark's eyes are bright like a disciple's, and the fervor of his faith makes Lex almost believe.
**
"The best cookies in Kansas, hmmm?" Lex looks somewhat skeptical, but Clark just nods enthusiastically.
"Unbelievable. They'll change your life, really."
"Ah. Better than your mother's?"
Clark's winces theatrically. "Well, that's a question I don't think I should answer in public or out loud. Ever."
"That will be $8.19, Mrs. Franklin." Lex looks up in surprise, because very little at the Farmer's Market costs more than five dollars. Mrs. Franklin is buying a substantial amount of "Louisa's Amazing Cookies", however, so he just looks up at the chalkboard menu.
"What do you recommend, Clark?"
Clark sighs rapturously, and Lex rolls his eyes. "All of them. Just- all of them. I, however, will be purchasing one of the world famous double peanut butter chocolate swirl cookies, which have been known to make some Smallville denizens swoon with joy."
"Did you just say denizens? Because if so, then you should be hurt."
Clark sniffs. "Hey, you already took your SATs. I need to be expanding my vocabulary at every opportunity, and you should be helping, not criticizing."
Mrs. Franklin is still standing by the cash register, and Lex watches her struggling with one of the ridiculously inaccessible change purses which are attached to women's wallets. "You want to expand your vocabulary? Okay, define the word 'moronic'." He slides a hand into his pocket.
Clark tilts his head. "Hmm. Moronic- adjective, meaning 'bite me.'"
Lex laughs as he drops nineteen cents into Louisa's hand. "You're just saying that because you have cookies on the brain."
Clark is suddenly looking at him with something like barely concealed delight, however, and Lex realizes Mrs. Franklin has turned around and is staring at him in shock. "Mr. Luthor, you're very kind, but there's no need, really-"
This moment shouldn't mean anything at all. Lex can feel his pulse jump. "Oh, don't worry about it. You don't want to be carrying around pounds of change all day. And please," please, "Call me Lex."
Lex buys an oatmeal raisin cookie. It changes his life.