Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/19444.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Smallville
  Relationship:
      Lionel_Luthor/Morgan_Edge, Lionel_Luthor/Lillian_Luthor
  Character:
      Pamela_Jenkins, Lex_Luthor, Morgan_Edge, Lionel_Luthor, Lillian_Luthor
  Additional Tags:
      Canon_-_TV, Pre-Canon
  Series:
      Part 1 of Dreaming_the_Mythic_Age
  Stats:
      Published: 2004-02-16 Words: 11251
****** Forever ******
by sageness
Summary
     Lionel, Lillian, Morgan & Pamela...years before the beginning.
Notes
     Thanks to Nifra & Michelle for their beta work.
METROPOLIS. SEPTEMBER, 1959
Cards flicked onto the mattress. Ed Sullivan brayed a reminder to tune in
tomorrow from the television in the next room. Morgan's mother was passed out
on the sofa, bottle lying forlorn and empty on the thin rug, snoring away like
a freight train. It was a comfort. At home, Lionel knew his own parents were
having another fight of the century, since his father had bet all the cash he
hadn't drunk this week on tonight's big prize fight. He'd lost it all.
His mother had flipped her lid. Now she was going to have to ask for more
shifts mopping floors at Woolworth's and Sears & Roebuck. She'd had a fine job
cleaning at Bloomingdale's until they'd caught her pinching a pair of earrings,
and Lionel suspected that she was less upset at being caught than she was at
having been held up as a warning to the store's other, mostly Negro, cleaning
women. She'd downed two weeks of gin to drown the public humiliation, two weeks
when Lauchlan had made himself conspicuously absent from their tiny kitchenette
apartment and Lionel was left to mooch from Mrs. Edge. Or fend for himself.
"Your turn," Morgan said, kicking his arm. Morgan was sitting on the bed, back
against the wall beside the window. He had one foot hitched up and the other
leg splayed wide. Lionel lay propped up on his elbows in line with the window.
Idly he discarded and drew, not paying much attention to the game. There were
sirens in the distance. They rarely made it all the way into the slum, as long
as the gangs paid their fealty. It wasn't lost on him how strange it was that
all these towers full of people were basically self-policing, living in fear of
the next syndicate war.
"Gin," Morgan announced, and Lionel nodded vaguely. "Hey, where are you?"
"Huh?"
Morgan nudged him in the ribs with his toe. "Daydreaming?"
"Just thinking about...out there," Lionel said, pointing vaguely toward the
street below.
"Oh?" Morgan swung around to face the window. "What do you see?"
"Deadbeats. Cranks. Pimps, whores, washed up bums. It's a garbage heap."
"It's called Suicide Slum for a reason, pal."
Gunshots sounded from a few blocks over, and Lionel snorted. "See what I mean?"
"We'll get out someday," Morgan said with an optimistic kick to Lionel's side.
"We'll save our money and never look back."
"Don't give me that Pollyanna crap, Morgan. We'll never make that kind of
dough."
He grunted noncommittally and pulled the blinds up higher. The window was
already open to the still night air. "Let's play the grid. Get the light?"
"Okay," Lionel answered indifferently, but he stretched obediently down to the
floor to flick off the bedside lamp. After a quick scan across the narrow
street, he said, "H-14."
Morgan looked. "Nowheres-ville, just like always."
Lionel rolled his eyes. "You can do better than that."
"Okay, so he gets home from the boring old job at the post office, where he
sorts mail and marks through stamps all day," Morgan answered, making a show of
exasperation "He scorches a TV dinner. He burns his fingers on the foil. He
watches the evening news. He watches Lucy and wonders how that Cuban rat could
score a piece like her." Lionel snickered in appreciation. "Then he wanks off
and goes to bed."
"What, you've watched him?" An image flashed into Lionel's mind of Morgan
sitting here at the window, spying on the mailman with his hand in his pants.
Both of them with their hands...no. Lionel banished the thought with a frown.
Suppressing a laugh, Morgan raised his eyebrows and teased him, "Maybe, maybe
not. B-6, go."
Grumbling, Lionel got up on his knees and bent out over the window ledge,
cursing, as usual, the absence of a fire escape. They were up on the twentieth
floor, and looking down, all the way over to the left, and not falling out the
window was an unsettling thrill. "You're a real bastard, you know that?"
"Tell me something I don't know." As Lionel counted windows over and down,
Morgan stirred, pulling the wrinkles out of the coverlet. Lionel shivered
slightly as he felt Morgan's eyes trace the narrow line of his back.
"It's dark. Pick another."
"Uh-uh. You know the rules. Why is it dark?"
"Well...isn't B-6 a girl who works in an office somewhere? It's a weeknight, so
she's probably not out of town. Maybe she's on a date."
"Maybe."
Lionel leaned out a little further, resting his elbows on the brick ledge
beyond the sill. "Well, what do you know...."
"What?"
"She's on her stoop right now. Or someone who looks like her—hard to tell at
this distance. Someone's kissing her goodnight."
"Let me see," Morgan said, shouldering Lionel aside. He gave the lovebirds a
cursory glance, enough to see that the kiss was chaste, and the man had failed
to get invited in. "That's boring."
"L-19," Lionel said in a strained voice.
Morgan's eyes shot up to a window almost directly across the way. He chuckled
softly.
"They're..."
"Yep," Morgan said, a little too quickly.
"Shit, you knew!"
"From the beginning."
"Bastard."
He laughed again and settled in for the show. "I just know where to look."
Lionel nodded absently and shifted his feet under him. One hand was skating
slowly down to adjust himself, while the other reflexively gripped and released
the windowsill. They were silent for several minutes, watching side by side in
the dark. Finally, Lionel found the words to ask, "What did I miss? What were
they doing before?"
Morgan answered quietly, "Necking, then he took his shirt off. And then he
helped get her out of her dress and slip. Then she undid his belt and pants.
And he took off her brassiere and—"
"She's still wearing her stockings."
"Yes," Morgan whispered, eyes fastened on the couple fucking thirty feet away.
The man had her from behind, pounding into her while sweat trickled down their
skin. There was no tenderness, only the urgency of need. Morgan cupped his palm
over his erection and listened to Lionel's breathing speed up, become ragged.
"God," Lionel murmured, now openly rubbing the front of his trousers. "Look,
they're...."
They watched the man straighten, pulling at her hips to speed up the rhythm.
Her breasts were bouncing on the downbeats, her hair was falling free of its
pins. Her eyes were shut and her mouth was open, moaning now, right out the
window, they could hear it. The man wrapped one hand low under her belly and
drove in deep, while the other covered her mouth to muffle her screams. Faster
then, faster, and a half-dozen thrusts more, then they collapsed together on
the—
"Aw jeez, they're on the kitchen table," Morgan breathed, with almost a laugh.
Lionel shuddered with the realization and squeezed himself hard through the
fabric.
"Come here," Morgan said, pulling at Lionel's arm above the elbow.
"Huh?"
"Before they look up and see they've got an audience."
"Oh."
A heavy gibbous moon was rising through the canyon of skyscrapers, providing a
bit of ambient light. Lionel couldn't hide that he was trembling.
Morgan grinned and pulled him up towards the head of the bed, away from the
gaping window.
"So, how much did I miss while I was on B-6?" Lionel tried to make it a joke.
Morgan looked at him seriously. "You were about to jerk off in my bed."
Lionel swallowed nervously. He and Morgan had snuck into nudie shows before,
but that was dark and anonymous. This was...well, Morgan was right. This was
his bed. "I better go," Lionel muttered, struggling for a semblance of his
tough guy face.
"And what, you want to get knifed? Your old man'll kill you if you bust in on
them tonight."
"I could go somewhere else...." he trailed off, knowing it was a lost cause.
Morgan hadn't let go of his arm, was clutching the muscle in a death grip, and
he had that fiery look on his face, like when a really tight skirt strolled by,
slow and close, like she was just begging for it.
The blue eyes flashed. "You want to know what they were doing before they
started fucking?"
"Morgan—" The rest of his protest was cut off by the kiss, his tongue slipping
into his mouth, hot, wet, and demanding. Lionel had kissed plenty of girls.
He'd even been with a few, though not as many as he claimed. Girls were soft
and pliable, all smooth skin and cloying perfume.
They were nothing like this.
They pulled apart, Morgan holding his face in his hands. Lionel had to scoot
his knees forward to keep from overbalancing. Forward, right into—him.
Morgan thrust against him, and Lionel shivered again. He still didn't have any
words and Morgan knew it, was probably getting off on that, too, the bastard.
Then they were kissing again, and there was a hand on his ass and another
tugging his belt free.
"But..." Lionel had his hands on Morgan's chest, pushing him off, even as they
were both thrusting into each other. He had to stop that. "This is crazy."
"Crazy good or crazy bad?" Morgan asked, smirking, raking a hand up his back.
Lionel stared at him. "Since when do you—"
Morgan reached down between Lionel's legs, taking his balls gently in hand
through this trousers. "You were going to jerk yourself off in my bed, and
you've never thought about this?"
"I—you.... You just surprised me is all." Except that wasn't even close to the
whole story. His mouth opened and shut helplessly.
Morgan laughed outright this time. "I've surprised Lionel Luthor? Well, I guess
now I can die happy."
"Mor—" he started, the syllable lost to another deep, insistent kiss and a not-
unpleasant squeeze to his tender parts. And then he was just moaning, writhing
as Morgan pulled him down to bite and suck at his throat. Fingers scrabbled at
his shirt buttons, and maybe, maybe—
"You want this. I know you do. Stop fighting it," Morgan said with another
thrust.
"I'm not some pansy, god damn it!" he said, the words flying free at last,
except they didn't come out angry. They were soft, desperate sounding, and God,
maybe he did, maybe he really did.
"Oh, and I am?" Morgan answered, practically glowing with amusement.
Lionel searched his face. Could be this was merely another game to him, another
conquest? If that's what it was, then there was only one way to win.
Lionel lunged up for another kiss, cock pressing hard into Morgan's belly. The
straining cloth was getting painful.
"What else were they doing?" Lionel whispered into his mouth.
"What?" Morgan asked, fighting with the last of his shirt buttons.
"L-19. Before," he said, thrusting upwards.
"Mmm." Morgan's hungry look fell away for a moment, gentling into a real smile.
"I'll show you." Then his hands were busy at Lionel's waist, tugging his pants
and boxers off and pushing him flat on his back in a single swift motion.
"You—"
"Mm-hmm," he said, and slid Lionel's cock into his mouth.
Lionel didn't last long, and when he came, he was bucking wildly enough to
choke; but at some point he looked down and realized that the sight of Morgan
sucking his dick was far and away the most incredible thing he'd ever seen.
Then he realized, after sucking his jizz off Morgan's tongue, that the look on
Morgan's face at that moment was, possibly, even better. And that was all he
needed. If it was a game, Lionel would win, and if it wasn't—well, he'd think
about that later.
Morgan was naked now, too, arching back on the bed and biting his wrist to keep
from howling. Lionel tasted him, mouth everywhere, savoring him from his broad
chest, down to his navel and then his cock, licking and sucking, as he tried to
imitate the things his last girlfriend had done best. No teeth, a steady hand,
increasing speed, and there—Lionel smiled inwardly, recognizing the warning in
Morgan's tremble, right before he began to shoot. He tasted darker, saltier
than what Lionel had drawn from his kiss, but now he was being pulled up
roughly, before he was even done swallowing.
Morgan was lapping it from his tongue, and Lionel wasn't sure what to make of
that, but it seemed sexy, if weird. But what was really weird and sexy was the
way Morgan was pushing into him, whole body undulating—completely entwined with
his.
The look on Morgan's face right then was the most dazzling thing he'd seen in
his life. It was pure bliss. Pure ecstatic certainty that this was better than
anything, ever, and Lionel was pretty sure his own face bore the same
expression.
They slept like that for a few hours, curled tightly together on the narrow
bed. Lionel woke up to Morgan's fingers in his hair, stroking tenderly.
Moonlight poured in through the window, painting them in silver monochrome.
Morgan was beautiful, ethereal, yet sharp as a knife's blade. Lionel didn't
know what to feel, wasn't even sure if this was real.
"I need to get home," he whispered.
"Yeah." Morgan nodded, winding his fingers tighter.
"What...." What the hell do we do now? Lionel asked with his eyes.
Morgan wrapped his arm around Lionel's bare shoulders. "Don't let your old man
give you any hell, all right?"
Like he had any control over that. Lionel shrugged the arm away. "We'll see."
"Hey," Morgan said, and kissed him fiercely. Morgan's eyes shone, his hair
gleaming almost white; the fine hairs on his chest left tiny shadows. He was
resolute. "We're going to be fine. Trust me."
"Doesn't this change everything?"
"Nah. We look out for each other, right? Just like always."
"Right," Lionel answered, a trifle uncertainly.
"We just...."
"What?"
Morgan ran his hands down Lionel's body, grinning as his cock rose to fit in
his palm. "L-19."
Lionel bent in for a kiss. He wanted Morgan to suck him off again, and he
probably ought to be more shocked by that. Even more by how much he wanted to
taste Morgan again, explore him, all the flat planes and sharp protrusions. To
feel that again, that thing that had happened after Morgan had come. After he'd
made Morgan come. But there would be hell to pay if he weren't home when his
parents got up...assuming they hadn't killed each other while he was out.
"I really do have to go," he said, pushing himself up to fumble in the dark for
his clothes.
"Yeah, I know." Morgan reached out and grazed his fingernails down Lionel's
back. "Come over later, okay?"
"Yeah," Lionel answered, voice hitching as Morgan's fingers slid below his
waist, "uh, yeah."
===============================================================================
LONG ISLAND. JUNE, 1967
Lillian sat on the beach with her sketchbook balanced on her knees. The page
was covered in doodles of seagulls, children, sand castles, waves with
sailboats in the middle distance. The Hamptons were hardly a real vacation, but
her mother wasn't willing to travel far, nor to hand Lillian over to some
friend's 'libertine' parents for the trip to Hawaii she'd longed for. So
Lillian languished—self-consciously, terminally bored.
Eventually, she lost herself in a detailed portrait of a hermit crab, which
naturally meant keeping several of them trapped on the blanket with her for
careful observation. She was busy wrangling them into rows when someone walked
up.
"I was afraid I was the only young person here," said the young man blocking
her light. He squatted down and kidnapped one of her models for closer
inspection. "I thought I was going to die surrounded by old ladies having tea."
Lillian laughed. She hadn't seen him in years, not since going to camp upstate
years ago.
"Hi, Dickie. It's good to see you again."
"Richard, please," he said, a slight edge on his voice. "Sorry, it's good to
see you, too. You look wonderful."
"Oh, so you go off to university, and now you change your name?" she teased.
He blushed hotly. "Don't you start, too. They," Dickie said, gesturing toward
the weather beaten inn up the beach, "have been giving me hell for it all
afternoon."
Lillian smiled. "It's only because you're the only boy here. It makes you easy
to pick on."
"I suppose...." he said, and laid sprawling claim to half her blanket. "So,
someone said you're at Dominican Academy."
She gave a little snort at the graceless segue. "That's right. I'll be a senior
this fall."
"Are you thinking about college?"
"Please spare me any of that 'a woman's place is in the home' nonsense."
He laughed. "Just the opposite, actually. It's a different world now than what
our parents grew up in."
"You can say that again. And my mother's about twenty years older than yours."
"Oh. That's true, isn't it?" He twiddled his thumbs and brushed absently at his
sweater vest. "So, what schools are you looking at?"
"Smith. Wellesley. Mount Holyoke. Mostly Smith."
"Girls schools," he said, raising an eyebrow.
"DA's all-girls, too. Mother would flip if I went somewhere co-ed."
"Really? I thought she would be pushing for Notre Dame."
Lillian giggled. "No, I think she's more concerned with my virtue than my
faith."
He blushed and gave her a shy half-smile. "But you know about the buses to the
rest of the sister-schools, don't you?"
"Of course I do," she replied with a grin. "Listen, going to Catholic school
doesn't mean I've grown up in an abbey. It is New York, after all."
He grinned back, and they sat for a while, listening to the surf roll in in
companionable silence. He watched as she rearranged her menagerie of hermit
crabs again and added a few final strokes to her drawing. When she seemed
satisfied with it, he slid his fingertips over her forearm. "So, there's a
little place down past the pier that's great for watching the sun set. Wanna
go?"
Smiling, she looked up and took his hand. "Sure."
===============================================================================
METROPOLIS. APRIL, 1969
"I got your note," Lionel called, hanging his coat in the foyer. In the pocket
was a slip of paper that read, "L-19. 6pm sharp."
Morgan's new penthouse was decorated in a curious mix of sedate moddish blacks
and hippie day-glo. Lionel found it eternally disconcerting, despite having had
plenty of time to get used to Morgan's particular blend of outré and
understated.
Morgan appeared, dressed in a turtleneck and dark, expensive suit. "I have a
surprise for you," he said, and pulled Lionel in for a long kiss.
"What kind of surprise?" Lionel asked, nipping at his ear. Usually L-19 meant
long, hours of lovemaking and dinner in—occasionally eating it off of each
other's bodies...something which always led to the best kind of bathroom
playtime.
"Take a shower. You smell like the lab."
"You know," Lionel purred, "I could have done my dissertation research
anywhere, but I wanted to be near you."
"Shower, babe. Now," Morgan said and gently shoved him back.
"So, what's the surprise?" Lionel's eyes darted around the apartment, then back
to Morgan's face. He raised his eyebrows expectantly. There were no tell-tale
candles, no rich aromas drifting out from the kitchen, not even a rose in the
vase on the table.
"We're going out. I laid out a suit for you in the bedroom."
"Together?"
"Why yes, actually."
"But you— You mean in public?"
Morgan laughed indulgently and pushed him toward the bedroom. "Trust me."
Dinner was succulent, gourmet, and French. The show was the national touring
production of Cabaret. The seats were front row center. And the girls were both
discreet and delighted to pose as dates for the night. Morgan and Lionel had a
wonderful time, each feeling triumphant at the success of the little ruse. When
they got home, they fucked each other senseless and slept the night through
curled in each other's arms.
===============================================================================
MANHATTAN. FEBRUARY, 1972
"You look lovely, darling."
"Thanks, Mother." Lillian was wearing a high-necked, long velvet dress that
would fit right in among tea-drinking matriarchs. She didn't roll her eyes at
the compliment. Instead, she smiled sweetly, and placed a stack of new
magazines on the nightstand. "How are you feeling?"
"The same," her mother answered with a dismissive flick of her hand. "And where
is your escort?"
"I don't have one tonight."
"Lillian."
"Mother, at least three friends from school will be there. I don't need to drag
some poor boy around with me all night."
"Which friends?"
Lillian pasted a smile on her face and reminded herself that she was not
twelve, and her mother did have a right to be concerned. "Pamela, Janine, and
Eloise."
"You're sure."
"Positive. Besides, I am of age."
"It still isn't proper for you to go alone."
"Mother, this is 1972. The world is changing. Nixon's in China, for heaven's
sake!"
Narrowing her eyes, Lillian's mother sat up straighter against the pillows. "US
foreign policy is hardly relevant to the company you keep, young lady. I don't
know why you didn't marry that nice boy from Amherst while you had the chance."
Lillian pursed her lips and managed to bite back a decidedly unladylike retort.
"I'm afraid I'm running late. Don't wait up." She bent to kiss her mother's
cheek.
"I'll see you at breakfast."
"Yes, Mother."
===============================================================================
Once in the car, she raised the privacy window and began sorting through the
pair of shopping bags she'd brought with her. She pulled off her demure black
dress, and changed into a pair of gabardine slacks and a fitted black blouse.
She exchanged her pearls for a diamond pendant, and brushed her hair out of its
chignon to fly in a wild, red nimbus around her head. Opening another bag, she
switched her square-heeled boots for a pair of jeweled stiletto pumps. From her
purse, she took out a compact and redid her makeup with violet on her eyes to
bring out the blue, and a scarlet gloss on her lips that would be sure to
scandalize her mother.
At last she was feeling like herself—she'd graduated from Smith in December;
now it was February, and Lillian was dying of boredom. She didn't need to work
and had very little interest in finding a job, although she was toying with the
idea of investing in a gallery. Her art professors had always been kind, but
the bohemian scene simply wasn't what it had been fifteen years ago, back when
beat was synonymous with cool.
SoHo was so much callous grit, now. Every scrap of 60s hippie optimism had been
scoured away by the war. Always the war, of course, and the long years of it
had grown on everybody. They all had childhood friends who'd died, gone MIA, or
come back so broken in mind and body that there was nothing to do but nod,
smile, and flee as quickly as possible.
Central Park was passing on the left; they were nearly there, so she carefully
checked her new outfit for lint and donned her new Bill Blass coat. It was a
work of art in and of itself, and she hated to risk ruining anything that made
her feel so beautiful. Even if it did trigger fights with her Marxist friends
from school—not that this was even close to their scene. It was going to be
another boring social event, where she should be seen looking fabulous,
wealthy, and decidedly not man-hungry.
She wasn't opposed to marriage. In theory. She simply hadn't been impressed by
any of the boys who'd made time with her over the years. Taking buses and
trains to rendezvous at sister colleges, or spend a clandestine weekend at a
party on the cape—it was romantic in a spoiled-rich sort of way. But she knew
they were merely kids playing. It was not the sort of foundation upon which one
built a life.
Not the kind of life she wanted to live, at any rate.
Her mother was perpetually scandalized. Lillian had resigned herself to it
years ago, when she realized that, as the surprise only child of her parents'
old age, nothing she did would fall in line with their expectations of her.
Papa was more than ten years in the grave, and her mother probably wouldn't
last much longer. Lillian could barely stand to be around her, and she felt no
end of guilt over that, but the very air in the room seemed to be waiting for
death—as if her mother was waiting for Lillian's father to come and take her
home to God. She didn't know if it was a sin to pray for death, but Lillian did
pray for mercy every single time she met her mother's hollow eyes.
The car arrived at the hotel and the society press descended on her like a
cloud of gnats, leaving her alone only after realizing she was neither a movie
star nor a professional socialite. That might change after her mother's death,
when she would become sole heir to the family fortune, but there was hopefully
time left before Lillian had to face that eventuality.
Lillian found her friends, who gave up delightfully shocked squeals of "Pants!"
on first view; then she procured a martini, and secured their promises that
they would spend not more than an hour here before heading on to a late dinner
and then a disco.
===============================================================================
She mingled a little, but mostly drank and chatted with her girlfriends.
Occasionally she would agree to a dance with an awkward young man or someone
who seemed to be a distant uncle or old family friend.
She was extraordinary. She was, of course, beautiful, but that was almost
incidental. The way she carried herself was...electrifying.
Her hair was a cloud of flaming red above milky skin, a slim, athletic body,
and blue eyes that were most startling for their observant irony. And, yes, the
slacks. He estimated that the ensemble was more expensive than many of the
dresses in the room, but she wasn't flaunting it. She was flying in the face of
convention even while embracing it.
He needed to know her.
===============================================================================
"Come with me to the Ladies," Pamela said, taking her arm. Lillian drained her
glass and followed, wondering what was going on. Usually Pamela was a little
more subtle than this.
"What is it?"
"That guy from Metropolis is asking about you."
"Who?"
"Tux, wavy brown hair, kind of thin. The one who's been talking with the little
group from Dow Chemical."'
"And why am I supposed to care?"
Pamela's lips flattened into a straight line. "You're not."
"Sorry, that came out wrong."
"Honey, I know you don't consider yourself on the market, but it wouldn't hurt
to have a little fun."
Lillian gave her a full-lipped pout. "Fun is why we're leaving for dinner and
disco in twenty minutes. We'll go dancing, find some cute boys to make out
with, give our numbers to some lucky devil or two, and go home."
"So you won't even meet him?"
"Will it make you happy if I do?" Lillian smiled teasingly and swept a finger
across the tip of Pamela's nose.
Pamela laughed. "I'm not forcing him on you, sweetheart, but he doesn't seem
like the typical eligible bachelor who comes to these things. I just thought he
might have an interesting story."
Lillian raised her eyebrows. "Maybe. I guess meeting him couldn't hurt."
===============================================================================
She stood out on the veranda and watched the fountain burble and flow. The
place was screened in against the winter cold, and a few portable heaters were
scattered among the pots of live plants in decorative containers. A couple was
talking at a side table. Another pair were at the other end, kissing feverishly
against a giant stone urn planted with an unhappy-looking juniper. Lillian
decided that in another five minutes, her obligation to Society would be over.
Thirty seconds later, he was standing next to her. "Impressive," he said,
predictably dripping with charm.
"What is?"
He gestured around them.
"You mean the Plaza?" she asked skeptically.
"I take it you disagree."
"It's a hotel," she said with a dismissive shrug.
Lionel laughed, and in his hazel eyes she saw something interesting—a glimmer
of shrewdness entirely misplaced at this farcical gathering of the rich and
boring.
"It's charming and historical...but it's a mistake to come here thinking you'll
meet Walter Matthau...although Neil Simon might be lurking down in the bar."
"So, you're not an Odd Couple fan."
"I never said that." Lillian laughed, noticing that he had a rather beautiful
smile. Yes, Pamela was right; this one was interesting. Might turn out to be
very interesting.
Lionel offered his hand. "Would you like to dance?"
"All right," she said, and his touch sent a wave of sparks through her down to
her toes.
Stepping inside to the ballroom, she saw the girls waiting. They could wait a
little longer.
===============================================================================
"So, you grew up in New York, survived years at the hands of fierce, ruler-
wielding nuns, and then what?" Lionel asked her with a smile, neatly drowning
his forkful of lobster in the dish of butter sauce.
"College." She let her eyes fall shut for a moment as the morsel of sea bass
melted on her tongue. She smiled. "I went to Smith, majored in Art History,
minored in Classics, graduated three months ago, and here I am."
"But you're not working."
"No." Lillian hesitated for a moment. "I suppose I could make all sorts of
excuses, but I don't have any. Mother's still appalled that I didn't get an MRS
degree and start cranking out babies."
"Girls still do that?"
She smiled coolly. "A lot of my friends did. After all, in most places you
can't even rent an apartment with a guy unless you're married. Not any place
worth living, at any rate."
"You're averse to marriage?"
"Not at all. I'm averse to men cozying up to me when what they really have eyes
for is the family stock portfolio."
"I suppose that would put a damper on dating."
Lillian laughed cheerlessly. "It ties a knot in my ability to take people at
face value."
"Do you take me at face value?"
"Lionel, I've found it safer to presume that everyone has an ulterior motive."
"What about your friends from school?"
"That's different. I have history with them. And they know better than to ask
me for large sums of money."
He nodded, leaning forward and steepling his fingers together above his plate.
"Let me tell you something. I've spent years at Yale and Princeton because I'm
determined to build myself the kind of life my parents only dreamed of. I have
a long list of goals that I won't bore you with, but I want you to know that I
asked you out because I find you fascinating. I don't care about the rest of
it."
"But the rest of it, as you say, is part of who I am," she replied with a
graceful wave of her hand.
"But your life is what you make it, Lillian, not what your family fortune
dictates."
A tiny, ironic smirk played at the corner of her mouth. "You make that sound so
easy."
"It's not, believe me. I'd just like to get to know you without all the
societal preconceptions getting in the way."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning, I like you. And I'm fairly sure that even if you were penniless, I'd
still like you." He gave her a little wink.
"Strangely, that's almost romantic," Lillian said with a smile.
"Almost?"
She giggled.
"Next time I'll bring roses."
===============================================================================
METROPOLIS. MAY, 1972
"You what!" Morgan bolted off the couch toward him.
Lionel leaned against the plate glass window. "Morgan, calm down."
"I won't calm down. You said it was only a short term move!"
"Morgan."
He stopped a few feet away from Lionel and perched on the edge of the boxy
black armchair. "I want an explanation."
"I'm sorry."
"Not good enough."
Lionel looked at him mutely. There wasn't anything left to win here, nor any
good way to do this. All the games were over, and Lionel had to get out. "You
didn't really think we were forever, did you? After all the girls we've gone
through over the years? I thought it was understood that someday we would grow
up, get married, and have families."
Morgan didn't say anything. He just stared at him with eyes blazing with one
part disbelief, three parts dawning rage.
"Faggots don't make the Fortune 500!" Lionel snarled in frustration.
"You sorry, selfish son of a bitch." Morgan crossed the room and poured himself
a shot. "Fine," he growled at the encroaching silence.
"I thought we'd talked through this," Lionel said with quiet obstinance.
Morgan tossed back the drink and poured another. "No, you talked. I never
agreed."
"You really think no one would notice the bachelor-for-life thing?" Lionel
laughed derisively. "You have to be kidding."
"It works well enough for Rock Hudson."
"Everyone knows he's a baggy old queen."
"No they don't. Most people think he's just an eccentric former pretty-boy."
"You want us to be eccentric."
"We already are."
"No. We're not," Lionel said, pacing the edge of the rug to the piano and back.
"I won't settle for that."
Morgan slammed the glass down and crossed the room to him. "You don't need to
own the entire world, Lionel!"
"And you don't need to settle for the goddamned racketeering business!"
"What, is that it? Is it because I don't give a damn about polite fucking
society?"
"No," Lionel replied quietly.
"Then what?" Morgan asked as he sank into the couch, voice bordering on
desperation.
"Look, you think this is easy on me?" Lionel stopped pacing, turned to face
him. "You're the one constant in my life."
"Then why are you throwing me away?"
"I'm not. Don't put it like that."
Silence fell and a long look passed between them. "You've met someone, haven't
you?"
"Morgan."
"For God's sake, lie about anything else, but don't lie about this."
"I...don't know yet."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means I don't know yet! Give it a rest."
Morgan strode across to him, glaring. "What's her name?"
"Morgan, please." Lionel's hands rose and fell, grasping on air.
"If you're trading me in," Morgan snarled, pounding a thick finger against his
sternum, "you better fucking tell me her name."
"Please don't do this," Lionel said softly. Morgan snorted and stormed away.
"You know I've been fighting for their respect for years. It's my big chance."
"Your big chance?" A sculpted chunk of pottery crashed into thousands of pieces
against the near wall, and Lionel found himself drifting subtly backwards,
unable to hold his ground. "Fine! But when you fuck things up and she leaves
you, don't you knock on my door. You get me?"
"Morgan...."
"It's time for you to leave." Morgan grabbed Lionel's coat from the chair and
hurled it at him.
"God, I'm so sorry," Lionel said, with pleading eyes.
Morgan blinked back tears and herded Lionel to the penthouse's vestibule.
"Goodbye," he said.
"It's Lillian," Lionel choked. "Her name's Lillian."
Morgan's fist caught him square in the jaw, and Lionel crumpled against the
door. He might have fallen, but Morgan held him up by the front of his shirt.
He tasted blood on his tongue, mouth cut from the punch. Morgan was on him,
shoving him hard into the door, hard enough to bruise his shoulder blades, the
back of his head. Morgan was kissing him now. No, was sucking his tongue, was
sucking the leaking blood from the tip and bruising him with his fingertips.
It hurt like a bitch, and this time, Lionel knew he deserved it.
And then the door was opening and he was shoved through it with a strangled,
"Go to hell." And for the first time in nearly fifteen years, Lionel was truly
free.
===============================================================================
MANHATTAN. AUGUST, 1972
"You are a firebrand, aren't you?"
"I'm sorry?" Lillian replied, gliding back to her bed from the bathroom.
Lionel softened his wolfish gaze, the glint in his eye acknowledging that she'd
caught him. "It's even in the way you move. Your independence is...refreshing."
"You called me a firebrand. My father used to call me that when I was a little
girl."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...."
"No, it's all right," she said, crawling up the bed to curl up next to him.
"Papa was...we used to spend the summers in the Adirondacks when I was very
small. The other kids and I, we would race through the woods, and then barrel
down the slope, right off the pier, and cannonball into the lake." She laughed
softly, remembering. "He said he could always find me by my hair."
"I can picture it."
"He died when I was ten."
"I wish I could have met him."
She smiled wistfully. "I wish I could have known him as an adult."
"Yes, I understand what you mean. I lost my parents as a teenager."
"Oh, I didn't know that. I'm sorry."
Lionel shrugged. "What I regret is being so caught up in teenage rebellion that
I couldn't appreciate them for who they were."
"Yes, I can imagine."
There was a long silence before Lionel kissed her gently. "I'm sorry, I didn't
mean—"
"My mother's dying." Pressing closer to him, she closed her eyes and breathed
in the scent of his skin.
"Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"No, it's all right. She's been ill for a long time, but she's finally...."
Lillian drifted off, looking up at him.
"I understand."
"My life is going to change completely," she said, pausing for another kiss.
"The papers love a good tragedy."
"And a beautiful, tragic heroine left all alone." His fingers twined in her
hair, and he kissed her again, light touches of his lips over her face, ears,
neck.
She pulled their bodies together. "They're like hyenas, waiting for me to trip
and fall on my face. I'm sure they already have stacks of Little Orphan Annie
jokes on stand-by."
"I won't let you fall," Lionel said, nuzzling her neck.
She pulled away enough to make eye contact. "I appreciate the gesture, Lionel,
but—"
"I want to help you." He said it simply, readily, with nothing in his face
except truth.
"You really do, don't you?"
"You're in a difficult situation. And believe it or not, this isn't all about
this," he said, sliding his fingers down her belly to nestle between her legs.
"But that certainly helps."
Lionel dipped his middle finger in, stroking gently. "You're a lovely girl.
You're beautiful, smart, about to become extremely wealthy...." He moved down
between her legs and placed a soft kiss in the curls. "And," he said, darting
his tongue over the firm nub of flesh budding above his working finger, "you're
going to be a target. I want to be here for you."
He pushed another finger in and clamped his mouth down, sucking and pulling as
he built the rhythm. Lillian was thrusting against him, hips swiveling into his
fingers, moaning softly for more, more. Lionel gave it, tongue drawing rapid
circles, flicking against her with a bare hint of teeth.
Shifting the curve his fingers, Lionel moved faster, focusing on the little
node inside that made her buck her hips off the bed, made him pin her hips down
as he refastened his lips against her. And then, there, she was coming, arms
flailing, words failing her as her mouth opened, closed, opened again.
For a few moments, he watched her lie motionless, shaken, and impossibly more
lovely than before. Then Lillian pulled him up into her arms for a long, rough
kiss. "You're amazing," she purred.
"So are you."
She kissed him again, this time wrapping her legs around him, levering her hips
so that Lionel drove deep inside her.
"Lily," he whispered, trembling as the hot wet took him. She rocked up and
back, setting the pace, and, just maybe, reminding him that she was in control
of this, no matter which of them was on top.
Afterwards, they lay cradled together, caressing each other gently. The
afternoon light poured in through the sheer curtains and lay warm across their
skin.
"We're both...experienced. We're both...." Her words faltering, she started
over, lightly drawing patterns his face with her fingertips. "This feels really
good. All these months...it's more than the sex, Lionel."
"Yes."
"Do you want to," she paused, a blush spreading pink across her face, "...try
going public?"
Lionel gazed at her for a moment, watching the beams of sunlight turn her hair
to spun gold. "You know, you're the best, most wonderful thing in my life."
"I'm not ready for...."
"That's all right."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm not after your money. I'm going to be a very wealthy man in my own right,"
he said, eyes gleaming, "but I am falling in love with you."
"God, really?" Lillian asked, not bothering to hide her wonder.
He laughed and sent his fingers scrambling over her ribs until she squealed.
"I'm here, aren't I? I'm crazy about you," he said, pressing a warm kiss to her
mouth. "Or hadn't you noticed? I want this. I want whatever you're willing to
give me."
"There's so much I want to show you."
"Me, too, love. Me, too."
She curled around him, kissing him lightly until they dozed off for an
afternoon nap.
===============================================================================
MANHATTAN. MAY, 1974
"Mrs. Luthor! Mrs. Luthor! Is it true your mother was opposed to your wedding?"
"Mrs. Luthor! You just buried your mother. Why are you moving away from New
York?"
"Mr. Luthor! How does it feel to be perceived as a gold-digging rake?"
"Mrs. Luthor! Is it true that you went ahead with the wedding because you're
with child?"
"Enough!" Lillian's family attorney finally intervened, halting the crowd of
reporters and scandal-sheet writers as the couple hurried into the waiting
limousine. "The late Mrs. Fisk wanted nothing more than to see her daughter
happily married, and therefore forbade the postponement of their long-planned
nuptials, even in the event of her untimely demise." He gave them a moment to
let that sink in.
"The newlyweds will honeymoon on a yacht in the Aegean, then settle in Mr.
Luthor's hometown of Metropolis, where, as I'm sure by now you've heard,
LuthorCorp will open its new headquarters. Now, I'm sure you'll all join me in
wishing the young couple the very best in their new life together. Good day."
===============================================================================
METROPOLIS. OCTOBER, 1976
"Lionel?" Lillian called.
"Yes, dear?"
She entered his study with a stack of envelopes in hand, holding out a single
postcard. "Here, this was in the mail for you."
Startled, he took it and read the back. "Um, thanks."
"Odd that there's no name, but it's a pretty photograph."
"It is, isn't it," Lionel murmured.
"What's L-19 stand for?"
"Nothing, Lily."
"It sounds like a seat number at the symphony," Lillian mused.
"I told you, it's not important. Now, would you mind? I have a presentation to
get ready."
She scowled and coldly answered, "I'll be at the gallery if you need me."
===============================================================================
Morgan dismissed security and smiled warmly, crossing the room to him. His hair
was sun-streaked and he'd put on muscle. The glint in his eyes declared that
he'd embraced power, and power had embraced him right back. Lionel found the
hardness, the mass of him, startling. Beautiful, yes, but startling all the
same. Next to him, Lionel felt small and spidery.
"You came," Morgan said, embracing him.
Lionel pulled free. "You can't do this."
Morgan serenely ignored every shred of Lionel's outrage. "I'm sorry about the
hotel, but you understand the need for security. I missed you."
"Lillian knows about the postcards. I can't believe you'd send it to the
house!"
"I needed to see you, and apparently the others weren't making it past your
secretary."
Lionel glared at him. "Well, you've got my attention. What do you want?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"No," Lionel lied, but he couldn't help staring into the deep blue of Morgan's
eyes.
Morgan smiled sadly and brushed a thumb over Lionel's cheek.
Lionel pulled away from the touch, pushing down a wave of feeling. In a moment,
he'd put half the sitting room between them. "I have a new life. It's been
years now—you have to understand that."
Morgan didn't answer. He leaned against a marble column, simply watching,
taking Lionel in.
Lionel fisted his hands in his pockets and made sure there was an appropriately
defiant set to his jaw. Morgan shrugged, sucked on his teeth, and contrived to
examine the carpet for a moment before bringing his gaze up sharply. Lionel
recognized the Brando impression; it was still effective. "Babe, you need to
understand that everything you have could be gone in the blink of an eye."
"What?"
"I've counted every day since you moved to New York, and every day since you
returned."
"I can't...are you threatening me?" Lionel sputtered.
Morgan's eyes flashed with cold light. "I know you never told her about me. And
not one of your high society friends has any idea what we were for all those
years. Tell me, what do you think would happen to your stock rating if they
found out? Do you think they would support a man who had lied to everyone about
everything?"
"I would bury you. You know that," Lionel said matter-of-factly.
"And your fall would be worth it." Morgan smiled. "We'd be on level turf
again."
Lionel shivered. This was his only living liability; he'd been an idiot to let
sentiment stay his hand. "Christ, Morgan, what do you want from me?"
"You, Lionel. Just you."
"I can't."
"Of course you can. You can do anything you set your mind to. And I know you're
already thinking of ways to counter me. Don't. You think I'd do this without
fail-safes? I know you better than that. If anything happens to me, it all goes
to a dozen different newspapers and TV stations around the country...along with
the truth about your parents. Their life and their death."
"You bastard." Lionel stumbled back and sat down, hard; the Queen Anne chair
creaked under him. "You unbelievable bastard."
"You'll never stop being mine."
"You can't do this, Morgan," he growled.
"Don't be melodramatic, Lionel. You haven't even heard the deal yet."
"You can't."
"Twice a year is all I'm asking for. Two long weekends. We'll meet in London,
Paris, the Riviera, wherever I feel like. Three nights every six months. I was
thinking Memorial Day and Thanksgiving."
"No."
"Lionel. You have so far to fall."
Lionel focused on his breathing, running scenarios and hitting dead-end after
dead-end. Morgan knew all his tricks. They'd learned most of them together,
after all, but it just wasn't right to be using them against each other.
He felt a little like vomiting all over the polished antique furniture. Morgan
stood patiently, hands in his pockets, as if he had all the time in the world.
Because he did.
Right now Lionel had no leverage. He could neither attack nor retreat, and that
left him with only one option.
He glanced up at Morgan and spoke quietly. "Not Thanksgiving. That's
Lillian's."
"So give her Thursday and leave on Friday."
"No."
"Would you rather give me Christmas? If so, I'll take it, but I was trying to
be kind."
"No. Morgan, this is ridiculous. We don't have to do this."
"Yes, we do. Because you left. Because of the way you left. Because of what you
left behind. You never did learn to deal with consequences."
"I'm sorry, of all people, I thought I could trust you," Lionel said, voice
dripping with sarcasm.
Morgan held his gaze for a small eternity. "And I, you."
Lionel's mouth fell open. Morgan's eyes held the key to everything—love, rage,
and endless, endless longing. He slumped further into the chair, whispered,
"Fuck."
"That's the plan."
"What, raping me is supposed to make things better?"
"I love you, baby. I'll never stop loving you."
Lionel shivered. "No, I can't do this. I won't."
With a shrug, Morgan turned and ambled from one end of the suite to the other,
letting him stew, forcing him to think, tempting him with the firm cut of his
body under the tailored clothing, and Lionel couldn't help it if his dick
responded of its own accord.
Morgan paced back toward him and spoke with deliberate languor. "Use your
brain, love. The truth would destroy you, but it would kill her. She has some
kind of heart condition, doesn't she? I can't imagine that such a shock would
be healthy. And the stress of a long-term tabloid feeding-frenzy...surely
wouldn't be good."
"You son of a bitch."
"You're going to do this. I'll make the reservations and send you the details."
The silence stretched, long and brittle, for several minutes. Morgan remained
perfectly relaxed.
Finally, Lionel shut his eyes, let out a breath, and nodded assent. "Just,
please...."
"Hmm?"
"Send it to the office, not the house?"
Morgan smiled, ruffled his fingers through Lionel's hair, and left. Lionel
followed with his eyes, but Morgan never looked back.
===============================================================================
METROPOLIS. SEPTEMBER, 1979
Lillian awoke to orange beams of sunrise streaking across the ivory sheets.
Lionel shifted behind her, spooning. She pressed back into his morning erection
without even thinking about it. Then she felt his mouth on her neck and heard
him purr behind her ear. She turned over and kissed his lips.
"Hi."
"Good morning," he said, sliding his hand down her body.
Their lovemaking was sweet and silent. Lillian's mind was full of the plans for
the day, the artists she needed to badger, and the various minutiae of opening
next month's new show. Staring up into Lionel's face, she saw he was in the
same place—distracting thoughts clouding his features, banished with a blink or
a twitch of his cheek. Their touch was rarely passionate anymore, but it was
still nice, still familiar—comforting like a favorite sweater. Even if they
were both busy with other projects, Lionel pouring his life into his current
Forbes ranking, Lillian burying herself in things of beauty.
From her vanity, Lillian watched Lionel step out of the shower. She wondered
how it was that at thirty-five, he was more beautiful than ever.
"Let's take a trip," she said, drawing a steady line over the lashes of her
right eye.
"Where?" he asked, toweling himself dry.
"The beach? Can you spare a long weekend? I'd really love a change of scene."
"Can you, with the show?"
"This weekend, yes. After that, not really, but there's a reason why I have
staff," she replied, smiling into the mirror.
"I'll see what I can do. Did you have any place particular in mind?"
"Mm, back east. I'm dying for the Atlantic. Maybe Martha's Vineyard? Or
Bermuda? Somewhere quiet."
"You seem tired."
"I am. I want...I need to recharge." She looked over at him again; he was
rubbing shaving cream over his face with one hand, and was trying to change the
blade of his razor with the other. "And I want time alone with you."
He smiled at her from his mirror. "I'm sorry it's been so hectic."
"I know," she said, returning her attention to her makeup. "It just occurred to
me that we weren't making much time for us. I miss it. I miss you."
"Lil?" he called from the sink.
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
Rising from the antique bench, she went to him. "I know," she said, and kissed
the tip of his nose. "Hurry up. You'll be late."
"The CEO is never late."
"The CEO takes too much pleasure in making other people wait."
"It's always nice to make an entrance."
She laughed, dropping her robe and disappearing into the bedroom-sized walk-in
closet next door.
"And a dramatic exit," he murmured.
"I heard that," she called.
Lionel laughed warmly and scraped the rest of the stubble off his chin.
===============================================================================
METROPOLIS. MARCH, 1980
"Pam, I have to go. He's home.... I'll call you later? I love you." Lillian
placed the phone on the end table and settled back into her corner of the sofa.
"Honey, what's wrong?" Lionel said, voice a little sharp as he frowned.
"Sit down," she said, waiting for him to drop into the chair. "Please?"
"Are you okay?"
"There's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"
"The bad," he answered stoically, eyes filling with apprehension.
"All right, then." Lillian took a deep breath and leaned forward to take his
hand. "At my doctor's appointment today, on top of the old arrhythmia, they
diagnosed congestive heart failure. Apparently my heart valves simply don't
work like they're supposed to. There's...no cure for it, but they've put me on
medicine that I'll have to take for the rest of my life."
"...Failure?"
"Yes. It means, eventually, one day my heart will just stop."
"Oh my God," he whispered, sliding off the chair to kneel on the floor in front
of her. He pulled her close against his chest and held her there.
She pushed him back and smiled. "Sweetheart, I'm going to be okay for a long
time yet. I have to be."
"Oh, honey..." he said, fingers stroking her face. "There has to be something
they can do. We'll...we'll get you the best care in the world."
She nodded. "I know. The doctor gave me reams of stuff to read, and we'll go
over all of it together later, I promise." She kissed him lightly and let him
hold onto her for several moments before asking quietly, "Do you want to hear
the good news?"
He gave her a shaky laugh. "Please."
"You're sure? It's big news, too."
He nodded. "Yes, what is it?"
"You're going to be a dad."
"I'm wha—"
Lillian chuckled softly. "I knew I should have brought out the camera."
"I—"
"I love you," she said with warmth. "We're going to have a baby, and we're
going to be all right. Okay?" She held him tightly. He was shaking, crying
probably, Lord knew she had all the way home and through the first hour on the
phone with Pamela.
She'd gone to the doctor that morning feeling under the weather. It never
occurred to her that she could be pregnant. She'd been on the pill for ages,
after all. On the other hand, it had never occurred to her that she might have
anything worse than a mild arrhythmia, either.
Lionel rocked in her arms, hands in her hair. She could feel his tears on her
neck as she made comforting noises, calming him. Maybe it wasn't fair to have
hit him with everything all at once, especially on top of whatever was keeping
him at work until all hours. But life wasn't fair, and she was determined not
to be bitter. Besides, this was what it meant to be in it for the long
haul—things got ugly sometimes.
"I'm sorry," he said, striving to regain control.
"It's okay, love. I've had a few hours to deal with the shock." She smoothed
her fingers over his face. "I already cried myself out."
He nodded and kissed her again. "I love you so much. I don't know what I would
do if I lost you."
"You won't," she said, knowing it was an empty promise. It didn't matter.
He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and asked, "What do we need to do?"
She smiled. As long as Lionel had an objective, he would be fine. "One, we read
up on cardiology. Two, we build a nursery and read up on babies."
"Oh," he laughed as the delayed reaction set in. He laid his hand on her belly,
even though there was nothing different to feel yet. "When?"
"Late October, probably. They'll know better in a few more weeks."
He grinned at her, a thousand thoughts flickering across his face, but no words
issued forth. She smiled brightly and kissed him again. It was a rare thing
indeed to leave Lionel speechless.
===============================================================================
METROPOLIS. MAY, 1984
"So where is he this time?" Pamela asked. They were in the solarium, and the
world seemed filled with clear blue sky, glossy green leaves, and bright
blooming flowers.
"Club Med, maybe? I think he said the conference was in Mexico this year."
She sipped her iced tea and prodded, "How are things?"
"Distant." Lillian made a face. "You know what they say about children changing
everything...."
"Mommy! Mommy!" As if by instinct, Alexander burst into the room, sprinting
four steps ahead of his frazzled nanny.
Lillian laughed and waved away the woman's fervent apologies. "It's all right,
we're just talking. He can stay in here for a while."
"Mommy, I made these for you!" he said, proudly brandishing two crayon-scrawled
sheets of paper.
"Why thank you, Alexander! That's very thoughtful of you. Why don't you show
Pamela?"
Alexander stood in front of Pamela, appraising her for a moment. "I know you,"
he said.
"That's right, I came to visit your mommy last month."
"Oh. I can use the potty all by myself now," he said happily. "And I know my
ABCs. See?" he added, demonstrating.
Lillian raised her eyebrows at Pamela, and they both dissolved into laughter.
"What's funny?" he asked.
"You're amazing, darling. You're the best little boy in the whole world."
"Mmmm," he said, climbing into her arms to snuggle. "You're my mommy."
"Yes I am," she said, running her fingers through his fluffy red hair, "and I
love you very much."
===============================================================================
COZUMEL. MAY, 1984
"I've been watching you."
"Oh? So what else is new?" Lionel asked, stepping back in from the balcony,
leaving the glass ajar. Ocean breeze rippled through the room, rustling his
white pants, blowing his unbuttoned blue shirt off his shoulders.
"Storm's coming."
Lionel shrugged and poured scotch over ice. Morgan stepped behind him, pinning
him gently against the counter, inhaling deeply. The sea air on Lionel's skin
always did it for him, which was why he chose beach resorts for their weekends
as often as possible. Lionel was sipping, neck tilted back to meet Morgan's
tongue. Lionel knew him so well, knew everything he loved, everything he
needed.
He wished there was a way to make it...real...again.
"I love you."
"That makes one of us."
"Please—"
Lionel turned around and kissed him roughly, eyes burning. "You've made me a
whore. This is extortion, don't mistake it for anything more than that."
"God damn it, Lionel!" Morgan pushed off him, stalked around the bar to the
tiny living room. "Why do you have to do this?"
"You tell me. You're the one threatening to kill my wife."
It was the same old argument, but it only grew more bitter every time they
performed it.
"You're mine," Morgan growled. He paced, then returned to the kitchen. "You're
mine. Ever since we were kids spying on the neighbors and fucking every chance
we got. None of the others mattered. Nothing else is half as good as us."
"It's been twenty-five years. Why can't you just let me go?"
"Why can't you accept that when you promise someone forever, it means forever?"
"I—" Morgan stilled Lionel with a thumb on his lip.
"After all this time, I still can't stop. And I tried, baby, I did." He brushed
another kiss over Lionel's mouth and let his fingers slide over his knotted
shoulders and down. "This doesn't have to be bad."
"It's always bad. Every time we do this," Lionel said coldly, but he let Morgan
push him around the corner to the bedroom.
Morgan stripped them quickly and pushed him back onto the bed. "I know you love
me."
"That's not the point."
"Yes, it is," Morgan said, squeezing lube onto his fingers.
"No, the point now is how much I hate you."
Morgan kissed him deeply, shutting his eyes against something swelling inside
his chest. "Yes."
"I'll never forgive you. Never," Lionel said fiercely as Morgan scissored him
open.
"That's fine, love. You don't have to," Morgan answered, pushing Lionel's knees
back and nudging his cock inside.
Plunging into him, Morgan watched Lionel's face, watched each grunt rise up
from his core to spill from his mouth in a burst of whiskey-flavored breath. He
watched the path of his eyes behind his tightly closed eyelids, watched his
full-body jerk when he slid his thumb over the head of his leaking cock.
With each thrust, Morgan watched the progression of helpless rage and voracious
hunger as he pulled the orgasm out of him, all over his hand.
Watched so that when Lionel opened his eyes, he saw him licking the come from
his fingers. Watched Lionel's groaning reaction, hazel eyes full of lust and
wonder. And yes, delight.
They each came crying the other's name.
They lay together in silence for a long time until Morgan traced a slow line
down Lionel's chest and they both moved closer, limbs twining together.
"I hate you," Lionel whispered.
"Forever?"
He pressed his eyes shut and nodded. "For always."
===============================================================================
METROPOLIS. MAY, 1984
"Hi."
Lillian jumped. "Oh my goodness." She clutched the open door of the wardrobe
and pressed a hand to her face, embarrassed.
Pamela stood there in her nightshirt, a worried look on her face. "Sorry, I
thought you heard me. I knocked on the outer door."
"It's okay. What's going on?"
"Just saying goodnight. Are you okay?" she asked, frowning at her.
Lillian smirked and shook her head. "Not really. Sit down?" she said, patting
the edge of the bed. "There wasn't a chance to tell you earlier, before things
turned into Romper Room."
"What is it?"
"It's getting worse."
"Oh, baby." Pamela pulled her into a long hug.
Lillian gestured toward the row of bottles on the nightstand. "More pills. I
feel like something straight out of Valley of the Dolls."
"But this is medicine, honey."
"It makes me feel high. I hate it."
"I'm so sorry."
Lillian shrugged. "Listen, can I ask you something? I need you to do something
for me. Something really big."
"Anything."
She frowned a warning at her. "Don't say yes until you've heard it."
Pamela smirked. "Okay, then. Shoot."
"I don't have any idea how to ask you this." Lillian bit her lip uncertainly
and reached for Pamela's hand. "Listen, if it gets really bad—" She stopped and
shook her head. "No, I mean when it gets really bad, is there any way you could
possibly come and stay? Please?" Lillian's eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, honey, of course I will."
"I feel so bad about asking," Lillian choked, words dissolving into sobs.
Pamela drew her close, holding her as the grief tumbled out. After a time, she
said, "You know, I've been thinking for a long time about asking for a transfer
to Metropolis."
"But—"
"No. None of that good old Catholic guilt of yours. I want to."
"But—"
"Hush."
Lillian swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you."
"However I can help. I mean it."
"God, I'm so scared, Pam. I don't want to die, but more than that, I want so
badly to see Alexander grow up."
"I know, baby. I know." Pamela rocked her back and forth, dabbing at her own
eyes with a tissue. "I wish to God I could say something that would make it all
better, but...honestly, it comes down to the same thing every time. All we can
do is treasure every moment and pray."
They held each other for a long time, gentle fingertips wiping tears away and
smoothing back stray locks of hair. Kisses pressed against cheeks, then against
lips, first with comfort, then sudden heat. Pamela pulled away, blushing.
Lillian looked at her hands self-consciously. "That wasn't quite what I meant
to happen."
Pamela stood up with a soft chuckle. "I think I'll go back to my room now."
"No—" Lillian said, and fought back another round of tears welling up from out
of nowhere. "I mean, would you mind? I'd really rather you stayed."
"Lil."
"Please?"
Pamela stood at the foot of the bed, hand resting on the bedpost. Lillian
stared into her eyes, watching her fight for composure. "Hon, we're both doing
our best to cope here. I don't want things to get weird."
"I don't care if they're weird! I know it's selfish, and I'm sorry—I just
really need not to be alone, and lately it feels like I'm always alone.
Please?"
Pamela sighed in frustration. "Look, Lily, I love you, but don't ask me to be a
substitute for Lionel. It's not fair."
"You're not," she said with a bitter laugh. "I'm miserable with him, that is,
when he bothers to actually come home. He doesn't touch me anymore. He barely
even looks at me, and when he does, it's like he doesn't even see me. All he
sees is...the illness, I suppose."
"Rotten man doesn't deserve you."
"He doesn't, does he?" Lillian forced her face into a fragile grin. "I love
you. I really do. And, honestly, I don't want things to get weird either,
but...." she trailed off, cheeks flushing pink.
"What?"
"I'm really happy when you're here. It's like when we were back at school,
except that now I know enough to appreciate it."
"Oh, love," Pamela murmured, gazing at her tenderly. Finally she took a deep
breath and said, "Treasure every moment, right? No matter what?"
"Yes," Lillian gave her a soft smile and pulled her into her arms. "Thank you
so much. More than I can ever tell you."
Pamela kissed her cheek and climbed up on the bed. "All right then, which side
should I take?"
Lillian smiled and pointed. "Mine."
===============================================================================
On the island, a storm raged through the night, cutting power and causing hotel
staff to scurry through corridors delivering candles, matches, and bottled
water. Morgan rose to collect the supplies before they were stolen, then
returned to his post in the bedroom, where he lay watching the wind howl
through the darkness, watching Lionel's tranquil sprawl as he slept defiantly
through the gale.
In Metropolis, thunder rumbled and a soft rain began to fall. Pamela woke to
the noise of Lillian mumbling in her sleep, and a confused moment passed before
she remembered the request to stay. Lillian shifted, frowning at her dream. It
sounded as if she were whispering, "Don't," over and over. Pamela ran a
soothing hand over Lillian's shoulder until her face cleared, and she drifted
back into peaceful sleep.
Pamela lay watching her and wondered again where Lionel was, and if he realized
the seriousness of his wife's condition. It was one thing if he was honestly
distracted. She could forgive him that. But it was something else entirely if
he simply didn't care.
She resolved to find out the truth as soon as she could, and after
that...everything in this house would change.
Pamela laid a protective kiss on Lillian's shoulder, and then turned on her
side to watch the storm grow through the opening in the heavy drapes.
As her tears dried, rain cascaded down the glass, and water engulfed the
breadth of her dreams.
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