Clark had secrets. He knew that. Accepted it with the same resignation that let him know those secrets would never be willingly revealed.

It was the price of their friendship, a "don't ask, don't tell" policy that shielded a revelation far more earth-shattering than his feelings for Clark.

He would be a good friend. He would stop asking the questions that brought fear into Clark's eyes, thinly masked with shuffling feet and slouching shoulders. He would offer only friendly banter, laughter, and loyalty.

He would give Clark no reason to hide around him, or from him.

But he would know.

II

It was easy. A simple matter of gathering information and storing it for later use. The hardest part of the task was keeping it all hidden, keeping it all secure from Clark's friendly prying.

The room was lined in lead, the perimeter guarded with cameras and human surveillance, and the lock impervious to all keys except the lone master in his possession.

He came here often, adding another fact, another token to the cache of treasures that belonged to him, and to him alone. It was difficult to let her in, to lay his gold before her.

But he did.

III

She was everywhere now, her presence entrenched in his life as surely as Clark's was increasingly absent. There were words bandied about, declarations of love and devotion, promises of lifetimes entwined.

The days slipped into a maddening pattern, Judas kisses mingling with hypocritical glances and touches.

He watched her at night, eyes stilled beneath heavy, lash-laden lids, and wondered how she could dream so peacefully. She was a serpent, hair coiled on his pillow, poised to strike; her fangs buried in his soul. A smile, a sleep-softened murmur, and she cuddled closer. Her fingers grazed over his heart.

He shuddered.

IV

The day before their wedding, she made her move.

He woke to the muffled sound of a circular saw, grinding against wood-sheathed metal. An easy task to throw the afghan aside, to tread quietly up the stairs from his office, undetected. She would be engrossed in the task, unsuspecting of his approach, all too willing to believe he had spent the night elsewhere, just as he had intended. She would be...

Dead.

Lying on the polished floor, crimson trail winding between her open eyes.

He doubted security had asked who she worked for.

He didn't need to ask. He knew.

V

It was enormously satisfying to imagine the shock on his father's face. He smiled to himself, the strained breath filtering through the speaker phone soothing his nerves more surely than any opiate could.

He had won.

The corporate battle was over, and he had emerged the victor. It was, however, the end to the private war that filled his soul with an almost hysterical joy.

He knew. Knew everything Lionel had sought, and failed to discover. Had proof of his actions, of his machinations. Could produce that proof at will. He knew every last secret.

He held his father's soul.

VI

The threat was gone. Lionel and his empire were defeated, and a new era was ushered in. To the victor, the spoils.

Now, at last, he could claim his prize.

The summer day dawned clear. The students filed into rows, their black gowns fluttering in the hot sun. A celebration, followed by feelings confessed between slow, wet kisses. Anticipation for autumn sped the days past in rapid succession.

September arrived, amidst the flurry of movers and higher learning. Education meshed with business acumen, and the Metropolis nights came alive.

"Clark Kent and Lex Luthor."

He liked the sound of that.

VII

Fall turned to Winter, and the sun appeared once more; time to make his move.

He inserted the disc, a lifetime's work collected over three years, digitized and compiled for easy viewing. He would tell Clark, would show him what he knew.

There would be no more need for evasion, no way to dispute the truth.

He smiled, giddy, laughing silently as he pondered Clark's reaction. Jonathan's reaction. To think that he had known, all this while, and taken no action against them...

He would show them. He could be trusted. He had been, whether they knew it or not.

VIII

He had forgotten about Lionel, about a devil's deal made with one of Clark's closest friends. He stared, mute, struck dumb by his own failure, his own arrogance.

She had told him, told Clark what he knew. The proof was in the shattered screen, wrecked in anguish by an invulnerable fist.

Now, there was no need to confide, and no confidence to be had.

He had waited too long. What he planned to offer in love was now tainted with distrust, forever painted with the brush of self-preservation.

It all sounded like lies. He was afraid it sounded like goodbye.

IX

The bedroom door mocked him.

The sounds within were torture: the quiet whisk of luggage zippers, the dim rustle of fabric hastily folded, the muted rasp of a ragged inhalation that tightened the knot in his chest, the battlefield where fear and regret fought.

His raised hand lowered, and he swallowed. What to say?

I'm a fool.

Don't leave me.

I'm so sorry.

He lifted his hand again, and the door swung open. A tousled head lifted, reddened eyes met his.

"I love you."

The only three words he needed to say, the trembling embrace the only reply he wanted.

X

He traced his apology on golden flesh, words silenced in the slow licks of his tongue and the reverent tracing of his fingers. It was a truth they were helpless to deny, one that time, and fate, had decreed they discover together.

He was a fool, but one forgiven. The strong arms that circling him gave the sweetest absolution, the lips drinking the sorrow from his soul replaced it with love and understanding.

His world narrowed, this moment encompassing a lifetime of possibilities. So odd to fly free, yet be tightly bound.

He knew Clark's secrets, and Clark knew his.