This was written for the CLex Fuh-Q-Fest, quite a fun little group challenge. The particular challenge for this story was: "Clark and Lex have had a good life together, but Lex is old, and Clark knows he'll be alone soon. (kira-nerys)" The soundtrack for this story was Sarah McLachlan's "Do What You Have To Do" back to back with Aimee Mann's "Wise Up." Quite the melancholy duo, I strongly recommend them for writing sad scenes. Beta goddesses on this one: 'tilla, Sleeps With Coyotes, Eliza, and Peach. The food comparison Peach made: "I would say warm, frothy cappuccino. There is that element of warmth that both the story and the coffee gives, and there's also that melancholy I associate with sitting in a cafe all by myself."

"Let go, Clark. Just...let go."

Lex always said that whenever the pain or the fear became too much. The pain of not saving everybody. The fear of hurting anybody. Lex said that the first time they'd kissed and Lex had pushed him down on the couch and Clark had been terrified of tearing through Lex like tissue paper.

Let go.

Said it every time Clark landed on the terrace and went to his knees, the uniform covered in blood and dirt. Ashes. Biotoxins. The dome would come down, encasing him to let the cleaners work, and Lex would always be there by the time he was safe to touch again. Always. No matter what time of day or night it was. No matter if Lex was supposed to have been in Tokyo or London or DC while Superman was once more off saving the world. Lex would kneel before him and pull him in close, holding on as Clark made the transition. Untouchable alien superhero to the man Jonathan and Martha Kent had raised as human, had taught to feel the way a human feels. Taught to hurt the way a human hurts.

Let go.

He doesn't want to let go this time. Not this time.

There are the soft, sterile sounds of machines behind him, mocking him, reminding him again of how human he isn't. And it doesn't matter if he wants to let go or not; the choice is rapidly passing from his hands. Age...is not a thing he can save Lex from. It's not bullets and it's not knives and it's not a maniac with a bomb. It can't touch Clark anymore, no more than any of those things can, but he can't touch it, either. He can't stop it.

It's just...human.

Let go.

"Clark...."

Lex's voice is whisper-thin with age, still seductive to his ears but fading, fading. He turns, crosses the room to take Lex's hand gently in his own, tries to summon a smile for eyes that are just as bright and sharp as they have always been.

"I'm here, Lex." I'm always here.

Lex gives him a smile back, gentle, the smile always saved just for him. The smile no one believed could grace a Luthor face until Lex had given it to Clark in front of enough cameras to convince the worst cynic. In every way, Lex was more than a Luthor, just as Clark was more than Superman, though that was something they could never tell the world. Lex had always done everything in his power to make sure the weight of his surname didn't crush him, and he'd done the same for Clark when the necessity of discretion had forced the creation of a masking identity.

Superman, Earth's Greatest Superhero.

Let go.

He had, surrendering his fear and worry to his alter ego, and Lex had kept that unspoken promise that there would be room under Superman's mantle for Jonathan and Martha Kent's boy. For Lex Luthor's lover. For that part of him that was human, would always be human, no matter where he came from or what had arisen at the North Pole.

No matter what he could do for the sake of saving the world.

"It's almost time, Clark."

"No."

Everyone else is gone. And that's been okay, as long as Lex is still here. Still with him.

He doesn't want to save a world that doesn't have Lex Luthor in it.

"Yes. Clark, listen to me. It's going to be okay."

"How?" And he's holding onto Lex's hand too hard, he knows, but Lex doesn't protest, doesn't even wince. Lex has always understood that he is only invulnerable on the outside.

"I've made...contingency plans," Lex struggles a moment for breath, and Clark can't even save him from that anymore. CPR doesn't work as well for a system that's just worn out. "The clones didn't work, but...your ship's AI. I'm in there, Clark. Like your parents."

He thinks about that. About talking to Lex's hologram powered by the alien AI. About never being able to touch, ever again. About sleeping in the ice, alone.

He's made his own contingency plan, small and lethal and rare. He hopes it works.

Something must show on his face because Lex's expression changes, but Lex doesn't say anything, simply looks at him with the eyes of a twenty-one year old. A twenty-one year old in love.

Clark remembers being fifteen and afraid to understand that look. He's not afraid now.

"Clark."

"Yes, Lex. I know."

Lex closes his eyes, and without their light Clark sees it, how frail Lex has become. How old. Wrinkled, dry skin; withered limbs. Brittle bones. These last years have been hard on Lex, he knows, but Lex held on until Clark was ready to let go.

Lex has always worked on Clark's schedule.

Clark has always tried to keep a schedule that works for Lex.

Let go.

He disconnects the machines first. He knows how much Lex hates them and feels a stab of guilt that he could not find the courage for this sooner. But his guilt means nothing now and he pushes it back down, focusing on the task at hand. There will be no shrill beeps or blinking lights to announce the passing of Lex Luthor. Clark cannot save him from age, but he can save him from such an indignity. He likes to think that counts for something.

With the machines silenced, darkened, he leans over and kisses Lex. Not a careful kiss, as he's gotten into the habit of giving this past decade, but a kiss like that first one, full of need and want and everything he hadn't yet been able to say. It's appropriate; he has another secret now, one last unspoken for Lex to forgive him.

And Lex does, offering his own kiss as absolution, as understanding.

The choice is easier, after that.

Clark breathes the words against Lex's lips.

"Let go, Lex. Just...let go."

Lex exhales against his skin, softly, slowly, and is still.

Clark waits only long enough to be sure, and then he slowly removes the lead-lined tube from his jacket. Such a little thing, to bring down Superman. To bring Clark peace. He takes one last look at Lex's face, so un-Lex-like now, and thinks of the hologram waiting for him in the ice.

The hologram Lex had to know would never be used.

Let go.

He unscrews the lid of the tube, and does.

~END~