Title: Ronin

Author: sangga

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Surely you jest.

Email:

Archive: Please – email and tell me.

Summary: Her first year back in Metropolis – from samurai to self-righting doll. Chloe/Lex.

Spoilers: None. Future.

Feedback: Is hi-fibre goodness.

Note: Queen's English, folks. This is for Kathe, who first inspired, then conspired. It was her line that got me going – 'One thing she learned about the man was that he never met a printing of The Art of War that he didn't like.' Thus, I've extended the concept – Chloe as retainer-in-training, an alliance-in-the-making. In her first year, she has to learn the hard way. Each quote is from Hagakure – The Book of the Samurai by Yamamoto Tsunetomo. And acknowledgements to the Dandy Warhols, for the soundtrack.

Ronin

"There is something to be learned from a rainstorm. When meeting with a sudden shower, you try not to get wet and run along the road. But doing such things as passing under the eaves of houses, you still get wet. When you are resolved from the beginning, you will not be perplexed, though you still get the same soaking. This understanding extends to everything."

It wasn't like she got off the bus, bag in hand, to stand forlorn in the rain at some downtown Metropolis depot station, friendless and alone in the big city. It wasn't like that at all.

Well, the rain part wasn't true.

But she had an address, which counted for something. She had keys, hard and brittle as nails in her hand, and it gave her a direction to walk in. The city had changed, but she knew the way. The lay of the land.

She had a one-bedroom walk-up with very little furniture and no phone connection. She remembered to buy a jar of instant on the way there, but she had to boil water in an old saucepan. And no sugar. Or milk. Which at that point didn't matter.

What she did have was an advance on her salary. Thank god. 'Salary' – what a pleasing little word, fitting inside it a host of new connotations. She was interested to discover that 'salary' could be used interchangeably with 'kitchenware' and 'linen' and 'groceries'.

Oh yeah. And 'rent'.

Internship was…well, kinda boring after being your own editor, but it traveled okay. And she had big plans.

None of them had involved him at all.

He must have radar. She thought she'd managed to blow in quietly, no fuss no fanfare, but either she was way off on that count, or – as she suspected – he had spies combing the city for news.

Or maybe he just noticed her byline. (Way down there, in the back-bottom-farthest corner-behind the entertainment guide-beneath the obituaries section. Yeah, that must've been it.)

Either way, she's still using a bedsheet as a bedroom curtain when the phone rings one evening, and she, all unawares (cursing herself, still trying to slap that sheen of country life off her, like she does every day at work, it never pays to seem too green or, god forbid, too eager), answers it.

"Hello?"

"Well hello there, Miss Sullivan." She can detect grinning over the line, overlaying the mellifluous tones she thought she'd never have to hear again. "Metropolis welcomes you."

"Jesus…" One blink, one slip, and she's back. "A welcoming party of one? What, Lex – no pom-poms, no dancing girls?"

"Never thought your tastes ran to the burlesque, Chloe, but if you'd like I could arrange it."

"I'll bet." She can't help smiling in return. Cat-smiles. "Well goddamn. Lex Luthor, you unbelievable bastard."

"What a way to talk – and here I am, extending the hand of friendship."

"This number's unlisted, you know."

"I know."

"Great. My first local call, and you turn out to be a stalker."

"Chloe, that's what I like about you. You see right to the heart of my charm."

She can see him, see him in her mind's eye. He will have the phone under his left ear, and the lines around his grin crinkling up just so. This late at night, his shirt – either crisp white or urbane black, she hasn't decided – will be open at the collar by one button, the knot of his tie loose by one degree. And he will sink into the leather of his dark brown 'Captain of Industry' office chair as he stretches his long legs out before him, swivelled side-on and tapping the pads of his fingers on the glass of his enormous mahogany desk, the one with all the drawers…

"It's good to hear a familiar voice," she says suddenly, surprising herself.

"My pleasure," he counters smoothly, ignoring her lapse. "How's city life treating you?"

"Ah, you know…" She trails her gaze over the second-hand sofa, general lack of floor coverings, books in precariously balanced piles against the wall, haphazard kitchen arrangements. "It's keeping me busy. But hey, not as busy as you, it seems."

"Pardon?"

"You don't remember? Jesus, Lex, it can't be that old hat… Zantek, and Blix, in one week?"

"Oh yeah," he drawls. She hears his tone thin out slightly. "You've been staying current, I see."

"Occupational hazard," she counters, dry. "But seriously – two takeovers in 72 hours… What, were you hungry?"

"You could say I get peckish from time to time," he says, and she can hear his tiger-rumble down the line and suddenly her skin prickles delightfully all over, and she swallows and reminds herself that it's been a while, as he continues blithely. "And really, Chloe, you need to get on top of the lingo – the word is 'merger'. 'Takeover' is altogether too –"

"Predatory?" she supplies coyly.

"I was going to say 'gauche'"

She laughs, and he partakes, and then she sighs out contentedly.

"Ah, Lex…I've missed this, you know."

She hears the phone shift, and the creak of his chair.

"Yeah…" There's a momentary pause. "So, did you lose contact with everybody after you got into college, or was I the only lucky one?"

She winces. This will not be the fun part of the evening.

"Oh no, I discriminated pretty evenly across the board." She blinks against memories of first year, striking out on her own. What a fuck-up that had turned out to be. She prods him a little for reminding her. "And then I tried calling you, but…you got busy."

"Yeah. I did."

Three curt words, one for every year of the bitterest legal wrangle in east-coast corporate history. It had got very very ugly. She knew he'd very nearly done some time himself.

She imagines him chewing on his lip, that look in his eyes, staring at the corner of his desk. She waits for him to say it first. Which, after a beat, he does.

"Have you been back to Smallville?"

"No." She rubs her eyes, her voice suddenly wan, washed-out. "Not since the funeral."

There's a bleak moment of silence, long enough for her to remember the way she'd staggered, and how he'd taken her arm, at the cemetery two years ago. She blinks. This is the part of the conversation she'd been hoping to avoid, so she tightens her voice and resolves to get it over with.

"Is your dad still in jail?"

She can hear the rime crackle along the line as he turns to ice. Clipped consonants.

"Last time I checked."

"And my dad's still dead," she acknowledges brusquely, "so let's just skip over this bit, and go straight to the part where you invite me out for a drink."

Instant defrost as he gets a handle on her deftness once again.

"Uh – sure. Do you wanna come out for a drink? There's a place –"

"I'd love to," she says, and exhales warmly into his ear.

None of her plans had involved him at all. But that's always how it is with Lex Luthor – in for a penny, in for a pound.

oOo

"When meeting with calamities or difficult situations, it is not enough to simply say that one is not at all flustered…one should dash forward bravely, and with joy. It is the crossing of a single barrier and is like the saying 'The more the water, the higher the boat.'"

She believes she's pointed this out already. Thought she'd made it abundantly clear, in fact, that she is the kind of person to drink coffee but never to serve it.

The distinction is obviously lost at the Planet, however, because Perry keeps using her as his waitress du jour. As a cub, this is probably to be expected – nobody seems to find her relegation to human Café Matic anything to be concerned about.

Chloe makes it her concern. And when she thinks cub, it's tiger cub – all needle-sharp teeth and ruffled fur and testing her claws. She can be a bitch when she wants to be, but she's exercising her discretion. The coffee thing is usually considered a demotion. She turns it into just the opposite.

Once she found her feet, establishing the routine took her about two weeks. She arrives at the office, unloads, heads for the kitchenette – colloquially termed 'the galley' by the rest of the crew – and fills two mugs, pre-brewed because she boned up on how to set the timer on the coffee machine. Perry takes blast-furnace black with a tab of that disgusting aspartame stuff. She herself prefers hot milky with two sugars.

She collects the papers under her arm and handles the mugs like she busses tables every day for a living as she coasts down to her editor's office. Usually he's just hanging up his jacket as she breezes in.

"Hey, boss."

"Morning, Sullivan." He settles into his chair and grabs for the papers as she lifts her arm and lets them drop unceremoniously onto the debris on his desk. Then she hands him the mug and he eyes her as he blows on his coffee, knowing he's being played but enjoying the skillful amiability of it all. "So, you wanna gimme the Reader's Digest version?"

She slides into her usual chair, tucks one foot under her and slurps her fourth shot of java for the day, watching him over the rim of her mug.

"Berkowitz is on the warpath again."

"And when, exactly is our illustrious mayor not on the warpath?" he harrumphs, and unfolds the headlines with his left. "What is it this time? Crime stats again?"

"You wish. Crime waves make better ink than industrial rezoning."

Perry sighs.

"Jesus, tell me it's the Docklands redevelopment and not the downtown."

She nods and sips.

"Mm – it's Docklands. Big players too. You've got Harrison, JMV and Locke Alliance all buying up waterfront like there's no tomorrow."

"What about Lexcorp?" White's eyes twinkle speculatively.

"Nothing yet."

"Uh-huh. Believe that when I see it."

He swivels his chair to take in the Metropolis skyline – no fires, no flashing lights – before turning back with that speculative look again.

"You got contacts in that camp, right?"

She raises both eyebrows as she swallows her mouthful. Then she shrugs.

"In a manner of speaking."

"Hm." He narrows his eyes. "I'm sending Jeff out to cover Harrison and James et al. You can watch Locke and Luthor."

She straightens quickly.

"But I could –"

"Forget it." He sips his coffee noisily. "And don't gimme that look either. You'll have your hands nicely full with checking out those two on top of your other assignments."

He means the flower shows and obits. She makes a face. She might have squirmed her way into White's favour with the coffee and the mano-e-mano banter, but he still runs the paper.

"Luthor hasn't even started making a move yet," she complains, trying not to sound like she's whining.

Perry's eyes go steely.

"And everyone will be thinking exactly that – right up to the moment he snakes around and sinks his teeth in." He frowns at her softly. The paternal tone must be her imagination. "You watch that horse, Chloe – Lex Luthor knows more sleight of hand than Houdini. And he has a really nasty habit of sneaking up and biting you on the ass when you least expect it."

Chloe pouts and nods, chews her lip.

While the concept of Lex biting her on the ass produces a mental image that she's not about to share with her editor, she appreciates the warning.

oOo

"You cannot tell whether a person is good or bad by his vicissitudes in life. Good and bad fortunes are a matter of fate. Good and bad actions are Man's Way. Retribution of good and evil is taught simply as a moral lesson."

The card arrives by snail-mail – very ye olde worlde of him, but she figures it goes with the territory of ye olde money, in that curious way rich people have of elevating anything vaguely old-fashioned to an exalted level of classicism.

She juggles her bag and a sack of groceries while opening it, scans quick, and then tosses it in with the tinned tuna and courgettes.

Social functions always give her the heebee jeebies. Social functions with Lex ought never to be contemplated.

Better to stick to things the way they are – her stomping ground, her turf, pizza and a glass or two of polite red in the living room, and loose casual to the point of excess. Fortnightly calls and occasional bitch sessions next to the stereo. He pulls her out of the apartment to dinner sometimes, but she hates everything except the food, especially hates that look he gets, that voice – his public persona coming out of its box almost against his will, as he deals with staff, and bumps into business acquaintances, and glares at the odd flashbulb. And she can keep up appearances, keep up with the banter, but she never knows quite what to do with her hands.

Still, she looks at the card again after dinner, sitting on the new couch with a glass of wine, thumbing the heavy paper and tracing the dark emboss, while she crosses her bare feet under her.

Just call him. Call him, and make your apologies – washing your hair, anything.

He answers after three rings, and caller ID already has him prepped and grinning.

"Have you eaten? I'm on my way to Mietta's."

"Yes, I have, thank you, and you know it'll be a cold day in hell before I let you drag me back to that place. They gave me lukewarm coffee because I wore jeans."

"They did no such thing, and you know I'd fire the waiting staff extant if I believed otherwise. And your ass looks perfect in jeans."

He's fired up, PlayboyLex to the max now, and she rolls her eyes, listening to him change gears as he drives with his knee. She's familiar with the technique.

"Get off it, Lex."

"What's your pleasure, Chloe?"

"You tell me. What's with the shindig?"

"Ah, you got the invitation…" His voice broadens as he smiles.

'Yeah, I got it. Should I frame it? – it looks prettier than my diploma."

"You should use it, my dear. Saturday night. And don't tell me you're washing your hair."

She grits her teeth and re-tucks her feet.

"Socializing is not my forte, as well you know."

"But it should be. Can I entice you with snippets from the guest list? Headlines galore…"

"Entice all you want, I'm not coming."

"Jesus, Chloe…" He sounds genuinely irritated now. "Do you have a career?"

"Yes," she returns sharply, "but it's in investigative journalism, not paparazzi tabloid mulch."

"So leave your camera at home." He's really trying to make a point, to win her over. She can hear it in his voice – more with the sincerity, less with the witty repartee. "Chloe, you said you needed to make contacts – well, this is how it works. Half of Metropolis big business will be there. And don't tell me that White isn't getting on your back about the Brierson rorts thing…"

She wonders if he's pulled the car over – she can hear the engine purring, idling. Maybe he's at a stoplight. She bites her lip and listens to his voice, all caramel blandishments.

"Come to the party, Chloe. Look around and see what happens. Two drinks. Honest to god. And if you don't get a bite, I swear I'll eat whatever crap you decide to cook for me next Friday," although he says it with the confidence of a man who knows his money is already in the bag.

She sighs.

"Even if it's humble pie?"

Now his smile sounds full-blown.

"Good girl."

"Yeah, yeah…I should be getting my head read."

"Maybe the night will surprise you," he says, and she gets that funny feeling in her stomach again, his voice purring like the engine. "Hey – I'm out of time. I'll see you on –"

"Wait – wait a second. What do I wear to this thing? I'm not exactly –"

"Something low-key. Think cocktails at the Palais, rather than belle of the ball."

"Something low-key. Presumably not jeans."

"You turn up in jeans and I'll kick you out myself."

"Tempt me."

"I have to go. Don't wear jeans, and don't come early."

He clicks off, and she's left holding the phone, a burr in her ear as her brain ticks over.

Saturday is three days away. Something low-key. Cocktails, not ballgowns. She thinks that nothing in her wardrobe really fits into either category. And she'll have to buy shoes.

Damn him.

The rest of the week is a blur. She tells Perry she's got a contact on the Brierson thing, that she'll have something solid by Sunday morning – crossing her fingers behind her back, half prayer, half lie.

She calls in a favour and borrows a pair of loose-slung black silk pants, but she still has to go out and shop for shoes and a top in her lunch-hour. She buys the first attractive thing she sees, a slip of jade silk confectionary, and it's not until she gets home and puts it all on that she realizes that the shimmering material, while lovely, dives embarrassingly low in the back and has a single artfully-placed button in front.

Wonderful. She's just paid half a week's wage for a boob-flashing singlet. Way to go with the professional look.

On Saturday night her hands are cold as she touches them to her cheeks, and there was absolutely no need for Lex to tell her to arrive late, because it takes her forever to get it all together. All the depilating, and the moisturizing, and the cosmeticizing, and her stockings ride up too high on her waist so she has to go for thigh-highs and a thong, and she can't wear a bra with the stupid top, and her hair keeps flicking, so she gives up and fixes a red camellia near her ear for camouflage.

Then there's her black clasp purse – a little old, but still serviceable – and – oh shit, coat? No coat. Never even crossed her mind. Fuck. And it's freezing – well, the hell with it, her trench will have to do, better than arriving with hypothermia, and they'll probably take it at the door anyway…

The taxi ride is only long enough to give her the opportunity to list all the reasons for being apprehensive, without giving her the time to allay any of them. Okay, so there's that little promise she made to her editor. And the fact that she has to return Marcie's pants without getting them stained. And the fact that she's uncomfortable shmoozing above her own social set.

And then there's Lex.

She's sure that she's going to spend the night with half her mind focussed on making useful-but-lightweight conversation with the guests, and the other half trying to figure out exactly what his ulterior motives are. Sure, they seem to be renewing some kind of friendship – the man knows where she hides her spare door key, for christ's sake – but if she knows one thing about Lex Luthor it's that there's always some sort of long term plan rolling around in his head.

She knows it's gotta be something more complicated than just him trying to get into her pants.

She's just about to smooth the material of said pants over her knee when the cab driver pulls over and smiles for his money. She hands him the bills, going over her own plan in her mind. It's one she's adapted from an old philosophy of Perry's: Get in, get the goods, get out. And don't listen to a single word Luthor says.

Then there's a doorman, and warm air in the elevator, and the lift opens with a solemn ping, someone taking her coat discretely as she wanders into the penthouse to end all penthouses…

She'd forgotten how much his tastes in décor differed from Lionel's. Where his father was all dark wood dado paneling and chandeliers, Lex's idea of luxurious leans more towards clean marble, the colours of late autumn, the complementary textures of suede and leather, burnished tones of chrome, the dark lines of steel. It's the reflection of a man with his inner eye fixed firmly on the future. The suite isn't as cavernous as she expected, but the post-modern orientalism lends a feeling of additional space. She wonders if he's looking around, thinking of the guests on his floor as so much clutter.

The crowds of people are loitering in groups or milling around in the usual party way – she finds it interesting, sociologically, that people congregate in much the same fashion the world over, whether they're at a highschool social, a college kegger, or an upper-echelon charity bash. She watches a rather drunk silver-haired man in a tux navigate past her, assisted by a much younger red-headed female.

Hope you find the men's room in time, guys.

"I wonder if they know that the bathroom is in the other direction?"

She turns, to take in a tall young man with dark hair and linebacker shoulders nicely accentuated by the cut of his suit. He's smiling at her, and she's not too shy to return the favour.

"My thoughts exactly."

He extends a hand.

"Sorry – my manners. Pete Llewellyn."

The name rings a bell – she shakes on it, keeping her smile in place.

"Chloe Sullivan - nice to meet you. So, is mind-reading your only party trick?"

He grins attractively.

"At parties like these, yes. Except for this old one – would you like a drink?"

She's about to reply when a cool hand touches the small of her back.

"Pete, I believe that's my line."

She jumped automatically – she's seriously going to have to break him of this habit of sneaking up on her. It takes her only a second to correct her smile.

"Geez, Lex – you started the party without me?"

In front of an audience, his cheshire grin seems a little practised.

"Well, Miss Sullivan, now you're here we can pull out all the stops. Glad you could make it."

"My pleaure," she says unconvincingly.

"I see you've met Pete…" He steps forward and claps the younger man amiably on the shoulder. "Really, Llewellyn, if you stand by the door catching all the pretty ones as soon as they arrive, what are the rest of us going to do?"

Chloe drops her eyes to avoid seeing Pete Llewellyn's cheeks colour. But she makes sure she looks up in time to smile and catch her advantage.

"Hey, if you're still offering that drink…"

She's gotta hand it to Llewellyn – he recovers fast. With a quick glance at Lex, the man catches her gaze.

"Uh, sure. Why don't I get you a –"

"Scotch, no ice."

" – scotch, no ice, and meet you over by the window?"

"Sounds great."

"Great. Give me twenty seconds."

"You're on." She smiles encouragingly – it's always good to encourage the pathetic ones.

Pete trails off into the crowd. She and Lex watch him go, before turning back to each other. Her first thought is that he looks fucking incredible in black Armani. Her next reaction is to snort out a laugh.

"God you're rude. His father owns half the northside."

Lex just raises an eyebrow at Llewellyn's retreating back.

"His father owns a third of the northside. And Pete Llewellyn spends a nice whack of the profits on callgirls and casino gambling. He's a waste of skin, but I'm sure you figured that out all by yourself."

Then he sweeps his eyes over her, from bottom to top, in a way that gives her the shivers and suggests that all the preparations were worth it. A slow pleased smile spreads across his face, a mini-sun.

"You look ravishing."

She can't do anything but swallow and shrug.

"You said no jeans."

"I did."

There's the need to avoid flushing, so she breaks the moment, shifting from foot to foot.

"So is this gonna take long? These shoes won't be bearable past one, and I think my hair decorations are already starting to wilt."

He grins, leans in close as he slips an arm behind her, and she can feel his fingers on the skin of her spine, his voice growling low.

"Then I'll have you deflowered by the end of the night. C'mon…" He maneuvers them both towards the throng. "Let's go find your drink."

Once she gets her breath back, the rest of the evening goes pretty much to plan.