Title: The Clock Ticks On

Disclaimer: I own nothing for the ideas and characters within; respectively, the BBC and DC Comics get all the money, will my only wage is creativity.
And an urge to yell at the screen when the characters act stupid.

Warnings: slight mention, not even worth mentioning, of CLex. Oh, and possible for Third season Doctor Who episodes. Nothing concrete, just concepts.


He was staring out the window.

Alexander Luthor had always wanted to be president.

His father hadn't pushed the ambition upon him, despite rumors, in an attempt to control the world through other ventures besides business

(Lex knew his father had labs enough for that, so did he)

It wasn't even his own attempts at control, or domination. Whenever Lois Lane brought up the sore points of his past

(Belle Reeve, Superman, his obsessive vendetta against his progenitor)

he had to fight to reign in harsh words: was he too not allowed to grow, to change, to become different? Would he forever be tormented by sins, real and imagined? Would he ever see anything but wariness

(suspicion, caution, hate, hate, hate, hurt)

in Clark's eyes?

But that was history, that was the past: this was now.

He had won. He had succeeded.

Alexander J. Luthor, President.

He runs his fingers over the watch face.

It had happened by accident, as the most monumental events in history often do.

Alexander Luthor had been standing by his desk, preparing to leave for the evening

(one-hundred and fifty-seven hours into his new position, three am)

when he had tugged to hard on the desk drawer and it had popped out, spilling contents onto the floor. He bent down to gather them and notice the watch, the watch from his mother. He had to smile, remembering

(telling Clark about its importance, holding the broken timepiece on his first night in office and imaging how proud his mother would be, imagining telling her everything)

and he ran his fingers over the watch that had long since broken.

He had gathered himself when one of his new and many secretaries had entered, with more papers

(wars, droughts, funding, science, polls, opinions, the press)

and had commented on the beauty and simple elegance of the watch, asking to look at it, as she collected. He had been feeling generous, good willed, and had handed it over with the words that

"It no longer runs. It's broken, I'm afraid."

And she had looked at it and said no: that it just needed to be opened.

And so, she did.

He casts the watch aside.

It had been terrible. It had been beautiful.

It had hurt. It had been painless.

It was like dying. It was like being born.

It was exquisite.

When the lights had faded from Alexander Luthor's vision he was a different man than before.

His secretary smiled nervously at him.

He grinned back at her.

He makes his way from the room, moving his lips in a rhythm that only three others in the world

(galaxy, universe, existence, time)

would recognize.

His steps tap out the beat as he maneuvers around the body of the woman on the carpet, and he is impressed with the look of her in death.

He grabs his coat and gives her a salute and smile

(after all, she has set him free)

The Master closes the door behind him as he leaves the oval office, whistling a jaunty tune.

He has work to do.


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