DISCLAIMER & NOTES: Smallville, Lex property of DC Comics and other folks. Used without permission. All made up. For entertainment only. Thanks to stuff and Katie.

KEVIN

Kevin drinks and broods. In his head, it's another beat of "fuckers, fucking fuckers who should fuck off and die." He won't say it, so he drinks his drink.

Voinovich, the fucking prig, and his asshole comments. The short girl with her long hair to cover her twelve earrings who said, "Well, it's a good thing, because now every story will mention why you were here and our cause." Kevin thought the point was to testify and educate. Not be one more one minute segment on Entertainment Tonight about how no one thinks the Backstreet Boys have a brain or an opinion. Kevin has both. Fuckers.

So, it doesn't matter that he's thirty, not some snot-nosed idiot, doesn't matter that he's lived there, that he knows like he knows scales that coal mining practices now are wrong, damaging. Doesn't matter. His suit is nice. That's what he's accomplished.

To his right, someone sitting down at the bar. Clean, white hands. Kevin glances and thinks, bald, young, rich. He knows the last for sure, he knows what that suit cost. He's not just an idiot boybander with no rights to an opinion, he's the one who modeled, strut on the runway.

And this one, the one next to him ordering cognac, he's one more part of the problem. Because Kevin saw him, saw him today in the corridors, talking to someone's aide with a grin, getting everything he wanted because it's money. "Money always wins", the girl with the earrings said. Kevin has a lot of money, he'd like to buy some victories.

Respect, he thinks. Money doesn't buy respect, not in DC. Not anywhere.

If he said this backstage, they would talk him out of it. Nick would grin and rub his shoulder. AJ would look over his sunglasses and make some snide remark. Howie would say "fuck 'em." Brian would do something. Something goofy and sweet. Except he's not backstage, he hasn't been in months. He sips at his drink again.

"Let me know when you're done with that," Richie Rich says, from down the bar, looking straight ahead. "I'll buy you another one."

A thousand replies run though Kevin's mind, none of which he would actually ever say to a perfect stranger, so he just says, "You're talking to me?"

The guy nods and doesn't turn in his seat, but turns his head. "If you're not already a joke in the press, you're going to be. Another drink will do you good."

Another thousand things Kevin won't say and they all start with "fuck you." Kevin says, "I saw you there today. You're a lobbyist, right?"

The other man shakes his head. "No, no, you have to register to do that. Report gifts, things like that. My father's company hires lobbyists. I meet with them."

"The way the wheels turn in DC." Kevin finishes his drink. "I don't want another one."

"The way things work and get done. Do you think it would all be better if there were no companies? No one trying to make sure they could still make a profit?" Richie Rich sips his drink. "I'm not opposed to environmental regulation. Have to think about the future, the communities we live in."

Kevin scoffs. "I'd be a lot more inclined to buy this little act if I thought you meant we will protect the future and our communities with environmental regulation, but you're referring to corporations, aren't you?"

"Where do you think you'd be without BMG, Kodak, Armani?" He spins a napkin on the bar. "You may have grown up in a log cabin, Mr. Richardson, but you sure didn't stay there."

Kevin pulls out his wallet and slaps a twenty on the counter. "We're done with this." He walks away, storms away. Try to do good, and get shit on. Ridiculed, par for the course. It's not the joint, but it's about what he's used to. He counts to ten, "fuck-you-one-thousand, fuck-you-two-thousand," a beat in his head. He's in a darker corridor leading out, by the bathrooms, when Richie Rich is suddenly next to him, hand on his arm.

"Did I upset you?" Smirk.

"Of course not," Kevin bites out. He pushes past the other man, goes into the men's room. "Did you want an autograph? Or are you just following me?" Because of course the asshole is right behind him, warm light on his smooth head.

"I don't want an autograph. I was just trying to make conversation. Saying how much I enjoyed your last album seemed inappropriate, and untrue." Another smirk.

Kevin decides this is hell. And a nightmare. In five minutes he'll wake up, Kristin next to him in the bed, Brian on the phone or something. He hasn't woken up yet, so he says, "Black and Blue wasn't to your taste?"

"Well, I'm just not a Backstreet fan. I know I'm part of your target demographic, but, yeah, it's not my choice of music. If it's any consolation, I can't stand NSYNC either." Kevin wonders if the guy's face is set at permanent smirk.

"Guys aren't our target demographic." Kevin washes his hands, splashes his face. Turns around and crosses his arm. He's taller than Richie Rich, just a few inches sadly, but enough. This still works on Nick, when he draws up his height and glares.

"Some guys aren't. But, please. I've been to enough clubs, I read the right magazines. I'm pretty sure I'm in part of your target demographic." Not Nick, not intimidated.

"Oh, joy. Is this your idea of a come-on? Attack me and ridicule me?"

A new kind of smirk. Head tilt. "Was I attacking you?"

Kevin blinks icily, feels himself curl his fingers into fists. "This just doesn't seem like it came from a chapter of 'How to Make Friends and Influence People.'"

"Sorry," he says, still smirking, clearly not sorry at all. "I've never read that. Never had a reason to."

"Maybe you should."

Richie Rich pretends to consider this. "Perhaps I could borrow your copy. I'm sure it's collecting dust on a shelf somewhere." Then he says, "Can't we be friends? My name's Lex Luthor. Let's start over." And this gets topped off with a long look, up and down and up again and that look, lingering Kevin knows where.

"No." Kevin rubs his face, makes sure it's the hand with the ring. "Take your mindfucks elsewhere. I'm going home." He leaves and doesn't look back.

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