"Yeah. Right," Clark muttered under his breath. "Organized."

Lex, in his fluffy armchair across the room, didn't make any acknowledgment to this, or any sign of having heard at all. He probably had, though, and was just ignoring Clark anyway. That would be just like him, Clark thought rebelliously, and he glared over.

Lex turned his head, smiling blandly. "Something wrong, Clark?" he said, voice lazy and low. He stretched his arms slowly, and settled down into another relaxed-looking sprawl.

Like Clark was going to fall for that. Ha. Lex was always aware of exactly what he was doing. It was part of his sneakiness.

"*You* don't appreciate me."

"May I remind you that you were the one who volunteered for this?"

"Yeah, well." Clark was aware that what he was doing could possibly be termed 'pouting.' He accepted this, and moved on. "I thought you just needed, you know, help with the heavy stuff. Like, putting the books on the shelf. And moving boxes. I didn't know you needed them sorted. *Obsessively* sorted. Your order doesn't make any sense. It's counter-intuitive!"

One side of Lex's mouth curled up: he was very clearly *not* snickering. "Well, you didn't ask, did you? This should teach you a lesson about leaping into things without all the facts." He closed his eyes, and leaned back farther into the chair.

"And that's another thing. I thought you were going to, like, help or something, not just sit there watching me." *Together*. Like "a fixing up Lex's library" party. Except less dorky sounding.

"You know," Lex said musingly, "I did just put in an extremely long and involved day of work, on a scorching hot day in an inadequately air-conditioned factory, where I am, in fact, completely responsible for the jobs and livelihood of several thousand people. You, in contrast, slept half the day and spent the rest splashing around in my pool."

Clark made a face at the bookshelf, where Lex couldn't see, and pushed a book on with rather more force than was probably strictly necessary. "I don't think paternal's a very good image for you, Lex."

"It does seem to go well with your five-year-old self, though, don't you agree?"

Clark crossed his arms in front of him. "I'm *not* acting like a five-year-old."

"No?" Lex sprung to his feet, and crossed the space between them. He took hold of Clark's chin, and studied his face thoughtfully for a few moments. "You know, Clark, I think you might be right. It's a thin line between the two, but this is definitely just extra-sulky teenage Clark, and not five-year-old Clark."

"What's the difference?" Clark asked, despite himself.

"Well," Lex said, wrapping his arms around Clark's waist, "with five-year-old Clark, there's really not much you can do, other than leave him alone to sit out his tantrum. With extra-sulky teenage Clark, one has ... other options." He licked a small stripe above the collar of Clark's t-shirt.

"I don't care what you say," Clark mumbled, half to himself, "you're still weird. And sneaky. And obsessive."

"I'm not obsessive," Lex said carefully, into Clark's neck. "I'm just organized."

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