fic post mariposa
11/5/06 01:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: n/a—yet.
Rating: 2
Summary: The world is AU. The world is a gecko.
The Previous Parts are taking a field trip (and a hole saw) to a Jersey rest stop, right here.
Scarecrow
part b
Clark gasped, sobs that came from the pit of his stomach shook him. He was swallowed in the dark, drowning in it. The light of the moon turned everything into a black and white cutout of the world, a world he knew he was going to die in. Hurt filled every pore, leaked out of his mouth and eyes and skin…movement at the edge of the clearing tore a gasp of fear from him. There was a stranger there, half in darkness, silently watching him. Clark tried to speak, managed to croak out, “Help me. Please.”
“Hurts, doesn't it? Again, and again…it never stops….” The odd figure began to walk away, dismissing Clark and his misery.
“Wait! Help me. Get me down. Don’t leave me here….”
The young man stopped, spoke without looking back at Clark. “You're safer here. I’ve got to go—make them stop. Make sure they’ll never do it again.”
“Who—where are you going?” Clark could feel desperation flooding him—“Please! Don’t leave!”
“The dance…they need to learn…”
Dance? The homecoming dance…Clark thought vaguely…punish who? How….
Dark welled up at the edges of his eyes, his mind. Cold ate at his bones and clawed in his chest. The remnants of his lunch roiled in his stomach, and he gagged it up, his knees and thighs splattered by it. He shivered and shivered, and prayed…prayed his parents were looking for him, prayed to fall asleep so he couldn’t feel the slow grind of his arms twisting in the ropes, his joints burning, burning. His lip ran blood where he bit into it, cuts on his forehead spilled blood across his eyes.
The sound of a car engine filled him with hope…the sight of a truck bumping towards him curdled the hope, turned it into sick fear. They were coming back. Whitney’s truck pulled into the clearing and Clark drooped in the ropes. God, they were back, and this time--this time they’d hurt him worse. He knew, he was watching his death drive towards him. He felt warm all over, and strangely content. Thank God, it was almost over.…
Small warm hands were petting him, stroking him, and he felt himself being pulled upright, on his feet. He was free of the cross, he was alive—Chloe’s voice finally broke through the fog he’d been trapped in. Chloe had saved him. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into steel blue eyes right in front of him, blonde hair fell in a careless wave over them, and he smiled. He felt wonderful; he was safe, the good man found him again. He was drifting back into the night but he was still smiling. Safe, at last….
Whitney dragged Clark into the truck with Chloe’s help. He was racked with guilt, and his face still stung a little where she’d smacked him. That was okay, he deserved it. But Clark—he looked dead when they pulled up. For one horrible second he’d thought, “I’m going to jail for murder--”and then Clark twitched and groaned, and they’d hurried to cut him down. God. The relief had been so fucking intense, he’d almost hurled.
And then…Clark opened his eyes, looked at him with the face of an angel…his eyes, his mouth when he smiled…oh god. Clark had looked at him like *‘he* was the angel, instead of the bastard that had almost gotten him killed—shit—raped. Fuck. He was sure if he hadn’t intervened…Whitney shuddered. He couldn’t get the expression out of his mind. So much—love. That’s the only way he could describe it. He’d looked like he trusted him, like he was safe in their hands…he’d been waiting for Clark to spit in his face and he didn’t know how to handle this reaction.
He strapped him in the seat and thought that under the bruises and blood, Clark was beautiful, as pretty as Lana…Chloe smacked him in the back of the head. Really hard.
“Where are his clothes?” she snapped and was nice enough not to add ‘you asshole.’ She stared at him with all the anger that he’d expected from Clark. Clark. Whitney gaped at Chloe while his brain tried to work.
“I—I—shit. I don’t know…here.” He pulled a blanket off the bench seat and tossed it over Clark, hesitated a moment, and ripped the chain off Clark’s neck. He looked at the pendant and broken chain curled in his palm—and threw it as far as he could. He didn’t know what he’d tell Lana, but he’d think of something. It was a morbid piece of shit anyway….
Chloe frowned as Whit tucked the blanket in around Clark. “Oh well. I was planning on sitting on that to save my ass from your seriously unpadded bench seat—oh God—don’t pay any attention to me, I don’t know what I’m saying.” She scrambled onto the narrow ledge of a seat.
“Where to?”
“We’re taking him home, stupid, and you’re going to explain to his parents what happened to their son.”
“Oh God.”
“Mr. Kent has a shotgun.”
Oh fuck.
******
When the truck pulled into the Kent driveway, Mr. And Mrs. Kent were on the porch, in their coats, and Whitney was willing to bet they were about to look for Clark. Chloe stabbed a remarkably sharp finger into the back of his all ready seriously abused head. “Go on--”
“Please shut up, Chloe. I know what I’m supposed to do.” Whit swallowed hard, and climbed out of the truck—by the time he forced himself onto the drive, Mr. Kent was there, staring into the truck at Clark, and his expression was…shattered, full of guilt and sadness. Whit had the feeling his own face had looked like that when they’d cut Clark down. Mr. Kent caught his eye, and looked away.
Whitney swallowed, and his voice sounded weirdly hoarse when he spoke. “Mr. Kent, do you—can you help me move him?”
Mr. Kent nodded, and Mrs. Kent stood by, tears shimmering in her eyes, glaring at her husband, and glaring at him. She gasped aloud when they pulled Clark from the truck, and Mr. Kent tried to speak, and she told him to just shut up, shut up. Chloe was crying, and he felt—he felt like shit. He just felt like shit. He helped pull Clark up the porch stairs and into the house. He pulled him up the stairs to his bedroom with Mr. Kent’s help, and they laid him on his bed. Clark’s wobbly old smelly mutt tried to bite him, and once they got Clark on the bed, he jumped up too, and growled at anyone who came near. Ancient old fleabag. Stupid dog, with his feet all over Clark’s chest and licking his face and growling like--
Whitney horrified himself by bursting into tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I’m so stupid, but they do it every year, everyone does it, I never thought about it. I never saw it--” Whitney felt like an asshole, standing in front of Clark’s parents, their son laying on the bed, all beat up because of him, and here he was, crying and shit. Snot was running out of his nose and he was wiping it with his shirt---and he waited for Mrs. Kent to kick him down the stairs. Fuck, hoped she would—it would make him feel better at least.
She said without looking at him, “Whitney, go downstairs and wait with Chloe.”
He almost ran.
*****
“What did you tell Lana?” Chloe asked. She was at the stove, turning the burner under the kettle on. There were already cups on the table, with tea, and instant coffee and creamer near the sugar bowl. Whit counted three cups. He didn’t ask why there were only three. The air smelt of cinnamon, and apples—it was warm in the kitchen. And he felt like an interloper, a snake in their house.
“Hunh?” Whit forced his attention back to Chloe, realized she’d asked him about his girlfriend.
“Lana—fuck. Is at home and hating me for standing her up. Crap.”
“Well, tell her what happened. She’ll forgive you.”
Whit snorted, and Chloe grinned briefly before it melted away. “Hey, you stepped up tonight. I think it was brave of you to go back, and brave to bring him home.”
Whit looked up at her and rubbed his head. “Yeah, well, I had a little help making the right decision.” He watched Chloe pour the water into the cups. She was very comfortable in the Kent kitchen. It made him wonder just how close Chloe and Clark were… “Chloe, what is it with Clark and Lana? Lana thinks he’s got it bad for her, she feels sorry for him…”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Clark thinks she’s pretty, but you don’t have to worry that he might try and take her from you. He’s too shy to say, but Lana’s not the girl he’s interested in, I--” She stopped, and passed the mugs around when the Kents walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, tea--thank you Chloe, that’s so thoughtful.” She sat and wrapped her hands around the mug. Mr. Kent dropped a spoonful of powdered coffee into the cup, and stirred it while watching Whitney.
“Clark told us that you helped him,” he said, and Mrs. Kent looked at him marginally less coldly. Marginally. “He was pretty out of it when we brought him in. But he’s awake and aware now…and he’d like you to leave.”
Whitney sat on the edge of the chair, and felt stupidly hurt. Of course he wanted him out of his house. Of course-- he’d been out of it when they brought him home, he was probably only half unconscious when he’d smiled at him. Clark hated him and rightly so. Okay. “I’m sorry, truly sorry for what I did tonight. Can you please tell Clark for me, just how bad I feel about it?”
They nodded, and Chloe looked sympathetic when she walked him to the door. “You’ll be fine; Clark will be fine, some day. Go home, call Lana.” She shut the door on him, and he walked to his truck. He stopped when he saw the blanket crumpled in the front seat, and his eyes filled again. He ground the heel of his hand into his eyes, hard. Fine. Clark would be fine. Maybe. He should keep his eye on Clark. He seemed to need it, big as he was. He was kind of innocent in a weird way....
Whit huffed, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He put the truck in drive and made his way down the dark driveway. Seemed Clark had had a girlfriend all along. Well, that was good--he had someone to talk to. No wonder Chloe thought he was such an idiot--she could have said she was Clark’s girlfriend before, and saved everybody some trouble.
aftermath and changes next...
Fandom: SV
Pairing: n/a—yet.
Rating: 2
Summary: The world is AU. The world is a gecko.
The Previous Parts are taking a field trip (and a hole saw) to a Jersey rest stop, right here.
Scarecrow
part b
Clark gasped, sobs that came from the pit of his stomach shook him. He was swallowed in the dark, drowning in it. The light of the moon turned everything into a black and white cutout of the world, a world he knew he was going to die in. Hurt filled every pore, leaked out of his mouth and eyes and skin…movement at the edge of the clearing tore a gasp of fear from him. There was a stranger there, half in darkness, silently watching him. Clark tried to speak, managed to croak out, “Help me. Please.”
“Hurts, doesn't it? Again, and again…it never stops….” The odd figure began to walk away, dismissing Clark and his misery.
“Wait! Help me. Get me down. Don’t leave me here….”
The young man stopped, spoke without looking back at Clark. “You're safer here. I’ve got to go—make them stop. Make sure they’ll never do it again.”
“Who—where are you going?” Clark could feel desperation flooding him—“Please! Don’t leave!”
“The dance…they need to learn…”
Dance? The homecoming dance…Clark thought vaguely…punish who? How….
Dark welled up at the edges of his eyes, his mind. Cold ate at his bones and clawed in his chest. The remnants of his lunch roiled in his stomach, and he gagged it up, his knees and thighs splattered by it. He shivered and shivered, and prayed…prayed his parents were looking for him, prayed to fall asleep so he couldn’t feel the slow grind of his arms twisting in the ropes, his joints burning, burning. His lip ran blood where he bit into it, cuts on his forehead spilled blood across his eyes.
The sound of a car engine filled him with hope…the sight of a truck bumping towards him curdled the hope, turned it into sick fear. They were coming back. Whitney’s truck pulled into the clearing and Clark drooped in the ropes. God, they were back, and this time--this time they’d hurt him worse. He knew, he was watching his death drive towards him. He felt warm all over, and strangely content. Thank God, it was almost over.…
Small warm hands were petting him, stroking him, and he felt himself being pulled upright, on his feet. He was free of the cross, he was alive—Chloe’s voice finally broke through the fog he’d been trapped in. Chloe had saved him. He opened his eyes and found himself staring into steel blue eyes right in front of him, blonde hair fell in a careless wave over them, and he smiled. He felt wonderful; he was safe, the good man found him again. He was drifting back into the night but he was still smiling. Safe, at last….
Whitney dragged Clark into the truck with Chloe’s help. He was racked with guilt, and his face still stung a little where she’d smacked him. That was okay, he deserved it. But Clark—he looked dead when they pulled up. For one horrible second he’d thought, “I’m going to jail for murder--”and then Clark twitched and groaned, and they’d hurried to cut him down. God. The relief had been so fucking intense, he’d almost hurled.
And then…Clark opened his eyes, looked at him with the face of an angel…his eyes, his mouth when he smiled…oh god. Clark had looked at him like *‘he* was the angel, instead of the bastard that had almost gotten him killed—shit—raped. Fuck. He was sure if he hadn’t intervened…Whitney shuddered. He couldn’t get the expression out of his mind. So much—love. That’s the only way he could describe it. He’d looked like he trusted him, like he was safe in their hands…he’d been waiting for Clark to spit in his face and he didn’t know how to handle this reaction.
He strapped him in the seat and thought that under the bruises and blood, Clark was beautiful, as pretty as Lana…Chloe smacked him in the back of the head. Really hard.
“Where are his clothes?” she snapped and was nice enough not to add ‘you asshole.’ She stared at him with all the anger that he’d expected from Clark. Clark. Whitney gaped at Chloe while his brain tried to work.
“I—I—shit. I don’t know…here.” He pulled a blanket off the bench seat and tossed it over Clark, hesitated a moment, and ripped the chain off Clark’s neck. He looked at the pendant and broken chain curled in his palm—and threw it as far as he could. He didn’t know what he’d tell Lana, but he’d think of something. It was a morbid piece of shit anyway….
Chloe frowned as Whit tucked the blanket in around Clark. “Oh well. I was planning on sitting on that to save my ass from your seriously unpadded bench seat—oh God—don’t pay any attention to me, I don’t know what I’m saying.” She scrambled onto the narrow ledge of a seat.
“Where to?”
“We’re taking him home, stupid, and you’re going to explain to his parents what happened to their son.”
“Oh God.”
“Mr. Kent has a shotgun.”
Oh fuck.
******
When the truck pulled into the Kent driveway, Mr. And Mrs. Kent were on the porch, in their coats, and Whitney was willing to bet they were about to look for Clark. Chloe stabbed a remarkably sharp finger into the back of his all ready seriously abused head. “Go on--”
“Please shut up, Chloe. I know what I’m supposed to do.” Whit swallowed hard, and climbed out of the truck—by the time he forced himself onto the drive, Mr. Kent was there, staring into the truck at Clark, and his expression was…shattered, full of guilt and sadness. Whit had the feeling his own face had looked like that when they’d cut Clark down. Mr. Kent caught his eye, and looked away.
Whitney swallowed, and his voice sounded weirdly hoarse when he spoke. “Mr. Kent, do you—can you help me move him?”
Mr. Kent nodded, and Mrs. Kent stood by, tears shimmering in her eyes, glaring at her husband, and glaring at him. She gasped aloud when they pulled Clark from the truck, and Mr. Kent tried to speak, and she told him to just shut up, shut up. Chloe was crying, and he felt—he felt like shit. He just felt like shit. He helped pull Clark up the porch stairs and into the house. He pulled him up the stairs to his bedroom with Mr. Kent’s help, and they laid him on his bed. Clark’s wobbly old smelly mutt tried to bite him, and once they got Clark on the bed, he jumped up too, and growled at anyone who came near. Ancient old fleabag. Stupid dog, with his feet all over Clark’s chest and licking his face and growling like--
Whitney horrified himself by bursting into tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I’m so stupid, but they do it every year, everyone does it, I never thought about it. I never saw it--” Whitney felt like an asshole, standing in front of Clark’s parents, their son laying on the bed, all beat up because of him, and here he was, crying and shit. Snot was running out of his nose and he was wiping it with his shirt---and he waited for Mrs. Kent to kick him down the stairs. Fuck, hoped she would—it would make him feel better at least.
She said without looking at him, “Whitney, go downstairs and wait with Chloe.”
He almost ran.
*****
“What did you tell Lana?” Chloe asked. She was at the stove, turning the burner under the kettle on. There were already cups on the table, with tea, and instant coffee and creamer near the sugar bowl. Whit counted three cups. He didn’t ask why there were only three. The air smelt of cinnamon, and apples—it was warm in the kitchen. And he felt like an interloper, a snake in their house.
“Hunh?” Whit forced his attention back to Chloe, realized she’d asked him about his girlfriend.
“Lana—fuck. Is at home and hating me for standing her up. Crap.”
“Well, tell her what happened. She’ll forgive you.”
Whit snorted, and Chloe grinned briefly before it melted away. “Hey, you stepped up tonight. I think it was brave of you to go back, and brave to bring him home.”
Whit looked up at her and rubbed his head. “Yeah, well, I had a little help making the right decision.” He watched Chloe pour the water into the cups. She was very comfortable in the Kent kitchen. It made him wonder just how close Chloe and Clark were… “Chloe, what is it with Clark and Lana? Lana thinks he’s got it bad for her, she feels sorry for him…”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Clark thinks she’s pretty, but you don’t have to worry that he might try and take her from you. He’s too shy to say, but Lana’s not the girl he’s interested in, I--” She stopped, and passed the mugs around when the Kents walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, tea--thank you Chloe, that’s so thoughtful.” She sat and wrapped her hands around the mug. Mr. Kent dropped a spoonful of powdered coffee into the cup, and stirred it while watching Whitney.
“Clark told us that you helped him,” he said, and Mrs. Kent looked at him marginally less coldly. Marginally. “He was pretty out of it when we brought him in. But he’s awake and aware now…and he’d like you to leave.”
Whitney sat on the edge of the chair, and felt stupidly hurt. Of course he wanted him out of his house. Of course-- he’d been out of it when they brought him home, he was probably only half unconscious when he’d smiled at him. Clark hated him and rightly so. Okay. “I’m sorry, truly sorry for what I did tonight. Can you please tell Clark for me, just how bad I feel about it?”
They nodded, and Chloe looked sympathetic when she walked him to the door. “You’ll be fine; Clark will be fine, some day. Go home, call Lana.” She shut the door on him, and he walked to his truck. He stopped when he saw the blanket crumpled in the front seat, and his eyes filled again. He ground the heel of his hand into his eyes, hard. Fine. Clark would be fine. Maybe. He should keep his eye on Clark. He seemed to need it, big as he was. He was kind of innocent in a weird way....
Whit huffed, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He put the truck in drive and made his way down the dark driveway. Seemed Clark had had a girlfriend all along. Well, that was good--he had someone to talk to. No wonder Chloe thought he was such an idiot--she could have said she was Clark’s girlfriend before, and saved everybody some trouble.
aftermath and changes next...
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