fic post Mariposa
11/9/06 07:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/…
Rating: 2
Summary: This is an alternate universe version of Smallville. Very.
The Previous Parts have recovered from their broken hearts and are celebrating with cosmos, here
Can You Hear Me
It was a Friday night and Clark was playing third wheel to Whit and Lana. Not that he minded—it was better than sitting at home watching TV with the parents, and Chloe was in the city with her dad for the weekend, and besides—he needed to do…just normal things. Whit had invited him, and Lana insisted that she was happy to have Clark along. She always said she was happy to see Clark, and then smiled, a little bow of her mouth that went nowhere near her eyes but Clark and Lana both were good at acting as if everything was just perfect.
“You know Clark, I’m just grateful that when you’re along, Whit doesn’t talk about football so much. That’s a blessing.” She pushed her hair back and smiled, her rose colored lip-gloss making her teeth look very white, and a little sharp...Clark smiled back.
“I don’t always talk about football,” Whitney frowned.
“No, just—frequently. At least when we take Clark along to the movies, we actually talk about the movie.” She laughed a little and Whit pulled her tighter to him and for some reason scowled at Clark. Clark raised his eyebrows. Was he angry? He couldn’t be jealous—he knew better, surely…Clark hung back a little from them, watching Whitney while he bought tickets, and followed them into the theater.
They eased down a row of seats and Whitney ended up between Clark and Lana, and she leaned past Whit and asked Clark to hold the bathtub sized popcorn container. Clark was a little relieved. This way he wouldn’t have to decide whether he should share the armrest with Whit or not. Some how, Whitney’s elbow managed to poke him in the side anyway. The suede of Whit’s jacket rubbed against the cotton of his own, and made a noise that kept distracting him. His elbow was warm. Really warm. Clark bit down on a huge handful of popcorn and struggled not to think about elbows and lips shiny with butter. Slippery, shiny warm…Clark swallowed, and moved as far away as he could in the narrow seat. Whit’s elbow suddenly stopped poking him, he was leaning toward Lana, and he kissed her.
Clark ate popcorn like he was starving, and stared at the screen. He didn’t see Whit kiss and kiss Lana, and lick his lips and slide his hand between her knees. And when Whit glanced over at him, he was totally absorbed in the whirring chainsaws taking stupid teenagers apart on the screen.
*****
After, he told the two he had a headache, and needed to get home. Lana peered at him. “You do look a little green…maybe you shouldn’t have eaten quite so much popcorn—the major part of the popcorn,” she added with a touch of snippiness. “All that grease can’t be good for you.”
Whit shrugged. “Whatever, Kent. No problem.”
He sat cramped up on the little shelf pretending to be a seat, six feet four of him crammed into a space he would have bet his life on that he couldn’t get into. Five feet and two inches of Lana sat on the front seat with Whitney, completely comfortable and maybe even…a little smug? Clark scolded himself. She wasn’t anything—smug would mean they were in competition and that was—nuts.
When they got to the house, He crawled off the murder seat and prayed for the circulation to return to his legs. Whit waved him off, looking completely disinterested when he tried to thank him for the ride. “Yeah, sure, Kent--see you Monday.” Lana sketched a little wave as they drove off, and Clark headed for the house as fast as he could.
He ran the gauntlet of his mom and dad—“Are you sure you’re okay? It’s not a headache, is it? Do you want to lie down? Do you want pie?” He managed to work his way out of the house, and out to the loft with a huge slice of pie, and a glass of milk. He trudged up the stairs, with a new book under his arm, and pie. What was it with his mom and her belief in the magic healing properties of baked goods? He smiled a little, turned on his army of space heaters and wrapped a blanket around his legs, before spreading himself over the couch, plate balanced on his belly.
What the fuck was wrong with him tonight? Why was he feeling so…sad? Melancholy… that’s what he was feeling. Yeah, great, like some Victorian heroine. All he needed now was consumption and a shawl. He hated feeling like that, especially when there was no cause for it. He had friends and hobbies…he glanced at his desk, still covered with model spaceships and sighed—he was such a geek. Totally and completely a geek. A clumsy alien geek. With a drawer full of make-up. He laughed out loud, and laughed again, because if he didn’t laugh, he’d cry. And the fuck he was going to cry. He stuffed a piece of pie in his mouth and jumped and gagged a bit when a voice said, “Kent--so sick you have to stuff your face with pie?”
He almost threw the plate from him—the trunk in front of the couch rocked when he slammed his knee into it, the glass wobbled, dipped and the milk started to spill, the glass went over the edge—and he caught it. Whit was talking, and he didn’t hear a word he said…he’d caught the glass before it fell—no, it was falling, but he caught it before it actually spilled and that wasn’t possible. Whit seemed not to notice he’d moved. What the hell. The milk. The milk had just—sat in the air. Frozen. Like a stop motion picture, and he’d grabbed the glass and for a moment it was like being in a soundless bubble. And then the bubble popped and he could hear Whit and the milk moved around in the glass and …whoa. Clark grabbed his forehead, because evil dwarves were trying to drill a hole from his eyeball to the back of his brain. He bent over, panting. Praying he wasn’t about to cry like a three year old in front of the captain of the football team. He snorted, and gasped as a spear of fire drilled though his forehead.
“Oh, Clark—man, you are sick—I’m sorry. I thought—well never mind what I thought.” Whit went straight to his desk and grabbed the aspirin and brought it to him, and Clark spared a moment to wonder…Whit knew where his pills were, and turned up the heaters because he knew how cold Clark got when he had one of his headaches…lifted the trunk lid, because he knew the extra blanket was in there, and spread it over his legs. Tucked it around his feet, like Clark always did. And smiled at him, hands on hips. “You’ll be okay.”
And Clark wondered. Whitney knew all these things about him....
Oh shit. When had he fallen for Whitney?
******
Whitney sat next to Clark and watched him sleep, and read a little from the book Clark had been reading. Weird stuff, all about giant talking killer tigers in space, but actually, it wasn’t bad.
He glanced at Clark wrapped up like a mummy in his blankets and snoring a little. There was just enough room for him and Clark and his little weird looking mutt to sit. The dog kept staring at him, like he might suddenly go nuts and strangle Clark in his sleep. Crazy mutt…he was starting to grow on him. Everything was growing on him. The dog, Mrs. Kent’s incredible dinners, Mr. Kent and his version of football watching—vocal and active, pillows and comments flying—and Clark.
Clark was growing on him. He really was what Whit had told him the first time they'd talked—interesting. He was so smart it was almost scary, and willing to help Whit whenever he asked. He was patient, so fucking patient, and he was funny as hell. And the minute he hit the school doors, he was none of that. It was like watching a chameleon. Or…a flower dying… Whit reached out—hesitated—and laid his hand on Clark’s shoulder for a moment. Buddy eyed it like a snake, curled his lip, but didn’t move. Progress. Last week, he’d had to sit on the desk chair or the floor because Mutt wouldn’t let him sit on the couch—and let him touch Clark? Hell no. Thank God he was easing up on the hate. That dog held a grudge like certain females he could name….
Clark grumbled blearily and shook his hand off and Whit reminded himself that Clark was sound asleep. Clark suddenly flailed in his sleep, waking Buddy and making him growl. Clark jerked away, and than pushed closer to Whit, inching closer and squeezing Buddy until he flopped to the floor with a grunt, muttering evilly. Clark ended up resting against Whit….
Whit swallowed. Lay his hand on Clark’s side and let it rest there. Clark was big, warm, solid. He lay still under Whit’s touch.
He sat there for a long time.
tbc
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/…
Rating: 2
Summary: This is an alternate universe version of Smallville. Very.
The Previous Parts have recovered from their broken hearts and are celebrating with cosmos, here
Can You Hear Me
It was a Friday night and Clark was playing third wheel to Whit and Lana. Not that he minded—it was better than sitting at home watching TV with the parents, and Chloe was in the city with her dad for the weekend, and besides—he needed to do…just normal things. Whit had invited him, and Lana insisted that she was happy to have Clark along. She always said she was happy to see Clark, and then smiled, a little bow of her mouth that went nowhere near her eyes but Clark and Lana both were good at acting as if everything was just perfect.
“You know Clark, I’m just grateful that when you’re along, Whit doesn’t talk about football so much. That’s a blessing.” She pushed her hair back and smiled, her rose colored lip-gloss making her teeth look very white, and a little sharp...Clark smiled back.
“I don’t always talk about football,” Whitney frowned.
“No, just—frequently. At least when we take Clark along to the movies, we actually talk about the movie.” She laughed a little and Whit pulled her tighter to him and for some reason scowled at Clark. Clark raised his eyebrows. Was he angry? He couldn’t be jealous—he knew better, surely…Clark hung back a little from them, watching Whitney while he bought tickets, and followed them into the theater.
They eased down a row of seats and Whitney ended up between Clark and Lana, and she leaned past Whit and asked Clark to hold the bathtub sized popcorn container. Clark was a little relieved. This way he wouldn’t have to decide whether he should share the armrest with Whit or not. Some how, Whitney’s elbow managed to poke him in the side anyway. The suede of Whit’s jacket rubbed against the cotton of his own, and made a noise that kept distracting him. His elbow was warm. Really warm. Clark bit down on a huge handful of popcorn and struggled not to think about elbows and lips shiny with butter. Slippery, shiny warm…Clark swallowed, and moved as far away as he could in the narrow seat. Whit’s elbow suddenly stopped poking him, he was leaning toward Lana, and he kissed her.
Clark ate popcorn like he was starving, and stared at the screen. He didn’t see Whit kiss and kiss Lana, and lick his lips and slide his hand between her knees. And when Whit glanced over at him, he was totally absorbed in the whirring chainsaws taking stupid teenagers apart on the screen.
*****
After, he told the two he had a headache, and needed to get home. Lana peered at him. “You do look a little green…maybe you shouldn’t have eaten quite so much popcorn—the major part of the popcorn,” she added with a touch of snippiness. “All that grease can’t be good for you.”
Whit shrugged. “Whatever, Kent. No problem.”
He sat cramped up on the little shelf pretending to be a seat, six feet four of him crammed into a space he would have bet his life on that he couldn’t get into. Five feet and two inches of Lana sat on the front seat with Whitney, completely comfortable and maybe even…a little smug? Clark scolded himself. She wasn’t anything—smug would mean they were in competition and that was—nuts.
When they got to the house, He crawled off the murder seat and prayed for the circulation to return to his legs. Whit waved him off, looking completely disinterested when he tried to thank him for the ride. “Yeah, sure, Kent--see you Monday.” Lana sketched a little wave as they drove off, and Clark headed for the house as fast as he could.
He ran the gauntlet of his mom and dad—“Are you sure you’re okay? It’s not a headache, is it? Do you want to lie down? Do you want pie?” He managed to work his way out of the house, and out to the loft with a huge slice of pie, and a glass of milk. He trudged up the stairs, with a new book under his arm, and pie. What was it with his mom and her belief in the magic healing properties of baked goods? He smiled a little, turned on his army of space heaters and wrapped a blanket around his legs, before spreading himself over the couch, plate balanced on his belly.
What the fuck was wrong with him tonight? Why was he feeling so…sad? Melancholy… that’s what he was feeling. Yeah, great, like some Victorian heroine. All he needed now was consumption and a shawl. He hated feeling like that, especially when there was no cause for it. He had friends and hobbies…he glanced at his desk, still covered with model spaceships and sighed—he was such a geek. Totally and completely a geek. A clumsy alien geek. With a drawer full of make-up. He laughed out loud, and laughed again, because if he didn’t laugh, he’d cry. And the fuck he was going to cry. He stuffed a piece of pie in his mouth and jumped and gagged a bit when a voice said, “Kent--so sick you have to stuff your face with pie?”
He almost threw the plate from him—the trunk in front of the couch rocked when he slammed his knee into it, the glass wobbled, dipped and the milk started to spill, the glass went over the edge—and he caught it. Whit was talking, and he didn’t hear a word he said…he’d caught the glass before it fell—no, it was falling, but he caught it before it actually spilled and that wasn’t possible. Whit seemed not to notice he’d moved. What the hell. The milk. The milk had just—sat in the air. Frozen. Like a stop motion picture, and he’d grabbed the glass and for a moment it was like being in a soundless bubble. And then the bubble popped and he could hear Whit and the milk moved around in the glass and …whoa. Clark grabbed his forehead, because evil dwarves were trying to drill a hole from his eyeball to the back of his brain. He bent over, panting. Praying he wasn’t about to cry like a three year old in front of the captain of the football team. He snorted, and gasped as a spear of fire drilled though his forehead.
“Oh, Clark—man, you are sick—I’m sorry. I thought—well never mind what I thought.” Whit went straight to his desk and grabbed the aspirin and brought it to him, and Clark spared a moment to wonder…Whit knew where his pills were, and turned up the heaters because he knew how cold Clark got when he had one of his headaches…lifted the trunk lid, because he knew the extra blanket was in there, and spread it over his legs. Tucked it around his feet, like Clark always did. And smiled at him, hands on hips. “You’ll be okay.”
And Clark wondered. Whitney knew all these things about him....
Oh shit. When had he fallen for Whitney?
******
Whitney sat next to Clark and watched him sleep, and read a little from the book Clark had been reading. Weird stuff, all about giant talking killer tigers in space, but actually, it wasn’t bad.
He glanced at Clark wrapped up like a mummy in his blankets and snoring a little. There was just enough room for him and Clark and his little weird looking mutt to sit. The dog kept staring at him, like he might suddenly go nuts and strangle Clark in his sleep. Crazy mutt…he was starting to grow on him. Everything was growing on him. The dog, Mrs. Kent’s incredible dinners, Mr. Kent and his version of football watching—vocal and active, pillows and comments flying—and Clark.
Clark was growing on him. He really was what Whit had told him the first time they'd talked—interesting. He was so smart it was almost scary, and willing to help Whit whenever he asked. He was patient, so fucking patient, and he was funny as hell. And the minute he hit the school doors, he was none of that. It was like watching a chameleon. Or…a flower dying… Whit reached out—hesitated—and laid his hand on Clark’s shoulder for a moment. Buddy eyed it like a snake, curled his lip, but didn’t move. Progress. Last week, he’d had to sit on the desk chair or the floor because Mutt wouldn’t let him sit on the couch—and let him touch Clark? Hell no. Thank God he was easing up on the hate. That dog held a grudge like certain females he could name….
Clark grumbled blearily and shook his hand off and Whit reminded himself that Clark was sound asleep. Clark suddenly flailed in his sleep, waking Buddy and making him growl. Clark jerked away, and than pushed closer to Whit, inching closer and squeezing Buddy until he flopped to the floor with a grunt, muttering evilly. Clark ended up resting against Whit….
Whit swallowed. Lay his hand on Clark’s side and let it rest there. Clark was big, warm, solid. He lay still under Whit’s touch.
He sat there for a long time.
tbc
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
11/10/06 01:48 pm (UTC)And it’s without saying that I love that part! :-)
(no subject)
11/10/06 08:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
11/10/06 09:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
11/10/06 09:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
11/10/06 09:21 pm (UTC)Do you have a visual in mind?
(no subject)
11/10/06 09:47 pm (UTC)Now, I'm not sure, shmoopy, or porny? Porny would satisfy my naughty side, but this Whit and Clark feels all shmoopy--plus, this Whit thinks Clark needs to be protected, like a delicate thing. What do you think? What do you feel like doing?
(no subject)
11/10/06 11:08 pm (UTC)Whit protecting Clark feels right to me, we will see what I can do about that!
(no subject)
11/10/06 11:22 pm (UTC)