fic post:mariposa
12/12/06 08:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Whit…
Rating: 3
Summary: AUs make the baby cheeses cry….
The Previous Parts are here, sippin’ on gin and juice…well, kool-aid and vodka—same difference….
Saturday morning was strange; he wasn’t used to it being so quiet. The radio was silent, and the kitchen was cold. He set the coffee pot to brew, and went out to the calf shed. After feeding Princess and the rest of the calves, he took advantage of the fact he was free for the day. He showered, sauntered back downstairs in socks and his boxers and plopped down in front of the TV with a mixing bowl full of cereal. Buddy jumped up on the couch—mom wasn’t home to make him get down, and he threw himself across Clark’s lap—in seconds he was snoring and shedding all over the couch. Clark snorted out a milk-filled laugh when Buddy kicked him in the stomach. “Watch, that tickles,” he laughed, and froze--a loud crash outside the door startled him. The doorknob jiggled violently, and Clark felt his heart hammer. There was no one on the farm except for him, and some men he didn’t really know, some men that might…he scrambled to the floor, and tried to quiet his breathing—tried to listen. He thought he heard footsteps on the porch, on the stairs…something banged against the house, and he heard a loud exclamation—he couldn’t make out words. He was shaking, so scared, freezing now and cursing himself for not getting dressed, and now Buddy was barking crazily, flinging himself against the door. Clark couldn’t think, he was nearly nauseous with fear—all he could think was help—get help…
He fumbled the phone off the sofa table, crawled into the kitchen and under the counter. He punched in a number and sat, breathless waiting for the phone to ring…
“Hello?”
“Whit, Whit,” he gasped into the phone, “Someone’s trying to break in the house--”
“Are you sure, Clark--what the hell--”
“Whit, come—come help me--”
The line went dead, and Clark made a noise he knew could only be described as a scream—he was equal parts deeply terrified and horribly embarrassed but he couldn’t move, couldn’t face his fear. He knew, absolutely, without a doubt, one of those men was coming through the door after him—he knew it. He closed his eyes tight, and curled into a ball, and concentrated on dark, and quiet, and far away….
There was a banging on the kitchen door, it vibrated with the force, and Buddy was howling with rage, flinging himself at the door. Clark called out again and again for Buddy. He was on the edge of crying, swimming in self-pity, and he didn’t want to be alone under the counter--.
“Clark! Clark!” The door practically shuddered in the frame, and Clark realized the voice was Whit’s. *Whitney, Whit thank god…* He scrambled out from under the counter, threw himself against the door, and froze.
“Clark, is that you, can you hear me—unlock the door, Clark,” Whit called coaxingly. “Come on Clark—it s me, promise…”
Clark managed to make himself open the door, and stood shaking, too embarrassed to look at Whit. Whit slowly reached out for Clark. “Hey, it’s me—what happened? Did someone try to mess with you? Where are your mom and dad? Hey…”
Clark reached out and grabbed Whit inside and hugged him so hard, his buttons scraped and bruised his bare chest. He buried his face in Whit's hair, and took great gulping breaths, struggling to keep from crying. “Whit.”
Whit peeled Clark off, and slowly walked him over to the couch, pressed him down. “Okay. It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong outside—one of the guys was trying to find your dad, was all…everything’s all right, really.”
“I—I thought—I don’t know what I thought,” Clark mumbled into his chest, and Whit understood. He put his arm around Clark and told him not to worry. “It’s okay, love, it really is.”
Whit’s words didn’t register with Clark—he suddenly realized that he was nearly naked, and almost in Whit’s lap--and pulled away. “Oh. Wow—sorry. Ah.”
“You’re fine—but you should probably get dressed…I’ll stay here. On the couch.”
“All right.”
“By the way, you made me miss my breakfast—and it was real food, not Cap’n Crunch and Fruit Loops and ew—is that Grape Nuts? You’re weird.”
“Grape-nuts are good,” Clark said, and grinned, relief making him giddy and even, kind of bold. He stood and stretched for the ceiling rising up on his toes, his stomach flattened and his boxers dropped an inch…
Whit looked away, his cheeks red. “Go. Now.”
“Okay…” Clark walked out of the kitchen, slowly, lingered at the door way, looking over his shoulder…
“Go!”
He laughed and ran up the stairs.
*****
He came back down, warmer now that he was dressed in a thick but soft flannel shirt and worn jeans, with a pillow made from an old red jacket under his arm. Whit wasn’t on the couch--he was in the kitchen, making an awful noise. Buddy was sitting by the door--obviously deciding it was safer not to be in the kitchen--and watching Whit warily.
Clark and Buddy watched him curse at an egg in the pan, clearly at the limit of his cooking skills and now depending on verbal encouragement.
“What are you doing?” Clark thought it was a reasonable question, asked in a reasonable tone of voice, but Whit jumped and cursed, whirled around with the spatula pointed defensively. “Damn it! Kill me why don’t you?” he turned back to frown at the stove. “Don’t ask me why but I’m making breakfast for you.”
“What? What the hell for?”
“Because you were eating cereal and I thought maybe…shut the fuck up, you ungrateful shit.”
Clark laughed, “Whit, I don’t think there’s any farm kid who can’t make scrambled eggs and bacon for themselves. I could have made breakfast for us…” he looked in the pan. “Um. Those are real good looking…uh…”
“It’s scrambled eggs.”
“Oh! Sure, I knew that. It looks delicious.”
“Kent, you suck at lying.” He grabbed the pan and tried to dump it in the garbage, but Clark stopped him, took it and laid it back on the stove, and kissed Whit.
“Whitney,” he whispered against his cheek. “We don’t have to eat breakfast, we have all this time, my folks are gone for the weekend…” He pressed his lips against Whit’s temple. “And I’m cold; I need your help to warm up…” he could give Whit what he wanted, and Whitney would know how serious he was about them, how important Whit was to him….
Whitney shuddered, and pushed Clark back. “Oh no, no we’re not.” He tried to move away but Clark grabbed his arms.
“Why not? Are you afraid now? Or you’re not interested like that anymore?” Clark stepped back. “Okay. I understand. Thanks for coming over--”
Whit slapped Clark’s head. “No, that’s not it. I just don’t want…to take advantage of you.”
“Jesus, you act like I’m eight--you can’t take advantage of me if I want it,” he pouted and rubbed his head, felt a tiny spark of surprise that he hadn’t really felt it. What was wrong with Whit—or was there something wrong with him?
“Oh yes I can. I’m pretty sure I have more experience than you; I know what I’d be getting into. Not like you. How many times have you…”
Clark glared at him. “None.” *bastard*
“What? Shit---never?”
“No. Why should it matter?”
“Fuck me.” Whit dropped onto the couch, squashing the red pillow beneath him.
“Well, that wasn‘t what I had in mind but I’m flexible. Heh. Flexible--”
“Oh please.” Whit’s head dropped against the back of the couch.
“Whit—why not, Whit? It’s okay, it really is,” Clark said, and dropped down next to him. They leaned against each other, and Whit pushed Clark away, just a little, and said, “I’ve got a good idea, let’s just watch some TV, and think about it, all right?”
“What are you, a monk?” Clark groused, but let Whit stretch with him across the couch--with Whit behind him, it was comfortable and…safe. Clark leaned back into his warmth. “This is nice.”
“See? We don’t have to rush to…you know.”
“Have sex, you huge girl?” Clark asked, and Whit snorted.
“Yeah. That.”
“Too bad,” Clark murmured. “Us having the house all to ourselves and all.” His hand was cupping his own hip, and his eyes were beginning to lower, Whitney’s warmth and the luxurious feeling of protection making him sleepy. Whit muttered something behind him and threw his arm over Clark, pulling him closer. They lay spooned together for a bit, and Clark slipped deeper into sleep, and his hand dropped from his hip to land between them. He woke a little when he realized the back of his hand was grazing Whit’s crotch…he took a breath, and turned it so the palm rode over the fly. Slowly he eased his hand down until he felt the heat of Whit’s dick warm his palm. He stroked the warm length, pressed until his hand curved over the head and filled his palm. Clark swallowed and it seemed as loud as a shout. The loose material of the jeans let Clark almost wrap his fingers around the head, he felt it jerk, grow, so hot under his hand and Whit groaned, a low throb of sound that made Clark’s dick jerk too.
“Clark, Clark,” Whit breathed. “You shouldn’t…” he bucked into Clark when his thumb rubbed over his rapidly hardening dick—Clark rubbed and pressed his hand against Whit and Whit humped the palm of his hand helplessly.
“Oh god--” Whit grabbed a handful of material over Clark’s hip, and twisted, gasped against the back of Clark’s neck. “Oh god, oh god, oh…”
Clark shivered with each gust of hot breath against his sensitive skin…he wanted Whit to touch him too, but he couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. His dick was hard, hard as Whit’s.
Whit was panting louder, and pushing harder into Clark’s hand, and his dick was like steel now, throbbing under his palm. “Clark I swear, if you don’t stop right now, I’m gonna come, right now…”
Clark stilled, tensed, and shuddered. “Ah—come--” his eyes rolled back, he arched like a bow, and his dick jerked, spurt…he was coming, it felt amazing….
“Clark, fuck, a minute, one more min--” Whit ground against Clark, breathing harder and harder and—
Buddy erupted into frantic barking and Whit groaned, “Your dog’s coming to kill me,” and Clark gasped, laughed.
Buddy barked louder, frantically and Clark could hear him scratching at the kitchen door.
“Something’s definitely out there.” He sat up, and Whit groaned in frustration.
“Gaaawd…all right, you clean up and I’ll check.” He squeezed out from behind Clark and walked gingerly out to the kitchen. Clark felt a moment of guilt for Whit, but figured it was a good idea to clean up first, and ran to the bathroom.
When he came out, the kitchen door was open, and Whit was outside. Buddy was dancing about, whining and yipping and leaping at the screen door over and over. He scratched frantically at it, ready to tear through the screen.
“Buddy! Stop it,” Clark snapped, and Whit called from the back yard, “I don’t see anything.”
Clark opened the door, and Buddy took off like a shot across the yard and straight for the barn.
“Crap!” Clark grabbed his boots and shoved them on, “Something must be in the barn, Whit! Get Buddy!” Whit was with him, and he felt none of the crippling fear he’d had earlier, all he could think of was his dog, alone with whatever it was that angered and seemed also to frighten him. He sprinted to the barn, leaving Whit to scramble after him, cursing as he tried to catch up with Clark. “Wait damn it, don’t go in there without me!”
*****
They burst into the barn, Whit stopping to grab the first available weapon-like object. Clark raised his eyebrows and snorted at the pitchfork in his hand--they ran up the stairs to the loft, led there by Buddy’s agitated whining.
“He’s not barking anymore, but something’s bugging him.” Clark found himself whispering and felt foolish until Whit whispered back.
“He doesn’t do stuff like this normally?”
“No,” Clark whispered. “He’s not a yappy, whiny kind of dog, and the whining is freaking me out.”
Whit nodded. “So’s the whispering,” he whispered. “Why are we doing it?”
“I don’t--” Clark coughed and went on in a normal tone of voice. “I don’t know…” they were in the loft now, looking around, the couch, the book shelves, all seemed normal…the desk was fine, the models in place, the new hammock hanging just so…he looked to the dark corners, where stuff was stored—Christmas boxes, old trunks and stuff from his grandfather…his head began to pound, an echo of the pain from his childhood. There was a lumpy tarp in the corner that was the object of Buddy’s attention…
“Clark--” Whit’s hand clamped on his arm “---something’s under that tarp.”
Clark backed up and bumped into Whit. “Get back, Whit—I’ve got this.”
Whit took one look at his pale face and pushed him back. “Hell, no. I’ll look. Don’t argue with me, Clark, you look like shit—it’s a headache, right?”
The tarp shook violently and Whit raised the fork, yanked the tarp back. He was almost startled into stabbing what huddled under it, but Clark grabbed his arm. “Don’t! I know him! Mr. Earl! What are you doing here?”
They looked down at the sweating, shivering form partially covered by the tarp. Earl gasped out, “Clark? I come to see your dad, he’s—he’s the only one I can trust…” and began shivering harder, unable to speak as he shook, his legs flailing violently and his teeth chattering so loud.
Buddy whined louder, crowded up against Clark’s legs as if trying to push him back. When Earl reached out for Clark, Buddy showed his teeth but made no noise, not a growl or a snort and that scared Clark. It scared him too, that he could clearly hear Earl’s teeth clatter, hear him swallow, hear a strange off-beat thumping, whooshing sound. He looked around trying to figure out where it came from—it was so noisy suddenly--creaking and cracking coming from all over the loft filled his ears, and Whit was breathing so fucking loud, Buddy started whining again and it was like a buzz saw ripping through his head and the pounding thump thump in the background was maddening…the thumps settled into several distinct beats, one that quickened when he touched Whit and suddenly he knew, somehow, he was hearing—everything. He bent over with nausea as his headache took on killing proportions. “Whit, call an ambulance, something is terribly wrong.”
“Clark, are you--”
“No, I’m fine--for Earl.” Clark dropped to the ground and shoved himself away from Earl as Whit ran for the house. He felt better with distance and Buddy jumped into his lap and snuffled him. Clark scooted back, until he fetched up against the couch, and the pain eased even more. “Earl, Earl,” he muttered. “What happened to you?”
******
tbc
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Whit…
Rating: 3
Summary: AUs make the baby cheeses cry….
The Previous Parts are here, sippin’ on gin and juice…well, kool-aid and vodka—same difference….
Saturday morning was strange; he wasn’t used to it being so quiet. The radio was silent, and the kitchen was cold. He set the coffee pot to brew, and went out to the calf shed. After feeding Princess and the rest of the calves, he took advantage of the fact he was free for the day. He showered, sauntered back downstairs in socks and his boxers and plopped down in front of the TV with a mixing bowl full of cereal. Buddy jumped up on the couch—mom wasn’t home to make him get down, and he threw himself across Clark’s lap—in seconds he was snoring and shedding all over the couch. Clark snorted out a milk-filled laugh when Buddy kicked him in the stomach. “Watch, that tickles,” he laughed, and froze--a loud crash outside the door startled him. The doorknob jiggled violently, and Clark felt his heart hammer. There was no one on the farm except for him, and some men he didn’t really know, some men that might…he scrambled to the floor, and tried to quiet his breathing—tried to listen. He thought he heard footsteps on the porch, on the stairs…something banged against the house, and he heard a loud exclamation—he couldn’t make out words. He was shaking, so scared, freezing now and cursing himself for not getting dressed, and now Buddy was barking crazily, flinging himself against the door. Clark couldn’t think, he was nearly nauseous with fear—all he could think was help—get help…
He fumbled the phone off the sofa table, crawled into the kitchen and under the counter. He punched in a number and sat, breathless waiting for the phone to ring…
“Hello?”
“Whit, Whit,” he gasped into the phone, “Someone’s trying to break in the house--”
“Are you sure, Clark--what the hell--”
“Whit, come—come help me--”
The line went dead, and Clark made a noise he knew could only be described as a scream—he was equal parts deeply terrified and horribly embarrassed but he couldn’t move, couldn’t face his fear. He knew, absolutely, without a doubt, one of those men was coming through the door after him—he knew it. He closed his eyes tight, and curled into a ball, and concentrated on dark, and quiet, and far away….
There was a banging on the kitchen door, it vibrated with the force, and Buddy was howling with rage, flinging himself at the door. Clark called out again and again for Buddy. He was on the edge of crying, swimming in self-pity, and he didn’t want to be alone under the counter--.
“Clark! Clark!” The door practically shuddered in the frame, and Clark realized the voice was Whit’s. *Whitney, Whit thank god…* He scrambled out from under the counter, threw himself against the door, and froze.
“Clark, is that you, can you hear me—unlock the door, Clark,” Whit called coaxingly. “Come on Clark—it s me, promise…”
Clark managed to make himself open the door, and stood shaking, too embarrassed to look at Whit. Whit slowly reached out for Clark. “Hey, it’s me—what happened? Did someone try to mess with you? Where are your mom and dad? Hey…”
Clark reached out and grabbed Whit inside and hugged him so hard, his buttons scraped and bruised his bare chest. He buried his face in Whit's hair, and took great gulping breaths, struggling to keep from crying. “Whit.”
Whit peeled Clark off, and slowly walked him over to the couch, pressed him down. “Okay. It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong outside—one of the guys was trying to find your dad, was all…everything’s all right, really.”
“I—I thought—I don’t know what I thought,” Clark mumbled into his chest, and Whit understood. He put his arm around Clark and told him not to worry. “It’s okay, love, it really is.”
Whit’s words didn’t register with Clark—he suddenly realized that he was nearly naked, and almost in Whit’s lap--and pulled away. “Oh. Wow—sorry. Ah.”
“You’re fine—but you should probably get dressed…I’ll stay here. On the couch.”
“All right.”
“By the way, you made me miss my breakfast—and it was real food, not Cap’n Crunch and Fruit Loops and ew—is that Grape Nuts? You’re weird.”
“Grape-nuts are good,” Clark said, and grinned, relief making him giddy and even, kind of bold. He stood and stretched for the ceiling rising up on his toes, his stomach flattened and his boxers dropped an inch…
Whit looked away, his cheeks red. “Go. Now.”
“Okay…” Clark walked out of the kitchen, slowly, lingered at the door way, looking over his shoulder…
“Go!”
He laughed and ran up the stairs.
*****
He came back down, warmer now that he was dressed in a thick but soft flannel shirt and worn jeans, with a pillow made from an old red jacket under his arm. Whit wasn’t on the couch--he was in the kitchen, making an awful noise. Buddy was sitting by the door--obviously deciding it was safer not to be in the kitchen--and watching Whit warily.
Clark and Buddy watched him curse at an egg in the pan, clearly at the limit of his cooking skills and now depending on verbal encouragement.
“What are you doing?” Clark thought it was a reasonable question, asked in a reasonable tone of voice, but Whit jumped and cursed, whirled around with the spatula pointed defensively. “Damn it! Kill me why don’t you?” he turned back to frown at the stove. “Don’t ask me why but I’m making breakfast for you.”
“What? What the hell for?”
“Because you were eating cereal and I thought maybe…shut the fuck up, you ungrateful shit.”
Clark laughed, “Whit, I don’t think there’s any farm kid who can’t make scrambled eggs and bacon for themselves. I could have made breakfast for us…” he looked in the pan. “Um. Those are real good looking…uh…”
“It’s scrambled eggs.”
“Oh! Sure, I knew that. It looks delicious.”
“Kent, you suck at lying.” He grabbed the pan and tried to dump it in the garbage, but Clark stopped him, took it and laid it back on the stove, and kissed Whit.
“Whitney,” he whispered against his cheek. “We don’t have to eat breakfast, we have all this time, my folks are gone for the weekend…” He pressed his lips against Whit’s temple. “And I’m cold; I need your help to warm up…” he could give Whit what he wanted, and Whitney would know how serious he was about them, how important Whit was to him….
Whitney shuddered, and pushed Clark back. “Oh no, no we’re not.” He tried to move away but Clark grabbed his arms.
“Why not? Are you afraid now? Or you’re not interested like that anymore?” Clark stepped back. “Okay. I understand. Thanks for coming over--”
Whit slapped Clark’s head. “No, that’s not it. I just don’t want…to take advantage of you.”
“Jesus, you act like I’m eight--you can’t take advantage of me if I want it,” he pouted and rubbed his head, felt a tiny spark of surprise that he hadn’t really felt it. What was wrong with Whit—or was there something wrong with him?
“Oh yes I can. I’m pretty sure I have more experience than you; I know what I’d be getting into. Not like you. How many times have you…”
Clark glared at him. “None.” *bastard*
“What? Shit---never?”
“No. Why should it matter?”
“Fuck me.” Whit dropped onto the couch, squashing the red pillow beneath him.
“Well, that wasn‘t what I had in mind but I’m flexible. Heh. Flexible--”
“Oh please.” Whit’s head dropped against the back of the couch.
“Whit—why not, Whit? It’s okay, it really is,” Clark said, and dropped down next to him. They leaned against each other, and Whit pushed Clark away, just a little, and said, “I’ve got a good idea, let’s just watch some TV, and think about it, all right?”
“What are you, a monk?” Clark groused, but let Whit stretch with him across the couch--with Whit behind him, it was comfortable and…safe. Clark leaned back into his warmth. “This is nice.”
“See? We don’t have to rush to…you know.”
“Have sex, you huge girl?” Clark asked, and Whit snorted.
“Yeah. That.”
“Too bad,” Clark murmured. “Us having the house all to ourselves and all.” His hand was cupping his own hip, and his eyes were beginning to lower, Whitney’s warmth and the luxurious feeling of protection making him sleepy. Whit muttered something behind him and threw his arm over Clark, pulling him closer. They lay spooned together for a bit, and Clark slipped deeper into sleep, and his hand dropped from his hip to land between them. He woke a little when he realized the back of his hand was grazing Whit’s crotch…he took a breath, and turned it so the palm rode over the fly. Slowly he eased his hand down until he felt the heat of Whit’s dick warm his palm. He stroked the warm length, pressed until his hand curved over the head and filled his palm. Clark swallowed and it seemed as loud as a shout. The loose material of the jeans let Clark almost wrap his fingers around the head, he felt it jerk, grow, so hot under his hand and Whit groaned, a low throb of sound that made Clark’s dick jerk too.
“Clark, Clark,” Whit breathed. “You shouldn’t…” he bucked into Clark when his thumb rubbed over his rapidly hardening dick—Clark rubbed and pressed his hand against Whit and Whit humped the palm of his hand helplessly.
“Oh god--” Whit grabbed a handful of material over Clark’s hip, and twisted, gasped against the back of Clark’s neck. “Oh god, oh god, oh…”
Clark shivered with each gust of hot breath against his sensitive skin…he wanted Whit to touch him too, but he couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. His dick was hard, hard as Whit’s.
Whit was panting louder, and pushing harder into Clark’s hand, and his dick was like steel now, throbbing under his palm. “Clark I swear, if you don’t stop right now, I’m gonna come, right now…”
Clark stilled, tensed, and shuddered. “Ah—come--” his eyes rolled back, he arched like a bow, and his dick jerked, spurt…he was coming, it felt amazing….
“Clark, fuck, a minute, one more min--” Whit ground against Clark, breathing harder and harder and—
Buddy erupted into frantic barking and Whit groaned, “Your dog’s coming to kill me,” and Clark gasped, laughed.
Buddy barked louder, frantically and Clark could hear him scratching at the kitchen door.
“Something’s definitely out there.” He sat up, and Whit groaned in frustration.
“Gaaawd…all right, you clean up and I’ll check.” He squeezed out from behind Clark and walked gingerly out to the kitchen. Clark felt a moment of guilt for Whit, but figured it was a good idea to clean up first, and ran to the bathroom.
When he came out, the kitchen door was open, and Whit was outside. Buddy was dancing about, whining and yipping and leaping at the screen door over and over. He scratched frantically at it, ready to tear through the screen.
“Buddy! Stop it,” Clark snapped, and Whit called from the back yard, “I don’t see anything.”
Clark opened the door, and Buddy took off like a shot across the yard and straight for the barn.
“Crap!” Clark grabbed his boots and shoved them on, “Something must be in the barn, Whit! Get Buddy!” Whit was with him, and he felt none of the crippling fear he’d had earlier, all he could think of was his dog, alone with whatever it was that angered and seemed also to frighten him. He sprinted to the barn, leaving Whit to scramble after him, cursing as he tried to catch up with Clark. “Wait damn it, don’t go in there without me!”
*****
They burst into the barn, Whit stopping to grab the first available weapon-like object. Clark raised his eyebrows and snorted at the pitchfork in his hand--they ran up the stairs to the loft, led there by Buddy’s agitated whining.
“He’s not barking anymore, but something’s bugging him.” Clark found himself whispering and felt foolish until Whit whispered back.
“He doesn’t do stuff like this normally?”
“No,” Clark whispered. “He’s not a yappy, whiny kind of dog, and the whining is freaking me out.”
Whit nodded. “So’s the whispering,” he whispered. “Why are we doing it?”
“I don’t--” Clark coughed and went on in a normal tone of voice. “I don’t know…” they were in the loft now, looking around, the couch, the book shelves, all seemed normal…the desk was fine, the models in place, the new hammock hanging just so…he looked to the dark corners, where stuff was stored—Christmas boxes, old trunks and stuff from his grandfather…his head began to pound, an echo of the pain from his childhood. There was a lumpy tarp in the corner that was the object of Buddy’s attention…
“Clark--” Whit’s hand clamped on his arm “---something’s under that tarp.”
Clark backed up and bumped into Whit. “Get back, Whit—I’ve got this.”
Whit took one look at his pale face and pushed him back. “Hell, no. I’ll look. Don’t argue with me, Clark, you look like shit—it’s a headache, right?”
The tarp shook violently and Whit raised the fork, yanked the tarp back. He was almost startled into stabbing what huddled under it, but Clark grabbed his arm. “Don’t! I know him! Mr. Earl! What are you doing here?”
They looked down at the sweating, shivering form partially covered by the tarp. Earl gasped out, “Clark? I come to see your dad, he’s—he’s the only one I can trust…” and began shivering harder, unable to speak as he shook, his legs flailing violently and his teeth chattering so loud.
Buddy whined louder, crowded up against Clark’s legs as if trying to push him back. When Earl reached out for Clark, Buddy showed his teeth but made no noise, not a growl or a snort and that scared Clark. It scared him too, that he could clearly hear Earl’s teeth clatter, hear him swallow, hear a strange off-beat thumping, whooshing sound. He looked around trying to figure out where it came from—it was so noisy suddenly--creaking and cracking coming from all over the loft filled his ears, and Whit was breathing so fucking loud, Buddy started whining again and it was like a buzz saw ripping through his head and the pounding thump thump in the background was maddening…the thumps settled into several distinct beats, one that quickened when he touched Whit and suddenly he knew, somehow, he was hearing—everything. He bent over with nausea as his headache took on killing proportions. “Whit, call an ambulance, something is terribly wrong.”
“Clark, are you--”
“No, I’m fine--for Earl.” Clark dropped to the ground and shoved himself away from Earl as Whit ran for the house. He felt better with distance and Buddy jumped into his lap and snuffled him. Clark scooted back, until he fetched up against the couch, and the pain eased even more. “Earl, Earl,” he muttered. “What happened to you?”
******
tbc
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![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
12/12/06 06:44 pm (UTC)Awwww. Jacky!!! Jacky and Buddy totatlly made this chapter for me. :D
(no subject)
12/12/06 07:20 pm (UTC)I hadn't noticed that. Thanks for pointing it out. It's a wonder there's still enough of this jacket to make a pillow...
(no subject)
12/12/06 11:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/12/06 11:53 pm (UTC)