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Entry tags:
fic post:mariposa
Title:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Whit…
Rating: 3
Summary: No animals were harmed in the creation of this AU.
A/N: From this point on, we bid adieu to even the faintest resemblance to canon. Goodbye, CW’s Smallville, good-bye!
here is the next bit of Mariposa--once I figured out the hook, the rest came pretty easy. (if by easy we mean crawling bare ass through nettles.) I have to tell ya'll, and I know it's not the fashion to say so, but I really did have a hell of a good time writing this bit,and I think it's lots of fun to read! I hope you think so too. (or i'm gonna look kind of stoopit here.)
The Previous Parts are here, and now they’re arguing over whether or not to put breathing holes in Flava’s crate, and so far, the no’s are winning….
“Hello, everybody, I’m Gabe Sullivan, plant manager, and proud father. Hi sweetheart.”
“Hi dad,” Chloe smiled like she was choking and waved at her dad. From the side of her mouth she whispered, “Kill me now…” and tried to slip behind Clark.
Gabe spread his arms and gestured around the ugly concrete space filled with cable and conduits as if they were in a museum, his eyes sparkled with barely contained humor, and he said loudly, “Welcome to LuthorCorp, where we give a crap.”
Chloe whispered to Clark, “No seriously--kill me. Now.”
Clark snorted and nudged her, and she fell against him, laughing. He grinned and looked around to find Pete. Whit was looking at him, face expressionless. His arm was around Lana, but it was obvious she wasn’t his focus. Clark looked away, angry that he felt even the smallest prick of guilt. Where did Whit get the nerve to be upset? Because for one day, he had to deal with what Clark dealt with daily? Clark turned away and gave his attention back to Mr. Sullivan.
“…right—just a little fertilizer humor there. Now, before we go inside, I need you to remove all your cell phones, pagers, jewelry. Anything that jangles, dangles, or rings needs to go in these plastic trays right here. All right, any other questions?”
Clark thought about what Earl told his dad, and raised his hand tentatively and asked, “Is there a third level here? I heard there was one…” He trailed off, feeling pretty much like a fool.
Mr. Sullivan grinned and said, “Oh yeah—that’s the level we do the alien autopsies on.” He winked, and smiled at the resulting laughter. “Now, if everyone is ready?”
Pete came up to stand with them. “Hey, Chloe, Clark—are you as excited as I am?”
Clark grinned, “More I think. It’s not everyday you get to spend looking at…”
“Shit?” Pete grinned, and Clark nodded.
“Thanks, I was going to say doodie, but you saved me from myself.”
“Glad to be of service, Clark,” he chuckled.
Chloe elbowed Clark and jerked her chin towards the rest of the group. “I’m enjoying the Hope and Crosby road show here as much as anyone, but we better get moving—the crowd’s leaving us.”
Pete mouthed, ‘Who?’ and Clark shrugged, mouthed back, ‘Chloe.’ and that seemed to explain it just fine to Pete. They followed the group as it made it’s way down a long concrete ramp leading away from the loading dock they’d entered at, and along the way, Mr. Sullivan pointed out various objects of interest, with various degrees of warning, until they’d reached a point obviously meant to be the highlight of the tour, a secure room, filled with computers, and wall size screens reading out the life of the plant— raw materials, temperatures, cooking product and finished product— “This is it. The plant's mission control. 100,000 tons of animal waste is processed here every year. Trust me, the results can be pretty explosive. So if any of you had beans for lunch, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”
The kids laughed and Chloe glanced at Clark and Pete with an apologetic shrug, whispered, “Among his peers, he’s considered quite witty.”
Pete and Clark both snorted. “Unh-hunh. I’m sure,” Pete said.
Mr. Sullivan was about to usher the group along, when an odd rattling sound came from behind a closed door. Clark turned to the sound--the door’s handle was shaking crazily.
“What the heck…” Mr. Sullivan frowned, and held up his hand, stopping the tour. “Hold on, everyone. I need to check this out.” He walked towards the closed door, and as he reached out for the handle, Earl burst through. He grabbed Mr. Sullivan around the neck, pressed a gun to his temple.
“Everyone, get against the wall, and shut up—you--” he tightened his grip on Mr. Sullivan’s neck, “--you take me to level three, now.”
“Level—but there’s no such thing,” he gasped.
Chloe grabbed Clark’s wrist, “Daddy…” she whispered, and dug her nails into Clark’s hand. He winced, and let her—he understood how terrified she was.
“You’re lying--” Earl snarled, was interrupted by a phone ringing—everyone jumped at the oddly normal noise. Earl pushed Mr. Sullivan towards the middle of the room, and a phone on a desk there. “Answer it—I’m right behind you.”
Earl’s jaw was clenched tight, sweat beaded his face, pain turned his cocoa skin gray. It was obvious Earl was in a lot of pain. Clark shuddered. Thumping started behind his eyes, and sent fingers of pain down his spine, as if an echo of Earl’s pain was worming its way into him. He missed what Mr. Sullivan was saying but Earl grabbed the phone from him and shouted into it, “Put Luthor on the phone—I won’t talk to anyone else, you hear?”
He was breathing heavily, and closed his eyes for a moment. Gabe moved—Earl slammed his hand on the table and everyone jumped. “Don’t you move!” He looked up suddenly at a security camera trained on the center of the room. He smiled a little and reached over the desk and turned on the speaker function. “So, Mr. Luthor. I finally have your attention.” He moved jerkily about the room, as if standing still was painful, but moving painful as well. Clark’s stomach twisted and churned as Earl moved close and then away again.
A voice crackling with static came over the speakers. “Earl, why don’t you come out so we can talk. We can discuss your concerns--”
“All I want—all I need to know is what that stuff is on level three.” Earl was sweating and grimacing, wiping at his eyes and mouth. Whatever was affecting him seemed to be getting worse, Clark thought.
Lionel Luthor spoke on, “Earl, you’re sick and we can help you. Let those people go and we’ll work something out. Earl was standing by methane tanks that sat against the far wall now, breathing harder and harder. Clark couldn’t hold himself back any longer. “Mr. Earl. Please listen to them—or—or, let me help you—let my dad help you--”
Earl shuddered and groaned, the sound climbing…he began to shake and in seconds was in a full blown seizure, a frightening sight—he seemed to be moving impossibly fast--there were moments when he was just a blur….he reached out and clutched the methane tank valves, snapped one off in his jittering grip. Earl looked at his hand in disbelief, gasped in horror as the reading began rising--
Clark ran towards him and Earl panicked, he swung, connected, and pain burst like fireworks in Clark’s head. He thought he heard his name shouted—he flew backwards and nearly bowled over Chloe and Lana. Someone kept him from falling, held him up. He looked back and recognized Whit’s teammate, Fred. “Don’t,” he said quietly when Clark wanted to run back to Earl.
Earl was frantic, howling at the camera. “See what you made me do? See this?” He held the snapped off valve from the methane tank—gas was rapidly filling the space. “This place is going to blow—it’s all Luthor’s fault!”
The voice on the phone was different now—“Mr. Jenkins—Earl…Mr. Luthor wants to help. Help us to help you. We saw what happened; you know the danger everyone is in now—at least let the kids out. My men will come to the door to help them out. Let them go, Earl, you don’t want to hurt anyone else.”
Earl dropped the broken valve and sat heavily on the edge of the desk, his head in his hands. The sob that shook his shoulders was clearly audible—Clark’s chest was tight, he felt his own breath hitch. Earl’s suffering filled the control room.
Farther down the line of students, Whitney talked quietly and intensely with Pete and Fred. They nodded and Whit began moving towards Earl, slowly, trying to keep out of his sight. Clark shouldered up next to him and Whit pushed him back. “Go back to the wall before you get hurt worse.”
“No! I’m not hiding back there—you need my help.”
“Clark, you look like shit—and I bet you have one of those headaches, right?” He crouched, pulling Clark into a crouch with him. “Here.” He pulled a bottle of aspirin out of his jacket pocket, popped the cap and shook a few into Clark’s hand. “Please keep out of the way, I need to know you’re safe, okay?”
Clark threw the pills on the floor. “Fuck that! I’m not going to let you risk yourself while I’m sitting back--"
“God damn it, will you please listen to me? I’m faster and stronger than you; I have a better chance than anyone except Fred to take this guy out, and he’s helping the teachers keep everyone together so--” He leaned closer and said “I can’t kiss you in front of these people, but I can tell you I love you. Go stand with Fred and Lana, okay? Please?”
Clark was angry, and scared for Whit, but he nodded. He said, “Me too. Be careful.” He felt Lana’s eyes on him all the way back to the wall; he leaned against it for a moment, staring at nothing, and slid slowly down to sit beside Fred and Whitney’s girlfriend. He felt weak, felt bruised all over, like he’d been beaten up.
“He’ll be okay,” Fred said in a matter of fact voice, and then turned to Lana and pat her shoulder. “Don’t worry.” She looked up at Fred, and a tear hung for a moment from her mascaraed lashes, made its way down her perfectly blushed cheek. The look she gave Clark was a lot icier. Clark only thought her blush was a few shades too orange, and turned to track Whit’s progress. Every step he took closer to Earl made Clark’s breath catch….
Whit rushed Earl, counting on his speed and strength to surprise him--knocked the gun from his hand. It went flying, hit the metal grating of the floor and discharged. Earl shouted, “No!” as a bullet tore through Whit’s arm. He scrambled to the floor, leaped to his feet with the gun in his hand, completely panicked, on the edge of losing all control. “Everyone get the hell back down!”
Clark jumped up, ready to run to Whit, and Fred grabbed him, yanked him down to the floor. He hit the floor hard enough to knock a grunt out of him, and Fred said calmly, “He wants you safe. Stay here.”
“Get the fuck off of me.” Clark felt the cloud of discomfort behind his eyes become a focused spear of pain. He felt as if—as if he could shoot lasers from his eyes. He tried to pull away from Fred’s grip but his hand only tightened on Clark’s arm.
“No. Wait.”
Lana and a few other classmates pulled Whit back to the huddled knot of students. Lana was the focus of the group, all eyes were on her, brimming with sympathy, as she cried and sobbed over him. She stroked Whit’s hair, and carefully not touching his arm, shifted him a little so that the blood ran to the floor and not her lap.
“No, no, no—this wasn’t how it was supposed to be,” Earl cried, and the phone crackled to life—
“Earl—we saw what happened, we know you didn’t intend that. Can you send the boy out?”
Earl turned to the camera. “Send in Lionel Luthor, send him in now.”
“Earl, we want to do that, but we need you to show good faith…let the kids go, Earl. Let them out, and Mr. Luthor will come in.”
Earl stared at the floor, shaking gently as waves swept his body…he finally nodded, “Okay. Everyone can go.” He pointed the gun at the floor. “Go. Get out. Everyone,” he indicted Mr. Sullivan, the technicians, the teachers. “You too, get out.”
As soon as Earl agreed to let the group go, the negotiator spoke. “Earl, we're bringing an ambulance around, okay--a stretcher, to get the kid out--that’s all. Let them in, they’ll take the kid, and then Mr. Luthor will come in. Talk to you.”
Earl panted as a particularly hard wave hit him; he just managed to nod his agreement. The group filed out quickly, but Clark stayed against the wall, trying to make himself small. Fred managed to convince Lana to leave, told her that for Whit’s sake, he needed to know she got out, unhurt, and glanced back at Clark with a wry look as he pushed her gently towards the tail end of the departing crowd. “He loves me, he always puts my welfare first,” she sniffed and leaned heavily on Fred as he escorted her out, so involved in her own pain that she missed Clark in the shadows.
“Yeah,” Fred said. “He’s a man in love.”
Earl sighed and slumped forward on the desk, and Clark inched his way over to Whitney, slumped on the floor, holding a wad of material torn from a shirt against his arm. “Clark, you have to get out too. I’m okay—it hurts but I’m hardly going to die.” He tried to smile, but his lips trembled, his face was pale and wet with sweat.
Clark sat down with him. “Don’t be an a-hole, Whit. I’m not going anywhere.”
There was a noise in the corridor, and they could see the stretcher moving in. Earl groaned as an on-coming seizure jerked him upright and he staggered--waved the gun in Clark’s direction, yelled, “Get gone Clark, go ahead now, your friend will be fine--” Earl’s eyes went round, he threw his arms wide, and the sound of a gunshot split the air a second later--blood splattered Clark, hot and acidic, burning him-—he screamed and screamed….
Sharpshooters were standing behind the stretcher and Whit was staggering to his feet and yelling his name and the world flipped and rushed into darkness….
They were in the hallway, and Clark’s face was being wiped clean of Earl’s blood and the pain was gone. Whit was on the stretcher and it took Clark but a few seconds to convince them he was okay and that he needed to follow Whit.
******
He ran next to the stretcher, not letting them push him away, his fingertips grazing Whit’s over and over.
“You’ll be okay, you’ll be fine,” Whit was gasping and he reached out for Clark. “Not your fault, Clark.”
Clark scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, smearing tears and a little of what was left of the blood…He reached down and brushed Whit’s fingers with his. “I know, I know…hey, I’m supposed to be comforting you, goof.” He was pale, he felt weak and a little ill, but wonderful too, Whit really was going to be fine. Tiny, tiny green sparks flared and died as he wiped his hand on his jacket. He smiled down at Whit, and risked another brief caress of his hand.
They stopped at the ambulance, and Clark heard his parents call out to him, heard Whit’s mother call his name. He looked to see Whit’s parents running to him, and past them—Lionel Luthor, with another man whose back was to him, even though Mr. Luthor was obviously talking to him. Clark bent towards Whit, who was smiling blearily at him, groggy with painkillers. Whispered in his ear, “I have to go now, Whit, your parents are coming—I love you.”
Whit nodded, and Clark took his hand, for a moment everything he felt for Whit nearly overpowered him…Mr. Luthor was almost on them, his mouth drawn into a thin slash of annoyance, and over his shoulder, the other man smirked at him, his eyes focused on Clark’s fingers, where they touched Whit’s wrist. He pulled them away and blushed…a chill swept his whole body when he realized who the man was.
Time slowed, and then speeded up--his mom and dad grabbed him and clung to him, Whit’s mom and dad and Whit’s girlfriend blocked the view of the stretcher, and Clark suddenly found himself face to face with the notorious Mr. Luthor. He stopped and looked at Clark as if he was something scraped from the bottom of his hand-made Italian leather driving moccasins.
“That was brave of you and your friend—but you could both have ended up seriously wounded, and that would have been an unfair pain to inflict on your parents.”
Clark marveled—so that was what writers meant when they described a voice as oily....
“Leave him alone, Dad. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to run out on a…friend…”
Behind Lionel Luthor, stood Lex Luthor. Clark’s heart slammed painfully. Lex Luthor…he flushed. Lex Luthor saw him touch Whitney; read the desire in him to kiss Whit. This man knew it. The way he’d said ‘friend’…Lex’s eyes crawled over him, lingering places that made Clark want to cover—and suddenly the man’s expression changed, became less predatory, he looked as though he recognized Clark, surprise lit his gray eyes and then his dad grabbed his arm and pulled, not gently.
“Come along Lex, let the people whose job it is to handle these type of things finish this business.”
“God, yes, are we leaving this crap hole now?” He drawled, and walked in a way that made Clark turn to watch him and feel horribly, horribly guilty when he heard the ambulance pulling off.
tbc
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Whit…
Rating: 3
Summary: No animals were harmed in the creation of this AU.
A/N: From this point on, we bid adieu to even the faintest resemblance to canon. Goodbye, CW’s Smallville, good-bye!
here is the next bit of Mariposa--once I figured out the hook, the rest came pretty easy. (if by easy we mean crawling bare ass through nettles.) I have to tell ya'll, and I know it's not the fashion to say so, but I really did have a hell of a good time writing this bit,and I think it's lots of fun to read! I hope you think so too. (or i'm gonna look kind of stoopit here.)
The Previous Parts are here, and now they’re arguing over whether or not to put breathing holes in Flava’s crate, and so far, the no’s are winning….
“Hello, everybody, I’m Gabe Sullivan, plant manager, and proud father. Hi sweetheart.”
“Hi dad,” Chloe smiled like she was choking and waved at her dad. From the side of her mouth she whispered, “Kill me now…” and tried to slip behind Clark.
Gabe spread his arms and gestured around the ugly concrete space filled with cable and conduits as if they were in a museum, his eyes sparkled with barely contained humor, and he said loudly, “Welcome to LuthorCorp, where we give a crap.”
Chloe whispered to Clark, “No seriously--kill me. Now.”
Clark snorted and nudged her, and she fell against him, laughing. He grinned and looked around to find Pete. Whit was looking at him, face expressionless. His arm was around Lana, but it was obvious she wasn’t his focus. Clark looked away, angry that he felt even the smallest prick of guilt. Where did Whit get the nerve to be upset? Because for one day, he had to deal with what Clark dealt with daily? Clark turned away and gave his attention back to Mr. Sullivan.
“…right—just a little fertilizer humor there. Now, before we go inside, I need you to remove all your cell phones, pagers, jewelry. Anything that jangles, dangles, or rings needs to go in these plastic trays right here. All right, any other questions?”
Clark thought about what Earl told his dad, and raised his hand tentatively and asked, “Is there a third level here? I heard there was one…” He trailed off, feeling pretty much like a fool.
Mr. Sullivan grinned and said, “Oh yeah—that’s the level we do the alien autopsies on.” He winked, and smiled at the resulting laughter. “Now, if everyone is ready?”
Pete came up to stand with them. “Hey, Chloe, Clark—are you as excited as I am?”
Clark grinned, “More I think. It’s not everyday you get to spend looking at…”
“Shit?” Pete grinned, and Clark nodded.
“Thanks, I was going to say doodie, but you saved me from myself.”
“Glad to be of service, Clark,” he chuckled.
Chloe elbowed Clark and jerked her chin towards the rest of the group. “I’m enjoying the Hope and Crosby road show here as much as anyone, but we better get moving—the crowd’s leaving us.”
Pete mouthed, ‘Who?’ and Clark shrugged, mouthed back, ‘Chloe.’ and that seemed to explain it just fine to Pete. They followed the group as it made it’s way down a long concrete ramp leading away from the loading dock they’d entered at, and along the way, Mr. Sullivan pointed out various objects of interest, with various degrees of warning, until they’d reached a point obviously meant to be the highlight of the tour, a secure room, filled with computers, and wall size screens reading out the life of the plant— raw materials, temperatures, cooking product and finished product— “This is it. The plant's mission control. 100,000 tons of animal waste is processed here every year. Trust me, the results can be pretty explosive. So if any of you had beans for lunch, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”
The kids laughed and Chloe glanced at Clark and Pete with an apologetic shrug, whispered, “Among his peers, he’s considered quite witty.”
Pete and Clark both snorted. “Unh-hunh. I’m sure,” Pete said.
Mr. Sullivan was about to usher the group along, when an odd rattling sound came from behind a closed door. Clark turned to the sound--the door’s handle was shaking crazily.
“What the heck…” Mr. Sullivan frowned, and held up his hand, stopping the tour. “Hold on, everyone. I need to check this out.” He walked towards the closed door, and as he reached out for the handle, Earl burst through. He grabbed Mr. Sullivan around the neck, pressed a gun to his temple.
“Everyone, get against the wall, and shut up—you--” he tightened his grip on Mr. Sullivan’s neck, “--you take me to level three, now.”
“Level—but there’s no such thing,” he gasped.
Chloe grabbed Clark’s wrist, “Daddy…” she whispered, and dug her nails into Clark’s hand. He winced, and let her—he understood how terrified she was.
“You’re lying--” Earl snarled, was interrupted by a phone ringing—everyone jumped at the oddly normal noise. Earl pushed Mr. Sullivan towards the middle of the room, and a phone on a desk there. “Answer it—I’m right behind you.”
Earl’s jaw was clenched tight, sweat beaded his face, pain turned his cocoa skin gray. It was obvious Earl was in a lot of pain. Clark shuddered. Thumping started behind his eyes, and sent fingers of pain down his spine, as if an echo of Earl’s pain was worming its way into him. He missed what Mr. Sullivan was saying but Earl grabbed the phone from him and shouted into it, “Put Luthor on the phone—I won’t talk to anyone else, you hear?”
He was breathing heavily, and closed his eyes for a moment. Gabe moved—Earl slammed his hand on the table and everyone jumped. “Don’t you move!” He looked up suddenly at a security camera trained on the center of the room. He smiled a little and reached over the desk and turned on the speaker function. “So, Mr. Luthor. I finally have your attention.” He moved jerkily about the room, as if standing still was painful, but moving painful as well. Clark’s stomach twisted and churned as Earl moved close and then away again.
A voice crackling with static came over the speakers. “Earl, why don’t you come out so we can talk. We can discuss your concerns--”
“All I want—all I need to know is what that stuff is on level three.” Earl was sweating and grimacing, wiping at his eyes and mouth. Whatever was affecting him seemed to be getting worse, Clark thought.
Lionel Luthor spoke on, “Earl, you’re sick and we can help you. Let those people go and we’ll work something out. Earl was standing by methane tanks that sat against the far wall now, breathing harder and harder. Clark couldn’t hold himself back any longer. “Mr. Earl. Please listen to them—or—or, let me help you—let my dad help you--”
Earl shuddered and groaned, the sound climbing…he began to shake and in seconds was in a full blown seizure, a frightening sight—he seemed to be moving impossibly fast--there were moments when he was just a blur….he reached out and clutched the methane tank valves, snapped one off in his jittering grip. Earl looked at his hand in disbelief, gasped in horror as the reading began rising--
Clark ran towards him and Earl panicked, he swung, connected, and pain burst like fireworks in Clark’s head. He thought he heard his name shouted—he flew backwards and nearly bowled over Chloe and Lana. Someone kept him from falling, held him up. He looked back and recognized Whit’s teammate, Fred. “Don’t,” he said quietly when Clark wanted to run back to Earl.
Earl was frantic, howling at the camera. “See what you made me do? See this?” He held the snapped off valve from the methane tank—gas was rapidly filling the space. “This place is going to blow—it’s all Luthor’s fault!”
The voice on the phone was different now—“Mr. Jenkins—Earl…Mr. Luthor wants to help. Help us to help you. We saw what happened; you know the danger everyone is in now—at least let the kids out. My men will come to the door to help them out. Let them go, Earl, you don’t want to hurt anyone else.”
Earl dropped the broken valve and sat heavily on the edge of the desk, his head in his hands. The sob that shook his shoulders was clearly audible—Clark’s chest was tight, he felt his own breath hitch. Earl’s suffering filled the control room.
Farther down the line of students, Whitney talked quietly and intensely with Pete and Fred. They nodded and Whit began moving towards Earl, slowly, trying to keep out of his sight. Clark shouldered up next to him and Whit pushed him back. “Go back to the wall before you get hurt worse.”
“No! I’m not hiding back there—you need my help.”
“Clark, you look like shit—and I bet you have one of those headaches, right?” He crouched, pulling Clark into a crouch with him. “Here.” He pulled a bottle of aspirin out of his jacket pocket, popped the cap and shook a few into Clark’s hand. “Please keep out of the way, I need to know you’re safe, okay?”
Clark threw the pills on the floor. “Fuck that! I’m not going to let you risk yourself while I’m sitting back--"
“God damn it, will you please listen to me? I’m faster and stronger than you; I have a better chance than anyone except Fred to take this guy out, and he’s helping the teachers keep everyone together so--” He leaned closer and said “I can’t kiss you in front of these people, but I can tell you I love you. Go stand with Fred and Lana, okay? Please?”
Clark was angry, and scared for Whit, but he nodded. He said, “Me too. Be careful.” He felt Lana’s eyes on him all the way back to the wall; he leaned against it for a moment, staring at nothing, and slid slowly down to sit beside Fred and Whitney’s girlfriend. He felt weak, felt bruised all over, like he’d been beaten up.
“He’ll be okay,” Fred said in a matter of fact voice, and then turned to Lana and pat her shoulder. “Don’t worry.” She looked up at Fred, and a tear hung for a moment from her mascaraed lashes, made its way down her perfectly blushed cheek. The look she gave Clark was a lot icier. Clark only thought her blush was a few shades too orange, and turned to track Whit’s progress. Every step he took closer to Earl made Clark’s breath catch….
Whit rushed Earl, counting on his speed and strength to surprise him--knocked the gun from his hand. It went flying, hit the metal grating of the floor and discharged. Earl shouted, “No!” as a bullet tore through Whit’s arm. He scrambled to the floor, leaped to his feet with the gun in his hand, completely panicked, on the edge of losing all control. “Everyone get the hell back down!”
Clark jumped up, ready to run to Whit, and Fred grabbed him, yanked him down to the floor. He hit the floor hard enough to knock a grunt out of him, and Fred said calmly, “He wants you safe. Stay here.”
“Get the fuck off of me.” Clark felt the cloud of discomfort behind his eyes become a focused spear of pain. He felt as if—as if he could shoot lasers from his eyes. He tried to pull away from Fred’s grip but his hand only tightened on Clark’s arm.
“No. Wait.”
Lana and a few other classmates pulled Whit back to the huddled knot of students. Lana was the focus of the group, all eyes were on her, brimming with sympathy, as she cried and sobbed over him. She stroked Whit’s hair, and carefully not touching his arm, shifted him a little so that the blood ran to the floor and not her lap.
“No, no, no—this wasn’t how it was supposed to be,” Earl cried, and the phone crackled to life—
“Earl—we saw what happened, we know you didn’t intend that. Can you send the boy out?”
Earl turned to the camera. “Send in Lionel Luthor, send him in now.”
“Earl, we want to do that, but we need you to show good faith…let the kids go, Earl. Let them out, and Mr. Luthor will come in.”
Earl stared at the floor, shaking gently as waves swept his body…he finally nodded, “Okay. Everyone can go.” He pointed the gun at the floor. “Go. Get out. Everyone,” he indicted Mr. Sullivan, the technicians, the teachers. “You too, get out.”
As soon as Earl agreed to let the group go, the negotiator spoke. “Earl, we're bringing an ambulance around, okay--a stretcher, to get the kid out--that’s all. Let them in, they’ll take the kid, and then Mr. Luthor will come in. Talk to you.”
Earl panted as a particularly hard wave hit him; he just managed to nod his agreement. The group filed out quickly, but Clark stayed against the wall, trying to make himself small. Fred managed to convince Lana to leave, told her that for Whit’s sake, he needed to know she got out, unhurt, and glanced back at Clark with a wry look as he pushed her gently towards the tail end of the departing crowd. “He loves me, he always puts my welfare first,” she sniffed and leaned heavily on Fred as he escorted her out, so involved in her own pain that she missed Clark in the shadows.
“Yeah,” Fred said. “He’s a man in love.”
Earl sighed and slumped forward on the desk, and Clark inched his way over to Whitney, slumped on the floor, holding a wad of material torn from a shirt against his arm. “Clark, you have to get out too. I’m okay—it hurts but I’m hardly going to die.” He tried to smile, but his lips trembled, his face was pale and wet with sweat.
Clark sat down with him. “Don’t be an a-hole, Whit. I’m not going anywhere.”
There was a noise in the corridor, and they could see the stretcher moving in. Earl groaned as an on-coming seizure jerked him upright and he staggered--waved the gun in Clark’s direction, yelled, “Get gone Clark, go ahead now, your friend will be fine--” Earl’s eyes went round, he threw his arms wide, and the sound of a gunshot split the air a second later--blood splattered Clark, hot and acidic, burning him-—he screamed and screamed….
Sharpshooters were standing behind the stretcher and Whit was staggering to his feet and yelling his name and the world flipped and rushed into darkness….
They were in the hallway, and Clark’s face was being wiped clean of Earl’s blood and the pain was gone. Whit was on the stretcher and it took Clark but a few seconds to convince them he was okay and that he needed to follow Whit.
******
He ran next to the stretcher, not letting them push him away, his fingertips grazing Whit’s over and over.
“You’ll be okay, you’ll be fine,” Whit was gasping and he reached out for Clark. “Not your fault, Clark.”
Clark scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, smearing tears and a little of what was left of the blood…He reached down and brushed Whit’s fingers with his. “I know, I know…hey, I’m supposed to be comforting you, goof.” He was pale, he felt weak and a little ill, but wonderful too, Whit really was going to be fine. Tiny, tiny green sparks flared and died as he wiped his hand on his jacket. He smiled down at Whit, and risked another brief caress of his hand.
They stopped at the ambulance, and Clark heard his parents call out to him, heard Whit’s mother call his name. He looked to see Whit’s parents running to him, and past them—Lionel Luthor, with another man whose back was to him, even though Mr. Luthor was obviously talking to him. Clark bent towards Whit, who was smiling blearily at him, groggy with painkillers. Whispered in his ear, “I have to go now, Whit, your parents are coming—I love you.”
Whit nodded, and Clark took his hand, for a moment everything he felt for Whit nearly overpowered him…Mr. Luthor was almost on them, his mouth drawn into a thin slash of annoyance, and over his shoulder, the other man smirked at him, his eyes focused on Clark’s fingers, where they touched Whit’s wrist. He pulled them away and blushed…a chill swept his whole body when he realized who the man was.
Time slowed, and then speeded up--his mom and dad grabbed him and clung to him, Whit’s mom and dad and Whit’s girlfriend blocked the view of the stretcher, and Clark suddenly found himself face to face with the notorious Mr. Luthor. He stopped and looked at Clark as if he was something scraped from the bottom of his hand-made Italian leather driving moccasins.
“That was brave of you and your friend—but you could both have ended up seriously wounded, and that would have been an unfair pain to inflict on your parents.”
Clark marveled—so that was what writers meant when they described a voice as oily....
“Leave him alone, Dad. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy to run out on a…friend…”
Behind Lionel Luthor, stood Lex Luthor. Clark’s heart slammed painfully. Lex Luthor…he flushed. Lex Luthor saw him touch Whitney; read the desire in him to kiss Whit. This man knew it. The way he’d said ‘friend’…Lex’s eyes crawled over him, lingering places that made Clark want to cover—and suddenly the man’s expression changed, became less predatory, he looked as though he recognized Clark, surprise lit his gray eyes and then his dad grabbed his arm and pulled, not gently.
“Come along Lex, let the people whose job it is to handle these type of things finish this business.”
“God, yes, are we leaving this crap hole now?” He drawled, and walked in a way that made Clark turn to watch him and feel horribly, horribly guilty when he heard the ambulance pulling off.
tbc
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Ok... on to the review! lol I feel so bad for Earl. Lionel has to screw with everyone's lives. :P That was a very effective way to deal with Jitters with a powerless Clark.
Does Fred know about Whitney? He didn't seem too concerned about Lana, but kept Clark back from going after Earl and Whitney.
I love how, even in the middle of a crisis, Whitney reassures Clark that he loves him! If you break his heart for Clark to be with Lex I will be very mad at you! (But I'll end up forgiving you with the first Clex kiss probably. lol)
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Fred knows. Good old Fred. Good old Whit...*pets you,eases out of arm's reach*
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And when you say Clark recognized Lionel, you mean recognized, recognized, right? Lionel was the one? Wow, that makes me want to beat him to death with a shovel, and you know what a big Lionel ho I am.
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Okay, i'm liking Fred, muchly.
And Lex!
*snerk*
How was that different from canon? You have to tell me!
*shakes you*
*puts calmine lotion on your poor nettled butt*
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In the canon version, Lex runs the plant. He comes in to talk Earl out of holding the kids, so Lex is the one who saves the kids, more or less and Clark ends up saving Lex and Earl. Plus there was lots more special effects, and Whitney was a show-off dick. And bliiiibb-blib-blibb (the sound I make when I'm bring shaken)
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Okay.
*stops shaking you*
That's kinda disturbing.
How's the butt?
*snerk*
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*hugs*
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Poor Earl - without superpowered Clark he died much sooner, so sad.
So did I miss Fred finding out that Whit and Clark were BFF? He seems to understand that Lana is hardly on Whit's radar anymore.
I thought Lana wasn't going to be too much of a bitch, hey not that I have a problem with the characterization (and I still want Whitney to dump her hard), but the bitchiness seems more manifest now.
Jealous!Whit is cute...
So of course I have to mention he who draws attention with his back turned - sexy butt. At least when they (the Sexy and Clark) move closer together, Knowing Smile won't have to worry overly much that Clark swings that way.
...became less predatory, he looked as though he recognized Clark, surprise lit his gray eyes...
Did I miss a meeting?? Recognition is good, less predatory is good, naked touching better - I don't want to push though, HA!
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Lana, on the other hand, is picking it up,and she's not liking Clark interfering in her plans. She's got her future penned in and it includes being Mrs. Fordman, football wife. I'm definitely being negatively influenced by what her character is going through on the show, I find her even more shallow now than I did before. (If all they did was rip each other's clothes off, I'd be fine with it.)
They met back in the beginning of the story, when Lex blew through town instead of taking over the plant--Clark 'saved' his life. :)
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Love Whit protecting his man but for the first time ever I'm actually sorry to see the inevitable 'click' of CLex 'cause it will hurt Whitney. *sniff*
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Also--LEX is back!!!11
Great action-y chapter. :)
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Thank you!! And no, he's not! Tease!!
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(i must confess that the policeman's leer at whitney, a few chapters back, scared me. i'm thinking, omg, gay bashing coming up. ack!)
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And yay, you friended me! I was going to ask if I could friend you!
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oh, good. i don't post much in my journal, but i do like to read my friends' posts. so i'll be around. :)
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NO!!!!
naughty girl...
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And thank you so much! Thete's a lot of blushing and goofy grinning going on over here!
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and omgosh, that Lana thing-it came out of the blue. I usually try to write her with some sympathy because I really really dislike her, but I confess I gave in to temptation, and really made her OOC. *hangs head* Self-indulgent...but kind of fun.
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bring on sexy Lexy...
I'm trying! I'm trying!
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Anyway. Back to the story. YAY for HERO!Whit! Oh gosh. I loved that. Loved it! I can so see Clark gazing adoringly at his football star, and Fred (Weasley), (why I keep wanting to make him Fred from Harry Potter I don't know! lol!) being so sly and YAY.
Hah. Lana. Such a pretty picture -- but she reminds me of the wicked stepmother in snow white. So very beautiful on the outside and then, so very rotten at the core. Perfect blush that is to orange. Hah!
And Lionel. GOD!!!! I love to hate him SO much!
Oily evil evil man! Get away from my boys! All of them! (I want to be like a mother hen with her chicks and just put my wings over their lil fuzzy yellow chick-heads and keep them safe from spying evil old man eyes!
Then, best for last. Oh Lex. Pale and suave and perfect and he KNEW what he did to poor Clark before he realized who Clark was! Hah! I hope we get to see more interaction between them. :)
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*hyperventilates*
*faints*
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I know--can't RL understand how important fandom is?
:)