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12/29/06 07:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Whit…
Rating: 1
Summary: This is an AU version of Smallville that does not feature Clark as a pizza delivery boy.
Previous Parts are rat cheer.
Whitney didn’t call that day, or the next day, or the next. He passed Clark in the hall with a wave and a grunt, and not much more. Sometimes he left school early, or didn’t show up at all; he didn’t show up for practices. He worked at his dad’s store, a lot, and Clark stopped coming in on the days Whit was working—Whit made it plain he didn’t want to see him there. He stopped trying to call Whit, because whenever he did call, he wasn’t home, or wasn’t taking calls…
Clark wondered if he was angry about Chloe, worried that maybe it was just over between the two of them—that Whit was bored by him, and he thought he’d already experienced the worst pain imaginable—but he hadn’t. Nothing had ever hurt like this.
A day or two later, he heard around school that Whitney’s dad had had a heart attack—and the fact that Whit himself hadn’t told him was devastating. And then of course he felt guilty that he was upset for himself, when Whit was the one suffering.
Lana walked around the school looking as stunned and lost as he felt and he did his best to keep out of her way. Whitney was avoiding her too, and that should have made him feel better, but it didn’t.
******
Clark sat on a low sofa tucked into a corner of the Beanery, feet propped up on his book bag, watching traffic through the big front windows. He was nursing a cooling café au lait, and thinking about Whitney… he hadn’t seen him at all in school today. Again. He was going to mess up his scholarship--mess up everything if he didn’t stop…it was all about his dad, and there was nothing he could do because Whit wouldn’t let him do anything. Whit wasn’t talking to him; he wasn’t talking to Lana—
Lana…God forbid he try to talk to her about Whit. Clark grimaced. He didn’t like her. And he understood quite clearly she didn’t like him—and of course, she didn’t have a reason to. They walked around each other like gunslingers, watching to see whose hand dropped first…she had to know that Whit wasn’t very much hers, not like he was Clark’s. Clark sighed and turned to people watching. He watched couples smile at each other, laugh and hold hands, kiss. A wave of anger-sadness-frustration swept over him, and again he sighed deeply, and told himself to let it go…
The shop door opened and in walked the Princess, and Clark groaned inwardly. Of all people he’d *pay* not to see…she hadn’t seen him yet, and Clark wondered if he could get up and leave without looking obvious.
She stopped, looked at him, looked away. Took a hesitant step away, before she straightened and walked over. “Clark.” And sat down. Clark stared back, and gulped.
“Yes…?”
“What’s wrong with Whitney? What’s going on?”
“Why are you asking me? If you don’t know, than what makes you think I--”
She waved him to silence. “Spare me. You *know* why I’m asking you. If you don’t,” and she fixed him with an icy glare, “you’re the only one in the damn town who *doesn’t* know.”
Clark felt ill—how in the hell was he supposed to handle this situation? “Lana, I—I...” He wound down into silence. What could he do? Apologize? Demand she leave?
She pushed back against her side of the thankfully long couch. Nervously, he reached for his cup, and jogged it—liquid splashed over the low table. Her smile warmed a little as he tried to mop up the mess with handfuls of napkins. The harder he wiped, the worse he smeared milky coffee about. She stopped his frantic efforts with a feather light touch of her hand. Clark looked and thought foggily that she had beautiful hands, perfectly shaped, tiny. The way she moved them, they were as expressive and delicate as butterflies…he pictured them moving across Whit’s skin—it seemed right. He looked away from her, her hands, and blushed.
“He’s going to lose everything if he doesn’t pull it together, Clark. Try to get him to—” She stopped. “What?”
“How can you be so…causal? So--” coldly matter-of-fact about a horrible situation, he wanted to say.
“Don’t ask Clark. You know why.” She leaned towards him a little, and said, “I’ll be the one, Clark. When it’s time for happily ever after, it’ll be me.”
“Lana…” You’re wrong; I know you’re wrong. “I think, I think…okay, I can try to talk to him,” he said and slumped on the couch. She sagged a little too, as if the weight of speaking to him was too much. He knew that feeling well. He knuckled the back of his neck, trying to loosen the tight knot of muscles, wishing she would leave.
She closed her eyes and spoke so softly Clark had to strain to hear her. “Why are you ruining my life—and Whit’s? Why can’t you just leave us alone?” She opened her eyes; they were bright, and wet. “I’ve never hated *anyone* the way I hate you.”
He inhaled sharply, the look she gave him was so full of menace that he pulled away from her, and in the next instance, hatred was gone again, and she just looked…tired. Annoyed. “Okay, I think I’ve humiliated myself enough today.” She stood abruptly, and her mouth worked—she turned and walked away.
Clark felt like he’d run miles, his heart was pounding, he felt exposed, as if something was hanging over him, ready to drop down and rip him to shreds. He reached for his coffee with a shaky hand, grimaced. Half of it was drying on the table and what was left was scummy looking and cold. God, that’d been horrible, a truly fucking weird encounter. He stomach did a slow roll. He knew she hated him but…he didn’t have the strength to hate anyone that much. He shivered. What the hell was Whit thinking?
tbc
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Whit…
Rating: 1
Summary: This is an AU version of Smallville that does not feature Clark as a pizza delivery boy.
Previous Parts are rat cheer.
Whitney didn’t call that day, or the next day, or the next. He passed Clark in the hall with a wave and a grunt, and not much more. Sometimes he left school early, or didn’t show up at all; he didn’t show up for practices. He worked at his dad’s store, a lot, and Clark stopped coming in on the days Whit was working—Whit made it plain he didn’t want to see him there. He stopped trying to call Whit, because whenever he did call, he wasn’t home, or wasn’t taking calls…
Clark wondered if he was angry about Chloe, worried that maybe it was just over between the two of them—that Whit was bored by him, and he thought he’d already experienced the worst pain imaginable—but he hadn’t. Nothing had ever hurt like this.
A day or two later, he heard around school that Whitney’s dad had had a heart attack—and the fact that Whit himself hadn’t told him was devastating. And then of course he felt guilty that he was upset for himself, when Whit was the one suffering.
Lana walked around the school looking as stunned and lost as he felt and he did his best to keep out of her way. Whitney was avoiding her too, and that should have made him feel better, but it didn’t.
******
Clark sat on a low sofa tucked into a corner of the Beanery, feet propped up on his book bag, watching traffic through the big front windows. He was nursing a cooling café au lait, and thinking about Whitney… he hadn’t seen him at all in school today. Again. He was going to mess up his scholarship--mess up everything if he didn’t stop…it was all about his dad, and there was nothing he could do because Whit wouldn’t let him do anything. Whit wasn’t talking to him; he wasn’t talking to Lana—
Lana…God forbid he try to talk to her about Whit. Clark grimaced. He didn’t like her. And he understood quite clearly she didn’t like him—and of course, she didn’t have a reason to. They walked around each other like gunslingers, watching to see whose hand dropped first…she had to know that Whit wasn’t very much hers, not like he was Clark’s. Clark sighed and turned to people watching. He watched couples smile at each other, laugh and hold hands, kiss. A wave of anger-sadness-frustration swept over him, and again he sighed deeply, and told himself to let it go…
The shop door opened and in walked the Princess, and Clark groaned inwardly. Of all people he’d *pay* not to see…she hadn’t seen him yet, and Clark wondered if he could get up and leave without looking obvious.
She stopped, looked at him, looked away. Took a hesitant step away, before she straightened and walked over. “Clark.” And sat down. Clark stared back, and gulped.
“Yes…?”
“What’s wrong with Whitney? What’s going on?”
“Why are you asking me? If you don’t know, than what makes you think I--”
She waved him to silence. “Spare me. You *know* why I’m asking you. If you don’t,” and she fixed him with an icy glare, “you’re the only one in the damn town who *doesn’t* know.”
Clark felt ill—how in the hell was he supposed to handle this situation? “Lana, I—I...” He wound down into silence. What could he do? Apologize? Demand she leave?
She pushed back against her side of the thankfully long couch. Nervously, he reached for his cup, and jogged it—liquid splashed over the low table. Her smile warmed a little as he tried to mop up the mess with handfuls of napkins. The harder he wiped, the worse he smeared milky coffee about. She stopped his frantic efforts with a feather light touch of her hand. Clark looked and thought foggily that she had beautiful hands, perfectly shaped, tiny. The way she moved them, they were as expressive and delicate as butterflies…he pictured them moving across Whit’s skin—it seemed right. He looked away from her, her hands, and blushed.
“He’s going to lose everything if he doesn’t pull it together, Clark. Try to get him to—” She stopped. “What?”
“How can you be so…causal? So--” coldly matter-of-fact about a horrible situation, he wanted to say.
“Don’t ask Clark. You know why.” She leaned towards him a little, and said, “I’ll be the one, Clark. When it’s time for happily ever after, it’ll be me.”
“Lana…” You’re wrong; I know you’re wrong. “I think, I think…okay, I can try to talk to him,” he said and slumped on the couch. She sagged a little too, as if the weight of speaking to him was too much. He knew that feeling well. He knuckled the back of his neck, trying to loosen the tight knot of muscles, wishing she would leave.
She closed her eyes and spoke so softly Clark had to strain to hear her. “Why are you ruining my life—and Whit’s? Why can’t you just leave us alone?” She opened her eyes; they were bright, and wet. “I’ve never hated *anyone* the way I hate you.”
He inhaled sharply, the look she gave him was so full of menace that he pulled away from her, and in the next instance, hatred was gone again, and she just looked…tired. Annoyed. “Okay, I think I’ve humiliated myself enough today.” She stood abruptly, and her mouth worked—she turned and walked away.
Clark felt like he’d run miles, his heart was pounding, he felt exposed, as if something was hanging over him, ready to drop down and rip him to shreds. He reached for his coffee with a shaky hand, grimaced. Half of it was drying on the table and what was left was scummy looking and cold. God, that’d been horrible, a truly fucking weird encounter. He stomach did a slow roll. He knew she hated him but…he didn’t have the strength to hate anyone that much. He shivered. What the hell was Whit thinking?
tbc
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