fic post: Mariposa
1/26/07 06:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Lex soon…pretty much
Rating: 3
Summary: This is an AU version of Smallville. *snort*
The Previous Parts are here, ready to get down and boogie..hey--hey! I said *GET* down...
Thanks everybody so much, your input really helped me get past the block. I think what you helped me to write works—I hope you think so too!
Men Of Good Fortune
Clark thought he knew what lonely was. Lonely was sitting in your room, staring at the ceiling, headphones feeding tears and suicide in your ears, and worrying that maybe, you’d never have friends—the friends you deserved, the love you wanted. Lonely was only having your mom to talk to, or sitting on the bus with an empty space next to you. No one to share lunch with.
He found out lonely was a huge black locked room, and being stuck in the center with no key. Lonely gnawed at you, ate you, starting with your heart and working its way out slowly. Lonely. He looked at the other kids passing, the kids that looked alien, less human than he was, but alive and all he had to do was reach out--just to touch someone, to be close—
He walked back and forth across the concrete apron of the bus station, Whit’s jacket bumping against his hip. Everything in the world was in that jacket or in his pocket, and he already felt as if the world was a shadow.
Whole days passed before he dared to close his eyes. He was afraid to sleep—afraid to let his guard down for an instant. There was something out there that wanted to hurt him, he felt it everyday, every moment he lay his head down, he felt it coming closer. He walked and walked, he kept moving, because if he stopped, he’d sleep, and if he slept…
…that night the first night, getting off the bus in Metropolis was like getting off the bus in hell--acid white light glaring in his burning eyes, the static-filled blare of the PA system, the stink of diesel and wet granite and sour garbage invaded him, unsettled and disoriented him. The huge bank of windows at one end of the station was terrifying—in his dreams hell looked like this, tall windows, a voice blaring gibberish overhead, people, people everywhere…but in his dreams, an angel always took him away from hell, a smiling brown face saved him time and again.
He snapped back to the here and now, and he stood on the apron, and the passengers streamed around his frozen self and he thought, what next? What came next?’
Metropolis. The City. He’d been before. To the museums, once a play, and every year, shopping at Christmas time, when the streets had been bright, and snow dusted the ground, and lights twinkled every where. There’d been carts selling chestnuts and they smelled good, and Dad split the hulls for him....
Now, it was hot and even in the night, the sidewalk radiated heat. The garbage scented air felt like it was made of warm glue, felt like it was trying to crawl into his pores. The only lights were the security lights on tall black poles, ringing the bus stations, casting an orange glow over concrete. Their black skeletons and weird light lent a nightmare quality to the trash piled against every wall. He could see this city and the one he thought he knew were very different things..
He walked out to the street, took a deep breath, and felt—terrified. He was alone. He realized, that only time he’d been totally alone was when he was six years old, and about to walk to school, because he’d missed the bus…tears flooded his eyes, and he ran until his side ached and it was hard to breathe. He looked around himself and saw nothing. Black bulks of empty buildings, no one on the street, no light, no cars…he was tired and hungry, he needed to sit and eat.
He walked past chain link fencing bordering an old building. It rattled and shook as he trailed his hand along it. Looked in at the building it surrounded and thought if the fence was there, it was meant to keep people out. Which meant no one was inside. Maybe…maybe he could find a place to sleep---and no one would know. He promised himself in the morning he’d look for a hotel room; he had enough for a night, maybe more.
He squeezed through a slit in the chain link, hoped that his passage wouldn’t alert security, or set off alarms, and found a broken window to climb through. It felt weird, it wasn’t something he ever could imagine doing in Smallville, letting himself into a building without permission…
It was dark inside, and smelled like piss and shit and rotten things, like the refuse heap on the farm—under the odor there was another, sweet and thick and—dead things, it smelled like. He pushed on, through the dark, picking his steps carefully. He sat gingerly on what looked to be a clear area, and opened his pack. Two bottles of water. A bag of M&Ms, packs of cheese crackers. He dumped them out, cracked open the water and drank. It opened his throat, made his mouth come alive, and all the horrible smells of the night tried to go down with it.
He glanced around and could make out he was in a lobby—the building had probably been a hotel once. He pushed back, leaned against a half wall behind him. He was not going to cry. This was his decision, he chose this. One thing he was certain of--this was definitely not an adventure. He could hear Whitney now. “Kent, you giant asshole. Get your butt back home right now.” He laughed a little, and swore. He was not going to cry. Not even when he could feel his hands on him, feel his cheek against his. Not. Going to cry.
He pulled Whit’s jacket out of the pack, shoved an arm in one sleeve and rolled the rest under his head in an uncomfortable pillow, and buried his face in the fading familiar scent. His eyes wanted to fill again, but that wall of knife sharp blackness seeped into him, made him cold inside, reminded him he was where he belonged. He closed his eyes and told himself stories…like his mom did when he was little and couldn’t sleep because there were monsters in the closet. Sleep snuck up on him, wound him down into dreams.
He woke up with a shout—someone was yanking at his feet. He yelled and kicked, and felt something soft give, heard a startled curse—feet running. Clark leaped up, swinging, help, help, that man was back—he was here—
“Whit! Whit!” he screamed, staggered at the memory he wasn’t home, the fresh rip of grief-- remembered with a deep disappointed groan where he was. Horror raised the hair on his neck—his stuff, it was gone—gone—no, there it was.
His pack gaped open, it was halfway across the crumbling space, not under his feet where he’d put it before sleeping. He heard giggling and looked up. Moon light pooled in the open space of the building lobby he’d taken refuge in. Faces swam up and disappeared in the weak light, before running footsteps let Clark know they’d gone again. Kids. Kids took his stuff…he dropped to the ground and grabbed his pack. All gone, food, clothes, money…his wallet flopped open, gutted of everything but pictures, an old collar of Buddy’s caught a bit of the light, near it a tube of purple lipstick. He moaned out loud as he scrambled for the few precious items they’d left him and he realized he was sweeping Whit’s jacket through the grime—still had his arm shoved in the sleeve. He dropped and curled around himself, his stuff cradled against his chest. All that meant anything to him was right there in his hands, all he had left. A few dollars in his pocket, change from the tickets and the food he’d bought in Granville. He’d lost everything else because he’d fallen asleep.
He was sitting on the wall near the station, cup trapped between his fingers. His routine had become simple--back to the station, wash quickly and as well as he could at a bathroom sink, find something to eat. He sipped at the coffee, and sighed. This cup was it. The last. He’d blown through the pitiful handful of change that was all they’d left him, the thieves. So he sat, watching the other kids, other people who lived on the street, hoping to see some sign of guilt, something that would tip him off to the culprits who’d made his life that much harder. He nursed the coffee he’d bought earlier and dumped packs and packs of sugar into, topped off with the little tubs of fake cream. (Mom was making coffee right now. Making pancakes, with butter and syrup and eggs over easy and bacon, sausage, toast, jam…) his stomach growled so loud he blushed. Sipped more of the sweet, too creamy liquid. He put the nearly empty cup between his feet, and wiped his face on the edge of Whit’s jacket, pressed his face into the sleeve.
It still smelled like him, if he concentrated really hard. Clark looked up, staring into the past. Caught the eye of a woman waking briskly by, and smiled politely, that’s what he knew. She was going to work, or coming home from work, whatever…she threw change into his cup and passed.
Clark gaped, the first thing he felt was anger ‘…damn, how am I supposed to finish that darn coffee now…well hell…’ He realized that now, sunk into the sugar at the bottom of his cup was the price of another cup.
He gulped the remainder of the coffee, letting the wet sugar slide down his throat, and sucked the change clean. Shoved it in his pocket. Today, he’d see if he could get breakfast, and then look about getting a job.
*****
Clark crammed himself in the back stall, feet up on the metal wall, and ass on the bowl. He thought seriously, comparing spending the night in the bus station bathroom, to spending the night in an abandoned building. There were points for it, he considered, bouncing his pack on his knee, and licking the last bits of chocolate from the wrapper of a vending machine candy bar. Points for--it smelled marginally less bad, there was water, light, and enough noise to keep him from sleeping. That was important. That was what he needed. He’d spent—he wasn’t sure how many days—looking for some kind of job, but the answer was always the same, he was too young, or too—dirty, he guessed. He looked dusty and grimy. He was asking for jobs with his shirt turned inside out, trying to look cleaner…and he smelled. He smelled himself. He knew what he looked like--exactly what he was. A runaway. He was feeling desperate, the longer he spent on the street, the less he felt able to move forward, or back…
The bank of phones outside of the station caught his eye again and again, he moved towards them five, ten times a day, each time, the black wave flowed over and engulfed him, reminded him every time. There was no place for him in Smallville; he had less there than here on the street. He moved on, past the phones, past the corners where other kids were grouped, thrown together by a common lack of hope. He kept moving, smiling, nodding, moving past the words, past the looks, past thinking.
******
“Hey, kid—you look like you could use something to eat.”
Clark looked up at the idling car, his chest tightened. His heart thundered, stomach jerked. He could do this. He could do this. He fingered the sleeves tied around his waist and begged Whit to forgive him. Tried to convince himself it meant nothing—nothing. He read the hunger in the guy’s eyes, and stepped back. “Hey, come on kid—you want something to eat or not?”
Clark twisted the ring on his finger, and realized, in a stabbing moment of clarity, really, what difference did it make? Especially to him, what difference did it make? A blowjob, what was that? One little bunch of minutes, gone and forgotten and he’d have food, maybe a place to stay the night…
“Fuckin’ make up your mind kid, it’s raining like fuck out here…”
“Oh—okay. Yeah.”
“Great…there’s a place not far from here…how much?”
****
Begging for change was easy, simple, safe…took all day to get sometimes, just enough for a sandwich.
This was faster.
Dark, grit under his knees…eyes open because any one of them could be him. He could reach out and savage him at any minute—he watched them all to make sure they weren’t him. Their eyes…were so much the same. He’d forgotten….
Taste of saltbleachblood thick in his mouth and dry plucked at his eyes. Hands on his knees, their knees. Sometimes he wished he was strong enough to break their bones. Or his own. Smell, thick in his nose--skin, sweat, musk, cologne, the smell of humans being monstrous. He didn’t even think about it much, he’d always known something like this was waiting for him. Whit was gone and he had no one to protect him and he couldn’t do it on his own.
“Here.”
Clark took the folded bills and tucked them in his pocket. He waited until the man was gone. More if he swallowed. He shoved the bills down tight into a knot. More if he swallowed. His stomach flipped, and his mouth filled with acid. He swallowed hard. Fingered the bills. Clean clothes, a shower…hot food, and a place to sit and eat it…he licked his lips.
There was a diner next to the Good Will on the next block….
******
Days stacked up, he thought less and less, performed movement by rote--cup, beg, sandwich, cup, beg sandwich, follow one suit or another into the dark under stairs, in alleys.
Pass the phones and long for the sound of his mothers voice and wait for the ghost fangs to eat at him to rip him open and rub in salt—they didn’t really want you they have what they want now they don’t need you everyone who wanted you is dead, save them from you—
On and on until finally, his body’s demand for sleep dragged him out of the world, so tired, he wanted to cry, and no energy for it. He crawled into the basement of a building made of piss, or it smelled like it. The concrete was gritty and cold and felt damp, untouched by the summer heat outside. Didn’t matter, he rolled into as small a ball as he could, and waited for sleep. All he needed was a quick nap. Five minutes, he’d sleep for five minutes….
Get up Kal. Do something. You’re going to die. Do something Kal, you’re going to die.
I don’t care, Whitney’s gone. I want to be gone too.
No, you don’t that’s not you speaking. There’s something inside of you... You’re going to die. Whitney’s going to kill you.
Clark jerked awake, flailing against some monster pressed against him, trying to run its claws into his head. He flung him self upright, the pack skittering away from him. He couldn’t do this anymore; he needed more, safe, a place he could really sleep. He crawled after his pack, and pulled it open. The inside pocket held the lipstick, his pictures, and a little packet of aspirin. He ripped open the pack and swallowed the pills, grimaced. Whit always had the coated ones…he sat and cried, shocked that he could even find tears.
TBC
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Lex soon…pretty much
Rating: 3
Summary: This is an AU version of Smallville. *snort*
The Previous Parts are here, ready to get down and boogie..hey--hey! I said *GET* down...
Thanks everybody so much, your input really helped me get past the block. I think what you helped me to write works—I hope you think so too!
Men Of Good Fortune
Clark thought he knew what lonely was. Lonely was sitting in your room, staring at the ceiling, headphones feeding tears and suicide in your ears, and worrying that maybe, you’d never have friends—the friends you deserved, the love you wanted. Lonely was only having your mom to talk to, or sitting on the bus with an empty space next to you. No one to share lunch with.
He found out lonely was a huge black locked room, and being stuck in the center with no key. Lonely gnawed at you, ate you, starting with your heart and working its way out slowly. Lonely. He looked at the other kids passing, the kids that looked alien, less human than he was, but alive and all he had to do was reach out--just to touch someone, to be close—
He walked back and forth across the concrete apron of the bus station, Whit’s jacket bumping against his hip. Everything in the world was in that jacket or in his pocket, and he already felt as if the world was a shadow.
Whole days passed before he dared to close his eyes. He was afraid to sleep—afraid to let his guard down for an instant. There was something out there that wanted to hurt him, he felt it everyday, every moment he lay his head down, he felt it coming closer. He walked and walked, he kept moving, because if he stopped, he’d sleep, and if he slept…
…that night the first night, getting off the bus in Metropolis was like getting off the bus in hell--acid white light glaring in his burning eyes, the static-filled blare of the PA system, the stink of diesel and wet granite and sour garbage invaded him, unsettled and disoriented him. The huge bank of windows at one end of the station was terrifying—in his dreams hell looked like this, tall windows, a voice blaring gibberish overhead, people, people everywhere…but in his dreams, an angel always took him away from hell, a smiling brown face saved him time and again.
He snapped back to the here and now, and he stood on the apron, and the passengers streamed around his frozen self and he thought, what next? What came next?’
Metropolis. The City. He’d been before. To the museums, once a play, and every year, shopping at Christmas time, when the streets had been bright, and snow dusted the ground, and lights twinkled every where. There’d been carts selling chestnuts and they smelled good, and Dad split the hulls for him....
Now, it was hot and even in the night, the sidewalk radiated heat. The garbage scented air felt like it was made of warm glue, felt like it was trying to crawl into his pores. The only lights were the security lights on tall black poles, ringing the bus stations, casting an orange glow over concrete. Their black skeletons and weird light lent a nightmare quality to the trash piled against every wall. He could see this city and the one he thought he knew were very different things..
He walked out to the street, took a deep breath, and felt—terrified. He was alone. He realized, that only time he’d been totally alone was when he was six years old, and about to walk to school, because he’d missed the bus…tears flooded his eyes, and he ran until his side ached and it was hard to breathe. He looked around himself and saw nothing. Black bulks of empty buildings, no one on the street, no light, no cars…he was tired and hungry, he needed to sit and eat.
He walked past chain link fencing bordering an old building. It rattled and shook as he trailed his hand along it. Looked in at the building it surrounded and thought if the fence was there, it was meant to keep people out. Which meant no one was inside. Maybe…maybe he could find a place to sleep---and no one would know. He promised himself in the morning he’d look for a hotel room; he had enough for a night, maybe more.
He squeezed through a slit in the chain link, hoped that his passage wouldn’t alert security, or set off alarms, and found a broken window to climb through. It felt weird, it wasn’t something he ever could imagine doing in Smallville, letting himself into a building without permission…
It was dark inside, and smelled like piss and shit and rotten things, like the refuse heap on the farm—under the odor there was another, sweet and thick and—dead things, it smelled like. He pushed on, through the dark, picking his steps carefully. He sat gingerly on what looked to be a clear area, and opened his pack. Two bottles of water. A bag of M&Ms, packs of cheese crackers. He dumped them out, cracked open the water and drank. It opened his throat, made his mouth come alive, and all the horrible smells of the night tried to go down with it.
He glanced around and could make out he was in a lobby—the building had probably been a hotel once. He pushed back, leaned against a half wall behind him. He was not going to cry. This was his decision, he chose this. One thing he was certain of--this was definitely not an adventure. He could hear Whitney now. “Kent, you giant asshole. Get your butt back home right now.” He laughed a little, and swore. He was not going to cry. Not even when he could feel his hands on him, feel his cheek against his. Not. Going to cry.
He pulled Whit’s jacket out of the pack, shoved an arm in one sleeve and rolled the rest under his head in an uncomfortable pillow, and buried his face in the fading familiar scent. His eyes wanted to fill again, but that wall of knife sharp blackness seeped into him, made him cold inside, reminded him he was where he belonged. He closed his eyes and told himself stories…like his mom did when he was little and couldn’t sleep because there were monsters in the closet. Sleep snuck up on him, wound him down into dreams.
He woke up with a shout—someone was yanking at his feet. He yelled and kicked, and felt something soft give, heard a startled curse—feet running. Clark leaped up, swinging, help, help, that man was back—he was here—
“Whit! Whit!” he screamed, staggered at the memory he wasn’t home, the fresh rip of grief-- remembered with a deep disappointed groan where he was. Horror raised the hair on his neck—his stuff, it was gone—gone—no, there it was.
His pack gaped open, it was halfway across the crumbling space, not under his feet where he’d put it before sleeping. He heard giggling and looked up. Moon light pooled in the open space of the building lobby he’d taken refuge in. Faces swam up and disappeared in the weak light, before running footsteps let Clark know they’d gone again. Kids. Kids took his stuff…he dropped to the ground and grabbed his pack. All gone, food, clothes, money…his wallet flopped open, gutted of everything but pictures, an old collar of Buddy’s caught a bit of the light, near it a tube of purple lipstick. He moaned out loud as he scrambled for the few precious items they’d left him and he realized he was sweeping Whit’s jacket through the grime—still had his arm shoved in the sleeve. He dropped and curled around himself, his stuff cradled against his chest. All that meant anything to him was right there in his hands, all he had left. A few dollars in his pocket, change from the tickets and the food he’d bought in Granville. He’d lost everything else because he’d fallen asleep.
He was sitting on the wall near the station, cup trapped between his fingers. His routine had become simple--back to the station, wash quickly and as well as he could at a bathroom sink, find something to eat. He sipped at the coffee, and sighed. This cup was it. The last. He’d blown through the pitiful handful of change that was all they’d left him, the thieves. So he sat, watching the other kids, other people who lived on the street, hoping to see some sign of guilt, something that would tip him off to the culprits who’d made his life that much harder. He nursed the coffee he’d bought earlier and dumped packs and packs of sugar into, topped off with the little tubs of fake cream. (Mom was making coffee right now. Making pancakes, with butter and syrup and eggs over easy and bacon, sausage, toast, jam…) his stomach growled so loud he blushed. Sipped more of the sweet, too creamy liquid. He put the nearly empty cup between his feet, and wiped his face on the edge of Whit’s jacket, pressed his face into the sleeve.
It still smelled like him, if he concentrated really hard. Clark looked up, staring into the past. Caught the eye of a woman waking briskly by, and smiled politely, that’s what he knew. She was going to work, or coming home from work, whatever…she threw change into his cup and passed.
Clark gaped, the first thing he felt was anger ‘…damn, how am I supposed to finish that darn coffee now…well hell…’ He realized that now, sunk into the sugar at the bottom of his cup was the price of another cup.
He gulped the remainder of the coffee, letting the wet sugar slide down his throat, and sucked the change clean. Shoved it in his pocket. Today, he’d see if he could get breakfast, and then look about getting a job.
*****
Clark crammed himself in the back stall, feet up on the metal wall, and ass on the bowl. He thought seriously, comparing spending the night in the bus station bathroom, to spending the night in an abandoned building. There were points for it, he considered, bouncing his pack on his knee, and licking the last bits of chocolate from the wrapper of a vending machine candy bar. Points for--it smelled marginally less bad, there was water, light, and enough noise to keep him from sleeping. That was important. That was what he needed. He’d spent—he wasn’t sure how many days—looking for some kind of job, but the answer was always the same, he was too young, or too—dirty, he guessed. He looked dusty and grimy. He was asking for jobs with his shirt turned inside out, trying to look cleaner…and he smelled. He smelled himself. He knew what he looked like--exactly what he was. A runaway. He was feeling desperate, the longer he spent on the street, the less he felt able to move forward, or back…
The bank of phones outside of the station caught his eye again and again, he moved towards them five, ten times a day, each time, the black wave flowed over and engulfed him, reminded him every time. There was no place for him in Smallville; he had less there than here on the street. He moved on, past the phones, past the corners where other kids were grouped, thrown together by a common lack of hope. He kept moving, smiling, nodding, moving past the words, past the looks, past thinking.
******
“Hey, kid—you look like you could use something to eat.”
Clark looked up at the idling car, his chest tightened. His heart thundered, stomach jerked. He could do this. He could do this. He fingered the sleeves tied around his waist and begged Whit to forgive him. Tried to convince himself it meant nothing—nothing. He read the hunger in the guy’s eyes, and stepped back. “Hey, come on kid—you want something to eat or not?”
Clark twisted the ring on his finger, and realized, in a stabbing moment of clarity, really, what difference did it make? Especially to him, what difference did it make? A blowjob, what was that? One little bunch of minutes, gone and forgotten and he’d have food, maybe a place to stay the night…
“Fuckin’ make up your mind kid, it’s raining like fuck out here…”
“Oh—okay. Yeah.”
“Great…there’s a place not far from here…how much?”
****
Begging for change was easy, simple, safe…took all day to get sometimes, just enough for a sandwich.
This was faster.
Dark, grit under his knees…eyes open because any one of them could be him. He could reach out and savage him at any minute—he watched them all to make sure they weren’t him. Their eyes…were so much the same. He’d forgotten….
Taste of saltbleachblood thick in his mouth and dry plucked at his eyes. Hands on his knees, their knees. Sometimes he wished he was strong enough to break their bones. Or his own. Smell, thick in his nose--skin, sweat, musk, cologne, the smell of humans being monstrous. He didn’t even think about it much, he’d always known something like this was waiting for him. Whit was gone and he had no one to protect him and he couldn’t do it on his own.
“Here.”
Clark took the folded bills and tucked them in his pocket. He waited until the man was gone. More if he swallowed. He shoved the bills down tight into a knot. More if he swallowed. His stomach flipped, and his mouth filled with acid. He swallowed hard. Fingered the bills. Clean clothes, a shower…hot food, and a place to sit and eat it…he licked his lips.
There was a diner next to the Good Will on the next block….
******
Days stacked up, he thought less and less, performed movement by rote--cup, beg, sandwich, cup, beg sandwich, follow one suit or another into the dark under stairs, in alleys.
Pass the phones and long for the sound of his mothers voice and wait for the ghost fangs to eat at him to rip him open and rub in salt—they didn’t really want you they have what they want now they don’t need you everyone who wanted you is dead, save them from you—
On and on until finally, his body’s demand for sleep dragged him out of the world, so tired, he wanted to cry, and no energy for it. He crawled into the basement of a building made of piss, or it smelled like it. The concrete was gritty and cold and felt damp, untouched by the summer heat outside. Didn’t matter, he rolled into as small a ball as he could, and waited for sleep. All he needed was a quick nap. Five minutes, he’d sleep for five minutes….
Get up Kal. Do something. You’re going to die. Do something Kal, you’re going to die.
I don’t care, Whitney’s gone. I want to be gone too.
No, you don’t that’s not you speaking. There’s something inside of you... You’re going to die. Whitney’s going to kill you.
Clark jerked awake, flailing against some monster pressed against him, trying to run its claws into his head. He flung him self upright, the pack skittering away from him. He couldn’t do this anymore; he needed more, safe, a place he could really sleep. He crawled after his pack, and pulled it open. The inside pocket held the lipstick, his pictures, and a little packet of aspirin. He ripped open the pack and swallowed the pills, grimaced. Whit always had the coated ones…he sat and cried, shocked that he could even find tears.
TBC
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