(no subject)

[roxy]

I’m bored. Bored-de-bored bored. I’m going to spam you unmercifully…unless Mr. Roxy’s comes by with a better offer.

Title:Mariposa
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/Lex soon…pretty much
Rating: 2
Summary: This is an AU version of Smallville. Wait a minute--Smallville is an AU version of Smallville

Previous Parts are here,pleading with me to let them go—ahahahaaaaa! Silly parts…



Men Of Good Fortune

Clark worked his way from the station farther into the city, where the factories and porn shops and abandoned buildings gave way to shabby neighborhoods, not new and not particularly clean, but behind these doors were real places to live, and on these streets were shops, and real food…he stared into the big plate glass window of a grocery store, Harmon Fresh Food painted on the glass in an old-fashioned type face. Stacked boxes of green and cream lettuce, pyramids of blood red tomatoes and yellow onions and piles of bright cucumbers, snap peas. His eyes filled with the sight, his chest tightened. No limp leaves, no watery spots of decay, not fuzzed over with mold. Glistening, ripe and perfect—everything that was coming up in his mom’s garden right now, and it was all fresh and crisp, and his mouth was watering. He caught sight of a scrawny kid with black shadows were his eyes should be in the glass—

He backed away, feeling unclean, inhuman.

A thin bent woman pushed through the open doorway, struggling with a fabric sack of groceries. Clark didn't stop to think, he offered to help, like he'd been taught, the way it was expected of him.

The woman stopped, eyed him suspiciously—her narrow grey eyes searched his, her thin pale lips tightened and turned down, and Clark remembered what he looked like.

“Sorry.” He backed away and the woman gestured impatiently. “Well, I haven’t got all day,” and held her bag out imperiously.

Clark waffled for a moment, and smiled slowly, took the bag. “Where do you live, ma’am?”

“Follow me,” she demanded.

By the time they made it up the stuffy narrow stairs of a building long past it’s prime, Clark learned that she’d been a widow for years now, she’d been an elementary school teacher but now of course retired., she expected the summer to be vicious, the he was not to expect a tip, and her door closed on him holding three dollars and a couple of apples.

He walked back to the store, and waited.

“Can I help you take those? Do you need a hand? Sure, I can carry all that.”

*****

“Kid, you need to get the fu--heck out from in front of my store and stop bothering my customers.”

That was the first thing I said to the kid. He looked back at me from big stunned eyes. God, he was just--what the hell was this kid doing wandering around loose, I remember thinking. That, and there was no way he was going to last more than a few minutes on the street.… “Go tell your parents to raise your allowance and leave my customers alone,” I said, and he blushed, and looked away. At that blush…that blush…I knew but I said it anyway. “Beat it, you go home.”

The kid nodded, looking like a fu—frigging boy-scout poster. “Yes sir.” He said, “Can I have a job?”

Right? Telling you. Balls. “What?” I say, “Job…” Nods again, like one of them bouncy head dolls, fucking ugly things. “I’m not afraid to work. And I’m a lot stronger than I look. I can unload trucks and sweep and stock shelves and—and deliver groceries. And—and--anything. My…my mom is sick, and we need the extra money…” The kid flinched, and that bright—something, the light in his eyes, dulled a bit when he said that—he was lying about the mom, and not lying about the ‘anything’--but he broadcast wholesome like—like fu—frigging Opie Taylor. He was staring holes into me, it was crazy—there was something in his eyes, something that made my mouth open without my brain and say “yes.”

Yes. Can you believe it? The kid looked like he’d been sleeping under a bench for days, and probably was doing God knows what—but I’m stupid or something. It turned out good, in a way…kind of. Kind of. But he was respectful, a good kid, and the customers loved him, and he just kind of shined, most days, I mean. Some days, well…you know what old people called the black dog? It followed him all right, you could see him all hunched over, like he was waiting for it to eat him alive. Poor kid.

I wonder…I hope, if he thinks of me, he remembers only that I tried to help him, and that anything else was my fault.
Poor kid.

******

Clark felt that at last, some good had fallen into his life. He had a job, a real job. He worked hard, but that was good. He did what he told Mr. Harmon he would. He swept, and stocked shelves. He washed the big plate glass windows, washed and swept the stair and sidewalk. He loved setting out the fresh fruits and vegetables, and at the end of the day, anything past prime, he got to take, packed the rest for shelters he couldn’t stay at. He had to avoid them because The Man could be anywhere in those places.

In the evening, he told Mr. Harmon good night, and walked until he found his spot for the night. Sometimes, he stayed in the all night laundromat a few blocks over. He could throw his clothes in a machine, and doze in one of the plastic chair lined against the wall, his pack behind his legs under the chair. Sometime, he talked to the other patrons, there was a woman they just called Duck Lady. Most of the time, she talked quietly to herself, but sometimes, she’d have vocal and bitter arguments with the invisible duck living on her head…and violently argue with patrons she suspected of taking the Duck’s side in whatever incomprehensible disagreement they were having that night. And in moments of total weirdness, he’d actually have lucid and strangely entertaining conversations with her.

There were other people he talked to, but he had his favorites--Rennie, who was a secretary once, before it all got to be too much for her and she decided to retire from the world…Frank, who lectured Clark endlessly about the perils of life on the street. He’d been a hustler when he was young, and now he claimed to be a writer, like some guy Frank claimed was famous, but whose name Clark could never remember…. by the look of Frank, he wasn’t nearly as successful as Famous Guy. Clark always listened, smiled and nodded and Frank always had candy, or an extra cup of coffee to share with him—Frank was a good guy. Rennie brought him cookies sometimes. Clark wondered just how different than the people who came in the day his friends were. Some people were a little scary, some were just sad…kids would come in and sometime, he’d give them change to wash their stuff if he had extra, or enough to get something out of the vending machines….

If the laundromat was crowded, Clark had other places he could stay. He knew he could stay at the convenience store on First Street, the manager kept a couch in the back office. He’d have to blow him first, so that was a last choice place. But if the laundromat was closed, and it was cold or raining, or he just couldn’t stomach sleeping in the street the store was there…

******

“Clark, where do you go when you leave here?” Mr. Harmon asked, and oddly, blushed.

“Our place isn’t far from here,” Clark said easily, eyes on the pyramid of grapefruit he was carefully stacking.

“Well, can we have telephone number, kid? We always ask--for emergency contact,” Mr. Harmon asked, and resettled his thick framed glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“My mom can’t afford one--”

Mr. Harmon held up his hand. “Spare me--you’re not staying with parents—or any adult, are you?”

Clark debated telling him he did stay with adults—the Duck Lady and Rennie and Frank at the Laundromat were adults, it wouldn’t really be lying, would it? He stopped trying to arrange citrus, and looked at Mr. Harmon, just-- really looked at him. “Why?”

“I—I got a room. You can use the room. Okay. The extra room. If you want. And…just bring your stuff. And stop asking me questions. Yap, yap yap, that’s all you do. It’s crazy making. More working less talking,” he barked, and stomped away.

Clark grinned after him, grapefruit forgotten in his hand. He thought for one shining moment—safe—safe again—and then sank back into the wave…knew it was wrong to do this to Mr. Harmon, he was a nice guy….

“Listen,” he said, later that evening, while he was sweeping up and Mr. Harmon was doing paperwork. “I can’t. I can’t stay with you—I’m not the person you think I am. I—I’m not the right kind of person…” Clark wound down. How could he explain the things he’d done? He wanted Mr. Harmon to like him. And he wanted to keep his job.

“What the hell am I a priest? Jesus. Get your stuff. And just in case you think I host charity cases—I’ll want rent.”

Clark looked at him, puzzled, but decided that he’d better shut up and get his stuff. “It’s in the back, by the freezer.”

“What? That fu—freakin’ little bag is all? Fine. Here. Go home.” He handed Clark a key. “Two doors down, two flights up and to the left. My place.”

******

Clark and Mr. Harmon—Eric—fell into an easy, comfortable routine. Clark rose before Eric most days, and made breakfast, and tried not to think how good it was to do, how much he missed his mom and dad, how much he wished he could tell Whitney. He worked all day at the store, and came home and took a hot shower, used lots of soap, and did that every day like clockwork. Every shower was like a dream. Every evening Mr. Harmon came in and Clark would be damp, clean and smiling, dressed in clean clothes, content. Clark marveled that he had his own place, a table to put his pictures on, a bed, with sheets and a thick blanket, and a pillow like a cloud. He had a lamp to read as long into the night as he wanted to, and the luxury of money to buy books, or clothes—second hand but clean and comfortable and nothing else mattered…he almost began to forget the street.


Clark swept the broom over the brick insert at the front of the store, pushed a fall of yellow spear shaped leaves along. They rustled dryly under the broom straw, a little wind swirled them over his feet before leaving them to settle and a painful awareness rose in his heart--September. It was already September. Four months had passed. Four months since he’d heard his parent’s voices, smelled his mom’s perfume, since he’d been hugged, been told he was loved....
Four months since Whit died. He still saw him, heard him. His voice was clear in his head, the way he smelled still clear in his mind. Whit’s jacket hung in the closet in his room. He didn’t need to carry it with him anymore. He had the ring, and Whit in his mind, he carried Whit with him everywhere. The jacket could stay home. Safe.

Eric was a hell of a guy, Clark thought. He treated him like a friend—in the weird way he had, Clark thought Eric really liked him. Mrs. Smith said so. Mrs. Smith was one of the smartest people he’d ever met. The day he’d carried her groceries home for the first time, had been the best day of his life. He’d met two of the best friends you could ask for, his boss and his customer. Mrs. Smith was good to talk to, and she was full of good advice…and Clark was very, very careful about what he talked to her about. How he acted. She might be old, but she was sharp, and very observant. More than once he’d seen her studying him, watching him. Smiling to her self.

Eric was easier; he could be more himself around him because Eric was in a state of constant pre-occupation, always on the edge of taking off. He seemed perpetually grouchy, most of that was the way he talked. He was an impatient guy, true, but when Clark wanted to talk, he stopped, and listened, and that was nice. He was a pretty good guy, all right.


They were camped out in the living room, the same as almost every evening--Eric was reading the paper, and Clark sat on the floor, reading. Eric looked up, and said, “Are your people looking for you?”

Clark froze. “I—I”

“See. I was thinking your parents. They might want to know you’re safe. Oh shit. Did they kick you out? Damn, if they kicked you out, I’m sorry—and forget it. Okay, you know what, forget I said anything—I didn’t say anything. God damn. I need a coke.” He dropped the paper. “Clark.”

Clark stared at Eric, marveling at his meltdown “Ye-es?” He waited, fidgeted with the edge of his book.

“Never mind.”

Clark waited…

“Clark—never--”

“Eric, you can ask, it’s okay.”

“Oh! Oh, I kinda thought I wasn’t supposed to ask—code of the street or—whatever.” He shoved his glasses so far up, Clark was afraid he might slam them through his forehead.

“Em, I think that’s prison—you know, don’t ask what you’re in for? I mean, they say that in the movies, I’ve never been in prison.”

He stared at Clark over his glasses and scratched his fingers through his short graying hair. “Prison? Who’s talking about prison? Prison.” He shook his head, and flipped the paper back up.

“Eric?”

“Hmm,” he grunted, behind the wall of newsprint.

“My folks aren’t monsters. They…tried really hard, I guess. But my boyfriend died, and I couldn’t be there anymore. It was…a strange town.”

Eric folded the paper. Blushed a little and said. “I see.” He took his glasses off, played with them. Clark watched him, he could see the wheels in his head turning, saw that he wanted to ask, saw the moment he decided not to.

“Does knowing that about me bother you?” Clark held his breath.

“No, no. I’m…I’m not bothered by it. How could I be? But it doesn’t change anything here. Okay, now I want coffee. There’s the phone. If you want to let your folks know you’re safe--call. And you are safe, don’t doubt that.” He stomped off, and stopped. Turned. “Call. I’ll just deduct it from your paycheck," he said and left the room.

Clark grinned.

TBC!

Comments

[roxymissrose.livejournal.com]

Oh, goodness--thanks so much, no it hasn't! Will do that ri--iight.....now! *G*