![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: How I Spent My Summer Vacation part nine
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/ Whit, Jason/Whit
Rating: R
Summary: All about what Clark learns on his summer job.
I promise, this one is not going to be a year long never-ending WIP.
The previous parts are here, pretending to be Batman…what? Oh gosh, the perverts. And don't bring that bat back into the house....
"So, I'm standing at the concessions with Nik, right, and Bill comes in and I didn’t even know he was going to that movie and you know what the fucker does, blows right past me like I ain't there. Why would he do that? Plus come to the movie when I had to have Nik's brother drop us off, my car's not working and why? 'Cause Bill's too damn busy to help a brother out—anyway Nik is pulling on my arm whining about popcorn and I'm still trying to figure out why my boy dissed me and—"
Saturday night, and the crew had decided on a movie night. Billy, Whit and Jason couldn't make it, but the rest of the guys were milling around in the lobby waiting to get tickets. Clark was listening to Roger describe how Billy had rudely ignored him and dampened the thrill of his date with his girl—'Nik'. Nikki with an 'I', no 'E'. Yeah.
Pete glanced at Clark and rolled his eyes. With a tone of deepest suffering, he said to Roger, "Okay, Powder, you dork ass motherfucker. Take a breath. We talked about that shit already--what not to do? No fist bump, no diss, no 'this is how I roll'? And Billy should kick your ass. You've been treating him like shit since you been seeing this girl." He turned to Clark. "And shouldn't I be able to kick Billy's ass for leaving us with this yatz?"
Clark shook his head. "Yutz. And no, you can't kick Billy's—well, maybe a little. You're such a yutz," he told Roger.
"Fuck, what the hell, are we girls? I gotta call him and tell him what's going on?" Roger would have said more but the girls came out of the bathroom and what was the deal with that anyway? Did they have some odd herd instinct that made them huddle up like that to pee…or was it that they couldn't stand to be alone with the guys for that long and if that was the case he totally got it, he really did and stared hard at Roger and Greg.
"What?" Chloe Sullivan, the beloved offspring of their boss, Mr. Gabe's pride and joy, was smiling at Pete, and looked kind of happy to be there with him. Clark was amazed, pleased for Pete, and planned to find out just how he did that.
Pete smiled at her. "Oh, nothing. There was a crazy man in here, but Clark chased him off." He looked pointedly at Rog, who clamped his mouth shut and frowned. Pete shook his head and walked away, Chloe and Nik followed. Roger wanted to follow too, but Clark planted a big hand in the middle of his wire thin chest. He stared down at Roger. Roger, with his big fake chain studded with big fake gems, and his fake flea market jeans, and fake glass in his ears. He leaned closely, said quietly in his ear, "So, how often *did* you and Billy do it?"
Roger turned paler than Clark could ever have thought possible and froze. "How—what—" He stuttered to a stop. "You're crazy, you're making shit up." He wilted under Clark's stare. "We're not gay—you *know* I'm not gay—didn’t mean anything," he mumbled so low that only Clark could hear.
"Maybe Billy's feeling different about this than you are. Maybe, he's not a big effing coward like some I could name—and just what the ish is your name this week, Rog?"
"Fuck you, and stop calling him Billy. It makes him sound like he's twelve!" Roger looked ill. "If you spread that crazy shit around, it'll make my life—I finally started to get shit under lock, Clark--please don’t say anything to anyone."
"See, Rog, that's why you're lucky you're *Billy's* friend. Because *Billy* might eventually teach you how to be a decent person. Because *Billy* would never even have asked me, let alone begged me, not to say anything—he would have known I wouldn't. Just--get away from me."
"Faggot," Roger muttered and started to walk away.
Clark bristled and then, calmed himself, pasted on a bright smile and called out, "Hey Roger, you talk to Billy, tell him I'd like for him to give me a call, okay?"
It was kind of catty and shit, but it felt *good.* He thought he might be able to get the hang of being a dick.
13
Whit called him late that night, asked him to come out and meet him at the elementary school. Clark explained that he had a curfew, unlike graduates, who apparently could come and go as they pleased. Three o'clock in the a-crack of the morning was not a time his parents allowed him to stroll about…he told Whit all this as he was getting out of bed, pulling on his boots and jeans. He jumped out of his bedroom window. He hit the ground kind of hard, must have been the weight of all that guilt….
He never, ever broke curfew, he never lied to his parents—not real lies anyway, never skipped school, never did anything his parents told him not to—well, you know, the major things—don't get high, don't stab anybody, don't rob a bank…He found Whit out on the playground, led to him by the gleam of the burning ember of a cigarette. He came a little closer. Ah. Not a cigarette. Whit was sitting in one of the swings and looking unhappy. Which was a real mild way to describe how Whit looked.
"Hi, I'm here. I'm in deep crap and my parents will have matching aneurysms if they find out, but…I'm here."
Clark," Whit breathed and dropped the end into the sand under the swing. "Thanks. I'm sorry, I just don’t. I don’t really have anyone I can talk to talk to, y'know?"
"Oh yeah," Clark said and sat in the swing next to his. "Lucky you, I'm famous for being able to talk to. Where's your—your friend?"
"Jay? Jay's…at home."
He looked so lost, so broken, Clark blurted out, "I think I know what's going on with Jason and his mom—" Brilliant, just brilliant… and waited for Whit to yell, or run, or tell him he was imagining stupid shit which honestly, that's what he was hoping for because no parent should do that to a child….
Whit snapped his head around and stared at Clark, his mouth working, before sagging in the swing. He looked about twelve, Clark thought, like he needed a hug so bad, so Clark slid off his swing and dropped to the ground in front of Whit, wrapped his arms around him. "Whit…Whit…"
Whit threw his head back to the sky, blinking hard. "God--this shit with him is killing me. I can hardly deal with it anymore. I don’t *want* to deal with it. And I feel like a massive dick anytime I say that out loud…I'm supposed to deal with it right? Supposed to have his back? Just…Fuck! Why doesn't he do anything to help himself? Why drop it all on me? Fuck."
"Hey, it's a lot. The adults have a hard time with it, what makes you think that it should be easy for you?" Clark rubbed Whit's back, careful not to linger, or let his heat sink into his palm, or rub his bare arm, tight muscles and creamy smooth skin and tiny hairs that tickled his palm in a way that made him swell a little—Clark yanked his hand away. "S-stop beating yourself up over it. Can’t you get him to do something? Talk to someone? Or…tell his mother to stop or else?" Nice, Clark—get a stiffy consoling your fucked up desperate semi-boss…
Whit laughed, high and loud. "You haven't seen his mom pissed off. She's a scary bitch. No one believes just how freaking scary she can be, and…she knows Jason won’t hit her. She knows he loves her…Bitch. I fuckin' hate her. He tries so hard and she uses it against him—" He wiped at his face. Clark felt twice as bad, and rubbed his back some more. But platonically, completely platonically. Fuck, he was such a horny dick…
"Whitney. If you're that worried about him, tell someone. Tell his doctor—"
"Are you kidding? He's been in and out of that jerk's office and he hasn't picked up on it by now? Either he's an incompetent asshole, or Teague's got him wrapped around her little finger."
Clark huffed. "Yeah…Whit, let me take you home." Whit looked up at him, sighed and handed Clark his keys.
"Okay."
They drove home, silent for miles, each lost in their own thoughts until Whit said, "Did you sleep with Jason, that day he was supposed to take my truck home?"
Clark sputtered, "What? No! What, are you guys playing hockey with me or something? No I didn't sleep with Jason." Silence. "I wanted to."
"Geez, Clark, do you ever have any fucking thought you keep to yourself? Besides, you know you don’t mean that."
"Why not? Am I supposed to be a priest or something? You really have some kind of screwed up idea of who I am. Jason's hot, he's hot as hell and you—" Clark shook his head. "Anyway, I don’t think Jay can even *think* about anyone else but you."
Whit smiled. "Um. Don't sell yourself short, Clark. I think everyone wants to get to know you."
Clark blushed. He doubted that, but it made him happy that Whit thought that even as it made him feel guilty that Whit wanted him. Maybe just a bit more than wanted him.
After he dropped Whit and his truck at home and managed to make him to believe that yes, he'd be fine walking back, really, no worries, he ran over to the Teague place.
It sat up on a hill, looking over a little copse of trees, a long curving drive led directly to the multi car garage that sat opposite the house. The house wasn't huge, but it was nice. He liked the way it looked, friendly, inviting—kind of a hunting lodge look in a way. There was a porch that went all around the house with those wooden deck chairs sitting on it, and hanging flowers in baskets that Jason probably took care of. A chest high wall of river rock lined one side of the drive and wrapped around to the back of the house. It was almost five in the morning, and lights were on in one wing of the house…he shook his head and got ready to run home when some odd noise stopped him. He looked around the grounds, looking to see if there was some animal in distress, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary—and then the sound came again. Someone was saying stop over and over. Jason was asking his mother to stop…
Clark took a deep shaky breath. Should he go in and take Jason out of there? He listened against his will to the sounds coming from the house…he backpedaled from the house, stepping faster and faster, putting distance between himself and the sound—he should be running forward, towards the house. He just couldn't.
It seemed really wrong to get home and find out no one missed him. He jumped up into his bedroom window. He walked around his room, took his boots off. He pulled his jeans off and draped them over his desk chair. He studied the posters on his wall, the pictures on his bulletin board. Turned his TV on and watched a program that might have been about selling dusters, but could also have been about selling overly talkative blonde housewives…He lay on his bed and suddenly he was freezing, he couldn't get warm. He slid under the cover, but he only had a sheet and a throw on the bed—he never got cold, winter, fall—God he was freezing now. His teeth chattered, and he got up and pulled a sweatshirt over his tee, and pulled on a track jacket, and put boot socks on, and wrapped back up in the sheets and shook and shook until finally he fell into deep dreamless sleep.
14
"Okay little girls, up and at 'em. We've got a shit-load of jobs today, that Luthor job put us behind and the assholes are bitching. Rich people—I fucking hate them. And no eye-rolling and oh-so-sardonic comments, especially from you, *Ross*."
Whit stood behind his boyfriend, trucked a cigarette up behind his ear and snickered as Jason went on to describe the depth to which he hated rich people, including the rich people on the crew playing at being 'just average folks'. Clark couldn't bring himself to mock Jason in his mind, the way he usually did, in fact he winced when Pete called him Sister John Wayne under his breath, possibly loud enough to be heard in the Amazon rainforests. He knew now what pain Jason's crabby attitude covered. He understood Whit now more than ever, and now he understood Jason too. He realized that the guy was braver than anyone knew. When Pete went on to describe Jason in an intimate act with a porcupine and a shoe horn Clark shushed him. Pete looked at Clark as if he had two heads. Clark smiled back weakly.
The crew began loading the trucks while Jason struggled with the full insulated water jug and Clark watched him struggle alone. Not this time...he went to help him.
"Yo--get *off*, you freakish asshole. You'll make me drop it."
He tried to elbow Clark aside without dropping the jug, and Clark tried to wrestle the cooler out of his hands. "I'm trying to help you—"
"Did I *ask* you to help me, assface?" he snapped. "Get lost—go do something useful, you dumb fuck."
"But Jay, you can hardly carry it—"
"I can so, and my name is *Jason*, motherfucker." He tried to kick Clark. "For fucks sake you dumb fuck—fuck off!"
Clark bristled. "You know what, you're—you're a huge *a-hole*! And you'd be a freaking *mute* if they took the eff word out of the language, you ungrateful creep!"
Jason manhandled the cooler onto the back of the truck and twisted fisted hands under his eyes. "Oh, Oh! Boo-hoo-hoo. Someone told wittle Clarkie to fuck off and broke his wittle sensitive heart and shit. When I want your fucking help Kent, I'll ask for it." Clark was furious—Jay was a huge fucking dick—really a major asshole, what made him think he wasn't?
Jason jumped off the truck and walked off, and Clark saw what he'd been mostly successful at hiding--a limp. Fuck. And just like that, he felt like the worst kind of shit. Deeply and completely. Whit was walking past--he stopped Jason, and said something to him, and Jason shook his head. Whit cupped the back of his skull, made a fist in Jason's short hair and shook him. It sent a painful sort of thrill through Clark, it was so open--a show of real affection between the two of them. Clark could hear Jason laugh and Whit slapped him on the back and walked away. Clark knew Whit felt Jason flinch, but he didn’t ask, or look…it was all in his eyes as he walked away from Jay. Whit wasn't being callous; he was letting him hold onto whatever shards of self-respect he had.
Clark had thought that morning he knew all about everything, understood everything, now he realized he didn’t know shit about anything.
part 10
TBC
Fandom: SV
Pairing: Clark/ Whit, Jason/Whit
Rating: R
Summary: All about what Clark learns on his summer job.
I promise, this one is not going to be a year long never-ending WIP.
The previous parts are here, pretending to be Batman…what? Oh gosh, the perverts. And don't bring that bat back into the house....
"So, I'm standing at the concessions with Nik, right, and Bill comes in and I didn’t even know he was going to that movie and you know what the fucker does, blows right past me like I ain't there. Why would he do that? Plus come to the movie when I had to have Nik's brother drop us off, my car's not working and why? 'Cause Bill's too damn busy to help a brother out—anyway Nik is pulling on my arm whining about popcorn and I'm still trying to figure out why my boy dissed me and—"
Saturday night, and the crew had decided on a movie night. Billy, Whit and Jason couldn't make it, but the rest of the guys were milling around in the lobby waiting to get tickets. Clark was listening to Roger describe how Billy had rudely ignored him and dampened the thrill of his date with his girl—'Nik'. Nikki with an 'I', no 'E'. Yeah.
Pete glanced at Clark and rolled his eyes. With a tone of deepest suffering, he said to Roger, "Okay, Powder, you dork ass motherfucker. Take a breath. We talked about that shit already--what not to do? No fist bump, no diss, no 'this is how I roll'? And Billy should kick your ass. You've been treating him like shit since you been seeing this girl." He turned to Clark. "And shouldn't I be able to kick Billy's ass for leaving us with this yatz?"
Clark shook his head. "Yutz. And no, you can't kick Billy's—well, maybe a little. You're such a yutz," he told Roger.
"Fuck, what the hell, are we girls? I gotta call him and tell him what's going on?" Roger would have said more but the girls came out of the bathroom and what was the deal with that anyway? Did they have some odd herd instinct that made them huddle up like that to pee…or was it that they couldn't stand to be alone with the guys for that long and if that was the case he totally got it, he really did and stared hard at Roger and Greg.
"What?" Chloe Sullivan, the beloved offspring of their boss, Mr. Gabe's pride and joy, was smiling at Pete, and looked kind of happy to be there with him. Clark was amazed, pleased for Pete, and planned to find out just how he did that.
Pete smiled at her. "Oh, nothing. There was a crazy man in here, but Clark chased him off." He looked pointedly at Rog, who clamped his mouth shut and frowned. Pete shook his head and walked away, Chloe and Nik followed. Roger wanted to follow too, but Clark planted a big hand in the middle of his wire thin chest. He stared down at Roger. Roger, with his big fake chain studded with big fake gems, and his fake flea market jeans, and fake glass in his ears. He leaned closely, said quietly in his ear, "So, how often *did* you and Billy do it?"
Roger turned paler than Clark could ever have thought possible and froze. "How—what—" He stuttered to a stop. "You're crazy, you're making shit up." He wilted under Clark's stare. "We're not gay—you *know* I'm not gay—didn’t mean anything," he mumbled so low that only Clark could hear.
"Maybe Billy's feeling different about this than you are. Maybe, he's not a big effing coward like some I could name—and just what the ish is your name this week, Rog?"
"Fuck you, and stop calling him Billy. It makes him sound like he's twelve!" Roger looked ill. "If you spread that crazy shit around, it'll make my life—I finally started to get shit under lock, Clark--please don’t say anything to anyone."
"See, Rog, that's why you're lucky you're *Billy's* friend. Because *Billy* might eventually teach you how to be a decent person. Because *Billy* would never even have asked me, let alone begged me, not to say anything—he would have known I wouldn't. Just--get away from me."
"Faggot," Roger muttered and started to walk away.
Clark bristled and then, calmed himself, pasted on a bright smile and called out, "Hey Roger, you talk to Billy, tell him I'd like for him to give me a call, okay?"
It was kind of catty and shit, but it felt *good.* He thought he might be able to get the hang of being a dick.
13
Whit called him late that night, asked him to come out and meet him at the elementary school. Clark explained that he had a curfew, unlike graduates, who apparently could come and go as they pleased. Three o'clock in the a-crack of the morning was not a time his parents allowed him to stroll about…he told Whit all this as he was getting out of bed, pulling on his boots and jeans. He jumped out of his bedroom window. He hit the ground kind of hard, must have been the weight of all that guilt….
He never, ever broke curfew, he never lied to his parents—not real lies anyway, never skipped school, never did anything his parents told him not to—well, you know, the major things—don't get high, don't stab anybody, don't rob a bank…He found Whit out on the playground, led to him by the gleam of the burning ember of a cigarette. He came a little closer. Ah. Not a cigarette. Whit was sitting in one of the swings and looking unhappy. Which was a real mild way to describe how Whit looked.
"Hi, I'm here. I'm in deep crap and my parents will have matching aneurysms if they find out, but…I'm here."
Clark," Whit breathed and dropped the end into the sand under the swing. "Thanks. I'm sorry, I just don’t. I don’t really have anyone I can talk to talk to, y'know?"
"Oh yeah," Clark said and sat in the swing next to his. "Lucky you, I'm famous for being able to talk to. Where's your—your friend?"
"Jay? Jay's…at home."
He looked so lost, so broken, Clark blurted out, "I think I know what's going on with Jason and his mom—" Brilliant, just brilliant… and waited for Whit to yell, or run, or tell him he was imagining stupid shit which honestly, that's what he was hoping for because no parent should do that to a child….
Whit snapped his head around and stared at Clark, his mouth working, before sagging in the swing. He looked about twelve, Clark thought, like he needed a hug so bad, so Clark slid off his swing and dropped to the ground in front of Whit, wrapped his arms around him. "Whit…Whit…"
Whit threw his head back to the sky, blinking hard. "God--this shit with him is killing me. I can hardly deal with it anymore. I don’t *want* to deal with it. And I feel like a massive dick anytime I say that out loud…I'm supposed to deal with it right? Supposed to have his back? Just…Fuck! Why doesn't he do anything to help himself? Why drop it all on me? Fuck."
"Hey, it's a lot. The adults have a hard time with it, what makes you think that it should be easy for you?" Clark rubbed Whit's back, careful not to linger, or let his heat sink into his palm, or rub his bare arm, tight muscles and creamy smooth skin and tiny hairs that tickled his palm in a way that made him swell a little—Clark yanked his hand away. "S-stop beating yourself up over it. Can’t you get him to do something? Talk to someone? Or…tell his mother to stop or else?" Nice, Clark—get a stiffy consoling your fucked up desperate semi-boss…
Whit laughed, high and loud. "You haven't seen his mom pissed off. She's a scary bitch. No one believes just how freaking scary she can be, and…she knows Jason won’t hit her. She knows he loves her…Bitch. I fuckin' hate her. He tries so hard and she uses it against him—" He wiped at his face. Clark felt twice as bad, and rubbed his back some more. But platonically, completely platonically. Fuck, he was such a horny dick…
"Whitney. If you're that worried about him, tell someone. Tell his doctor—"
"Are you kidding? He's been in and out of that jerk's office and he hasn't picked up on it by now? Either he's an incompetent asshole, or Teague's got him wrapped around her little finger."
Clark huffed. "Yeah…Whit, let me take you home." Whit looked up at him, sighed and handed Clark his keys.
"Okay."
They drove home, silent for miles, each lost in their own thoughts until Whit said, "Did you sleep with Jason, that day he was supposed to take my truck home?"
Clark sputtered, "What? No! What, are you guys playing hockey with me or something? No I didn't sleep with Jason." Silence. "I wanted to."
"Geez, Clark, do you ever have any fucking thought you keep to yourself? Besides, you know you don’t mean that."
"Why not? Am I supposed to be a priest or something? You really have some kind of screwed up idea of who I am. Jason's hot, he's hot as hell and you—" Clark shook his head. "Anyway, I don’t think Jay can even *think* about anyone else but you."
Whit smiled. "Um. Don't sell yourself short, Clark. I think everyone wants to get to know you."
Clark blushed. He doubted that, but it made him happy that Whit thought that even as it made him feel guilty that Whit wanted him. Maybe just a bit more than wanted him.
After he dropped Whit and his truck at home and managed to make him to believe that yes, he'd be fine walking back, really, no worries, he ran over to the Teague place.
It sat up on a hill, looking over a little copse of trees, a long curving drive led directly to the multi car garage that sat opposite the house. The house wasn't huge, but it was nice. He liked the way it looked, friendly, inviting—kind of a hunting lodge look in a way. There was a porch that went all around the house with those wooden deck chairs sitting on it, and hanging flowers in baskets that Jason probably took care of. A chest high wall of river rock lined one side of the drive and wrapped around to the back of the house. It was almost five in the morning, and lights were on in one wing of the house…he shook his head and got ready to run home when some odd noise stopped him. He looked around the grounds, looking to see if there was some animal in distress, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary—and then the sound came again. Someone was saying stop over and over. Jason was asking his mother to stop…
Clark took a deep shaky breath. Should he go in and take Jason out of there? He listened against his will to the sounds coming from the house…he backpedaled from the house, stepping faster and faster, putting distance between himself and the sound—he should be running forward, towards the house. He just couldn't.
It seemed really wrong to get home and find out no one missed him. He jumped up into his bedroom window. He walked around his room, took his boots off. He pulled his jeans off and draped them over his desk chair. He studied the posters on his wall, the pictures on his bulletin board. Turned his TV on and watched a program that might have been about selling dusters, but could also have been about selling overly talkative blonde housewives…He lay on his bed and suddenly he was freezing, he couldn't get warm. He slid under the cover, but he only had a sheet and a throw on the bed—he never got cold, winter, fall—God he was freezing now. His teeth chattered, and he got up and pulled a sweatshirt over his tee, and pulled on a track jacket, and put boot socks on, and wrapped back up in the sheets and shook and shook until finally he fell into deep dreamless sleep.
14
"Okay little girls, up and at 'em. We've got a shit-load of jobs today, that Luthor job put us behind and the assholes are bitching. Rich people—I fucking hate them. And no eye-rolling and oh-so-sardonic comments, especially from you, *Ross*."
Whit stood behind his boyfriend, trucked a cigarette up behind his ear and snickered as Jason went on to describe the depth to which he hated rich people, including the rich people on the crew playing at being 'just average folks'. Clark couldn't bring himself to mock Jason in his mind, the way he usually did, in fact he winced when Pete called him Sister John Wayne under his breath, possibly loud enough to be heard in the Amazon rainforests. He knew now what pain Jason's crabby attitude covered. He understood Whit now more than ever, and now he understood Jason too. He realized that the guy was braver than anyone knew. When Pete went on to describe Jason in an intimate act with a porcupine and a shoe horn Clark shushed him. Pete looked at Clark as if he had two heads. Clark smiled back weakly.
The crew began loading the trucks while Jason struggled with the full insulated water jug and Clark watched him struggle alone. Not this time...he went to help him.
"Yo--get *off*, you freakish asshole. You'll make me drop it."
He tried to elbow Clark aside without dropping the jug, and Clark tried to wrestle the cooler out of his hands. "I'm trying to help you—"
"Did I *ask* you to help me, assface?" he snapped. "Get lost—go do something useful, you dumb fuck."
"But Jay, you can hardly carry it—"
"I can so, and my name is *Jason*, motherfucker." He tried to kick Clark. "For fucks sake you dumb fuck—fuck off!"
Clark bristled. "You know what, you're—you're a huge *a-hole*! And you'd be a freaking *mute* if they took the eff word out of the language, you ungrateful creep!"
Jason manhandled the cooler onto the back of the truck and twisted fisted hands under his eyes. "Oh, Oh! Boo-hoo-hoo. Someone told wittle Clarkie to fuck off and broke his wittle sensitive heart and shit. When I want your fucking help Kent, I'll ask for it." Clark was furious—Jay was a huge fucking dick—really a major asshole, what made him think he wasn't?
Jason jumped off the truck and walked off, and Clark saw what he'd been mostly successful at hiding--a limp. Fuck. And just like that, he felt like the worst kind of shit. Deeply and completely. Whit was walking past--he stopped Jason, and said something to him, and Jason shook his head. Whit cupped the back of his skull, made a fist in Jason's short hair and shook him. It sent a painful sort of thrill through Clark, it was so open--a show of real affection between the two of them. Clark could hear Jason laugh and Whit slapped him on the back and walked away. Clark knew Whit felt Jason flinch, but he didn’t ask, or look…it was all in his eyes as he walked away from Jay. Whit wasn't being callous; he was letting him hold onto whatever shards of self-respect he had.
Clark had thought that morning he knew all about everything, understood everything, now he realized he didn’t know shit about anything.
part 10
TBC
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
8/22/08 10:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
8/23/08 01:41 am (UTC)JaClitsoney
Ummm... the idea of Jason, Clark and Whitney together makes me shudder. lol And THAT word there.... makes me laugh my wee little bumm *giggles* off. Though, at least it would be better than the threesome option in EotS, unless you're willing to use Bruce with Clark and Lex. ;)
But really... the only threesome I'm interested with Clark and Lex is with Whitney. ;D