sv fic post: How I Spent My Summer Vacation pt1
Title: Post temp LJ
Title: How I Spent My Summer Vacation part one
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.
1
Finally. School was out, thank God, and he had the summer to more or less do what he wanted with…or as Dad so gently suggested-"get a job."
Great. Everyone else in the SV was probably sleeping right now. Well, everyone not on a farm at least. How many of those kids had to get a job? It wouldn't even matter--he could do it easily and have time to spare but Dad insisted he be--average. Average. Clark rolled his eyes and huffed in frustration. He tried to reason with Dad, get him to agree he could use more of the "special something" he had to get the chores done earlier and finally have a real social life this summer, just like everyone else-why couldn’t Dad see that he needed to get out if he was going to get laid *ever* in this lifetime…not that he'd put it like that to Dad, but come on, the intent was clear, it had to be. But no-Dad had taken him aside, put his arm around his shoulder and said, "Clark, you wanna super-speed around doing your chores, okay…but imagine yourself a hen. Imagine setting on eggs…now imagine a super-speeded hand up your butt. Or maybe you're a cow, and someone is milking you…really…really…*really*…fast."
He'd flushed bright red at that point because yeah, super-speed can hurt if you're doing it too fast and…and…Clark dropped that line of thought. Anyway, he'd won being able to use speed for mucking stalls, cleaning the sheds and little repairs and that granted him some extra time. Thanks Dad.
Light peaking between the slats of his blinds woke him up, and just like every morning, he woke with a smile…until the reality of having to get out of bed hit him. He rolled to his feet, yawning, and rubbing hard at his hair, twisting it into even higher peaks all over his head. On his desk, the newspaper lay open to the classifieds, red circles scattered liberally over the pages. A red circle and arrows pointed out one in particular that had caught his eye. It sounded really easy, a great way to make some cash for spending money *and* money to put into his MetU fund. He had fingers crossed for a scholarship, and hoping to sock enough money away to take care of stuff like meals and books and lots of other depressing things. Not everyone had it as easy as Pete Ross, The Little Prince of Creamed Corn…He grinned, shook his head. Y'know, that really never got old…
"Clark! Breakfast! And…" his mom sounded bemused, "telephone. Pete…can you believe it…" her voice trailed off, she was talking to Dad now. Really? Pete? What the hell-the Little Prince never got up this-he peered at the Transformer clock, and it's belly told him that it was seven o'clock-early which meant he'd slept late today and Pete was up insanely early. He whisked through his morning routine and was downstairs two minutes later, dressed and ready, grabbing the phone from his mom.
"Pete! What the hell-heck, man? Is there a fire? Did Timmy fall in the well?"
"Shut the fuck up. We're job hunting today. I'll be over in a few-is your mom making pancakes or French toast?"
"French toast-"
"Fuck yeah! That's what I'm talkin' 'bout. I'll be there in ten minutes!"
"See ya," Clark said into the dial tone. "Mom, Pete's-" his mom was already setting an extra plate with a little smirk. His dad flat out laughed.
"Your other son's coming for breakfast, I see." Mom laughed, and got out the milk, and Clark grinned too. He took it from her and poured glasses for himself and Pete.
"We're going looking for jobs today. Pete's dad told him to get a job or it's going to be water and saltines all summer for him…" he snagged a slice of French toast out of the frying pan and dodged Mom's spatula-she was fast but not fast enough, he grinned. "I think it's supposed to be some sort of character building thing, the job I mean, not the saltines. Actually, we've got a lead on a good one-landscaping."
"Hmm. Landscaping, Clark? I don’t know…you'll have to hide…a lot. You'll have to remember to…you know."
"Dad. I've had lots of practice-I'm seventeen. I know all about this stuff okay? It'll be fine. You *know* I'm careful." He gulped the glass of milk to shut himself up. Sometimes Dad really didn't get it.
Dad sighed. "You're right, I know you are. Just, couldn't you work in an office? Maybe Abbie's got room for an intern in her office. Indoors, light work--wouldn't that be nice? No accidentally lifting a truck, or shoving your arm in a chipper--"
"Dad! Besides, tell me you'd want to spend all day long inside, wearing a tie or something? Da-dang, that'd be like---murder!"
"Clark…" Dad sighed again. "You do what you think is best son." He fixed Clark with a level look. "You've never disappointed me."
Clark smiled, nodded but inside, groaned. Low fuckin' blow Dad. Thanks for the emotional blackmail.
2
They decided to start with the landscaper's first, and Pete drove since Clark's truck lacked air-conditioning, and as Pete liked to say, real seats, like a smidge of duct tape was a sin or something. "You got your social and your driver's license, Cee?"
"Yes, I put them in my wallet last night, Mom. I washed behind my ears and wore clean undies too."
"Good, you don’t want to be embarrassed when they scrape your dead sarcastic ass off the road. Man, I hope I get this job, and get Billiam off my ass. And by the way, have you seen this guy's daughter-hot to death. Oh wait; I forgot who I'm talking to. Clark Kent, Lana Lang's most devoted stalker. Have you ever had a conversation with her that didn't start with 'oops' and end with 'my bad'?"
"Eff you Pete." So what if Pete was right? Lana was just…you had to be careful. You couldn't just flail around her, throw yourself at her…besides she had a pretty big boyfriend….
As if reading his mind Pete said, "Yeah, Whitney's kind of a big wall to get around. He's good looking, captain of every fucking thing, smart…plus he's got money out the ass…what girl's gonna turn that down?"
"Thanks so much, Pete. It hurts less to get shot down by you."
"Oh shit, Clarkbar, you know I didn't mean it like that. You're-you're great, you know that."
In SV, only two things counted-money or a good name. Not a name like the Kents, who'd been here since for fucking ever, but had always been poor-'good name' meant folks like the Langs, the Smalls, Potters…they might not have money anymore but they had a genteel sort of poverty, respectably poor. Now, the Fordmans, the Rosses, that other family that was new to town, they had serious money and that made them a-okay. In fact, more money people were coming in all the time. People were discovering the SV, folks who wanted clean, picturesque, and what they considered inexpensive …there was a rumor some big time rapper had actually bought a house out where that old castle was falling apart but Clark that that was pretty far-fetched-what the fuck would a rapper want in white-bread Kansas? He'd been too afraid to ask Pete if the rumor was true. He didn't want another lecture along the lines of "motherfucker, what do I look like, the ambassador to the white race?" Maybe he could ask Roger. Or whatever the fuck he was calling himself now. Lo-Balls or something like that. Now *Roger* was embarrassing, fucking little…Paul Wall wanna-be and why was he friends with him anyway? That Billy managed to hang out with him without killing him definitely made him a candidate for sainthood. But then again, Billy had been laid back to the point of catatonia since kindergarten. And he made a damn good keeper for Roger, he sure as hell needed one….
Clark sighed and cocked his elbow on the Mustang's side. He seriously needed some new friends. The only one who wasn't weird was Pete…he glanced over at Pete who was making faces at himself in the rear view mirror…okay. Check that.
They pulled up in parking lot of Sullivan Lawn and Landscape and Pete shut the engine off. Sullivan Lawn and Landscape was in an old industrial park, built when the concept was shiny, bright, and new. The building was sheathed in a fading turquoise and blue steel siding, but the little patch of lawn in front of it was emerald green and looked thick as a comforter. Fat mounds of impatiens lined the short stretch of sidewalk leading to the glass doors labeled 'SL&L' in green. 'Gabe Sullivan, Owner' was under that in smaller white letters. "Hey, isn’t that Greg's piece of shit Subaru over there?"
A battered red Subaru station wagon crouched at the far end of the lot. Clark huffed in surprise. "Yeah, that's his…" Greg Arkin was a friend of their's since childhood. They'd seen less and less of him lately, and Clark felt bad about it but it was Greg-he was pulling away from them, slowly but surely. Clark wasn't sure what created this new reclusive Greg…he'd always been a little left of center buy lately it seemed to step up…a lot. Plus, there'd always been a little bit of unspoken competition between him and Greg. They were both of them full of unrequited love for a dream neither one of them was likely to touch…Lana.
"Speaking of Greg-" He was coming out of the glass doors of the lawn service now-he did a little double take when he saw them climbing out of the Mustang. "Hey Pete, Clark…" Even now he looked reluctant to greet them, his eyes darting sideways and back, not really making contact.
"Greg-what's up? You applying here, too?" Pete flipped his keys into his pocket and strolled over with a grin.
"Yes--I got hired," he smiled and Pete and Clark looked at each other. Okay, Clark thought, he's a bean pole…Pete's short, but he's got muscles on his muscles. Greg…Greg was made of Kleenex and chopsticks.
"Oh, that's just great, Greg! If me and Pete get lucky, maybe we'll be seeing you on the job!" Clark said and Greg smiled and this time it actually was a real smile, kind of shy and sweet, the way he used to smile, Clark thought, a long time ago. He even made eye contact, fleeting as it was. Clark smiled back, and Greg waved before he drove out of the lot.
Pete watched the smoke trail from Greg's car start to dissipate and said, "Man…first hot day and he's going to die screaming."
Clark nodded. "Screaming."
Mr. Sullivan was really nice; he asked a few questions and smiled at Clark in a way that had him convinced he had the job wrapped up. "Kent, right? Yeah, know your dad, good man," he muttered and flipped idly through Clark's application. "Well," he looked up and smiled. "There's not much about this job that'll be a mystery to you, hunh? I'm not necessarily looking for experience but with you...I can look at you and see you can handle the work. But Clark, I'm looking for a go-getter too, not just brawny guys but guys who can think and follow orders *and* deal with possible problems on their own. I'm looking for guys who can bring something to the job besides clock in, clock out, y'know?"
Um…it's just cutting grass and hauling crap…Clark reminded himself to keep smiling big, and nodded. "Like Greg?" Chopstick arms, die screaming in flames Greg?
"Exactly," Gabe beamed. "He might not be as…large as you, but he's smart and eager, a go-getter type…and so are you. I think you'll be a good addition to Sullivan Lawn and Landscape." He stood, and held his hand out, and Clark grabbed it with a huge grin.
"Thanks Mr. Sullivan!" For financing my Summer of Getting Laid….
"Sure thing Clark-wow-heck of a grip, son."
Fuck! A sharp chill ran down his back, and Clark whipped his hand back. "Sorry, I forget my own strength sometimes…"
Gabe laughed and pretended to shake feeling back into his hand. "The girls in the office will take care of you. Have Doris give you the necessary papers, okay? And send in Pete willya?"
Clark managed to peel Pete away from Gabe's daughter's desk and was about to go to Doris when he heard the boom boom boom of a deep bass outside in the lot. He looked out the door and rolled his eyes. Ski-Balls or whoever he was this week was hopping out of his car, and behind him staggered Billy, looking dazed. And more than likely, deaf. Poor Billy…he really deserved a medal or something.
"Hey, Low-Brow," he said as they came in and Roger rolled his eyes. His thin frizz of mustache accented the frown he was sporting, and the glass encrusted crown at the end of his chain momentarily hooked on the big rhinestone buckle of the belt not holding his jeans up and he stumbled.
"Man, you're funny like STDs. Shut up."
Billy glanced at Clark through a thick fringe of black hair and shrugged, dropped into one of a row of orange plastic chairs. "He's just Roger this week," he muttered and grabbed a magazine. Roger rolled his eyes again and flopped down next to him.
"Bill, just so you know, you suck as a posse."
"Eat me and not even your grandfather says posse anymore, Rog. Besides, the word implies more than one and no one else is this stupid," Billy said calmly, attention on the car book he was reading. Clark snickered and headed up to the little glass partition that separated Doris from the lesser mortals.
part 2
TBC
Title: How I Spent My Summer Vacation part one
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.
1
Finally. School was out, thank God, and he had the summer to more or less do what he wanted with…or as Dad so gently suggested-"get a job."
Great. Everyone else in the SV was probably sleeping right now. Well, everyone not on a farm at least. How many of those kids had to get a job? It wouldn't even matter--he could do it easily and have time to spare but Dad insisted he be--average. Average. Clark rolled his eyes and huffed in frustration. He tried to reason with Dad, get him to agree he could use more of the "special something" he had to get the chores done earlier and finally have a real social life this summer, just like everyone else-why couldn’t Dad see that he needed to get out if he was going to get laid *ever* in this lifetime…not that he'd put it like that to Dad, but come on, the intent was clear, it had to be. But no-Dad had taken him aside, put his arm around his shoulder and said, "Clark, you wanna super-speed around doing your chores, okay…but imagine yourself a hen. Imagine setting on eggs…now imagine a super-speeded hand up your butt. Or maybe you're a cow, and someone is milking you…really…really…*really*…fast."
He'd flushed bright red at that point because yeah, super-speed can hurt if you're doing it too fast and…and…Clark dropped that line of thought. Anyway, he'd won being able to use speed for mucking stalls, cleaning the sheds and little repairs and that granted him some extra time. Thanks Dad.
Light peaking between the slats of his blinds woke him up, and just like every morning, he woke with a smile…until the reality of having to get out of bed hit him. He rolled to his feet, yawning, and rubbing hard at his hair, twisting it into even higher peaks all over his head. On his desk, the newspaper lay open to the classifieds, red circles scattered liberally over the pages. A red circle and arrows pointed out one in particular that had caught his eye. It sounded really easy, a great way to make some cash for spending money *and* money to put into his MetU fund. He had fingers crossed for a scholarship, and hoping to sock enough money away to take care of stuff like meals and books and lots of other depressing things. Not everyone had it as easy as Pete Ross, The Little Prince of Creamed Corn…He grinned, shook his head. Y'know, that really never got old…
"Clark! Breakfast! And…" his mom sounded bemused, "telephone. Pete…can you believe it…" her voice trailed off, she was talking to Dad now. Really? Pete? What the hell-the Little Prince never got up this-he peered at the Transformer clock, and it's belly told him that it was seven o'clock-early which meant he'd slept late today and Pete was up insanely early. He whisked through his morning routine and was downstairs two minutes later, dressed and ready, grabbing the phone from his mom.
"Pete! What the hell-heck, man? Is there a fire? Did Timmy fall in the well?"
"Shut the fuck up. We're job hunting today. I'll be over in a few-is your mom making pancakes or French toast?"
"French toast-"
"Fuck yeah! That's what I'm talkin' 'bout. I'll be there in ten minutes!"
"See ya," Clark said into the dial tone. "Mom, Pete's-" his mom was already setting an extra plate with a little smirk. His dad flat out laughed.
"Your other son's coming for breakfast, I see." Mom laughed, and got out the milk, and Clark grinned too. He took it from her and poured glasses for himself and Pete.
"We're going looking for jobs today. Pete's dad told him to get a job or it's going to be water and saltines all summer for him…" he snagged a slice of French toast out of the frying pan and dodged Mom's spatula-she was fast but not fast enough, he grinned. "I think it's supposed to be some sort of character building thing, the job I mean, not the saltines. Actually, we've got a lead on a good one-landscaping."
"Hmm. Landscaping, Clark? I don’t know…you'll have to hide…a lot. You'll have to remember to…you know."
"Dad. I've had lots of practice-I'm seventeen. I know all about this stuff okay? It'll be fine. You *know* I'm careful." He gulped the glass of milk to shut himself up. Sometimes Dad really didn't get it.
Dad sighed. "You're right, I know you are. Just, couldn't you work in an office? Maybe Abbie's got room for an intern in her office. Indoors, light work--wouldn't that be nice? No accidentally lifting a truck, or shoving your arm in a chipper--"
"Dad! Besides, tell me you'd want to spend all day long inside, wearing a tie or something? Da-dang, that'd be like---murder!"
"Clark…" Dad sighed again. "You do what you think is best son." He fixed Clark with a level look. "You've never disappointed me."
Clark smiled, nodded but inside, groaned. Low fuckin' blow Dad. Thanks for the emotional blackmail.
2
They decided to start with the landscaper's first, and Pete drove since Clark's truck lacked air-conditioning, and as Pete liked to say, real seats, like a smidge of duct tape was a sin or something. "You got your social and your driver's license, Cee?"
"Yes, I put them in my wallet last night, Mom. I washed behind my ears and wore clean undies too."
"Good, you don’t want to be embarrassed when they scrape your dead sarcastic ass off the road. Man, I hope I get this job, and get Billiam off my ass. And by the way, have you seen this guy's daughter-hot to death. Oh wait; I forgot who I'm talking to. Clark Kent, Lana Lang's most devoted stalker. Have you ever had a conversation with her that didn't start with 'oops' and end with 'my bad'?"
"Eff you Pete." So what if Pete was right? Lana was just…you had to be careful. You couldn't just flail around her, throw yourself at her…besides she had a pretty big boyfriend….
As if reading his mind Pete said, "Yeah, Whitney's kind of a big wall to get around. He's good looking, captain of every fucking thing, smart…plus he's got money out the ass…what girl's gonna turn that down?"
"Thanks so much, Pete. It hurts less to get shot down by you."
"Oh shit, Clarkbar, you know I didn't mean it like that. You're-you're great, you know that."
In SV, only two things counted-money or a good name. Not a name like the Kents, who'd been here since for fucking ever, but had always been poor-'good name' meant folks like the Langs, the Smalls, Potters…they might not have money anymore but they had a genteel sort of poverty, respectably poor. Now, the Fordmans, the Rosses, that other family that was new to town, they had serious money and that made them a-okay. In fact, more money people were coming in all the time. People were discovering the SV, folks who wanted clean, picturesque, and what they considered inexpensive …there was a rumor some big time rapper had actually bought a house out where that old castle was falling apart but Clark that that was pretty far-fetched-what the fuck would a rapper want in white-bread Kansas? He'd been too afraid to ask Pete if the rumor was true. He didn't want another lecture along the lines of "motherfucker, what do I look like, the ambassador to the white race?" Maybe he could ask Roger. Or whatever the fuck he was calling himself now. Lo-Balls or something like that. Now *Roger* was embarrassing, fucking little…Paul Wall wanna-be and why was he friends with him anyway? That Billy managed to hang out with him without killing him definitely made him a candidate for sainthood. But then again, Billy had been laid back to the point of catatonia since kindergarten. And he made a damn good keeper for Roger, he sure as hell needed one….
Clark sighed and cocked his elbow on the Mustang's side. He seriously needed some new friends. The only one who wasn't weird was Pete…he glanced over at Pete who was making faces at himself in the rear view mirror…okay. Check that.
They pulled up in parking lot of Sullivan Lawn and Landscape and Pete shut the engine off. Sullivan Lawn and Landscape was in an old industrial park, built when the concept was shiny, bright, and new. The building was sheathed in a fading turquoise and blue steel siding, but the little patch of lawn in front of it was emerald green and looked thick as a comforter. Fat mounds of impatiens lined the short stretch of sidewalk leading to the glass doors labeled 'SL&L' in green. 'Gabe Sullivan, Owner' was under that in smaller white letters. "Hey, isn’t that Greg's piece of shit Subaru over there?"
A battered red Subaru station wagon crouched at the far end of the lot. Clark huffed in surprise. "Yeah, that's his…" Greg Arkin was a friend of their's since childhood. They'd seen less and less of him lately, and Clark felt bad about it but it was Greg-he was pulling away from them, slowly but surely. Clark wasn't sure what created this new reclusive Greg…he'd always been a little left of center buy lately it seemed to step up…a lot. Plus, there'd always been a little bit of unspoken competition between him and Greg. They were both of them full of unrequited love for a dream neither one of them was likely to touch…Lana.
"Speaking of Greg-" He was coming out of the glass doors of the lawn service now-he did a little double take when he saw them climbing out of the Mustang. "Hey Pete, Clark…" Even now he looked reluctant to greet them, his eyes darting sideways and back, not really making contact.
"Greg-what's up? You applying here, too?" Pete flipped his keys into his pocket and strolled over with a grin.
"Yes--I got hired," he smiled and Pete and Clark looked at each other. Okay, Clark thought, he's a bean pole…Pete's short, but he's got muscles on his muscles. Greg…Greg was made of Kleenex and chopsticks.
"Oh, that's just great, Greg! If me and Pete get lucky, maybe we'll be seeing you on the job!" Clark said and Greg smiled and this time it actually was a real smile, kind of shy and sweet, the way he used to smile, Clark thought, a long time ago. He even made eye contact, fleeting as it was. Clark smiled back, and Greg waved before he drove out of the lot.
Pete watched the smoke trail from Greg's car start to dissipate and said, "Man…first hot day and he's going to die screaming."
Clark nodded. "Screaming."
Mr. Sullivan was really nice; he asked a few questions and smiled at Clark in a way that had him convinced he had the job wrapped up. "Kent, right? Yeah, know your dad, good man," he muttered and flipped idly through Clark's application. "Well," he looked up and smiled. "There's not much about this job that'll be a mystery to you, hunh? I'm not necessarily looking for experience but with you...I can look at you and see you can handle the work. But Clark, I'm looking for a go-getter too, not just brawny guys but guys who can think and follow orders *and* deal with possible problems on their own. I'm looking for guys who can bring something to the job besides clock in, clock out, y'know?"
Um…it's just cutting grass and hauling crap…Clark reminded himself to keep smiling big, and nodded. "Like Greg?" Chopstick arms, die screaming in flames Greg?
"Exactly," Gabe beamed. "He might not be as…large as you, but he's smart and eager, a go-getter type…and so are you. I think you'll be a good addition to Sullivan Lawn and Landscape." He stood, and held his hand out, and Clark grabbed it with a huge grin.
"Thanks Mr. Sullivan!" For financing my Summer of Getting Laid….
"Sure thing Clark-wow-heck of a grip, son."
Fuck! A sharp chill ran down his back, and Clark whipped his hand back. "Sorry, I forget my own strength sometimes…"
Gabe laughed and pretended to shake feeling back into his hand. "The girls in the office will take care of you. Have Doris give you the necessary papers, okay? And send in Pete willya?"
Clark managed to peel Pete away from Gabe's daughter's desk and was about to go to Doris when he heard the boom boom boom of a deep bass outside in the lot. He looked out the door and rolled his eyes. Ski-Balls or whoever he was this week was hopping out of his car, and behind him staggered Billy, looking dazed. And more than likely, deaf. Poor Billy…he really deserved a medal or something.
"Hey, Low-Brow," he said as they came in and Roger rolled his eyes. His thin frizz of mustache accented the frown he was sporting, and the glass encrusted crown at the end of his chain momentarily hooked on the big rhinestone buckle of the belt not holding his jeans up and he stumbled.
"Man, you're funny like STDs. Shut up."
Billy glanced at Clark through a thick fringe of black hair and shrugged, dropped into one of a row of orange plastic chairs. "He's just Roger this week," he muttered and grabbed a magazine. Roger rolled his eyes again and flopped down next to him.
"Bill, just so you know, you suck as a posse."
"Eat me and not even your grandfather says posse anymore, Rog. Besides, the word implies more than one and no one else is this stupid," Billy said calmly, attention on the car book he was reading. Clark snickered and headed up to the little glass partition that separated Doris from the lesser mortals.
part 2
TBC