sv fic: i am the night (color me black)
the water is pounding against her skin, a repetitive slap of water on skin. it is all she can hear and all she wants to hear. she is in over her head. chloe/clark (red!k clark). nc-17. 4818 words. summer 2003.
notes: for enter_tzone
&
Baby, I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
And love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
&
The water pounding against her skin, a repetitive slap of water on skin: all Chloe can hear. Hot water, almost burning in temperature, almost hot enough to scald the skin. She has the hot water knob cranked to the side, on almost full blast. The knob for cold water is barely turned. Her skin is pinking as the water falls and hits her skin, over and over; there’s beauty in the repetition.
There’s the pound of water, sharp against skin, against porcelain. There’s the heat of the water, almost hot enough to burn. The combination dulls her to world outside the shower, allowing her to pretend in this instance. She can almost believe the illusions her mind conjures up.
It’s all a lie. But lies can be pretty and appealing.
Cooler air hits her as the shower curtain is pulled aside. Clark steps into the shower, the water drenching his formerly dry skin. He says, “The water’s too hot. You’ll burn your skin.”
Chloe almost says, “It doesn’t matter.”
Instead she turns and kisses him.
&
When she found him, she wasn’t looking. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to find. She was done with Clark Kent, for good, no more pining, no more wishing and waiting. Just done, over. The door was shut, so she told herself.
Doors like that are never shut. Remember that lesson.
Luck was against her and she stumbled upon him in the club, as the strobe lights illuminated his face. He stood there, leaning against the bar, clad in black. Hair around his face, long black waves. It was Clark, only not.
Maybe, if he hadn’t seen her, she would have just walked away, but that’s not how the story unfolded. One action led to another. He approached her, she glared at him, he dragged her outside. There were threats he uttered. Anger at herself for finding him accidentally made her threaten back. Then he pushed her against the outer wall of the club, smooth cement against bare skin. They moved simultaneously, lips meeting, his right hand clutching her arm, her left hand gathering folds of his shirt. Cotton in her fingers.
Point of no return reached.
Or maybe not, if she had pulled away, if she had ran. She could have pretended she never saw him: after all, she knows the power of self-deception. But that’s not what happened. She stayed and couldn’t leave in the end, not after she saw, not after she ran her fingers over the raised, puckered skin. Not after he woke, screaming, so much like a little boy scared of the dark.
They were in the bedroom of his apartment, the one he shouldn’t have been able to afford. She was on the bed, on her knees, undressed except for her black bra. Clark was standing next to the bed, still dressed. The blue sheets were silk and slippery beneath her knees; she would have feared falling if she hadn’t been preoccupied with other thoughts. Thoughts about what she was doing, about how she should grab her clothing and run away, leave and pretend this never happened.
Then he unbuttoned his shirt, the black cotton parting to reveal the scar. It was a dark pink color, an inch wide, spanning most of his chest. Chloe reached out to touch, impossible not to, hand so close. The heat of his skin and she could almost feel it. Her hand hovered.
“What is…” Chloe started to say.
“Don’t,” he said.
She touched anyways, wondering what the scar meant. All her previous reasons for him to run away seemed to be in doubt now. There was so much she didn’t know, she realized. Normal boys who run away don’t have scars that span the chest.
“Clark…”
His hand gripped her wrist, a tight vise around fragile bones. His fingers were warm as fingertips pressed against her skin. A heavy weight his fingers were against her skin.
Again, she tried, saying, “Clark…”
Lips captured hers, and her words. He was leaning down, body covering hers, then his hands found purchase on her hips and lifted her, bringing her legs to wrap around his waist. The smooth movement of the motion made her gasp into his mouth, a sound he swallowed. The scar pressed against her skin, the raised skin rough and bumpy. Pressed against the scar, the skin of her belly itched, but she couldn’t scratch it. Instead her fingers clutched at his shoulders while his tongue probed her mouth, demanding, and she yielded. His tongue was in her mouth and her legs were around his waist and she felt almost as if her universe was spinning.
It was like she was drunk. Only she wasn’t.
Chloe blinked and she was lying on the bed, her legs spread. Clark was hovering on her; his lower half now as naked as his upper half. His eyes were locked on hers and the darkness of his gaze made her bite her lip. Once more she wondered what she had gotten herself into, wondered what he had gotten himself into. There were so many questions, unanswered ones, would remain unanswered even a month after this moment.
His fingers delved inside her, testing. His thumb made circles against her clit, an incessant pressure. In her lower belly warmth pooled before spreading outwards, heading towards an inevitable conclusion at this point. He stopped before then, smirking slightly as she groaned.
“Say it,” he whispered to her.
“What?” Her mind was a tumbled mess of unanswered questions and unfilled arousal. There was an ache between her legs, one she remembered vaguely from the summer before, from the first time she had sex.
He shook his head, refusing to give out more. “You know.”
It came to her a second later. She licked her lips, now dry. “I want you.”
The nod he gave was barely noticeable. Then he was guiding his cock into her waiting body, pushing into her, stretching her. He was larger than Jimmy had been and there was a brief moment of pain as he filled her. The pain faded and the ache returned as he started thrusting into her, his fingers sneaking between their bodies to stroke her clit. She moved against him, straining, yearning for the conclusion of the moment.
Afterwards, as sweat cooled on their bodies, he rolled away from her, his back a barrier between them. She considered leaving, but couldn’t. Not when she knew so little. She studied the walls of the apartment, the furniture he couldn’t afford, not at age sixteen. She thought about leaving, wanting herself to find her conviction again to not care about Clark Kent, but all her conviction had been false, an illusion. It hadn’t been real; it had been part of the delusion of a heart-broken girl who wanted to pretend her heart wasn’t broken.
She didn’t want to think about that, so of course she did.
At some point she fell asleep.
Chloe woke to his screaming. She woke suddenly, abruptly, the sound tearing her from sound sleep. His screams were piecing the air, loud enough to wake her, not loud enough to disturb the neighbors. He was sitting up, the sheets pulled up across his chest. There was a hint of something glowing beneath the blue sheet, but she told herself she was just imagining things.
She sat up, moved closer. Her hand fell upon his shoulder, where it rested against sweat-dampened skin. She breathed, in and out, waiting for a sign.
After a minute the screams stopped. He was breathing heavily, almost panting, as if something horrible had just happened to him. It could have been just a bad dream, but Chloe didn’t know any dreams that made someone scream in pain. His screams had been gut-wrenching and were still echoing in her mind.
Her hand began to rub circles on his back, the smoothing sort of gesture mothers did. She didn’t say anything, just touched him, unsure really of what she should do. Clark didn’t say anything, but he didn’t move away from his chest.
After several minutes, Clark said, “Go back to sleep.”
Chloe didn’t move. “Are you?”
Now his head turned. His face was blank, but the eyes were dark, so dark. “Yes,” he said slowly, the word drawn out. His hand landed on her wrist and drew her down towards the mattress. Drawing her down, drawing her in deeper, like leading her through ever deepening water.
The water could soon be over her head. Would be, in the end. Remember this moment.
His breathing even out and soon he was asleep, lost in the dream world again. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t sleeping. She was thinking of runaway boys who woke screaming in pain, of runaway boys with scars on their chests, of lost girls who make deals with suit-clad monsters. There was guilt, so much guilt, and the need to make amends.
The silk sheets were soft against her skin. They reminded her of all Clark couldn’t afford and all that was wrong with the now.
Eventually she did fall asleep. She dreamed of swimming in a deep, dark pool with murky waters. When she woke, in the sunshine, Clark still asleep next to her, Chloe knew she wouldn’t be abandoning him anytime soon. She wouldn’t be running back to Smallville and pretending she had never seen him. She couldn’t, not after everything, not after what she had seen with him, not after the deal she had made with Lionel. There would be no leaving, no pretending the world was different than it was.
Next to her Clark woke. He looked at her and said, “Get dressed.”
“Why?” A hint of nervousness in her tone.
“We’re going out for breakfast.”
Chloe breathed.
&
But why did Clark let her stay? Why didn’t he tell her to get lost, to never bother him again? When her first saw her, that night at the club, before they kissed, he told her to forget she had seen him. Then they kissed beneath the black canopy sky, warm air around them. Then they were in his apartment, in his bed, then they were sleeping and he was waking up screaming, so much like a lost boy. A lost boy plagued by nightmares.
He let her stay. Why?
Chloe has never asked the question and Clark has never volunteered the information. They are two people sharing a bed who don’t share their thoughts.
As she never thinks to herself: this is not love.
&
Her cell phone rings. Lana glances over at Chloe, barely raising an eye. In a second Lana has her bag in her hands and is running away, as per usual.
Chloe remembers when her relationship with Lana was settled and just fine. A time when Lana didn’t avoid her and when Chloe didn’t feel guilty in Lana’s presence, back in the days before she saw Clark with Lana, before she made her deal with Lionel for revenge, before she found Clark and didn’t tell anyone. The knowledge of Clark whereabouts is the greatest burden these days, one she knows she can’t shake off.
Currently she hopes to rid herself of the Lionel deal. Hopes. There are always hopes, though, and they don’t always get filled.
Like the way she used to hope Clark would fall in love with her. She doesn’t think about that hope anymore; it’s gone, but it’s only buried, not permanently discarded. It’s harder than one would think to do this. You can’t just toss the hopes out of the car window while on the freeway and never see them again. Hopes don’t work like that.
But Chloe doesn’t want to think about hopes. It’s easier not to think sometimes. She tries to focus on the now, the present, what’s right in front of her.
Lana says, “Bye,” and is gone. The door opens, closes.
Chloe sighs and answers her phone, a tense, “Hello?”
“When are you getting here?”
It’s Clark, although he hates that name. She calls him by it anyways, refuses to follow suit and allow him to be known by Kal. His name isn’t Kal: it’s Clark. But in so many ways he isn’t the farmboy Clark she knew. This Clark is rude and never bothers with niceties. He’s blunt to the point of rude and doesn’t care. Her Clark cared so much, to the point where he cared too much at times. This Clark cares about himself and little else.
She doesn’t delude herself to thinking he cares that much about her. She serves a purpose and nothing more, Chloe suspects. The purpose is likely when he wakes screaming. Each time he wakes screaming she is able to calm him down by rubbing his back, the gesture comforting and maternal. It calms him, somehow, and so she’s allowed to stay. She fulfils a need of his and her staying allows her to make amends, to make up for her betrayals of Clark in the past.
But it’s not love. Never think this.
&
Sometimes, when it’s late and they’re lying in bed, their bodies no longer touching, she wants to ask, “Why?” So many questions contained in that single word, in why. Why, why, why, why. A good journalist always wants the answer to the why.
But she isn’t a good journalist, not anymore, and she doesn’t really want to ask this question. If she wanted to ask it, if she really wanted to ask it, she would. So her mouth never opens, the single word never escaping. Perhaps it hangs unsaid in the air, in the space between their bodies, in the minutes before they sleep. The minutes before they succumb to sleep, before the sleep that will take Clark to some place that will leave him screaming in the end. Tortured screams, ones that make her eyes damped and her heart hurt.
Everything is so messed up. They use to live in sunshine and now all they have is this inky darkness that surrounds everything and makes it hard to breathe. All around them is what has gone wrong, what has been turned upside down by their choices.
It’s late tonight, past midnight. Darkness is reigning; it makes the apartment its usual shade of gray blackness. The blinds on the large windows are shut tightly to block out the city lights.
Clark says, “What are you thinking?”
Chloe turns her head, hair spreading across the pillow. “Does it matter?”
“It depends on what you’re thinking.”
For a moment she’s quiet. Then she says, “Nothing important happened today.”
Clark is silent after that. She’s silent too, letting the sounds of their breathing dominant. In and out, the rise of the chest, repeated, one sign of life. They are living, they are breathing, they are doomed and what can she do? What can she say? Nothing that she thinks because that would reveal too much and would put this all in danger she suspects. There is no certainty in this situation, no guarantees; it’s safer to say little, to tread carefully this uneven ground. If you tumble, the landing will be hard.
Her eyes close and she sleeps.
She wakes to his screams.
This is why she cannot leave.
&
The lies we tell ourselves. These lies are everywhere, littering our actions and clouding our minds. Inescapable, although we pretend we can outrun.
Chloe would like to believe she stayed for Clark because she was wrong about why he ran away. That she stayed to make amends for her previous betrayal of him. That she stayed for him and not for her, that her own needs were barely a consideration.
To give: the common theme, what she would like to believe.
Beneath this need to give is the simple reality that she has always wanted Clark. Now she has him, not in the way she imagined but it’s him. It’s his cock inside her body, it’s his hands on her body, it’s his lips on her mouth. It’s him surrounding her.
But she will never admit this, not aloud, and not even to herself, except in the darkest of moments. Truth is too painful most of the time for us to face it in its entirety. So we lie to ourselves, create fantasies to even out the rough edges of reality.
The lies we tell ourselves.
&
Lionel Luthor’s office is on the top floor of Luthorcorp. Its windows overlook a view of the city that some people would kill for. It’s a cloudless day and the sky is a cornflower blue and the panorama of the city is as beautiful as it can be. The buildings are clear against the perfect sky.
Chloe would care more if she wasn’t here to attempt to wrangle herself out of her deal with Lionel. It was a mistake, a hasty mistake, one made for selfish reasons. She regrets and now she wants to repent her sins. The desire for absolution.
Simple to think of this longing, this wish. Harder to implement: there are no fairy godmothers present to grant a wish to her. She is alone in this matter, unaided. No fairy godmother will appear and wave a magic wound and say ‘bippity, boppity, boo’, unfortunately.
She’s sitting in a chair, waiting. She could be looking at the view, but she isn’t. Her palms are slick with sweat and she’s fidgeting, foot tapping nervously against the floor.
“Ms. Sullivan,” Lionel says as he enters the room. She stands, as is her habit. This is a formal setting after all.
“Mr. Luthor.”
He tells her to sit. She does and forces the fidgeting to stop. There’s no way for him to tell that her palms are damp and that her thighs are sticking together from sweat, but those signs are invisible. Tapping her foot against the floor is a visible sign of her nerves. She must show confidence; that is the only way to win this battle. For it is a battle, one between her and Lionel, who won’t want to let her go.
He wanted her in his clutch. It’s part of the larger war to uncover the truth about Clark Kent.
Chloe has her suspicions. These have been reaffirmed by recent events, but she can’t reveal those suspicions. That would be a betrayal of Clark and she’s already betrayed him too many times. She wants to repent.
The question of who will grant the forgiveness she yearns for is unanswered.
From the folder across her lap she pulls her latest article. She says, “This is going to be my last article for the Daily Planet.” Her voice, she is proud to note, is steady and calm.
Lionel doesn’t blink. “Excuse me?”
“I’m handing in this article and then resigning. This deal of ours…it was the wrong method for gaining employment at the Daily Planet. I realize this now.”
“You think it’s that simple?” Lionel asks. “It’s not.”
“You can’t force me,” she retorts. Her voice is shaking, just a little, but it’s enough. It displays her weakness, how in over her head she is.
Both she and Clark are in over their heads. They don’t talk of this: they don’t discuss their choices, not ever. Somehow she got into the Daily Planet and somehow Clark can afford the penthouse of a downtown Metropolis apartment building and they don’t ask questions. Asking questions is dangerous as you can never be sure of the answer. Easier to say quiet, to just have suspicions.
There has been a rash of robberies in Metropolis. But Chloe ignores the news articles on these.
“I think you are mistaken. Especially given your recent indiscretions with one Clark Kent.” A pleased yet predatory smile spreads across his face. “Did you really think I wouldn’t learn of this? You’ve been holding out on me, Ms. Sullivan. I wonder how the Kents and Ms. Lang would feel.”
Words escape her, deserting her in a time of need. The world feels small around her, constricting, like a room in a nightmare growing smaller and smaller. She thought she was safe, that she was being careful. A schoolgirl playing a game she’s ill equipped for in reality.
“And, Ms. Sullivan, let’s not forget your father’s employment with Luthorcorp. I’m sure he would be quite disappointed to find himself suddenly unemployed. That would be hard on a man your father’s age.”
“You…”
“I what? Can’t do this? Of course I can. Now, I think you should continue your little dalliance with our runaway Mr. Kent. I’m sure you’re bound to learn many fascinating secrets.”
Chloe shakes her head, her mind still on her earlier goals. Make amends, repent, be forgiven and granted absolution. “I won’t do it.”
Lionel leans back in his chair. “You don’t have a choice, I’m afraid,” he says. “You’re dismissed. I expect a report on Clark Kent in a week. If you don’t produce it, with some pertinent information, I will have to reconsider your father’s employment.”
She sits there, unable to move. Lionel glares at her and makes a gesture with his hand. A second passes and then she stands, walking on stiff legs.
Once more she thinks: in over my head.
&
Evening has settled, bringing a dark indigo night sky. In Smallville, the night sky is jet black except on nights when it is cloudy. In Metropolis, inky black skies are a rarity. The city lights keep true darkness from descending on the city.
She’s lying in bed, listening to the shower. Turned on her side, she can see straight out the large windows of the penthouse. It’s the night after her meeting with Lionel. As of right now she has no idea of what she will do. Her choices are protect Clark or protect her father; neither is the easy choice.
Someone has to be betrayed. Chloe is tired of betraying people, of becoming someone who deals in lies and secrets. Once upon a time her life was full of lightness as she sought to uncover the truth in her pursuit of her journalist goals. She has lost that lightness, has become a creature of the night, painted the color black on the inside.
“What is going on with you?”
Chloe turns around, startled to find Clark kneeling on the bed, dressed in pajama pants. His hair is wet and darker than usual, tousled and wild. His eyes are dark, but narrowed in what she assumes is concern. She doesn’t suspect that the concern is truly about her; it’s all about him. This is not the Clark she loved. This is merely the Clark she is with currently who needs her in some way and who she needs in another way.
“Nothing,” she says. She wants to believe this, wants it to be true.
Of course it isn’t. That doesn’t mean we stop trying to lie to ourselves: we still do because this is how we function. Without our lies, we would fall apart, broken by a reality that is harsh and unrelenting. The unyielding white sun that stings eyes is the color of reality.
He says, “I don’t believe you. You’re distracted and I want to know why.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re a bad liar. You always have been.”
Chloe is tempted to retort that he is the one who has always been the bad liar. What has saved him from too many questions is the trust his friends have in him. All the nick-of-time saves do build up and when she thinks rationally she can see the oddness that surrounds him. In the past, she always tried to ignore these nagging coincidences because he’s her friend and she wants to believe he’s telling her the truth. That’s trust: belief even when it isn’t logical.
Instead of retorting that, she says nothing, letting the silence stretch. She could deny his words again, but the truth is she’s tired of all this, the half-truths, the time spent meandering along this path of lies and secrets. Consider it a part of her desire to repent and gain absolution: she can’t detangle herself from Lionel, but she can confess her sins.
Confession is a step towards forgiveness and absolution. Repent as God said and there will be forgiveness if you are genuine. Chloe remembers that much from her Sunday School classes, years before. In the days when her mother was around and clothed her in flowered dresses and placed barrettes in her hair and gave her a children’s bible and lend her to class weekly. All this before her mother left; after her mother left, Chloe didn’t return to the church.
She sits up, pulling the covers with her to cover her chest, shielding her nudity from him. The sheet against her skin, silk armor. Flimsy but all she possesses at the moment.
“You’ve never asked me how I got my job at the Daily Planet,” she says, a statement, shattering the built-up silence. The silence collapses around them and the words she’s going to say will be like shards of glass from a broken mirror. They will cut; her intention, do not doubt this. So this is how she begins, with an exposure of what they have avoided for the past several weeks.
He shifts to sit on his heels. “Chloe…”
She thinks he wants to say don’t, but the words are stuck in his throat. Perhaps she should do as he seems to desire, but she can’t. Now it’s about what she needs, what she wants; the longing to confess is too strong to deny.
“I made a deal with Lionel. I saw you and Lana together and you were kissing her. You were kissing her and I was angry and jealous. Lionel had made me the offer and I had rejected it initially, but once I saw you kissing her, I couldn’t help myself. You didn’t love me, you didn’t want me, and I couldn’t have you. But I could have the Daily Planet. I could have my dream.”
Clark shakes his head slightly. He’s leaning back from her, a half-hearted attempt at an escape. There is no escape, not now. Everything has built to this point.
She presses on, saying, “I didn’t want to find you after you ran away. I wanted you as far away as possible. Then I could have the Daily Planet and I wouldn’t feel guilty about what I had done. You were out of my life and I told myself I had made the right choice. I knew it was a lie, but I fooled myself. Then I found you and all my delusions went to hell.”
There’s a pause. She draws in deep breaths while she stares at Clark, their eyes locked. The silence is building again and she knows once words break it again these words will be like glass shards, sharp and painful. No way to avoid them because they go everything, cutting everything in sight. Him, her; truth can be the most painful thing in the world. No one likes to know the truth: neither the person telling nor the person receiving. The truth means exposure to the reality of what is and most people prefer the illusion of what they want reality to be.
But even this truth Chloe is telling isn’t complete. Can never be for no one is self-aware, not to that extent.
This time she doesn’t break the silence. Clark does.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks. His voice is low and unreadable.
“Because I have to,” Chloe says.
“You don’t have to do anything.”
If only that were true.
It never is.
So she shakes her head and says, “Lionel knows about us. He wants me to tell him all that I know or else my father will lose his job. Lionel will blacklist him and my dad will never work again, all because of me.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Is that what you think? What you honestly think?” She thinks the expression on her face is sad at this point, but she can’t know for sure.
Clark rises suddenly, climbing off the bed. He starts to pace, back and forth. “This is fixable.”
Chloe lets her body fall against the soft pillows. Throwing an arm over her eyes, she blocks out the apartment with Clark pacing. Her eyes close.
“This isn’t the end,” he says.
She laughs bitterly. “We’re in over our heads, Clark. Face it: we lost.”
There’s no reply to her statement; she isn’t surprised. There’s the sound of pacing and then that too stops. Silence grows once more. With her closed eyes, Chloe can only see darkness. It’s a grayish darkness, but a darkness none the less. She squeezes her eyes shut and lets the darkness win. Was there ever any choice? Forgiveness and absolution were part of a fairytale she thinks now, not to be achieved by simple confession.
Forgiveness and absolution are out of her reach now. They might have always been.
Clark climbs into the bed next to her. The rest is silence and a gray, almost black, color.
&
And every breath we drew was hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
Comments are adored.
notes: for enter_tzone
&
Baby, I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
And love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
&
The water pounding against her skin, a repetitive slap of water on skin: all Chloe can hear. Hot water, almost burning in temperature, almost hot enough to scald the skin. She has the hot water knob cranked to the side, on almost full blast. The knob for cold water is barely turned. Her skin is pinking as the water falls and hits her skin, over and over; there’s beauty in the repetition.
There’s the pound of water, sharp against skin, against porcelain. There’s the heat of the water, almost hot enough to burn. The combination dulls her to world outside the shower, allowing her to pretend in this instance. She can almost believe the illusions her mind conjures up.
It’s all a lie. But lies can be pretty and appealing.
Cooler air hits her as the shower curtain is pulled aside. Clark steps into the shower, the water drenching his formerly dry skin. He says, “The water’s too hot. You’ll burn your skin.”
Chloe almost says, “It doesn’t matter.”
Instead she turns and kisses him.
&
When she found him, she wasn’t looking. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to find. She was done with Clark Kent, for good, no more pining, no more wishing and waiting. Just done, over. The door was shut, so she told herself.
Doors like that are never shut. Remember that lesson.
Luck was against her and she stumbled upon him in the club, as the strobe lights illuminated his face. He stood there, leaning against the bar, clad in black. Hair around his face, long black waves. It was Clark, only not.
Maybe, if he hadn’t seen her, she would have just walked away, but that’s not how the story unfolded. One action led to another. He approached her, she glared at him, he dragged her outside. There were threats he uttered. Anger at herself for finding him accidentally made her threaten back. Then he pushed her against the outer wall of the club, smooth cement against bare skin. They moved simultaneously, lips meeting, his right hand clutching her arm, her left hand gathering folds of his shirt. Cotton in her fingers.
Point of no return reached.
Or maybe not, if she had pulled away, if she had ran. She could have pretended she never saw him: after all, she knows the power of self-deception. But that’s not what happened. She stayed and couldn’t leave in the end, not after she saw, not after she ran her fingers over the raised, puckered skin. Not after he woke, screaming, so much like a little boy scared of the dark.
They were in the bedroom of his apartment, the one he shouldn’t have been able to afford. She was on the bed, on her knees, undressed except for her black bra. Clark was standing next to the bed, still dressed. The blue sheets were silk and slippery beneath her knees; she would have feared falling if she hadn’t been preoccupied with other thoughts. Thoughts about what she was doing, about how she should grab her clothing and run away, leave and pretend this never happened.
Then he unbuttoned his shirt, the black cotton parting to reveal the scar. It was a dark pink color, an inch wide, spanning most of his chest. Chloe reached out to touch, impossible not to, hand so close. The heat of his skin and she could almost feel it. Her hand hovered.
“What is…” Chloe started to say.
“Don’t,” he said.
She touched anyways, wondering what the scar meant. All her previous reasons for him to run away seemed to be in doubt now. There was so much she didn’t know, she realized. Normal boys who run away don’t have scars that span the chest.
“Clark…”
His hand gripped her wrist, a tight vise around fragile bones. His fingers were warm as fingertips pressed against her skin. A heavy weight his fingers were against her skin.
Again, she tried, saying, “Clark…”
Lips captured hers, and her words. He was leaning down, body covering hers, then his hands found purchase on her hips and lifted her, bringing her legs to wrap around his waist. The smooth movement of the motion made her gasp into his mouth, a sound he swallowed. The scar pressed against her skin, the raised skin rough and bumpy. Pressed against the scar, the skin of her belly itched, but she couldn’t scratch it. Instead her fingers clutched at his shoulders while his tongue probed her mouth, demanding, and she yielded. His tongue was in her mouth and her legs were around his waist and she felt almost as if her universe was spinning.
It was like she was drunk. Only she wasn’t.
Chloe blinked and she was lying on the bed, her legs spread. Clark was hovering on her; his lower half now as naked as his upper half. His eyes were locked on hers and the darkness of his gaze made her bite her lip. Once more she wondered what she had gotten herself into, wondered what he had gotten himself into. There were so many questions, unanswered ones, would remain unanswered even a month after this moment.
His fingers delved inside her, testing. His thumb made circles against her clit, an incessant pressure. In her lower belly warmth pooled before spreading outwards, heading towards an inevitable conclusion at this point. He stopped before then, smirking slightly as she groaned.
“Say it,” he whispered to her.
“What?” Her mind was a tumbled mess of unanswered questions and unfilled arousal. There was an ache between her legs, one she remembered vaguely from the summer before, from the first time she had sex.
He shook his head, refusing to give out more. “You know.”
It came to her a second later. She licked her lips, now dry. “I want you.”
The nod he gave was barely noticeable. Then he was guiding his cock into her waiting body, pushing into her, stretching her. He was larger than Jimmy had been and there was a brief moment of pain as he filled her. The pain faded and the ache returned as he started thrusting into her, his fingers sneaking between their bodies to stroke her clit. She moved against him, straining, yearning for the conclusion of the moment.
Afterwards, as sweat cooled on their bodies, he rolled away from her, his back a barrier between them. She considered leaving, but couldn’t. Not when she knew so little. She studied the walls of the apartment, the furniture he couldn’t afford, not at age sixteen. She thought about leaving, wanting herself to find her conviction again to not care about Clark Kent, but all her conviction had been false, an illusion. It hadn’t been real; it had been part of the delusion of a heart-broken girl who wanted to pretend her heart wasn’t broken.
She didn’t want to think about that, so of course she did.
At some point she fell asleep.
Chloe woke to his screaming. She woke suddenly, abruptly, the sound tearing her from sound sleep. His screams were piecing the air, loud enough to wake her, not loud enough to disturb the neighbors. He was sitting up, the sheets pulled up across his chest. There was a hint of something glowing beneath the blue sheet, but she told herself she was just imagining things.
She sat up, moved closer. Her hand fell upon his shoulder, where it rested against sweat-dampened skin. She breathed, in and out, waiting for a sign.
After a minute the screams stopped. He was breathing heavily, almost panting, as if something horrible had just happened to him. It could have been just a bad dream, but Chloe didn’t know any dreams that made someone scream in pain. His screams had been gut-wrenching and were still echoing in her mind.
Her hand began to rub circles on his back, the smoothing sort of gesture mothers did. She didn’t say anything, just touched him, unsure really of what she should do. Clark didn’t say anything, but he didn’t move away from his chest.
After several minutes, Clark said, “Go back to sleep.”
Chloe didn’t move. “Are you?”
Now his head turned. His face was blank, but the eyes were dark, so dark. “Yes,” he said slowly, the word drawn out. His hand landed on her wrist and drew her down towards the mattress. Drawing her down, drawing her in deeper, like leading her through ever deepening water.
The water could soon be over her head. Would be, in the end. Remember this moment.
His breathing even out and soon he was asleep, lost in the dream world again. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t sleeping. She was thinking of runaway boys who woke screaming in pain, of runaway boys with scars on their chests, of lost girls who make deals with suit-clad monsters. There was guilt, so much guilt, and the need to make amends.
The silk sheets were soft against her skin. They reminded her of all Clark couldn’t afford and all that was wrong with the now.
Eventually she did fall asleep. She dreamed of swimming in a deep, dark pool with murky waters. When she woke, in the sunshine, Clark still asleep next to her, Chloe knew she wouldn’t be abandoning him anytime soon. She wouldn’t be running back to Smallville and pretending she had never seen him. She couldn’t, not after everything, not after what she had seen with him, not after the deal she had made with Lionel. There would be no leaving, no pretending the world was different than it was.
Next to her Clark woke. He looked at her and said, “Get dressed.”
“Why?” A hint of nervousness in her tone.
“We’re going out for breakfast.”
Chloe breathed.
&
But why did Clark let her stay? Why didn’t he tell her to get lost, to never bother him again? When her first saw her, that night at the club, before they kissed, he told her to forget she had seen him. Then they kissed beneath the black canopy sky, warm air around them. Then they were in his apartment, in his bed, then they were sleeping and he was waking up screaming, so much like a lost boy. A lost boy plagued by nightmares.
He let her stay. Why?
Chloe has never asked the question and Clark has never volunteered the information. They are two people sharing a bed who don’t share their thoughts.
As she never thinks to herself: this is not love.
&
Her cell phone rings. Lana glances over at Chloe, barely raising an eye. In a second Lana has her bag in her hands and is running away, as per usual.
Chloe remembers when her relationship with Lana was settled and just fine. A time when Lana didn’t avoid her and when Chloe didn’t feel guilty in Lana’s presence, back in the days before she saw Clark with Lana, before she made her deal with Lionel for revenge, before she found Clark and didn’t tell anyone. The knowledge of Clark whereabouts is the greatest burden these days, one she knows she can’t shake off.
Currently she hopes to rid herself of the Lionel deal. Hopes. There are always hopes, though, and they don’t always get filled.
Like the way she used to hope Clark would fall in love with her. She doesn’t think about that hope anymore; it’s gone, but it’s only buried, not permanently discarded. It’s harder than one would think to do this. You can’t just toss the hopes out of the car window while on the freeway and never see them again. Hopes don’t work like that.
But Chloe doesn’t want to think about hopes. It’s easier not to think sometimes. She tries to focus on the now, the present, what’s right in front of her.
Lana says, “Bye,” and is gone. The door opens, closes.
Chloe sighs and answers her phone, a tense, “Hello?”
“When are you getting here?”
It’s Clark, although he hates that name. She calls him by it anyways, refuses to follow suit and allow him to be known by Kal. His name isn’t Kal: it’s Clark. But in so many ways he isn’t the farmboy Clark she knew. This Clark is rude and never bothers with niceties. He’s blunt to the point of rude and doesn’t care. Her Clark cared so much, to the point where he cared too much at times. This Clark cares about himself and little else.
She doesn’t delude herself to thinking he cares that much about her. She serves a purpose and nothing more, Chloe suspects. The purpose is likely when he wakes screaming. Each time he wakes screaming she is able to calm him down by rubbing his back, the gesture comforting and maternal. It calms him, somehow, and so she’s allowed to stay. She fulfils a need of his and her staying allows her to make amends, to make up for her betrayals of Clark in the past.
But it’s not love. Never think this.
&
Sometimes, when it’s late and they’re lying in bed, their bodies no longer touching, she wants to ask, “Why?” So many questions contained in that single word, in why. Why, why, why, why. A good journalist always wants the answer to the why.
But she isn’t a good journalist, not anymore, and she doesn’t really want to ask this question. If she wanted to ask it, if she really wanted to ask it, she would. So her mouth never opens, the single word never escaping. Perhaps it hangs unsaid in the air, in the space between their bodies, in the minutes before they sleep. The minutes before they succumb to sleep, before the sleep that will take Clark to some place that will leave him screaming in the end. Tortured screams, ones that make her eyes damped and her heart hurt.
Everything is so messed up. They use to live in sunshine and now all they have is this inky darkness that surrounds everything and makes it hard to breathe. All around them is what has gone wrong, what has been turned upside down by their choices.
It’s late tonight, past midnight. Darkness is reigning; it makes the apartment its usual shade of gray blackness. The blinds on the large windows are shut tightly to block out the city lights.
Clark says, “What are you thinking?”
Chloe turns her head, hair spreading across the pillow. “Does it matter?”
“It depends on what you’re thinking.”
For a moment she’s quiet. Then she says, “Nothing important happened today.”
Clark is silent after that. She’s silent too, letting the sounds of their breathing dominant. In and out, the rise of the chest, repeated, one sign of life. They are living, they are breathing, they are doomed and what can she do? What can she say? Nothing that she thinks because that would reveal too much and would put this all in danger she suspects. There is no certainty in this situation, no guarantees; it’s safer to say little, to tread carefully this uneven ground. If you tumble, the landing will be hard.
Her eyes close and she sleeps.
She wakes to his screams.
This is why she cannot leave.
&
The lies we tell ourselves. These lies are everywhere, littering our actions and clouding our minds. Inescapable, although we pretend we can outrun.
Chloe would like to believe she stayed for Clark because she was wrong about why he ran away. That she stayed to make amends for her previous betrayal of him. That she stayed for him and not for her, that her own needs were barely a consideration.
To give: the common theme, what she would like to believe.
Beneath this need to give is the simple reality that she has always wanted Clark. Now she has him, not in the way she imagined but it’s him. It’s his cock inside her body, it’s his hands on her body, it’s his lips on her mouth. It’s him surrounding her.
But she will never admit this, not aloud, and not even to herself, except in the darkest of moments. Truth is too painful most of the time for us to face it in its entirety. So we lie to ourselves, create fantasies to even out the rough edges of reality.
The lies we tell ourselves.
&
Lionel Luthor’s office is on the top floor of Luthorcorp. Its windows overlook a view of the city that some people would kill for. It’s a cloudless day and the sky is a cornflower blue and the panorama of the city is as beautiful as it can be. The buildings are clear against the perfect sky.
Chloe would care more if she wasn’t here to attempt to wrangle herself out of her deal with Lionel. It was a mistake, a hasty mistake, one made for selfish reasons. She regrets and now she wants to repent her sins. The desire for absolution.
Simple to think of this longing, this wish. Harder to implement: there are no fairy godmothers present to grant a wish to her. She is alone in this matter, unaided. No fairy godmother will appear and wave a magic wound and say ‘bippity, boppity, boo’, unfortunately.
She’s sitting in a chair, waiting. She could be looking at the view, but she isn’t. Her palms are slick with sweat and she’s fidgeting, foot tapping nervously against the floor.
“Ms. Sullivan,” Lionel says as he enters the room. She stands, as is her habit. This is a formal setting after all.
“Mr. Luthor.”
He tells her to sit. She does and forces the fidgeting to stop. There’s no way for him to tell that her palms are damp and that her thighs are sticking together from sweat, but those signs are invisible. Tapping her foot against the floor is a visible sign of her nerves. She must show confidence; that is the only way to win this battle. For it is a battle, one between her and Lionel, who won’t want to let her go.
He wanted her in his clutch. It’s part of the larger war to uncover the truth about Clark Kent.
Chloe has her suspicions. These have been reaffirmed by recent events, but she can’t reveal those suspicions. That would be a betrayal of Clark and she’s already betrayed him too many times. She wants to repent.
The question of who will grant the forgiveness she yearns for is unanswered.
From the folder across her lap she pulls her latest article. She says, “This is going to be my last article for the Daily Planet.” Her voice, she is proud to note, is steady and calm.
Lionel doesn’t blink. “Excuse me?”
“I’m handing in this article and then resigning. This deal of ours…it was the wrong method for gaining employment at the Daily Planet. I realize this now.”
“You think it’s that simple?” Lionel asks. “It’s not.”
“You can’t force me,” she retorts. Her voice is shaking, just a little, but it’s enough. It displays her weakness, how in over her head she is.
Both she and Clark are in over their heads. They don’t talk of this: they don’t discuss their choices, not ever. Somehow she got into the Daily Planet and somehow Clark can afford the penthouse of a downtown Metropolis apartment building and they don’t ask questions. Asking questions is dangerous as you can never be sure of the answer. Easier to say quiet, to just have suspicions.
There has been a rash of robberies in Metropolis. But Chloe ignores the news articles on these.
“I think you are mistaken. Especially given your recent indiscretions with one Clark Kent.” A pleased yet predatory smile spreads across his face. “Did you really think I wouldn’t learn of this? You’ve been holding out on me, Ms. Sullivan. I wonder how the Kents and Ms. Lang would feel.”
Words escape her, deserting her in a time of need. The world feels small around her, constricting, like a room in a nightmare growing smaller and smaller. She thought she was safe, that she was being careful. A schoolgirl playing a game she’s ill equipped for in reality.
“And, Ms. Sullivan, let’s not forget your father’s employment with Luthorcorp. I’m sure he would be quite disappointed to find himself suddenly unemployed. That would be hard on a man your father’s age.”
“You…”
“I what? Can’t do this? Of course I can. Now, I think you should continue your little dalliance with our runaway Mr. Kent. I’m sure you’re bound to learn many fascinating secrets.”
Chloe shakes her head, her mind still on her earlier goals. Make amends, repent, be forgiven and granted absolution. “I won’t do it.”
Lionel leans back in his chair. “You don’t have a choice, I’m afraid,” he says. “You’re dismissed. I expect a report on Clark Kent in a week. If you don’t produce it, with some pertinent information, I will have to reconsider your father’s employment.”
She sits there, unable to move. Lionel glares at her and makes a gesture with his hand. A second passes and then she stands, walking on stiff legs.
Once more she thinks: in over my head.
&
Evening has settled, bringing a dark indigo night sky. In Smallville, the night sky is jet black except on nights when it is cloudy. In Metropolis, inky black skies are a rarity. The city lights keep true darkness from descending on the city.
She’s lying in bed, listening to the shower. Turned on her side, she can see straight out the large windows of the penthouse. It’s the night after her meeting with Lionel. As of right now she has no idea of what she will do. Her choices are protect Clark or protect her father; neither is the easy choice.
Someone has to be betrayed. Chloe is tired of betraying people, of becoming someone who deals in lies and secrets. Once upon a time her life was full of lightness as she sought to uncover the truth in her pursuit of her journalist goals. She has lost that lightness, has become a creature of the night, painted the color black on the inside.
“What is going on with you?”
Chloe turns around, startled to find Clark kneeling on the bed, dressed in pajama pants. His hair is wet and darker than usual, tousled and wild. His eyes are dark, but narrowed in what she assumes is concern. She doesn’t suspect that the concern is truly about her; it’s all about him. This is not the Clark she loved. This is merely the Clark she is with currently who needs her in some way and who she needs in another way.
“Nothing,” she says. She wants to believe this, wants it to be true.
Of course it isn’t. That doesn’t mean we stop trying to lie to ourselves: we still do because this is how we function. Without our lies, we would fall apart, broken by a reality that is harsh and unrelenting. The unyielding white sun that stings eyes is the color of reality.
He says, “I don’t believe you. You’re distracted and I want to know why.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re a bad liar. You always have been.”
Chloe is tempted to retort that he is the one who has always been the bad liar. What has saved him from too many questions is the trust his friends have in him. All the nick-of-time saves do build up and when she thinks rationally she can see the oddness that surrounds him. In the past, she always tried to ignore these nagging coincidences because he’s her friend and she wants to believe he’s telling her the truth. That’s trust: belief even when it isn’t logical.
Instead of retorting that, she says nothing, letting the silence stretch. She could deny his words again, but the truth is she’s tired of all this, the half-truths, the time spent meandering along this path of lies and secrets. Consider it a part of her desire to repent and gain absolution: she can’t detangle herself from Lionel, but she can confess her sins.
Confession is a step towards forgiveness and absolution. Repent as God said and there will be forgiveness if you are genuine. Chloe remembers that much from her Sunday School classes, years before. In the days when her mother was around and clothed her in flowered dresses and placed barrettes in her hair and gave her a children’s bible and lend her to class weekly. All this before her mother left; after her mother left, Chloe didn’t return to the church.
She sits up, pulling the covers with her to cover her chest, shielding her nudity from him. The sheet against her skin, silk armor. Flimsy but all she possesses at the moment.
“You’ve never asked me how I got my job at the Daily Planet,” she says, a statement, shattering the built-up silence. The silence collapses around them and the words she’s going to say will be like shards of glass from a broken mirror. They will cut; her intention, do not doubt this. So this is how she begins, with an exposure of what they have avoided for the past several weeks.
He shifts to sit on his heels. “Chloe…”
She thinks he wants to say don’t, but the words are stuck in his throat. Perhaps she should do as he seems to desire, but she can’t. Now it’s about what she needs, what she wants; the longing to confess is too strong to deny.
“I made a deal with Lionel. I saw you and Lana together and you were kissing her. You were kissing her and I was angry and jealous. Lionel had made me the offer and I had rejected it initially, but once I saw you kissing her, I couldn’t help myself. You didn’t love me, you didn’t want me, and I couldn’t have you. But I could have the Daily Planet. I could have my dream.”
Clark shakes his head slightly. He’s leaning back from her, a half-hearted attempt at an escape. There is no escape, not now. Everything has built to this point.
She presses on, saying, “I didn’t want to find you after you ran away. I wanted you as far away as possible. Then I could have the Daily Planet and I wouldn’t feel guilty about what I had done. You were out of my life and I told myself I had made the right choice. I knew it was a lie, but I fooled myself. Then I found you and all my delusions went to hell.”
There’s a pause. She draws in deep breaths while she stares at Clark, their eyes locked. The silence is building again and she knows once words break it again these words will be like glass shards, sharp and painful. No way to avoid them because they go everything, cutting everything in sight. Him, her; truth can be the most painful thing in the world. No one likes to know the truth: neither the person telling nor the person receiving. The truth means exposure to the reality of what is and most people prefer the illusion of what they want reality to be.
But even this truth Chloe is telling isn’t complete. Can never be for no one is self-aware, not to that extent.
This time she doesn’t break the silence. Clark does.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks. His voice is low and unreadable.
“Because I have to,” Chloe says.
“You don’t have to do anything.”
If only that were true.
It never is.
So she shakes her head and says, “Lionel knows about us. He wants me to tell him all that I know or else my father will lose his job. Lionel will blacklist him and my dad will never work again, all because of me.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Is that what you think? What you honestly think?” She thinks the expression on her face is sad at this point, but she can’t know for sure.
Clark rises suddenly, climbing off the bed. He starts to pace, back and forth. “This is fixable.”
Chloe lets her body fall against the soft pillows. Throwing an arm over her eyes, she blocks out the apartment with Clark pacing. Her eyes close.
“This isn’t the end,” he says.
She laughs bitterly. “We’re in over our heads, Clark. Face it: we lost.”
There’s no reply to her statement; she isn’t surprised. There’s the sound of pacing and then that too stops. Silence grows once more. With her closed eyes, Chloe can only see darkness. It’s a grayish darkness, but a darkness none the less. She squeezes her eyes shut and lets the darkness win. Was there ever any choice? Forgiveness and absolution were part of a fairytale she thinks now, not to be achieved by simple confession.
Forgiveness and absolution are out of her reach now. They might have always been.
Clark climbs into the bed next to her. The rest is silence and a gray, almost black, color.
&
And every breath we drew was hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah
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