smallville fic: glass houses
What if Doomsday had actually killed Clark in Doomsday? Tess is left to the cleanup, and mentally broken Chloe and Davis are carted off to Bele Reve. Vaguely mindwiped smut. This kind gets me into the frame of mind for mental! institution profic. but then I am working on cracky! beast AU. So...
Tess was left to do the cleanup after Doomsday did his bloody work. There were thousands dead and there were loose ends. Luthorcorp paid for Chloe’s institutionalization. She had known the man that had flown with the world under his feet when he lived; she’d held one of the universes most advanced databases in her head. When they pushed her through the doors of Bele Reve she knew enough to tear the place wide open.
Chloe longed to bite and scratch at the white sleeves over her arms, but she knew from before that the glass walls around her were seamless. Escape attempts had only gotten her two chalky sweet pills and days of delirium before. So she was good, and they said they’d let her out to see other people like her. The longer she was inside, the more her past began to seem like a dream. It was her family curse and no one escaped. She needed to see anything, anyone.
Out in the rest-center, he was huddled near a wall, half doubled over and wincing like his arms were particularly deadly poison. Something about his face- the bowed mouth, the sweep of the cheekbone, the light dent in the chin stirred something in her. There were green needle marks in his arms, white cuffs on his wrists holding him as if he were perpetually crucified. It must have hurt. “My name’s Chloe.” His hair shagged over his eyes but she felt him stare.
“I’m not stalking you.” She said the next time she found him. When he looked up at her there was a puzzled softness to the curve of his cheek, she could almost feel it against her hand. She got closer to him in increments, a yard’s distance because he pumped out comfort like a small furnace, her chin on his shoulder because the place felt familiar. When she slept she dreamt he lifted her gently, free and away though his hands were prickly in her skin and she couldn’t see his face.
The way they were rebuilding their bond from nothing, no memories, no past, was curious to Tess. They didn’t remember the havoc they’d wreaked on the world; the savior they’d killed. They were cured, harmless together, a loose overlapping pile of limbs and awkward hands.
Chloe would look out, but the red desert sand would send Davis into a panic. He whispered to her that his hands were all red. She stopped trying to get him to look. He kissed her one day. It was gentle, soft, like a child’s kiss but it burned. Then he lifted both hands so he could brush her cheek with his fingers. Chloe thought he remembered her too.
When they were alone no one stopped them. His hands were trapped between them, but his weight bore her down gently, rubbed against her somewhere deep down like where the memories trickled out of her head. He’d turned on a light for her once. She grasped at his shoulders, his back, at the loose scrubs they put him in, gasped and buckled underneath him. His eyelids shut and she took his hands, worked a hairpin against the cuffs on his wrists. They fell off him as he pressed against her. He rubbed his head against her shoulder, blinking and uncertain. “Are you trying to save me?”
Chloe shook her head, nodded, shook her head again. Maybe she wanted him to save her. She turned her head into his shoulder and breathed when he took her. Her glass house sung, shattered.
Tess was left to do the cleanup after Doomsday did his bloody work. There were thousands dead and there were loose ends. Luthorcorp paid for Chloe’s institutionalization. She had known the man that had flown with the world under his feet when he lived; she’d held one of the universes most advanced databases in her head. When they pushed her through the doors of Bele Reve she knew enough to tear the place wide open.
Chloe longed to bite and scratch at the white sleeves over her arms, but she knew from before that the glass walls around her were seamless. Escape attempts had only gotten her two chalky sweet pills and days of delirium before. So she was good, and they said they’d let her out to see other people like her. The longer she was inside, the more her past began to seem like a dream. It was her family curse and no one escaped. She needed to see anything, anyone.
Out in the rest-center, he was huddled near a wall, half doubled over and wincing like his arms were particularly deadly poison. Something about his face- the bowed mouth, the sweep of the cheekbone, the light dent in the chin stirred something in her. There were green needle marks in his arms, white cuffs on his wrists holding him as if he were perpetually crucified. It must have hurt. “My name’s Chloe.” His hair shagged over his eyes but she felt him stare.
“I’m not stalking you.” She said the next time she found him. When he looked up at her there was a puzzled softness to the curve of his cheek, she could almost feel it against her hand. She got closer to him in increments, a yard’s distance because he pumped out comfort like a small furnace, her chin on his shoulder because the place felt familiar. When she slept she dreamt he lifted her gently, free and away though his hands were prickly in her skin and she couldn’t see his face.
The way they were rebuilding their bond from nothing, no memories, no past, was curious to Tess. They didn’t remember the havoc they’d wreaked on the world; the savior they’d killed. They were cured, harmless together, a loose overlapping pile of limbs and awkward hands.
Chloe would look out, but the red desert sand would send Davis into a panic. He whispered to her that his hands were all red. She stopped trying to get him to look. He kissed her one day. It was gentle, soft, like a child’s kiss but it burned. Then he lifted both hands so he could brush her cheek with his fingers. Chloe thought he remembered her too.
When they were alone no one stopped them. His hands were trapped between them, but his weight bore her down gently, rubbed against her somewhere deep down like where the memories trickled out of her head. He’d turned on a light for her once. She grasped at his shoulders, his back, at the loose scrubs they put him in, gasped and buckled underneath him. His eyelids shut and she took his hands, worked a hairpin against the cuffs on his wrists. They fell off him as he pressed against her. He rubbed his head against her shoulder, blinking and uncertain. “Are you trying to save me?”
Chloe shook her head, nodded, shook her head again. Maybe she wanted him to save her. She turned her head into his shoulder and breathed when he took her. Her glass house sung, shattered.