pretty is not protection
Title: The Beauty of Others
Fandom: Smallville
Rating: PG
Character, Pairings: Lana Lang, various Femmeslash pairings if you wish
Disclaimer: I didn’t create these characters.
Notes: Prompt 004, ‘Insides’, for 100_women Fanfic Challenge
The Beauty of Others
Lana goes to the newsstand more often than she should. It used to be only every other month or so, after an especially rough day at the Talon, when she felt like she needed a long bath and then to curl up in her old worn-in robe on the couch and eat green tea ice cream (hard to find in Smallville, but so damn good) and lose herself in the incredible couture clothing on display in a fashion magazine, or in pictures of far away private Caribbean islands in a travel magazine. Recently, though, she’s been going there more often. Today, she stops in on her way to work, hoping they’ll have something new. Sure enough, there in the rack right in front of the counter is the new issue of Vogue. Nicole Kidman is on the cover, looking absolutely stunning, as always, and wearing an exquisite dress, translucent and swirled with gold. It’s one of Lana’s secret hopes that she is better looking than the clothes she wears. Someday, however, at least once, she hopes to own a dress so pretty that she looks plain by comparison. This dress looks like the one. She pulls a five out of her pocket and gladly pays, feeling giddy as she clutches the thick magazine to her chest and walks out into the street.
After her shift, she heads home to the Sullivan’s. Chloe’s out, probably still at the Torch, and Lana spreads herself across her bed and peruses the magazine, starting with the very first page. She feels such a strange anticipation about getting to the Nicole Kidman article and when she finally reaches it she's enchanted by the commanding grace of that tall figure, so different from her own. It must be nice to be tall, to be able to look people, men, straight in the face, rather than always having to peer up, up, up. No one could mistake Nicole Kidman for a child or a doll, even though her features are delicate like Lana’s. She loves that there is something guarded in that pretty face, wishes that she too had ice in her gaze, instead of always trying to be nice, always smiling, always inviting people, even people she doesn’t like, to step closer. She doesn’t think she means to be so yielding, and yet, it always seems to be the message she sends. She hates these thoughts, she’s been over this so many times before, tried to find a balance, a way to be kind, but not too kind, so that people won’t think, men and boys won’t think she’s offering more than she is. They always think she’s offering herself, and even if she did want them, even then, she wouldn’t give herself away. She’s not a doll, not a pet, she’s not something anyone can have, and yet they try to capture her. She hates these thoughts, hates them, and brings her attention back to the beautiful clothes that are from another era, sleek satins and soft velvets in rich reds and plums, floor length gowns with empire waists. She’s had lots of practice at bringing herself back to the surfaces of things so that what is troubling her can be pushed down, put away.
She remembers the psychiatrist. She hates him, still. The nightmares had gotten so much worse, she couldn’t sleep through the night, she was falling asleep during school. Nell took her to this man, took her all the way to Metropolis to talk to him. Selfish, pompous ass, more concerned with being a big shot in front of Nell, flirting with her, than paying attention to Lana, his patient. He didn’t even let her speak, just kept telling her the things he thought she needed to hear. He tried to fix her, without ever letting her share her side. The worst part was what he said afterward. He didn’t take care to close his office door, didn’t take care to whisper, so that she, sitting in the lobby (looking at pictures of pretty dresses, imagining herself in them, even then) could hear him tell her Aunt, “A child can never recover from the death of a parent, never mind both. She’ll go through periods when she seems better, but the wound is always there. It doesn’t heal, my dear, so don’t blame yourself. You’re doing the best you can and, sooner or later, she’ll be able to more effectively sublimate her fears.” Except that it wasn’t just fear, you bastard. Did all your training leave you ignorant of despair?
She gnaws at her lip, even though she knows she shouldn’t, she’ll chap them, but why can’t she put this away? Why does she let herself remember these stupid things? Why does she do this to herself? She doesn’t even notice Chloe’s entered the room, until she hears, “What are you obsessing over?”
She blushes, embarrassed. Her eyes are a little wet, her nose a little runny, and she sniffles and blinks and tries to make herself presentable. She can guess what Chloe thinks about fashion magazines, so she’s sheepish when she says, “It’s the new issue of Vogue.”
“Oh, yeah? Anything good?” She’s surprised that Chloe flops down on the bed right beside her, but not by the way she grabs the magazine from Lana’s hands and starts flipping through it. Chloe likes to dive into things. Lana enjoys the familiar scent of Chloe at the end of a long day, fading awapuhi conditioner and sweat and grape flavored lip gloss and ink. She finds that mixture of dirt and sugar intoxicating. “Ewww,” Chloe says, frowning at the very pictures that entranced Lana, “She is way too skinny.”
“They say the clothes look better that way,” Lana says, though she knows it’s a lame argument.
Chloe rolls her eyes. “That’s such bullshit. What, you need an eating disorder to wear a cute outfit? Please.”
Lana takes the magazine back, flips it shut, and shows Chloe the cover. “Come on, admit she’s pretty.”
“Watch this.” Chloe’s eyebrows rise and then she furrows her brow, repeats the exaggerated movements several times. “She can’t do that. You know why? Botox. Or bad plastic surgery, but either way, scary. And pretty stupid for an actor. Frozen face? Equals not so good with the expression of emotion, equals Barbie doll, equals not beautiful. It’s not how someone looks that makes them attractive, anyway. It’s the energy a person gives off. It’s how they make you feel.”
“Hold on. Let’s take this beyond the hypothetical realm. Do you really expect me to believe that if a certain Clark Kent was ugly, you’d feel the same way about him?”
“I’m gonna plead the Fifth on that. But I can emphatically state, for the record, that if Clark looked the same, but was your typical teenage jock, I would NOT feel the same.”
“I buy that,” Lana says.
“Speak of the pretty pretty,” Chloe blurts out, checking the caller id on her ringing cell. “That’s him right now. I gotta take this, it’s a wall of weird thing,” she explains as she rushes out of Lana’s room.
Alone again, Lana returns to her musings, her eyes glazing as she continues to flip through the magazine, mechanically, now. The eager, anxious looks Chloe wears when she’s with Clark make Lana sad for her friend. Chloe hasn’t realized yet that it can hurt just as much to be wanted for your outside as it does when you feel like you're not wanted at all. Just because people want to touch you doesn’t mean they accept you. It’s just the packaging, the shiny glittery glossy wrapping paper that they want.
And what is pretty worth, anyway? Just that. Just people wanting to have you for themselves, to own you. It just makes you a doll, a Barbie, like Chloe said.
She agrees with Chloe. It is something on the inside that creates beauty. Martha Kent is beautiful. She worries too much, it’s in the lines on her face, the tense way she holds her body. She’s vulnerable in a way Lana’s never experienced, because she’s not fighting to protect herself, her struggle arises from trying to keep her family safe. Her love illuminates her, a fire continually sparking inside her that makes her glow.
Maybe, Lana hopes, maybe, someday, she can be beautiful like that, like Mrs. Kent.
Lana has never told Mrs. Kent that she is beautiful. Maybe she should. If she can not be beautiful herself, at least she can honor the beauty of others.
Fandom: Smallville
Rating: PG
Character, Pairings: Lana Lang, various Femmeslash pairings if you wish
Disclaimer: I didn’t create these characters.
Notes: Prompt 004, ‘Insides’, for 100_women Fanfic Challenge
The Beauty of Others
Lana goes to the newsstand more often than she should. It used to be only every other month or so, after an especially rough day at the Talon, when she felt like she needed a long bath and then to curl up in her old worn-in robe on the couch and eat green tea ice cream (hard to find in Smallville, but so damn good) and lose herself in the incredible couture clothing on display in a fashion magazine, or in pictures of far away private Caribbean islands in a travel magazine. Recently, though, she’s been going there more often. Today, she stops in on her way to work, hoping they’ll have something new. Sure enough, there in the rack right in front of the counter is the new issue of Vogue. Nicole Kidman is on the cover, looking absolutely stunning, as always, and wearing an exquisite dress, translucent and swirled with gold. It’s one of Lana’s secret hopes that she is better looking than the clothes she wears. Someday, however, at least once, she hopes to own a dress so pretty that she looks plain by comparison. This dress looks like the one. She pulls a five out of her pocket and gladly pays, feeling giddy as she clutches the thick magazine to her chest and walks out into the street.
After her shift, she heads home to the Sullivan’s. Chloe’s out, probably still at the Torch, and Lana spreads herself across her bed and peruses the magazine, starting with the very first page. She feels such a strange anticipation about getting to the Nicole Kidman article and when she finally reaches it she's enchanted by the commanding grace of that tall figure, so different from her own. It must be nice to be tall, to be able to look people, men, straight in the face, rather than always having to peer up, up, up. No one could mistake Nicole Kidman for a child or a doll, even though her features are delicate like Lana’s. She loves that there is something guarded in that pretty face, wishes that she too had ice in her gaze, instead of always trying to be nice, always smiling, always inviting people, even people she doesn’t like, to step closer. She doesn’t think she means to be so yielding, and yet, it always seems to be the message she sends. She hates these thoughts, she’s been over this so many times before, tried to find a balance, a way to be kind, but not too kind, so that people won’t think, men and boys won’t think she’s offering more than she is. They always think she’s offering herself, and even if she did want them, even then, she wouldn’t give herself away. She’s not a doll, not a pet, she’s not something anyone can have, and yet they try to capture her. She hates these thoughts, hates them, and brings her attention back to the beautiful clothes that are from another era, sleek satins and soft velvets in rich reds and plums, floor length gowns with empire waists. She’s had lots of practice at bringing herself back to the surfaces of things so that what is troubling her can be pushed down, put away.
She remembers the psychiatrist. She hates him, still. The nightmares had gotten so much worse, she couldn’t sleep through the night, she was falling asleep during school. Nell took her to this man, took her all the way to Metropolis to talk to him. Selfish, pompous ass, more concerned with being a big shot in front of Nell, flirting with her, than paying attention to Lana, his patient. He didn’t even let her speak, just kept telling her the things he thought she needed to hear. He tried to fix her, without ever letting her share her side. The worst part was what he said afterward. He didn’t take care to close his office door, didn’t take care to whisper, so that she, sitting in the lobby (looking at pictures of pretty dresses, imagining herself in them, even then) could hear him tell her Aunt, “A child can never recover from the death of a parent, never mind both. She’ll go through periods when she seems better, but the wound is always there. It doesn’t heal, my dear, so don’t blame yourself. You’re doing the best you can and, sooner or later, she’ll be able to more effectively sublimate her fears.” Except that it wasn’t just fear, you bastard. Did all your training leave you ignorant of despair?
She gnaws at her lip, even though she knows she shouldn’t, she’ll chap them, but why can’t she put this away? Why does she let herself remember these stupid things? Why does she do this to herself? She doesn’t even notice Chloe’s entered the room, until she hears, “What are you obsessing over?”
She blushes, embarrassed. Her eyes are a little wet, her nose a little runny, and she sniffles and blinks and tries to make herself presentable. She can guess what Chloe thinks about fashion magazines, so she’s sheepish when she says, “It’s the new issue of Vogue.”
“Oh, yeah? Anything good?” She’s surprised that Chloe flops down on the bed right beside her, but not by the way she grabs the magazine from Lana’s hands and starts flipping through it. Chloe likes to dive into things. Lana enjoys the familiar scent of Chloe at the end of a long day, fading awapuhi conditioner and sweat and grape flavored lip gloss and ink. She finds that mixture of dirt and sugar intoxicating. “Ewww,” Chloe says, frowning at the very pictures that entranced Lana, “She is way too skinny.”
“They say the clothes look better that way,” Lana says, though she knows it’s a lame argument.
Chloe rolls her eyes. “That’s such bullshit. What, you need an eating disorder to wear a cute outfit? Please.”
Lana takes the magazine back, flips it shut, and shows Chloe the cover. “Come on, admit she’s pretty.”
“Watch this.” Chloe’s eyebrows rise and then she furrows her brow, repeats the exaggerated movements several times. “She can’t do that. You know why? Botox. Or bad plastic surgery, but either way, scary. And pretty stupid for an actor. Frozen face? Equals not so good with the expression of emotion, equals Barbie doll, equals not beautiful. It’s not how someone looks that makes them attractive, anyway. It’s the energy a person gives off. It’s how they make you feel.”
“Hold on. Let’s take this beyond the hypothetical realm. Do you really expect me to believe that if a certain Clark Kent was ugly, you’d feel the same way about him?”
“I’m gonna plead the Fifth on that. But I can emphatically state, for the record, that if Clark looked the same, but was your typical teenage jock, I would NOT feel the same.”
“I buy that,” Lana says.
“Speak of the pretty pretty,” Chloe blurts out, checking the caller id on her ringing cell. “That’s him right now. I gotta take this, it’s a wall of weird thing,” she explains as she rushes out of Lana’s room.
Alone again, Lana returns to her musings, her eyes glazing as she continues to flip through the magazine, mechanically, now. The eager, anxious looks Chloe wears when she’s with Clark make Lana sad for her friend. Chloe hasn’t realized yet that it can hurt just as much to be wanted for your outside as it does when you feel like you're not wanted at all. Just because people want to touch you doesn’t mean they accept you. It’s just the packaging, the shiny glittery glossy wrapping paper that they want.
And what is pretty worth, anyway? Just that. Just people wanting to have you for themselves, to own you. It just makes you a doll, a Barbie, like Chloe said.
She agrees with Chloe. It is something on the inside that creates beauty. Martha Kent is beautiful. She worries too much, it’s in the lines on her face, the tense way she holds her body. She’s vulnerable in a way Lana’s never experienced, because she’s not fighting to protect herself, her struggle arises from trying to keep her family safe. Her love illuminates her, a fire continually sparking inside her that makes her glow.
Maybe, Lana hopes, maybe, someday, she can be beautiful like that, like Mrs. Kent.
Lana has never told Mrs. Kent that she is beautiful. Maybe she should. If she can not be beautiful herself, at least she can honor the beauty of others.