Fic: Rebirth (Chlark-Chlois, PG)
This is another fic I'd originally written for the first wave, and decided not to submit b/c I thought it was a little too dark (at least compared to my usual). It's a short futurefic that addresses how Chlois might happen, it's rated PG, and it includes character death.
Title: Rebirth
Category: fic
Prompt: Sick!Chloe
Rating: PG
Pairing: Chlark
Summary: A single cup of coffee changes everything.
Spoilers: Futurefic, so none, really.
Warnings: As noted, character death.
Rebirth
She blinks to clear the fog from her eyes, and the first thing that greets them is the green flash of numbers on a small monitor a few feet above her. Next to the monitor, a woman in a white nurse’s uniform bends over her in concern.
She vaguely remembers hearing the beeping of the monitor in her dreams, just as she felt the chill of the metal electrodes attached to her chest, and caught the whiff of antiseptic from the hospital bed in which she lay. On the other hand, the jumbled series of faces and images from the dreams are fading, and the realization makes her panic. Without knowing why, she senses that they are all she has left of something very, very important.
The woman’s soft voice drifts down. “My dear? How do you feel?”
Desperate to capture the last glimmer of the fading images, she ignores the woman, who turns to someone out of view. “She’s coming to. Notify the attending, and her friend in the waiting room-Kent, wasn’t it?”
Kent. It isn’t so much the name that’s familiar, as the feeling of reassurance that goes with it. She hears the beeping of the heart-rate monitor slow down and settle into a calmer rhythm as a brief vision of a pale, handsome face floats up from memory, fixing worried green eyes on her.
“Chloe. Chloe.” His voice is faint, but the trembling note of panic in it is unmistakeable. It wrings her heart to hear his pain; she opens her mouth to answer, but the vision fades too soon.
Other images crowd her memory, as if triggered by the first. In a bustling coffeeshop, a friendly waitress hands her a steaming cup with a smile; she holds it close to take a sip of the hot liquid, only to recoil at the sudden, bitter taste of the brew.
Before she can bring it to her lips again, a tall, grinning woman snatches the cup from her hands with the speed of a skilled athlete.
“Lois! Get your own!”
“Cuz, I need this more than you do, believe me. Been up all night and I’ve got a deadline today.”
She watches the woman drain the cup, but it’s hard to keep her in focus; the shop begins to spin around her, and she fights back a wave of nausea. Somewhere in the confusion, she hears someone gasping for breath, and feels her own throat tighten. As the floor rises up to greet her, she manages to force out one word, a name. Clark.
Blackness closes in, shutting out everything except the strong scent of burnt almonds.
Her eyelids, which had drifted shut, fly open at the pressure of fingers on her wrist. A youngish man in scrubs is taking her pulse, peering at her with an expression of clinical concern.
“It’s good to see you awake, Miss, um, ‘Smith,’” he says, eyes flicking to her chart briefly. His tone is fatherly, as if he were fifty years old and she were twelve, which annoys her slightly. “You’re very lucky you didn’t get a bigger dose.”
She tries to ask him what he means, but her voice sounds faint even to her own ears. Clearly, she is weaker than she thought.
The doctor, however, appears to understand. “It was cyanide. A huge amount of it, too, considering how quickly your friend succumbed……” He trails off, apparently realizing his mistake. He releases her with a sudden, awkward jerk, and quickly looks away to scribble something on the chart. “I’m sorry. The police have been notified, and when you’re up to it, they’d like to talk to you. Not right now, of course.”
It takes a minute or two for her to grasp the implications of the doctor’s news, and when she does, even the bed’s double layer of thermal blankets aren’t enough to keep off the chill that spreads through her body. Shocked into clarity, she lets a sob escape her lips.
Her cousin is dead. It’s not possible.
To his credit, the doctor doesn’t fuss over her. Instead, he smiles gently and lets her cry. “You have a visitor. It’s not standard procedure, but he’s been here all night, ever since he brought you in, and if you don’t mind, I think it’d be alright for you to see him, as long as you keep it short.”
Knowing who the visitor must be, she manages a brief nod, and the doctor immediately swings around to open the door. “Five minutes,” he says tersely to the tall figure in the doorway.
“Clark.” Her strength is coming back and, with it, her voice. Emerald eyes as wide as saucers fix on hers, and she notices there are shadows underneath them. Her memory is still spotty, but she can’t remember seeing Clark look this tired before.
Once the door shuts, leaving them alone, Clark is at her bedside in the blink of an eye, one hand gently wiping the tears from her cheek. “You’re going to make it,” he whispers. “Thank God. Lex didn’t get you.”
She leans into his hand, drinking in the warmth, and gazing up at him mournfully. “No, but he got her, didn’t he? All because of me.”
Clark nods sadly. “I found your laptop before-he-could get to it. Your LuthorCorp story, and your evidence, is safe for now. But we need to get it published as soon as possible, before he tries again.” His tone hardens. “He must’ve pulled out all the stops this time; Perry White says no paper in the city, not even the Daily Planet, will run a piece with your name attached to it.”
“Then I need a new name. Not that it’ll fool Lex for long, but”-she pauses, drawing in a shaky breath-“at least it might give us a chance to air his dirty laundry.”
Clark’s mouth sets in a grim line, his eyes never leaving her, and his free hand reaches down to clasp hers, as if he’s afraid to let her go ever again. It almost makes her forget the horror of hearing her cousin’s last, ragged gasps for air, but that’s a luxury she will never allow herself.
It’s a luxury she refuses to allow Lex, too.
“She would’ve made a good reporter.” It is, in her mind, the highest praise possible. “And I’ll make sure she gets her revenge.”
She meets Clark’s gaze with dry eyes and when she speaks, her voice is resolute. “Using her byline. From now on, my name is Lois Lane.”
THE END
Title: Rebirth
Category: fic
Prompt: Sick!Chloe
Rating: PG
Pairing: Chlark
Summary: A single cup of coffee changes everything.
Spoilers: Futurefic, so none, really.
Warnings: As noted, character death.
Rebirth
She blinks to clear the fog from her eyes, and the first thing that greets them is the green flash of numbers on a small monitor a few feet above her. Next to the monitor, a woman in a white nurse’s uniform bends over her in concern.
She vaguely remembers hearing the beeping of the monitor in her dreams, just as she felt the chill of the metal electrodes attached to her chest, and caught the whiff of antiseptic from the hospital bed in which she lay. On the other hand, the jumbled series of faces and images from the dreams are fading, and the realization makes her panic. Without knowing why, she senses that they are all she has left of something very, very important.
The woman’s soft voice drifts down. “My dear? How do you feel?”
Desperate to capture the last glimmer of the fading images, she ignores the woman, who turns to someone out of view. “She’s coming to. Notify the attending, and her friend in the waiting room-Kent, wasn’t it?”
Kent. It isn’t so much the name that’s familiar, as the feeling of reassurance that goes with it. She hears the beeping of the heart-rate monitor slow down and settle into a calmer rhythm as a brief vision of a pale, handsome face floats up from memory, fixing worried green eyes on her.
“Chloe. Chloe.” His voice is faint, but the trembling note of panic in it is unmistakeable. It wrings her heart to hear his pain; she opens her mouth to answer, but the vision fades too soon.
Other images crowd her memory, as if triggered by the first. In a bustling coffeeshop, a friendly waitress hands her a steaming cup with a smile; she holds it close to take a sip of the hot liquid, only to recoil at the sudden, bitter taste of the brew.
Before she can bring it to her lips again, a tall, grinning woman snatches the cup from her hands with the speed of a skilled athlete.
“Lois! Get your own!”
“Cuz, I need this more than you do, believe me. Been up all night and I’ve got a deadline today.”
She watches the woman drain the cup, but it’s hard to keep her in focus; the shop begins to spin around her, and she fights back a wave of nausea. Somewhere in the confusion, she hears someone gasping for breath, and feels her own throat tighten. As the floor rises up to greet her, she manages to force out one word, a name. Clark.
Blackness closes in, shutting out everything except the strong scent of burnt almonds.
Her eyelids, which had drifted shut, fly open at the pressure of fingers on her wrist. A youngish man in scrubs is taking her pulse, peering at her with an expression of clinical concern.
“It’s good to see you awake, Miss, um, ‘Smith,’” he says, eyes flicking to her chart briefly. His tone is fatherly, as if he were fifty years old and she were twelve, which annoys her slightly. “You’re very lucky you didn’t get a bigger dose.”
She tries to ask him what he means, but her voice sounds faint even to her own ears. Clearly, she is weaker than she thought.
The doctor, however, appears to understand. “It was cyanide. A huge amount of it, too, considering how quickly your friend succumbed……” He trails off, apparently realizing his mistake. He releases her with a sudden, awkward jerk, and quickly looks away to scribble something on the chart. “I’m sorry. The police have been notified, and when you’re up to it, they’d like to talk to you. Not right now, of course.”
It takes a minute or two for her to grasp the implications of the doctor’s news, and when she does, even the bed’s double layer of thermal blankets aren’t enough to keep off the chill that spreads through her body. Shocked into clarity, she lets a sob escape her lips.
Her cousin is dead. It’s not possible.
To his credit, the doctor doesn’t fuss over her. Instead, he smiles gently and lets her cry. “You have a visitor. It’s not standard procedure, but he’s been here all night, ever since he brought you in, and if you don’t mind, I think it’d be alright for you to see him, as long as you keep it short.”
Knowing who the visitor must be, she manages a brief nod, and the doctor immediately swings around to open the door. “Five minutes,” he says tersely to the tall figure in the doorway.
“Clark.” Her strength is coming back and, with it, her voice. Emerald eyes as wide as saucers fix on hers, and she notices there are shadows underneath them. Her memory is still spotty, but she can’t remember seeing Clark look this tired before.
Once the door shuts, leaving them alone, Clark is at her bedside in the blink of an eye, one hand gently wiping the tears from her cheek. “You’re going to make it,” he whispers. “Thank God. Lex didn’t get you.”
She leans into his hand, drinking in the warmth, and gazing up at him mournfully. “No, but he got her, didn’t he? All because of me.”
Clark nods sadly. “I found your laptop before-he-could get to it. Your LuthorCorp story, and your evidence, is safe for now. But we need to get it published as soon as possible, before he tries again.” His tone hardens. “He must’ve pulled out all the stops this time; Perry White says no paper in the city, not even the Daily Planet, will run a piece with your name attached to it.”
“Then I need a new name. Not that it’ll fool Lex for long, but”-she pauses, drawing in a shaky breath-“at least it might give us a chance to air his dirty laundry.”
Clark’s mouth sets in a grim line, his eyes never leaving her, and his free hand reaches down to clasp hers, as if he’s afraid to let her go ever again. It almost makes her forget the horror of hearing her cousin’s last, ragged gasps for air, but that’s a luxury she will never allow herself.
It’s a luxury she refuses to allow Lex, too.
“She would’ve made a good reporter.” It is, in her mind, the highest praise possible. “And I’ll make sure she gets her revenge.”
She meets Clark’s gaze with dry eyes and when she speaks, her voice is resolute. “Using her byline. From now on, my name is Lois Lane.”
THE END