gift for Bkwurm1
1) For: Bkwurm1
2) Type of Work: Fic
3) Rating: PG
4) Length: 1,365 words
5) Plot Summary (prompt): Clark after Labyrinth realizing Lana is the pretty story he told himself but it's Chloe he can't live without
6) Notes: Bkwurm1 seems like an intellectual person, so I tried to write something really thinky for her.
The Hero of the Story
Clark let his fingers drift over Shelby’s head and down his back. Petting the dog comforted him. It grounded him. It kept his hand from shaking.
He had come so close to giving his body, powers and all, over to a fugitive phantom that would have done who knows what to the planet Clark called home. It was Shelby who pulled him back. It was a dog’s love and loyalty that had saved the Earth.
Staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace, Clark tried to steady his breath, to slow his racing heart. In his mind he saw her; pink blouse, white hairband holding her dark hair away from her perfect face. He could almost hear her whisper how much she loved him, how long she had waited for him, how they could finally be together.
Shelby leaned against Clark’s leg, rested his head on Clark’s knee. In response Clark dug his fingers into his dog’s soft, golden fur and anchored himself in reality once again.
The world the phantom had shown him had been cold and dreary, the color leached from it. It was a world where Clark’s mother was married to a manipulating sociopath, where his best friend died in his arms, where his own delusions had caused physical injury and emotional misery. And yet he had almost chosen that world just so he could be with Lana.
That was why his heart pounded and his hands shook. It was a terrifying thought, that he would sacrifice so much so easily.
If Clark was going to be honest with himself, he had to admit that the Lana Lang the phantom had tempted him with was not Lana. It had been years since she’d worn pink, even longer since she’d held her hair back with a hairband. The Lana Clark wanted, the girl he loved so much he was willing to give up the world for her, was frozen at the age of fourteen. If Clark was going to be honest with himself, he had to admit that wasn’t love.
Clark’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud clatter of pans in the kitchen. Shelby’s body tensed and he raised his head.
“It’s okay,” a young woman’s voice called. “Nothing broken.”
“You need help in there, Chloe?” Clark asked.
A blonde head popped up from behind the kitchen’s center counter. “No,” she said. “I knew your mom had to have those mini marshmallows and… and I found them.”
“Marshmallows?”
“For the cocoa.” She hefted a large pot onto the counter and looked down at the floor. “I’m gonna pick this stuff up and get everything back where it belongs.”
“I’ll help.” Clark started to rise to his feet.
“No, no,” Chloe said. “I got this. You rest. You need it.”
“All right.” Clark sunk back into the sofa and made a mental note to put the kitchen in order before his mother got home. Shelby, it seemed, wasn’t so trusting. He trotted into the kitchen to check up on Chloe, his tail wagging behind him.
Chloe was dead.
Even though Clark was sitting in front of a roaring fire, even though he never really felt cold, his skin prickled and the muscles in his shoulders shivered.
Chloe wasn’t dead. He could hear her in the kitchen calmly explaining to his dog that chocolate was poison, so Shelby couldn’t have any cocoa. But not 20 minutes earlier, Clark had held her close and felt the life drain out of her.
It wasn’t real, of course. It just felt real at the time. Looking back on it, knowing what had actually happened; Clark could easily distinguish the illusions. Everything the phantom had created, all the objects and people, had been textured with the phantom’s energy.
Except for the Martian. (And that was mind blowing in and of itself, the fact that there were actual Martians from Mars.) The Martian had had his own texture, a different energy. And, to some extent, so did Chloe.
Not that that Chloe hadn’t been one of the phantom’s creations, because she had been, definitely towards the end with her paranoid ramblings about conspiracy theories. By the time she died in Clark’s arms she’d had the distinct vibration of the phantom’s energy. But earlier, when she’d first found him, when she had rescued him from the men trying to drag him back to the hospital, she had been different.
She hadn’t felt as different as the Martian. In fact, if Clark thought about it, she hadn’t had an identifying energy signature at all.
Of course, she hadn’t been the real Chloe, the one in his kitchen at that moment discussing food allergies with his dog. Real Chloe would’ve told him the minute he came to on the floor of the barn if she’d somehow manage to insert herself into his brain. She wouldn’t have kept that a secret.
So his rescuer hadn’t been Real Chloe, but she hadn’t been a phantom created Chloe either. Did the Martian make her?
The Martian had told Clark right away what was going on. He’d said it was all an illusion and Clark had to fight to get back to the world he remembered, the real world. Clark had dismissed him, assuming he was crazy and with good reason. The man did admit to being a Martian.
If Chloe had told him nothing was real and his mind was under attack from an escapee of the Phantom Zone, Clark would have believed her immediately. He trusted her that much. If the Martian had created Chloe he would’ve been an idiot not to have her deliver his message.
Who created Chloe then? When Clark was scared and alone, the world turned against him, who had sent him hope and safety in the form of Chloe? There were only three entities in his brain that night. If it hadn’t been the phantom and it hadn’t been the Martian…
“What’s wrong? What did you do?”
“What?” Clark turned to see Chloe moving quickly towards him, her face shaded with concern. What was even more disconcerting was that Clark was on his feet. He must’ve stood up without realizing.
“You said, ‘I did it,’” she explained. Her hand gently clasped his arm, as if he needed help standing. “You nearly yelled it.”
“Oh.” Clark looked at the fireplace. He wasn’t sure he could explain it to her. He wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself. “It was nothing. I was just thinking.”
“It was a loud thought, huh?”
“Something like that.” He smiled, trying to reassure her. “I’m fine, Chloe. Really.”
“You sure?” She didn’t appear to be convinced. Even Shelby was looking up at Clark with worry in his big, brown eyes.
“It’s nothing a mug of hot cocoa can’t fix.”
Chloe nodded. “Chocolate fixes everything.” She studied Clark for a moment, assessing him. “Can you keep this guy company for me, Shelby, while I go get the cocoa?”
The dog didn’t respond, but Chloe seemed satisfied. She turned and went back into the kitchen.
Clark sat down and absent mindedly scratched Shelby behind the ears.
“Did you know about her?” he whispered. “All this time, did you know?”
Shelby turned his head and licked Clark’s wrist. The dog knew, probably from the first moment he saw Chloe.
When the phantom had wanted to control him, it gave Clark an idealized yet emotionally stunted Lana. When Clark had needed a hero he gave himself Chloe.
The whole experience was enlightening, to say the least.
“That phantom really did a number on you,” Chloe sighed. She stood in the entry way to the kitchen, holding a tray with two steaming cups wafting a delicious chocolate scent.
“Yeah,” Clark agreed. “But not as big a number as you’d think. 3.18, that’s all.”
“3.18 is a good number.” She placed the tray down on the coffee table in front of him. “It’s manageable.”
Clark picked up a mug, his hands steady as a rock, and noted the copious amounts of marshmallows floating on top.
Everything was manageable. As long as Clark had his girl and his dog by his side, there was nothing he couldn’t handle.
The End
2) Type of Work: Fic
3) Rating: PG
4) Length: 1,365 words
5) Plot Summary (prompt): Clark after Labyrinth realizing Lana is the pretty story he told himself but it's Chloe he can't live without
6) Notes: Bkwurm1 seems like an intellectual person, so I tried to write something really thinky for her.
The Hero of the Story
Clark let his fingers drift over Shelby’s head and down his back. Petting the dog comforted him. It grounded him. It kept his hand from shaking.
He had come so close to giving his body, powers and all, over to a fugitive phantom that would have done who knows what to the planet Clark called home. It was Shelby who pulled him back. It was a dog’s love and loyalty that had saved the Earth.
Staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace, Clark tried to steady his breath, to slow his racing heart. In his mind he saw her; pink blouse, white hairband holding her dark hair away from her perfect face. He could almost hear her whisper how much she loved him, how long she had waited for him, how they could finally be together.
Shelby leaned against Clark’s leg, rested his head on Clark’s knee. In response Clark dug his fingers into his dog’s soft, golden fur and anchored himself in reality once again.
The world the phantom had shown him had been cold and dreary, the color leached from it. It was a world where Clark’s mother was married to a manipulating sociopath, where his best friend died in his arms, where his own delusions had caused physical injury and emotional misery. And yet he had almost chosen that world just so he could be with Lana.
That was why his heart pounded and his hands shook. It was a terrifying thought, that he would sacrifice so much so easily.
If Clark was going to be honest with himself, he had to admit that the Lana Lang the phantom had tempted him with was not Lana. It had been years since she’d worn pink, even longer since she’d held her hair back with a hairband. The Lana Clark wanted, the girl he loved so much he was willing to give up the world for her, was frozen at the age of fourteen. If Clark was going to be honest with himself, he had to admit that wasn’t love.
Clark’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud clatter of pans in the kitchen. Shelby’s body tensed and he raised his head.
“It’s okay,” a young woman’s voice called. “Nothing broken.”
“You need help in there, Chloe?” Clark asked.
A blonde head popped up from behind the kitchen’s center counter. “No,” she said. “I knew your mom had to have those mini marshmallows and… and I found them.”
“Marshmallows?”
“For the cocoa.” She hefted a large pot onto the counter and looked down at the floor. “I’m gonna pick this stuff up and get everything back where it belongs.”
“I’ll help.” Clark started to rise to his feet.
“No, no,” Chloe said. “I got this. You rest. You need it.”
“All right.” Clark sunk back into the sofa and made a mental note to put the kitchen in order before his mother got home. Shelby, it seemed, wasn’t so trusting. He trotted into the kitchen to check up on Chloe, his tail wagging behind him.
Chloe was dead.
Even though Clark was sitting in front of a roaring fire, even though he never really felt cold, his skin prickled and the muscles in his shoulders shivered.
Chloe wasn’t dead. He could hear her in the kitchen calmly explaining to his dog that chocolate was poison, so Shelby couldn’t have any cocoa. But not 20 minutes earlier, Clark had held her close and felt the life drain out of her.
It wasn’t real, of course. It just felt real at the time. Looking back on it, knowing what had actually happened; Clark could easily distinguish the illusions. Everything the phantom had created, all the objects and people, had been textured with the phantom’s energy.
Except for the Martian. (And that was mind blowing in and of itself, the fact that there were actual Martians from Mars.) The Martian had had his own texture, a different energy. And, to some extent, so did Chloe.
Not that that Chloe hadn’t been one of the phantom’s creations, because she had been, definitely towards the end with her paranoid ramblings about conspiracy theories. By the time she died in Clark’s arms she’d had the distinct vibration of the phantom’s energy. But earlier, when she’d first found him, when she had rescued him from the men trying to drag him back to the hospital, she had been different.
She hadn’t felt as different as the Martian. In fact, if Clark thought about it, she hadn’t had an identifying energy signature at all.
Of course, she hadn’t been the real Chloe, the one in his kitchen at that moment discussing food allergies with his dog. Real Chloe would’ve told him the minute he came to on the floor of the barn if she’d somehow manage to insert herself into his brain. She wouldn’t have kept that a secret.
So his rescuer hadn’t been Real Chloe, but she hadn’t been a phantom created Chloe either. Did the Martian make her?
The Martian had told Clark right away what was going on. He’d said it was all an illusion and Clark had to fight to get back to the world he remembered, the real world. Clark had dismissed him, assuming he was crazy and with good reason. The man did admit to being a Martian.
If Chloe had told him nothing was real and his mind was under attack from an escapee of the Phantom Zone, Clark would have believed her immediately. He trusted her that much. If the Martian had created Chloe he would’ve been an idiot not to have her deliver his message.
Who created Chloe then? When Clark was scared and alone, the world turned against him, who had sent him hope and safety in the form of Chloe? There were only three entities in his brain that night. If it hadn’t been the phantom and it hadn’t been the Martian…
“What’s wrong? What did you do?”
“What?” Clark turned to see Chloe moving quickly towards him, her face shaded with concern. What was even more disconcerting was that Clark was on his feet. He must’ve stood up without realizing.
“You said, ‘I did it,’” she explained. Her hand gently clasped his arm, as if he needed help standing. “You nearly yelled it.”
“Oh.” Clark looked at the fireplace. He wasn’t sure he could explain it to her. He wasn’t sure he could explain it to himself. “It was nothing. I was just thinking.”
“It was a loud thought, huh?”
“Something like that.” He smiled, trying to reassure her. “I’m fine, Chloe. Really.”
“You sure?” She didn’t appear to be convinced. Even Shelby was looking up at Clark with worry in his big, brown eyes.
“It’s nothing a mug of hot cocoa can’t fix.”
Chloe nodded. “Chocolate fixes everything.” She studied Clark for a moment, assessing him. “Can you keep this guy company for me, Shelby, while I go get the cocoa?”
The dog didn’t respond, but Chloe seemed satisfied. She turned and went back into the kitchen.
Clark sat down and absent mindedly scratched Shelby behind the ears.
“Did you know about her?” he whispered. “All this time, did you know?”
Shelby turned his head and licked Clark’s wrist. The dog knew, probably from the first moment he saw Chloe.
When the phantom had wanted to control him, it gave Clark an idealized yet emotionally stunted Lana. When Clark had needed a hero he gave himself Chloe.
The whole experience was enlightening, to say the least.
“That phantom really did a number on you,” Chloe sighed. She stood in the entry way to the kitchen, holding a tray with two steaming cups wafting a delicious chocolate scent.
“Yeah,” Clark agreed. “But not as big a number as you’d think. 3.18, that’s all.”
“3.18 is a good number.” She placed the tray down on the coffee table in front of him. “It’s manageable.”
Clark picked up a mug, his hands steady as a rock, and noted the copious amounts of marshmallows floating on top.
Everything was manageable. As long as Clark had his girl and his dog by his side, there was nothing he couldn’t handle.
The End