"The Bittersweet Ballad of Pete Ross" ~ A Chlark Fic
Title: The Bittersweet Ballad of Pete Ross
Author: The Satyr Icon
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Set in Icon AU; Freshman Year
Classification: Smallville; Chloe/Clark; Pete Ross; het_fic
Disclaimer: All characters, references, and other things pertaining to 'Smallville' are property of the WB, DC Comics, Tollin-Robins, Al Gough, Miles Millar, and J. Siegal & J. Shuster; I am just writing for fun, and if I owned them, all would be good and clean in the World.
Summary: Pete and Clark go camping, but why is Chloe coming along? and why does that infuriate Pete?
Word Count: 46,164
Written: Start: Plot: December 2004 Actually Writing: July 2006 Finished: August, 2007
~The Bittersweet Ballad of Pete Ross~
~PROLOGUE~
Abigail Ross sipped her coffee in the kitchen of Martha Kent and they both enjoyed some generous pieces of Martha's freshly-made apple turnovers. They talked about the going-ons in their homes and farms and, of course, about Pete and Clark, their young boys. Pete was Abigail's bundle of energy, and Clark was Martha's laid-back light of her life. The boys were ten years old, and Pete brought his new basketball over on the trip, and they were playing by the barn. As they talked, both mothers laughed about the height differences (Clark towered by a head and a half over Pete) and how each were such opposites of each other (Pete was so active and Clark was so quiet). They also chatted how the boys had so much in common, too (both loved the same comics and toys). It was the stuff that made the boys such good friends since they were three years old. Pete was Clark's first ever playmate after he was adopted by the Kents at that tender age, and, since then, they had been inseparable. They were simpatico.
"Cheater!" Pete shouted when Clark's hand altered his shot. The ball caromed away. "Quit blocking my shot!"
"I can't help it if you shot it into My hand!" Clark laughed and got the ball. "I didn't even need to jump!"
Pete frowned. Clark could jump, jump just that much more higher or farther if he wanted than anyone in their fourth grade class at Jebadiah Obadiah Small Elementary. Clark was bigger, stronger, faster already than kids his age so he was good at all of the athletic stuff. And he was a nerd, smarter than those in his class. Maybe the fifth and sixth grades too, Pete sometimes wondered, maybe high school smart.
But it just wasn't at school that Clark excelled. Pete tended to notice how Clark could jump higher, run faster, or even be be stronger at their homes than at school. Clark would be smarter too, casually breaking down some intricate math formula to Pete in the barn as looked through Clark's telescope so Pete could understand theoretical space travel. But at school, Pete would watch Clark and it would seem like Clark was holding back. If Pete wasn't his best friend, he'd hate him.
The smaller boy watched his friend dribble, fake this way then drive that way...
"Kent pulls up," Clark said, describing what he was doing like a radio play-by-play announcer as Pete tried to play defense. Clark jumped and so did Pete, but when Pete reached the zenith of his leap and started back down, Clark kept going up, until the hand on Pete's outstretched arm was below Clark's chin. Pete could have swore his friend floated, he was in the air so long. "Kent shoots....and scores for the Metropolis Metros!"
"Hey! I'm the Metros and you're the Gotham Gators!" Pete said with a semi-scowl. Then the scowl turned into a face of wonder, and Clark got nervous. The boys shared a knowing look. Just when Pete was going to mention the crazy mad hop, Clark distracted him. Pete hadn't noticed how adept Clark and his parents were becoming experts at distracting friends and teachers about Clark's abilities.
"Okay! Then the Gators score!" Clark laughed and bounced the ball saying, "Your ball."
The fact that Clark seemed to float was now forgotten. Pete dribbled the ball on the flattened dirt, first to his left, but Clark took a couple of steps and cut him off. Then Pete ran to the right and almost had an opening, but Clark shifted and blocked the lane. Pete dribbled and flittered around, darting in and out, trying to get to the rim on the back board. Pete must have dribbled for a good two to three minutes for a shot, but to no avail.
"You're hogging the ball!" Clark shouted impatiently. "Shoot!"
"I can't, Jerk!" Pete WANTED to shoot, but Clark's lanky frame and arms were stopping him. "I can't fly like you!"
Clark stopped moving at the sound of those words. He did feel like law of gravity was broken, even if it was for mere seconds. And it scared him, just like everything he could do, so much better than the rest.
For Pete it was different; he finally saw his opening and he shot the ball. Pete loved sports like Clark, had the desire to play them but unlike Clark, he did not have much skill. The ball left Pete's hands okay, but it went too high because Pete was so excited to actually be able to shoot, and the new light-orange ball went over the backboard and up onto the tool shed's roof and landed in the pigpen. "I guess that's game," Clark said sadly.
"Yeah, right. You're saying that because that would have been the tying basket," Pete smiled.
"What was the score?" Clark asked. Pete shrugged and they giggled. They didn't actually keep score, they just played endless games.
"Your jumper is getting too unblockable," Pete said slowly and looked up into his friend's eyes. Clark's faced changed like always when Pete brought up Clark's physical or intellectual prowess; it was the look of guilt, of getting caught. "You're getting really good. You should be playing for the school!"
"Thanks," Clark said lifelessly. He thought of how his parents warned him of showing off his abilities too much. He also thought how much fun it would have been to play sports or other do activities with the kids in his class. Then he thought of something else. "I hope we can go on our camping trip."
Pete nodded at that, distracted again, this time from his friend's Michael Jordan-type hops, to an event they planned every year. "We will; that's why my 'moms' is here, getting the okay from your momma."
For the last 2 years, the boys went into the woods that were on the Kent property and camp out with in a clearing for a night or two. It was something both fathers, Jonathan Kent and Rodney Ross, and Pete's mother, Abigail thought was both a great learning and growth experience for the boys. Martha was very protective of Clark or more accurately, protective of the kids Clark was exposed to, and each year needed convincing to let Clark go.
Clark liked going on the camping trip, because he was away from the ever-watchful eyes of his mom, away from the countless farms chores with his dad, and just enjoyed a day or two in nature; he photo-hunted with his mom's camera, or just played with Pete and his friend's toys. Or listened to Pete's rap CDs. Pete always had the cooler stuff.
Pete loved getting away from his mom and dad and four older, bigger brothers, and play older brother to Clark (he was, according to birth records, older by a few months). Even though Clark was book smart and graced with athletic skill, he was a blank slate personality wise, and Pete just liked teaching Clark about stuff other than what they had learned at school. Like girls.
"C'mon," Clark said. They ran into the house and into the kitchen.
"Can I go? Pllllllllllllllease?" Clark said, smiling, happy. Each year it was the same, Martha thought, watching her son in front of her. She looked at Abigail, knowing that she spent the last five minutes building a "no" case. Abigail just smiled and sipped her coffee again.
"Please let Clark go, Mrs. Kent." Pete said sweetly. "I"ll keep an eye out for him like I do at school. And we won't go too deep in the woods and if Clark gets sick, we'll find a new spot to set camp."
Martha smiled. That is what she needed to hear; Clark was so susceptible to getting ill so suddenly around the farms and countryside of Smallville. And in a few steps, Clark could be right again. "Okay, Pete. Clark can go."
Both boys yelled out "sweet!" and Clark high-fived Pete. He then turned and hugged his mother, and Pete did the same to his mom. After the embraces, they both ran upstairs to Clark's bedroom to plan what they were going to take with them this year. They made plans and set out the next day.
The first night out, after a day of hiking, gorging on what Pete called 'Momma Kent Super Duper Camp Sandwiches', fishing, and wondering if the animal tracks they found were of a bear or a Bigfoot-like creature rumored to be in the forest called The Shaggy Man, the boys made camp and talked about Pete's favorite subject and Clark's most difficult one: Girls.
Thanks to his older brothers, Pete thought he knew all that there was to know about girls, so he talked about girls with Clark. Of the girls in their class, Pete liked Felice Chandler and Clark liked Lana Lang. Unlike Pete, who could pass notes to Felice and hang out at lunch with her, or even talk to other girls, Clark couldn't even make cohesive sentences around Lana and usually spazzed out to the point that Lana (and other girls) ignored his spasmodic shivering on the ground. So, even though Clark was the fourth grade version of the Olympic Ideal (Bigger, Stronger, Faster), Pete's leveling ground was girls; he talked about them, sharing his own worldly knowledge of woman (just Felice) and what he overheard from his brothers. Clark listened, learned, and watched from the best, he told his friend.
The boys stayed up past their bedtimes, of course, but they were pooped out at midnight (well, Pete was; Clark seemed tireless and faked sleepiness, yawning and rubbing his eyes when Pete did it each time). Pete rolled over in his sleeping bag. "Dude! I have a great idea."
"No," Clark said, resting in his sleeping bag that was adorned with silk-screened artwork of 'Kaptain Karrot', the zany rabbit-costumed host of the extremely popular children's' variety-cartoon show, "Kaptain Karrot and his Zoo Krew'. "I can't eat any more s'mores."
"Not that, goon," Pete smiled, though that was a good idea. Even though he was sleepy, he was a bit hungry, and they both knew that he could make one heck of a s'more. "You know that we're best friends forever, right?"
"Duh." Clark closed his eyes, but added, "Nothing will ever come between us!"
"Nothing will," Pete sat up. "And I know how we can make our friendship specialler,"
"More special," Clark corrected and was awarded a smack with Pete's pillow.
"More special, then." Pete wasn't one for semantics. "We can be 'Blood Brothers,' Clark."
The words got Clark's attention; he didn't have any siblings, and even though he loved his mom and dad, seemed out of place sometimes; they kept him away from boy scouts or sports activities, and he toiled on the farm with dad, and his mom seemed to hug him a lot. But around Pete, he felt normal. "Okay!"
Pete rustled around in his backpack and took out his Swiss Army Knife that he got as a present for advancing into the Smallville chapter of Boy Scouts of America. In the bright light of the lantern, he made a solemn oath, "I'm Pete Ross, Clark Kent's blood brother." He winced as he ran the blade over the side of his thumb, and smiled at the sight of the rich crimson of the blood. "Your turn."
Clark took the red handle of the knife and placed the sharp metal edge against his own thumb. "I'm Clark Kent, Pete Ross' Blood Brother." He did the same action as Pete, running the thin blade's edge on his thumb. He expected to see blood, and started to wince. But nothing happened.
"Don't be a ...wuss, Clark," Pete said. He saw the speed that the blade moved and knew that Clark should have drawn blood. He knew that Clark was afraid of needles. And green peas. And, for some reason, some patches of land where the meteors hit Lowell County in 1989 when they were three years old. Shaking his head at his friend, Pete said, "Quit playing and just cut yourself."
Clark looked at Pete; he was trying though. Pete watched him try two more times. But no matter how hard he pressed, and he was pressing hard, the blade wouldn't cut his skin. "It's dull," he said lamely and handed back the knife. Pete looked at his knife's blade as Clark said, "It got dull real fast."
"That's weird." Pete said; the throbbing in his thumb reminded him of those bygone minutes of when the blade was sharp. He looked at Clark with that same wondering look when they were playing basketball. Or like in first grade when Clark shoved a kid that was picking on Pete through a door; not pushed him against the door and the door swung open, but slamming the kid through the shattering door. Pete was used to strange occurrences around Clark. And Clark knew how to deal with those looks from Pete or anyone else...
"We can't be Blood Brothers!" Clark flopped back onto his sleeping bag and buried his face into his pillow. He kicked his feet for emphasis. He desperately wanted to be blood brothers, but he needed to make a show of it so Pete wouldn't make a deal about the weirdness. It bothered him to do that to his only friend.
"Its okay, Clark," Pete said, surprised that Clark was taking it so hard. Then again, Clark was always the more sensitive of the two. Pete reached out and patted his friend's head.
"No, it's not!" Clark bellowed, the disappointment now becoming real, not some fake show. Not being able to draw blood cemented that he wasn't normal, and that it was affecting his friendship with Pete. "I wanted to be your brother!"
Pete never seen his friend so sad and pathetic, not even when Pete showed him his cub scout uniform after Clark wasn't allowed to join the organization, or when Clark couldn't go on their class field trip to the Meteor Strike Memorial Pasture, because he'd get sick, or worse, when Lana Lang first called Clark a "weird spazz," when he tried to talk to her at milk and cookie break the first day of kindergarten; he got close to her, but when he did, he squeezed the milk carton, squirting milk all over Lana and some other girls' faces and finally crumbled to the carpet, shaking and spasming, crying as Lana yelled at him while some kids laughed. His mind raced. "I have another idea."
Clark's head turned on the pillow and one green eye looked at his friend. "You do?"
"Yeah," Pete nodded while Clark smiled. "It might be a little gross and we can't ever tell, okay? No telling your dad or your momma. I'll do the same. Anyone asks and we'll say we drew blood, not what we really did."
"What do you mean," Clark looked at his friend with suspicion, "gross?"
"You'll have to drink something," Pete announced and Clark's eyes widened. "And I'll need your spit."
"What?" Clark scooted away but the tent wall stopped him. Whatever Pete had in mind, he was scared to do.
Pete didn't see that; he was busy getting the Thermoses. "We'll be 'Backwash Brothers', Clark."
"Say what?" Clark wanted to be Pete's brother...but this was weird.
"Here," Pete said, putting his green Thermos between his knees and handing Clark his own blue Thermos. "We take a drink and backwash back into the bottle. I pass mine to you, you to Me, and we drink. 'Backwash Brothers'. Just like blood brothers but not bloody."
"Or cool." Clark said, making a face but opening his thermos.
"The Clark Kent that I know never worried about being cool before," Pete laughed and Clark blew a raspberry at him. "You want to be brothers, right?" Pete said before taking a drink. Clark nodded. "Well, since you didn't cut yourself, we have to backwash, okay?"
"OK," Clark nodded. It did make sense; his parents always said he'd have to adjust. Plus, it was just backwash, nothing too weird. They both drank chocolate milk at the count of three, backwashed back into the bottles, and handed them over. They sealed their pact by drinking from each other's bottle.
"Brother," Pete said, and held out his hand.
"Brother," Clark said, and shook it, smiling.
Nothing or no one would come between Pete Ross and Clark Kent. Their friendship would be stuff of legend.
Chapter Links
Prologue ~ One ~ Two ~ Three ~ Four ~ Five ~ Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine ~ Ten ~ Eleven ~ Twelve ~ Thirteen ~ Fourteen ~ Fifteen ~ Sixteen ~ Epilogue
The Satyr Icon