Fic: Double Helix (Clark/Oliver) 2/10
Title: Double Helix -- 2/10
Author: tmelange
Date: October 2007
Fandom: Smallville
Pairing: Clark/Oliver
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Slash. Scenes of stylized nonconsensual sex between males.
Word Count: 4,081
Previous Chapters: HERE
Series: Between an Arrow and a Target
Status: WIP
Summary: Oliver gets pulled into an escalating situation with two Zoners, and the consequences have a lasting effect on his relationship with Clark.
Note: I had originally thought I was going to present this story in 2 parts; that I was going to get to a certain point in this particular arc and then just end it, picking up the overall story in the next installment in the series. I changed my mind about that, figuring it would be better to reach a more definite ending, just in case I don't have time to get back to this series until next year. So instead of 2 parts, this story will have 10. Which jives well with my sense of symmetry, since a double helix makes a complete turn in just over 10 nucleotide pairs. ;)
II.
How quickly it came and went, the panic, the pain. Then the world slipped backwards into shadow, and everything, everything, took on a new shape-distorted, in the shards of a mirror, broken. He was there again. No! He didn't want-oh God. God. He…wanted this! His body-it moved outside of his control, and even his own responses he could not recognize.
He cried out, loud against the barren landscape, but what should have sounded of pain echoed only in pleasure. His adversary (lover) laughed, lips against the skin at the nape of his neck. Fighting. Shouldn't he have been fighting? Not turning his head, not catching those lips with his own.
A secret desire.
Oliver.
Somewhere in a corner of his mind, in the shadows where his volition was trapped, he knew he had dreamed of this (a nightmare...a…dream), fantasized, once, in his bed in a room, in a familiar yellow farmhouse, underneath a white sheet (white like the snow, the ice against his face), hand down the front of his boxers-
Oliver.
Brown eyes. A perfect face. Arrogance that could make him angry, make him laugh. Brave. Beautiful. If only-
You want this one, Kal-El?
Whispers. Black echoes. Stilted and sharp, cutting through his mind. Here is the pain. He welcome it. He shuddered in the grip of it.
How ironic. How fortunate for you to have this measure of solace, Kryptonian. Let it nourish you in your captivity. Never let it be said that we were without mercy, that we were as vicious or as cruel as your own accursed father, our jailer, whom we have survived. Take what you can of joy, Kal-El, for it must last you an eternity…
Clark Kent blinked, and opened his eyes, and found he was in Oliver's apartment in the watchtower, in the bedroom, kneeling by the bed. The room was darkly illuminated by moonlight that streamed in through the skylights overhead. Oliver Queen was asleep in his bed.
Ollie was asleep in the bed.
So close, he could reach out a hand and touch his face.
Clark shivered, and took a quick, deep breath. Reality returned with a panicked sense of startlement-God, how had he gotten here? What was he doing here?-that had him losing his balance in his rush to get away, falling backwards, into the nightstand by the bed, knocking over the alarm clock and the lamp in a cacophony of jumbled sound. Too slow in his confusion to catch either item, but fast enough to super speed away as Oliver jolted awake with a yell.
He stopped in a cornfield, in the middle of nowhere, halfway between Metropolis and Smallville. The stalks stretched up, past his head, hiding him from the moon and the night sky, the sense of dread pressing down on his shoulders. He was panting, breathing hard-not out of breath, of course, but unable to breathe. Like some sort of addict, he was sweating and disoriented, and all he wanted to do was go back. Back to the apartment in the tower in Metropolis. Back to the person he could feel and hear and small and taste, even at this great distance. Each prickle of sensation along his skin was like an imprint, the memory of all the things he had done, had felt, rising wetly to the surface.
Calling him back.
"What's wrong with me?"
Clark doubled over. Gasping, he used every trick he had ever learned to pull himself in, to regain his sense of self, to quiet his super senses. He was out of control-completely, dangerously. He was out of control and scared. Scared to death of the things he wanted to do.
+
"There's something definitely wrong. You might as well tell me, Clark. You know I'll find out anyway. You're pretty bad at keeping secrets of the non-alien variety."
Clark buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Chloe's voice was pitched low, and she was standing close enough to him in the crowd of people to ensure they weren't overheard. Still, the topic made him uncomfortable, nervous. He had no intention of discussing anything with Chloe-not now, not ever. "There's nothing wrong-"
"Don't give me that. You hardly cracked a smile, and that was the funniest movie-"
Clark cut her off, letting some of his frustration color his tone. "Do you want me to make something up?"
"Hey, you guys ready?"
"Yeah," Clark responded quickly. Lois was drying her hands with an over-abundance of paper towels from the bathroom. She bunched them up and threw them at Clark's forehead. Clark batted the ball of paper away and frowned, but even though Lois was annoying, he had never been so relieved to see her in his life. He'd tolerate just about anything to avoid Chloe's interrogation.
"Let's shake a leg, then," Lois said, and with her usual aggressiveness, started elbowing her way through the crowd in the lobby. "I want to try Ollie before we head back to Smallville."
The night air was crisp and wet, typical fall weather in Kansas. Clark stood at the curb in front of the movie theater with Chloe as they waited for Lois to make her phone call, trying not to conspicuously vibrate with agitation. Chloe was watching him sidelong, with her reporter's instincts and her firsthand knowledge of the reality of his life, and if he wasn't careful, he'd have her convinced there was something going on that she needed to know.
The last thing he wanted right now was Chloe on his case.
He had kept a low profile for weeks. Time and distance would fix everything-he was sure. Enough time and plenty of distance. So why had he let his mom convince him to meet up with Chloe and Lois-especially Lois-for a movie premiere in Metropolis when he would rather have stayed away from his friends, away from this city and the temptation to…
Lois was trying to reach Oliver. She was pressing buttons on her cell phone. It was Oliver's voice on the recording. This is Oliver Queen. I'm unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you. Clark couldn't help but listen.
Ollie, where are you? This is Lois, calling like I said I would, and this is you being M.I.A. Again. Why doesn't that surprise me? We're heading back to Smallville, and you just missed out on…well, you missed out. I guess I'll catch up to you later.
"Clark…Clark-are you listening to me?"
Not at the penthouse…where? Clark's heart started to race, his hearing expanded in exponential increments-and he couldn't stop it.
"Clark…?"
Halloween's over, punk ass bitch. … Oh, you got nothing funny to say now? Guess you're not so fucking slick with a gun pointed at your head, are you?
Oliver. Clark stumbled back, away from the hand on his arm and the worried frown on his friend's face.
"I've got to go-"
"Wait, Clark-what's wrong?"
"What's up with Smallville?" he could hear Lois ask as he shook off Chloe and rushed across the street, out of the milling crowd and into the shadows where he could shift to super speed.
+
This was so not the plan, Oliver groaned to himself as he was kicked again. He tried to get up, regain the advantage, but the barrel of a gun was quickly pressed to his temple. He ignored the taunting, the standard street hustler posturing as his eyes swept the area, looking for inspiration in the poor light, within the midnight shadows that roamed. He was not going to die like this, like some stray dog in a back alley. He cared not one iota that it was his own fault for rushing his recovery. He was man enough to admit he'd made a miscalculation; that, apparently, his doctor had been right about the bone fracture in his arm. Being wrong this one time didn't mean he had to accept such an ignominious fate.
He was Oliver fucking Queen. The Green Arrow.
Again with the kicking! Oliver swore as soon as he got out of this he would make sure these guys shared a cell with the meanest sons-of-bitches in Leavenworth.
If he got out of this.
Clearly, he was running out of time. The thug had had enough of fun at his expense and the gun was about to go off. He could see the hand wrapped around the handle tighten-
Then chaos erupted, and Clark was there, like an unstoppable force of nature in jeans, a cheap red jacket and a pathetically unstylish blue t-shirt. In two blinks, three, all six drug dealers were out cold, scattered on the ground amidst upended garbage cans and strewn trash. Super speed sure was a heck of an advantage. Oliver sighed as he gingerly tried to get to his feet, hand to the ribs on his right side.
"Perfect timing as always, Clark." Oliver hobbled over to his crossbow laying on the ground ten feet away where it had been kicked during the scuffle, feeling much better now that he had a weapon in his hands again but still mumbling under his breath about the doctor and the right cell for a bunch of degenerate assholes. Now if he could only find his glasses-
Oliver looked behind him as soon as he realized that Clark hadn't moved.
"What?"
"What's wrong with you?"
Oliver blinked. "What?"
Clark stalked in his direction. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"I assume that's a rhetorical question?" Oliver holstered his crossbow and grinned.
"I'm not joking."
He got the angry stance, as opposed to the self-righteous stance or the judgmental stance-Oliver was learning to distinguish between each. Hands clenched at sides, head tilted just so…
Oliver pulled out his datapad, already typing the standard anonymous text message to have the police pick up certain gift-wrapped criminals. "Listen Clark," he said, glancing up, "thank you, again, for saving my ass, but I'm really not interested in-"
"Using your common sense? You're not bulletproof, Ollie-"
"And you're not my keeper-"
A step forward. "You need one-"
"Perhaps." Oliver shrugged. "Not you, though." He brushed past Clark and walked to the brown van that was parked at the side of the alley, back doors ajar and attesting to the interruption of a business deal. "You're great to have around in an emergency, Clark, but I prefer the people I rely on to return my phone calls occasionally." He retrieved the two duffle bags involved in the aborted exchange, opening one and finding enough crack cocaine to keep his unconscious friends in prison attire for a good twenty years, and opening the other and finding enough money to bankroll the government of a small country. He zipped up the bag with the money, threw the bag with the drugs on the street by the collection of felons, and glanced again at Clark, who was still fuming and, in fact, looked suspiciously like he wanted to hit someone.
"What are you doing?"
"What?"
"With the bag, Ollie, the money-"
Oliver stopped in front of Clark, cocking an eyebrow. The alley was deserted, but the police would arrive at any minute. They didn't have time for an extended philosophical discussion. "I'm taking the money."
"No, you're not. That money is evidence-"
"The cocaine is the evidence. The money is a resource that needs to go back into the community, to be put towards a good cause."
Clark scowled. He seemed unusually tense, wound up and angry. His hands were still clench at his sides, and his eyes looked especially odd. Oliver had never noticed the way Clark's eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight. Another interesting observation to add to his file on Clark Kent. Right now, though, the farmboy was getting on his nerves.
"You're not the police, Ollie. There's a mechanism for the handling of this sort of thing through legitimate channels-"
"What-letting the money sit in a locked evidence room for years while this case goes to trial, or having it stolen by crooked cops, or ending up confiscated by the government to be used to support an unfettered bureaucracy, rather than having it go back to the people it was taken from in the first place? That's your idea of a legitimate channel? I think you need to get out more, Clark. There's a whole world out there, and things are rarely so black and white-"
Oliver felt the wind hit him, sweeping him up. Not hurtfully, but abruptly. It was his injuries that made him inhale sharply, made the lights dance in front of his eyes. He realized he had reflexively dropped the bag with the money, and that pissed him off. Plus, Clark had him pinned against the brick wall and was glaring at him like he had just announced he was about to commit murder.
"Clark-"
"The rules apply to everyone-"
"Rules were made to be broken, Boy Scout." Oliver tried to push Clark back and away, but the farmboy was stronger than he appeared, of course. He was about as moveable as an ox. Oliver groaned. Besides, he was too hurt to fight.
"You're not invulnerable. You can get hurt. One day I'm not going to be here to save your ass-"
In the distance, Oliver heard sirens.
"Clark, we have to go-"
Three heartbeats.
Later, when Oliver replayed the scene in his head, he decided that was how long Clark stood there, holding him to the wall and staring at him with such a level of intensity-
Then Clark disappeared, and that was when Oliver felt able to breathe. That was when he took a moment to catalogue his own body's reactions before making himself scarce. He was sweating; his heart was racing and he was as hard as a rock. So hard, it made walking, not to mention running, difficult.
What was that about?
He went to bed that night wondering.
+
Again, Oliver dreamed of his fight with Clark, the one he had witnessed on a video screen but still didn't remember. In a soundless place of clouds, he watched himself do amazing things, extraordinary things, to Clark, with Clark, and it was like watching a stranger. Until it no longer seemed strange, and in that hazy in-between place where incredible things were possible, Oliver felt what it must feel like to take what he wanted from Clark, to make him do…anything he might want him to do. To have the power to hold him, to keep him near…
In the morning, he woke with his heart racing and the sheets tangled, with only a vague recollection of his nighttime fantasies: that he had dreamed of Clark in the clouds, and that he wanted. There was something he so desperately wanted.
By the time he was dressed and ready for the day, he had it all figured out, analyzed and compartmentalized: his dreams-what little he remembered of them, the disturbing flashes that made him stop at odd moments and catch his breath-were some sort of post traumatic stress disorder, brought on by yet another close brush with death; a representation of his ego and his envy, and his desire to have what Clark has.
Simply ego. Simply envy. It was nothing…more.
+
He certainly hadn't expected Clark Kent to make an appearance at this fundraiser, even though his mom, the Senator, was the keynote speaker. Oliver swapped out his empty champagne flute as the waiter passed by, occasionally interjecting a comment into the conversation between two of his college buddies just so neither of them would notice his distraction.
No, he hadn't expected Clark to make an appearance, but he had to admit he had hoped.
Clark was being frustratingly elusive. Oliver didn't think it unreasonable to want to talk face-to-face with the guy who had saved his life less than a week ago. Perhaps to thank him again, to finish their conversation about the drug money Oliver had confiscated and donated to a group home for teens in foster care. They had unfinished business. Oliver had questions. He was just about to start taking this whole avoidance thing personally.
Brandon placed a hand on his shoulder, wanting his attention. Usually, he would have brought Lois to a function like this, but they hadn't been getting along so well lately, and it seemed the wisest choice to make this something of a guy's night out. Brandon was in town on business, and Jon was on the board of the host charity, so it was easy for them to make the rounds together, catching up and reminiscing about their college days and more recent escapades. Certainly, Oliver was having fun. As he laughed at Jon's reenactment of an engineer's speech at his company's annual shareholders meeting, he could almost dismiss the sense of expectation, disappointment-
Senator Kent was making her way to the front of the hall. The assemblage started moving en masse towards their seats. The Queen Industries table was in the front, with an unobstructed view of the podium, and it was just as he was being seated with Jon to his right and Brandon on his left that he caught sight of Clark and Chloe, newly arrived and being hustled to the Senator's table. Throughout the opening comments and the commencement of the program, Oliver watched the two like a hawk, waiting impatiently for a chance to catch Clark's eye.
He waited in vain.
If it was possible to completely ignore someone who was staring daggers from twenty feet away, then Clark did so admirably. It was as if the farmboy didn't even realize Oliver was in the room-which was, frankly, impossible. He wasn't one to be overly impressed with his own good looks but even a clueless person would make a casual inspection of the guests in the hall, and Oliver was quite certain he'd be hard to miss in any crowd.
The program dragged on interminably, but the minute it was over, Oliver was out of his seat and paying his regards to Mrs. Kent. Clark and Chloe were standing by their table, waiting for the Senator to finish with her obligatory schmoozing. He made his way over, determined to make Clark acknowledge him, whether he wanted to or not. He had no idea what was bothering Clark, but he damn sure knew he hadn't done anything to him to warrant the Lex Luthor treatment.
"Ms. Sullivan. Clark."
"Hey, Ollie," Chloe said, kissing him on the cheek. "Didn't expect you to be here. Is Lois here too?"
"Nope. Flying solo tonight," he replied to Chloe, but he only had eyes for her companion. This was the first time he had encountered Clark in anything other than farm wear, and, he had to admit, Clark did clean up well. Extremely…well. He was wearing a designer tuxedo, and Oliver suspected Lex's influence had been brought to bear on the selection at some point. No one who dressed like Clark on a week-to-week basis would have an eye for men's haute couture. The thought of Lex and Clark and the implications of them discussing wardrobe made him vaguely uncomfortable.
"Didn't expect to see you here, Clark, but I'm glad I caught up to you. I've been trying to reach you-"
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, Ollie-"
Funny thing, he didn't seem sorry at all. In fact, his expression was carefully blank and his eyes were focused somewhere over Oliver's right shoulder.
"-I've been real busy with the farm. I was going to call first chance I got."
"Right."
"So how did you convince Lois to parole you for the evening?" Chloe interjected, looking between himself and Clark, clearly trying to identify the source of the rising tension.
"I wanted to spend a bit of quality time with some friends from college, and we were all scheduled to attend this event." He shrugged. "Lois would be bored with the testosterone levels and I figured it would be best to spare her." Oliver pointed. "That's Jon and that's Brandon."
"Whoa." Chloe waved.
"I'll make sure to tell them you're impressed."
"You better not. Not unless you want me to tell Lois you have two male friends who are prettier than she is."
Oliver threw up his hands in defeat. "My lips are sealed."
"Excuse me. I'll be back."
And just like that, Clark disappeared into the crowd.
Twenty minutes later, Oliver had rejoined his friends making the rounds of the guests. He had an eye on Clark across the room and one ear tuned to the conversation going on around him. He was pretty sure he wasn't being suitable company, but both Brandon and Jon had had quite a bit to drink and were completely mollified by a companionable arm thrown around the shoulders, a loud laugh now and again. If Oliver's attention was on the darkening looks being thrown his way intermittently from across the room, his friends didn't notice or take offense.
This was getting ridiculous. There was no reason for Clark to be treating him so badly. He hadn't done anything. Before too long, he was going to need Clark's help to implement his plans to destroy Lex's secret research facilities. He needed Clark to trust him, to believe in his cause.
He needed…Clark's friendship.
Clark leaned close to his mom's ear, said something, and spoke to Chloe. Then he started making his way towards the coatroom and the back exit.
Oliver didn't take a moment to think about it before he followed.
He caught up to Clark in the hallway by the bathrooms. "Hey, Clark," he called out, coming up behind him at a jog. "Clark." Oliver reached out and grabbed Clark's arm to stop him.
Clark spun on him. "Don't touch me," he said in a low voice, before he turned and continued towards the door.
Oliver stared blankly after Clark for a moment. Then a rush of anger and indignation swept away his bewilderment. Without thinking, he was behind Clark again, spinning him around with a hand to the shoulder. A rush of wind like a baseball bat to the stomach, to the head, slammed into him, and he found himself pinned to the wall in the alley outside of the building, gasping in shadows that seeped and swirled and hid half of Clark's face.
"I said, don't touch me."
"What the hell is with you, Clark?"
"Just leave me alone."
The arm across his chest, the hand that had his wrist pinned to the rough brick of the wall. The knee against his right thigh, easily keeping him from gaining any leverage. Don't touch me, Clark had said, and yet they were so close he could feel Clark's breath against his cheek.
Oliver wanted to demand an explanation for Clark's bizarre behavior. He wanted to know where all this anger and aggression was coming from, what was this thing between them now that had no cognizable history and seemed completely unwarranted. But most of all, most of all, he wanted-trembling, sweating, he wanted.
The strength to reverse their positions. To slam Clark into the wall and hold him there. To-
He blinked, dragged in a breath.
"Shit. What the fuck-?"
Unceremoniously, he was released. Clark turned his back, stuck his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants as Oliver bent over double, trying to regain his equilibrium. It was the sight of Clark starting to make his way down the alley-away from the building-that got his legs back under him.
"Clark-" Again, he had a hand on Clark's arm, turning him, wanting to shake him with frustration.
Eyes blazed red. Startled, Oliver took a step backwards.
"Don't you know when to stop?"
Stubborn. His whole life-Oliver was nothing if not stubborn. Something was wrong, very wrong, and he wanted to know what it was. "We need to talk," he said, folding his arms across his chest and making it a demand, ignoring the fact that he didn't have the ability to demand anything at all from Clark.
Clark was outside of his control.
The thought sent a shiver up his spine, made his skin clammy with another onset of sweating.
"Go inside, Ollie," Clark said, turning away. "I'm sure your friends are looking for you by now."
"Where are you going?"
"I don't-" A pause. "I don't know."
"Clark-"
A movement of inky air, and Oliver was alone in the alley.
Author: tmelange
Date: October 2007
Fandom: Smallville
Pairing: Clark/Oliver
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Slash. Scenes of stylized nonconsensual sex between males.
Word Count: 4,081
Previous Chapters: HERE
Series: Between an Arrow and a Target
Status: WIP
Summary: Oliver gets pulled into an escalating situation with two Zoners, and the consequences have a lasting effect on his relationship with Clark.
Note: I had originally thought I was going to present this story in 2 parts; that I was going to get to a certain point in this particular arc and then just end it, picking up the overall story in the next installment in the series. I changed my mind about that, figuring it would be better to reach a more definite ending, just in case I don't have time to get back to this series until next year. So instead of 2 parts, this story will have 10. Which jives well with my sense of symmetry, since a double helix makes a complete turn in just over 10 nucleotide pairs. ;)
II.
How quickly it came and went, the panic, the pain. Then the world slipped backwards into shadow, and everything, everything, took on a new shape-distorted, in the shards of a mirror, broken. He was there again. No! He didn't want-oh God. God. He…wanted this! His body-it moved outside of his control, and even his own responses he could not recognize.
He cried out, loud against the barren landscape, but what should have sounded of pain echoed only in pleasure. His adversary (lover) laughed, lips against the skin at the nape of his neck. Fighting. Shouldn't he have been fighting? Not turning his head, not catching those lips with his own.
A secret desire.
Oliver.
Somewhere in a corner of his mind, in the shadows where his volition was trapped, he knew he had dreamed of this (a nightmare...a…dream), fantasized, once, in his bed in a room, in a familiar yellow farmhouse, underneath a white sheet (white like the snow, the ice against his face), hand down the front of his boxers-
Oliver.
Brown eyes. A perfect face. Arrogance that could make him angry, make him laugh. Brave. Beautiful. If only-
You want this one, Kal-El?
Whispers. Black echoes. Stilted and sharp, cutting through his mind. Here is the pain. He welcome it. He shuddered in the grip of it.
How ironic. How fortunate for you to have this measure of solace, Kryptonian. Let it nourish you in your captivity. Never let it be said that we were without mercy, that we were as vicious or as cruel as your own accursed father, our jailer, whom we have survived. Take what you can of joy, Kal-El, for it must last you an eternity…
Clark Kent blinked, and opened his eyes, and found he was in Oliver's apartment in the watchtower, in the bedroom, kneeling by the bed. The room was darkly illuminated by moonlight that streamed in through the skylights overhead. Oliver Queen was asleep in his bed.
Ollie was asleep in the bed.
So close, he could reach out a hand and touch his face.
Clark shivered, and took a quick, deep breath. Reality returned with a panicked sense of startlement-God, how had he gotten here? What was he doing here?-that had him losing his balance in his rush to get away, falling backwards, into the nightstand by the bed, knocking over the alarm clock and the lamp in a cacophony of jumbled sound. Too slow in his confusion to catch either item, but fast enough to super speed away as Oliver jolted awake with a yell.
He stopped in a cornfield, in the middle of nowhere, halfway between Metropolis and Smallville. The stalks stretched up, past his head, hiding him from the moon and the night sky, the sense of dread pressing down on his shoulders. He was panting, breathing hard-not out of breath, of course, but unable to breathe. Like some sort of addict, he was sweating and disoriented, and all he wanted to do was go back. Back to the apartment in the tower in Metropolis. Back to the person he could feel and hear and small and taste, even at this great distance. Each prickle of sensation along his skin was like an imprint, the memory of all the things he had done, had felt, rising wetly to the surface.
Calling him back.
"What's wrong with me?"
Clark doubled over. Gasping, he used every trick he had ever learned to pull himself in, to regain his sense of self, to quiet his super senses. He was out of control-completely, dangerously. He was out of control and scared. Scared to death of the things he wanted to do.
+
"There's something definitely wrong. You might as well tell me, Clark. You know I'll find out anyway. You're pretty bad at keeping secrets of the non-alien variety."
Clark buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Chloe's voice was pitched low, and she was standing close enough to him in the crowd of people to ensure they weren't overheard. Still, the topic made him uncomfortable, nervous. He had no intention of discussing anything with Chloe-not now, not ever. "There's nothing wrong-"
"Don't give me that. You hardly cracked a smile, and that was the funniest movie-"
Clark cut her off, letting some of his frustration color his tone. "Do you want me to make something up?"
"Hey, you guys ready?"
"Yeah," Clark responded quickly. Lois was drying her hands with an over-abundance of paper towels from the bathroom. She bunched them up and threw them at Clark's forehead. Clark batted the ball of paper away and frowned, but even though Lois was annoying, he had never been so relieved to see her in his life. He'd tolerate just about anything to avoid Chloe's interrogation.
"Let's shake a leg, then," Lois said, and with her usual aggressiveness, started elbowing her way through the crowd in the lobby. "I want to try Ollie before we head back to Smallville."
The night air was crisp and wet, typical fall weather in Kansas. Clark stood at the curb in front of the movie theater with Chloe as they waited for Lois to make her phone call, trying not to conspicuously vibrate with agitation. Chloe was watching him sidelong, with her reporter's instincts and her firsthand knowledge of the reality of his life, and if he wasn't careful, he'd have her convinced there was something going on that she needed to know.
The last thing he wanted right now was Chloe on his case.
He had kept a low profile for weeks. Time and distance would fix everything-he was sure. Enough time and plenty of distance. So why had he let his mom convince him to meet up with Chloe and Lois-especially Lois-for a movie premiere in Metropolis when he would rather have stayed away from his friends, away from this city and the temptation to…
Lois was trying to reach Oliver. She was pressing buttons on her cell phone. It was Oliver's voice on the recording. This is Oliver Queen. I'm unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you. Clark couldn't help but listen.
Ollie, where are you? This is Lois, calling like I said I would, and this is you being M.I.A. Again. Why doesn't that surprise me? We're heading back to Smallville, and you just missed out on…well, you missed out. I guess I'll catch up to you later.
"Clark…Clark-are you listening to me?"
Not at the penthouse…where? Clark's heart started to race, his hearing expanded in exponential increments-and he couldn't stop it.
"Clark…?"
Halloween's over, punk ass bitch. … Oh, you got nothing funny to say now? Guess you're not so fucking slick with a gun pointed at your head, are you?
Oliver. Clark stumbled back, away from the hand on his arm and the worried frown on his friend's face.
"I've got to go-"
"Wait, Clark-what's wrong?"
"What's up with Smallville?" he could hear Lois ask as he shook off Chloe and rushed across the street, out of the milling crowd and into the shadows where he could shift to super speed.
+
This was so not the plan, Oliver groaned to himself as he was kicked again. He tried to get up, regain the advantage, but the barrel of a gun was quickly pressed to his temple. He ignored the taunting, the standard street hustler posturing as his eyes swept the area, looking for inspiration in the poor light, within the midnight shadows that roamed. He was not going to die like this, like some stray dog in a back alley. He cared not one iota that it was his own fault for rushing his recovery. He was man enough to admit he'd made a miscalculation; that, apparently, his doctor had been right about the bone fracture in his arm. Being wrong this one time didn't mean he had to accept such an ignominious fate.
He was Oliver fucking Queen. The Green Arrow.
Again with the kicking! Oliver swore as soon as he got out of this he would make sure these guys shared a cell with the meanest sons-of-bitches in Leavenworth.
If he got out of this.
Clearly, he was running out of time. The thug had had enough of fun at his expense and the gun was about to go off. He could see the hand wrapped around the handle tighten-
Then chaos erupted, and Clark was there, like an unstoppable force of nature in jeans, a cheap red jacket and a pathetically unstylish blue t-shirt. In two blinks, three, all six drug dealers were out cold, scattered on the ground amidst upended garbage cans and strewn trash. Super speed sure was a heck of an advantage. Oliver sighed as he gingerly tried to get to his feet, hand to the ribs on his right side.
"Perfect timing as always, Clark." Oliver hobbled over to his crossbow laying on the ground ten feet away where it had been kicked during the scuffle, feeling much better now that he had a weapon in his hands again but still mumbling under his breath about the doctor and the right cell for a bunch of degenerate assholes. Now if he could only find his glasses-
Oliver looked behind him as soon as he realized that Clark hadn't moved.
"What?"
"What's wrong with you?"
Oliver blinked. "What?"
Clark stalked in his direction. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
"I assume that's a rhetorical question?" Oliver holstered his crossbow and grinned.
"I'm not joking."
He got the angry stance, as opposed to the self-righteous stance or the judgmental stance-Oliver was learning to distinguish between each. Hands clenched at sides, head tilted just so…
Oliver pulled out his datapad, already typing the standard anonymous text message to have the police pick up certain gift-wrapped criminals. "Listen Clark," he said, glancing up, "thank you, again, for saving my ass, but I'm really not interested in-"
"Using your common sense? You're not bulletproof, Ollie-"
"And you're not my keeper-"
A step forward. "You need one-"
"Perhaps." Oliver shrugged. "Not you, though." He brushed past Clark and walked to the brown van that was parked at the side of the alley, back doors ajar and attesting to the interruption of a business deal. "You're great to have around in an emergency, Clark, but I prefer the people I rely on to return my phone calls occasionally." He retrieved the two duffle bags involved in the aborted exchange, opening one and finding enough crack cocaine to keep his unconscious friends in prison attire for a good twenty years, and opening the other and finding enough money to bankroll the government of a small country. He zipped up the bag with the money, threw the bag with the drugs on the street by the collection of felons, and glanced again at Clark, who was still fuming and, in fact, looked suspiciously like he wanted to hit someone.
"What are you doing?"
"What?"
"With the bag, Ollie, the money-"
Oliver stopped in front of Clark, cocking an eyebrow. The alley was deserted, but the police would arrive at any minute. They didn't have time for an extended philosophical discussion. "I'm taking the money."
"No, you're not. That money is evidence-"
"The cocaine is the evidence. The money is a resource that needs to go back into the community, to be put towards a good cause."
Clark scowled. He seemed unusually tense, wound up and angry. His hands were still clench at his sides, and his eyes looked especially odd. Oliver had never noticed the way Clark's eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight. Another interesting observation to add to his file on Clark Kent. Right now, though, the farmboy was getting on his nerves.
"You're not the police, Ollie. There's a mechanism for the handling of this sort of thing through legitimate channels-"
"What-letting the money sit in a locked evidence room for years while this case goes to trial, or having it stolen by crooked cops, or ending up confiscated by the government to be used to support an unfettered bureaucracy, rather than having it go back to the people it was taken from in the first place? That's your idea of a legitimate channel? I think you need to get out more, Clark. There's a whole world out there, and things are rarely so black and white-"
Oliver felt the wind hit him, sweeping him up. Not hurtfully, but abruptly. It was his injuries that made him inhale sharply, made the lights dance in front of his eyes. He realized he had reflexively dropped the bag with the money, and that pissed him off. Plus, Clark had him pinned against the brick wall and was glaring at him like he had just announced he was about to commit murder.
"Clark-"
"The rules apply to everyone-"
"Rules were made to be broken, Boy Scout." Oliver tried to push Clark back and away, but the farmboy was stronger than he appeared, of course. He was about as moveable as an ox. Oliver groaned. Besides, he was too hurt to fight.
"You're not invulnerable. You can get hurt. One day I'm not going to be here to save your ass-"
In the distance, Oliver heard sirens.
"Clark, we have to go-"
Three heartbeats.
Later, when Oliver replayed the scene in his head, he decided that was how long Clark stood there, holding him to the wall and staring at him with such a level of intensity-
Then Clark disappeared, and that was when Oliver felt able to breathe. That was when he took a moment to catalogue his own body's reactions before making himself scarce. He was sweating; his heart was racing and he was as hard as a rock. So hard, it made walking, not to mention running, difficult.
What was that about?
He went to bed that night wondering.
+
Again, Oliver dreamed of his fight with Clark, the one he had witnessed on a video screen but still didn't remember. In a soundless place of clouds, he watched himself do amazing things, extraordinary things, to Clark, with Clark, and it was like watching a stranger. Until it no longer seemed strange, and in that hazy in-between place where incredible things were possible, Oliver felt what it must feel like to take what he wanted from Clark, to make him do…anything he might want him to do. To have the power to hold him, to keep him near…
In the morning, he woke with his heart racing and the sheets tangled, with only a vague recollection of his nighttime fantasies: that he had dreamed of Clark in the clouds, and that he wanted. There was something he so desperately wanted.
By the time he was dressed and ready for the day, he had it all figured out, analyzed and compartmentalized: his dreams-what little he remembered of them, the disturbing flashes that made him stop at odd moments and catch his breath-were some sort of post traumatic stress disorder, brought on by yet another close brush with death; a representation of his ego and his envy, and his desire to have what Clark has.
Simply ego. Simply envy. It was nothing…more.
+
He certainly hadn't expected Clark Kent to make an appearance at this fundraiser, even though his mom, the Senator, was the keynote speaker. Oliver swapped out his empty champagne flute as the waiter passed by, occasionally interjecting a comment into the conversation between two of his college buddies just so neither of them would notice his distraction.
No, he hadn't expected Clark to make an appearance, but he had to admit he had hoped.
Clark was being frustratingly elusive. Oliver didn't think it unreasonable to want to talk face-to-face with the guy who had saved his life less than a week ago. Perhaps to thank him again, to finish their conversation about the drug money Oliver had confiscated and donated to a group home for teens in foster care. They had unfinished business. Oliver had questions. He was just about to start taking this whole avoidance thing personally.
Brandon placed a hand on his shoulder, wanting his attention. Usually, he would have brought Lois to a function like this, but they hadn't been getting along so well lately, and it seemed the wisest choice to make this something of a guy's night out. Brandon was in town on business, and Jon was on the board of the host charity, so it was easy for them to make the rounds together, catching up and reminiscing about their college days and more recent escapades. Certainly, Oliver was having fun. As he laughed at Jon's reenactment of an engineer's speech at his company's annual shareholders meeting, he could almost dismiss the sense of expectation, disappointment-
Senator Kent was making her way to the front of the hall. The assemblage started moving en masse towards their seats. The Queen Industries table was in the front, with an unobstructed view of the podium, and it was just as he was being seated with Jon to his right and Brandon on his left that he caught sight of Clark and Chloe, newly arrived and being hustled to the Senator's table. Throughout the opening comments and the commencement of the program, Oliver watched the two like a hawk, waiting impatiently for a chance to catch Clark's eye.
He waited in vain.
If it was possible to completely ignore someone who was staring daggers from twenty feet away, then Clark did so admirably. It was as if the farmboy didn't even realize Oliver was in the room-which was, frankly, impossible. He wasn't one to be overly impressed with his own good looks but even a clueless person would make a casual inspection of the guests in the hall, and Oliver was quite certain he'd be hard to miss in any crowd.
The program dragged on interminably, but the minute it was over, Oliver was out of his seat and paying his regards to Mrs. Kent. Clark and Chloe were standing by their table, waiting for the Senator to finish with her obligatory schmoozing. He made his way over, determined to make Clark acknowledge him, whether he wanted to or not. He had no idea what was bothering Clark, but he damn sure knew he hadn't done anything to him to warrant the Lex Luthor treatment.
"Ms. Sullivan. Clark."
"Hey, Ollie," Chloe said, kissing him on the cheek. "Didn't expect you to be here. Is Lois here too?"
"Nope. Flying solo tonight," he replied to Chloe, but he only had eyes for her companion. This was the first time he had encountered Clark in anything other than farm wear, and, he had to admit, Clark did clean up well. Extremely…well. He was wearing a designer tuxedo, and Oliver suspected Lex's influence had been brought to bear on the selection at some point. No one who dressed like Clark on a week-to-week basis would have an eye for men's haute couture. The thought of Lex and Clark and the implications of them discussing wardrobe made him vaguely uncomfortable.
"Didn't expect to see you here, Clark, but I'm glad I caught up to you. I've been trying to reach you-"
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, Ollie-"
Funny thing, he didn't seem sorry at all. In fact, his expression was carefully blank and his eyes were focused somewhere over Oliver's right shoulder.
"-I've been real busy with the farm. I was going to call first chance I got."
"Right."
"So how did you convince Lois to parole you for the evening?" Chloe interjected, looking between himself and Clark, clearly trying to identify the source of the rising tension.
"I wanted to spend a bit of quality time with some friends from college, and we were all scheduled to attend this event." He shrugged. "Lois would be bored with the testosterone levels and I figured it would be best to spare her." Oliver pointed. "That's Jon and that's Brandon."
"Whoa." Chloe waved.
"I'll make sure to tell them you're impressed."
"You better not. Not unless you want me to tell Lois you have two male friends who are prettier than she is."
Oliver threw up his hands in defeat. "My lips are sealed."
"Excuse me. I'll be back."
And just like that, Clark disappeared into the crowd.
Twenty minutes later, Oliver had rejoined his friends making the rounds of the guests. He had an eye on Clark across the room and one ear tuned to the conversation going on around him. He was pretty sure he wasn't being suitable company, but both Brandon and Jon had had quite a bit to drink and were completely mollified by a companionable arm thrown around the shoulders, a loud laugh now and again. If Oliver's attention was on the darkening looks being thrown his way intermittently from across the room, his friends didn't notice or take offense.
This was getting ridiculous. There was no reason for Clark to be treating him so badly. He hadn't done anything. Before too long, he was going to need Clark's help to implement his plans to destroy Lex's secret research facilities. He needed Clark to trust him, to believe in his cause.
He needed…Clark's friendship.
Clark leaned close to his mom's ear, said something, and spoke to Chloe. Then he started making his way towards the coatroom and the back exit.
Oliver didn't take a moment to think about it before he followed.
He caught up to Clark in the hallway by the bathrooms. "Hey, Clark," he called out, coming up behind him at a jog. "Clark." Oliver reached out and grabbed Clark's arm to stop him.
Clark spun on him. "Don't touch me," he said in a low voice, before he turned and continued towards the door.
Oliver stared blankly after Clark for a moment. Then a rush of anger and indignation swept away his bewilderment. Without thinking, he was behind Clark again, spinning him around with a hand to the shoulder. A rush of wind like a baseball bat to the stomach, to the head, slammed into him, and he found himself pinned to the wall in the alley outside of the building, gasping in shadows that seeped and swirled and hid half of Clark's face.
"I said, don't touch me."
"What the hell is with you, Clark?"
"Just leave me alone."
The arm across his chest, the hand that had his wrist pinned to the rough brick of the wall. The knee against his right thigh, easily keeping him from gaining any leverage. Don't touch me, Clark had said, and yet they were so close he could feel Clark's breath against his cheek.
Oliver wanted to demand an explanation for Clark's bizarre behavior. He wanted to know where all this anger and aggression was coming from, what was this thing between them now that had no cognizable history and seemed completely unwarranted. But most of all, most of all, he wanted-trembling, sweating, he wanted.
The strength to reverse their positions. To slam Clark into the wall and hold him there. To-
He blinked, dragged in a breath.
"Shit. What the fuck-?"
Unceremoniously, he was released. Clark turned his back, stuck his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants as Oliver bent over double, trying to regain his equilibrium. It was the sight of Clark starting to make his way down the alley-away from the building-that got his legs back under him.
"Clark-" Again, he had a hand on Clark's arm, turning him, wanting to shake him with frustration.
Eyes blazed red. Startled, Oliver took a step backwards.
"Don't you know when to stop?"
Stubborn. His whole life-Oliver was nothing if not stubborn. Something was wrong, very wrong, and he wanted to know what it was. "We need to talk," he said, folding his arms across his chest and making it a demand, ignoring the fact that he didn't have the ability to demand anything at all from Clark.
Clark was outside of his control.
The thought sent a shiver up his spine, made his skin clammy with another onset of sweating.
"Go inside, Ollie," Clark said, turning away. "I'm sure your friends are looking for you by now."
"Where are you going?"
"I don't-" A pause. "I don't know."
"Clark-"
A movement of inky air, and Oliver was alone in the alley.