Title: Love Is...
Author: The Fallen Sky
Rating: T
Pairing: Chlark
Summary: The body may die, but love is...eternal.
Warning: Character death and mild sexual references/situations
A/N: This is a Chlark one-shot. It takes place after Clark's fight with Doomsday in the season 8 finale, but things turn out differently this time. The story is told from two different POV's. The First Person POV is Chloe, and the Third Person POV is Oliver. Also, there be angst ahead, so be prepared.
Feedback is welcome. Now, enjoy the story!
This is surreal. Not long ago, I had a nightmare very similar to this.
He's lying on the table, his clothes in tatters, grime and dried blood coating his exposed skin.
He fought Doomsday...and won.
Although, I'd hardly call this winning. Is it truly a victory when the hero dies?
He's dead.
I still can't bring myself to say those words. In fact, since we found him, I haven't said anything. I haven't even cried.
I thought I'd be hysterical and inconsolable, but I'm remarkably calm. Maybe that's because I'm numb.
The others think I'm going to crack, have some kind of mental and emotional breakdown, but they're wrong.
I always knew this was a possibility, but I prayed it would never come to pass. I tried so hard to prevent it from happening, but it happened, and now I'm here to clean up the mess and his body.
Slowly, I make my way to the table, setting my bucket of warm water on it as I take a long, hard look at what's left of my best friend.
His face is bruised and bloody, but he's far from disfigured.
I'm glad. I want his mother to be able to remember her son's face the way it was when he was alive.
Speaking of Martha, she's gonna be here in a few hours. I better get a move on and make Clark's body presentable. Can't have her looking at her little boy covered in his own blood.
Wetting the washcloth, I gently wipe his face clean. I take my time, making sure I get every last trace of dirt and blood.
Once his face is clean, I rinse the washcloth and go over his face again. This time, it's not about cleaning.
I trace every contour of his face with the kind of care and reverence born from the deep love and affection I have for him. I want to memorize his face, burn it into my mind so I'll remember it in my dreams.
Once I'm done with his face, I begin the task of removing his clothes so I can clean the rest of his body.
As I cut away the ragged remnants of his clothing, I'm struck by the thought that this is the first time I'll ever see him completely naked.
For years, I've dreamt about taking off Clark's clothes. Hell, I've pleasured myself many times to fantasies of a naked Clark, but now that I'm actually seeing him totally bared to my eyes, I find no pleasure in it. In fact, seeing him naked, covered in dried blood will probably haunt me for the rest of my days.
Shaking off such morbid and depressing thoughts, I begin the daunting task of cleaning him in earnest.
My mind wanders as I clean. I think back to all the missed opportunities he and I had to move past friendship to something more. I realize now that not all of our misses were his fault. He may have been running after Lana, but I did my fair share of running too. Only, I ran away from him.
I can't help but wonder what would've happened if I'd been more brave and resolute after he left me on the dance floor in 9th grade. What if I'd been honest with him and told him that I still wanted to be with him even though he ran off to save Lana? Would we have been a couple? Would we have gotten engaged or married? Would we have ever encountered Davis? Would he still be alive?
Part of me thinks that we were destined to be kept apart. But another part of me knows that things would've been vastly different if I'd only taken a chance, if I'd only fought harder for him.
It doesn't matter now. All the what ifs in the world won't change the fact that my best friend is gone. Still, I'd give anything for just one more chance to tell him I love him, even if he doesn't love me the same way.
By the time I come back to reality, I realize I've finished cleaning him.
The water in my bucket is no longer warm and is more blood than water.
I stare at the red liquid. This is his blood. It should be inside him, pumping through his veins and arteries, not mixed with dirt and lukewarm water in a non-descript bucket.
I can't stand the sight of it, so I drop the washcloth into the bucket and set it on the floor, under the table.
It's just me and the freshly cleaned body of my friend now.
My eyes rove over his form, from head to toe and back again.
I marvel at how beautiful he looks, even with the bruises and gashes. He always was the most perfect male specimen I'd ever seen, and it's oddly comforting to know that he still is, even in death.
Finally, I remember that his mother will be here soon, and I can't very well have her walk in to find me ogling her son's naked body.
With the utmost care and patience, I manage to dress him in a pair of jeans and a red t-shirt.
Stepping back, I admire his newly clothed form. A small smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. Red and blue, those are his colors, and I dressed him in them without even thinking about it.
I used to hate his taste in fashion, but now I'd give anything to see him in his flannel or that horrible red jacket. Hell, I'd even take to wearing flannel if I thought it'd bring him back.
God, I miss him.
Checking my watch, I see that I've got at least another hour before Martha arrives. I could go find the others and pass the time with them, but I don't feel like talking or dealing with their concerned looks.
I'm grateful that they've left me alone and that they let me take care of Clark. They may be my friends, but I'd rather be with Clark than with them. At least he won't constantly be asking me if I'm okay.
Truth is, I'm not okay, and since Clark isn't coming back, I never will be again.
Suddenly, I'm very tired. Scratch that, I'm exhausted. I just want to curl up in a ball and sleep and dream...of him. With my luck, I'll have nightmares for years to come, but I'd take a nightmare involving Clark over the harshness of the real world without him.
Looking at him, lying there so calm and peaceful, I'm struck with the urge to get on that table with him and join him in slumber.
It sounds twisted even to me, but before I know it, I'm climbing onto the table, trying to find a comfortable position.
I finally settle on my right side, nestled up against his left, my leg draped over his, my arm around his waist, and my head resting squarely over his un-beating heart.
I should feel weird about cozying up to my best friend's dead body to take a nap, but I don't. As strange as it seems, this feels right.
Closing my eyes, I focus on the sound of my breathing and not on the fact that Clark is cold.
My mind wanders to the few times he and I snuggled like this in the past. Of course, all of those times were a result of us falling asleep and unconsciously entangling with each other, but he was always so warm and comforting. Being in his arms always made me feel so safe and loved.
It finally hits me. He's gone.
I'll never hear his voice again, or see him smile again. I'll never argue or laugh with him again. I'll never help him save the world again.
Tears begin slowly running down my cheeks.
I'll never be whole again.
My grief sweeps over me like a tidal wave, and I welcome it.
I can feel myself drowning in my sorrow, and I let it pull me under until there's nothing left but the blackness of oblivion.
xXxXxXxXxXx
I awaken to sunlight streaming in through the window.
Slowly, I open my eyes to see him already awake. His eyes are filled with adoration and love.
It's overwhelming, and I blush in response.
He must find my blush endearing, because he smiles before leaning in and placing a tender kiss on my lips.
I kiss him back with equal tenderness.
His hand glides down my back before settling on my bottom, which he squeezes gently.
A small moan escapes me, and I respond by kissing him more passionately as I run my hands over his chest, caressing the smooth, warm skin.
Things intensify, and everything is a blur of hands, lips, tongues and naughty bits.
As our passion dies down, a feeling of deep satisfaction suffuses me.
His arms are around me, holding me, protecting me.
I've never felt this...complete. It's as if part of me was missing my whole life, and I finally found it.
For the first time I can remember, I'm completely happy.
I look into his eyes once more, trying to convey what I'm feeling, how much he means to me.
His eyes glow with emotion, and I know he feels the same way I do.
Still, I want to hear the words.
With stark sincerity and raw emotion in my voice, I say, "I love you, Clark."
He leans in and gives me a soft, achingly tender kiss before pulling back and replying in the most nakedly emotional voice I've ever heard, "I love you too, Chloe."
Our faces break out in matching smiles.
I feel as if I've died and gone to Heaven. As far as I'm concerned, this is Heaven, our Heaven.
xXxXxXxXxXx
He's worried about her. She's been alone with Clark's body for a long time, and he's wondering if he should check on her.
He knows she's hurting and most likely won't welcome his intrusion, but he has to see if she's okay.
As he opens the door to the room housing Clark's body, he sees something he never expected to see.
Chloe's lying on the table with Clark's body. She's curled up with him, her head resting on his chest, and she's fast asleep.
He's torn over how to feel about what she's doing, but he can't begrudge her for trying to find comfort and closure in whatever way she feels is necessary.
Still, Martha will be here any minute, and he can't let her find Chloe sleeping with her son's body.
Moving over to Chloe, he gently shakes her shoulder.
She doesn't respond, so he says, "Chloe, it's time to wake up. Martha will be here soon, and you can't let her find you like this."
She still doesn't respond.
He's starting to worry. He shakes her more vigorously and speaks in a louder, more urgent voice. "Come on, Chloe. You need to wake up."
Still nothing.
He's verging on panic now. An ominous feeling grips him, and his heart is in his throat as he checks her for a pulse.
There isn't one.
She's not breathing either.
In fact, when he touches her skin, it's cold just like Clark's had been when they brought him here.
His mind is reeling.
This can't be happening. It can't.
First Clark and now Chloe.
His mind is screaming at him to do something, try CPR or call an ambulance, something. But his heart knows there's nothing he or anyone else can do.
She's gone.
He doesn't know how or why, but he suspects she couldn't bear to live without Clark, and since he couldn't come back to her, she went to him.
His eyes well with tears, and he cries for his friends, cries for two fallen heroes, cries for two people whose love for one another would not allow them to be separated, not even by death.