A/N Hi! My name is Violet, this is my first work for the Smallville fandom. I wrote this a really long time ago when I was still learning English. It's not perfect now, but I hope it's better than it was before. I don't know how active this place is anymore, or if any readers remember who Whitney Fordman was but I'm continuing off the idea I had then, Circa 2005 Haha, yeah. That was a pretty long time ago. Anyway, for anyone still interested. This is Picture Perfect, and I hope you'll me if you like it or not!
Leave your Reviews please! They're like crack to my addicted soul.
Disclaimer: I do not own Smallville and/or anything related to it, I do however own the 25 cent rhinestone ring I bought at the grocery store this morning..
Chapter One
Pictures of You, Pictures of Me
Chloe took her time climbing the old wooden barn steps, gripping the splintering banister for dear life as she wobbled slightly in her heels. He insisted she come over, immediately. For what? She wasn't sure. What kind of assistance could Chloe Sullivan provide for the savior of Smallville? And she'd done her best to put some distance between them today, determined to keep to her plan to avoid him. Avoid him and maybe he'd notice she was missing. Her heart fluttered, perhaps that was what this was about? He'd noticed she'd been around less lately and was desperate to rectify things?
No, it wouldn't be enough. She held firm as she stepped into the loft. The clicking of her heels muffled by the stray patches of shredded hay about the juvenile decorated room. He insisted and like a fool she came running. But it wouldn't be easy this time. He'd ignored her for far too long and tonight wouldn't be enough. He wouldn't be sorry enough yet.
So she made it clear she couldn't stay long, Chloe glanced over her shoulder down the steps and out the door to where the car's engine still purred. She had plans this evening.
His attention was focused on his telescope, he was hunched over the slim metal cylinder with his hands resting gently on the barrel as he peered out into the sky. But Chloe was all to aware of what else was in that direction, and it was less celestial than Clark would ever have a prayer of convincing her. But Chloe wouldn't begrudge Clark his obsession with his raven haired neighbor, though she was absolutely certain that said neighbor wouldn't share her open mindedness.
Chloe allowed Clark a few minutes more of his peeping-tomfoolery and entertained herself with the framed pictures that line his dusty desk in the corner. There were pictures of him. There were pictures of her, and Pete and Lana. However there was one peculiar picture that stood out the most.
In a sterling silver frame just a breath away from the edge of the dark cherry wood desk, was a picture of Clark and Lana in the bed of his pick up truck. It fit almost perfectly as if it were made for the frame save for the crinkle in the corner, beside Lana. Chloe remembered the cream colored peasant blouse that Lana was wearing. And she recognized the sunny background as Chandler's field. Her hands reached for fasteners on the back of the frame.
She couldn't imagine how that blatantly obvious fold in the picture didn't bother Clark. It was so poorly creased that it prevented the back flap of the picture from shutting properly.
Crash.
A beat...
Clark whipped his head around to find Chloe standing over his fallen picture frame with pieces of the glass scattered at her shinny black heels.
"Chloe!" He called, before rushing over to her. "Let me help you."
And the crazed look she gave him after he'd swiveled her around, caused him to take a step back. She shrugged away from his touch and revealed herself in the fold of the picture she held tightly in the vice grip of her hand. Shards of the glass still remained embedded in her hand as she lifted the picture into both hands.
"Wait, Chloe." A flicker of understanding flashed in his eyes. "It's not what you think." And Chloe rolled her eyes at the line. Although she'd never felt anymore like a cast member in the corniest Spanish Novella, she really thought she deserved better than an 'It's not what you think' i.e the most abused line in soap opera's ever.
What exactly did he imagine she thought right now, anyway?
She took the filmy photograph within her now bloody fingers and delicately removed her fold from the loving photograph.
A sick smile on her face as she placed the now thinner picture of the happy couple on the desk, she cradled the slender fraction of herself in her bleeding hand and dropped it to the side. Stray droplets splattering on her soft green dress.
"Chloe,"
His eyes were pleading, imploring her to stay.
Why on earth did he keep saying her name?
"I'm keeping this." She mumbled distractedly before pulling her light black cardigan around herself tighter. Barely cringing at the pain the deep cuts in her hand were wrought with.
"Chloe, wait!" Clark grabbed her shoulder, mindful of her injury. "Can't I even explain?"
"What did ask me here for?" Her questioned stunned him.
"Your hand-- I." He faltered. "Let's get this fixed up." He reached tenderly for the bleeding palm.
"Don't bother, Clark." She stumbled away from him before lifting the shinny fold revealing the her smiling photographed image! "I'm out of the picture."
She giggled to herself before turning to him. "Do you get it?"
He didn't laugh.
Well who needs him anyway?
Chloe turned and muttered to herself down the stairs and he let her go. Clark stared after numbly and wasn't sure if he believed he'd still have friends come Monday morning. Something about the way she left that evening gave him the distinct feeling that this wasn't a simple argument with harsh words that needed the weekend to cool.
He should have told her how beautiful he thought she was.
He should have told her, the picture was old and it didn't mean anything.
He should have done something about the picture.
He shouldn't have called her over here. Most definitely not to talk about Lana.
Chloe tread over the gravel lot to where the car engined purred, her uninjured arm swinging to help with her balance. The bleeding palm clutched tightly to her chest as she forced a smile to waiting jade eyes.
Waiting jade eyes that widened at the blood stains on her beautiful new dress. The one he'd waited hours to pick simply for the sake of one picture.
"Sorry it took me so long, I'm ready to go now." Chloe cleared her throat and straightened her spine. "You got a band-aid in that truck?"
His eyes widened. He'd never intended on having any fun on this trip to Metropolis Museum of Modern Art, but in the end it would have made everything worth it to see the horrified look on both Clark and Lana's faces when he showed up back in school with his new blond beauty on his arm.
However, he'd settle for punching Kent in throat if he'd actually taken a hand to his new partner.
"What the hell happened to you, Sullivan?" And he didn't want to seem like he cared to much, because he didn't. She was just Sullivan and they had a plan to stick to. But he was raised right, there was no way he was going to stand for Kent, rough housing any woman on his watch. If Kent ever laid a hand on Lana, he'd have him in the ground so quick...
"Nothing, Whitney. It's a cut. Just see if you have that bandage in your truck so we can leave." She raised herself onto her tip toes and craned her neck as if the action would suddenly make a first aid kit appear in the passenger seat of his truck.
"Just a cut? If you bleed anymore, you're going to need a transition."
"Transfusion."
"Shut up," he huffed, irritated. " Did Kent do this to you?"
"No! I cut myself on some glass and you're not going up there now!" She rose a stern finger at him.
"Whatever, just get in the car. I'll get one from Kent." Whitney pulled off his black dress coat and draped it over her shivering shoulders before lifting and thrusting her unceremoniously into the passenger's side of his black pick up truck.
"No Whitney!" Chloe called just as he shut the car door.
"Sit tight." He didn't turn as he strut confidently up into the dusty barn. His crisp blue linen button down pressing against his sculpted chest in the wind. Whitney Fordman was a catch, he knew this. Chloe knew this and Clark knew this.
Somehow Lana had forgotten. But Whitney was certain was once, Kent's AwwShucks! Farmboy Charm wore off, she'd be missing the days she had a real man.
Whitney smirked at himself as he made his way up the stairs at the sight of Kent's messy brown mophead of a do.
"Chloe?" Clark came rushing to the landing, and Whitney could barely suppress the smirk at the poor kid's eagerness.
As annoying as Sullivan was, she was smart – he'd give her that. Kent was a predictable as ever.
"Nope, just me."
"Lana isn't here."
"Thanks for the update." Whitney smirked. "I'm actually just here for a band- aid. My girlfriend is bleeding all over my leather seats."
"Your girlfriend." Clark's shoulder's stiffened as he took in Whitney's similar formal attire. Chloe had been wearing a dress this evening, but she wouldn't...
Whitney? Really?
"Yeah, you know her." Whitney's bright green eyes almost left his skull in the sheer excitement he received from watching Kent's fists tighten and the veins inside his neck throbbing. "She's like 5'3, blond. Hazel eyes, a little bouncy."
"Chloe."
"Yep, she had an accident. And we're running late for our reservations so if you'd just get me the bandage..." Whitney's eyes fell upon the white plastic first aid kit, clutched in Clark's hand.
"Bring her up here, I'll fix it. She had glass in her hand, she needs attention."
Whitney snatched the box with lightening reflexes and snorted at Clark who'd never had a chance of seeing it coming.
"And what are you? The surgeon general?" He scoffed, and wondered if he should be experiencing any guilt for taking so much pleasure in Kent's clear discomfort.
"She's my best friend, Whitney—"
"And she's my girlfriend." Whitney cut Clark off before turning to head down the steps. "You might want to pick up a little, it looks like a crime scene in here."
He paused at the step and turned with a sly smile. "Oh and please do tell Lana I said 'Hello.'"
And Whitney chuckled all the way back to the car, delighting at the sound of the groaning beams as Clark struck one in his rage.
This would be a good weekend for Clark, Whitney muse. Clark would probably think of nothing else this weekend, the thought of Whitney and his reputation combined with his best friend. It would drive him mad.
Or well, that was the plan.
Did you love it? Did you hate it? Think I need to go back into Hibernation? Let me know!
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