This is a story I wrote to get myself out of a very depressing mood. I know the circumstances of this story are slim to none, but I like it none the same. I am a VERY big Chloe/Pete shipper! I hope you like it too, I took me a while to work through. Enjoy!
It's night. She should have left three hours ago. Only a paragraph, she promises the dark that surrounds the glow of her computer, only a paragraph more. She'll save it and close, lock the door behind her. That's the pledge she makes every night. But there's no one around to enforce it, so it stays broken.
A sip from her cup of cold coffee. It tastes bitter, slides down her throat, giving her the impression of mud. But she chokes through. Caffeine is her appointed God - always has been. It drives her, runs through her otherwise empty veins. She works through the taste, fingers return to flying across the noisy keys. Words pop up on screen. Soon they'll be a sentence, then an article. It'll be a good one too; she's been working undercover on this gem for weeks.
A nagging feeling in the back of her head comes into play. It'll be good, alright, just good. Not excellent, not award-winning like the ones Lois writes. The headliners on The Daily Planet. No, this article will be relegated to the sixth page, under the picture of some cute dog, and may have the chance to appear in The Inquirer. That's what happens every week. That's the only chance she gets, might as well take it.
It's now she misses high school. How she controlled what the school read, how she got to be the hard-knocks editor. Lois couldn't hone in on that position. She got the headliners and the sixth page and all the pages in-between. She had power then, she was power. It drugged her from the real world. The fall from innocence was painful and slow, rejection after rejection from small town papers. She knew it was partly Lois's doing she even had permission to write the caption underneath the cute dog picture.
A digital clock beeps in the background, from another cubical. Someone forgot to shut off their computer again. It signals its one a.m. Time to make the daily trek to the apartment. To sleep for five hours, wake up, and come back here. It's a shame her workspace is too full with papers and files, or she would put in a couch and stay in her office the whole day. Some call it obsession, she calls it dedication.
The paragraph is done, so she adds three more. The story isn't due for another three or four days. She figures she can leave now that her sense of accomplishment is complete. The light from the screen vanishes with the push of a button, leaving her in complete darkness. There's no need to flick the switch, she knows her way around the maze of cluttered office spaces like the back of her hand.
Soon her hand trails across the cool metal of the door. It's almost depressing as she applies pressure and the door opens readily. This means she has to leave, has to face the real world. It's so nice back in fiction. Her black leather boots she had envied in the store window for three weeks before working up the nerve to go in and buy them clack against the floor of the elevator. She knows the buttons, too. The elevator jerks into submission, lowering her down to the parking lot.
The cool night air hits her face full blast. She's in the multilevel parking garage, sector D 12. The smell of freshly poured concrete and gas creep their way up her nose. Her eyes adjust to the light that pours in through the slits in the concrete, providing viewers with blips of Metropolis at night. Dance clubs are glowing neon, drunkards are yelling nonsense, crashes come from dark alleys, and she walks alone to where her car rests. It's easy to find, it's one of the only cars left, and it shines eerily in the florescent light of the overhead lamp.
She takes a moment to rest next to the driver's side door and glance out another slit in the concrete. This particular place gives her a view of a large, looming building. Most of the lights are on inside, people working graveyard shifts. Luthorcorp never ceases to stop. The streets are relatively clear, a few people speeding past red lights. Soon she'll be out there, dodging traffic. How enjoyable.
She pulls out her large ring of keys from her rip-off designer handbag. They feel heavy and dull in her manicured hand. She knows the feel of each and every one of the pieces of metal and slides the correct one into the slot in the door easily. She's had the Bug forever, since high school. Another trinket she carries with her, to remind her of her fifteen minutes of fame.
She lets the glimpse of the dark highlights go as she slides into the worn seat of her car. Tossing her bag aside, she sets her hands on the wheel. They fit perfectly into the grooves she's created over time. She sighs. Time to go home.
She slips in another key, trying to rev the engine. It makes a clicking noise. The engine refuses to turn over, won't run. She mutters complaints, slams her hands against the dashboard. Maybe threatening the old vehicle will force it into proper order again. The key comes out, slides back in, and turns. The same, fruitless results are produced. Not again.
She shrugs it off, flustered. It's the perfect time of night to be stranded in a deserted parking lot alone. As long as she had her can of pepper spray at hand, she would be safe, right? That triggered another thought. She also had her cell phone tucked neatly in the bottom of her purse. Leafing through the contents - a tube of lipstick, a wallet, some tissues, a notepad, six pens, and a false eyelash - she extracts the small, metallic phone. Flipping it open, she calls the mechanic. He's sending over one of his men to come and help out the 'little lady.'
It's another half hour before the dingy, rusty repair truck rattles through the gate and up the four flights of lots. She hears the echoes of the screeching tires from the first floor. She gets more impatient by the minute, waiting in her locked-from-the-inside car for a rescuer. Her chemical God is slowly slipping from her body. Her head droops forward, her eyes trying to fight their way open.
There is a knock on her window. Her head snaps up painfully. It's a large, round, dark face that peers in on her. "Ma'am?" the deep male voice asks. "Is everything alright? I've got a service call for a Ms. Sullivan, are you her?"
She nods her head and lifts up the lock upon seeing the man's attire and the truck with 'Ajax's Mechanics' painted messily on the side. He is not a murderer coming for her, nor is he here to rob her. He is here to help her. She opens the door. "I'm Ms. Sullivan."
The man stands back, surveying her. She feels a shiver run down her spine. She recognizes his face from somewhere - the big lips, the mirthful eyes, the brown skin, though she can't place a name with the face. He takes a step closer. She backs up until she feels the car against her exposed calf. What a miserable day to wear a skirt.
"Chloe Sullivan?" he asks, astounded. He takes another step closer.
She had left her purse in the car. Her mace wasn't clutched in her hand where she dreams it to be. "Yes," she draws out, feeling the handle of the door. "I'm Chloe Sullivan."
The man smiles and relaxes. "I haven't seen you in forever," he informs her.
"I'm sorry," she stutters out, now intrigued. Her shoulders relax from their former hunched position. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I know you."
The smile fades. "It's me," the young man informs her. He grabs the tag on his grease-stained shirt. She squints; it's barely legible in the dim light. "It's Pete," he nods, encouraging her, "Pete Ross. From high school, remember?"
Her mouth falls open; her hand unclenches from the handle. "Pete?" She steps forward, now with a smile to match his. She shakes her head, styled bits of hair flying her face. "Pete? I thought you were in Indiana with your parents."
Pete shrugs lazily. "I moved out after school. Went into racing for a while. Didn't cut it, so I became a mechanic."
She smiles wider. It's been a long time since she's seen a face that she likes. She always missed Pete; wondered what became of him every now and then. "That still doesn't explain what you're doing here in Metropolis, fixing my car."
Again, he shrugs. "Thought it was time for a change - you know - some new faces. I thought everyone had left Smallville, went their separate ways. I didn't think anyone would even stay in the state."
"Well," she sighs, throwing her hands out to her sides. "Here I am. Still here after five years."
Pete scratches the side of his neck nervously. He looks around for something to distract him. He stops when he lays eyes on his car. "Oh, yeah," he mutters. He walks off and comes back with a tool kit and some paperwork for her. "Tell me what's wrong."
"I have no life. I work for a newspaper that doesn't even know my name. I live in a one-room apartment that smells like garbage twenty-four seven. I don't have a boyfriend, actually, no social life to speak of. And, at one in the morning, my car won't start." She sighs and smiles dramatically, folding her arms across her chest. "That's what's wrong."
Pete laughs sympathetically, holding out the clipboard with insurance forms on it. "Better check the engine, then." He heads to the front and lifts up the hood. "Same car after nine years," she can hear his muffled voice say.
It takes an awkward twenty minutes before the Bug is diagnosed. She's too nervous to speak. So many years have passed since they spoke. Since the admission. Since the kiss. Shivers run laps through her body. It's cold for a September night. She still doesn't understand why he up and left in the first place. The only excuse he gave her was 'a family thing.' She had missed him, even through Clark and Lana and graduation and past boyfriends. Pete had always been the good guy.
Pete emerges from the darkness, slamming the hood down. He shakes his head.
"It's shot."
She slumps against the car, holding a hand to her temple, setting the paperwork on the hood of the Bug. "This can't be happening. How am I supposed to get home? How am I supposed to get back to work?" She begins pacing. "I've got responsibilities! I've got things to do! This can't happen!"
"Chloe," Pete says, laying a large hand on her shoulder. "It'll be alright. We'll leave your car here until morning, when I can call a tow truck for you."
She turns around sharply, throwing his grasp off her. "Yeah, but how am I supposed to get home?"
Pete shrugs. "I'll give you a lift. Where do you live?"
She backs down. Her God has left her body. She's so tired. "Fine, fine. I live at Acreside Apartments. Building C. Near the hospital, you know?"
He looks shocked again.
"What, what is it?" she snaps.
"It's just," Pete stutters, "I just moved into Building E a few weeks ago."
She stands back. "Really?"
Pete starts towards the car. "Yeah." He opens the truck door and runs around to the driver's side. She runs back to her own car to grab her purse and to lock the doors. Why bother? It won't work. No one will steal it anyway. She climbs in the truck that's filled with the odor of smoke and gasoline. Pete doesn't smell so wonderful himself. Nevertheless, she buckles in and watches as the sight of the parking garage fades out of sight.
"So what've you been doing for the past five years?" Pete asks her, flipping his turning signal on. He doesn't look at her, not even a sneaked glance.
She shrugs, clasping her bag to her stomach. "Went to college. Lois landed me a job as a journalist at The Daily Planet. Moved into an apartment." She laughs self-consciously. "Still working on the sixteen cats, though."
He laughs a good, solid, deep laugh. It reminds her of how much she missed that voice. The one that once told her he loved her. The first - and only - boy to ever really mean it.
"Seen much of Clark?"
A pang of hurt stabs at her heart. "No," she practically growls. "After he left Lana and went off to woo Lois, we didn't keep in touch. I just sort of faded out of everyone's life. They went off to forge their own path. I don't know what happened to me."
"I know, he told me the last time I called that he hadn't talked to Lana in months. He didn't even know where to reach you." Another swift turn sends her smashing into the door, her head against the streaked window.
A silence falls as they leave the section of corporate buildings and into the rundown shops. Spray painted walls and decrepit traffic signs flash before her eyes as they head toward the apartment complex. Only a few minutes until she's home.
Finally, they pull into the parking lot. The car is shut off and the couple is plunged into darkness again. Pete turns to her. "I'm glad we met again. I've missed you - everyone - a lot."
She flashed him a weary smile. Mysteriously, his face makes her heart jump. A feeling she hasn't experienced in a long time. It's a welcome, good feeling. She opens the door and jumps down. Pete meets her at the door to Building C.
"Thanks for the ride."
He shrugs yet again. "No problem. When can I pick you up tomorrow?"
"Around eight would be nice."
She puts her arm on his shoulder without meaning to. She blushes and looks down. You'd think after years of dating experience she'd feel a little less giddy. But something about the twenty-two year old man in front of her makes her insides want to melt. A school girl's crush all over again.
"Eight it is," he says, bending down to look in her eyes. It may sound wild, but just for a second, she thought she saw the same spark in his eye he got when he had admitted his love in twelfth grade.
She presses on the door, making it open. She's too jumpy to deal with this.
"It's a date."
She can still hear his laugh even after four flights of stairs has been put between them. Her heart won't calm down. She knows, for the first time in a long time, she's looking forward to waking up for work today.
For Pete Ross.
Well, there it is. My first Smallville fanfiction. Please be nice, no flames.
Katie