AN: Okay. Reverb was supposed to be my only angst, my one shot. And then
inspiration bit. And now I'm kind of wondering if this is going to turn
into an out-of-order account of this (now AU, I suppose) world. This is
set after Reverb (a few years) and some other thing have happened and Clark
is trying to deal. So. ^.^
And upon thinking about it, I do believe it was a certain spoiler that made me come down off of "Coquet's" fluffiness. *sighs* Shipping notes: Maybe a touch more Chlark, probably some hidden Clois... Hm. Not much. ^.^
Def. of "imbroglio" - (1) a difficult or intricate situation; an entanglement, (2) a confused or complicated disagreement, or (3) a confused heap; a tangle.
----------------------------------------------------
Reverberations: Part II - Imbroglio
by Chiri
---------------------------------------------------- There was a room Clark never entered, not anymore. It wasn't in a house or home, it wasn't for sentimentality. He feared what he would do if he went in.
Would he let anger consume him? Would he let vile, bitter hatred brew inside? Part of him recognized that was a definate possibility. A lone man gone crazy, the papers would say. A nurse would claim he ripped out the walls, literally. Would all his pent up frustration be taken out on everything inside? Destroying all that was within?
Or, instead of anger, would his soul dive into desperateness? Would the mere sight of everything with in leave him broken, stranded? Reliving the horrors.
What he feared most was to feel nothing at all.
And the whole reason these questions came up was for a simple fact. It was time to pay the bills. Phone, electric... and hospital.
Lois had tried to tell him to let go. She didn't understand. He could never let go. Never. She didn't even realize the direct correlation between her story and the room, the bill.
Lois had her sister, her parents. He had her parents. Pete and Lana had moved on. Lex had never cared anyways.
Her father was dead.
Her mother was dead.
She never married.
She was the last, as was he. He couldn't choose for her. She couldn't choose for herself. What was left? Continue the routine.
He paid the bill. He shrugged off doctors again trying to say that his hope was futile. That it was time to turn the machines off. He walked past the door, listened.
Clicks, hums, whurs.
She was still alive. Someday she'd return. And he knew he would make Lex pay for what had happened. He'd invite her over for coffee sometime. Two no-fat, no-foam lattes.
Clark would introduce her to the reporter she had been helping, and his co- worker, Lois. Lois, who had been sorting through his mail that night, who had brought up everything he wouldn't... couldn't say.
And everything would be fine again. She'd see. Everyone would see. Life would be good, she could start writing again. She wouldn't have to live in fear. He would protect her, like he should have. Everything would be fine, everything would be so perfect.
Just like it was. Before the 'accident' in her rooms. Before Lex shot her for sharing too much. Oh, there was no proof. Hitmen kind of fade away. But it was Lex.
It was always Lex.
A friendship, betrayed. He had trusted Lex. He would have exposed it all to save the one guy he thought understood what it was to be different. Not in the same way, but different.
He was waiting for her. Waiting for her to come up in her old Falcon she drove while in town just for the hell of it. She was late. And then she was gone. Not from him, but from the world. He had looked. He had looked everywhere. Around the world, but they were always two steps ahead.
And then one day... after he started working... Lois got a phone call. Then - a few days later - she was on the television. She was giving a press conference for Lex Luthor, President of the United States. He couldn't believe it was her. He couldn't believe what she was saying.
Then, then the assisination. But Lex had failed. She was alive. He had seen that. He saw her, for a moment. She'd croaked out his name, his real name. Not 'Superman,' not 'Kal-el.'
"Clark."
She had known. She had always known, even when she wasn't aware of it. Her eyes had pierced him. Thankful, sad, and happy. And for a moment she seemed so alive, everything that went into living was there and boldly defying the bullet wounds. The moment passed, she gradually slipped away.
Room 108.
That was always the room she had gone into. The walls were disgustingly pink and teal. She hated that. They only had basic cable and no computer interlink. That irked her. And they had made her eat jello, those fascists.
He had been in that room too many times. Sat through the night when Lex had swore to find who had hurt her. Stayed up while she tried not to admit her claustrophobia or why she never wanted to be buried. His mind could remember every single moment with her. Every single time he thought of her.
It had taken a bit longer to move her here after the immediate care in Washington. But she was safe here. Lex had forgotten this place -- or at least purposefully ignored it.
He almost entered; he could hear her calling him. He needed her. He needed his friend if not his fiancee.
"I mean, I'm sure after a few weeks you'll forget all about me."
He would never forget. It was for her. The reason he was who he was. The reason he uncovered the truth now. The reason he kept coming here.
He let go of the door handle, forcing himself to walk away. It would do no good to be spotted here, at the door of a "Jane Doe." Why bring the monster's attention to the fallen, the weak?
He walked on by, like he had been doing every month for three years. Inside, the rise and fall of her chest was even. The respirator saw to that. Her eyes were closed peacefully, all the superficial bruises long ago healed. Muscle stimulators were on her legs and arms, keeping them firm. Her mouth was quirked up, slightly. The heart monitor beeped, a steady pulse. She wouldn't wake up, she was lost.
The doctor said she was in a coma, one that she would probably never wake up from. He chose to believe in her. He always believed the best in people. After all, Chloe Sullivan lived, and that wouldn't have
happened if not to prove that some day... some how... she would return.
-ending-
And upon thinking about it, I do believe it was a certain spoiler that made me come down off of "Coquet's" fluffiness. *sighs* Shipping notes: Maybe a touch more Chlark, probably some hidden Clois... Hm. Not much. ^.^
Def. of "imbroglio" - (1) a difficult or intricate situation; an entanglement, (2) a confused or complicated disagreement, or (3) a confused heap; a tangle.
----------------------------------------------------
Reverberations: Part II - Imbroglio
by Chiri
---------------------------------------------------- There was a room Clark never entered, not anymore. It wasn't in a house or home, it wasn't for sentimentality. He feared what he would do if he went in.
Would he let anger consume him? Would he let vile, bitter hatred brew inside? Part of him recognized that was a definate possibility. A lone man gone crazy, the papers would say. A nurse would claim he ripped out the walls, literally. Would all his pent up frustration be taken out on everything inside? Destroying all that was within?
Or, instead of anger, would his soul dive into desperateness? Would the mere sight of everything with in leave him broken, stranded? Reliving the horrors.
What he feared most was to feel nothing at all.
And the whole reason these questions came up was for a simple fact. It was time to pay the bills. Phone, electric... and hospital.
Lois had tried to tell him to let go. She didn't understand. He could never let go. Never. She didn't even realize the direct correlation between her story and the room, the bill.
Lois had her sister, her parents. He had her parents. Pete and Lana had moved on. Lex had never cared anyways.
Her father was dead.
Her mother was dead.
She never married.
She was the last, as was he. He couldn't choose for her. She couldn't choose for herself. What was left? Continue the routine.
He paid the bill. He shrugged off doctors again trying to say that his hope was futile. That it was time to turn the machines off. He walked past the door, listened.
Clicks, hums, whurs.
She was still alive. Someday she'd return. And he knew he would make Lex pay for what had happened. He'd invite her over for coffee sometime. Two no-fat, no-foam lattes.
Clark would introduce her to the reporter she had been helping, and his co- worker, Lois. Lois, who had been sorting through his mail that night, who had brought up everything he wouldn't... couldn't say.
And everything would be fine again. She'd see. Everyone would see. Life would be good, she could start writing again. She wouldn't have to live in fear. He would protect her, like he should have. Everything would be fine, everything would be so perfect.
Just like it was. Before the 'accident' in her rooms. Before Lex shot her for sharing too much. Oh, there was no proof. Hitmen kind of fade away. But it was Lex.
It was always Lex.
A friendship, betrayed. He had trusted Lex. He would have exposed it all to save the one guy he thought understood what it was to be different. Not in the same way, but different.
He was waiting for her. Waiting for her to come up in her old Falcon she drove while in town just for the hell of it. She was late. And then she was gone. Not from him, but from the world. He had looked. He had looked everywhere. Around the world, but they were always two steps ahead.
And then one day... after he started working... Lois got a phone call. Then - a few days later - she was on the television. She was giving a press conference for Lex Luthor, President of the United States. He couldn't believe it was her. He couldn't believe what she was saying.
Then, then the assisination. But Lex had failed. She was alive. He had seen that. He saw her, for a moment. She'd croaked out his name, his real name. Not 'Superman,' not 'Kal-el.'
"Clark."
She had known. She had always known, even when she wasn't aware of it. Her eyes had pierced him. Thankful, sad, and happy. And for a moment she seemed so alive, everything that went into living was there and boldly defying the bullet wounds. The moment passed, she gradually slipped away.
Room 108.
That was always the room she had gone into. The walls were disgustingly pink and teal. She hated that. They only had basic cable and no computer interlink. That irked her. And they had made her eat jello, those fascists.
He had been in that room too many times. Sat through the night when Lex had swore to find who had hurt her. Stayed up while she tried not to admit her claustrophobia or why she never wanted to be buried. His mind could remember every single moment with her. Every single time he thought of her.
It had taken a bit longer to move her here after the immediate care in Washington. But she was safe here. Lex had forgotten this place -- or at least purposefully ignored it.
He almost entered; he could hear her calling him. He needed her. He needed his friend if not his fiancee.
"I mean, I'm sure after a few weeks you'll forget all about me."
He would never forget. It was for her. The reason he was who he was. The reason he uncovered the truth now. The reason he kept coming here.
He let go of the door handle, forcing himself to walk away. It would do no good to be spotted here, at the door of a "Jane Doe." Why bring the monster's attention to the fallen, the weak?
He walked on by, like he had been doing every month for three years. Inside, the rise and fall of her chest was even. The respirator saw to that. Her eyes were closed peacefully, all the superficial bruises long ago healed. Muscle stimulators were on her legs and arms, keeping them firm. Her mouth was quirked up, slightly. The heart monitor beeped, a steady pulse. She wouldn't wake up, she was lost.
The doctor said she was in a coma, one that she would probably never wake up from. He chose to believe in her. He always believed the best in people. After all, Chloe Sullivan lived, and that wouldn't have
happened if not to prove that some day... some how... she would return.
-ending-