Title: "Vast"
Author: Miss Windy
Series: Smallville
Pairing: Ch/W
Rating: PG
Archives: Please do not archive this anywhere.
Summary: Chloe and Whitney discover that you really can learn a lot from someone with whom you have nothing in common.
I.
Since moving to Smallville the previous year, Chloe Sullivan had learned to think on her feet. Not that she had been much of a hesitator before, mind you. Never the cautious type. One really couldn't afford caution and hesitation, with an inquisitive mind such as hers. Mrs. Sumners, her sixth grade English and grammar teacher, had often patted her on the head and beamed down at her, babbling warm praise about Chloe's inquisitive mind. Mrs. Sumners was more than halfway to blind but in denial about it, and so, crashing into everything in sight and placing pencils on desk edges that weren't there and such, she had been the subject of many of Chloe's classmates' snickers and rude sketches. But Chloe had loved her. And Mrs. Sumners had loved Chloe, her only sixth grade student in over a decade that had laughed out loud during their classroom reading of Twain's "A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court."
"It's because you're so bright and curious," Mrs. Sumners had cooed at her after class. It had earned her a poke in the back and a snigger from her friend Mike, but Chloe had basked. It had been nice to find someone who unconditionally encouraged her to ask as many questions as she saw fit, and who completely understood and appreciated the way her mind worked--making connections all over the place, always wanting a full and logical explanation. And the description Mrs. Sumners had provided her with had stuck, set a standard, so that old, batty Mrs. Sumners' undoubting expectations now more or less defined her.
Absurd, really, but something else Chloe had learned to live with in this near-surreal little town was absurdity. If she hadn't learned to live with it, she was sure she would have long lost her "inquisitive mind".
She wasn't sure what, if anything, could possibly have prepared her for Whitney Fordman slinking into her office looking something like a guilty criminal that Thursday afternoon after school though.
Funny, really. She hadn't noticed him at first, which, all things considered, was highly ironic, as Chloe was pretty sure Whitney Fordman had made a career out of getting noticed. Apparently the big lug had stood there for a few minutes silently, trying to either disappear into the wall, or possibly, Chloe mused serenely, struggling to find a bisyllabic word or two with which to impress her.
She was mildly surprised there was no steam coming from his ears. She decided to go easy on him; it was never kind to go into a battle of wits with a clearly unarmed man.
"Can I help you?" Couldn't quite help the sarcastic edge that had sliced into her tone, and she was amused at the way his jaw set, and his shoulders straightened, before he said, "Yeah. You're Chloe Sullivan, editor of the paper, right?"
"The one and only," she crowed, and gave him a too-wide grin. "What can I do for you?"
Whitney's eyes darted about the room as he tried, almost successfully, to not look uncomfortable. "I need a... uh. See, the thing is--there's this... I have a note from uh--"
Chloe blinked at him, her expression purposely blank. "I'm... kinda busy here, Fordman. If you don't mind speeding it up a bit--"
Whitney blew air between his teeth, still not looking at her. "OK. Look. I got into a fight." He sighed tensely, and Chloe leaned back in her rickety old chair, curiously watching him struggle to find the best way to phrase whatever was coming next.
And that was the first time she noticed the scrape just under his chin and the slightly split lip. Chloe's eyebrows shot up. "That's... uncool, but if I you don't mind my saying so, not exactly shocking."
Whitney rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't need this. I--"
"Well, why don't you tell me what you do need, so that we can both go about our business and go back to pretending the other doesn't exist?" Chloe curled her lip slightly in disdain before resuming her practiced poker grin.
"I need--I need to work for you."
This time her mouth could do nothing but form a perfect O.
"I'm sorry--what? What did you say? My hearing must be going, because I could have sworn you just said you wanted to work for me, and that sure as hell can't be right."
"I didn't--" Fordman took a deep breath, and she marked with amusement that his first instinct had been to raise his voice at her. He began immediately with a quieter tone--through gritted teeth. "I didn't say I wanted to. I said I need to. See... I got into a fight yesterday during practice."
"With a teammate?" she asked, her reporter's mind already piecing information together.
"Yes, with a teammate," he said, his words mincing and slow, as though he were talking to an extremely irritating child. "And it's my third fight this year and... Coach made a deal with Principal Kwan. That if I got involved in an extracurricular activity that contributed to the school and kept my nose clean till the end of football season, I could stay on the team and avoid suspension."
"So you picked joining the paper."
"It was the lesser of all the evils," he retorted. He paused, and his expression shifted somewhat towards the spectrum of smug. "Principal Kwan said you'd say yes. He said to tell you that you owed him one." And for a guy who was very nearly a grown man, he sounded suspiciously sing-songy.
"What is this, like your penance or something?" Chloe snorted and turned away, dragging her keyboard closer to her. "Forget it, Fordman. Whatever Kwan thinks I owe him--it isn't big enough to foist you onto my staff."
Tense silence as the keyboard began to click steadily under her fingers.
A few seconds later she paused and, without turning--"I know you're not still here, Fordman."
He let out a breath of exasperation and approached her in two great strides. "Look, you've gotta help me, OK?"
Chloe giggled, sincerely amused. "And why, pray tell, do I `gotta' do that?"
"Because!" Whitney exclaimed, and bit his lip. She found him even more absurd for it. "Because if you don't help me, I'm off the team for the rest of the season, and I have a suspension on my record, and-- no college is going to take me with those strikes against me, and--and that's going to screw up my whole life, OK? And frankly this is the only thing I could think of doing in my spare time that didn't make me sick to my stomach."
"Flattery will get you everywhere." Chloe tapped her pencil against her arm rail. "Look, that's very tragic and everything, I'm sure, but you really should have thought about this before you fed one of your teammates a knuckle sandwich."
"Spare me." But his too-squared shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and he perched himself on the nearest chair, looking somewhat forlorn. "Believe me, he had it coming."
"Oh, yeah?" Chloe leaned in mischievously towards him, and her eyes widened in conspiracy as she asked, "What was the fight about?"
"None of your business! Are you going to let me work for you or not?"
She rolled her eyes incredulously "No! Join the glee club!"
"I can't sing."
"So?? Go be a prop for the debate club."
"Come on!"
"What? I don't care! Why should I care?" she cried, then softened. "Why should I help you? You've been pretty rotten to my friends and you've pretended I'm completely transparent for the better part of a semester. And this is your way of buttering me up? You've got a ways to learn in salesmanship, I've gotta be honest."
"You need me."
"Ha!"
He rushed on before she could retort. "I know Scott Rainier quit doing the sports column two weeks ago when he took on that job at the supermarket." Whitney cocked an eyebrow at her. "He's a friend of mine. And ever since then--well, your sports columns just--just suck. Uh. No offense. I mean... You must have better things to do than go to all the games, and besides, I could do better. I know I could."
She twisted her mouth in resentment and defeat. He was, hatefully enough, right. "God. Can you even write?"
He glared at her.
"I meant write for a paper," she said, exasperated. "How do I know you're not a typical dumb jock, coasting by with C-minuses in English and stuff like that? Huh? I'm gonna have to see some writing samples."
His whole face brightened, and he looked utterly like a different person for a split second. "Hey, thanks!"
"Don't thank me yet, Fordman," she threw up her hands in defense. "I haven't said yes yet. I'm saying... maybe. A very, very cautious, tentative maybe."
"Right," he said, immediately shuttering his expression. He dug through his knapsack and quickly dug out a stack of disheveled papers. "Right. Look, I brought three graded papers from this semester's English class for you. Is that going to be enough for you to look at?"
"I guess." Chloe regarded him with suspicion as she yanked the papers out of his hand. She rifled through them, skimming. A. A-minus. A-minus. Hmm. She nearly had to physically restrain herself from asking if he was sure Lana hadn't written these for him.
A few seconds passed before she rifled every ounce of condescension she could as she stared up at him. "You're not going to stand there boring holes into my head while I'm reading these, are you?"
"Uh--right. No. I just--when will you know for sure?"
"Give me till tonight," Chloe sighed. "I hate to admit it, but you're right. Besides the fact that I'm seriously understaffed in general... athletics is definitely not my field of expertise. I could use someone--doesn't have to be you, mind you... but I'm nothing if not open minded."
"Good."
"Is there a way I can reach you? Phone? E-mail?" Suddenly she felt inexplicably shy, and hated the way she could feel the color rising into her cheeks. "I mean. I don't see you in the halls often."
"No e-mail, but I can write my phone number down for you," he offered. "We don't have a machine or anything, but my mom's usually home, so--"
"No e-mail? No answering machine?" Chloe handed him her pen and watched him scribble the digits on the cover paper of one of his essays. "I had no idea the Fordmans were Luddites."
"Um, no, we're Presbyterian, actually," Whitney said, regarding her strangely.
"Right." She bit her smile back and said, "I'll, um, give you a call tonight and let you know my decision."
"Fine," he said, and stood to leave. "Uh. Thanks."
"No problem," she said softly, to his retreating back.
Two thoughts clashed cacophonously in her brain as she desperately tried to make sense of the last 10 minutes of her life.
One was: What the hell had that been about?
The other was: When Clark finds out, he's going to *kill* me.
TBC..............
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
The title is from a couplet in Walt Whitman's poem, "Song of Myself." It reads: "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am vast; I contain multitudes."
Author: Miss Windy
Series: Smallville
Pairing: Ch/W
Rating: PG
Archives: Please do not archive this anywhere.
Summary: Chloe and Whitney discover that you really can learn a lot from someone with whom you have nothing in common.
I.
Since moving to Smallville the previous year, Chloe Sullivan had learned to think on her feet. Not that she had been much of a hesitator before, mind you. Never the cautious type. One really couldn't afford caution and hesitation, with an inquisitive mind such as hers. Mrs. Sumners, her sixth grade English and grammar teacher, had often patted her on the head and beamed down at her, babbling warm praise about Chloe's inquisitive mind. Mrs. Sumners was more than halfway to blind but in denial about it, and so, crashing into everything in sight and placing pencils on desk edges that weren't there and such, she had been the subject of many of Chloe's classmates' snickers and rude sketches. But Chloe had loved her. And Mrs. Sumners had loved Chloe, her only sixth grade student in over a decade that had laughed out loud during their classroom reading of Twain's "A Connecticut Yankee In King Arthur's Court."
"It's because you're so bright and curious," Mrs. Sumners had cooed at her after class. It had earned her a poke in the back and a snigger from her friend Mike, but Chloe had basked. It had been nice to find someone who unconditionally encouraged her to ask as many questions as she saw fit, and who completely understood and appreciated the way her mind worked--making connections all over the place, always wanting a full and logical explanation. And the description Mrs. Sumners had provided her with had stuck, set a standard, so that old, batty Mrs. Sumners' undoubting expectations now more or less defined her.
Absurd, really, but something else Chloe had learned to live with in this near-surreal little town was absurdity. If she hadn't learned to live with it, she was sure she would have long lost her "inquisitive mind".
She wasn't sure what, if anything, could possibly have prepared her for Whitney Fordman slinking into her office looking something like a guilty criminal that Thursday afternoon after school though.
Funny, really. She hadn't noticed him at first, which, all things considered, was highly ironic, as Chloe was pretty sure Whitney Fordman had made a career out of getting noticed. Apparently the big lug had stood there for a few minutes silently, trying to either disappear into the wall, or possibly, Chloe mused serenely, struggling to find a bisyllabic word or two with which to impress her.
She was mildly surprised there was no steam coming from his ears. She decided to go easy on him; it was never kind to go into a battle of wits with a clearly unarmed man.
"Can I help you?" Couldn't quite help the sarcastic edge that had sliced into her tone, and she was amused at the way his jaw set, and his shoulders straightened, before he said, "Yeah. You're Chloe Sullivan, editor of the paper, right?"
"The one and only," she crowed, and gave him a too-wide grin. "What can I do for you?"
Whitney's eyes darted about the room as he tried, almost successfully, to not look uncomfortable. "I need a... uh. See, the thing is--there's this... I have a note from uh--"
Chloe blinked at him, her expression purposely blank. "I'm... kinda busy here, Fordman. If you don't mind speeding it up a bit--"
Whitney blew air between his teeth, still not looking at her. "OK. Look. I got into a fight." He sighed tensely, and Chloe leaned back in her rickety old chair, curiously watching him struggle to find the best way to phrase whatever was coming next.
And that was the first time she noticed the scrape just under his chin and the slightly split lip. Chloe's eyebrows shot up. "That's... uncool, but if I you don't mind my saying so, not exactly shocking."
Whitney rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't need this. I--"
"Well, why don't you tell me what you do need, so that we can both go about our business and go back to pretending the other doesn't exist?" Chloe curled her lip slightly in disdain before resuming her practiced poker grin.
"I need--I need to work for you."
This time her mouth could do nothing but form a perfect O.
"I'm sorry--what? What did you say? My hearing must be going, because I could have sworn you just said you wanted to work for me, and that sure as hell can't be right."
"I didn't--" Fordman took a deep breath, and she marked with amusement that his first instinct had been to raise his voice at her. He began immediately with a quieter tone--through gritted teeth. "I didn't say I wanted to. I said I need to. See... I got into a fight yesterday during practice."
"With a teammate?" she asked, her reporter's mind already piecing information together.
"Yes, with a teammate," he said, his words mincing and slow, as though he were talking to an extremely irritating child. "And it's my third fight this year and... Coach made a deal with Principal Kwan. That if I got involved in an extracurricular activity that contributed to the school and kept my nose clean till the end of football season, I could stay on the team and avoid suspension."
"So you picked joining the paper."
"It was the lesser of all the evils," he retorted. He paused, and his expression shifted somewhat towards the spectrum of smug. "Principal Kwan said you'd say yes. He said to tell you that you owed him one." And for a guy who was very nearly a grown man, he sounded suspiciously sing-songy.
"What is this, like your penance or something?" Chloe snorted and turned away, dragging her keyboard closer to her. "Forget it, Fordman. Whatever Kwan thinks I owe him--it isn't big enough to foist you onto my staff."
Tense silence as the keyboard began to click steadily under her fingers.
A few seconds later she paused and, without turning--"I know you're not still here, Fordman."
He let out a breath of exasperation and approached her in two great strides. "Look, you've gotta help me, OK?"
Chloe giggled, sincerely amused. "And why, pray tell, do I `gotta' do that?"
"Because!" Whitney exclaimed, and bit his lip. She found him even more absurd for it. "Because if you don't help me, I'm off the team for the rest of the season, and I have a suspension on my record, and-- no college is going to take me with those strikes against me, and--and that's going to screw up my whole life, OK? And frankly this is the only thing I could think of doing in my spare time that didn't make me sick to my stomach."
"Flattery will get you everywhere." Chloe tapped her pencil against her arm rail. "Look, that's very tragic and everything, I'm sure, but you really should have thought about this before you fed one of your teammates a knuckle sandwich."
"Spare me." But his too-squared shoulders slumped ever so slightly, and he perched himself on the nearest chair, looking somewhat forlorn. "Believe me, he had it coming."
"Oh, yeah?" Chloe leaned in mischievously towards him, and her eyes widened in conspiracy as she asked, "What was the fight about?"
"None of your business! Are you going to let me work for you or not?"
She rolled her eyes incredulously "No! Join the glee club!"
"I can't sing."
"So?? Go be a prop for the debate club."
"Come on!"
"What? I don't care! Why should I care?" she cried, then softened. "Why should I help you? You've been pretty rotten to my friends and you've pretended I'm completely transparent for the better part of a semester. And this is your way of buttering me up? You've got a ways to learn in salesmanship, I've gotta be honest."
"You need me."
"Ha!"
He rushed on before she could retort. "I know Scott Rainier quit doing the sports column two weeks ago when he took on that job at the supermarket." Whitney cocked an eyebrow at her. "He's a friend of mine. And ever since then--well, your sports columns just--just suck. Uh. No offense. I mean... You must have better things to do than go to all the games, and besides, I could do better. I know I could."
She twisted her mouth in resentment and defeat. He was, hatefully enough, right. "God. Can you even write?"
He glared at her.
"I meant write for a paper," she said, exasperated. "How do I know you're not a typical dumb jock, coasting by with C-minuses in English and stuff like that? Huh? I'm gonna have to see some writing samples."
His whole face brightened, and he looked utterly like a different person for a split second. "Hey, thanks!"
"Don't thank me yet, Fordman," she threw up her hands in defense. "I haven't said yes yet. I'm saying... maybe. A very, very cautious, tentative maybe."
"Right," he said, immediately shuttering his expression. He dug through his knapsack and quickly dug out a stack of disheveled papers. "Right. Look, I brought three graded papers from this semester's English class for you. Is that going to be enough for you to look at?"
"I guess." Chloe regarded him with suspicion as she yanked the papers out of his hand. She rifled through them, skimming. A. A-minus. A-minus. Hmm. She nearly had to physically restrain herself from asking if he was sure Lana hadn't written these for him.
A few seconds passed before she rifled every ounce of condescension she could as she stared up at him. "You're not going to stand there boring holes into my head while I'm reading these, are you?"
"Uh--right. No. I just--when will you know for sure?"
"Give me till tonight," Chloe sighed. "I hate to admit it, but you're right. Besides the fact that I'm seriously understaffed in general... athletics is definitely not my field of expertise. I could use someone--doesn't have to be you, mind you... but I'm nothing if not open minded."
"Good."
"Is there a way I can reach you? Phone? E-mail?" Suddenly she felt inexplicably shy, and hated the way she could feel the color rising into her cheeks. "I mean. I don't see you in the halls often."
"No e-mail, but I can write my phone number down for you," he offered. "We don't have a machine or anything, but my mom's usually home, so--"
"No e-mail? No answering machine?" Chloe handed him her pen and watched him scribble the digits on the cover paper of one of his essays. "I had no idea the Fordmans were Luddites."
"Um, no, we're Presbyterian, actually," Whitney said, regarding her strangely.
"Right." She bit her smile back and said, "I'll, um, give you a call tonight and let you know my decision."
"Fine," he said, and stood to leave. "Uh. Thanks."
"No problem," she said softly, to his retreating back.
Two thoughts clashed cacophonously in her brain as she desperately tried to make sense of the last 10 minutes of her life.
One was: What the hell had that been about?
The other was: When Clark finds out, he's going to *kill* me.
TBC..............
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
The title is from a couplet in Walt Whitman's poem, "Song of Myself." It reads: "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am vast; I contain multitudes."