Spoilers for "Kinetic", immediately after which this chapter takes place.
Beware of impending but, I hope, mild melodrama. That's all I'm gonna say
about this one. These suckers just keep getting longer and longer.
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Whitney stared vacantly into his own reflection in his cooling coffee. He took it black, with two sugars. Real men, his father had often opined, take coffee black. As a result, Whitney had tried to acquire a taste for it that way when he was younger and more impressionable, but he'd never been able to quite keep from gagging, and he had always snuck in two packets of sugar. It had made him feel quite defiant and triumphant until he'd realized at about age fourteen that two packs of sugar weren't much in the way of ammo against a domineering and invasive father. Still, there was something grudgingly satisfying about keeping to the secret ritual. True, it was an imperceptible act of rebellion, but then, it seemed as though virtually everything in his life lately was small and slowing to a halt. And so he sat on this night in the far recesses of the Beanery still with his coffee black with two sugars, and try as he might, he couldn't avoid staring critically at his own likeness in the black pool inside his oversized mug.
Under eye rings, check. Hair that had long needed a barber—check. Vacant expression of adolescent ennui—check. Pathetic. He sighed and glared at himself in the coffee, sniffing faintly the hazelnut wafting from the mug.
"Lose something in there?"
He was, in retrospect, lucky he'd had a lot of training for thinking on his feet, or else he'd have easily had hazelnut coffee all over himself from the start the voice had given him. He glanced up briefly. Oh, jeez.
"Hi, Chloe." He set the coffee down and scrutinized the table top.
"You look like you don't want to be found," she said after a beat.
His response was toneless, bland, and he didn't meet her eyes. "And yet, here you are," he sighed. After a second he checked for her reaction, and saw that her features had gone stony and slack, and she was turning to leave.
"Right. I guess I'll see you—"
Damn his conscience. "Hey—wait." He sighed again. None of his problems were Chloe Sullivan's fault. She'd done nothing but be kind to him, and it wasn't like his poor, bruised ego couldn't use the attention of a pretty girl right now.
She turned and rolled her eyes at him. "Hmm?"
Whoa. Pretty girl? Where had that come from? Whitney shook his head to clear his thoughts. Clearly he was more sleep deprived than he'd first estimated. "I'm—I didn't mean that. What are you doing here?" She smirked, making her eyes crinkled, and he blinked. Hmm. Love, he finally concluded, may very well be blind… but he sure wasn't. And he sure as hell couldn't afford to be discriminating when it came to friendly attention these days.
"What am I doing here? It's a coffee shop," she said dryly. "I'll give you three guesses."
He hid a smile despite himself. "Right. I meant—it's kinda late. And a school night."
"And a Tuesday in January and you are wearing blue," Chloe added meaningfully. "Are you done, Captain Obvious?"
Whitney paused, and then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I deserved that."
"Totally did."
"Have a seat. I mean. If you're not leaving."
After a moment's consideration, Chloe shrugged and sat, still hugging her laptop to herself. "So… what are you doing here all by yourself?"
He started to answer, then thought better of it. "You first."
Chloe cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly, but she said, "Waiting for my Dad to get out of work. He works late at the plant on Tuesday nights and he doesn't like me sitting in the house all by myself. So I come here to work on schoolwork and he picks me up around 11:15." She rolled her eyes and grinned affectionately at the thought of her Dad fussing over her. "I'm not supposed to leave the Beanery. It's just so he knows I'm in a public place. I guess he thinks I'll keep out of trouble that way."
"Sounds kinda… unconventional," Whitney said, and Chloe nodded.
"Yeah, that's us, I guess… unconventional."
"Nothing wrong with that."
"Yep." She sighed and set her laptop down, flipping it open. "So what brings you here?"
"You taking notes?"
She laughed in spite of herself. "No offense, but 'Whitney Fordman visits the Beanery' isn't exactly front page news."
He didn't smile, but there was amusement in his eyes. "No kidding. I'm actually… kinda playing hookie."
"Hookie? It's 10:30 at night."
"Thank you, Captain Obvious," he said, mimicking her earlier tone, and she ducked her head and snorted.
"I guess *I* deserve that," she muttered.
"Uh huh." He cleared his throat, and resumed studying his coffee. "I'm supposed to be helping with inventory right now. At my Dad's store. But uh. I bailed."
"That's not very nice, Fordman," Chloe chided with a heavy helping of sarcasm.
"Yeah, well, I'm not feeling really nice right now," he replied. "It's just for an hour, anyway. I have every intention of going back at 11:00 or so, and there's still gonna be plenty to do. I'm just—I needed a break. You know? Just for a few minutes. I mean, I know they need me and everything, but—"
"Hey, it's cool, dude, relax. I'm sure they'll survive without you for a whole hour," she shrugged, not noticing the way he gaped at her as she ordered her coffee.
He'd been expecting a reprimand. Possibly a lecture on responsibility and following through on commitments. He tensed automatically, thinking of his father's demanding voice or his mother's drawn, unyielding expressions. Or possibly a sympathetic pep talk, the kind he'd gotten from Lana every time he'd tried to talk to her the last few days. Awww, Whitney, I know it's tough, but just hang in there. In fact, everyone had added their own note in a chorus of the same message: keep on trucking. Be a man. You'll get over it. Your life will go on. And for God's sake, don't complain and don't take any time to collect yourself.
He felt immensely sorry for himself at that moment. "I'm just… a little tired, I guess."
"Well, you look like you were run over by a truck," she said, nodding briskly. "If you don't mind my saying so."
He blinked, adjusted to the bold frankness, and decided to plunge into it himself. There had, in fact, been an abysmal shortage of people willing to listen to him lately. Leaning forward slightly and glancing around to ensure their relative privacy, he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Hey. You heard about what really happened. While you were, you know… in the hospital. Right?"
"About the business with the mutant tattoos?" she asked softly, also surreptitiously scanning their surroundings. She nodded, and met his gaze. His eyes were wide as he nodded back.
"I feel like… everything's in slow motion."
"Slow….?" She cocked her head at him questioningly.
He paused, trying to form the ideas into coherent sentences. "Like every second lasts a minute. I feel like weeks have passed, like every day is endless, and it's only been four days. I feel like everything in my head is trying to get in gear again, but it's like… molasses."
"I see," Chloe said, not meaning to sound quite so incredulous.
"Ugh. Look, forget it. I'm not explaining this very well at all. I dunno what's wrong with me, and it just. It just sucks." And it's unbearable, he almost added, but then thought better of it. All he wanted was to put as much distance between himself and his current life circumstances, and instead it seemed as though he were fighting to keep every moment from going on pause.
"That makes perfect sense actually," Chloe said, near whisper to avoid eavesdropping.
"Yeah, well, it doesn't to me." Not like anything did anymore, he silently added to himself.
"Fordman, your molecules were moving at inhumanly fast rates," she said. "Now that you're back to normal, it's only natural that you feel a little-- sluggish. And ya know, I'm sure the sleep deprivation isn't helping any, either. How much are you getting these days, anyway?"
He snorted. "I can handle it," he said curtly. "But, yeah I guess you're right about the—the molecule thing."
"Of course I am," she said brightly. "Hey, not to change the subject or anything, but … are you going to have something for tomorrow's deadline?"
"What? Oh… crap," he muttered, his expression stricken. "I completely—crap. I'm sorry. I'll try to put something together when I get home tonight."
"Yeah, no offense, but I figured you wouldn't. You know what… I think I may just let Pete put out a seriously short version of the paper this week," she said, deciding on the spot. She gestured with her chin towards her broken arm. "Typing with one hand is a *lot* harder than it looks." She paused for a beat, and then deadpanned, "I don't know how you boys keep up on the Internet." And she resumed sipping her coffee innocently, not looking at him.
His mouth dropped open for a second, and then he let out a short burst of laughter. It was, she decided, an unexpectedly pleasant sound. He was still grinning and snickering, and rubbing his eyebrow when her gaze fell on him again.
"I can't believe you just said that," he admitted.
"I happen to be full of surprises, Fordman," she muttered happily, and powered up her Mac.
"I just *bet*," he drawled. Whitney felt the tension slipping away from him in slow increments as he watched this peculiar, exasperating girl's face light up with just a few clicks of her mouse. He found himself quietly enjoying the way she chewed on her bottom lip as she dug through the files on her computer, wishing he had something left that would allow him to lose himself in it that way, when suddenly--
"Hey guys," a voice chirped behind Whitney, and he felt a cool familiar hand rest on his shoulder. He sat up straighter out of sheer force of habit and turned his head to look… right up into Lana's face. Lana's quick, dark eyes were darting from Whitney to Chloe, who had looked up and given her a grin and a lazy wink as a greeting before resuming her clicking, and then back to Whitney again. He avoided meeting the question in her eyes.
"Hey, Lana," Whitney said, trying for all he was worth to sound enthused. Nothing personal; he hoped she understood that. It's just that his personal energy had completely bottomed out in the hazy, dim atmosphere of the Beanery and the aimless, pleasant chatting he'd engaged in for the last few minutes.
For her part, Lana interpreted this in entirely the wrong way. She tried to keep her tone even and neutral. "What's… going on here?"
"Nada," Chloe said. "I'm waiting for my Dad to come get me."
"Ah." And Chloe quickly averted her gaze, trying not to notice the way Lana's eyes bore down on Whitney, who avoided his girlfriend's gaze studiously. "What happened to you tonight? I thought you were coming over to help me with organizing next week's food drive."
Suddenly, Whitney slumped in realization. "Oh, my God, I completely forgot. Oh, God, I'm really sorry, Lana." How could he have been such an idiot? He scrambled for a coherent explanation, rapidly realizing there wasn't one. "It's just—I had inventory today after the store closed, and—"
"Right, inventory," she said softly, looking meaningfully at Chloe, who continued to surf PageMaker carefully pretending to be completely oblivious to any of the dynamics of the scene before her.
Whitney found himself blushing furiously, fully aware that it was indeed a flimsy excuse that had just appeared to tumble out of his mouth, as Lana went on in a restrained, quiet voice. "I mean. You could have called. Or—or *something*. You know? I kind of waited for you for a long time before I finally gave up. It's just that you said you'd be there and—"
"I said I was sorry," he snapped, and then regretted the awkward silence that fell upon them all. Chloe coughed uncomfortably, and Lana's gaze remained unwaiveringly accusatory. He cleared his throat and tried again: "I *am* sorry. Really. I've had a lot on my--" Whitney sighed tensely and stopped his own excuse. "I'm really sorry. I still want to help you. I'll do whatever you need me to. I may be half asleep doing it," he muttered under his breath, "But I promised you I'd help out, and I didn't mean to let you down like that."
"It's OK," Lana said, her features relaxing somewhat. "It all worked out fine in the end. I actually came to realize you're stretched pretty thin these days, and I decided to just get someone else to help out instead."
"Really?" Whitney asked, taken aback. "Who?"
"Hey guys, what are you two doing out so late?" another, deeper voice piped in on the other side of Whitney. He didn't even have to look up to confirm the owner's identity. He knew it belonged to the world's most cocker-spaniel-like human being.
"Kent," Whitney said flatly, trying very hard indeed not to grit his teeth. "What a surprise." And he couldn't help but notice that Sullivan was paying quite a bit more attention now. Hmm.
"When you didn't show up, I called Clark," Lana added, and Whitney fought to keep his expression utterly neutral. "So you see, it all worked out!" She squeezed Whitney's shoulder and smiled sweetly at him. He could only manage to stare back at her, his eyes dark.
"That's—that's great," he managed, sounding lame even to himself. "I just knew you could count on *Clark*."
Lana and Clark, for their parts, completely missed his sarcasm. "It's no problem, Whitney," Clark shrugged amicably. "I know you've got a lot on your mind, and I don't mind helping Lana out."
"Yeah, I know you don't," Whitney retorted, sorry as soon as the words escaped his lips. He glanced subconsciously at Chloe, whose face seemed to fall imperceptibly. He shifted uncomfortably and finally stood, throwing down a couple of dollars on the table in front of him. "I guess I better get back to work." He glanced at Clark briefly and said, ever so grudgingly, "Thanks for stepping in for me on the food drive, Kent."
"No problem!" Clark shrugged.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Whitney told Lana, and gave her a gentle squeeze on the arm. She smiled as warmly as possible at him, and Whitney straightened his posture and left without looking back, only sparing Chloe a "Later, Sullivan."
"Later," Chloe breathed, not sure what that whole scene had been about. Clark sat in front of her and Lana shifted her weight from foot to foot for a few seconds before taking the seat next to Clark. Which, coincidentally, Chloe noted, put her thigh to thigh with Clark. Neither of them budged. Chloe pressed her lips into a thin line.
"So," Lana said, keeping her voice as casual as she could. "I didn't know you and Whitney were hanging out now."
Chloe felt herself blush for reasons she couldn't quite understand. "Uh. We don't. Hang out, that is. I just ran into him here and he looked like he could use the… I don't know. We don't hang out," she added again, more sharply than she'd intended.
"Oh," Lana said, leaning casually into Clark. Chloe bit her lip again as Lana went on. "That's too bad. I think Whitney could really use a friend like you right now."
"Uh. He could?"
Clark smiled at Chloe winsomely as Lana nodded. "You know, someone impartial. I mean, I try my best to be a good listener, but—"
"Yeah, I know," Chloe nodded, giving a pointed, subtle glance to Clark. "It's hard to be objective when you care so much about someone."
Lana paused, her smile faltering briefly before resuming its full wattage, and she nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, exactly."
"Well, like I said, we don't hang out," Chloe repeated, more firm than before. "We don't really have that much to talk about. In fact, I think I get on his nerves. And to be honest, he sometimes gets on mine too. Uh. No offense, Lana."
"None taken," Lana laughed. "I think you two are the most bull-headed people I know." She laughed at Chloe's expression even more. "I say that in a totally admiring way. It's something I admire about you both. You guys really stick to your guns."
"Even if it kills you," Clark added, and both he and Lana laughed and stared into each other's eyes warmheartedly, their gazes lingering.
Chloe, for her part, could not bear to look at this another second. She drew in her breath sharply and stood suddenly, tossing a fistful of money from her pocket onto the table where Whitney's payment still lay. "I'm… I'm going to wait outside for my Dad." She looked at the question in both their glances, and begged off further, "He's had a 12 hour shift and I don't want to make him look for me in here."
"Ah. See you around, Chloe," Clark waved her off. "We're going to stick around here and plan the food drive a while, I think."
"Swell," Chloe said, too brightly. "Have fun, kids."
"Later, Chloe," Lana said, smiling at her agreeably.
"Yeah, see you around," Chloe muttered under her breath.
She couldn't leave fast enough for her taste. Her father, she knew, wouldn't be coming for 15 minutes or more, and it was briskly cold out, but she decided that a short walk around the square would clear her head of the hurt that was suddenly making it pound. A food drive. How could she possibly compete with that? Chloe was many things, but instinctually charitable, she wasn't. In fact, everything that made Clark look at Lana that way… Chloe wasn't. The more time that passed, the longer that list of qualities in which she was lacking got. She rounded the corner and leaned against the quiet brick building, angrily blinking back resentful tears and trying to catch her breath before they turned into embarrassing sobs.
A dry voice in the sharp night air made her gasp. "You look like you don't want to be found."
"Oh. Hey, Whitney, I didn't see you there." She stood on her own feet quickly, wiping her eyes in one swift motion with the back of her arm. Chloe studied his form, sitting squatly between the shadows of two cars parked curbside. "I thought you were heading back to your store."
"I was. I… guess I needed to clear my head a little bit."
"I know the feeling."
"Heh. Yeah." He stood slowly, and leaned agianst the trunk of one of the two cars that flanked him. Picking aimlessly at the pair of gloves in his hand, he said, "You. Uh."
"What?" she asked irritably, not sure why she didn't just keep walking. Maybe she just needed someone with which to commiserate. Maybe Whitney could annoy her into forgetting things. Like the fact that Clark would never, ever look at her the way he had just looked at Lana.
"Nothing, I shouldn't say it," he murmured.
"Well, I'm nosy and kinda relentless, so now you have to say it."
He smirked. "Well. At the risk of you getting all pissy at me."
"I'll try my best to contain the pissiness."
"I appreciate it." Whitney shrugged, and stared at her. "Well. Back in there—" he gestured toward the Beanery with his head—"I started thinking you might have a…. thing for Kent."
"A *thing*?!" she cried, the beginnings of a protest forming on the tip of her tongue. But the way he was staring at her made every argument that popped into her head seem progressively lamer.
"Come on. You like Kent." Whitney stared at her intently, his expression thoroughly cynical and less than amused. "You know, contrary to what you'd like to think, I'm really not some kind of chimp."
"I never thought—"
"Yeah, what*ever*," Whitney cut her off, and rolled his eyes skyward. "Besides, everybody else seems to think he's some kind of. I don't know. Superhero. I don't see why you shouldn't too."
"You don't always have to be so shitty, you know," Chloe said hoarsely, one foot inching towards the main street, begging her away.
"I'm not being shitty; I'm being honest." His words were unsympathetic, but his tone was not unkind. She regarded him for a moment, and then shrugged at her own foolishness.
"You know what? It doesn't even matter if I do or not. Totally doesn't matter. Because—"
"He doesn't notice, anyway." He said it without a trace of recrimination, and more than a little recognition, and Chloe felt like she might really cry this time.
"Right. But you know. Whatever." She tried to laugh, huskily, but instead it came out as a squeaky hiccup. Pathetic. "I'll get over it."
"Sure." Whitney sniffed bitterly. "Anyway, the little prick seems to only have eyes for my girlfriend."
"She doesn't do anything to discourage him," Chloe shot back evenly.
Whitney physically winced, and he bowed his head, staring at his own hands. "Yeah. I – I know that." The words came out almost painfully, and Chloe felt genuinely sorry for him at that moment. Nearly as sorry as she felt for herself.
"It's a pathetic losing battle, is what it is," she suddenly announced to no one in particular. "I know I'll never measure up to *her*. I'm not as sweet or— *kind* as she is. And I never will be, no matter how much I may want to be everything she is, just so he'll--" She paused. "God, that sounds mental."
"Yeah, well, I'm never going to be Clark Fucking Kent, Perpetual Boy Scout."
"Damn straight," Chloe snorted. "And… I'm not this perfectly understanding person, you know?"
"Yeah, you're not. And I'm not… like, freaking noble."
"Me either," Chloe said, and snickered just this side of hysterically. "I'm never gentle and. Agggh. *Good* like she is. I tend to be sarcastic actually. As a rule, even."
"I can be one petty mother."
"Totally are," Chloe agreed, and Whitney laughed too, feeling equally defeated as she. "I'm too stubborn," Chloe added.
"As all hell," Whitney nodded, and then, a little ashamed -- "I have a really bad temper."
"True," Chloe said, her words coming out faster now. "I'm, like, fatally nosy."
"I'm the jealous type."
"I complain a lot."
"I get paranoid way too easily."
"I could never spend hours hanging out with cheerleaders."
"I can't even fake giving a shit about that food drive." He blushed at the confession as she snickered more.
"I can't get through *War And Peace*!"
"I can't stop wishing he'd screw up royally, just once."
"I hate pink!"
"I hate farms!"
And they both stood there on the somber, poorly lit walkway, laughing uncontrollably, both of them relieved and simultaneously on the brink of tears.
"I… can't be big enough to like him." He sobered up immediately, and looked at her, pleading for—what, exactly? Forgiveness, maybe.
"It's OK," she breathed, suddenly serious too. "I can't be big enough to like her either. I've really wanted to… but in the end, I just can't."
"Exactly."
Their gazes locked silently, thoughtfully, in cascades of epiphany and frustration, and slowly, very slowly, she gave him a faint, shy smile that his expression acknowledged but didn't return.
"It sucks. To be so flawed," he added.
"Sure does," she agreed softly. "We're, like… defective. Compared to them, I mean."
"Everybody is." He kicked at the curb with one toe, both of them feeling utterly hapless. "I would've given up a long time ago, except—"
"Yeah, me too," she added, her cheeks flushing at the thought of someone—of Whitney Fordman, of all people—bearing witness to the deep, dark, unrequited Loserville of her heart. "Exactly."
Just then, a pair of car head lights suddenly peeked out from behind the building's corner, and she turned to recognize the dent in the fender as belonging to her Dad's Buick. The familiar, hollow honking that followed echoed down the deserted street they were standing on.
"Oh. Man. That's my Dad. I better go."
"Yeah, I better head back too."
"Yeah. Hey!"
He turned back to look at her, and she couldn't quite remember ever having seen this boy looking quite that way before, not at anyone, expression so unguarded and hair gleaming sickly pale under the lamplight like an absurd and wholly inappropriate halo.
"What?"
"Nothing. Thanks."
He nodded silently, all business and uncertain, before finally turning to head back again without a word. She silently watched him quickly fade into the darkness. Her heart was still with a clueless and beautiful dark- haired boy inside the Beanery, but her thoughts were troubled and found themselves suddenly sticking to a fairer one down a quiet Kansas side street.
The dull, robust whine of the car horn nagged at her to snap out of her unwitting reverie. Chloe got in her father's car without a word, still sparing glances in the same direction.
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Many thanks to Tresca's eagle eye for catching some pretty big plot holes, inconsistencies, and silly boo-boos such as my having written "she rolled his eyes." Yep, I'm a smart one. Any screw ups here are my own, though.
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Whitney stared vacantly into his own reflection in his cooling coffee. He took it black, with two sugars. Real men, his father had often opined, take coffee black. As a result, Whitney had tried to acquire a taste for it that way when he was younger and more impressionable, but he'd never been able to quite keep from gagging, and he had always snuck in two packets of sugar. It had made him feel quite defiant and triumphant until he'd realized at about age fourteen that two packs of sugar weren't much in the way of ammo against a domineering and invasive father. Still, there was something grudgingly satisfying about keeping to the secret ritual. True, it was an imperceptible act of rebellion, but then, it seemed as though virtually everything in his life lately was small and slowing to a halt. And so he sat on this night in the far recesses of the Beanery still with his coffee black with two sugars, and try as he might, he couldn't avoid staring critically at his own likeness in the black pool inside his oversized mug.
Under eye rings, check. Hair that had long needed a barber—check. Vacant expression of adolescent ennui—check. Pathetic. He sighed and glared at himself in the coffee, sniffing faintly the hazelnut wafting from the mug.
"Lose something in there?"
He was, in retrospect, lucky he'd had a lot of training for thinking on his feet, or else he'd have easily had hazelnut coffee all over himself from the start the voice had given him. He glanced up briefly. Oh, jeez.
"Hi, Chloe." He set the coffee down and scrutinized the table top.
"You look like you don't want to be found," she said after a beat.
His response was toneless, bland, and he didn't meet her eyes. "And yet, here you are," he sighed. After a second he checked for her reaction, and saw that her features had gone stony and slack, and she was turning to leave.
"Right. I guess I'll see you—"
Damn his conscience. "Hey—wait." He sighed again. None of his problems were Chloe Sullivan's fault. She'd done nothing but be kind to him, and it wasn't like his poor, bruised ego couldn't use the attention of a pretty girl right now.
She turned and rolled her eyes at him. "Hmm?"
Whoa. Pretty girl? Where had that come from? Whitney shook his head to clear his thoughts. Clearly he was more sleep deprived than he'd first estimated. "I'm—I didn't mean that. What are you doing here?" She smirked, making her eyes crinkled, and he blinked. Hmm. Love, he finally concluded, may very well be blind… but he sure wasn't. And he sure as hell couldn't afford to be discriminating when it came to friendly attention these days.
"What am I doing here? It's a coffee shop," she said dryly. "I'll give you three guesses."
He hid a smile despite himself. "Right. I meant—it's kinda late. And a school night."
"And a Tuesday in January and you are wearing blue," Chloe added meaningfully. "Are you done, Captain Obvious?"
Whitney paused, and then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I deserved that."
"Totally did."
"Have a seat. I mean. If you're not leaving."
After a moment's consideration, Chloe shrugged and sat, still hugging her laptop to herself. "So… what are you doing here all by yourself?"
He started to answer, then thought better of it. "You first."
Chloe cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly, but she said, "Waiting for my Dad to get out of work. He works late at the plant on Tuesday nights and he doesn't like me sitting in the house all by myself. So I come here to work on schoolwork and he picks me up around 11:15." She rolled her eyes and grinned affectionately at the thought of her Dad fussing over her. "I'm not supposed to leave the Beanery. It's just so he knows I'm in a public place. I guess he thinks I'll keep out of trouble that way."
"Sounds kinda… unconventional," Whitney said, and Chloe nodded.
"Yeah, that's us, I guess… unconventional."
"Nothing wrong with that."
"Yep." She sighed and set her laptop down, flipping it open. "So what brings you here?"
"You taking notes?"
She laughed in spite of herself. "No offense, but 'Whitney Fordman visits the Beanery' isn't exactly front page news."
He didn't smile, but there was amusement in his eyes. "No kidding. I'm actually… kinda playing hookie."
"Hookie? It's 10:30 at night."
"Thank you, Captain Obvious," he said, mimicking her earlier tone, and she ducked her head and snorted.
"I guess *I* deserve that," she muttered.
"Uh huh." He cleared his throat, and resumed studying his coffee. "I'm supposed to be helping with inventory right now. At my Dad's store. But uh. I bailed."
"That's not very nice, Fordman," Chloe chided with a heavy helping of sarcasm.
"Yeah, well, I'm not feeling really nice right now," he replied. "It's just for an hour, anyway. I have every intention of going back at 11:00 or so, and there's still gonna be plenty to do. I'm just—I needed a break. You know? Just for a few minutes. I mean, I know they need me and everything, but—"
"Hey, it's cool, dude, relax. I'm sure they'll survive without you for a whole hour," she shrugged, not noticing the way he gaped at her as she ordered her coffee.
He'd been expecting a reprimand. Possibly a lecture on responsibility and following through on commitments. He tensed automatically, thinking of his father's demanding voice or his mother's drawn, unyielding expressions. Or possibly a sympathetic pep talk, the kind he'd gotten from Lana every time he'd tried to talk to her the last few days. Awww, Whitney, I know it's tough, but just hang in there. In fact, everyone had added their own note in a chorus of the same message: keep on trucking. Be a man. You'll get over it. Your life will go on. And for God's sake, don't complain and don't take any time to collect yourself.
He felt immensely sorry for himself at that moment. "I'm just… a little tired, I guess."
"Well, you look like you were run over by a truck," she said, nodding briskly. "If you don't mind my saying so."
He blinked, adjusted to the bold frankness, and decided to plunge into it himself. There had, in fact, been an abysmal shortage of people willing to listen to him lately. Leaning forward slightly and glancing around to ensure their relative privacy, he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Hey. You heard about what really happened. While you were, you know… in the hospital. Right?"
"About the business with the mutant tattoos?" she asked softly, also surreptitiously scanning their surroundings. She nodded, and met his gaze. His eyes were wide as he nodded back.
"I feel like… everything's in slow motion."
"Slow….?" She cocked her head at him questioningly.
He paused, trying to form the ideas into coherent sentences. "Like every second lasts a minute. I feel like weeks have passed, like every day is endless, and it's only been four days. I feel like everything in my head is trying to get in gear again, but it's like… molasses."
"I see," Chloe said, not meaning to sound quite so incredulous.
"Ugh. Look, forget it. I'm not explaining this very well at all. I dunno what's wrong with me, and it just. It just sucks." And it's unbearable, he almost added, but then thought better of it. All he wanted was to put as much distance between himself and his current life circumstances, and instead it seemed as though he were fighting to keep every moment from going on pause.
"That makes perfect sense actually," Chloe said, near whisper to avoid eavesdropping.
"Yeah, well, it doesn't to me." Not like anything did anymore, he silently added to himself.
"Fordman, your molecules were moving at inhumanly fast rates," she said. "Now that you're back to normal, it's only natural that you feel a little-- sluggish. And ya know, I'm sure the sleep deprivation isn't helping any, either. How much are you getting these days, anyway?"
He snorted. "I can handle it," he said curtly. "But, yeah I guess you're right about the—the molecule thing."
"Of course I am," she said brightly. "Hey, not to change the subject or anything, but … are you going to have something for tomorrow's deadline?"
"What? Oh… crap," he muttered, his expression stricken. "I completely—crap. I'm sorry. I'll try to put something together when I get home tonight."
"Yeah, no offense, but I figured you wouldn't. You know what… I think I may just let Pete put out a seriously short version of the paper this week," she said, deciding on the spot. She gestured with her chin towards her broken arm. "Typing with one hand is a *lot* harder than it looks." She paused for a beat, and then deadpanned, "I don't know how you boys keep up on the Internet." And she resumed sipping her coffee innocently, not looking at him.
His mouth dropped open for a second, and then he let out a short burst of laughter. It was, she decided, an unexpectedly pleasant sound. He was still grinning and snickering, and rubbing his eyebrow when her gaze fell on him again.
"I can't believe you just said that," he admitted.
"I happen to be full of surprises, Fordman," she muttered happily, and powered up her Mac.
"I just *bet*," he drawled. Whitney felt the tension slipping away from him in slow increments as he watched this peculiar, exasperating girl's face light up with just a few clicks of her mouse. He found himself quietly enjoying the way she chewed on her bottom lip as she dug through the files on her computer, wishing he had something left that would allow him to lose himself in it that way, when suddenly--
"Hey guys," a voice chirped behind Whitney, and he felt a cool familiar hand rest on his shoulder. He sat up straighter out of sheer force of habit and turned his head to look… right up into Lana's face. Lana's quick, dark eyes were darting from Whitney to Chloe, who had looked up and given her a grin and a lazy wink as a greeting before resuming her clicking, and then back to Whitney again. He avoided meeting the question in her eyes.
"Hey, Lana," Whitney said, trying for all he was worth to sound enthused. Nothing personal; he hoped she understood that. It's just that his personal energy had completely bottomed out in the hazy, dim atmosphere of the Beanery and the aimless, pleasant chatting he'd engaged in for the last few minutes.
For her part, Lana interpreted this in entirely the wrong way. She tried to keep her tone even and neutral. "What's… going on here?"
"Nada," Chloe said. "I'm waiting for my Dad to come get me."
"Ah." And Chloe quickly averted her gaze, trying not to notice the way Lana's eyes bore down on Whitney, who avoided his girlfriend's gaze studiously. "What happened to you tonight? I thought you were coming over to help me with organizing next week's food drive."
Suddenly, Whitney slumped in realization. "Oh, my God, I completely forgot. Oh, God, I'm really sorry, Lana." How could he have been such an idiot? He scrambled for a coherent explanation, rapidly realizing there wasn't one. "It's just—I had inventory today after the store closed, and—"
"Right, inventory," she said softly, looking meaningfully at Chloe, who continued to surf PageMaker carefully pretending to be completely oblivious to any of the dynamics of the scene before her.
Whitney found himself blushing furiously, fully aware that it was indeed a flimsy excuse that had just appeared to tumble out of his mouth, as Lana went on in a restrained, quiet voice. "I mean. You could have called. Or—or *something*. You know? I kind of waited for you for a long time before I finally gave up. It's just that you said you'd be there and—"
"I said I was sorry," he snapped, and then regretted the awkward silence that fell upon them all. Chloe coughed uncomfortably, and Lana's gaze remained unwaiveringly accusatory. He cleared his throat and tried again: "I *am* sorry. Really. I've had a lot on my--" Whitney sighed tensely and stopped his own excuse. "I'm really sorry. I still want to help you. I'll do whatever you need me to. I may be half asleep doing it," he muttered under his breath, "But I promised you I'd help out, and I didn't mean to let you down like that."
"It's OK," Lana said, her features relaxing somewhat. "It all worked out fine in the end. I actually came to realize you're stretched pretty thin these days, and I decided to just get someone else to help out instead."
"Really?" Whitney asked, taken aback. "Who?"
"Hey guys, what are you two doing out so late?" another, deeper voice piped in on the other side of Whitney. He didn't even have to look up to confirm the owner's identity. He knew it belonged to the world's most cocker-spaniel-like human being.
"Kent," Whitney said flatly, trying very hard indeed not to grit his teeth. "What a surprise." And he couldn't help but notice that Sullivan was paying quite a bit more attention now. Hmm.
"When you didn't show up, I called Clark," Lana added, and Whitney fought to keep his expression utterly neutral. "So you see, it all worked out!" She squeezed Whitney's shoulder and smiled sweetly at him. He could only manage to stare back at her, his eyes dark.
"That's—that's great," he managed, sounding lame even to himself. "I just knew you could count on *Clark*."
Lana and Clark, for their parts, completely missed his sarcasm. "It's no problem, Whitney," Clark shrugged amicably. "I know you've got a lot on your mind, and I don't mind helping Lana out."
"Yeah, I know you don't," Whitney retorted, sorry as soon as the words escaped his lips. He glanced subconsciously at Chloe, whose face seemed to fall imperceptibly. He shifted uncomfortably and finally stood, throwing down a couple of dollars on the table in front of him. "I guess I better get back to work." He glanced at Clark briefly and said, ever so grudgingly, "Thanks for stepping in for me on the food drive, Kent."
"No problem!" Clark shrugged.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Whitney told Lana, and gave her a gentle squeeze on the arm. She smiled as warmly as possible at him, and Whitney straightened his posture and left without looking back, only sparing Chloe a "Later, Sullivan."
"Later," Chloe breathed, not sure what that whole scene had been about. Clark sat in front of her and Lana shifted her weight from foot to foot for a few seconds before taking the seat next to Clark. Which, coincidentally, Chloe noted, put her thigh to thigh with Clark. Neither of them budged. Chloe pressed her lips into a thin line.
"So," Lana said, keeping her voice as casual as she could. "I didn't know you and Whitney were hanging out now."
Chloe felt herself blush for reasons she couldn't quite understand. "Uh. We don't. Hang out, that is. I just ran into him here and he looked like he could use the… I don't know. We don't hang out," she added again, more sharply than she'd intended.
"Oh," Lana said, leaning casually into Clark. Chloe bit her lip again as Lana went on. "That's too bad. I think Whitney could really use a friend like you right now."
"Uh. He could?"
Clark smiled at Chloe winsomely as Lana nodded. "You know, someone impartial. I mean, I try my best to be a good listener, but—"
"Yeah, I know," Chloe nodded, giving a pointed, subtle glance to Clark. "It's hard to be objective when you care so much about someone."
Lana paused, her smile faltering briefly before resuming its full wattage, and she nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, exactly."
"Well, like I said, we don't hang out," Chloe repeated, more firm than before. "We don't really have that much to talk about. In fact, I think I get on his nerves. And to be honest, he sometimes gets on mine too. Uh. No offense, Lana."
"None taken," Lana laughed. "I think you two are the most bull-headed people I know." She laughed at Chloe's expression even more. "I say that in a totally admiring way. It's something I admire about you both. You guys really stick to your guns."
"Even if it kills you," Clark added, and both he and Lana laughed and stared into each other's eyes warmheartedly, their gazes lingering.
Chloe, for her part, could not bear to look at this another second. She drew in her breath sharply and stood suddenly, tossing a fistful of money from her pocket onto the table where Whitney's payment still lay. "I'm… I'm going to wait outside for my Dad." She looked at the question in both their glances, and begged off further, "He's had a 12 hour shift and I don't want to make him look for me in here."
"Ah. See you around, Chloe," Clark waved her off. "We're going to stick around here and plan the food drive a while, I think."
"Swell," Chloe said, too brightly. "Have fun, kids."
"Later, Chloe," Lana said, smiling at her agreeably.
"Yeah, see you around," Chloe muttered under her breath.
She couldn't leave fast enough for her taste. Her father, she knew, wouldn't be coming for 15 minutes or more, and it was briskly cold out, but she decided that a short walk around the square would clear her head of the hurt that was suddenly making it pound. A food drive. How could she possibly compete with that? Chloe was many things, but instinctually charitable, she wasn't. In fact, everything that made Clark look at Lana that way… Chloe wasn't. The more time that passed, the longer that list of qualities in which she was lacking got. She rounded the corner and leaned against the quiet brick building, angrily blinking back resentful tears and trying to catch her breath before they turned into embarrassing sobs.
A dry voice in the sharp night air made her gasp. "You look like you don't want to be found."
"Oh. Hey, Whitney, I didn't see you there." She stood on her own feet quickly, wiping her eyes in one swift motion with the back of her arm. Chloe studied his form, sitting squatly between the shadows of two cars parked curbside. "I thought you were heading back to your store."
"I was. I… guess I needed to clear my head a little bit."
"I know the feeling."
"Heh. Yeah." He stood slowly, and leaned agianst the trunk of one of the two cars that flanked him. Picking aimlessly at the pair of gloves in his hand, he said, "You. Uh."
"What?" she asked irritably, not sure why she didn't just keep walking. Maybe she just needed someone with which to commiserate. Maybe Whitney could annoy her into forgetting things. Like the fact that Clark would never, ever look at her the way he had just looked at Lana.
"Nothing, I shouldn't say it," he murmured.
"Well, I'm nosy and kinda relentless, so now you have to say it."
He smirked. "Well. At the risk of you getting all pissy at me."
"I'll try my best to contain the pissiness."
"I appreciate it." Whitney shrugged, and stared at her. "Well. Back in there—" he gestured toward the Beanery with his head—"I started thinking you might have a…. thing for Kent."
"A *thing*?!" she cried, the beginnings of a protest forming on the tip of her tongue. But the way he was staring at her made every argument that popped into her head seem progressively lamer.
"Come on. You like Kent." Whitney stared at her intently, his expression thoroughly cynical and less than amused. "You know, contrary to what you'd like to think, I'm really not some kind of chimp."
"I never thought—"
"Yeah, what*ever*," Whitney cut her off, and rolled his eyes skyward. "Besides, everybody else seems to think he's some kind of. I don't know. Superhero. I don't see why you shouldn't too."
"You don't always have to be so shitty, you know," Chloe said hoarsely, one foot inching towards the main street, begging her away.
"I'm not being shitty; I'm being honest." His words were unsympathetic, but his tone was not unkind. She regarded him for a moment, and then shrugged at her own foolishness.
"You know what? It doesn't even matter if I do or not. Totally doesn't matter. Because—"
"He doesn't notice, anyway." He said it without a trace of recrimination, and more than a little recognition, and Chloe felt like she might really cry this time.
"Right. But you know. Whatever." She tried to laugh, huskily, but instead it came out as a squeaky hiccup. Pathetic. "I'll get over it."
"Sure." Whitney sniffed bitterly. "Anyway, the little prick seems to only have eyes for my girlfriend."
"She doesn't do anything to discourage him," Chloe shot back evenly.
Whitney physically winced, and he bowed his head, staring at his own hands. "Yeah. I – I know that." The words came out almost painfully, and Chloe felt genuinely sorry for him at that moment. Nearly as sorry as she felt for herself.
"It's a pathetic losing battle, is what it is," she suddenly announced to no one in particular. "I know I'll never measure up to *her*. I'm not as sweet or— *kind* as she is. And I never will be, no matter how much I may want to be everything she is, just so he'll--" She paused. "God, that sounds mental."
"Yeah, well, I'm never going to be Clark Fucking Kent, Perpetual Boy Scout."
"Damn straight," Chloe snorted. "And… I'm not this perfectly understanding person, you know?"
"Yeah, you're not. And I'm not… like, freaking noble."
"Me either," Chloe said, and snickered just this side of hysterically. "I'm never gentle and. Agggh. *Good* like she is. I tend to be sarcastic actually. As a rule, even."
"I can be one petty mother."
"Totally are," Chloe agreed, and Whitney laughed too, feeling equally defeated as she. "I'm too stubborn," Chloe added.
"As all hell," Whitney nodded, and then, a little ashamed -- "I have a really bad temper."
"True," Chloe said, her words coming out faster now. "I'm, like, fatally nosy."
"I'm the jealous type."
"I complain a lot."
"I get paranoid way too easily."
"I could never spend hours hanging out with cheerleaders."
"I can't even fake giving a shit about that food drive." He blushed at the confession as she snickered more.
"I can't get through *War And Peace*!"
"I can't stop wishing he'd screw up royally, just once."
"I hate pink!"
"I hate farms!"
And they both stood there on the somber, poorly lit walkway, laughing uncontrollably, both of them relieved and simultaneously on the brink of tears.
"I… can't be big enough to like him." He sobered up immediately, and looked at her, pleading for—what, exactly? Forgiveness, maybe.
"It's OK," she breathed, suddenly serious too. "I can't be big enough to like her either. I've really wanted to… but in the end, I just can't."
"Exactly."
Their gazes locked silently, thoughtfully, in cascades of epiphany and frustration, and slowly, very slowly, she gave him a faint, shy smile that his expression acknowledged but didn't return.
"It sucks. To be so flawed," he added.
"Sure does," she agreed softly. "We're, like… defective. Compared to them, I mean."
"Everybody is." He kicked at the curb with one toe, both of them feeling utterly hapless. "I would've given up a long time ago, except—"
"Yeah, me too," she added, her cheeks flushing at the thought of someone—of Whitney Fordman, of all people—bearing witness to the deep, dark, unrequited Loserville of her heart. "Exactly."
Just then, a pair of car head lights suddenly peeked out from behind the building's corner, and she turned to recognize the dent in the fender as belonging to her Dad's Buick. The familiar, hollow honking that followed echoed down the deserted street they were standing on.
"Oh. Man. That's my Dad. I better go."
"Yeah, I better head back too."
"Yeah. Hey!"
He turned back to look at her, and she couldn't quite remember ever having seen this boy looking quite that way before, not at anyone, expression so unguarded and hair gleaming sickly pale under the lamplight like an absurd and wholly inappropriate halo.
"What?"
"Nothing. Thanks."
He nodded silently, all business and uncertain, before finally turning to head back again without a word. She silently watched him quickly fade into the darkness. Her heart was still with a clueless and beautiful dark- haired boy inside the Beanery, but her thoughts were troubled and found themselves suddenly sticking to a fairer one down a quiet Kansas side street.
The dull, robust whine of the car horn nagged at her to snap out of her unwitting reverie. Chloe got in her father's car without a word, still sparing glances in the same direction.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Many thanks to Tresca's eagle eye for catching some pretty big plot holes, inconsistencies, and silly boo-boos such as my having written "she rolled his eyes." Yep, I'm a smart one. Any screw ups here are my own, though.