Notes: Extra special thanks to Margroks, Lance, Kelly, Chaney, Deanine, and Robert. What a writer does, s/he does alone. Without feedback, you just never know if the work is being received as intended.
Ruby Truth – Valentine Michel Smith
Clark yawned. He hadn't gotten much sleep, and whoa, running on all cylinders seemed to take more out of him than he'd expected. He sat at the kitchen table, sipping black coffee from an oversized mug. The pot he made moments ago was near empty. He'd have to make another if Gwen ever decided to get out of bed. Not that bed was a bad place to be. He considered joining her. A different kind of wake-up, to be sure.
The Ledger rested on the table just beyond his hand. Neatly folded, the paper's headline screamed something about a bank robbery. A photograph depicted the exploded remains of the wall. A caption read: "Vault breached – No Explosives?"
"Clark?" Gwen's voice drifted in from the rear of the house. Clark tilted his head and dallied, fingering the coffee cup.
"Claaaaaaaaarrrrrk!" The unmistakable sound of fear edged her tone.
The weight of it confined her to the bed, the "it" in question being unidentifiable under the circumstances. Apparently, "it" was everywhere.
And oddly... crunchy.
It also smelled vaguely like --
"Yes?" Clark appeared instantly, his face hovering above hers. As quickly as he'd appeared, he disappeared, only to reappear again as he scooted next to Gwen who was
on top of and covered by
bills
now floating
hundred dollar bills
drifting around the room
around their heads
like a blizzard.
Released, Gwen shifted, turning to Clark who propped himself up on an elbow. "Haven't you ever wondered what it'd be like to be rolling in money?" Clark grabbed a hold of the woman. "I have." He kissed her greedily. "And now, " Clark snatched a handful of bills from the air, "I know."
Clark handed Gwen the currency. She inspected the bills. The looked real. They smelled real. But how –
"I shouldn't ask."
"No," said Clark sharply.
"Fair enough. So… what 's next?"
"After we fuck until we can't?" Clark paused wistfully. "Well, until you can't. I say," Clark stroked Gwen's face tenderly, "we go shopping."
Clark pulled Gwen toward him, kissing her hungrily as they rolled, harshly onto the floor and scattering bills. Luckily, it was Clark who hit the floor.
Shopping. Yes.
Then, he'd go home.
Neither Pete nor Martha slept well that night -- if they slept at all. Pete insisted on staying at the Kent Farm; Martha called his parents and made the very credible "concerned about Clark, Jonathan's away" speech, not that she had to persuade the Rosses.
Whatever Martha told Liz Ross would be fine. Uttering those specific words was more about breathing life into a lie. If she used language when language should have failed, if she said these things aloud, maybe, just maybe --
Sadly, Real Life has a way of disrupting fantasy. Martha had tried sleeping on the couch (she didn't), and now, instead of feeling rested, she felt stiffness creeping through her. Not to mention the unwelcome sluggishness.
Pete was asleep in the chair. He seemed blissful, right until the moment he woke up, arms flailing, screaming.
Martha blinked. Clark had done some number on both of them.
Martha sparred with the impulse to cry. She knew there was no going back, no matter how many lies she recited, no matter how much she wished or to what God she prayed.
Martha padded across the wood floor, sliding on the house shoes Clark had given her last Christmas.
My sweet gift from Heaven.
My blessing.
My wish come true.
"Shhh," she said to Pete, balancing carefully on the arm of the chair. She drew him close and held him tightly.
Pete was fighting back tears, this set a mingle of pain, frustration and animosity in equal proportions. He'd only come close to feeling this powerless once. Another Clark (mis)adventure -- the Dr. Hamilton fiasco. Why hadn't Mr. Kent's fuckin plan worked? screamed Pete's brain. Pete's lips were otherwise involved as he gnawed them angrily.