A/N: Hi there! I'm Ditey, a previous regular in EV land. I've decided to take my hand at another fandom, which is probably not my forte yet. This is my first Smallville fic, so please excuse any discrepencies, if found. I hope you like it, and please review!
Label: Chloe; Chloe/Clark implied
Rating: G
Sissies: "Calling"
Legalities: Do not own Smallville, WB, etc., though I, like most female viewers, wished I owned Clark Kent.
Muse: "My Immortal"- Evanescence; "Goodbye to You"- Michelle Branch
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She suddenly hates everything in her life.
She hates the fact that a scummy fifty-year old tried to con her into investigating her best friend.
She hates that she tried to be noble and refused.
She hates that the best friend she was trying to be noble to, is now kissing her roommate.
She suddenly hates herself.
Because she continues to watch them for some reason, but what can she say, she's something of a masochist sometimes. Maybe, she thinks, if she stares long enough, she will go blind, af sort of Medusa effect. But even if she does, she knows the scene will be forever burned in her mind.
She wonders how long she has been watching, but their privacy is not her main concern. She simply wants to know how an almost-kiss stands up to what Lana is recieving. Her results only encourage her brimming tears to proceed down her face. Traitors, she thinks.
And as she dries her tears (she has gotten very good at eliminating the evidence), she wishes her fingers would burn at the touch.
She tries to retain her composure, exhales and swings the strap of her purse back on her shoulders before walking out with her head up.
She gets all of ten steps outside of Clark's barn before her tears return and her proud stance convults.
And then--she runs.
Doesn't teeter when leaping over rocks, doesn't acknowledge pain when thorns scratch at her skin. She closes her eyes to slits, fuzzy black and fast moving greens and brown all she can see. All she can feel is rejection and blazing hate for herself ..and the crumpled piece of paper still tightly clutched in her hand.
When she gets home, she can hear her father ask, 'Is it you, honey?', to which she replies with a loud 'yes', as little emotion as possible. Her father dismisses it as normal teenage behavior. Despite her beliefs, he was once young. Banged a few doors of his own. When he tells her what every parent says and every moody child scorns, "I'm here to talk, if you want to," meaning it. At no answer, he returns to business work with a sigh. He wishes she knew he was really there for her.
She can't answer, her voice has a mind of its own, as does her eyes and thoughts. She can't catch up with them, her mind is acting like a runaway horse.
She eases her way up the stairs, a possesive hold on the bannister, as if without its support she would be sent rolling down. Almost intoxicated, dizzy and incoherant.
And she reaches her bed, the location of several such Clark-related cries, but none ot this magnitude. She proceeds to do what she usually does; plops down, grabs the nearest cuddly stuffed animal, wraps her arms tightly around it, and buries her head into its back. Curled up, she somewhat resembles the druggie in the movie she had to watch in Health class, except that her cocaine is Clark.
She can never get enough of him. And it's the part she can't get enough of, that usually leaves her depressed.
Luckily, she is past the stage where she would ask, 'If my Clark is happy, then why do I feel so upset?' Just as she has worked through her horror of being in love with her best friend. What hasn't faded is the effect his prescence has on her. And how its lack thereof makes her sick.
Despite how hard she tries to play it cool, she wishes he would realize the way she feels for him. Just to let it out, because she uncovers secrets, and keeping them is another story entirely. She wished she could let Clark know, maybe even if he didn't feel the same way. Not that anything would indicate he did. In her mind, he hasn't made a move to let her know that she was more than someone to eat lunch with, or a tell-me-what-Lana-thinks-since-you're-roommates girl, or personal Yahoo or C.I.A operative whenever the need to rescue Lana, which seems to be every week, arised.
But Clark was so amazingly dense, it was a wonder she's still there for him.
Because that's what friends do, she thinks bitterly. They are loyal, they stick together through Freaks of the Weeks, wierd red meteor spells, and sudden tornadoes. They do whatever would make the other happy, even if it means compromising something of themselves.
Notice nothing about breaking hearts and kissing roommates.
And even if one friend must, because of some raging teenage passion thing, he should at least tell the said friend to save herself from embarassment and such misery.
She wishes Clark had some sort of intuition, maybe he'd get his head out of the clouds where Goddess Lana resides, and return to Earth where she's busy editing the Torch.
Oh, but she kinda barred him from the Torch's editing room. But she digresses.
And the irony of it all, is that she would do anything for Clark. She would pass up a real investigative reporting article for him. She would spurn someone that could repossess her house, her entire town, and turn it into a theme park. Lionel-land. She cringes.
She loves him enough to protect him even when he's not there. He can't return the favor to her fragile heart.
Lionel's last words echoes through her mind. The possibility that maybe Clark would not have given up his sole dream in her favor haunts and upsets her.
Maybe? Well, that was an obvious one. She had to give herself a 'duh'. If what she just witnessed had any indication whatsoever...
Clark probably wouldn't mind turning her in for treason, if he got closer to Lana out of it, she thought.
She clenched her fists tight at the sudden burst of anger. She felt a sheet of paper crinkle under her hand. Sluggishly, she sat up to read it, and like a depressed fool hoped it was some sort of love letter she had written to Clark, that she of course had never delivered, about how pretty his eyes were, and how much she wished he could save her, etc.
Instead, she read:
Dear Ms. Sullivan--
Luthors do not mingle with the mediocre, and you my dear, are of another caliber entirely. I do hope you will reconsider my offer. The Daily Planet would be so disappointed to lose a lovely reporter like yourself. -L.L.
It takes a moment for the message of what she is reading to sink in. But when it does, she gets herself out from under the covers where she hid before the smile can form on her face. Races back down the stairs, skips the last two steps and rushes to living room. She takes out the sheet one more time, studying its writing, as if such sweet vengeance could really be possible. Her hands, possesive and white, cold and numb, her mouth, curving upward in the semblance of a smirk. Her eyes are wild of sadness and anger, the epitome of a jealous woman.
She thinks of that day that will never leave her mind, the whirlwind that swept her away since. Her love, her happiness, her confusion, sadness, anger and jealousy. She usually brushes these thoughts away as selfish, but today she follows her train of thought.
She thinks how he rather deserves it, how his platonic attitude mirrors his inner density. How he is the one that loses out every time he is not by her side. He still does not understand, after she quite brazenly expressed herself. She did everything but kiss his stupid pouty lips.
But he's still her friend. A crummy friend. But she clings on. Her anger overwhelms her again.
Clark is such a great friend to me, she thinks, why not return the favor?
She dials the phone, its cold keys against fingers that are not much warmer. After a few rings and a connection from one of his employees, she hears a voice, husky and bold.
"Ah, Ms. Sullivan. I knew you would see it my way. May I be of service?"
She feels her breath escaping with no sound. Her lips quivers and she shudders as she tries to find her voice. She knows as soon as she utters her first word, the first word quickly accumulating because she cannot stop once started...two years of deathly love and jealousy cannot be hindered. She knows as she continues talking, that nothing will be the same.
She is giving something Clark will not forget. Or ever forgive.
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A/N: Don't get me wrong, I love Chloe to bits. In fact, I think we might actually be the same person, sharing love for journalism, wit, and Clark Kent ;). I just felt that this is the path TPTB will want her to take, or make us believe she will take, as the season finale is next week, and nothing is ever answered in season finales. Please review---It's my first time playing the Smallville game, be brutally honest. That button is so lonely, and only you can stop it from going the same path Chloe will! (I know, I'm so wierd. But don't let that stop you)
Label: Chloe; Chloe/Clark implied
Rating: G
Sissies: "Calling"
Legalities: Do not own Smallville, WB, etc., though I, like most female viewers, wished I owned Clark Kent.
Muse: "My Immortal"- Evanescence; "Goodbye to You"- Michelle Branch
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She suddenly hates everything in her life.
She hates the fact that a scummy fifty-year old tried to con her into investigating her best friend.
She hates that she tried to be noble and refused.
She hates that the best friend she was trying to be noble to, is now kissing her roommate.
She suddenly hates herself.
Because she continues to watch them for some reason, but what can she say, she's something of a masochist sometimes. Maybe, she thinks, if she stares long enough, she will go blind, af sort of Medusa effect. But even if she does, she knows the scene will be forever burned in her mind.
She wonders how long she has been watching, but their privacy is not her main concern. She simply wants to know how an almost-kiss stands up to what Lana is recieving. Her results only encourage her brimming tears to proceed down her face. Traitors, she thinks.
And as she dries her tears (she has gotten very good at eliminating the evidence), she wishes her fingers would burn at the touch.
She tries to retain her composure, exhales and swings the strap of her purse back on her shoulders before walking out with her head up.
She gets all of ten steps outside of Clark's barn before her tears return and her proud stance convults.
And then--she runs.
Doesn't teeter when leaping over rocks, doesn't acknowledge pain when thorns scratch at her skin. She closes her eyes to slits, fuzzy black and fast moving greens and brown all she can see. All she can feel is rejection and blazing hate for herself ..and the crumpled piece of paper still tightly clutched in her hand.
When she gets home, she can hear her father ask, 'Is it you, honey?', to which she replies with a loud 'yes', as little emotion as possible. Her father dismisses it as normal teenage behavior. Despite her beliefs, he was once young. Banged a few doors of his own. When he tells her what every parent says and every moody child scorns, "I'm here to talk, if you want to," meaning it. At no answer, he returns to business work with a sigh. He wishes she knew he was really there for her.
She can't answer, her voice has a mind of its own, as does her eyes and thoughts. She can't catch up with them, her mind is acting like a runaway horse.
She eases her way up the stairs, a possesive hold on the bannister, as if without its support she would be sent rolling down. Almost intoxicated, dizzy and incoherant.
And she reaches her bed, the location of several such Clark-related cries, but none ot this magnitude. She proceeds to do what she usually does; plops down, grabs the nearest cuddly stuffed animal, wraps her arms tightly around it, and buries her head into its back. Curled up, she somewhat resembles the druggie in the movie she had to watch in Health class, except that her cocaine is Clark.
She can never get enough of him. And it's the part she can't get enough of, that usually leaves her depressed.
Luckily, she is past the stage where she would ask, 'If my Clark is happy, then why do I feel so upset?' Just as she has worked through her horror of being in love with her best friend. What hasn't faded is the effect his prescence has on her. And how its lack thereof makes her sick.
Despite how hard she tries to play it cool, she wishes he would realize the way she feels for him. Just to let it out, because she uncovers secrets, and keeping them is another story entirely. She wished she could let Clark know, maybe even if he didn't feel the same way. Not that anything would indicate he did. In her mind, he hasn't made a move to let her know that she was more than someone to eat lunch with, or a tell-me-what-Lana-thinks-since-you're-roommates girl, or personal Yahoo or C.I.A operative whenever the need to rescue Lana, which seems to be every week, arised.
But Clark was so amazingly dense, it was a wonder she's still there for him.
Because that's what friends do, she thinks bitterly. They are loyal, they stick together through Freaks of the Weeks, wierd red meteor spells, and sudden tornadoes. They do whatever would make the other happy, even if it means compromising something of themselves.
Notice nothing about breaking hearts and kissing roommates.
And even if one friend must, because of some raging teenage passion thing, he should at least tell the said friend to save herself from embarassment and such misery.
She wishes Clark had some sort of intuition, maybe he'd get his head out of the clouds where Goddess Lana resides, and return to Earth where she's busy editing the Torch.
Oh, but she kinda barred him from the Torch's editing room. But she digresses.
And the irony of it all, is that she would do anything for Clark. She would pass up a real investigative reporting article for him. She would spurn someone that could repossess her house, her entire town, and turn it into a theme park. Lionel-land. She cringes.
She loves him enough to protect him even when he's not there. He can't return the favor to her fragile heart.
Lionel's last words echoes through her mind. The possibility that maybe Clark would not have given up his sole dream in her favor haunts and upsets her.
Maybe? Well, that was an obvious one. She had to give herself a 'duh'. If what she just witnessed had any indication whatsoever...
Clark probably wouldn't mind turning her in for treason, if he got closer to Lana out of it, she thought.
She clenched her fists tight at the sudden burst of anger. She felt a sheet of paper crinkle under her hand. Sluggishly, she sat up to read it, and like a depressed fool hoped it was some sort of love letter she had written to Clark, that she of course had never delivered, about how pretty his eyes were, and how much she wished he could save her, etc.
Instead, she read:
Dear Ms. Sullivan--
Luthors do not mingle with the mediocre, and you my dear, are of another caliber entirely. I do hope you will reconsider my offer. The Daily Planet would be so disappointed to lose a lovely reporter like yourself. -L.L.
It takes a moment for the message of what she is reading to sink in. But when it does, she gets herself out from under the covers where she hid before the smile can form on her face. Races back down the stairs, skips the last two steps and rushes to living room. She takes out the sheet one more time, studying its writing, as if such sweet vengeance could really be possible. Her hands, possesive and white, cold and numb, her mouth, curving upward in the semblance of a smirk. Her eyes are wild of sadness and anger, the epitome of a jealous woman.
She thinks of that day that will never leave her mind, the whirlwind that swept her away since. Her love, her happiness, her confusion, sadness, anger and jealousy. She usually brushes these thoughts away as selfish, but today she follows her train of thought.
She thinks how he rather deserves it, how his platonic attitude mirrors his inner density. How he is the one that loses out every time he is not by her side. He still does not understand, after she quite brazenly expressed herself. She did everything but kiss his stupid pouty lips.
But he's still her friend. A crummy friend. But she clings on. Her anger overwhelms her again.
Clark is such a great friend to me, she thinks, why not return the favor?
She dials the phone, its cold keys against fingers that are not much warmer. After a few rings and a connection from one of his employees, she hears a voice, husky and bold.
"Ah, Ms. Sullivan. I knew you would see it my way. May I be of service?"
She feels her breath escaping with no sound. Her lips quivers and she shudders as she tries to find her voice. She knows as soon as she utters her first word, the first word quickly accumulating because she cannot stop once started...two years of deathly love and jealousy cannot be hindered. She knows as she continues talking, that nothing will be the same.
She is giving something Clark will not forget. Or ever forgive.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A/N: Don't get me wrong, I love Chloe to bits. In fact, I think we might actually be the same person, sharing love for journalism, wit, and Clark Kent ;). I just felt that this is the path TPTB will want her to take, or make us believe she will take, as the season finale is next week, and nothing is ever answered in season finales. Please review---It's my first time playing the Smallville game, be brutally honest. That button is so lonely, and only you can stop it from going the same path Chloe will! (I know, I'm so wierd. But don't let that stop you)