Don't own Smallville.

Continuation of the AU of Bride drabble series.


Interpretation

Sunlight reflects brightly off golden hair, tan skin gleams in the yellow, morning light. The sun hangs eagerly above the horizon, a shining circle; his shadow elongates and stretches, a long line of darkness as he slips out of bed, soft footfalls across plush carpet. He finds his clothes spread across the living room floor, shirt and shoes and pants scattered across hardwood, crumpled in piles of cloth. He dresses in the new cotton button up, the jeans that unlike every other pair he owns aren't smeared in red, tossed into the garbage after cycles of washing, bleach and club soda, stains that change from crimson to maroon to a pink-orange.

His cell phone vibrates in his pocket an hour later. The ringtone is utterly familiar, song deeply engraved into his memory. He holds the end button down, until the phone vibrates once more, screen growing dark. His eyes sting, a prickle of searing liquid, he wants Chloe so much it physically hurts, a resounding ache in his pericardium. There's an intense bond between them, invisible strings, spanning the miles and miles between them. Everything he feels and everything he wants, everything he knows conflict with one another. It wants what he wants for different reasons, dark, sinister motives that sit heavily in his stomach, a solid lump of metaphorical lead.

Later, it turns his cell back on, and the words said to Chloe aren't his.

Incarceration

Two months pass slowly. The sixty days are the best and worst time of his life. Chloe and companionship and comfort, warmth of a body beside his in the darkness; soft, heated kisses along his jaw every morning, beckoning him to greet the day. It dwells dormant within his body, seizing physical control without the pain of transformation; moments when his consciousness is pushed to the hot, enveloping darkness, when he can feel and hear and see, touch velvet skin and taste minty toothpaste and bitter morning coffee. It won't let him leave her, it wants what it wants and what it wants is what he wants; emerald eyes and strands of golden sunshine.

He goes to visit Chloe at work after his shift, a cup of hot chocolate steaming in his hand; wispy white tendrils that rise and twist like crooked fingers in the air. Clark is sitting with Chloe, on her desk, broad, fucking farm boy shoulders covered in their familiar red cloth, like the man doesn't own another jacket. Rage overpowers him, cripples him, searing his stomach; he doesn't know if the hate combining with every atom in his body is his or its. Mellifluous voice stops mid-sentence when he approaches, jade eyes meeting baby blue, then locking with his briefly.

"I have to get back to the Planet, see you later Chloe." Slender arms encircle muscles and masculinity. Clark is one of the best men he knows, but he lost his chance with Chloe long ago. "I'm happy for you." A perfect, white flash of teeth, all charm and model good looks, completely Clark. It clenches the cookie in his left hand so hard it crumbles, chocolate chips smearing brown on his palm and fingers, sticky sweet.

"Hey Davis." A press of soft mouth; touch of slick tongue. "I'm completely swamped right now, who would have thought they'd have the new girl check the next book to be published for grammar errors. It's all about amazingly perfect teenage vampires who just have the most perfect life." Chloe frowns, wrinkles her nose in disdain. "Talk about gagging." Slender, smooth fingers stroke his cheek, a thank you for the beverage. "Clark is going to take me home, but I'll come by your apartment first thing in the morning."

"Okay, have a good night." He kisses her forehead, tastes sweat, smells shampoo, cherries and coconuts and mangoes. It fumes dangerously within his body, the familiar ache begins and he loses himself completely. Blood, death, and destruction, the bitter fruits of its jealousy spill onto an unsuspecting city. Suddenly there's pain and it roars, thrusts him back into the world without warning.

Nude and shivering, drenched in cooling crimson, sitting in a puddle of red, he looks up and sees Clark.

Revelation

Blood coats his skin wetly, an outer epidermis of sticky crimson. His abdomen and chest gleam in the dim, flickering street light, an orange bulb fifteen feet above him that fades and brightens in steady intervals. He smells acerbic of copper, warm, stale metal, muscles trembling and heaving; exertion and cold and vulnerability. It has retreated into the abyss of their combined minds, left him alone to face imminent death. Clark stares down at him, concerned and pained oceans of blue. It wants him to fight and bite and bash Clark's skull into the wall, until red gushes from beneath dark, ebony hair, perfect eyes that Chloe can love closed for eternity. His sanity argues differently, urges him to succumb to whatever strength or abilities Clark possesses.

"Davis, you're the creature?" Clark asks, voice low and surprised, regret and cold indifference in his tone.

"Please Clark, kill me, I don't want to hurt people anymore." It growls in protest, his arms trembling, fingers clenching, nails digging painfully into his palms, a trickle of his own blood joining the maroon on the pavement. "Don't tell Chloe what I was." He doubles over, searing heat and unbearable agony. It wants to emerge once more. He doesn't know if Clark can defeat him when it uses his body; a human puppet, a marionette without strings.

"I can't kill you." Clark removes his jacket, offers it to him. He wraps the red cloth around his waist; it blends with the blood on his skin. It ceases its attempt to gain control, relaxes.

"Yes you can." He needs Clark to, because if Clark is the man Chloe describes him to be, then he'll do what's best for the world.

"You don't understand Davis. I can't." Clark won't look at him now, his Adam's apple bobs up and down, swallowing words and swallowing an explanation. "Chloe's already lost Jimmy."

"Because of me." The confession drips from his tongue, a dark, heavy weight lifted from his chest and shoulders, lighter but no less guilty. "I killed him." He slides against the wall, back down onto the cement.

"I know." Clark sits beside him, splashing down into blood, blue jeans soaking crimson.

"Why won't you kill me?" He's never been more grateful for a sense of mortality. "What the fuck do you know that I don't? Why would you let someone like me walk away?"

"Chloe's pregnant." A soft, hesitant whisper, congratulations absent from the simple statement, feather soft and laced with dread.

Now he realizes what it wants Chloe for, and it's too late to prevent.

Procreation

Rivers of blood wash from his skin, swirling crimson around the drain; a gurgle as the liquid disappears, like a throaty swallow. Water washes away all evidence, every sin; he can still feel the blood, crusted to his flesh, an invisible layer. Everything in the world is too much; his fist collides with the tile wall, excruciating heat and pain in his metacarpals, bruises and maybe broken bones.

"Fuck!" He cries, his own rage swirling through his body for the first time, anger that is entirely his. He steps from the shower, dripping, droplets of water glistening on his body, sparkling gems of dihydrogen monoxide. Its face flickers in the mirror, takes up a permanent residence, staring at him, mocking him. Glass shatters into dozens of shards when his hand smashes into the reflection, long, deep cuts across his palm and knuckles. Blood drips into the sink, a trickle of red, staining white porcelain. He wishes for death in that moment of self pity and guilt, because Chloe's…..with….. His thoughts gradually clear, fog of fury lifting. He's himself and it is it, separate DNA, gametes containing different chromosomes. There's a chance the baby within Chloe is his, a boy or girl with dimples and green eyes, chubby cheeks and little fingers. He wants his child more than he can voice; a life he's created, not destroyed.

"Davis, it's three in the morning, this better be a booty call." Chloe yawns, a soft laugh, redolent of cinnamon; new toothpaste.

"I just…I needed to see you." A warm, familiar body in his arms, face buried in golden hair.

"There's something I need to tell you." Chloe breaks the silence, heated kisses placed along his neck.

"What is it?" He knows and it knows, basking in smug pleasure and self-satisfaction.

A shaky, nervous inhale, green eyes meeting his.

"I'm pregnant." Fear and excitement shine in emeralds. "I know we didn't plan this, and you don't have to do anything if you don't want to, but…." Quiet when he presses his mouth to hers, a hand tentatively touching her flat stomach, feeling nothing but harmless, hot skin.

"I'm not going to leave Chloe." He smiles until his cheek muscles ache.

Later, he rests his head on her abdomen, wonders what life is forming inside it.

Gestation

Thirty days of hope and unpleasant expectations. He asks Chloe to move into his apartment, she agrees, and unfamiliar clothing joins his in the closet, a spectrum of colored cloth, yellows and blues and greens, red, purple, the occasional pink. Chloe eats an alarming amount of peanut butter and Oreos, stocks his fridge with soy milk, vegetables, fruits. Its stomach churns in disgust and moments of solitude are spent consuming meat, raw, bloody, scraps of animal flesh, beef and pork and the occasional uncooked chicken.

"Davis, Chloe wanted me to bring her some…" Clark barges through the apartment door without knocking, shock and abject horror shaping facial muscles. "What are you doing?"

He swallows the mouthful of steak without chewing, taste of copper, wipes a dribble of red from his lips.

"Eating. It tastes disgusting, but it helps control it." He tears away a new chunk with his teeth. Anger and venom boiling anew in his blood, fingers clutching the morbid sustenance tighter. "What does Chloe want?"

"She needed me to check her calendar to see what time her doctor's appointment is." Clark is approaching dangerous territory, because this is his and Chloe's apartment now. Clark's name is nowhere in the equation. "I thought you were working."

"I was." Another strip of dripping meat, squelching between his teeth. "Her appointment is at three, I'm taking her." It's his baby or its baby, but either way, the consciousness of the father dwells within his mind, thinking and wanting and lusting.

"Okay." Clark doesn't leave, sits on the couch, cushions yielding beneath the weight of his body. "Chloe needs to know."

"No, no she doesn't." It licks the remnant blood and flavor of metal from his palms. "This is supposed to be the happiest time of her life."

"And what happens in six months when it isn't?"

"I'll deal with that moment when it comes." Minutes pass in silence, time slowing to a crawl, heat and cologne and awkwardness, a tinge of hatred and a fire of resentment.

It demands more food but he has to rush out the door at two thirty to pick Chloe up on time.


Like I said, I'm really not getting many reviews, so please let me know what you think.