Smallville fic: Apocalypse's End (7/8)
Oct. 8th, 2010 10:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficYou know, for a bunch of people reading a Chloe/Davis fic, y'all sure don't like Chloe much, do you? Just an observation...
Title: Apocalypse's End
Fandom: Smallville
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,821
Characters/Pairings: Chloe/Davis.
Author's notes: Takes place after season nine. Betaed by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nonky
Previous: 6/8
Next: 8/8
Summary: If you save the world, it won't make someone love you. But maybe it'll make them tell you how they feel.
It's a low-key celebration when you come back. The people on the streets haven't quite figured out that it's all over. They see the great metal thing above their city and assume the worst. You let them hide. Let Clark or Chloe be the ones to break to them that the world has to go on. They've earned it.
In the passenger seat of the car you've stolen (what is that, the third in as many days? Maybe you've found a career path for the post-apocalypse), Ollie doesn't speak. He eats when you take oranges from a deserted stand on the side of the road and hand them over, but that's the extent of his initiative. Poor little rich boy.
Chloe doesn't talk either. She plays music. It takes you home.
You help Ollie out of the car and into the hotel. Chloe's gotten the power working again, and filled the lobby with milling refugees getting lunch from a big cast-iron soup stove at the sign-in desk. Cyborg is there. He waves to you ruefully, like 'sorry for kidnapping you way back when,' and ushers you into an elevator. He takes Ollie from you.
When the elevator stops, Clark and Chloe are waiting. There's a gurney there. You could use one, but they lay Ollie down on it and Chloe hugs him. He lets himself be hugged. That's the extent of his initiative.
Then she looks at you and your breath stops. No suspicion. No anger. Just something bright and amazing. She kisses you on the cheek. It's enough. It's more than enough.
"Desaad was wrong about… forgiveness," she says before you can leave.
"You forgive me?"
She looks as if it's costing her something to speak. "There's nothing to forgive. The man that killed my husband… you've never met him. You're someone else."
You don't dare nod. She's clasped your big hand in two of her small ones. As she walks away, your hand falls. You go looking for your room.
"What will you do now?" Clark asks.
You don't stop. "Whatever you have for me to do."
"The world's in a lot of pain. There will be people who try to take advantage of the chaos. And they could come back to try again."
You turn around, waiting for him to tell you what he expects you to do about it.
"The world needs hope. It needs people to give them hope."
"I'm no hero."
"No. You're something the world needs more than heroes. A good man."
Chloe is at her computer, her hand in Ollie's, talking into Watchtower. "Impulse, go to Helsinki, find Doctor Klaus Jannsen. He's a psychologist. Bring him here, we need to begin Ollie's treatment immediately…"
You start walking.
***
You draw a bath, let its steam waft through the bathroom, pull the clothes off your body (they stick where you couldn't reach to wipe off the blood), and let yourself slip down inside. For something like an hour, you let the warmth seep into you before you pick up a washcloth and scour yourself. You drain the tub, leaving a red ring around it, then fill it again. This time, you actually use those little complimentary bath salts. You don't know what the hell they do, but you're feeling decadent. You're pulled back into the warm water and spend elixirs of minutes massaging shampoo into your hair. It's grown unruly since the last time the guards held you down and ran electric clippers over your head. You think you'll let it stay this way.
There's a knock at the door. Already, you think, and look at the clock. It's been over an hour. You duck your head under the water, shake it to get the shampoo out, then step out and dry yourself with a towel. It feels weird, wiping off something that isn't blood. Less sticky.
While you were gone, Chloe filled the drawers with clothes that fit you. You wonder if it was busywork she sent someone to do, or if she needed to take her mind off things, spent time picking out clothes that she thought would look good on you. You stop wondering about it. It's no good thinking that way. You pull on a simple linen shirt and simple canvas pants. You open the door.
Chloe stands there. You've never seen her this nervous, this… needing. Well, not this you, at any rate.
"Ollie's going to be fine."
You don't care.
"He's talking again. He's happy to see me. It's just they… you know, he's sick. Like he caught a cold in his head." Her smile is rueful. "I don't know how you got through it."
"Practice."
Her smile isn't rueful any more. Isn't a smile any more. "I think it would be good for him to have someone standing behind him. Some people… it helps them."
"Lots of people," you agree. "That all?"
"Damnit, Davis!" She steps inside. You close the door after her. "I don't get you. You… when we first met, you were… considerate and kind and funny and really fucking cute. You made me feel perfect. And I thought you were the one. And then I find out you were killing people, but it wasn't your fault, and then it was your fault, and now there's you. You're the person I fell in love with. But I keep thinking… maybe you're someone else too." She raises her hands and lowers them. "I don't know what to think… you're not safe. But you say things… they make me want to not care…"
"Why are you here, Chloe? If Ollie needs you standing behind him?"
She takes a deep breath and becomes Watchtower. "What was it like? With Tess?"
You're tired of this. Tired of her picking at you like a scab. Tired of her, period. "It was like jerking off. She might as well have been a centerfold."
She doesn't say anything. She looks at you. You wish she wouldn't.
"I'm like that with Ollie. Like I'm just with him because… because I should be with someone, and it can't be Jimmy. Or Clark. Or you. Oh, God, when did I get this fucked up?"
You put your hands on her shoulders, hold her still. Indulge in a bad idea. "Who would you choose, if there were no monsters, no superheroes, no aliens… just us?"
She says it hurts to ask herself that. She says she doesn't know. She says it would never work out between you. She says Ollie needs her.
Most of all, you're tired of words.
You take her in your arms and it's crazy how strong she feels, how full and alive and there. Not fragile at all. She kisses you almost before you can do the same to her. Her body arches under yours, arms leisurely settling about your hips. You want to lose yourself in her, construct a world of her sighs and lips and feel. Her hands flutter in your scalp, down your spine, somewhere itchy at your waist. Your shirt. She's trying to get it off.
It's off and her hands run over your chest, feel the thunder of your heart. She yields to you, masters you. The beast has no part in this. You feel free.
The kiss has to end for there to be nothing between you. For a moment, you feel aftershocks. There's no other word for it. You're compelled to revel in the sense of her, the nearness of her, the sheer fact of this thing passing between you.
"More," she says, and thank God you've lived long enough to hear that tone.
You do, to her lips, her neck, her breasts. You want to take your time. It's been so long, not since sex, but since intimacy, attraction, comfort. You never knew how much you needed this until you got it. You want her. You want all of her.
Even in this desperate, frightening hunger, you take in memories to feast on. The dimple at the small of her back. The spot on her throat that drives her wild when you tongue it. The curiously sweet taste of her nipple in your mouth.
You've had your taste. You need more. The bed is close. Maybe you've been gravitating toward it. You give her a shove and she ends up on her back, looking up at you like rapture. "I'm not afraid of what you'll do to me," she says. "So do it hard."
It only takes a touch to open her up, a moment to enter her, and she squirms under you, vocally eager, shaking, moaning. Her fingernails in your back, her thighs pressed against your sides. "Okay," she says, again, again. "Okay, yes, it's okay…"
The closeness of her. Warm. Soft. Like an oasis in the desert of your life. You feel her orgasm in every inch of her, shuddering deep in her chest and bursting with warm breath against your throat. She sags her head a moment, her frizzled hair tickling your sternum. Then she's out from under you, pulling her clothes off like they're on fire, going to work on yours.
The only thing between you now is sweat.
"Do that again," she says.
You pull her down to your parted lips. You do it again. And more.
***
Afterward, after blissful minutes of her lolling on your chest like a cat in a beam of sunlight, she starts. Rolls off you and wraps herself in the sheets. You want to stay close, but you don't know how—an irrational fear has you crushing her in your sleep, like a baby in its parents' bed. So you rub her arm and stay on your side of the bed.
"I love you," you say.
Maybe she's already asleep.
***
When you've woken up, Chloe's squeezed herself into a smaller corner of the bed. You wonder if you should embrace her or if that's the problem.
"I… had this dream. About Jimmy. I feel like I betrayed him," she says.
"No. He'd want you to be happy."
"Am I happy?"
You slide onto your back and hold a staring contest with the ceiling. "Same deal Tess got? Is that what you want?"
"I don't know." You hear bedsprings and ruffling sheets. She's leaving. "I need to think. Sleep on it. I shouldn't be here."
"Your blouse is under the bed."
The sight of her putting it on hits you with a profound nothing. "You're upset," she says
"No. With myself. I should've seen this coming."
A few minutes into her absence, you pick yourself up and shower last night off. You want to be rid of it. A few minutes after that, you're dressed again. Chloe's perfect little outfit. You walk out into the hall and Clark's there.
"Where is she?" he demands.
You make a big show of checking your pockets.
"Well, she's gone," he says. "Left without saying a word."
Title: Apocalypse's End
Fandom: Smallville
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,821
Characters/Pairings: Chloe/Davis.
Author's notes: Takes place after season nine. Betaed by
nonkyPrevious: 6/8
Next: 8/8
Summary: If you save the world, it won't make someone love you. But maybe it'll make them tell you how they feel.
It's a low-key celebration when you come back. The people on the streets haven't quite figured out that it's all over. They see the great metal thing above their city and assume the worst. You let them hide. Let Clark or Chloe be the ones to break to them that the world has to go on. They've earned it.
In the passenger seat of the car you've stolen (what is that, the third in as many days? Maybe you've found a career path for the post-apocalypse), Ollie doesn't speak. He eats when you take oranges from a deserted stand on the side of the road and hand them over, but that's the extent of his initiative. Poor little rich boy.
Chloe doesn't talk either. She plays music. It takes you home.
You help Ollie out of the car and into the hotel. Chloe's gotten the power working again, and filled the lobby with milling refugees getting lunch from a big cast-iron soup stove at the sign-in desk. Cyborg is there. He waves to you ruefully, like 'sorry for kidnapping you way back when,' and ushers you into an elevator. He takes Ollie from you.
When the elevator stops, Clark and Chloe are waiting. There's a gurney there. You could use one, but they lay Ollie down on it and Chloe hugs him. He lets himself be hugged. That's the extent of his initiative.
Then she looks at you and your breath stops. No suspicion. No anger. Just something bright and amazing. She kisses you on the cheek. It's enough. It's more than enough.
"Desaad was wrong about… forgiveness," she says before you can leave.
"You forgive me?"
She looks as if it's costing her something to speak. "There's nothing to forgive. The man that killed my husband… you've never met him. You're someone else."
You don't dare nod. She's clasped your big hand in two of her small ones. As she walks away, your hand falls. You go looking for your room.
"What will you do now?" Clark asks.
You don't stop. "Whatever you have for me to do."
"The world's in a lot of pain. There will be people who try to take advantage of the chaos. And they could come back to try again."
You turn around, waiting for him to tell you what he expects you to do about it.
"The world needs hope. It needs people to give them hope."
"I'm no hero."
"No. You're something the world needs more than heroes. A good man."
Chloe is at her computer, her hand in Ollie's, talking into Watchtower. "Impulse, go to Helsinki, find Doctor Klaus Jannsen. He's a psychologist. Bring him here, we need to begin Ollie's treatment immediately…"
You start walking.
***
You draw a bath, let its steam waft through the bathroom, pull the clothes off your body (they stick where you couldn't reach to wipe off the blood), and let yourself slip down inside. For something like an hour, you let the warmth seep into you before you pick up a washcloth and scour yourself. You drain the tub, leaving a red ring around it, then fill it again. This time, you actually use those little complimentary bath salts. You don't know what the hell they do, but you're feeling decadent. You're pulled back into the warm water and spend elixirs of minutes massaging shampoo into your hair. It's grown unruly since the last time the guards held you down and ran electric clippers over your head. You think you'll let it stay this way.
There's a knock at the door. Already, you think, and look at the clock. It's been over an hour. You duck your head under the water, shake it to get the shampoo out, then step out and dry yourself with a towel. It feels weird, wiping off something that isn't blood. Less sticky.
While you were gone, Chloe filled the drawers with clothes that fit you. You wonder if it was busywork she sent someone to do, or if she needed to take her mind off things, spent time picking out clothes that she thought would look good on you. You stop wondering about it. It's no good thinking that way. You pull on a simple linen shirt and simple canvas pants. You open the door.
Chloe stands there. You've never seen her this nervous, this… needing. Well, not this you, at any rate.
"Ollie's going to be fine."
You don't care.
"He's talking again. He's happy to see me. It's just they… you know, he's sick. Like he caught a cold in his head." Her smile is rueful. "I don't know how you got through it."
"Practice."
Her smile isn't rueful any more. Isn't a smile any more. "I think it would be good for him to have someone standing behind him. Some people… it helps them."
"Lots of people," you agree. "That all?"
"Damnit, Davis!" She steps inside. You close the door after her. "I don't get you. You… when we first met, you were… considerate and kind and funny and really fucking cute. You made me feel perfect. And I thought you were the one. And then I find out you were killing people, but it wasn't your fault, and then it was your fault, and now there's you. You're the person I fell in love with. But I keep thinking… maybe you're someone else too." She raises her hands and lowers them. "I don't know what to think… you're not safe. But you say things… they make me want to not care…"
"Why are you here, Chloe? If Ollie needs you standing behind him?"
She takes a deep breath and becomes Watchtower. "What was it like? With Tess?"
You're tired of this. Tired of her picking at you like a scab. Tired of her, period. "It was like jerking off. She might as well have been a centerfold."
She doesn't say anything. She looks at you. You wish she wouldn't.
"I'm like that with Ollie. Like I'm just with him because… because I should be with someone, and it can't be Jimmy. Or Clark. Or you. Oh, God, when did I get this fucked up?"
You put your hands on her shoulders, hold her still. Indulge in a bad idea. "Who would you choose, if there were no monsters, no superheroes, no aliens… just us?"
She says it hurts to ask herself that. She says she doesn't know. She says it would never work out between you. She says Ollie needs her.
Most of all, you're tired of words.
You take her in your arms and it's crazy how strong she feels, how full and alive and there. Not fragile at all. She kisses you almost before you can do the same to her. Her body arches under yours, arms leisurely settling about your hips. You want to lose yourself in her, construct a world of her sighs and lips and feel. Her hands flutter in your scalp, down your spine, somewhere itchy at your waist. Your shirt. She's trying to get it off.
It's off and her hands run over your chest, feel the thunder of your heart. She yields to you, masters you. The beast has no part in this. You feel free.
The kiss has to end for there to be nothing between you. For a moment, you feel aftershocks. There's no other word for it. You're compelled to revel in the sense of her, the nearness of her, the sheer fact of this thing passing between you.
"More," she says, and thank God you've lived long enough to hear that tone.
You do, to her lips, her neck, her breasts. You want to take your time. It's been so long, not since sex, but since intimacy, attraction, comfort. You never knew how much you needed this until you got it. You want her. You want all of her.
Even in this desperate, frightening hunger, you take in memories to feast on. The dimple at the small of her back. The spot on her throat that drives her wild when you tongue it. The curiously sweet taste of her nipple in your mouth.
You've had your taste. You need more. The bed is close. Maybe you've been gravitating toward it. You give her a shove and she ends up on her back, looking up at you like rapture. "I'm not afraid of what you'll do to me," she says. "So do it hard."
It only takes a touch to open her up, a moment to enter her, and she squirms under you, vocally eager, shaking, moaning. Her fingernails in your back, her thighs pressed against your sides. "Okay," she says, again, again. "Okay, yes, it's okay…"
The closeness of her. Warm. Soft. Like an oasis in the desert of your life. You feel her orgasm in every inch of her, shuddering deep in her chest and bursting with warm breath against your throat. She sags her head a moment, her frizzled hair tickling your sternum. Then she's out from under you, pulling her clothes off like they're on fire, going to work on yours.
The only thing between you now is sweat.
"Do that again," she says.
You pull her down to your parted lips. You do it again. And more.
***
Afterward, after blissful minutes of her lolling on your chest like a cat in a beam of sunlight, she starts. Rolls off you and wraps herself in the sheets. You want to stay close, but you don't know how—an irrational fear has you crushing her in your sleep, like a baby in its parents' bed. So you rub her arm and stay on your side of the bed.
"I love you," you say.
Maybe she's already asleep.
***
When you've woken up, Chloe's squeezed herself into a smaller corner of the bed. You wonder if you should embrace her or if that's the problem.
"I… had this dream. About Jimmy. I feel like I betrayed him," she says.
"No. He'd want you to be happy."
"Am I happy?"
You slide onto your back and hold a staring contest with the ceiling. "Same deal Tess got? Is that what you want?"
"I don't know." You hear bedsprings and ruffling sheets. She's leaving. "I need to think. Sleep on it. I shouldn't be here."
"Your blouse is under the bed."
The sight of her putting it on hits you with a profound nothing. "You're upset," she says
"No. With myself. I should've seen this coming."
A few minutes into her absence, you pick yourself up and shower last night off. You want to be rid of it. A few minutes after that, you're dressed again. Chloe's perfect little outfit. You walk out into the hall and Clark's there.
"Where is she?" he demands.
You make a big show of checking your pockets.
"Well, she's gone," he says. "Left without saying a word."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-10-08 05:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-08 05:47 pm (UTC)I would never have let Davis go without some lovin', though. She's not gonna bring home the bacon, pop out a few kids and let him do the househusband thing while working through PTSD? Whatta bitch.
no subject
Date: 2010-10-08 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-08 08:43 pm (UTC)Lovely, with that edge of dread that comes with knowing the other shoe is going to drop by the end of the chapter.
no subject
Date: 2010-10-08 10:10 pm (UTC)And if Chloe's just going to run and shut the door on love... well, I just refer you to 'Plastique'. If you haven't the sense to take your chances as they come, then don't expect to have the option later.
no subject
Date: 2010-10-08 10:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-08 10:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-08 10:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-09 12:25 am (UTC)But I like her here. I can see why she'd run and at least she knows she's fucked up. She's sort of screwed too (in more than just the thorough Davis way) it'll be hard to let herself be with him, but no one else is really going to do it for her, so... I also love Davis' brutal honesty. It's awesome.
no subject
Date: 2010-10-09 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-09 02:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-09 10:56 pm (UTC)don'tdoit don'tdoit don'tdoit.