Nightingale

Title: Nightingale
Author: TheAmazingApe
Pairing: Chlark
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: smut, angst, dark Chlark, futurefic
Spoilers: Phantom, Bizarro, Tomb
Short summary: Chloe surrenders to her power.

This idea came from some of Allison's quotes about Chloe's healing power being martyr-like, also from Chloe's closed-off nature lately. It also reflects a fear of mine about Chloe's power and the terribly depressing place her power could lead. Keep in mind, this is not what I want for her--just me going somewhere really depressing.






"There is no such thing," the boy repeated. He'd been repeating it since his father had tucked him in for the night. He was just scared about tomorrow. That was all. That was what his father said.

Except he wasn't. Not really. It was his father that was scared about tomorrow. His mother, too. He wasn't scared of the big cocoon. It just flashed lights that went around and around. After was a little scary. The last time there'd been an after, his mom had cried all the way home. He didn't get that. Maybe he'd have to get treatments again. Maybe he'd lose all of his hair again. So what? People gave him toys and ice cream and all of his friends from school sent cards. It was a fair trade.

It was the lady that scared him. She wore a dark cloak with a hood and she stared at him. Except she didn't. Because she wasn't real. "You're not real," he said to her, hoping that gave her the message, hoping she'd go away.

"No. I'm not real." She smiled. "Go back to sleep."

The last two nights, he'd seen her at his window. But he'd run away. He'd crawled into bed with his mom and dad. Not tonight, though. His dad said so. He knew why. His dad didn't want him to hear his mom cry. Fine. He was eight now. He could chase her off. "Since you're not real, you should go." He pulled down his blanket, slowly pulling out the yellow bat that came with his whiffle ball. "Or I'll make you."

She laughed. He wished she wouldn't. It made her seem real. "I want to go, but I want you to give me something first."

She moved closer. He smelled soap, like she'd had a bath not too long ago, and coffee. Things that weren't real didn't smell like soap and coffee. He saw a pale hand move to her face, a finger in front of her mouth. "Please don't scream," she whispered. "I'm really not going to hurt you."

"What do you want?" He tried to keep his lips from trembling. You weren't supposed to show ghosts, even real ones, that you were afraid... Or was that dogs? "Are you a burglar?"

"Maybe." She moved closer. "But I don't steal money."

He clutched his bat closer. "Do you steal toys?"

She smiled. "No. I steal sickness."

He tilted his head. "That's stupid. Why do you want to steal that?"

"No good reason. I just collect sicknesses. I heard you have a good one."

She sat on the edge of his bed. Maybe he was just distracted by the silly things she said, but she wasn't that scary up close. "Mine's not so great. It makes my hair fall out and everyone hugs me too much."

"Might sound lame to you, but I'm totally jealous."

He smiled. "Really?"

"Yeah." She leaned in. "It won't take much, you know. Instead of all the yucky tests and treatments and pills that make your tummy hurt, I could just take it all away."

"Why?" He was eight, not stupid. He'd heard his mom and dad talk about hospital bills. Why would anybody want something his mom was trying to pay doctors to take away.

"I told you. I'm a collector."

"Yeah, but... What's the catch?" He smiled a little. He'd heard his dad say those words. They sounded cool. "Yeah. What's the catch?" he repeated.

She laughed. "No catch. I just think you should play baseball and eat too much candy and go rollerskating."

Those things were more fun than sitting in bed, surrounded by presents he was too tired to play with. He blinked up at her. "What do I have to do?"

"Here's the hard part."

He took a deep breath.

She held out her arms. "You're going to have to give me a hug." Her voice cracked a little. Like his mom's sometimes did. And maybe she needed a hug. Maybe real ghosts got lonely. He sat up and leaned forward, letting her hold him. He felt her hands run up his back to his neck. Something wet hit the top of his head and it was warm there, and warm on the back of his neck... His last thought was that it was so bright...

**************************

He flew low. He'd find her tonight. He just had to think where to look. He'd checked the hospitals, but nothing turned up. But she had a pet project. He knew that much. Two nights ago, he'd spotted her in this neighborhood. She'd been pretty spry as she ducked out of sight. That told him that she hadn't finished.

They had been going on for a year, these "miraculous" healings. There were probably more than just what was reported. Some people might not have even known their time was running out. But the Nightingale would know. She'd sense it. The Nightingale-after Florence Nightingale. That was what Lois called the cloaked woman that roamed the city. He had other names for her. Stupid. Foolhardy. Meddlesome. He preferred to call her these names. It was preferrable to calling her that other name. The one he feared she'd soon earn: Dead.

He hovered, closing his eyes, seeking out her breath. He'd know it anywhere...

West. Just a little to the west. He flew quickly and silently. She was getting good at hiding from him. The lead lining her cloak did most of the work, but she was advancing in sneakiness. And why? Because she didn't want him to stop her. She just wouldn't listen.

He spotted it then, a denseness through the trees. He flew lower, watching first. She wouldn't get away tonight. She stumbled under a tree and he almost smiled at the thought that, after all these weeks, he'd have her. But his smile fell before it formed. She was... shaking. And violently. He swooped, grasping her around the waist and flying upward. He wouldn't give her the chance to get away this time.

"No," she gasped, wriggling in his grip. "Let me go. I told you..."

"Shhh!" She pulled her closer, closing the cloak around her as she trembled. "I'll get you somewhere safe."

***************************

He didn't look through the door. "Go away," she'd said. "I don't want you to see." He'd respect that wish, but he could hear her grunts and groans. He tried to close his mind to them, but he couldn't. Maybe he just wanted to share in that much of her pain. Pain was almost alien to him now. Most of the kryptonite, the only thing that truly hurt him, had been disposed of. Oliver Queen had helped there. Oliver Queen had helped her, too. Her. She was the other thing that pained him these days. It was so nearly physical.

She was quieting. He stared into the mug of tea in front of him. It had gone cold. He warmed it quickly with his vision, hoping she was up to taking some now. He stood and knocked hesitantly. "Are you... Can I come in?"

"It's your room," he heard faintly.

He pushed open the door, not surprised at the bitterness in her voice. He avoided looking at her as he placed the mug on the nightstand. He saw blonde hair littering the floor. His sheets were soaked where her hand rested. He turned and pulled a chair over, sitting in it carefully before finally glancing at her. It was nearly as beautiful as it was disturbing. She panted, staring at the ceiling. Hair sprouted on her head, erasing bald patches. Her cheeks turned from gray to white, finally gaining a pinkish glow. She turned to him, life returning to her eyes. "You're staring."

"You... Your hair."

She smiled wanly. "Chemo's a bitch. And I just had six months worth, not to mention all that pesky cancer." She looked around, picked up a hunk of hair, then dropped it. "Sorry about the mess. Send me the cleaning bill."

"Just tell me where," he said, narrowing his eyes.

She laughed bitterly. "Like I'd tell you. You'd never leave me alone."

"Once upon a time, you didn't want me to."

"Once upon a time, I was a selfish little girl." She stretched, her eyes tired. "It gets easier, you know. First time I had cancer, it stuck around for days. Now it's in and out in an hour. Yay me."

"You're not going to convince me," he said, shaking his head. "What if it sticks next time?"

"It won't."

"You don't know that. Some of these powers had a shelf life, you know. We've seen it."

"Everyone has a shelf life, Clark." She stood, running a hand through her hair, discarding the spare strands. "And it would be worth it."

He stood as well, his fists clenching at his sides. "How can you say that?"

She whirled on him, her face flushed and sweaty. Her black pants and turtleneck stuck to her. "How can you deny it?" She pointed out the window. "There's a boy out there. He had six months no matter what they did. I could feel it. Now he has his whole life ahead of him." She took a deep breath. "That's worth it and you know it."

He couldn't argue it. That was the worst part. she was martyring herself regularly and... But how could he say it was worth it if she lost her life? "What about fate?" he asked, grasping onto the only ammo he had left.

"What about it?"

"What if that boy was destined to go for a reason?" He hated the words the minute they left his mouth.

"Don't play that angle. What if I visited him tonight for a reason? Huh? What if I have this ability for a reason?" She turned away, stripping the shirt over her head without preamble. "You're not one to talk about fate, anyway. How many years did you waste away before finally accepting fate six months ago." She looked over her shoulder. "Superman," she mused, her hands reaching behind to unclasp her bra. "Very noble, by the way. And Nightingale? Lois has finally found a way with words. She has my thanks."

"Why don't you tell her yourself?"

"And risk her knowing?" She pushed her pants down and stepped out of them toward the door. "You more than anyone should understand the importance of secrets."

He watched her naked form move to the bathroom door, then stared at the dark pile of cotton on the floor. Undressing, he reflected, wasn't a move to entice. He knew that. She just didn't care. A long time ago, he'd told Chloe that she cared more than anyone he knew. It was still true. She did care, just not for herself. Not anymore. It was the nature of her "gift." If a person had to sacrifice themselves so often, self stopped mattering.

It was why she'd left work. It was why she'd disappeared. Chloe Sullivan only existed when she had to.

Maybe he was lucky. He could care. He could help. And it cost him nothing, really. But her... It cost everything over and over. If faced with her decision, would he have taken her path? Maybe. But he didn't want this for her. He wanted her to come back to her life.

He sped around the room to the noise of his shower, picking up the hair, changing the sweaty sheets, draping her clothes over the chair in the corner. It was good enough for her to sleep in, should she choose to. He always held out hope that she might. He followed the growing cloud of steam to her. "You could come back, you know. They'd have you back at The Planet."

"After my year-long leave of absence?" She laughed bitterly. "Besides, they've got you and Lois now. They don't need extraneous little me. And their health plan can no longer handle me." The humor in her voice didn't really mask the longing. He heard it. She did want to come back. But she refused to give herself anything that she wanted.

He opened the shower curtain. She hardly flinched. Just continued scrubbing at her arms and chest in a brisk, almost business-like manner. "Having this ability doesn't mean..."

She cut him off with a hard look. "Don't even try it, Clark. I didn't choose this. It chose me." She turned toward the spray and he watched rivulets of water slide down her back. "I'm not thrilled about it, you know. But I know it's worth it. It's for them."

"And what about you?"

"This is exactly why I don't like you knowing where I am." She glanced at him over her shoulder, then quickly turned back. "You can't save everyone, Clark."

But he wanted to. He wanted to save her if she'd only let him. He wanted to show her that it wasn't just about the other guy's life. She could live, too. "It's been six weeks, Chloe," he whispered, not caring that his clothes and floor were getting wet.

"Chloe," she repeated, turning slightly. "Sometimes I forget that's my name." She smiled at his look of horror. "Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not a complete nutbag... yet. I just... I don't ever have to say my name now. I never hear it. It's weird not existing." She laughed hoarsely. "Oh, please thank Ollie again. If it weren't for him, I might have to work. Can you imagine the sick days?" She shook her head and began lathering her hair.

When she'd first disappeared, Oliver had wired a large sum of money to her bank account. It was as much to make sure she ate and slept somewhere safe as to keep tabs. But she emptied it. She used cash after that. They couldn't track her that way. Oliver had recieved a single postcard:

Many thanks.

-C

That was it. There would have been a time when she would have been too proud to accept money. Now, she'd take it. If it was for her purpose, she believed, even her pride no longer mattered.

He thought of how easily she brushed off all they went through to find her. Him, Oliver, Lois... They couldn't. He was the only one that could catch her, if only briefly. But he couldn't force her to stay, to exist again.

"Chloe, please," he stared at her, willing her to show a glimmer of self. "Just call Lois. She's been beside herself and she's..."

"I'm sure you can comfort her," she said, stepping under the spray and closing her eyes. "I just bet you want to."

"It's not like that between us," he said, his voice hard.

"It will be. The Nightingale knows," she whispered, before laughing.

Chloe's disappearance had been precipitated by Lois' new job at The Planet. It was almost the final nail in her coffin, so to speak. She'd been unable to concentrate anymore. "There's pain out there and I can do something about it," she'd told him once. "How can I think about political sex scandals and amazing pet rescues when people die?" It had been the start. The end had been her giving up her dreams. She just let Lois have them. Now... It was him she tried to give away. Maybe she thought that, if he had Lois, he wouldn't try to find her anymore.

"I'd still look for you," he said, it was an assurance as well as a threat. "I'd never stop."

"I should find another city to plague, then...or de-plague." She shrugged and turned off the spray. He watched as she stepped out and past him, padding across the wet floor. She took his robe from the door. "But I guess I can't leave Metropolis. It's my city, after all." She smiled at him. "Look who I'm telling. I'm sure there's more dangerous places for you to be, yet here you are." She shrugged into the robe and moved to his room again.

He watched her bend to her clothes. "Chloe..."

"Thanks for the lift and the shower, Clark. You're a real pal."

"Chloe, stay--at least for tonight."

She straightened, letting the clothes fall from her hands as she turned slowly. "Oh, is it that time again?" He stood still as she moved toward him. "Two lonely heroes looking for mutual comfort," she whispered, running her hands down the front of his T-shirt. "Or are you going to try to lojack me or something?"

He drew in a shaky breath, hating his body for selfishly responding to her. This was supposed to be about her happiness, not about his needs--not again. He stopped her hands and held them in his. "I just want you to stay. You don't have to..."

"I'm sorry, Clark." She pulled one hand free and cupped the front of his sweatpants. "But I don't want to stay just to listen to you preach at me about self actualization and martyr complexes." She rubbed up and down and his eyes slid shut. "You'll have to make me a better offer."

He shivered as she squeezed gently. "Chloe, you need..."

"I need this." He felt her lips on his neck. "And so do you."

And that was the problem. Just like last time and the time before. He found her, he tried to keep her, and she'd turn it into this--just a lonely f*ck in the dark before she disappeared again. And he wanted to tell her she meant more to him than that. He wanted to confess that his life was a little harder, a little darker, without her. He wanted her to be by his side again, helping him rid the world of what evil threatened it. But she'd refuse. She had her own purpose now. And she wouldn't include him or anyone.

So he didn't tell her, not with words.

He clutched her to him as she continued cajoling responses from him. If this was all she'd give him of herself, he'd take it. He felt her hands on his sides, gathering his shirt, and he bent down to let her pull it over his head. He watched her eyes as she drew circles on his stomach. There was almost a flash of wonder, of life, in them. But she quickly shut down again as she dropped the robe around her feet.

She looked up at him, smirking. "Gonna just stand there, Clark? Time's wasting."

And she was right on so many levels. She'd leave him for good some day, but, for now, he knew she'd leave him before daylight. He reached forward and traced her ribs. They were just a little too stark for his liking. She had the money to eat enough, but he doubted she had the inclination. He madly wondered if he could just tie her up for a week, feed her, watch her sleep and make sure she really did. His hands cupped her breasts, slightly diminished, but still lush enough to make sweat break out on his palms.

"I could take you away," he whispered hoarsely, trying one last time. "Just for a few days. We could go somewhere, Chloe, and just..."

"Neither of us can stay away, Clark." She toyed with the drawstring of his sweatpants. "We're pretty much in a codependent relationship with our dear city." She stepped forward, pressing her breasts against his chest. "We need to be needed."

And that was what even this was about: need. She needed someone who knew her to touch her body. It was all of herself she still allowed herself. And him? He needed the same. Someone that knew him, all of him.

He bent and kissed her almost roughly, gripping her waist and lifting until her head was above his. He walked them to the bed and fell on her, trying to touch and taste what he could. Her tongue that tangled with his, her now prominent hipbones that quaked just a little under his fingers. He sucked hard on her nipple as his hand moved between her legs. He sucked and stroked until her wetness coated the tips of his fingers.

He started to move downward, to taste what he felt. But she began sitting up, pushing at his pants. This was another thing she wouldn't let him have any more. She wouldn't let him taste her. She probably thought it was too much like help if he did all the work. She wouldn't accept help from him.

His eyes stung as she laid back and wrapped her legs around him. It was always this way. A charged up fuck with a lump of sadness in his chest and tears that never quite fell. He met her eyes as he slid inside. There was want there. And pleasure as he slipped in further. But there wasn't life. He slid home and moved back, letting a finger trace her nipple. She had sensitive nipples. Clark watched her face as he kneaded softly, moving in and out, wanting her climax already. That was when life filled her face and body. That was where there were flashes of Chloe.

But he'd have to work to get her there. He bent to her right nipple as he kept pushing forward, let his breath whisper over it, watched it harden. His eyes slid shut as his lips closed over it. He suckled lightly, trying to coax a moan from her. All he had now was her breath, slightly shaky in short bursts of air against his hair.

Suddenly, her muscles tightened around him and red stars burst under his eyelids. He opened them and lifted his head.

A satisfied glint flared in her eyes as they slipped from his face down to where their bodies joined. She squeezed again and he grunted, trying to keep the focus, trying to make this one for her.

"Stop it, Clark," she whispered, sliding her knees higher, almost to his ribs.

"Stop what?" he panted, his body still.

"Stop trying to make love." Her hand slid down his slick back to his buttocks. Her nails dug in. He winced. It didn't hurt, but her words did. "Just fuck me."

That was all she wanted. That was all she'd take from this when he wanted it to be so much more.

Anger took over and he slid home hard. A guttural noise emitted from her throat and he did it again. There was a flash in her eyes then, almost one of surprise. He wanted to see it again. He gripped her hip in one hand and thrust again and again... Harder. Faster.

"Is this what you want?" he growled.

She didn't answer, only closed her eyes and moaned. It was answer enough. He pounded into her, his body rigid, yet languid with the feel of her, tightening around him with every rough stroke of his hips. If he could, he'd fuck the life back into her.

His body hummed as his mouth bent to her neck, moving upward towards her ear. His tongue dipped inside and a soft moan escaped her. Her hands slid up his back to his hair, pulling and twisting it in her hands. She pulled hard and he raised his head.

Her lips met his roughly. A groan escaped his throat, and he shifted above her. Her fingers dug into his scalp, and refused to allow their mouths to break. She held him forcibly and deepened the kiss. A whimper of response seemed to be all that Clark could manage. Her tongue found his and ran alongside it.

His hips stopped moving as he just couldn't take all the sensation at once. The intensity of the kiss ebbed and for a few minutes they simply breathed against each other, lips parted and grazing, hands quiet.

"I need you, Chloe," he whispered.

"You have me," she whispered back and he saw the glimmer of fear in her eyes.

"No." His eyes searched hers, his lower lip trembling slightly. "More of you. All of you. Always."

She twisted her head to the side, closing her eyes. "No, Clark. Please..."

"Just fuck me," he finished for her, bitterness lacing his words. "I know."

He pulled out, letting the tip of him rest against her, and her eyes flew back to his. There was a mix of fear, anger, loss... Good, he thought. Maybe he'd let her know how loss feels. How he felt every day, wondering if an anonymous girl would be found in an alley, stuffed in a morgue drawer, not to come out. Not this time. Maybe he wouldn't come back in. It would serve her right. But he knew he couldn't stop. He was still hard, his cock demanding entrance. But he'd deny it long enough to make her sweat. "You want this?"

"You know I do," she said hoarsely. "Stop screwing around." She lifted her hips, trying to take him back in.

"You're the martyr, Chloe." He held himself away, squeezing hard at the base, making sure his cock knew to behave. "That's your new thing, right? Why should you have what you want?"

Her eyes narrowed. "If this is too hard for you, I'll leave. I could get this elsewhere, you know."

He was sure she could. He was also sure she wouldn't. It was only him that knew her, him who connected with her. As hard as she tried not to exist, she needed this connection as badly as he needed to give it to her. "I could force you to stay," he said softly. "I could keep you here forever."

"You won't," she said, though he saw the glimmer of fear again. She knew he could. She also knew his impulses might get the better of him one day. That was why she hid so hard. That was why what times they had together these days were so few and far between.

And that was exactly why he couldn't deny himself what might be the last time.

"Turn over," he said roughly. "If you want an anonymous fuck, that's what I'll give you."

She gasped at his words and obeyed, scrambling back and turning to rest on her hands and knees. It pissed him off, too.

That she liked it this way.

That she liked hiding her eyes from him.

That she liked hiding.

He positioned himself behind her, going for just the right angle. And he plunged, seating himself to the hilt, hitting bottom, relishing the way her body jerked. "This what you want, Chloe?"

"Yes," she gasped, pushing backwards.

"You happy now?" He thrust again, gripping her hips hard. "Fucking hope you're happy."

*********************************

Was she happy?

Would she ever be happy? If someone up there wanted her to be happy, then they picked a hell of a "gift" for her. But what did it matter? Happiness was fleeting--like orgasms were fleeting. And orgasms were all she knew of happiness anymore. They were all she could feel. When you try not to feel the sickness, the violent wounds, the death... You close yourself off to everything. Everything but this.

She moaned as he continued thrusting. He was the only one who could make her feel anymore. She didn't know that from having had other experiences, other men. Who needed them when Superman himself would fuck her bi-weekly, monthly... whenever he happened to spirit her away. But it was briefly, only briefly. She wouldn't stay and he wouldn't make her. That was why this worked. Would it continue to work? She didn't know. She didn't care right now. There was a hard c*ck moving in and out of her roughly and there was no room for thought.

Gasping for breath, she reached behind her, gripping one of his hands, bringing it to her waist, up her back, towards her neck. He gets the message and grips her neck, giving it to her harder. And good. She doesn't want tenderness from him. Tenderness begets longing--longing for things she can't have. Things like life. It would be stupid to get attached to something that can be snatched away so easily. She should know. Her life is taken all the time.

She can hear him behind her, all grunting and harsh breaths that stir her hair even from where he is. She's so close now. It would take one touch on her clit for her to shatter and convulse. But she won't do it and she won't ask it of him. She wants this to last. A girl never knows which fuck could be her last.

She craned her neck, glancing behind her--at him. Anguish lined the hard planes of his cheeks. It nearly brought tears to her eyes, the pain she gives him as he pleases her. She never meant for them to become this. She doesn't deserve this pleasure. He doesn't deserve this pain. Yet, when he spirits her away, she can't deny herself.

He'd be better off never seeing her again. She should stop this. She should find another city, somewhere he won't find her. She should apologize, tell him how sorry she is, putting him through all this just so she can feel life in her body.

And there is life now. It sings in her veins. It makes her toes clench and her hands tingle.

He hasn't lost his rhythm. He would never allow himself to come first. He'll falter, his thrusts will become messy and disjointed, but only after she's finished. She doesn't want to finish. Not ever. She took a deep breath, tamping down her release. Just a little longer, she said to God or Fate or whoever made her this way. Just a little longer and I'll get back to work. I'll do what I should. She wouldn't come, not until she wanted to.

"No," she heard him growl behind her, stopping his thrusts. He was onto her. "You don't control this, Chloe," he panted. "At least this, I can control." She felt him slide out again and she hissed at the cold inside her. He lifted and turned her roughly, his eyes boring into hers. "Stop fucking playing."

He took her hands and stretched them above her head. She gasped and closed her eyes as he entered her again.

"No," he hissed. "Look at me."

She didn't want to. She arched into him, trying to get him to go on without that.

"Do it now or I swear, I won't let you go."

She obeyed. He was in a mood tonight. Usually, he begged. He didn't demand. She wasn't sure she liked this change. Of course, as he began thrusting again, his eyes hard on hers, she couldn't complain.

Within seconds, he began banging her into the mattress. Her eyes remained open on his as heat blossomed inside her, spreading outward, warming her blood, making her contract and spasm around him. His face contorted as his thrusts lost time, his body shook, joining hers in sweet oblivion.

He collapsed on her, breathing hard into her neck. Just as soon, he was gone--across the room in a chair, staring sadly at the floor. "I want... Just one time," he whispered, so low it was a wonder she heard him, "I want..."

He didn't finish. He didn't need to. She knew what he wanted. Why couldn't he understand that she couldn't stay to cuddle? It would open doors to sweetness, tenderness, longing... love? She'd be fooling herself if she didn't admit that she was as close to in love with him as a dead girl could be.

If she let herself love him all the way... she'd want to live for him. Then where would she be? Riddled with guilt at the idea that she was letting death claim innocent people--when she could take it for herself.

But wasn't she innocent? What had she done to deserve to die and die and die? Nothing, really. It was just how it worked out. She was done bemoaning the unfairness of life and death. She couldn't have him.

She couldn't have nice things.

That was just how it was.

She sat up, feeling the ache and pull inside and all over. "I'll go."

"No." He sighed, staring at her, resigned. "Sleep here a while. I'll take the couch." He suddenly sneered. "I don't want to crowd you."

She forced a smile, decided not to recognize his bitterness. "You're a prince, Clark."

He stood, staring still, unmoving. "I could hate you," he finally said. "I wish I did. It would be so much easier than lo..."

"Boy, am I beat," she said quickly, faking a yawn. She couldn't let him finish that sentence. How could she do what she had to if he said the words? Made it possible? She pulled the covers over herself and turned on her side, away from him. "Night, Clark."

He didn't answer. She could feel his anger, even behind her. She hoped he hung on to that. It was better than lo... what he nearly said. She heard rustling and bare feet that padded across the floor. Saw his shadow in the light from the doorway.

"Be quiet when you creep out," she heard him say. "I don't want to be awake for it."

**********************

It was nearly dawn when Clark shot up suddenly. He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He'd lied when he said he didn't want to be awake. He'd wanted to hear her every second until she was gone. He stood and rushed to his bedroom, both hope and fear thick in his chest.

She was gone, of course. She'd even made the bed, not leaving him even the imprint of her body to touch, to breathe. He stared at the nightstand. There was a folded piece of paper. He picked it up, unfolded it with shaking hands.

Many thanks.

-C

That was all. It was all she'd give him. He was tempted to burn it, rip it, destroy the way she almost mocked him.

But he didn't. He folded it again, placed it in his nightstand drawer. It joined a bra that was left behind, an earring from back when she believed in unnecessary adornments, a lock of hair, a receipt from a hospital cafeteria...

She always left something and he always saved it. For him, it was just a piece of her he could have. Maybe, for her, it was to hold her place until she came back again.

He could always hope.

The End