How We Got Here (Part Fifteen)

December 20th, 2011

Here he was, fresh off his triumph and unable to sleep. Maybe he was just too wound up. It wasn't every day that a nearly two-year long obsession paid off. Maybe he just needed to take a flight, calm himself down a...

Something crashed above his head and he shot up, saw her in the doorway.

"You bastard!" she yelled just as a Metropolis snowglobe smashed against his nightstand.

He wondered how she got here so fast. But he surprised to find himself... unsurprised. He'd actually been waiting for her.

"Hello, Chloe."

Her greeting was a baseball zooming toward his head. It hit its mark, unlike her other missiles, but didn't do any damage, just bounced off him and smacked against his dresser's mirror. It shattered noisily. She smiled in the dim light from the hallway and he wondered if that hadn't been her mark all along.

"Don't call me that!" She gripped a hairbrush from his dresser and shot it at him.

"You want me to call you Elizabeth, like your new..."

"Don't call me anything!" she screeched, picking up the next thing her hand hit. Unfortunately for her, the next thing was a piece of jagged glass and she dropped it, shaking her finger. "Jesus!" She glared at him, as if her cutting herself was his fault. "You had no right," she began on a growl, "to..."

"I had every right," he cut in, getting up from his bed now, shaking off shards of glass. "You gave me the right when you married me," he said lowly.

"That was another life. It doesn't even..." She stared around her, hands shaking at her sides. "You don't even have anything to break in here!" She whirled and moved down the hall. He heard a door creak open and knew she was in his mother's largely untouched room.

He sped after her, but found himself stopped in the doorway as she was frozen in front of the dresser, holding a Dresden shepherdess.

"Not her fault," he heard her say softly, placing it down gently.

"No. It's your fault," he growled. "You're the one who..."

"Don't you even speak to me," she hissed, whirling on him. "You don't even exist." She pushed past him, barreling down the stairs.

"You're the one who decided to stop existing," he called after her before he sped down. He got there first, waiting for her at the bottom. "If I don't exist, then why are you even here destroying my..."

"You don't deserve nice things," she yelled, moving past him and pulling a mirror off the front entry wall and tossing it to the floor. "You won't let me have them! You..." She sagged against the wall, swiping at her face, leaving a thin trail of blood on her cheek, probably from the cut she'd given herself on the remains of his bedroom mirror.

He moved to her, pulling at the bottom of his T-shirt, taking a corner of it to her cheek before she slapped him away.

"No!" She shook her head, staring away from him. "I had nice things. I had a nice life and a nice man and a nice job. And you took it all!"

He backed away. "I only told the truth," he said, trying to keep his voice even, trying to tamp down the guilt she seemed so determined to make him feel. "I exposed the lie. Isn't that what you used to do?"

She met his eyes, then, with a sneer. "Only when it was convenient for you." She pushed off from the wall. "When it came to hiding your secrets, the truth mattered just a little less, didn't it?" She hit at his chest hard, then shook her hand, then hit again... stupidly.

He moved backward, rather than let her hurt herself. "Could you stop that?"

"I don't know," she growled, swiping at him again. "Could you stop ruining my life?"

"You think that was just about you?" he said, tripping backwards into the living room. "Maybe it was about this guy. Maybe I didn't want to see you trick him into an illegal marriage like you did to m..."

"Oh, so it's illegal now?" She pushed him further, into the dining room now, and he let her. Her eyes were wide, scarily wide as she stalked after him into the room. "So you can call that a bullshit marriage, but still brandish it just to fuck me up out of spite?"

"It wasn't spite," he said through his teeth. "Not all the way. I did this so... because..." And fuck him if he could find a good reason. To prove she was alive? Well, he had the proof. There she was. He could have been cagey about this, found out where she lived and had everyone they knew on her doorstep in a day, prove himself right. So why did stopping that wedding seem the thing to do? He couldn't say. He just knew he wasn't going to watch her get married... not again and especially not when she was his...

"Well, you're undoing it now." She slapped the dining table, then stared down at her hand, then fumbled in her purse, slapping a folded bit of paper there instead. "Sign it."

He stared at the paper. "What is that?"

"It's what he needs," she said harshly. "And what he needs is what I need. And what I need is my damned wedding."

He took a deep breath, staring at the paper while admitting nothing, even to himself, except that he didn't want to put pen to that paper. "What's with you, anyway?" he said, changing tacks. "Are weddings some kind of secret kink of yours? Most people stop after two, but..."

She flew at him now, pulling at his hair or... hanging off it, really. She gripped and yanked and sort of dangled off him, her toes scraping the floor.

"Chloe, quit it!"

"I want to hurt you," she screeched. "I want to rip your..."

"Well, you can't," he said levelly, picking her up and holding her away. "So stop trying. This is all your fault, anyway."

"My fault?" She kicked at the air. "I married you to save your ass and then you use it to..."

"Yes. You married me." He moved her out of the dining room, away from that stupid paper, and put her down. "You did this. And you didn't exactly undo it, did you, Chloe?" He set her down as she froze. "Hell, you could have divorced me before you decided to pretend to die, but you didn't. You just left." He leaned into her. "You should have known this was coming. You should have known I'd find you. I'll always find you."

"God, I hate..."

He caught the fist that was flying at him. "Christ, Chloe! Just stop! You should know better."

Her fist shook in his hand as she took several gulping breaths. "I've been... away." Her eyes squeezed shut as her head dropped. "I've been living in the normal world, Clark," she said softly. "I forget that there are people that can't be hurt. That you're one of them. You can hurt me, but I can never... never hurt you." Her voice hitched and he loosened his grip on her wrist, wondering if he'd really gone too far.

Maybe he should have just handled this privately, had his vindication without publicly humiliating her.

She sniffed loudly and looked up. "I can't hurt you," she said miserably, backing to the front door, her eyes moving left. He saw the window, the wall of the barn. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I even came. I'll..."

He narrowed his eyes, then sped at her, caught her just as she opened the front door, slamming it and trapping her against it. "Nice try. But I don't keep it around anymore."

Her eyes became shuttered. "What are you tal..."

"I've got too many enemies these days. You really think I'm still going to keep green rocks in my barn anymore?" Her eyes darted to the hall closet and he caught them. "Not there, either. And you'd have to look pretty damned hard to find one anywhere. I've had help getting rid of them. Only a few trusted people have access to them and that's not you anymore. I guess you can't get rid of me that..."

"Oh, Jesus," she rasped. "What? I'm gonna off you now? Don't get dramatic, Clark. It's not like I would have done more than slap you around."

And, God help him, maybe it was her scream-roughened voice or the fact that there was a thin sheen of sweat on her neck or that her top two buttons had come undone at some point and his shirt had ridden up and there was only her shirt between their stomachs or the strange, sweet smell of her, but he felt something curling low in his belly at her words. "Well, too bad," he said hoarsely, moving the lower part of his body away, but still keeping his hands on her shoulders.

He may have had a few heated moments envisioning something very similar to this moment, but those particular revenge fantasies were quickly shut down. Somewhere between her begging him not to tell and lowering herself between him and the wall, door, or side of a brick building, he always stopped himself. Finding her wasn't supposed to be about that. It was supposed to be about truth, justice, and... getting her the hell back to America. Not about a long-denied wedding night he didn't even want to want. "Just call it even," he said, his voice coming out a little breathier than he meant it to. "I think we've done enough."

"Not enough," she growled as her arm shot to the side. A picture of him in third grade dropped. He just stared at it as it bounced and shattered, too bent on controlling himself to stop her. "Not nearly enough." He made a weak effort to stop her when she went for one of him and her grinning in their graduation robes, but he was too distracted by her eyes, they seemed even greener with the garish, red hair and they seemed to move between him and what pictures she could reach, devouring his every reaction, as if waiting for something...

He caught her wrist when she gripped a picture of his mother and father on their wedding day. "Drop it," he hissed.

"Fine. Take it." Her grip loosened and he did, still holding one shoulder, eyeing her warily as he reached to rehang it on the wall.

It hung lopsided, but he didn't care. He turned back to her. "Are you done yet?"

"I guess. It's not them I blame. It's about their asshole of a s..."

He trapped her against the opposite wall as she lunged for the hat rack. "If you don't blame my parents, then why are you breaking everything in their house?"

"Oh, please! Your mother's been living in DC for years now. This is all your..." She trailed off, her eyes widening as he gripped her flailing arms between them.

The second the lower half of his body brushed against her, he should have moved away, but he didn't. He couldn't. After a year and a half with the notion of death and an ocean between them, he didn't want to let an inch in there now. And he felt his body sink against her before he could tell it not to and now... she knew. He was hard. He knew she knew even before she said it, a sneer in her voice.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

He released her arms, tried to move away, then, shamed and sick of himself, but she gripped his T-shirt.

"Does this turn you on, Clark, dominating a helpless female?"

"You've never been helpless," he said weakly, sort of sagging in her grip. "And I'm not..." He trailed off with a gasp as her hips rolled into him.

"You're not what?" she breathed, her hands loosening their grip, but still against his shirt, her cut finger leaving tiny pinpricks of blood as it moved down. "You're not a sick, sad..."

"Stop it." He swallowed hard as her hand slipped beneath his hem.

"Why? This is obviously what you want. Right?" He felt her fingers sliding just under the waistband of his sweatpants.

"I don't want this," he said stupidly, knowing the hands now kneading her hips were making a liar of him. "I just... had to find you."

"Why, Clark?" she said, her voice a taunt and her eyes narrowed. "You said it wasn't spite, then what? Was it this?" She bared her teeth, but he'd hardly call it a smile. "I mean, I've given you everything but this." Her hand stopped toying with that edge and dipped right in, gripping him. "Is this what it takes for you to leave me alone?"

He couldn't answer, could only sag against her, his forehead denting the wall just above her head.

"You want this?" he felt her whisper against his neck. "Take it. This is the last thing you get from me."

Oh, God. He was going to take it, he was damned well entitled to it, but when she put it like that...

He pulled in a rough breath, his hands moving from her hips to her waist as he huffed into the wall. "Doing me a favor, Chloe?" His hands blindly groped upwards, maybe a little roughly as he heard at least two buttons clatter to the floor. She made a sort of indignant gasp against his collarbone and he nearly laughed, that she could pretend to be shocked after what she'd done. She was doing a bit of pretending tonight. Pretending she came here just to hurt him when he'd picked up another intent the minute he got close to her. He wasn't the most experienced of men... or aliens, but he knew that smell. He knew what it meant and he knew it got stronger with every time he'd touched her tonight. And he was damned near swimming in it after she shoved her hand down his pants. "I'm not the only sick, sad person in this room."

"Never said you were."

He lifted his head, eyes sliding over her open mouth, gaping shirt, that tiny bit of something lacy that he needed to see more of. So he twisted his hand, heard another two buttons fall to the floor with a clattering bounce, saw her eyes flutter shut as her breath came faster. And he wanted to say it, then, point out that he wasn't the only one that wanted the one thing they never got after all those years together, point out that she died, but she never divorced, that somewhere, deep in there, she knew that would come back on her, that he would find her and this... that this had been building up over a decade.

But that was all talk and this was not the time for it. Take it, she'd said. So he did. He let her flimsy blouse turn to ribbons in his hands as he bared every bit of skin he could. She wasn't exactly passive, pulling at his shirt with enthusiasm if not effect. He took care of that, too, pulling it off with such force it landed somewhere behind him, possibly in two pieces and, from the sound of it, dislodging something fragile. He didn't care as much as he would have before they'd both been half naked.

He groped behind her, trying to get at the clasp of her bra. He'd liked it for about three seconds. Now it was just in the way. Having undressed only one woman and, even her, just a handful of times, he was damned if he could find it. So he pulled hard, let it rip, sort of wishing he knew what he was doing, but, really, not caring if he did. This was happening. After ten years of light touches, long looks, kisses that lasted only seconds, hugs that lasted too long, and one night in Vegas that, though bleary, seemed to put them all to shame, this... this was really happening.

Somewhere in this, he knew that he'd never actually ended up putting to use what he'd once been convinced was his control of his powers in sexual situations. It was a problem that really reared its head when her mouth touched his neck. He thought he might squeeze her to death and that he should probably stop, take a breath, a breather, a second... But he just couldn't fucking make himself, so he hit the wall... literally. His hand dug into a wooden beam inside as she writhed against him. He felt a chunk of the wood turn to dust in his hand as her teeth scraped along his neck.

He pulled her up, then, groaned into her mouth as her legs wrapped around him, hoping he could just focus on a kiss. It was something they'd done before, something familiar, but... She'd never kissed him like this before, all tongue and teeth and soft growls of his name. He pulled away, resting his hands on her hips, pressing her away from him, but unable to tear his eyes away from her breasts when her bra slid drunkenly down her arms. "I'm not sure I can..."

"Why am I not surprised?" She pushed against his chest, then slid down.

"Wha..."

"No. I get it, Clark. You're hard up, but not that hard up. And you know what? I'm not letting you do this to me anymore. I might not be a lingerie model or a willowy goddess like your usual brand, but I am desirable, okay?" She glared at him and he just stared back. "Maybe you don't see it, but there have been plenty of..."

He pulled her to him then, crushing his lips to hers again because he didn't have the patience to listen to her argue that she was desirable when he was two layers away from fucking her. "You done now?" he said against her lips.

"Well, you.... you were..."

"I don't want to hurt you," he rasped, trying to keep his hands gentle.

She laughed, just pushed away and laughed. "You don't want to hurt me? Wow. I can't believe you just said that after..."

"Physically, Chloe," he growled.

She quieted, then, but with that same bitter smirk on her face. "Oh, don't worry about it, Clark. It's not like I could hate you more."

He did want to hurt her, then, just a little, even physically. Because she left him. Because she hated him. Because he wanted her to feel just a little of what he felt every time she told him he was unwelcome. But he couldn't hurt her. The one time he did, pushing her to the floor in her precious Watchtower, he'd felt sickened for weeks. He hooked his fingers in the sides of her jeans instead, gave a pull, watched as the side seams fell apart and loosened.

She stared down as they slid slowly down her legs. "I liked those."

"Good." He gripped her waist and pushed her back to the wall. He was done worrying and he was damned well done talking. He didn't want to hurt her. So he wouldn't. His bare foot, cracked through the floorboards as her thumb brushed his nipple, but that was fine. He'd let the damned house fall down around him before he saw a bruise on her skin... all that skin... not enough skin. There was still uncovered skin.

He snagged each side of her panties and snapped them apart, let them slide drunkenly down to join her jeans around her ankles. She didn't even pretend to be appalled, just groaned and lowered her lips to his chest. He wondered if he should be, but he really couldn't, not when she was nothing but bare skin and lips and every bit of of her touching him... Well, not every bit. Not where he wanted her most.

He reached down, ready to make quick work of his pants, but she was already there, nails scraping down each thigh as she pushed at them. On any other man.., or any human, it would hurt. It tickled and burned and made his breath come faster, but didn't hurt. He wondered for a second if she wished it did and just as quickly realized he didn't want to know. He just wanted her now. He had every right to. She was his and... He lifted her against the wall, tearing her lips from his chest and attaching his to her chest, marking her there. With just a little pain, just a little for every day he had to wonder if she really was dead when she was laughing it up with some new guy and some new job and some new life.

She didn't seem to mind. She nearly kicked against him now, seem to be trying to dislodge the pants still around her ankles as she writhed against him, her hands snatching at the skin over his shoulders and down his back. He released her, then, let her slide down the wall as he stepped back, ready to yank at her pants, shoes and all, but he lost all coordination, tangled in his own, stumbling back against the newel post at the base of the stairs, which gave with a crack. He found himself on his back, heard a snort of laughter.

"Wow. I can't believe the great state of Kansas is still standing with a hero of your skills and dexterity."

He sat up, narrowing his eyes as she leaned against the wall, kicking off her pants. "Still haven't wrecked the house as much as you," he said, standing and shaking the wood splinters out of his hair, then freezing because she was naked.

"There's still time," she said, but not as smugly now as her eyes slid over him and he remembered he was naked, too. And why the hell were they just standing there when they were naked?

He just couldn't stop looking. She was so softly curved. She always had been, as she sneered, different from his "usual brand." But it didn't mean it was an unwelcome change. There was something about pretty girls like Lana or Lois, about their bodies. There was a certain pride and preening, that you had what men wanted, you had the right to look at the kind of figure that covered magazines, the ones for men and for women and then... there was Chloe. It wasn't pride or preening, staring at her.

It was pull.

He'd watched The Human Animal one night during freshman year, this kind of periodic special on TLC. It sometimes claimed men were attracted to women with larger hips, asses, and tits, that it was a biological imperative. He couldn't deny that tits were obviously a big deal, but he remembered scoffing at being attracted to asses and hips. J-Lo aside, most women with an ass were safely off magazine covers. And as for hips... Then he thought of Chloe. Then he tried not to think of Chloe. Then he decided he was only thinking of Chloe because she proved his point. Chloe hadn't attracted as many boys as Lana with her hips... or her breasts. He couldn't deny that Chloe had breasts where Lana clearly didn't.

Years later, with Lois, he reflected on the biological imperative again. Her breasts were obviously impressive, more so than Chloe's... or Lana's, but that went without saying. He wondered if there was something to hips and ass and maybe that was why it was so hard to get up the nerve to try...

"Did you ever watch The Human Animal?" Chloe asked, nearly blearily. "Women are attracted to tall men with larger arms and broad shoulders. They say it's a bio..."

He ran at her, then. There might have some serious injury to her against that same wall if he hadn't made sure to cradle the back of her head before it made another hole in the wall. As it was, his hand made that hole. She only suffered some plaster dust, falling into her hair and trailing in tiny showers over them as he tried to line them up. He'd have apologized for that, but apparently there was a biological imperative at work. He needed to be inside her... if he could just get there.

"Fucking short," he growled.

She glared at him, but had no snarky comeback, just gripped at his shoulders, trying to hoist herself up. He took his hand from between her head and the wall and lifted her now, trying to get her just a little higher so...

"Ahhhh!!!"

He wasn't sure which of them let that out. Probably both. It seemed to be a mutual sentiment once he was inside her. Then there was silence. Not a sound, not even a breath from either of them as he caught her eyes and began moving against her, inside her. He wasn't sure if they really had stopped breathing or if he had just blocked out every other sensation but her tight heat gripping him, her eyes pinning him, her slick skin sliding against him. Very slick skin, almost too slick. He tried to keep a grip on her as he started moving in earnest, but she slid downwards and he pushed upwards hard and her mouth fell open and he heard her again...

Just one long, low moan as her eyes squeezed shut. And it did him in... not the noise, but the clenching and gripping inside her.

"Fuck!"

His eyes burned and his body hummed and he wanted to grip her right back and wasn't sure how to stop himself. He closed his eyes and took one hand away from her and gripped the wall, fingers digging right in as it cracked and crumbled. He believed he'd found a workable compromise when he hit the wood again and there was a sick sickening groaning noise.

He pulled his hand away and opened his eyes, meeting her wide, nearly frantic ones. He was scaring her to death. He stilled. "Chloe... can't..."

She gripped his hair and pulled him inward. "Don't stop, she panted. "Don't you even think about..."

He glanced up at a loud cracking noise and stumbled out of the way, still gripping her. He landed between her and the lower stairs. They protested loudly, but seemed to be holding up. Still, he squeezed his eyes shut, waited for her to laugh or scream at him or just move off him to save herself. She did none of that. In fact, he felt her moving over him and opened his eyes. "You're crazy," he grunted at the feel of her. "Whole damn house is gonna..."

"Shut up," she choked out, leaning over him, gulping the air between them. "Waited too long for this."

He wanted to make some weak arguments for their safety, but all he could do was let out choppy, slightly vocalized breaths as she slid up and down him. He pushed upward, unable to stop himself. And why should he? She was right. Hadn't they danced around this long enough? Maybe, after this, he could let go. Maybe this was their whole problem. If they could just get past this, if they could just...

"Oh, God!"

If they could just survive this... Even as he felt her tighten brutally around him, he tried to reign himself in, but his arm shot outward, looking for something, anything to touch. Considering he was avoiding gripping her, he gripped a railing post and felt it shatter in his grip. He stared at it, then at her, wondering if she'd stop this now. Someone needed to. He sure as hell couldn't. But she only fell forward against him, her eyes slipping shut.

He did grip her then, carefully, as she collapsed completely against him. He scrambled backwards, trying to get up the stairs. Somewhere inside, he knew he should be throwing a party because she came and he'd done it and she could just shove any talk of this being a favor to him.

But, mostly, he wanted this house to be standing in the end. If he could just get to the bed. How much damage could he do to a mattress? Even the worst kind of damage was still mostly fluffy as compared to...

"Mmmm."

He collapsed on the hallway floor as her lips grazed his neck. "Don't do that," he barked and she stilled. Every nerve ending felt raw and over sensitive now and it scared him. He hadn't worried when he'd been mortal. He hadn't worried when Lana had super powers... both times. He'd just never worried. But this was Chloe and this was ten years in the making and she was so small against him, so frail over him, he hardly felt her weight until...

"Jesus!" He growled as her inner muscles clenched him. "Don't do that, either!"

She lifted her head off his shoulder, squeezed him inside her again. "Don't do what?"

"Chloe..."

"Don't do this?" She did it again and he felt his fingers poke straight through the hallway carpet into the floor.

"Need to... bed," he grunted, standing up, gripping her to him and stumbling backward. He only made it to the door before he smashed against it, cracking it inward, as she did it again. "Stop it. You're making... making me..."

"What? Come?" She tightened her arms around his neck, nipped at his bottom lip before she spoke. "I thought you did this before."

"I did, but... It was different." He nearly fell forward, pressing her against the doorway.

"Different?" She grunted as he pushed upwards again, almost involuntarily. "It's never different. You're always supposed to come."

"I know that," he panted. Hell, she had and he was still pretty damned proud of that. And wasn't he pretty much free to come after that? He just wasn't sure what it...

"Just come, Clark."

He was damned ready to. She'd been fluttering around him for what felt like years and every time and he felt like exploding, he had to... He relaxed just a little against her as he realized that he'd been fighting just that. He sort of got it now, why other guys talked about doing math in your head or reciting the alphabet. It was all to make it last. Granted, his version was destroying woodwork. He'd have to find another way.

"It's over when you come," she said, so coaxingly, into his mouth.

He squeezed his eyes shut. It would be over. He wouldn't have time to find another way because this was all he got with her. The last thing he got from her, as she said. He almost wanted to drag it out, if he thought his house would survive it. As it is, he opened his eyes, gripped her hips and pressed inward. If this was all he got, he'd make it count. He pulled back, then pressed inward, grunting with satisfaction as she threw her head back with a whimper. He'd made her come once and he'd do it again, then she'd... He didn't know what he was expecting, but something more than disdain and this last thing.

He pulled out again, then pressed in just a little harder and her whimper turned into a breathy sob of his name. At that, he forgot about holding back, about protecting the house, about protecting her body. Everything in him focused on hearing that sound again. He twisted his hips upward and he nearly growled when she did it again. His head dropped to her neck as he kept pushing into her, nearly still except below the waist, trying to make this so good, too good, too fucking good for her to ever...

What? Leave? She's going to leave. He wanted her to leave. Hadn't he had all he wanted from her? He had his proof, then his revenge, then this... this wedding night he refused to want. She should leave after this. This was too much. Too far.

"Too fucking good."

One of them actually said it. He'd rather it was her, but it was probably him and he needed to regain control of this. Because he was losing it. Or was she? She was nearly vibrating against him now. Still, he wanted to make it to that damned bed.

He gave it a try, trying to stumble into the room as she tightened around him and he emptied inside her. He ricocheted off the dresser, which gave a weak sort of crunching noise before she landed on the bad and he landed on her, mouth open against her neck. Not the most dignified position. He didn't care at that point, so sated and depleted that he wanted nothing more than to stay there forever. He trailed a hand down her hip, sighing, thinking of the wreckage around them and how everything had changed now. Maybe...

He felt her hands on his chest, not caressing, but pushing. "Clark," she grunted, pushing harder.

"Sorry." He lifted upwards, sort of embarrassed, hissing as he left her body. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. Just don't want you... breathing all over me. Get off."

He rolled off her and onto his back, more out of surprise than obedience and stared at the ceiling. "Chloe..."

"Don't call me that." He felt her tugging at the blankets under him and he lifted, still dazed. He stared at the ceiling, heard the rustling noises as she settled down beside him. "I'm tired. I'll leave in the morning. I wish..." her voice hitched before she went on. "I wish I'd never come here."

He wanted to agree, but he only turned away, feeling empty. Everything had changed now. And not for the better.

"Wish you'd never come, too," he said softly, whether she heard it or not. "Wish I'd never met you."

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