Before Sunset (Part Fourteen)

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"Vodka," Chloe read.

"Well..." Clark stared at the bottle. "That's handy."

Chloe turned her head to him, surprised. "How is that handy?"

"Well, for fuel. I mean, we could start fires with it."

"I think the giant can of kerosene might work as well."

"I guess it's useless, then." He put it aside.

She leaned down. "No more food in th..."

"No," he cut in. "Just some spiders, I bet."

She shuddered and straightened. "No, thank you. I'm not that hungry."

He let out a breath as she stood. He didn't want her to see the coffee can he'd shoved under the bed. Not just yet. It was supposed to be a surprise, He figured she could do with some nice surprises.

"Think my kettle's done." She grabbed up her jacket and rushed to the stove again.

He spied the can of sweetened, condensed milk as she ran for the bathroom and shoved it under the bed as well. Coffee needed cream.

He stood quickly as she moved out, carrying a full pot again. "That's three kettles worth. That's gotta be enough for a bath."

He made a show of brushing himself off, hoping she wouldn't look under the bed. "That tub seemed bigger than that."

She moved to the stove and put it down. "Well, you have to add some cold or you'd burn your skin off." She used her jacket to open the oven door and frowned. "Think we need more wood."

"I got it." He quickly moved to the pile he'd dropped by the door, grabbing one of the drier logs as she moved back to the bathroom. "You know, I shower in hot water all the time. It gets you cleaner faster."

She poked her head out the doorway. "Yes. And you could also deflect the odd bullet before now."

"That's true.," he said, frowning. He'd have to start turning that C knob now. There were a lot of things he'd have to get used to. Things like foul-smelling rubbing alcohol and lip balm and... He moved to the counter, picking up the yellow tin. His lip was smarting again, He rubbed it on, remembering that it hadn't smelled or felt too bad. Besides all that, he was afraid she'd come at him with the alcohol again and it was best to say he was taken care of.

She came out and he made a production of capping the tin. "Yup. Just putting some of this on. Feels much better."

"Uh-huh." She crossed her arms. "So who's first?"

"Who's first... what?"

"In the tub."

"Uh... you. But this stuff about the clothes is just crazy talk. I think our clothes are just..."

"Clark, we used them between us and dirt last night and they took a trip down a hillside. I think our clothes might need a bath more than we do."

"They're just gonna get dirty again. I don't see the point in walking around," he swallowed hard, "naked," he finished, putting the tin back in the kit. He glanced up, wondering if she'd even acknowledge the problem. 

She was silent, staring at him. "Uh... It's not like we'll be naked," she said brusquely, moving to the bed. "It's more like a... toga party." She let out a weak laugh and held up a corner of the sheet. "We're prepping for college. I've seen the movies. Apparently, it's the big thing." She smiled.

He didn't answer it. 

"You know what? You're right." She pulled the sheet from the bed rather roughly. "I'll grab the first bath. We have all day."

All day. All night, too. He clenched his fists as she closed the bathroom door.

So she really was expecting him to be completely casual about this after last night. He supposed she could be, with all of her talk of warm bodies and friendship and telling him what he thought -- which was crazy because he still didn't know what he thought. But, in all that, she'd also agreed to something. She agreed that she'd give him time to get back to friendly joking and acting like nothing happened. And her prancing around in a sheet was... it wasn't giving him any time. It was like... like... He had nothing to compare it to. 

The nearest experience he could find was his mother leaving a pie on the windowsill and telling him not to touch it. It was like he was being tested. And he always failed. He always ended up hands-deep in blueberries or apples or cherries that were still sizzling under the crust and then his mother always ended up raising the... 

He really didn't want to think of his mother right now. He didn't want to think of Chloe right now, stripping her dirty clothes off on the other side of the wall. And he didn't want to think of pie, either. But there he was... horny, And angry. And Hungry.

He didn't know if he wanted to throw open that door or eat something or hit something.

He stared at the cans scattered on the floor and picked one up. He heard her moan through the wall and gripped the can harder.

He'd settle for two out of three.

"This is hell," he muttered.

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

It was heaven.

She could hardly imagine why she'd been opposed to baths most of her life. She was more of a showerer. It just saved time. But there was something to be said for soaking sore, abused flesh in hot water, steam kissing even the exposed parts, leaving them warm and beaded with sweat. She leaned back in the cramped tub and closed her eyes, tried to block out the wood slats of the tiny bathroom and the small array of animal skins left behind. She might be home now. She might be ending a normal day with a relaxing bath for a change. She took a deep breath... and shuddered at the smell. 

But she recovered, tried to imagine the slight tang of formaldehyde in the air was some exotic bath salt and that she was definitely not just south of The Arctic circle. Definitely not in a trapper's cabin and definitely not about to spend the better part of a day and night trapped with Clark Kent, wearing what she tried to call a toga as he wore... She hadn't even thought of what he would wear. Maybe one of the blankets. But it would be hard to tie them at the shoulder, being thicker and what if he was bare from the waist up and how the hell was she supposed to...

She refused to think about it. She would be clean and have clean clothes and, after she boiled the toothbrush left sitting in a glass, reasonably clean teeth. And that was all that mattered right now. Once those things were taken care of, then she could worry.about Clark. And she wouldworry about Clark. He was still fixated on last night and she had to stop him. She wasn't about to fool herself again. He'd given her his answer last fall, when she went through the most humiliating week of her life, culminating in her nearly jumping him in his own football jersey. Right now, it might seem like they were the last two people on earth to him, but that would change and she'd be...

She wasn't going to think about it. 

She bent her knees up with a purpose and sank down, immersing her hair. She let out a moan, feeling warm all over. She spied the bar soap on the edge and rose up, grabbing for it. She'd have clean hair, too. It had never been a luxury until now. She rubbed it between her hands before giving up and rubbing it right on her hair.and scratched it in, hoping she could get her fingernails clean, too. She didn't want to be too greedy with her bath time, considering Clark still had to...

There was a loud thwacking sound and she stilled, the soap sort of slipping from her hands and hitting the door.

There was another and she started getting up, but slipped, head falling under as another loud thwack vibrated through the water.

She came up, spluttering, and gripped the sides of the tub, pulling herself up and over the side of the tub with a splash. She grabbed the sheet, pulling it around herself before jerking the door open. 


She expected... she wasn't sure what she expected. But it wasn't Clark attempting to whack a screwdriver into a can... and failing. She watched him him miss and hit the counter with that same thwack that startled her out of her bath. "What are you doing?"

He turned, mid-swing. "What does it look like?" He brought the hammer down again and missed, nearly getting his thumb as the can fell sideways and rolled off the counter.

She rushed to him and bent for the can. "Mindless destruction."

"I'm trying to open these damned things and get us some food," he grunted, wiping his sleeve across his brow. "If I can get enough holes in it, we can pry it up and pour it out."

She straightened, handing him back a dented can of corned beef hash. "A noble effort, but could you think of some other way than whacking at it and nearly smashing everything in sight?"

"I might have gotten kind of used to the smashing method." He frowned at the can. "A few days ago, I could have twisted the top off this like a jar. I wish..." He trailed off, sighing and tossing the screwdriver onto the counter.

"I know." She took a deep breath and tried for a smile. "So what if you can't smash and tear at things? You're still a strong guy. You just need to... plan a little harder." She stared at the counter. "Wedging something sharp in there is a good idea, but you could use this." She put her free hand on the vise. "Then it's held still for the whacking."

He stared at the vise and placed the can between the plates, shaking his head. "My dad used these. He used all kind of tools. I watched him all the time. I didn't even think of it. What kind of idiot..."

"You're not an idiot," Chloe said as he tightened it around the can. "You just never had to think of these things. I bet you could hammer with your fist before."

He tossed her a sad smile. "Usually just took the press of a finger."

"Really?"

"Don't be too impressed. Those days are pretty much over." He poised the hammer over the screwdriver, then brought it down. The screwdriver wedged itself into the edge of the can. He turned to her with an unequivocally happy smile. "We did it."

"You did it. I just stood here."

"Well, you thought of it. I just hit stuff. With your brains..."

She giggled. "With my brains and your brute strength, we just might... open a can." She giggled again and squeezed his arm, then quickly snatched her hand away to secure her sheet.

He quickly turned away. "I see you had your bath." He placed the screwdriver next to his hole and gave it another whack.

"Yes. Feeling great. Kettle's probably hot. I'll drain the tub and get it set for your..."

He dropped the screwdriver and hammer. "I can get it."

"No. I've got it covered. You just keep with the... smashing."

"Don't have to tell me twice," she thought she heard him mutter as she moved into the bathroom.

She heard another thwack as she pulled at the stopper, letting her very dirty water out. She stared as it circled the drain. She'd seen it. He'd looked. Considering they'd just had sex the other night, she'd be an idiot if she didn't know there was attraction there. And that was the problem. There was and it was mutual. She'd be an even bigger idiot if she didn't acknowledge that it had always been there. But it was never enough for him to be with her. And, for her, it was not enough to lay down with him tonight. And the reason was the same for both of them.

Lana Lang.

She gave the tub a cold rinse, then stopped it, wondering why she still couldn't get this through her head. Lana was waiting for Clark back home. And Clark had always been waiting for Lana. Before they'd ended up trapped here, it looked like his waiting was at an end for real this time. They weren't out-and-out coupled, but they were getting there. Who was to say that one night in a dirty cave made a dent in Clark waiting for the promise of that. Lana was always the one. There was no one else that even...

There is no one else I could get through this with... No one but you.

The words were coming back to her and she refused to let them in. Not that way. He hadn't meant it that way. He'd meant they were a good team. And that was enough. He'd meant...

I meant it, Chloe. There's no one else I could see myself surviving this with.

Did no one else include Lana? 

She backed away from the empty tub. "No," she whispered. She was not doing this. She was not... She heard another thwack and peeked past the door.

His back was to her, but she heard him grunting. "That's it... Gonna get some... hash outta you... stupid can... Just a little more..."

She nearly giggled as she tried to move unobtrusively past him and take the kettle, winding the end of the sheet around her hand.

He stiffened as she passed. "I was just thinking out loud. I wasn't talking to the can or anything."

"I believe you," she said hurriedly before rushing behind the door and closing it.

"Well, I wasn't," she heard him call out.

She sagged against the door. How could she not do this? How could she not be so stupidly crazy about Clark Kent again? Again? That was a lie. She'd never stopped. It was futile and foolish, but then it always had been. Maybe it was more so now. He had Lana, waiting to give him that real chance back home. That real chance to prove himself to be... everything Chloe already knew he was, even before she knew just what he was. And he wasn't perfect in every way, but even the ways he wasn't prefect were so... 

"OW!" She rushed to the empty tub and nearly dropped the kettle in.

Something hit the door. "Chloe? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she called out shakily. 

"Are you sure? Should I..."

"I'm fine, Clark." She wasn't. But him comiing in here wouldn't fix that. She took a deep breath and grabbed up her jacket, taking the kettle again. She stopped the tub before pouring it in, then leaned over it, hoping the steam would clear her head.

"He's your friend," she breathed. "He's your best friend. And that's it." If they were home, she wouldn't have to remind herself. It was easy to forget in the middle of nowhere where there was no one else... 

No one else... There's no one else...

She just couldn't get those words out of her mind. They had to mean something. They just had to.

She shook herself and filled the kettle again, venturing sort of cautiously out the door. It was awful quiet.

He rushed from the counter as she moved out. "Are you okay? I heard you scream and..."

"It was nothing." She shrugged with a weak smile. "I just singed my hand a little."

"Let me s..." He drew back, glancing at her hands, one of which was holding the kettle and the other clamped on her sheet. He turned away. "Maybe you should tie that or something."

"I'm sorry," she said, rushing to the stove and putting the kettle down.

"No. Don't be... Uh... I just mean... You were the one calling this a toga party. So maybe you should just... make it more toga like or something. I don't know." He took a breath. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, hastily trying to knot the corners of the sheet over her shoulder.

"I got the can halfway open," he said, his back to her. "I figure that's enough to get the food out. It smells okay. Like it hasn't gone bad or anything, so..."

"That's great." She tried to make another knot at her side. "I got some headway on your bath. Just two more kettles and..."

"Great," he said, then cleared his throat. He started to turn, then seemed to think better of it, "Want to hand me some corn? We've got the most of that, so..."

"Sure. Sure. Just a sec..." She had some semblance of another knot, except for how tying it left her legs a little bare. Before she was clean, she was so focused on getting there that she refused to consider the problems of clothing. Now, they were coming back to her. Because this attraction... it was mutual. She knew that for a fact now. And it could ruin everything.

She rushed to their stockpile and grabbed two cans, quickly placing them on the counter before stepping back.

"Thanks," he said without turning. "I figure we'll both get a good side of corn and... green beans?"

"You don't have to eat them."

"I don't even want to open them," he grumbled. His head turned slightly to the side. "But I will. For you."

She smiled at his back. "Thanks."

"Anyway... I'll get us fed."

"I'll... get us clean," she said with a lame sort of laugh, using her jacket to wipe at the edge of the stove before realizing it was her jacket and not a rag. She frowned at it in her hand. Cleaning was not something she normally did without being told to. But all this felt so strangely... domestic. In an ancient sort of way, of course. The little woman tidied the dwelling while the strong man hunted down the food.

Of course, Clark wasn't so much hunting as whacking the food. As for her cleaning... She was just fetching bathwater. It wasn't like she was going to clean the whole place and get dirty again. But she did have to do something while waiting for the kettle. Because she couldn't just sit here watching Clark swing a hammer, his sleeves rolled up and his arms tensing with every hit, tightening so...

She turned away and spied the wood pile Clark had dropped. That was a thing to do. She moved it closer to the stove as the kettle made noises, threatening to boil, but not coming through. She stared at it, willing it to finish and give her something to do when she remembered that saying about a watched pot. She looked around as Clark's thwacks rang out. She tossed another log in the stove, then saw that the ashes were sifting themselves into a filthy tray below and it was nearly full. She picked it up and took it to the window and threw it open, dumping it out before quickly closing it as the cold hit her skin, even through the sheet. Moving around so much with steaming water, she's nearly forgotten how cold it was. She glanced at Clark. He was actually sweating. She could see it beading on his neck, building up and making trails through the dirt. There was this silly part of her that wanted to... wipe it off for him. Groom him.

That was an urge that was so past ancient it went back to caveman times. She was saved from it by the slight popping sound that told her the kettle was ready. She picked her filthy jacket up again and grabbed the handle, nearly running into the bathroom.

She really had to stop this. She had her pride. She was not going to start keeping house or grooming Clark in some hope he'd... what? Toss her over his shoulder and claim her as his woman. That didn't sound so bad, actually.

"No," she growled, pouring the kettle in and adding some cold water before filling it again. She was a feminist. She had no fantasies about being claimed or manhandled. Not at all. And she wasn't grooming anyone. She might be preparing a bath, which contributed to groomiing, but that was it. After that, she was done. They were just a team. It was just survival. And she wasn't enjoying it.

She sighed and took the kettle out again, avoiding looking at him because... Who was she kidding? This was playing house. The manly man was slaying the... canned food and she was taking care of his needs and it was stupid and old-fashioned and anti-feminist and... she loved it. Because it didn't feel like a team, like two partners figuring out the next move to stop the newest freak. It felt... domestic. It felt like a relationship. Like they were just two people at sunset, cleaning house and fixing dinner.

He turned and she started, realized she'd been watching him. "How's it going?"

"It's done," he said, seeming more relaxed, rubbing at his palms. "We have three cans cracked, at least enough to get the food out. You can have all the green beans."

"You can have all the corn."

He smiled. "I'd be all chivalrous and share it with you, but.."

"No. I think we'll both get our fill of corn considering..." She gave a laugh that sounded strange to her ears. It must have sounded strange to Clark, too, because he gave her a wary look. 

Get a grip.

"Anyway, we can eat," he said, rolling his neck. "Might taste better hot, But we don't have any pots and I don't think we can get the food in that kettle without a funnel, which we also don't have."

She shook her head and kept her mouth closed for fear of letting out another weird noise.

He quieted, too, and they stared around the room for what felt like years.

"Kettle's almost done," she said suddenly, making the both of them jump. "Just this one and I'll add some more cold and that should be enough to..."

"You know, I bet it's enough now. He moved past her, taking off his own jacket and grabbing the kettle almost roughly. Some lukewarm water sloshed out of the spout and on her sheet. "I'm sorry. I'll..." His hand moved toward the wet spot... on her breasts. He quickly drew back. "I should have enough water." he held up the kettle. More water escaped, spraying her nearly bare legs. "Oh, I'm so..." He pulled back and took a deep breath. "I'll just take this in with me."

She knew he was mortal now, but she could swear he was behind that door before she could blink.

She stared at the closed door, wondering what to do now. She wasn't about to stand here cold -- and slightly wet now. She wouldn't eat without him. She had nothing to do to keep her mind off the fact that this was going to be torture. She just had to keep her head straight. She had to remember that they were friends and there was nothing else...

There is no one else...

"Stop it," she hissed. They worked well together. Always had. They were attracted to each other. Always had been. But these things were not enough. And yet...

She wondered of they could be enough. They were always enough for her. It seemed as if, every time they accomplished something together, stopping the town's newest threat or just quizzing each other for bio, she felt this synchronicity with him, as if they could do anything. And she wondered that he didn't see it. Now they'd survived three days in The Arctic. Wasn't that proof enough? If they could brave this together, they could brave anything, even coming home... together. She knew it. He just had to know it.

And he would.

There is no one else...

And there wasn't. And she'd show him why.

She stared at the half-cracked cans on the counter, then at the stove. She was getting another brilliant idea.


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