Before Sunset (Part Nineteen)

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Chloe pulled the quilt higher, nearly over her head. It hardly helped. She was still freezing. There was some warmth at her back. If she turned to the stove... She did the thing she'd been avoiding since she'd laid down and turned, then remembered why she'd been avoiding it.

She could see him, only dimly, but it was bad enough. Seeing him made it all too easy to hear him.

I meant what I said. We had sex and that changed everything.

It was ridiculous. She didn't want to think of what he'd said. It went against all common sense. What kind of an idiot would she be if she thought sex really changed the way a guy felt? How many girls had she heard of that had sex with a guy, thinking it would lead to love only to be left humiliated or pregnant? Most guys were... and there was the problem. Clark wasn't most guys.

There's no such thing as only sex. Not to me. And it does change everything.

She turned on her back. The stove was dying anyway, it wasn't doing much good. She should get up and put wood in it, but he might wake up and...

She heard a chopped sort of breath behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, trying not to be too loud about it on the squeaky bed. He was shivering, too, and just as awake. He was cold. She was cold. The obvious solution would be for him to come to the bed. It would be warmer with two blankets and two people. But she couldn't think to ask him to come to her, not the way he was feeling right now. 

Maybe you're just used to being mad at me. You've obviously been secretly mad at me for years.

And maybe he was right to see it that way. Maybe she's gotten so used to being mad, that she didn't know when not to be. But he had one thing wrong. It wasn't him she was mad at. It was herself, for having these feelings past all hope of them ever being reciprocated. She'd been rejected by him so many times that she...

I told you things were different now and you shot me down. This is all you.

She turned fully to him as the words hit her. 

Maybe it was hard for her to recognize when she wasn't being rejected.

The bed creaked as she sat up. He shifted slightly, but didn't turn. She stood, taking the quilt with her, grasping the pillow as she moved. He stiffened as she stopped in front of the rug. She took the quilt from her shoulders and spread it over him. She dropped the pillow and nudged it toward him with her foot. He did turn then, rolling onto his back and squinting up at her.

"Chloe, you need to..."

"Shhh." 

His eyes grew large in the scant light from the stove as she untied the sheet and placed that over him as well as she sank to the floor. His eyes stayed on her as she lifted the covers and slid in beside him. He let out a shaky breath and stared at the ceiling. "You... you can't just..."

"It's too cold to be alone," she whispered and laid on her back as well. 

He glanced at her, then nodded. He pulled the covers more firmly over them and laid back. They stayed that way, side by side and silent. It was warmer. But she still couldn't sleep. And she knew why.

She turned on her side and saw his eyes were open, too. "Clark," she whispered.

He didn't answer, but his eyes moved to her.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be... I don't want to be prickly with you. And I'm not secretly mad at you." He opened his mouth, so she went on quickly. "I'm really not. I've even tried to be mad at you and it's impossible. If anything, I'm always mad at myself and I take it out on you because I can't..." She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't say it. There was no way she could say it. 

"You can't what?"

"I can't. I can't... say it." Even if things were different now, she couldn't. "I'm... I'm so used to not saying it." Like saying it was some punishable offense and things would never...

"Not saying what?"

She felt his breath on her face and opened her eyes. He'd turned to her. His eyes were steady on hers and she knew that she had to say it. She had to tell the truth, not just search for it, even if it was almost physically painful. "I can't let you go," she said in a rush, trying to tear it off quick, like a band-aid. "So I never did. Not even when I said I did. I've tried so many times. I try to step back and be objective and realistic and I even think I am, that I'm over you. And, when I'm away for even an hour, it's like I am. But then I see you again and... and I'm just this silly girl, so happy to see you when I don't want to be. I want to be just... I mean, I don't mean that I want to be upset to see you. I just want to feel less... just feel less, I guess. I want you to be just any guy, just a friend, but you won't be and that's not because of you, it's because of me. This is all me and I never meant to make you feel like you were the one to blame."

She stopped, finally taking a breath. He was staring at her, his eyes wide and his brows furrowed in that classic Clark Kent look of befuddlement she'd come to know so well. He shouldn't be befuddled. She'd just laid it all out for him. Any second, it would sink in. She waited for him to say something. She'd said enough now. When he didn't, she dropped her gaze to the quilt crumpled between them. In the dim light, she could see loose threads, looping drunkenly under or over the prescribed dotted lines and... Say something, Clark.

The silence grew and she found it harder to keep her eyes on the quilt and off him. She turned instead, staring at the dark cavern under the bed. When she was little, she was convinced monsters lived there, waiting to grab her foot if it inched off the mattress. So she always pulled limbs in tightly when she slept. She found herself doing that now. Not because of some imagined monster, but because she needed to pull herself close. Someone had to.

She had to do it. She couldn't let this be another what-if, another lost moment, not when things could be different.

She'd been wrong. Things weren't any different now. Maybe they could have been before this, but she'd said too much. Even if it was all true, it was still too much. She should regret it, kick herself for being a silly girl again, but she just didn't have the energy to berate herself when she was still hazy with vodka and so tired. She'd spoke the truth and now she knew what happened. But that was good. She finally knew and she could finally stop getting caught up in this merry-go-round. This was a good thing.

She felt him shift behind her. "Chloe..."

"It's okay, Clark. You don't have to say anything. I didn't mean to spew at you like that. It must be the drinking and all."

"No, I... It's fine. I don't want you to feel embarassed or..."

"I'm not," she said sharply. But she was, even more so for him pointing out that she might be. "It's been a long and weird day. We should just... go to sleep."

"We should," he said softly. 

She felt the covers settle on her shoulder as she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for sleep.

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

He should be sleeping. She was. He'd heard it happen. He'd laid there listening to her every breath until they deepened and evened out. He had nothing else to do. It wasn't like he had anything to say.

He was still sort of dazed by all she'd said. He'd kind of thought Chloe thought of him the way he thought of her, on and off. 

He knew she'd had feelings for him. He assumed she was mostly over them. 

He was attracted to her. He always had been, but he always decided not to got there, not to ruin their friendship. 

He'd thought of her as being on that same wavelength. That maybe that was why she pushed him away in the last few days. But there was more to it than just that. She felt more than just that. Tonight, between her yelling and her soft whispers, he was kind of getting it. 

I can't let you go.

It was all coming together. It explained everything these last few days. 

I've tried so many times.

It even explained how quick she'd been to push him away. How he could say things had changed and she'd still shoved at him. She was trying to let him go. And she was failing. And him pushing the issues, the events of the last few days, hadn't been helping.

I can't let you go.

The words echoed in his mind as he stared at the ceiling, afraid to look at her. It was so damned intense. That was what made it so scary. And it was scary. Chloe had been holding onto him all these years, waiting for him, trying to get over... him. He'd never thought of himself as so hard to shake. Lana seemed to manage it time and again and... He stilled, thinking of Lana. Not so much thinking of Lana as thinking of the fact that he hadn't thought of Lana much these last few days. He didn't have much room for thoughts of Lana when Chloe was...

He finally turned to her, staring at the back of her head. He'd rather see her face right now, but he couldn't be too choosy. He was having an epiphany.

I can't let you go.

Chloe held on to him. While Lana let him go time and time again, Chloe held on, even when she didn't want to.

I see you again and... and I'm just this silly girl, so happy to see you when I don't want to be.

He felt suddenly warmed by the idea, the fact that he could turn Chloe Sullivan into a silly girl.

I just want to feel less... just feel less, I guess.

He was almost blushing at the idea.

I want you to be just any guy, just a friend, but you won't be...

Maybe because he wasn't supposed to be.

I can't let you go.

He moved forward, pressing himself against her back, wrapping his arms around her waist when she sleepily squirmed away. But she didn't get far. She turned over, burrowing into him.

"I'm glad you didn't," he whispered against her hair, securing the covers over them. If she had, they wouldn't be here now, on the verge of something so scary.

But it wasn't so scary now.

He saw her smiling from her hospital bed, calling him a hero. He saw her staring up at him with that knowing look after his bout with amnesia. "You trusted me," she'd said. He knew now what she meant. It was about his powers, his origins. She'd been waiting for him to trust her after everything. After her years digging and exposing the truth, she was waiting for his trust. And she'd turned out to be more than worthy of it.

Well, there were no powers now, no secrets. And now... It was time for her to trust him. 

He'd get her there.

He felt so of light, as if nothing could go wrong. It was strange because he'd once thought of her feelings like a pendulum, heavily swinging over their friendship, threatening to tear it to shreds. Maybe she saw it that way, too. Otherwise, she wouldn't be so eager to let him go.

Well, she wouldn't be so eager, soon.

He buried his face in her hair as she sighed against his neck.

They wouldn't be torn to shreds. It would be so much better...

"I'll show you," he said on a yawn. And he would. Telling her wasn't good enough. He'd show her...


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


It was another rude awakening for Chloe Sullivan. It wasn't like the last few where she spent hazy moments wondering why her bed felt different and why the air seemed thinner and what happened to all the graduation parties and why she was naked. She didn't have to open her eyes to remember she was in the Yukon or Clark was an alien (or was before and wasn't now or... she still wasn't clear on that) or that they had spent the last few nights wrapped around each other in varying states of undress. She knew what was going on all too well. It was why she refused to open her eyes - maybe ever again. 

Every sensation flooded her with things she didn't want to know and she didn't want sight to open more floodgates. The fact that it felt like the top of her head had been lopped off reminded her she'd been drunk. The cold snaking under the blankets told her she was naked, as did the feel of fur under her very naked back, which also reminded her all about how they'd nearly had sex... again. The covers lumped over and around her told her he wasn't next to her. And that reminded her why. Because she'd told him. She'd told him everything. Every pathetic, schoolgirlish feeling she fearfully held close and every slight she angrily hoarded. And then there was the fact that she jumped him again. It was all so humiliating that she was pretty firm on never opening her eyes again.

Until she heard whistling.

It was a bit distant, but Clark was whistling and her eyes cracked open at that because Clark had absolutely no reason to whistle. Last night, he'd been alternately led on, yelled at or was the recipient of a massive feelings dump. She'd gone completely schizo and he had every reason to be scared to death or sick to death of her. Whistling was not the reaction of a scared-to-death man. It might be the reaction of a sick-to-death man. She tried to remember if she'd ever whistled when she was annoyed. Of course, thinking still hurt, so she dropped it, moaning and moving her hands up to her head as if she could keep it from rolling away from her in protest.

She held it steady as she opened her eyes a little more. The first thing in her line of vision was the front door, which was slightly open. That explained the slithering cold. The whistling seemed to be coming from behind her, possibly the bathroom, as her head was throbbing in that general direction. Still didn't explain the whistling. Except if... Maybe Clark was prepared to forget the whole thing. Maybe he could not only move past this, but already had. She had poured a hell of a lot out last night. She'd be the last to blame him for wanting to get past it. She'd been doing just that for years, even up to the last few days. She'd almost made an art of it by now, so she had no right to feel...

No. Not hurt. Maybe just disappointed. With Clark's tendency to want to talk about everything, she kind of thought he might want to talk this out, give her some kind of Jonathon Kent inspired speech that would help her close the book on her years of Clark-related pining. But what good would that do, anyway? The book had to be closed with or without a speech and maybe Clark was sparing her any further humiliation by whistling like everything was just hunky-dory. So no. She was not disappointed or humiliated or hurt. She resolved to be relieved. 

Then again, she'd resolved not to open her eyes and where had that gone? Now she had no choice but to sit up and look at the mess from last night, which was probably so... gone.

She sat up and glanced around. There was no mess, which seemed wrong since last night, though hazy, was definitely messy. But there were no cans on the floor, no logs in a pile (well, they were in a pile, but a neater pile), no spoons... well, spoon and one fork strewn about. There weren't clothes hung on every available surface. The clothes were hanging from the bed frame in neat little rows. Everything looked pretty tidy. And there was a certain smell in the air. Something so strange and familiar she... She lifted her head to the stove and was arrested by how clean it was, just the pot sitting there. No spills from her can-boiling endeavors. 

So Clark was not only getting past things, but cleaning up all the evidence. She decided that was a good thing. It was a good thing she decided that, too, because he chose that moment to throw open the bathroom door. 

She scrambled a little, but managed to cover herself up to the neck and paste on a smile.

Clark stopped whistling and froze in the doorway, wearing only his boxers and wiping at his face. "Morning."

"Morning," she croaked back, then winced as she discovered that speaking was about as painful as hearing. 

Clark's eyes widened. "Sore?"

She nodded instead of speaking.

"Be right back."

She hoped he was going to put some more clothes on. The boxers covered even less than last night's blanket and, on top of a headache and sore throat, she didn't really want Clark throwing the "here's what you can never have" parade all around her. Of course, he'd ducked into the bathroom and his clothes were out here, so she was probably out of luck on that. She sank back into the pillows, closed her eyes, and vaguely wondered what was the point of being Irish if you were never lucky. Maybe she got her luck from her mom's side of the family. Maybe the phrase "luck of the Irish" was supposed to be ironic. They were kind of beat down for a century or so, then there was that potato famine and various other hardships her dad drummed into her when Celtic fever seemed to hit America when she was ten and forced to watch Riverdance. She didn't remember most of it and it was no use trying because thinking hurt like a b*tch and why was she even bothering thinking at a time like...

"Here you go." 

She jolted to find him crouching at her side, but decided that was lucky. She didn't want to do anymore of that thinking. He was holding a can in one hand and two pills in the other. "Wha..."

"It's just water and aspirin from the first aid kit. Might not be too current, but it worked fine for me. But you might want to drink some water first. I had a hard time swallowing without clearing the way first."

She took the can and sat up, carefully tucking the sheet under her arms. She took a slow sip. It felt like heaven was trickling down her throat. "Mmmm."

Clark chuckled. "Dry?"

"Trying to decide between sand," she rasped, "and razor blades."

"I thought it was more like little bits of broken glass, myself. But it gets better." He nudged at the can and she took another sip. "I think it was the vodka. My dad's had too much to drink a few times and my mom always makes him drink a lot of water the next day. I've kind of been doing that. I'm in the bathroom every five seconds, but it's fine. I feel pretty good now. Plus the water here tastes good, like spring water. It probably is, which makes me feel like I'm being wasteful every time I flush the toilet, which is a lot, like I said, so... Oh, you should take the aspirin now."

She nodded in agreement and took them from his open palm. If he was going to keep talking, then she really needed some aspirin. And he was.

"I thought my head was being sliced down the middle when I woke up," he went on. "So I took some aspirin and washed up and I felt better by the time I was done. I was going to move you to the bed, but you looked so peaceful. So I left you there and thought I'd clean up a little. We've got some sunlight from that window now, so I hung the clothes on the bed. They're mostly dry, but just a little damp and I figured we should wait a little longer so we don't catch our death..." He laughed. "Catch our death. It's funny. I don't think I've ever said that before. My mom says that and... Jeez! We probably will catch our death with that door open." He got up to close it as Chloe wondered what the hell had gotten into him. "I only went out to grab that old screen I tossed out there for... Well, you'll see. Plus we can brush our teeth. I tossed Le Gal's toothbrush in boiling water. My mom did it with hairbrushes that time my dad got head-lice and..."

"Clark?"

"Huh?"

"I'm not exactly awake enough for talking that...um... doesn't stop."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry," he said more quietly. "Aspirin's probably not kicked in, either. I'll be quiet." He sat on the bed as she laid back and closed her eyes. It took all of three seconds before he spoke again. "I just have so much energy." 

She opened her eyes as he started pacing the cabin. "I can see that." She was also starting to get a handle on why. How many times had she talked too much or giggled too loud around Clark? It was nerves. He was saying everything but what he wanted to say, pasting on false bravado before getting all the ugly out of the way. 

"I don't know what it is. I want to go out and chop wood or try and catch a rabbit. I saw a trap. I wonder if..."

"Clark, just get it over with."

"I've heard about cabin fever. This is probably..." He stopped pacing. "Get what over with?"

She took a deep breath and sat up, tucking the sheet more securely under her arms again. "I think we need to talk."

He let out a long breath, as if he'd taken hers. "Yeah. I know we do. It's just so hard to..." He took another breath. "I mean, after all these years, everything between us is going to change." He ran a hand though his hair. "Jesus. I know I said I didn't know what was going to happen like it was fine, but this is so scary, like I have to see you in this whole new..."

"It's okay, Clark. I promise."

"You think? I mean, I trust you, Chloe, but what happens when we're home and we have to tell everyone, especially Lana, and..."

"What?" Her sheet slipped as she tried to stand. She held it close and got up on the second try. "Clark, you are not going to tell Lana about this. She doesn't need to know."

"Chloe, it's not like she won't figure it out."

"She won't if we don't tell her. Besides, you two weren't even officially together, so it's not like..."

"Oh, come on. You got mad at me for this very same thing sophomore year. We'd be doing the same thing to Lana if we don't..."

"Okay, okay!" She put up her hands. Bad idea, since the sheet just dropped. She scrambled to pick it up again.

"Take your time," he sort of... drawled.

She narrowed her eyes as she pulled it up and around, knotting it over her breasts. "Do not make jokes. We aren't there yet."

"Okay. Totally serious." He snorted and she glared at him again. "Sorry. But we have to tell her," he said, his eyes steady, "and probably before we tell anyone else."

Her jaw dropped. "Clark! We don't have to tell anyone! Ever!"

His eyes widened. "What the hell kind of... What about my parents?"

"Especially not them! How would I ever look them in the eye again?"

"Chloe, my parents love you. Why would you think... I mean, they like Lana, too, but you're the one that's been at the house the most and they know you so well."

"Exactly. But there are limits to how much I want them to know and they'll think I'm a tramp if you..."

"My parents are not like that. How could you think..."

"Alright! Just calm down. We have time to deal with the telling Lana or anybody else problem." She'd get him to see reason on that.Because really... "What we need to do now is clear the air."

"I guess we do," he said, folding his arms. "If you want to have some kind of secret..."

"I don't want to have secrets. That's the point. As far as I can tell, everything is now out in the open, so just... get it over with."

Clark stared at her blankly. "Okay, I'm going to have to ask you again. Get it over with? What do you mean by that?"

"Okay. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to rush you. We can do it whenever you're ready."

He shook his head and sat on the bed again. "Okay. I'm lost." His eyes widened. "Wait... Are you talking about... sex?"

"Sure." She nodded. If they had to talk about it, then... "I mean that I can take it."

His face turned sort of red. "Yeah. I mean, you already have, so... Chloe, I'm not saying that I don't want to. But you are throwing a hell of a lot at me right now and maybe we should talk a little before..."

"Exactly! I dumped a lot on you last night, so... I mean, we're both awake now. If you want to clear the air, you don't have to be nervous. We can talk it all out and I won't blame you. I am officially done making you the bad guy. I think we can manage to move past some silly crush I had and just be friends like..."

"Wait a second..." He stood, stared at her, then paced again, then stopped to stare at her some more, then stopped right over her. "I think I'm getting this now. So you're saying you had some silly crush and now that's... uh... that's over?"

"I'm getting some perspective. We're eighteen. We're legal adults now, so the least I can do is be adult in this."

"Okay." He was silent for what felt like a month before he spoke. "So last night, when you said you couldn't let me go or get over me, that was just..."

She looked away. "I was drinking last night. I said a lot of things."

"Things that weren't true?"

"Things that might have seemed... bigger at the time, but in the light of day..."

"No. I got it. I'm very hard to get over." He moved past her to the bearskin and picked up a blanket. "It takes a whole night."

"Clark, you can't be serious," she groaned. 

"Guess not. Who could be serious about me?" He folded the blanket and tossed it to the bed. "It's fine to have a crush on someone like me, but when it comes to something real, no one can know, not even my parents." He picked up the quilt. "Is it because I live on a farm? Is that what makes me such a bad..."

"Oh, come on! Have I wounded your... mannish pride? Is that was this is about?"

He picked up the pillow and tossed it back to the floor. "This is about me getting up at the crack of dawn to clean this hellhole and quietly so you could get your damned sleep..."

"That was very nice of you," she said calmly. "And I'm not trying to insult you. I just..."

"Then trying to defy the laws of... everything to make you coffee..."

"I'm trying to let you off the hook, Clark, if you'd only..."

"Only for you," he said louder, "to get up and tell me I'm not even good enough to be your stupid boyfriend!"

"Clark, I never said you weren't good enough to..." Her entire body drained of color. She could actually feel it leave. "Boyfriend?"

He froze and faced her. "Off the hook?" He stared hard at her. "Wow. You're doing it again."

"Did you say boyfriend?" she asked weakly.

"But I'm not letting you this time." He moved to her. "Ever since we've been stuck here, you've been all over me one minute and letting me off the hook the next." He gripped her waist with one hand. "That stops now."

"I could have sworn you said boyfriend," she breathed as his other hand stole to the back of her neck, pulling her in.

"No one's getting off the hook now," he said against her lips.

His lips moved over hers before his tongue swept inside. She finally decided to just go with it and throw her arms around his neck because she couldn't argue with someone when they felt so good and tasted like...

She wasn't sure if she was in shock or idealizing him or what, but she could swear she tasted...

She pushed at his chest and detached from his lips. "Did you say something about coffee?"


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