Before Sunset (Part Sixteen)

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"I'm fine. Really."

"I just thought you might be cold," she said.

"No. I'm good. But if you're cold, you should..."

"I'm not the one with an exposed chest," she said, trying to keep her eyes in the tub... and failing.

He said something, but she didn't quite catch it. "What's that?"

"Nothing." He smiled... or smirked. "I'm not bothered by it. Are you?" It was definitely more like a smirk.

He was acting weird, even for him. "I... Of course I'm not. I'm just concerned for your health." 

"Don't be," he said, dipping his hands into the increasingly muddy water again. He came up with a scrap of fabric and her eyes widened. "Um... Think these are yours."

"Yes, they are." She snatched her panties and put them on the floor next to her. He was definitely acting weird. She couldn't put her finger on exactly how. Or maybe she could. He seemed so... smug, somehow.

She decided to ignore him and bent her head to try to rub a blood stain on her jacket against a grass stain on her pants, wondering if they'd cancel eachother out. Laundry was never her strong suit. And it was even harder with a half-naked guy in the room. The very tiny, rather warm room. At least it felt that way to her, which was exactly why she didn't need to tie on the spare quilt. But he definitely did, if only for her peace of mind.

They'd brought the lantern in as it was pretty much pitch black outside now and were kneeling on either side of the copper tub, trying to get their clothes reasonably clean. Maybe that was why he was so damned cocky. The light was more on his side. She knee-walked toward the lantern and tried to balance it between the edge of the tub and the faucet. "Just evening up the light a little."

"If that helps." He nodded toward the thinning bar of soap near the lip of the tub. "But you might have better luck using that."

"I was just going to," she said, snatching it, only nearly dropping it once. "It's slippery," she said, grabbing hold of it. Soap. You need soap to clean things. She knew that. Or she should, except for how he was making her so... "Oh, shut up," she said as he chuckled.

"I didn't say anything."

"Well, it sounded like you were laughing at me, so just..."

"I wasn't laughing. Not at you, anyway."

"Good," she groused. It was bad enough he was so damned bare.

"It's just funny," he said. 

"What's funny?"

"Nothing. I was just thinking about my dad and his ice fishing trips with his Uncle Jeremiah." He glanced up. "I told you about them, but you were kind of passed out."

"So tell me again." Anything to stop her thoughts, which were on his chest, by the way, and the way the steam from the tub sort of coated it in this glowy dew that made her mouth dry up and filled her with an urge to tackle him into the tub full of their dirty clothes and... nothing. She wasn't going to think about it because it was pretty obvious they'd get through this and go back to Smallville and back to normal and... What the hell was she thinking, anyway? That the fact that they were living out some freaky domestic fantasy in a cabin meant something? Once they were home, things would be back to normal and he would be back to Lana and she would be back to... nothing.

Not nothing. She'd be going to Met U and he was planning on A&M and they were going in different directions and nothing would be like it was. It was best to remember that and concentrate on the task at hand.

"Dad used to go every winter. They'd... um... ice fish and stuff."

She waited, still scrubbing at her clothes, waiting for more of a story than that. "And?"

"It was very cold. They used to drink whiskey to keep warm." He shrugged and wrung out his pants. "Too bad we don't have any whiskey."

"Uh-huh." She concentrated on trying to rub soap on her bra far under the water.

"I mean, we have vodka, but I guess it's not the same."

Her hands stopped and the soap floated to the surface with a watery pop. This was the fifth time she heard the word vodka in the last ten minutes. She chanced a glance at him. "Vodka is alcohol, the same as whiskey. What about it?"

"Nothing about it. I was just saying it's a shame that's all we have if we absolutely have to keep warm."

"Well, we're warm enough now."

"We're in a room filled with steam. As soon as we get out there again..." He nodded to the door. "Well, we might not be so warm. Plus, it's getting darker and colder..." He trailed off and wrung out his T-shirt.

She sat back on her heels, gripping the tub. "Clark, are you suggesting we should... drink the vodka?"

His eyes widened. "Of course not. That's not even legal. I mean... not in the US. I'm not sure about the drinking age in the Yukon. It might be eighteen, which we are, but... Well, that would be crazy. Even if it would keep us warm. Just crazy." He finished wringing out his jacket. "We should rinse."

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

He laid his clothes over the counter as she laid hers on the stools he'd placed closer to the stove. He was being chivalrous. And maybe a little sneaky. It was best if her stuff dried first, then she'd have to be dressed before he was and him unclothed seemed to affect her in ways that she was affecting him, clothed or not. And her in that damned sheet counted as not. And he'd be grousing about that now, but that was the old Clark. The one who didn't have a plan.

Yesterday, he'd listened to her excuses and oh-so-reasonable explanations of why they shouldn't ever talk about having had sex, They were remarkably similar to her reasons why they should never mention her jerking him off in the ice-fishing shack and he wondered that he'd put up with it twice. Well, not now. He now had three advantages he hadn't before. 

1. Chloe was having just as much trouble, if not more, with their state of undress. Okay. Maybe not more. Maybe not even just as much. But he'd caught her ogling him. So she was at least having some trouble with close quarters, near nudity and the fact that they had sex the other night. So even if it got colder, even if he froze, he was not going to cover his chest. Not unless she did. And if she called that flimsy sheet cover, then she was mistaken. Because he could clearly see almost every... that wasn't the point. The point was that he wasn't going to let her prance around pretending to be oblivious to the fact that this was hard. Very hard. Painfully hard. But that wasn't the point either.

2. Chloe was hiding something about when he was sick. Did she see something? He was pretty sure she only found out about him this year, but... Maybe she did something. Maybe it was something risky. Chloe doing something risky wasn't unheard of. Years ago, she'd struck a deal with Lionel Luthor. But she'd come clean about that. But what if there was more to it? If it really was a DCA article, then... why was she so weird about it? Whatever it was, he wanted to know. And since she now knew his biggest secret, he figured she was pretty much obligated to pony up. He had a goal he hadn't before. To get to something Chloe Sullivan, bastion of truth, would hide.

3. There was a bottle of vodka in the place, something he'd been trying to remind her of... just very, very subtly. It might not be long before she ended up suggesting they crack open that bottle herself.

And that third advantage would solve everything. It would solve her pretense that them having sex was just some way to keep warm that should never be mentioned again. It would get all her secrets out in the open. His time with Pete had taught him that. He wished he could forget half of what Pete divulged that night, including some sexually charged situations with a female cousin that... Yeah. He'd rather forget all that. But the fact remained that Pete was pretty damned open -- and with only wine coolers. Vodka was way stronger and would have Chloe spilling her guts even worse.

And he had a fourth advantage in that alcohol had no effect on him. He'd tried at least four different kinds now with nothing to show for it. Not even drowsiness. He was good to go. And it might be time to so subtly nudge this night toward that vodka again.

"I'm thirsty," he announced.

"Plenty of water right that way," she said abruptly, nodding to the bathroom. And not looking at him as she arranged her jacket over the tiny stool nearest the stove.

'I'm sick of water." He sighed loudly. "I Just wish we had something else to drink."

"Well, there's a can of prune juice. I mean... yuck, but..."

"Yeah. Or a bottle of vodka. Double yuck."

She straightened and crossed her arms. "Clark, just do it, then. I won't judge you."

"Do what?"

"If you want to drink some vodka, then do it. It's not like I'm going to tattle on you."

"I don't want to drink..."

"Oh, please." She snorted and laid her socks on a rung of the stool. "You've only mentioned the vodka a million times."

He frowned at his own socks. He was trying to be subtle. "I guess I'm just thinking of it. I mean, it is getting colder."

"We can always toss more wood in the stove," she said with a slight shiver.

"Yeah. But we'd probably have to hug it to stay warm."

"We'll be fine. We stayed warm last night."

"When we were wearing more."

Her brow furrowed slightly. "Well, we survived in the cave."

"And how did we do that?" he asked quietly, turning to smooth out his jeans. There was a long silence before he heard her bare feet pad away slightly. He risked turning.

She was at the head of the bed, staring down at the bottle. "I've only had beer a few times. I didn't like it."

"I didn't either," he said truthfully.

"I've had wine on holidays. That's okay, but..." She hugged her arms. "I've never had hard liquor."

He moved forward. "Maybe being lost in the middle of the Yukon is the time to do things you never do." He picked up the bottle and unscrewed the cap with a few clicks. He drew the bottle nearer. And nearer. Just a little nearer...

"Oh, Clark, just..." She grasped the bottle and took a long slug. "There." Chloe grimaced and nearly dropped the bottle.

Clark caught it quickly. "That bad?"

"God, yes! It's gross. It burns and..." She gasped. "And burns some more." Her face looked a little green.

Clark moved her to sit on the edge of the bed, alarmed as her eyes started to tear up. "Why'd you do that, then?"

"Lois says you're supposed to down the hard stuff fast." She gulped in air. "It's supposed to get better."

He perched next to her and rubbed her back. "When?"

"I don't know. As you go." She moaned. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

"I don't think you should go anymore. This was a lousy idea. I can't believe I...."

She suddenly gripped his arm. "Wait." She took a deep breath in, then blew it out. "It really does does burn." She took another breath and closed her eyes. "But all deep down." She leaned her head back. "It's warm."

His hand dropped from her back to the bed with a plop. "Uh-huh." Her chest was rising and falling, And rising... and falling... and...

"Mmmm. Your turn."

"Huh?" He shook himself and tried to move his eyes upward.

She took the bottle from his other hand. "Come on. This was your idea."

He flinched away. "But I thought it was gross."

"It is." She shrugged. "But it has its benefits. I feel kind of... relaxed."

Sure she did. But he wouldn't. He'd have to down the sludge with no benefits at all. But he'd started this. "Okay." He took the bottle back, eyes darting over the clear liquid, the peeling label, the...

"Clark, you're supposed to drink it, not have a staring contest with it. Come on. I did it."

"I'm going to." He reminded himself why he was doing this. He had to get her to admit the truth. The truth about what she was hiding and about the fact that they were never, ever going to be the same after this. And maybe admit that she wanted him just as much as... He glanced at her as she leaned back, taking another really, really deep breath.

He gripped the bottle hard.

Maybe not just as much. But somewhere in the ballpark of as much.

He stared into the bottle resolutely. If downing something noxious was the price then... "How gross is it?"

"I don't know. Really, really."

"Then why does anyone drink it?"

"It's supposed to be kind of tasteless in juice."

"In juice?"

"Lois usually has it with cranberry juice or OJ."

"Well, we have juice." Clark got up.

She giggled. "Yeah. Prune juice. Like that's..."

"It's gotta be better than this." He grabbed the large can off the floor and moved to the counter.

"Hey. That's not fair," she said, on his heels. "I had to down it straight. You didn't even almost puke."

"There's still time." He held up the can. "This is prune juice."

She tilted her head. "You have a point." 

He secured the can in the vise and grabbed the screwdriver.

"It's probably better you're trying that before you had a drink, anyway."

He smirked and grabbed the hammer. "Yeah. Don't want to do this half-bombed." Like there was a chance of that...

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PART SEVENTEEN

Spoiler alert: I don't think Clark realizes that the reason he wasn't affected by alcohol before was his powers. With them gone... Well, you know.