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bantha_fodder(not) the wrong girl by Pen
Smallville, Chloe, PG.
Trying to get back in the flow of things. Thanks to Sloane.
**
She finds the first gift on her pillow, a recording of a very interesting conversation between two of Metropolis' finest. She blinks; folds the CD crisply in half until it snaps, and posts the pieces to LexCorp's towering offices in the middle of Metropolis. I will not be in your pocket, she writes; thinks no more about it.
The second is a grubby contact in a crappy diner. He sidles up to her. "Sullivan?" he asks, his eyes darting.
"Maybe," she says, always cautious, always worrying.
"Got some info for you, about the NBN thing," he says, and Chloe stands.
"Tell him to fuck off." She grabs her notebook and walks; she's had her feelers out for two days, but they're never this fast, especially not now, and she knows.
She's sitting in City Hall, surrounded by dust and records older than she is, when she finds the third one, and she's disgusted that she's so out of practice, so run down, that it takes her so long to notice. She runs her fingers across the print in disbelief, as if perhaps her touch will give lie to the words before her eyes. She blinks, and the words remain.
Unlike Lex to be so sloppy, she thinks, and holds her breath.
It's late, and the moon is full and bright and it's a Saturday night, but the lights on in the LexCorp tower run high to the sky, and she doesn't stop to check if the topmost light is lit. She knows where he is.
As Chloe steps out of the elevator, Mercy eyes her suspiciously, opens her mouth to protest. "Oh, like he isn't expecting me," Chloe snaps, and knows the truth of her words when she pushes open the door to Lex's office, and Mercy steps into the elevator, as if she's been dismissed. Lex looks at Chloe, his face unreadable.
"Growing slow," he says, a slow grin curling across his face, and she throws her photocopies at him.
"I will not be the reporter in your pocket," she says.
"My pockets are full," he replies.
"Then why the fuck are you breaking into my apartment, lending me your sources?" she asks, though suspicion weighs her down. "I can do my own research."
"You're more than shitty diners and a second-rate byline," he says, "you have talent and skills more than you ever needed as a journalist, and I'm sick of Superman writing our headlines."
She gives her very best confused gaze, a last ditch effort. "He's a very popular topic," she says. He raises an eyebrow.
"I'm sick of Superman writing our headlines," he repeats, and leans forward, rests a hand on her wrist. "Literally writing them." She ducks her head.
"I don't know what you mean," she murmurs, makes to leave his office, but his grip upon her wrist is firm.
"Chloe," he says softly, his breath warm on her ear. She closes her eyes, tastes loss on her tongue: Clark; Lana; the expose that ruined her career; the cousin who beat her to her own dream. Regret curls in her stomach, and when she opens her eyes, Lex's gaze is firm, untroubled.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, and he nods, doesn't pretend like he doesn't know what she is talking about.
"It did," he replies, and shrugs. "Now it doesn't."
She shakes free of his grip, leaves without looking back. As the lift doors close she meets Lex's eyes, and she knows what her decision will be.
She steps out of the lobby into the cool night air, and it seems that Lex knows, too, because a limo waits for her, its door held open by Hope.
She slides in, and as the limo pulls away from the curb, she closes her eyes.
Doesn't look back.
END
Smallville, Chloe, PG.
Trying to get back in the flow of things. Thanks to Sloane.
**
She finds the first gift on her pillow, a recording of a very interesting conversation between two of Metropolis' finest. She blinks; folds the CD crisply in half until it snaps, and posts the pieces to LexCorp's towering offices in the middle of Metropolis. I will not be in your pocket, she writes; thinks no more about it.
The second is a grubby contact in a crappy diner. He sidles up to her. "Sullivan?" he asks, his eyes darting.
"Maybe," she says, always cautious, always worrying.
"Got some info for you, about the NBN thing," he says, and Chloe stands.
"Tell him to fuck off." She grabs her notebook and walks; she's had her feelers out for two days, but they're never this fast, especially not now, and she knows.
She's sitting in City Hall, surrounded by dust and records older than she is, when she finds the third one, and she's disgusted that she's so out of practice, so run down, that it takes her so long to notice. She runs her fingers across the print in disbelief, as if perhaps her touch will give lie to the words before her eyes. She blinks, and the words remain.
Unlike Lex to be so sloppy, she thinks, and holds her breath.
It's late, and the moon is full and bright and it's a Saturday night, but the lights on in the LexCorp tower run high to the sky, and she doesn't stop to check if the topmost light is lit. She knows where he is.
As Chloe steps out of the elevator, Mercy eyes her suspiciously, opens her mouth to protest. "Oh, like he isn't expecting me," Chloe snaps, and knows the truth of her words when she pushes open the door to Lex's office, and Mercy steps into the elevator, as if she's been dismissed. Lex looks at Chloe, his face unreadable.
"Growing slow," he says, a slow grin curling across his face, and she throws her photocopies at him.
"I will not be the reporter in your pocket," she says.
"My pockets are full," he replies.
"Then why the fuck are you breaking into my apartment, lending me your sources?" she asks, though suspicion weighs her down. "I can do my own research."
"You're more than shitty diners and a second-rate byline," he says, "you have talent and skills more than you ever needed as a journalist, and I'm sick of Superman writing our headlines."
She gives her very best confused gaze, a last ditch effort. "He's a very popular topic," she says. He raises an eyebrow.
"I'm sick of Superman writing our headlines," he repeats, and leans forward, rests a hand on her wrist. "Literally writing them." She ducks her head.
"I don't know what you mean," she murmurs, makes to leave his office, but his grip upon her wrist is firm.
"Chloe," he says softly, his breath warm on her ear. She closes her eyes, tastes loss on her tongue: Clark; Lana; the expose that ruined her career; the cousin who beat her to her own dream. Regret curls in her stomach, and when she opens her eyes, Lex's gaze is firm, untroubled.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, and he nods, doesn't pretend like he doesn't know what she is talking about.
"It did," he replies, and shrugs. "Now it doesn't."
She shakes free of his grip, leaves without looking back. As the lift doors close she meets Lex's eyes, and she knows what her decision will be.
She steps out of the lobby into the cool night air, and it seems that Lex knows, too, because a limo waits for her, its door held open by Hope.
She slides in, and as the limo pulls away from the curb, she closes her eyes.
Doesn't look back.
END
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-07 10:20 pm (UTC)Go you.
Now, oddly, I want to see Chloe and Lyle. I blame your icon.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-06-11 01:41 pm (UTC)