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bantha_fodderEach Wave Driven Ahead by Another
Smallville, Chloe and Lex, M.
This was something I wrote for Sloane a few weeks back, I can't remember why. Maybe because she's so awesome? It is Chloe and it is Lex, and it has a happy ending. I KNOW. It is also set during the high school years. I don't even know who I am any more.
It is raining right now, and this lj is looking a bit empty, I thought it could do with some further content.
**
Chloe pushes to her feet. "Gotta go," she says, and Lana rests her hand on Chloe's arm.
"We'll see you tomorrow," Lana says, a statement more than a question. Chloe thinks of last year, arriving, her arm looped through Clark's own; thinks of last year, leaving on her own, her skirt twirling at her feet and Lana and Clark in their own world behind her.
"Sure," Chloe lies. "I'll see you tomorrow." She walks through the halls, bag slung over her shoulder; walks through the doors, past the giggling girls selling last minute tickets.
She doesn't look back.
**
She hides out in her house all the way through Saturday; watches Spaceballs and Diehard and movies that have nothing to do with proms, nothing to do with high school, nothing to do with reality. Her dad's gone to Metropolis for the weekend, work shit, and there's nothing to stir her so she wallows, and it's great.
She wanders out about three for supplies. She's relatively sure all the hair dresser appointments are over, and she hopes for the best.
In the Talon, she leans on the counter. "Lana's not here?" she asks, idly.
"No," is the reply. "She's getting ready for prom. Aren't you going?"
"Yeah," she says, and the lie tastes just as bitter. "But you know me, low maintenance."
She orders an expresso, and as she wraps her hand around the tiny, warm cup, Lex rests, leaning on the counter beside her. Lex orders an expresso, too, and she savours its bitterness as his eyes dart around the Talon. "Alone?" he asks, and her soft sigh is part acknowledgment, part denial. "Yeah," he continues. "It's a great day for it."
They stand there for a bit, silently soaking in the coffee, and Chloe grins at the image.
"What's so amusing?" he asks.
"Imagining you bathing in coffee," she says, wriggles her toes.
"It'd be good for your skin," he says with a grin, and she laughs.
"So," he says, after a little bit, "Not primping?"
And she's warm, and she has Independence Day on DVD in her bag, and the caffeine's just about to hit, so she leans slightly into him and says, "Not really, no."
He touches her shoulder lightly, and when he says, "Me neither," in an irreverent, confidential tone, she imagines him, his hair full of curlers, and she laughs until he rests two fingers on her wrist. "I'm going for a flight," he says, quietly. "Want to come?" and in the hubbub of the Talon, she nods her head.
**
He drives too fast, and her hair flies everywhere, but she pushes it away and doesn't seem to care. As she climbs into the jet she pauses, and glances back at him. "So, where are we going?" she asks casually, like it doesn't matter if they go to Metropolis or Mount Everest, and he wonders what took her so long, and he loves it.
"Maybe California," he replies, doesn't stop to think. "Maybe Paris," and she laughs.
"I should have gone home for a change of clothes," she says, and steps into the jet. Lex wonders if she thinks he's joking.
She should know him better than that by now.
**
He checks his messages as they strap in, before they lift off. We have a meeting on Monday morning, his father says, and don't forget dinner Sunday night, and Lex flips his phone shut.
Meets Chloe's eyes.
"Paris?" she asks, and he knows that what she's really asking is, your father?
Paris it is.
**
Flying into the setting sun, he looks out the window, sees nothing but sparkling water beneath them. Chloe leans against the wall beside him. She admires the view; leans close. "We could HALO, maybe go swimming," she says, and when he meets her eyes she grins at him.
She rests a hand on the skin of his neck; "Chloe," he says, half a warning. She laughs, and kisses him.
He pushes her, and the wall of the jet is soft behind her and her skin is soft and warm beneath his own, and when she laughs again he kisses her into a joyful acquiescence, and he loves that.
He tightens his grip.
**
He licks the skin at her neck; presses his fingers against the small of her back and fumbles with the buttons that rest between her breasts. "You couldn't have worn clothes that are easier to work with?" he asks, his voice muffled by the skin of her shoulder.
"Are you trying to imply I should be easier?" she asks, and when he looks up at her his grin makes her laugh. She takes pity on him, pulls the shirt up over her head, and a button breaks in the process. He looks pointedly at the broken garment. "I'm sure you have a seamstress," she says jokingly, with a shrug.
"I do," he says, and she knows he's not kidding, and her stomach lurches at the waste, this joyride over the Atlantic because they're running away, this breaking of clothes to remove them.
She kisses him anyway.
**
Later, they lie there, and his fingers skim across her bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "So, were we high enough?" she asks, and he grins into her hair.
"Probably not," he says, "So we'll have to try again," and she laughs as she pushes him onto his back; laughs as she reaches a hand between them and laughs as she calls him a liar.
The sun outside the cabin has long set; there is no sun light reflecting in her hair, no bird calls in the morning and the stars don't give her an unearthly glow. She looked tired, earlier, and she looks tired, now, even as she grins down at him and when she pushes down onto him, her flesh warm and soft, he meets her eyes and hopes she understands that running away is all the thanks that he can give.
She kisses his forehead, and he thinks, yeah, maybe.
**
In Paris, she steps off the plane, her shirt buttonless and one of his sweaters in its place. She swims in it, her hands hidden by the sleeves, and he knows she's not fit to be seen.
They take a taxi to a hotel, go the long way so she can peer out the window and see old relics of buildings, and he sits back, one hand resting on the seat and the other on her thigh, like maybe he's trying to hold her exuberance in. The thought of doing that sickens him, though, and he removes his hand; leans forward, instead.
They arrive at the hotel, no luggage, no booking, but he's a Luthor and he knows the words, knows the dance, and it's no time at all before they're established in a room, and Lex would tip the concierge for not raising an eyebrow, but it's the concierge's job, so he doesn't.
Chloe freezes, her hand on the light switch. "What does this mean?" she asks. He takes his time; slips his jacket from his shoulder, sets his wallet on the sideboard, and when he looks up, she staring at him, and hasn't moved.
She can be patient, he knows, but he can be more so, and he is careful not to smile. "What does what mean?" he asks, pours himself a whisky.
"This," she says, waves her hand around. "This flight, this hotel room, this fucking sweater over my shoulders. We're in France, and I don't even know what time it is here, let alone what fucking time it is in America! And we had sex on a plane and Lex, I'd like to know what this means."
He nods as she gesticulates, watches the fluid movement of her arms and when she stops, he pushes a glass into one hand, wraps her fingers around it. She sips.
"Lex," she says, after tasting the scotch, "I'm too young to drink."
"Not in France, you're not," he replies, and after a moment she laughs, and he knows it will be okay.
Hopes it will be okay.
He busies himself, putting the bottles away, and when he looks up she has stepped out onto the balcony, watches the sun set over the Eiffel Tower. He leans on the door frame, watches her, and the sweat beads on her skin from just five minutes out in the hot air.
"This is kind of awesome," she says, over the bustle of the streets of Paris, twenty feet below.
"More awesome than a meeting with my father," Lex says.
She turns; smiles wryly at him.
"Let's go inside," she says, an invitation, of a sort, and he follows where she leads.
**
She pushes him onto the bed; divests him of his shirt and fumbles with his belt. She kisses a trail down his body, and beneath her, Lex shivers. She grins, feels butterflies in her stomach, and when she goes down on him he hisses, like maybe he wasn't expecting it. She pauses before he can shudder again, rests a hand on him. "Why am I here?" she asks, and he meets her eyes.
"I thought you were more than that," he says, a challenge more than an accusation, and he's not talking about the sex, and she knows what he means.
She sinks down on him, rides him until he comes, and he slides his hand between her until she shudders beside him. After, she sits up, legs crossed, and he rests a hand on her thigh.
His hand is warm against her skin, warm and clammy, and he draws patterns as she hums.
"I didn't think you'd care about the prom," Chloe says idly, "You not being a high school student and all." She flips through internet tourist guides on Lex's laptop.
"I don't," he says. "I care about doing what I want, and avoiding my father."
"Is that what this is about, then?" she asks, casually, like she doesn't care what the answer is, but she is careful not to look across at him. On her calf, his hand stills, and she holds her breath.
"No," he says, his voice low. He takes the laptop from her hands, pushes her onto her back. "That's not what this is about," he whispers into her ear; taps it into her hip with his fingers and traces it with his lips onto the skin at the dip of her neck.
He presses two fingers into her; pushes her into the bed until she writhes, comes screaming on five hundred count sheets with one of America's richest men smiling down at her.
She wonders at her life, sometimes.
**
"We should head back," he says, and she looks at him.
"Yes," she says, rests a hand on his hip.
**
"So, that was fun," Chloe says, her feet on the tarmac and her heart in her throat. "I'll catch you later."
As she turns, Lex wraps his hand around her wrist. "Don't go," he says, and she knows he's talking about more than the tarmac, more than the airport, more than Smallville, Kansas.
"Okay," she says, and walks away.
**
When she calls, he answers.
She smiles.
END
Smallville, Chloe and Lex, M.
This was something I wrote for Sloane a few weeks back, I can't remember why. Maybe because she's so awesome? It is Chloe and it is Lex, and it has a happy ending. I KNOW. It is also set during the high school years. I don't even know who I am any more.
It is raining right now, and this lj is looking a bit empty, I thought it could do with some further content.
**
Chloe pushes to her feet. "Gotta go," she says, and Lana rests her hand on Chloe's arm.
"We'll see you tomorrow," Lana says, a statement more than a question. Chloe thinks of last year, arriving, her arm looped through Clark's own; thinks of last year, leaving on her own, her skirt twirling at her feet and Lana and Clark in their own world behind her.
"Sure," Chloe lies. "I'll see you tomorrow." She walks through the halls, bag slung over her shoulder; walks through the doors, past the giggling girls selling last minute tickets.
She doesn't look back.
**
She hides out in her house all the way through Saturday; watches Spaceballs and Diehard and movies that have nothing to do with proms, nothing to do with high school, nothing to do with reality. Her dad's gone to Metropolis for the weekend, work shit, and there's nothing to stir her so she wallows, and it's great.
She wanders out about three for supplies. She's relatively sure all the hair dresser appointments are over, and she hopes for the best.
In the Talon, she leans on the counter. "Lana's not here?" she asks, idly.
"No," is the reply. "She's getting ready for prom. Aren't you going?"
"Yeah," she says, and the lie tastes just as bitter. "But you know me, low maintenance."
She orders an expresso, and as she wraps her hand around the tiny, warm cup, Lex rests, leaning on the counter beside her. Lex orders an expresso, too, and she savours its bitterness as his eyes dart around the Talon. "Alone?" he asks, and her soft sigh is part acknowledgment, part denial. "Yeah," he continues. "It's a great day for it."
They stand there for a bit, silently soaking in the coffee, and Chloe grins at the image.
"What's so amusing?" he asks.
"Imagining you bathing in coffee," she says, wriggles her toes.
"It'd be good for your skin," he says with a grin, and she laughs.
"So," he says, after a little bit, "Not primping?"
And she's warm, and she has Independence Day on DVD in her bag, and the caffeine's just about to hit, so she leans slightly into him and says, "Not really, no."
He touches her shoulder lightly, and when he says, "Me neither," in an irreverent, confidential tone, she imagines him, his hair full of curlers, and she laughs until he rests two fingers on her wrist. "I'm going for a flight," he says, quietly. "Want to come?" and in the hubbub of the Talon, she nods her head.
**
He drives too fast, and her hair flies everywhere, but she pushes it away and doesn't seem to care. As she climbs into the jet she pauses, and glances back at him. "So, where are we going?" she asks casually, like it doesn't matter if they go to Metropolis or Mount Everest, and he wonders what took her so long, and he loves it.
"Maybe California," he replies, doesn't stop to think. "Maybe Paris," and she laughs.
"I should have gone home for a change of clothes," she says, and steps into the jet. Lex wonders if she thinks he's joking.
She should know him better than that by now.
**
He checks his messages as they strap in, before they lift off. We have a meeting on Monday morning, his father says, and don't forget dinner Sunday night, and Lex flips his phone shut.
Meets Chloe's eyes.
"Paris?" she asks, and he knows that what she's really asking is, your father?
Paris it is.
**
Flying into the setting sun, he looks out the window, sees nothing but sparkling water beneath them. Chloe leans against the wall beside him. She admires the view; leans close. "We could HALO, maybe go swimming," she says, and when he meets her eyes she grins at him.
She rests a hand on the skin of his neck; "Chloe," he says, half a warning. She laughs, and kisses him.
He pushes her, and the wall of the jet is soft behind her and her skin is soft and warm beneath his own, and when she laughs again he kisses her into a joyful acquiescence, and he loves that.
He tightens his grip.
**
He licks the skin at her neck; presses his fingers against the small of her back and fumbles with the buttons that rest between her breasts. "You couldn't have worn clothes that are easier to work with?" he asks, his voice muffled by the skin of her shoulder.
"Are you trying to imply I should be easier?" she asks, and when he looks up at her his grin makes her laugh. She takes pity on him, pulls the shirt up over her head, and a button breaks in the process. He looks pointedly at the broken garment. "I'm sure you have a seamstress," she says jokingly, with a shrug.
"I do," he says, and she knows he's not kidding, and her stomach lurches at the waste, this joyride over the Atlantic because they're running away, this breaking of clothes to remove them.
She kisses him anyway.
**
Later, they lie there, and his fingers skim across her bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "So, were we high enough?" she asks, and he grins into her hair.
"Probably not," he says, "So we'll have to try again," and she laughs as she pushes him onto his back; laughs as she reaches a hand between them and laughs as she calls him a liar.
The sun outside the cabin has long set; there is no sun light reflecting in her hair, no bird calls in the morning and the stars don't give her an unearthly glow. She looked tired, earlier, and she looks tired, now, even as she grins down at him and when she pushes down onto him, her flesh warm and soft, he meets her eyes and hopes she understands that running away is all the thanks that he can give.
She kisses his forehead, and he thinks, yeah, maybe.
**
In Paris, she steps off the plane, her shirt buttonless and one of his sweaters in its place. She swims in it, her hands hidden by the sleeves, and he knows she's not fit to be seen.
They take a taxi to a hotel, go the long way so she can peer out the window and see old relics of buildings, and he sits back, one hand resting on the seat and the other on her thigh, like maybe he's trying to hold her exuberance in. The thought of doing that sickens him, though, and he removes his hand; leans forward, instead.
They arrive at the hotel, no luggage, no booking, but he's a Luthor and he knows the words, knows the dance, and it's no time at all before they're established in a room, and Lex would tip the concierge for not raising an eyebrow, but it's the concierge's job, so he doesn't.
Chloe freezes, her hand on the light switch. "What does this mean?" she asks. He takes his time; slips his jacket from his shoulder, sets his wallet on the sideboard, and when he looks up, she staring at him, and hasn't moved.
She can be patient, he knows, but he can be more so, and he is careful not to smile. "What does what mean?" he asks, pours himself a whisky.
"This," she says, waves her hand around. "This flight, this hotel room, this fucking sweater over my shoulders. We're in France, and I don't even know what time it is here, let alone what fucking time it is in America! And we had sex on a plane and Lex, I'd like to know what this means."
He nods as she gesticulates, watches the fluid movement of her arms and when she stops, he pushes a glass into one hand, wraps her fingers around it. She sips.
"Lex," she says, after tasting the scotch, "I'm too young to drink."
"Not in France, you're not," he replies, and after a moment she laughs, and he knows it will be okay.
Hopes it will be okay.
He busies himself, putting the bottles away, and when he looks up she has stepped out onto the balcony, watches the sun set over the Eiffel Tower. He leans on the door frame, watches her, and the sweat beads on her skin from just five minutes out in the hot air.
"This is kind of awesome," she says, over the bustle of the streets of Paris, twenty feet below.
"More awesome than a meeting with my father," Lex says.
She turns; smiles wryly at him.
"Let's go inside," she says, an invitation, of a sort, and he follows where she leads.
**
She pushes him onto the bed; divests him of his shirt and fumbles with his belt. She kisses a trail down his body, and beneath her, Lex shivers. She grins, feels butterflies in her stomach, and when she goes down on him he hisses, like maybe he wasn't expecting it. She pauses before he can shudder again, rests a hand on him. "Why am I here?" she asks, and he meets her eyes.
"I thought you were more than that," he says, a challenge more than an accusation, and he's not talking about the sex, and she knows what he means.
She sinks down on him, rides him until he comes, and he slides his hand between her until she shudders beside him. After, she sits up, legs crossed, and he rests a hand on her thigh.
His hand is warm against her skin, warm and clammy, and he draws patterns as she hums.
"I didn't think you'd care about the prom," Chloe says idly, "You not being a high school student and all." She flips through internet tourist guides on Lex's laptop.
"I don't," he says. "I care about doing what I want, and avoiding my father."
"Is that what this is about, then?" she asks, casually, like she doesn't care what the answer is, but she is careful not to look across at him. On her calf, his hand stills, and she holds her breath.
"No," he says, his voice low. He takes the laptop from her hands, pushes her onto her back. "That's not what this is about," he whispers into her ear; taps it into her hip with his fingers and traces it with his lips onto the skin at the dip of her neck.
He presses two fingers into her; pushes her into the bed until she writhes, comes screaming on five hundred count sheets with one of America's richest men smiling down at her.
She wonders at her life, sometimes.
**
"We should head back," he says, and she looks at him.
"Yes," she says, rests a hand on his hip.
**
"So, that was fun," Chloe says, her feet on the tarmac and her heart in her throat. "I'll catch you later."
As she turns, Lex wraps his hand around her wrist. "Don't go," he says, and she knows he's talking about more than the tarmac, more than the airport, more than Smallville, Kansas.
"Okay," she says, and walks away.
**
When she calls, he answers.
She smiles.
END
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 02:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-30 02:18 pm (UTC)Can I ask what prompted you to read it, as it is not your show?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-04 03:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 03:56 pm (UTC)"Don't go," he says, and she knows he's talking about more than the tarmac, more than the airport, more than Smallville, Kansas.
"Okay," she says, and walks away.
I think this says it all. Just...perfectly.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-30 02:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 05:43 pm (UTC)This is just as awesome as the first time.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-30 02:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-29 08:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-30 02:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-30 03:23 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-30 04:04 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-07-30 02:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-01 02:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-28 01:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-20 01:57 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-28 01:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-20 06:55 pm (UTC)LEX/CHLOE BY PEN = A+++++ ALWAYS
<3
Mile high cluuuub.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-28 01:59 pm (UTC)CHLOE AND LEX NGGGGH.