That Something...

BY : Maggie
Category: Smallville > General
Dragon prints: 2961
Disclaimer: I do not own Smallville, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Improv #10: false -- foreign -- smooth -- tumble


He watched intently as she mouthed out the words that that held a sort of rough charm… He was surprised to see her there. And then surprised because he was surprised. It had been her, after all, that had introduced him to these magnificent lyrics. This rhythm not so much of life, but of their lives… These beautiful, awful words that skimmed over him and rebuilt him. That spoke of pain wrought from pleasure. And he listened, and nodded with a sort of half-smile on his lips, and pretended that he wasn’t weeping from them and the memories they brought.

He half-smiled even now as he watched her. Elbow propped up on the table and chin rested delicately on the curve of the hand supporting it. A cigarette hanging between the slim fingers of her other hand, smoke wafting around her and forming a sort of ethereal halo around that honeysweet hair of hers. He always thought it funny she smoked… not even her boy scout of a best friend knew… She’d yet to glance his way, though. No need to alert her of his presence, he mused. He could bask in the pain for the both of them.

And then grey-green eyes shift to the stage again, and fingertips strumming a new melody. A melody that sings to him of false hopes and bittersweet nothings breathed out as little more than a prayer in hurried desire, her smooth curves beneath his greedy hands as they tumbled onto the soft sheets of his bed, and her arms looped around his shoulders while she pulled him closer and deeper and more, oh God yes, more, and yet further away all the while.

He turns to look at her more closely now. Wanting, needing, to know if she remembers. If it was all for nothing, or if there’s still something left there, be it that unobtainable something or anything else. But he’s distracted, or let’s himself be distracted, needing not to know at the same time because if it was for naught, then he couldn’t fight that ache in his belly when he thinks of it. So, instead of seeing her, the way her eyes mist and her lips turn up ever so slightly in a shadow of a smile, and how a blush spreads her cheeks even now at the thoughts of the things they had said and done. Instead of seeing her, he sees their tall, dark, handsome innocent of a friend pull an extra seat over to her table and smile that lazy grin of his, and now he swears quietly under his breath, because Clark can make her smile and laugh, and Clark can see her in the daylight with everyone else around. Clark doesn’t have to hide that he loves Chloe, though not like Lex did… never like Lex did, and yet even then the word love seems like some foreign tongue never meant to be uttered by the likes of a Luthor.

He turns from them now, gulps back the rest of his drink and sets the empty glass on the rail along with a fifty-dollar bill, because why does any of it matter? A last bitter glance at her and at the band playing the tattered end of their song, and he stalks from the bar. He doesn’t see her staring after, doesn’t see that their oblivious friend mentioned seeing Mr. Luthor at the bar after he thanked her for the ticket because this band was even more amazing live. Doesn’t see her fight the twisting in her own belly as well as the aching need to follow him.

Doesn’t see her turn to Clark with the same sort of half-smile he always wore and ask him how Lana’s doing. And he doesn’t see her when she goes home and cries herself to sleep because when she looked at him she couldn’t find that something. That unobtainable something or anything else…


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