Clark lies on the couch in the loft, in the stifling heat of an August night, and listens to the wind in a city in Maine. He isn’t immune to the discomfort of the oppressive summer temperatures; his body just doesn’t show the effects. He has taken to sleeping out in the loft of the barn because he likes to see the stars, and the house is too silent without his mother in it. And his father.
Clark closes his eyes.
His father’s absence is still palpable on the farm, but the house was his mother’s domain. When Clark confided in his mother, it was always in the kitchen, and tonight, he just can’t face the quiet of the house. He knows they have to sell the farm. His mother left the decision in his hands, and Clark can’t look after the place by himself, anymore. Not when he knows he won’t be able to resist the siren call of his damn ‘destiny’ for much longer.
His sigh is heavy enough it makes the rafters shudder overhead, and Clark winces. He really needs to work on his control when he broods.
One more thing he has to worry about.
The thing is, Clark knows Oliver was right. He is too self-absorbed. It’s easy to be when everything really bad that happens always seems to be his fault. But Oliver doesn’t know that. And apparently, part of Clark’s destiny includes being forced to face hard truths by the blondes in his life. Oliver. Chloe. Alicia.
If Oliver, without any extraterrestrial powers or meteor-enhanced abilities, disguises himself in order to protect people he doesn’t even know, how can Clark—how can Kal-El of Krypton—do any less?
It’s odd, Clark thinks while smothering a yawn, that aside from his parents, the only people he has ever really trusted have all had blonde hair. Except for Pete. But Pete left; he couldn’t handle it. And Alicia and Chloe…
But he doesn’t want to think about Chloe.
It’s easier to think about Oliver.
It’s always easy to think about Oliver.
Clark shifts on the couch to find a more comfortable position and wonders what Oliver is doing right now. Rescuing someone in an alley, or having sex with a beautiful woman? Playing with his arrows, or making an overseas business call to buy Japan? Or blowing up Lexcorp testing facilities with Victor and Bart and A.C.?
When he’s being honest with himself, Clark admits he regretted not leaving with all of them almost the moment they left the farm. He misses them. He misses A.C.’s lame jokes and Bart’s limitless energy and Victor’s self-assurance. Clark even misses Oliver’s arrogance and effortless ability to put him on the defensive and force him to think about all the things he’s not doing in his life. It was easy being Oliver’s friend, even when it wasn’t, even when they were telling each other things they didn’t want to hear.
It must be the blonde thing.
And Oliver does have nice hair, Clark muses in the skitter-jump of drowsy thoughts. So different from his own. He wonders if it’s stiff and prickly. It looks like it could be, but Clark suspects it’s a lot softer than it appears. An idle thought, but a strangely persistent one. Lois would laugh if she knew how many times Clark had been tempted to use his speed to reach out and just…touch. Find out exactly how Oliver’s hair would feel under his fingers.
It’s a shame the hood covers it.
But before he can really examine that thought, the warmth and stillness of the air nudge him over the line from lethargy into slumber, and Clark’s mind drifts away from analytical considerations.
Images of Green Arrow behind his eyes break apart and bleed into a collage of scattered impressions. The imagined sensation of soft hair turns into smooth skin and sharply defined muscle under Clark’s fingertips, and when he shifts on the couch, the scratch of fabric on his body translates into the stroke of large, calloused hands. A slow, wet drag of tongue down spine makes him breathe faster, and he shivers slightly, letting himself fall further into the dream.
It’s a good dream.
It’s also very real. He can even smell Oliver, now. Spicy, vaguely exotic cologne, and underneath, soap, and a hint of sweat. The scent lies heavy on the back of Clark’s tongue and heightens the intensity of the dream.
But the unmistakable reality of Oliver’s hand on his shoulder is like being struck by lightning all over again and it jolts Clark’s awareness. He opens his eyes and his hand is already moving toward Oliver’s hair when he realizes he’s awake. Clark jerks his arm back and sits up abruptly, confused and blinking.
“Oliver? What are you doing here?”
He hopes Oliver didn’t notice him trying to touch his hair. It’s not Clark’s fault. His dreams rarely bear this close a resemblance to reality. Not those kinds of dreams, anyway.
It’s very disorienting, especially since Oliver hasn’t said anything yet.
And it is Oliver. Oliver Queen, standing in his barn, in the middle of the night. Staring at him and not saying a word.
Clark doesn’t remember ever feeling this naked with Lana.
Oliver seems preoccupied with Clark’s chest and possibly his stomach, and Clark worries suddenly that he might still be asleep, because Oliver is staring at him in a way that fits right in with Clark’s dream and makes it seem as if the dream is overlaid across reality.
And it was a good dream.
When Oliver finally looks up and meets his eyes, saying something Clark doesn’t really register, he sees something he thinks he recognizes in Oliver’s face, and the world seems to shift in some important but ineffable way.
It’s true that Clark isn’t known for being particularly insightful. Especially about other people’s feelings and the way they coincide with his own. But Clark can think as fast as he can run, when he puts his mind to it. He’s never once had a superspeed collision with anything, and there are a lot of things out there for him to run into. So as he looks at Oliver and remembers his dream, Clark makes a few rapid adjustments and alterations to his thinking. A certain summer spent in Metropolis high on red kryptonite comes to mind, bringing with it half-forgotten memories, and he closes the door on Lana for the last time.
He accepted finding out he was an alien without too much difficulty; he thinks he can handle being in love with Oliver Queen.
Continued in "Open Eyes"
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lady_bug_kay) wrote2007-07-07 04:07 pm
