Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.
Based on a plot bunny by amcnh, used with permission.
She leaned back in her chair and stared up at him, her golden eyes unreadable, and he tried not to look as terrified as he felt. "It's been two years," she repeated, frowning. "And you never once called."
"I couldn't," he said, very meekly. "Jor-El wouldn't let me."
She steepled her fingers, looking up at him consideringly. "I suppose he wouldn't let you leave the Fortress, either?"
"No." He stared at her, trying to tell her everything he felt with his eyes. He was a little rusty on the talking thing, because it had been a long time since he'd spoken with another truly living creature. But emotions rioted inside him, and he struggled to express them to her the only way he could, staring at her hopefully.
She seemed oblivious to his expression. She pressed her lips together, as if considering the matter. "Hmmm."
"Chloe," he said desperately. "Please. I never would have left you for so long if I could have helped it. I never would have left you at all, if I could have helped it. Especially not after we..."
The word sex made his blood heat dangerously. He did his best to ignore the reaction. But it had been two years since he'd had sex, and he was, well, needy. "Made love. We were only lovers for a month, Chlo, and then..."
"And then you left."
"I had to. Jor-El didn't give me a choice."
"I remember you telling me that. But I also remember you telling me you'd find a way to stay in touch."
"I tried. I swear. I begged and pleaded and threatened and generally made a nuisance of myself. But it's hard to get a computer to listen when it doesn't want to."
"Hmmm," she said again.
"I came to find you the instant Jor-El let me go. Honest."
"So how did you know where to find me?"
"I figured I'd check the Planet first, even though it's practically midnight. You've always worked long hours. I'm not surprised you're the only one here, but I am a little surprised you're still in the basement."
She lifted an eyebrow, and he suddenly noticed the name plate on the desk read Jack Drake.
"I'm not," she answered. "I'm upstairs in the main newsroom. I just happened to be down here, looking through some old files."
He should have figured everything had changed. She'd certainly changed. She looked a little thinner, and her hair was a lustrous brown rather than the golden blonde it had been. There were faint lines bracketing her mouth, too. She was visibly older, but just as beautiful as ever, so beautiful it hurt to look at her.
But two years had passed. And for all he knew, she was in love with someone else now. The thought sent his heart plummeting right to the marble floor.
Certainly she hadn't acted terribly pleased to see him. He'd envisioned his return a million times, and in virtually every scenario, he'd imagined her leaping to her feet and flinging her arms around his neck, then showering him with kisses.
He'd never imagined her sitting there, steepling her fingers and looking grimly disapproving that he'd walked back into her life.
"I, uh..." He hesitated. "It's been two years."
"I'm pretty sure I remarked on that fact earlier."
She still sounded cool, and his heart dropped through the marble and started digging its way into the earth beneath the building. "I just... Chloe, I missed you an awful lot. But I don't know if you... if you have, uh... someone else now."
She nodded, very slowly. "I have someone else now, Clark."
His heart curled up and died in the cold, dark dirt. "Oh," he said dully. "Oh. I see."
He should have known, damn it. Two years without any communication from him was just too long. He couldn't have reasonably expected her to wait, not when she had no idea when he'd return, or even if he'd return. It was stupid of him to have even hoped.
Something stung his eyes, and he wasn't sure if it was tears of pain, or anger making his heat vision act up. Maybe both. He blinked hard and started to turn around.
"Don't you want to know more about him, Clark?"
The last thing he wanted to know about was Chloe's someone else. Right now, he just wanted to drag himself off to somewhere private and mope.
He shook his head mutely. But she spoke anyway.
"His name," she said, "is Mr. Mittens."
Clark froze. Very slowly, he turned back to her. She was still watching him, very seriously, but he was pretty sure he saw a glimmer of humor in her golden eyes.
"Interesting name for a guy," he answered slowly.
"It would definitely be an interesting name for a guy. It's a pretty ordinary name for a cat, though."
His heart revived instantly, shooting back into his body so forcefully he thought his ribs might crack under the stress, and a big stupid grin crossed his face. "Are you telling me you're not dating anyone else?"
She looked up at him, her eyes solemn. "Did you really think I'd give up on you, Clark?"
"I wasn't sure." He found himself stammering. "I thought... I figured maybe..."
She shook her head at him, smiling. And then she was on her feet and heading around the desk, almost at a run.
That's more like it, he thought, and met her halfway. Her arms went around his neck, and his went around her waist, and he kissed her so hard he was probably lucky he didn't knock any of her teeth out.
Two years, he thought, exulting in the spicy taste of her, the softness of her body against his, the familiar vanilla scent of her perfume. Two years was far, far too long to go without seeing the woman he loved. Two years was far too long to go without talking to her, or touching her, or kissing her.
Her body pressed up against his, and he realized he was so hard he couldn't stand it. For two years now, he'd worn loose Kryptonian robes, but when he'd dressed to leave the Fortress, he'd put on the clothes he'd been wearing when he arrived, an old, worn pair of Levis, his favorite blue t-shirt, and his beloved red jacket. But over the course of two years, he'd grown used to the robes, and suddenly he realized his ordinary human clothes felt terribly constricting.
He definitely needed to take them off.
He started to sink down with her on the cluttered desk, but she pushed at his shoulders a bit, keeping him in a standing position.
"Hold it," she whispered against his throat. "We are not having sex on top of someone else's papers. That's not polite."
"Screw polite," he said into her hair, although he was pretty sure it came out as an inarticulate mumble. Words just weren't working for him right now.
"No, Clark. Jack Drake does not want to come to work tomorrow and find his papers covered in-- no. Just no. Let's go upstairs and find my desk."
He shook his head frantically. He was desperate. He was genuinely suffering here. There was no freaking way he was going to make it upstairs, not even in superspeed.
"PleaseChloIdon'twanttostop," he muttered, more or less clearly. His hips were moving against hers, in eager, erratic thrusts, and he was pretty sure he was going to come in thirty seconds or less. And considering he hadn't seen her in two years, he didn't especially want to come in his jeans.
"I just don't think..." Her hands were moving all over him, under his jacket and his t-shirt, exploring his bare skin, and her hips were moving almost as urgently as his. Which figured, because it had been two years for her, too. She kissed him, long and hungrily, then yanked her mouth away. "Copy room," she muttered.
"It's all the way down the hall." He gasped as her hand stroked around his front, over his abs. God, the caress of her hand felt so damn good. "Can't make it. What about the phone booth?"
There was an old-fashioned phone booth in one corner of the basement, left over from a prehistoric, primitive time when people didn't carry cell phones. It had glass and oak doors, and wasn't exactly private, but it was in the furthest corner from the main door, so if anyone came in, they'd probably have enough warning to get their clothes straightened out before they were spotted. And in some foggy corner of Clark's mind, he knew that Chloe didn't need to get caught having sex in her workplace. Bosses tended to frown on that kind of thing.
"Okay," she whispered.
Together they staggered toward the phone booth, rather awkwardly, because they couldn't seem to stop kissing or touching each other. He opened the door of the booth, shoved her in bodily, and stumbled in behind her.
And then he slammed the door shut, and it was only the two of them, in a small, dark, enclosed space.
She yanked off his jacket and his shirt, and he thought about protesting, thought about suggesting they should keep their clothes on in case anyone wandered in, but the feel of her mouth on his chest changed his mind in a big hurry. He twisted his hands in her hair so she couldn't get away and dropped his head back, groaning as she explored him with her mouth.
Her small, smooth hands stroked over him, caressing his shoulders and his chest, slipping down over his jeans and exploring the curves of his ass. And then her hand slid around to the front of his jeans and cupped him, right through the denim, and he uttered a strangled yell.
"You okay?" she whispered.
"Ahhhhh." He couldn't force a coherent answer out of his mouth. His hips jerked of their own accord, pressing his cock into her warm, soft palm, and she took the hint, stroking up and down until he sobbed, wild with pleasure and need and desire.
He found himself twisting against the wall so hard he knocked the phone off the hook. He heard the dial tone start buzzing, but didn't care enough to put the phone back where it belonged.
And then she was unbuttoning his jeans, unzipping them, and shoving them out of the way, along with his boxers, and sinking to her knees.
"Oh, God, no." Oh, God, yes yes yes. "Chlo, wait, I can't... I can't..."
He was trying to say, I can't hold back, but the velvet caress of her tongue against the sensitive head of his cock cut off his ability to speak. She licked him, slowly and carefully, and he leaned back against the wall, writhing, struggling for some semblance of control and failing utterly to get it. She was in control, and he was utterly at her mercy.
And he was perfectly okay with that.
Her hand wrapped around him, stroking up and down the shaft, and her tongue slid over his most sensitive spots, and he gave a long, hoarse cry of pleasure, helpless to do anything but surrender to her.
She brought him right to the edge of orgasm, and then she released him and rose to her feet. He reached up under her skirt and ripped her panties to shreds, then grabbed her hips, lifting her against the opposite wall of the booth. A small, tinny voice on the phone began to earnestly remind them the phone was off the hook, but he hardly heard it.
And then he was sinking into her, hard and deep, and it felt so good to be inside her, to be part of her, after two lonely, empty years without her.
He wanted to be part of her forever, but he knew this wouldn't last long. He couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop gasping, couldn't stop thrusting in a fast, violent rhythm.
He was covered with sweat, his breathing ragged and harsh, and he could hear himself moaning with every thrust. Her mouth lavished kisses over his throat and ears and shoulders, and her hands caressed him everywhere. Pleasure swelled in him like a relentless, unstoppable tide, growing till he couldn't take it any more.
His movements grew faster and harder, and then suddenly he was pounding into her, in violent, erratic movements, and ecstasy caught him in an unbreakable grip and refused to let go. His climax was so long and hard he couldn't stop himself from crying out as he flooded her body with his come. He felt her coming too, felt her body tightening around his, and her voice rose along with his.
And then he was sinking to his knees and pulling her to the floor with him, still buried deep inside her. He pressed his face into her hair, shaking, so close to tears that he was embarrassed by it.
"It's okay," she whispered, and he realized that somehow she understood how terribly overwhelmed he was. "You're home, Clark. You're home."
At her words, gratitude and relief and joy filled him, and he tightened his arms around her. Metropolis had never really been his home, but at least it was in Kansas, far, far away from the vast, snowy wasteland of the Arctic.
And as he thought about it, he realized it didn't really matter, anyway. He was home. He was with her. And he was never going to leave her again, damn it.
"Home," he muttered thickly into her hair.
"Yeah, home. Come on." She let go of him, got to her feet, and straightened her clothes. She held out a hand to him. "I'm taking you back to my apartment, whether Mr. Mittens approves or not, because I don't want to take a chance on you disappearing for another two years." She frowned at him sternly. "From now on, buddy, I'll be keeping my eye on you."
He got to his own feet, despite the wobbliness in his knees, and zipped up his jeans. He did his best to grin, despite the tears that were still stinging his eyes. "Don't worry, Chlo. I won't leave you again."
"Good answer. I expect to see you every single night."
"And you're going to call me every day at work, right?"
"I'm going to call you ten times a day from now on," he assured her. "You'll be sick to death of me by the time a week's up."
"I'm sure," she said, nodding seriously. "But I'm willing to put up with it for the sake of having you around."
He looked at her, taking in every detail of her. "I missed you an awful lot," he said at last, very softly.
"I know," she answered, just as quietly. "I missed you, too."
He stepped out of the phone booth, holding the door for her, and she gave him a quick, intimate smile, then headed for the glass doors. He followed her, struck by a sense of deja vu. They'd walked through this basement together so many times in the past, shoulder to shoulder. Just like they were walking now.
He'd missed her. And in some odd way, he'd missed this place. He looked around at the familiar Art Deco building, and smiled, surprised to realize it really did feel like home.
He pushed open the etched glass doors, and they ascended the staircase together, heading for the Atlas who stood on the landing, supporting the world on his shoulders.
Clark looked up, studying the sculpture as if seeing it for the first time. Now that he was back from his training, now that he had to get to the serious business of saving people, he could relate to poor old Atlas. He felt kind of like he was carrying the world on his shoulders, too.
He slid a quick, sideways look at Chloe, and couldn't help but smile. Fortunately for him, his burden wouldn't be quite as heavy. Because unlike Atlas, he didn't have to carry the world alone.
He had Chloe to help.