Sharing a Brain

Clark/Chloe
Season 8
Rating: Adult. If you're under eighteen, please go elsewhere now.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the CW and DC Comics, not to me.

It's too damn intimate.

He's shared everything with Chloe Sullivan over the past eight years. They're best friends, closer than most lovers, but this-- this is too much. He can't cope, can't make his brain work, so he squinches his eyes shut and tries to sort out the sudden rush of impressions.

Clark. A single word, rising above the strange flow of thoughts that aren't his crowding his mind. Clark. What's going on?

"That Luthorcorp device we brought back to the loft." He grinds out the words, because trying to think them coherently isn't working for him. His mind is all full of her, her thoughts her needs her wants her fantasies her drives her dreams, and he's rapidly losing Clark Kent under all the Chloe Sullivan. "I have a feeling we should have been more careful. I think when we touched it, we got..."

Fused? Wonder brushes over him, along with her almost fanatical enthusiasm for the weird and unknown. Are we... one person?

"Not... physically." He's pretty sure he's still just him, just one big, overgrown guy with dark shaggy hair and green eyes, an ordinary-looking Kansas farmboy who happens to be an alien from a distant galaxy. And-- he cracks an eye open-- she's still standing right there in front of him, a small, feminine, blonde bundle of energy, vibrant despite the nighttime dimness of his loft.

Physically, they're not the same person.

But mentally... fused sounds about right.

God. He shakes his head, trying to force some of his own thoughts rise to the top. He's drowning in Chloe, and it freaks him out in a way he can't explain. He likes Chloe. He even loves Chloe, in the sense that she's his best friend and he can't live without talking to her on the phone six times a day, in the sense that he'd rather spend time with her than anyone else on the planet.

But this is too much Chloe.

He has a feeling it's too much for her, too, that she's drowning in Clark, because she sags forward against him. And then they're leaning against each other, supporting each other, holding each other up.

I can't... Her mental "voice" sounds breathless, like he's smothering her. I can't seem to... Clark, be quiet.

"I am being quiet!" He's indignant that he's being held at fault here, when it is so totally not his fault. "You're the one who won't shut up!"

Shhhh. She's trying to calm him down, maybe trying to calm herself down too. Think of something you love... something peaceful. Think of the sunrise over your fields in the morning.

He thinks about the quiet peace of dawn, the first dark orange slice of sun peeking over the edge of the flat earth, stretching tentative golden rays into the charcoal sky, and slowly, he begins to relax.

Superimposed over his own thoughts, he can see what she's thinking of, too-- the image of a gleaming globe, slowly spinning over a vast city. The place where she belongs. A place where she's at peace. A place where she's at her best.

Slowly, the cacophony in his head begins to die to a dull murmur.

"Maybe... if we talk out loud..." he manages.

"Yeah." He hears her voice, both with his ears, and somewhere inside his head. "Clark. We have to figure out a way to turn this off."

"Not sure we can." He lowers his head, breathing in the reassuring scent of her shampoo, the same shampoo she's been using since eighth grade. It smells like the honeysuckle vines that grow along the borders of the Kansas fields. It smells like the land he loves. It smells like Chloe. "The device... well, you saw it. It kind of imploded when we touched it. It's gone."

"But we have to fix this." Her voice is very small, even in his head. "We can't... we can't spend the rest of our lives stuck together like mental Siamese twins, Clark. We'll go crazy."

He can think of worse people to be stuck together with. He knows she can hear the thought the instant his synapses put it together, and he's embarrassed. And God knows that's not the most embarrassing thing he's likely to think. He doesn't really want her in his head if he thinks about sex, for example.

Not that he's thinking about sex now. The fact that her soft feminine body is plastered to his front is not having any sort of effect on him, not at all, and there's nothing at all in his mind for her to overhear, not a single erotic fantasy flashing across his subconscious...

He works very, very hard at visualizing a sunset, but he feels a little ripple of amusement somewhere in his head, and he knows she caught at least a fragment of his thought.

"It's okay," she says, softly, so softly he isn't sure if he's hearing with his ears or his brain. "If we're going to be stuck like this, Clark, there are a whole lot of embarrassing thoughts we're going to have to share."

He totally does not want her in his head. He no longer feels quite so overwhelmed, but there's a feeling of being filled by her, and the word intimate filters through his mind again. This is powerfully, intensely intimate, in a way that he's never known intimacy before. She's pressed against his front, but she's also insinuated herself into his mind, every nook, every cranny, and her thoughts wash over him in a ceaseless flow, and it's...

You're right, it is intimate. She's gone back to thinking again, like spoken words just don't matter any more, and maybe they don't. It's just so different. I've never felt anything like it, and...

It's like deep kissing and making love and cuddling all rolled into one, only more so. He opens his mind to her a little more, because he just can't help it, and she slides into him further, and he's aware of sliding into her at the same time, and...

He's totally using sexual terms for this... this whatever it is... but he can't help it. Sex is the closest thing to it in his experience, and yet in a way it's so much more than sex. He doesn't have words for it.

Mental intercourse, she quips, and he can hear her laughter inside his head.

"It is not funny." He's still clinging to spoken language, because he thinks it's the only thing that's keeping him from going totally bonkers at this point. "It's not... I mean, Chloe, you and I, we're just friends..."

We're friends in each other's heads. We're all wrapped up in each other, literally.

"Still. I don't... I mean, we've never felt that way about each other..."

Liar. Her mind kind of strokes over his, and a kaleidoscope of memories spins dizzily through his brain. The two of them almost kissing at the spring formal, coming so very close to kissing in an elevator, sharing a long deep kiss on a night when the world was ending....

Oh, God, she's right. He's lying to himself. He's been lying to himself for a long time now.

Hold it. What is this?

Blazingly erotic images of the two of them making out in the back seat of Pete Ross's car, in the Talon...

Too late, he realizes those are images from his own head. "Uh..."

That's not a fantasy. Her inner voice sounds suddenly very dangerous. Are you telling me that actually happened?

"Uh, yeah." He's suddenly very aware of her body against his, almost as close as her mind is, and he's aware of a sudden, intense desire to be inside her, physically as well as mentally. Which is crazy. "You were, uh, sort of under the influence..."

Those creepy parasites, she says, figuring out the answer before he can stammer it out. The worm things. Clark, why didn't you tell me?

"I didn't want to embarrass you, Chlo."

She sifts through his memories, picking them up and sorting through them as if they're hers. He supposes they ought to be, so he doesn't object. He can feel her thoughts growing... well, hotter. He can see the memories just as well as she can, and he feels himself getting hotter, too.

Wow. Clark, I never knew we were so...

"Good together." His voice is strained, and he doesn't know why he's still trying to talk when she can hear him perfectly well without speech. "Yeah. We were."

We still would be.

That's a dangerous thought, and he tries to back away from it. He's only vaguely aware that his hands are roaming over her back, stroking her soft flesh through the emerald t-shirt she's wearing, and her hands are caressing his hair and the back of his neck. He feels pleasure, building toward ecstasy, but he isn't sure if it's his or hers or both.

"Ahhhhh." He exhales, a long, slow breath. "Chloe. We can't... we shouldn't..."

Please. Her voice is soft in his head, so deep in his brain that it's almost his own voice. Let me see what we did that day. Let me see all of it.

He can't stop himself. His mind is flashing memories of that day, hot, deep kisses in Pete's car, her hand on his cock, squeezing and stroking, his hand between her thighs, caressing her. The sound of her soft moans, his own deeper groans. And then the way they'd made out at the Talon, her hands stripping off his shirt, her mouth on his throat, his hands digging into her ass, the smell of her arousal, hot and spicy and so incredibly female...

His shirt is off, somehow, and so is hers. He guesses they must have taken their clothes off each other, but he has no memory of the event. All he knows is the feel of her hands on his skin, the feel of their bare torsos rubbing together. It's as good as he remembers, maybe even better, because they're even closer now than they were all those years ago.

They've been struggling to balance on the borderline between friends and lovers for a long time now, and now the two of them are tumbling over the line in a big way.

But he doesn't really mind. And neither does she.

Another long sighing moan escapes him. Her mouth is on his chest, her tongue is tracing circles around his nipples, and somehow they're slowly sinking to the floor-- the floor of his loft, hard, wooden, none-too-clean planks-- and their bodies are moving together, and the only thing keeping them apart is jeans.

Clark. He can feel the wonder and the affection in her thoughts. Oh, Clark, I've always wanted...

Yeah. He gives up on the voice thing. Really, speaking is utterly unnecessary right now. The rest of their clothes seem to disappear somehow, and their bare bodies are pressed together, almost as intimately as their minds. Me too. I've wanted this for a long time, Chlo...

And on some level, he has. He's wanted her ever since they were both fourteen and she planted one on him, saying they should get it out of the way so they could be friends. Yeah, there have been other girls along the way, other desires, other obsessions... but deep down, he's always wanted her.

Clark...

Chlo...

And then there are no more words, no more Clark, no more Chloe, just the two of them becoming one, wrapped together in an intimacy so great there are no words for it. They're tangled together, mouths and bodies and minds, with no way of telling where one ends and the other begins, so deep inside each other that they may never sort it all out again.

And maybe they don't want to.

Pleasure builds inside them, in their minds, in their bodies, growing more and more powerful, more and more irresistible. And when they come, they climax together, because really, it's impossible for them to do otherwise now.

The pleasure is double anything they've ever felt before, breathtaking and pure, and utterly overwhelming. It echoes back and forth between them in long, ecstatic ripples for a long while, then swelling to a tremendous crescendo.

And then they're limp on the floor, gasping, wrapped around each other, physically, mentally, and emotionally.

For a long while there's nothing in his head except a vague buzz of contentment. But she's never been good at being quiet, and at last she comments.

Wow.

"Yeah," he mutters sleepily against her throat, reverting to speech out of habit. "Wow."

I guess we really need to figure out a way to get separated, but I'm honestly not sure I want to.

"No," he agrees. "Me either."

The thing is that as long as we're like this... we're sort of married.

"There's no sort of about it, Chlo. It's not like we can ever get involved with anyone else."

And you don't have a problem with that?

"Chlo," he murmurs, very blurrily, "there's no one I'd rather have in my head all the time."

Oh, please. You know I'm going to annoy the hell out of you at some point.

"You mean like when you keep talking when I'm trying to sleep?"

Yeah. Like that.

"Shut up, Chlo. Go to sleep. We'll worry about it in the morning, 'kay?"

You really expect me to sleep on the floor all night?

He sighs, because damn it, women are so freaking picky, and slowly hefts himself up off the floor. Gathering her up in his arms, he carries her over to the couch, drops her onto it, and falls down heavily next to her, shoving her against the cushions.

Excuse me. You're squishing me.

"Get used to it," he mumbles into her hair. "I think we're going to be squishing each other from now on."

Yeah. She nuzzles into his throat. But I think we can learn to cope with it.

He smiles and puts an arm around her, holding her tightly against him. She's part of him, mentally speaking, but he wants her to be as close to him as physically possible, too. She snuggles up against him, and he slowly drifts off. Their thoughts blur with exhaustion, and peace suffuses them both.

Having her in his head is intimate, he thinks sleepily. Damn intimate. But not too intimate, not really. Her thoughts are no longer clamorous or cacophonous or overwhelming. They're just an extension of his thoughts. They're part of him.

She's part of him.

And for the first time, he admits that's exactly what he wants.

-The End-