Disclaimer: I do not own Smallville… but I do own a gorgeous Apple desktop and a vivid imagination. Ponder that.

Summary: AU. Follows "Stranded." Bits and pieces of Chloe and Oliver's time on the island. Lots of allusions to Smallville canon (that are now no longer valid i.e. the relationship with Jimmy). Rated T for now.

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Survival

Part 1: Gratitude

Chapter 1: Glass Half-Empty

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"Did you find anything to eat?" Chloe wondered as she returned to their makeshift camp.

Oliver looked up from his new-made fire-pit. Setting down a pair of sticks he'd been rubbing over a pile of dried twigs and leaves, he attempted a grin. "Some fruit, mostly. But it's not plentiful. And I don't trust some of the berries here – I've never seen them before. I figure we shouldn't risk it unless we see other animals eating some."

"So meat's our best bet, then."

He nodded in reply, turning back to his sticks with a huff of irritation. Stifling a laugh, Chloe knelt next to her messenger bag. Digging through it a moment, she found her prize. Biting her lips, she tossed it by his side. "I think that might work better."

Quirking a brow at the box of matches, he shook his head. "What the hell else is in that bag of yours?" he muttered. He lit a match and set the small pile of kindling alight. Feeding the flame with larger pieces of wood, he asked, "Did you find somewhere to fill up your water bottle?"

She held the full bottle up in a classic Vanna White pose. "Yeah, a stream further in. Fresh, running water – just what we need." Chloe passed it to him so he could drink. After setting the bottle down between them, he handed her some fruit. They fell into comfortable silence as they ate.

Scooting closer to the fire, Chloe noted the new chill in the air as the sun fell lower on the horizon. Sadly, their camp of bare necessities had taken up most of the day. The terror of the night before and their sleepy states were the only excuses for the lackadaisical approach to survival. Tomorrow. They would approach it differently tomorrow.

Her eyes went wide. "Where will we sleep?"

"Hm?" He looked up, and shrugged. "It's not so cold out."

Chloe rolled her eyes. "It will get much colder. And even if it's just a bit chilly, a night sleeping out unprotected from the elements could get either of us sick. That could get really serious out here without resources. Plus, who knows what sorts of animals are here on the island?"

"Wow, Debbie-downer. Are you always this pessimistic?" Oliver asked, amused despite himself.

"Pragmatism is a virtue on days like today," she replied readily. Standing, Chloe began gathering leaves and palm fronds to make a mattress for them. Oliver dragged up the inflatable raft, leaning it against a tree so it formed a crude lean-to over the mattress.

"Is that alright for now?" the billionaire asked.

She sent him a smile. "Yes – but, uh…" He put a warm hand on her shoulder. Looking up at him with her green eyes glowing in the firelight, Chloe babbled, "There's not a lot of space under there, you know – of course, the body heat's a good thing in these conditions, I suppose. If a little intimate. And what are we going to do about a latrine?"

"Excuse me?" he wondered, startled. He had thought he was following her train of thought – a case of girlish nervousness towards intimacy – until that last question derailed him. "What about latrines? And what does that have to do with…?" He gestured to the lean-to.

Chloe shook her head at her own run-away mouth. "Something that just occurred to me. I mean, so far it's been camping rules – pee where you will and dig a little trough for anything more – but surely a latrine of sorts will be better in the long run?"

"We don't even know how long we'll be here," Oliver pointed out.

She nodded. "Exactly. This is the middle of the Pacific. We don't even know where we are – how will anyone else? I'm sorry for taking the glass half-empty view, but the whole situation does not look promising." His hand began to rub away at the tension in her shoulder. The girl seemed to deflate. "In a few weeks, I'll have a good long cry over it and you can comfort me then. In the meantime, I'll be gloomily realistic."

Oliver pulled her close, until her head rested against his chest. Rubbing her back, he murmured, "The sun's setting. Why don't we hit the sack now, so we can face tomorrow with clear heads. In the morning, we can go over our plans. Maybe I can even put my bow and arrows to the test and try to hunt us down some grub." Chloe sighed as he guided her inside the lean-to. Following her in, he settled on the more exposed side with his bow and arrows close at hand, hemming her in against the orange raft. The two faced each other in the small space.

"Are you warm enough?" Oliver asked, concerned now that she had brought up the possibility of illness. The girl shrugged a shoulder. "Come here," he said with a half-smile, wrapping an arm around the little blonde. She still hadn't said anything, and he wondered how he could make her feel safe and… cherished. That was the word she had used a few weeks ago, wasn't it?

The last time he'd felt that way was when his parents were alive. After work, his father would take him outside so they could practice archery. On the way in to dinner, he'd sometimes ride on his father's shoulders and his mother would kiss her husband, teasing about a strange growth he'd developed on his head and shoulders. Dinner was always warm and happy, filled with light conversation and a delicious meal. And at night, his mother would tuck him into bed with a story – usually Robin Hood.

Leaning in close so his breath fluttered the hair above her ear, he whispered, "Shall I tell you a bedtime story, Sidekick?" Chloe tilted her head to send him a look of incredulity. He chuckled. "I'm serious. When's the last time you or I had a bedtime story? I figure we need it. Tell you what, I'll tell you one tonight if you tell me one tomorrow." She nodded her head beneath his chin, biting back a smile.

"Well, in merry old England during the rule of Henry the Second, there lived a famous outlaw called Robin Hood. He was the best archer in all the land. And tonight, you'll learn how he became an outlaw." After the death of his parents, Oliver had pored over the book every year until the pages were worn thin. Remembering the stories wasn't difficult at all. "When he was eighteen…"

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A/N:

Please note that the final paragraph above is a slight paraphrase of the first paragraph of Howard Pyle's The Adventures of Robin Hood.