AN: This is my first Smallville fic. One-shot. Slight spoilers up through "Pariah".
He Doesn't Weep for Me
Chloe observes Clark at Alicia's grave
I'm not sure how long I stand there, motionless, beside an overhanging elm, watching him. I am unsure how to approach him, this boy-man that I'd known through so many adventures that it felt like I'd known him forever. We'd lost acquaintances, classmates, seen more than our share of corpses, and had numerous brushes with death.
But this is different.
This time, it is someone he loved. And I try not to be surprised or horrified by the twinge of jealousy that still shot through me. Even though Alicia is dead. I think of the kisses they had shared, I think of the exciting and spontaneous trip to Las Vegas, I think of their wedding night. I want to cry out, in a resounding voice, it should have been me! But he had only looked at me that way once.
I am his simultaneous sidekick and mentor, someone he looks up to and depends on. He is my protector and defender. I am one of the guys. We are best friends, and yet I ache for him to notice me as more than that. For a while, I thought I had finally succeeded, the night of the dance, the night of the tornado.
Lana had come between us once again. I have lost count of the number of times that the raven-haired girl that Clark had raised up on a pedestal had blocked any affection Clark might have dredged up for me. And yet, I can't really fault either one of them. She certainly doesn't seek out his affection or try to manipulate his feelings. And he doesn't seem to be any more aware of his strong underlying love for Lana than he is of breathing. When they were together, the pain was enough to send me to my knees, and yet when I tried to betray him, tried to assuage my rejection through revenge…
I could not.
Then I think of the shocking secret that Alicia had revealed to me. A secret that explained so many enigmas and inconsistencies that constituted Clark Kent. In a way, I am embarrassed and disgusted that the reporter in me had not ferreted it out before.
Maybe I just didn't want to see what was right in front of me.
It explains why he always kept apart from people, even those closest to him… with just the barest hint of aloofness. It explains why his and Lana's relationship was doomed to failure… someone who was emotionally dependent would never be able to accept that there were facets that he chose not to disclose. It explains his fortuitous presence at accidents and his timely arrival at disasters. It explains his attachment to Alicia, which had previously baffled me.
She was like him.
She was like him, and he clung to that like a drowning man to wreckage. She may have been unstable, erratic, dangerous, but she was like him. She knew all about him, and she understood him. He wasn't alone anymore.
What an intoxicating combination. No wonder Clark fell in love with her.
I watch him again, as he kneels in front of the new marble headstone, its edges sharp and crisp, shouting the newness of the tragedy it represents. The carved letters stand out in relief from its face, and I see Clark trace them with a trembling finger. A.. L.. I.. C.. I..
Every now and then, I can hear his voice, carried back to me on a gentle breeze, although I can't make out any words. I watch his broad shoulders heave from time to time, as if he was inhaling deeply to stifle tears.
He is weeping for her.
I feel like I am intruding, but I am unable to leave. I am held down, held back by the weight of the knowledge I carry. The heaviness of the idea that I am one of the few people in the world who know of Clark's powers, that he is just another of the meteor freaks that seemed to permeate Smallville.
No. My mind won't accept that answer. Whatever his similarities with regard to superhuman abilities, he is not like the others. He is not psychotic, obsessive, cruel, criminal, or vengeful. And why is that? I ponder. Is it something in his innate character that makes him turn his meteor-induced power into nobility and salvation? Or is it something else altogether?
I allow myself briefly to touch on the power that my knowledge now gives me over him. One column in the Daily Planet and…
But I know I won't.
I am still unsure of Alicia's motivations in revealing his secret to me, but she had selected me intentionally, knowing that I was a journalist. With her death, that seems to make Alicia's scheming pointless.
In any case, I will not betray Clark.
I let go of the elm tree, and venture over beside him, tentatively. I place one hand on his shoulder, and speak softly to him, reassuring words, empty words really.
He knows they are empty, but he appreciates the sentiment behind them. He says so.
His secret throbs in my brain, and I want to tell him that I know. To let him know that he has someone still, someone that knows about him, and will not abandon him, will not recoil from him in fear and loathing.
Would he want you to know? Lois' question echoes in my brain. No, is my firm and immediate response. It will just be one more thing for him to worry about, to feel responsible for, one more chink in his armor.
He has been through enough.
I watch a single tear trace a silvery path down his beautifully chiseled features. He still has one hand out on Alicia's tombstone, as if he is somehow drawing strength from it. He balances on the balls of his feet, and I can see that the knees of his jeans are damp and red from the stain of the freshly dug earth.
It is another reminder that the wounds are new and raw and searing.
I am not sure what I can do, but the burden presses heavily on me. Pete is gone. Lana's relationship toward Clark is icy at best, and Jason will side with his girlfriend. Lex… where is Lex? Wrapped up in boardroom scheming and second-guessing the motivations of people, I figure. Whatever the business that ties Lex up, it is clear…
It is up to me.
It is my obligation, my responsibility to wait. To bolster Clark with silent encouragement, until he is ready to talk. To also accept the fact that he might never be ready to talk. It promises to be a long and arduous task.
I look at him again. His dark hair is tousled by the breeze that winds through the quiet graveyard, and his eyes are veiled, clouded with tears. His face is damp.
He is weeping for her.
I repeat that to myself again and again, perversely enjoying the predictable stab of pain that accompanies it.
I stand to my feet, relishing the ache in my knees from my prolonged kneeling position. I open my mouth to speak again, but words seem so futile that I do not speak.
He looks up at me once, and I can tell he understands. I stand next to him for a moment, in silent communion with him, trying to wordlessly lend him some kind of support.
I leave him then, hunched in front of that marble reminder, alone with the unbearable agony of loneliness and isolation.
He doesn't know that I know. And I don't know how to tell him.
He doesn't weep for me.
Finis