Title: A Love Story
Author: The Fallen Sky
Rating: M
Pairing: Chlark
Summary: This is a Chlark love story.
Warning: Sexual situations including a dubious-consent sexual encounter in one chapter, but it is not a rape.
A/N: This story takes place in a future AU and is told from Chloe's POV. Huge thanks to my muse for finally cooperating and staying focused long enough to actually finish a story. And special thanks to Dee for being my unofficial beta, my personal cheering section and an all-around great friend. Her support both made this story possible and made it better. Thanks a million, babes! I'd also like to thank the lovely Elena Rain aka Krissy for making an amazing banner for this story! If you'd like to see more of her work, you can find links to it by going to her profile page right here on this site. Just search for Elena Rain.

Feedback is welcome. Enjoy!

His mother died suddenly a few weeks earlier. He puts up a brave front, doesn't let anyone know how much her death affects him, how much he's hurting. The others don't bother to look past his facade, take him at his word when he tells them that he's 'holding up' or 'doing fine'. Mostly, they leave him alone, too concerned with their own lives and the business of saving the world to really care if he's holding up or not. 'If he needs us, we're here', 'He seems fine to me', and 'If he was having trouble dealing, we'd know', are all any of them have to say on the subject.

She's shocked and disappointed by these people, the very same people who claim to be his friends, who owe him their lives several times over. She's told them as much, but they all dismiss her concerns saying she's overreacting.

She's not overreacting. And she's not imagining the sadness, pain and despair she sees in his eyes or the feeling that he's drowning, losing himself to an abyss of grief, unable and unwilling to ask for a lifeline.

She can't sit idly by and watch him drown, not when she knows she can save him.

She steps out of the rental car onto the dirt driveway. It's been months since she's been here, but one look around and she feels like she never left. She may have grown up in the big city, currently live in another city, but she considers Smallville her hometown, and she considers this place, this farm, her home. She may not have ever lived here, but this is the place that always felt like home, always welcomed her with open arms, even when she felt unworthy. And the people who lived here, the one that still does, they were and are her family, he is her family, and he needs her.

She heads for the barn, because she knows that's where he is.

The place is quiet, save for the sound of her shoes against wood as she ascends the steps to the loft. There aren't any animals here anymore, and the silence, the distinct lack of life, is palpable and reminds her that there's even less life here now that Martha is gone, and her heart breaks all over again for the loss of the woman who was her friend and, if she's being honest, a surrogate mother.

Upon reaching the loft, her eyes immediately fall upon the couch, specifically the lone figure sitting upon it. He's dressed in a blue t-shirt and jeans, his head bowed, his eyes focused on something, an object, held in his hands. He makes no move to acknowledge her presence, but she's certain he knows she's there.

After a moment's hesitation, she slowly makes her way over to the couch and quietly takes a seat next to him.

He still doesn't acknowledge her, hasn't moved since she arrived, just keeps staring at the object in his hands as if it's the only thing that exists in the entire universe.

Unwilling and unable to break the silence, she holds her tongue and looks at the object he finds so fascinating. Not surprisingly, it's a picture, specifically, it's a picture of the Kent family, Martha and Jonathan flanking a young Clark, all of them smiling brightly, their eyes shining with happiness and love, the epitome of the picture perfect family.

She can only imagine the mixed emotions he must be feeling as he gazes upon the past, a time when his world made sense, when the two people who mean the most to him were alive and well, and he knew he wasn't alone.

A thought occurs to her, a disturbing one at that. Does he think he's alone, that there's no one left in this world who loves him?

Her immediate reaction is to dismiss the thought as absurd, but looking at that picture and looking at him now, remembering the way he's looked so defeated these past few weeks, as if he's lost all hope, she can't help but believe that he believes he's completely alone.

All at once, she wants to grab him by the front of his shirt and shake him, look him square in the eyes and tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he most definitely is not alone, that someone in this world loves him and is here for him, but she settles for reaching out and laying her hand upon his, squeezing gently.

After several long moments, his focus shifts from the picture to their joined hands, lingering a moment, before he finally looks at her.

She's instantly struck by the grief and despair she sees within his cerulean orbs, and she can feel tears threatening to form in her own. She's never seen him so broken, so emotionally gutted, and she hates it, wants to fix it, wants to take away his pain and make him whole again, but she doesn't know how, doesn't know that she's capable, and that scares her. What if she can't help him? What if there's no way to heal the gaping wound in his soul? What if he continues to drown in his sorrow until he's consumed by it?

No. She won't let that happen, won't let him die a slow and agonizing death as he wastes away, consumed by sorrow and grief. She doesn't know how exactly, but she knows, absolutely knows, that she's capable of saving him, and that's exactly what she's going to do.

Without conscious thought or hesitation, she removes her hand from his and places it against his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, the roughness of the stubble.

His expression remains unchanged, but she feels him move, almost imperceptibly, into her touch, which causes hope to bloom in her heart.

She continues gazing into his eyes, captivated by the depth of emotion she sees there, can feel herself being drawn in. She knows that if she lets herself be pulled in by the whirlpool, she'll be in danger of drowning along with him, but she doesn't care. She's willing to accept any risk and the potential consequences if it means she has a chance at saving him.

Leaning in, as if drawn by some unseen force, she kisses him, a gentle pressing of the lips meant to comfort and reassure.

It lasts but a moment before she pulls back a mere fraction, taking a slow breath, her eyes drifting shut.

A beat...

Two beats...

Her lips are upon his, sliding, caressing, exploring.

Three beats...

He's kissing her back, tentatively at first but with ever increasing certainty.

They continue to kiss at a languorous pace, gentle, chaste kisses filled with love and affection but devoid of the urgency of passion.

She's only intermittently aware of what's happening. One moment, they're kissing, fully clothed. The next moment, their shirts are gone. And so it goes until they're completely naked. Absently, she wonders if he's used his superspeed to divest them of their clothes, but she has a vague recollection of her hands working their way down his body, unbuttoning and tugging at fabric before tossing it aside. Likewise, she can still feel his hands ghosting along her body, gently peeling away her clothing.

Her mental wanderings come to an end as she finds herself lying on her back, the softness of the couch beneath her.

He's cradled between her thighs, his bare skin glowing in the late afternoon sun as he hovers above her. His muscles are taut as he holds himself still, and she can feel his hardness poised at her entrance.

He's looking at her, his eyes in askance.

She meets and holds his gaze, her eyes searching his, seeing the ever-present sorrow and grief but also a longing, a need.

A sort of giddy elation permeates her being as it dawns on her that the longing and need she sees reflected in his eyes is for her, and yet she remains calm and still, her expression unchanged, showing no outward sign of her joy.

This moment is too important, too solemn to be tarnished by her girlish ego. This moment is about him, what he needs.

He needs me, she thinks.

And in a moment of complete honesty, she's able to admit, ...and I need him.

She manages to convey her ascent simply with her eyes, and he flexes his hips, slowly pressing his length into her welcoming warmth.

Once fully sheathed within her, he pauses, both of them adjusting to the feel of the other, soaking in the myriad sensations coursing through their bodies.

The seconds seem to stretch into hours as they lie there, intimately connected, staring into each other's eyes, a blanket of silence surrounding them, the shallow rise and fall of their chests the only motion.

The moment, so precious and fleeting, is broken as their lips meet, her arms sliding over his smooth skin, one wrapping around his shoulders, the other snaking around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape, while her legs hook over his hips, cradling him.

Several minutes pass as they continue to kiss, languorously, savoring each other's lips. Finally, he begins to move within her, a slow, minute withdrawal before he pushes back into her. He repeats the movement and takes up a steady, languid rhythm, gently rocking his hips, maintaining as much physical contact as possible.

Time falls away as they continue their intimate dance, the world dissolving around them.

She can feel something building inside her, deep in her belly, but it's not pleasure or the promise of release. It's something she's never felt before, doesn't know how to describe it but knows it's something unique, special, something few people ever experience, something to be treasured.

This feeling continues to grow in intensity, and she wonders if he feels it too. As if in answer to her unspoken question, he kisses her just a little deeper, and she knows that this feeling is being shared and is glad for it.

The feeling grows exponentially, like a balloon filling with air about to burst, but there is no urgency in their bodies, and their movements maintain their lazy, luxuriating pace.

Finally and inevitably, the balloon bursts, and this heretofore unknown feeling explodes like an atom bomb suffusing them with sensation. Warmth spreads throughout her body, starting at the point where their bodies are joined, a liquid heat bathing her from the inside. A tidal wave washes over her, engulfing her, drowning and baptizing her as it leaves her irrevocably changed in its wake.

His hips cease their movement, having spent himself inside her, but they continue to kiss. His kisses, sweet and sorrowful, begin to taste salty, and it's then that she realizes he's crying.

Several more kisses, each more heartfelt and lingering than the last, signal the end of their dance, and he buries his face in the crook of her neck, his tears hot against her flushed skin.

She pulls him close, their bodies still joined, and gently strokes his hair as she presses a tender kiss to his temple, her eyes filling with tears.

She came here wanting to help him, wanting to take away his pain and heal him, and while she may have failed in that lofty, impossible goal, she hasn't failed him. She's taken a portion of his sorrow upon herself and in return has given him a means to beat back the remaining sorrow within him and start the healing process. She's given him the most precious, valuable gift she has...her heart and soul.