Compensation
by mako
Part 1
Category: Slash, Angst Rating: R (for adult themes) Pairing: Clark/Whitney,
Lex/others (het content - implied only) Archive: If you want it, take it,
please keep my name attached. Disclaimer: They belong to DC Comics,
Gough/Millar Ink and I'm just playing with them like the little brat I am. I
swear I will never, ever try to pass them off as my own artistic creation
because that's just stupid.
Summary: As the door closes, a window opens for Whitney Fordman but the view
may not be what it seems.
*** WARNING: If you are a die-hard fluffy bunny Clex shipper (as I usually am)
you probably won't enjoy this. There are reasons you might, but you probably
won't.
COMPENSATION by mako
[email protected]
[][][][][]
It started the day of his father's funeral.
Whitney Fordman stood at the fresh gravesite alone, not thinking, just staring
at the dark mound of dirt dotted with garish bouquets and tiny American flags,
a nod to the elder Fordman's service in Vietnam.
Lana wasn't there. She said she couldn't handle the funeral; it reminded her
too much of her own losses. A weak excuse when Whitney thought about it,
luckily he wasn't thinking about much of anything now that it was really over
and his life stretched out before him into a dark haze of dull responsibility
and stagnation.
You're the man of the house now, they'd told him. How many times had he heard
it, almost from the very moment his father's hospital monitors began their
final, fatal whine.
It was the beginning of the end.
Whitney heard the light scuff of shoes against the plot's gravel pathway but
didn't turn around. He'd had enough pity for one afternoon.
The person stopped next to him and Whitney glanced over to see Clark Kent.
Dressed in his best black slacks, a dark turtleneck and a blazer that seemed
strangely expensive and well cut, at least compared to Whitney's own cheap
suit, bought in Metropolis at a half price sale nearly two years before.
It was his first time wearing it. Now he wanted to burn the damned thing, but
knew he couldn't.
The man of the house needed a good suit, didn't he?
Something inside Whitney grew restless at Clark's presence. It was the same
aggravated twitch he always felt in the other boy's company, the one he'd
chalked up to righteous defense of his territory as been marked around Lana
from the day of their first date.
Except that Lana wasn't there and he still felt it. Odd.
"That was a great eulogy, Whitney."
Simple statement, straightforward tone and Whitney glared at Clark who stood
staring at the grave, a very large, very bright sunflower clutched in his
hands.
"Thanks." Whitney stuffed his fists in his pockets and suddenly wondered when
the tears would come. He hadn't cried yet and that disturbed him. He nodded
toward the procession of cars that were making their way out of the cemetery.
"You'll miss your ride back to the house, Clark."
"That's okay. I can walk." Clark's eyes checked him over, dark with concern.
"We can walk together if you'd like."
Whitney swallowed and yes, there they were. Tears, pressing against the very
backs of his eyes, not quite whole yet, but present and accounted for.
Thank God. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'd like that."
"Good," replied Clark, sounding relieved. He awkwardly held out the sunflower
and Whitney stared at it for a long moment before accepting it. "I put one of
these on my grandfather's grave years ago. Mom told me it's a little bit of
sunshine to help us through the darkness."
Whitney's lips twisted and he nodded. Sniffled, then crouched at the foot of
the mound, carefully placing the sunflower on top, where it shone against dark
earth. Rose and wiped his shins, smacking the clumps of dirt from his palms.
"That's it then," Whitney said shakily, the sudden rush of grief making him
lightheaded. "It's just me now, isn't it?"
"No, that's not it." Clark put a gentle arm around Whitney's shoulder and
steered him away from the grave. "And you're not alone."
A brief flash of Lana's face somewhere in the back of Whitney's mind but it was
gone as fast as it appeared. There was nothing then other than the strange,
welcome warmth of Clark's arm slung across his shoulder and the twinning of
their steps as they walked together to the road below.
[][][][][][]
Whitney lost track of Clark at the funeral luncheon and found himself
surrounded by his teammates, all of them looking alternately abashed and
confounded by the situation. None of them had lost a parent, not yet, and
there was nothing in the football playbook that had prepared them for such a
calamity happening to one of their own.
The initial consoling backslaps slowly turned into a shuffling silence and
Whitney was relieved when they began to file out, promising get-togethers and
endless summer keggers, all free of charge for the new man of the Fordman
house.
Whitney grinned at them, slapped their backs in farewell and desperately looked
for Clark the minute their trucks roared away.
Too late. He was gone as well. Whitney let out a huge, angry sigh and yanked
off his tie, tossing it on the floor before flinging himself onto the couch.
His mother tsked softly before bending to pick it up. She smoothed it between
tired-looking hands then bent to kiss her son's cheek. "The Kents asked me to
give their farewells. Their son Clark wanted me to let you know that you're
welcome to come by his loft anytime, day or night."
"Thanks, Mom." There was an unopened beer on the table and Whitney snagged it.
Popped it open with his keys and drew a long sip as he watched his mother out
of the corner of his eye, waiting for her disapproval.
None came.
Guess the man of the house can have a beer at least, thought Whitney bitterly
as the warm ale slid down his throat.
It was a different world now. And he hated every part of it.
[][][][][]
The light from Clark's loft could be seen for acres. Whitney drove toward it,
embarrassment growing with every turn of the wheel. He wasn't sure why he
decided to visit with someone who'd only caused him grief more often than
not.
Maybe it was Lana's newfound devotion to the Talon. Every moment she wasn't in
school she was working in that bitter-smelling hole, hopping to Lex Luthor's
unspoken commands. At first he tried to understand why she put up with it, now
he no longer cared.
He tried to hang with the team but their stories of girls' chests and the
latest NFL trades left him cold. There wasn't even much fun in drinking
anymore -- his mother had a six-pack of beer stocked in the fridge for him to
have after work every night, as she'd done for his father for the past thirty
years.
Whitney wondered if he'd touch another beer ever again.
He braked to a stop in front of the loft and could see Clark's dark shadow
backlit against the window. He was leaning down, staring into something; a
something that Whitney realized was a telescope.
He climbed the creaking stairs and called out into the dusk. "Hey, Clark. You
busy?"
Reached the landing and Clark's broad smile greeted him there, nearly taking
his breath away. When had -anyone- ever looked that happy to see him? Not
Lana, certainly.
"Hey!" Clark's voice was bright with enthusiasm. "Welcome to my truly humble
abode."
Whitney looked around, appreciating the creative use of furniture that must
have been yanked from the roadsides of at least three counties. "This is cool.
What do you call it? Barn chic?"
"Recycling," Clark corrected with a grin. "Can I get you anything? I have a
few sodas left over from my house party in the cooler outside. Not exactly
fresh, but they're outdoors cold."
"Naturally chilled is always best." Whitney plopped onto the sofa, wincing as
it creaked beneath him. "I'll take anything you got."
A can was in his hand and Clark was sitting beside him almost before he knew
it. Whitney leaned back and returned Clark's grin, feeling the weight lift
from his shoulders, the same way it had after the funeral when they'd taken
their walk together away from the darkness.
Whitney nodded toward the telescope. "So, what you looking at?"
Clark raised the can to his lips. "Usual stuff. Spring constellations, Venus, ...
Bigfoot."
A mouthful of Coke nearly came out Whitney's nose. "Yeah, right." He wiped
his chin with the back of his hand. "Seriously, you ever see anything weird
out there? UFOs or anything?"
Clark blinked, then shrugged. "Have I ever seen a UFO flying in the sky
overhead? Nope. Can't say that I have."
"With all the weird shit around here, it wouldn't surprise me." He drained the
can and crushed it absently. "Wouldn't surprise me if the aliens were living
among us."
"How's your Mom holding up?" Clark asked, casually changing the subject.
Whitney paused. Remembered the hysterical crying jag that lasted an entire
night and ended at dawn, never mentioned or repeated again. "She's doing all
right. It's just us now and the store keeps our mind off of stuff. She's got
the morning shift at the store and the bookkeeping at night so it's pretty
hectic."
"Do you need help?"
Whitney smiled in spite of himself at the sincere question. "Are you applying
for employment at the world famous Fordman's, Mr. Kent?"
"No, just offering help." Clark thought for a moment. "Although some pocket
change might be nice."
"Just come by." He shifted into a more comfortable position, the rough
upholstery of the couch scratchy against his neck. "Whatever hours you want,
you can have. You'll have to call me 'Boss' though."
"Oh," was the frowning reply. "But I have to call you that at school, don't I?"
"No. Not anymore," Whitney replied gravely. School was a minor consideration
now, a place of relief rather than reign. "You can be the boss there if you
like. I officially resign."
Clark stared at him with sad eyes. "No, thanks. Seems like a thankless task
anyway." He reached out and gently brushed a stray lock of hair away from
Whitney's forehead with his thumb. "I don't have the temperament, you
know."
"Yeah, I know." Whitney's mouth had turned desert dry and he didn't want to
think why, except that it had something to do with Clark's warm touch, so warm
it left a trail of prickling heat across his brow and down both temples. "Do
you have another soda, by any chance?"
"Sure ... 'Boss'," Clark joked, rising to retrieve more drinks. He returned
from the cooler, two Cokes in hand. "Are you sure it's not 'Master', oh,
Master?"
"Asshole," said Whitney cheerfully, accepting the soda. He raised the can in
salute. "To Clark Kent, my new drone. May he know and share my pain."
"Absolutely," Clark replied, and the cans clinked as one.
[][][][][][]
Two weeks had passed when Whitney found himself standing the back storage area
of his store, telephone clenched his shaking hand and tears running down his
face.
He'd done something so stupid, so idiotic he should have laughed, but there was
something about picking up the phone to call your father to ask him a question
because you'd forgotten he was dead that seemed to inspire the opposite
reaction.
His mother had answered and he'd almost done it, almost asked if Dad was there
and caught himself in the nick of time. "I ... it's ... nothing, Mom. Sorry,
I dialed the wrong number."
Damned straight he did and Whitney sat down hard on a shipping box, unable to
stop crying. He was going to lose his fucking mind, it was apparent now and he
was just that close ...
When he felt the arm slip around him, pulling him against a chest that was so
warm, he thought he might melt into it. "It's all right," Clark said,
perfectly reassuring. "It's gonna be okay."
"No," he said, his words muffled against Clark's shirt. "It's not."
"Shhhh. Yes, it will. Come on. Let's close up and you'll come home with me.
Come on."
Whitney tried to protest but five minutes later found himself standing outside
the locked gates, hunched into his jacket to hide the shame of his wet eyes and
runny nose. Let Clark take the keys to his truck and they drove in silence
back to the Kent loft, the passenger window cool against his forehead.
"Do you want me to call Lana?" Clark asked after he'd gotten them both inside
and sat Whitney down on the couch.
"No," he replied hoarsely. "She won't come anyway. She's busy. Always busy
with that shithole of Luthor's."
"Right. Got it. Okay, let's get your jacket off."
A warm, Indian style blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and Whitney sank
into it, miserable. Nothing mattered. Life as he knew it was over and would
never be the same again. He was eighteen going on forty, and the future looked
as bleak as his father's dire predictions said it would, especially once his
football scholarship vanished into thin air.
Too bad Dad hadn't stuck around to see it all come true.
"Come on, lean back."
Clark's voice soft in his ear and Whitney vaguely registered a very long, very
strong pair of arms encircling him from behind. A moment of hesitation then
something very close to surrender took over. It felt good, better than good
and why shouldn't he give in to the only warmth he'd known in what seemed like
forever.
It's not as if Lana had ever truly cared.
The kiss that followed wasn't as much of a surprise as it was an unexpected
pleasure. It was merely Clark's lips pressed tentatively against his cheek as
Whitney turned into the touch and simply opened up to the warmth offered.
It seemed natural, it seemed right and the only thing strange about it was the
fire it inspired. Whitney's breath caught in his throat as the kiss deepened
and became more meaningful. The blanket slipped from his shoulders and he
allowed himself to be pressed down into the couch with Clark virtually hovering
above him, like an angel in disguise.
A very hot, horny angel.
Whitney didn't think he was technically a virgin, not since the night Lana had
given him a reluctant hand job in the truck, her face wrinkling with disgust
when he came messily into her palm. He remembered apologizing profusely to
her, feeling ashamed he'd dirtied her so and they agreed afterwards to confine
their activities to kissing only, at least for a while.
But that had been the end of it and he was shocked to discover that Clark
definitely wasn't a virgin, not from the confident way he undressed himself,
then Whitney, stripping them both down with a smile, nary a blush to be seen
anywhere.
There was certainly nothing virginal about Clark's kisses, which were deep and
hot against his tongue and it was hard to think while his moans were being
swallowed by Clark's questing mouth.
Whitney tried not to squirm too frantically against Clark's body but it was
impossible. Those hands were everywhere -- huge, warm hands smoothing over him
in waves of sensation. He felt beautifully helpless and when he heard Clark's
whispered admonishment to "relax" it was all over.
He gave himself up and it was as close to flying as he could have ever
imagined. Then there was Clark's hot mouth going down on him and he was
soaring, soaring over Smallville, without a care in the world.
Whitney came with a whimper and Clark followed him over the edge, smiling as if
the world wasn't such a scary place after all. Smiling as if Whitney made him
happy, as if all that had happened between them was nothing more than a bad
dream made right by one night shared.
It was better than all the touchdowns in the known universe.
"I love you," Whitney murmured against Clark's damp skin when he could breathe
again. "Thank you so much. I love you."
A beatific look in reply and Whitney held on tighter. It was true. He was in
love with Clark Kent and that fact didn't seem anywhere near as insane as
everything else in his life.
In fact, it was wonderful. If this was happiness, Whitney thought wildly, the
joy of it all making him tremble ... bring it on.
Bring it the hell on.
[][][][][][]
Three days later Whitney Fordman, star quarterback, quit the football team.
From his coach down to the lowest benchwarmer it was exactly as if Patton had
announced his resignation in the middle of World War II. Shocked faces, every
one of them gaping stupidly at him as if trying to understand why April Fool's
Day had fallen in the middle of May.
It was way too funny.
Whitney apologized handsomely, explained slowly and carefully about his new
responsibilities and laughed long and hard up his sleeve, wishing he could tell
them the real reason behind his departure.
That being in bed with Clark Kent was an infinitely more enjoyable way to spend
his free time than playing little boy games with them.
Clark looked shocked when he told him later that evening. "But you love
football."
"I love you," Whitney corrected, twining his arms around Clark's jean-clad
waist. "Besides, I can still play football. Somewhere." He nuzzled the warm
spot where a strong heartbeat mimicked his own. "I've got other plans, big
ones. For the first time in forever I'm not seeing a dead end. And I've got
you to thank for that."
Clark didn't reply, he merely pulled Whitney closer.
"I was drowning, Clark. You pulled me out of the water and brought me back to
life," Whitney continued fervently, kissing his lover's shoulder. "You're my
angel."
Clark's throat worked as he swallowed. "Let's not talk anymore, okay?"
"Okay," Whitney replied happily. "What do you want to do?"
With a chuckle, Clark bent his head and soon they were doing exactly what
Whitney had given up his sport of choice for.
It was definitely worth it.
Later on, they sat companionably together on the makeshift bed, doing their
homework in the nude. Whitney tried not to laugh as he nipped at Clark's jaw
between math problems, wishing he'd figured out a way to combine sex and school
work much earlier in life.