Otherwise, Part 2
Title: Otherwise
Author: latetothpartyhp
Rating: NC-17
Genre: drama
Pairings: Chloe/Clark; background pairings include Lana/Lionel, mentions of past Chloe/George. Probably others to be added.
Spoilers: UPDATE: through Prototype, although this fic is extremely AU (see summary below)
Warnings: Contains what is probably an very unrealistic depiction of sex work and psychotherapy, and sex that may be considered of dubious consent. There will probably also be some violence and strong language used. I don't at this point plan on killing anyone.
Summary / Author's Note: AU. Chloe Sullivan never lived in Smallville, but she is about to have a close encounter with one of it's residents. Takes place in what would be Season 9 if this fic wasn't so hopelessly non-canonical. Inspired by an article I read years ago in Salon.com (I think) and by the fanon_fridays prompt: If I never knew you / I'd be safe but half as real.
A/N for Part 2: I've updated the episodes through which I'm "spoiling", although there is really only one canonical development I'm using from the episodes after Zod.
Part 1 / Part 2
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An unfulfilled vocation drains the color from a man's entire existence. ~Honoré de Balzac
"So," Claire said. "Last night. General impressions. What were they?"
"He's very repressed."
The good doctor smiled. "You think?"
"More so than usual. Most of these guys, they're house-full-of-tiny-glass-animals repressed. They've just been waiting for their gentlewoman callers. This guy is mummified-mother-in-a-rocking-chair repressed."
"You think he's dangerous?"
Chloe paused, mulling the question. She had no experience with genuine psychopaths, but she'd guess they'd have more to hide than the average 40-year-old virgin. He'd been more nervous than most, but she hadn't sensed any subterfuge. No more so than the usual. "No. Poor choice of words on my part."
"Your opinion, or did the 'little green rocks' kick in?"
Chloe mulled again. It was often hard to know when her ability was rearing its head. No special tingle or aura or headache -- she just knew. The question was, did she know this guy hadn't been hiding anything from her? "My opinion," she decided. "I'd probably have to spend more time with him to get a good read. His nerves were just so overwhelming. His cortisol had to be off the charts. Do you think he's ready for this?"
"I am really going to rue the day I showed up late and you decided the Journal of Cognitive Psychotherapy would make for good light reading, aren't I? Intellectually, yes. He recognizes the thought patterns that lead to the anxiety, he's learned how to counter them, he knows how to calm himself during panic, he even scores fairly well on tests of inter-personal aptitude. Oh, and he doesn't fit the criteria for an antisocial personality, in case you're wondering."
"He didn't sleep at all last night. You have any idea what it's like trying to fall asleep next to someone who's stiff as a corpse? It's like trying to fall asleep next to a corpse."
"Wouldn't hear me complaining. My husband flopped like a fish for twenty-three years."
"You know what I mean. He was petrified."
"Did you try anything to help him relax? Hot milk, aromtherapy?"
"No. He asked me not get up. He said he wanted everything to be 'normal'."
"Did he say what he meant by that?"
She thought for a moment. All of the men she'd worked with had had their own, private definition of what that meant -- and they all believed their lives didn't fit it. Since usually Chloe agreed, she hadn't questioned them too closely about their thinking. "No. I guess I assumed 'normal' meant not getting up at night."
"That's the problem, right there. We all have this secret expectation of the way things ought to be and when reality doesn't measure up to it we go a little crazy. Or our clients do at least. Next time he uses that word, or that concept, I want you to call him on it. Find out what he means."
"He did seem to have issues with the idea of sex without emotional involvement. He said it wasn't much good to practice with someone he didn't have feelings for."
"What did you say?"
"I asked him if he thought he could be intimate at this point with someone he did have feelings for and he said no. But I don't think that helped him get over the electrified fence in his mind. You want to know what we did before we took turns brushing our teeth for bed? We played cribbage."
"With the little board and the pegs?"
"Yeah. His parents have cousins in Minnesota; I guess it's all the rage there."
"You understand this process is about increasing his comfort level, not checking off items on a to-do list, right?"
Which question lent itself directly to observing the ginormous pink elephant in this guy's mental living room: a few of his decidedly non-normal objectives. "Speaking of which. I'm ... concerned about the last few items."
"You mean the 'no-hitting-or-biting' discussion?"
"Which I assume he's planning on dropping on an unsuspecting girlfriend right before Item Ten: telling her she just has to accept certain things without expecting any explanation. I've tried and tried, but I can't think of any reason for including those things unless he was abused himself, and the fact that he's not willing to share that -- "
"Learning how to define boundaries takes practice. That's why you're here; your natural response is to challenge that, which is good. He needs to learn how to negotiate that kind of sharing. On the other hand, it won't help him if you label him off the bat. We don't know for sure that he's in denial. He may be telling the truth."
"What else could it possibly be?"
Claire didn't answer. It took a minute for Chloe to realize why.
"You think he's -- Claire."
"I'm sorry, it was unprofessional of me not to ask before-hand. I didn't want your impressions affected by mine, and I was hoping you'd have a stronger sense of him at your first meeting."
"Really? Unprofessional? That's it? What if he was a psychopath and something had happened?"
"If I thought he was he never would have gotten that address. The only difference between this guy and every other guy I send your way is that with this guy -- "
"Is possibly a meteor mutant. That's the difference, but you weren't sure, so you decided to shoot for seven with me as the dice. Mother of God. If you really think he is why haven't you referred him to Isis?"
"I've mentioned it to him. He very politely declined. Since you've read his profile, you'll have noticed he's also refused a physical. I can't force him to do anything or go anywhere."
"And while you don't think he's dangerous, you're what -- concerned?"
"For him, yes. He's a patient. I would be remiss in my duty as a doctor if I didn't attempt a full diagnosis."
"Are you going to break into his house and analyze the lunch meat in his fridge?"
"That's not fair -- "
"I'm just wondering what the parameters are here. Do you want me to go through his wallet, maybe plant a bug on him? I know! Maybe I can stress him to the point where his mutation flares up uncontrollably! We'll get some good data then."
"Chloe, I am sorry." She stared at the top of her desk for a few seconds before continuing. "Like I said earlier, I didn't want to prejudice you in any way. But I can understand if you feel unsafe. If you don't want to continue with this client, I'll understand. I'm not not seeing anyone else right now who may need your services, though."
Chloe found herself fingering the bracelet she'd been asked to wear whenever she was at Isis. Claire had asked her to wear it to their meetings; she didn't think it was a good idea for Chloe to have regular contact with a board member without it. It dampened her ability, but she had known the doctor was lying long before their work together began. "No, of course I don't want to do that. You just -- you have to fill me in. I'm feeling a little Joe Theismann-esque here right now."
Claire's face relaxed into her accustomed impassivity. "You're telling me you know who Joe Theismann is?"
"I'm a quick study. Two dates with Steve from Sports and I can even tell you Theismann's the reason why the Sharks decided not to draft Tim Tebow."
"Funny how that relationship didn't go anywhere."
"I know. Crazy. Listen, you'll call me after your next session with this guy and let me know if he says anything important, right?"
"Of course. No more double-blind experiments," she smiled. "You have my word."
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He'd been late last night. He'd been nervous. He'd sat in his assigned cubicle, staring sightlessly at some document he was supposed to match to some other document, until he realized that he was supposed to have been there five minutes ago and the only way he would be able to get to that part of town in 30 minutes or less was to use his speed.
He'd thought about canceling. He hated using his speed; there was so much that could go wrong, and it wasn't as if the extra sessions were necessary. Dr. Foster had said he didn't have to do them if he wasn't comfortable with the idea. And what kind of woman could she be, anyway, to do that for a living? He'd had visions of knocking on the door and having it opened by an orange-skinned Ashley Dupre in white bikini bottoms and nothing else. He didn't know if he would fry her on the spot with his heat vision or explode from embarrassment.
In the end he'd heard Randall tromping around, making a show of staying late to the client and he figured anything was better than having that prick "accidentally" run into him. He sped out, making it there only a quarter of an hour later than he said he would be, and when she had opened the door she had looked ... very normal. Normal, un-orange skin tone; normal, knee-length skirt; normal (if clingy) sweater with a v-neck you could only see down if you were a lot taller than she was. And she'd made a normal cup of coffee and offered him a normal cup of cocoa, all the while smiling this easy, sexy smile that made her look just for a second a little like Alicia. Which of course meant he'd gone and made some really dumb joke about death.
Not that she minded. She probably hadn't even noticed it, the way she talked right past it. Which she did very well. He guessed she'd had a lot of practice at talking past all the dumb things freaks and geeks like him said. Not one of them was a freaky as he was though. Even she seemed to sense that. He could tell by the concern in her voice as she'd discussed his list. She just had no idea exactly how many standard deviations from the norm he was. He knew what she'd been thinking: that he'd been molested or assaulted. Dr. Foster had asked him about it straight-0ut. He'd denied it reflexively, then regretted when he realized the issue wasn't going to go away. It would have been a thousand times easier to let them think he'd been an abused kid than to keep dodging the continual unspoken questions.
At least she didn't keep staring at him like he'd broken her heart by not telling. She wasn't his girlfriend; she understood that he didn't owe her any answers. So why did he still feel as if he did? Years of conditioning, he guessed. And that was all this was supposed to be about: counter-conditioning him to be comfortable in a normal, healthy sexual relationship. That's all. She wasn't his girlfriend. They were just going to sleep together. So to speak.
If he could work up the courage to do that. He hadn't even had the courage to fall asleep. She was so small, no taller than Lana had been once she took off her shoes. She didn't give off that some feeling of breakability that Lana had, but you wouldn't have to be super-powered to hurt someone that tiny. Of course, he could probably kill Michael Oher while asleep. Size didn't matter.
Which is why this was not going to work. Not with her, not with anyone. He should cancel his next appointment, call Dr. Foster and tell her he was done. He would do it just as soon as he got off the phone with whoever was jackass enough to call him at this very moment.
"Clark Kent."
"Oh sweetie, I'm so glad you picked up. You weren't answering your cell last night and I got worried."
"I'm fine. I'm at work right now -- "
"Yes, I know, I called the front desk and they patched me through. Listen, I don't have much time, my plane's about to take off but I wanted to find out how your appointments with Dr. Foster are going."
"They're going. Uh, they're going well, but like I said I'm at work right now so maybe we could talk about this some other time?"
"I understand, it's just that the liaison the Pentagon has assigned us seems like a very nice girl. Her name's Diana, I think you'd like her a lot and I just want to know if its ok for me to give her your information. I'll text you a photo of her, she's very pretty."
"That's cool. Yeah." He stared blankly at the stained fabric of the cubicle wall in front of him. Shit. Thinkthinkthink. "But," he added, "we're not exactly in the same city. So. Yeah."
"I get the impression she spends a lot of time in Metropolis for her job -- "
"Hey! Yeah, I'll be there in a sec," he called out over his shoulder to no one in particular. "I gotta go," he said into the receiver. "Client needs to see me in his office."
"Oh dear, I hope everything's alright."
"Um, yeah, it probably is, but duty calls, so have a good flight. I'll talk to you later."
"I love you sweetie."
"M-hm. Me too." He watched the timer on the phone's LCD screen disappear before he hung up.
Shit.
Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit.
Oh, this was not happening. His mother was not trying to set him up with some military attaché Amazon. Because that would be --
"Hey Kent? What's this about Souders needing to talk to us in her office?"
Aaaaannnndddd.... enter Randall. Jesus, the guy was everywhere.
"It's nothing, it's -- my mother decided now was a good time to call and catch up on current events. I needed to get her off the phone."
"Oh. You expecting a big call?"
"No, just gotta get this month done for Welling."
"Well I get outta your hair then. If that month's for Welling and it's not done yet it's already late. Hey - tell your mom I said hi."
"Yeah, you got that right," he answered.
He turned back to his screen and slumped. Randall might be a weasely little kiss-ass, but he was right about Welling. He started typing. Someday they would invent a computer that could process as fast as he could and then he could really get some work done.