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Disclaimer: Smallville and all related elements, characters and indicia © Tollin-Robbins Productions and Warner Bros. Television, 2002. All Rights Reserved. All characters and situations—save those created by the authors for use solely on this website—are copyright Tollin-Robbins Productions and Warner Bros. Television. Superman created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster.

Author's Note: This is a little story that's been kinda brewing in my head. It's kind of a stylistic experiment. I'm not sure it was at all successful, but it's cool that it's out of my system now. It's also a Ray Bradbury Challenge story, I guess, although his story is called "THE Jar", and I like my title without the "the".

Jar
by Miss Windy

She'd been stealing glances at him for the better part of an hour, feigning great interest in the bottom of her glass whenever his gaze darted her way curiously. It had remained, however, a curiosity steadfastly without acknowledgement. She couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment when he became conscious of her gaze, but somewhere beneath her current, new mission of inquiry was amusement at the realization that he had.

She could be braver. She could stare without looking away, at least not right away. She would make a show out of pointedly watching him wipe the odd glass or two, dispensing of it neatly away from view behind the bar. She sipped her sweet drink through the abnormally tiny straw, and the next time she met his gaze, it was through hooded lids, under lashes, eyes widening under his scrutiny.

A slow smile tugged at his lips. "Can I getcha something else?"

She briefly considered her now-empty glass and nodded, pushing it towards him across the bar. "More of the same, please."

He nodded, wry grin growing coy, and moved to grant her request.

She liked the easy way he moved, very nearly, but not quite, graceful, giving away athleticism instead of brawn brought about by hard labour. Maybe even athleticism carefully cultivated in a gym somewhere. She liked little more than to watch people and figure them out before they spoke too much, liked to play detective and tell herself she had an upper hand when it came time for introductions. All the better that her current subject was almost surreal in his good looks.

His lack of self-consciousness told her, too, that this was a man that was used to being admired. There were no other women on this particular weekday evening in this particular bar, though; only a few old, obese men rooted to their chairs as though they had grown there, nursing beers pensively.

"You’re not from around here," he said, placing her drink in front of her just a bit too forcefully.

"Neither are you," she shot back, and curiously, this gave him pause, before he graced her with a white, even, brilliant smile.

"Sure ain't."

"Military man?"

He didn’t stop shaking the drink mix in his hands. "Maybe. Who’s asking?"

She smiled— now came the first test. "My name is Chloe."

And, she noted triumphantly, that bloody well was recognition that flitted across his features just then. But he said, "Pleasure to meet you, Chloe."

She nodded at him, all congeniality. "Likewise. What’s your name?"

"It’s Jack."

She stared at him, hard, so long that he finally blurted out, "What?"

"Your name’s Jack?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"You just…" She started again, choosing her words more carefully this time. "You look a little like someone I used to know."

He nodded again and gave a small shrug. "Sorry."

"It’s OK."

"Hope he was good-looking."

She grinned at the twinkle in his eye despite herself. "Oh, he was. Some people thought that’s all he had going for him, in the end."

He rested on an elbow not a foot away from her. "Oh yeah? What’d you think?"

She shrugged. "I ended up thinking they were really wrong."

"Ain’t that something."

She studied the tattoo on his forearm now that it was much closer than before. He let her. "Didn’t like the military?"

"Didn’t like taking orders, I guess."

"You’re a bartender."

"Yeah, but it’s my bar."

A short dry laugh from her elicited another grin from him, this time more relaxed, and she found herself grinning back.

The jukebox picked that exact moment to run out of twangy, melodramatic country songs just then. The din of the music remained in the silence for several seconds.

"When’s your bar close?" she asked, quieter this time.

He glanced at the clock he’d picked out himself, now hanging on the wall behind him. "About fifteen minutes. Where’re you going after this all by yourself at this hour?"

And she said, quite innocently, "Back to your place." But the long, questioning look that greeted her made her stammer at her own audacity. "That is, you know, uh, if—"

His lips parted and met again before he finally recovered enough to respond. "Hey, it's all right. Mi casa es tu casa, darlin’."

She touched the threshold to his apartment and her fingers came away with paint splinters stuck to them. He strode past her into his place, throwing his jacket onto the couch and stripping from the waist up down to his undershirt in one continuous gesture. It revealed a sinewy body and a rough sense of vanity — both his arms and shoulder blades were covered in detailed tattoos.

He easily allowed her appraising stare. Cocked a crooked knowing grin and asked, "You want a beer?"

A shake of her head and he disappeared into the kitchen. Her trained eye got to work then: the place was approaching neat but didn’t quite make it. A little austere for someone his age, giving minimalists a run for their money. There was no sign of another woman… no sign of anyone, really. It was as if he’d moved into a hotel room one day, and then forgot to check out and never left.

The silence fell between them, odd and easy.

"This is a rough part of town."

She quirked a smile. "I can take care of myself."

Two casual strides with those long, long legs, and he was so very much closer. Eyes met and she shivered lightly. "I bet." It was almost a growl.

Then his mouth was on hers, persistent but not violating, and she was clutching his shoulders with a ferocity that surprised even her.

Later, his hipbones dug rhytmically into her thighs as his breath was hot on her ear, making her shudder almost violently. When she came, she cried out his real name.

Smoking after sex was a cliché for a reason, she knew, and she watched his profile as his lips parted regularly to release the smoke and take in new drags.

He was a beautiful thing like that.

"Jesus, you stare a lot."

She smiled into her forearm. "Yeah. That OK?"

He gave her a small shrug, and she grasped at a tiny tug of bravery.

"I feel like… I’m seeing a ghost. You know."

And he spared her a sidelong glance, then fixed his gaze back to the ceiling.

"You look good," he said, softer.

She laughed without mirth. It took her more than a few tries to get the next words out.

"Why’d you change your name?"

He took so long she’d given up expecting an answer.

"You know what it’s like being a Marine named Whitney?"

This time her smile reached her eyes.

"So what happened between you and him?"

She'd been afraid he'd ask— almost certain he wouldn't— and it made her wince inwardly. "I don't know." Breathed, breathed, bit back age-old sadness. "I guess I got... tired."

"Of waiting around for him?"

"Of always being Plan B." A small, ironic smile twisted her lips, and he brushed a long, loose strand from her eyes. An afterthought, was all. It made her breath hitch softly.

She added, "You know what I mean. I think."

He shook his head, shifted his weight, eyes looking anywhere but her again. "Nah," he said, voice gruff. "I was never anything more than a... a loose end."

"People still wonder about you, y'know."

"No kidding."

"Oh, yeah. People wonder whatever happened to you after." She bit back the words at the sight of him tensing. "People wonder what happened to you."

"Yeah, I wonder that, too, sometimes."

"You've done all right for yourself. Haven't you?"

A slow, pained shrug. "It pays the bills. A lotta hassle." Keeps my mind busy, he almost said, but didn't.

"You bought the bar with the money from selling the store?"

"Yep." He gave her a purposeful, hungry once-over for her trouble. "You've done all right too."

"I do all right, yeah," she agreed.

"You still write?"

"Yeah, I still write."

The grin he flashed her in the next instant was totally unexpected. "Glad to know one of us stuck with Plan A."

She licked her lips, kissed him far too timidly, the overhead fan's current softly caressing her bare shoulderblades. It was the first time in years she could remember breathing so easy.

When they broke away, he remained there, lips parted, eyes lightly closed, and in the hazy yellow light creeping in from the kitchen, he looked so much like the boy that had secretly made her heart race, had made every girl's heart race, when she was a girl she hardly remembered anymore.

It was the sag of the mattress under her weight that made him open his eyes. His gaze bore down on her as she dressed efficiently, all business, not even sparing him a glance.

"I'll see you a—"

"I get out early tomorrow night," he offered tonelessly to her retreating back.

Her mind went blank and rendered her suddenly immobile. "Um. I don't know if... if you and me—"

"Not talking about any 'you and me'," and his tone didn't change at all, stayed even and neutral. "I'm talking about I get out early tomorrow night. If you want to, you can come around. Whatever, you know?"

She smiled, a small, secret smile in the shadows, and turned to meet his gaze squarely. "What time do you want me there?"

"I get out at eleven," he answered, measuring his words carefully. "You can do whatever you want."

"Yeah I'll— I'll see what's going on."

"Cool."

He stared at the door she shut behind her an awfully long time that night, before sleep came to him.

The next morning, he woke up with her still on his mind.