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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: Mad props should be given to these authors: Sullivan Lane, Teri Leigh, and Shannen. Because goddamn, you are all amazingly talented, and I needed C/C inspiration. Go read their work, it kicks ass. Also, Elaine, who turned me into the joys of Smallville in the first place. (Angel who, again? What was that name?) I'm a feedback slut. Please indulge me!

Musings
by Molly

I've always preferred to work on the Torch after the building's cleared out.

I don't know why, given my track record with being alone in dark, deserted places, but it feels safer. When I'm in the office and the only light is the glow from my i-Mac, it's like...I don't know. I'm not sure what the words are to describe it. I'm not a creative writer; I'm a journalistic writer. I'm not great with flowery prose.

It's like I'm in my own world, population one. That's as close as I can come to describing it. Like all these stories want me to let them be told. And if I can just type fast enough to keep up with them, the world—or at least the population of Smallville High—will read, and understand, and maybe be able to learn something new, or form an opinion about a controversial issue. I like thinking that I'm partially responsible for that. The Spreading Of The Knowledge, capital letters, thank you.

I've wanted to be a reporter since my third grade class in Metropolis took a field trip to the Daily Planet. Because when you're a journalist, you have all the answers. You ask all the right questions. You get and report the facts as they are, straight up. People respect you, because you aren't feeding them a load of BS, you're telling it like it is.

After working on The Torch, I'm learning that it isn't always like that. No career gives you all the answers, and hardly anyone you interview gives you the facts as they are, for the simple reason that you are a reporter. Personal biases usually slip in, undetected but there, regardless. And sometimes, your BS filters fail and loads of it end up getting through.

Just a tad bitter there, Chloe?

All right, so maybe my internal turmoil—and the leak in my BS filter—has less to do with the sanctity of the printed word and a little more to do with Clark. Clark, with his friendly deep blue-green eyes and innocent smile and perpetually messy black hair and extremely kissable lips. Clark, who I've been halfway (or completely, take your pick) in love with since eighth grade. Clark, who finally found a few dollars, bought a clue, and asked me to the Spring Formal.

And while Inner Girlie Chloe is still squealing and jumping up and down, Outer Cynical Chloe is a tad more skeptical. Sure, I'm thrilled that Clark asked me. Sure, I was thrilled that he looked so shy and nervous and hopeful. This is the culmination of every illicit teenage fantasy I've harbored since December of eighth grade, when I realized that tacking that little "just friends" disclaimer onto our first kiss might not have been the smartest of ideas.

But at the same time, I can't help feeling that he only asked me because he knew he couldn't ask Lana. Irrational, maybe, but the thought is there, and it doesn't seem to be going away anytime soon. Figures. The karma cycle turns in my favor only to end up biting me in the ass.

He's wanted her for longer than I've wanted him. Put bluntly, it blows. It blows that Clark might finally be waking up and smelling the double mocha, and I have to have these annoying doubts about it.

It blows that even if we end up together, those doubts are always going to be niggling in the back of my mind. I'm not an insecure person; I never have been. I'm comfortable with myself, which is something I've always been proud of. I like my clothes, my hair, my personality. So why give a damn if anyone else does?

And I hate it that whenever I'm around Lana and Clark at the same time, that confidence goes 'poof!'. Because I'm sure that I'll never stack up. My hair isn't long and shiny and perfect, and I'm not always the nicest of people—my inner bitch rarely stays inner.

Lana is every guy in Smallville's dream girl. She's the ideal that they hold their girlfriends up to. I know myself well enough to know that I'd never be okay with that. Chloe Sullivan does not play second when it comes to matters of the heart. When I'm with a guy, I need to know that he's there because he wants to be, because of me. Not because 'me' is the only one who's currently there.

Except in this instance, it doesn't seem to matter. Because...well, because even if he wants her, the point is, he asked me. And I really, really, really want to go with him. I want to wear my gorgeous dress, get my hair styled and my nails done, dance with him in the gym to a cheesy eighties song from a Molly Ringwald movie, feel his arms around me. I want to see him look at me like I'm a girl, not just Pal Chloe, the sister he never had. Even if it's just for one night, and even if this coach turns back into a pumpkin at midnight.

And dammit, I will make the night magical if I have to tie Lana to a chair and lock her in her basement to do it.

Okay, that's not fair. I like Lana. I really do. She's a perfectly nice person, and she's never given me any reason to dislike her. Except for the way Clark looks at her, and how his eyes go all sparkly, and that's not her fault. She's happy with Whitney—she never asked Clark to develop a monster truck sized crush on her. So I'm done being catty.

I'm done thinking about Clark and Lana. From now on, I'm thinking about Clark and me. If it's becoming a real possibility, I want to make sure I give it a fighting chance. No more negative thoughts. Done.

"Completely done," I mutter aloud as I put the finishing touches on the latest edition of The Torch. "Got it, Chloe? You are done."

"You know, Chlo, they say it's a bad sign when you start referring to yourself in third person," comes a teasing voice from behind me, and I whirl around in shock, a gasp catching in my throat.

Clark's grinning at me in the doorway, keys to his parents' truck dangling from one hand. He's wearing one of my favorite shirts, a deep blue flannel one. It always amazes me how he can make the farm Boy Flannel look into something that could have come from GQ. Okay, maybe I'm just biased... "Didn't scare you, did I?" he says mischievously, knowing full well that he did. Smartass.

I grab a pencil from the cup on my desk and hurl it at him good naturedly, smiling. "Not at all. I'm just hyped on caffeine, as per usual." He easily ducks out of the way of the pencil, then strides to my desk, grabbing a chair and turning to face me, straddling it. "You look like Slater when you do that," I tell him, turning back to the article at hand.

"Does that make you Jessie Spano?" he asks, raking a hand through his hair and grinning. "How's it going, mama? You seen Preppie around anywhere?"

"All right, can you be done with your 'Saved By The Bell' impersonation? It always creeped me out when he called her 'mama'. In fact—"

"Chlo, don't go off on a rant about the deep seated Oedipal complex of early nineties sitcom characters," he groans.

I smile innocently at him, saving the files onto a disk, then closing down the computer. "Wouldn't dream of it. So, what brings you here this late on a Thursday night?"

His smile turns bashful all of a sudden, and he darts his glance to a point just above the top of my head. "I...you know, I was out. And I figured you'd probably be working late, since we go to print on Monday, so I thought I'd...stop by and see if...you know, if you were maybe hungry? Or something. We could get something to eat. If you wanted, I mean."

Oh, God, my 'I'm a speed freak who's just eaten several tubes of Pixie Dust' smile is back, and I can't do a thing to stop it. "That'd be great, Clark. I'm just finishing now. Thanks a lot." I flick the off the computer and stand, reaching for my messenger bag.

"Here, let me get that," he offers as we head into the hall, and I feel my knees do the wobbling thing. Not only is he wearing the shirt and asking me to grab dinner with him, but he's going to be all gentlemanly and carry my books? And I'm expected to not melt into a little puddle of Chloe mush and have to ooze out from under the door?

Okay, disgusting mental imagery. Focus on that.

"Sure. I...thanks."

"No problem." He swings the bag over his shoulders, then looks at me expectantly.

"What?"

He nods toward the still open door. "Gonna lock up?"

And the face is flaming once again. "Oh! Yeah, of course. Because I have the key." Open mouth, insert foot. I lock the door and turn back to him. "I'm sort of a space cadet today."

"Want to talk about it?" Clark, offers, holding the door open for me.

"Nah, it's nothing big."

"Okay, if you're sure." We walk the rest of the way to the truck in comfortable silence, and I keep sneaking little side glances at him. I wonder if he has any idea how much it meant to me when he asked me to the Spring Formal. I wonder if he has a clue about how much I'm looking forward to this.

I reach to open the door of the truck when he lays a hand on my arm, turning me to face him. "Hey, Chlo?"

"Hmm?"

His foot scuffs the ground, then he looks up at me once more, his eyes crinkling with that same shy smile at the corners once more. "I was wondering...what color is your dress? For the formal, I mean?"

"That, Clark, will have to remain a surprise," I tease. "I need to have some of my feminine charms left as a mystery until the dance."

He chuckles a little, and I notice he still hasn't moved his hand from my arm. I wonder if he can feel the goosebumps suddenly rippling on my skin. "Can you give me a hint?"

"Nope. My lips are sealed."

"Then how am I supposed to know what color flowers to get you?"

I think I can actually feel my heart stop beating. "You're getting me flowers?"

"Of course," he tells me, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "You're my date."

Date. The D word. As opposed to 'we're just going as friends', he specified 'date'. Clark. And me. And an actual date-date. He wants it to be a date-date, and it's like...like I just suddenly realized that. Who says I'm not as desirable as Lana Lang?

Clark catches his bottom lip between his teeth suddenly, and I fight the little whimper that wants to escape at the sight of it. "Unless you didn't want flowers," he adds hurriedly. "I didn't mean to pressure—"

"No!" I interrupt. "No, no, I'd like flowers. I love flowers. If you wanted to get them, I mean. Because I don't want you to feel pressured, either, and—"

"I want to," he tells me, that wide, happy smile back on his face. His hand moves up my arm and to my shoulder, around to the back of my neck. He looks like he wants to...but he's not going to. I don't think. Is he?

"Pink," I say, my voice a little faint. "My dress, I mean. It's pink."

"Pink's a good color," he says, his own voice sounding a little quieter than usual. And his face is actually moving towards mine, and hi, God? If you want to strike me dead right this second, I'd be very okay with that. Thanks a bunch, hope all's going well with your wife and kids. Love, Chloe.

"Glad you approve," I manage.

"Chloe?" he says softly. "Is it okay if I kiss you now?"

"You know, I think that'd be a good idea," I respond.

His arms are around me, supporting me against his very broad, very muscular chest, and it's a damned good thing, because I'm pretty sure I'd have already fallen over if they weren't. Somehow, my own arms twine around his neck, my fingertips make their way into his hair. His large hands are cradling my face, and he's looking down at me, and...

His eyes are sparkling. He's looking at me with the look that used to be reserved for her.

And when our lips meet in a kiss that I actually get to remember this time, I don't care that I don't have all the answers. I don't care if I didn't ask the right questions. I don't care if I don't have long shiny hair or a bewitching, girl next door attitude. All doubts have suddenly been wiped from my mind, and they leave much easier than I ever thought they would.

Clark Kent is kissing me. Finally kissing me. Because I'm me, and because he wants to. For no other reason than that. It's enough.

Maybe the karma cycle didn't bite me in the ass, after all.

THE END.