See also, lame.
This was stupid. Fundraisers in general were stupid, because all they were, was an excuse for rich people to dress up and pay obscene amounts of money for a plate of very bad food with very strange sauce, served in very small portions. Wally West was not meant to hob knob with the elite, the boring, the hopelessly stuffy elegance that wound around his neck and threatened to choke him like some metaphorical boa constrictor.
Come to think of it, he hated metaphors, too. This was not Wally's scene, and Clark was going to owe him big time for coming to this thing. Buffer between Lois and Lex, Clark had said, pleading and calling up embarrassing, ass saving incidences from their rookie year on the League to reel in the favor. Blackmailing bastard with the aw-shucks charm that fooled the world. Wally glanced over, then smiled into his glass of champagne as he watched Clark tug at the collar of his tux and break into a sweat. Lois and Lex circling the same room and each other like a couple of wolves. Oh yeah, definitely sweat material. Then--bonus. Big alien having a big nervous breakdown might be entertainment on the level of Jackass, but it had a unique appeal, all its own.
Wally followed Clark's gaze to see what brought on that particular crack of voice and possibly a matching break in sanity.
"Well, you always said Lois was a good dancer."
"What are they doing?" Clark exhaled hard and drained his flute of champagne, replacing it with another when a tray passed.
"Giving you wet dream material for weeks, from the looks of it." Wally tossed back the rest of his champagne, replacing the glass with a whimsical smile while the tray was near. "They make a hot couple if you're into murderous smiles."
"I, uh. . ." Clark looked briefly pained. "Damn it." He was guessing, but Wally thought it probably wasn't a good idea for large alien types to consume expensive champagne that fast.
Time to rescue the superhero, he thought as restless eyes combed the room looking for something to distract Clark. Halfway through a visual sweep of the place, he found her.
"Who's that girl?"
Wally nodded. "That girl." Blonde, cute as hell, with an overly amused smirk that could only mean she sensed the cosmic joke of Lois Lane and Lex Luthor dancing cheek to cheek, more than your average mucky muck. If she knew the parties involved that well, there was a good chance Clark knew her. He nodded in her general direction and noted the pleased, tipsy smile that lit Clark's face. Distraction accomplished.
"Chloe." Huh. The name rang a bell. Chloe Chloe. Chloe? The Chloe that Clark was always trying to set him up with, who was really smart and cute and awesome? Which, of course, translated into a dog that no one would date and had to be fixed up by her friends with poor, unsuspecting idiots like Wally West, no thank you, he just looked stupid, he didn't actually do stupid things. The words tumbled out of his mouth in shock that belied the denial of stupidity.
"Yeah." Clark fingered the delicate stem of his champagne flute, still grinning broadly. "Cute, huh?"
Cute. Well, yeah. Cute could be a word to describe her. He would've gunned for beautiful, but a guy had to play it cool. "She's not bad."
Not bad being more evidence to refute the denial of stupidity thing. She smirked. She frowned. She blinked. She laughed when Lex dipped Lois at the end of the dance, but who cared about the morons with matching monograms? Watching Chloe's face was better than cartoons, lots more animation, prettier colors. Bubble gum blush, raspberry lips, honey hair. She was like a banquet begging to be nibbled and licked and whoa, boy. Down Little Flash.
Wally glanced down at his shoes briefly, then peeked up through his brows to catch another glimpse of her sipping her champagne. Restless, intelligent eyes combed the room, and hadn't Clark mentioned something about her being a reporter, too? The reason he was a reporter, maybe? Something about sensationalism and crusades and damn it, Clark had said a lot about this woman, why hadn't he been paying more attention? Stupid. See also, Wally West. It was in the dictionary, he was sure of it.
"What? You've been blowing me off for weeks, forget it."
"Come on, big guy."
"No way, she's my friend, not a steak dinner. Stop looking at her like that."
"Fine." Wally bumped his glass against Clark's chest, handing it off as he pushed away. "I'll do this, myself."
"What? Wally. . ." Clark broke off, surrounded suddenly by his fuck toys who swarmed like ants warring over a cake crumb. Superhero rescue never even crossed his mind as Wally made his way around the dance floor, annoyed with the tastefully dressed and heavily scented masses between him and his goal. Then again, he had an advantage.
"Would you like to dance?" he asked, suddenly appearing just behind her, the world settling back into place from a blur in the blink of an eye, with no one the wiser. Chloe looked over her shoulder, green eyes startled at his sudden appearance, then smiling as they narrowed with curiosity. "Do I know you?"
Wally blinked, because, well. . .
A blur of memory.
Three years earlier, an assassination attempt on a religious zealot. An intrepid reporter, too close, demanding too many answers to her questions, and a bullet that missed only because a flash of red intervened to whisk them both to safety. She had asked the same breathless question then, a brush with death still not quelling her curiosity. "Do I know you?"
"No. Wish you did," he had replied, then raced away to subdue the would be assassin. Logically, he should echo those words now, secret identity, protect the League, all that jazz.
"Three years ago. I was in red. You were in trouble."
Chloe's eyes widened as memory fell into place. Apparently, she wasn't a girl who was used to honesty. Wally made a mental note to never lie to her. "The shooting at the rally?"
"Yeah, I forgot to get your number, but I think fate's made me her bitch, so. . ." Wally held out a hand. "Dance with me?"
"I don't even know your name," Chloe murmured, shaking her head at herself as she took his hand with a smile.
"Wally West," he offered as he pulled her into his arms. "Friends in tights call me Flash. You can call me anything you like."
"I'd call you pretty forward."
"Do people still say things like that?"
"I don't know. I'm not people. I'm Chloe."
"I'm making a note." Wally grinned and watched her lips when she smiled in return. "A lot of notes." "Flash. . ." Her brows furled, before her grin widened. "The Flash?"
"The Flash in the flesh," he quipped, the joke sounding impossibly lame for a girl this witty and beautiful. This was like running through the Sahara, with no clue of where he was going and no guideposts along the way, just endless heat and a ground that kept shifting under his feet. Jesus, this could be addictive. "Marry me?"
"Not until you buy me coffee."
"So there's hope," he asked, not entirely joking and terrified to realize it.
"Not a chance, just hoping to get a free cup of coffee."
Her eyes squinted when she grinned and her chin was sharp and quick to tilt in challenge. There were freckles on her nose and smattered over her shoulders and she smelled like something out of Martha Kent's orchard. Wally blinked out of it. Only romance novels were this descriptive, which meant he was in a lot of trouble. "You're in luck. I know this great shop with the best cappuccinos in Metropolis."
"You're in luck, I just might let you buy me one, sometime."
Maybe this was what Clark meant when he said you couldn't describe flying.
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