Title: A Million Little Pieces (3/?)
Author: angelic_editor
Rating: PG for violence and mild language
Summary: Mayson Drake knowingly fights a losing battle for Clark's affection, and comes to understand why they could never truly be together. (Ulgh, I'm so bad at summaries).
Feedback: Better than chocolate, especially since I'm so new at this. Be brutal; I welcome comments and criticism of all kinds.
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine; the words are. Please don't take legal action, as poor college students aren't worth suing, anyway.
Miscellaneous: I was almost afraid to post the first part of this vignette because I know Mayson's not the most sympathetic of characters, and, much like Dan Scardino, she probably doesn't have too many friends on the boards. Besides, we all love Lois and Clark together, as opposed to Lois and Dan, or Clark and Mayson. But Mayson's character has always drawn me in because I think anyone can identify with unrequited love — we've all had people in our lives we're attracted to, but we've walked away because it simply wouldn't work. It's heart-rending, and it provides nearly endless angsty opportunities for fics like this one. And yes, the title is most definitely a poke at James Frey's disputed work of "non-fiction" — but I couldn't get the moniker out of my head after I wrote a certain line in this fic. This is set in Season 2, but before Clark and Mayson kiss, and definitely before Lois and Clark are quasi-dating. Also, like all my stuff, this is unbetaed, so all mistakes are my own. Point and laugh at will.
Part One Part Two ---------------------------------------
And every time I’m close to you
There’s too much I can’t say— “I Love You,” Sarah McLachlan
Sitting across from Clark at an outdoor café, Mayson knows.
It’s his eyes. That’s what gets her every time. The guileless compassion she sees there.
Mayson gives herself a mental shake and focuses on what Clark is saying.
“ ... really appreciate you meeting me on such short notice — I’m sorry we couldn’t do this sooner.”
She smiles and shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. Is — ” Her voice falters for a nanosecond.
Ask. “Is Lois all right?”
Clark’s shoulders visibly tense and he studies his coffee cup. “She’s — she’s fine. Thanks for asking.”
But you don’t seem so fine. Mayson bites her tongue to keep herself from voicing the thought.
Not your concern — so not your concern. This is just business. Remember that.
Mayson clears her throat. “So, I was hoping you could help me with this — well, it’s more of a quasi-case, really ... ” She trails off, her mouth suddenly dry. “Oh god — Clark, now I’m afraid you’re going to think I’m an idiot when I explain all this.”
He’s watching her intently, oblivious to the cafe’s other patrons and passersby on the sidewalk. “I’m sure I won’t. You’re far from an idiot.”
She manages a small smile and pushes what now seems like a pitifully thin manila folder toward him.
“I don’t have the resources you do, as far as sources go,” she says, surreptitiously checking the tables around them for eavesdroppers. “My position in the D.A.’s office is definitely beneficial, but I’m not exactly clued into the word on the street, so to speak.”
Clark furrows his brow. “So you want to use me?”
Mayson almost laughs. “Not ‘use’ you, Clark — this has the potential to be huge. I think we can help each other.”
Clark reaches for the folder. “Then let’s see what you’ve got.”
She places a hesitant hand on his. “Clark — before you look at that, let me explain. It’s not a lot. It — it could be nothing.” She looks down, her face suddenly drawn. “In fact, I’m really worried it’s just all in my head. But I have this feeling — I just know there’s something going on. And I’ve heard a few whispers, just here and there, about — ” She pauses. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“I won’t.”
She sighs. “All right. But I have to warn you, it sounds like something out of a bad mobster movie.”
“Try me.”
Mayson moves her hand and swallows.
In for a penny, in for a pound. “Intergang.”
Don’t laugh. Please, don’t laugh.
But Clark’s eyes widen, and Mayson wonders if she’s perfectly sane, after all.
“We — Lois and I — have heard a couple of things,” Clark says slowly.
Mayson draws in a sharp breath.
I knew it!“It’s nothing much,” Clark hurriedly continues. “It just came up last week, and we’ve been trying to look into it. Then this whole anonymous threat business came along and kind of derailed any investigation — ” He stops, swallowing hard.
Don’t pry. Don’t involve yourself. It’s easier that way.
Mayson nods. “I — I understand,” she says gently. “I know you and Lois have become ... um, close — and with everything ... I know it’s probably been difficult,” she finishes lamely.
Ugh. Note to self: Never speak again.
But Clark gives her a small, sad smile. “Thanks.” Uncomfortable, he averts his eyes and looks down at the folder in his hand. “May I?”
At Mayson’s nod, he flips it open and scans the contents.
“You’re right,” he says after a minute. “There’s not much here, on the surface, anyway — but I’ll see what I can do.”
Thank you.
“Clark — seriously — thank you,” she says quietly. “I don’t normally do — this. I mean, meet with the press before anything has been substantiated or corroborated or ... ” Mayson trails off. “But I — I trust you, and somehow I just knew you could help.”
“Thank
you — this is going to be easier with your help. I’m ... flattered.” He pauses. “You know, maybe I can get Superman in on this, too.”
She winces inwardly. “Clark, I — don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
Clark opens his mouth to reply, but Mayson continues.
“I know he’s a friend of yours, but I don’t entirely trust him.”
“I don’t understand. He’s a friend to this city, he — ”
“I’m sorry,” she interjects. “I didn’t mean to upset you; I just can’t shake the feeling that Superman’s not entirely as upstanding as he appears. He’s almost — almost too good to be true, you know? I can’t help but feel he’s a — I don’t know, some kind of fraud.”
She bites her lower lip as Clark’s expression darkens slightly.
“I’m sorry.”
He nods mutely.
“I just can’t sit here and tell you I agree with his methods — he’s this vigilante who flies around in a gaudy costume and the public
lauds him for it. They’re so blinded by the cape that they forget Metropolis’ finest risk everything, every day, for this city.” She stops. “Wow. Sorry. You didn’t deserve that particular rant.”
“It’s all right,” he forces himself to say. “I’ll look into this on my own, don’t worry.”
Mayson gives him a grateful smile. “Thank you.” She looks down at her watch and grimaces. “Sorry — I didn’t realize how late it is. I’ve got to get back to the office. Thanks for meeting with me.” She tosses down a few bills to cover her latte and tip. “See you, Clark.”
“See you,” Clark repeats softly.
* * * * *
Six days later, Mayson is no closer to a definitive lead.
There’s a connection here. I know it.
Frustrated, she tosses down a sheaf of police reports, eye-witness accounts, and her own hastily scribbled notes. Her eyes are so tired they’re beginning to water.
All right, she concedes.
Just a five-minute break. Maybe that’ll give me a fresh perspective.
She toys with her bottle of water for a full minute, lost in thought.
Break-ins at respectable businesses. Several at Cost Mart in the last few months. Insurance claims. Reimbursement — money? What’s that famous line — ‘Follow the money,’ right? It’s all random, at least on the surface. But I can’t help thinking these so-called isolated incidents are related, somehow ... and all roads lead to Intergang. But how?Mayson groans out loud, desperate to escape this relentless, aggravating train of thought. She surveys the wreck her home office has become. Papers litter her desk, various manila folders are stacked precariously, their contents fanned about haphazardly, and she’s filled the pages of several legal pads with half-formed hypotheses.
I’ve got to get a grip.
She’s never let any case — especially what was so far only seemingly unrelated sets of evidence — consume her like this. The past week has been maddening, but strangely invigorating. She isn’t sleeping well and hardly eating. Pots of black coffee and midnight jogs along the river have become her solace.
A jog sounds good.
She checks the clock — it’s well past eleven.
A quick one — just to clear my head.
Mayson pulls on her worn Adidas sneakers and tucks her spare apartment key into the pocket of her gray running shorts.
I know there’s something there. I can almost feel
it.
* * * * *
Her muffled footfalls and the sound of her own breathing fill Mayson’s consciousness. The Sex Pistols are a distant accompaniment from her portable CD player's headphones.
She’s running, hard and fast, the streetlights passing in a blur. There’s usually little traffic in the area this late. Tonight, there’s none.
She’s free, at least for the moment. From everything — her insecurities, her self-doubt about the Intergang connections, even her lingering infatuation with Clark.
Clark has actually crossed her mind very little during the past few days, a welcome side effect of her relentless pursuit of the truth.
Yesterday, she’d picked up a copy of the morning edition of The Planet, seen Clark’s joint byline with Lois, and she hadn’t even flinched.
In fact, surprisingly, she found herself hoping everything between them was okay — Clark had looked so sad when she’d asked about Lois last week.
But tonight, Mayson has no more room in her thoughts for Clark. Her mind is racing as she turns from the sidewalk and heads down the familiar, beaten dirt path, but it’s also a calm maelstrom of activity. The pieces of the Intergang puzzle are rattling around her brain, unhindered by her conscious direction.
Follow the money. Follow the money. Follow the money.
The phrase reverberates in her head, in time with her long strides.
Insurance claims. Insurance money. Cost Mart profited the most. Cost Mart. Bill Church ... no, he’s such a good —Mayson grunts in pain. She’s sprawled on the grass, flat on her back. She can’t draw a breath. And she hurts. Everywhere.
What did I trip over? And where’d my music go?“Mayson Drake.”
Mayson jerks at the unexpected sound.
The deep voice hadn’t asked a question. Even so, Mayson can’t answer if it had been. She can’t breathe. She tries to focus, but her vision swims.
Must’ve hit my head.
“Stop your investigation, bitch.”
Mayson wants to respond in kind, but she doesn’t have the breath. Her lungs are burning. She can’t focus.
The hard kick to her ribs costs her air she can’t afford. The second one is less of a shock but just as painful.
Oh god. Help.
She would shout for Superman if she could. Even as her vision begins to fade to black, the irony isn’t lost on her.
