Title: A Million Little Pieces (5/?)
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 Part Three Part Four ---------------------------------------
Let me be empty and weightless
And maybe I’ll find some peace tonight— “Angel,” Sarah McLachlan
Pain.
Relentless pain.
Mayson gasps, and white spots explode on the black canvas of her closed eyelids. She almost grits her teeth, but the pressure is too much for her jaws.
What’s wrong here?Her body aches. The jackhammer in her skull is making her nauseous.
She whimpers and her muscles lock; she’s shaking with the force of the hurt.
Through the haze of her confusion, she thinks she hears a voice.
“Stay with me.”But the words sound too far away, and as much as she tries to make her brain connect the dots, she can’t work out the source. It hurts to even think.
Unconsciousness is a blessing.
* * * * *
This is my fault.
Clark wants to hammer his fist against the wall in frustration. He’s never felt so helpless — or so useless. He wants to confront a tangible enemy, get near-instantaneous results.
But this ...
Watching Mayson struggle just to breathe is agonizing.
All my fault.
Clark sits back down in the hard plastic chair next to her bed. He could’ve prevented this, he’s sure of it — but he didn’t. So he’ll stay with her now, and wait for Lois to page him if —
when, he reminds himself firmly — she gets any new leads on their Intergang investigation.
It’s the least he can do.
* * * * *
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The steady, mechanical sound somewhere above her head reaches her, dragging her from her dark, soundless retreat. It’s softer than it should be, somehow — like it’s underwater.
Shh. I like it here.
But it continues.
Mayson doesn’t even have the energy to groan. She lies still for a long moment, determined to assess this unfamiliar situation.
Breathing hurts, she decides. Her breath hitches and she flinches when she takes in a hurried gulp of air.
But better to breathe than ... not, she concedes fuzzily, wondering when she became such a master of the obvious.
She cracks open one eye, but immediately closes it.
Ow. Feels like Athena wants out.
She would laugh at her own disjointed thoughts if she wasn't so disoriented.
Wake up, sleepyhead, she scolds herself.
She forces her eyes open.
Concerned brown eyes stare down at her.
Mayson tries to focus. His features are soft and indistinct, but she thinks she’s seen him before.
“Hi,” the man says quietly, giving her a tight, forced smile.
I do
know you, Mayson realizes woozily.
“You — ” she whispers, wincing with the effort. “You’re ... him.”
* * * * *
Oh god. Clark freezes.
How does she know? He’s wearing his glasses. His white shirt is completely buttoned, covering the Suit and unmistakable S-emblem.
She couldn’t know —“Who?” he asks warily, taking an involuntary half-step backward.
“You — ” Mayson swallows with difficulty. She can’t seem to make her voice work. “ ... love you,” she finishes, her voice barely audible. Her eyes close once more and her breathing evens.
Oh, no.
Clark rakes an unsteady hand through his hair, guilt roiling in his gut.
Not good, Kent. Not. Good.
He’s known she’d been interested in him when they first met, but he’s tried to make his feelings for Lois as painlessly clear as possible. But this isn’t the time to dwell on any possible love-triangle situations; this woman is his friend, and she needs him. End of story.
With a soft sigh, Clark settles back into his chair and resumes his silent vigil over her sleeping form.
Until he gets word from Lois, it’s the least — and the most — he can do.
Gently, he takes her hand in his.
“You’ve got to be okay,” he whispers, his eyes following the line of Mayson’s swollen, discolored jaw.
We have to find who did this to you — and I need your help. Please.
Clark sits motionless beside her, his mind racing through every possible Intergang connection he’s researched.
A soft knock on the door startles him from his troubled, circular thoughts.
Lois steps in the room.
“Hi,” she says quietly, hovering uncertainly near the doorway while he stands to greet her. “I know I said I’d page you, but ... I think we’ve got something.”
