Title: A Million Little Pieces (7/?)
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 Part Five Part Six ---------------------------------------
Hello, darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again— “The Sound of Silence,” Simon and Garfunkel
No.
She doesn’t want to open her eyes — it’s so much easier to float, to drift in the dark. Where she’s safe.
But she’s stirring — slowly, maybe, but surely.
No. No no no. She draws in a sharp, panicked breath, but it catches against her cracked ribs.
A feeble groan escapes Mayson’s parched lips.
I like the dark.
From somewhere deep in the midst of her scattered thoughts, one certainty crystallizes: Waking shouldn’t hurt so much.
But it does, Mayson thinks groggily, struggling to open her eyes against the pain that sears through every synapse.
Almost ... She blinks to clear her blurred vision.
So much white. Where —“Miss Drake?”
She flinches.
Too loud, she mentally admonishes the unexpected voice.
Go away.
“Miss Drake?”
Ulgh. You just won’t quit, will you? With an inward groan, Mayson blinks again.
Ow. Her eyeballs ache — they feel raw, like they’ve been scraped with sandpaper.
There.
She can see the faint, fuzzy outline of someone standing over her. The fluorescent lights overhead obscure their features, but Mayson somehow knows it isn’t the person she’s hoping to see.
The unbidden thought startles her.
Weird — I was expecting someone?She doesn’t know. The information feels like it’s there, just beyond her grasp.
Think. C’mon, think
. Who?Mayson’s head swims. She can barely focus on the white lab coat in front of her.
White coat — so much white — wait, am I ...The incessant pounding behind her eyes threatens to overwhelm her consciousness. Black spots swirl at the corners of her vision. She closes her lids against the onslaught.
“Miss Drake, stay with me.”
I can’t. Not now. Just let me go back to sleep.
Then Mayson stiffens, ignoring the pain that sliced through her spine.
‘Stay with me’ — why does that sound so familiar?Oblivion beckons. She’s so close to the comfort of nothingness, of silence and darkness. A reprieve from the agony that thrums through her limbs.
No, not yet — have to figure this out —But it hurts so much. It’s so tempting to let go, to drift for a while longer.
No. Too easy. Think this out before bed.
“This’ll help the pain, Miss Drake,” the disembodied voice murmurs soothingly above her. “When Dr. Leicester stops in, you’ll feel much better.”
No — wait! I’ve just got to ... But Mayson can’t make her voice work. She can only manage a pitiful, wordless moan.
What the hell is wrong with me?And then liquid warmth spreads through her.
Oh, that’s — nice.
She’s so, so tired.
Just a nap, then ... won’t hurt ...* * * * *
“Lois, this doesn’t feel right.”
“It was your idea.”
“I know, but — ”
“No. No buts, Farmboy. I didn’t pick that lock for nothing. Besides, it’s not like we’re stealing. Get back to work.”
Clark sighs and looks back down, rifling through Mayson’s hastily scrawled notes on one of several yellow legal pads strewn across her desk.
It almost turns his stomach to be here, in her spacious, silent apartment, invading her privacy.
But if it helps us find her attacker ...He swallows, willing the image of her pale, bruised face from his mind.
Seconds later, a column of names catches his eye on a page near the back.
“Lois, I think we’re on the right track.”
She puts down the loose sheets of notebook paper in her hand. “What do you mean?”
“Look.” Clark holds the legal pad out to his partner. “She’s got Bill Church on here as a possible source. I think Mayson was probably concerned that so many break-ins happened at different Cost Mart stores around the city, just like we were. Maybe she thought he’d be able to help.”
Lois nods slowly.
“Good,” she murmurs, studying the list with a critical eye. “Let’s see if we can meet with Mr. Church.”
* * * * *
When his office door closes behind the two Daily Planet reporters, Bill Church stares after them for a long minute, contemplating his next move. His raptor-like gaze studies the business card Clark Kent left with him, in case Church remembered anything useful about the break-ins at his Cost Mart stores or any enemies who might be tied to organized crime in Metropolis.
Church shakes his head and tucks the card into a drawer.
He hates the media.
He picks up the phone on his immaculate mahogany desk and presses a button.
“Lane and Kent were here,” he says in a clipped, brisk tone, belying his demeanor during the interview. “Keep an eye on them.”
He replaces the receiver before the hurried, “Yes, sir,” reaches his ears. His orders will be carried out — he knows it. He is, after all, the head of Intergang.
