Title: A Million Little Pieces (8/?)
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 Part Seven ---------------------------------------
How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?— “Everything,” Lifehouse
Clark shifts in the hard plastic chair, surveying the small, sterile room.
These things certainly aren’t built for comfort.
He loosens his tie a notch and his gaze rests on Mayson’s sleeping form once more.
Though he’s responded to several calls for help throughout the afternoon, he keeps returning to Metropolis General — he almost can’t help himself. He feels responsible for what’s happened to the assistant district attorney, and he hates that she’s here alone.
Where’s her family?Not knowing troubles Clark on a visceral level. Sure, he knows what it’s like to feel alone — but he’s always had his parents. Jonathan and Martha Kent are the two constants he knows he can rely on. But in all the conversations he and Mayson have shared, she’s never once mentioned her own parents. Are they still living? If so, where are they? With all the media coverage, how can Mr. and Mrs. Drake not know their daughter was brutally attacked two days ago?
Clark doesn’t know, but he can’t bear the thought of her waking to an empty room with nothing but pain for company.
Like you’re a real comfort, he thinks bleakly.
You didn’t help her during the attack, and now all you can do is sit here and watch her breathe. Nice going, Kent.
Clark wills the ugly thoughts to the back of his mind.
Concentrate on what you can
do. Connect the dots to Intergang.
But for the moment, there are no connections to make.
So Clark waits. Alone with this tortuous train of thought, he waits. For Mayson to wake. For a cry for help. For Lois to page him after she finishes working on her latest story about the Bradshaw murder trial.
He hates this sadistic game — he feels so useless, and with no new leads from Bill Church or anyone else who knows about Intergang’s murky operations, there’s nothing he can do. Over the last two days, he’s exhausted every resource imaginable to tie the alleged crime organization to the beating Mayson has taken.
His dark eyes study the scrapes and bruises that mar her wan features, then rakes a hand through his hair in frustration.
I should’ve prevented this.
* * * * *
At the sound of her accelerating heartbeat, Clark’s eyes snap open.
Lois?No — he’s still at Metropolis General.
Not Lois, he reminds himself.
Mayson.
And she’s waking.
Clark scrubs at his eyes, forcing the last vestiges of sleep from his brain. He checks his watch to see he’s been out for about a half-hour.
Forgot I’d been up for nearly forty-eight hours, he realizes grimly.
Even Superman needs a little rest to stay sharp.
Mayson groans softly, and her eyelids flutter. They come open gingerly, and she blinks twice before her gaze settles on Clark’s rumpled figure.
“H-hey,” she manages, her voice thick with sleep and hoarse from lack of use. She licks her cracked lips and furrows her brow, willing her eyes to stay focused on Clark’s face as her vision blurs.
“Hey, yourself.”
Mayson blinks again. “You’re here,” she rasps groggily, her eyes moving around the small, fluorescent-lit room. “Where’s — ” She pauses, determined to banish the gossamer fog of confusion that clings to her consciousness. “ ... Lois?”
Clark’s gut twists at the genuine concern he hears in the question.
“She’s covering a story.”
Mayson nods, then tries to stifle a grimace at the discomfort the movement causes.
Clark opens his mouth to ask if there’s anything he can do but decides against it.
That’s like telling people at funerals that you’re sorry for their loss, he chides himself bitterly.
Futile.
Mayson’s obvious pain crowds between them, leaving Clark aching with guilt.
I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there — I could’ve saved you.
“So,” she says after a moment, “this is the hospital.”
Clark can only nod.
“Lot better than dead,” Mayson says diplomatically. “Thought I might be. All this white ... ” She clears her throat with a wince. “Water, please?”
Clark rises and grabs the pitcher of ice water from her bedside table, then pours the liquid into a plastic cup. He holds a straw to Mayson’s lips and she drinks, swallowing with obvious difficulty.
“Thanks.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
Clark gives her a small smile as he sits back down. “You’re welcome.”
Mayson settles back onto her pillow and studies the cast on her left arm for a long minute, trying to quell the faint buzzing sound swirling inside her head.
She takes as deep a breath as her ribs will allow and her eyes meet Clark’s. “What happened?”
She doesn’t remember?His stricken expression speaks volumes.
“That bad, huh?” she quips hoarsely.
Clark licks his lips nervously. “Mayson, I don’t know if I — I mean, maybe you should speak with the doctor before — ”
Mayson narrows her eyes. “I can handle it.”
Clark shakes his head. “It’s not that I don’t think you — ”
“Clark.” Her hazel eyes are calm, gazing steadily into Clark’s dark ones. “Please.” Her voice breaks on the word, but her features remain porcelain-still as she watches Clark’s jaw tighten.
“Can you tell me the last thing you remember?” he asks finally.
Mayson closes her eyes and frowns. “I — I was working a lot,” she says hesitantly, well aware of the soreness in her jaws. “At home, too.”
Clark nods encouragingly, though Mayson’s eyes are still closed. “What were you working on?”
Mayson frowns. “Something important, I think.” Her eyes open and she looks beseechingly at Clark. “It — it feels important.” Her breath hitches. “But I don’t remember.” She looks down at the IV taped to the back of her right hand. “I’m sorry.”
Clark rubs his eyes behind his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, struggling to ignore the insistent ache in his chest.
Dear god, Mayson — I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to tell you. I don’t want to hurt you any more.
He scoots closer to her side.
“You were trying to find out everything you could about Intergang,” he says softly, his eyes boring into Mayson’s.
The spark of recognition he sees causes his heart to lurch.
Don’t remember. Don’t re-live what happened.
There's a sour taste in the back of Clark’s throat. He loathes himself for this, but, painful as it is, he needs her memories to find the attacker.
Still, he’d rather swallow Kryptonite than force out his next words.
“Mayson, I think this is somehow connected — ”
She stiffens and her eyes widen. “Oh.” The word is quiet on her lips, yet the pain he hears in that one syllable hits him like the Buffalo Bills’ entire defensive line.
He immediately falls silent.
Look what I’ve done.
“I was jogging,” she whispers. Tears fill her hazel eyes. Her quickening heartbeat reverberates in Clark’s ears. “I — he — oh god ... Clark, I couldn’t breathe.”
She’s shaking now. Clark covers her hand with his own, mindful of her scraped knuckles and the IV taped there, but she barely registers his touch. She stares blankly at the wall, lost in a terrifying reverie.
When I find who did this —“It was a man,” Mayson says hollowly, jolting Clark from his dark thoughts.
“You’re sure?”
She nods. “What did he — what’s wrong with me?”
Clark searches her bruised face for the resolve he needs to explain the extent of her injuries.
“I won’t lie — you’re banged up pretty good,” he says quietly. “Your left arm’s broken. Your throat’s bruised. You’ve probably got at least a mild concussion. Split lip. Two broken ribs. You were wearing an oxygen tube until a couple of hours ago.” He pauses when Mayson winces. “Want me to continue?”
“Please — don’t hold back on my account,” she answers dryly.
Clark gives her a weak smile. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I wanted the truth.” She pales. “Wait. Clark, did he — ”
“No,” Clark says quickly. “Nothing like that.”
Mayson sags against her pillow. “I guess I can consider myself lucky, then.”
Clark doesn’t know how to respond.
Lying in a hospital bed with a broken arm, two broken ribs … that’s lucky?But the alternative … just the thought of a sexual assault causes his stomach to churn.
Mayson is startled to see something she’s never witnessed in Clark Kent’s eyes until that moment: anger.
“Hey,” she says softly. “He didn’t — I wasn’t … I’m fine.”
Clark shakes his head. “This isn’t ‘fine,’ Mayson.”
She’s silent for a long moment. Clark is right, but echoing his sentiment isn’t going help either of their moods.
She attempts a smile. “You make it awfully hard, you know.”
Clark frowns. “What?”
“You.” She swallows past the lump in her throat. “You make it hard to not care so much about you, Clark Kent.”
Clark flushes and looks down at his shoes. He clears his throat. “Um, Mayson — ”
“No,” she interrupts. “It’s okay. This past week, I did a lot of serious thinking, and ... ” She wills her voice to remain steady. “I know you and Lois will be great together if she just gives you half a chance.”
Clark can’t seem to make his brain work.
“I ... ” He trails off. “But I thought you — ”
Mayson pats his hand with her good one, her eyes filling with mutual understanding. “Yeah,” she nods, her voice tinged with sadness. “I did.” She swallows with difficulty. “Still do. But it just wouldn’t be ... the same.”
Clark feels his heart break for Mayson’s own. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing you can say.” She shifts to get more comfortable. “But you could do me a favor.”
Name it. “What’s that?”
She brushes an errant strand of blood-flecked blond hair from her scraped forehead. “Go to her. Put your heads together. And come visit me tomorrow. Both of you, so we can figure out who did ... ” She looks down at her cast, at the IV in her other hand, at the bruises on her arms. “This.” She glances back up at Clark expectantly.
Clark furrows his brow. “Mayson, I don’t — ”
She shakes her head, determined to keep her tears at bay. She can’t let Clark see them gathering in the corners of her eyes. “Don’t argue — I wouldn’t be able to say that again if you said you wanted to stay.”
Clark’s breath catches.
I think you might be stronger than Superman, Mayson Drake. He gently squeezes her clammy hand. “I’ll — we’ll — be back in the morning. We’ll find out who’s responsible.”
But Mayson barely hears him; her eyes are already closing, she’s so exhausted from the exchange.
“We’ll get ‘em,” she mumbles just before her breathing deepens and sleep claims her.
We’ll get ‘em, Clark vows, striding toward the exit.
He’s so lost in his own thoughts, mulling over the telling conversation he’d just shared with the assistant district attorney, that Clark doesn’t notice a strange man watching him intently in the corridor, or turn to see the same man slip almost soundlessly inside Mayson’s room.
