This is so moving and beautiful, angelic. You capture Clark and Mayson's honesty, sincerity and incredible generosity in such a way that, if I didn't know anything more about Lois and Clark (and Mayson) than what you tell us here, I'd say that Clark and Mayson definitely belong together!
You capture Clark's concern and almost painful empathizing with Mayson so beautifully:
Though he’d responded to several calls for help throughout the afternoon, he kept returning to Metropolis General — he almost couldn’t help himself. He felt responsible for what had happened to the assistant district attorney, and he hated that she was here alone.
Where’s her family?
Not knowing troubled Clark on a visceral level. Sure, he knew what it was like to feel alone — but he’d always had his parents. Jonathan and Martha Kent were the two constants he knew he could count on. But in all the conversations he and Mayson had shared, she’d never once mentioned her own parents. Were they still living? If so, where were they? With all the media coverage, how could Mr. and Mrs. Drake not know their daughter had been brutally attacked two days ago?
Clark didn’t know, but he couldn’t bear the thought of her waking to an empty room with nothing but pain for company.
And then there is Clark's self-doubt, almost self-loathing:
Like you’re a real comfort, he thought 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.
I'm so moved by Clark's need to
do something, and the way he is going almost quietly crazy because there is nothing he
can do. The way he needs someone else to tell him what to do, because he can't deal with this on his own:
Clark sighed, willing 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 were no connections to make.
So Clark waited. Alone with this tortuous train of thought, he waited. For Mayson to wake. For a cry for help. For Lois to page him after she finished working on her latest story about the Bradshaw murder trial.
You really make me feel how Clark and Mayson share a kind of almost existential loneliness here. For Clark, I almost feel how his loneliness takes on a despair about the meaning of it all - why is he here on Earth if he can't prevent this kind of horrible attack that happened to Mayson? If he can't comfort her? If he can't do anything to help her? And if no one will tell him what to do?
I also love the selflessness you give to Mayson:
Mayson groaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered. They came open gingerly, and she blinked twice before her gaze settled on Clark’s rumpled figure.
“H-hey,” she managed, her voice thick with sleep and hoarse from lack of use. She licked her cracked lips and furrowed her brow, willing her eyes to stay focused on Clark’s face as her vision blurred.
“Hey, yourself.”
Mayson blinked. “You’re here,” she rasped groggily, her eyes moving around the small, fluorescent-lit room. “Where’s — ” She paused, determined to banish the gossamer fog of confusion that clung to her consciousness. “ ... Lois?”
Clark’s heart constricted at the genuine concern he’d heard in the question.
Mayson, who has every right to be upset and horrified at what has happened to herself, is seen to be worried about Lois's well-being. So moving.
And then she is asking Clark about her injuries, and suddenly she has a horrible suspicion. I think any woman can share that feeling of helpless horror:
“I won’t lie — you’re banged up pretty good,” he said 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 paused when Mayson winced. “Want me to continue?”
“Please — don’t hold back on my account,” she answered dryly.
Clark gave her a weak smile. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I wanted the truth.” She paled. “Wait. Clark, did he — ”
“No,” Clark said quickly. “Nothing like that.”
Mayson sagged against her pillow and swallowed thickly. “I guess I can consider myself lucky, then,” she murmured.
Clark didn’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 caused his stomach to churn and his hands to shake with barely-restrained anger.
Mayson's response to Clark's fury and helpless concern for her is totally adorable:
Mayson was startled to see something she’d never witnessed in Clark Kent’s dark eyes until that moment: rage.
“Hey,” she said softly. “He didn’t — I wasn’t … I’m fine.”
Clark shook his head sadly. “This isn’t ‘fine,’ Mayson.”
She was silent for a long moment. Clark was right, but echoing his sentiment wouldn’t help either of their moods.
She attempted a smile. “You make it awfully hard, you know.”
Clark frowned. “What?”
“You.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “You make it hard to not care so much about you, Clark Kent.”
Of course, Clark and Lois are meant to be together. Mayson has no chance here. And the way you make her show that she understands that, and the way you make her show her generosity about that, is just so, so moving:
Clark flushed and looked down at his shoes. He cleared his throat. “Um, Mayson — ”
“No,” she interrupted. “It’s okay, Clark. This past week, I did a lot of serious thinking, and ... ” She willed her voice to remain steady. “I know you and Lois will be great together if she just gives you half a chance.”
Clark couldn’t seem to make his brain work properly.
You want — what? Me? And Lois? Togeth — no.
“I ... ” He feebly trailed off. “But I thought you — ” Loved me, he silently finished.
Mayson patted his hand with her good one, her eyes filled with mutual understanding. “Yeah,” she nodded, her voice tinged with sadness. “I did.” She swallowed with difficulty. “Still do. But it just wouldn’t be ... the same.”
Clark nodded slowly, his heart breaking for Mayson’s own. “I don’t know what to say.”
The rest of that conversation is certainly no less heartbreakingly moving:
She smiled. “Nothing you can say, Clark.” She shifted to get more comfortable. “But you could do me a favor.”
Name it. “What’s that?”
She brushed an errant strand of blood-flecked blond hair from her scraped forehead. “Go to Lois. Put your heads together. And come visit me tomorrow. Both of you, so we can figure out who did ... ” She looked down at her cast, at the IV in her other hand, at the bruises on her arms. “This.” She glanced back up at Clark expectantly.
Clark furrowed his brow. “Mayson, I don’t — ”
She shook her head, determined to keep her tears at bay. She couldn’t let Clark see them gathering in the corners of her eyes. “Please don’t argue — I wouldn’t be able to say that again if you said you wanted to stay.”
Clark’s breath caught. I think you might be stronger than Superman, Mayson Drake. He gently squeezed her clammy hand. “I’ll — we’ll — be back in the morning. We’ll find out who’s responsible.”
So Mayson sends Clark back to Lois with her blessing. And Clark leaves. But really, angelic, I thought you were
too cruel in the way you ended this part:
But Mayson barely heard him; her eyes were already closing, she was so exhausted from the exchange.
“We’ll get ‘em,” she mumbled just before her breathing deepened and sleep claimed her.
We’ll get ‘em, Clark vowed, striding toward the exit.
He was so lost in his own thoughts, mulling over the telling, heart-rending conversation he’d just shared with the assistant district attorney, that Clark didn’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.
Honestly, angelic, you are not going to let that man beat up Mayson
more? Or, say, rape her? Or kill her? Please don't let him do that. Ack!! I do think you should have made Clark notice him!!
Okay, so come back with part nine so we can see what happened!
Ann
