Title: A Million Little Pieces (9/?)
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.
And one more thing: Much thanks to Terry Leatherwood, whose comment on a previous part unknowingly provided quite a bit of inspiration for this chapter!
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight ---------------------------------------
Deep inside, I’m not as tough as I seem
But I won’t let you know— “Under My Skin,” Rachael Yamagata
“Thanks for waiting around, Jimmy.”
“No problem — I got some great reaction shots.”
Lois smiles at the young photographer’s earnest enthusiasm while mentally writing her story’s lead as they leave the courthouse. “I’m glad. This Bradshaw case is turning out to be the trial of the century.”
Jimmy grins. “Maybe you’ll nab a Pulitzer.”
“Maybe,” Lois laughs. “A Kerth, at least.”
But her words echo hollowly in her ears. She’ll never admit it to anyone, but her writing is sharper when she shares a byline with Clark.
She gives herself a mental shake. Thoughts of Clark will have to wait — she has a story to write.
* * * * *
The polished wooden door closes with a calculated, barely audible click that startles Mayson from her fitful doze.
She shifts slightly on the thin, uncomfortable mattress, staring hard into the semi-darkness. She suddenly wishes Clark hadn’t been quite so considerate by switching the light off before he left.
“Who’s there?” Her voice is hoarse, hardly a croak.
The silence stretches, measured not in seconds and minutes, but by the trip-hammer cadence of her heart.
Mayson lets out a breath that catches against her broken ribs.
I’m losing it. She winces, settling back onto her pillow.
But the unmistakable sound of a shoe squeaking against the spotless tile floor reaches her ears.
Her hazel eyes snap open.
“Clark?” she asks hopefully, fumbling blindly for the call button.
I know it’s here, it was clipped to my pillow ...A raspy chuckle sounds from the foot of her bed.
She recoils in fear, her breathing ragged.
Where is it, where is it, ohgodwhereisit —She struggles to control her panic.
“Ready to die, bitch?” The unfamiliar, gravelly voice is cold. Harsh. Right next to her ear.
Mayson’s stomach lurches.
No. No no no.
“No,” she whimpers, reaching out, trying her best to focus on the hulking, indistinct outline at her side. If she can just grab his arm, force his hand —
If only she could stop shaking.
If only she could see her attacker.
If only ...
And then his fingers curl around her upper arm, digging cruelly into her bruised flesh. A faint glint, silvery and metallic and sinister, reflects what little light seeps under the closed door. His grip tightens.
Mayson jerks in his grasp despite the pain streaking through every synapse, but she can’t break his hold.
This can’t be real. Please, god, let me wake up.
He laughs again, a terrible sound — like sandpaper scraping against granite.
Terrified, she can’t even cry out.
* * * * *
Clark is nearly to the deserted roof of the hospital garage, ready to spin into the Suit when he hears it.
A rapidly accelerating heartbeat. Someone is scared.
He pauses.
“Clark?”Clark frowns. So faint — almost indiscernible. Maybe just his imagination.
He focuses his super-hearing to pinpoint the source.
“No ... ”His eyes widen.
Mayson!And then he’s there — he’s just
there, inside her room, with no conscious memory of his desperate race from the parking garage, into the hospital and up the corridor.
There’s only
now, as he pins this stranger dressed in black against the wall, listening as sound slowly catches up with him: Mayson’s shocked gasp; the bang of the wooden door against the wall; the click and buzz of the fluorescent light he switched on as soon as he rushed inside; the hollow ping of the empty hypodermic needle as it rattles against the tile; and the man’s startled growl as he struggles uselessly against Clark’s unforgiving grip.
And Clark is shaking. With rage or fear, he can’t tell. Maybe both.
“Clark — ” Mayson manages, stunned.
‘Clark’?He glances over his shoulder to see Mayson huddling against the far rail of the hospital bed, and realizes with a start that he’s still — Clark. In Clark-clothes. Not the Suit.
Careful. No super-feats in your civvies.
He surreptitiously sweeps Mayson with his X-ray vision to ensure she isn’t hurt, then turns back to the problem at hand.
Clark sets his jaw and studies the squirming man.
“Who sent you?” He spits out the words, his eyes dangerously dark.
The man only narrows his bottle-green eyes in response.
Clark grabs the man’s shoulders with both hands and shakes him until he hears the intruder’s teeth clack together.
Watch it, he warns himself.
Control, remember?“Who. Sent. You?” There’s no mistaking the venom this time.
Stony silence and a hate-filled glare are his answer.
Clark lets out an angry breath. “All right. If that’s how you want to play — ” Clark shoves the man, hard, into the uncomfortable plastic chair he’d sat in earlier. Harder than he probably should. “ ... we’ll let the police sort this out.”
The would-be attacker silently seethes while Clark calls Inspector Bill Henderson.
When the brief exchange is finished, Clark shoves his cell phone back into his pocket, glaring at the still-mute stranger.
“Don’t. Move,” Clark warns.
He turns to Mayson, racking his brain for an appropriate excuse. Something halfway feasible. Anything.
“Mayson — ” But he falters when he sees the unshed tears in her eyes and how badly she’s trembling.
“Th-thank you,” she whispers, unable to keep her voice from shaking as her eyes dart from Clark to the man who’d tried to kill her. Her eyes met Clark’s again, and they’re so full of concern and unexpected tenderness that her next words stick in her throat.
Clark leans down, so close she can smell the clean scent of his laundry detergent.
“I’m glad I came back,” he says softly, studying her pale features and the bruises that stain the line of her swollen jaw.
She nods, closing her eyes against the tears that threaten to spill.
“Me, too,” she manages gratefully, suppressing a hysterical laugh.
Clark draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
She doesn’t know. She didn’t see just how fast I came through the door — it’s fine.
“Mayson, did he — ” Clark isn't sure if he can finish the question; he’s afraid of the answer.
* * * * *
No. Because you came back.
She shakes her head. “No,” Mayson murmurs, her eyes still closed. “He didn’t hurt me.”
Clark sighs in relief. “Thank god.”
She can’t seem to stop shaking. She wants to, more than anything. She wants so, so badly to put a cool, professional mask in place of this onion paper-thin veneer.
Be strong, she orders herself sternly.
Don’t be one of those vapid, doe-eyed damsels in distress who falls to pieces into the arms of a big, strong man.
But it’s awfully tempting, she has to admit. Lying beaten and broken in a hospital bed with Clark Kent sitting beside her, so caring and just so damn
nice, and her would-be murderer mere feet away have left her defenses barely functional.
What defenses? You could fly a 747 through their holes, Mayson thinks bitterly.
Still, she can’t —
won’t — do it. She refuses to lose it in front of Clark.
She draws a breath as deep as her ribs allow, studying Clark’s profile as he scowls at the man in the chair.
Clark is the past. He’s just a friend. She swallows hard.
No matter how much it hurts, remember that.
She sees Clark’s shoulders stiffen. He stands, taking a step toward the door.
“Clark, what’s — ”
The door swings open, and Inspector Henderson strides in with a lanky, dark-haired stranger sporting the most garish Hawaiian shirt Mayson has ever seen.
She blinks.
I’m hallucinating. Must be the drugs. Or stress. Or both.
“Bill, hi,” Mayson says faintly, relieved to see Henderson. Of all of the officers she’s worked with from the Metropolis Police Department, Bill Henderson is the one she admires most.
“Mayson,” Henderson nods respectfully. His eyes harden as they cut to the intruder, then soften again when they move back to Mayson. “I’d like you to meet special agent Dan Scardino. He’s going to be keeping an eye on you, make sure you’re safe.”
A bodyguard? Mayson frowns. “Bill, I don’t need — ”
“Miss Drake, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Scardino smoothly cuts in, flashing her a brilliant, genuine smile. “And please, call me Daniel.”
* * * * *
C’mon, be there.
Lois sighs as the call clicks straight to voicemail.
Your cell phone better be dead, Kent.
She waits impatiently for the beep.
“Clark, it’s Lois. It’s about nine-thirty — not too late — so if you get this in the next couple of hours, give me a call or come over. I need to talk to you about Bill Church. I think — ” She hesitates. “Sorry, I’m starting to ramble. Just ... call if you get a chance. Thanks.”
She replaces the receiver and sits back on the sofa, looking over her notes, completely unaware that someone else is listening — and recording her every move.
