Title: A Million Little Pieces (13/?)
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. Meanwhile, Intergang puts the lives of Mayson and Lois in danger. (Ulgh, I'm so bad at summaries).
Feedback: Better than chocolate! 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 lowly copy editors aren’t worth suing, anyway.
Miscellaneous: I was almost afraid to post the first part of this story 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: My finicky muse has been on hiatus for a cringe-inducing amount of time, and any reader who lost faith in this story (and/or me!) has my sincerest apologies.
A Million Little Pieces is nearly finished, though I’m not sure exactly how many parts it’ll end up being. For those of you who’ve read and commented on this story, thank you. You and your kind words are more inspiring than you know!
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten Part Eleven Part Twelve ---------------------------------------
I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found
I think that I might break— “Breathe Me,” Sia
“Dan!”
Mayson’s scream echoes in Scardino’s ears as he waits for the pain. Waits for his brain to register torn, bloody flesh.
But it doesn’t.
No.
For a heart-stopping second, he’s sure the bullet has hit her instead.
But Mayson’s would-be attacker groans and falls heavily against Scardino, his meaty, leather-encased fists slipping from the federal agent’s wrists. Away from the gun Scardino still grips in his sweat-slick hands.
The man falls, slumping against the hardwood floor with a pained grunt. Blood, thick and sticky and metallic, seeps through the dark gray cotton of his T-shirt and pools at his side, inching toward Mayson’s oak dresser.
Scardino trains the nine-millimeter on him.
“God — Dan,” Mayson breathes, huddled on the bed. She covers her mouth with her good hand.
Be okay. Just be okay. Panting, Scardino meets her tear-filled eyes.
“You hurt?”
She shakes her head.
“Good.” Scardino lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding, half expecting his knees to buckle. But he clenches his jaw and looks back to the intruder, his gaze hardening.
“Who are you?” he barks.
The man hisses, clutching his abdomen.
Scardino narrows his eyes and steps closer, oblivious to the blood that stains his running shoes. “Who. Are. You?” His voice is cold. Controlled. Dangerous.
A weak, wet cough is his only answer.
Scardino kicks the criminal, hard, in the ribs. “Answer me!”
Mayson flinches. “Dan — ”
“Answer the question!” Scardino kicks him again, surprised when he doesn’t feel the man’s ribs crack.
The feeble groan he emits only makes Scardino angrier.
“Who sent you?”
Mayson is shivering. The tears on her cheeks are hot, scalding, against her clammy skin. “Dan, he can’t.”
“He can and he
will.”
She stands on wobbly legs and moves toward him. “He’s losing a lot of blood. If you want those answers, we need to call an ambulance,” she implores.
Scardino doesn’t move.
“Dan — please?”
He turns and she sees something snap into place behind his gray eyes.
“My phone’s on the coffee table. Henderson’s cell number is in it — after you dial nine-one-one, call him.”
She stiffens at the sound of an approaching siren.
“I think the neighbors beat me to it.”
* * * * *
Lois opens her door and greets Clark with an exhausted smile.
“Thanks for coming over — I’m sorry, I know it’s late.” She steps back, allowing her partner inside.
“I was awake anyway, but it’s after midnight.” Clark’s dark eyes are suffused with warm concern. “Is everything all right?”
Lois nods, running a hand through her messy ponytail. “I — yeah.” She wraps her arms around herself, her small hands lost inside the sleeves of her oversized Metropolis University sweatshirt.
Clark places a gentle hand on her upper arm. “Liar.”
She tugs at her lower lip with her teeth and walks toward the kitchen.
Clark follows. “Lois — ”
“Perry’s furious,” she begins, cutting him off. “I’ve only seen him this angry maybe twice in my career and this just isn’t good.” She shakes her head, trying to dispel the image of Perry’s face, red with anger and indignation, from her mind.
“But — ”
“And I thought that we’d have more to show him,” Lois goes on, steamrolling over Clark’s hesitant interjection. “I thought what with the Bradshaw trial finally finished and the coverage over and done with, I could help you and focus all my efforts on Bill Church and Intergang and what do we have to show for it?” She throws her hands up angrily. “A few paltry insurance claims and disbursements — Clark, we need so much more! I know we’re right, I just
know it, but we need more. Bank statements, phone records, geez, I don’t know, his fingerprints on a crate of black-market weapons ... ”
She trails off, spent from frustration and weariness.
Clark steps closer. “Hey,” he says softly, touching Lois’ arm again.
She can’t meet his eyes. “I failed, Clark. I wanted to help, I really did — help find out who’s behind it all, who put Mayson in the hospital. But I failed.”
“You didn’t fail,” Clark assures her, squeezing her hand. “You’ve been working so hard on this — you haven’t failed at all. We just have to dig a little deeper.”
Lois’ jaw tightens. “All right,” she says in a low voice, staring at her feet. “I have to tell you something.”
Clark steps back to give her some space and leans against the counter. “Shoot.”
She finally meets his gaze, and he’s startled to see her eyes are red-rimmed.
“You have to understand that this is ... well, it’s pretty bad,” she whispers. “And every time I even think about it, it turns my stomach. It makes me absolutely sick, Clark.”
His expression grows grave. “What is it?”
She shakes her head. “It’s — it’s really why I called you tonight. I’m so — so ... I don’t even know what the word is, but this feeling is absolutely killing me and I can’t stand it. I just — I have to tell you, even if you hate me for it.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“It can. It
is.” She swallows. “And you know, this really isn’t easy for me to say. It’s completely out of character and if I weren’t so tired and upset, I’m not sure I would, but I am, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.”
Clark raises his eyebrows. “Um, Lois, what is ‘it,’ exactly?”
“It’s so stupid. I’ve pulled you away from your apartment in the middle of the night because I’m an idiot.” She smooths her clammy palms down the front of her black sweatpants. “And I’m in my pajamas. Oh god, I’m in my pajamas and I’m about to pour my heart out to you.”
Clark almost laughs, but the pain in her eyes brings him up short. “It’s fine. Lois, you know I don’t care what you’re wearing.”
“You’re right.” She nods, more to herself than to Clark. “Of course you’re right. You’re my best friend. You don’t care.”
“Exactly.”
She pulls in a deep breath and holds Clark’s gaze. “I hate that Mayson likes you.”
Clark’s mouth drops open. He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but he knows it wasn’t
this. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammers. “What?”
Lois buries her face in her hands. “I hate it,” she says into her palms, her voice muffled. “
Hate it. I absolutely can’t stand it. And I used to not know why, but now I do, and it’s driving me crazy.”
Clark shakes his head, at a loss. This isn’t happening. It’s some cruel dream, yoinked from the depths of his subconscious. He isn’t standing in Lois Lane’s kitchen at nearly one in the morning while she — his partner, his best friend, the woman he’s loved since they first met more than a year ago — confesses that she’s —
“Jealous,” Lois is saying, still talking between her fingers. “I’m jealous. Of Mayson, of all people. There, I said it.” She pulls her hands away and tugs at the cuff of one too-long sleeve. “I’m jealous of Mayson. I don’t like her, not one bit. And the worst part is, it’s mostly because I’ve figured out that I like you. You know, like-like you.” She licks her lips and forces herself to continue, though she can barely hear her own words over the jackhammering of her heart. “But then she got attacked and I feel just horrible about it so I’ve been helping you with this investigation and the guilt is
excruciating and I hadn’t said anything because I’ve been throwing myself into work because that’s how I deal with any kind of personal or emotional crisis and oh god, I’m babbling — Clark, you have to say something.”
Clark doesn’t say anything. He can’t seem to synchronize his brain and his mouth.
“Say something,” Lois pleads, blushing. “Otherwise, this is just further proof that I am the world’s meanest, most petty, spiteful, hateful human being who can’t seem to keep her big mouth shut and — ”
“Lois.” Clark steps closer and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Shh.” He pulls her toward him and it’s all she can do not to sag gratefully into his embrace. He wraps his arms around her wordlessly.
Her face is hot, and she feels tears prickling behind her eyes. “Does this mean you don’t hate me?” she asks, her forehead resting against his collarbone and the soft cotton of his T-shirt.
Clark smiles into her hair and places a chaste kiss on the top of her head. “I could never hate you,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling pleasantly next to her rib cage. “I’m just wondering what took you so long.”
“I knew it,” she groans. “You’re never going to let me live this down.”
* * * * *
Mayson drags the fingers of her good hand through her curls and settles against the overstuffed couch cushions. “What time is it?”
Scardino, double-checking the windows in the living room, glances at his watch. “Almost three.”
“That’s it?”
He laughs humorlessly. “Not late enough for you?”
“I just thought it took a lot longer,” she says, furrowing her brow. “The paramedics, Henderson and those two other officers, all those questions ... ” She stares down at her cast.
Scardino steps closer. “Do you mind?” He gestures toward the couch.
“Not at all. Sit.”
Scardino sits and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He keeps his eyes on the coffee table. “Are you all right?”
One corner of her mouth quirks. “Are you seriously asking me that question?”
Scardino ducks his head, sheepish. “Yeah, I guess it’s a pretty stupid one.”
“You know what else is stupid?” she asks. “I thought those glass-cutter things only existed in the movies.”
Scardino cocks his head toward Mayson’s closed bedroom door. “I’d say the perfectly round hole in your window blows that theory out of the proverbial water.”
Mayson almost smiles. “You don’t say.”
They’re silent then, each lost in their own thoughts.
Mayson gingerly draws her legs underneath her and leans against the arm of the couch. “I froze, Dan,” she quietly confesses. “He was standing over me with that knife and told me not to make a sound or he’d drag you into the room and kill you first while I watched — and I just ...
froze.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
“Hey,” Scardino says gently, turning toward her and hesitantly placing his fingertips on her knee. “It’s all right.”
Mayson shakes her head. “No. It’s not. I’ve never done that before.” Her hazel eyes meet Scardino’s gray ones. “I’m so sorry. I just — I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
Scardino nearly laughs out loud before he realizes it really isn’t all that funny. “I’m supposed to be protecting
you, in case you forgot,” he reminds her.
“You did.”
Scardino’s mouth tightens. “I almost didn’t.”
“But you
did.” She swallows. “I — I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been here. As soon as you tackled him, the knife flew out of his hand.”
Scardino shakes his head. “I didn’t even know about the knife until you told me it had skittered under the bed.” He chortles derisively. “Some hero, huh?”
“What’s this?” Mayson asks, only half-teasing. “You mean you don’t know everything, after all?”
Scardino shakes his head again. “Please, Mayson, let’s not do this right now. The banter, the verbal sparring, sure, we’re good at it, but right now ... ” He lets out a long breath and rakes a hand through his hair. “You know, for a second, I thought that bullet hit you instead of that thug.”
Mayson’s heart lurches. “Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh’ is right.”
“That’s my line,” she objects, unable to resist.
Scardino doesn’t answer; he stares down at his hands.
“Well,” Mayson says slowly, “since we’re laying our cards on the table, so to speak, I have a confession.”
Scardino scratches at the stubble along his jaw. “Ordinarily, I’d have some sort of glib remark at the ready, but instead, I’ll just say that I’m listening.”
She twists the hem of her oversized Yale sweatshirt between her fingers. “I’m glad that bullet is lodged in his spine. I’m glad he might be paralyzed. I’m not even sure I want him to regain consciousness.” She swallows. “Isn’t that awful? I’m so angry right now. I’m angry and I feel just — violated. It’s happening all over again.” She blows out a short breath, determined not to cry.
Scardino scoots closer and places his hand over her good one in silent support.
“This hurts so much — it’s like emotional rape. Having some stranger break into my apartment — my home — and threaten me — god, Dan, he was going to — ” She closes her eyes, willing her voice to stop shaking. “I’m just doing my job, you know? Too well, I guess, if Intergang really is behind all this.” Her entire body is trembling now.
“Mayson — ” Scardino begins, but the sympathy she hears in those two syllables is more than she can withstand.
“No,” she protests in a tiny voice. “You’re not allowed to be nice right now. It’ll make me cry and I don’t want to do that.” She sniffles. “I hate crying.”
Scardino leans toward her. “Mayson?”
She refuses to look at him, staring hard into the empty fireplace instead. “No.”
“Mayson.”
She shakes her head.
Scardino reaches out and gingerly brings his fingertips to her cheek, careful of the bruises still staining her jaw.
She closes her eyes, but a single tear escapes.
Scardino brushes it away with the pad of his thumb. “It’s all right to be angry,” he whispers, his voice close to her ear. “And it’s more than all right to cry.”
“No,” she frowns. “It’s so ... ”
“Messy?” Scardino supplies with the ghost of a grin. “I know. And uncontrollable. And your face gets all blotchy.” He tucks a blond curl behind her ear. “But I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do.” Mayson’s voice is thick. “It’s just — it’s so weak.”
Scardino stiffens. “Is that what you think?”
“Well ... yeah.”
“Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does.”
She sighs and draws in a breath as deep as her ribs allow. “When I was twelve, I wasn’t allowed to cry at my mom’s funeral. My father always said crying is for the weak.”
Scardino feels something dark and cold wrap around his intestines. “You weren’t
allowed? What kind of sick rule is that?”
She turns her head away. “I have no idea why I just told you that. I’m — god, I must be more tired than I thought.”
The silence stretches between them before Scardino speaks again.
“I lost it completely at my best friend’s funeral.”
Mayson’s expression softens. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” He bows his head. “We’d been friends for a long time. We grew up together, moved through the ranks in the DEA together.”
Mayson is almost afraid to ask for more information, but her curiosity wins out. “What happened? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Scardino licks his lips. “We’d been working on a big case for almost a year and a half, trying to pin these huge shipments to organized crime in Metropolis. One night about eight months ago, my buddy and I caught one of those shipments coming in down at the docks near Suicide Slum.” His voice grows husky and he stares at Mayson’s cast, studying it intently. “It turned into a firefight and things got ugly fast. Paul got hit trying to cover me. He — he died in the ambulance.”
“Oh god.” She squeezes Scardino’s hand with her good one. “I — ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t even begin to — who was responsible?”
Scardino’s liquid gunmetal stare slides to Mayson’s bruised face, locking onto her searching gaze.
“Intergang.”
