I'm very late with feedback, Crystal, Sorry.
After the incredible intensity of the previous chapter, this one provides a much needed interlude of calm. Not only that, but there is the feeling of the protagonists coming clean with one another.
Lois stomach clenched and her jaw tightened. “All right,” she said in a low voice, staring at her feet. “I have to tell you something.”
Clark stepped back to give her some space and leaned against the counter. “Shoot.”
She finally met his gaze, and he was startled to see her eyes were red-rimmed.
“You have to understand that this is ... well, it’s pretty bad,” she whispered. “And every time I even think about it, it turns my stomach. It makes me absolutely sick, Clark.”
This is intense.
Clark raised 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 smoothed 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.”
It's in the middle of the night, she called him and asked him to come to her, and now she can only talk about her pajamas.
Clark almost laughed, but the pain in her eyes brought him up short. “It’s fine. Lois, you know I don’t care what you’re wearing.”
“You’re right.” She nodded, more to herself than to Clark. “Of course you’re right. You’re my best friend. You don’t care.”
“Exactly.”
"You don't care" - that could mean that Lois knows that Clark won't be bothered by what she is wearing, but it
could just possibly imply that Lois thinks that Clark couldn't care less about her clothing, because he isn't attracted to her anyway. Maybe she believes - or fears - that that she is just a friend to him, and she can never be more than that.
She pulled in a deep breath and held Clark’s gaze. “I hate that Mayson likes you.”
Clark’s mouth dropped open. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but he knew it wasn’t that. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammered. “What?”
Mortified, Lois buried her face in her hands. “I hate it,” she said 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.”
Oh, poor Lois.
Clark shook his head, at a loss. This was not happening. It was some dream, yoinked from the evil, cruel depths of his subconscious. He wasn’t standing in Lois Lane’s kitchen at nearly one in the morning while she — his partner, his best friend, the woman he’d loved since they’d first met more than a year ago — confessed that she was —
“Jealous,”
Yes! She
is jealous, Clark! She has just confessed that she loves you, that she wants you, and that she is so jealous of Mayson!
“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.”
Oh, so adorable. I love that "like-like" expression.
“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.”
Oh, so adorably Lois!!!
Clark didn’t say anything. He couldn’t seem to synchronize his brain and his mouth.
And this is so adorable, too!
“Oh, God. Say something,” Lois pleaded, 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 stepped closer and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Shh.” He pulled her toward him and it was all she could do not to sag gratefully into his embrace. He wrapped his arms around her wordlessly.
I wish she would have allowed herself to sag.
Clark smiled into her hair and placed a chaste kiss on the top of her head. “I could never hate you, Lois,” he murmured, his voice rumbling pleasantly next to her rib cage. “I’m just wondering what took you so long.”
“I knew it,” she groaned. “You’re never going to let me live this down.”
Scardino shook his head. “I didn’t even know about the knife until you told me it had skittered under the bed.” He chortled derisively. “Some hero, huh?”
“What’s this?” Mayson asked, only half-teasing. “You mean you don’t know everything, after all?”
Scardino shook 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 let out a long breath and ran a hand distractedly through his disheveled hair. “You know, for a second, I thought that bullet hit you instead of that thug.”
Mayson’s heart lurched. “Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh’ is right.”
“That’s my line,” she objected, unable to resist.
I love their mixture of banter and seriousness.
“Well,” Mayson said slowly, “since we’re laying our cards on the table, so to speak, I have a confession.”
Scardino looked over at her and scratched 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 twisted 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 swallowed thickly. “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 blew out a short breath, determined not to cry.
Well, Lois had a confession to make, and Mayson has one, too.
“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 stopped short and closed her eyes, willing her voice to stop shaking. “I’m just doing my job, you know? Too well, I suppose, if Intergang really is behind all this.” Her entire body was shaking now.
“Mayson — ” Scardino began, but the sympathy she heard in those two syllables was more than she could withstand.
“No,” she said in a tiny voice, holding up one finger to silence him. “You’re not allowed to be nice right now. It’ll make me cry and I don’t want to do that.” She sniffled. “I hate crying.”
Scardino leaned toward her. “Mayson?”
She refused to look at him and stared hard into the empty fireplace. “No.”
“Mayson.”
She shook her head.
Scardino reached out and gingerly brought his fingertips to her cheek, careful of the bruises still staining her jaw.
Mayson so needs to cry, but she won't allow herself. It's heartbreaking.
Scardino brushed it away. “It’s all right to be angry,” he whispered, his voice close to her ear. “And it’s more than all right to cry.”
“But I don’t want to,” she frowned. “It’s so ... ”
“Messy?” Scardino supplied with the ghost of a grin. “I know. And uncontrollable. And your face gets all blotchy.” He tucked an errand blond curl behind her ear. “But I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do.” Mayson’s voice was thick. “It’s the ultimate sign of weakness, you know.”
Scardino stiffened. “Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Mayson.”
She sighed and drew in a breath as deep as her ribs would allow. “My father, when I was twelve. I wasn’t allowed to cry at my mom’s funeral.”
Oh, the scars that we carry because our parents tried to instil us with the right values.
The silence stretched between them before Scardino spoke.
“It’s all right, you know. I lost it completely at my best friend’s funeral.”
Mayson’s expression softened. “Oh, Dan — I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
And finally Scardino makes a confession, too.
Mayson drew in a horrified breath. “Oh, God.” She squeezed Scardino’s hand with her good one. “I — ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t even begin to express it. Who was responsible?”
Scardino’s liquid gunmetal stare slid to Mayson’s bruised face, locking onto her searching gaze.
“Intergang.”
Well, Mayson and Scardino certainly have a common enemy.
Beautifully written as always, Crystal.
Ann
and 