Title: A Million Little Pieces (14/20 ... ish)
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 Part Thirteen ---------------------------------------
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?— “Chasing Cars,” Snow Patrol
Mayson licks her lips. “Intergang?” she parrots dumbly.
Scardino gives a barely perceptible nod, and for the first time, she notices the shadows of exhaustion haunting his features.
“I ... ” Mayson closes her eyes, thinking she might vomit.
What do you say to a man who lost his best friend to a phantom crime organization?But then her eyes snap open.
“That’s why you’re here — why you wanted this assignment.”
Scardino cocks one eyebrow. “It was a factor, yeah.”
Don’t react, Mayson tells herself, doing her best to quell the unbidden disappointment flaring in the pit of her stomach.
Sure, he’s witty and insanely attractive and has great teeth, but it’s not like that means anything — he’s just a glorified babysitter. It’s just business, not personal.
Mayson swallows, her mouth dry. “So babysitting me is just a stepping stone.”
He frowns. “When you phrase it like that — ”
Mayson squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Wow. That might be the most insensitive thing I’ve ever said — and that’s saying a lot, coming from a lawyer.” She meets Scardino’s unreadable gray eyes. “I’m really sorry. For that and for ... everything,” she finishes lamely, unable to voice anything more.
“No need to apologize,” Scardino assures her gently. One corner of his mouth quirks into a half-smile. “Besides, you can’t go breaking character on me now. The perk of this particular assignment has been trading barbs with you.”
Mayson almost chortles, grateful for his attempt to steer the conversation back to banter. “Perk, huh? Singular?”
“The company of a bombshell isn’t half bad, either,” he drawls with a shrug.
“Yeah?” Mayson cranes her neck. “Where is she? I’d like to meet her.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re too self-deprecating for your own good?”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re too flippant for yours?”
Scardino raises his hands in mock surrender. “Truce? Just till the sun comes up?”
“Wimp.” A wide yawn takes Mayson by surprise. She rubs at her still-sore jaw.
“Who’s the wimp now?” Scardino teases. “Walk it off, you big baby.”
“You walk it off,” Mayson retorts. “It hurts when I breathe.
And I’m wearing a cast. I’m allowed to milk this injured shtick for at least another week.”
“Dunno about that ... ”
“You’re done.” Mayson rolls her eyes. “I want a new babysitter. One with actual personality traits, not just deluded and insensitive.”
The laughter in his eyes dims. “I’m glad I’m here.”
You’re not allowed to be nice to me, remember? I can do sarcastic. I can do banter. But nice? No. It brings out the butterflies. And butterflies are the last thing I need. Or want. Especially from a complete stranger.She fidgets, brushing a nonexistent piece of lint from the cuff of her sleeve.
“Really, I am.”
She nods, unable to look at him.
“It made sense for me to take this assignment, you know.” His voice rumbles low and soft beside her, like gravel coated with molasses. “I’ve been building a case against Intergang for a long time, Mayson. It just made sense.”
She still can’t bring herself to look at him, afraid of what she may — or, more accurately, may not — see.
Scardino touches her forearm with his fingertips. “For what it’s worth, and I know that it’s not much — ” He forces a humorless half-chuckle, “I’m really glad I’m here. With you.”
Mayson swallows.
This kind of nice is definitely
not allowed. I’m not even completely over Clark — what am I thinking, developing feelings for a guy who carries a gun and dresses like a Maui tourist? Especially when I’ve been mainlining painkillers for the last four days?She finds her voice at last, silencing the ones in her head. “I bet you say that to all the damsels in distress.”
“Just the pretty ones.” His smile is tinged with something she can’t quite identify.
Sadness?Mayson draws a shaky breath, her ribs punishing her. “I’m glad you’re here, too. You’re almost tolerable, hideous wardrobe choices aside.”
Scardino looks down at his gray sweatpants and white T-shirt. “C’mon, give a guy a little credit. I don’t sleep in my Hawaiian shirts.”
“Shirts? Plural?” Mayson winces. “Oh, boy.”
“It’s great camouflage,” Scardino contends. “You probably don’t realize this, but no one really takes a guy in blinding floral outerwear very seriously.”
Laughter bubbles in Mayson’s throat. “Tell me more, o wise fashion sage.”
Scardino blows out a long-suffering breath and crosses his arms. “Nope. You’re mocking me.”
“Oh, come on! No fair!” Mayson objects. “Besides, this is textbook second-grade playground psychology — I only tease because I care.”
“Aww,” Scardino beams, “you like me — you
really like me.”
“Out with it, aloha boy.”
“Really, that’s the logic behind it. No one takes me seriously in those shirts; I look like less of a threat. Makes it easier to get past people’s defenses. They tend to trust me more, somehow.”
“You can be scarily astute — it’s downright disconcerting.”
“You saying I make you nervous?”
Yes. “No. You make me nauseous.”
“Even better. That means I make you really nervous.”
“You are incorrigible.”
“And you like it.”
Mayson’s response is hindered by another yawn.
“You also need to get some sleep.” Scardino’s gaze shifts to the darkened hallway and her closed bedroom door.
Mayson stiffens.
Not yet.
She can’t go back into her room right now. Not so soon. Not until the window is fixed and the cloying stench of blood is out of the hardwood floor, the walls, the curtains.
Not until she stops seeing a hulking shadow brandishing a knife in every corner of her apartment.
Wordlessly, Scardino settles back into the opposite corner of the plush, oversized sofa and drapes one arm along its back.
“C’mere,” he whispers, so softly that for a moment, Mayson thinks she imagined it.
“Dan — I — that’s above and beyond your call of duty,” she stammers, heat flooding her cheeks.
“That’s where you’re wrong. It’s just a nap on the couch — a fully-clothed nap, I might add.” His voice grows huskier. “It’s perfectly innocent, Mayson.”
“But — I-I can’t — ”
“I just want you to feel safe. And that’s not going to happen if you try to sleep down the hall tonight.”
‘I just want you to feel safe.’She couldn’t stop the tear that rolled down her cheek.
“Careful, or I’ll think you like the idea,” he quips. “Just trust me?”
Mayson can’t vocalize a response. She scoots closer and gingerly tucks her legs beneath her once more, then slowly leans toward Scardino, easing her protesting ribs against his side and making sure her cast doesn’t scrape him.
Finally, she leans her head on his shoulder.
He relaxes and rests his chin on top of her blond curls. “See? Was that so hard?”
No. Terrifying, maybe. But not difficult. Which is what really scares me.
“Yes,” she murmurs against his chest, inhaling the clean scent of laundry detergent and special agent.
“Woman, you are impossible,” Scardino grins. He curls his arm around her shoulder, gently drawing her closer. “Now sleep, okay?”
She closes her eyes and relaxes against him, refusing to analyze why she feels so safe or how he knew she would.
“’Night,” she mumbles, already half-asleep.
Within seconds, Scardino feels her breathing even. He sits, motionless, holding her. He watches her sleep for a long time before closing his own eyes.
* * * * *
“Clark?”
He stirs, lifting his head from the back of the sofa. “Yeah?”
“Is this okay?”
“Is what okay?”
“This.” Lois scoots away, taking his arm from her shoulder and turns sideways to face him, her features pensive. “What we’re doing. We’re — we’re almost happy. Functional. Is that all right?”
Clark yawns and rubs his eyes behind his glasses. “Considering I’ve never been happier, I don’t see how it’s a bad thing. I mean, I’m still in a little bit of shock, but — ”
“I’m serious,” Lois interrupts, frowning. “It feels so strange to be so content when Mayson is hurt and we still haven’t gotten this Bill Church hunch hammered out and haven’t put together the Intergang — ”
“Lois — ”
“And there’s still so much we don’t — ”
“Lois — ”
“ ... have any real leads on and what if we’re — ”
“Lo-is.”
She stops and gives him a sheepish, tired smile. “I’m babbling again. Sorry. I just — ”
“No.” Clark pulls her toward him. “What you’re going to do is relax, close your eyes and get some sleep.”
“But — ”
“No buts.” Clark places a gentle kiss on her forehead. “It’s almost four in the morning. We’ll figure everything else out after the sun rises. Just come here, please?”
“I feel almost obligated to object here, if only for the sake of argument,” Lois says, “but you’re awfully comfortable.”
Clark grins. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Lois settles against his side and rests her head against his shoulder. “You,” she whispers before closing her eyes. “My whole life, I’ve been waiting for you.”
Clark’s breath hitches.
“And,” she warns, “if you ever tell another soul what a closet sap I am, I’ll have to kill you.”
He laughs and presses a kiss against her hair. “Good night, Lois.”
She snuggles against him and drapes one arm across his stomach. “Good night, Clark.”
