Title: A Million Little Pieces (11/?)
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 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: My finicky muse has been on hiatus for a cringe-inducing five months, 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 ---------------------------------------
You’re so beautiful with an edge and a charm
But so careful when I’m in your arms
‘Cause you’re working, building a mystery
Holding on and holding it in— “Building a Mystery,” Sarah McLachlan
Click.
Squinting through the zoom lens, the shooter stills his finger against the shutter. Though he’s an apt lip-reader, the angle makes it nearly impossible to decipher what the two reporters are saying.
Frustrated, he shakes his head and resumes his work.
Click. Click.
If only these two had stayed in Lane’s apartment. With a recorded conversation, he could easily hand over any pertinent information to his boss. As it is, he risks blowing his cover if he steps inside the tiny coffee shop; he’ll be far too conspicuous in such a small space. He’ll simply have to keep a close eye on Lane and Kent when they leave.
Click. Click. Click.
* * * * *
“What if Bill Church is behind all this?” Lois asks without preamble.
Clark sputters and nearly chokes on his white chocolate mocha. Clearing his throat, he surreptitiously glances around the bustling, cozy coffeehouse, looking for anyone who appears more than just casually interested in their conversation.
“Ah — what?”
Lois furrows her brow and stares hard into her nonfat latte. When her eyes meet Clark’s, he can see the excited resolve that lights her brown gaze. It’s the same look that terrifies reluctant, wishy-washy sources.
“Think about it,” she says, tapping her temple with her index finger. “Cost Mart’s been hit the hardest by all these break-ins, right?”
Clark nods hesitantly. “So? There are a lot of Cost Marts. More locations invariably mean a higher probability of getting robbed.”
“But what if that’s not it?” Lois counters. “Just because the simplest explanation is usually the right one doesn’t mean there aren’t exceptions.”
“You think Bill Church is robbing himself?” Clark frowns. “His own stores?”
Lois nods and reaches for her mug. “And he’s collecting — ”
“Insurance!” Clark interjects.
“Give the man a Double-Fudge Crunch bar,” Lois beams, taking a sip of coffee.
Clark licks his lips. Why didn’t he think of this particular angle?
“Lois, if you’re right, then we’re accusing Metropolis’ golden businessman of grand theft, fraud, embezzlement — ”
“No,” Lois interrupts, ignoring the confusion clouding Clark’s features. “We’re accusing him of being the man behind Intergang.”
* * * * *
“Mayson.”
The voice sounds familiar, but Mayson is too frightened to analyze its source.
“No.” She shakes her head. There isn’t time to stop. She has to keep running.
“Mayson?”
“No,” she mutters again, annoyed. Doesn’t the voice know she’s being chased? She concentrates on her breathing, on the rhythm of her running shoes pounding the hard dirt path.
But then she’ sprawled on the cold ground, unable to pull in another breath. Her lungs burn and her ribs are on fire. A shadowy stranger hovers over her.
Please, she longs to say.
Don’t.
“Mayson!”
“No!” Her eyes snap open and she gasps. The too-white confines of her hospital room seem almost cruelly perfect, awash in harsh relief from the fluorescent light just above her bed.
“That must’ve been one hell of a nightmare,” Scardino says quietly, his gray eyes studying her face as he stands by her side.
Mayson is shaking. “God,” she chokes, bringing a trembling, cast-covered hand to shield her face and hide the tears that threaten to spill. She doesn’t want to cry. Not now. Not in front of a near-stranger. Her right hand fists into the starchy blanket by her hip.
“Hey.” Scardino touches her shoulder gently. “It’s all right.”
A half-sob escapes her throat.
Scardino crouches beside her.
“Mayson?”
Her face is hot and a faraway waterfall roars in her ears. She’s becoming one of those women she loves to hate — overly emotional and easily spooked. And so close to losing it. Scardino’s concern is about to push her over the edge.
“Please, don’t,” she whispers with obvious pain.
But Scardino frowns and his fingers graze her forearm. “Look at me.”
“No.”
“Please.” He covers her clammy fist with a warm hand, careful of the IV taped there.
His touch — such a simple gesture — shreds the last vestiges of Mayson’s control. Scalding tears run down her bruised cheeks and her broken ribs scream from the silent sobs racking her body.
It isn’t fair. It isn't fair. Those three words echo in her ears, louder than her erratic heartbeat. A four-year-old’s refrain, stuck on repeat.
It just isn’t fair.
Some nameless, faceless thug has hurt her — caught her alone and off-guard, kicked her and beaten her and scared her — for doing her job. She’s just doing her job. And it nearly cost Mayson her life.
And just hours earlier, if Clark hadn’t come back to her room when he did ...
She cries harder, gripping Scardino’s hand.
Scardino wants to hold her, but he’s afraid he’ll hurt her. So he waits patiently, letting her cry, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the back of her hand, tracing the edges of the IV tape.
Mayson is grateful for his unspoken support. If he tries to comfort her, it’ll only made her cry harder, and she isn’t sure her ribs can take the extra punishment.
After almost ten minutes, she’s spent.
“Sorry,” she manages, her voice breaking. She takes a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”
Scardino stands and hands her a box of tissues from the nightstand. “Don’t be.”
“Thanks.” Mayson blows her nose, suddenly self-conscious. She runs a hand through her tangled blond curls. “I hate crying,” she grumbles, dabbing gingerly at her wet cheeks. “It’s so … ugh, what’s the word?”
“Human?” Scardino cracks with a wry grin.
“Oh, shut up,” Mayson groans. “It’s messy and uncontrollable and my face gets all blotchy and — ” She sucks in a painful breath. “I think it broke another rib.”
Scardino’s expression grows serious. “Can I get you anything? Want me to call the nurse?”
Mayson shakes her head, sniffling. “I’m fine.”
“Clearly.” He holds her red-rimmed gaze. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She licks her dry lips. “About what?”
“About this,” Scardino says, gesturing to her bed. “About what happened.” He pulls the chair closer to her side and sits down.
“I — no.” She can’t bring herself to meet his eyes, filled with questions she doesn’t want to answer.
Scardino settles back in his seat. “Fair enough.”
Mayson swallows past the lump in her throat. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
For understanding. “For being here.”
A smile tugs at one corner of Scardino’s mouth. “All in a day’s work, ma’am.”
Mayson chortles. “I guess you say that to all the ladies.”
“Just the pretty ones.”
“Is misogyny a prerequisite for your line of work?”
“Dodging honest compliments one for yours?”
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Mayson retorts hotly. “I’m going to sleep.”
“I’ll be right here if you need anything,” Scardino says, laughter in his eyes.
For the first time since she woke up in the hospital two days ago, Mayson feels strangely comforted.
Must be the painkillers, she tells herself as she closes her eyes, refusing to believe warm relief settling in her chest had anything to do with Agent Call-Me-Daniel Scardino.
* * * * *
“Are you serious?”
“Why not?” Lois shoots back. “It makes just as much sense as any other possibility. And what if his name was on that piece of paper in Mayson’s apartment because he was a
suspect, not a potential source? What if she got too close to the truth and that’s why she was attacked?”
“But Lois, this is — ” Clark stops to lower his voice. “It’s
Bill Church,” he hisses, looking around for eavesdroppers. “It’s kind of a big deal. He’s so respected in the community and — I mean, really? He’s like everyone’s rich grandpa.”
Lois’ jaw visibly drops. “Where are your instincts, Clark? Did you leave them on the farm? Being a well-liked, prominent executive in Metropolis is the perfect cover! Look how easily it worked for Le — ” The name dies in her throat and she looks into her now-empty mug, wishing she could leap inside and disappear.
Clark flushes and stares at his hands. “You’re right,” he says quietly.
The silence stretches, forcing an invisible, Lex Luthor-sized wedge between them.
Lois clears her throat. “Sorry.”
Clark shoots her a small but generous smile. “No need.”
She almost wants to hug him. Or kiss him. “Thanks,” she whispers, her cheeks burning.
Clark drains his oversized cup and sets it down on the table.
“This is big,” he says simply, staring at the scuffed wooden surface.
Lois nods, her fingers itching to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. She laces them instead. “Yeah.”
“All right, then.” Clark lifts his eyes to meet her honey-brown gaze. “But before we go any further with this, I want to call in a favor from Superman.”
Lois’ eyebrows shoot up, but before she can ask, Clark holds up a hand.
“Just trust me on this one, all right?”
* * * * *
“They’re gone, sir.”
“Gone!” Bill Church roars into the receiver, his white-knuckled grip causing the hard plastic to creak. “I want to know how!”
The man winces. “I — uh, I saw Superman fly in Lane’s window and the next thing I know, we lost audio. He must’ve — ”
“Taken out the damned bugs! I got that, genius!” Church barks. He pauses and lowers his voice. “Stay put. Keep watching Lane. I want to know every move she makes.”
“Of c-course, sir. What about Kent?”
“Like I said, keep both eyes on Lane. I trust her a lot less than I trust Kent. She’s the brains behind that team, and besides, where you find her, you usually find him.”
“Will do.”
“You’d better! And watch out for that overgrown Boy Scout in tights.”
Church slams the phone onto its cradle and passes a hand over his balding pate. At this rate, he might have to send another lackey to dispose of the assistant district attorney earlier than he originally anticipated.
He takes a deep breath. Tomorrow or two weeks from now, what does it matter? Mayson Drake is as good as dead anyway.
