Fear
It was Lex's birthday, and he had decided to do what all rich young people did: invite everyone he knew between the ages of 18 and 35 to party at his house. When planning, he knew there had to be too many people and too much booze. He hired a DJ to play music he didn't like and dancers to perform entertainment that he wouldn't partake in. He milled about, accepting well-wishes and socializing. The one thing he hadn't counted on was how drunk he was going to get.
He lost track of how much alcohol he consumed, since every time he put down a glass, someone was offering him another one. Some of his male guests made him accept a dance, then he careened away, only to be pulled in to drink shots with some other people. He had never been so tipsy in his life, and he was having fun with it.
Eventually, he got tired of all the loud noises and bodies pressed against him, so he retreated to the study. He locked the heavy doors behind him and wandered over to the fireplace, holding a tall glass of beer. He smiled cheerfully as he raised it to his lips. Through the bottom of the glass, he saw the painting of the war in heaven across the room. The image was warped, but he could make out the earthy tones and flesh colors. He lowered the glass and looked at it. It was grotesque and beautiful, and it had always given off a foreboding aura.
Suddenly, he was struck with terror. He ran to the couch and threw himself upon it, turning his back to the painting and covering his head with his hand. For a panicked minute, he was certain that at any moment, one of the sinewy monsters, either a devil or an angel, was going to leap from the canvas, land with a thud on the wooden floor, and launch itself at him. It would claw and pound at his helpless body till there was nothing left. Only then would the painting be satisfied. It wanted to destroy him. It wanted to break everything that he was, just like his father.
When the panic subsided, he lowered his hand.
"How silly I am," he thought.
He sat up slowly and looked defiantly at the painting. It was nothing. Just brushstrokes on a canvas, just an imagined scene. It couldn't hurt him. He picked up the beer glass, which he had unknowingly dropped on the floor, and set it on the coffee table in front of him. Then, he walked over to the table underneath the painting. He grabbed the whisky decanter and filled up one of the glasses. He took a long drink while staring fiercely at the figures.
"I'm not scared of you," he said in a rough voice.
He turned around to face the rest of the room.
"I'm not scared of you! I'm not scared of you, Father!" he yelled with his arms outstretched.
This room was meant to be his trophy. The rest of the house had been heavily renovated after his father's death, but this one remained untouched as proof that he had won. He had the power now. This was his throne room, and he had no reason to fear it. At least, that's what he told himself.
He grabbed the decanter and staggered over to the couch again. He plopped down and guzzled the rest of the whiskey in his glass. He tried to drink straight from the decanter, but ended up spilling on his shirt and jacket. He cursed under his breath, and filled up the glass again. Every time he emptied it, his mind became hazier, more devoid of emotion, so he kept going. He lost track of how many drinks he had before he lay down and passed out with one arm hanging off the side of the couch.
''''''''''''
He felt himself swaying. There was nothing beneath him, and he wondered if he was floating. He opened his eyes and saw Mercy's face above him. She was looking straight ahead. She was always so exact, from her flawless skin, to her precise haircut.
"Mercy," he mumbled.
She looked at him, and he smiled. He reached up with his left hand and touched her jaw.
"My…dear…Mercy."
He tried to lift his head to kiss her, but it took too much effort, so he let it loll back and his hand drop back down. The next thing he knew, she was tucking him into bed.
"Mm, you're so good to me, Mercy."
She picked up a glass of water from his bedside table and put her hand behind his head to lift it forward.
"Drink some water," she said, putting the glass to his lips.
He didn't care to drink any more, but she was touching him, so he obliged her. She made him take a long sip, then another.
After the third, he pulled away and muttered, "No more."
She let him rest his head back on the pillow. His eyes drifted closed a couple times as he watched her cross the room and shut the curtains.
"Where are the people?" he asked suddenly.
"They're gone. They went home."
"Good. That's good."
She came back to stand beside him. She had a tender smile on her face, the likes of which he had never seen. She reached down to brush some hair away from his forehead, then ran her fingers down the side of his face.
"Go to sleep, Mr. Luthor," she said affectionately.
He stared at her, and she turned away and walked toward the door. He realized that he was going to be alone.
"Mercy," he called in a higher pitch than normal.
She stopped and turned around.
"Would you…would you like to come in bed with me?"
She blinked, and her mouth actually fell open a little.
"Oh…Sir," she said and looked down with a bashful smile, "I don't think so, Sir."
"We don't have to do anything. Just…lay with me?"
She was still smiling slightly as she looked at him.
"I'll sit with you till you fall asleep, if that's alright."
"Yes."
She pulled up an armchair from the other side of the room and sat beside him. He watched her watch him till his eyelids became too heavy.
''''''''''''
Lex woke up late the next morning with the worst hangover in history. Even the crack of light from the slight break in the curtains hurt his eyes. He groaned as he sat up and was quickly struck by the explosive pain of his headache. He gripped his skull, squeezed his eyes shut, and gritted his teeth. When the initial shock of pain died down, he crawled gingerly out of bed and shuffled to the en suite bathroom. After adjusting to the bathroom light, he looked at himself in the mirror. He'd gone to bed in his suit, which was stained with alcohol, and he looked like he had aged a decade since last night. Cursing, he found a bottle of Aleve and took three. As he brushed his teeth, he tried to remember what happened the previous night. He recalled partying, then going into the study, but that was it.
He walked back into the bedroom, sat on the edge of the mattress, and called his chef to ask for a hearty breakfast. He rubbed his eyes and let out a heaving sigh.
"I am never doing one of those stupid parties again."
He took a cold shower, put on a sweatshirt and jeans, and headed down to the dining room. His breakfast was already waiting for him, but he had to close all the blinds before sitting down to eat. He had fried eggs, sausage, blueberry pancakes, and a tall glass of orange juice. He grabbed the juice first, and it was all he could do to leave room for the food.
He had been eating for about 15 minutes when Mercy wordlessly entered the room and stood several feet away. He swallowed his mouthful.
"Good morning, Mercy."
"Good morning, Mr. Luthor."
"I'm having the worst hangover of all time. Remind me to never host one of those things again."
"Have you taken any medicine?"
"Yes, but come to think of it, could you bring me some more?"
She left and came back a couple minutes later with the bottle. He took one more with his juice.
"Would you like some water, Sir?"
"Oh God, yes."
She left again, and as he watched her, he got the vague impression that he had seen her last night. He shouldn't have, since she'd been upstairs the whole time to be on call in case he needed her. Then, it dawned on him: Maybe he hadn't found his own way to bed.
She returned and handed him the water, which he finished in a matter of seconds. At that point, he was too full of liquid to eat anymore. He sighed as he stood up and faced her.
"Everything went smoothly last night, Mercy?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Nothing to be concerned about?"
"No."
He nodded, and a smile tugged a little at the corner of his mouth.
"Alright then, what are we doing today?"