All previous disclaimers apply.
Revised previous chapter 21 for language as of 06 / 05 / 06.
A big thank you as always to my lovely and patient beta, SS4EVA! To ALL of you who have taken the time to review: Thank you so much -- your feedback helps sustain me! And now, on with our story. Enjoy!
Chapter 22
Warmth was a concept Clark had always had trouble with. He could easily withstand temperatures that might have scalded the flesh from anyone else, but that didn't mean that he didn't feel them. He could tell when something was hot, or cold, but it was the degrees that were harder to define. To him, there was little difference between room temperature and sticking his hand in a fire. If he really concentrated, he could tell one was hotter than the other, but the difference was truly slight to him.
But awaking to Leo snuggling against his side, feeling her pressed against his chest, gave him a new insight into what warmth really meant.
It might have just been an overactive imagination, or his powers picking up the slight vibrations, but he could have sworn he felt her heart beating against his chest. What he knew was he could feel was her breath against his neck and her arm draped across his chest.
And her snoring in his ear.
Well, maybe 'snoring' isn't the right word.
It sounded more like a soft, rhythmic purring that Clark found oddly relaxing. He instinctively squeezed his arms around her a little tighter, burying his nose in the soft vanilla scent of her hair. Clark loved that smell; it reminded him of his mom's pound cake and filled him with comforting thoughts of home.
Under other circumstances, waking up in an unfamiliar, sterile, windowless hospital room and being hooked up by electrodes to a bunch of electronic monitors would have freaked him out, but having Leo there went a long way to calming him down.
'This is nice,' he thought absently. If this was a dream, it sure was a pleasant one.
Some muttering broke into his thoughts. Leo, dressed in a rumpled blood-stained silk blouse and skirt, lay curled up beside him. With one hand clenched around her cell phone, the other clung to his arm like a barnacle to a boat's hull. Through her sheer stockings, he noticed her toenails were still painted a bright crimson. He grinned, fondly recalling the afternoon he had first seen her painted toenails.
Clark noticed she slept restlessly, with small squirming motions; for a moment, her nose twitched as she nuzzled her cheek against his bare chest…
Wait a minute – am I naked?
Clark hurriedly ran his hands over himself, confirming that he at least had a partial paper gown covering his lower half. However, while clutching at his bed sheet, he inadvertently jostled Leo awake.
She awoke to a pair of comforting blue-green eyes on her.
Their gazes locked.
"Hi." He greeted softly. Her arms, now wrapped around his middle, tightened around him. It was a fractional movement. A meaningful movement.
"How do you feel?" she whispered, afraid this was a dream – a dream where she awoke and still found him slumbering forever. Most of his wounds appeared to be healed, but a cold ball of lead still sank into her stomach as she looked him over.
"Mmm…tired," he breathed. "But I'll be fine." His arm wound around her, his free hand unconsciously entwined with hers, trying to draw solace from her touch.
Leo frowned, her brows knotting together, worry lines etched on her face. He's still a terrible liar. From his body motion and the withdrawal in his eyes, she knew something was wrong.
"Don't lie to me," she warned sharply, the piercing look from her searching eyes penetrating his deceit, even as she inwardly shriveled with panic.
He sat up on the bed, his back propped against a pillow, Leo's lithe form curled next to him. The harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent lights bothered him – he instinctively sought out the warm, reassuring embrace of the sun, but he couldn't find it.
He tried again to look through the ceiling to world outside and then the wall, but to no avail. His vision couldn't penetrate!
"It's not working," Clark blurted out. "I can't see through the walls. Where are we?"
Uh oh. "Don't worry, Clark. We're at a private medical research facility in Metropolis." Noting Clark's alarmed expression, Leo quickly explained, "Your secret is still safe. This place is owned by Leocorp, not my father, and I'm the only one here who knows the truth about you. The room is private, and the building is totally secure."
"But my powers, my x-ray vision…"
"Lead paint," Leo replied. "The building is a little old, and I still haven't replaced it yet," she lied. Actually, all the rooms in every secure section at Leocorp were lined with lead, but that was a precaution she didn't feel compelled to share with Clark. Leocorp was engaged in a myriad of clandestine projects that Clark might not fully appreciate or understand.
Case in point: Clark's current room was also the same place Dr. Sutherland had performed the autopsy on Dr. Hamilton's body.
Leo mentally categorized details like that on a running list of "Things-Clark-Never-Needs-To-Know."
"Try to conserve your strength for now," she counseled. "Or maybe you could tell me what happened?" she asked, eager to divert the conversation to more constructive ground.
Clark recounted what little he remembered, but it seemed he hadn'tmany details about his assailant. Clark couldn't even remember the blood sample his attacker had collected after his beating.
Still, Leo felt compelled to convey the information she had collected from him to the small army of private investigators and law enforcement agents she had begun organizing the previous evening.
But as she rose to leave, Clark gently tugged on her arm. "Umm, would you mind sticking around for a little while?" he asked, his embarrassment obvious.
What am I, a three-year-old?
But he was recovering from the only serious beating of his life and surrounded by an alien environment – he only wanted some company.
And anyways, he also enjoyed his physical proximity to Leo too. Oddly enough, the thought of curling around Leo in bed didn't make him blush this time…
"Maybe later, Clark, after I convey your information to my people in the field."
"Oh, okay," he nodded forlornly.
Shit. He was leveling that puppy dog expression at her, like she'd just drowned a litter of kittens in front of him. While Leo briefly resented him for having that much influence over her, part of her really didn't mind.
Leo sighed and resumed her place next to him. "But I suppose that can wait. It is rather comfortable here," she admitted. Panic and worry aside, she had just enjoyed her most fitful few hours of unbroken sleep in a very long time.
And Clark's pecs do make such wonderful pillows…
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"How much further?" Slade demanded.
"Not much – the car is parked on the top tier of the garage," Mayson explained as they waited in the elevator. "You know, we could have gotten here much faster if we took my car."
"I prefer the bus." There's less chance of my getting ambushed that way.
"I could have just told you where the pick up was," she countered, "So you could get it yourself."
"I wanted the company." In case you send me to pick up a ticking bomb instead of my fee.
Mayson rolled her eyes at his obvious paranoia. It wasn't even as if she was planning on killing him. Mr. Luthor's instructions were clear: he was only to be incapacitated – under no circumstances is he to be killed or any of his internal organs physically damaged. Mayson was a little puzzled by the odd specificity of Mr. Luthor's instructions, but she shrugged it off.
'To each his own,' she thought dismissively. During her relatively brief career at Wolfram and Hart, she had already fulfilled more bizarre requests for the firm's roster of clients. She took pride in delivering what they demanded, and the firm had a reputation to uphold.
Still, Mayson would have preferred to take him down in Mr. Luthor's office, but her client had vetoed that idea outright.
Mr. Luthor claimed he didn't want any violence in the building.
Mayson suspected he was more concerned with keeping his own ass out of harm's way.
Whatever the reasoning, Mayson felt obligated to execute her client's wishes.
Exiting from the elevator at the top floor of the parking structure, Mayson led Slade to a gray Chevy sedan on the far side of the floor. A plain white van, parked several spaces down from the car, was the only other vehicle on the floor at this late hour.
They walked side by side in silence. Slade continued scanning the deserted parking level for any potential threats.
This smells like a trap. Literally. His enhanced nostrils detected a faint whiff of Aqua Velva aftershave. He doubted that scent belonged to Mayson.
"Here we are!" she gestured cheerfully towards the Chevy, tossing him the keys.
He tossed them back. "You open the trunk." He eyed Mayson steadily, keeping the parked van in his peripheral vision at all times.
Mayson raised an amused eyebrow. "Looks like someone's got trust issues." Inserting the key into the lock, she popped the trunk and retrieved a small satchel. "Satisfied?"
"Open the bag."
Mayson complied, then showed Slade the contents. "See? No rubber snakes, no fake vomit, just…"
"Toss it to me." Catching the bag, Slade reached in and pulled out one of the bond certificates inside. Somehow, the bag seemed far too small to contain this much money. Inspecting the certificates for a moment, they looked real, except…
"Wait a minute," Slade growled. "These bonds have expiration dates. Bearer bonds don't expire!" he snarled. Digging through the rest of the certificates in the satchel, he found that they all contained the same flaw. "These are all dummy bonds!"
"And you're the dummy," Mayson replied.
The rear door of the van flew open as Slade counted five men climbing out in staggered formation. He scanned the surrounding area quickly, confirming that there were no other 'surprises' in store for him. The woman lawyer was unarmed, and even the men that approached him seemed to be carrying non-lethal ordinance only.
As the men halted a few paces from his position – within the short range of their stun weapons – Slade mentally cataloged the armaments of each man and devised the most efficient means to neutralize each one. He processed these details in stride – he truly wasn't concerned.
Mayson smiled up at him like a beauty contestant. "Now then, we can do this the hard way…"
Slade threw the satchel at the man with the drawn tranquilizer gun and lunged at Mayson.
The ploy only distracted the lead shooter for a split second, but that was all Slade needed. By the time the shooter recovered and pulled the trigger, Slade had already snatched a surprised Mayson and hauled her in front of him as a human shield.
The horse-tranquilizer dart – intended for him – slammed into Mayson's neck instead.
With Mayson neutralized, he tossed her aside and slammed his fist into the nose of the goon who had just fired the dart gun, shattering the septum and driving a wedge of bone into the man's brain.
Slade followed up with a quick kick between the legs of the next one, then moved onto the third, punching three times in quick succession – solar plexus, thorax, and throat – the last blow crushing the man's windpipe.
The remainder of the lawyer's cohorts only then began to react, and the two with tasers tried to index their weapons, but they were woefully slow. Slade kept moving, snapping a kill shot to the ribs, shattering the bone and puncturing the man's lungs, before he moved onto the last two.
He took the one with the taser first, catching his wrist and snapping it down – the man screamed after a sickening snapping sound. Slade finished him off by slamming his forearm up and across his face, feeling more cartilage crackle and splinter.
The final man, the one he had kicked in the groin, had managed to take a defensive stance, so Slade decided to toy with him. He allowed the man to try to hit him, parrying the three punches he threw with his left arm, before striking the man in the right ear.
As Slade's opponent howled in pain, recoiling, he left himself wide open.
Slade finished with a sequence he'd mastered back at Fort Bragg: six quick blows, alternating hands, into the man's gut and chest, pulverizing his internal organs. Slade turned away from him, snapping his elbow back and into the base of the man's chest, just below the ribs, to the xiphoid process, to finish him off.
By that point, Mayson had yanked the tranquilizer dart from her neck. She was still woozy, but her slayer physiology allowed her to at least return shakily to her feet.
"Bad move little girl," Slade taunted, "You should have stayed down."
Growling, he rounded on Mayson, both hands coming around to box her head and crush her skull…
To his shock, Mayson blocked him with her forearms.
The small blonde then answered with two kicks of her own – with Slade blocking both – before he brought his elbow around and over, a death stroke aimed for her temple.
He was suddenly all the more surprised when the girl…blocked me again? Slade was surprised by the speed at which she responded.
They began exchanging blows faster and faster, Slade alternating punches and kicks, each targeting a vital organ, each intended to kill…
For Mayson's part, she found herself almost entirely on the defensive. Her head was still cloudy from the effects of the powerful sedative as she fought for an advantage. She finally broke an opening and followed it up with a finger strike, trying to hit Slade between the eyes, trying to disorient him, trying to buy time…
Slade absorbed the hit, lowering his head so that Mayson's fingers bounced off his scalp, and he tried for a head-butt. Mayson ducked it, and for a moment they stood apart, each warrior regarding the other warily.
The Slayer was still trying to shake off the effects of the drug in her system, but her head was still swimming and her limbs felt like they were dragging lead weights.
Slade was sucking air into lungs that were aching and empty.
"What are you " Slade demanded between breaths, his lips curling into a frustrated snarl. In spite of her being half-drugged and half his size, in spite of all his training and physical enhancements, this lawyer – a tiny wisp of a girl! – had fought him to a standstill.
Suddenly, before she could respond, Slade's form morphed into a completely different figure, right before Mayson's drugged eyes, into a platinum blonde vamp in a long leather duster. "The way you make it hurt in all the wrong places," he leered, "I've never been with such an animal."
"I'm not an animal," she muttered.
The phantom vamp smirked wickedly. "You wanna see the bite marks?"
Detecting the sudden shift in his dazed opponent's demeanor - and who the hell was she talking to? -Slade instantly seized the advantage – he palmed the last of Luthor's gel pellets from his sleeve (glad that he had the foresight to secretly hold back a couple in reserve) and hurled them at the girl. Before Mayson could respond, the pellets burst upon contact with her, coating her body in the immobilizing gel.
Mayson struggled to move her limbs, struggled to resume a fighting stance, but she couldn't move beyond a snail's pace. By then, the mirage of the mysterious vamp had disappeared – and Slade's approaching figure took his place.
Her eyes widened as she saw Slade cocking his fist, and she was powerless to stop him. Oh crap – this is going to hurt…
And Mayson felt the hot sensation of a fist cracking her jaw, the world spun, and she was on her back looking up at the stars as Slade reached down for her.
"Whatever retainer he's paying, it can't possibly be worth what I'm going to do to you…"
Her nose exploded like a grenade beneath his fist, cartilage crunching, blood spraying everywhere, involuntary tears in her eyes from the blow – unable to speak beyond gasps, she swallowed the coppery taste of the blood swimming in her mouth.
'Odd,' Slade thought. Luthor's gel capsules didn't seem nearly as effective on the girl as it was on the so-called superboy. 'To hell with it,' he thought, shrugging it off, 'It works well enough.'
Between the lingering effects of the tranquilizer, her sustained injuries, and the immobilizing gel, Mayson was no longer in a position to mount any resistance.
Yanking her to her feet again, Slade dragged Mayson's broken form to the ledge of the parking garage before he grabbed her neck and lifted her into the air, her body hanging like a limp rag doll, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her throat.
With no small wonder in his voice, he remarked, "You're still alive." That last blow was a kill shot – how the hell is she not dead? Is she another one of Luthor's experiments?
"Looks like someone's got a few enhancements of her own," Slade remarked with grim amusement. "But tell me this, little girl: can you fly?"
He then heaved her over the edge, watching as her body plunged seven stories to the asphalt below. He didn't need his enhanced senses to hear the cracking of bones when her body impacted. He savored the odd angles her body made below and the small pool of blood that formed around her.
He allowed himself a moment to savor the victory, but only a moment – there was still work to be down.
Luthor is a dead man.
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That Saturday at the Farmer's Market, Leo avoided the Kent Produce stand like the plague. While she treasured Clark's company, she wasn't eager for another tense confrontation with his parents. After she'd returned Clark to the Kent Farm the other day, Mr. Kent had practically accused her of attacking Clark herself.
'Never mind the fact that I rescued his son from certain death,' she thought bitterly.
And that thought terrified her.
While she couldn't initiate an official police investigation (to preserve Clark's secret), Leo had deployed every means at her disposal to entice, cajole, or threaten the necessary law enforcement elements to fully cooperate with her private investigation. Her own team had scoured every inch of the farmhouse, barnyard, and gravel drive for forensic clues (which didn't precisely thrill the Kents), but they had found no illuminating evidence at all.
Even Clark's eyewitness account wasn't all that helpful; while a one-eyed white guy was something to go on, Clark had failed to identify any of the mug shots that featured known criminals who featured the particular characteristic.
Which either means Clark's attacker has no criminal record or has someone extraordinarily powerful covering his tracks for him.
And what possible motivation would anyone have to attack Clark?
All of Clark's meteor mutant foes were locked up in Belle Reeve. And Lucas didn't even know anything about Clark's abilities, so he couldn't have told anyone about him (Leo had confirmed that after an exhaustive and rigorous "hard" interrogation).
After Sutherland's analysis of the gel residue on Clark's clothing, it seemed that whoever was behind Clark's attack knew exactly what his vulnerability was – and that wasn't knowledge she wanted anyone else having.
Which brought her back to her father.
The same sinking feeling in her gut when she learned he had access to her vault seized her now – and his theft of the Kewatche Cave Conservancy only confirmed her darkest fears about what he knew.
But what possible motive could he have?
It just didn't make any sense. Her father was no saint, but random brutality just wasn't his style either.
What am I missing?
She resolved to have a sit-down with her father soon to feel him out. She would have to be subtle, to avoid arousing his suspicion (just in case he had nothing to do with this), but Leo was confident she could wheedle some answers from her father without his knowing.
In the meantime, Leo grasped Clark by the elbow. "Come on. I feel like a walk." She started up the main thoroughfare of the Farmer's Market with a determined stride. Clark trotted obediently along, but quirked an eyebrow at her when he caught up.
"You get kind of intense sometimes, you know that?"
Leo shrugged. "I have to be. It's how I keep my image."
He surveyed her thoughtfully. "I guess. The other day, at the lab, I heard some of the staff there call you…ummm…"
"Yes?"
"Well, uh, some not-very-nice names," Clark blushed. The most popular adjective rhymed with 'rich'. He'd also overheard a couple of the security guards speculating how long it had been since the 'bossy cunt had gotten laid'. That comment had angered Clark but he hadn't done anything about it at the time because he thought he was hallucinating – he was alone in his room at the lab, but their voices sounded like they were right next to him. Weird. "Anyway," he continued, "You don't seem that way to me."
She laughed and shook her head at his naivete. "I'm a woman in a field that's predominantly male, Clark. I can't show any vulnerability or I lose credibility."
Clark frowned at that. "I don't see why. I mean, you started your own company, and all the business articles I've read about you seem pretty positive. You're brilliant. Anyone that meets you can't help being impressed by you."
Leo smiled, unexpectedly flattered. "Thank you, Clark."
"I mean it," he insisted. Clark shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and added hushly (since they were in public), "Do you think anyone else would have been able to…help me out like that the other day?"
She shrugged. "My father always said I was an unconventional thinker; and coming from him, that's not a compliment. Somehow, I've always managed to disappoint him."
"You've gotta be kidding," Clark scoffed. "I don't know how he could not be proud of you."
"Nothing I've ever done has been enough," Leo answered, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice, wondering again why she felt she could confide in Clark so easily. Something about him just seemed to invite confidences. "I started out the wrong gender, and it was downhill from there…"
"Look, Dad, I got 98 percent!"
"That's wonderful sweetheart. That only leaves two more percent for improvement…"
"…he even made being an 'unconventional thinker' sound inferior."
"I don't see why you have to prove anything to anyone. Any dad who had a daughter like you would be nuts not to be proud of her," he said earnestly. "I'd say the problem is his, not yours."
Leo burned with horror and embarrassment. Where the fuck did that come from? I don't need anyone's damn pity…
'Although pity can be useful too,' a dark voice in her head reminded. 'After all, you catch more bees with honey…'
"Why thank you, Clark – I'm glad you at least have confidence in me. So when can I check you out again?"
Clark gulped. "Huh?"
Leo's eyes glittered in a determined expression. "You were the victim of a vicious assault, Clark. It's only prudent to look you over and make sure you're okay."
"But I feel fine," Clark objected, regaining his bearings.
"I just want to confirm that," Leo insisted. Then, in a lowered voice, she explained, "During the incident, I had no idea what your baseline vital statistics were. There's a lot we still don't know about your physiology, and it would be helpful to know more."
"Thanks Leo, but I don't think it's necessary," he responded nervously. While what she said made sense, he remained suspicious of letting other people in on his secret.
Reading his mind, Leo responded, "I promise – all the results will stay between us. I'll perform them all myself." Looking up at him hopefully, she added solemnly, "I'm just talking about some cursory observations, Clark – nothing invasive."
Clark shook his head. Leo just doesn't get it. To his mind, the more she learned about him, the bigger a target she would become. The psycho that had attacked him was still out there, and he didn't want to give the guy a reason to target her. If Leo ever got hurt because of his secret, Clark knew he'd never forgive himself.
"I just don't think it's necessary," Clark said out loud.
Leo averted her eyes from his and physically retreated from him, folding her arms defensively. "That's okay, Clark. I understand," she pouted. "My father never really trusted me either. Maybe you're both right not to," she added, making an exaggerated show of her hurt with her body language.
Leo considered adding a couple tears but opted against it. 'Too over the top,' she decided…
Meanwhile, Clark's face crumpled. He'd never meant to hurt her feelings!
"Hey, it's got nothing to do with that," Clark gently assured her. "It's just…" he sighed. "Just…could you give me some time to think about it?"
"Really?" she tilted her head to the side a little , lips curling into a small smile.
"Of course," Clark replied with relief. Though immune to all earthly harm, Clark shared the universal male aversion of a woman in tears and was relieved for the reprieve. Still, he felt bad and desperately tried to think of a way to cheer her up. Then, he struck upon an inspiration.
"How about we grab a bite to eat?" he inquired. "I know where we can get the best cookies in Kansas," he confided. Whenever he felt down, a platter of warm cookies and milk always cheered him up.
Leo shot him a quizzical look. How did we go from discussing our fundamental trust issues to baked goods?
Outwardly, she eloquently replied, "Err, sure."
Slipping her arm into his, Leo temporarily allowed him to lead her to his intended destination. "So, the best cookies in Kansas, hmmm?" Leo prodded skeptically. 'Don't press too hard,' she reminded herself.
Clark nodded. "Unbelievable. They'll change your life."
"Better than your mother's?"
Clark winced theatrically. "Well, that's a question I don't think I should answer in public or out loud. Ever."
"That will be $12.19, Mrs. Heathenway." Leo looked up in surprise; very little at the Farmer's Market cost more than ten dollars. Mrs. Heathenway was buying a substantial amount of 'Marissa's Amazing Cookies,' however, so she scanned the chalkboard menu.
"What do you recommend, Clark?"
He sighed rapturously, and Leo rolled her eyes. "All of them," he suggested. "Just – all of them. I, however, will be purchasing one of the famous double peanut butter chocolate swirl cookies, which have been know to make many of Smallville's denizens swoon with joy."
"Did you just say 'denizens'?" Leo said incredulously.
"Hey, you already took your SAT's," he replied defensively. "I need to be expanding my vocabulary at every opportunity. You should be helping, not criticizing."
Mrs. Heathenway was still standing by the cash register, and Leo watched her struggling with her ludicrously inaccessible change purse. "You want to expand your vocabulary? Define 'moronic,'" Leo said as she slid a hand into her own purse.
Clark tilted his head. "Hmm. Moronic – adjective, meaning 'bite me.'"
Leo chuckled as she dropped nineteen cents into Marissa's hand. "You're just saying that because you have cookies on the brain."
Clark beamed at Leo with delight when Mrs. Heathenway turned around and stared at Leo in shock. "Miss Luthor, y—you're very kind, but there's no need, really…"
Leo felt her pulse jump. "Oh, don't worry about it. You don't want to be carrying around pounds of change all day."
Then, favoring the elderly woman with her most dazzling 'Cover Girl' smile, Leo added, "And please, call me Leo."
'She really does listen to me!' Clark inwardly rejoiced.
He was touched – and completely ashamed. Leo had never done anything but help him, and he still didn't trust her. Clark realized he really was acting as badly toward her as either Lionel or his own father. He suddenly felt like an overgrown baby squealing about a doctor's visit.
Oh man – I'm a terrible person and a horrible friend….
And oh how Clark wanted to be more than just her friend, but that was a whole other subject…
After they purchased their cookies, Clark cleared his throat and announced a decision. "Umm, Leo? I was just thinking. About that stuff you mentioned about a…a physical check-up and all…"
Leo's eyes widened slightly. "Yes, Clark?" she asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
"Ahh, I guess it might not be such a bad idea," Clark shrugged. After all, Leo had made so many compromises for him – visiting his barn, hanging out at the Farmer's Market, helping him master his powers, saving his life – it only seemed fair to meet her halfway. "Besides," Clark added playfully, "you don't look like an evil genius plotting my destruction."
"I left my membership to the 'Legion of Doom' at home," Leo responded dryly. "You want to drop by the lab next week?"
Clark smiled hesitantly and nodded. "Yeah, sounds good."
Leo bathed him in her most breath-taking smile and squeezed his arm encouragingly.
Checkmate.
Leo wasn't precisely sure what had changed his mind, but she didn't really care. After months of effort, months of chipping away at his resistance, she had finally coaxed Clark's voluntary agreement to laboratory examination!
'Maybe stopping for cookies wasn't such a bad idea,' she thought to herself, toasting her latest triumph over an oatmeal raison cookie.
Now, if I could just convince him to hand over his ship…
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She awoke in a dusty crypt, lying atop a pile of Oriental rugs, lying side-by-side with him.
"Uh…we missed the bed again," she panted.
"Lucky for the bed," he observed devilishly.
She continued panting, lifting herself up on her elbows and looking at the rug covering her body. "Is this a new rug?"
"Are we having a conversation?" he challenged. "And isn't this usually the part where you kick me in the head and run out, virtue fluttering?"
"That's the plan," she said, before admitting in embarrassment, "As soon as my legs start working."
As she began to close her eyes, his voice stopped her.
"No, don't ... don't close your eyes," he ordered. "Look at them."
As her eyelids fluttered open again, she suddenly found herself on a balcony, looking down on her friends…or at least, that was who she imagined they were. She instinctively knew she would do anything for them. It was her responsibility to protect them all…
"That's not your world," he insisted, "You belong in the shadows... with me."
As she continued to look down on her laughing, oblivious friends, she felt his hot, moist breath tickling her ear, "Look at them and tell me you don't love getting away with this, right under their noses."
"What would they think of you," he taunted, his hand ghosting over her bare shoulders, "If they found out all the things you've done?" His hands were now stroking her arm.
"Don't," she whispered.
"Stop me," he chided, his hand traveling up her thigh and pulling her skirt up.
She gasped at his initial thrust, breathing heavily with pleasure at warm sensation…
He looked down at her with satisfaction. "That's not your world. You belong in the shadows... with me."
"Yesss…" she hissed…
As Mayson continued mumbling in her sleep at Wolfram and Hart's private clinic, Nigel St. John furrowed his brow with growing concern as he looked on. The memory wipe seemed to be fading.
He made a mental note to have Dr. Garner give her another thorough workup at Summerholt.
Last thing I need is another wild card on the loose - it would be such a shame to put her down…
He wasn't overly concerned with "Mayson's" physical health, confident in her Slayer healing abilities.
However, St. John was extremely annoyed that Lionel's man had so badly beaten his Slayer: that a mere mortal had selected a more capable servant bruised his sizable ego.
Still, this Slade Wilson character could prove useful - he's certainly a most convenient and untraceable tool with which to eliminate Lionel.
While the elder Luthor was already dying - as all mortals are from the moment they're born - he just wasn't dying fast enough for St. John. The last thing the immortal needed was for Lionel to continue interfering with Naman and Segeeth's development. St. John remained convinced that Lionel's demise and Segeeth's subsequent takeover of Luthorcorp would only accelerate her turn to the "Dark Side," thereby hastening a confrontation against Naman that St. John had labored for so long to create.
To eliminate Lionel, St. John already began tabulating the equipment and funds he would arrange for this Slade fellow to "find" in order to complete his little revenge mission.
In the meantime, St. John retreated to the privacy of his office and placed a long distance call on a secure line to Switzerland. The recent slip in "Mayson's" memory wipe had him concerned. He felt compelled to check on the other one: much of his long term plans depended on her.
After several rings, a bubbly girl's voice answered, "Guten Tag, hier spricht Wanda."
"Tut, tut, tut," St. John chided before greeting her in smooth Parisian French, "Apologies; I must have the wrong number, mademoiselle! I was trying to reach my baby niece and got you instead!"
"Hi Uncle Vasche!" Wanda Detroit greeted happily in English. While he wasn't really her uncle, Vasche had been her legal guardian for as long as she could remember, ever since her parents died when she was very little. Though he sent her to boarding school at St. Moritz (he traveled too much to take proper care of her), she remained very fond of him. Wanda considered him her father in every way that counted.
"You sound so big now, little one," Vasche (a.k.a. St. John) scolded, switching to a heavily French-accented English. As an immortal being who had lived for eons, he had long since mastered countless languages and countless more accents. "To listen to you now, I feel positively ancient."
"That's because you are!" Wanda teased, silently grateful he chose to speak English. Like any good old-fashioned Frenchman, her uncle adamantly refused to speak any other language other than French (and especially not the barbaric German tongue) – she counted it a minor blessing he used English this time. "And what's up with the early bird phone call? I'm, like, running totally late for class!"
"Ach, so!" he exclaimed in his best avuncular 'uncle' voice, "The time difference! I always forget whether to add or subtract the hours! I just wanted to hear about your spring break."
St. John could practically hear her rolling her eyes and flipping her shiny brown hair.
"Oh, you know, a little sight-seeing, a little hiking…" she gave him the 'PG' version – she didn't think her doting uncle would appreciate hearing about her adventures in the hashish dens of Amsterdam with her roommate, Lucy.
"No boys," Vasche growled good-naturedly.
"Of course not," Wanda dutifully lied. "Oh, and I need you to wire me some more money…for books and stuff."
"Stuff?"
"Uncle Vaaaaasche," she whined. "I'm living like a homeless pauper here!" She knew he'd cave – although she wasn't actually sure what he did for a living (some boring finance thing), she knew he was loaded.
After he grunted his assent, St. John heard a faint voice in the background.
"Listen, I'm now so totally late; gotta run! Bye Uncle Vasche, and thanks!"
Click.
St. John smirked contentedly into the empty phone. "No, no, my dear," he muttered in his polished Englishman's accent, "Thank you, my precious little Key."