~Lex swears a lot when he's drunk. So do I. Whiskey does that. ~
Interlude: Wreckage
Late at night. High above the city. The weather is perfect, the edges of a storm gusting in, clouds racing over the moon. One lonely millionaire, tanked to the eyeballs, screaming at the sky from his penthouse terrace. Hurling the empty bottle up.
Someone catches it. Only one person that could do that. I try and focus, as they descend slowly onto the terrace. Stagger back inside, because he won't let me throw anything off the balcony. Even myself, should it come to that. Much more comfortable to sit on the floor. My hand hurts.
Wants to know what's wrong. Hah. What's wrong is that I've got the biggest fucking office in Metropolis. Biggest company - did it all myself. And it means shit. Too much in my vision - fucking boy scout. He's prying my fingers open, and if I try and stop him, he'll probably break them. Broke my father, but we don't talk about that, do we? Don't talk about things that might be trouble. I keep your secrets, and you keep mine, because who would like to know that the city's richest man is curled up in a pathetic heap in his empty apartment. He's seen the photos. Did he really think I could just let her go? And now, I have to. All I have left. A handful of fucking paper. And the ring.
If I asked, he could throw it into the sun for me. That would be a fitting end. Little thing. Silver. Found it in a small shop, can't remember the name, somewhere past the University. Just browsing, and there it was. Squint at it, you can make out roses. My girl likes roses. Used to like me. Now I've got this fucking picture of her with this fucking asshole British bastard. Fuck.
I don't have faith in anything. I wanted to believe that she would come back to me. But why should she? We had some great times together, but I was all busy building my company. Pissing on my father. Had to be bigger and better, and turned out just the same, didn't I? Women leave you. Die or fly away.
He doesn't know how much fucking self-control it takes not to phone her. Not to beg. Not to drop everything and fly after her. Because the planes go over this city EVERY FUCKING DAY. If I do that, I'll never know if she would have come back...I know what I mean. Got to be her choice. Except she's made a choice.
Shit. I'm a mess. What happened to me? I let myself love somebody. Contrary to popular belief, Lex Luthor does have a heart. It's lying in little pieces round his feet.
This can't be happening. Please.
Interlude: Wreckage
Late at night. High above the city. The weather is perfect, the edges of a storm gusting in, clouds racing over the moon. One lonely millionaire, tanked to the eyeballs, screaming at the sky from his penthouse terrace. Hurling the empty bottle up.
Someone catches it. Only one person that could do that. I try and focus, as they descend slowly onto the terrace. Stagger back inside, because he won't let me throw anything off the balcony. Even myself, should it come to that. Much more comfortable to sit on the floor. My hand hurts.
Wants to know what's wrong. Hah. What's wrong is that I've got the biggest fucking office in Metropolis. Biggest company - did it all myself. And it means shit. Too much in my vision - fucking boy scout. He's prying my fingers open, and if I try and stop him, he'll probably break them. Broke my father, but we don't talk about that, do we? Don't talk about things that might be trouble. I keep your secrets, and you keep mine, because who would like to know that the city's richest man is curled up in a pathetic heap in his empty apartment. He's seen the photos. Did he really think I could just let her go? And now, I have to. All I have left. A handful of fucking paper. And the ring.
If I asked, he could throw it into the sun for me. That would be a fitting end. Little thing. Silver. Found it in a small shop, can't remember the name, somewhere past the University. Just browsing, and there it was. Squint at it, you can make out roses. My girl likes roses. Used to like me. Now I've got this fucking picture of her with this fucking asshole British bastard. Fuck.
I don't have faith in anything. I wanted to believe that she would come back to me. But why should she? We had some great times together, but I was all busy building my company. Pissing on my father. Had to be bigger and better, and turned out just the same, didn't I? Women leave you. Die or fly away.
He doesn't know how much fucking self-control it takes not to phone her. Not to beg. Not to drop everything and fly after her. Because the planes go over this city EVERY FUCKING DAY. If I do that, I'll never know if she would have come back...I know what I mean. Got to be her choice. Except she's made a choice.
Shit. I'm a mess. What happened to me? I let myself love somebody. Contrary to popular belief, Lex Luthor does have a heart. It's lying in little pieces round his feet.
This can't be happening. Please.