Disclaimer: I still don't own them. :)
* * * * *
He has grown accustomed to her
presence.
Yes, that's the best way to phrase it. Impersonal, yet heartfelt.
He can't tell her the truth in plainer terms, not with things the
way they are now, not being the person he is. He can't tell her
that he likes having her around, that he's come to enjoy her
company, that he has come to depend on her.
He can't tell her that he feels he's become adept at detecting
her vocal shift between clipped and cordial--sometimes even
downright icy--in the early mornings, to low and confidential by
the time she goes home at the end of the day.
It's clear, on these mornings, that she has allowed her thinking
to be colored by tiresome ranting on the part of Jonathan Kent
regarding the evils of capitalism and the relative virtues of the
common man. It will take him all day, when this happens, to win
her back to his side and convince her once more that her husband
is wrong. She already knows this, but she wants to believe that
Kent is right; she wants to believe she made the right decision
20 years ago.
And although it is not an adjective often applied to Lionel
Luthor, he likes to think he's too kind to tell her the truth. So
he submits to the ritual when it is necessary and is often
disproportionately pleased when it isn't. Two steps forward, one
step backward.
Upon their first few encounters, he barely registered her
presence. She appeared to be like all the other farmers, simply
standing beside her husband on all important matters, and, like
him, dogmatic and aggressively downtrodden. Later, it became
apparent that this was not true; in doing some cursory research,
he discovered by accident that she was no typical farm wife, but
the daughter of a prominent businessman, who had been on quite an
upward trajectory herself before being sidetracked by a poor
Smallville farmer and seduced by his mind-numbingly twee way of
life.
He had been mildly intrigued, then, but not enough to truly care.
His mind had entirely changed on the subject that day she'd taken
the newspaper, and without being asked or prompted, began to
read.
And now, he has grown accustomed to her presence.
She is not the type of woman who will fall for a few big words
and the often aphrodisiacal appeal of his name and/or his money;
she is not the type of woman who will simply fall into anything
at all. She will want to be convinced, pursued, persuaded.
He wonders about his own motives sometimes. Is she merely another
conquest, a briefly fascinating challenge? Perhaps he simply
wants to wreak some havoc on that perfect little family of which
his own son so blatantly desires to be a part. And then, of
course, there is her resemblance to Lillian, both physically (if
he remembers Martha Kent correctly) and emotionally. But that
isn't it. Lillian was certainly a remarkable woman, one of the
few capable of standing up to him, and he had actually loved her,
briefly. Lex practically considers her a saint, and he supposes
that in some ways, she might qualify. But she didn't have a head
for business. That's where this one is different.
And what about her? Perhaps he's reading too much into it. But he
feels her standing closer than she should, sometimes; he can
detect her scent, perfume probably bought for her at
Christmastime by Kent. He can picture the other man standing at
the counter at J.C. Penney's, hands shoved in his pockets,
sheepishly asking the salesgirl what she thinks he should buy for
his wife. The salesgirl chooses White Diamonds for him, and his
wife is pleased to open it on Christmas morning. Now she wears it
daily in the company of a man he detests. Lionel would be amused
by that if it weren't so tragic. Or perhaps she has a small
collection of Christmas bottles, all chosen for her by young
women with nametags that read Crystal and Kelly, and this is the
one she likes the best. Or the one she thinks he'll like the
best.
No, now he's just fantasizing about reciprocated feelings that
simply aren't there, while the business day wastes away.
He had hope, when she rode back to the mansion with him, after a
series of particularly unsatisfying events transpired at the
former office-park site. Of course she would eventually feel
compelled to side with her son on the matter; how much pressure
could she withstand at home each night before giving in? Frankly,
Lionel was surprised she had stayed on his side for as long as
she had. It was probably the death of that man's daughter; she
was not above allowing her actions to be governed by
sentimentality. But his hope faded as it became apparent she was
only returning to collect her things. (What things? Did she keep
a picture of Kent on her desk? Or Clark? Was she the sort of
woman who would steal office supplies as revenge for a perceived
wrong?)
Was this a challenge? Was she calling him out?
* * * * *
He sat in his office and
contemplated the matter rather than returning to business, until
the room grew colder and he sensed darkness falling outside. She
had not interrupted him once since they had returned, but he knew
she would not have gone home without a word. It simply wasn't her
style, to retreat so obediently.
He began to struggle to his feet, relying on the assistance of
the cane, as he heard the door open slowly.
"Yes?"
"Oh," she said. "Do you need help?"
"No, I think I can manage this."
Silence. He pictured her biting her lip, perhaps, darting her
eyes around the room, waiting for him to plead.
"Did you want something?" he asked, and it came out
sounding harsher than he'd intended. He resisted the urge to
apologize, and took a few steps in the direction of her voice.
"No, I was just-"
"Coming in to say goodbye, were you?"
"Yes, I suppose I was." There it was, the
unpleasant-morning tone. He advanced a little further, and
wondered how close they were now. Was she across the room, or
right in front of him? He hated not being able to tell.
He waited for her to speak. Nothing.
"I apologize if I've made it seem as if that's your only
choice." Careful. Slowly.
Another pause. He stood still.
"But, then, I suppose it's your own choice to make, isn't
it," he said.
"Well, no, it isn't," she pointed out sensibly, as he'd
hoped she would, and he kept walking until he was rewarded by the
scent of her perfume and her hand on his arm, briefly, to steady
him as he stopped abruptly.
He went in for the kill. "Do you want to leave?" he
asked in a tone that said he knew perfectly well what the answer
would be.
Had he still had his sight, this is when he would have made his
move. On the other hand, were his sight still intact, he would
probably have been making it on Crystal or Kelly rather than on
someone who wouldn't just be an easy lay, someone he could push
off the bed when he became tired of having her around. It
couldn't be like that anymore. He kept his hands to himself.
"No," she finally answered, her voice low and grudging:
it was apparent that she felt as reluctant as he did about
revealing herself, particularly in this situation. She felt
wronged; perhaps she'd take home a stapler or some paper clips.
But at least she'd be coming back in the morning.
* * * * *
He smiles, and hoped it doesn't
look smug.
"Good," he says sincerely.
"Well, good night, then." Lionel tries to imagine her
face, her eyes flickering to his sightless ones, irrationally
searching for a reaction.
"See you tomorrow," he lightly offered, and a few
moments pass before he hears the door close behind her.
He begins to head toward the liquor cabinet, exhausted from the
game he's getting a little too old or a little too tired to play.
One day he'll be forced to tip his hand; tip it, or empty it, and
forget the whole thing.
The decision doesn't have to be made tonight.
After she's gone, the scent of White Diamonds continues to
linger, and as he sits and drifts away, he tries not to think
about what her husband will say to her tonight. Maybe she won't
listen. Maybe she'll never let him change her mind again.
Or maybe he's wrong about everything, and nothing will ever
change, at all. He hates not knowing what will happen.
He does know one thing for sure: she's bad for business.