The nachos are stale but free, the margaritas suitably potent - doubles going for the price of singles. She shouldn't be drinking tequila. It makes her... unpredictable. Impulsive. Stupid. "Stupid" is the word that comes to mind when she plunks the what is it now, anyway? thirty-five cents into the coin slot. Clunk-ching, clink-ching...
She hears a familiar – though obviously forgotten – "The number you have reached is not in service." Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! Her own number. Pay the phone bill, Lana? Did you remember to pay the phone bill?
She slams the receiver onto the cradle, her fury rising. How could she... Anger slides away as her mind wanders elsewhere. Was he awake? Would he have answered if he was?
Lana awaits the return of the silver. "Shit," she says, realizing the pay phone had claimed the quarter and dime as its own.
Gamblers always lose.
She gambled when she stayed with him after she knew. The Truth. The awful, horrible, unbelievable, undeniable, beautiful truth.
His story made her pancake parents talk look like a walk on the "woe is me for nuthin'" side. And still makes her feel like a friggin' fool.
He thought she'd blame him. Blame him? Blame him? That was Cl-. That was the way he was. Ridiculously obsessed about all the wrong things.
There's always a price to pay for obsession.
Lana's head begins to ache. She pops a Percodan. Overkill, but oh, the thrill. She dials the other number. Everyone should have an 800 number she decides. His voice rises, throaty and (expectedly) non-emotive.
"He's here."
"Has he said anything?"
"No."
"He hasn't - " She crumples. "Jesus, Lex, I can't... I..." The words run together, become sob-sputtered language.
There's a long pause on the other end line. "Listen to me. You will do what you have to. You will tell him your name is Mother Teresa if he thinks it is. I don't believe he wound up on your door accidentally. But you cannot tell him anything. About who he was. Do you hear me?"
"Yes." The word is hard for Lex to hear, but harder for Lana to utter.
"Nothing," Lex reiterates. Without warning, his voice goes velvet. "Lana, we could lose him forever."
The tequila sets her world spinning, faster than it'd spun in the last four years, faster than it had spun in the last twenty-four hours.
The last margarita... The last one is always the one you don't need.
Fucking tequila.
She makes it to the surplus store. She has to. He can't very well go around naked – and she'd thrown away his clothes.
Every shirt.
Every pair of jeans.
Every shoe, boot, sock and sneaker.
She decides on jeans and khakis. Whoever he was, he'd be able to make due. She buys a size larger than he needs. He's lost weight, and she imagines/hopes he'll regain it once he begins eating properly.
He looks frail.
He isn't.
She knows this. She also knows it's what he believes himself to be at this moment. That would be all that mattered. A pretty package wrapped in a tangled bow.
She pays for the clothing, fumbling over bills in her wallet. Her hands are usually steadier, even when she drinks.
It's him.
It's the itch that wakes him. The rug is wool, and though soft from wear, it frankly tickles him. He rolls over slowly, twisting himself accidentally into the sheet. He blinks, staring at the ceiling.
There are stars. Glow-in-the-dark stars. Two constellations. He knows that much. If he can't recall their names.
He stands, untangling himself from the pima cotton, rising uneasily. The living room looks, well, lived in. He walks to the end table, picks up a pack of matches. The name – Dresden Room – means nothing to him.
He pads into the bathroom, his footfalls echoing on the hardwood beyond the area rug that served as bed.
He turns the knobs for the shower. The hot water knob sticks.
He hesitates, then climbs into the tub.
The water's cool, and shocks his system to "highly conscious." He takes the soap in hand and glides it over his body. The aroma of green tea and tuberose fills his nostrils, and he inhales.
It relaxes him.
Not that he's tense.
Or has reason to be.
He climbs from the tub, taking a bath towel from the rack. He dries himself slowly. His brow furrows, the tightness dissolves as he allows himself to concentrate fully on the simple act of removing the last of the moisture from his body.
He pauses, replaces the towel neatly on the rack, and pumps lotion from a dispenser. He warms the lotion between both palms, then proceeds to rub the oily mix over his arms, legs, abdomen...
She's going to reek in the morning. She knows better. She knows tequila will seep through her pores even after showering and tell the world the fucking fairy princess got fucked up last night.
Goddamnit, she knows better. What is she – fucking sixteen?
She laughs. Lotta years between then and now. She chuckles as she heads up the walkway.
He's standing in front of the full-length mirror, looking at himself. He's tall, vaguely muscular. Ok, maybe just a little beyond "vaguely." But not like some...freak...
His hands glide over his body. There's a resolute firmness.
He turns, examining his back and –
– She opens the door and does something she hasn't done in a long, long time – she turns on the light.
He isn't on the rug.
The sheet is neatly folded, placed on the sofa armrest.
"Cl - ," she starts to say. Goddammit, Lana. Clark's dead.
She blinks, her head turning as she walks.
She catches his reflection.
Yes, the body's more slender, but it still takes her breath away. He's perfectly proportioned. Not to mention those eyes... And he still has an ass you could rest a tray on.
He catches her staring at him. He runs inelegantly into the bathroom, closing the door.
She shakes her head. So not Clark.
Lana sighs and heads into the kitchen. She debates, staring first into the freezer (vodka), then into the cabinet (vodka), and eventually into the refrigerator (ginger ale). She settles on the soda, removes the bottle and pours it into a glass.
She swallows the pop, dissatisfied with its lingering blandness.
She hears the bathroom door creak open. "You didn't have any clothes."
She walks toward the bathroom and tosses the bag inside.
He says nothing.
She listens as he goes through the fresh purchase and makes a selection. He steps out of the bathroom, shoeless but dressed. Wet hair droops into his face as he speaks quietly. "I should go. I don't... I don't belong here."
He's carrying the bag as he walks toward the front door. He stares for a moment, absorbing her features, focusing on her deeply almond eyes. "Do I?"