I'm not sure how long it was before I regained consciousness enough to realize that I was being unceremoniously dragged across the gravel. Instantly, I had about a million little scrapes on my legs and my mostly-bare back and I was thinking I shouldn't have gone with the skirt instead of pants and where the hell did I put my shirt? Spring madness catches the best of us, now doesn't it?
Whoever it was got me all the way to the grass before letting my arms drop.
"When you have a minute, John?" John? John. John Wallace. Five volunteer EMTs in Smallville and he was one of those few (those happy few). Now who...? My brain was muddy. "What did you possibly think you could do?" the person asked quietly. Seemed kinda angry.
I was becoming more alert by the second, enough to feel the cold grass on my legs and back and the pain in my burned hand. "Can't let...Clark save...everyone," I managed, even though my teeth were gritted so tightly my jaw ached. Something -- fabric, heavy -- settled over my torso. It smelled like cloves and nutmeg and cinnamon and all kinds of really warm spices that I couldn't quite identify.
"Ms. Sullivan," the voice was so many things right then: bossy, mad, amused and maybe even a tiny bit admiring. Of course, that decided it in a nanosecond because there was only one person I could think of who might convincingly be eight million things at once.
"Mr. Luthor," I returned as firmly as I could. And all my intentions of matching him blow for blow completely dissolved because I was still cold and I still hurt. "It's selfish if I say this isn't my day, isn't it?"
"A little."
"Because Dr. Richter, he's...um..."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I'm not sure I should be talking to the Torch's star reporter right now."
Annoyance flared, warming me slightly. It was completely psychosomatic, but I'd take whatever the hell I could get. "I'm in no condition to take notes, okay?"
You could practically hear him stiffen. "I didn't mean it, Ms. Sullivan. You can choose not to believe me if you want, but I don't know why this happened."
"But it has something to do with LexCorp, right? Because Dr. Richter worked..."
"I don't know that either."
"Then why are you here?" Talking was doing a fairly decent job of keeping my mind off my hand.
A little sound that seemed like a bitter laugh. "I wanted to know why the cups in the Beanery were rattling." Softer. "You have a point about not letting Clark save everyone."
"So why are you here with me?" I cracked my eyelids and peered through my lashes at the blobby figures working around the car. It was still very much on fire. "I'd think you'd be bossing your way over there, demanding answers."
Before he could respond, John appeared and knelt beside me. "Trying to be a hero again, eh, Chloe?"
"Name me one time when I've ever been a hero, John, I dare you. I'm just lucky that Dad's got good health coverage." I craned my neck a bit so I could look at Lex. He was standing some distance off, watching the firemen work on the flames. "I guess I should thank you for that," I told him. He didn't answer.
John gently drew my hand out from under the fabric thing covering me and set to work cleaning my burns and bandaging them. The antiseptic wash he was using stung at first and I sucked in a sharp breath.
I can't be sure, but I thought I hear Lex say, "Penance," but what penance and for which of us I wouldn't have even begun to guess.
John finished up and patted me on the shoulder. "You're lucky you didn't get a really good grip on the car."
"Funny. I don't feel lucky," I said automatically, then felt a rush of guilt that my first response should be flip and selfish. I snuck a quick look at Lex, but if he'd heard he showed absolutely no signs of it. That was a relief for some reason. "Sorry," I told John. "I'm still working on that whole becoming-a-good-person thing." He smiled and told me I wasn't quite Hitler yet. I set up an interview with him for the end of the week. News was still news.
I managed to clamber to my feet using only my good hand and my elbow as leverage. My ruined top was lying on the ground a few feet away, but the thought of trying to struggle it on past the bandages was intensely unappealing. Instead, I wrapped myself in the fabric thing, jacket -- Lex's unless I missed my guess -- that had been covering me before, sliding my arms carefully into the sleeves and buttoning it closed as best I could.
"No comment," Lex said when I reached him. Something was up. More than usual. Lex Luthor isn't like you or me. Everyone's got these Tells, just like in poker. If you learn them you can see right away if they're lying or uncomfortable. Thing is, most people's Tells are pretty much the same so it's easy to read them. Not Lex's. It's not like I've got any Grand Unified Lex Luthor Theory or anything, but I decided to go with my gut on this one.
"You're nervous," I blurted out before I could lose my nerve. I wasn't angling for a story, I swear.
At least not much.
"Ms. Sullivan," his voice seemed dragged over a very long distance. There were also loads of rocks in the way, "as much as I admire your tenacity and investigative prowess, if I were you, I wouldn't delude myself that I posed a significant threat to LexCorp. You aren't even a blip on the radar."
I didn't know quite what to do with that. He'd given me something with one hand and slapped me with the other. I wanted to fight back. Sneaky. Tunnel under, blow him at the moon. "You know any history besides the Greeks?" I asked him, aware that I was being incredibly rude by possibly insulting his intelligence. Worse, I was being incredibly forward, which, with a Luthor, might've just been one of the stupidest things I'd ever done and I was under no illusions that my life to that point had been a model of prudence and smartness.
"It's true, my father's lectures didn't look much past 323 B.C., but I think he might have tossed in a Roman from time to time," Lex offered, unruffled.
"What happened in...oh. Alexander."
"A petty death. I'm not sure my father forgives him for it."
I couldn't think of anything to say to that. The Luthor family problems were miles over my head. But I'd gotten off track. There was something I wanted to say. A warning maybe, or an apt observation. I took a mental step back, trying to take stock and survey the entire situation. It occurred to me that that was A+ Harvard MBA tycoon type-thinking and I bit back a smirk.
Lex looked tired, a little ragged around the edges. There were faint smudges of purple, like newsprinty fingermarks, under his eyes. For the first time I could remember, I wondered if what I wanted to say would hurt him at all. Maybe it wasn't so incredibly important. Maybe it was only me needing to feel clever at his expense. Isn't that what Lex eventually drives everyone to? Outclassed and threatened, they overcompensate and make mistakes.
When my mouth moved, I still didn't know if I wanted to take responsibility for what I was saying. "He was never quiet in his mind, never thought himself secure. His eyes whirled about, his body was privily fenced, his hand ever on his dagger, his countenance and manner like one always ready to strike again."
Lex tilted his head infinitesimally and looked at me. "I presume it's not as amusing for you if I don't guess incorrectly."
"I wouldn't presume to expect anything in particular," I replied shakily. He was upset. Partly, I think, because he couldn't place the quote and partly because he thought I was laughing at him. I'm wasn't. I wouldn't. Not then. "Sir Thomas More," I offered.
Something deep in his face sparked with remembered knowledge. "The Man for All Seasons himself. Bane of young highschoolers nationwide."
"Not your kind of guy?"
"Martyrdom is highly overrated."
"Reluctant martyrdom. More for the cause than the situation, if I remember correctly."
"You're not the only one who's read Utopia, Ms. Sullivan."
"Chloe." He was startled by that. His hand stopped partway through a sweep over his head. "I'd say the situation demands it." I lifted my newly-bandaged hand.
"I suppose the fair thing is for you to call me Lex."
"Not if it makes you uncomfortable."
"The only thing that makes me uncomfortable is you comparing me to Richard the Third."
"Ah, so you got it, huh?"
"The History of King Richard the Third by Sir Thomas More," he said formally without a trace of humor. I could tell he was joking.
"It's just that, sometimes, More didn't seem to think Richard was as horrible as everyone else did. In spite of himself." I'd startled him again.
"Except for the part of the story where he murdered small children, right?" His mouth went gone all grim in a way that I didn't like at all.
"I think More felt like Richard didn't know how awful everything would be until the shit really hit the fan." I was having more and more trouble meeting his eyes. They kept shifting. I stared down at my bandages instead. "Um...that didn't come out like I thought it would. Why don't you..." I looked up. Lex was gone, walking briskly toward his car. His shoulders were slightly bowed and I was wishing I knew why. "...just forget it," I finished softly.
* * *
poor_ophelia: I think Lex just takes a while to warm up to people (becuase, I think he's pretty funny too). There are some funnier Lex parts coming (I think). In case you didn't see my answer to your question in the reviews section: Chad is "Smallville's only goth" who Chloe met when he borrowed her eyeliner. Heinrich is an attractive Austrian who works for the phone company. I've never read a fic where they make an appearance, so I wrote them into mine.
Tandy: You have no idea what I'm capable of in terms of cliffhangers! Don't worry though, they're (mostly) not in this fic. I guess I like going out with a bang? Either that or it's the sadism again...
moonmaid: I'm glad you're liking it so far. This story kind of sat on my head until I wrote it, possibly because I like Chloe's voice and wanted to try my hand at writing something in that voice.
