John's house was dark and spooky-quiet when I arrived. I sat there until approximately half-past forever just debating with myself. "Work on that whole tact thing" is invariably at the top of my New Year's resolutions list, but somehow I haven't been able to make it stick yet. Not for lack of trying, but I have a pesky tendency to forget about things like that when I get all caught up in the moment. It happens a lot.
I took a deep breath and hopped out of the car. I'd gotten halfway across the lawn when a light upstairs clicked on. Good, I told myself.
When I knocked on the door, no one answered. "John? It's Chloe, open up." Knock knock. "I thought it might be better if I just came over tonight." The door clicked open when I leaned a little harder into it. "Hello?"
And so what else could I do but keep moving forward, right? Okay, that's a rhetorical question, because every single instinct that I have was screaming at me at that point, telling me that I should get outta there, like, yesterday. The light that I'd seen out on the lawn was glowing at the top of the stairs, but the rest of the house was dark.
"John?" I ventured, not really expecting an answer. It was definitely whistling in the graveyard at that point, I'm not about to lie.
I was halfway up the stairs when the light clicked off. In the dark, someone was breathing hard. It wasn't me. My eyes struggled to adjust themselves and I did my best to adopt a defensive stance. Not that standing on something as narrow as a stair made it a whole lot easier, but honestly, you can only play the damn damsel so many times before self-defense classes seem like a fantastically smart idea.
Forcing myself to breathe quietly and listen was one of the harder things I've ever had to do, but I heard the person coming, just the faint noise of shoe soles brushing along John's carpeted stairs. I punched forward, aiming for what I could only hope was the person's jaw, but what I actually hit was softer. An arm? A neck?
I was flung against the wall, and glanced off, slightly dazed. But even as I was falling, I lashed out and connected with something that must've been a shin or I'll give up my future membership in the Press Club. A strangled curse. Hands fumbled and then pressed hard around my neck.
White pricks of light burst in my vision. I'm losing. Dammit. I was passing out, and with my last surge of strength I managed to hook an ankle, sending us tumbling end over end. The hands around my neck loosened and then dropped away and I had approximately a nanosecond to be happy about that before the back of my head was introduced to the hard edge of a stair and I was passing out once more with feeling.
Fucking head trauma.
* * *
It wouldn't be fair or accurate to say that Lex stormed into my room at the Smallville Medical Center. There's no way he could ever be classified as just a mere generic meteorological phenomenon. Maybe something more like the Chinook. A Chinook wind is Important, with loads of history and cultural significance heaped up on top.
Lex Chinooked into my room at the Smallville Medical Center.
Not really the crack of dawn, but before official visiting hours no doubt. I squeezed the bridge of my nose and regarded him warily. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Tell me, Ms. Sullivan, do you have a death wish? If so, I can save you the trouble: they're highly overrated."
While the hypothetical death wish conversation had potential, I was willing to abandon it for the time being just to get a good head of righteous indignation going.
"I don't recall the part of this scenario where you somehow magically became my keeper."
He'd been walking up and down the side of my bed, snapping turns, pacing -- god help me, I can't think of a better analogy -- like a caged cat of some sort. Puma maybe. But the look he gave me when he stopped, mid-stride, had something like smothered laughter inside it. Whatever it was, it was unnatural. But he seemed to make a conscious effort to calm himself, which I took as a good sign, even if he was ignoring my objection. He moved to the foot of my bed and rested his hands lightly on the bedframe.
"Since your father is out of town, I..."
My face felt hot and my stomach clenched. "Okay, so you can stop right there. In fact, you can stop about ten seconds before you even thought about saying anything. If you're only here to give me the old 'rash deeds versus masculine overprotectiveness' spiel you can forget about it, because it's too early for that."
"John is dead," he said quietly.
"What? How?" I'd never really felt myself go pale before. Lex twitched a look sideways at the open door into the hall. "Close it if you want, Mulder. I really doubt anyone is listening." My voice was shaky and he took a moment to catch the reference.
He shut the door softly and returned to the foot of the bed. "Someone cut his throat. I've had people working on Dr. Richter's car. The job's professional. But there's a world of difference between someone who'd bomb a car and someone who'd slit a throat. Whoever did this is feeling threatened and getting vicious."
"Two different people could..."
Lex cut me off with a vehement shake of his head. "I can't believe you'd be stupid enough to think that." Okay that stung. Below the belt, Luthor.
I folded my arms defensively over my stomach. The hospital blanket was scratchy. "Well, why don't you just tell me what you want me to think instead of making me guess," I demanded.
"I want you to let it drop, Chloe." Then he got this funny look on his face and I knew he was gearing up for a sermon of some sort, only I knew too that I had the upper hand in that one because Lex isn't really cut out for the whole preaching thing. Not at all, but I thought that I'd just let him get whatever it was off his chest. Good for the soul and everything. He was bent slightly at the waist and I noticed for the first time that his shirt was wrinkled where it peeked out of his suit jacket which is, in Luthor-land, a shocking level of messiness. "You did what you could for Dr. Richter, and then you did what you absolutely shouldn't have. It's enough that you're horrified, believe me. More than enough. In no way does your regret about anything that's happened mean that you should tie a cape over your shoulders and seek out trouble in the darkest alley you can find. It's time to have a little faith in the proper authorities."
"And by 'proper authorities' you mean you."
His hands tightened over the bedframe. "By 'proper authorities' I mean 'proper authorities.' You're letting it drop."
The perversity of the whole situation, the fucking tragic absurdity of the thing was that I completely would have given it up. Probably. Finding out about John would have been enough. Except that Lex was still hovering at the foot of my bed looking kinda pissed and reluctantly admiring and pleased with himself in that way that only Lex can. And I hate being told what to do. Really. Fucking. Hate it.
"Maybe." I pulled my arms hard against my body.
"That's not good enough."
"Why do you even care? Why are you so pissed?"
Oh, but his eyes narrowed when I said that. Only a little, but I saw it. Because I wasn't supposed to notice his concern. Really, really wasn't. Maybe Lex wasn't used to people watching him and trying to figure him out instead of the other way around. Like I said before, I don't have any Grand Unified Lex Luthor Theory. "As much as I tried to deny it at first, Smallville is where I live."
"Not in your town, huh?"
"Something like that."
"So why can't you see how I feel? It's been my town longer."
"Your father..."
"Bullshit."
He shrugged elegantly. "Have it your way. Never let it be said that I didn't at least try." It all oozed with condescension like grape jelly out the end of a filled doughnut. Never in my entire life have I come across someone who could make me so angry so easily. I'm one hundred percent certain my cheeks were flaming red at that point. And he just stood there like it was nothing. But then it was nothing, wasn't it? Lex Luthor tells people to jump and then they do, not even bothering to ask "how high" because the answer would always be "as high as you can." And some of this is money and some of this is power and some of this is maybe the fact that he's a pretty decent looking guy in a way. An arrogant way, but still...
"Try what?" I prodded him. I couldn't resist prodding. It's like I had this brilliant flash of an epiphany and suddenly I knew exactly where to poke. Just to get him to react to something. Just to see. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where I always trip up. Because I see these openings and then I jump right into them without stopping to think about much of anything at all. Midair is a pretty crappy place to discover that you're heading for something with a false bottom, or no bottom at all really. "You're not my dad, and you're not responsible for me. I don't think we're even friends. And I don't think any of those things'll ever be true. And last time I checked, free will was something even Luthor money couldn't buy."
Ouch. There it was. And like so many of the other times when I've let my mouth outrun my better judgement, I regretted what I'd said almost immediately. I knew I had no business bringing money into it at all. Lex couldn't help the family he was born into, none of us can. And it would've been monumentally stupid to assume that he'd throw out his wealth just to be more "normal." Like me, right? Like I'm so normal.
"I wouldn't get the idea that you can print any of the things we've talked about," Lex said. Instantly (just add insults!) he'd gone all stiff and businesslike. "It was all strictly off the record."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I returned, hurt even though, logically, I knew it was a hit for a hit. Not that the idea of publishing an expose entitled My Hospital Bed Conversation with Lex Luthor had ever crossed my mind, or it'd barely been there anyhow.
But he turned on his heel and he was leaving and I couldn't believe how horrible and guilty I felt. Never in my wildest dreams (or my strangest ones) did I ever once think that I might care how Lex Luthor felt about me or himself. At that moment, he was leaving and he thought I was an awful person and I don't even know why the hell that should've mattered to me, or why it still bugs me no end, really, except I've lost more friends over the years because of my big, tactless mouth. Did I just say "friend"? Because that's really not what I meant. I don't know what I meant.
"Look, I shouldn't have said that, okay?" His back was still facing me, but he wasn't moving. Instead, his head was tilted fractionally to one side, which was, I was learning, a huge concession for him indicating an absolutely ginormous amount of interest. I found myself talking faster and faster, trying to fill up the space between us and the awkwardness I was feeling with tons of words. If I hit on the exact right one, I was sure that would make him not hate me anymore and all my guilt would magically evaporate. "Contrary to popular belief, I'm not really the Wicked Witch of the West. It's just that everything's been so chaotic lately. And I wanted to help somehow...put stuff back together for people. And it wouldn't even matter if they knew it was me who did it. Just that it would be a good thing."
"It would be a good thing," he agreed softly, right before turning around. There was an expression fading on his face, but I only caught the corner and couldn't tell what it'd been. Frustrating. He was quiet for a long time and I started to get twitchy. The smell of hospital antibacterial whatnot was encouraging the embryonic stages of a massive headache; the kind with full-on tapdancers going inside my skull. "It's possible I overreacted," he said grudgingly. "Three years as Smallville's prime suspect are difficult to shake sometimes."
I hadn't really thought of it that way before. Part of the whole new "considering Lex Luthor's feelings" kick I was on. I uncrossed my arms. After all, I didn't want them to cramp. "I've got this terminal case of 'good intentions'. Never seems to work out quite right." I rubbed my temples. Lex's eyes flickered and before I really knew what he was doing, he handed me two aspirin and a small paper cup filled with water. "Thanks," I said, sounding way more amazed than was strictly polite.
One corner of his mouth curled up, then relaxed. "Don't sound so shocked," he advised dryly. "Someone might get the idea that you think I'm a terrible person."
"All the vast multitudes of people in this room, for example," I replied quickly. Whatever else I might think of him, conversations with Lex were nothing if not thrilling. It's an untested trapeze act, really. You throw yourself out there and hope that the other person knows enough to catch you before you hit the ground.
"For example," he agreed. There was that curl again.
"I guess only the one side works, huh?"
"Pardon?"
"You only ever smile with half your mouth."
"Really." There went the whole smile. It was nice. Very. My my. Lex lifted his cuff delicately and examined his watch. "As charming as this is, I have a meeting." And with the smile, there was a fraction of a second that I actually did believe he found it (me?) "charming".
"With your explosives people?" I asked automatically.
His face shut down so fast and so completely I swear I heard a clang and that unexpected smile seemed more and more as if it were just some figment of my addled imagination. "No. Believe it or not, I still have a business to run." He said it so coldly I felt like tucking the sheets tight under my chin just to protect myself.
"Don't you want to know what John told me?" I blurted out. Nevermind that John hadn't told me anything exactly. Lex didn't need to know that.
"I sincerely doubt your chip is large enough to bargain with." He wasn't sure! He wasn't! Not in what he said, but how he said it. I was jumping for joy, people.
I forced myself to be nonchalant. Calm, cool and collected was my middle name. Inside, I felt like there were about a thousand butterflies in my stomach and they were all doing some sort of contra dance thing. An Irish jig maybe. "If that's the way you feel," was all I said.
Lex looked at his watch again. "I'm leaving for another meeting in Metropolis at eleven. I can see you at ten thirty. Say hello to Clark and Pete for me."
Dammit, I'd forgotten all about them, but (of course, right?) Lex hadn't. If I lay around in the hospital waiting for them to come in and platitude me to death ("Could've gotten killed, Chloe", "Where angels fear to tread, Chloe") I wouldn't have enough time to do anything but try to think up new and exciting ways to kill myself with thought alone. By the time I'd gathered my wits enough to protest, Lex was gone.
Call me what you want, but I'm no effing pushover. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and tested them. Seemed steady enough so I hopped down, the cold floor sending a shock through me. I turned off the machine monitoring my heartbeat and checked the closet. Of course it occurred to me that I could always have done things the official way, talked them into releasing me, but every second counts for so much to the girl without any sort of concrete plan. My shoes and coat were there. No sign of my pyjamas. I dressed hastily, thanked whichever god watches over heedless journalists that my room was on the first floor, unhooked the screen, raised the window and then I was gone too.
* * *
So I'm late with the update. Again. And I have a real, valid reason and stuff: I'm an idiot. I accidentally deleted my only copy of this story and so I'm recreating from memory. Sigh. It'll never be the same, but bear with me if you will, because it will be finished.
