Ronin – 2
See Part 1 for headings.
"The occurrence of mysteries is always by word of mouth."
There's a note on her desk – psychadelic orange, pasted with a heavy thumb onto some esoterically-worded scrap notes she's been making for a potential report.
Looks interesting. Nice work on Brierson. See me. P.
She reads it three times before nonchalantly crumpling and tossing. Squashes the little gut-flutter, especially when Jeff Linden's all-seeing gaze catches her from across the room. His eyebrows are raised, questioning. She just shrugs before pulling out her chair. She's well aware that Jeff hunts those orange notes himself, that even as her senior, an orange note can make the difference between Front Page and Local Focus.
She also knows that he flirts with all the up-and-comings (and that every office pun is fully intended), and she's been composing her reply to his anticipated dinner invitation for nearly two weeks – polite, sincere but firm, keeping it all amiable, reining in the sarcasm because she still has to work with the man. Jeff is not a nice guy. The thought of being in a confined space with him, like a car or a restaurant, makes her kind of sick to the stomach.
She keeps her head down until four, then wanders casually into Perry's office with two mugs. He looks surprised.
"You didn't have to do that."
"It was on my way." She shrugs as she hands him the mug, raises her own in mock-salute. "Call it sympathy for a fellow junkie."
She slumps into her chair with a relieved sigh and sips her coffee. He grins at her.
"Long day?"
"Kinda." Not for the first time, she wonders if it's possible to mainline caffeine. She shakes her head – back to business. "So, what's the brief?"
He snorts, before putting down his mug to stretch his back and smile broadly at her.
"Congratulations, Sullivan. You're the first person all day to skip past the simpering and bitching and get straight to the point."
"Simpering and bitching aren't really my style," she shrugs, but glows warm with the praise, slurping coffee to hide her smile. "So, are you gonna tell me or just let me dangle?"
"Sure," he grins. "Okay – the Brierson story was good…"
"Thanks."
"One for you. Now gimme something I can sell."
She baulks.
"I'm still on the Docklands thing –"
"Too corporate. No, don't get me wrong…" He lifts a finger at her expression. "…that's news, but I think we both know that's gonna be a long-haul job. The settlement dates won't even come through for another month, and it could take City Hall 'til August to get its ass into gear."
She tilts her head, knowing he's right, but still reaching to second-guess where his mind is moving. Perry waits a beat, then leans forward.
"I saw your notes on Llewellyn. You think you can make that stick?"
Her throat goes slightly dry, and she swallows coffee to clear it.
"I don't know. Maybe. It's just gossip and hearsay right now, and I haven't got any concrete –"
"But do you think it's true?"
Perry's eyes are suddenly beady, and she can see a hint of his bloodhound, let off its leash. She understands that the acknowledgment of her own instincts means he respects her. She feels a little thrill beginning to build up inside, like a trickle of electricity, as she nods slowly.
"Yeah. I checked out his gambling debts and compared the sheets. I think he's in trouble up to his eyeballs. I just can't get my hands on the paperwork."
"I might be able to help you with that," Perry muses, and he's not looking at her anymore, just staring at the corner of his desk and rubbing a thumb over his bottom lip. Then he snaps back, master of instant decisions. "You're on it. I'll call you with a contact for the paperwork – gimme a couple of hours. And I need you to move fast on this, or I'll have Carl Llewellyn breathing down my neck about what a swell guy Pete is, and their next lunch date with Berkowitz."
Chloe moves her head up and down, agreeing to terms. This is as close to page one as she's ever been, and is this…is this happening? There's a sense of falling, of being numb and struck dumb. Perry skewers her with a hard glance.
"Have it typed up by Thursday, and I mean Thursday. No late-for-deadlines."
Then she blinks, and it's real, the whole fucking thing, the mug gripped in her cold fingers, and White flicking crap out of the way of his phone, the way he sits straighter in his chair, his curt wave an abrupt dismissal. She stands up, a little unsteady, and takes a breath like she needs to prove she still can, and gives her editor a quick nod which he doesn't acknowledge. Turning for the door, and her hand is on the sill when his voice calls her to look back.
"Chloe." Perry is lifting a pencil at her. "You might wanna have a little chat with your pal up in Lexcorp Tower while you're at it."
"What?" She's recovering, but still dazed.
"Check the fine print. Your friend has a stake in Llewellyn senior's north housing project. He might be quite interested in the fact that his partner's son is embezzling joint funds."
Perry waggles his eyebrows at her, and she frowns then nods again before moving away, out of the office, down the corridor, in the direction of her desk, sensing Jeff Linden's absurdly curious looks and her own heart, potent beating, picking up speed and steel as every step she takes gets firmer, stronger, more purposeful.
oOo
"It is said, 'When you would see a person's heart, become ill.'… Whenever anyone is in unhappy circumstances, you should above all inquire after them by visiting or sending some gift. And you should never in your whole life be negligent towards someone from whom you have received a favour."
Her keys, thank god, were in her coat pocket. It is the one thing for which she feels pathetically grateful – that, and the fact that he's left his jacket on the hook near the door, so she doesn't have to add 'heart attack' to the list of disasters plaguing her when she walks into her apartment. She slams the door for effect, doesn't bother to take off her coat, and marches straight to the phone, passing him as he lifts his head over the top of her refrigerator. She knows he's not hungry – he's just poking around to keep himself amused.
"Lex, there's nothing there, so you can stop raiding."
He blanches at the sight of her in a way that she would have found edifying if she'd cared enough to look. It's not her surprise entrance that causes the change in his face.
"Chloe –"
"Shut up a second…"
She's trying to remember the number but it won't come. Damnit. She switches hands, using her left to press the Kleenex to her eyebrow as she roots around the paper debris near the phone.
"Shit, where is it…I know I had it written down –"
He steps in front of her and speaks carefully, quietly, like you do when confronted by a ferocious animal.
"What are you doing?"
"What does it look like?" She flails a handful of paper notes, not meeting his eyes. "I'm trying to find the number for Amex, it's here somewhere…"
"Chloe, your face is covered with blood."
He is supremely calm as she eddies around him, throwing pencils and post-it notes over the bench.
"Thank you, really, for pointing out the mind-blowingly obvious, Lex, now if you have nothing else to contribute –"
She grabs for the phone. The hell with it – call information. He takes the phone out of her hand smoothly and dials, then hands it back to her. His expression is unfathomable. She just glares, her mouth a tight line, before the voice prompts start and she has to unglue her lips to talk.
"Yes…yes…Sullivan, with two l's…"
She speaks in short clipped bursts, trying to concentrate. The way he is now padding around the apartment, fetching things, is distracting.
"…yes…Chloe Maureen – no, Maureen –M-A-U-R-"
He's in the cupboards. Over the lip of the bench, she can see his shirt stretching over the shoulders. A metal bowl is handed onto the countertop. Scissors.
"…yes…about twenty minutes ago…no…"
Filling and turning on the electric kettle. Now he's heading for the bathroom.
"…what?…no, not yet – I only just – yes…"
She can hear muted rummaging. She makes a face, then winces, pressing the Kleenex harder.
"…yes, I understand…thank you…sure, fine…five days – is that the fastest you can – no, sure, I understand…"
She can't hear him anymore, so she turns, trying to track his movements – it's always a good idea to keep an eye on Lex's movements. He's leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, hands in tailored pockets, the picture of debonair impassivity. Watching her. She stares him down as she concludes.
"…absolutely…yes, I will…thank you…much appreciated, thanks…okay. Bye."
She clicks off in triumphant exhaustion and makes a fist around the phone.
"There." Then her face falls. "Ah, shit – now I have to call the cops –"
"Chloe." Once again with the soft firm voice, and he's covered the distance and removed the phone from her hand before she has time to think. "You should get cleaned up first."
She baulks at the proprietariness.
"What? No – no, damnit, I have to –"
"Chloe –"
" – and while I'm in the mood, what the hell do you think you're doing, inviting yourself into my apartment at any and all hours of the –"
"Chloe." He grasps her shoulders firmly, staring into her eyes. The contact is enough to shock her into stillness. That, and his expression. "Stop. Your face is a mess. You have to get cleaned up."
Just the facts, ma'am. No one could ever accuse him of tact. The most irritating thing, though, is his habit of always being right. And his other habit, of making people believe he's right even when he's not. But she doesn't need to be beguiled, because her eyebrow is really smarting now. She flicks the bloody Kleenex at his chest.
"Sure. Fine."
His grip on her loosens, and for a bizarre moment she almost wishes he'd stayed holding her, because of the sudden floppy feeling in her legs. Instead, she now has his large hand in the small of her back, steering her gently. She managed to walk the rest of the way home, she's pretty sure she can make it to the bathroom without doing anything embarrassing, like throwing up or passing out, but she bites down on a retort.
He's set up a stool in front of the wall mirror, and she hops up onto it, feeling undignified. She deliberately avoids looking in the mirror, concentrating instead on getting her arms loose as he eases her coat off her shoulders. The coat puddles onto the floor, and she's left feeling cold and sore and uncomfortable. He moves to stand in front of her, shielding her from the mirror – how quaintly gentlemanly – as she looks down at herself: dirt on her skirt (that's dry clean only, thanks very much), the knees of her stockings are shredded, and spots of red on her white shirt, which is missing a button.
This is the one small detail that gives her the shakes.
If he notices her shuddering there on the stool he doesn't mention it, just rolls up his sleeves, and her eyes focus dazedly on his smooth tan forearms before he tilts her chin up and starts wiping around the gash above her eyebrow. For a while the bathroom is a quiet haven, where the only sound is him wringing out the washcloth in the hot water, with her occasional hiss of complaint. He has settled the metal bowl in the washbasin, and the steam from the water has fogged the mirror from the bottom up, like a mist of cloud on a lake.
In her tiny bathroom, squeezed between the toilet and the shower stall, the space between their bodies has a rather minimalist feel. He's working very slowly, in an almost meditative fashion, clearing the dried blood from around her eye and forehead, down her cheek, and she's had her eyes closed, but she decides to resume conversation because she doesn't want either of them to get too comfortable. Her voice comes out kind of grating, so she clears her throat and tries again.
"Thank you."
"No problem."
He doesn't look her in the eye, which is no mean feat when you're bathing someone's face. She gets a bit lost – she doesn't know what else to say. He smoothes the road.
"So. Muggers."
He enunciates the word in a cold, clear way that makes her blink, and somehow hope he never catches up with the men in question. She swallows and feels weird and tries to snark it off.
"No – a stampede of elephants. Yes, Lex, muggers."
Somehow it doesn't come out quite as biting as she planned, and her too-loud voice makes the bathroom seem even smaller and more claustrophobic than before. For some reason, this pisses her off. She tries to leaven the atmosphere with what drollery she can muster.
"Good old Metropolis."
"Sure." His curt humourless responses are unusual; she gets a feeling like he doesn't quite trust himself to speak. He's dabbing at the cut now and she winces. "Sorry."
"It's fine. Better you than some late-shift intern down at General." Her eyes roll; she's rambling. "Muggers. I mean, Jesus, if you were a mugger, would you pick me? Seriously? Anyway…forget it. They only wanted my bag, thank god."
Thank god… Lex looks at her evenly, before turning to wring out the washcloth. The combination of his expression, and the glimpse of her own face in the mirror – war-zone victim – sets off another explosion of tremors that she just can't get a handle on.
There was nothing in her bag – really, nothing, except her pathetically thin purse and some file notes and her tape recorder and a bunch of pencils with the ends chewed. Apart from cancelling the rest of her cards, the inconvenience will be strictly small-time.
But she still fought. Futile, and dangerous, and ultimately stupid. She couldn't help herself. She wonders how hard she'd fight if someone were trying to…well, rape her or something.
Pretty fucking hard.
And it's some consolation, at least - she didn't freeze up. No chance of that happening. She lived through walls and walls and walls of weird; juiced-up muggers would have to come a dim second.
But she still can't stop shaking. Damnit. She suddenly has the feeling that her insides are composed of a loose collection of wind chimes, that she can hear the faint hollow tinkling coming from her centre every time her body jitters. She closes her eyes and bites down hard and concentrates on breathing slowly.
And now Lex is smoothing the warm damp cloth down the line of her nose, across her cheekbone, and he must notice the way she's shivering… He doesn't say a word about it. He touches the cut again gently.
"I don't think this needs stitches. It's not too deep. Just messy."
"That's head wounds for you."
"Right." But he's no medical expert, and neither is she, so he just gives her a look.
"I tried to pull my bag back," she says, the words suddenly floating up to her ears from somewhere below ground. "That's when the second guy punched me. He was wearing a ring."
Up this close, she can see the way his jaw twitches.
"Well, you'll have a very fetching black eye tomorrow to show for it." He looks away and peels butterfly strips out of their sterile packet with deft fingers, snips them to size as he fixes each one on. "You might want to give some thought to the idea of not walking home alone this late at night."
She blinks out of reverie.
"I'm not gonna pay a cab to drive me three blocks."
He freezes and stares.
"My god, you are the stubbornest woman I have ever met. Look at yourself."
He quicksteps around her to the back, and now she sees the tableau in the mirror – herself on the stool, some sort of horrible ashy colour, body drooping, with blood trails still on her face and in her hair and on her shirt, and him behind, his hands on her shoulders, forcing her perspective, with a dark look on his face, a thunderstorm, with lightning flashes of genuine anxiety.
"Look. Now just…think about it."
He moves back and turns to dunk the washcloth again – she can see in the mirror that the job is only half-done. She's still trying to take in what she saw of herself, but she can't help noticing his back. The way the muscles tighten and jerk as he squeezes the cloth. She thought he was angry at her attackers. Maybe he's angry at her, for putting herself in the situation, for acting without thinking, for causing such a mess over the price of a next-to-nothing cab-fare…
Fuck him. Money means nothing to him. Feeling grey, she blinks hard, and by the time he turns back around she's pulled herself vaguely together.
"So…can I ask what you're doing here? Apart from patching me up, of course."
"Of course." He grins faintly as he starts on the side of her jaw. "I was in the neighbourhood. I tried calling but I only got your voicemail."
"Right. You were in the neighbourhood. In the mood for a little slumming, were we?"
He looks at her, and his movements barely pause before he makes a steadied reply.
"You've seen my social circle, Chloe. I'd have thought you'd realise that it was the other way around."
She blinks, but she can't stop herself, she's on a roll now.
"So why'd you bother coming over if you knew I wasn't home?"
"I thought I'd drop by anyway and see. Your boss said -"
"You called Perry?"
"Yes." He's working hard to stay even. "He said you'd already left."
"Maybe I had a date."
His arm drops, and he stares at her.
"…and maybe you were being attacked in an alley as you walked home from work – Chloe, is this going anywhere, or are you just being deliberately antagonistic?"
She crosses her arms around herself and shuts her mouth up tight and stares him back
IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou.
Then his face changes and his chin lifts a little as he regards her. Epiphany. She frowns. He sighs, drops the cloth on the sink and spreads his hands.
"Okay. Go on. Do it. You'll feel better."
"What?" Her eyes are burning from maintaining her gaze.
"Hit me. Hard as you like."
Now she's forced to drop her face.
"Don't be stupid."
"Go on. Do it. I promise I won't sue."
"Headcase," she mutters. She shakes her refusal, and is horrified to find that it begins spreading. Her shoulders are twitching. God, not again.
"Hit me, Chloe. Really. It's easy. Look –"
Now he's reached out and pried loose one of her wrists, her arm stiff, and her hand a rigid trembling fist. He pulls with a small sudden force, and she feels her knuckles make brief contact with his shirt, the hardness of his breastbone. She squeezes her eyes shut.
"There. Now come on, put a bit of muscle into it –"
He pulls at her arm again, and she feels her hand thunk into his chest, and hears an awful quiet noise leak out of herself - her hand has collected a fistful of his shirt, twisting-vicious, and she's got him at arm's length, and she can't stop shaking…
…and now the bathroom is getting cold. How long have they been like this, with him gripping her shoulders and leaning over her bowed head, her stiff arm push-pulling at him as she shudders and sniffles, and her arm is aching and her head is aching, and she can feel his breath on her hair… She lets out a final hitching sigh, and lets her sore arm drop, and uses her other hand to swipe at her face as she looks up at him blearily. She swallows hard and wets dry lips.
"…sorry."
He rubs her shoulder once then lets her go, and turns again for the washcloth.
"Don't be."
"It was stupid. Walking home after midnight…stupid."
"It wasn't your fault." He folds the cloth, looking for a clean patch. "Just…be careful. This isn't Smallville. And you're not superhuman."
In spite of her headache, she feels inexpressibly lighter. Enough to make a wan grin.
"No, I just think I'm indestructible."
He snorts.
"Some things never change."
She frowns guiltily, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
"I crumpled your shirt."
"Forget it." He grins. "I'll buy a new one tomorrow."
She smiles and relaxes her shoulders, and suddenly the world is back on its axis. And her head is still aching, but Tylenol and booze are only just off-stage. Lex has resumed the fight against aesthetic disarray – now he's rubbing gently at a patch under her cheekbone.
"I look a mess, huh?"
"Not so's you'd notice."
"Funny." She wriggles her going-to-sleep butt on the stool. "So are you ever going to tell me why you came over?"
"I just thought you might be up."
"You thought I might be up… So, what, you came over to re-hash your day on the boardroom floor, and my day on the newsdesk, and try to fanangle a bit of gossip?"
"Sure. Except, if I recall, it's usually you doing the fanangling."
"Oh, really."
"Yes." He's started on her neck now, smiling, smooth as silk. "Really."
And suddenly the situation is almost too convivial, and she can feel his fingers through the cloth, and his other hand is cupping her nape, a warm thumb under the soft spot behind her ear, and she makes a grab for the washcloth before he gets to her collarbone, before her cheeks start colouring.
"Ah, I can take it from here - thanks."
He relinquishes the cloth and backs off, almost expressionless, before clearing his throat.
"I think we could both use a drink."
Then he slides past her and leaves.
She sighs.
A drink – here, here.
And one part of her is self-congratulatory, that she got through without completely disemboweling their friendship, and she finds enough strength in this to pry herself off the stool and make it to her bedroom, where she peels out of her grubby clothes and into sweats and a loose shirt and a faded pink terry-cloth bathrobe. And another alternate-dimension part of her is wondering why she made him go.
Which is too off-kilter even to contemplate, so she puts it down to delayed shock.
She consoles herself with the surety that you can't talk Lex Luthor into doing anything he really doesn't want to do, but more consoling is the glass he presses into her hand when she returns to the living room. She'd know the aroma of good scotch anywhere, and naturally he chose the scotch, because she bought it on his recommendation.
She refuses to stand on ceremony and trails over to the couch, sinking into the cushions for the first sip.
"Ah…outstanding. Thank you."
Now she can start to relax.
He lowers himself onto the cushions on the other end. It's a bit like having one of those enormous desert cats - a jaguar, or maybe a puma - settled on the opposite end of the sofa from you.
Not completely relaxed, then.
But there's a pleasant sensation of lassitude, lead-heaviness liquefying her body, so she concentrates on her drink, and on the quiet of the evening. She is inching into the cushions by degrees.
"Here." He leans across to her, hand extended, and drops three headache tablets into her palm. "I know you're not supposed to mix these with booze, but I've done worse and lived."
She chases the tablets with a mouthful of malt fire.
"You're a true friend."
"You're not going to get all maudlin-drunk on me, are you?"
"Not a chance."
"Glad to hear it."
"Mm," she remembers through a mouthful, "Have to call the cops."
"I don't think you'd get a terribly snappy response at –" He checks his watch. " – one fifty-two am. Try morning."
"Sounds good."
She sinks down a little further. He watches, with the edgy stillness of someone who's used to pulling all-nighters. Or having insomnia.
"So…you wanna talk about it?"
She shakes her head, and her words echo inside her glass.
"Not really. Try morning."
"Is that your way of asking me to stay?"
"Hah. Get me another scotch and I'll consider it."
He narrows his eyes at her.
"Take it easy there. Sculling this stuff is a waste."
"S'not wasted. It's going to a good home."
She waggles her empty glass at him, and he sighs quietly, forbearingly, and gets up to collect it.
He's right though – again. Good scotch might never be wasted, but she soon will be if she doesn't slow down. She wriggles, screwing herself further into the sofa, and doesn't care.
After the second (half-full) glass, during which he makes meandering conversation and she provides grunting accompaniment, she decides to take his advice and quit while she's ahead.
"Wanna go to bed now."
"Your best and most audible suggestion so far."
She tilts her head over to the cushions on one side and closes her eyes.
"G'night, Lex."
His mouth opens, closes just as quickly. Then he grins, stands up and moves over in front of her, sinks down onto his haunches. Reaches out with a finger to brush her hair out of her face.
Damn. And she looks so peaceful too.
Without further ado, he grabs her right wrist, and slides her arm, doe-si-doe-style, over his shoulder. Her hand tucks into the crook of his neck of its own volition. When she feels herself being pulled upright, Chloe opens her eyes and looks at the buttons on his shirt, which seems like pretty much the best view available at the moment. Her feet move, and he steers.
"…whatchoodoing?"
"I'm taking you to bed." His chest rumbles against her cheek as he speaks.
"…think you got th'wrong idea."
"No, I think you got the wrong idea. This is me, trying to be a gentleman."
They've navigated their way to her room, cool and calm with darkness.
"…yr shirt smells nice."
"Don't push it. Here –" He pulls back the covers and settles her down. "Time to go nighty-night, Chloe."
She keels onto her side, face on the pillows, and as he lifts her bare feet up and draws up the blankets she blinks at him in a way that makes him swallow hard.
"…why're you being so nice to me?"
His expression becomes a swirl of confusion, settling into something indefinable. It's a shame she's past the point of being able to analyze it. He reaches out and rubs a thumb across her temple, so light it feels like moth-wings
"Gotta take care of my favourite reporter," he whispers.
Then he walks out, closing the door behind him.
Part Three coming shortly.