'It is said that even after one's head has been cut off, one can still perform some function.'
The office is utterly silent at three a.m. There's a box, and she's throwing stuff into it – little things, mementos mostly – but she can't really see too clearly because it's dark, and her eyes keep tearing up.
Shit.
She stops to blow her nose, wipe her eyes. The cough from the corner makes her jump, cry out –
"Chloe."
She puts a hand to her chest, feeling the familiarity of the gesture.
"Jesus."
"Sorry."
Perry walks closer and she stabs him with a glance.
"I really wish you'd stop doing that."
He materializes into the lamplight, tired, and casually if somewhat haphazardly dressed. She wonders for a second how he got past the security guy Lex stationed at the door. Well, it is White's paper.
"Guess you won't have to worry about me sneaking up on you any more."
She smiles thinly.
"Guess not. And I guess you'll have to make your own coffee in the morning."
He grins.
"Oh, I'm not worried about that. Jeff'll make it. I think he's picked up a few tips from you after all."
She has to snort at that. Perry pushes back a few folders and leans on the desk. He watches her for a long moment.
"Smoking gun, huh?"
Chloe can't look at him.
"Well, you were the one who put me in front of it, so you should know."
He's silent, but she can feel the remorse in the air. She throws her desk nameplate into the box before giving up, sighing out, rubbing her hands through her hair.
"Damnit." She squeezes the bridge of her nose. "They never figured out who Deep Throat was in the end, did they?"
Perry cocks his head with a rueful grin.
"No. But there was plenty of speculation." He squares his shoulders. "Chloe, you don't have to do this. You're a top-notch journalist – a little young, but still top-notch."
She's shaking her head in the negative.
"Look, no offence, but –"
"You'd be a top-notch journalist anywhere in the world. Even in, say, Europe?"
He's holding out a coloured slip, and when she takes it numbly, feeling the solidity, seeing her name typed there, words have a little trouble emerging.
"What – how did you –"
"I was told that the plane ticket might be better coming from me."
She's staring now, feeling incredibly stupid.
"But – I quit…"
"You didn't quit, Sullivan," Perry murmurs jauntily. "I'm promoting you. Overseas correspondent."
Her head is whirling all over again. She shakes it hard.
"Is this for real?"
Perry laughs.
"Sure it is, kid."
"I –" She swallows. "Boss, I don't know what to say."
"Say thank you," he grins.
"Thank you."
"No problem." He rises and smiles. "I'll miss you, Chloe. Jeff's coffee always tastes like crap."
Then he turns, and starts walking. When her wits scramble together, she calls out to his retreating back, only managing one word:
"Perry –"
He looks over his shoulder, face suddenly ravaged with fatigue, half in and out of shadow.
"You forgot, huh? Or didn't you realise? Check the fine print, Chloe. I run the Planet - but Lexcorp still owns fifty-four percent."
She's still gaping when the door closes behind him.
oOo
"It is unthinkable to be disturbed at something like being ordered to become a ronin. People at the time of Lord Katsushige used to say, 'If one has not been a ronin at least seven times, he will not be a true retainer.'…One should understand that it is something like being a self-righting doll."
Flight QF632 to Paris, departing 0715hrs.
Her exhaustion palpable, like a thick film over her skin. She will check-in ten minutes before the gate is due to close, and there will be a heavy-set man – the limo driver, in fact – to take her all the way (she thinks of old westerns - being escorted to the city limits, being thrown out of town). She will recline in her business class seat and think about how Lana – god, so long ago – how Lana returned from France so changed.
Will she change? Will she return?
She will waive breakfast and close the window and pray for sleep.
She will not see him for a long long time.
She will not think about it.
And he has assured her that he will take care of the apartment, her belongings, all the detritus of her life that she had to leave behind without so much as a look around – everything that she managed to salvage, anything of importance, sent over to the penthouse in a box by a security guy who rifled through her stuff on her behalf. The embarrassment of packing, of sorting through underwear and toiletries that have been collected by a stranger.
Her home, now a forbidden place.
Time spent waiting, sitting tentatively on the sofa, picking at food, listing essentials. Lex, busy in staccato, on the phone, arranging flights, arranging visas, organising, stepping out for a moment, coming back – when he's gone there's always a man standing quietly by the entrance, to whom she feels obliged to make a weak, forced smile.
She thinks about the night before – how many hours ago was that? – the night before this one, when Lex had danced with her, and she had smiled into his neck, and touched his skin… It's enough to make her swallow back a sob.
Earlier ground-shattering moments, tremors of minor earthquakes, when she and Lex had fought. She shook her head, and closed her eyes, and locked her jaw, head down, hair over her face – resistant, so resistant – until he knelt in front of her and took her hand and explained with awful insistence the necessity of it all. His grief-stricken tone, saying 'I don't think I can protect you, Chloe,' and it's this admission of defeat, his expression – unconquerable, conquered by this – which finally convinced her.
She will not think about it.
And she will not dwell on her return from the Planet, with her sad sagging box of things, which she felt like throwing into the fireplace to keep his broken scotch glass company. Brandishing the ticket in her hand, her glare feeling like a cheap shot, because it was her own fault for being so naieve and stupid and unaware. Lex, sighing, walking over to take the box and set it down, and drawing her in to hold her, in the little time that they have left.
And she will not see him for along long time, and when she smoothes a hand over the echoing smoothness of his skull it feels like grieving, the unfairness of having to say their goodbyes in the limo because he can't even risk walking into the airport with her.
What a mess this has all turned out to be.
She will not think about it.
At 0730hrs, when the plane is rumbling, rising, she will not think about any of it, only the texture of the blanket on her knee, the brush of the pillow against her cheek, the hard moulded plastic beneath her elbow…
Metropolis, spread out in all its acrid glory.
Perry, laughing at some observation, coffee mug in one hand and hot copy on his lap.
The scratch of her pencil, sitting at her desk, harsh fluorescent office lights.
The comforting warmth of her apartment – soft rug, yellow sun.
His hands gripping hers so tightly on the drive, and not wanting to let her go.
The sound, the smell of him.
Kissing his neck, kissing his forehead, kissing his lips.
Brush of damp on her hand, touching his face.
Moving away, moving back, moving away at last.
And she will not think about it, will not think about any of it, and she will be soaring – miles, miles and miles above - and there will be no Truth, and there will be no Right, no Wrong, no Metropolis, no Lex – no anything, as the plane banks and turns, clouds whisper in parting and her soul takes flight.
Fin
'Under the deep snows in the last village
Last night a single branch of plum blossomed.'
A/N: Ronin – a former samurai swordsman who, after disgrace or the death of his master, works as a mercenary blade-for-hire. Thank you everyone, for reading. And once again, a great big thank you to kathe, for her tireless support, sound advice, and initial inspiration. Hope this didn't come out too bass-ackwards.