victormakesart | (no subject)

(no subject)

She can't go anywhere else. It's too late at night and the kids are sleeping and she can't go to Cole like this and she wanted to go to James with this because she knows he'd let her go off the deep end. He'd let her break. He's been waiting for her to break for years. And maybe that's why she presses Clark's number and not James'. Or maybe it's because her finger slips off of James' speed dial. Either way, there she is, outside the door.

She tries to make a fist to knock, but her knuckles are bruised and her swollen fingers won't close. So she whispers, "Clark," knowing that he'll hear her.

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"Nothing. They can't interact with the universe beyond talk. I could've resummoned the demon and sacrificed their strength."

"If they can't interact with the universe, then how were they going to grant a favor in the first place?"

"I dunno. They can do some stuff, but they were a hundred percent unhelpful about anything to do with their predicament."

"Then isn't is possible that they might have just plain lied to you about being able to give you anything?" Clark points out. He doesn't know if that's the case, but if their power is limited... it's not impossible.

"Then they should've said. And never offered. If they've worked with Lorne, they know that sometimes people do freebies. All I do is freebies. All they had to do was ask and... how can something be so advanced and so stupid?"

Her energy is running low, and she limps to the kitchen table to sit down... not wanting to ruin the upholstery on the couch. At least with wood you can wipe it down and sanitize it. Her legs and hands and back are agony. She'd take pills but reasonable dosages don't work on her anymore and she doesn't want to kill her liver.

"You're right. They should've." He follows, trying not to look like he's trying to hover around her or whatever. She really does look like crap, and he knows she hates it when people fuss about it. "Just being advanced doesn't mean people are smart, or make all the right choices."

"When I was hitting the punching bags," she confesses, "even though I could turn them into anyone... I couldn't turn it into them. I couldn't bear to hurt them, even in my own mind. My nonviolence is a weakness. It's born of fear, not nobility."

"Not hurting people is not a weakness," Clark tells her firmly.

"That's not even the worst part, though," she says. "I did turn the bag into someone."

"Yourself?" he guesses. That's the only person that Clark knows she would hurt willingly, terrible though it is.

She nods her head, though the movement makes a stab of pain shoot through her skull, and she winces. Dehydration. "I'm so messed up."

He politely pretends she's talking about her injuries instead of her mental state. "Your hands are pretty bad."

"'S not what I meant."

"No, but they wouldn't be like that if you weren't so hard on yourself. You are not to blame for this, Victor."

"I know," she says. She swallows. "I think I know. I'm angry. I'm angry at myself, but... I'm usually angry at myself. I'm more angry at life. Or God. Or whatever."

"And the Furies?"

"Them too, I guess. I think they're idiotic and manipulative, but the focus of my anger isn't on them."

"I'm not going to say that you don't have a right to be mad, because you do," Clark tells her.

All the fight is out of her, and she nods, tears springing up fresh again, stinging her eyes and nose. "Why can't we make everyone better?"

All he can offer her are tissues. "I ask myself that a lot. The hard truth is that it's just the way it is, sometimes. We do what we can to make things right, to keep the peace, and improve things as best we can. But even Superman can't do everything."

She gingerly wipes her eyes, maneuvering with difficulty with her swollen fingers. "I know that in my head, but my head's not the one calling the shots right now. Which I don't like. I miss being able to... detach." She doesn't realize she still does it, but to a lesser extent, and usually when she's angry.

"For what it's worth... I think you're coping pretty well." Even with broken hands. To an extent, part of Clark envies people who can let out their frustrations through beating a punching bag. He has never really been able to let loose in the same way, and keeping stuff bottled up is hard in the long run.

A sharp, self-deprecating laugh. "I don't feel like I am. I'm a mess. If you weren't here keepin' me in line I'd probably be wasted and picking fights with folks."

"But I am here, and so are you." He feels that it's significant that she came here, instead of the second option she just mentioned. She could have easily gone and done that, rather than come knocking on his door in the middle of the night. But she didn't.

"Gosh, if I'd gone to James... I can't even imagine what he'd've let me do."