a fool's musings

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2001-12-10 - 2:48 p.m.

The elasticity of time

How is it that the morning can fly by, going from 8:45 am to noon in the blink of an eye, but all of a sudden time slows to a *crawl* at around 2:30. God. It's only 2:41 pm.

I've eaten a cheeseburger and onion rings. I've got my afternoon iced coffee. I'm a relatively happy camper, considering I can't talk and I have a couple of fics that I have NO IDEA what I'm doing with, but this whole time thing is bugging me.

I mean, yeah, time flies when you're having fun or when you're busy etc., but I'm relatively busy here at work. I mean, maybe not always with work-related stuff, but I keep myself looking busy so no one questions me.

And yet... 2:43.

I'm going to fall asleep at my desk.

I'm contemplating some changes with the look of this thing. I dunno. Probably not. I like the old blue and gold, but we'll see.

As for the fic, well, the idea just wouldn't leave me alone, and on the train, I started writing. But now I'm not sure how it should go.

Here it is. More comments afterwards.

Disclaimer: I own nothing herein, except the odd idea that Lex went to summer camp til he was 14.

~*~

Different Roads

Lex sat in the Red Carpet Club lounge at the United terminal of LAX.

He hadn't been in a public terminal at an airport in more years than he could remember. Everywhere the Luthors flew, they used a private, corporate jet.

Yet here he was, ensconced in a leather wing chair, reading the _Financial Times_, waiting for Clark.

He was picking someone up at the airport.

Another first in his romantic career. And very significant, considering he hadn't even gotten to first base with Clark, wasn't even sure Clark *knew* about first base.

He sighed and ran a hand over his scalp, a gesture left over from the days when he'd first lost his hair, and hoped like crazy to feel some sign of stubble or growth. Now, just a casual, secretly comforting, reflex.

At least he'd gotten Clark upgraded to first class. Jonathan Kent, stubborn as a mule, had refused to let him pay for Clark's ticket, refused to let their boy set foot on a LutherCorp jet at all. He was amazed they were letting their son come to Los Angeles, even if it was on an interview with Stanford. The fact that Lex had pulled some strings to get freshman Clark an interview for a program that normally only took juniors and seniors was never discussed, though he figured Clark at least had an inkling.

They'd reluctantly agreed to let him "chaperone" Clark, since they could only afford the one ticket (and if they'd let him handle it, he supposed he'd have had to fly at least Martha out, and where was the fun in that?), and he was planning on making the most of it. He was going to show Clark all the delights money could buy. He still couldn't get over Clark's refusal of his gifts; he had the secret, niggling hope that Clark liked him in spite of his money, rather than because of it.

That aberration, so rare in Lex's experience, was enough to make him want to give Clark the world. The whole life-saving business, coupled with the boy's amazing beauty, was just icing.

A sharp voice broke into his reverie.

"I'm telling you, Wesley, it's not here. Great evil is *not* lurking in the Red Carpet Club at LAX."

"Fine," said a British voice. "I'll stay here and you can go searching wherever your feel is the appropriate hiding place for a Thal demon." He cringed internally; the man sounded like too many of his headmasters at Eton. Sliding down in the chair and peering out from behind his newspaper, he thought this had the makings of an interesting conversation. Two seemingly rational people discussing *demons* of all things. Demons at the airport. He might have to fly commercial more often.

"Oh, no you don't, Wesley. Remember your division of labor? Big strong man go fight bad guys. Meek, little woman sits in red velvet comfort and waits."

Lex grinned at that. She didn't sound at all meek, and she was far from little. He cast his gaze over her curves appreciatively.

The man, Wesley, sighed in exasperation. "Bollocks. You're more than capable of taking on this demon, Cordelia. It's barely out of the larval stage."

Cordelia? Lex thought. No, couldn't be. He looked closer as she turned in profile, and God, it *was* her. She'd grown into a beautiful woman, one who wasn't going to let her escort push her around.

She smiled blindingly. "You really think I could do it?"

"Yes. Your training is coming along marvelously. So--" Wesley made shooing motions.

Cordelia frowned. "But Wesley, these are my new Prada shoes. They cost me a week's salary - which, by the way, I still have not been paid, *boss*." This last word dripped with sarcasm.

Wesley opened his mouth and then closed it with a snap. Lex could tell he was used to Cordelia and resigned to his fate. She obviously hadn't changed much since he'd known her. "Fine. If I'm not back in half an hour, call Angel." And he stalked off, clutching an odd-shaped duffel bag that clanked with every step.

Cordelia sighed and put a hand to her head. She was beautiful, but she did look tired.

He stood and folded his newspaper. "May I buy the lady a drink?" he asked.

She looked up, startled. "Oh. My. God," she exclaimed. "A Luthor in an airport lounge? Hell really has frozen over."

He laughed and held out a hand, which she took, and pulled him in for a hug. He noticed the calluses on her palm and the strength of her arms. She felt good pressed against him for a moment -- comforting. She still smelled the same, though it had to be seven or eight years since he'd last seen her -- expensive haircare products and fine, French-milled soap. She rarely wore perfume, complaining about her sinuses acting up. It reminded him of being fourteen again, and fumbling kisses in the dark while his hands tangled in her long dark hair.

"You cut your hair," he said, pulling back to look at her.

There were shadows under her eyes, the clear hazel marked with a depth and sorrow he'd never have expected from a girl like Cordelia Chase.

She'd been the little fish in a big pond at summer camp, her family rich by most American standards, but barely noticeable to a Luthor. His father hadn't liked the connection, which had only made it more exciting when he was fourteen. That had been their last year at camp and he'd never seen her again. Never expected to, really, with her father being stupid enough to get caught by the IRS, of all things.

"Yeah," she said, reminding him that he'd spoken, one hand going to her hair. "It kind of got in the way."

He turned her palm up and thumbed the calluses, noting her sharp intake of breath. "You've taken up fencing?"

"I know my way around a sword, yeah," she answered, and there was no teasing double-entendre in her voice.

"My instructor kicks my ass," he confided.

Another smile, this time rueful. "Mine still tries to treat me like a girl sometimes. But I showed him. Can't always rely on the big strong man to save me, now can I?"

"No, I guess not." He shifted away slightly, though still kept her hand in his possession. He was good at knowing when people wanted something, and he'd approached her, after all, yet there was no hint of supplication in her voice, no unspoken question asking him for help.

He held up a hand and a waitress appeared as if by magic. He looked at Cordelia. "Coffee?" She nodded; he turned to the waitress and said, "Two, please. Black, no sugar." Then he led Cordelia to one of the loveseats scattered about the lounge.

"I heard about your parents," he said.

Her lips twisted into a bitter grimace. He'd forgotten how expressive her face was. "Yeah. I try to forget about that. I've got my own life now, here in LA. Away from Sunnyhell."

He choked on a laugh. "That bad?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Thinking of the superstrong farm boy winging his way out to LA, and meteor rocks that had strange properties, he said, "You never know. I might."

The waitress brought the coffee, and Cordelia took a sip, wrinkling her nose at the bitter black liquid. "So, what are you doing here?"

An obvious change of subject. He could do that. It's not like he wanted to air his dirty linen to someone he hadn't seen in seven years, either.

"Business."

"At the airport?"

"Oh." He laughed in self-deprecation. "Meeting a friend. He's never been to LA before." She raised an eyebrow but said nothing about it. "And you? Looking for 'great evil?' he teased.

"Well, obviously I was wrong," she answered. "You're here," but another of those stunning smiles and a hand on his arm took the sting from her words. "I maybe exaggerated a little," she continued, leaning in a little. "I work for a detective agency now. Some of our cases are -- unusual."

"Really? Interesting." She opened her mouth and he said, "I've already got several private investigations firms on retainer."

She laughed again, but this time it ended with a sigh. "Well, if you've ever got -- unusual -- needs," and he wondered what a Thal demon was, and what the hell it was doing at the airport, "here's my card."

He took it and slipped into his pocket, wondering what forces had combined to make Cordelia Chase into this intriguing woman. She certainly wasn't the vapid starlet he'd been expecting when he decided to speak to her. He knew she'd been raised to be the wife of a man like himself, educated, pampered, bred to be the queen of whatever social gathering she attended. And now she was learning to use a sword and working for a private investigator.

They'd both done some growing up, he thought, and she was probably the better for it.

She opened her mouth to say something, and suddenly her hand clenched around the delicate coffee cup she'd been given, shattering it and spilling the hot brew all over her, himself and the couch.

She didn't seem to notice. Her face was drawn into a rictus of pain and she let out a loud shriek that died away to quiet, pained whimpering.

"Cordelia. Cordelia," he said, feeling the panic begin to rise, the same helpless feeling he'd had when the old woman had died, clutching his hand.

~*~

Okay, so the question is, does Lex get involved with the Fang Gang? Or should Wesley appear on the scene, take Cordy away claiming migraine, and Lex just figures that there's more to his old friend than he ever expected?

I dunno. I have no ideas for an AI plot, so I'm thinking it's answer B. But there could be some fun in Lex and CLark tagging along with Angel and Gunn et al. I mean, Clark could make eyes at Fred and Lex could get jealous. That might be fun.

Angel could know Lionel Luthor from the past or something.

::shakes head::

See, this is why I need help. I also need someone to kick my ass about Consumption, which is languishing with Logan changing in the back of the BLackbird and Rogue trying to shimmy out of her handcuffs.

Sigh.

2:49 as I go to post this.

Almost 15 minutes went by. That's good.

~victoria



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2001-12-10 - 9:50 a.m.

Edelweiss

My surreal morning:

I have no voice left. I sound like some really bad Marilyn Monroe impersonator. Breathy and attempting to sound sexy. I hate not being able to talk. This might well kill me.

Coming up out of the subway, three lovely, HOT firemen in all their gear [with axes... *swoon* yeah, I dig the weaponry. Deal.] were heading down into the station...

Where a gentleman with a basso profundo voice and a Casio keyboard was singing "Edelweiss."

I shit you not.

Lyrics of the day:

Not Edelweiss. *g*

"Mommy's all right / Daddy's all right / they just seem a little lit / Surrender / Surrender / but don't give yourself away" - "Surrender" Cheap Trick

Do teenagers still listen to that song? Great song for dancing around the living room in your underwear.

"Everyone I ever knew / was so kind and coy / I was with a girl / I felt like I was with a boy / I can't even remember / if we were lovers / or if I just wanted to / but I held her in my arms / I held her in my arms / I held her in my arms / but it wasn't you" - "I Held Her In My Arms" - Violent Femmes

Ah, you can' t beat the Femmes. I saw them live 8 or 10 years ago- 8th row at the Beacon Theatre. Awesome. The way Gordon held the note on the word "day" in "Add It Up" there at the end... spectacular.

And there's a song waiting to be ficc'ed, if ever there was one. Since we're on the incest tip atm.

And Song #3 for today:

"Ever fallen in love with someone / ever fallen in love / in love with someone / ever fallen in love / in love with someone / you shouldn't have fallen in love with?" - "Ever Fallen In Love" - Buzzcocks

Sigh.

Happy Monday, I suppose

Ooh, ooh! THey're playing "Father Christmas" by the Kinks. I think this is my favorite rock-n-roll Xmas song. "Father Christmas / give us some money / don't mess around with no silly toys / we'll beat you up if you make some noise / Father Christmas / bring us some money / don't mess around with no silly toys / We'll beat you up if you don't hand it over / give all the toys / to the little rich boys"

~victoria

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~*~

2001-12-09 - 5:15 p.m.

Angels & Insects

Okay, so I've updated Unfit and Muse's Fool and done links and recs... and there are three, count 'em, THREE incest fics among my recommendations now. Two Lionel/Lex Smallville fics and one Wanda/Pietro Maximoff Ult-X fic.

Should I be disturbed by this?

Or even more disturbed that I'm *writing* an incest fic, even if it's humorous in nature, and they're going to stop short of the actual deed when Logan remembers Rose.

I figure that'll explain my deep and abiding *loathing* of Logan/Jean fic. I'm having trouble reading Heyoka II simply because the shadow of L/J hangs over it as a possibility.

She couldn't have paired him with *Storm*?

Anyhow, if I play it like I believe Logan and Jean are related [through Rose, of course], then my gut-level abhorrence is not completely irrational.

Of course, I think I'm long past irrational and into bugfuck nuts because I'm worried about fictional characters' familial relationships so they can or cannot have sex.

Admittedly, incest is a squicky subject, and I can totally see people wanting to give those fics a pass. But none of them present it as a *good* thing - just a thing that happens in very, very dysfunctional families, and the interesting thing is seeing how the characters react, and, especially in the case of the Luthors, *why* they're behaving like this.

I mean, the way Wanda and Pietro are presented, it's a very VC Andrews sitch; it's squicky but you feel bad for them because they've got no one else to turn to. Sort of.

With Lionel and Lex, it's ... more complex. And ickier.

I mean, I was squicked by Angels and Insects. The insects portion. I mean the chick who was nailing her brother. It was disturbing, but not unexpected.

And with Lex and his father, you just can't look away. The neediness, the longing for some connection, some love in the absence of the wife/mother figure, the power plays and the contempt... *such* an interesting dynamic.

Or maybe I really am bugfuck nuts. It's a possibility.

~victoria



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2001-12-09 - 12:11 p.m.

Pyro's wake up call

I'm in a slightly sunnier frame of mind this morning, even if I was woken up at the ungodly hour of 7:30 am by St. John Allerdyce, demanding to have this little ficlet written.

It needs ... something, but I'm not quite sure what.

For your delectation, or what have you:

Disclaimer: Do I look like Stan Lee?

~*~

Mail Call

St. John practically vibrates with suppressed excitement as Scott hands out the mail.

His friends all look at him strangely. He has no friends, no family outside of Xavier's. Who could he possibly be getting mail from?

Bobby wonders if his best friend is holding out on him, if he's met someone from the outside and hasn't shared. He feels hurt when his oblique questions about John's excitement go unanswered three days in a row. Bobby has yet to learn the different between subtle and completely obscure, so Johnny just shakes his head at offers to talk and odd comments about girls they've met on their travels to the city.

Kitty tries to recall if John went early admissions to any colleges, as she's done. She's waiting for that thick envelope from MIT; she wants it so badly she can almost taste it, but she knows it may not come for another week yet. She tells him that, only to be greeted by an incredulous look from him, and all their friends. He's a decent student, but the surety of early admissions applications is beyond him.

Jubilee snickers and makes loud remarks about packages wrapped in brown paper, ordered off the Internet in the dead of night. She speculates he's waiting for his new subscription to _Hustler_ or perhaps the cock ring she caught him contemplating one evening when he couldn't click away fast enough.

Rogue watches and wishes she had reason to get excited about the mail, but she never does. She wrote to her parents after she settled in at the school, but they never responded. She already knows she's not going away to college, has settled on taking courses over the Internet, and the only person she wishes to hear from is a lousy correspondent, who occasionally remembers to send word he's still alive in the frozen north.

This goes on for a week, and then Johnny's excitement dissipates into a grudging acceptance that whatever he's expecting isn't going to come.

Time passes, and the holidays arrive, along with Kitty's early admissions letter, Bobby's yearly care package from Mom, apparently the one time of year the Drakes feel they can't ignore their mutant son, and a hastily scrawled postcard for Rogue from somewhere north of Vancouver.

It's not until after the New Year that St. John's name is called. He rips the letter from Ororo's hand and rushes off to his room, trailing a wake of surprised looks.

With trembling fingers he tears open the envelope and gingerly unfolds the letter inside. The weight of the paper -- a fine creamy bond he associates with important business, though he can't say why -- reassures him.

Words jump out at him at random. "Well-written." "Good addition to our roster." And most importantly, "Accepted."

His manuscript has been accepted. He is giddy with joy at the idea that his book will be published. Oh, sure, it's a cheesy romance novel, full of heaving bosoms and a chiseled hero who's so dumb his horse actually saves the day, but it was calculated to get this letter. Johnny's done his research and he wants to get a foot in the door any way he can. His more complex work sits in a notebook under his mattress. He dreams of being the next Raymond Carver, and has shared this with no one. He knows he has talent, but he's still just a firebug from Melbourne, a seventeen-year-old mutant kid who's seen too much of the world in his short life. He's afraid his image works against him. Everyone wants uplifting Oprah books, and he's writing about unwanted children eking out an existence on the street after fleeing from parents who would rather forget they spawned at all.

Hence his descent into cheap romantic nonsense that will sell better than a clear-eyed look at the world ever will.

His interest in school is limited, but he has devoured most of the books in the large library, and has become a capable mimic of those styles he feels will get him the most attention while he waits to spring his short stories on an unsuspecting _New Yorker_.

He dances around his room, letter in hand, singing the chorus to "Johnny B. Goode" until there's a knock at the door.

Calming himself, he opens it to see Bobby standing there, a hurt look on his face. He yanks his best friend and roommate into the room and waves the letter under his nose.

"I'm gonna be published, Bobby-boy!" he exclaims.

Bobby rips the letter from his hand and reads it over. "Damn," he says. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Johnny shrugs, diffident. "I thought you might think it was stupid. I mean, it's a freaking Harlequin romance."

"Yeah, but it's *yours*," Bobby replies and Johnny can't think of a better response than to hug him tightly, because he's Bobby and he's so earnest when he's being supportive. After a moment, they both pull back, a little embarrassed at the sudden display of emotion. "Come on, let's go tell everyone."

Bobby pulls him out of the room and into the waiting arms of his family and friends, who embrace him proudly as one of their own.

End

So, I feel all good about my little happy ficlet, which should make it easier to write the damned action scenes for Consumption, right? Or the clubbing fic with Chloe/Clark/Lex... Or even Consanguinity, which is stumping me, and it really shouldn't, because it's a humor piece that shouldn't get anywhere near 5 pages long, and yet...

So I'm getting ready to put up a Smallville recs page on Unfit, and damn, there's a lot of fic I haven't read yet, and that's not even *counting* any het fic. Is there Smallville het fic? Maybe of the Pete and Chloe variety? Though I could dig Chloe/Clark if Lex didn't get in the way.

And really, there should be some nice Jonathan/Martha fic out there, but I haven't seen any yet. Maybe I don't know where to look.

I will say I got one of the best reviews *EVER* on FF.net for Caveat. She totally *got* it, got that Clark was the one who ultimately screwed himself, because Lex's nature is NOT going to let him back away from a "What's in it for you?" with an altruistic answer, and Lex being the sensitive, untrusting soul he is, is going to be hurt by the fact that the one person who never treated him like he was Beelzebub is now acting as though he is. Even for a moment. Because it's such moments that build empires and bring down love affairs. Not the really big stuff-- you can weather that-- no, it's the minute cracks that accumulate over years of mistrust, averted eyes and half-truths that will kill you every time.

And I need to take a shower and do laundry now. So much for philosophizing.

~vic

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~*~

2001-12-09 - 1:04 a.m.

the valley of the shadow of death

You know, this was going to be a light-hearted whine about how I hate being sick and blah blah bliddy blah.

But no.

Helen's sister Rita died today.

She's only a year older than I am.

Granted, she's been ill her whole life, with one thing and another, and this wasn't a surprise, by any means.

But still...

It's like, death is hanging over us, and I've been lucky so far. Helen's got all the bad luck. Both parents, gone.

Vera died.

But Daddy's alive.

Twice they tried to kill him. Not him personally, but I think surviving two terrorist attacks allows you to kind of feel persecuted.

I mean, '93 was one thing, you know? The buildings stood. I remember it so clearly - it was a grey, February day.

But this -- I have grey hairs that I attribute directly to 9/11. Those two hours, from roughly 9 am to 11 am [and how freakishly coincidental is THAT?] when I thought he was dead, and I hadn't said good night or good bye or I love you or *anything* that might have mattered.

Those two hours were the worst of my life. Yeah, even worse than the day Victor was officially diagnosed. That was March 10, 1997. Yeah, I remember. I saw Metallica that night with Frank. Cried like a baby during Unforgiven.

I mean, that was a bad year. A year of sobbing in the ladies room and rushing out of the mailroom when Peter was being stupid about life and death and cancer and kids.

There are just some things that are so *wrong* and children being diagnosed with cancer is one of them.

Young women spending their whole lives in and out of hospitals, never being "normal" or healthy - that's another.

God, this is making me feel even worse than I already do.

I am such a prick. I worry about how *I* feel, always. Everything else comes second.

I feel guilty that I feel relieved. Same as with Daddy. He doesn't understand it. He's just glad to be alive. He's got no fear.

I don't fear my own death. I fear everyone else dying and leaving me alone. I know it's going to happen, and I hate it.

I hate it.

~victoria



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~*~

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The painting is "Boreas" by John William Waterhouse. Again, not a muse, but I like her. She suits the color scheme.

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