Recovery (BVS Lex Luthor x Reader) SEQUEL

one

You stared at your reflection in the cracked mirror with a frown. It didn't look like you, but it did at the same time. You didn't know which was worse. You wanted to feel like you were still the same person that you were six years ago; but you wanted to be changed enough for the people to not know that you were you. Either way, you were the same for too long. It was June fourteenth--- time for another change.

Even when you left Metropolis for a small town three hours away, changed your name twice, got a new job, shopped at a different grocery store, and changed your wardrobe, it wasn't enough. Now you were dying your hair and dark brown--- with a streak of orange in the front to top it off. You had grown it out the past four years--- it ended up to your waist. Now it was freshly cut and barely touched your shoulders. You changed it all once every two months. Most of the time you'd move with it, but you were low on money and couldn't afford another place to live.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. Jeff. You opened the text and sighed.

Still up for a beer tonight?

You pursed your lips together and pondered this. He would ask about why you suddenly went from having long blonde hair to short dark hair so quickly. He would ask why you're quitting your job at the small pizza place next door. He would question why you're working at that tiny café. He would wonder why you're so nervous to go out. You needed to break things off for him. He wasn't good for you, anyways.

Can't, I'm not feeling too well. How about next Friday?

You felt guilty as you hit send. Jeff was your newest boyfriend. He was tall, muscular, serious, sporty, and had short dark hair. You met him last month at a fruit stand. He was embarrassingly flirtatious and a jerk at times. He was the exact opposite of him, which is what you needed to make yourself realize that he wasn't all in this world.

There was no telling when he would be getting out of prison. You missed him terribly, especially as the six year mark was nearing. But he had a trial coming up and you held onto the hope that he would be forgiven. After all, Superman mysteriously came back to life. Once he was back, people realized that justice had been served. Their god was alive and well and saving them again, and the once genius billionaire was locked up in a dirty cell with small meals and nothing for him when he would get out. His company was gone; sold and changed to something else. His fortune was gone. His home was gone. Everything was rid of except for you.

People seemed to have forgotten about Lex Luthor--- for it was the murder of Superman that everyone was angry about, not the hundreds of deaths he caused ---but they never forgave you. Which is why you're living in a dirty old apartment with hardly any money and a ton of anxiety to keep you up at night.

You've been publicly humiliated by people on the streets. People that can see right through your new hair and dark sunglasses. They'd hit you, scream at you, take pictures of you and send them to their friends so they would watch for you.

It. Wasn't. Me!

No matter how many times you said that, it wouldn't matter. Your life was forever changed because of him. And somehow, you missed him a lot.

You missed his smile. His laugh. The way he would swallow thickly before he reached out to touch you--- like he was afraid of the contact, but he wanted it more than anything. The nicknames he gave you. The coffee dates. The jokes you shared. The taste of champagne on his lips when you kissed him. The way he held onto you like he was never going to let you go.

But he did.

You still didn't want to give up on him. Maybe he would get out of prison. Maybe he would fix his ways and come back to you and everything would be as it was before. You two would be happy and free and together.

You don't take another glance at the mirror, just walk out. You go to the small desk by the window and sit down. You pull out the tiny journal you keep in the drawer and the ink pen in the dusty cup. You flip to a clean page and take the cap of the pen off.

The tears burned your eyes as you started to write. You sniffled and pressed your hand against your quivering lips. Your phone never went off; Jeff must be ignoring you. That was fine with you. You had much bigger problems.

It was a comfort to just write letters to him in this book. The pages were wrinkly because of teardrops and long paragraphs written in black ink. You never tore them out, never mailed them. You just wrote a new one every day. Some long, some short. The long ones were on some of your worst nights. Times when you would wake up with nightmares of watching the people beat him with their fists, screaming and cursing at him, all the while he just laughs that psychotic laugh you heard after he murdered Clark Kent. This wan't a particularly bad night; the letter you wrote was the shortest you've ever written.

Lex,

I miss you.