#I only had Jon in the chair in my mind I was completely taken aback by the bg.

[celosiaa]

i can almost see you

Summary: Tim says his final farewells.

Martin refuses to leave his side.

(for a prompt from @nebulousowl requesting an exploration of Tim saying his last goodbyes, and being comforted through it all)

CW: suicidal(ish) thoughts, discussion of death wish/martyrdom, heavy angst

this is a bit of a dark one--definitely heavy on the angst, but I’ve got the comfort here too, never fear. Though I would not classify Tim as suicidal, I could see how this piece could potentially be triggering for folks who struggle with those things.  Please please please be careful!!! Love to you all! <3

“Honestly, I hope that John learned something from her because—because I don’t expect I’m going to be coming back from this. I don’t know if I want to. And if he needs to pull the trigger, to use me to stop it… well, he’d better have the guts to do it.”

Tim stops briefly, the faint flicker of compulsion fading away to nothing as he says these words.

My last words.

He knows it as sure as anything—this had been his last statement for the archive. Whether that means he escapes, or he dies, Tim can’t even find it in himself to care. Just for it all to be over.

He’s just got to end the tape.

“Timothy Stoker, August 4th, 2017.”

It’s so very like an obituary that he cannot help but laugh.

“Statement ends.”

Clicking off the recorder, Tim buries his face in his hands, rubbing at eyes that have seen no rest for days now. He hasn’t been able to sleep, able to eat, able to—anything, really, now he thinks of it. And what would be the point anyway? He’s only got to last a little bit longer.

“Tim? Are you alright?” a timid voice asks from the doorway.

Of course it would be Martin.

Of course.

“Well, isn’t this just the icing on the cake?” he says with as much vitriol as he can manage, pulling the corners of his mouth into a wide and terrible grin.

To his surprise, this does not seem to intimidate Martin in the slightest. Certainly, the man of a few years ago would have balked at this behavior, so worried even to look at someone the wrong way that he would rather just run out of the room. The expression he’s directing at Tim right now, however, speaks volumes as to just how much they’ve all changed.

“Look, you can—you can be nasty to me all you want,” he says, stepping into the office and closing the door behind him. “It’s not going to stop this conversation from happening.”

Bastard.

Wiping the grin from his face, Tim leans back in the wooden chair, which creaks a bit as he crosses his arms tightly across his chest. Martin absolutely refuses to look away, his eyes just boring into Tim’s with a steadily-building intensity—until he finally bursts.

“What? What do you want, Martin? Just spit it out,” he shouts, slamming a hand against the table and returning the stare with equal force.

“I heard what you just said,” he says quietly, refusing to match Tim’s outlandish volume.

“Great, thanks for eavesdropping then! Really appreciate it,” Tim spits, tipping back even further to stare angrily at the ceiling.

“Well, I’ve already heard it, so tough. And to be honest, it fucking terrified me.”

What?

Taken so completely aback by this language, his eyes immediately snap back to Martin—who is staring at him more seriously perhaps than ever before.

There was time I would have loved this, he thinks dimly, just a flicker of memory of teasing and laughter dancing across his mind—gone as quickly as it had come. It makes his head ache.

“Yeah—yeah, I mean it, alright?” Martin continues, straightening up even taller, firm in his determination not to let this go.

“What you said about not expecting to come back, and—” he breaks off to inhale a quick, shaky breath. “—and not wanting to. That bit. That terrified me.”

Seeing the fear written all over Martin’s face, knowing that he had put it there, that this might be the last time he saw him—

Tim can’t think about it—he won’t.

Just get out just get out just get out

“If this is your idea of an intervention, Martin, it’s very sad,” he says, standing from the chair with a wooden creak and crossing the room quickly.

A firm hand grips his upper arm before he can make it to the door—and it’s been so long since anyone has touched him that he cannot help but freeze in his tracks, briefly overwhelmed by the sensation. He stares down at Martin’s hand on his arm, frozen in shock.

“I know, alright?” Martin says, clearly fighting with his own voice to keep his tone gentle. “I know this probably won’t help, and you probably won’t listen to me at all, and that it might all be rubbish.”

Tim can’t help but huff out a derisive laugh at this as he tries to move away again—but Martin’s grip remains firm.

“But I also know you, Tim.”

You don’t know me you don’t know me you don’t

“I know you, alright? And I know what you’re trying to do—be a hero, be a martyr, sacrifice yourself for the sake of vengeance—"

“You know fuck all about me,” Tim hisses, cutting off whatever ridiculous nonsense Martin was about to say at once, trying yet again to shoulder past him.

And he’s stopped again—this time by a gentle hand on his shoulder. It’s warm and soft and…and kind.

Something is coming back to Tim now, scratching at the back of his mind like some half-forgotten dream.

“That’s not true,” Martin says, sharp and low. “That’s not true and you know it.”

…I do know.

Clawing to the surface of his thoughts, of his memories, of everything that he’s tried to shut down or block out for the last few months are pictures—small scenes in flashes, colors all faded and running together, yet still somehow so vivid it makes his head spin.

Martin on their first day of work together, chasing a dog around the archives while Tim tries to stop laughing long enough to catch it.

The two of them seated at the breakroom table with ice cream, Martin listening to him pine after Sasha with a small smile on his face.

Martin staying at his apartment for a bit after his mother decided to move out, watching telly and eating pizza and just taking comfort in each other’s presence.

Martin sitting with him on the floor of the archives bathroom, rubbing his back and listening to him pour out his grief on the anniversary of Danny’s death.

Sasha and himself sharing food and wine with Martin after he’d ended up staying in the archives—and Martin confessing his crush on Jon at last, blushing fit to burst.

Martin driving him to physical therapy after the worms had injured his shoulder, trying to make up for having left him behind, though he has insisted over and over that it’s not Martin’s fault.

The two of them trudging through the tunnels under the institute, with Martin supporting his weight after he’d turned his ankle.

Both of them together, sharing their grief over Sasha—until Tim had begun to pull away.

Even now, Martin still reaches out to him, still checks on him, knowing he’s been so full of despair and anger and sorrow that he’s drowning in it. Even now, he still continues to throw him a lifeline, and Tim knows he’s been so nasty, that he’s been cutting everyone out and everything is just so wrong—

Someone gasps—and Tim quickly realizes it was himself.

“Tim?” Martin’s hand moves from his shoulder to behind his elbow now, his brows furrowing in concern. “You okay?”

“Fine, fine,” he manages to mumble, his voice coming from somewhere far beneath the earth.

The room begins to spin.

“Woah, okay, just—just sit down, alright?” Martin urges, guiding him quickly back toward the chair with hands clasped behind his elbows. “I’ll get you some water.”

Sit down? But—

When he looks up again, he is already sitting, head buried in arms he’s crossed over the table in front of him. He lets out a soft groan at the movement, the office around him pitching sickeningly—and promptly folds over onto his arms once again.

God, how did I get here?

How did I become this?

He stays quiet for several moments, rubbing his forehead miserably into his arms as he begs his vision to stop swimming. Even now, he’s considering running, overwhelmed by everything that’s just flooded his memories, hoping that if he runs again he can just ignore ignore ignore until it’s all finished. Until he’s finished.

“Tim? I’ve got you some water.”

Once again, Martin is there to stop him, bringing a bit of comfort with him in the process.

God. He shouldn’t even care about me at this point.

I’ve done everything I could think of to make him stop.

Chest twinging with the weight of it, Tim raises his head slowly, unfolding his arms to prop himself up to sitting braced against the table. Martin pulls the chair around from the other side, setting himself catty-corner to him.

“You alright?” he asks in a near-whisper, tilting his head to try and get a better look at Tim’s face.

The gentleness with which he asks this question is enough to bring a lump immediately to Tim’s throat, and he reaches out for the glass set in front of him—swallowing the tears and the water down to the last drop.

“Alright, that’s good, that’s—that’s great,” Martin praises, though it does not sound at all like he thinks so. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

Tim cannot bring himself to reply. He’s quite certain Martin already knows the answer to that question, anyway.

Is this really how I want to leave this?

How I want to spend the last of our time together?

To leave without even an apology, after everything.

In a moment, he makes a decision, gripping every foul thing that has forced him to hold his tongue and casting it all away.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” he mutters, hanging his head. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

“It’s alright,” Martin says, because of course he would.

“It’s really not.”

Turning to face him now, Tim is greeted with hazel eyes full of worry, lines creasing between eyebrows that have shot up past his fringe. He can’t help but smile sadly at the sight—knowing that Martin will never understand, how hurt he will be over whatever happens tonight, how hard he’s tried to make friends in this world, only to have them all stripped away till none remain—barely Jon, and not even Tim anymore.

He deserves to know. He deserves to have a place to visit her.

The smile Tim offers him now only furrows the lines of worry on Martin’s face closer, and Tim knows he must really look rather frightening at this point.

“Look, I—I want to show you something,” he says, standing carefully from the table. “Something you should know about.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asks apprehensively, standing with him, arms hovering near Tim’s elbows, just in case.

“It’s not far,” Tim assures, grabbing his keys from the table and making his way toward the door. “We’ve got some time yet.”

“Wait, Tim, where—?”

He turns back to face him, meeting him with an expression that begs for his trust, however unearned it may be.

“Just follow me, okay?”

“O…kay?”

Though his fears are far from disbanded, Martin follows Tim out of the office, flicking out the lights out behind them in a final farewell.

---

Upon reaching the cemetery, the one where Danny has been buried for nearly four years now, Tim leads them quickly down the earthen path, straight toward a patch of trees and brush on their left. Behind him, Martin stammers a bit in confusion.

“Tim, I thought…I thought Danny’s was over—oh.”

Tim has stopped now, a few yards back into the trees, where he has erected a small monument. It’s not much, really—just a stake in the ground, sanded and stained cherry with his own hands, and a bit of carving at the top.

Sasha Eloise James

4 August 1985 – 29 July 2016

“The Best”

“Oh,” Martin chokes, a bit wetter this time.

Turning at the sound, he looks Martin over—finding him rapidly blinking back tears.

“Just thought,” Tim starts, his voice coming out hoarser than he’d expected. “Just thought you should know this is here.”

He pulls his eyes away from Martin to give him some privacy, as well as to allow himself to breathe through the memories—all distorted by the face of the Stranger, now. After a few deep inhales, it seems Martin finds the strength to speak again, his voice wobbling only a bit around his tears.

“You made this?”

“Yeah,” Tim replies, brushing his thumb over the carving to scrape away some dirt that has built up there. “Probably not exactly legal, but…I didn’t really care.”

“It’s beautiful,” Martin whispers, stepping forward at last to stand at his side, his simple act of camaraderie pulling a wry smile to Tim’s face.

“She was beautiful,” Tim says, the constant hollow of his chest flooding with something both aching and lovely as he speaks. “I can’t…I can’t remember her face exactly, but I remember that. And so smart. And—”

“And kind,” Martin finishes, reaching an arm across his shoulders, the warmth of it seeping deep into his back. “Always kind. And always willing to stick up for you.”

“Yeah,” Tim’s voice breaks properly now, and he hangs his head to hide the tears stinging in his eyes.

Martin notices, of course. As always.

“And bossy, a bit,” he continues with a smile, pulling Tim into a proper side hug now, running a hand comfortingly over his upper arm.

Tim can’t help but laugh roughly at this, the sound of it more choking and wet than anything.

“Yeah a bit,” he whispers, the tears at last spilling over his cheeks.

It’s too much, it’s all too much, and it aches aches aches—he can’t help but double over, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it all, biting back against the sobs threatening to burst from his throat.

“Hey, hey,” Martin soothes, rubbing his back, gentle as ever. “Are you alright?”

No, he wants to say more than anything.

I don’t think I ever will be.

“Just…just give me a moment, would you?” he asks, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Oh—yeah, erm…I’ll just be at that bench, okay?” Martin says at once, stepping back and thumbing in the general direction of a park bench they had passed.

Tim merely nods in response, and then Martin is gone—leaving only him, the quiet, and the birds singing above. He lets it lie there for a moment, staring down at the curving letters of her name, trying desperately to remember her face, her true face. But nothing comes to him—nothing save the rising static and the cold and the dark.

I’ve got to tell her. She has to know.

“I haven’t forgotten you, you know. Never could do. You’re—‘unforgettable,’ as you put it. Thought about carving that on your post here, but I could hear your voice in my head saying it was ‘too on-the-nose.’”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face now, the memories feeling closer to him than perhaps ever before.

“I…I think I’ll be seeing you soon. Really soon, in fact—you and Danny both. And I just want you to know that it’s alright, that I’m not scared, and that I’m going to see justice done. I won’t stop until it’s done, I promise.”

Crouching down in front of the post now, he rubs his thumb back over her name again and again, memorizing the feeling of it in his hands to tide him over for however long he has left on this earth.

“I promise, sweetheart. I know you hate when I call you that, but it’s just the truth, isn’t it?”

With a soft smile, he rises back to standing, knees aching in protest as he brushes them off.

“Can’t wait to see you, Sash. We’ll have a laugh at the whole thing soon, I’m sure.”

As he starts to turn away, his heart shatters with the thought that this can’t be it this can’t be it this can’t be it—

And he turns back, laying his hand to rest on top of the cherry wood.

“Tell Danny I’m coming, okay?” he whispers—before looking away at last.

What more could he say? What more could he say that she doesn’t already know, that Danny doesn’t already know? He’ll be there soon, and he’ll say it all again, hundreds of times, thousands even, if they have the time—

“You alright?” Martin asks, standing from the bench as Tim makes his way back through the trees. “You look pale—maybe we should sit a little.”

“I’m fine, Martin,” he lies easily, and with a smile. “I promise. We can go, unless you want a moment.”

Martin seems to consider this briefly, gazing over Tim’s shoulder at the trees behind him, worrying at his bottom lip.

“No, I…I don’t think I’m ready for that just yet,” he replies at last, voice low and rough.

“That’s alright. Let’s just go then.”

As they walk, Tim tries not to hear Martin’s muffled sniffling, tries not to think about him coming back here, utterly alone in his grief—when he’s reminded of Jon.

God, Jon.

…he deserves to know too.

Even after everything.

“Tell Jon about this after, alright?” he says, turning toward Martin as they walk. “So he can come here if he wants.”

“Tell him yourself,” Martin mutters wetly, eyes firmly fixed on the ground in front of him.

He knows.

He knows that this is the end.

He just doesn’t want to see it.

“Martin.”

Tim forces them to stop, turning Martin towards him with a hand on his shoulder. The tears welling in Martin’s eyes, wild with repressed panic and sorrow, are like knives in Tim’s chest.

God, Martin.

I’m so sorry.

“Promise me. Promise me you will,” he begs in earnest, grabbing Martin lightly by the folds of his jacket.

At this, the pools in Martin’s eyes begin to run over, unbidden and so full of hurt Tim could choke on it.

“I will. I promise,” he murmurs, voice thin enough to shatter.

Good man.

Quirking up a half-smile at this, Tim reaches on hand up to rest on his cheek, thumbing at the steady flow of tears.

“Thank you, Martin. Thank you for—”

--lovingcaringlaughinglisteningcryinggrievingholdingreaching—

“—for being with me.”

He pours as much meaning as possible into these words, broken and small and fragile—and suddenly he’s being hugged—properly hugged, wrapped up in a warmth that makes him sigh in relief from the comfort of it all. A proper Martin hug.

Not a bad way to end things after all.

“Just please try to come back alright?” Martin begs, voice rumbling in Tim’s ear where he’s got it pressed into Martin’s chest.

“Martin—”

“Just try. That’s all I ask. Try to make it out. It’s what they—it’s what Sasha and Danny would both want.”

He doesn’t understand he doesn’t understand he doesn’t understand.

Biting back against the lie with all the strength he has left, Tim reassures him of a falsehood too dreadful to bear.

“I’ll try,” he whispers.

“Thank you.”

At last, Martin pulls away—eyes still brimming and swiping his nose desperately against his sleeve—but offering a gentle smile all the same. He’s choking it all back, and Tim knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s for his sake—and can’t help but return the favor.

“Come on then,” he says, shoving Martin’s shoulder good-naturedly. “Plenty to do before it’s dark.”

[bouwrites]

Even Heroes Have the Right to Dream: Chapter 6

Just put off another day of knowing where you’re from.

First, Previous, Next. Ao3.

Story under read-more.

A lot happens during Jon’s second semester of college. Like, too much, frankly. Between his fight (can he call that a fight?) with Marinette, his struggling grades, his tense relationship with Damian, and the ever-present “S” looming over him no matter how much he tries to avoid it, his second semester isn’t nearly as fun as the first.

And also, he forgets about the thing he is supposed to do that semester. That is, to figure out what on Earth he’s going to do with his life. Being an undecided major isn’t the end of the world if he’s still in his first year, but he goes from “I’ve got plenty of time to figure it out” to “Holy crap, I’ve already finished a year” in no time at all and now he’s signed up for classes for his next semester and still doesn’t even know what he’s going to study.

He’s running out of core classes to waste time on. He’s probably already wasted a few credits and all the money that goes into them. If he wants to graduate on time, then he needs to get his life in order.

Easier said than done. Especially given… well… his life.

And if he’s honest, being home isn’t helping much. Or any. If anything, it’s just stressing him out.

There is peace in his chores. When he goes out to work on the farm, he’s focused, and he knows what he’s doing, and it feels worthwhile. He’s helping in a completely ordinary way. He’s taking some of the burden of the work off his parents.

And with his dad flying away every other night, his mom needs the help. Jon likes to help. The problem is when there’s no more work to do. Because when there’s no more work to do, there’s nothing to do, and all Jon can do is sit in his room, stare at a book, or a screen, and wait until there is something else to do.

What happened to little me who’d rush through chores just to run off and do something fun? Jon thinks, balancing his bookmark on his nose. Now I draw them out as long as I can, and I have nowhere to run to if I wanted. Where did I used to go?

His mind wanders to the batcave, and to his base with Damian when they started their little team, and he sighs. Right. Hero work. Was that all I could think about back then? Why can’t I- Why does it hurt to think about now?

Jon tosses his bookmark back between the pages in his hands and sets his book aside. He doesn’t want to be a hero. The thought of actually putting the cape back on again makes him feel ill, and when he thinks about facing once more some of the things he’s already beaten, he freezes. It’s like he runs headfirst straight into a brick wall and he’s thrown back, out of breath, aching, and powerless.

So, he opens his window and jumps out like any normal human being, walks a while out onto the flat farmland, and finds one of the sparse trees dotting the landscape. He climbs up into it, consciously avoiding use of flight to make the effort easier, feeling the rough bark on his palms, smelling the earth and wood and the dust and hay, hearing the night bugs singing to each other, and takes a seat on long branch outstretched like a hand.

Directly above him is the tree’s canopy, of course, but forward is the horizon. The land is flat, with only the occasional far-distant farmhouse interrupting it. Behind him, in the distance, if he looks closely, he can see Metropolis, but ahead of him the world stretches until it meets the sky and the dotted farmhouses turn into a multitude of stars, and then there’s a whole galaxy right in front of him.

A galaxy ahead of him, and Jon doesn’t know what to do. He feels so small. Just a kid in a tree in the infinite vastness of space. He can fly anywhere, do anything, and yet… he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t know what he wants. All he knows is that it isn’t to go “up, up, and away.”

If every star is some future him that he can become, if every star is an opportunity, which one does he take? Can he fly away with Aquila? Can he grab the handle of the big dipper? Learn to hunt from Orion or play something beautiful with Lyra?

“Heh…” He chuckles, almost huffing. “Ridiculous.”

Idle fantasies are all that is. It’s nice, to think he has so many options, to think he can do anything he dreams. But dreams are dreams and reality is reality. People don’t have those infinite chances, and he’s no different. He just doesn’t want to squander the chances that he does have. Quite frankly, those much more limited chances are already too many for him to process. So how is he supposed to just go out and pick something?

He’s been Superboy his whole life, or all his life that matters, at least. How is he supposed to figure out what he wants to do, if he doesn’t even know who he is? Jon doesn’t know. He doesn’t know much of anything except for that Aquila is way too far above him to ever reach.

Jon is twenty years old. He’s been on this planet for twenty years. Half his life he’s had two names. One devoted to protecting the people of Earth, and one devoted to protecting the other name. Without Superboy he doesn’t have purpose, but… Jon feels the wood of the tree strain under his grip, and it’s only his long, long years of mastering his control that stops him from destroying the branch entirely and sending him plummeting to the ground. He’s not even ten feet up and he’s literally invulnerable, but that drop scares him.

It reminds him of every far worse fall he’s taken, and it reminds him that no one is there to catch him anymore. No one else is on this path he’s started down. No one else is walking away from Perseus. Most people are trying to sail towards it. Most especially his parents.

Well, no one except for Marinette. At least she knows where she wants to end up. She’s running towards another constellation; Jon is simply running away. It makes his eyes sting, like the dust has finally gotten to them, and he ducks his head despite knowing he’ll never spot his next constellation if he can’t look up.

“Am I a coward?” Jon asks. He’s again in a place he doesn’t belong. He’s underdressed and unprepared but he’s here because he doesn’t know where he’s running and Damian has… well if nothing else, he has a very clear outlook on the world. Perhaps not the best, or healthiest, but it’s stark and defined and solid. And Jon is tired of falling. “Because I can’t be a hero? Does stepping down make me a… scared, selfish…”

“Not at all.”

Jon blinks, taken aback. “Wh- really?”

Damian quirks his brow, giving him a precious glance away from whatever is going on on the computer screen. “Did you want me to say yes?”

Jon runs his hands through his hair. “I’m- I don’t want you to tell me what you think I want to hear! I want to hear what you really think. Am I a coward for quitting being a hero?”

“No.” Damian says. “And I won’t repeat myself a third time.” Jon stares at him, baffled by how Damian freaking Wayne can sit there so casually telling him he’s not a coward as if quitting hero duty doesn’t go against everything the man stands for. Damian, who earlier this very year chastised him for not answering the call of duty when he’s not even on duty, who for their entire lives has been dragging Jon around the world on missions to save it, does not think Jon is chickening out when that’s pretty much objectively what Jon’s doing.

Because it is. Jon is just too scared to fight. He’s not dumb, he knows what panic is. Lord knows he’s felt it enough. He’s a nearly invulnerable alien with a whole menagerie of deus ex machina powers and he’s frightened to death of a mugger attacking a stranger. Jon has no idea how on Earth Damian can come to a different conclusion.

Damian sighs. He rubs at his eyes in an unexpectedly tired motion and pulls off his mask. “Jon, you know I am not… the best with things like this.”

Yeah, you don’t say. Jon bites his tongue to stop from saying what pops into his mind. It’s mean, and he doesn’t want to lash out just because he’s upset about his own problems that don’t have anything to do with his friend. He knows it’s still hard for Damian to admit his flaws, so rubbing it in when he does isn’t what a good friend would do.

“So, I will say it simply. From what you have told me, I believe your childhood of fighting as a hero has traumatized you, and it is simply logical that you are unable to continue. I do not blame you at all for stepping down.”

Jon hugs himself. “Why, though? You’ve been in worse situations for longer than me, and you’ve done almost everything I have on top of it, and you don’t even have powers. And- And I was fine until a little while ago! Why can’t I… be brave enough?”

Damian frowns. “I… am confused. I was under the impression that you are happy with your decision to retire. Do you want to be Superboy again?”

“No!” The way Jon yells is perhaps a bit too desperate, but he just reacts. “God, no! I just… I keep thinking about all the people that I could be saving if I was, and I think about how sitting on my thumbs like I am is hurting those people, and then I think I’m a bad person because I didn’t help someone when I could have and it’s all just pointless suffering because I don’t even know how to not… hero. And I’m selfish because I still don’t want to be a hero again, and I’m worthless because I don’t even know what I’m doing and that’s just ending up with me doing nothing, and I’m-”

“Jon!” Jon flinches away from the voice, reacting to the stern authority it holds and shutting his mouth. “You are none of those things, Jon.” Damian says firmly. Jon just watches timidly as he sighs, crosses his arms, closes his eyes, and leans back in his chair. “Look.” Damian finally sighs. “You are one of the most brilliant people I have ever met. One of the few people I am truly honored to call a friend. It does not matter if you’re Superboy or not. That does not change your worth.”

Damian stands to approach Jon. All he does is put his hands on Jon’s shoulders, but that’s more than Jon expects. It settles some of the excitement in his gut. “No one reacts to trauma the same way. In my family, punching criminals is a coping mechanism, because we all have our own baggage we came into this life with. Your family isn’t mine, and you are not me. You retired, and you felt safe, so you began to process all the trauma you could not before then. That is why you panic, like you just did, when you contemplate coming back. That’s why you can’t be Superboy, and thus cannot be called a coward for not doing so. Understand?”

Jon nods numbly. Damian makes sense. He usually does. When he doesn’t have his head up his own butt, but that’s been getting less and less common as they get older.

“You are a good person, Jon. Insufferably so, sometimes. No matter what else, don’t doubt that.”

“I…” Jon isn’t sure what to say. This is pretty much the exact opposite of what he expects from Damian. But… Lord. He wraps his arms tight around Damian. “Thank you.”

“Gah- Hey! Unhand me!”

Jon giggles, squeezes him just a little tighter, and lets him go. “Thanks.” Jon says again. “I really needed to hear that.”

Damian tuts derisively. “Yes, well… you’re welcome. Are you feeling better?”

“A little.” Jon says honestly. “I still need to figure out what I’m going to do, but I’m… a little more confident that I’m doing the right thing.”

“Why did you not think so? Out of guilt?”

“Partly.” Jon rubs his arms awkwardly. “Partly because it still just… it’s all confusing. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m not just talking about my major. I don’t know basically anything. I’m trying to figure out where I want to take my life while I’m trying to figure out how to just be human and I…” He sighs. “I don’t know.”

Damian hums. “You know, I went through a lot of grief reconciling being the son of batman as well as being an al Ghul.”

Jon frowns. “Yeah. And?”

“And when I first came here, I tried to do batman’s thing, in the only way I knew how. The way my mother taught me. Father had to teach me how to be a hero in his way, molded after him and my brothers in their time as Robin.”

“Is there… a lesson here?”

Damian sighs. “The lesson is that you are not human, Jon. Whether you’re a hero or not, you are still half-Kryptonian. I was trying to say that I could never be happy here so long as I kept fighting so hard to reject the fact that I am an al Ghul. Yes, I obviously had to reject the House of al Ghul, but to pretend I was never part of it would be to pretend my entire childhood is not what it was. I will never be ‘normal’ as most people consider it. You won’t either. Your father became Superman in part because he could not stand to hide among humans. You face the same problem, hero or no.”

Jon huffs. “Well, I can’t be a hero and I can’t be normal, so what the hell am I?”

Damian rolls his eyes. “You’re Jon Kent. I don’t have the answers for you. I simply told you what I think.” He sighs. “I wish I could help, but I can’t tell you what to do with your life. We both know that would end disastrously.”

“Aha, yeah. That would be a mess.”

Jon spies a rare smile from Damian. “I do want the best for you. That is why I’m telling you this. Don’t hang your hopes on the common idea of normal. It necessarily excludes people like us. Find something you’re happy with and make that your normal.”

Jon takes a moment to contemplate that. Realistically, he knows Damian is right. No one’s normal includes hiding superpowers and an alien heritage and a heroic past. The very idea that half-Kryptonian Jon can be normal is, at its very core, laughable.

Yet… there was a point in time that he felt that way. When he felt like he could do it. Live an average life despite everything. That was… when he was close with Marinette. And Jon still isn’t sure how much of that was chemistry between them as friends, or just Marinette’s personality making him feel at home, or him just throwing all his hopes on her and needing it to work so badly that he tricked himself into making it work, but… he definitely knows how he felt. So, it is possible. Yet, Jon feels like it wouldn’t have been had he lived with anyone but Marinette, so maybe it only was possible then because neither of them are actually normal in the first place. Maybe them finding normal is only because they aren’t.

And now Jon’s head is starting to hurt. Still, “I think you’re probably right.” He says to Damian. “I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”

Damian nods shortly to acknowledge and dismiss him.

Before Jon leaves, though, he stops to look back at Damian. “You’ve really grown up, you know.”

Damian clicks his tongue. He’s already back on the computer, clacking away at the keys. “I’m twenty-three years old now. I should hope so.”

Jon snickers and turns away. That’s fair. I guess we’re all growing up.

Jon can’t be a hero and he can’t be normal. He can be happy, though. He may have only brushed hands with it so far, but he can. When Jon heads out to sit in a tree just a few days before he needs to leave once more for college, Jon has hope. Hope for the future, for a future in which he’s content and safe and, to an extent, normal.

The only problem is that he still can’t quite picture it. He still doesn’t know exactly how to get there, or even in which direction he should go. And he still has no idea what he should major in. And that’s… kind of annoying.

You have plenty of time, Jon thinks, sarcastically, not like you’ve wasted your entire year not figuring it out or anything.

What do I even want to do? I always assumed I’d be a journalist. I’m not against it, but what if there’s something else I’d like more? What if I choose wrong? And even if I do become a journalist, should I study it in college, or should I pick something else like I planned from the start?

Will I stay sane in three years of psychology classes?

Yeah, no, probably not. I could take ethics and lecture dad. That’d be funny. Lot of work for a joke, though.

Or I coul-

“Jon? Is that you? You know, I didn’t take you for the brooding type.”

Jon just about falls out of his tree when he jumps and tries to spin around to see who found him here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. “Aunt Kara!” He whines. “Don’t sneak up on me like that! How did you even know I was here?”

Supergirl snickers. “I can read your mind, remember? And you think very loudly.”

Jon just crosses his arms, pouting. He knows his cheeks color at the reminder of how she used to tease him, which only makes him more embarrassed because he knows that’s the reaction she wants. “That’s not funny, Aunt Kara.”

Shrugging, she says, “I thought it was. Nah, your friend told me you’d be here. Brooding.”

Goddamn it, Damian. “How did he- no, wait, he’s Damian. Never mind.” Jon sighs. “Not that I’m not happy to see you… in the middle of the night… do Mom and Dad even know you’re here?”

“I don’t need their permission to see my nephew!”

“You’re on their property.”

“I’m above their property.” Supergirl grins, gesturing to her feet, which are a good five feet off the ground.

Jon shakes his head. “Whatever. Why are you here?”

Supergirl laughs. “Aw, is that any way to talk to your favorite aunt?” Jon just rolls his eyes. After a moment, Supergirl sobers, her expression softens, and she asks, “Mind if I join you?”

Jon purses his lips and moves over a little, allowing Supergirl to sit next to him on the branch. They’re squished together, and Supergirl throws her arm around his shoulders, but Jon doesn’t honestly mind. She likes to tease him, but she is his aunt. He loves her.

“So, want to tell me why you’re out here instead of sleeping?”

“Why?” Jon counters. “Damian’s already told you.”

She tilts her head in non-committal gesture. “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t care what he says. I want you to tell me. What’s up?”

Jon sighs. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know anything. That’s the problem. I’m starting second year – I really need to figure out what I’m going to study – and recently I’ve been doubting I even want to- er, never mind.”

Supergirl’s gaze pierces into him. As much as he loves her, and as fun of an aunt she can be, it’s always been obvious to Jon that she’s the most… alien of them. It makes sense, considering she actually remembers Krypton, but even so there are times when she can be downright unsettling. It makes him feel… vulnerable. Like she can see every facet of him. It’s doubly unsettling, he finds, when he can’t even see his own facets. “Everyone wonders what they’re going to do with their lives.” Supergirl says gently. “College isn’t the end of the road. A lot of people don’t find their calling until much later in their lives.”

Jon tugs at his hair. “Yeah, that’s a nice thought and all, but I still need to pick a major.”

Supergirl snorts. “Alright. Fair, then. You’ve got to make a choice. What do you want to do? Throw some ideas out, let’s spitball. It’s a longstanding family tradition to go into journalism. How do you feel about that?”

Jon flinches. “Lukewarm.”

Supergirl laughs again. “Alright. How about, uh photography?”

“I’ve got a pretty steady hand?” Jon shrugs.

“Hm. Analytics?”

“Hard yikes.”

“You’re a tough nut, aren’t you? Alright, how about… graphics design?”

“Do you actually not know any jobs except what goes into the news?”

Supergirl scoffs playfully. “Are you mocking me? My favorite nephew, being so mean to me when I’m only trying to help!” Jon has to spend a moment fighting off her playful shoving and trying his best to not fall out of the tree, but by the time she relents, he’s out of breath from laughing and his cheeks hurt.

And that’s why he loves Aunt Kara. She can always cheer him up. She’s always been strangely good at that. No matter what kind of mood he’s in, she always manages to bring him out of his shell. She makes him feel… not like himself, but like he can be himself. Like it’s safe to be anything he wants, and she won’t judge him.

Maybe it’s just because she can be a bit weird herself sometimes.

“Hey.” She leans in close to him, like she’s sharing a secret. “Want to get out of here?”

“And go where?”

“On a… field trip.” She says. “Come on.”

“I don’t know, Aunt Kara. We should probably tell Mom and Dad if we’re going somewhere.”

“Pssh, they won’t know we left! Besides, you’re with me! Nothing can happen to you while I’m here. Also, uh, you’re twenty now, Jon. You don’t need their permission to go out.”

“It’s not about permission. I’m still living with them.” Jon protests. “It’s just courtesy, so they don’t worry.”

Supergirl rolls her eyes. “We’ll write them a note. Come on.”

Jon sighs. “Alright. Where are we going, though?”

Supergirl winks conspiratorially. “You’ll see.”

They quickly write a note (even though Aunt Kara insists they’ll be back before his parents wake up – which Jon hopes is true, because he does want to sleep tonight) and take off, Supergirl in her cape and him in pajama pants and a flannel shirt. And he knows where they’re going. He figures it out when they don’t stop at any sensible place to do so. The Fortress of Solitude.

“Here we are!” Supergirl chirps. “This is a much better place to brood!”

Jon’s laugh is almost helpless as he covers his face. He thought going into the batcave was weird after he retired. This? The Fortress? It’s too much.

Jon knows the Fortress of Solitude. He’s used it as a base when he was Superboy just like Aunt Kara and his dad does. When he peeks around at the alien architecture and almost magical technology, all Jon can think about is the damn “S.” It doesn’t help that it’s plastered all over the place, either.

When he walks into the Fortress of Solitude, Jon looks up at the statues of his grandparents, flinches at the burn of that “S” on their chests being branded into his skull, and feels like a failure.

When he sits in a tree and watches the stars on the horizon, he feels small in a cosmic sense. It puts him into perspective on a grand scale, and things are a little easier to think about because ultimately it doesn’t weigh all that much. When he looks up at the statue of the grandparents he’ll never know, he’s also put into perspective, just not as a speck in the infinite vastness of the universe.

No, under their eyes, he’s, in essence, the heir of Krypton.

An entire world destroyed. Two survivors. One goes on to have a son. And then that son does everything he can to be as human as possible. How must he devastate these people? This world whose culture and traditions will probably die with Aunt Kara?

A part of Jon wants to carry that burden, too. To carry on Krypton and live for them. But Jon has lived his life for other people up until this point and because of that, now he’s lost. He can’t carry a world on his shoulders. He hates that that means that his aunt has to do so for him, but he can’t. He’s not that strong.

Being in the Fortress is too much for him. Already he feels like it’s crushing him. How can he carry such a weight? How can he carry Krypton, when he doesn’t know anything about it? He’s never been there, never experienced it. He doesn’t even have a Kryptonian name! Being human is already complicated enough. Jon can’t be Kryptonian on top of that.

He’s starting to think he knows how Atlas feels.

“Are you okay, Jon?”

Jon shakes his head. His throat is tight and clogged and he can’t seem to clear it. It takes him some time to manage to ask, “Why’d you bring me here?”

“Because I know what you’re afraid of.” Supergirl says plainly. “Kal and I both went through the same thing. Listen, Jon.” She takes his hands in hers, and he lifts his eyes to meet hers. “You are at a point in your life where you’re trying to decide your whole future. What you’ll take with you, what you’ll leave behind, what path you want to follow.

“Damian told me that he’s worried you’re rejecting part of yourself. The Kryptonian part. He said that you want to be completely human.”

Jon turns his gaze back to the ground. “That’s… partly true. I just want to live like an ordinary person. I don’t want any of…” He sighs. “this.”

“I know.”

“I- you do?” Jon furrows his brow. If he’s honest, he expects Aunt Kara to be angry with him. Krypton is very important to her, so to admit that he’s trying to distance himself from it even so long after it’s death must hurt.

“Of course, I do, kiddo. I live on Earth, too. Earth is my home, too. I know what it’s like to want to fit in.”

Yeah. Jon supposes she would.

“And I want to help you.” Supergirl says, firmer. “You’re having trouble making a decision, right? So, you’re going to make one. Here. That’s the real reason I brought you here. Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”

Supergirl guides him by the hand into another room. She opens a box, almost reverently, and pulls out a large flag. There’s a planet in the middle, blue and green like Earth, but the land masses are different (Jon at least knows enough to recognize it as Krypton) with rays of color filling the rest of the flag. It’s Krypton, in a rainbow halo, sort of. “Do you know what this is?” Supergirl asks.

Jon does. “The Kryptonian flag.”

Supergirl gives him a smile. “Do you know what it represents?”

“Krypton?” Jon purses his lips.

She chuckles. “Essentially, yes. The design of the flag was chosen to represent the Girod.”

“The eleven virtues.” Jon says.

“Exactly! Do you remember what they are?”

Jon again averts his gaze.

“It’s alright, Jon.”

“I’m sorry. I feel like I should know more about Krypton.”

“Do you want to?” Supergirl asks the question so casually that Jon is a little thrown off. “Because that’s the decision I want you to make tonight.” Her tone gets more serious again, making Jon wince. “The Girod is the foundation of Kryptonian society. This,” she indicates the flag, “is what it means to be Kryptonian.

“Diversity coming from unity. In the center, that’s Unity. The three green rays are the core virtues. From lightest to darkest in color, Truth, Industriousness, and Justice. Peace, Synergy, Imagination, Purity, Restraint, Hope, Altruism.”

Jon’s cheeks warm, because he feels like a little kid all over again with Aunt Kara explaining the Girod to him. His knowledge of Krypton is limited, and indeed this very subject is one he’s been taught and forgotten, but he knows this is quite literally one of the first things Kryptonian kids would learn. It’s the core of their whole society.

“Damian is worried that if you turn your back on Krypton, you won’t ever be happy, but he doesn’t know what it’s like to have millions of years of culture, technology, family, meaning… whole civilizations wiped out. We’re all that remains of Krypton. I can’t change your DNA. You can’t be totally human. But, I can tell you this: Krypton is not your burden to carry. It’s dead.” Supergirl closes her eyes, and Jon has a sinking feeling she’s trying not to cry. After a moment, she pats the flag gently. “If you don’t want this, we’re not going to make you take it. Okay? If you want to live your life like a human, then that’s okay. I will never try to force you to carry on Krypton’s legacy.”

Jon stares at the flag in Supergirl’s lap. Eleven virtues, each one more impossible to achieve than the last. Did Krypton really achieve this, or is this just an ideal? Because… “That’s a lot to live up to.”

“I know. It’s not easy, and you won’t be perfect, but whatever you choose, whether you want to be human or if you want to be Kryptonian, or both, I’m proud of you. You’ve grown up into such a brave young man, and I can honestly say that you are one of the best people I know. By both human and Kryptonian standards.”

“A-Aunt Kara, I…”

“I know this doesn’t help you decide what career you want to go into or what you want to study,” Supergirl says, lowering her head to look at the flag, “but I felt it was important for you to know. You are not responsible for Krypton. Kal and I are not going to stop you from living however you want. You know Krypton is very important to me, but you know what’s more important?”

“…What?” Jon has a sneaking suspicion he knows exactly what.

“You. I still honor where I came from, and I do my best to keep our culture and traditions alive, but Krypton is dead. It’s our heritage, and it’s important to me, but it’s not a big deal if it isn’t to you. I promise. You’ve never even seen it. I wouldn’t blame you if you can’t connect to it. Human culture is much more… relevant. Even for me.” She watches him with that piercing, alien gaze again. “Right now, you’re deciding where you want your life to go. I want to tell you that if you don’t want it to include Krypton, it doesn’t have to. You’re not obligated to try to preserve it. And neither Kal nor I will judge you for it.”

Jon chuckles nervously. “You sure about Dad?”

Supergirl giggles. “I promise. We all just want you to be happy. You’re far more important than a dead culture.”

“I… I…” Jon chokes down his emotions again, and just goes for a hug instead of trying to explain. “Thank you.”

Supergirl’s hug is crushing, as always. It’s familiar, completely inhuman, and remarkably comforting. When she does let him go, though, she asks, “So, what’s your decision?”

“My decision…” Jon’s throat goes dry. “About whether I’m Kryptonian or not?” Supergirl inclines her head. Jon sighs. He looks again to the flag in her lap. “Diversity from unity. It sounds like a… beautiful ideal.”

“It was beautiful.” Supergirl says softly.

Jon closes his eyes. This is his get out of jail free card. All the pressure of his Kryptonian heritage shed just like that. With one decision. No judgement, no punishment. And somewhere inside him, Jon really does resent the Kryptonian part of him. It’s what makes him different. It’s what means he’ll never be normal. It’s what gives him the ability that curses his fear and unwillingness, and brands him evil by neglect.

But him being Kryptonian can’t change. Damian’s right. Rejecting Krypton won’t make him any more human. His DNA is beyond anyone’s ability to simply rewrite. Embracing it, though? Carrying the weight of Krypton’s culture, of its people, like Atlas holding the heavens? How is that better?

“Diversity from unity.” Jon thinks. Maybe that’s how. It’s Marinette. It’s being together, finding their normal, not because they’re regular people through and through, but because of their differences. It’s what makes them unique that makes them belong, not what makes them the same.

Jon isn’t entirely sure he buys that, but it’s… such a beautiful ideal. He hopes for it. If nothing else, it’s a direction. Something to strive for. “Can I…” He says, hesitantly, as his answer, “keep that?”

Supergirl’s eyes follow his finger, and her lips twitch upwards into a smile. “Of course,” She says. Carefully, she folds up the Kryptonian flag and hands it off to him.

It’s heavier than he expects. Sort of like the cape. He doubts himself, but he wants to dream. He wants to believe the Girod is more than just an ideal.

“You know, Kal never gave you a Kryptonian name, did he?” Supergirl says suddenly, startling Jon.

“O-oh, uh, no. I’m just… just Jon.”

“Jon.” Supergirl hums as she leads the way back to the main room of the Fortress. “How about Kon-El? That suits you, don’t you think?”

Jon blinks. “Kon-El? Where’d the K come from?”

“Kara! Duh!” Supergirl winks at him.

She always can make Jon laugh. “And that’s… a traditional Kryptonian way to name a kid, huh?” He teases.

“Pfft, no, that’s just because I’m awesome.” They laugh together until they come upon the statue of Jon’s grandparents and he gets lost staring at them again. He’s not sure if he can live up to their ideals. In truth, he’s not even sure how much he can do to try. “Or I could name you after your granddad, like Kal did. Jor-El. You’re still a J that way.”

Jon manages a smile for the frozen images of his grandparents. “I don’t know.”

“He’d be proud of you, you know. They both would. I know you never met them, but… they’d be proud.”

“Yeah.” Jon takes a deep breath and tears his eyes from the statues once more. “Thanks, Aunt Kara.”

——-=——-

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[mmazzeroo]

Chapter 7: NED II - I'm Right Here

@helloimnotawesome - Day 7, and we’re back with Ned! Yay, we’ve made it through our first week! A little more than 2 weeks left. Wonder what’s going to happen *smiles devilishly* Maybe you want a bit of support for this chapter from your good friend @callmedewitt? *wink* Enjoy!

NED II - I'm Right Here

"'You look like someone I knew once." So do you.

Carefully he asked, "may I ask who I remind you of?"

The young man took a beat before answering.

"My father, but..." Jon looked away. There's so much sadness in his eyes it's heartbreaking to watch, "he died when I was just a boy." What? But I'm right here!

Dany squeezed Jon's hand, "I'm so sorry to hear that, Jon." 'Jon'?

The young man squeezed her hand in return and nodded. Still not making eye contact with anyone.

"Dr. Targaryen if you don't mind, I have something important to discuss with Captain Snow and Dr. Tarly."

"Yes, of course, I'll leave you to it." Dany began walking towards the door.

"I'd like her to stay." Jon looked directly at him now. No hesitation. The authority in his voice and confidence in his eyes left no room for negotiation. His son was clearly used to commanding people. Did you take easier to the position than I did I wonder?

He cleared his throat. "Of course. As you wish Captain." He was struggling to hide the proud smile that was threatening to form on his lips. "Dr. Targaryen?"

She looked as surprised as he felt but she quickly recovered.

"If you're sure?" She gave a quick glance over at him before looking back to Jon. "...'Captain'." She pressed her lips together. Is she hiding a smile?

Jon looked at her, and in same authoritative voice stated, "if I wasn't I wouldn't have said it, 'doctor'." Stone-face, but what is that look in his eye? He looked at them looking at each other.

"As you wish, Captain," an innocent smile on her lips crossing to sit in the chair next to the bed.

Over in the corner by the other side of the bed was Dr. Tarly still standing by his chair. Silently watching with those big eyes of his. An uneasy expression on his face. Must be just as nervous as I am. Another shock in just a few days. Am I about to pull the rug from beneath his feet completely?

"Now, before anything I need to ask - are you comfortable in that," he nodded at the wheelchair Jon was currently still seated in, "or would you like to get back to bed first?"

"For the time being I'm fine right here, doctor," a small smile on his face.

"Ok, good." He fiddled with the top of his cane. Don't know how to do this. How do I say this? 'Just breathe, Ned', he heard Rhaella's voice in his head. Right, just breathe.

"The matter of discussion is...sensitive for lack of a better word, so if at any time you'd like a break Captain, please don't hesitate ask."

"Will do, doctor. Now speak your mind." Gods, how did he become the one in command in this room?

He exchanged a look with Dr. Tarly who shrugged uncomfortably. Young Tarly had told Commander Selmy and himself that Jon did not appreciate any beating around bushes. 'Tell it like it is', he'd said. No matter how difficult or hurtful Jon always preferred to hear the truth uncandidly.

He cast a glance at Dany who just sat there with a blank expression on her face. Completely unaware of the drama that was about to unfold.

He closed his eyes as he took a deep breathe. Clearing his throat he look back at Jon and said, "you mentioned your father earlier. What about your mother?"

"She's dead too."

He was taken aback by how matter-of-fact those words were said. But his eyes can't hide the depth of his pain. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Dany shift in her seat. Dr. Tarly was now standing at the corner of the bed right behind Jon.

"Very sorry for your loss," he said genuinely - knowing exactly how Jon was speaking of.

The Captain gave him a tight nod in reply still holding eye contact. Clearly trying to figure out why he was being asked these questions.

"May I ask what her name was?"

He cleared his throat. "Asha." There was a distant look in young man's eyes. A sadness so deep it seemed to pour directly from his soul out through is eyes.

Asha! Oh gods, we were only a handful privileged enough to call her by that nickname - and the only ones left are myself - and our son! Our son's alive! He was clutching his cane now. Dany must've noticed because she was by his side immediate.

"Ned?" Purple eyes looking at him with concern.

"Here have my chair, Dr. Stark." Sam had suddenly moved swift like the wind and put a chair behind him. Assisted by both Dany and Sam he sat down just a few meters away from Jon who, too, looked a bit worried.

"I'm fine - and thank you Dr. Tarly."

The two young doctors exchanged a look as Sam returned to his spot behind Jon, and Dany hopped up on the end of the bed placing herself at Ghost's feet. The dog hadn't moved and was presumably sleeping blissfully unaware of anything going on around him.

He cleared his throat once more. "So Asha?" Again a tight nod from the young Captain. "Did she have a last name?"

Captain 'Snow' narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Dayne. Her last name was Dayne."

There was a gasp from Dany. With a hand covering her mouth and eyes as big a saucers she looked back and forth between himself and Jon. Always a clever one that little dragon.

Jon looked around confused.

"And your father? Do you know what his name was?" He was trying to stay calm but it was getting increasingly difficult. Especially since Dany was clearly adding the pieces together in that clever little mind of hers.

"Dayne, I guess. I don't know," his eyebrows furrowed, "what is this about?! Look I'm not lying! I'm not trying to impose on anyone or pretend to be someone I'm not!" His voice grew more and more agitated for each sentence.

Luckily Dr. Tarly cut in. With a hand on the young man's shoulder he said, "Jon! No one is accusing you of anything. I swear! Just please listen, ok? Just listen." He gave the Captain a wobbly smile. "Here, have some water first," handing him a glass.

He gave the young doctor a nod of gratitude. He could feel Dany looking at him, but wasn't quite ready to meet her eyes.

"My apologies Dr. Stark." Jon spoke quietly clearly sorry about his outburst.

"It's alright, I could probably have done this better." The two of them shared a brief shy look.

Looking back at Sam he said, "Dr. Tarly, I think you can find those papers now."

The Tarly boy's eyes grew even bigger if possible. With a stern look and a short nod though he went back to his bag and found a thin folder.

"Your father's name wasn't Dayne, Captain." Nodding at Dr. Tarly he handed Jon the slim paper-folder containing only a few documents in it. "Please open it."

The Captain turned his head and looked up at Sam over his shoulder, then shared a quick look with Dany before returning to look at him. How many times have I not had grey eyes like that stare at me sceptically just like you are now? Resolutely he swung the folder open. His eyebrows furrowed as he was looking at the information in front of him. Document on top should be the DNA results. Without looking up he simply handed the paper off to Dany as he began looking at the next document.

There was another gasp from Dany and hand-covered mouth. She looked at him moving her hand slightly so only her fingertips were covering her mouth. A small unsure smile on her lips. Unable to speak he simply gave her a long blink in response and then glanced down at the folder in Jon's lap before looking back up at her. She looked down her eyes quickly skimming over the words. Silent tears began to run down her cheeks and a smile grew ever so slowly bigger and bigger.

Jon on the other hand looked like a man who was frozen in place. Just staring at the paper in his hand. Oh gods did we break him? Slowly he started reading aloud. Maybe as an attempt to make it more real?

"'This is to certify that Jonathan Dayne was born at Starfall, Dorne.'" There was a brief pause. "Sam? Water please."

Without a word Sam handed his friend back his glass of water.

Emptied he fumbled to find a place for it somewhere off to the side, but he was still staring at the birth certificate as if in a trance, so Dany gently took the glass from his hand. But she's still holding his hand..?

Jon continued reading aloud, "'...to parents Ashara Dayne and—" He stopped abruptly and turned his head to Dany. "You called him 'Ned' earlier," making a quick move with his head to indicate who he was talking about.

"I did." There's that hand squeeze again.

"That's short for 'Eddard', right?"

She nodded quickly. Eyes shining.

Blinking a few times the Captain looked back down at the document. Then slowly he raised his head and looked directly into his eyes. Holding up the document in his hand and with a stern voice he said "is this real, Dr. Stark?" Why such a hard look, son. How much pain have you been through to finally find your way back home?

"It is, Captain Snow. Although truthfully what you're holding is a copy. The original can be obtained from the District Court at Sunspear, Dorne."

Jon snorted. "'Snow'! That isn't even my name, is it?!"

"Well, who gave it to you in the first place?"

"The fat bastard in Pentos who bought me from the Dothrakhi!!" He said it with a growl reminding of a wolf. How in the seven hells did you end up with the Dothrakhi? We looked everywhere for you!! "Only to have me sent off in a crate like a fucking animal, put on a rickety ship for months swimming around in my own piss and vomit, and when we finally made land it was 'thank the gods' to arrive at the 'oh so happy home' of Pyke fucking Island!!"

No longer able to control his own anger he jumped out of his chair. "YOU WERE SENT TO THAT HELL HOLE?!?!?!"

Ghost woke up with a start and instantly began growling. It took both Sam and Dany to calm the animal back down so he didn't hurt himself - or others. Aggo and Qotho had come running into the room as well at the sound of his loud outburst. They too had to be handled by Dany. Thank the gods Jon insisted she stay!

Surprisingly Jon was sitting calmly in his wheelchair just looking up at him with a peculiar look in his eye. Then out of nowhere a crooked smile on his face as he said, "you broke your cane, Dr. Stark."

He looked down and saw that he had indeed broken his cane a few minutes ago when he erupted like a volcano that's been lying dormant too long. He took a breath and opened his mouth, but was cut short by the Captain.

"As a boy I saw my father getting shot in the knee. Desperate look in his eye as he was crawling on the floor to get to me. Leaving a trail of blood behind him as he did so. I saw a shadow standing over him when men in gold masks dragged me away, I heard a gunshot and then they threw me into a helicopter and took me away." His voice broke on the last few words and tears were streaming down his face. Oh son, I'm so so sorry! I was too late.

Dany had started crying again hearing Jon's words. Sam, still standing behind the wheelchair, looked absolutely heartbroken nervously glancing between the three people in front of him.

Jon again lifted the birth certificate. "You're telling me this is true?"

With his own tears beginning to spring from his eyes, he nodded and with a choked voice said, "Yes, I swear it's all 100% true."

In a swift move Jon was on his feet, but started collapsing just as quickly. Taking a fast step forward he caught him in his arms and held him close.

"I got you son!" I got you, never letting you go again!

Big steel grey eyes swimming with tears looked back up at him. Without a word his son just tightened his grip on him, clinging to him as if for dear life.

Sam came over and helped getting Jon back on his feet. Dany had gone to the door to have Qotho come in and help. The big Dothrakhi picked Jon up and softly placed him back on the bed - all the while carefully eyeing Ghost who was doing the same to him.

Sam gently helped move Jon onto his side while Dany covered him in a couple blankets.

Leaning against the bed he manoeuvred over to the chair Dany had sat in earlier. From here he could reach Jon's hand, currently occupied with stroking Ghost's head.

Sam brought over the furs that Jon previously had had over his legs. "It can get a bit chilly at night just sitting here, Dr. Stark," he said with a shy smile. He thankfully accepted and draped them over his own legs.

Dany was tenderly stroking Jon's hair and whispered something in his ear. His son smiled slightly and nodded as he and Dany exchanged a look. What's with those two?

Dany quietly closed the door behind her as she and Dr. Tarly left.

Now he and his long lost son was finally alone.

Jon tried to speak, but he cut him off by gently laying his hand on that of his son. "Shh son...you just rest. I'm right here."

[awolfhowled]

A TOUCH FOR SILENCE

Series: Part 1 of To Freeze or To Thaw Rating: M Pairing: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen

CH. 03: THE MYTHS AND PEOPLE

Summary: Jon discovers a thing or two about Daenerys Targaryen, the woman behind the legends.

Word Count: 3,583

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JON II

He had no desire to start making hollow assumptions, which was why he had not attempted to decipher her story and identity by himself. A small part of him was still gullible enough to give people the benefit of the doubt and the belief that they may be truthful. It was difficult for anyone to blame him. Northerners in particular were raised by an old code of morality and, in that regard, Jon had learned from the best: Eddard Stark. There were many who whispered that it was this honor code that had brought about his damnation, painting him out as a fool. But in reality, the differences between the North and the South were too grand. The Starks believed there was honor in an honest death and shame in a life led by deceit.

Curiosity and restraint battled it out inside him, the former gripping him intensely with each moment she would keep the hood tucked around her face, clearly with a definite purpose. Her sighing broke the pregnant silence that had made their exchange dormant.

“I told you people called me Dany but it is only partially true,” she said, her gaze traveling from the ground to meet his. It was still too dark, the hood continuing to sew a mosaic of shadows through her features. Even like this, half cloaked in obscurity, Jon could see he had rightfully assessed her youth. He elected to not say anything, simply observing her in anticipation, a cue she seemed to have picked up quickly. “Once that was all that I was called, but I was just a foreign orphan in Essos then. I was nothing special to the people there. They did not care about my family name or the power my father once possessed, none of that mattered to them.”

His curiosity was besting him.

“Your family name,” Jon repeated, a flurry of possibilities unleashing in his head. “Let us cease with such vagueness, my Lady. Candidness is all I ask of you for now.”

“Yes,” she quickly responded. “Let us.” Her gloved, dainty fingers traveled to pull down the blue hood with the fur lining, a certain lack of hesitance etched through her motions. Her silver-gold hair was bound in a simple braid that fell across her shoulder as the hood was removed and her violet eyes were staring at him intently. “My name is Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Some call me the Breaker of Chains, some Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, some Queen of Meereen, some the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, some the Unburnt, and some the Mother of Dragons. Sometimes they call me all of it. I have many names and titles, Jon Snow. I have given you the only name still sacred to me, the only name none of the rumors and stories mention.”

Jon remembered Maester Luwin’s lessons when he was a child. Because of how close in age they had been, he had often learned at the same time as Robb. Things about the Great Houses, the history of Westeros, the myths of the North, the world across the Narrow Sea.

Of course, he’d learned about House Targaryen – the “greatest dynasty of Westeros” as many had called them. But his knowledge pertaining to Daenerys Stormborn was much more limited. Everyone heard of the rumors about her three dragons and her likelihood to return to reclaim the throne Robert Baratheon had “stolen” from the Mad King. But if there was anything beyond that, which her myriad of titles did suggest, then the Night’s Watch was the place where those rumors had stopped traveling. Queen of Meereen, Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. All so foreign and undoubtedly with stories of their own.

The only stories Jon knew were the stories told by Maester Aemon. He thought of the old maester and felt a bitter pang in the pit of his stomach. Had Daenerys Targaryen arrived a few months earlier, he would have been able to meet the only person left who shared his blood. Now, he rested on board of the Cinnamon Wind, and Jon had trouble shaking off the feelings of guilt creeping up his spine.

His reaction failed to arrive, its wording trapped somewhere between the slight daze of seeing the rumors of her grand beauty turned to reality and the ghost of the less than pleasant history backing her family up.

“Were we not meant to cease with such vagueness, Lord Commander?” said Daenerys. “I would surely deem your silence as sufficiently vague.”

“You must forgive me,” he sighed. “Runaway women are one matter. Runaway Targaryen queens are another.”

“You are not certain what your feelings on the matter are.”

I am not, he thought. Jon Snow had plenty of reasons to feed into grudges and suspicions. But they did not belong to this moment here. He was only the Lord Commander.

“No,” he admitted. “But perhaps you could enlighten me. What interest does Daenerys Targeryen hold for the Night’s Watch?”

“My dragons have been stolen,” she said, bitterly. Jon’s heart leaped in his chest. Gods be good, the dragons truly did exist? “My kingdom has been taken and my people slaughtered.”

“What kingdom would that be?”

“Meereen. Yunkai. Astapor. All that I have built by the sweat of my palms.”

“And journeying across a whole continent ought to somehow help you?”

For a brief moment, Jon detected some sort of frustration in her features. Perhaps he was asking too many questions for her liking.

“There is nowhere in the entire world where I am safe,” she said, flatly. “I cannot save anyone when they are too worried about my safety, there is no peace to think and plan when on the run.” There was a pause, during which Jon allowed himself a moment to think. But the moment ended soon enough, banished by the sound of her voice. “Euron Greyjoy has gained mental control over my dragons.”

Jon froze, bewilderment clear in his tone.

“Euron Greyjoy?”

“He possesses some magical horn which gives him the power to bind their will. I fear he will completely be able to control them soon.” Jon was still too taken aback by having this knowledge dumped on him all so suddenly, without having requested them to begin with. “What do you think a man crazier than my own father would do with such a power? How long before the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms stands aflame with no hope among the people? That is why I am here, Jon Snow. My children have been taken from me, they have been bound in mind and soul. My people are suffering. I am here to find a way to put an end to all of it, no matter the cost I must pay, but I need peace and safety to do so.” It was blatantly obvious that exasperation had pushed Daenerys into playing her game to the best of her ability. But it was not despair at the root of her display. There was only fire. “So, tell me, do you think certain death and destruction brought to you soon by a mad man with magical control over three full-grown dragons is a good enough reason for you to harbor a woman?”

Dragons, magical horns, a kraken to allegedly soon swallow them whole… Even for Jon Snow, it was all particularly overwhelming.

How much more certain mass destruction could the Seven Kingdoms handle? It was his first initial thought and it veiled his features in a cloak of grimness. After a brief moment of silence, he turned heel, walked back behind the desk, and collapsed into the chair with a soundly thud. He prompted his elbow against the surface and pinched at the bridge of his nose. If he thought everything over too much, he would only gain a massive headache, which was why he decided to shed off all attempts at piecing together a strategy in his head beforehand.

“A good enough reason?” he finally responded, leaning against the backrest and gazing toward Daenerys with a gaze molded on the unreadable, icy Stark features. “Strange as it may be, by the rules of the Watch, it technically isn’t.” Just how lying with a woman was equally forbidden and theoretically unbreakable. “In reality, it does not sound like something I can turn my back on. We are the sword in the darkness, the shield that guards the realms of men. The threat may not come from Beyond the Wall, but it is a threat nonetheless.” If she sought peace and quiet to form her plans, however, the Night’s Watch wasn’t the place to be at. While she’d be preparing for her own war, the Long Night could befall them at any given moment and the Wall was the first place it would strike.

He observed Daenerys as she followed toward the desk, gracefully reclaiming her own seat. Ever since she had removed the shielding of her hood, she had not lowered her gaze once, Jon noted. Even then, her eyes of lilac stared at him intently, with unwavering boldness and conviction.

“You believe me?” she questioned.

“I can believe a great number of things,” he said, making no attempts at containing the weariness of his voice. He would be no different from all the stubborn Southern lords that refused to see the threat of the Others if he elected to dismiss her sayings simply because of how unlikely they seemed.

“What is your answer then?”

His fingers drummed briefly against the armrest and he skewed his head as he stared her down inquisitively.

“I do have to make sure that you’re well-informed on what you’re getting into. Some of the men here won’t be intimidated by the presence of your guards. And if they attack a brother of the Night’s Watch, I will have no choice but to send them away. I hope you understand that.”

“I understand,” she said and Jon could detect tired resignation in her voice. “I promise my guards will do nothing more than protecting me. They will not start up any trouble with your men and if they have to stop someone, they will not harm them but simply deter them away from me.”

Jon nodded slowly.

“That would be most appreciated.”

“Fret not,” Daenerys shifted in her chair, leaning into it, “this is not the first time I have been surrounded by men. I have managed well enough until now to stay out of, shall we say, undesired situations.” This was the biggest concern she should have had on her mind. Jon was grateful that she was fully aware of it, sparing him the tedious task of having to spell the risks out.

It struck him now that, in his intention to possibly ensure her wellbeing, he might have come across as somewhat… say, incompetent. What would anyone think if the Lord Commander essentially said he couldn’t keep his men under control well enough to avoid any unpleasant occurrences? That wasn’t really the case, Jon knew that. As long as he was around, he felt confident enough that he could keep everything under control without having it spiral negatively. But when he wasn’t present, there was nothing he could do. It would probably take one beheading after another to keep some of the men in check, but even this fear, it would only last for a while. It wouldn’t take long before it developed into anger and a full-blown warfare would blast from within the heart of the Night’s Watch. During a time so severely delicate, it was the last thing they needed.

He was still struggling to appease the group of brothers who had cast their votes for Alliser Thorne during the election. Some, Jon had won over, but none of them were the people he knew cunning and with enough hatred for him to motivate them beyond doubt. Still, he felt no need to explain himself. Some may have seen his stance as a weakness, but there were many things he had to discard in order to maintain an already-frail peace. She offered her own reassurances that no violence would come from her men’s part and that was all that mattered.

He was already starting to think of the proper way to explain their presence at the Wall to the rest of the Watch and of a way to enforce their prohibitions. If push came to shove, he’d have to reason with Thorne. The man was narrow-sighted, bitter, and hateful, but he didn’t strike Jon as the type to encourage needless violence. There were better chances the men that followed Thorne would listen to him instead. For now, at least.

Jon gave a short nod, a spark of dim gratitude flashing in his eyes as they fell down to the desk. He briefly wondered what kind of circumstances had placed her in the company of men who could be comparable to the infamous rapists, thieves, and murderers that composed most of the Night’s Watch. She’d spent a good portion of her life in Essos, a place Jon had scarcely heard stories about. Those stories, though, reflected that it was a land with a certain rawness to it and with very few rules to dictate social behavior.

There were still so many questions and so many unclear things, but he figured it would be impossible to find answers in that moment and in that place.

“You have my permission for a stay of a moon’s worth for now,” he said, at last. “Your men can help with physical labor.” It was a risky call to make, especially given his sensitive predicament. But it would be an even greater risk to possibly send away the one person who could the key to their survival in the great wars to come. Within the next month, there would be plenty of time to test just how genuine Daenerys Targaryen had been in her claims.

A small twitch tugged at the corners of her lips. Jon would not blame her if she were tempted to give into the feeling of relief.

“Only my men?” she asked, surprise clear in her features.

“I figure you already have a lot on your mind, so you needn’t partake in any chores. It would probably be for the best. Us highborn are not shaped for kitchen duties. And I mean no disrespect, but I would rather not see our numbers grow even thinner because of meal fatalities.”

His words had rolled off his tongue as a second thought, a casualty of his mental exhaustion, hence his surprise when the comment sparked laughter in her reaction. The sound of it was bright and clear, quite a contrast to how she had been presenting herself before, though he presumed he could attribute it to the positive news she had received. Life at the Wall was so incredibly morose that no one found anything funny anymore, not unless drunk. Crystal-clear laughs and genuine smiles were very rare, with all the people rounding up Castle Black being mostly as icy and lifeless as the giant structure visible from outside of his window.

“We all have our strengths,” she said, her voice light. “Cooking is indeed not the usual strength of a highborn and I am definitely not the exception.” She shook her head lightly, but still with a smile gracing her lips.

Ultimately, he responded with a faint rise of his lips, one that came without a second thought and which bubbled naturally to his face. Across it, a veil had been lifted, and he was temporarily left with shoulders without the usual boulders weighing on top of them.

“Good,” Jon replied. “It’s best to not let these tasks distract you from your goal.”

“Thank you, Jon,” said Daenerys, knocking him off-balance with how seamlessly and nonchalantly his name fell from her lips. Likely realizing the effects, she continued, “I hope it is alright I call you that. After all, I gave you permission to use my nickname. I think it is only fair I address you with your real name when in private.” With this clarification, it became obvious she was only seeking out an even ground, equality. Truthfully, he had not intended to continue using the name she had presented him with in the beginning, but there was something liberating in this alternative that made it difficult to resist.

The only people who still referred to him merely as Jon were his closest friends, though he could count them on the fingers of one hand. He had only been the Bastard of Winterfell once. Now he was Lord Commander, Lord Snow, King Crow, a traitor, a turncloak, an oathbreaker. It made him wonder how he could have been so shallow as to complain that he had to sit at the back of the dining hall in Winterfell. Oh, he would give so much just to be able to return there, but he didn’t want to dwell on hypothetical scenarios. That was the surest way for any black brother, isolated from everything they love, to slowly lose their marbles.

“Permission granted,” he spoke after a moment, drawing his lips in a tight line, sheepishly. “The title draws on for far too long, anyway. I have no idea how people can stand speaking it without falling into deep slumber midway through.”

“It is quite the title, indeed, but long titles usually command respect. They sound more important, the longer they are.” Was that why she carried so many with her? He caught her eye, noticing there was something intent in her stare. “You were a part of House Stark before you joined the brotherhood, correct?” Jon had wondered whether his name had reached her as well.

Swallowing down on a bitter boulder, the hand he rested on the table started to bawl into a loose fist.

“I was never part of House Stark,” he retorted, a hollow look in his eyes dictating that he’d accepted the fact so strongly it stopped affecting him altogether. “My father was. There’s only some Stark blood running through my veins.”

“Maybe not, but they were still your family,” spoke Daenerys, the soft conviction in her voice pulling his gaze to meet her eyes inquisitively. “You do not have to share their house to be family. A family is not just blood or the ones you share a name with, it is those you love and care for.”

“Aye,” he spoke, eager to slip away from the binds of this particular topic. “I would not dare to call them anything but my family.”

After a moment’s silence, Daenerys uttered, “A friend told me your father was an honorable man.”

“He was,” Jon said, his gaze aimlessly scouting the desk as he fiddled with his fingers. There was no one Jon admired more than Ned Stark, even from beyond the grave.

“He told me Lord Stark was against the brutal murders of my sister-in-law and her children. The deaths of your family are equally as unjust.”

There was a battle both inside of his head and outside, bursting through his irises. He didn’t know whether it was confusion or a feeling of ease winning the strife. On one hand, he found the sudden change in topics somewhat unsettling. It struck too close to his home, and to his heart, and his feelings of helplessness. Fury and sorrow toward the tragedy befallen on his family had been known only to Jon and the stars, whenever he’d lie awake with thorns prickling at his chest. On the other hand, sympathy was something that had become foreign to him. Those that had sent their condolences in the past had only managed to get a rush of anger out of him, but he supposed he’d moved on beyond that. It didn’t sound as if she was speaking for the sake of formality, but rather out of genuineness. Which, truth be told, was even more difficult for him to deal with. Too few people still cared about others and their feelings.

“Thank you,” he breathed out, not unkindly. “He was a man who sought justice. Always. But he sought justness and honor in a place that knows neither. So did my brother.” Surprisingly, there was only a subtle hint of frustration in his voice. It was more of a statement than anything, especially since he wasn’t aware of how much she knew of King’s Landing. Jon didn’t know that much either, in all frankness. But if Maester Aemon’s stories and Janos Slynt had been anything to go by, it was as much of a snake nest as he’d heard it was. He had to let go, to the best of his ability, of the grudges against the Lannisters for the sake of his own sanity. It would’ve driven him to a corner to map out revenge plans he knew he could never carry out.

Instinctively, he felt the need to respond with a kind word or two regarding her family, though the fact that they had been murdered before she was even born wouldn’t help not make it look like an obvious formality meant to pull attention off his own family. Luckily, there was something he could say with genuineness.

His eyes rose and met hers, briefly wondering whether his words would have any effect.

“There’s someone… It would have brought him great joy to finally meet you. Our previous maester, Aemon of House Targaryen.”