#yours in fractions

[themartianwitch-fic]

General Info Post

Fic Info:

Fandom: Young Justice (cartoon)

Ship: Superboy/Miss Martian (Supermartian)

Rating: T+ (nothing more "mature" content-wise than Season 3 and 4, in my opinion)

Summary: After the invasion, Conner and M'gann re-connect with each other and themselves. (Set between Seasons 2 and 3.)

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Fic Content Warnings:

alcohol

sexual references/situations

grief & references to canonical character deaths

depression, including suicidal ideation and fantastical means of self-harm

anxiety

violence/blood, both fantasy and actual

general mindscape shenanigans and all the unreality therein

body horror

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Fic Chapter Links (will update as I post more):

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10 / ?

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Fic AO3 Link: Yours in Fractions

Note: I had the fic up on AO3 from about May 2024 to January 2025, then deleted it and my AO3 account because I thought I had officially given up on it, but I have now decided once again to try finishing it, so if you've seen it before on AO3 and then noticed it was gone, that's what happened. I am re-reading the fic as I post it here, so there are some minor wording/punctuation edits for clarity from the version previously published on AO3, but no major revisions.

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Blog Icon Art Full Pics:

(Old fanart of mine from... 2017ish, originally posted on tumblr under the username themartianwitch. These were not drawn specifically for the fic, but they match the theme & vibe.)

[artbymesa]

Playing Mass Effect for the first time in 2025 and This is basically what Shepard did, right

Am I missing something

[courtmartialme]

same breed of pathetic wet dog guys

[unnonexistence]

95% of math brainteasers that go viral are just bad notation and it drives me up the wall

[gingermintpepper]

In my Zeus bag today so I'm just gonna put it out there that exactly none of the great Ancient Greek warrior-heroes stayed loyal and faithful and completely monogamous and yet none of them have their greatness questioned nor do we question why they had the cultural prominence that they did and still do.

Jason, the brilliant leader of the Argo, got cold feet when it came to Medea - already put off by some of her magic and then exiled from his birthland because of her political ploys, he took Creusa to bed and fully intended on marrying her despite not properly dissolving things with Medea.

Theseus was a fierce warrior and an incredibly talented king but he had a horrible temper and was almost fatally weak to women. This is the man who got imprisoned in the Underworld for trying to get a friend laid, the man who started the whole Attic War because he couldn't keep his legs closed.

And we cannot at all forget Heracles for whom a not inconsiderable amount of his joy in life was loving people then losing the people around him that he loved. Wives, children, serving boys, mentors, Heracles had a list of lovers - male and female - long enough to rival some gods and even after completing his labours and coming down to the end of his life, he did not have one wife but three.

And y'know what, just because he's a cultural darling, I'll put Achilles up here too because that man was a Theseus type where he was fantastic at the thing he was born to do (that is, fight whereas Theseus' was to rule) but that was not enough to eclipse his horrid temper and his weakness to young pretty things. This is the man that killed two of Apollo's sons because they wouldn't let him hit - Tenes because he refused to let Achilles have his sister and Troilus who refused Achilles so vehemently that he ran into Apollo's temple to avoid him and still couldn't escape.

All four of these men are still celebrated as great heroes and men. All four of these men are given the dignity of nuance, of having their flaws treated as just that, flaws which enrich their character and can be used to discuss the wider cultural point of what truly makes a hero heroic. All four of these men still have their legacies respected.

Why can that same mindset not be applied to Zeus? Zeus, who was a warrior-king raised in seclusion apart from his family. Zeus who must have learned to embrace the violence of thunder for every time he cried as a babe, the Corybantes would bang their shields to hide the sound. Zeus learned to be great because being good would not see the universe's affairs in its order.

The wonderful thing about sympathy is that we never run out of it. There's no rule stopping us from being sympathetic to multiple plights at once, there's no law that necessitate things always exist on the good-evil binary. Yes, Zeus sentenced Prometheus to sufferation in Tartarus for what (to us) seems like a cruel reason. Prometheus only wanted to help humans! But when you think about Prometheus' actions from a king's perspective, the narrative is completely different: Prometheus stole divine knowledge and gifted it to humans after Zeus explicitly told him not to. And this was after Prometheus cheated all the gods out of a huge portion of wealth by having humans keep the best part of a sacrifice's meat while the gods must delight themselves with bones, fat and skin. Yes, Zeus gave Persephone away to Hades without consulting Demeter but what king consults a woman who is not his wife about the arrangement of his daughter's marriage to another king? Yes, Zeus breaks the marriage vows he set with Hera despite his love of her but what is the Master of Fate if not its staunchest slave?

The nuance is there. Even in his most bizarre actions, the nuance and logic and reason is there. The Ancient Greeks weren't a daft people, they worshipped Zeus as their primary god for a reason and they did not associate him with half the vices modern audiences take issue with. Zeus was a father, a visitor, a protector, a fair judge of character, a guide for the lost, the arbiter of revenge for those that had been wronged, a pillar of strength for those who needed it and a shield to protect those who made their home among the biting snakes. His children were reflections of him, extensions of his will who acted both as his mercy and as his retribution, his brothers and sisters deferred to him because he was wise as well as powerful. Zeus didn't become king by accident and it is a damn shame he does not get more respect.

[vigilskept]

i know it would've been difficult for them to tackle, but it absolutely kills me thinking about the missed opportunities of getting into religious angle of everything that's going on in veilguard.

because it's insane, right? that there are gods in this game. and the game will tell you over and over that they aren't gods, that they're Just Mages, but that's actually not precisely true. they're something very different from what a tevinter magister is, at least, and not only on a power-scale.

powerful spirits are gods in this setting. that was the religion ascribed to by most of humanity, before andraste. the avvar and chasind still ascribe to that belief.

a lot has been said already about how the game fails to engage with belief for dalish characters, and i agree. i think the game also really fails its andrastian characters here though because this is actually huge.

it's not just whether the golden/black city is/was the seat of the maker. it's the very meaning of what god is that's at stake here.

the maker has abandoned humanity. only through the pleas of his prophet andraste is he willing to consider the idea of offering a second chance to his creation. he will not respond to your prayers, and he will not give you answers. his will is inscrutable, to be interpreted only through the words of his prophet which have been changed over the centuries.

and if you are a mage, you are taught that this maker has cursed you. your very being is a curse.

and then you meet elgar'nan. and then you meet ghilan'nain.

they are not your maker. not really. not even if you're an elf.

but these gods are knowable. they will speak to you, personally. they may even do so with kindness. they will tell you what you could do to please them, and even offer you something in return.

and what they ask is terrible. maybe even unfathomable. but in a world where exalted marches have been called in the name of the maker and entire circles annulled, isn't that enough to give you a little pause?

[sodapopper]

Sodapop Curtis with abandonment issues.

Sodapop Curtis, whose last words to his parents were “see ya later,” only to never see them again.

Sodapop Curtis, who finds solace in keeping the last fragments of his family together, holding a brother’s wrist in each hand, his grip tight enough to cut off circulation, nails digging deep, drawing blood. He soothes and listens and understands. This, a reassuring constant—they’re not so broken that he can’t keep the pieces taped together with comfort and love!

Except his love isn’t enough. It never was, even though it’s all he has, and he feels it with every failure, every fight that ends in shouting, teenage tears and a brother’s anger. Down deep in his stomach, that sticky ball of fear. They’re tearing each other apart. He’s losing them, day by bitter day, and he can’t stop it, he can’t fix it, he’s trying but he’s not enough.

Soda fails to deescalate a fight that ends with Ponyboy running and Darry retreating into the cold shell of his mind. After, he finds Pony’s sweatshirt in Dally’s room. It cuts deep, drawing more blood than Johnny Cade’s knife. He could’ve come home; Soda would’ve understood, that’s what he’s good at.

But Ponyboy went to Dallas Winston instead.

Soda connects the dots of Sandy’s freckles with dreams bigger than the sky, dreams of marriage and love and a white picket fence. He wants to raise her baby. Doesn’t matter who the father is—he loves her child because he loves her, pretty Sandy with the gap between her teeth and grease in her blood. He would go to war for her, ride out to a field of spears, he would tear down Heaven to give her a footstool.

She leaves him with nothing but a letter and the idea of an apology.

Soda watches a friend die in front of his eyes. Blood spurting, violent red. Shiny on the pavement. Glistening on his face. Dally had a life with them. But in the end, he still chooses a bullet to the chest.

So yeah, Sodapop Patrick Curtis with abandonment issues. Soda, who’s lost so many people, it’s no wonder he waits for whoever’s next. He holds tight with clenched fists, bruised knuckles and heart, just too sensitive for his own good. Bawl Baby Curtis with his stupid hurt feelings. A stayer left behind in a family of goers. Laughing loud so nobody will hear when his voice goes shaky; making jokes so nobody will notice the fear.

Ponyboy leaves for college. Soda hugs him tight, ruffles his hair— “When you’re rich and famous, try to remember us little guys!” Every Saturday, he waits by the phone. Pony calls with religious faithfulness, but still, Soda hears the difference in his voice. Soda used to sleep easy, but now he stays awake, staring at the dark ceiling. Wondering why his baby brother would ever return home when Tulsa has nothing left to offer him.

Sodapop Curtis is best man at Steve and Evie’s wedding. “Nothing’s gonna change,” Steve tells him, but he’s lived long enough to know a lie. Sodapop Curtis, who’s losing Steve, too.

He doesn’t go on dates anymore. He breaks girls’ hearts with reluctant ease, rejection coming quick to his tongue. He never had much to offer, anyway—only his looks, and if they weren’t enough to keep Sandy, why would anyone else stay?

He makes jokes about Darry leaving, and plays it off when Darry doesn’t laugh. It’s just a joke, he doesn’t mean it! Why would Soda be afraid of losing Darry too? Just because he’s lost his parents and Johnny and Dally and Sandy and Ponyboy and Steve and—

It’s just a joke. He doesn’t mean it.

Sodapop Curtis with abandonment issues.

It’s just a joke!

It was never a joke.

(And if Darry welcomes his little brother into his bed at night without a word of complaint, squeezing him tight when he’s restless, if Ponyboy makes spontaneous trips home on the weekends, if Steve and Evie name their first baby Patrick, well—maybe it was never a joke to them, either.)

[hiyogdh]

distinguished qing jing peak lord, whose presence is as imposing as cang qiong mountain

[thatscarletflycatcher]

Thinking again about the darknesses that lurk underneath the surface of Sense and Sensibility (I have talked before about how Edward despite being the eldest is subjected to what we can argue is emotional and financial abuse by his family for years, and how the Dashwood women are disinherited on a whim of their great uncle), and this time specifically about the Brandons.

We get so little about them, and what we do get about them is all bad:

This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father... At seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married—married against her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her... I have never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of my cousin’s maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father’s point was gained... My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly.

Mr Brandon Sr is shown to us as being a greedy man, a bad administrator of his estate, and a cruel father. His first son seems cut of the same cloth, and his pleasures were not what they ought to have been is one of the most, if not the most sinister line between all the Austen novels. But there's more about him!:

Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief.

The Brandons were married for two years; the colonel returns to England and starts looking for her 3 years later. Young Eliza was then a 3 year old toddler. We are obliquely told that Brandon cut all ties with his brother:

It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford.

Eliza is now 17, so the eldest brother died when she was 14, which is 16 years after his marriage with the older Eliza. In that period of time, he managed to squander the whole of her fortune, and put the estate in debt again, as we are told earlier on by Mrs Jennings:

Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances now, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain.”

We know the Bennets, with five daughters, and without a saving mindset, still manage to live very comfortably with 2000 a year, and if they had had any mind to save money, they could have provided all five of them with decent dowries/money enough to keep them out of poverty when their father died if they were single. It is clearly not that the money isn't enough, or that Delaford is an unproductive estate; in fact, it is described to us as almost paradisiac:

Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so ’tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! ’tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone’s throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother.

One interesting character, though forgotten because only mentioned in passing, is the Brandon sister. On one of the quotes above we get that she's in Avignon for her health, and we know her husband is wealthy (and probably abroad with her) because it is his estate that the planned picnic is for:

A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to form a great part of the morning’s amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.

It is implied that Brandon and his BIL are in very good terms (and we know he's not afraid of cutting ties with bad relatives), and one can safely guess that at the very least he cares enough about his wife as to have her travel for her health. Another guess can be made about her getting married about 10 years before the events of the book. Whether she lived at home before that, or was at school or somewhere else, it isn't said.

But this way you can feel there's a parallel in a way, between the Brandons and the Tilneys: a greedy, cruel father, a son that follows on his steps, and a younger brother and sister managing the toxicity as best they can. Talking about this with @bad-at-names-and-faces, she brought up the idea that in that scheme, Cathy would be Eliza (if it wasn't her not being an orphan, or a rich heiress, and how that connects with Austen's line about Cathy not being born to be a heroine at the beginning of Northanger Abbey). Certainly part of it is the romantic gothicness of the Brandon backstory, united with NA's commentary on Gothic tropes, but to me it drove home with even greater force how such a situation would break a man; losing Cathy that way would have definitely broken Tilney, and if we had met him 14 years down the line, would he have appeared to the unacquainted much different than Brandon appeared to the Dashwood sisters?

[casualavocados]

You said you would always look at me.

KISEKI: DEAR TO ME Ep. 9

[themartianwitch-fic]

Yours In Fractions - Ch. 6 - Hold Your Breath

Fic summary: After the invasion, Conner and M'gann re-connect with each other and themselves. (Set between Seasons 2 and 3. Semi-abandoned WIP. See pinned post for full fic's content warnings.)

[March 18th, Team Year Seven]

[…Wolf, C02.]

Super-Cycle’s wheels never touch ground. She passes through the zeta tube and shoots straight up into the sky, gusts of wind in her wake kicking at the wet branches of the surrounding trees. Leaves smack against the wind and each other, ripping into the air; acorns plunk into the zeta tube’s metal arch and the stone bridge that camouflages it. The portal closes, fizzling out.

A clear blue void stretches out before Conner’s eyes. Without a look down, he could think that he’s anywhere. Hands on Super-Cycle’s controls, he looks down anyway, glancing over the edge of his outstretched arm. The only clouds in the sky below are thin white wisps, stray pieces dotted over the view like smudges on glass. Smallville’s white water tower stands the tallest of all the structures beneath them; next tallest are the telephone poles, lines threaded between them like a net with gaps too wide to catch whatever might fall into the cluster of rooftops below. Raindrops hang like string lights off the thick black wires, some sporadically breaking loose to drop into faintly rippling puddles. Heads and shadows lightly speckle the sidewalks.  Cars and trucks border the curbs–few move. Smooth, shimmering streets give way to country roads, edges of their lines scratched with grass, or mottled with dirt and grains of loose gravel–

Conner blinks, shakes his head, and brings his eyes back to Supercycle’s controls. Wolf grumbles, yawns. His claws click against the outside of his compartment; a glance down, and Conner sees Wolf's large black nose poking up into the air, head tilted back to let the breeze blow through his neck fur. In the backseat, M’gann’s hair flicks against her shoulders, close enough in Conner’s ears to be flicking against his own. The rest of her sounds as still as a statue–save for her heart, on the thought to tune into it. The thin ribbon handles of the bag at her feet bat against its stiff exterior and crinkled insides like lashes over tired eyes.

Conner growls softly, teeth on edge. He can’t think about that now.

For more reasons than one.

Soon enough, another glance will take them straight there, he knows. Soon enough, he and M’gann will be in earshot, and Ma will have them being listened for, he knows.

It’s now or never.

Keeping hold of the controls, Conner turns his head. “M’gann.”

“Hm?” M’gann leans towards him, meeting his eyes, hair waving at him then dropping flat to her shoulders. “Yes?”

Conner holds his breath for a moment, then lets it out. “Link us.”

Tha-bump goes M’gann’s heart. Eyes wide, she snaps back upright, hitting her head against the top of her seat with a thud. “What?”

Conner’s shoulders tense, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. “I mean it.”

“I-I—” M’gann’s voice crackles out into a low stutter. Her heels click against the floor of her seat. “Wh-why?”

Conner’s eyes dart back out to empty blue. “Said it was a mission,” he reminds her. “Last night. You agreed to it.”

“I–we didn’t… talk about… being linked,” M’gann responds.

Conner huffs. “You know that’s not true.”

Tha-bump again.

Conner growls.  “I mean–”

“I–know, I’m… sorry, again,” M’gann rasps. She clears her throat. “But I–I just don’t think it would be a good idea…”

A barn’s tin roof flashes white sunlight into Conner’s eyes, a signal flare from below. It’s not the Kents’, but it will be. Soon.

“...Especially today…”

They don’t have time for this.

“Don’t start with that,” Conner snarls down at plowed rows of dirt.

M’gann gasps faintly. “I’m not–starting anything, I just think–”

“–You’re gonna tell me it’s not safe because we can’t trust your powers after telling me your psychic scar is your problem only.” Conner faces back away from her, hands wringing at Super-Cycle’s controls. Super-Cycle bleeps at him in defiance, keeping her pace. “Save it,” he says to M’gann, huffing down at his own chest. “I don’t buy it. You’re here. Any thought you had of wrecking this, you wouldn’t’ve come. So I don’t wanna hear it.”

M’gann meets his words with verbal silence and a racing heart. Wolf looks back at Conner with a whine and a groan. Conner meets Wolf's yellow eyes and stares. I mean it, he thinks to Wolf with a furrow of his brow. Wolf stares back at him, unmoved.

Conner blinks and looks away.

“That’s… not… entirely true,” M’gann then says. “But, um… Conner?”

Conner swallows. “What?”

“Could you, um, please, um… look back at me, just for a moment?”

Conner’s eyes hone in on a lone cloud, the only speck of white overhead other than the sun. “Can’t,” he responds, suddenly short of breath. “Eyes on the road.”

“We’re in the sky!”

“I’m not hittin’ a bird.” His heart starts to quicken. “Or a plane.” His hands slip off the handlebars to curl into themselves and clench. “But we’re almost in range, so anything else you wanna say, you’re saying it to Superman, too!”

M’gann’s gasp slips and fades into the pool of their shared heartbeats, both pulsating through his head at increasing speeds, one faster–hers, he thinks.

Super–Conner’s eyes sting against air. Clark, he corrects himself, jerking his head down like he could mentally punch the right words into his brain. Kal. Kal-El. He forces out a breath. The beat in his head becomes one deafening pulse, pounding up from inside his chest. Stop it.

A breeze rolls into the back of his shoulder with fingertip precision. His back stiffens, his body focusing to identify the source. A point of soft pressure travels down the outside of his arm, fading just before his elbow.

M’gann’s presence trickles into his mind on another breeze. The wave of it rolls against the edge of his perception then drifts back, leaving an opening, a trail lined with warmth and light straight back into her mind. His shoulders slacken.

[...Link established,] her voice in his head says.

Conner slowly turns in his seat to face her. M’gann smiles at him, hand curled up near her heart, eyes blinking at him fast. She heard him have to tell himself–or, no. He hadn’t felt her link yet. Conner stares at her hand; he felt her telekinetic touch first. But if she didn’t hear that, then–Conner starts to open his mouth, then remembers: she’s��there.

[What was that?] Conner asks her.

M’gann drops her hand down to her lap. [Oh, I’m–sorry, I–]

[No.] Conner shakes his head. [Just wanna know why.]

[I just… thought it’d be nice to give a little warning,] M’gann responds, shrugging tightly-drawn shoulders. [After, you know… the other night?]

Conner stares at her.

M’gann holds her smile.

[...Warning for something I asked you to do,] Conner says.

M’gann’s cheeks go pink, and she drops her head down in defeat, then snickers under her breath. [I guess I’m… still a little nervous.] She raises her head and bats away hair. [But I promise to be on my best behavior.] She nods, vocalizing a hm! behind tightly-closed lips. [I won’t embarrass you in front of your family.]

M’gann, that’s the last thing on my mind, Conner thinks several layers deeper than the link, a mutter under his psychic breath. Sure enough, M’gann keeps her reach shallow–she stares at him expectantly for a response, lips disappearing under the bite of her teeth. Worry lines etch themselves into her brow.

[M'gann, you can’t embarrass me in front of my family,] Conner says to assure her, pushing the thought up and into the psychic channel, feeling it leave him and reach her.

[I’ll just worry about embarrassing myself, then!] M’gann responds with a wink, hands to her hips even in her seat.

I mean that’s not–he shakes his head. [I mean that’s not how families are supposed to work. They’re not supposed to judge you.]

M’gann’s mouth opens in a silent gasp; eyes drifting off to nowhere, she closes it back in a crooked smile. [Right.]

Conner watches her hands wring together in her lap. He bites his tongue–physically. Psychically, he feels his end of the link tense, pull back, and flex shut, like the curl and uncurl of a fist. M’gann feels it, too–a flicker of alarm brushes the surface of his mind, and her presence becomes less, shrinks down from a breeze to a breath. Conner pushes against the widening gap between his own mind and hers: no. Not a thought, just a thought-act, a mental gesture–he reaches for her. She feels it–he feels her feel it. She nudges her mind back closer to his. He presses his thoughts into hers: here. Stay.

Her mind presses back: here.

They lock eyes again. M’gann’s mouth starts on a word; she leaves it hanging half-open instead. Conner swallows.

[Sorry,] their minds project in unison, mental voices overlapping.

M’gann clamps her mouth shut; Conner’s drops open.

[I…] A giggle jumps to the top of M’gann’s throat. Her lips part in a toothy grin as she snorts. She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head from side-to-side as the rest of her bounces up-and-down in place. [Should I be laughing right now?]

[Don’t know,] Conner says, feeling warmth release into his chest like a valve. [Keep doin’ it anyway.]

M’gann opens bright eyes back onto him. Her laughter fades out; she sighs through her nose, mouth fixed open in a grin, freckled skin curving and creasing over the contours of her cheeks. [Aren’t we… in range?]

[Oh.] Tension replaces the warmth in Conner's chest. [Right.]

M'gann's smile wanes. [Conner, I'm… happy to stay linked with you–even though we probably shouldn't–]

[–Says who?] Conner snaps.

M'gann bites her lip and looks away, nodding to the side. [I… seem to recall a certain house rule being made because of us.]

[Oh, uh.] Conner nods. He hadn’t forgotten. He just hadn't expected her to remember–or care. They broke it plenty of times.  [Yeah,] he concedes.

[Well, because of me, specifically–]

[What's your point?]

[My point is, well…] M’gann folds her hands neatly in her lap. [I'm here. And I'm happy to be here. And I'm still thrilled that you invited me–]

[There's a 'but.']

[There is a 'but.'] M’gann nods.  [And it's about my butt–so to speak.]

Conner’s brow furrows. [Oh-kay…]

[Sorry.] M’gann grins and smooths hair behind her ear. [Couldn't resist.] She scoots forward in her seat and leans closer to him. Out loud, she takes a deep breath. [I… don’t want today to be about… me, okay?  I feel like I’ve… distracted you enough these past two days, t-two nights, definitely, with my… issues, but… today is about you, and your family… and of course, that includes you-know-who.] She gestures towards the bag with just a quick glance down, then looks back into his eyes. [Promise me you won’t… let me overshadow that. I’m here as a guest. I don’t want my presence to take away from… how special today is.]

Nothing is ever less special with you, Conner lets slip through a low part of his mind–in frustration more than any other feeling. He keeps the thought to himself, but not the frustration. “Why do you think I invited you?”

M’gann’s eyes widen at him.

Conner’s open lips still thrum with his voice. He presses them shut and growls at himself as silently as possible, a quick slice of a breath through the inside of his throat. [Yeah, I know, I know.] He furthers the dismissal with a wave of his hand. [Question still stands.]

M’gann breathes out through pursed lips. [In all honesty, a-and I want to be honest, so… I… know what you said last night about exposing him to new people, but…] She winces. [It’s… not at all your fault, nothing you’ve said or done, just my mind… going to… well, rude places.]  She sighs, holding tension in her jaw. [I feel almost like a… pity case?]

“No.” Blood rushes through and out of Conner’s thumping heart, boils in the heat burning in his cheeks. “Why?”

M’gann straightens in her seat. [Are–are we not–]

“I don’t care.”

[Should I… go ahead and disconnect the–]

“No.” [No,] he repeats back over the link. [Just answer the question.]

M’gann sighs again. A hard crease forms in her brow. She looks at him with her own hint of frustration, but it quickly shifts to a silent plea, then small apology. [The short answer is… I’m embarrassed about what a mess I’ve been these past two days, and I’m projecting that onto you. More than unfairly.] She offers up a small shrug. [And… that’s it, really.]

Conner stares up into her eyes. [The long answer is Gar.]

M’gann gasps at him, a sharp, high note of her voice ringing out from her mouth as her eyes turn liquid-bright. [That’s a… very… long answer,] she responds, keeping her mental voice steady.  [And… exactly what I meant when I said today isn’t about me.] She presses her mouth shut, brow furrowing in determination. [I mean it, Conner, I am not going to ruin this. If that means I have to leave–]

[–What am I supposed to tell them if you leave?] Conner snaps at her, eyes hot as he glares.  [They already know you’re coming. How would that not ruin it?]

[I–I didn’t mean I planned to–] M’gann’s head shakes, then goes still as her heel stomps the floor of her seat. [Actually, you could–you c-could t-tell them I’m on a mission!] She nods determinedly. [They would understand.]

[And what fake crisis am I supposed to make up that needs you and not me?] Conner throws back at her.

[I–I don’t know, tell them I’m under deep cover as someone who won’t ruin someone else’s family gathering by moping!]

[I invited you to be my backup.] Conner huffs in time with the words of his projected thought, his teeth clenching. [It’s got nothing to do with pity. I was already going to ask you before the other night–why else do you think I wanted you to help me shop?]

[Because… you don’t like shopping for clothes?] M’gann shrugs her shoulders up to her ears, shakes her head, then pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers. [Conner, this is your family! You don’t need me for backup!]

[You needed us for yours!] Conner shouts at the top of his mental lungs.

M’gann half-gasps, half-scoffs; the sound cuts off behind a wall in her throat, but her mouth stays open at him in dismay. Her eyes slowly sink to the floor of her seat. [That’s–that’s different.] Her eyes flutter back up to him, and she bites her mouth shut, cheeks puffing slightly as she holds it in a firm line. [Martha and Jonathan Kent are some of the nicest people I’ve ever met–on any planet!]

Conner narrows his eyes at her. [And J’ann and M’att M’orzz?]

[They–just–] M’gann blinks at him furiously, eyes glistening despite the beating of her lashes. [You–never ran away from your–] She shakes her head, hair blustering up from her shoulders. [Conner, this isn’t about me!]

“Ww-ruff!”

Gravity hits Conner’s stomach.  His knees clench on reflex around his seat, hands feeling for grip against smooth red metal as he holds himself between his display board and M’gann’s. M’gann’s hair whips behind her head as her hands smack straight down into her seat. The bag at her feet slides; her heels click as a thup stops it in place.

Super-Cycle pulls out of her nosedive into a slow, easy descent.  Wolf looks back at Conner, grumbling–Conner’s eyes skim over twitching white ears to the bright razor edge of a barn’s tin roof, watching shadows dull its shine as his eyeline sinks below it. Super-Cycle’s wheels touch ground, and her motor slows to a resting pulse.

All four of Wolf’s paws land at once with a flicking, shimmering splash into wet grass. Conner’s eyes dart back to M’gann. M’gann blinks at him, biting her lip, then shrugs, smiling as she sighs.

[Do you… want to keep arguing now, or wait ‘til we get home?]

Conner’s mouth twitches with a half-smile, but he holds it back, keeping his eyes on M’gann’s face–and nothing else. A glance behind him, and it’s real. [Depends. You staying?]

M’gann’s eyes take on an airy softness as she flops her head to the side and smiles. [Of course.]

Conner swallows and nods, feeling warmth brush his cheeks as the smile breaks through to his lips. [Then just drop it,] he says.

M’gann nods and lifts the gift bag up from the floor, red ribbon handles draped over her upturned wrist and pinned in place by her fingertips.

[But, uh, but not that,] Conner adds.

M’gann giggles and rises from her seat. Pressing her hand to her thigh to hold her pale pink skirt in place, she drifts up and over Super-Cycle’s rear wheel.

Super-Cycle bleeps at him to get out, too. Conner can’t help but welcome the command. He jumps down to the ground and feels the earth sink under his boots as they hit it–no cracking or crumbling, just the squish. All seats emptied, Sphere curls into her resting form and rolls down the crunching gravel path into the barn. Conner hears her settle down into her concave bed of rustling hay, beeping and whirring with contentment.

M’gann floats to Conner’s side, the tips of her pointed white shoes touching down into the grass. She lands standing taller than usual–his eyes take an extra half-second to find hers, like she’s accounting for time since he last brought her here. Only her unshifted form ages naturally, he thinks, furrowing his brow. And the Kents have never not known what she is.

He almost says something. Out loud first–he bites the inside of his lip–and then within the link–he dips his presence low and thinks only to himself, staring at her as she smooths her hair back behind her stiff, high collar. It’s not worth saying–it’s none of his business.

She’s dressed for a wedding, Conner thinks instead–in black, it’d fit a funeral.

She’d left his side to pin herself to Artemis, their black-clad arms woven into knots. His hands kept clenching at voids, ears kept listening for heartbeats in the headstone, eyes kept waiting for lightning to shoot up from the empty ground–

–No. His eyes go to the sky, an excuse for them to water. Not now. The shirt on his skin starts to itch, sealed claw holes on his shoulders feeling thick as knots but thin enough to unravel on a breath. I’m fine, Conner thinks at M’gann before she can say anything–the words spin in place in his head like mud-stuck wheels.

[You look nice,] he gruffs out instead, forcing his thoughts back light enough to float to the surface of his mind.

[Thank you!] says M’gann’s disembodied voice as Conner’s eyes stay filled with too-bright blue. [I tried my best on such short notice.]

[Yeah,] Conner responds blankly.

Wolf’s nose brings Conner’s attention back down to Earth as it rises into the air, sniffing the breeze. Soon enough, Conner smells it, too, practically tastes it on his tongue: apple and cinnamon.

[Should we… head on up?] M’gann asks.

Conner’s eyes trail down the front yard and up the porch steps to the screen door. He walks himself there in his mind once, twice, three times–his feet stay glued in place. [Wait,] Conner replies. [‘Til they see us.]

With a flick of his tail, Wolf starts towards the house.

Conner growls.

M’gann giggles. [Well, I heard you,] she says, [but nobody told him.]

Wet specks spring out from the grass under Wolf’s feet with each step. Wolf raises his head again, giving a more determined sniff. The smell sets his tail spinning in circles.

Conner sighs.

[Think of it this way,] M’gann says, bag rustling in her hand. She leans it against her knees now, both hands around its handles. [It’s not like Lois didn’t already do all of the work.]

Conner huffs. [Yeah, and Super–I mean Kal already had all of the fun, too.]

He’s heard Artemis say it about Will and Jade, about Lian. He could tell she didn’t mean it.

But saying it now himself, Conner realizes what it does mean.

M’gann looks back at him with cheeks turning red. [We, um, probably shouldn’t say anything like–]

[–Forget I said it, period.]

M’gann snickers aloud, curls her lips in tight, and continues the giggle over their link, warm wisps of her presence flicking against his mind. [Gladly,] she responds. [I'd rather not have that mental image.]

The thought of thinking of it sets a picture forming in Conner’s own mind. He forces grainy, buzzing static behind his eyes. [Thanks.]

[Sorry!]

Thump, thump, thump.

Heartbeat steps hit hard, hollow wood with no click or scratch of claws. Conner’s eyes dart back to the house. Wolf sits at the doorstep, tail low and swishing. The steps grow louder.

Conner’s hands twitch at his sides. One curls into a fist. The other stops short–M’gann’s fingers slip between his own.

[Here.] M’gann holds the bag up towards him. His smeared reflection shines on its glossy blue and red surface. [You should be the one that has it. After all, they’re your gifts!]

Swallowing, Conner snatches the bag from her hand. His muscles expect bricks and steel; it all but floats in his hand. He squeezes the handles tight to feel them in his grip. All he feels is his own nails digging into his palm.

[Yours, too,] Conner says, mental voice not betraying his tightening throat.

[I helped!]

Conner gulps. [No, you–]

“Ah-huh!”

The latch unhooks. The screen door creaks open.

Wolf’s tail thumps in circles against the porch as Ma pats the top of his head.

“Somebody’s got the right idea, don’t you, boy?”

Wolf stands, tail curling up and ears pointing forward. Ma laughs a whooping, crackling, breathless laugh as Wolf moves past her, marching straight into the house.

M’gann’s hand dematerializes in Conner’s grip, leaving his hand cusped around a ball of air. Conner half-expects her to be gone, camouflaged and sunken down into the ground–his heart lurches into his throat–anger sits ready behind a wall of numb shock–

–M’gann stands solid but board-stiff, chin tilted to the sky, arms pulled tight behind her back. A breeze could knock her over. A breath nearly does.  Her rising chest tips her backward; she catches her footing, but adrenaline keeps her heart booming in his ears.

Numb shock releases into pure confusion. He furrows his brow at her. [Are you… okay?] he asks her.

M’gann breathes out. Her head and shoulders drop into more natural positions, even if still too tall. A hand returns from behind her back as a fist against her lips; she clears her throat and smiles, staring beyond him and nodding.

There’s no time to follow her eyeline–soft, thin hands grip Conner by the shoulders and set him facing forward like an object on a shelf. Ma pulls his chest down to her own and plants a loud, wet smack of a kiss right in the center of his hairline, her calloused yet delicate fingers brushing aside his bangs for direct contact.

“Now don’t make me have to carry you in!” she exclaims, squeezing her arms tight around his shoulders.

Conner’s limbs go a good kind of numb, a warm, tingling looseness that lets Ma’s arms feel strong against his muscles and his own arms feel small and featherlight as they float up and fall against Ma’s back. “Hey, Ma,” he says simply.

The bag slips from his wrist, falling into the wet grass with a ripple from its outsides, a crunch from its insides, and a gasp from M'gann.

"Oh!" Ma releases him and steps back.

[...Dammit,] Conner lets out, thankfully just in his mind–though also in M’gann’s.

The bag rises off the ground, ribbon handles arching up to be gripped. Ma's oh becomes an oh-ho-ho; M'gann floats the bag back up to him. "Uh." Rather than take hold of it again, Conner gestures to it with a weak wave of a ta-dah, and M'gann raises it higher in the air to compensate. "Brought this," he declares, half-muttering.

[Nothing too fragile in this bag, either,] M'gann says with a gentle slyness, a smirk in her mental voice.

Conner peers over the dark blue edge of a wrinkled red void. [...Right.]

“Oh, now that’s sweet,” Ma says, patting his cheek–and only stopping once a smile is on his face. She takes the bag into her arms with both hands–it’s light even by human standards, Conner knows, ignoring the pins and needles in his now empty hand, and Ma makes the same determination: after bouncing and rocking it in her hands, she drapes its handles over her arm. “And you also brought this lovely stranger here, I see!”

Ma gestures M’gann closer. M’gann nods and obliges, stepping into range of Ma’s swatting fingertips. They connect with the outside of her arm, and Ma pats her sleeve.

“It’s so nice to see you again, Mrs. Kent,” M’gann says in a polite, even voice.

Ma’s smile doesn’t recede, but she scoffs at M’gann, putting both hands to her hips and shaking her head.

M’gann’s eyes shoot Conner a quick S.O.S., her end of the link buzzing with stifled anxiety. Audibly–at least to him–she gulps.

"It's from both of us," Conner blurts out. "The–bag is, I mean. And what’s in it." If he says any more, he’ll spill it all. “Both of us,” he repeats somewhat numbly, watching M’gann for a reaction–her eyes don’t flicker back to him. Her eyes don’t even blink.

“Now, dear,” Ma starts, “I was having my fun, but I hope you don’t think that I’m just some missus.” She wags her finger at M’gann. “As long as my boy keeps bringing you here, you keep calling me ‘Ma,’ because his Ma is who he’s bringing you to see.” Her reproachful hand then falls gently to M'gann's shoulder.

M’gann’s next few heartbeats hit harder and deeper in Conner’s ears, and he watches her eyes take on a liquid sheen before her lashes start their telltale flutter. “Okay, Ma,” she says, smiling wide.

[Thank you] flits across the surface of Conner’s mind in a whisper, almost too softly for him to perceive–M’gann gives him a wide-eyed glance and pins her smile shut timidly, guiltily. [Oops–well–yes.] She sniffles and parts her lips again in an open grin. [Thank you,] she repeats, stronger this time.

Conner’s cheeks flare hot. He pries his eyes away from her–after all, their link is a secret. Guess you admit you needed this, he thinks at her, but not to her, keeping the thought low.

“And you here in your Sunday best,” Ma then continues, making Conner and M’gann both snap to attention. Ma plucks at M’gann’s sleeve then smooths down its creases. “My boy didn’t lie and say he was taking you somewhere fancy, did he?” The question tapers off with a laugh. “We’ve had our April showers a month early here in Smallville–I’m afraid those nice clean heels will sink right into the mud!”

Oh. Conner mentally slaps himself–quietly. Hello, Megan.

“O-oh, it’s alright–I float, too!” M’gann responds, rising an inch–yet another inch–off the ground and kicking one leg up behind her. “I maybe… cheat in heels, sometimes.”

Ma leans in close to her, cusping a hand against the side of her mouth to block it from Conner’s view. “The heels don’t play fair to begin with, dear,” she murmurs, feigning a whisper.

M’gann sputters out a laugh, quickly muffling it behind her own hand.

Ma then returns her hand to the side of Conner’s face, tapping his cheek and jaw as if trying to find the right button or nerve to press to make him smile. Conner rolls his eyes to the sky and lets his mouth stretch until his cheeks ache. Ma then swipes at his sleeve–Conner looks down to see her brushing Wolf hairs off his shoulder. Her fingertips hone in on the old holes from Wolf’s claws–she presses in and runs her fingers over her own stitches.

He feels her feel the flaw, then the fix–the would-be knot in Conner’s throat unravels as Ma hums in satisfaction and pats the spot on his shoulder. Her handiwork has held up; he’s brought proof of that.

His eyes go to the bag at Ma’s hip. His throat pulls tight again. That’s different, he insists to himself. That’s for him.

“Well, I made plenty of pie for seven,” Ma declares matter-of-factly. Her fingers test M’gann’s sleeve again. “And we’ve got plenty of napkins to boot.” She gives them both a nod and turns, gesturing for them to follow.

Conner watches blue and red shimmer in the sunlight as Ma walks the bag away. Something warm grazes his knuckles–he looks down to see M’gann’s hand swing back to her hip and clench a fistful of her skirt. [You’re… sure they knew I was coming,] she says warily.

[What–oh. Yeah.] Conner shakes his head, stops, and switches to a nod. [‘Course.] He looks back up into her eyes and furrows his brow. [Why?]

[She said seven,] M'gann answers. [You, Clark, Lois, Mr. and Mrs.—I mean, Ma and Pa, Wolf, and, well…] M’gann wavers on her already hovering feet. [That… doesn’t leave much room for me.]

[Do babies eat pie?] Conner blurts into the link before more assuring thoughts can form.

M’gann blinks at him. [Oh–] Her hand swings at the side of her head. [Hel-lo, Megan!]

“Those shoes aren’t stuck in the mud after all, are they?” Ma calls out from halfway up the yard, eyes going from M’gann to Conner. She gives Conner an expectant smile and nod before turning back around.

She saw that, Conner thinks–or not. Doesn’t matter. [C’mon,] Conner says, grabbing M’gann’s hand and pulling her forward. M’gann lets out an oh! as her heels click together in the air. Earth squishes and squeaks under his rubber soles; a few steps in, and two more footfalls join his, padding down softly into the grass. A flit of red at the corner of his vision tells Conner that M’gann has shrunk—or at least, that her shoes have. White heels shifted to white sneakers follow close behind his black boots. He looks up again and meets M’gann’s eyes where he’s used to them, several inches lower than they were seconds before.

[You're shorter.]

M’gann smiles at Conner meekly. [Well, Ma was right. There’s a reason I gave up on heels on missions pretty quickly. They work out a lot better in my head than they do on my feet!] Blushing, she tucks hair behind her ear with her free hand. [And this… is a mission… right?]

[Uh, right,] Conner responds. He squeezes M’gann’s hand–he hasn’t let go, but he can if he has to. When he has to. When she wants him to.

M’gann squeezes back, her fingers curling around his thumb.

A smile twitches onto Conner’s lips. M’gann keeps her eyes out ahead on their target, but an easy smile rests lightly on her lips, and through the pull of their joined hands, Conner feels the hint of a skip in her step. She glances back up at him from her right height and shrugs her shoulders, breathing out a laugh.

[So far, I’d say it’s the best mission we’ve had in a while,] M’gann says jovially, [though I… can’t help but feel I’m not properly suited up.]

Conner feels his smile flatline but stop short of a frown. [I said you look nice.]

[I-I know, but…] The hem of M’gann’s skirt stretches past her knees and down her calves, splitting and separating into two pant legs that dye themselves a faded blue and cling closer to her legs. Her now-shirt dims the shine of its fabric, untucks itself from her new jeans, and loses its throat button, leaving its collar hanging looser around her neck. M’gann slips her hand out of Conner’s hold to unbutton the cuffs of her sleeves manually and roll them up to her elbows. [There,] she says, tugging the end of her shirt down over her hips.

The porch’s wooden steps announce Ma’s ascent with three slow, precise clunks; the contents of the bag slide around and crackle.  Conner’s hand hovers empty at his side as he continues to walk. [You didn’t have to do that,] he tells M’gann, hearing the pout in his own mental voice as his eyes dart off to distant trees.

M’gann slips her fingers right back into his hand. [I… just don’t like feeling like I look out of place.]

Conner slows to a stop at the base of the porch steps. M’gann halts at his side. Conner squeezes her hand tighter, feeling it solid in his grip, taking his hold to the verge of beating her pulse back into his own hot palm, but knowing too tight, and slackening his grip enough to keep from reaching that point. [You’re not out of place,] he growls at her through the link, gritting his teeth outside it. [So stop it.]

[R-right, sorry.] M’gann runs the pad of her thumb over the knuckle of his. [I… promised, after all.] She flashes a disarming smile at him and moves past him to the steps, pulling him forward. [C’mon!]

Conner frowns but follows her up. [I just did this same thing to you.]

[And you had the right idea!] M’gann responds, smiling back at him over her shrugging shoulder.

Ma waits in the doorway, holding the screen door open for them; she gives them both an approving nod and quick humming laugh, then proceeds inside, gesturing them in and releasing the door for one of them to catch.

Conner and M’gann’s hands break apart. M’gann has the advantage of starting several inches ahead of him, but Conner closes the gap quickly, boots booming against the wooden planks below them. Both his arm and hers reach out. She could cheat at least two ways, maybe three–telekinesis on him or the door, stretching her form out of its default bounds–her grunt and gasp as she rushes at his side betrays normal human effort, and Conner’s arm stretches out naturally past hers, reaching up over her head. His fingers touch down into the door’s wire netting. M’gann scoffs, but as she turns to meet his eyes, her face is all grin.

Still holding the door, Conner shrugs and smirks back at her. [After you.]

M’gann rolls her eyes and ducks under his arm. The soles of her shoes scratch against the welcome mat as she wipes them clean.  As she passes through into the doorway, she turns and pokes Conner’s side. [Boop.]

Conner flinches, momentarily losing the door but catching it just before it shuts with him outside it. [Hey.]

M’gann giggles, tucks her hands behind her back as if to hide them, then pivots to show them innocently woven together at the base of her spine. She spins back around to face him, hair lightly gusting off her shoulder in a sunny wave. [Couldn’t resist,] she says as she steps backward from the door.

Conner kicks clumps of mud off his own rubber soles and enters behind her. [You know, when it’s not just ‘cuz you’re under pressure,] he says as he turns to latch the screen door back behind him, [I kinda like that you’re shorter.]

[Oh, atmospheric pressure or otherwise?] M’gann says slyly. Out of the corner of his eye, Conner watches her back into Wolf. “Ooh, sorry,” she whispers aloud, hand going to Wolf’s fur; Wolf doesn’t acknowledge her, just keeps his body and mind trained on the pie at the center of the kitchen table.  [And why’s that?] M’gann continues over the link.

Conner turns back around to face her. [It’s cute,] he says simply.

M’gann half-gasps, half-snorts, and smothers her face in her hands. [Con-ner,] she says as her eyes peek out from between her fingertips, her snickering breath muffled yet echoing in her hands. [You’re going to blow our cover saying things like that.]

[Fine,] Conner responds, rolling his eyes and placing his hands on his hips. [But I’m not taking it back.]

His eyes graze the white speckled ceiling. Cobwebs above his head hang tantalizingly low, like he could keep his feet to the floor and still pull them down–on a reach disguised as a stretch, he tries for one and misses, then shrugs. His eyes need adjusting from the Watchtower’s tall, hazy voids, he figures, and he was just in the sky. Checkered curtains rise and fall, breathe at the edges of the open window above the sink. The refrigerator stands humming in its corner, magnets faintly rattling against its outer surface.

“Oh!”

Conner’s eyes snap to M’gann with their own magnet pull. M’gann holds a hand over her mouth, but her eyes and cheeks give away her smile as she starts towards him. [Is that what I think it is?]

Conner furrows his brow as she passes right by him. [Is what what you think what is?]

M’gann approaches the refrigerator with reverant caution, eyes trained on an askew photo that her hands slowly hover closer toward. With the tips of two fingers lightly touching down on the bottom corners of its white border, she nudges the photo back straight. [Talk about cute–I can’t believe I hadn’t asked to actually see him before now! Hel-lo, Megan!]

Her fingers leave the frame around the picture: dark strings of hair hanging around Lois's smiling face, and in her arms–

Conner’s phone hangs in his pocket like a brick against his hip. His hand runs on reflex over its rectangular form. The same photo sits in his messages. He’s seen it before. Once.

[Yeah, well, that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it,] he mutters back at M’gann over the link.

“...Tuckered him right out,” Ma’s voice sighs into Conner’s ears. Pat-pat. A soft shuffle. The crackle of a snore cuts a mental picture into relief–Ma’s hand shakes Pa’s shoulder. A tsk leaves her teeth.

“...He has that effect on people, just ask Clark,” Lois’s voice chimes in next. “He’s been a quick study in the art of the dad nap.”

“Once he’s asleep, I can’t move, Lois,” Superman’s voice winces out, barely above a whisper.

“And that only applies after dinner when there’s dishes in the sink and not at three A.M. when there’s a cat stuck in a tree,” Lois answers back. “Even I can hear you whoosh.”

Ma yelps out a laugh.

M’gann snickers. Conner shoots her a look, keeping his thoughts silent. What kind of look, he isn’t sure, but M’gann pinches her mouth into a coy smile and shrugs her shoulders.

[I know I’m eavesdropping. Are you?]

[Uh, yeah,] Conner fumbles out in response. [Eavesdropping. Call it… recon work.]

[Oh, right, because this is a mission!] M’gann responds, voice eager and earnest.

A ripple from the living room wrests Conner’s attention away again: paper walls and crackling tissue settling with a soft thud. His head skips voices and goes straight to heartbeats, one, two, three, four–five, but a different kind of resonance, a smaller chest–

[Well, Ma’s not stingy with her helping sizes, so this one pie? Is not for seven,] M’gann’s voice chimes back into his head. [There’s my recon work.] Out loud, she giggles lightly. [So I guess it’s you, me, and the proud new parents! And of course, the–]

[Don’t–]

Conner’s eyes sting. Air chills his bared teeth. A fist hits the inside of his chest and yanks his heart down. M’gann’s eyes widen at him, her lips parting in a small, whispered gasp.

[Don’t…]  Conner pins his stare to crumbs on the tablecloth instead. His own breath turns too loud in his ears, the red center of his chest throbbing into view. [...Say it. I already know.]

The son of Superman.

Wolf’s white tail swishes at one edge of his vision–chair legs tip up and slide back gently at the other, replaced by M’gann’s blue knees and white sneakers. Her Megan Morse hands fold in her lap.

[Conner, I… understand this may not be the best time, but…]

The frame of the living room sofa creaks. Footfalls hit like muffled breaths against the rug.

[Do you… want to talk about how you feel about all this?]

Conner’s breath hitches in his throat. M’gann looks up at him with soft eyes and a firmly shut mouth, holding her expression determinedly, transparently neutral–he can hear the elevation of her heart rate. Tension flashes for a moment in the center of her brow, worry lines popping into view under her bangs.

[No,] Conner answers her, darting his eyes away this time to the pot rack hanging from the ceiling. Wood rungs and thin chains keep cast iron from crashing into the counter, keep the whole row of skillets cheating gravity. Dangling weights, ready to fall. Any moment–

[–I know it’s a little late, but… well…]

[Well what?] Conner snaps back at M'gann, immediately sending her heart banging against his own ears.

Any moment–

[...No, I’m sorr–ex… cuse me, I mean. I’m… pushing, and that’s… not appropriate.] M'gann waves her hand as if trying to kill a flame, or at least chase away smoke. Hide it. Mask it. Her heart edges towards panic; she bites her lower lip dark and shakes her head. [Never mind. Really.]

[No,] Conner growls. Stop, he thinks below the link. [Answer it.] Please. [You asked. You can't take it back.]  Don’t let me do this. [What's wrong with me?]

[N-nothing's wrong with you!]  The words start in M’gann’s throat. A sound like a whimper leaves her mouth before she clamps it shut, draws her lips in tight. [I just–you just–seem a little tense, and…] Her eyes start to blink fast. [And if I could help, then I–but I don't think I–]

Can.

[–Am. Or, should try if I’m just making it worse–]

“–Earth to Kon and Megan!”

M’gann jumps up from her seat with a yelp. Conner’s hands rise on reflex; M'gann bounces against his palms like something light and plastic. If she falls, he doesn’t hear.

Lois hums and smirks in the doorway, hand on her hip. Another face hangs near her shoulder, eyes big and blue, mouth round and wet-looking–a small, grasping hand barely hooks a finger into the face’s lower lip before slipping, leaving saliva trailing down the bump and wrinkle of the chin below. Short strands of dark hair sprout in a thin patch just above a broad yet tiny forehead.

Him. The son of Superman.

The son of Superman is a baby.

“Kon-El, M’gann M’orzz, I’d like you to meet Jon-El.”

Superman takes his place beside his son. Jon-El turns and grabs for Superman’s shirt collar, pulling at the plaid. Superman wraps an arm around Lois’s shoulders, bringing her and Jon-El closer to him. With his free hand, he adjusts his slipping glasses. “Or, Jonathan Kent. Junior, that is.”

Lois scoffs and rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “For the last time, Clark, it resets if you skip a generation!”

“I know,” Superman responds, smiling and shrugging. “But I still like to say it.”

[Re… member when Uncle J’onn–um.] M’gann hmms to herself, quietly but still aloud. [N-never, never mind,] she mutters psychically. “Nice to meet you, Jon Kent!” M’gann then cheers aloud, waving at Jon.

Jon lets out some sound between a hiccup and a gasp and stretches his tiny arm out toward the both of them, her and Conner.

M’gann giggles. Her elbow bumps Conner’s arm as her hand drops back to her side. Its closeness to his puts out warmth–a chill then grazes Conner’s knuckles as her hand swings behind her back.

“We call him Jonny,” Lois corrects her. “For one thing, it makes for better baby talk.” She hefts Jonny up higher on her shoulder and purses her lips. “Doesn’t it, little Jonny baby?”

Jonny doesn’t look at Lois, just keeps reaching for them–for him–smacking his lips, grunting, kicking his doughy, dimpled legs at Lois’s chest. His pink face puffs and wrinkles in distress.

“That usually gets a reaction, I swear.” Lois gives Jonny a gentle jostle in her arms. “Kid, I don’t employ the voice lightly. Meet me halfway here.”

Superman chuckles–a deep, distant sound echoing from too far up, too high in the sky. Solid, empty blue stretches out to nowhere. The sun overhead shines too bright, too white–

[–Um, Conner?]

Conner blinks the sun out of his eyes. The window at his back whispers hints of the four walls and ceiling he still stands surrounded by, contained in–Superman meets his eyes, bright blue turning sharp, and Conner’s heart beats inside-out of his chest, pounding off of every surface–

M’gann’s fingers brush against the inside of Conner’s palm. [You haven’t… said anything.]

Conner’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes dart to nothing. The screen door. M’gann’s white shoelaces. “He’s, uh…” He swallows, closing his hand around air and his own fingers. “He’s…”  Something. Say something. “Cute.”

Superman–Kal–smiles at him. A short, small sigh of relief passes through Conner’s ears–not from M’gann, and if from himself, he didn’t feel it leave him. The sight of Kal’s pursed lips gives a hint, starts to align with the sound in Conner’s head–

Jonny’s lips pop and curl into a perfect O; he twists and flops himself back toward Superman, small hands slip-sliding against his sleeve. “Ah-ghh-hh!” he cries out.

Wrong. A chill rushes over Conner’s skin. I said it, and it was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong–

Lois lets out a long sputter and passes Jonny smoothly from her arms to Superman's; her now-free hands slap over her still-protruding stomach as she throws her head back and laughs. Superman brings Jonny to the center of his chest–his one hand covers Jonny’s whole back. Two hearts beat close, the smaller one a perfect echo of the other. “Oh?” Superman says, glasses sliding to the tip of his nose as he smiles down at Jonny. “Is that a question?”

Lois’s laughter fades into an amused hum.  “He wants to know how Daddy’s voice came out of someone else.”

Conner feels his throat close shut. His mind puts up glass.

“O-or maybe he–” M’gann feels for Conner’s wrist. “Maybe he doesn’t like being called ‘cute’!” Her hand wraps around his wrist, squeezes it, and lets go. The sound of her gasping then hits Conner’s ear, and her fingertips are back against the inside of his arm. “N-not that… he, um… has anything to say about it, because… whether he likes it or not, he’s a cutie!” She finds his wrist again. [Conner, you know Lois just means that Jonny’s limited frame of reference is–]

[–Stop it.] Conner curls his hand into a fist before M’gann can slip her fingers in, and squeezes it hard enough that the throbbing in his chest starts an echo through his knuckles. [Just stop.]

[O-okay.] M’gann’s touch leaves him–physically. [Understood.]

Understood, Conner repeats back to himself. A growl threatens to escape from behind his clenched teeth. No. At his side and hers, her hand is already gone, withdrawn behind her back. Don’t understand. I don’t want this to make sense. I’m not supposed to feel like–

“–Hm, hear that, Jonny?” Lois coos as she pinches Jonny’s hand between her thumb and forefinger. “Girls already think you’re cute.” She moves Jonny’s hand back and forth until he squeaks and babbles out a giggle. “God, I’m such a sap for this kid already. All it took was one look to forgive nine months of backache and heartburn.” She gestures for Superman to hand Jonny back, then presses Jonny back against her shoulder. Jonny stares up at her small glinting earring only for a moment, then, hand in his mouth, his eyes fall back on Conner.

Fine, Conner thinks at him, to himself–stamps into his brain like a fist coming down on something solid, firm. I get it. A burning starts behind his eyes; he swallows and thinks of ice. Snow. Blank white light. There’s nothing to get, he chides himself. You’re you, I’m me. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything.

[...Conner?]

Conner jolts at M’gann’s voice in his head. Her eyes are soft and knowing as he meets them; she sighs, and her brow creases with concern. With pity.

[You heard that?] Conner snaps at her accusingly, feeling his face twist into a glare–the anger in his head recoils into a pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach. Of course she heard that, he’s the one that wanted her to–

[I–felt something,] M’gann responds, audibly swallowing as she bites her lips out of view. [Not specific–I can tune out most underlying thoughts, no matter how loud–our Team link would get too distracting during a fight otherwise,] she reminds him, [but–what I felt–didn’t… feel… good.] She squirms in place, shoulders tensing and hands wrenching behind her back. [Do you… want an excuse to step out for a moment? I could manage something.] Her mouth curls into an unconvincing smirk. [Like, I left my purse in Sphere? Or, no, something better, like maybe–]

“Are they…” Superman’s voice rasps against Conner’s ear.

Conner’s eyes rip away from M’gann to Superman. Superman leans down, face half-masked behind Lois’s head. Lois’s eyes roll as she raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious?” she mutters back at Superman.

M’gann’s breath hitches, pulling Conner’s eyes back to her.

[Are they onto us?] Her heartrate spikes. [Should I disconnect the–]

[–No.]

[“No”?!]

Superman clears his throat. “Well, now that we’re all here, how about we help ourselves?” Wood screeches against wood as Superman pulls a chair out from the table. “After you,” he says to Lois, gesturing for her to sit.

“Oh, after me, he says,” Lois says as she takes her seat; Jonny wobbles with the shift in elevation, his small, wide eyes to the floor as he pulls at Lois’s shirt. “I didn’t need super-sight to see you sneak a piece of crust, Clark Kent.”

M’gann huffs at Conner’s side, her hand ghosting past his as she brings it to her chest and wrings at her collar. [We–need to sit down, too, or else we’ll look suspicious.]

[Yeah, I know that,] Conner responds, biting his tongue the moment he finishes the thought. M’gann turns away before he can see any reaction, any shift in her expression–but with a subtle gesture under the table, as she takes her own seat, she telekinetically pushes his chair out for him.

A sigh escapes Conner’s clenched teeth and tight throat. He takes the seat. An unreadable smile waits for him on M’gann’s face–she doesn’t meet his eyes, just stares straight ahead. Conner peers down at the neatly-folded hands lying statue-still in her lap. Another sigh escapes him; wrists against the edge of the table, he lets his hands curl into fists.

“Are… we sure he’s okay around kids?”

Conner’s fists drop to his sides. In his mind, the table splits in two, buckles and caves in, splinters sticking to sweat on his skin and pattering down with crumbs and dust to the floor. Nothing real–the red checkered tablecloth leads his eyes down endless pathways in its flat, intact surface.

All the same, M’gann gasps, and the panic in her heart sends a shot through his own. His eyes snap to her face–eyes wide, and lips curled open in apprehension, she meets his eyes and nods back to Lois and Jonny.

And to Wolf, whose wet black nose sniffs at Jonny’s dangling foot. Jonny’s heel makes impact with Wolf’s nose, causing Wolf to step back and sneeze a loud har-umph sound. Front paw padding at the floor, Wolf tilts his head at Jonny and whines. Jonny blinks at Wolf for a moment, then pops his mouth open like a bubble to let out a squeal of happiness, one that makes his arms and legs and whole body wiggle with glee.

[Great, he’s a little sadist,] Conner thinks, pressing sarcasm into his thoughts like ice against a wound.

M’gann snorts then slaps a hand over her mouth. Snickering escapes her pinched-shut nostrils–she coughs a shallow cough into her palm and then into her fist, clearing her throat with a verbalized "hm-hmm!" before ducking her head and tucking hair behind her ear. Lips pressed shut and muffling still-shaking breaths, M'gann meets his eyes from the corner of hers and gives him a quick shrug.

[Are you… laughing at me?] Conner asks her.

[I'm–laughing at your joke!] she responds. [Th-that's all.]

Conner feels his eyebrow rise on reflex. [Who said it was a joke?]

M’gann blinks at him, mouth falling open but lips still curved at the corners in a smile. Conner’s own mouth tugs itself into something like a smirk–M’gann flashes a grin at him, and the tension in his jaw relaxes, letting his smirk settle into a smile.

“...I’m sure Kon-El and M’gann wouldn’t have brought him otherwise,” Kal says, his hand running over the top of Wolf’s head. Wolf twitches his ears at the touch, then lets out a soft, low grunt as he sits, facing himself away from Jonny and back towards the pie.

[Oh, hel-lo, Megan.] M’gann rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “O-of course!” She claps her hands and bounces in her seat. “Wolf is great around kids. When we brought Garfield in, he was…”

The silence of her pause broadcasts the skipped beat in her pulse loud and clear. Conner watches her breathe deep and press the quiver out of her lower lip with a smile.

“He was great!” She breathes a laugh. “Nothing but gentle. Really, just… perfect… company. Part of the family, really! Which is… all anyone could ask for.”

Conner’s eyes follow her hands as they fall back to her lap. The scratching of her nails as her fingers curl against her denim-clad thighs flicks like matchsticks at the edges of his hearing.

[You really miss him, huh,] Conner thinks to her.

M’gann sighs quietly through her smile. [Of course.]

[And you’re just never going to talk about it.]

M’gann swallows. [This isn’t about me.]

“Oh, M’gann, that reminds me,” Lois says, waving her hand across the table. Jonny grunts and reaches for her arm as it moves. “I meant to say sooner–you don’t have to hide yourself for Jonny’s sake! I figure knowing our lives, the sooner he sees his first green person, the better.”

“Oh!” M’gann’s cheeks turn pink instead of green. “I, um…”

The memory of her gray-flushed cheeks burns like ash in Conner’s mind, her bloodshot red, darkly circled eyes flooded with tears as they looked into his, looked for help–

–The feet of Conner’s chair groan against the floor, but digging in his heels, he makes himself still again. His hands grip his section of tabletop only at the very edge, fingertips pinching at slippery cloth covering solid wood. His mind feeds him splinters again; he swallows down the thought. [You can’t?]

[Oh, no, it’s not that!] M’gann answers back, eagerly–and openly–waving her hand in dismissal. [It–it’s not anything, it’s nothing, nothing to it.] She stretches her arms out across the table for display, angling them away from the warm pie still untouched at the center of it.

“Oh, I don’t know, Lois,” Kal then says, his own chair creaking as he slides it back and stands. “Us Kryptonians have a funny relationship with the color green.” He shoots a wink down at Conner.

All Conner can do is blink at him. Us Kryptonians. It's a joke–not that part. He’s joking–laugh.

Superman coughs into his fist before Conner can react; his other hand reaches for the pie. “I’ll, uh, take that pie to go,” he says, lifting it delicately from the tablecloth–edges still crumbling–and moving it to the counter space beside the stove. “Over, uh, here, that is.”

M’gann breathes a tiny laugh at Conner’s side. Her outstretched fingers, lingering in human guise, flutter with joy or nerves–he can’t tell. [I don’t think I’ll ever get over how Superman’s sense of humor makes a fifteen-year-old Wally seem subtle and smooth.]

[...Right,] Conner manages to think back at her. His eyes peer past both her and Superman, pinning themselves to Wolf instead. Wolf parks himself at the counter, back straight and ears forward, as if waiting for the pie itself to tell him he can eat it. Only a short, shallow grumble from the top of his throat betrays his impatience; other than that, under Wolf’s watchful eye, the pie is as good as guarded.

It doesn’t need guarding, unless at any moment, a whir of yellow-and-red slams the screen door open.

Unless at any moment, he comes back–

[–If that’s… okay to say,] M’gann adds, the flutter leaving her fingertips to beat audibly inside her chest instead.

Conner’s own chest tightens. [Just do it.]

[R-right.] M’gann’s open fingers flex into fists. Her hands relax, and the line of green rises up her skin like her body sinking into invisible water, arms first, then neck and face.

She’s submerged.

Conner blinks. Green freckles dot his vision like the tapping of her voice in his ears from her externalized giggle. She’s M’gann. She’s what she always is.

One night, and it already looks wrong, somehow.

A yelp from the other side of the table pulls Conner’s eyes away from her. Jonny wriggles like a sea-plucked fish in Lois’s grasp, mouth and eyes wide open, just with limbs instead of fins to flap around at air. With gritted teeth, Lois leans in with him toward the surface of the table, both of her arms locked tight around his tiny torso–Superman slaps a hand over his own stomach and echoes out a laugh, pots and pans ringing with his voice.

“If our son falls and hits his head, you’ll wish you never told me about kryptonite,” Lois hisses back at him.

Kryptonite, Conner repeats in his head. Funny relationship with the color green. He gets it now. His lips twitch, but no laugh comes. Kal chuckles and leans over Lois from behind as if blocking her from an attack, hands cusping Jonny’s sides, hooking into his underarms–a second later, Jonny is floating inches above the table and flying to M’gann.

Why can you–oh. Cause and effect catch up to Conner’s thoughts as Superman’s hands take Jonny on a momentary detour, a soft swerve to the side before weaving him back on course. Superman’s lips thrum out an accompanying propeller noise. Jonny’s lips sputter, drops of saliva visibly falling on the tablecloth and M’gann’s skin.

Conner feels his face curl in disgust, then remembers: baby. What–who–he’s looking at it is a baby.

"Clark!" Lois whisper-barks.

"Oh, uhm." Clark turns Jonny around in his hands, putting Jonny's head against his shoulder and leaning in with him, kneeling to the floor. "Right."

"Oh!"  M'gann's hands flail up in defense as Clark tips his armful of Jonny towards her. "I, um–really, that's–I-I don't think I–"

–Jonny taps the tip of one flailing green finger, and M'gann's hands go still. Jonny gasps, or simply states his acknowledgment–whatever the loud, flat ah that escapes his mouth is supposed to mean–then touches her again, this time open-palmed, more than once, and hard. The impacts against the back of her hand hit Conner’s ears as faint pattering, but Jonny’s grunts of effort are clear, just like the tension and release of his tiny arms’ gestures. Rrht-tht-tht-thih-trr-trr-trr–

Conner starts to growl.

M’gann’s voice flutters through his head in a giggle, both in his ears and in his mind. “That tickles!” she exclaims, gently pulling back her hand to then reach for Jonny’s hand instead. She holds his palm between her green thumb and forefinger, giving him a tiny handshake. “Nice to meet you, Jonny!”

Conner watches Jonny’s fingers wrap around her thumb. No crackle, no pulsation–its shade of green doesn’t darken. Conner huffs and then lets his eyes stray to a seam between boards in the floor’s wood paneling. [You already said that,] he thinks to M’gann.

M’gann doesn’t respond. Conner looks back to find her still shaking Jonny’s hand, side-to-side now instead of up-and-down, and the motion slowing. Her eyes are on him.

So are Superman’s.

[Are you… jealous?] M'gann asks.

Immediately, Conner scoffs. [Of a baby?] he responds. His eyes dart back to their safe spot. “Does he even know what green is?” he snaps aloud, addressing no one in particular–the void answers him back with the echo of his own tone and of one, two elevated heartbeats. “I-I mean at this point, y’know, age-wise,” he adds, swallowing.

“He… may not know the word for it yet,” Kal responds, voice low and raspy with warmth as it breaks the silence.  Jonny floats up and away as Kal stands. “But he knows when… encountering something new…” Kal props Jonny up to his shoulder, putting them face-to-face, and smiles at him. “...Makes him happy.”

Not the sun–the moon–hole in his suit letting air on his skin–Superman–me, too–lifting the flap of his torn suit, showing what they put there, what they made–him–Superman's eyes widening–Superman glaring, not heat vision–cold–

[–Conner?] M'gann's voice blips into his head.

Conner stares, feeling his chest turn empty–trying to will it so, taking the hard, hurting heartbeat at his core and twisting it in his mind to just whistling air, to a soft but steady rush through this moment to the next, where he won’t still be feeling like this–

[–Conner? Are you–]

[–No.] He says it to himself as much as to her as he squeezes his eyes shut, makes the world go solid black for a moment before the heat building inside his head comes out. No stinging, no blurring. Nothing. No. [Don’t ask,] he says as his eyes open back up to fading static, and he drops them to the tablecloth before they can catch sight of anyone’s face, M’gann’s, Superman’s, Lois’s, or Jonny’s.

“Now, this is some silly sight, isn’t it, boy?” slips Ma’s voice into the room–no footfalls first, like she could fly, too–like Superman carried her in, like telekinesis–like he wasn’t listening, and that’s why he didn’t hear, that’s all, Conner chides himself, gritting his teeth. Wolf’s thumping tail is harder to miss as Ma rubs circles into the top of his head. “A pie left cold on the counter, and it looks like they’ve barely got through saying hello,” she says, addressing Wolf, but with voice and eyebrow raised.

“We’re just, um, taking it… slow,” Clark fumbles out. His hand bounces Jonny lightly in place against his chest. Jonny fills both his hands with folds of Clark’s shirt and pulls himself up to peer over Clark’s shoulder at Ma. Lois’s breath hitches, her human eyes momentarily threatening heat vision. “Despite how this... little one likes to move,” Clark adds, pulling Jonny back down. “And I could always heat the pie!”

Ma doesn’t glare, but she does shake her head. “Get that baby into one of their arms before I have to do it myself!”

Conner’s arms go stiff and cold; M’gann’s green arms slide and thump under the table. Conner furrows his brow down at her lap. M’gann breathes a nervous giggle and pulls her arms back into view, setting her crossed wrists and curled fists at the table’s edge. [Right,] she thinks to him, a would-be smile failing as she draws her lips in tight. [But it shouldn’t be me.]

[What’d’you mean?] his mind yelps back at hers without forethought. The slip sets his heart pumping with adrenaline, strength to patch over the weakness. But too much–a tremor starts in both wrists. He sets his powder-keg fists in his lap and swallows, clears his throat aloud in a thin, inward growl. [He likes you,] he manages to project to her in a strained, but even tone.

[I’m sure he'll like you, too!] M’gann’s mental voice flutters back at him.  Her lips rub together and pop back out as a chewed, raw red, but they fall into gentle curves all the same. [After all, why wouldn’t he?] she adds, a soft sigh reaching Conner’s ears. [What’s not to lo–I mean, like, of course.]

Conner sees the warmth in her face–like staring at the sun, it just makes his eyes sting. He thinks of ice instead. [He doesn’t know me.]

“Let me just go check my film,” Ma calls out from the counter. “So expensive these days. And you know they don’t make it to last,” she mutters as she leaves the room, voice tapering out.

“Did you freeze it, Ma?” Superman–Clark calls back to her, holding Jonny still now at his shoulder as Lois slides her chair back. “Jimmy says if you store film in the freezer, you can extend its shelf life. Over sixteen years, even.”

“My baby. Gimme,” Lois half-whispers, flicking her hands impatiently as she approaches Clark from behind. Clark and Jonny both mouth a silent oh, and Clark starts to guide Jonny up over his shoulder. Lois frowns, clears her throat, and taps her finger against Clark’s shoulder, then gestures for Clark to turn around.

“With my cold cuts and veggies?!” Ma yelps from the living room. Pa snorts and grunts in his sleep at the sound. Ma's laughter quickly fades into a rasping chuckle, and then the low grinding sound of Pa's snoring resumes.

The feet of M’gann’s chair graze Conner’s hearing like a skid through sand as she stands. [He doesn’t–know me either, Conner, he just… likes that I can change colors.]  She shakes her head and taps the back of Conner’s chair encouragingly, leaving her fingertips pressed into the panel of wood just below the base of his neck. [Besides, that’s the whole point of today, isn’t it? For him to get to know you, and for you to get to know him!]

The almost-touch of her hand sends a chill down Conner’s spine and a twitch through his shoulders. He slides his chair back to shake her off. [Nothin’ to know.] The floor accepts his feet, and his feet accept his weight. He stares down into his own shadow, eyes skirting the edge of the tablecloth. His back goes as stiff as the back of his chair, something hard and built to hold him. The air in his chest becomes a breeze again, blowing through a hollow chamber, heart tight enough to be still. [I mean, him,] Conner adds, shaking his head down at checkers and shadows and wood knots and seams, the ceiling suddenly right at his eyeline. He blinks to force the edges of his vision to unblur.  [Nothin’ to know. He’s a baby.]

M’gann’s fingers touch down in the center of his back but immediately curl, nails and knuckles sliding over and off of him. “Mmn–” The sound leaves her throat, cut off by a half-gasp, half-seethe, as if she’d been cut. Her breath shakes before a sigh, and out of the corner of his eye, Conner watches her hands lock together behind her back.

I…I think I do know what happened, her voice echoes in his head from mere hours ago.

Conner stares at her hands and growls. One hand breaks from its grip around the other to cover her mouth as she clears her throat, then it snaps back into place.

So now I can never touch you again? his own voice echoes back.

M’gann’s feet slide a step away from him. [I’m–sorry.]

O-okay, M’gann’s mind shook out at him just moments ago, her hand leaving his freshly-curled fist. Understood.

Stop it, he’d said, forming that fist. Just stop.

He says nothing now, just huffs the steam out of his head. Fire still prickles in his cheeks and in his chest, down to the bone. It needs to die before he can meet her eyes again. Anger would make sense. Anger at her, or something else, or anything. Anything instead of too much and everything and nothing. The fire nicks at his bones like a blade against stone.

[But… that’s just it, of course,] M’gann’s voice offers now, nerves tingling at the edges of her presence in his mind. [He is a baby. He’s your baby–]

[–He’s not my baby brother,] Conner snaps, pinning his eyes to hers. Something has to give. Something has to prove how wrong this is, how wrong everything in his head is. [Don’t make this about Gar.]

M'gann jumps back another step, sneaker soles thumping hard against the floor. [I-I know he’s not–] Her green cheeks flush darker, turn red under her freckles. [I-I-I’m sorry, I’m making this about Gar? You’re the one who keeps–] She huffs, eyes watery as they dart to the floor. [N-no, actually–] She locks eyes with him again, brow furrowed and mouth pressed shut tight. [How would me making this about Gar mean I wouldn’t want to hold Jonny?]

[Because you think you deserved to lose him, too,] Conner says, letting his hands at his sides form the fists they want to make. [You think it’s better, safer for him not to be around you, don't you.] His own heels thudding against the floor, Conner closes the gap between himself and her. [When’s the last time you even talked to him?]

M'gann gasps aloud at him, and the link goes thin between them, becomes a trembling wire pulled too taut.  [It–just–I–he–any child in his situation needs time to process–] M’gann’s hands curl at her sides, too, and Conner can feel a wall rising, thickening between his thoughts and hers–but her teeth slip through as a sharp cut of white against the green of her face and her eyes stay bared into his, holding his stare.

Both her heart and his own pound inside his head. He glares back into her face and sees himself.

Then in a breath, M’gann’s face shifts. Every edge turns soft again, hazes over as if from distance. The only sharpness in her eyes is light, and she blinks it back dull, lashes fluttering as she sighs. [I will always be there for Gar if he needs me, Conner, I–I always…] Her gaze drifts to the side, off to nothing. [Want to be there, if I’m needed. But for me to be the one to reach out first? Would be i-intrusive a-and inappropri–]

[–Knew it,] Conner says, crossing his arms and turning his back to her.

[C-Conner!]

“Can you… trust me?” she’d asked with her head pressed into his. “I know that I’m needed, Conner. I know that I have a responsibility to not give up. I know what it does, losing someone–”

['If' you’re needed,] he scoffs back at her now.

[What?] M’gann exclaims, mental voice wrought high and breathless. [Conner, please, this isn’t about me!]

“Okay, now this is too much.”

Conner jolts, arms dropping back to his sides. Lois props Jonny up against her shoulder and puts her free hand to her hip, rolling her eyes. “I let you off the hook for some of it because it’s cute,” she says lowly, her tone as threatening as it is furtive, “but as a journalist, nothing offends me more than a public display of privacy.” She holds out a hand between Conner and M’gann and snaps her fingers twice, like she’s breaking up a schoolyard fight. “Knock it off, or I tell Ma. And you know her rule.” Her eyes fix on Conner’s; she smirks, then looks to M’gann. “No cell phones and no psychic links at the table.”

Conner tries to swallow–there’s no spit and no air. Past Lois’s head and over Jonny’s, Superman’s eyes are on him. “Or I tell Ma”–not him–he already knows. He knows I’m wrong, Conner’s head feeds itself. He knows I couldn’t do this–

[Conner.]

M’gann’s wide eyes are white in her paled green face, her mouth pressed into a thin red line. She swallows, and even if he couldn’t hear it, the rise of her shoulders betrays one hard, heaving breath. [Conner, this is about me.]

Conner’s throat fills with a lump of nothing; he swallows it down, gritting his teeth, and it drops like a rock into the pit of his stomach. [No.]

[Yes!]  M’gann’s head snaps his way, and red floods into her cheeks. [I’m doing this. And it has to stop.]

On “stop,” the link shuts off like a held breath.

Then with all the urgency of a gasp for air, M’gann immediately reconnects. [We just didn’t talk this through like we should have, a-as much as we should have, and it’s not your fault, b-but–]

[–M’gann–]

[–But if this is a mission, it’s time for a new plan.]

[M’gann, don’t you dare–]

M’gann’s brow furrows resolutely, and Conner’s thoughts hit the wall. Hot air swells and fumes back in on itself, flooding the inside of his skull.

[M’gann!]

“I’m… sorry,” M’gann then says aloud, voice soft and small as it leaves her now-moving lips, and her eyes disconnect from him, too, meeting Lois’s instead. “It’s… all my fault, really,” she says with a smile. “I’m the one that facilitates it.”

Lois smiles back at her amicably but nods at her words. Conner bites back a growl. He pushes at the closed gap left at the edge of his consciousness, feels for her mental fingerprints with his own mental fingers. [I’m the one that asked you. This isn’t about you.] The trail starts to fade–he just thinks louder. [M’gann. I know you. You’re going to use this against yourself. Just like you keep–]

“We… just… haven’t gotten a lot of sleep the past couple of nights,” M’gann says raspily, punctuating the statement with a satisfied hum.

[What?] Conner gasps–mentally–and his mental touch slips. The trail goes cold. He hovers at the wall, watching M’gann’s eyes droop, and then narrow–wincing with effort, or indecision. The truth hangs right at the edge of her mind. Even without the link, he senses it.

Are you… really going to tell them you’re–

“Missions?” Superman asks as he sets his hand on Lois’s unoccupied shoulder. Wedged now between his parents, Jonny tilts his head back, mouth gaping open–Superman’s hand tips Jonny’s head back towards Lois, then rests against Jonny’s back. The distraction doesn’t last–Conner looks up, and Superman’s eyes are on him, looking for a response.

At Conner’s side, M’gann hums pensively, then breathes something like a laugh. “More like… training exercises, really,” she lies. “Not the whole Team, just us. You know, reviewing maneuvers…”

Clark and Lois share a look; Lois raises an eyebrow. Clark blinks in astonishment and clears his throat. M’gann chuckles again and nods her head at Conner, looking to him, at him–

–She’s not there behind her eyes. And if she is, her smile isn’t. With only a look, she projects one quick, emphatic please, and then her gaze goes cold again. Her thoughts stay on her side of the wall. The rest of her, she puts up on a screen.

“And so it’s an old Team trick we use to stay awake!” Megan–even in green–claps her hands together and hops in place. “It helps us keep our focus. But we got a little off-focus trying to decide which one of us should get to hold Jonny first.” Her hands go to her hips proudly, her chest jutting out. “I think it should be Conner, but… he’s too generous.” She nods his way, giving him his cue.

Whatever he’s supposed to say, he won’t. He stares at her in silence instead. M’gann’s eyes flicker in acknowledgement, then dart away. Her hands drop to her sides.

“Well, then let’s fix that,” Lois says, scooping Jonny up off her shoulder and out of Superman’s hand. “Here he is.”

Conner’s heart jumps. “Wait, what–”

Tiny fingers touch down into the center of Conner’s chest. They slip over the S-Shield, grasping only once there’s nothing but air to fill them. Jonny ahhps–a gasp, hiccup, or cough–then waves his hand again as if groping through darkness, trying to make sight and reach connect again into touch.

He barely even knows what it means to have a hand. The first thing Conner did–ever did–was make a fist. The second thing was lunge, and make that fist connect with skin, muscle, and bone, trying to break it.

“Head, neck, and bottom,” Lois states, supporting all three with her hands as she pushes all of Jonny into Conner's chest. “Get those, and you’re good. Comes more naturally than you might think. Also, try to keep him close," she adds with an eyeroll in her voice.

"Uh! …Mmmh," M'gann chirps and groans at Conner’s side.

This isn't his first baby. He's held Amistad, Lian–had kids crawling all over him when the world was split along age lines. Conner’s hands drift halfway up from his sides then stop. This isn’t his first baby, but it is his first… Jonny.

Half-human, half-Kryptonian.

You’re you, Conner thinks at him, meeting his eyes. I’m me. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re not–

“Aah-bbb,” Jonny babbles, looking back up at Lois.

Conner makes his shoulders slump, forcing out a sigh. You’re not–wrong. You’re a baby. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re supposed to, deserve to exist. You don’t even need to hear that. You’re not even thinking like that.

Nodding to himself, swallowing, and firming his brow, Conner holds out his hands. You’re never gonna think like that, he concludes in his head. Not if I have anything to say about it.

Jonny’s soft, heavy head settles into one of Conner’s hands. Jonny’s palm-sized bottom fits into the other. Lois’s hands slip out from under Jonny.

Jonny’s body crackles in Conner’s hands.

Conner’s breath halts. His hands lose all feeling. His skull fills itself with pieces of broken bone. No.

Jonny kicks the feeling back into Conner’s hands with two tiny feet against the inside of Conner’s wrist, and this time, the sound is just the rustling diaper under Jonny’s gown–was already just the diaper, Conner chides himself, pulling air back into his chest just to huff it back out. Jonny bounces on the wave of the breath. Conner brings him up higher, setting Jonny’s side against his sternum.

Jonny’s eyes are wide and blue enough to fit the sky over Smallville into two tiny marbles, excluding only the clouds. He’s skin, muscle, and bone, too, just like Conner–just like any of them here–but beyond that, beyond the heartbeat, breath, and warmth, and deeper than the mind, there’s a soul in Conner’s hands, blinking up at him with those eyes. The body holding that soul is small enough to fit in arms, in hands, to have been carried in a womb, but it–he–will grow; even now, second to second, gravity bears his body down harder and harder on Conner’s chest.

But, someday, he'll fly. Conner can see it in his head. Jonny looks up at him like he can see it, too, in Conner’s head. He knows. His eyes are wide, but calm. He knows what Conner is. Conner knows what he is, too.

Half-Kryptonian, half-human–it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean they’re the same. Jonny was made in love, to be loved, to love, and to live.

Conner was made to kill.

Jonny’s neck and spine flex stiff inside Conner’s hands; his mouth strains to open as wide as he can make it go, his wide eyes wrenching shut with effort. Conner’s stomach leaps into his chest–his heart leaps into his throat. Something’s wrong–he’s wrong–

They have to know.

“H-he’s–I’m–”

Jonny stretches his arms straight up into the air and yawns, sighs, smacking his lips. His arms stay reaching for Conner, waving in tiny circles, hands opening and closing. “Aah–bbbbpft,” Jonny says, poking his tongue out through his lips.

“Uh.” Conner’s mouth falls slack. He forces it shut tight; his heart thumps hard enough to echo out of his throat. “I… dunno what… that meant,” he then mutters, knowing it’s stupid, but the words out of his mouth are some other noise besides his heart. Superman can still hear, still knows–Conner squeezes the toes in his boots. His hands are full–he can’t make a fist.

“Hmm,” Kal hums in sincere contemplation, or a good faking of it–he wouldn’t fake it, Conner thinks. He’s Superman. “It sounded almost like… ‘apple’?”

“Or ‘uncle’?” Lois counters. “Nah, couldn’t be, he’s not telepathic.” She blinks and cocks an eyebrow at M’gann. “Unless…”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t!” M’gann yelps, stumbling backward. Her green hands flail up in defense, and for a moment, the throbbing of her heart drowns out Conner’s own. “That would be intrusive, a-and inappropriate, and–”

“–A joke, M’gann, relax,” Lois laughs. “We trust you here. Trust me, you wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.” She nods her head toward Conner.

Conner furrows his brow. M’gann. Superman could hear it, M’gann could feel it–feel his mind being wrong. At least, if they’d been linked, she couldn’t have missed it. Instead, it’s however strong the wave was–or however open her mind stayed. He felt her shut it tight. She knows how to tune him out.

[M’gann,] Conner tries anyway. If she felt it, then he’ll know: it’s stronger than him–and stronger than her. If she didn’t, then he’ll know: it’s all in his head. It’s nothing.

Either way, he needs to make it stop.

Conner dares a look at M’gann’s face. M’gann gives Lois an uneasy smile and works her nervous fingers into hair at her shoulder. “R-right, of course,” she says, nodding.

[M’gann! ]

M’gann glances his way. Conner holds his breath. M’gann’s lashes flutter at him, then she smiles at him meekly–the smile gains more strength and softness as her eyes trail down his face.

It tells him nothing, except how much he wants that strength and softness in his still-shaky hands. M’gann’s eyes reach Jonny, and she looks how she’s supposed to look. Jonny is a baby. M’gann unhooks her hand from her hair to wave at Jonny and then lets it fall back to her side. She looks back up at Conner, and her smile wavers. Her eyes widen with concern–

–Conner darts his own eyes away. Fine. You know.

Jonny’s hand grasps and slips at Conner’s chin. Conner blinks down at Jonny, feeling his face freeze. Jonny’s cheeks puff out around a fiercely puckered mouth, his baby brow furrowed with determination as his arms keep reaching up. Sorry, Conner thinks at him. You don’t deserve–me. He can’t think it any other way; out loud, he’d try harder to catch himself, make it sound like anything other than exactly what he means. This, he offers to his own thoughts anyway, however half-heartedly. Me being–me, he ends on all the same.

“Aaa–aahgh!”

Jonny slaps his hand flat against Conner’s nose then balls his tiny fist around the tip of it and yanks it down. Conner’s head follows the pull without a thought. Jonny’s fingers still slip off, but with a babbling laugh, he reaches up again to poke his fingers into Conner’s nostrils, scrunching Conner’s nose up from inside. Conner blinks furiously, feeling his eyes water.

Already this strong–

“–Ma, hurry!” Lois calls out, rushing to the living room doorway.

Jonny lets out a satisfied, almost taunting sputter and then brings his hand down to pluck at Conner’s lower lip. On reflex, Conner grits his teeth.

He’s just showing off, Conner then tells himself. Let him show off.

Conner forces his jaw to unlock. Jonny then slaps a hand down over Conner’s mouth.

Okay, now that’s just kinda rude.

“Hey-bbb-bey-bb–” Conner’s voice comes out like a ribbit–Jonny’s hand beats against his lips. Jonny lets out a thunderclap of a squeal, all four limbs wiggling in Conner’s hands with joy.

“I think that sounded like ‘hey, baby,’” Superman says, laughing. “At least, I think Jonny seems to think so.”

“How about ‘cheese!’?”

A half-gasp at Conner’s side hits Conner’s ears seconds before the flash. Squint lines lingering in her face, Ma peers out from behind her camera; over hers, Pa’s, Lois’s, and then Superman’s face, a green-and-purple spot floats its way through Conner’s vision. It fades to white and vanishes.

Ma tsks and shakes her head, but her smile doesn’t leave her face for long before she gestures at M’gann to move in closer.

“Oh, um–cheese?” M’gann whimpers out from an anxious grin, hopping one cheerleader step back over to Conner’s side.

“You’d think I was setting off a firecracker,” Ma mock-scolds M’gann, laughter trailing from her voice as she brings the camera’s viewfinder back up to one eye and squints her other eye shut.

Pa lets out his own chuckle and pats Ma’s shoulder. “Kids these days don’t know what to do when they see one o’ these old dinosaurs.” He shakes his head and slides his hands into the pockets of his overalls. “Not when they’ve got their telephones in their pockets.” He slips his hand back out of one pocket and flips his cellphone open, keeping his eyes on its screen as he tilts it into position at his hip, puckering his lips into a breathy miming of a casual whistle. He glances up at Conner and winks.

Conner nods. A half-smile worms its way into his mouth. M’gann sways at his side, flips hair behind her shoulder. Conner watches her beam a perfect smile back at the oncoming flash, white teeth and curving cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. Jonny’s hands softly beat at the tiny drum of his own stomach. He smacks his lips at Conner, eyes narrowing but not focusing. His heartbeat inches towards a slower–still steady–rhythm in Conner’s ears. His body grows lighter and heavier all at once. The prickling from Jonny’s fist around Conner’s nose reaches Conner’s eyes again, even without another touch. It’s sleep–Conner knows that. The twinge in his own chest is neither panic nor adrenaline. Babies get sleepy. The same stupid, obvious thought runs through Conner’s head yet again: Jonny is a baby.

Too many thoughts flood in after it. And he likes me. And I love him. And I don’t want to let him go. And I don’t know what to do.

And I was never a baby.

The first half-flash pulls Conner’s eyes tight.

“Cheese,” M’gann murmurs too quietly at Conner’s side.

The second flash in his eyes strikes white like an impact.

M’gann’s hair brushes against Conner’s shoulder as she tilts her head back away from him, shrugging the flash off with a giggle.

Conner’s eyes sting like splitting skin. His vision quickly trades bruise spots for blurs–he blinks them away. Eyes closed, Jonny pushes his chubby cheek into Conner’s collarbone, immediately dribbling a dark spot into the neck of Conner’s shirt; Jonny settles, but Conner’s breath still shakes him. Conner holds his breath. The twisting, trembling inside doesn’t stop. His throat and brow tighten into something that can’t even be alive, hardening from skin and muscle to only bone.

"Conner."

M’gann breathes it below a whisper. His name barely clicks against the roof of her mouth, but it’s as familiar as a heartbeat, and he hears it.

He blinks, and M’gann’s hand is halfway to his face. There’s too much light in her eyes. He knows her face when she’s on the verge of tears. She knows–

–No. Conner rips his eyes away, wrenching them shut. Weight and heat pool in his lashes. No.

M’gann’s next breath is a gasp.

“Here,” Conner heaves, pushing Jonny’s head into M’gann’s hand and slipping his own hand out from in-between. The rest of Jonny leaves him easily. Conner doesn’t meet M’gann’s eyes again, just waits for an oop! or an oh! of acceptance–he watches M’gann’s green hands press Jonny’s head to her chest, but the only sound she makes is inside her. Jonny’s eyes stay closed against her pounding heart. Already, he can tune it out.

Already, he has more control than–

–Three, almost four days now outside of his pod–crunching, crumbling, the lip smacks, breath–Wally crumples up the bag–he shuts his eyes–the ceiling caving in–he has to control this.

 Fine, Conner thinks now. Good. Good for him. He nods his head at M’gann and Jonny, but he keeps his eyes to the wall.

Wolf's claws click against the floor. He slips his head under and into Conner's hand, pushing it up. Conner keeps it there as Wolf sits. Wolf’s ears twitch around his hand like antenna tuning into a signal.

Right. Yeah. Conner rubs the spaces in front of Wolf's ears. You know, too, don't you, boy. Wolf's eyes stare into him. If only for a moment, Conner locks his world right between those two points, letting his own eyes move only to trace the grain of Wolf's fur. Guess I could be… less obvious. Stealth ops for seven years, you'd think I'd be better than this at… whatever this is.

A mission is what he'd told M'gann. And we don't do those solo, he'd said.

Conner sighs. The wall between his mind and M'gann's stands strong. He feels for gaps, for any weak point; his eyes fall back to the red lip she bites redder as he looks, but he lets them go no higher–and no lower. He just stares. What he'd even say if she could hear him, he's not sure.

Sorry?

Wolf grumbles, brow twitching under Conner’s hand.

Conner’s eyes slip down to Jonny then leave him and M’gann both. For what, inviting you in the first place? Conner thinks at her, to himself sullenly. You needed it, too. Not that that’s why I–Conner shakes his head, then forces it still, realizing he can still be seen. Not the only reason, but fine. Doesn’t matter if it’s helping. He bites his tongue at the thought, even without anyone else having heard it. Helping me or you? His tongue slips, and his mouth is just tension and teeth again, like Jonny’s hand is back on his face. He unclenches his jaw again; his fingers curl tight into the fur between Wolf’s ears. Right. He flattens his hand against Wolf’s head, the curve of Wolf’s brow fitting snugly into his palm. Sorry, he thinks to Wolf. Sorry I keep–thinking like this–

“Okay, promise me this is it.”

Conner jumps–his hand slips from Wolf’s head. Ripples as sharp and as close as his own breath in his ears cut through the air; a metallic sheen flashes like a signal flare in the kitchen light. The blue-and-red bag slides off of Lois’s arm into the center of the table–Conner half-expects the wooden legs beneath it to creak with its weight. With a crackling thwup, it settles.

“Because already, this is too much,” Lois adds, patting the top edge of the bag–loud footsteps, tiny thunderclaps. Gritting his teeth but masking a wince, Conner tunes his hearing back down to voice level. “Seriously, you guys shouldn’t have.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did, Conner responds in his head, but he quickly shakes away the thought. That’s not what Lois means, he thinks. It couldn’t be. No one knows.

Hand to her hip, Lois turns to give Clark a pointed look.

Clark pushes up his glasses. “For the record, I haven’t peeked.” He raises up his open palm. “Scout’s honor.”

Even x-ray vision wouldn’t show it, Conner thinks.

“You were never an actual Boy Scout,” Lois chides Clark playfully.

Unless he was looking for the flaw, Conner thinks.

“Actually, I was!” Clark responds. “Scout’s honor! But, long story.”

He wouldn’t be.

“God.” Lois bats at the side of Clark’s head and leans her elbow on his shoulder, rests her chin on her arm and hums a smirk at him that Clark returns in kind.

But if there was a flaw, Conner thinks, Superman could see it.

“Uh-um, before we… open presents…” The shakiness in M’gann’s voice pulls Conner’s ears back to her heart, but in spite of its speed, she sways her body in slow, broad sweeps, keeping Jonny’s head against her chest. “I think… this little guy…” She trails off, then gives a quick giggle, grinning wide.

“Oh, wow, that was fast,” Lois says, dropping her hand from Clark’s face. Her hands are already out to accept Jonny as she approaches M’gann, and M’gann happily passes him off, maintaining a smile down at Jonny’s sleeping face. Lois holds Jonny to her shoulder and bounces him gently. “Huh, you really knocked him out cold.”

Conner’s heart kicks against the inside of his chest; M’gann’s heart booms in his head. Jonny’s heart is a distant pattering until Conner can focus again–it’s sleep. Of course it’s sleep. He’s fine. Horror lingers in M’gann’s expression all the same, eyes wide and white against the green. Jonny uhps in his sleep, voice both muffled and amplified against the side of Lois’s neck, and his tiny hands curl loose fists into the fabric of Lois’s shirt. M’gann sighs through pursed lips. Conner watches her eyes flutter heavy, dark creases peeking under her lower lids–

Enough. The bag. Empty now, Conner’s hands freely curl themselves into fists.

“You let me put him down for his nap,” Pa says to Lois, holding his hands out to take Jonny next. “Only fair, he sure put me down for mine!” he adds with a hearty chuckle as Lois pries Jonny’s hands from her shirt with one finger and tilts Jonny onto his back, then hands him off to Pa. Jonny moves from person to person with ease–it’s what it means to be that small and vulnerable, Conner thinks. That loved, his mind just has to add, a thought sharp and thin and aimlessly wistful. He’s not not. He’s never been, not really. Not since he’s been out of the pod. Seven years, almost–that’s almost a hundred Jonny lifetimes.

Wolf grumbles and paws at the floor, clicking his claws. Conner lets his hand drift back to the top of Wolf’s head, setting his fingers on autopilot scratching at one spot behind Wolf’s ear. Wolf’s brow stays tense against his palm.

“You want that baby all to yourself,” Ma says as she winds her camera’s carry strap neatly around her hand. She follows Pa and Jonny out of the kitchen, her hip joining to Pa’s like a magnet. “Just because he’s got your name doesn’t mean you get a mini-me,” she teases, her free hand perched on Pa’s shoulder as she peers into his arms. “Gramma needs her special time, too.”

“The next one’s going to have to be named Martha, huh,” Clark mutters under his breath, wiping his glasses on the end of his shirt and returning them to his face.

Lois spins in place to face him, setting one hand to her hip and slapping the other to her stomach.

“The what,” she says, voice low but firm.

Clark coughs lightly into his fist. “Nothing.”

Wolf slips his head out of Conner’s hand and turns away. Conner watches M’gann’s green hand touch down on Wolf’s white fur, fingertips rubbing a small circle into the center of his forehead; Wolf half-closes his eyes in acceptance, lets out a wet snort of a sigh, then points his ears forward again and shakes M’gann’s hand off as well. His yellow eyes hone in on Conner’s. Staring contest, Conner thinks, somewhat dismissively–he engages all the same.

M’gann’s hand disappears from the edge of his vision. She half-gasps a deep breath in to speak then cuts it off, humming her hesitance to herself. “They’re–” M’gann clears her throat. “They’re… going to love what you got them, got him, that is,” she says, voice thin and raspy as she repeats herself from two days ago. She swallows. “I promise.”

Conner's eyes dart to M’gann, breaking from Wolf's. M’gann keeps her own eyes averted, only glancing back and meeting his for a second–just a tug of a smile, and she’s staring straight ahead again.

After all, she doesn’t add this time, they’ll love it because it’s coming from you.

Conner looks back down at Wolf. Think I’d rather it just be good.

Wolf’s eyes stay on Conner. His tail hangs low, lightly brushing the floor as it swishes from side to side. A small groan becomes a soft, high-pitched whine, followed by a heavy breath. What, Conner thinks, mouth almost moving, voice almost breaking through–M’gann at his side and waiting on a response from him keeps his throat tight. There’s nothing he wants to say–no excuse. She’ll know or she won’t. He brought her here; it’s up to her now to notice. In that way, it’s barely even a secret at all.

Even though there’s a better way for it to not be, and that's to just say it.

“I’m getting Wolf a piece of pie,” Conner blurts out instead of anything else, voice cracking as he finds it again. Wolf’s tail whirls upright, wagging as Wolf turns to lead Conner to the counter.

“Oh!” M’gann responds softly at Conner’s back–he’s already gone. Wolf twitches his ears at the rustle of the paper as Lois thrusts her arm into the gift bag, but Wolf's eyes are on his target; Conner flinches at the sound, but steadies his breath. Wolf halts at the counter and stomps a paw. Conner reaches for the cupboard door, pinching its knob delicately between two fingers–the hinges still yelp and squeal as he pulls the door open. Anyone could have heard that, Conner thinks over the residual throbbing in his ears–everyone did, he’s sure.  The sharpness leaves his eardrums, but the pulsing stays deep in his head. His fingers feel for a plate already chipped along its rim. He knows there are plenty, but the only one that he can find is under several smooth, pristine plates. His hand freezes.

He looks at Wolf.

“Oh, diapers, good,” Lois says over whispering plastic and a single soft thump.

Wolf tilts his head at Conner.

…Right. Conner nods and slips his fingers into the stack of plates, his thumb skirting the rough edge of the right plate, the plate already flawed. He slides it out millimeter by millimeter, second by second; his thick fingers stick into the widening gap between plates as cushions, but they can’t stay there forever. He has the plate–next comes the clatter.

“I, u-uh, we–”

The gap closes like clenched teeth, a hard clack through Conner’s skull. He hears M’gann pause.

Dammit, Conner lets out, thankfully just in his own mind–not even M’gann’s.

“Conner and I…” M’gann continues, “Asked some of our friends who have babies, or at least a baby in the family, and… that brand was the favorite!”

“The League of Supermommies, huh,” Lois responds before the sound of another rustle. “Iris did give me her contacts. And this is–oh. Oh, no.”

The ceramic plate bounces like rubber in Conner’s hand. He smacks it to his chest to steady it–it hits his bones, but doesn’t break.

One deep, loud guffaw crashes through the air instead.

This time, he has to look.

Superman–Clark–Kal-El stifles another laugh with hands slapped over his mouth and his stomach as Lois holds up the Bat-Binky like a jewel to the light. M'gann meets Conner's eyes across the room with a grin. She's proud. He is, too–he's not not, anyway. Her eyes try to pull him in, inviting him to feel it, too–inviting him back.

He'll have to see it. Her face, when the moment comes. He'll have to see it. He'll have to face it.

Wolf still deserves his pie. Conner pries the plate from his chest. It’s green-gray with age, and the yellow and red flowers dotted along its rim are more faded on one side than the other. White scratches cut across its otherwise empty center. He won’t break it–and on his watch, neither will Wolf–but it fits for him. Something already broken.

“...You can’t stop me, you’ll be in space,” Lois’s voice filters back in. “Wayne Manor, no return address—he doesn’t even have to know it’s me.”

“Lois…” There’s mirth in Clark’s scolding voice, just like Ma’s. “Do him a favor and at least let him know it’s you. He’s paranoid enough.” One soft footstep. “Besides, knowing Bruce, he’d track you down anyway.”

“There’s gotta be some law against Batman trespassing in Metropolis,” Lois retorts, “especially with the stick Luthor’s got up his ass about–”

“Lois.”

“No politics at the kitchen table either, right.” Something fingertip-sized and hard yet yielding taps the table, any echo muffled by the tablecloth. Rubber and plastic. The Bat-Binky. Next, Conner acknowledges. He slides open a rumbling wooden drawer and digs out a clattering fork, gritting his teeth and forcing his hand steady. A thin strip of metal could warp and snap under his fingertips in an instant. He looks at the fork in his hand.

It’s already bent.

He didn’t–mean to–didn’t–even feel it–

Superman–Clark–Kal-El laughs as Conner holds the fork up and furrows his brow. “I was seven,” Kal says, “Or… maybe still six. And a little too excited that morning for the first slice of pie.” He slips his glasses off his face to wipe their lenses on his shirt. Their wire frame keeps its shape under the pressure of his fingertips, lines staying straight and narrow.

“You can fix it now, right?” Conner blurts out in response. His voice rings against the pots dangling from the rack. His cheeks burn like heat vision starting in the wrong place. “I mean, why not just bend it back?”

“Oh, don’t you dare!” Ma snaps, plucking the fork from Conner’s hand. Conner freezes. Ma slaps her hand down on Conner’s shoulder and shakes his muscles loose, then pats her soft, cool hand against the side of his face. “That’s a keepsake,” she tells him proudly, handing the fork back to him.  “We wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Superman’s house, Conner reminds himself factually; the moment he thinks it, the thought sits wrong in his head. He’s not a stranger, or some tourist–he’s not even a guest. This is home–this is a home. There’s still the Watchtower, still Happy Harbor even without the Cave, still Earth–

We fight for this, you know, M’gann said. This is it. This is life and love and… and everything, really, down here–

–Conner stakes the fork into the crust of the pie. Small, paper-thin cracks break into the surface. Crumbs tumble off the edge. Conner blinks at his stinging eyes. Enough. Wolf. Pie.

It’s still ours either way, the memory finishes all the same. Another latches onto its soft, wispy trail, still in her voice:

I don’t… want to want to–

–The drooping stack of crust and filling that Conner slips onto the plate slides itself in two, collapsing into a mess. Wolf won’t mind. Wolf's alert tail flickers at its tip, and the growling whine in his huffing breath hints at the howl he’s holding back. His claws rake against the floor as Conner lowers the plate, and before the plate can reach the floor, Wolf's tongue and teeth are on it. Conner squeezes the rim tighter to keep from letting it fall, pinching his thumb into the rough groove of the pre-existing chip. It fits like a fingerprint, like DNA. Wolf’s teeth clink and drag against the plate’s surface, following trails of old scratches and cinnamon-speckled apple down the other end of the plate and off its edge. They didn’t make it flawed. The flaws made it made for them.

History–someone else’s, but shared with them, with him. He’s a part of it now.

Jonny is a new part.

Wolf releases the plate, lips and tongue now smacking against the floor. The plate springs up in Conner’s hand, but his grip is already too tight to let it slip. His shirt would have been fine. Any of his shirts would have been fine. No good because it’s flawed, because he affected it, because it’s already had to be fixed–he doesn’t think like this. He can’t think like this. He can’t. The burning, hollow feeling cracking open in his chest–

Paper rustles between his ears, shooting off sparks in his skull. Conner holds his breath, holds his eyes shut, holds it in–

“And this is, uhh–”

I can’t keep thinking like this, his mind blips at him in a moment of cold clarity. If I do, it’s going to kill me.

“It–should fit, or do you think… it…” Conner hears M’gann’s hard swallow behind her bitten-shut mouth. He hears the quick release into a willful, breathed-out smile just as clearly. “It shouldn’t be too big, right?” M’gann asks Lois with a soft, pensive giggle. “Jonny’s such a little guy.”

Conner breathes out, opening his eyes. That’s it, he tells himself. It’s over. It’s done. Conner seeks the shirt out first before letting himself see anyone’s face, braces for the impact of bright red against jet black–

In Lois’s hands is the white onesie. She flips it to its reverse side, adorned only with a zipper, then back to its front, completely blank. “Oh, it’s fine,” she says, spinning the suit around now in her hands, checking and double-checking the undersides of the arms and the soles of the feet. “He’ll grow into it.”

Oh. The plate wobbles again in Conner’s grip–Wolf’s tongue laps against its surface for any and every glob or crumb that remains, licking the back as clean as the front, grazing Conner’s knuckles.

Conner pulls the plate up over Wolf’s head and sets it on the counter. “That’s it,” he mutters at Wolf softly. Wolf drops his tail and head and starts a slow stride away from Conner, giving his equivalent of a shrug. He treads a direct path to the front door and softly nosedives towards the bristled welcome mat, engulfing it in white fur as he settles down atop it, chin resting between his paws on the floor. He smacks his lips for any traces of pie left on his muzzle, then sighs resolutely through his nose.

“I’m just surprised there’s not a… you know.”

Conner looks. Lois taps her chest.

“Five sides and a fancy letter in the center, if you catch my drift?” she says.

“Oh! That was, um…” M’gann peers past Lois, head leaning to the side. She meets Conner’s eyes with help! scrawled across her face, her thin frown and furrowed brow.

Conner furrows his brow back at her. What?

“That… was, um…” M’gann repeats slowly, wobbling on her toes despite her shoes’ flattened heels.

What–oh. My idea. Say it, Conner thinks to her. His eyes fall to the almost empty bag, sharp and bright in the sunlight, red stuffing poking up from its open top. Doesn’t matter. Say it. It’s fine.

The thought goes nowhere. The wall is there. His mental breath sits hot inside his head with no vent, tension budding at the base of his skull.

…Right.

Lois reads M’gann’s mind, and his own–at least enough to know where she’ll get her answer. She whips around to face him and pins him with a look. Conner gulps.

“Your idea?”

Anger, disappointment, derision–her tone betrays nothing, and could mean anything. Conner dares to glance away. M’gann’s face broadcasts pity–no. Sympathy. An anxious helplessness as she bites her lips out of view and barely holds back a grunt.

Meeting her eyes, Conner shakes his head. Don't feel sorry for me. M’gann blinks at him, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Conner says simply.

It’s the only one I liked. His mind starts him with the truth, then works on better responses to the inevitable why. 'Sorry'–no. 'It’s not like you have to put him in it'–Conner growls at the thought of sounding that angry. 'It’s… an option'–better. 'You think he’ll like it?'–That’s…

That’s too close to where he started. It’s the only one I liked.

Another step in his head towards why, even for himself, puts him on the edge of a white haze. The slab meets his back.  

Lois shrugs and smiles. “He’ll be the only kid in Metropolis without an S on his chest, believe me.” She folds the suit into a neat white square. “I love it. We’ll get him glasses next, let him really blend right in.” She rolls her eyes at Clark and hands him the folded suit. “No one will guess.”

Clark. Super–

“You didn’t,” Clark teases right back, slowly opening the suit back up in his palm, a single finger nudging one limb loose at a time until it drops over the edge of his hand.

Lois crosses her arms. “You don’t want to go there with me, Smallville.”

“...Understood,” Clark responds, but his eyes stay on the suit. Conner scans his face for why. X-ray vision will reveal nothing special–unless Forever Sixteen lines their baby clothes with lead, which would be worth knowing, and worth investigating further. Conner frowns at the thought. Of course it’s not that.

Superman–Clark–Kal-El catches Conner staring. Before Conner can look away, Kal smiles and shakes his head. “I’m–still getting used to it,” he says softly, laying his hand over the body of the suit, pressing it between his palms. “How little he is. Although I guess before I know it, he’ll be…” Kal slides his hand from atop the suit and keeps it palm-down in the air beside him, marking a height just above his shoulder. “Just like that.”

Conner blinks to force the hand down shorter, eyes latching onto the glint of Kal’s wedding ring to prove that they can see above it. “Yeah,” he mutters in response. “Happens.”

At least it’ll take years, not sixteen weeks–he can’t say that. He knows how it will sound.

This isn’t about him.

Lois’s arm takes another dive into the tissue paper. The sound is a roar on first impact; Conner tunes the rustling down to a whisper. “Now, don’t tell me,” Lois says, “but I know I felt something else clunking around in here…” Her hand grasps at paper, crunching it into a ball. “Unless I’m wrong, in which case do tell me, or else I’ll just look like I’m being greedy…”

M’gann hops in place, crosses her legs at the ankles, and hums a smile. “There’s one more thing.” Meeting Conner’s eyes, she nods and shrugs, giggling faintly. “Well, technically, I suppose it’s…” She leaves the thought hanging, eyeing Conner eagerly.

Another cue. Conner just blinks at her. Whatever she thinks he’s supposed to say, she’ll have to tell him through the link before he’ll say it, and he won’t hold his breath waiting–she won’t risk getting caught again.

I invited you to be my backup, he’d all but growled at her.

“Uh… huh!” By a single finger hooked around their connecting plastic tag, Lois lifts the pair of small black rainboots up out of the bag. “Two more things. Gotcha.” She chuckles. “You guys sure are looking out for our little guy’s feet, huh.”

A flash of disappointment runs across M’gann’s face, a twitch in her smile and brow, but her eyes stay soft on him, flicking lightly even over an audible, visible gulp.

Conner, this is your family! she’d reminded him before. You don’t need me for backup!

“They’re, um, little black boots,” M’gann starts, eyes only darting to Lois for a second before returning to Conner’s face, uneasy but focused. “He’ll, um… he can…” Conner feels his brow furrowing harder and harder, twisting under the scrutiny. She shut the link down, but she’s still trying to read his mind. Even without her mind-touch, he can hear it in her heart, see it in her eyes: what do I say?

More than that.

What do you want me to say? her eyes ask.

Conner stares back at her, pushing out a thought–she’ll either read it in his face or feel the wave of it spike on the psychic plane–just link us and you won’t have to guess. At least on the link, I can tell you to stop looking at me like–

“He can look… just like his Uncle Conner, if he wants,” M’gann says finally.

Conner’s breath hitches. The knot in his brow releases. He blinks down at his shoes. Right. That’s why he’d gotten them. He hadn’t said it to M’gann, hadn’t even thought it–to her or to himself. But it fits–it’s better than his reason. If it were me–that didn’t matter. Jonny isn’t him. Jonny is a baby.

The simplest facts in the world, and he has to keep thinking them, over and over, to make them real in his head. Jonny isn’t him. Jonny is a baby. Jonny isn’t him. Jonny is a baby. Jonny is–asleep in the other room, and barely bigger than his hands. Jonny is–alive, and happy. Jonny is–half-Kryptonian, half-human. Jonny is–the son of Superman.

Jonny isn’t him.

The stinging starts in Conner’s eyes again, the ghost of Jonny’s hand on his nose like a button to press. Never mind, Conner thinks at M’gann, keeping his eyes to the floor, knowing she won’t hear. Keep the link down.

“Well, you’ve set yourself up for another photo op,” Lois jokes, dropping the boots back into the bag with a papery splash. She plucks the Bat-Binky up from the table and drops it in after, a single tap, like a knuckle on glass. Clark hands her the white suit; she folds it back half as neatly as before, scoffs, then drops it inside. The package of diapers goes on top, pushing out the bag’s sides from the inside. Lois brings the ribbon handles together in her hand. “Good job, guys, great haul for our baby stash.”

Wait.

“I believe, translated, that means ‘thank you,’” Clark says with a chuckle, setting his hand on Lois’s shoulder. “But really, Kon-El,” he nods to Conner. “M’gann,” he nods to M’gann, then his eyes skip back across the table to Conner. “Thank you for everything.”

The warmth in his smile doesn’t reach Conner–Conner’s eyes dart back to the bag. That’s not everything.

“Translated from what, ‘city-girl’ to ‘country-boy’?” Lois quips back, drumming her fingers idly against the hand on her shoulder. “We say thank you in Metropolis, too. Just with a little less ‘bless-your-heart’ added in.” She lifts the bag off the table. “Thank-you,” she says emphatically, almost sing-song. “But seriously, we wouldn’t have even thought to ask you to bring anything but yourself–er–selves.” The bag slides to her elbow, contents rumbling faintly. “Thank you.”

Conner knows what’s at the bottom, neat and flat, dark and bright all at once–his eyes still blip into infrared. Yellow spots of fingerprint heat linger everywhere but the bottom, cold and untouched. He hid it too well.

“Well, bless your heart,” Clark says. Lois half-scoffs, half-sputters out a laugh. Clark’s arm slips to around her waist.

He has to say something.

“...You’re so welcome,” M’gann says softly, voice miles away but breath crackling in his ear. “Really, I’m–so honored to have been here. He’s such a sweet, beautiful baby boy.”

M’gann. Conner watches her green hand skim the top of her chair and then push it under the table. The soles of her sneakers scritch against the floor, fine grit against the wood. She steps from one side of his chair to the other, nudging it closer to the table with her hip as she tucks her hands behind her back, then waits, seemingly keeping time with the bounce of her heel. Another scriff sound. She stops and hums, tapping her toe now.

She’s working her way to him, circling the table like a wheel on an axle, eyes pinned to the center. Avoiding his eyes. Stealth op, Conner thinks.

He could work his own. A moment alone with the bag again–the paper filling would be an obstacle, but carefully enough, he could pop the bag open from the bottom on a seam, paste it back–if he has to, lick his finger and seal it like an envelope.  That’d be the how–he knows the what. He’d need the when, maybe even the where–

And the why, he thinks, heat starting in his cheeks. The why I’m even thinking of stealing a t-shirt from a baby. “Like taking candy from a baby,” he’s heard people say–that’ll be next, he thinks. Throw me back in Belle Reve at that point. I’ll be a supervillain.

M’gann’s white sneakers approach the edge of Conner’s shadow. Conner takes a breath. His thoughts go back to why. This isn’t about her, he says to himself, half-parroting her from before, half-refuting the her in his head he can imagine would be blaming this all on herself if he were thinking it to her. But he can’t leave it there–if they were linked right now, and she knew, he knows she wouldn't let him. He turns the thought of her back on himself, picturing her face in all its pity, sympathy, anxiety, and concern as she’d ask him:

Why are you hiding this?

Conner tries an answer: because I don’t want to see your face when I give him your shirt. It’s the first thing he thinks of, the worst thing he can think of, and his best guess.  She would believe him, if only because he would have said it, and she wouldn’t want to argue with him. Except–whether she wanted to or not, if she didn’t believe him, she would argue. And he can’t picture her convinced. He tries to argue back. Yeah, I know I brought you here, but–nothing. He could have taken back the offer this morning if he had wanted to–he’s sure she was still waiting for it.

M’gann–the real M’gann, heartbeat and breath in his ears–takes a step closer, shoe soles softly padding against the floor. Fine, he starts up again, needing an answer–and fast. Because I’m bad at surprises. Because I’m not… sure it’s even good enough, anymore. Because it made sense last night and doesn’t make sense now–I should have given one of mine. Because I choked. Because… Conner breathes in sharply, trying to muffle the sound of his pulse in his own ears. Because they won’t understand. They’ll think it’s a good thing. They’ll think I knew how to handle this. They’ll be proud of me.

“Well, speaking of which, it’s been a Metropolis minute since I’ve checked my baby, or my–” Lois clears her throat loudly. “–Phone. And any time Jonny's not making a sound, I get nervous. So…”

“I can hear Jonny's heartbeat… oh. Right,” Clark–Superman says. “We need to–go. Do that, that is. Step out for a–minute.”

Slow but steady footfalls and gentle bumps of rustling paper take the shirt away. It’s fine, Conner thinks, blessedly alone inside his own head. The lump in his throat wouldn’t let him speak if he wanted to. I don’t want anyone to be proud of me.

“...Conner?”

M’gann’s voice cracks in its failed whisper; something cracks behind Conner’s eyes. He holds it in, tightening the knot in his head.

“...Are you okay?” she asks, voice even softer than if she were speaking to a child. He knows. He just heard her.

Conner’s eyes reach as high as her green throat, her buttonless collar, and then drop down to the hands wringing at her sides, the unrolled sleeves now pulled down over her wrists. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that he can’t look. His own face could break at any moment. What’s inside could leak out. One slip, and he’ll lose control.

“If that’s… okay to ask,” M'gann adds warily.

Conner steels up his insides. Solid. Cold. Contained. Empty. “Well, you asked it,” he mutters back at her. “Too late to ask permission.” His eyes dart a quick glare into M’gann’s eyes, then retreat back to the floor, to overlapping shadows. “What do you think?”

Answer me this time: what’s wrong with me? He already knows the answer. This is just me. This is just what I am. It makes sense because I’m wrong.

Say it.

Wolf raises his head from the floor. Ma tsks over the sound of dull tapping in the living room. Jonny’s heart beats through sleep softly and soundly. Pa chuckles and clears his throat–slower tapping, then an electronic whoosh–a moment later, all tapping stops. “Uh–awh,” Lois offers as a quick response, tone flat. Superman is a wall. He could be any other heartbeat. He’s there–that’s all Conner knows. Tap-tap, blipping on a screen, a faint buzz like a bug against a lightbulb. Superman hums decisively. The sound stops.

M’gann is a statue in front of him, save for the determined rise and fall of her chest. Conner dares to look higher. Her eyes are fixed on him, and every muscle in her face is drawn tight. On first glance, he could think her look is a glare, but the raw hurt in her eyes is too open for him to miss. He can see it for a second, and then his eyes won’t focus. Back to Wolf, white head tilting to the side. Back to the floor, and a pocket of darkness to sink into–back to solid wood and two shallow shadows, and the place they overlap. Back to any wall–back to dangling pans–back to the photo on the fridge and to cobwebs on the ceiling and to the screen door he could tear through on a breath, not even a thought, just a twitch of his fingers at his side–

–He pulls his hands into fists and blinks. Hard. Too much. He blinks his sight into a blur and then blinks his way back out of it. Enough.

His eyes go back to M’gann.

M’gann winces at him. Almost immediately, she drops her stare. Conner follows the fall down and sees her own hands clenching into fists. He hears her swallow. “I’m… not trying,” she starts, “I swear it. But… it's starting to reach–I mean–I'm feeling that you–”

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Conner feels his own breath hitch; M’gann gasps. Her wide eyes flit back up and past him–with effort, her face shifts. She pushes the curve of her mouth into a smile. The crease in her brow only twitches back into view for a second.

Whatever his own face shows, he doesn’t know, and can’t care. He’s hiding enough. He turns to face the doorway.

“So… M’gann. Kon-El.” Kal–Clark–Superman nods at Conner. Lois pats the back of Superman’s shoulder. “How about that pie?”

Wolf rises to his feet and whines.

“You got yours,” Lois says to Wolf, smirking. Wolf drops back down on top of the welcome mat and grumbles. 

“I-I’ll get the plates!” M’gann volunteers. The cupboard door snaps open above her and Conner’s heads. A single plate floats down telekinetically from the top of the stack. “Or, we will?” She meets Conner’s eyes again and smiles with a shrug, a soft plea. She holds her hands out to guide the plate down, but rather than grab it, she brings it level with the S-Shield on Conner’s chest and keeps it floating there. Conner stares down into its glossy white face. Blinking away the hazy smears of his own would-be reflection, he takes the plate. M’gann gasps–delight, not panic. The second plate starts its smooth descent into his hands.

“God.” The legs of Lois’s chair creak against the floor. “I’ll spare everyone here the joke about flying saucers, given that…”

Superman laughs before she can finish. The second plate clicks down into place over the first. M’gann blinks down at the floor shyly, smile going lopsided. “Right, aliens,” she says under her breath.

The pie behind Conner slides to the edge of the counter. Conner’s brow furrows. He thought she was just giving him the plates. His eyes snap to M’gann’s–M’gann’s are up past his head. She gives a wincing smile.

“Oh,” a voice whispers, right at Conner’s ear.

Conner whips around. Superman steps back, nearly dropping the pie. His eyes widen behind his glasses. Conner’s face won’t unlock, won’t catch up–

Superman nods and leaves. “Well. Well, uh, don’t forget, Lois,” he says as he sets the pie back into the center of the table, only smiling again now that he’s walked away. “You’re the mother of one.”

M’gann slides the last two plates down to herself. Conner feels his frown deepen. Let me do that, he starts to say; the knot in his throat loosens, but doesn’t unwind. In his mind, all four plates go to his hands like he expected them to. In his mind, all four plates shatter in his grip. Bone white shards cut through the air, cascade to the floor, fall right through his fingers. Fine. The clatter is sharp enough as Conner pushes his plates into place on M’gann’s stack–the oh! that escapes her lips just fits. I don’t trust me with them either, he thinks.

He doesn’t try not to stomp back to his chair. His feet feel like concrete; the thudding of his heels against an unyielding floor announce that his boots, at least, are still rubber and leather, and can take the brunt of his steps. Nothing breaks as he slides his chair back out, or as he sits, or as he lays his fists onto the tablecloth.

“...And as the only human in the room, I guess that makes me just as much an alien as the rest of you,” Lois says as silver forks drift through the air down to the table. They sit for a moment then spin in place, turning the pronged ends away from where hands are meant to go. Lois’s fork slips into her hand like a pen; she threads it between her fingers and bats its handle lightly against her ring finger in anticipation. Conner stares at his, scrutinizing its curve, visually matching it to the two forks still lying flat at empty seats and confirming what he has is something not already broken.

Wrong thought, but he doesn’t care. He’s had too many now to keep track of.

Three plates land next, barely audible against the tablecloth: Clark’s and Lois’s and M’gann’s. The fourth slowly tilts into his vision, guided by M’gann’s green hand. Her fingers hover and curl at the edge of his vision even once she’s released the plate.

It’s as far up as Conner looks, and then his eyes are back on his fork. Carefully, he picks it up, holding it heavy in his hand, forcing the weight of it to bend his wrist instead of him bending it.

M’gann wisps herself into the seat beside him. Her chair legs wobble and clack slightly against the floor, but there’s no skid and no screech. No hands of hers land on the table–green, white, or Megan. His eyes vaguely pick up on green fingers gripping green elbows below the tabletop, pink sleeves sagging over them–his world wants to shrink. She’s barely a heartbeat–all of them are. Checkered cloth and gleaming white ceramic hold his stare. The refrigerator hum steadies his head from the inside out. Superman–Clark sets down the pie. Conner blinks because he should. Tension starts to twist his arm from the top of his wrist to his elbow, but he keeps his fingers open around the fork, keeps his thumb hovering a sliver above it.

Napkins manifest, flickering blue and red; Ma hums overhead, putting a hand to Conner’s shoulder as she leans. “Here you go, sweetie,” she says to M’gann, patting the folded blue triangle down in place. “Do your best, and we’ll take care of the rest. There’s nothing a little vinegar and soda can’t fix.”

“Oh, I–” M’gann’s hand pops up to wave away the offer, but her fingers curl tight then uncurl to pin themselves to the corner of her napkin. “Thank you.”

Ma’s hand ruffles Conner’s hair then slides down his back, pressing into him for one moment, then leaving the next. He blinks again because he should.

M’gann’s heartbeat stirs the air inside his head. A hard thump–an echo–hits inside his own chest. He blinks again because it hurts. He squeezes his eyes shut because it doesn’t stop. The fork slips smoothly out of his hold, thumping the table–he can’t be feeling this now. He won’t. The hurt goes down, sinks below his heart–he makes it go there, then opens his eyes.

M’gann’s crumpled napkin puffs out like a blue blooming flower from her loosening fist. A quick, sharp pant flicks at Conner’s ear, then M’gann flattens her hand against the napkin, swatting it down like a bug. He blinks, trying to think, trying to not think–he wins and loses. All that gets through is action. His hand closes back around his fork, pushing its prongs into his palm. They’re dull against his skin–to make himself stop squeezing, he tells himself they’re needles. Already-broken glass. Another hand in his.

M’gann’s hand squeezes her napkin again.

“I’m–looking forward to–having my first bite of this in a while!” M’gann laughs out. “But please, don’t worry about cutting me too big a slice.”

“Don’t tell me shapeshifters think they have to watch their figures, too,” Lois says. “I mean it, don’t tell me. That’s too depressing to think about.” Lois shifts in her chair. Her hand goes to her stomach. “Clark, give her the big piece.”

“What if I wanted the big piece?” Clark says, in a voice like a child’s. A plate full of pie passes in front of Conner all the same, to his left. M’gann pulls her napkin to her lap and pushes at her sleeves. Conner’s plate lifts up next, Clark’s hand on the other end.

I’m not hungry is too much to say. His voice would have to break back out of his throat, out of his head. Next would have to be why, and with five people to answer to. Six counting Wolf. Jonny’d still be asleep. It’d be nothing to him–it’d be Conner being only as wrong as Jonny knows him to be, now that they’ve met.

The steel prongs turn hot and soft in Conner’s hand. Jonny. Is. A. Baby. Stop. This. Now. His teeth feel like they’d snap steel even sooner than his hand, or like they’ll break against themselves and leave him to gum at pie crust, shards all falling out the moment he unclenches his jaw to eat–his tongue slips between his teeth to cushion them. A second later, his tongue burns.

M’gann’s fork clatters against the edge of her plate; Conner’s shoulders jump, and his teeth release his tongue. M’gann’s fingers scramble to take hold of her fork again, fingertips pattering against the tablecloth. The fork slides into her hand prongs-first; the prongs disappear into her fist. “Oh–oops!” She bumps the other end of it against the table and pushes the handle back into her hand.

Right. Conner bumps his own fork out of his fist. His plate falls back into place in front of him, now with pie.

“You’ve still got three days ‘till you-know-what, so don’t fill up too soon,” Lois says–to him, he thinks. Conner nods, eyes following invisible lines through the checkered cloth to the pie’s lattice crust. “Meanwhile, I’m back to eating for one, which, of course, means I have room to spare.” Her fork clinks against her plate. “And for all I care, it stays there. I’m print, not television.”

“Kon-El isn’t pregnant, Lois,” Clark says with a light chuckle.

“I didn’t say–okay, fine, I’m free-associating. But I’m tired of Perry giving me the look everytime I walk in the door.” Lois’s speech turns muffled, crunching only between words. Conner takes his own bite–the sound is a cue, he figures. And the oozing and crumbling inside his own skull keeps everything else out. “You know what I mean. Jimmy, too!” Smack and swallow–his own, at least, but Lois’s voice turns crisp and clear again.  “Like it’s the miracle of life, buddy.” Another mouthful to get through, but her words are clear enough. “Get over it.”

Conner watches his hand move his fork, then watches his other hand reach for the clean, blank red shape of the napkin–a triangle, not the other shape. Once it hits his skin, it’ll darken, haze over–the mark will last longer than the feeling, and he’ll still need to hide it–no. Back to the moment. He leaves the napkin on the table.

“I think everyone at the Planet’s more amazed that Lois Lane is actually a mother, more than anything,” Clark–Superman–Clark says. His slice sits untouched on his plate. The moment Conner notices it, he feels eyes on him. Not heat vision, nothing so tangible–the burning in his head is only in his head, Conner knows, and the eyes on him might be, too. He’d have to look to know.

“Ha-ha,” Lois snaps back, silver fork waving limply through the air. Conner blinks, and Clark’s fork starts to move.

“Mmm,” M’gann moans, close enough in Conner’s hearing that an odd jolt runs up his spine. “Oop, excuse me.” The blue of her napkin flutters out of view.

“I heard that!” Ma calls out from the living room. “Don’t think you’ll be walking out of here without my recipe! I’ve been fine-tuning it, as always.” 

“Oh, um, thank you!” M’gann calls back out toward the doorway.

“...Superhearing?” Lois asks.

“Ma-hearing,” Clark responds.

“Super-ma,” Lois then mutters through another bite. “One letter off, you know. No Superman without a Superma. ”

Clark chuckles under his breath and swallows. “Believe me, Lois, I know.”

Conner takes another bite; everything keeps moving. It will stop when he stops, and then it will be him–he’ll be the thing that’s wrong. He keeps his eyes on the tablecloth, on his own hands, on lightly falling crumbs, on speckled smears across his plate. Voices soften into murmurs; his motions go mechanical. The plate below gets cleaner, becomes a brighter, blanker light.  The haze in his head is home. He’s home.

The motions take him to the point where his mouth just closes around empty steel, pie already gone. His eyes sting like the metal on his tongue could actually cut him. He slips the fork out of his mouth–his hand releases it to the plate. The clatter is like water splashing, just one drop in the ocean–one is somehow enough to make his eyes blur. He blinks back their heat. The burning in his palm and wrist, however, don’t leave with a thought. His hands want to break. He drops them under the table, and they close around themselves.

He’s fine.

[beggars-opera]

I still find it really, really horrifying funny how many people think that they are going to magic a universally beloved third-party presidential candidate out of thin air and that their revolution is going to sway both the democratic and undecided voters to change their political alliances and vote for this nonexistent mystery person in in *checks watch* the next five months, thus overriding the republican base who has nearly 100% rallied around their one guy for the past decade and show no signs of wavering and, by the way, is also 100% behind funding genocide and various other crimes against humanity along with undoing every single decent thing the other guy has done. But sure. Vive la revolution

[dayurno]

man all the foxes had hard lives but sometimes when i sit down and think about kevin i'm like damn this person wasn't even in the same playing field as his teammates. he was raised captive in a cult and violently forced into extreme child labor up until the day he left?! he was thrust into the spotlight at an early age and had every movement of his life meticulously choreographed?! he was raised to depend on a master x pet relationship with one of his captors?! he literally could not move a step without riko's acknowledgement?! the labor violations only would give a labor lawyer years of work. can you imagine if we talked about all the other different kinds of extensive abuse too

[rafumeika]

What Mahito did: Manipulate Junpei into being his friend and then killed him in front of Yuji, laughed about Yuji's desperation to save him, killed Nanami, got Nobara into a coma, destroyed one of Todo's hands

Yuji with Mahito at the end:

What Sukuna did: Threaten to kill Yuji's friend multiple times, ripped Yuji's heart out of his chest and then tricked him into making a Binding Vow that he would have to forget in order to bring him back to life, laughed at Yuji when he desperately begged him to try and save Junpei, told him over and over again that his mere existence would bring destruction simply by being his vessel, destroyed Shibuya and killed countless of innocent people, ditched Yuji to make Megumi his new vessel, then sinked Megumi's soul as deep as he could in darkness in order to keep control of his body, killed Tsumiki, killed Gojo, killed Kashimo, killed Higuruma, killed Choso, almost killed Yuta and pushed him into using Kenjaku's CT to get into Gojo's body, kept praising literally everyone else but Yuji (while still trying to kill them), who he kept talking shit about instead, got pissed when Yuji showed pity and told him that he would kill every single person still left alive that Yuji cared about before finally killing him

Yuji with Sukuna at the end:

[i-may-be-an-emu]

Tom talking about how he doesn’t think he’s pretty during the stream today made me want to yell through the screen and shake him by the shoulders to tell him how we think he’s the most beautiful man to ever live

[ratcatcher0325]

A Fraction of Justice (Chapter #34)

Chapter #34. What's this? ✨🎄Has Christmas come early?🎄✨ Nope, it's still tomorrow, but hey, while you wait for Santa to visit, you can read about tiny little grumpy guys! In this chapter, Nat makes a mess, Alexander's mad about it, and someone draws blood. This is sounding like every other day in their lives at this point.

Previous: Chapter #33

Next: Chapter #35

Word Count: 4,192 Read Time: Approx. 40 mins

CW: Blood? I guess? It's like a drop of blood, people. Don't worry!

Btw, DM me if you wanna be added to the tag list!

___________________________________

A Fraction of Justice

Chapter #34: Kinstugi

[Natalie’s POV] 

I’d kissed him. And the second I did it, all I’d wanted was to do it again. He’d been so warm lying there in my hand as he slept. His mess of hair, no bigger than my fingernail, was so soft on the surface of my skin. I recalled the electric feeling that had pulsed through the tip of my finger when I glided it over the length of his back, trying so hard not to wake him. 

Over the time I’d had with him, I’d gotten used to learning how to handle and interact with someone so much smaller. How to temper my voice when I was near to not startle or overwhelm him. I’d had to memorize the right amount of pressure to pinch beneath his arms so he didn’t slip through my fingers, without bruising his skin. I’d learned how to keep my fingertips steady when trying to brush a stray lock back in place on his head, or to tap his shoulder without too much force when I needed his attention, and he was wholly engrossed in whatever he was reading. 

Though he was never particularly fond of being handled, I swelled with pride thinking about how much more relaxed he was now, cradled in the palms of my hands, than when we’d first met. 

I could feel my pulse thundering in my ears just thinking about those icy blue eyes gazing up at me from inside my gentle grip. 

I was now in a similar position to admire him, as I sat up in bed, my feet touching the carpet below. I leaned over my bedside table, taking in the sight of a man, snuggled up on his own little mattress, not much bigger than the palm of my hand. 

He slept peacefully, curled into himself with his head resting on his tucked arm, his other, draped over his side and dangling just off the edge of the bed. His covers, once pulled taught over his shoulders, had been kicked past his knees, gathered in a lump at the foot of the bed. His hair fell in his closed eyes, his lips, tinier than any part of me, were left slightly open, his chest rising and falling a fraction of an inch with each breath.

What a brilliant mind and a brave little heart. How did he not just fall apart? I couldn’t imagine life in his position. How unfair it was. How constantly humiliating. I would’ve probably just laid down and died by now, if I were in his shoes. 

You’re so much stronger than me, you know that?

As I gazed down, he twitched in his sleep, his nose crinkling slightly as his fist clenched and relaxed. 

I sucked in a sharp breath. His fitful movements reminded me so much of that first time I’d set him down in the drawer on that stupid, fuzzy, pink sock. I could recall him begging to be left out on the desk and me not even bothering to listen. God, so much had changed between now and then. 

As I watched, he tucked his arms closer to his chest, his brow furrowing even more, while his lips turned down slightly into a grimace. He slid his feet further down the length of the bed. It took my eyes a moment, because the movements were so tiny, but the little twitches of his body, I realized, were actually him shivering from the cold. 

Without hesitation, I pinched the fabric on either side of his bed, and gently lifted the covers, lowering them back down over his shoulders. He immediately gripped the comforter, curling into a ball, still trembling. 

You know, I have a much warmer place where you can sleep… 

The thought came instantly, and surprised even me. I could picture him, clear as day, nestling inside my chest, bright blue eyes peering up at me before curling up and falling asleep there. The image alone made my face burst with color and I couldn’t help but draw my hand back in a flinch of embarrassment. 

As my left hand recoiled, my fingers knocked the corner of his bedside table, kicking it off balance, and sending its contents sliding to the wooden ‘floor’ below. 

CRASH!!!!

The tiny ceramic mug and saucer shattered on impact. 

Shit!

He jolted upright, brow furrowed, eyes wide and chest heaving. As guilt washed over me for waking him so suddenly, I sat there, frozen and dumbfounded.

He looked around himself, trying to discover the source of the noise. His eyes flashed quickly to the floor below, now littered in ceramic fragments, but they soon wandered, to his left, where, caught in the act, my right finger and thumb still clutched his comforter and lingered dangerously close to him. 

He looked back down at the mess, back to my fingers, and then for the briefest moment, locked eyes with me, before turning away swiftly. I couldn’t help the heat rising to my cheeks as we both pretended not to notice the awkward tension in the room. He’d clearly made up a narrative in his mind for what had just happened. I tried to say something in my own defense, but the words just stuck behind my clenched jaw. 

As if on cue, we both frantically tried to busy ourselves with cleaning up the little broken pieces of ceramic. 

Alexander swung his legs over the side of the bed, but before resting his feet on the floor, I sucked air between my teeth, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Careful! I don’t want you to step on any of the pieces!” 

He rolled his eyes, firmly planting himself on the floor with gusto, and rising to standing, “I’m not blind, Natalie, I can see where and where not to watch my step perfectly well, all by myself.” 

I sighed, trying not to take it personally. Turning my attention to the task at hand, I licked the tip of my finger and pressed the pad down on the first tiny piece, before a little voice cut in down below.

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

Was that some sort of trick question? “… Just picking these pieces up?” 

“Are you coating them in your saliva? Don’t do that. That’s disgusting! Are you not going to reassemble it later?” 

As someone who was supposedly not blind, how could he not see that this tiny mug was smashed to oblivion? 

“Dude, these pieces are absolutely tiny, how else am I supposed to pick them up?” 

He huffed, clearly dissatisfied with my answer,  “Get out of the way, just let me do it.” He took an unsteady few steps forward, careful to avoid the sharp pieces, before batting at my fingers and shooing me off. 

Seeing I wasn’t budging, he ignored me and bent down to pick up a piece. I could see it pained his knee. I winced. 

“Hey, don’t strain yourself—“ 

“I’m fine, stop worrying about me all the time…” he reached for a particularly gnarly piece with a razor’s edge point. I couldn’t help myself, I swooped in and pinched it between my fingers before he could.

“Hey!!” He scowled, clearly incensed. 

“I’m just saying, this is super sharp… it looks awfully big compared to your hands. It’s easier if you just let me…” as I held it before him, comparing his size to it, his hands flew up to snatch it from me. 

I pinched the piece tighter between my thumb and my forefinger, just as he wrapped his little fist around it. His brow arched, as he scowled up at me. 

“Let go!” He pulled back, hard, but his little effort did nothing to sway me. 

“Look, I’m not trying to be an asshole here, I just don’t want you to accidentally—“ not listening to me, he pulled on it again, this time really leaning his weight against me. I could see him boil as he couldn’t so much as move me an inch. I pulled back in response, not hard. Or at least, I didn’t think so, but it broke his grip anyway, and he lost his balance, falling backwards as he let go of the piece. I gasped. 

Too far now to fall back on the mattress, his arms swung in the air as he tried to steady himself. I slipped my free hand behind him just in time for him to collapse into the cup of my palm. I muttered my sincere apologies as he recovered against the wall of my hand. 

He grimaced at me, “Don’t want me to what? Accidentally cut myself??” His face broke into a self-satisfied grin, as he crossed his arms over his chest. I couldn’t help but follow his gaze, down to my fingertip. 

Having successfully wrestled the piece from his tiny grip, and being distracted by his fall, I hadn’t noticed that the sharp little edge had managed to slice my finger open, and a bead of crimson liquid now bubbled to the surface. 

“Mmm, what was that, again? You were worried I might accidentally hurt myself??” He was over the moon. 

“Okay, alright.” I sighed. He kept beaming up at me, his crooked little smile lighting up his features. I kept going at his insistence, “You win. You were right. I should’ve shut up and just let you do it.” 

“Will you repeat that again and let me record it?” 

Little nightmare. I broke into a grin, shaking my head, “You were right. You’re almost always right. I should listen to you more often, but I’m just a big dumb, clumsy human. There, ya happy?” 

He pushed himself up and away from my hand, eyes gleaming. He was about to retort when I noticed the drop of blood was about to overflow and drip down the side of my finger. Letting the ceramic piece clatter back down to the table I stuck my finger in my mouth and sucked to staunch the blood. 

Upon seeing this his face twisted in disgust, “Again, with the licking! Stop with the licking. That’s disgusting! What is wrong with you?”

I smiled, arching my brow. Taking my finger out, I addressed him again, “Oh? What did you say? You think this is gross?” I approached him with my spit covered finger. 

He shifted his weight back, on the defense, “Natalie… don’t you dare…” 

I kept coming closer, “What about this is gross??” He backed away as I kept closing in the space. 

He’d retreated as far as he could, when he collapsed on the bed, trying to squirm away. Getting desperate, he grabbed a pillow and hurled it at me, of course it had no more consequence than a cotton ball. Then he threw the other. He was mumbling protests, warning me not to get any closer, but I could see the smile that briefly played on his lips before he tried to hide it behind a deeper scowl. 

Before he could scramble over the opposite side of the bed, I’d managed to almost pin him against the headboard, my fingertip floating just an eighth of an inch or so over his chest. 

Suddenly, looking at him, sprawled on the bed, little ribcage heaving as his neck arched, his eyes wide and his breath panting, I felt like we weren’t just playing a stupid game anymore. The air between us was electrified, and I could feel the heat rise in my face. He flushed too, swallowing hard, gripping the sheets beneath him into balled fists. 

Then suddenly, “Y-you’re bleeding again…” his voice was strained, tight. 

Shit. He was right. I pulled back, cradling my finger to keep blood from spilling. I crossed away from him and grabbed a bandaid from the bathroom, making sure to wash my hands before I returned to the bedside. 

He was right where I’d left him, though his posture was slightly more relaxed. He watched quietly while I struggled to open the packaging with one hand, that smug little grin still on his face. 

I ignored him, all while he stared on, delighting in my failure. Finally, he cleared his throat. 

Sighing in defeat, I offered him the bandaid and my mess of a finger. He sat up, eyes aglow. I was never gonna hear the end of this was I? 

He gripped the paper package between two hands and with some effort, managed to rip it in two. Then, taking my bloodied finger in his lap, he rested his whole hand over the top of the bandaid, keeping it in place on my wound, while he reached beneath and pulled at the tab. He ripped it away in one graceful motion, even if it took him the entire length of his arm to do it. Then, he tackled the other, switching hands. Without looking up, he addressed me. 

“… It’s best that I do this for you. If I’d left it up to you, it would be a crooked, uneven mess with irregularities and folds in the bandaging. And guess who has to deal with that, up close and personal, on a daily basis? Don’t flatter yourself, this is in my own best interest. I’m only doing this so I don’t have to have my skin forcibly exfoliated by uneven edges.” As he spoke, he very gingerly and precisely folded one adhesive edge along the side of my finger, and then the other, wrapping them neatly with no overlap. I could feel my heartbeat in my finger tip, as it quickened. 

It wasn’t often that he touched me. Not willingly and not for this long. He checked his work with nimble fingers, and seeming satisfied, he held my finger between his two hands, before looking up at me. 

Suddenly, he let go, casting his gaze down and clearing his throat, “Done.” He mumbled simply. It was as though he only noticed the intimacy of his actions after the fact.

“Alexander?” I gently guided his chin with the tip of my thumb, “Thank you. That was very sweet of you.” 

He went bright red, he shifted in his seat, “That wasn’t— I’m not sweet. I told you I did it to benefit myself.” It’s like he had an instant angry button.

Uh huh. I smiled at him. His brow furrowed. 

“What??” He snapped, “What are you looking at me like that for?” 

“Always gotta be on the defensive, huh?” 

“Well in my experience with you, it’s highly necessary. Shall I harken back to just a minute ago when you tried to slather me in your spit??” 

“Alright, touché. Look. I’m sorry about accidentally waking you so suddenly…” 

He furrowed his brow as if to say, “…and?” 

“And for fighting you on cleaning up… And torturing you with germs. I owe you. It wasn’t exactly the best morning. I know we’ve got a lot of work to get back to…” 

“Yes, finally! I thought you’d never ask!” He sat up and rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. 

“Wait—“ 

“Ugh!!! He groaned and immediately collapsed back against the bed. Always with a flair for the dramatic, with this one!

“Hear me out. I’d like to make it up to you with something I think you’ll be really excited about. Would you be willing to come with me out of the apartment for a little while?” 

************** 

Leave? As in… Outside? The last time we’d done that had been an utter disaster. 

Looking up at her face, though, that gleam of excitement in her eye, I couldn’t help feeling giddy too. This was new territory for me: Surprises. Well, I should say, surprises with positive connotations were a new phenomenon. 

I realized that even as recently as a few weeks ago, my stomach would’ve turned in knots at the very idea of allowing her to whisk me away to wherever she wished, and, being utterly powerless to stop her, filled with dread that it would culminate in some kind of sick joke, with me as the punchline. 

But… now?

I knew at my very core that I trusted her. Despite her stupid, tasteless jokes and misplaced worry, I knew her delight was genuine and that she really wanted to brighten my day. What a strange feeling to admit that to myself, even if only inside my own head. 

I trusted her. If she wanted to take me somewhere, I’d let her. If she told me it was worth looking forward to, I believed her. 

Did the concept of leaving these familiar walls behind for a world filled with unpredictable, disagreeable and altogether unintelligent humans frighten me? Though I’d never admit it out loud, the answer was yes. 

It was a big world out there. I knew that now more than ever before. 

But I’d be okay. 

I chose to trust.

I swallowed, “Okay.” I shook my head in the affirmative.

“Wow. Really??” 

“What? Do you want me to go or not?” 

“No, of course I want you to… I just. That was way easier than I thought. No interrogations? No million follow up questions? You’re like… cool with me just surprising you? You feeling alright?” 

“You act as though I’m some sort of rigid automaton incapable of deviation from the norm! I can be spontaneous when I choose to be. All I will say is that this had better be worth my time to pull me away from my work like this.” 

“The boring old case documents aren’t going anywhere, and I promise, you’ll love it. Get ready and I’ll meet you back here in a few, okay? Oh! And hold on…” She suddenly rose from the bedside and disappeared into the bathroom again. The sound of water running briefly hit my ears before she returned, a damp washcloth in hand. “Stay still…” she plucked up my two pillows, that had been tossed in self defense, between her fingers and set them aside, before clutching either side of my bed in a loose grip, and lifting it up off the table’s surface. I clung to the bed sheets as she suspended me and my entire bed in the air with little effort. She smiled at me, I tried to focus on keeping my heart rate down. 

Using the wash cloth, she carefully gathered all the shattered ceramic into a dusty pile. Once satisfied that the place where my bed usually lay was free of any debris, she set me back down. I breathed a sigh of relief. 

She pinched the pile of broken tea cup inside the towel and lifted it off the table, and after wiping with the damp edge for anything left, she looked satisfied, “That’s what we should’ve done in the first place, huh?” 

Then I wouldn’t have gotten to bandage your finger. 

The thought rose to the surface, unchecked. I used a hand to brush my hair out of my eyes and shake it off. It unfortunately didn’t dissipate until she finally rose from the bed to get ready. 

I wasn’t sure how much more my cardiovascular system could take these constant adrenaline spikes. I sucked in a clean lungful of air, before pushing to standing, and grabbing my crutch for balance this time, I made my way to my vanity to ready myself. 

As I washed my face, the cool water breathing fresh life into my pores, I couldn’t stop wondering just what she had planned. Was it another outdoor excursion, perhaps to a nearby park, to admire the snow on the trees? Or maybe something simple and domestic, yet still novel for me, like taking me to the grocery store and having me help her pick out her next recipe? I didn’t find the prospect of being around that many humans particularly thrilling. My mind was still abuzz when I heard her re-enter the room, her muted footsteps giving her position away, as she asked if I was ready. 

Now in a fresh pair of black joggers and a sky blue sweatshirt, (how I loathed the endless parade of elastic pants and thick, unflattering lounge wear) I turned to face her. She stood before and above me, her hands in the pockets of a lavender winter coat, a thick scarf spooled about her neck in circular layers. She laid her hand flat for me, and once I settled in the middle of her palm, my crutch over my lap, she lifted me up. She held me before her breast pocket, and my heart quickened again, remembering the recent, embarrassing bout with that region of her body. 

Still, traveling in there, where I could see and stay upright was much better than being shoved into a side pocket or purse. I shuddered at the thought. 

She pinched the breast pocket open, showing something else, shiny and plastic, stuffed inside. Seeing my confusion she clarified, “It’s a hand warmer, you know, to keep you nice and cozy…” 

I scoffed, “You don’t have to coddle me…” She pressed a thumb into my back and curled her fingers around me until my legs dangled free, as she held me about the middle. 

Slowly she lowered me into the pocket, as I continued, “I’m not that susceptible to— Oh- Oh my….” It felt amazing. 

Warmth radiated from the plastic packaging, creating a cocoon of comfort on all sides. My muscles relaxed immediately upon being fully placed inside. 

“Thought you’d like that…” She smiled to herself. Points to Natalie, she was right for once. “Come on, let’s go…” She smiled down at me. I nodded, hugging the fabric edge of the pocket to my chest as I folded my arms over the lip. She started to walk through the apartment and out the door. 

It filled me with far greater joy than I dared to admit to see the world from this incredibly high vantage point. It was much lower than her point of view, I knew, but it was still a significant upgrade for me. I used this marvel to distract me from the soft undulation of her body against my back and the thumping of her heart which I could still feel through the thick fabric of her clothes. 

She opened the door and we were greeted with an icy blast of wet, whipping wind. The second we were outside, the fingers of her left hand rested over the pocket, her index lightly caressing my elbow, “You alright? Warm enough?” The bare skin that was exposed to the elements was far from comfortable, but the rest of me was so delightfully warm that I answered in the automatic affirmative to her question. 

Soon we were sheltered from the elements inside her car. She was careful to adjust her seatbelt to keep it from crossing over me. Then, we were off, the machinery of the vehicle rumbling in the freezing air as she navigated the snow and ice on less traveled roads. 

I admit, the vibration of the car, the steady rhythm of the drum that was her heart, coupled with the delicious, manufactured warmth of the pocket made me extremely sleepy within just a few minutes of driving. I blinked hard. Fighting to stay awake. 

I woke up to her fingertip caressing my head, “Hey, good morning, Sleeping Beauty… we’re here.”  Who knows how long I’d been out. I squirmed in place, embarrassed I’d been so easily lulled to sleep. I rubbed my eyes and did my level best to wake up as she removed the key from the ignition and the great beast of machinery grew quiet. Using the textured fabric for purchase, I clamored my way back to an upright position. 

“Where’s here?” I choked out, the muscles of my face still coming to. I felt that sick twist in my stomach again. What was I about to walk into? 

Well, to put it more accurately, what was she about to walk me into? Did my palms feel sweaty? Was I nervous? Or excited? It was hard to tell. I craned my neck to look out the windshield, but it was no use. It was snowing again, in white, fluffy sheets, obscuring our view of anything beyond a few feet in front of the vehicle. 

“Come on, I’ll show you.” What was it?? Why was she being so cryptic? I shouldn’t have been worried, should I? My heart thundered in my chest. 

In a blur, she exited the car, and we were thrust out into the storm, I braced for the snowflakes to sting my eyes, but when I opened them, I realized I was being shielded by a cupped hand. Thank you, Natalie. All I could see was down below: the length of her woolen coat, down, down further, far, far away to the snow crunching under her boots. What a long and terrible fall that would be. 

I watched as snow and concrete transitioned to the aluminum threshold of a door. The clear tinkering of a bell greeted us as those snowy boots landed on a maroon welcome mat and creaking hardwood floors. 

I could hardly take it anymore. Where were we?!? 

In the same breath, she lifted her hand away, revealing our location to my cautious and curious eyes. 

No... Way…

___________________________________________

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