Work Text:
Since remembering - remembering M'yri'ah, K'hym, Ma'aleca'andra - he has, paradoxically, understood this Earth less.
Or perhaps it is not paradoxical. Perhaps it is simply a natural consequence of no longer existing as a creature of Erdel's pulp sci-fi imagination, of no longer having that supposed baseline that was created from human stories. Ma'aleca'andra had been different, stranger, incomprehensible to the human mind and unpronounceable to the human tongue. He sings in his newly-remembered grief; he dances in his newly-understood isolation; he shifts and reaches out telepathically and finds that Earth no longer has any place for his new-old-always Being.
He finds that he had already been reaching out to the half-formed minds of his closest colleagues, his friends. No, not half-formed, but they do not have the... the correct receptors. There can be no communion, but the connection exists in an uneven, unequal way. Kal-El, Hal, Arthur, Dinah, Bruce. Barry - he can feel the connection he would have had if Barry had not perished in the last great catastrophe.
He must remember to sing for him, to dance for him. He must remember his now-understood physiology, that he will live on for centuries and all of them will die before him.
He does not speak of his new memories. He cannot, not yet. Dinah attempts to reach out when informed of the revelations that came from the burning; Bruce tries, in his own way, to indicate that he is open to knowing these things. J'onn knows he will take him up on that one day. J'onn knows he cannot speak of Ma'aleca'andra when he is still only half-knowing himself.
It is foolishness that leads J'onn to believe that he has time to meditate, to reintegrate, before the next disaster. He has been on Earth for almost two decades, her protector as a member of certain teams for almost one. There is no such thing as time on this embattled planet. First he is called back to the stars, led there by Barda when Scott is abducted and all signs point towards Apokolips. That by itself would not be so great a disaster, though his few remaining mind-connections are stretched to near breaking by the distance. He has survived in such isolation before.
No, it is the second disaster that forces him to abandon the idea of having time.
He is lucky that the disaster occurs when he is deep in meditation. He is already attuned to his mind-connections, able to draw strength from the stability of all the others while one seeks to tear him apart. No, not seeks, never seeks - his friends are not cruel, but they are non-telepathic. He can feel them practically unimpeded at will, and the strength of it would have overwhelmed his unready barriers even if he had been less open when it happened.
It. The disaster. The - The abomination. The fury-sorrow-screaming-pain that brings him to his knees, that tears through his hard-won peace and forces him to feel every horrible second of Ma'aleca'andra's destruction.
K'hym is cold and dead and mind gone (the boy is still warm) Her body calcifies even as he tries to shift her closer (the boy's body is broken) He screams for M'yri'ah, tries to reach into the flames (the flames of the explosion were close enough to singe him) He curses Ma'aleca'andra, curses the soil, curses every cruel twist of evolution that destroyed his everything (if he had been a minute faster he could have died with him)
"No!" J'onn screams. Perhaps it is not with his mouth. No one comes to his room, so there is no commotion. (the boy died alone) Perhaps it is telepathic, psychic, because the force of it causes every mind-connection he has to shudder and shrink back. (the boy died alone) His hands shift rapidly between human guises and alien appendages and claws, scrabbling for purchase. (the boy died alone and it's his fault and god no why PLEASE)
J'onn screams again and it sounds like nonsense even to him, half-English and half his native tongue, half his and half his mind-connection-friend's pain. He warps, transforms, tries to find a shape that can hold this grief. Someone knocks on the door now, and J'onn tries to hold himself together.
He does not know what has happened or even, really, who it has happened to. All he knows is that the boy is dead and the world is dead and someone is going to pay for this.
He manages to pull himself into something resembling his usual superhero form. He manages to dam the mind-connection slightly, to pull himself far enough away to not drown in the immensity of it. He manages to open the door, to reassure Ted that there is nothing immediately wrong.
Everything is wrong. There is little he can do at such a distance.
Until they return to Earth, he manages to keep the dam in place and focus on his duty. He doesn't understand the reason for the fury-sorrow-screaming-pain until two weeks into the aftermath.
The truth - or part of it - is revealed when Superman comes to New York.
Max had mentioned that Superman had turned down their offer of League membership. Max made it sound like an insult, but the slightest tug on his connection with the Kryptonian had revealed that deeper feelings, deeper sorrow is at play. J'onn doesn't know the specifics, though he has his suspicions. Something about the way his connection with that mind is still bleeding, something about how his closest are all in the wind. Both Batman and Dinah, supposedly members of the League, have been... distant, their visits to the headquarters infrequent. Arthur and Hal have larger things than one team to consider.
And Superman, despite his firm rejection, is the one to speak to J'onn first. Not before Max makes another play for Superman's membership, of course, but J'onn puts a stop to that as quickly as possible. Kal-El's true purpose here is more important.
"You turned down League membership," J'onn says as soon as they've retreated to his private room.
"Yes," Kal says. "I- Yes, I thought it was best." J'onn waits. "I really am quite busy. I wouldn't want to make a commitment to the team and wind up letting you down-"
"Don't try to lie to me, Kal," J'onn says. Kal falls silent. J'onn presses up against his mind, just a little, just enough to encourage him.
"Have you seen Batman since you- got back?" he blurts out.
"Once or twice. He has been less... communitive than I have become accustomed to."
"You're the only one who's ever accused him of being communicative," Kal says. He's bitter. He doesn't want to be bitter, he feels it's unfair, but he is bitter.
"You and he were always close."
"We haven't been that way for a long time," Kal says. "That was - That was kid's stuff. Back when the League - the real League - started, we didn't know how young we were. We thought we were invincible, but then-" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. "The point is, we grew up, grew apart. Maybe that's why this whole thing is so... difficult to manage."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you know what happened at the U.N. while you were off in space?" J'onn purses his lips. No, he doesn't. He had returned, found the J.L.I. in the same position geopolitically that they had been before their little trip to rescue Scott, and promptly stopped looking. He had been more concerned with his mental distress than with the fate of the world.
It had been an error, one that should not have been made by the League's leader. He had assumed he could trust Max in this, at least, but...
"Tell me," J'onn says.
"There was an... an incident with the Joker," Kal says. "I don't know the details of what happened, not everything, but Robin-" He chokes on his own words. (i wasn't there i wasn't there i wasn't there) "He killed Robin. Joker manipulated his way into the U.N., made himself untouchable, but Br- Batman wasn't having it. Obviously. They called me in to keep him under control."
"And you did so?"
"The fate of the world was at stake!" J'onn had reached into M'yri'ah's pyre, burning his hands and filling his nostrils with the scent of charred meat. J'onn had carried K'hym away from the flames even when she was beyond his or anyone else's help. "You can't honestly think- Anyways, we had words. I didn't learn everything - Bruce and I are not that kind of close, not like we used to be. Bruce broke his hand on my face. It was... awful to see him so out of control."
"But you did stop him."
"Well, Joker tried to gas the entire U.N., so it became a bit of a moot point after that," Kal says. "Bruce was- I honestly think he meant to murder him, truly murder him, or die trying. I had to rescue him from a crashing helicopter and everything. I scoured the harbor for Joker's body, but I couldn't find it. No one could have survived a crash like that, but still. I - I couldn't even do that for him."
"Mag'hwal," J'onn mutters. There is no direct translation he can find when he does a quick mental scan of the English-speaking humans in a 3-mile radius. It is like traitor, but more personal. It is like enemy, but more emphatic. Once-loved. Death-by-turning. A mind, once shared, that one can never share again, not in good conscience.
He will not unmake his mental connection with Superman. He already has so tenuously few. But he cannot look the man in the eye knowing that the thing that murdered Batman's child could be out there, alive, free. A cage in deep space would be an undeserved mercy. A pyre would be preferable, and J'onn is not usually one to imagine this kind of destruction by his hands.
"I don't know what to say," Superman says. "D- Nightwing keeps calling me. He's hurting and worried and the worry makes the hurting worse. He's staying out of Gotham for both of them. I tried dragging Bruce to Smallville, just to get him out of there too, but it wasn't-" He sighs. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing."
"We have lost friends before."
"That's different, J'onn. You should know that. Everyone else- You know, Ma and Pa found me when they were in their 40s. I went to my last family funeral in middle school. And everything since then's been either civilians or... teammates. Just teammates, and we're all grown adults who know the risks." Superman presses a thumb and forefinger to his eyes. "So I don't- I don't have the words when it's-"
"His son." Superman swallows. Nods. "I understand."
"You see now why I've been keeping my distance," Superman says. "I'd join, I really would, but every time I think about it I just... He doesn't trust me. There's no reason why he should. I wasn't there the one time he needed me, and every time we've talked since I've just- put my foot in my mouth."
"Still, you call him your friend. You should try-"
"I already told you, we're not that kind of close anymore," Superman says, pushing away from the wall he'd been leaning on and heading for the door. "I'll just make it all worse. I've already made things worse." He glances back, grimacing. "Sorry, J'onn."
"Don't be," J'onn says. "I understand your... position." That doesn't mean he condones it. That doesn't mean he won't try to do better than Superman when it's his turn to provide impossible comfort.
Before he can find a way to have the necessary conversation, to provide companionship even if there is no comfort that can be given, Batman leaves the League.
It had been inevitable, really. He had always held himself slightly apart from the rest of this iteration of the League, willing to cut ties the moment he felt it necessary. The fact that he had found himself in opposition to the U.N., their supposed oversight, twice in less than three months had only caused that distance to grow.
There's nothing else to do. J'onn puts on the face of John Jones and makes his way to Gotham.
In cities, the concentration of various minds creates a dense web. No two cities feel the same, and with practice a Martian can learn to read the overall psychic aura of the masses accumulated there. J'onn has been to Gotham before - not often, but more often than most would expect. He knows what it should feel like. Gotham has changed.
Cities are complex psychic ecosystems, but knowing why they change from their psychic baseline is usually quite simple. A warm, sunny spring day after the doldrums of winter will bring brightness. A gang war or incident of police brutality will bring a simmering fear and anger. Gotham feels a bit like that at most times, but at the moment... at that moment the simmer is threatening to turn into a rolling boil.
He has his suspicions as to the reason.
It is easy to track down Batman. He only has to follow the psychic bond that connects them. He cuts through alleyways until he finds himself in a section of Gotham even more run-down than is usual for this city. He is quite near Batman's location, he knows that, but he cannot sense precisely where the man is.
"I know you are here, Batman," he says, pairing his audible voice with a tug along their bond. There is no immediate sign of Batman in the physical realm, but J'onn can feel the man's attention focusing on him through the bond. Good. "I have spoken with Superman and know some of what happened now. I'm sorry." He pauses. Still no sign. "If there is any assistance I can offer-"
"No." There. J'onn looks up and sees Batman, half-hidden in the shadows behind a large gargoyle. In a moment he has flown up to join him, shifting easily from his human disguise to the more comfortable semi-Martian form. This close, the psychic aura surrounding Batman is almost overwhelming, all sorrow-sorrow-rage-pain-sorrow. J'onn firms up his mental shielding just so he can bear to stand so close.
"Bruce," he says.
"Get out of Gotham, J'onn," Batman says. J'onn ignores him for the moment.
"You are injured." Batman- Bruce turns away from him, hiding his face. "You are injured, you are tired, and your mind is in horrible pain."
"Didn't I already tell you to leave?"
"I am worried for you, my friend." Bruce grunts dismissively, but J'onn can feel his tortured resolve faltering. They have never been open with each other, not verbally. Sometimes J'onn wonders whether he overestimates their closeness - no matter how impressive Bruce's mental shielding is for a human, a great deal leaks through. He is familiar to J'onn on an instinctive, psychic level, while J'onn is only known to him in the physical.
Perhaps it doesn't make so much of a difference. Human beings are strange like that. They understand connection without feeling it, without knowing in the same way J'onn knows.
Perhaps that not-knowing is the reason why Bruce has not come to him with this horrific burden. Perhaps it is the fact that J'onn can know that makes his words feel so worthless.
"I know it may not appear to be so at this time, but you are not alone in this," J'onn says. "You have allies, teammates, and friends. They will be willing to help, if you need it. And I do understand your pain."
"You don't- You can't understand this," Bruce says. "I don't- I don't care how much you read off my mind, J'onn, you can't understand this." M'yri'ah, K'hym, Ma'aleca'andra. J'onn doesn't blame Bruce for forgetting. He has only recently remembered it himself, after all.
"I watched my wife consumed by the flames, her presence gone from me forever," J'onn says. "I carried my daughter until she, too, was lost. I felt all my mind-bonds snap one by one, once." He reaches out, tangling his fingers in Bruce's cape. It's ragged. He isn't taking care of himself. "I will not lose your mind as well, a'dheis."
A hand grips his arm tight. J'onn braces himself against the onslaught of guilt-gratitude-pain-sorrow-guilt.
"J'onn, I- I didn't-"
"I know. I am not offended. You know this."
"I-" Bruce starts again, and then he stops. His grip grows even tighter. It is as though J'onn is the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. His breath is loud and choking in his throat, and as J'onn watches Bruce seems to collapse inward, shoulders drawing forward, body hunching. He's trembling faintly, imperceptible to even the Martian eye but able to be felt through his touch.
"Bruce," J'onn says, "you can speak to me." Bruce shakes his head.
"I can't," he says. "I can't - I can't do this. I can't."
"I will remain regardless," J'onn says.
"Don't-" Bruce sucks in a long, deep breath. "I got him killed."
"This is not your fault."
"I got him killed!" J'onn does not try to contradict Bruce again, not yet. "I - I left him outside that warehouse, I knew his mother was there, I knew he would be tempted to- but I left him. I had to stop the Joker's plans, but- And I was so close. That's what really kills me. I felt the heat of the explosion when it went off, I felt it. Two, maybe three more minutes, and I would have been able to save him. I should have saved him. I- It was possible. I should have saved him."
"You did everything you could have done."
"No," Bruce says. "No, no, you don't understand. If I hadn't- And even before, he ran off, he didn't think he could talk to me. I could have saved him then, but the Joker- And then the U.N.- I betrayed him all over again. He stopped me from killing the Joker once. He was- He was so angry, sometimes, but he stopped me from killing the Joker. And then I betrayed him twice over. I got him killed, and then I - I lost control and-"
"Bruce," J'onn says, "listen to me." Bruce falls silent, and J'onn gently pulls him closer. His friend leans like dead weight against him, but J'onn is stronger than any human. He can take the weight. "What was Robin's name?"
"Jason."
"You love him."
"Not enough. I- It wasn't enough. I got him killed."
"Bruce, look at me." Bruce turns to face him reluctantly. "I know you. I know that you did everything in your power to save him. I know that what happened was not your fault."
"You don't know that. You don't know anything."
J'onn has lived longer than the longest human lifetime. He has known love and loss and loneliness. He has had to hold the knowledge, hard and painful and burning in his chest, that he will outlive all his present friends besides, perhaps, Diana and Kal. He has had to remember all those things anew, a fresh torrent of pain atop his old pain. He knows all these things, and he knows that Bruce's fury-sorrow-guilt-screaming-pain can be borne.
It will take time. It will take connection. But it can, must be borne.
"Will you trust me to take you somewhere?" J'onn says. Kal had already taken Bruce to Smallville, but J'onn wishes to take him elsewhere for a different purpose.
"Gotham-"
"You are already injured. I do not want to see you die tonight." Bruce turns away with a shamed grimace, a different guilt seeping into his maelstrom of emotions. He has been fighting beyond his limits, injured and reckless, as a sort of half-passive suicide. He does not like to be reminded that there are those who would mourn his passing.
"I can't- Whatever your plan is, J'onn, I don't think it's going to work."
J'onn knows. This cannot be fixed, only felt. He doesn't hope for his plan to work, so to speak. He only hopes that he can offer a kind of comfort that humans cannot.
"Please," he says. "I promise to return you before dawn." Bruce nods reluctantly, and then they are flying away.
The Nevada desert is vast, silent, and bright with stars.
When they land, Bruce stumbles away from him, pulling off the mask. Water pours in a single torrent down his face. Tears. Tears must have accumulated beneath the lenses of his cowl, unable to fall with his mask in place.
"Why here?" Bruce says. "Why bring me here, of all places?"
There are a few answers J'onn could give, none of them likely to satisfy a human. If Bruce could understand him, he would speak in Martian sonnets of love lost and mourned and let go to the winds of this desert. If Bruce could shapeshift, he would teach him how to shift on those same winds, allowing it to carry him until he no longer clung so desperately to the dead. If Bruce was a telepath, J'onn would offer him complete mental communion, forging a connection so deep and true that J'onn could help carry Jason forever.
None of those are possibilities. All J'onn can do is allow his half human, half Martian facade to melt away, allowing his form to simply be in all its contradictions. Solid, yet malleable. True, yet ever-changing. He stretches out tendrils of him to catch the winds, to feel the ways he and Bruce and the desert are connected through immaterial bonds.
"After I remembered," J'onn says, "after I allowed M'yri'ah and K'hym and all the ghosts of Mars to be carried in the arms of H'ronmeer, this is where I came. I came to mourn them with my new understanding." He turns to face Bruce, who is staring up at the stars with a horribly blank expression. "I was finally free to remember. I was finally free to let go."
"To let go," Bruce says, his voice flat. "Is that what you think I should do?"
"Both," J'onn says. "You must do both. Remember, because those we love still live in remembrance. Let go, because what you feel now... it is consuming you. I can feel it burning you alive through our mental bond. When you stop clinging to your grief and anger and guilt, you will be able to mourn in a way that honors Jason. You will be able to remember him, not just that he is gone."
"He is dead," Bruce says. "My son is dead. How the fuck am I supposed to stop remembering that? I wake up every single day and I'm hit with it - he's dead. I go to the office - he's dead. I go on patrol - he's dead. I sleep and I have nightmares. I felt him grow cold in my arms."
"And wouldn't it be better," J'onn says, "to remember more than just the end?" Bruce presses his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, forcing the tears not to fall.
"I wish-" he chokes out. J'onn allows his self, both physical and mental, to fan out further in the desert winds.
"You cannot let go and remember, not now. Not when the loss is so new," he says. "But I can show you how to mourn without clinging on too desperately."
The tendrils of his physical form begin to undulate, no longer simply carried by the wind but following it, racing ahead to form a dance alien to this soil. He leaps, bows, spins, flows. Parts of him go around and through Bruce as he dances - bits of his body made intangible, his whole mind bent on supporting his bond and the mind it connects to.
And then he sings. He sings in the language of his long dead planet, high and mournful and joyful all at once. For a time, both dance and song grow darker, invoking H'ronmeer as he recalls death and fire and water and pain.
Bruce screams, and his scream vibrates through song and mind and knits itself into the death-song's foundation. He's crying, sobbing, tears finally allowed to fall unimpeded. The pain is unimaginable, but it is not unbearable. J'onn will not allow it to drown out the song.
Because the song and the dance are changing again. No longer is it the fire and blood of H'ronmeer; the music brightens, the movements quicken, the bleeding is bandaged by the pure, clear light of the future-song.
First the past, the remembrance of what was. Then the present, the grief of what is. And then, finally, the future, the hope to honor the dead in remembrance come full circle, the hope of what will be.
It is not the future for Bruce, not yet. J'onn knows that his friend will be mired in this grief a while longer - perhaps a long while. That's alright. He will repeat the dance and the song as often as is necessary. When minds are connected, one needs not bear grief alone.
"Thank you," Bruce gasps as the death-song's last notes fade. On the horizon, the first hints of dawn turn the desert blue. "Thank you, J'onn."
