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who: Jon's CR + anyone who knew Clark Kent
what: Reaction to Clark's departure
when: 10th of August
where: The Superfam House
warnings: sads?? sads.

[ Jon didn't know what to do. Every action feels robotic. He sent out what texts he could about his father's departure from his phone and checking his father's contacts. He didn't bother checking for the replies. It buzzed quietly in a corner and it wall he could do to melt it down. He must have cried for hours when he found his father's letter, holding onto Annora until she protested his strong grip. After the sadness, the fear had finally sunken in. He was alone. There were no contingency plans, no promises he could follow. He didn't know what to do.

What about the house? Was Jon meant to protect it? Would Miss Jones take it away now that his father had left? He didn't want to leave. He couldn't leave. He curls up tighter with his blanket, trying to block out all the fears and doubts that plague his mind. Everything was so uncertain and Jon . . . Jon was scared. He didn't know how to stop. ]

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Jon doesn't come out and say it, so Natasha presses a little more. Gently. "Don't worry. I promise, my feelings aren't hurt that your father never talked to you about me. No reason to, really." Which is his opportunity to correct her if she's wrong.

She even reaches out a hand and snakes a couple of fries, dragging them through the ketchup squeezed out on the cardboard. Like it's already forgotten. Like it doesn't matter. It does, of course, but not for the obvious reason.

[ Jon frowns awkwardly, feeling bad on her behalf. Jon didn't really keep track of what his dad did and vice-versa. They just trusted each other. They had their promises and they knew what rules to follow. It was almost instinctive, the routines they fell into. Maybe he should have tried harder . . . gotten to know his other father better.

But there's no point thinking like that. Jon also knew who Superman was. ]

You can be a little mad . . . ? If you want.

[ He sighs, poking at his fries. ]

This dad was less over — [ He stumbles over the word. ] — overprotective. But he was still, y'know, my dad. I kind of wish he had some kind of plan though. For . . . now.

[ Every plan the Kents made. Safety measures, signals, call signs . . . it was all under the assumption that one of them would be there with Jon. Now he's completely alone. Manchester Black's face looms into view and Jon can't fully repress the shiver of fear. ]

Welp, there it is. And considering the number of children she's met in this city, the striking physical similarities, and now that she thinks about it, Clark was a dead ringer, too. She's willing to bet that no one is going to be seeing Superman in the skies any time soon.

That shiver of fear, though. Far more important right now.

"Hey, come on. None of that." She reaches out a hand and lays it on his shoulder, gently but purposefully. "There is a plan. It's my plan. Want to hear it?" She doesn't wait for him to respond before she continues talking. "A sweet kid like you, you're going to have honourary aunts and uncles lining up to take care of you. And if by some miracle you don't, and this would have to be a ridiculous billion to one shot, then I'll do it. At least until everyone else your father knew comes to their senses and figures out how much they want the job."

She is absolutely, without a doubt, completely positive that this is not going to be necessary. In fact, she's a little shocked that someone hasn't already stepped up to fill the role. She was expecting to knock on the door tonight and find people here with him, comforting him and picking up the slack. It's not that she thinks she's going to have to take care of him, it's about making sure he knows that there is no chance he's going to be left on his own. Yes, she's a relative stranger, and yes, she's probably not someone he wants to live with. The point is that he knows that the worst case scenario here still means he's looked after. He's not ending up in whatever passes for the system in this place.

[ Jon frowns lightly. He's not sure how he feels about honourary aunts and uncles. He's never had any before. Still, Jon could see Natasha's point. He has made plenty of friends, many of them far older than Jon. A part of him balks at strangers caring for him but . . . his world is just so much bigger now. ]

No one's that excited to take care of a kid.

"Are you kidding me? Sure they are." She's not even slightly exaggerating. Hell, even she used to get excited at the prospect of going to the farm and taking care of Cooper and Lila for the weekend. She loved spending time with those kids, with that whole family. It was hers.

She knows that's not the kind of thing he's talking about, but she also knows that if she can be that in love with children who aren't biologically related to her, then anyone can do it. "I'll bet you a bag of marshmallows you're going to have more than one person make the offer. You'll have your pick of company." She takes another bite of her burger. "We can eat them on the roof and watch the stars. Like we did before."

All right, maybe pointing out that she knows he's Superboy is not the most sensitive way to take his mind off of things, but she's pretty sure it'll be effective. Besides, the sooner it's out there, the sooner they can accept it and move past it.

[ Jon blinks before his expression goes sheepish. Whoops. He's never been good at keeping his secret and normally, he didn't need to. His social interaction was rather low and it was a herculean effort to keep it up in a closed off place. But his smile slowly unfurls as some of his anxiety melts away. ]

You're on.

What, uh, gave it away?

"Biggest thing?" She snags another fry. "I've never met Jon Kent before tonight, but you recognized me at the door immediately. Which you could have come back from. You had the opportunity to tell me your dad talked about me, maybe described me to you, but you didn't." He seems to have accepted that she knows, so that's good. Makes it all easier, for sure.

He must not be used to keeping this secret. It can't just be about his father being gone, or he'd be more conflicted now. "You also don't do too much to disguise yourself. The accent is the same, you don't alter your speech patterns, you wear your hair very similarly."

She shrugs. "You're not a very good liar." He hasn't tried to lie to her yet, but it's pretty obvious. "We'll have to work on that."

[ Not a good liar. No, he's never been that. He studiously looks at his food, not wanting to make eye contact. Lying is . . . difficult. Jon has never liked lying. He's never liked it when his parents did it and he doesn't like it now. He knew the reasons, knew what the bigger picture entailed but . . . It still sits wrongly with him. After what happened with Manchester Black and Kathy . . . it was too much. ]

A lot of people lied to me. My best friend . . . my neighbour. My teachers, our mayor. They were all lying to me. And I was lying to them. It was — it wasn't right. I know I have to. I know I have to do it better, protect who I am because people will . . . [ Jon trails off, his shoulders drooping. It's too much, sometimes, for a ten year old to live under that kind of paranoia. Juggling a normal life with an alien one. ]

I like to think the people here aren't like that. They can choose to be different.

God, that sad drop off of his little speech and the droop of his shoulders. Fuck it. Natasha sets her burger back on the table, scoots her seat right up next to Jon's, and wraps her arms around him. "Look, a lot of people are good, they will live up to your expectations and affirm your faith in humanity... but you'll never find a group of people who are all good. If it helps, don't think of it as lying. Think of it as playing a part. You are Jon, and Superboy is a role you take on. It's for your own good, and for the people around you. It's how you keep them safe. That's what you want to do, isn't it?"

[ Jon tenses for a split second before he relaxes. Suddenly he really missed his mother. She would have said the same thing. Both Natasha and Lois seem to have that practical nature that makes the world seem clearer. Unconsciously, he curls closer around her. ]

Yeah. If my dad's not here anymore . . . I've got to do it.

"So we're going to work on it." When he melts into her a little, she begins running her hand through his hair. Lila likes it when she does this. It calms the girl down almost immediately when she's upset.

He's some kind of superhuman with a slew of amazing powers and abilities, and sure, that's incredible, but he's also a ten year old boy. "I'll help you. There are tricks to make it easier. You've got to do it, but you don't have to do it alone." Because never mind that this is her second conversation with the kid, he needs someone to look after him in a way she knows she's more than capable of. Not only that, she's pretty sure he won't find anyone better than her. Not for this.

[ Jon nods, resting his head on her shoulder. Her heartbeat is steady. Calming. Jon has learned to trust that. Honing in on heartbeats and the way they work was one of the first things his father ever taught him. It was their safety net. ]

I could use that kind of help.

Probably for the best that Jon doesn't know how thoroughly Natasha could lie to him without her heartbeat tripping up in the slightest. She's being honest now, though thankfully not as vulnerable as the last time she opened up to someone. "Then you'll get it. You need me, I'm here. All right?"

Her hand is still moving slowly and steadily through his hair. "I know you like plans. Here's the plan for tonight. You're going to finish your dinner. Then we're going to bundle you up on the couch. I'm going to find something in your kitchen to make cocoa or tea or some other traditional comforting hot drink, and we're going to watch a movie. I'm going to stay with you until someone else gets here." Then she thinks about that one for a moment. "I'll stay until you want me to go." Who knows? The next person to turn up might be an even worse candidate for looking after a child than she is.

[ Jon lets the words flow into him, slowly sapping away the tension from his body. It was a plan. Something real that he could latch onto for now. Tomorrow might be a scarier day, but things seemed . . . better. Easier. He exhales softly and nods, determination filling back into his eyes. ]

Okay. I can manage that. Let me help too.

"I think that is a great idea," she says with one last squeeze before she sits back, though she does not move her chair away from him. "The first way you can help if by finishing your dinner. Does the whole Superboy thing mean your metabolism runs faster than normal?" She asks because of Steve, because she's seen how much that man can put away. If it does, there might not be any leftovers. "I want you to eat at least until you're physically not hungry any more."

And, because it seems rather hypocritical not to, she picks her burger up again and takes a huge bite. Finishing dinner. It's officially a joint effort before they get him settled and more comfortable. They can talk about everything that comes after, well... after.

[ Jon moves to take a few more bites of his burger. He seems much more at ease, though not at his happiest. At least he does not seem like he will lapse back into a gloomy state. In between chews, he replies. ]

Not really. I don't do as much as my dad, so I don't need to eat as much.

[ His father could eat a lot. Jon has seen him clean out the fridge in minutes. It frustrates his mother to no end. ]

Yup, sounds about right. Natasha just ruffles his hair and continues to eat her own burger in a show of solidarity, and not at all because it is delicious and she is hungry and maybe she's forgotten lunch today, like she does about half the time.

When she's finished, and Jon looks like he's actually had enough to fill him up, she nods her head decisively and slaps her hands on her knees. "Right. Kitchen, cocoa, possibly cookies. If you have cookies." She purses her lips. "I wonder if I could get cookies delivered. I'd try to bake you some, but that never ends well. I bet you could get cookies delivered. Probably have to buy a hell of a lot of them, though." She wanders into the kitchen to see what the Kents have on hand, trusting that Jon will follow her, the sound of her voice as she talks warm and steady.

The mostly random musing probably sounds like it's for her own benefit, but it's not. It's a proven technique for easing distress, or at least reducing the intensity of it. If a one-sided conversation is interesting or random enough that it can't be anticipated, and must be focused on to follow, but bland and inconsequential enough that no response or deep thought is required, the brain takes it in much the same way it does white noise. It quickly becomes a calming and grounding presence in the mind, auditory proof that one isn't alone while simultaneously providing the opportunity to zone out a little. She's not sure if Jon's brain is wired the same way a human brain is, but it can't hurt to try.

Taako makes cookies.

[ He says that absently, more akin to a non-sequitur. He collects the plates to put them in the dish washer, like he's been taught how to do. It's easy to lapse into chore-work, even though his parents aren't here to nag him into it. He closes the door. The house was oddly quiet. He left Annie in his room in case of visitors. It's been emptied out of all the things it could be. Natasha's rambling (a bit odd coming from her) washes over him. ]

You don't have to . . . [ Jon trails off. ] It's okay, you know. I'll be okay. You don't have to be . . . You can be you.

"This is me, kiddo. I'm just saying what I'm thinking." Natasha finds most of a gallon of milk in the fridge, and while there is no hot cocoa mix in any of the cupboards she checks, there is a jar on the counter that has chocolate bars in it. Good chocolate, high enough cocoa butter content to work, and no wax to bulk them out. Perfect. "Hot chocolate is a go," she says, holding one of them up before setting it on the counter and searching for a knife and a cutting board. "Would you put some milk in a pot on the stove and start heating it up?"

[ Jon opens his mouth to protest, but he realizes that she's not lying so he closes it awkwardly as he trails behind her, trying to ease himself into her momentum. When she asks him to find the milk, Jon's brain kicks into autodrive, used to performing simple tasks around the kitchen for his mother. He's terrible at making his own food, but he knew how to help and carry out instructions. ]

It's ready.

[ A beat. ]

So you're really . . . staying?

Natasha has been brutal on that chocolate bar with a knife from the drawer. She's good with knives. It's basically a powder at this point, and she comes over to dump it into the milk, whisk in hand to keep it from burning. She has learned that lesson the hard way, more than once.

"Really. Yes."

She can't blame him for not understanding. It's an odd thing. She doesn't know him, and he doesn't know why she's offering. So she turns down the heat on the milk and gives Jon her full attention. "All right. Here's the deal. I'm a very good liar. Exceptional, really. But I won't lie to you. On two conditions." She holds up one finger. "One, things I talk about with you, you don't talk about with other people. Even if you don't think it's important. Just because I'm being honest with you doesn't mean I would do that with everyone." A second finger joins it. "Two, if I'm not going to lie to you, then you have to respect when I say I don't want to talk about something. Being honest isn't the same thing as being an open book, and I'm definitely not an open book." She cocks her head at him, and holds out her hand to shake. "Deal?"

[ Jon mulls this over with an uncanny somber expression. None of those terms seem unreasonable. It's not as though Jon doesn't have his own secrets that he keeps close. He certainly hasn't told anyone except maybe Dick the full truth about anything. Jon may not be fond of lying, but he understands the necessity of it. Finally he takes her hand, shaking it firmly. ]

Deal. I get having your own secrets.

He gets it, he's just not good at it. Yet. They will work on it.

She smiles as he shakes her hand. "Good." When he lets go of her hand, she turns back to the stove and dips a spoon into the pot of hot chocolate to test it. She'd turned down the heat in order to talk to him, but it's hot enough now. Maybe not perfect, could be a bit too sweet. Maybe she shouldn't have used as much chocolate. Still, it's good, and the point is to be comforting. "All right, I think we're good here. You said something about taco cookies?" She's pulling a couple of mugs from the cupboard, and pouring the chocolate into them over the sink.

Not taco. Taako.

[ He stresses on the name to the best of his ability. ]

He's my dad's best friend. He's a really good cook. He got me cookies the last time I was . . . kind of sad.

[ "Kind of sad" is a tactful way of saying "I remembered hurting my family and friends while being mind-controlled. Also I saw the future and everything was on fire." It's probably one of the few secrets Jon can't recount very well. He tried initially, when his feelings and memories were a blur of pain and fear. Now most of that has tapered off, but it has left a wound. ]

"All right. Taako cookies," she says, putting the same emphasis and inflection on it that he just did. "Cookies and hot chocolate. We'll find a silly movie. Come on. Chop chop." She's not going to let him dwell on the last time he was sad any more than she's going to let him dwell on being sad now. She doesn't want him to forget it or get over it, she knows it doesn't work that way, but you don't have to shine a spotlight on pain. It's always there, waiting for you, no matter how much real estate you give it in your active thoughts.

She ruffles his hair as she passes by him to get mugs. Maybe he'll know what she means - that she's here for him, that setting sadness aside doesn't mean you're being disloyal to memories, that he's never going to be alone. Maybe he won't. Either way, she's as kind and gentle with him as she knows how to be, the same way she is with her own niece and nephews.

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