"Relax."

At the back of his mind, he wondered whether ordering someone to relax was not somewhat counterintuitive. He dismissed the thought as irrelevant.

"I promise that this won't hurt."

His patient nodded tersely, obviously trying to believe him. It wasn't as though he had any particular distrust of doctors, or Martians, or people, for that matter. He probably would've been every bit as nervous around a kitten. 'More, perhaps,' J'onn thought drily. The thought was not a comforting one.

The problem, he mused, was a lack of contact. Not telepathic contact, or physical contact. Any kind at all was a threat in his current state. It was an unfortunate side effect of long ('very long')-term isolation: any sort of attempt at interrelation was exhausting and difficult, if not frightening. Simply put, having been away from the world for too long had made the world too large and much too close. The circumstances of the isolation in question had certainly done nothing to help the situation.

'Perhaps I should have called someone else about this. At the very least, I could've consulted with Wally. Or Clark, maybe. Has anyone ever trapped him in Limbo or a wormhole or something? Difficult to remember, but probably. Everyone wants to be the one to destroy Superman.

'Even Bruce might've been able to say something. Not that he would've. Having him here, though, could have been useful. At the very least, he's not as threatening as… Come to think of it, this is probably best.'

"I'm going to initiate contact now," he murmured. (He'd noticed that anything above a low whisper sent his patient's hands, if not all the way to his ears, at least up from his sides.) "That means that I'm about to start," he added, noticing a lack of response.

O'Brian stiffened slightly, as much at the sound as in anticipation.

"Are you sure that this is such a –"

"We agreed that it was best that we make this quick," he replied, keeping his voice even. "After all, you're leaving soon."

"Yeah…" His shoulders slackened as he lost focus. J'onn waited respectfully before clearing his throat. "Oh, right, sorry. So… should I do anything?"

"No. Just relax. Lie down, maybe. Breathe, if it helps."

"It doesn't." He did, however, lie down on the small cot and fold his hands on his chest. (It occurred to Manhunter that he looked like a corpse, sans flowers.) He closed his eyes and halfheartedly moved his hands towards his ears. With a visible effort, he returned them to his chest.

"Would that make you more comfortable?"

He started, eyes flying open as he sat upright. "What?"

"Covering your ears. Would that help?"

In a moment, the shock turned to embarrassed weariness. "Dunno… maybe. I'm just not used to the – the noise, you know?"

"Of course. If you'd like, I can get you some headphones."

"No need. I'm fine. Just don't… don't talk too much, OK?"

He nodded, and after a moment of searching, determined staring, Plas returned to his former prostrate position, covering his ears as he did so. J'onn edged forward, gently tapping the other man's temples.

The sheer loneliness was astonishing. Years upon years of nothing: no sound, no light, nothing but silent, ephemeral thoughts. Even those became dull with time, worn out from repeated use, until memories were just pale memories of memories when they had once been impressions. Gradually, the color and light in his mind had vanished into the darkness of the ocean, replaced by the same, unrelenting blackness.

It appeared that those memories were his first priority. It was almost like dusting the furniture in someone else's attic: each piece, whether worthless or priceless, had to be treated with exceptional care. Faded antiques that hadn't seen the sun in centuries were slowly restored. Care had to be taken not to "scratch" or damage each item. The work was consuming, tiring, and irritatingly tedious. He could see at once that it would take much longer than he had anticipated.

As a result, he was not at all pleased when his charge removed his hands from his ears and began to stir restlessly.

"Please remain still," he muttered. "I need to focus." The silent, childlike look of guilt he got in response was more than enough of a distraction. He removed his fingertips.

"If you'd like, we can take a break."

"You sure?" His voice had, if possible, sunk below J'onn's.

"Yes. It's more than can be done in one session, anyway."

O'Brian sat up and stretched. He didn't extend his arms all the way, or even "all the way" by non-meta standards. The gesture looked somehow unnatural, as though he was afraid that his muscles would be unable to take the strain, or at the very least, that they would seize up from a lack of practice.

"So, you catch last Sunday's game?" He hadn't, and given the state of the world at the time, he doubted there had been a game. However, it was more than apparent that the phrase was just another test gesture, more an attempt at normalcy than a spontaneous question.

"I'm… afraid not. What sport was it?"

"Baseball. It's summer." The words were delivered in a monotone, not because the facts meant nothing, but because the emotional connection had been severed by absence.

"That will go away, you know."

"Hmm?"

"The indifference you're feeling. It's because you're out of touch. The feeling will come back."

"Oh." He stared at the plain gray wall of Manhunter's room. "It just doesn't feel real, you know? Like it happened thousands of years ago."

"It did."

"Not for you." He clasped his hands in front of his face, watching the interlacing fingers with fascination. "I still can't get used to having hands again." A cynical smile dragged across his tired face.

"How are you sleeping?"

"Not great. The sounds are keeping me up." He was still watching his hands. He didn't bother to use his powers, entertained by the mere presence of digits. (Come to think of it, he hadn't used them since the meeting in the conference room. Briefly, J'onn wondered if there was cause for concern.)

"I could probably arrange to have your room soundproofed. Steel would –"

"'– be happy to help,' I know."

He carefully rubbed his forehead. "I just want to be out of here. I mean, no offense, but it'd be nice to be around people who aren't worried about me. Besides, like I said, I want to see him."

J'onn didn't need to ask who "him" was. Instead, he got a glass of water from a pitcher on his table. (He could have used the room's sink, but he'd noticed that the sound of running water unnerved his patient.) O'Brian took it without complaint and drank it slowly, savoring the sensation of liquid in his throat.

"In that case, we should hurry this up."

"Right." He lay down, closing his eyes almost immediately.

J'onn J'onzz considered himself an ethical telepath. He did not use his abilities to cause pain, he did not search minds without permission unless lives were at stake, and he did not do anything to a friendly, open mind without the explicit permission of its owner. However, he couldn't bring himself to regret what he did next.

'Sleep,' he commanded, forcing the action into the nervous mind under his fingertips.

As O'Brian dozed off, he finally relaxed, arms drifting from his body to settle at random points. One ended up on his chest; the other dangled off of the cot.

'Alright. Now, where was I?'