Something inside of her has broken. Snapped, like a twig.
He holds her close and wills her to trust him. Come on out, he whispers. It's okay. No one is going to hurt you. I won't let them.
Promises in the dark are what he gives to her and he wills them to work. He sits next to her, wrapping his arms around her and stroking his fingers up and down the lengths of her arms. Goosebumps ripple out across her skin, but she still doesn't move. Silent tears fall from her eyes. He asks her if she wants something, and he waits for her reply.
But she's too far gone. Her eyes stare off blankly into a vision that isn't there. Her hands grip his, cold and sweating.
She's been like this for two months. The others have stopped trying to fix her, have given up on trying to heal her. Sure, they'll visit now and again. They'll sit awkwardly in the armchair by the corner and watch her, try to ask her a question and won't receive an answer. Then they'll give up. As easily as if she had never been there in the first place.
But not him. Not Conner. No, every morning he gets up and he walks down into the kitchen. He puts toast in the oven and cracks eggs onto a skillet. He carries a tray up to her room, where she'll be wrapped up in three blankets, all of which have been knotted in her fingers since midnight. She'll whisper something incoherent as she stirs, and then her eyes will open. He'll smile sadly at her, and she won't know who he is.
He'll sit at the foot of her bed, introduce himself yet again. She'll blink at him, not understanding but simply accepting. He'll awkwardly offer her the food and watch as she eats it. The toast doesn't bring back any memories like he always hopes it will. She used to always make toast for him, because it was his favorite. It reminded him of home…whatever or wherever that was.
She'll finish eating. He'll take away the plate and ask her what she wants to do today. Of course she won't answer. Her replies are generally non-existent, and if they do exist, they aren't more than a nod or a shake of the head or sometimes an unintelligible word or two.
He'll offer his arms. Her face will contort with fear and he'll rest a hand on her shoulder. I won't hurt you. He'll lift her up, one arm supporting her knees, the other holding her back. He'll carry her, marriage style, down the stairs. She won't ask him why it's so easy for him, why he doesn't grunt when he lifts her. She won't pause to think about the fact that he has super strength. Sometimes he wonders if she thinks about anything at all.
He'll let her watch TV. She likes the cooking shows, the ones that she used to learn from back when things were…normal. She stares at the screen blankly, with her mouth closed and those beautiful brown eyes wide, as if Rachel Ray was quite possibly the most astonishing woman this side of the planet. He, on the other hand,watches Rachel Ray and thinks that she's nothing compared to Megan.
Megan. He'll shift his eyes over to her, glancing at her every few moments to make sure she hasn't broken down again. Megan, who's just as lovely as she was before this all started. Megan, with the green skin and the red hair and the freckles. And the smile that doesn't appear anymore, not even for him.
Megan. Who always watched out for him, even when he was alone and angry. Megan, who he'll stay with until his body rots in its grave.
He'll go out onto the porch and sit on the swing. He'll stare out at the Kansas fields and wonder what in the world happened to make his life quite like this. He won't cry; that's not in his nature. But he'll sit there and watch the grey clouds move by and wonder. His light blue eyes will follow the clouds and he'll count them, thinking he'll tell her how many he saw today. She'll like that.
He'll lose track of time. He'll daydream, of days when life was easy. He'll think of Robin and what "aster" meant, of Aqualad and apologies, of Artemis and lies. He'll think of Young Justice and become violently and oddly homesick. He won't understand the feeling and so will try and push it aside. He'll think of Megan and the way she looked on the beach, all those weeks ago.
He'll only be pulled out of his thoughts by the sudden sound that rattles through his bones and seizes hold of his breath. He'll turn around and run back into the house, trying to ignore how much the shrieks bother him. He'll find her in the same place every time. In the guest bathroom, her back leaning against the floral wallpaper, tears streaming down her face as she sobs and sobs for no apparent reason.
He'll immediately sink to his knees beside her, pulling her into his arms and pressing her to his chest. He'll let her cry because he knows there isn't a way to stop her. Whatever she sees in her mind, it's beyond his control. Occasionally, he'll whisper a soft "Shhh, M'gann," but it always sounds strange coming from his mouth. He doesn't have any right to tell her to be quiet, after whatever torture she must be going through.
He holds her for a minimum of two hours every day. On really bad days, it can be as long as three. She'll press her face into his chest and her tears will soak through his t-shirt, as he gently laces his fingers through her hair. He doesn't look at her—that would be too hard—but instead stares out the window. Back at the clouds. And he remembers.
He remembers when this all began. He remembers her laughing, carefree smile and the way she dove forward into every mission with such exuberance, such determination. He remembers how much he admired her for that.
He remembers the last mission like it was yesterday. He remembers the team preparing, setting up the rules, the guidelines, the details. Going through everything that they would have to face, equipping themselves for a mission that was bigger than themselves. They had been told of the danger and were ready to face it.
Megan was to be a key player. They were to go into a field where another telepath was at work, a telepath who had the ability to manipulate minds instead of just read them. Megan was to be the one who kept everyone's minds connected, so that they would be there to support each other if one was to be manipulated. Megan had understood her role and was excited to be important.
She had trained day and night. Every time Conner would come to interrupt her practicing, she would whirl around and grin at him. Then she would fly forward, her bright red hair rippling, and she would surprise him. Not a normal surprise, of course. But a Megan surprise.
Basically, she would go into his mind and make him see, feel, or smell something. Sometimes he would see brilliant flashes of color like fireworks, ones that blanketed his regular vision. Sometimes he would smell her burnt cookies that weren't really there. Sometimes he would feel her hands around his arm and would look down to see there was nothing against his skin. He would blink, confused and surprised, then would realize she had been playing with his head. She would smile guiltily, as if she had done something wrong. He would congratulate her. She would blush. Every time.
But they had vastly underestimated the telepath they were up against. He had been a sorcerer of very dark and ancient magic that even the people of Megan's planet had never heard of. And he had taken very acute advantage of that.
He had hit the team where it hurt the worst. He had found Megan, gone into her mind, and broken it. Twisted it, warped it, pulled at it to where she was no longer Megan but a girl lost in an expanse of space and time.
She had tried to fight him, of that much Conner was certain. But she hadn't been prepared. She hadn't expected the onslaught of awful images that had finally taken her over the edge.
Her memories had been fragmented to where bits and pieces of what she would have considered happiness became horror. If anyone touched her, she would recoil as if bitten or stung. She only let Conner touch her. She wouldn't look anyone directly in the eye, and when she did, it was always with this blank, unknowing stare. Who are you? I don't know you. Why are you in my house?
Everyone had tried to help. Megan's own uncle, the hero known as the Martian Manhunter, had gone into her mind multiple times, attempting to heal it. But the sorcerer's magic had both weakened and strengthened her. Weakened in that it had made her no longer herself. Strengthened in that she could resist anything that came into her head. She was unreadable, unreachable. Gone.
So Conner had taken her, when no one else would. The team had broken apart naturally, partly out of fear and mostly out of shock. Conner had taken Megan to a small home in Kansas, where things were quiet and still. The sky was blue and the fields of wheat that surrounded the house bent in the breeze like blades of grass. Conner had hoped it would mean something to her. But she never watched the sky or the wheat. Instead, she stared at the wall and hugged her arms close around her chest, shivering as if it weren't 85 degrees outside.
And yet Conner stayed with her.
And today? It's a bad day. She doesn't stop crying for two hours. Eventually, she begins to settle down, instead breaking into a cold sweat that beads across her forehead. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the edge of the sink, clasping her hand in his and feeling her breath against his chest as she burrows her face closer into his shirt. His mouth slowly falls open as he dozes. Sleep hasn't come easily to him in months and he isn't sure it ever will again. He's always afraid he'll be awakened by her screams again, the ones that sound like she's being ripped apart from the inside.
The moon rises over the horizon. His head slips from the sink and he falls to the ground, fast asleep and dead to the world. Her eyes flash open at the sound of his body making contact with linoleum.
For a few seconds, she only blinks at this stranger, whose arms are wrapped around her with careful precision. Then a very sudden and intense warmth fills her and she curls against him again, almost desperate for him to wake up, wake up while she still has this piece of her own mind left.
His name. Oh, God, what's his name?
Kyle. Carter. Carson. Con—Con—
"Conner."
She says it aloud, in shock at herself, then her eyes fly back down to the sleeping figure beside her and she begins to cry. She doesn't know why she's sad, why there's anything to be crying for, but the tears tumble down her cheeks and create a fresh wet patch against his already tear-soaked shirt. What she says next, she won't remember the next day. But it doesn't matter. Because he'll do it.
"Stay with me."