A/N: If you want to know why Jarrett is in this, it's because his May 31, match against The Godfather inspired me to include him. He won the title that Owen was booked to win, and when he got it he shouted Owens name, although you can't really hear it for the crowd. It felt right to include him, so if anyone doesn't like it, oh well. I hope you all will let me know your thoughts. I mean no disrespect. ~For Owen~ R.I.P.

Hero

The grass crinkled under his shoes, the slow cadence just slightly off. His one leg seemed to be showing the weakness more today, for some reason. Actually, he felt weak all over. It was a feeling Bret did not like to bare, but at least here he was alone, with only his memories to flood his mind. His feet moved him closer, weaving in between polished stones, and the single flower in his hand twisted from side to side as he rolled the stem between his palms. The moment the familiar name came to his eyes, it was erased by a cover of tears, which slowly drained away and over his cheeks. With a little more effort than he used to need, Bret knelt in the dewy grass, and wiped his wet nose against the back of his hand. His misty brown eyes looked again over the name, so prematurely carved, and then to the dates below it. His trembling fingers reached out to trace them, the marble stone cold against his skin. He would have given anything to trade that chilly, numb, palm of stone for the warmth of his brothers hand. He closed his eyes, screwing them tight, pressing his lips together to keep back the sob that shuddered in his chest. After a few silent moments, and deep breaths, he felt only a little more in control of himself, though the tears had not yet ceased their dripping.

"Hey, O." He said quietly, nearly in a whisper. His heart constricted painfully, hurt all over again, even though it already knew that there would be no reply. On the way to the cemetery, his mind had been so full of things to say, his heart bursting with words he wanted to pour out to his brother, but now none of them seemed adequate, at least not of the ones he could recall. He settled for something less wordy, but as deep as anything else could have been. "I love you."

His tearful eyes cast down to the grass, his mind envisioning the man who lay beneath the eternal, emerald covering. Owen's was always a warm face, often smiling, joking, he was almost the complete opposite of Bret who was anything but humble and easygoing in his younger days. Owen was the Hart whom everyone loved—because you just couldn't not love him. Owen may have never known it, but Bret, even being the big name he was, the high and almighty excellence of execution, often watched Owen from a quiet vantage point, and wished he could be more like him. Owen was always so strong, not only for himself but also for others. Owen was often a strength for his brother when Bret was ready to self-detonate from the craziness which was often his life. One thing among many that Bret often regretted, was that he hadn't been man enough to return the comfort he'd found in Owen. Those times when Owen's strength did waver, when he missed his family so much from being on the road, Bret hadn't taken the time to talk to him about it. The most he could do was offer to buy the next round, and watch as Owen drank with a smile and laugh, even when he was hurting on the inside. Owen's family meant everything to him, was the whole reason he took up wrestling, and remained an honorable man throughout his career. Few men can hold such a distinction. For all those times he made Owen feel lesser with his massive pride and ego, he wished he could have taken them all back, and just told his brother how much he admired him.

It must have been cold there in my shadow,
To never have sunlight on your face.
You were content to let me shine, that was your way.
You always walked a step behind.
So I was the one with all the glory,
While you were the one with all the strength.
A beautiful face without a name for so long.
A beautiful smile to hide the pain.

Natalie sat on the steps of her back porch, and sighed as she looked down at the screen on her phone, as if the date notated in tiny digital letters was needed to remind her. In her other hand was a worn family photo album, and she set her phone aside and brushed her fingertips over the leather cover. With a small smile, she opened the cover, and her jewel-like eyes scanned carefully over each photo. So many different memories were attached to each one and she could almost hear voices connected with them—laughter, jokes, stories, things she held very dear to her heart.

Each photo pasted carefully to the thick pages bore the face of her favorite uncle, who had left the family too soon. The cover of the album was as worn as it was, because she looked at it often, and had made it long ago as a special tribute to him. There were birthday parties, Christmases, the usual family gatherings with the Harts and Neidharts and the children, along with only a few scattered wrestling shots. She would rather remember him not for the boots and the mat, but for the man few really had the honor of knowing, in the way that she had.

Tears filled her eyes, and stuck to her lashes as she continued to flip the pages, the faces in them growing up and older. The last photo was taken at New Years, 1999. Her uncle was hugging her close, their bright and gleeful faces smiling wide as a new year was birthed. He was tugging on one of her blond braids, and she was trying to steal his glass of champagne. After the room had erupted in cheers, some of them drunken, Owen and Nattie had moved through the crowded space and out into the biting night air. She had looked up towards the sky, smiling wider as bursts of color from fireworks that the neighbors were setting off sprayed like bursts of paint over the inky canvas. She hugged him, and his strong arms hugged her back.

"So Nattie, what's 1999 have in store for you?" He asked, taking one of her braids and tickling her nose with the end of it.

"Seventeen, junior prom, and I'm going to join the wrestling team."

"Isn't it male only?"

"Fuck that! I'll give 'em male only." She play-punched him in the arm.

"Well you won't make it with a punch like that. Come on now, don't you know your family name little girl?" He laughed, and took up a stance. "Come on Nattie, show me how it's done."

"Uncle O, I'm not gonna hit you." She snatched the half-emptied flute that he'd sat on the porch railing, and gulped it down before he could snag it back. "Ha!"

"You're askin' for it!" He shoved her playfully, and she backed away down the steps and into the grass and he followed her, both of them laughing as he kept it up and pretended to be some bad-ass ready to pound her through the mat. "Come on Nat!"

Soon the two of them were on the ground, Owen laughing as Natalie shrieked that tickling was an automatic DQ.

Natalie closed the album, smiling through her tears as the echoes of their laughter dissipated from her memory. Seventeen, junior prom, the wrestling team. In another album somewhere, were all of those pictures. Her seventeenth birthday had been only four days after Owens death, and no one in the photo was smiling. Owen wasn't there to threaten her with birthday spankings, or to give her his usual humorous card with the too generous bills inside, or to dip his finger into the icing on the cake, and wipe it onto the end of her nose. Her photo for junior prom was there, with a boy she no longer cared to remember. She wished that Owen could have seen her dressed up like a princess, because he often ribbed her about her tendency towards boyishness. He would have loved to see his rough and tumble niece done up and shining like the star he always told her she was. Then, there was the wrestling team. After her first match, she had hurried to the locker room and burst into tears, because every time she had looked up to the bleachers, she had longed to see him there, and hear him cheering for her louder than all the others.

Even though her whole family had wrestling coursing through their veins, Owen had been her biggest inspiration. It hadn't been her own father, not the legendary Grandpa Stu, not superstar Uncle Bret, and not some inborn deep desire to live in the squared circle, had made her into the person she became. Even before he passed, she did it for him. He had always been the one she idolized, loved, and cherished above all others. Natalie tilted her face upwards, towards the cloud-covered sky.

"I hope you're proud of me, Uncle O. I miss you." She closed her eyes, and tilted her head back down. When she opened them again, her tears splattered onto the soft leather of the treasure she held in her hands. This time though, they were more happy than sad, because she knew he was.

Did you ever know that you're my hero,
And everything I would like to be?
I can fly higher than an eagle,
'Cause you are the wind beneath my wings.

Jeff Jarrett lay in his bed, and even though outside it was high past morning and more towards noon, it seemed so dark. Last night had been full of fitful attempts at sleep, as the marking of one of the bleakest days in his life drew near. He didn't need that one specific date to remind him the best friend he'd lost, but still, those simple numbers made the truth even more unbearable. He often thought of Owen, when he was lonely, tired of it all, when he was being mercilessly ribbed or pursued by certain TNA co-workers. He could take so much, but then often they would push to the point that he would just snap at them. He never took the time or had the courage to tell them the real reason his answer was always going to be 'no'.

He closed his eyes, but still the vision that had plagued him during the night returned. He drew a hand through his longish hair, and grabbed the pillow on the empty side of the bed, and hugged it close. He wished instead of a pillow that it was something warmer, and sturdier, with arms capable of hugging him back in that special way he would never forget.

He had always wanted it to be something more, but he had never been able to tell Owen how he felt. Owen was a married man, devoted to his family, but Jeff couldn't use that as an excuse for what was the truth—he had always been too scared to say out loud the thing that he felt—or even to much show it. Owen on the other hand was always generous in his love towards everyone, uncaring who said what and why, although not many did. Jeff was fairly sure that Owen Hart was the only person to ever live whom had never had one bad word spoken against him, he was that good.

When Jeff learned of Owen's death, his heart had seemed to have been ripped from him. The moment was forever etched into his mind, and even still when he allowed himself to recall it, he could barely breathe. It was if instead of Owen, it was his chest that had crashed from such ridiculous height, into the top rope below. It was as if he had stumbled backwards, and landed with a smack, back against the mat, staring up at the ceiling forgetting where he was and why. Jeff had been such a mess, though somehow he had been able to contain it to hours of sobbing in his hotel room, rather than breaking down in front of everyone else.

Nine days after Owen's death, Jeff Jarrett found himself competing in a match against The Godfather for the intercontinental title. Owen had been booked to win that title for the third time, at Over The Edge. The walk down the ramp seemed surreal, and during the match Jeff just felt numb. The only thing on his mind was Owen, and he upped his game from 100% to 200%, determined to himself that he was going to do that man proud.

The bell found The Godfather laid out on the canvas, and the gold was placed in Jeff's hands. For a moment, he could have sworn that the nameplate read 'Owen Hart', and as he exited the ring to the cheers of the packed arena, he hoisted the strap over his head, and yelled that name.

Now in the privacy of his own room, he sobbed the name into his pillow, letting the hot tears wash over his face. Next to him on the night stand, he heard his phone buzz on vibrate. Jeff ignored it. He figured it was most likely Eric, who was possibly the most stubborn man Jeff had ever met. Eric still entertained hopes for them, but Jeff would be just as stubborn at the opposite end of the spectrum. Maybe one day, he would sit down with Eric and tell him why there was never going to be anything between them. Jeff Jarrett had never told the one person he loved, that he did, while he had the chance. Sometimes when he was alone, he talked to Owen, and he said those things, but that only made the words the same as they always were—too late. Jeff loved Owen, and no one would ever take his place. No one would ever hear the words, that Jeff could never say.

It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
but I've got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know I know the truth, of course I know it.
I would be nothing without you.

Did you ever know that you're my hero?
You're everything I wish I could be.
I could fly higher than an eagle,
'Cause you are the wind beneath my wings.

Bret pressed his lips to the soft petals of the rose that he held, and with a quivering hand, he placed it at the base of the gravestone. With a little grunt, he got up from his knees, and brushed at the brown smears on his jeans. The chilly breeze picked up a little, wafting the strands of his gray-brown hair around his worn face. His lips kicked up into a small smile, as he took note of the flower before him, as one of the fragile petals fell away—the bud a bright pink against the ebony marble.

Did you ever know that you're my hero?
You're everything I wish I could be.
I could fly higher than an eagle,
'Cause you are the wind beneath my wings.