a Justice League story
by Merlin Missy
Copyright 2005
PG
Summary: J'onn's turn to reflect.
Tonight he is pretending to be the calm, quiet and comforting Alien Counselor. He wears a half-smile of understanding as Wildcat rattles off the latest in his list of woes at being a human in a circle of metas and aliens, saving J'onn's presence of course.
Of course, J'onn always replies.
He has stopped listening. He has seen into the man's mind and knows the inadequacies that plague him, and only some of them have to do with being surrounded by Others. He is afraid of growing old. J'onn has read this fear in too many minds, thoughts both given to him freely and idly drifting by him in reflection and open to any with the ability to read.
J'onn is older than all of them, even Diana, and he thinks they do not understand at all. Age is a blessing, especially age among loved ones for they all expect to die, with the exception of the Princess, and death is the greatest gift.
Wildcat fears death but J'onn knows in his deepest heart that the man will be glad to see an end to himself when the time unfolds. Ancient aliens and immortals simply remind him that the hour is not as far off as he might imagine. Humans are not so hard to understand, really.
J'onn ends the session, murmuring consoling words and waiting for the human to leave. He never asks after J'onn, how he is doing, what he wants or wonders or fears. That too is endemic to the human condition, a kind of insane selfishness that propels them through their days and nights, the belief that their own thoughts and fears are more important than anything else that has ever been. Sometimes he finds it endearing, he who once was in psychic commune with his entire species and so had to learn new concepts like "privacy" and "secret."
Tonight he does not feel the affection. Tonight he feels some of the selfishness he has learned from them — and oh! the other six would be surprised at the bad habits he has taken specifically from their examples — and he wants his own privacy and he wants his own commune with others and he wants. He wants.
He changes. In the reflection of the glass, currently facing out towards the stars, his form becomes the one he has worn most often during his long years. This is the face they fear, his graceful curves and points horrifying to those with too small a genetic diversity among their own species. This is the face his son and daughter would have worn without pride: a species whose existence is so thoroughly mental and spiritual has no need of pride, and a species who can shift and flow has no form to envy or despise.
He shifts, and he is Kryptonian. He is Thanagarian. He is Korugan. He is Bolovaxian.
He is human.
The form is tall like his own true shape, nondescript and blond against the starry backdrop. Should he walk among them like this, none would notice him, nor give him a second glance. He is too plain to attract the human women or the human men who might otherwise desire him. But he could be anyone.
He becomes the image of an actor whose movies have overtaken the DVD rack in their recreation room, whose fine features are swooned over almost daily by the more persuadable of his female associates during their down time. He casts a grin he does not feel at the blackness and the stranger's face smiles back.
He shudders into another form, this one of the current President of the United States, and he knows that, should he desire, he could slip past the man's guards, wipe his mind, assume his role, and none would be the wiser.
He is Martian again, his own form and not the false Martian face he created for Batman's comfort originally but spread like a soft wave among the others: a softer jowl here for Diana; a firmer muscle there for John. Subtle changes he has undergone, and none have noticed, even Clark who calls him brother.
A handful of aliens rattle about the Watchtower, including two who tried to take over the planet, and yet J'onn is the one the humans fear. He opens his mind to them as he passes the clusters and duos in the corridors, has learned not to recoil at the revulsion he reads.
He could change. He could alter his appearance and walk among them, telling them his name or not as he chooses. But he remembers the tests, remembers the shocks and the probes as scientists wearing human faces forced him to change and change and change.
He will not sully his shape with that form, not for their comfort.
He turns suddenly and leaves the darkened room. Down other corridors he feels the subtle emanations of thought from the few on duty at this time of the night, but he is alone until the Flash sprints by.
"Hey, J'onn!" he shouts, and he thinks Whoa, great big naked Martian, but y'know, he's naked all the time anyway 'cause he makes his own clothes, and dude, I need not to think about him being naked all the time because that's just not right, hey look, it's Ice so slow down and say hi.
Part of him is angry with Flash, and part is exasperated, but he has known the youth for years now and cannot help but settle on amusement as J'onn makes his way towards his own lonely quarters.