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Chapter Two
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"I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that." – Rick Blaine (Casablanca – 1942)

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(The simulation training room)

Virgil handed Shayera a piece of newly-coated armor, but she couldn't force her sleepy eyes to focus. She took a swig of coffee and tried to think.

She was tired, but grateful that she'd stayed up all night with John. She would later tell Merina over breakfast that it took them thirty-three years, but at long last she and John were finally talking to each other and not at each other.

As a bonus, staying up meant she didn't sleep and if she didn't sleep she didn't have the nightmares. There was a knot in the pit of her stomach as she recalled the terror each horrible dream brought. It was so real and she was so tired of waking up crying and begging for mercy.

Mercy she knew she would never get. Mercy she knew she wasn't entitled to.

If only she didn't have to sleep at all.

John had left. She didn't say anything, but she wished he wasn't going to see Vixen, not now, not yet. Vixen might tell him that she was unhappy, that she wanted him to come back and rescue her from the last thirty-three years. And if she said so, John just might do it despite his acknowledgment that he could screw up the victory his side had won.

Shayera sighed. Vixen was the puppet master and Shayera would once again have to dance to the strings Mari pulled. The knot in her stomach got larger.

She shook her head and focused on the task at hand as she carefully examined the armor Static had given her. Holding the armor hip plate against her side she said, "Virgil, this looks great. Have you tested it yet?"

He creased his lips together in a straight line. "Yes and no. Sorta," he said, taking the armor back from her. "I electrically tested it, but that's not the same as making sure it works the way the uncoated armor would." He held the plate up. "I used a silver-aluminum alloy because it seemed to stick the best."

Shayera sighed. "So we need to do a 'test to failure' using the lasers? Right?"

Virgil looked unhappy. "We could do the math calculations and compute the failure point. Of course, if we misplace a decimal point, well ... it might ruin your weekend." Shayera could tell he was concerned despite his attempt to joke about it.

She folded her arms across her chest. "Okay. Let's put the unmodified armor on a 'bot and then blast it with lasers. I think the armor is supposed to stop a class C at two meters. That's our standard. Once we confirm the threshold, then we can test the modified metal."

Virgil shook his head. "But suppose we end up destroying the armor? I mean, what will you do then?"

Shayera shrugged. "Same thing I did thirty-three years ago. Not wear any armor."

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(In a taxi enroute to Les Deux Magots)

Earlier in the day, Cleavon Delacroix watched as his bride of almost thirty years and the mother of his three children tried to fit into dresses she hadn't worn in years, and then snapped at him for no reason when the clothing didn't fit. Mari had been a nervous wreck ever since she'd gotten the phone call from this Monsieur Stewart, someone she'd known earlier in her life.

But he understood. She'd been a superhero. She'd lived a heroic life. And this John Stewart had been close to her when she was young. Yes, that kind of close.

Delacroix was Swiss by birth and in his mind, a cultured, modern man. He nodded to himself that he understood these things better than most. Another man would be insanely jealous if his wife suddenly wanted to meet an old boyfriend, but Delacroix had once been in the same room with Superman. Nothing bothered him after that.

He tried to comfort Mari now as they rode in the cab to the cafe. "It will be okay," he said.

"No, it won't," she answered. "You have no idea what a Green Lantern can do if he wants to."

So he let her spin in a tornado of her own making and he decided he would try to be there for moral support. He knew she would need it, sooner or later. He just hoped that he wouldn't need it before she did.

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(Les Deux Magots)

They'd last visited this open air cafe about thirteen years ago, on the same trip to Paris that resulted in their youngest. Mari held her husband's hand as they got out of the cab. Way too tight. Nerves. Loosen up. Let go of the anger. She turned to Cleavon, "Remember. He speaks only English." At least he did the last time I saw him.

As they entered the restaurant area, she quickened her pace. Then she saw him. She drew a sharp breath as he stood. She knew she'd changed over the last thirty years, but John didn't look a day older than the last time she saw him. Good Lord. With the dark glasses on, he looks almost young enough to be my son.

When she got close enough, she thought about hugging him and decided she wouldn't. She just stood next to him and said, "It is you. It's really you."

Mari was shaking and Cleavon gently put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed as if to remind her all was well. John extended his hand to Cleavon and said, "My name is John Stewart."

Cleavon shook John's hand and said, "Cleavon Delacroix. Pleasure to meet you." He glanced at Mari and then back to John, "Have you ordered yet?"

Mari didn't take her eyes off of John. How could he look so young? Why didn't he call sooner?

"No," John said smiling. "My French isn't very good. I didn't want to end up with apple pie and a cup of spaghetti sauce." Cleavon smiled as Mari laughed perhaps a little too loudly.

Cleavon pulled out a chair for Mari and she sat down. Both men sat down when she did.

"What would you like?" Cleavon asked John.

"Whatever you're having," John answered. "I'm not very hungry. I just wanted to – "

Cleavon cut him off. He narrowed his eyes as he said, "No, no, not before her food is ordered. Otherwise, she won't eat."

Mari nudged him under the table and whispered in French, "Cleavon! Stop!" She loved him, but sometimes …. She forced another smile.

Cleavon looked at John. "She's telling me to stop, but she hasn't eaten since you called. I'm going to give you two some alone time. I'll place your order with a waiter and then I'll wait a couple of tables over, okay?"

He stood without waiting for John's acknowledgment, glanced at Mari and told her in French, "Make sure you show him the pictures of the kids … and the grandkids."

She smiled at John and then looked at Cleavon, answering him in French, "He's not interested in seeing pictures."

Cleavon frowned as he replied, "Then why did you spend most of this morning looking for them?" He bent over and kissed her on the forehead and said in English, "Don't forget the pictures."

He nodded at John and left to find a waiter. Mari looked at John and said, "He worries about me way too much." John smiled weakly as she watched Cleavon grab a waiter, point to her table and place an order.

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Stewart cast a quick glance at Cleavon as the older man sat down a couple of tables over. He noticed a passing resemblance between Mari's husband and the face he knew in his own mirror, notwithstanding the age difference. Just a coincidence.

He turned his attention back to Mari. She looked great and it was hard for Stewart to keep his eyes off her. She was a little heavier and her hair was longer with streaks of gray, but she was still gorgeous. He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "I guess you're wondering what happened."

She glared at him, "No. Asking you what happened never crossed my mind. Not once in thirty-three years," she snapped.

He looked down at the tablecloth and then back up at her. "I deserved that and I know saying I'm sorry won't get it."

Mari nodded, "You're right. Sorry won't get it." She paused. "But why don't you tell me what happened to you anyway."

Stewart told her the story that was becoming rote: trapped in the foundry with Shayera, a sudden blast, and the next thing he knew, thirty-three years had passed. Mari nodded and then frowned and nodded again as he brought her up to date on the last few days. Won't tell her about the reassignment yet.

Mari smiled tightly. "Shayera? Is she well?"

"She's well," Stewart answered. "And you? Looks like marriage agrees with you."

"Thirty years, three kids and four grandkids," she said, as she reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of photos. She spread the pictures of her children in front of John. She pointed to each one and named them for him: Alicia, Susan and Wayne. A waiter came to the table and set in front of Mari a small spinach salad with house dressing on the side, a soft roll and ice water. He set in front of John a bowl of soup, a hard roll and coffee with cream on the side.

Stewart looked at the food order Cleavon had placed for Mari and grinned tightly. She'd eaten similar meals when they dated, but he wasn't sure he would have dared to place a meal order for her without asking her for confirmation. Cleavon did and it was exactly what she wanted, the way she would want it.

He reached over his soup and picked up the photo of Alicia and studied it.

The young woman looked a lot like Mari. But he thought she had his Grandma's eyes.

"How old is she?" Stewart asked as he handed the photo back to Mari. Try to be calm.

"Not that old. But thank you for asking," Mari said. Her expression was droll and Stewart didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until he let it out.

"Cleavon seems like a good man," Stewart said.

"He is." Then she sighed. "Everyone treated me like a widow when you disappeared, pretending they didn't hear your last transmission." She paused and sighed again, louder this time. "You have no idea what it was like, no idea what I had to go through when you died. I had to go to Metamorpho's funeral, your memorial, the small service for Shayera the founding members held, the park dedication. It went on and on and never seemed to stop. Never.

"Everybody loved you, John, everybody but me. I hated you. You hear me, I hate you, John Stewart, for dying with her when you could have chosen to live with me. I know you kissed her, everybody knew you kissed. I know you loved her, everybody knew you loved her. And when you died with her, I kept wondering why you stayed with me knowing you loved her. Were you going to tell me we were over when you came out of that building or were you just going to keep using me until it was time for you to be with her?"

She picked up her napkin and wiped her eyes as said, "Was it all a lie?"

Stewart glanced away for a moment, then he looked at her.

"I did love you, Mari," he said. "And it's important to me that you believe that." Stewart lifted his dark glasses for a second and looked her in the eyes before setting them back on his face. He wiped his hand across his lips. "Remember when you were in the hospital because of the Shadow Thief? Remember the day I told you about my meeting my son … mine and Shayera's son?"

"Yes," she answered quietly.

Telling her that day about his son was one of the hardest things he'd had to do in his life, next to telling Shayera he was staying with Mari. He would never forget the pained look on Mari's face. But she stayed with him when he was sure most women would have walked away.

"In the last couple of days," he said softly, "I've learned more about myself than you could ever imagine. I've had to make some tough decisions lately, not just about staying here in this time, but what staying here would really mean, not just to me, but to you … and Shayera."

He cleared his throat. "You know how I feel about Shayera," he continued. "I know you've never heard me say it out loud, but you knew. You always knew." He looked down, then back at her. "I can't go back to the 'us' of thirty-three years ago and I can't come to you now." He paused and shook his head. "I won't come to you now." He pointed at the pictures of her children on the table. "They are what you deserve. This is what you deserve," he said gesturing in front of him. "And it's not something I can give you … in any time period."

She lowered her head and he reached across the table and placed his fingers under her chin and lifted her head toward him. "You know what I'm saying is true."

She said nothing. She looked at him with moist eyes that suddenly widened, then narrowed.

Her lower lip quivered as she shook her head and said, "Promise me you won't change this timeline." Stewart was surprised by her words and studied her face intently.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about," she continued. "I read the old reports. How six of you rewrote World War II. How Superman was thrown into the future by Toyman's weapon and managed to get back to the present and change things so the world didn't end under Vandal Savage. I know you can do a lot of things with that ring of yours." She glanced in the direction of her husband, who was seated several tables over drinking coffee and pretending to ignore them, and then she looked back to Stewart. "Will you promise me you won't change this timeline? Please." She paused. There were tears in her eyes. "I want this, John. I really do. I'm happy here."

A slow smile crossed Stewart's face. "And I'm happy for you," he said. "I promise I won't do anything to change this timeline, Mari. But I want you to know, it's not about you. It's not even about Shayera and me. It's about something bigger, much bigger, than any of us."

Stewart stood. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mari's husband stand up as well.

He bent over and kissed Mari on the forehead. "Goodbye."

Mari stood, threw her arms around Stewart and kissed him on the lips. "Goodbye, John. Good luck to you." He noted that she didn't tell him that she loved him, but he knew. Breaking that embrace added another labor to his list of the hardest things he'd ever done.

Then he smiled at Mari, kissed her on the forehead again, turned and walked away toward her husband.

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Delacroix stood when the American stood. He cringed a little when his wife kissed this man young enough to his son on the lips. He tried to remind himself that he shouldn't be bothered by a display of affection by his bride and another man. After all, they'd not seen each other for thirty years, they were in Paris and all lovers should say goodbye in the city of the Eiffel Tower. They are saying goodbye, right?

Now as the American approached, Delacroix took a deep breath, trying to remind himself he was a modern man, not given to primitive instincts. He extended his hand to the young man and said in his best English, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mister Stewart. The best of luck to you, son."

Stewart shook Delacroix's hand and flashed a quick smile. "You have a beautiful family. You're a very lucky man and I hope you realize just how lucky you are."

Suddenly the other's hand trembled in Delacroix's. Mister Stewart snatched his hand out of Delacroix's grasp and said, "I have to go. Goodbye." Without waiting another second, the young man hurried away.

Delacroix glanced at Mari, who was still standing, watching. He grabbed his coffee and his roll and made his way over to her. As he sat his coffee and roll on the table, Mari plopped down in her chair. Delacroix reached into his sports coat pocket, retrieved a handkerchief and offered it to her as the tears flowed freely down her face. He sat down next to her and leaned toward her. He asked her in French, "Are you okay?"

She sniffled, smiled at him and answered in French, "I'll be okay, Boo. I'll be okay." She paused and cleared her throat. Then she reached across the table and grabbed his uneaten roll and broke it in half. She put half back on his plate and took a bite of the half she held in her hand. She asked him, "How was your soup?"

He gently took her hand and patted it. "It's like my life," he said softly. "Very good."

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