No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem

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*Author's Note Number One: This chapter's idea came out of a compilation of coldqueen's work. She has written eleven stories for the Titans fandom … and A HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN other stories besides. Makes me feel like such a piker, she does!*

*Author's Note Number Two: If you managed to miss it, please go right now and read the excellent tale from .net/u/1725335/100 Silver Wings: "Second Fiddle in the Scheme of Life", which makes up Part 4 of the Saga of Benny's Breakfast House. Thank you again SO MUCH, Miss Wings!*

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Part 5: J'onn J'onzz

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Koriand'r of Tamaran leaned back in her seat and hugged herself for sheer joy. "Was I not ever so very correct, Mr. J'onzz?"

"Indeed," the Martian agreed, "though I had my doubts." He ladled up another mouthful of ghekk, a highly-aromatic stew involving four types of lichen native to his home planet. "It has been … quite some time since last I tasted my childhood favorite." Casting a glance toward the bar, he tried once more to read the mind of this 'Benny', who appeared to be human but who obviously had some connections that your average human could not possibly have arranged. He also had an excellent mind shield. J'onn couldn't even tell if it was psychic or artificial in nature, so solid and seamless it was. The pudgy fellow shot him a very brief glance, almost too short to notice, and went back to polishing the glasses and stacking them in a neat pyramid at the center of the bar, a slight grin now gracing his features. That pulled an answering frown onto J'onn's. As the premier telepath on the planet – possibly in the galaxy – this state of affairs bordered on the intolerable.

His companion's plate was nearly empty. Claiming to still be relatively full from lunch (rare was the day anymore when she didn't take her midday meal at Benny's) she had only ordered a dessert. The collection of small, dark green lumps sitting in a shallow puddle of oil hadn't struck the Martian as very appetizing, but he had done enough traveling not to be surprised at other species' preferences. He knew that humans in general would not be able to sit with him while he ate, given the aroma of his dish, and truly the rest of the dozen or so patrons currently in the café were all clustered at the other side of the room. He appreciated the Tamaranean's tolerance level. She hadn't seemed affected at all.

J'onn tried to summon up the will to care about the other diners' feelings, but the ghekk brought back such poignant memories for him, he was having a hard time concentrating. So he paid close attention to his stew, and enough attention to Starfire that she wouldn't feel insulted.

Three of the small, gelatinous globs remained on her plate when her T-Com beeped at her. With a mutter of, "Korb!" she pulled it out and flipped it open. "Starfire here."

Robin's voice had a tinny effect to it, an attribute of the encryption routine. "Museum robbery. Conner Street and Eighth Avenue. Get there as fast as you can."

"I will be there promptly." One hand closed and pocketed the communicator while the other scooped up her dessert. "I apologize for my speedy departure, Mr. J'onzz, but I have duties to attend to."

"Please, do not worry! I understand." He stood while she left, then lowered himself back into his seat.

Several minutes later the waitress came by and collected his empty bowl. "Hey, Hon, see anything else on the menu you'd like to try?"

He was studying the laminated list, still incredulous that it was printed in his native tongue. "I am not really in the mood for … wait. You have Martian beer?"

"I think so. Benny says we got in a shipment of Olympus Red, but I don't know if …"

"Olympus Red?" Involuntarily his mind scanned hers to make sure she was being truthful. She was. "Yes, please. I would like a decanter of that."

"Be right back." And she swished off. J'onn was no connoisseur of Earthly beauty, but he would have referred to this 'Madge' person, had someone pressed him, as 'well-kept'. She was comfortably into her middle years but still slender and obviously very spry, and her features had that symmetry and regularity that most humans associated with beauty. Her honey-blond hair might have been long, but she kept it up in a tight bun under a hairnet so it wouldn't be in her way. Her eyes, caught between two sets of laugh-lines, were an odd shade of blue-green, not one he had encountered before.

While he waited, he took the opportunity to examine the other patrons. He would not intrude on their thoughts uninvited – not unless he had good reason – but skimming their surface feelings didn't bother him. It was frequently an instructive undertaking. Closing his eyes, he utilized his mind to pinpoint each customer and then tag that person with the predominant emotion being displayed. He wondered idly if Raven ever went through this exercise. Probably not, he reasoned, since she was so skittish about using her powers in the first place. Poor thing. So much potential, and practically all of it might as well be sealed in a bottle.

When he got to the fifth diner, a man sitting alone at a booth-for-two, he paused in shock. Rarely had he ever felt a mind so overcome with grief, guilt, and loneliness. The depth and scope of the man's feelings was stunning. Eyes opening and zeroing in on his subject, the Martian studied him: medium height and fairly thin; coarse, straight black hair that almost reached the collar of his white button-down shirt; skin burnt dark from years under the sun; and eyes that glittered like chips of anthracite. How, J'onn wondered, was this man able to school his face into the neutral, even calm presentation he now wore?

Like a hamster whose water bottle had been filled with Red Bull, a small set of thoughts skittered madly around the perimeter of this psychic devastation. These thoughts gave the man some comfort in an odd fashion. Sorting through them, J'onn sat a little straighter in his seat. The man was contemplating – no, he was planning – to break the law.

Madge returned with his beer in a large, chilled ewer of mottled-green carved stone, and placed the traditional woven-fiber cup beside it. Eyes widening in surprise, J'onn glanced from the cup to the waitress and back.

"Somethin' wrong, Hon?"

Reverently he picked up the cup, cradled it, held it up to the light. "Where did you get this?"

"Case of 'em came with the shipment. Benny said we might as well use 'em. You want a glass instead?"

"No! No, this is … this will serve quite well." He placed it on the formica and carefully poured a small quantity of the frothy, red liquid into it. A few drops leaked through, beading on the outer surface and running down the side.

"Okay, just whistle if ya need anything." And she swooshed off to another table.

He counted slowly to sixty-four, watching as the Olympian Red gradually soaked into the walls of the cup, the grayish-beige fibers darkening to brown and swelling slightly, making the vessel liquid-tight. When the first small bit had been completely absorbed, he refilled it nearly to the rim. Then he gripped it gently, and tossed off the liquid at a draught. The powerful alcoholic substance left a pleasant burn in its wake, and he smacked his lips quietly.

At that point he noticed the dark-haired man walking past, headed for the restrooms, and he realized he wouldn't be able to enjoy the rest of his beer just yet. Observing quietly as the man pushed through the swinging door, J'onn sat for a few more seconds, then rose and followed him in.

Benny's men's room was surprisingly spacious for an establishment of its type. There were two each of the urinals, toilet stalls, and sinks, and both a touch-free paper towel dispenser and an air-knife dryer. One of the stalls was shut. Altering his appearance to that of a Middle Eastern gentleman in his forties, J'onn walked over and leaned against the counter containing the sinks, closing his eyes. Slowly his mouth drew into a grim line. After several moments, he said, in perfectly inflected Turkish, "Just for purposes of clarification …"

There was a gasp and a thump and a clatter of metal on tile from within the stall.

J'onn allowed himself a brief, wry grin. "… I would like for you to explain your reasoning to me. If you can."

A few tense seconds tripped by. The man cleared his throat. "Wh-what are you … what do you mean?"

"I am quite certain that you know the answer to that question."

"… Who are you?"

"Does it matter?"

The silence drew out, ending in a choked sob. "Please just go away."

"I do not believe that would be the best course of action. However, if you can explain your reasons for doing what you are contemplating, I will do as you wish."

There was a sniff, then a pause, then a longer sniff. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Quiet scratching and scuffling noises, accompanied by a few more snuffles, led into, "It's my fault." This was low, almost a whisper. "My fault. I told them to come."

"Elaborate, please."

"My … parents. And my wife."

"They wanted to be with you. Is that so wrong?"

"No! I made them! I sent them the tickets! Mama had never been on a plane before. She was …" He choked again. "She was scared. But I … I said … I told her … it was perfectly safe."

"May I assume you are talking about Flight 3038?"

There was a longer pause. "Yah."

"How long have you been in this country?"

"… F-four y-years."

"And you just recently took and passed your citizenship test."

"… H-how do you know …"

"How long has it been since you last saw your wife?"

"… Would you please just go away?"

"I told you I would do so if you can give me a good reason for your actions. I have not heard one yet."

"I killed them! It's my fault! They could have come by boat, but I just couldn't wait, and my impatience killed them! I might as well have put a gun to their heads!"

"While I can see that your pain is very real, your reasoning is deeply flawed. Those two conditions are connected, by the way. It has been shown that extreme grief makes rational decision-making almost impossible."

The man was crying softly.

"Flight 3038 went down eight days ago. The official memorial was held only yesterday, when it was determined that no remains were recoverable. You have barely had time to process their deaths at all. There is yet much grieving to do."

"What do you know about grieving?"

"More than you might think."

"I bet you weren't resp-sp-sponsible f-for killing your f-family."

"Not directly, no. But I was forced to watch as my beloved wife and my only daughter burned to death in front of me; I was helpless to stop it."

There was silence in the stall. J'onn stayed where he was, silent as well.

Nearly a minute passed before the hidden voice asked, "Why?"

"Clarify, please."

"Why were you helpless?"

"There was no way to stop their deaths. The fires came from within them, caused by a plague that was engineered and loosed by my own brother."

Very softly the voice said, "Damn."

"So you may believe that I do know something about grief. It came very close to driving me mad."

"Why didn't I ever hear about this fire-plague?"

"It happened a long, long time ago."

"… You don't sound that old."

"There is a reason for that. But you still haven't given me a cogent argument for why you wish to end your life. And I do believe you are still holding that razor."

A strong spike of apprehension assailed J'onn's mind at those words. "How the hell do you know that?"

"If you would kindly finish your argument, I will tell you."

The man struggled with his words for a few moments. "… They … they'd be alive … I wanted … only wanted to … but they aren't … my fault …"

"And what is your opinion on the afterlife?"

"… What?"

"Do you believe that life, in some form, is eternal, at least to a degree? That the soul or spirit or activating force of your loved ones still exists somewhere?"

"Yes! Oh, yes!"

"Do you believe that they are unhappy where they are?"

"… … …"

"Let me rephrase that. Do you believe your loved ones are in Paradise?"

"… I do. That is, I know they will be. They were good people, very good, very faithful."

"So then death, for them, was brief pain followed by eternal peace, according to your interpretation of your theology."

"… I … ah … well, stated in those terms … yes. Yes, that is … true." His voice took on a slight tone of wonder.

"Then logically, you wish to end your life, not through actual guilt, but because you are lonely. You miss them."

The seconds stretched out with no reply.

"How long had you and your wife been married?"

"… Nine …" he coughed and swallowed, "nine years."

"And you very plainly loved her. Did she love you?"

"Of course!"

"Ah. So then she would want the best for you, wouldn't she?"

Nearly two minutes dragged by before the door opened with a soft click and the man stepped out. His eyes were red, but he saw clearly. He took the few steps over to where J'onn stood, placed the folded-up razor on the counter beside him, clapped him gently on the shoulder once, and walked to the door. He paused there and looked back at J'onn. "You know, I never really thought I would ever meet an angel."

The disguised Martian merely quirked an eyebrow.

"It is good to know that you exist. When you see God, please thank Him for me." And he left.

J'onn gave him thirty seconds to get clear of the café, then made his way back into the dining area, muttering, "I hope my beer is still cold."

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*Author's End Notes: I want to thank all of you who have read this, especially those of you who left reviews and/or added this story to your Favorites. Please don't stop on my account! The more, the merrier!*