Chapter 5 - Just Because

Blood. Not a lot of blood, but enough.

Dead eyes, staring up at him.

His hands trembling, just subtly.

His voice, though he couldn't hear himself say the words:

"I've never killed anyone before."

And then the scene shifted. And there he was, before General Lane in the cabin, on his knees, hands bound, ankle shackled with the old monitor.

THIEF.

MURDERER.

TRAITOR.

He could have sworn all of that hadn't mattered to General Lane before. Jon could almost remember a time when he'd called the man by his first name, when he'd almost called him his grandfather.

It must have been a dream.

He didn't know what he'd been doing here, why he'd stayed so long.

He only knew it was his last day.

Back to the cage, to the burning yellow lights . . .

"Jon. Breakfast."

Jon's eyes opened, and he knew he was in his room, in his bed, safe, but he didn't feel it.

He rolled over onto his stomach, wrapping his arms around his pillow, waiting for the door to close and for Sam to go away.

Sam didn't.

Jon kept waiting, until Sam said, "Jon."

"I'm awake," Jon said, but his voice cracked.

"Come eat."

"Not hungry."

"It's biscuits and gravy."

"Still not hungry."

A short pause. "Everything alright?"

Jon's stomach turned. "I'm okay." It wasn't exactly a lie. He had the same nightmare at least a couple of times a week.

"Come on out to the table, see if you change your mind. If you still don't wanna eat, you don't have to."

He groaned before realizing that Sam would probably think he was being rude—Sam had made him breakfast, after all. "Five minutes," he mumbled, and he rolled back over.

Sam only sighed and left the room.

Jon gave himself a moment before he pulled himself out of bed and started getting dressed. He could smell the savory scents of breakfast, but it just made him feel sicker. For some reason, that nightmare had hit him awfully hard this time.

He padded out into the kitchen and found Sam pouring fresh-squeezed orange juice. The table was set, and a bowl of fresh-baked biscuits steamed next to the gravy boat. He'd sliced up some melons as well. Jon caught himself wondering if something had happened—Sam made a hot breakfast on a lot of days, but it wasn't always this nice.

"Oh, here." Sam put down the pitcher and reached into his back pocket, then held Jon's phone out to him.

"Oh. Thank you."

"Your basketball's in the yard, but, uh, it's a little cold now."

"That's okay. Thank you, sir."

"You're not in trouble."

"I know," Jon said, but he still didn't know what to make of the big breakfast, and it was starting to make him nervous.

"Have a seat?"

Hesitantly, Jon did, and Sam sat across from him. Jon began serving up. He took a small bite—it was really good. The gravy was meaty and savory and just salty enough, and the biscuit was buttery enough that it almost melted on his tongue. But his stomach wasn't sure whether to accept it.

Sam smiled and dished up himself.

Jon lowered his fork and cleared his throat. "Uh. Sir?"

"You're not in trouble."

"Then . . . why . . ." Jon glanced around the table.

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"Uh. I guess not." Jon took a sip of orange juice. Also really good, fresh and tangy and sweet. "But . . ."

Sam sighed. "Son, I never did stuff like this for my girls, or for my wife. Could you just . . . let me have this?"

"Is there bad news after?"

"No, no bad news."

Jon doubted Sam was outright lying to him, but he didn't sound convinced, either. He followed his gut. "Did Clark and Lois say something last night?"

Sam smiled sadly. "Smart boy. But no, not exactly. I was talking to them about your schooling. If all goes well with the legal side of things, I'd like to get you back in school next semester. In person."

"Wait, really?"

"If you're ready for it. I, uh, I'll have you attend a few therapy sessions before then, just to make sure you're okay."

"What if I'm not?"

"Are you?"

Jon frowned. Maybe he could be, if the therapy helped. But he still didn't understand what was going on this morning. "What does that have to do with breakfast?"

"Ah, nothin really. Just . . . you boys are sixteen. Just a couple of years, and you'll be . . ." His eyes shone a little. "Lois reminded me I don't have much time left to, ah, you know. Do things for you. Wake you up early with your favorite breakfast."

"She said that?"

"She didn't have to."

"You know you don't have to . . . make up for anything with Lucy."

"I know."

"Like, I really appreciate the biscuits and gravy, but, like, I'm not . . ."

"It's not about her. I just . . ." He looked down at his plate, then up at Jon. "Do you want to start going to school?"

"I mean, yeah! If the DOD lets me."

"We have a couple of months til the new semester starts. We'll get to have Christmas together first."

Jon hadn't even thought about that. Christmases had been all about public appearances back on his planet. "Really?"

"If there's anything you'd like, I'd love to know."

"Like, for dinner?"

"No. For a gift. Or if there are any traditions, anywhere you'd like to go . . ."

Jon suddenly had to blink back tears. "I don't know. What does your family do?"

"Ah, well, my grandsons like to put up lights and decorate the tree. They do some baking, they exchange gifts. Nothing too crazy."

Exchange gifts. Jon would have to find something to give to Sam. He didn't know where to begin. "You don't have to give me anything."

"No, but I want to. If you haven't noticed—" he winked— "I'm kinda fond of you, kiddo."

Jon's mind flashed back to the dream he'd had the night before. It was all he could do to pull his mind back. He had a question to ask, but he wasn't sure how to get himself to ask it.

Sam seemed to notice, like he always did. "What's on your mind?"

"Uh. You said in a couple of years . . . When I'm eighteen . . ."

"I have a little saved. I can put you through college."

"Do I have to?"

"Oh!" Sam shook his head. "There's lots of great jobs that you don't need college for. Though, ah, I can't recommend the military route for you."

"I know, but . . ." He took a deep breath. He just had to say it. "Do I have to move out at eighteen?"

Sam looked stunned. "I . . . I'm not . . ."

The words came out fast. "I've been on this planet for, like, six months. I've been locked up most of it. I don't really—I don't know—I just . . . I don't think I'll be ready to be on my own."

Sam's expression softened. "Son, if you finish high school and you want to take some time to, ah . . . take some community college classes, do some internships, take a part time job . . . I don't want you just sitting around the house, and someday I hope you'll have a life of your own. Maybe a family. But you can stay for as long as you need to. Nothing would make me happier."

"Really?"

Sam nodded. "And even when you've moved out, I'll keep your room the way you left it, and I hope you'll be back to visit me. You're my boy. That's for life."

The room went blurry. Sam stood, and Jon stood as well, melting into his granddad's arms.

"I love you, Jon," he said.

"Love you." Jon pulled back and wiped his eyes.

"You're okay?"

"Yeah. Just, uh, had a bad dream."

Sam frowned. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Okay. But I'm gonna give that therapist a call."

"Okay."

"After we eat."

Jon smiled, and he sat down at the table again.