Kryptonite and Scooter Ankles ||J. Kent ||

Part 10:

A/N: Hmmmm yom, we halfway through

*cruks deliriously* ohmygosh please just let this ennnndddd --

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Maybe it was the cool pastel of the thinning clouds in front of the sunrise, or perhaps it was the way the moon stood stark against the paling blue of the night sky as it relented to daylight at last. Whatever it was made the cold tolerable as it nipped away at his one layer of defence, the unzipped coat over a loose cotton shirt. He wasn't going to lie to himself as he sat atop the hill that looked over the house; he liked that he could feel the cold, like little pinpricks through his shirt, driving tiny slivers into his skin.

Jonathan had gotten up early that morning, when sleep wouldn't take him. Up for hours with nothing to do, he resorted to drawing little images in the fog over the attic's window.

And now he was here, sitting in the snow, so alone he could hear nothing but the morning birds, and his own heartbeat. He wondered if the sunrise would have a sound if he listened hard enough, but all he got was lazy wind and a stillness only the sky could offer.

He leaned back, muscles locking when the sting of snow tickled the back of his neck and scalp, and fell down his open coat. The lead box in his hands came to rest on his stomach as he let his eyes wander up into the sky. If he breathed in deep enough, he could almost feel the clouds against his face; the softness of their pink quiet.

The dulled edges of the box ran soft along his numbing fingers, the latch burning lazily when they toyed with it.

Jon liked being cold.

It was just enough to hurt without really hurting.

He flicked the latch on the box. It swung upwards with a neat little click that broke the comfortable silence. Breath puffed into the air, fogging past his lips, as it halted in his throat.

He held his demise in his hands, and he marvelled at the thought of a thin little box keeping him alive. Distracted, and wondering, his fingers trembled softly as he opened the box just a crack.

The world swam under him, even though he lay flat on his back, the snow the only thing grounding him. But even after a minute the cold it provided numbed away to merge with the sting of Kryptonite.

It was poetry to him, the way it made him feel so weak. So exhausted. He considered closing the box, having half a mind to scold himself for having it in the first place, but he doubted he had the willpower to move even if he tried.

Jon smiled.

He liked poetry.

His arms went limp with burning fatigue, numbed so thoroughly that the screaming deterioration of his cells didn't reach any more than an itch under his skin. A deep aching in his bones.

He wondered, as his eyes went heavy, if he died, which side of him would die first. And then he wondered, not for the first time, what that would be like. He imagined it would be quiet like this.

Whether it was pure luck, or by Rao, the box snapped closed as Jon's hands fell away, limp and cold into the snow. It was divine intervention that forced the latch back down as it, too, toppled into the snow as he plummeted to a very still sleep.

Maybe it was the way the morning birds sang, or perhaps it was the moon standing stark against the fading pastels of the sunrise, refusing to relent to daylight. Whatever it was kept the world under heavy, peaceful silence that didn't lift until the rooster woke.

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Whether or not Selina knew for sure of the hostilities that glared her right in the face as she entered the little coffee shop, she kept it well to herself for her own good. The place was small, dingy, but adequate for its purpose, selling the best cuppa joes since 1994. Or whatever that sign on the front door was supposed to mean.