REMY HAD BEEN HIDING UP IN HIS ROOM FOR THE BETTER PART OF THE AFTERNOON. After his mother had driven them home, she had confiscated his plan, sending it to herself and taking all his physical copies as well, her son putting up a good fight up until dinner where she was able to take it from him. Then she called Jayne and left the house, not speaking to her son again.

So that left Jayne to sit in the kitchen and make herself a drink while the eleven year old cried upstairs in his room. She didn't know he was crying, however, as Remy never threw tantrums when he was sad. He threw tantrums when something wrong and he had no control of it, but if his mother grounded him he would just sit and pout.

Remy didn't just cry. Jayne, who had known him his whole life, knew that the boy didn't just cry. Even when Mark left, he didn't cry unless he got upset. He didn't cry when he was simply sad.

It was a surprise, however, that he wasn't throwing a tantrum at his mother taking his plans. Perhaps it was because he had planned for this, making sure not to write the name of the man he was sure was his father; his mother thought he was smart, just not that smart.

"Honey," Jayne called, knocking on the boy's door, "Can I come in?"

"No," he called out, face buried in his pillow, his body sprawled out on his twin bed mattress.

The only sign that his mother's actions had affected him in any way was the fact that the contents of his backpack had been tossed around haphazardly across his room, the only fit of anger he would allow himself to experience.

With a sigh, Jayne tried the door knob, surprised to see it unlocked. Opening it, she stepped in carefully, waiting for her godson to send her out. But he didn't react, simply lying with his face in his pillow, looking very small.

"Your mom isn't mad," she tried, sitting at the foot of his bed, placing a hand on his back, "She's just...scared. I don't think even she knew Mark wasn't your dad."

"But you knew," he said, sitting up quickly to look at her, "You told me that the only other person you knew she slept with was Tony Stark at a New Year's Eve party in 2006. It coincides perfectly, I was born in September. And-and mom tells you everything!"

"I know, sweetie, but I don't think your mom really remembers," she confessed, pulling him to her side, "She's been through a lot, more than you can ever imagine and more than she will ever want to tell you, at least when you're this young. So you can't blame her for reacting badly, I bet she even forgot."

Remy sighed. "How can she forget who my dad is?"

Jayne stared across at the wall, mumbling softly to herself. "The mind hides a lot of things to protect us, Remy."

He groaned and fell back against his pillow, staring at his ceiling. "Well, if she doesn't remember, then I can keep up with the plan, I just have to go down the other path. Have to make some adjustments, though, I planned on him being unwilling, but not in the way he is..."

Jayne watched as the boy jumped to his feet, making his way to his closet and shifting through some drawers, pulling out a box. Her jaw dropped as he undid some pieces of the box, revealing another physical copy of his plan which he set out along his floor.

Catching her look, he gave her a sly smile. "You think I didn't plan on mom finding out? You won't tell, right?"

Jayne worried on her bottom lip as she watched the boy begin to write over some of his notes, mumbling to himself as he grabbed sticky notes, his work meticulous yet chaotic, an order that he found easiest to understand without it becoming a hassle. She had never seen such determination in someone so small before.

"I promise," she whispered.

Because this boy had been let down by so many people before, she might as well give him some hope now. She hoped she wouldn't regret it.

º º º

It was around ten when Birdie finally decided to get a drink.

She had been with her parents ever since she had left the house, crying to them and to her sister, though about everything besides what had truly happened; she couldn't let them know, she couldn't tell them.

How she found herself stumbling into a dark and barely lit bar in Brooklyn, she didn't know. She didn't know how she found herself falling into a chair at said bar, not caring what she ordered so long as it was alcoholic and would keep her from screaming too loudly.

She was well into her fourth pint of whatever they had given her, sobbing heavily and tears clouding her vision, when a hand lightly pressed on her shoulder. She startled, nearly knocking over her drink, and turned to find a man looking down at her with a sympathetic expression.

"Ma'am, to keep the peace, I'm going to have to ask you to—"

"Please, don't kick me out," she blubbered, wiping at her cheeks which no doubt had mascara running down the sides, her eyes stinging as she tried to look up at him more clearly, "I can't go home, not yet, my son—" she choked, sobbing as she leaned forward, head between her knees, struggling to breathe.

Everything hurt. Her chest was constricting and her head hadn't stopped spinning since the moment Remy had told her what he had been planning. She couldn't stop rubbing at her arms, feeling the prickling sensation of fear no matter where she went.

More than anything, however, she was confused. Confused because she could't for the life of her remember who his real father was, let alone how he knew. She had scanned over his plan through blurry eyes, but nothing made sense. She had been wondering since the beginning of the year, but everyone had told her to stop, that it would lead to nothing but dead ends and heartache.

Yet there she was now, clueless and in even more pain than before.

"It's alright, ma'am, I won't force you to leave, but please just sit over here," the man said, pulling her up by the elbows, his touch feather light, as if he were afraid to hurt her.

He maneuvered her towards the corner, shielding her from the prying eyes of the others in the bar, all wanting to see who the hysterical woman was and what they could gain from seeing her so vulnerable. With one glare, he sent them all the other way, all pretending to mind their own business.

"Do you...want to...talk about it?" the man asked slowly, glancing towards the bar and his place, hand moving towards his phone before stopping.

She bit her lip. She didn't want to talk about it with anyone, yet she needed someone to listen. A stranger was better than a friend, because a stranger could throw away the information, forget about it and never see her again. A friend would always remember.

"My son has been trying to locate his biological father."

The man raised his eyebrows, pulling up one of the chairs and sitting on it. It was clear that whatever she had to say was going to take a while. She appreciated that he was actually listening to her, most men in her life never did.

"Was there another man in his life who wasn't his father?" he asked, trying to help her collect her thoughts, though he seemed to be very unsure of what he was doing.

"My ex-husband," she sighed, sniffing as she took another gulp from her drink, "He was sure he was his, and I was sure too, but then it turns out that he wasn't and I had tried to find out who it was, but I can't remember a damn thing and everyone told me not to think about it, but look where that got me."

The man opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say, but she went on. "So his babysitter told me he tried sneaking out and walking home, but I thought nothing of it, I know he doesn't really like her, but then I catch him outside today and then I find all these plans tracking this man and it's kind of terrifying! He planned this out so well, but it's scary, he's following this man and I just—"

"What about this has you so upset?" he asked, not judgmental, but more helpful. It was a good question, really, one she had forcibly neglected herself from asking.

"I just," she began, tracing the rim of her glass as she stared down at its contents, "Why does he care? Why-why is he so fixated—am I not enough for him?"

The man reached out and placed a hand on her arm. "Maybe it's not that you're not enough, but that he wants to know. Learning that such an important person in your life isn't who you thought they were is going to be jarring at first and he's going to want answers."

Birdie nodded, the words settling in. That made sense. Remy never liked being left in the dark, often throwing fits if they made a change of plans at the last second. Her mother always told her to teach him to suck it up, but she knew why her son was like that and didn't like the idea of hurting him more than it already did.

"But it's not just that," she sighed, rolling her shoulders and her neck, "It's that...someone out there is the father of that boy and me not knowing makes me sick. And-and the plan he made, it's scary, I'm scared of my son! And I just—this is all so overwhelming, and I have work to do, but I haven't done any of it and—"

"Breathe," he whispered, "It's okay. Just relax, you're okay."

"No, I'm not," she sobbed, "I don't know what I'm doing, I barely even see my son, I barely know what he wants for his birthday, let alone that he wanted to find his real father, I—"

"You're doing the best you can," the man whispered, placing a hand on her arm, "That's all we can do sometimes. We're only human."

She wiped at her eyes and blinked up at the man. He was young, blond and blue eyed, someone she and Jayne would have giggled over in their younger years, what with his nice build and glasses.

All Birdie could think is how a man like him found himself working as security in a bar in Brooklyn, listening to her cry about her son and her life.

"I don't think I do my best," she whispered, turning away, "I really don't think I do."

"You're being too hard on yourself—" he began, but she cut him off, whirling back around to look at him.

"You don't understand," she all but whispered, "You don't, I—" she took a deep breath, burying her face in her hands, "What am I doing, I have to get back to my son."

"He's home alone?" the man asked, surprised.

"My best friend is watching him, but she has a husband she needs to get back to, what am I—" she groaned, "I'm so selfish."

"It's not selfish to need some time to yourself, especially after something shocking," the man said, and it was clear the words he was saying had been learned by someone else and he was just trying to remember what he had heard.

She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. "Can-can I please have some water? I don't," she pushed away her glass, as if realizing what she had just done, "I don't drink, I shouldn't—I need to get home soon, please?"

"Yes, of course," the man said, standing up and walking towards the bar.

She stared at her hands, twiddling her fingers idly. She glanced at her reflection in her glass, scoffing at what she saw. Her mascara had indeed stained her cheeks and her hair was in complete disarray. Her lipstick was smudged and her shirt rumpled, and she hated every bit of it.

So much for the put together woman she had forced herself to become over all these years.

"Would you still like to talk about it?" the man asked, setting a few glasses of water in front of her.

She pursed her lips and looked at him. A friend would remember. A stranger would not.

"I would like that. Yes."

Because she had kept so many things bottled up inside. Telling this stranger wouldn't cause any more damage than had already been done.

A lot of damage had been done. More than even she could remember.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

hmm...I wonder who the attractive blond with glasses could be...mayhap it's Steven Grant Rogers fulfilling his duties as bar security in the job Tony got for him! If you want more explanation, check out my Steve fic 'Past Lives' which has a lot of references to this story, despite it being close to finished already! There was a mention of this scene in that fic, so I just expanded on it.