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Johnny still keeps an ear out for her, sometimes. Or, well—he still keeps an ear out for her, period.
He knows there’s little to no point to it. They flung Galactus and Shalla-Bal, by extension, to only god knows where, some far, far corner of the universe. It does comfort him, knowing Galactus is—for now, at least—so far out of sight and out of mind that they can all just go back to how things were before he started stomping around acting like he owned the place, like they owed him it, but he does worry about her. Wonders, more often than he’d like to admit, what happened to her, and if she’s okay.
The part of him that knows there’s no way she could ever really be okay after turning on Galactus like that is probably what drives him to keep checking the deep-space transmissions for any signs of her. There never is, obviously, but that doesn’t stop him from trying anyway, because it worked before, somehow, so maybe if he tries just as hard, if not harder, then he can make it work again, somehow.
The others know what he’s up to, of course. It’s not like he’s really making any effort to hide it, or to pretend that he’s not clinging on to the tiny, miniscule hope—probability—that he’ll still be able to find her out there, ascertain that she’s okay, prove himself and that annoying, pessimistic voice in the back of his head wrong. So: they know, of course they do, but the thing that kind of surprises him about it is that they just… let him.
No one says anything about it, not really. Not Ben, who used to tease him about his cute little crush but, these days, regards Johnny with quiet but unmistakable sympathy instead, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder when they pass by each other, Ben coming in to discuss something with Reed, and Johnny on his way out with another transmission to decipher. Not even Reed says anything, which is honestly the weirdest fucking thing ever. He keeps waiting for it, for Reed to give him that dry, somewhat impatient look he always reserves for Johnny, and for Reed to launch into his Actually, Johnny lecture followed by some grim decimal point percentage that would mathematically obliterate whatever hope Johnny’s still clinging to. But it never comes. Reed just lets him do his thing, and still calls him in whenever he’s got something new for Johnny to go over. He never says it’s pointless, and never says it’s a waste of time, and yeah, Johnny appreciates that, of course he does, but it’s just kind of really fucking weird.
And Sue is… Sue. She still nags at him, still badgers him over every little thing, constantly asking if he’s eaten already, or if he’s gotten any sleep at all, or if he’s cleaned up the mess he made in the kitchen or re-stocked his supply of cereals. She still wrinkles her nose at him when he comes back soaked in sweat, fresh from a hard work-out, and tells him to hit the showers, stop stinking up the place, Jesus, Johnny. He still rolls his eyes at her, and sometimes still flips her off or makes a face behind her back, and then narrowly dodges whatever nearby object she sends flying at his head. Johnny pretends to be annoyed with her whenever Sue does all her Sue Things, but deep down, he’s actually grateful for all of it. He’s grateful that Sue knows him well enough to know that sometimes what he needs isn’t to be pulled out of his feels or anything, but to be anchored to something that still feels normal. Something real.
So he grumbles barely audible complaints and makes faces at Sue when she nags at him or calls to him from the other room to take out the trash again, because Make yourself useful, Johnny—I’ve already got one toddler to deal with, I don’t need another one on my plate, but he doesn’t say a word or make a fuss when she randomly pops in and brings him a sandwich, cookies with milk, whatever, instead of HERBIE, his little man Herbert, and he puts down whatever it is he’s doing—which is, really, just usually the same thing, everyday, listening to the new recorded transmission over and over to catch something, anything at all—when Sue comes in with Franklin cradled in her arms, and they just talk about whatever, or sometimes they don’t really talk at all, and Sue just sits back and watches Johnny play with Franklin with this soft, warm smile on her face.
Johnny doesn’t want to be a sap or anything, but it means a lot to him, it does, having his family, even little cute-as-a-button Franklin, be there for him and just support him in their own ways while he’s a little down in the dumps because he—god—because he misses her.
He misses Shalla-Bal.
No one tells him he’s ridiculous for it, but he definitely feels like he is. Still, he can’t help it. He really felt like they had something between them, not in the definitely would bang a sexy alien way, but something—deeper. Something that he honestly hasn’t felt for too many people, if he’s ever felt it at all. But he felt it with Shalla-Bal. He felt a real connection with her, which, yeah, fine, he knows might sound incredibly far-fetched given how they didn’t even really know each other, how they never got the chance to, but it was—is—real to him. And, in that final moment they shared, it felt like it was real to Shalla-Bal too.
And if she’s out there—anywhere—he just wants her to know:
He felt it. It was real.
It’s late, and Johnny’s still awake. He sits in bed with his space suit on, the blue glow from the visor of his helmet casting a soft light against the room’s dark corners, the only real illumination coming from the flicker of the feed replaying inside his helmet. He’s got it memorized by now, but he’s watching it again tonight—the footage from Galactus’ ship. Shalla-Bal, and the way she looked at him when she said, “It’s a blessing. It means, ‘Die with yours.’” His fingers twitch against the playback control. He rewinds it, then watches again. Rewinds it, and then watches it again. And again, and again. Die with yours, Shalla-Bal says again, and again, and again.
He’s so caught up with his little nightly ritual that he just barely registers the soft creak of his door cracking open, a thin sliver of light from the hallway spilling into his room. He pushes the visor of his helmet up and turns his head. Somehow, he isn’t surprised to find Sue standing in the doorway.
“Franklin keeping you up again?” Johnny asks, yanking the helmet all the way off then running a hand through his hair to make himself just a little bit more presentable for his sister.
Sue smiles wryly in response. “I knew you’d still be up too,” she tells, closing the door softly behind her. She walks over to his bed and flops down onto it, right down beside him, her elbows and knees knocking against Johnny’s. She makes a show of sniffing the air around him, then she wrinkles her nose at him and says, “When was the last time you washed this suit? You do know you’re supposed to, right?”
“Ben was hogging the washing machine again,” Johnny replies drily. Sue, thankfully, laughs.
It’s quiet for a while after that, and Johnny would be more than content, honestly, to keep it that way, but Sue’s eyes scan his room and when they inevitably land on turntable and the gold-plated records, all deep-space transmissions, all around it on the floor, and then she nudges his elbow, and asks, “Any luck?”
There isn’t anything teasing about it, nothing casual. She asks it like she’s genuinely interested, or genuinely invested, and Johnny doesn’t know if he’d rather have her not care at all.
But then again, this is Sue, and he knows he doesn’t have to hide anything from her, and he doesn’t have to pretend with her. So, he heaves a sigh and answers, “No,” letting all of his frustration bleed through. “No, I’ve got nothing.” Still nothing.
Sue just nods like she expected that. Eventually, she asks, “You really think she’s still out there?” There isn’t anything dismissive about it, just… curious. Careful.
“I don’t know,” Johnny says, or admits, is more like it, shrugging. “Maybe. Maybe not. I mean, I know it’s stupid—”
“It’s not stupid,” Sue says, cutting him off. She reaches for his hand, and then gives it a squeeze. “You cared about her, Johnny.”
Johnny looks away. “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, “I barely even knew her, really.”
But Sue, being Sue, is quick to say, “That doesn’t mean it didn’t mean something,” like she’s actually scolding him. It’s a little annoying, but also strangely comforting the way Sue’s nagging is always a little comforting to Johnny.
Johnny doesn’t say anything right away, just takes a slow breath in, and then out. “Die with yours,” he says after some time, softly, Shalla-Bal’s voice ringing in his ears, loud and clear. “That’s what she said to me. She said it was a blessing. And I—I just… I keep thinking about how she’s somewhere out there now, all alone. Not with her people, not with her family. Not with hers.”
He swallows hard. “She gave up everything to save her planet, and yeah, in exchange for one planet Galactus has destroyed—killed—how many millions more, but she said that to me like it meant something, like I should be so lucky to die with the people I love, with my family, and she—she never got to do that. She won’t get to.”
Johnny turns to look at Sue. “I’ve lost my mind, haven’t I?”
And Sue laughs, despite herself. She reaches for his hand again, patting it before she intertwines their fingers. “People hold candles, Johnny,” she tells him simply, smiling at him gently. Leave it to Sue to devastate him like this. “And, for what it’s worth,” she adds, just a little bit cheeky, “I think you two did have a moment. However brief it was, and whatever it was you had between each other… You saw her, Johnny, and you got through to her. I think that counts for something.”
“Yeah?” Johnny murmurs, and Sue says, “Yeah,” as sure as she’ll ever be about anything.
Sue gives his hand one last squeeze then slowly lets go. “Get some sleep,” she says as she stands, stretching her arms overhead with a yawn. “And do not do it wearing that.”
Johnny huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah.”
Sue pauses at the doorway, glancing back at him. “Goodnight, Johnny.”
“‘Night, Sue.”
And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
Johnny sits there a moment longer, letting the quiet settle again. The records still litter the floor, and his space suit feels heavier than ever. He gets up, unfastens the clasps at his collar, and begins to peel the suit off piece by piece, then he changes into more Earth- and sleep-appropriate clothing.
He climbs back into bed, slides under the covers, and stares up at the ceiling for a long, quiet moment. No transmissions this time, just total stillness. Eventually, he drifts off to sleep, and he dreams—dreams of waves lapping gently against pale sand beneath a pale sky, the horizon stretching out far and wide, shimmering, and he dreams of her, Shalla-bal, walking along the shore barefoot, dreams of her as she might have been before she became what she is now, just the woman she was, the one she might still be, home, right where she belongs, with hers.
Maybe, one day, she’ll find her way back to them.
Until then, Johnny will hold a candle for her.