Title: Meditation

Summary: Joe felt out-of-sorts. The constant fighting, and his own body, were getting to him. The world looked bleak. It took some time, and working through most of the team, but eventually he found a safe harbor.

Rating: K+ (10+)

Warnings: self-doubt, canon-typical unwilling body-modification, depression, reference to the end of 2001 anime

A/N 05-11-2018: I found this gathering dust in my writing folder. I don't even remember writing it. The last time I binge-wrote for C009 was mid-2014, so… there's no telling how old this is. fiddled a bit with some spelling and grammar errors. This is not really polished, and I'm only half-satisfied with it, but don't wanna mess with it more. So: fair warning for that, I suppose. But between this and Duet, perhaps this will be what I need to come out of my writing slump!

-Meditation-

Joe had always considered himself easy-going. It was with only a little work, barely a hint of effort, that he learned to trust the other eight who'd been manipulated as he had, and the one who went out of his way to try and make them feel human again.

It was a little harder to feel like himself again, though.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and on into years, where all Joe could trust of himself was that he was a cyborg destined for war. Whether it was at Black Ghost's hands or against them didn't really matter in that respect (though he would always be firmly of the 'against' party, if his opinion was asked); he was now a weapon of war.

But, if ever he was feeling particularly lost, all Joe had to do was look at Albert.

That hurt. Knowing that his innate kindness and humanity had been taken from him just enough that – if only for a moment – he could find himself looking at someone he considered a friend, that he trusted, respected, and cared about… and think only of himself. That he could be twisted by circumstances enough to deliberately seek the weakness and hurt of another just to make himself feel better. When he found himself looking for Albert just so he could feel better about his own humanity…. Suffice it to say, he always came away feeling worse about himself in a different way than he'd started.

Aching with a heavy heart and tangled thoughts, over time Joe sought out the opinions and advice of his family. In spite of keeping Albert's unwitting 'role' in his predicament from the equation as he requested help, he still got more of a mixed response than he'd been expecting.

Ivan knew, of course – when he was awake, there was nothing he didn't know about Joe, if only because Joe had never felt it necessary to kick the psychic out of his head. The infant-in-body never said anything about it; Joe had a lingering feeling that each of them possessed issues that Ivan knew, but would never say anything about without prompting. And Joe couldn't bring himself to ask such a favor of someone he regularly changed and burped; it was just too strange!

He also spent a long time debating whether or not to approach Doctor Gilmore on the matter. Eventually he decided not to. The older man had enough on his plate, worrying about their physical health; that was no reason to burden the man he'd begun to (secretly) think of as his surrogate father with his mental health, as well.

Joe cautiously broached the subject with Jet only once. The former gang member had stared at him with sad blue eyes. For a man tossed hither and yon all his life, it had been a fact of surviving that the Italian-American knew who he, himself, was – without that, Jet would have long-since been swallowed by any one of the hurdles of his past. He could understand where Joe was coming from – Jet was smart, for all he acted with his heart and fists first – but he could not empathize with this. Nor could he, he informed Joe quietly, in good conscience give advice when his own mind was just as self-destructive, if in different ways.

It had been easiest to ask Great Britain about his problem. In retrospect, he should have seen the answer coming. GB was great and all, but the man had been putting on new identities willingly, one after another, for decades longer than Joe had been alive. Granted, first it was only as an – albeit, talented – actor, and then a little more forcefully as a captive project of Black Ghost… but. The well-meaning thespian couldn't quite grasp why Joe couldn't just choose to accept this new 'role' as his new self; GB had.

Françoise ended up being a decent enough sounding board the first couple of times Joe approached her (again, avoiding mention of Albert's role). It was nice to be able to rant to someone who had a bit of feminine intuition. That didn't mean she ultimately helped his loss of self; there was only so far intuition could go. And while it was cleansing to be able to vent, an annoyed French woman who was overtired of re-re-rehashing the same subject was best left to her own devices.

Joe had been hesitant to involve Pyunma in his quest. The African certainly had his own issues to work out – he had woken up not once but twice, changed radically against his will. But Joe'd eventually gone for it, hoping that Pyunma might have some insight that the others so-far had lacked. And the aquatically-inclined man had, to be sure! But one man's acceptance of self was not necessarily another man's path. Joe was glad that Pyunma had somehow found the time and resources to come to peace with himself, to be sure! But mere words alone, Joe was slowly discovering, could not lead him to self-acceptance.

Approaching Chang, really, was even more predictable than GB had been: The short Chinese man had listened gravely, clucking and hem-hawing in all the right places, and had nodded sagely during Joe's whole spiel – it was the most patient response he'd gotten so far. Then Chang had proceeded to stuff him full of his favorite comfort foods. Joe left the kitchen – forever and always Chang's domain, after a mess early on, with an over-helpful Jet and Joe, a gas stove, and a frozen turkey – feeling more content than he expected, for all that he gotten a sounding board even less talkative than Françoise, and a full belly.

Joe avoided Albert for far longer than he was comfortable admitting, guilt gnawing horribly at him. Eventually, though, he gathered his courage. With a raw conscience, he approached the staunch German, and at first felt only relief that he wasn't immediately rebuffed. Drawing out the whole of the issue – because if there was one person who deserved to know the lengths to which Joe was shattering inside, it was the object of his scrutiny – took a long time. But Albert was patient and calm through it all. At last, he had only one thing to offer Joe: The reminder that it was human to look for in others what was not present in yourself. Albert understood with a personal twist what it meant to be jealous of this person for what he didn't himself have, and to be thankful that he had not fallen to the depths of that person over there at least. He did not begrudge the Japanese teen his moments of humanity, and informed Joe that such was part of the very thing he was seeking, though it was a personal journey, so Albert could not conceivably give him much more guidance than that.

But where Joe – unexpectedly – found the most solace was with Geronimo. Joe confided in him, and the larger man listened with a calm quiet that none of the others had displayed. Instead of offering advice, Geronimo offered to share his meditation time with Joe. He claimed it brought more peace than any counseling he could give; seated cross-legged beneath the branches of a flourishing oak, a gentle ocean breeze ruffling their hair, and the solid presence of one of his teammates at his side really was more comforting than advice from the others had been. Eventually, Geronimo stood up and Joe followed. He left Joe with a simple thought to mull over: Only Joe could know who he was at any given time, no matter how much he sought knowledge from others.

Joe took that to heart in way that he hadn't been able to truly use any of the others' advice.

He grew more comfortable with who he'd become – both weapon-in-form and man-in-mind. And the more ease he gained, the more time he found himself spending in quiet, companionable silence with Geronimo. Over the months, it grew into not only a comfort, but a routine. If neither of them were injured, they most often ended the day after a battle on the porch of Doctor Kozumi's house – close enough to the others that they remained in sight, to ease post-fight anxieties – mediating as much as the remaining adrenaline allowed. If one of them was hurt, they waited quietly at the bedside of the other, meditating there.

But growing comfortable with who Black Ghost had made him was still a work-in-progress. There were many nights he woke to nightmares; killing – even to save the world – would do that to a person. Geronimo was helping him to realize his humanity was why he was reacting that way. Being a machine in war didn't mean he was a warmonger.

Still, the first time he woke with a cry and was met with a familiar, calming touch in a dimly-lit room, instead of the unfeeling darkness of an empty bedroom, was something else. And when he found himself ensconced in blankets, with his head pillowed on a large thigh a couple of nights later, a familiar hand carding through his hair, he felt himself relax entirely for the first time in… forever.

Here was someone who not only understood him, but who knew him well enough to help him understand himself. Here was someone he could spend literal hours with, regardless of how either of them were feeling. In response to his almost-silent sigh of relief, a hand more wide than his own, warmer and stronger than his own, and darker than his own, laced with his.

Joe glanced down at their intertwined fingers, and was filled with warmth. It wasn't the just quiet company, the meditation, or the solid way he knew he could fall back on Geronimo if he needed it, that made Joe finally, finally feel like he could be human again. It was the caution and gentleness with which Geronimo handled him, and the absolute compassion, understanding, and affection that Joe could see in Geronimo's utterly expressive eyes.

He tucked his face into Geronimo's shoulder, and impossibly strong arms wrapped around him to draw him closer, comforting him undeniably. He was safe and whole, for the first time since he woke to a telepathic voice in his head, so many years ago. For the first time since he'd survived a death-defying plummet from the atmosphere, also thanks to that voice's owner, so many months ago. He was safe, and Geronimo was right beside him.