Time and consciousness.

These were things that eluded him as he drifted. From one dream to the next; beautiful wonderful dreams… and the nightmares. Oddly, he could not decide which he enjoyed most.

And always, at the back of his mind, he was taunted by the concepts of time and consciousness.

Maybe that was why, when he finally surfaced, he was fully aware of every minute.

–

"Hello. Hello?" Poke. Poke poke. His cheek was sore. Scratch that: his whole body was sore, his cheek only more so. He blinked. This place was dark. Dark was good.

"Hello?" The voice again, irritatingly persistant.

His eyes remained open, sensation flooding his body like a river.

Or a creek… he thought grimly, absently. This seemed important.

Poke poke. This irritation evoked a new sensation that flooded his chest and spread to his extremities. Slowly, deliberately, he swivelled his head around to meet the eyes of the persistant child.

His voice was a croak: "Faaaamishhshhed."

–

He shouldn't have taken the child. He knew that now, or at least he thought he knew it. His close proximity to her made him question what he knew. His lips twisted into a smile. Just like old times.

"Why are you on my porch?" The voice startled him. He was easily startled these days.

He looked up into eyes as green as a forest, though the thick, dark locks tumbling down her shoulders were her father's. "Is your mother home?" His throat was dry, his tongue clumsy and thick. Speaking clearly had proved an impossible task.

"You couldn't just knock on the door?"

Dumbly, he shook his head.

The girl rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Yeah, I'll get her." She stepped over him, carefully avoiding physical contact. The door slammed closed behind her.

–

"Mom, guy on the porch for you."

Jenny Locke looked up to watch her daughter's retreating back. Her brow knit, torn between greeting her guest and chastising her eldest daughter. Curiosity won over parental duty, and she brushed the flour off her hands as she went to answer the door.

–

He heard the door open behind him and turned, heart racing. Jenny.

She smiled warmly down at him. "Hello, Julian. I was wondering when you'd be back." As if he'd gone on a vacation. As if everything were normal.

Julian stood, brushing a lock of white-blonde hair from his eyes. "Jenny." He managed, because it was the only word he could think of.

"Come in."

He came.

"I thought you might be Michael. He drops by every now and again, mostly for the food." Jenny chattered. "Sorry the house is a mess. I'm in kind of a rush. Can you cook?"

Julian was surveying the pictures on the walls, detailing the years that had passed while he'd been… 'gone'.

"Julian?"

"What?" He startled, his brain scrambling for an answer. "Oh, um, no."

She laughed. "Pity. Tommy will be home in a few, and I just managed to get dinner started. Feel free to look around." This last comment was tossed over her shoulder as she retreated into the kitchen. Her hand lingered on the door long enough for him to catch the glint of gold on her left hand. Make that two. He smiled to himself.

The framed portraits on the wall filled in the years–approximately twenty–for him. First, pictures of her and Tommy, pictures that made his heart ache as he watched the haunted look fade from her eyes as she grew older. Then came her children. Her family. Her new life. With grim determination he watched the three children grow older in still frames and quick snapshots.

Julia, Scott, and Summer.

Her new life. New world.

His last gift to her.

He didn't say a word in parting. He simply slipped out the door… and–for all intents and purposes–vanished.