In another life, the colors come in when G is 8 years old and he's sitting on a swing – arms across his stomach as he tried to breathe around possibly (definitely) cracked ribs.
"Hey," says a boy. G looks up and the colors fill in as he meets the boy's eyes. The greens of the grass and the red of the swing set, the blue of the rubber around the chains and the sky. The light brown of the boy's skin and the dark brown of his shining eyes.
"Hi," G grins.
"I guess we're soulmates," the boy says, he's grinning back and then stepping up close and holding out his hand. "My name's Sam."
G freezes, his hand stuck somewhere between his stomach and Sam's hand. He says, "I don't know my name."
"Don't worry," Sam says, "my mama can name you. She chose my name and I think she did alright."
"I think so, too."
"Your father's name was George," Sam's mama says, brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Would you mind if we called you that?"
He looks up at her and smiles, says: "Yeah, I'd like that."
"Okay, honey," she leans down, plants a big, wet kiss to his cheek, "c'mon, we're going to be late for our flight."
In another life, the colors come in when G is 18 and he's standing on a street corner in Coronado, just waiting for the light to change.
Then a man, tall and sweating and in the middle of a run, stops on the other side of the street.
It doesn't take long for their eyes to connect.
And, for some reason G doesn't understand – he panics and turns on his heel and runs.
"Wait!" he hears behind him. (He doesn't.) "Why in the hell are you running?!"
"I don't want to interrupt your exercise!" G shouts over his shoulder, dodging and weaving his way through the crowd.
"What's your name?" the man asks, jumping over the trash bin G throws into his way (G tries not to be impressed).
"What's yours?" he counters.
"Sam," the man answers – his voice suddenly much closer.
"How did you catch up?" G demands, making a sharp turn and heading towards the beach.
"I just finished BUD/S," Sam says and G grits his teeth, curses his luck. Of course his soulmate would be a fucking SEAL.
"This is bullsh—" G was saying when Sam tackles him into the sand.
"Why did you run?" Sam asks. "And what's your name?"
"I don't know," G says, "and I don't know."
Sam just lifts an eyebrow and G shrugs. He looks down at where Sam's linked their fingers together – still not sure why he was tolerating the contact. Yeah, since his colors had come in Sam was obviously his soulmate, but he'd spent most (if not all) of his life keeping people at exactly arm's length.
He sighed. It looked like Sam would be an exception to many of G's rules.
"It's a long story," G continues after a beat.
"I think we've got time," Sam smirks.
In this life, G is 36 and Hetty is talking about the SEAL she's bringing in.
"If there is anyone who you will be able to work with," she says, "it has to be a SEAL. Who knows - maybe sparks will fly?"
He doesn't tell her that the odds of colors coming at his age are next to nothing.
(She seems to hear what he doesn't say and still smirks like she knows something he doesn't.)
G glares at the wall, wonders if he even really needs a partner before he hears a door opening and Hetty's voice drifting back to him.
"I'm sure he won't be that bad," Eric says, "SEALs have to be good at undercover work, right?"
G ignores him and turns to the door – ready to greet their newest member because, dammit, he's a professional and he'll play nice if he's ordered to.
In this life, G is 36 when he meets Sam and his world explodes into color.