WARNER

I await until Alia exits the private section of the MT where James is kept, all but tapping and beaming in her way out, to search for Kishimoto at James' specific request.

She leaves in the opposite direction to where I'm standing, not even noticing me in a more than foolish obliviousness unworthy of my thought.

I step inside and consider James on his bed, sitting on it, supported by a mass of pillows. There's an IV on his arm, I deduce for the transparency and the consistency of the liquid that it is pumping serum.

James has the ability to self-heal; I know, but I can tell with just one look at the dark circles under his eyes that he's not in condition to concentrate or apply force on his power. His tiredness is almost overwhelmingly weakening, and he's famished.

Nevertheless he still has enough strength to curve his mouth in a smirk. "You look horrible."

I perceive my own mouth curving on a similar smirk.

I'm suddenly assaulted by the wonder if we look alike at this moment. And the awareness that James' eyes are strikingly reminiscing of my father's.

"I know," I mutter.

I grab one of the chairs in the section, and pull it close to James' bed to take a seat on it.

I wipe my hand covered in dried blood over my face covered in more dried blood. Perhaps for making myself more presentable, though, granted to the child, he does not look bewildered by my sordid appearance. He looks at me steady in the eye instead. Not with that classic childish curiosity or marvel I've heard kids possess innately and that I've witnessed and felt from James' part in the past.

Physically, I don't recoil, my face betrays nothing, I even keep my pulse steady, but in my mind, I concentrate in James' eye color. Two shades lighter than aquamarine, not enough for aqua or celeste. I remember when I mentioned Kent's eye shape resembled my father's, but James' are formed differently. That, along with his hair and bone structure, leads me to assume he inherited most of his mother's physical qualities.

"What happened to you?" he questions.

Admittedly, I'm slightly surprised by the inquiry, I was expecting him to go straight to the point. He's anxious about it, I can tell.

And yet, I would prefer for him to tell me how he found out; who told him, where and why.

"I massacred a group of supreme soldiers."

"Oh, yeah, I heard about that." He struggles to sit up straighter. "It took me a while to fully wake up but I heard the others talking about what happened with Anderson."

He frowns.

"But I shouldn't keep calling him Anderson, right?" He pouts. "I really, really, really don't want to call him dad."

I stiffen.

"What else have you heard?"

"Not much." He lifts his gaze at me. "Did you find out where Juliette is?"

Don't say her name, I command silently at him.

And I realize rather belatedly that the hardness I was intending to put into that command was unintentional, which takes me aback. I'm not used to unintentional, and I'm certainly not used to want to be nice to someone.

With Ella by my side, I would have a better hold on how to handle this. A child. I would feel the compassion and tenderness coming from her and rejoice myself in such pure feelings. For a brief moment, I let myself drift to the soft memory of those sentiments.

But I'm alone with James now.

My brother.

He's remarkably at ease with me, has been since the very first day, but I don't know how to address this newfound inquisitiveness from his part, reflected in the way his eyes focus on mine, mixed with wariness and a tad of resentment.

An ache that somehow feels familiar at once as foreign breaks on my chest.

"I meant at The Reestablishment," I clarify keeping my voice stern, but not angry. "What did you hear when you were at The Reestablishment? And from whom did you hear it?"

"Anderson," he answers in a beat. "It was the first day that we arrived, after Adam gave himself in."

I push aside the surprise that floods through me upon the final words. Enough to keep myself collected as I say: "What do you mean, gave himself in?"

James' fingers play with the folds of his sheets nervously. I feel a strange urge to touch him, try some sort of physical reassurance move, but I back off immediately. James small, frail hands; my own would taint him in more than one way.

"Adam, he…" His bottom lip bobbles. "He sort of made a deal with Anderson. He exchanged himself – his power, to keep me safe."

"His power?" I query, asking for specifics.

"He told The Reestablishment about his power. That he could turn off other people's powers. And told them they could use it to their favor, if they left me out of everything."

"I see."

Adam Kent. Despairing traitor, I muse in my mind.

It's unsurprising, but it still flares a blaze of anger. Of course he wouldn't believe in Ella's capacity. I've always wondered if he trusts her at all, if he ever loved her at all. Love cannot live where there is no trust.

"Where, exactly, where you been held?" I ask.

"Sector 45. It looks like those are Anderson's new headquarters."

"They were."

James furrows his brows at me, the expression makes him look younger than what he is. "What do you mean?"

"I mean he surely isn't there anymore," I explain. "I know where he is now."

"How can you know?" He frowns harder.

I shrug. "I just know."

"This is you trying to be dramatic again?"

I roll my eyes. "You've spent too much time with Kishimoto."

"You think he's a bad influence for me?" James grins at his own attempt of a brotherly joke, but it quickly turns into a meditative frown.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He looks me straight in the eye once again, demanding me to answer with his willpower alone.

Brave boy, I think.

"What was it that my father told you?" I take care of having all of the data in my hands. I tell myself it is for not leaving any loose ends. And I also force myself to admit that it is for not confusing James further.

"You mean our father," he says with vague annoyance, rolling his eyes as well and propping his head against the pillows. "He didn't really tell me, I just overheard him talking to some people. They were joking about two of his sons finally returning home, that at least not all three of us were a disappointment."

"At first I didn't understand what they were talking about, but the guards kept mocking me with it. I think they knew it wasn't something I wanted to hear." He squeezes his hand around a fistful of the bedsheets. "I hate that guy!"

"Then you do are part of this family," I concede.

James repeats his previous demand with calm impatience, and a hurt look on his eyes: "Why didn't you tell me?"

Before I can answer, I feel movement inside the section. The echo of a footstep. It's too brief but still present. My skin prickles with proximity. I scan the room looking for the source, unusually agitated for the situation. I'm used to be alert for unknown threats and attacks, but my thoughts aren't focused on my self-preservation, they are focused on James next to me inside the section.

The kid pokes at my arm a little too overconfidently. "You're not answering my question."

I push his hand away, still focused on the strange energy inside the room with us. I can feel the room warmer due to the body heat, and there's this strange mixture of surprise, anxiety and enthusiasm. It's horribly annoying.

"Warner?"

"Yes," I turn to him. "I mean – What were you saying?"

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

It looks like James impatience finally reached its peak. He sits up straighter, making the covers to fall and puddle on his lap. Despite his irritation, he doesn't looks as angry as he should be. He doesn't even manages to look threatening. Many would argue that he will look more threatening when he comes of age but I doubt I'll ever see James as anything else than this cheerful kid with shaggy dirty blonde hair and too bright eyes.

"Why didn't you say anything to me before? The whole time we lived together – "

"I didn't want to scare you," I confess.

"Why would I be scared?" He looks genuinely confused now.

It makes me sigh and advert his gaze looking out through the window.

"Because I'm not known for my charm."

"That's not fair," he debates, "I've seen a lot worse than you."

"Yes. I realize that now."

"And no one told me. I can't believe no one told me," he rants. "Not even Adam. I've been so mad at him." He pauses. "Did everyone know? Did Kenji know?"

An accelerated heartbeat resounds on my ears.

Ah!

I turn away to a specific corner of the room, "Why don't you ask him yourself?"

Kishimoto makes use of his bad language by muttering an unoriginal profanity that I hear clearly, and therefore I'm sure James heard as well.

After a blank shock, James exudes drowning waves of raw joy upon seeing Kishimoto, which is something that reaches too far from my understanding.

He throws his covers away and tries to launch himself out of the bed with complete disregard of the needle in his arm. Kishimoto – sloppy as he is – takes too long to shout at the reckless child to stop before he butchers his own arm so I have to push him against the bed before he makes some unnecessary damage. What kind of education has Kent been giving to this kid?

"Oh." James blushes. "Sorry."

Kishimoto tackles him in the bed and crushes him in his arms, James clings to him like a baby orangutan to its mother.

I stare at them.

I don't need to sense their energy to notice the profound relief and idyllic glee that shows itself on both their faces, but I detect how badly James craved that physical reassurance that I was hesitant to give, and how angry Kishimoto is for his correct assumption that nobody gave this comfort to James before his arrival.

It was still for the best, I wouldn't be able to give this kind of cheer to James. The solace of someone that loves you and that you love back.

I'm not that person for him.

When they break apart, James has tears in his eyes, and I feel that strange familiar yet foreign ache again. It's disappointment. At myself.

Kishimoto turns away to give the kid space as he wipes his tears, and then takes seat at the foot of his bed.

"Hey," he says, looking at me. "So what, uh – What are you doing here?"

Is this serious? "What do you think I'm doing here?" I put just the enough amount of nastiness in my voice.

"Really?" His eyes widen. "That's so decent of you. I didn't think you'd be so… emotionally… responsible." He clears his throat and turns to look at James, who's eyeing us curiously. "But I'm happy to be wrong, bro. And I'm sorry I misjudged you."

"I'm here to gather information," I say, breaking his mellow fantasy. "James is one of the only people who might be able to tell us where my father is located."

His face contorts until it grimaces like a wolf. "You're here to interrogate him?" he nearly shouts.

And here we go.

WARNER

I observe her standing in the middle of the uninhabited, shadowy laboratory; scanning her surroundings wary and assessing.

I keep myself still, regulating my pulse and my breathing, taking her in like she is a soft lantern finally illuminating the darkness inclosing me.

She's here, but she really isn't. This mechanical soldier is not really her.

Her eyes dart around rapidly even if her movements are slow. She's alert, but at the same time deep in thought, like she was wondering what's the real goal behind having her here, searching for me as her target.

Unsure.

Unstable.

I drink from her image, from the physical sight of her. Her flowing hair and glowing skin, beautiful in ways I never believed possible.

Even if I can only get a faint response from her real self, a distorted picture like the missing pigment from an abstract painting, I allow myself to contemplate her beauty for just a moment, feeding from her presence.

I place myself in front of her and let the invisibility to fade away.

She yelps out of startle, but remains composed nevertheless.

She doesn't goes for an attack right away, and stares at me as I stare at her instead. There's admiration, and not a trace of recognition in her eyes. It makes my stomach clench. When she hesitantly rubs the exposed skin of my throat with the tip of her fingers, my breathing shakes. It's too much. Her touch is too much. She lets her palm to fall and press against my chest.

Too much.

Our gazes clash when she looks up at me. Her face mere inches away from mine, and it is then when my self-control severs.

I reel back immediately, both abashed and anxious, trying to regain what I lost of my restraint, against all odds praying for a way to solve this situation. To bring her back to me.

And it occurs to me that I won't be able to. Desperation harrows my insides like claws over glass.

She falls back against a steel table, catching herself by holding to the metal edge.

I approach her once more and notice how her breaths come out too shaky, weakened. She seems unhealthily giddy. But when she looks up her eyes focus steadily on me again. They wander through my face and body, studying me rather blankly with nothing more than a mild curiosity eclipsed by general appreciation.

I sigh, exasperated and weary.

I pull off my jacket, under the surge to feel myself lighter. The thoughts shoot themselves through my brain like a gunshot. However, I keep myself collected enough as I move and fold the jacket over the back of a near chair, feeling her piercing eyes on me.

I begin pacing before her gaze, analyzing the possibilities, trying to keep myself as self-possessed as I should be in a matter like the one at hand. But I'm unable to remain well-balanced when she's next to me, unrecognizable and painfully familiar. Close, and far away from my touch.

If I reached for her, she wouldn't be able to feel me. Not the way she did before. Not the way it is meant to be.

It's unbearable.

"Where did they make you?" Now I'm the one startled by the sound of her voice.

She stands unmoved, but her voice is soft when she continues, "You're unusually beautiful."

My eyes widen.

My lips part to say something – an exclamation of surprise, maybe – but the only thing that I can think of is "Ella".

It's delightful. Like memorizing the most artistic verse of an ancient love poem.

In a surprising move for the both of us, I smile. "So you are in there."

Her brows furrow. "Who?"

"Ella," I say out loud, setting her name free. "Juliette. They said you'd be gone."

"I'm not gone." Her words are strong even as she forces herself to stand straight. "I am Juliette Ferrars, supreme soldier to our North American Commander. Who are you?"

I move closer. "Love."

She doesn't fight me when I step forward and take her face in my hands. Her breathing trembles. "You shouldn't touch me."

"Why not?"

"Because I will kill you."

Kindly, I tilt her head back. Her eyes close instinctively – blissfully. The bliss that I feel, too, grazing my lips over the creamy skin of her jaw and throat, breathing her scent. I feel the urge to say her name again, not for persuading her, but for bringing reality to this dream we're both in. An unconscious sound escapes her lips, and I rejoice on the increasing heat of our skins.

"Do I – "

I kiss her neck before she can finish, and she gasps, needy.

"Do I know you?"

I answer in a beat. Simply, trustingly. "Yes."

"Yes," I repeat, allowing myself to be carried away by the memory of her – of us – like this. Ella in my arms, me by her side. It's almost too wonderful to be real. Too right, too pleasant, too much for an unworthy being like me.

I let go of her face and she presses herself against me, still needy, asking for something she's not sure about. I slide my hand under her shirt, caressing her burning skin.

She melts under my touch, and the overwhelming pleasure building between us raises. I step back just an inch, enough for my lips to loom over her mouth. I pull her closer and guide my hands to roam over her bare back and stomach knowingly. Expertly.

She blindly leans into my touch, clinging to my torso. I touch our foreheads together and she presses up onto her toes, gasping. "What, what is happening –"

When I kiss her, her mouth is impossibly soft. Her hands tremble, her heart hammers heavily against my chest. I nudge her mouth open, softly and slowly taking her in. Tasting her, claiming her. She takes my face in her hands, pulling me closer, seeking for more, and I can't help the pitiful, soft sound at the back of my throat.

This moment; is real and dream-like. Like waking up to the sunlight entering through the window in the sunny morning.

When we break apart, my chest heaves. When I speak, I breathe out the words. "Come back to me, love. Come back."

She stares at me, her eyes open and vulnerable. "Where?"

"Here." I take both of her hands and place them over my heart. "Home."

"But I don't –" She freezes then. And stumbles backward like a lightning had crashed right in front of her, the contrary sensations of wounding, spiky electricity and cool, unsubstantial air hitting against her. She shudders so violently that I can see it vividly, and when she looks up at me, she's surprised, astonished, bewildered.

Lost.

"What is your name?" she asks.

I step closer again. So close that our lips touch as I whisper. "You know my name."

She attempts to shake her head, but I take her chin and kiss her again, desperate in a way I'm not ashamed to admit. My skin burns both of us. Her name resounds in my head like a prayer, a plea for her to take mercy on me. Ella. Ella, love.

When I break away, she's shaking. All of her is shaking. I pull off my shirt and carelessly throw it away.

I kiss her again with the power of all of my love, my devotion, my adoration.

I lift her up, bracing her body as I set her down on the long, steel table. She gasps brokenly, her eyes close when I straddle her legs, repossess her mouth. I bring her hands to my chest, drag her fingers down my naked torso and she makes an unintelligible sound that somehow sounds like a scream and a moan.

Rather savagely, I unbutton her shirt, kissing all of her face and neck. I move, kissing all of her perfect, divine body, seeing her shiver and bite down moans under my lips. And then I press my bare chest to hers, sharing our hearts.

A fractured sob comes from her, it's like something inside her was finally breaking, escaping an iron cage that had been trapping her for a long time. I embrace her with all of my might, soldering our bodies together, giving her my strength if she needs it.

I'll give her all that I am, all that I'll ever be. My life force, my breathe, a love that I didn't know I was ever capable of feeling.