-Of Life and Lessons-

"For the friendship of two, the patience of one is required." –Indian proverb

(year: 1997)

From the room across the hall, Carmen heard crashes, shouting, and gunshots. Closing her second grade workbook, she slid off of the chair in front of her plain, wooden desk (Mommy said they couldn't afford a pink, flowery one like Allison Stanton had). Eagerly leaving her room, she crossed the hall. Despite the large, black sign with a white skull and the words "Enter at your own peril" written in what looked like drops of blood, she had no fear of knocking on her brother's door.

When she heard a distracted "Come in," Carmen pushed open the door and stepped inside. As she had expected, she found her older brother staring at the computer screen on his desk. Although loose pages of loose-leaf paper were strewn across his unmade bed, he ignored them in favor of the computer game to which he now gave his undivided attention

"Whachya doin', Michael?" came the innocent query of an eight-year-old sister. Hand still on the doorknob, she watched the younger of her two brothers with intense interest.

Without glancing up, Michael dully replied, "Homework." Within the game, another gunshot cracked, making Carmen jump in surprise. That was loud.

Tilting her head to one side, she remarked innocently, "It doesn't look like homework."

Finally, Michael seemed to take notice of his sister. Pausing his game, he rolled his chair backwards until he sat facing the little girl. While their older brother shared almost no traits with either of his siblings, Carmen and Michael seemed to inherit many of the same genes. Where Jordan had fast become quite the handsome young man, Michael would forever remain his thin, lanky self. Though personally Carmen found her second brother to be handsome in his own right (and would even marry him if they hadn't been born related, she had once decided), she knew better than to say so. No, he very easily took offense when discussing his appearance; Carmen had learnt not to bring it up at all. Best let sleeping dogs lie, as Daddy would say. Whatever that meant.

Then there were his eyes—the same goldish brownish as her own. Often, when they sat on her bed to chat (his was always too messy for sitting on), she took pleasure in getting lost in his eyes. Sometimes, she would remove his glasses and sit with her face hanging mere inches from his. From there she could easily see a little girl staring back at her. Jordan's hazel eyes, like her father's, just couldn't reflect her the same way; and Mommy would never let her do something like that. But Michael never minded when she did it. Well, almost never anyway.

"Close the door; close the door," he ushered quickly, waving at her to do as he instructed. Looking uneasy, he pressed his lips together until Carmen did as she was told, closing his bedroom door as quietly as she could.

As she did so, she asked, "How come?"

Only once the door was firmly shut did Michael reply, "Because I'm supposed to be working on my homework." Wheeling himself back towards his computer, he mumbled, "Mommy and Daddy would kill me if they knew, so you can't tell them that I'm not. Got it, Carmen?"

Obediently, Carmen answered, "Got it." Cheekily, she saluted. As he resumed his computer game, she wandered over to his bed. As she suspected, the loose papers had been taken out to work on homework. Most were blank.

"You know," she commented lightly, "you should prob'ly finish your homework before you go playing games or anything like that."

With a scowl shot over his shoulder, Michael muttered, "What are you, my mother?" When Carmen continued to fix him with an intense stare, he sighed and paused his game again. "It's easy stuff, Carmen."

"Nuh-uh," the girl contradicted with all the righteousness an eight-year-old could muster. "Seventh grade is hard."

"Nuh-uh," her brother mimicked, rolling his eyes. "It's a total cake-walk." Making a face at her, he demanded, "What would you know about seventh grade anyway? You've never been there. Just you wait and see; you'll breeze right through it. You're pretty smart."

Pleased, Carmen colored at the compliment. From experience she knew if she were to mention it, though, Michael would only brush her thanks away. Instead, she pretended to ignore it and tilted her head slightly, watching her brother's computer turn on its side in her vision. "Still," she sighed at length, lips twisting together in an imitation of their mother. "You should finish your homework first, Michael."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he smirked. Immediately disregarding her words, he asked, "You want to play two-player?" Vaguely, he motioned to his screen, where the word PAUSE blinked on and off every couple of seconds. Clearly visible on the screen was a cartoon man whose muscles bulged in the green army suit he wore. Strapped to his side, three AK-47s waited, ready for use. Meanwhile, in his hands one was already propped up and aimed. As he ducked behind an ominous-looking boulder, bullets froze in midair where they had whizzed by him. From this perspective, the enemies were able to keep out of sight.

Uncomprehending, Carmen wondered what in the world Michael found so fascinating about a shooting game. Who wanted to get attacked? "No thanks," she said, shaking her head in as much a negation as bewilderment. "That's stuff's creepy."

While Michael shrugged and returned to his "creepy" game, the girl stepped back out of the room and, like the studious child she was, went back to her homework.

(Thursday, October 3, 2019)

Having gone to sleep early that night, Chris woke up easily the next morning. In fact, he even had time for a morning shower, which he preferred to one taken in the afternoon. At 7:30 he stepped out of the tub dripping with water. Shaking droplets from his hair, he toweled himself dry and got dressed. Downstairs, as usual, Prue was already eating breakfast in the kitchen. To Chris's surprise, she wasn't the only one; Leo was also sitting at the table, newspaper in hand as she munched on a toasted bagel smeared with butter. Usually, by the time Chris got downstairs, Leo had already left for Magic School with Aunt Paige.

Somewhat dazed, the teen said, "Hey, Dad."

Glancing up briefly, Leo smiled. "Good morning, sunshine," he quipped. "Aren't you up a bit early?"

Rolling his eyes, Chris snatched up his father's coffee mug and took a large swallow. "Very funny," he retorted as he replaced it on the table. "I'm just cracking up."

"Mm-hm," Leo murmured, "I'm sure you are." Chris ignored the added comment of, "Aren't you a bit young to need coffee in the morning?" After all, he was fifteen and by no means still a child. At least that was what he convinced himself.

After pouring himself a bowl of cereal, the boy flopped down across from his sister. Around a mouthful of dry bits (he hated cereal with milk), he asked, "Where's Aunt Paige? Doesn't she usually come before now?"

Directing a frown at his son, the man reprimanded, "Don't talk with your mouth full, Chris." When Prue snickered, Chris flicked a piece of cereal at her. "Cut it out, you two," Leo warned. In answer to Chris's query, he said, "She called to say she'd be a bit late. Bobby threw up last night, but Uncle Henry has to work—nobody to watch him at home." Before Chris could offer himself to the cause, Leo continued, "She's going to let Bobby sleep in her office, but she's got to get him ready first. She'll be"—at that moment Wyatt stumbled, bleary-eyed, into the room—"here at around 7:45."

Through a yawn Wyatt asked, "Who's coming at 7:45—Aunt Paige?" Leo nodded. Barely cracking open his eyes, the young man collapsed into a chair and, to all appearances, promptly fell back to sleep.

A few minutes after Leo finally left with Paige and a slumbering Bobby on her shoulder, Piper entered the kitchen in shock. "What are you boys still doing here?" she shrieked, simultaneously ushering them towards the front door. "You're going to miss your bus. Go, go, go!"

In a hurry – more to get out of Piper's way than to get to the bus on time – the two brothers left the manor.

When Chris got off the bus, a familiar face sidled up beside him. For a little while they walked in silence together. Since the bell had not yet rung, the hallway was relatively empty. The two walked through the halls, weaving around the odd stray backpack. Finally, as they turned another corner, Dwight stated flatly, "She found out, didn't she?"

Snorting to himself, Chris responded, "Of course she did; my mom finds out practically everything." At his locker, the boy fished his biology text out from beneath a whole mess of books and loose papers.

"Well?" Eagerly, Dwight elbowed Chris for an elaboration. "What'd she do? Are you grounded forever?"

"Actually," Chris calmly corrected, "no. I'm not." He began to walk away. Pausing for a moment, he tossed over his shoulder, "See you next period." He and Dwight did not share their biology class, one of the few things they did not do together.

Just as the first bell rang, Chris slid into his seat. One eyebrow raised, Mr. Garcia remarked, "Cutting it a bit close, don't you think, Mr. Halliwell?"

Though he thought, I made it, didn't I?, Chris did not voice the comment. Instead he forced an insincere apology through clenched teeth.

The next period came rather quickly, though Chris figured that happened only because he wished it would not. On Thursdays, following first period came history. If he wanted to please his mom, he would have to play "interested schoolboy" from now until God knew when. Even if he knew it would probably help his cause, he simply could not bring himself to apologize to Ms. Gowell. At the very least, though, he would try to pay attention. Maybe, if he were able, he could also take a few notes. As unappetizing as the prospect sounded, Piper had not really given him much leeway on the matter.

Well, he thought, reluctantly trudging towards the classroom; sacrifices must be made.

Early to class, Chris mustered up the bravery and stepped into the nearly empty room. As he walked towards his seat, he pretended not to notice Ms. Gowell's eyes glued to the back of his head. For that he could not very well blame her; this was by no means a common occurrence, after all. The entire time neither student nor teacher spoke a word to the other. Chris had hoped Dwight would come so he would not feel quite so awkward, but Dwight ended up coming two and a half minutes late to class—no doubt waiting for Chris. Ah, the irony, Chris thought grimly. When he entered the room, Chris tried to shoot him a look of apology; but Dwight didn't notice.

Paying rapt attention, Chris fervently copied down every word out of Ms. Gowell's mouth. Pages and pages in his once-pristine notebook filled with dates, names, and places. By the end of the period, he shook out his hand, wincing as it cramped in pain.

Standing up, he stretched his limbs and then collected his possessions. As he began stuffing everything into his bag, he felt someone come up behind his shoulder. Years of demonic attacks had him stiffen before he could think, but after a couple of seconds he relaxed—it was only Dwight.

In a low voice his companion asked, "You ready for math?"

Snorting loudly, Chris jammed his bag onto his shoulder and muttered, "Let's just get out of here already."

Chuckling, Dwight started towards the door. Behind him, head ducked so as not to attract Ms. Gowell's attention, Chris followed in a shuffle. On the way he planned to explain to Dwight the new rules his mom had set for him—as much as he could without revealing too much, anyway. Once he clarified the issue, he knew Dwight would understand. After all, that was what best friends did, especially his best friend.

Just as Dwight lifted his foot to step through the threshold, a voice called them back. "Mr. Halliwell, a word?"

Inwardly, the teen cursed. This close to freedom, he was sucked back inside the torture chambers of American history. What could he have possibly done wrong this time? He had been so careful to act the exemplary student so that she could find no fault in him. Obviously, though, she disagreed. Perhaps he was correct in his original sentiment after all; perhaps she wanted to torture him with continual detentions.

"Keep moving, Mr. Ryder." Glancing back, Chris realized Dwight had stopped, too. Dryly, Ms. Gowell remarked, "I'll return him relatively whole." Somehow—Chris just could not imagine why—Dwight did not seem too comforted by her reassurances. Even so, after casting an apologetic look towards Chris, he left the room.

Right now Chris wanted to tear his notebook from his bag and shove it into her face. "I paid attention," he wanted to tell her. "I took notes, see? You can't penalize me for listening in class." Standing rigidly, he fought the urge and instead watched her through wary eyes.

To his surprise, instead of admonishing him, Ms. Gowell opened her mouth and said, "I liked the change in you."

Stunned at being so far off the mark, his defenses dropped for a couple of seconds. Dumbly, he said, "Huh?"

Raising an eyebrow (it was not often one caught Chris Halliwell unawares; she wanted to savor the moment), Marcy concealed a smile. At length, she clarified, "Today. I didn't have to stop class for you once." Wow, was that some sort of backhanded insult?—because it certainly did not sound very complimentary. "Not that I'm complaining but what's with the change?"

Though he just wanted to get out and find Dwight before the next period began, he knew that acting polite was part and parcel of this arrangement. Swallowing his sarcasm, he offered what he hoped looked like some semblance of a smile (but what felt a whole lot like a grimace). With a casual shrug, he smirked, "I had a change of heart."

Disbelieving, Marcy hesitated. Not wanting to insult Chris, she tried to sound slightly more trusting when she asked, "Really?"

"No," he chuckled almost grimly, "not really. My mom threatened me if I didn't stop earning her calls from my teachers—said the phone bill skyrocketed since summer ended couple months ago."

Now that Marcy believed. Offering Chris a smile, which seemed to make the teen more uncomfortable as opposed to less, she encouraged, "Well, whatever it is really helped; keep up the good work. I think it's a wonderful improvement."

When she turned around to face the supplies on her desk, she expected him to leave. Instead, after a few seconds she heard him say, "I don't." Glancing at him over her shoulder, she caught his dry smile. "It's a pain to have to pay attention during class—no fun."

Laughing quietly, Ms. Gowell replied, "Maybe so but it suits you." This time Chris did turn towards the door. Hand outstretched to grasp the doorknob, he stopped to hear her ask, "Does this mean I won't be sending you to detention for a while?"

Though she meant it rhetorically he was sure, Chris took great pleasure in remarking enigmatically, "Maybe. We'll see."

As Mr. Randall droned on at the board, Chris found himself daydreaming in his favorite subject. After paying such rapt attention during history, his brain insisted on taking a break; so Chris found it more and more difficult to pay attention to his notes. In his mind he kept running through what he would say when he met Jake again this afternoon. Since when he visited yesterday Jake was sleeping, Chris worried the boy would think his "angel" had abandoned him. Last night he had contemplated orbing back, but at that point he had not wanted his parents to grow suspicious. By now, of course, his mom had already squeezed out of him the information about his encounter with the Elder. Piper had a way of doing that.

Absentmindedly, Chris swirled his pencil around on his paper, drawing circles over his notes. As he did this, he contemplated his predicament. How long would this go on? How long would his mom compel him to act the good little teenage witch for the public? As much as he wanted to keep his charge, he knew he could not keep up this charade indefinitely.

"Well…?"

Startled by the amused voice from just behind his left ear, Chris whipped his head around to find a smirking Mr. Randall watching him. With knowing, twinkling eyes, the math teacher began to chuckle quietly.

Forcing himself to remain casual, Chris glanced around to see the other students' eyes transfixed solely on him. Ah, so he was meant to answer a question, then. Sounding as laidback of possible, the witchlighter flippantly remarked, "I was thinking so hard about the answer that I forgot the question." Cheekily, he turned halfway around in his seat to face his teacher and then gave a deliberate smirk.

Despite himself, Mr. Randall smiled. With one eyebrow raised, he countered, "The problem is on the board, Chris." When he nodded towards the computerized board that had been installed in each math classroom years ago, Chris, following his gaze, blushed. Right there, in Mr. Randall's big, loopy handwriting, the equation was written out on the board. "Try to keep your mind out of the clouds and into the numbers, eh, Chris?" the man quipped. Stepping past the grinning student, he looked across the room. "Matt, the answer?"

From a few rows over, Matt Waters obediently responded, "Seven times the square root of two?"

"Seven root two, that's right. Now"—he moved back to the board, tapping his stylus against it—"if I changed this number here to a negative…"

At 3:15 the bell rang. By 3:17 Chris had already concealed himself behind the school building, ready to orb. On his way there Dwight had stopped him, but Chris gave him some excuse about why he could not talk now. Promising to call in the evening, he left Dwight standing alone in the yard. Without bothering to wait for Wyatt, he orbed to his bedroom and dropped his knapsack on the floor. On a stray piece of paper he found conveniently located on his desk, he scribbled, 'Gone. BB soon.'

Leaving that on his desk for his mother to see, he orbed directly to Jake's backyard. As he trekked around to the front door, he stopped short and stared at the scene of a young boy Jake's age standing at the door. Behind him, parked at the curb, a car waited.

Slowly, Chris came forward, stopping in front of the kid, who shaded his eyes and nervously looked up. Shifting from one foot to the other, the kid gripped his backpack tightly.

Cheerfully, Chris greeted him. "Hello. Can I help you?"

In a rush the boy's words poured from his mouth. "I'm bringing over Jake's homework for today."

Biting back a chuckle at the boy's expense (he doubted that would go over well with the child's parents), Chris asked, "What, he didn't go to school again?" Concerned, he frowned. When the kid nodded, he said, "Oh. All right…"

Seeming to gather his courage, the boy finally told Chris, "Nobody's opening the door…" as if he expected the teen to do something about it himself.

Casting a quick glance towards the kid's father sitting in the car, he suggested, "Why don't you give it to me? I'm his…" Searching his brain for a logical relationship that would not arouse suspicion, he finally settled on "cousin." Smoothly, he continued, "I'm actually going in right now." He need not have bothered making up the elaborate tale; the kid had already unzipped his bag and begun to rummage through it. At length, he tugged out a packet of wrinkled papers. On top someone—a teacher based on the neatness of the handwriting—had stuck a post-it in the corner. In tight, boxy letters the person had written a checklist of the homework assigned for that day. A quick "feel better" was added to the bottom of it, followed by the signature of "Mrs. Apostle."

As the boy scampered back to his car, Chris turned towards the front door. Without looking he knew the father was still watching him. If he just stood there, he knew the man would grow suspicious. Casually, the teen reached for the doorknob, simultaneously and unobtrusively swishing his fingers to the right. With a reverberating 'click,' the door unlocked. Calmly, he pushed it open and stepped inside. As he closed the door behind him, he saw the car drive away.

This time he found Jake's room quickly. Peeking inside, he rapped lightly on the open door. When Jake, who sat in the middle of his floor, looked up to identify the source of the sound, Chris smiled.

"Hey, Jake," he greeted. "How are you? Last I saw you, you were asleep."

Eyes wide, Jake hopped to his feet. In his hands and spread across the floor were various action figures. Faded from a couple of days of healing, the boy's cheek had turned a sickly-looking yellow, though at least the swelling had receded. Noticing this almost immediately, Chris clenched his teeth.

Ignorant of Chris's anger, the boy asked in surprise, "You came yesterday?"

Once Chris was certain he had himself under control, he nodded, "Yep. Your mom said you weren't feeling so well… I guess you weren't feeling much better today if you missed school again."

Eyes wide, the boy whispered in awe, "How'd you know I stayed home today?"

Moving towards Jake and closing the door behind him, Chris cryptically responded, "I'm your guardian angel; it's my job to know what's going on in your life. Here—" He handed Jake the packet of assignments. "Your friend brought home your homework…" Staring at the boy, he raised an eyebrow. "Said nobody answered the door when he knocked… doesn't look like you were sleeping."

Of their own volition Jake's eyes strayed towards his neatly-made bed. Chris followed his gaze and then sighed.

Kneeling in front of the boy, he asked almost hesitantly, "Jake?" Though the nine-year-old refused to meet his gaze, Chris pressed further. "Why didn't you want to open the door for him?"

Tears leaked into Jake's golden brown eyes, though they did not fall. When Chris reached out to draw him forward, a gasp of surprise slipped past the child's lips. Instantly, he recoiled, pressing backwards away from Chris's hand. As if afraid to remain silent now, he said in a strained whisper, "I didn't wanna see him." Swallowing hard, he forced himself to meet the angel's eyes. When he blinked, his eyelashes came away wet from his cheeks.

Just focus on his eyes, he told himself firmly. Green eyes, bright green eyes, just focus on them…

Suspiciously, Chris's eyes narrowed. "You didn't want to see him, or you didn't want him to see you?"

Jake looked away. Staring at the floor, he mumbled, "I have to do my homework." Finally accepting the proffered pile of papers, he shuffled to his desk and sat down.

With a frustrated sigh that made Jake inwardly wince, Chris yielded. "Right. Homework." Running a hand through his hair, he said, "Well… I guess I'll… come back tomorrow to see how you're feeling. Maybe over the weekend we can, you know, play some fun games—action figures or something." With Jake sitting so rigidly in his chair, obviously tense, Chris realized he should probably leave. Right now he was getting nowhere anyway. Feigning calmness, he said casually, "So anyway, I'll see you tomorrow."

When Jake said nothing, Chris orbed home without another word. In the silence that followed, the nine-year-old boy softly whispered in a voice thick with remorse, "Bye…"

Sitting over a biology assignment, Chris clenched his teeth. Without actually seeing the questions, he stared at the text book. Instead, he saw Jake recoiling from his hand. How could he help a boy who didn't even trust him? Maybe he should tell the Elders to reassign Jake to a more experienced whitelighter. Obviously, Chris was not very qualified for the job. Though he had fast grown attached to the child, apparently Jake did not share the sentiment. More important than what Chris wanted was what Jake needed. If he could not build a bond, then Chris would have to get him reassigned to someone—

From across the room came a sharp rap on the door, followed by, "Chris?"

Refocusing his eyes on the text book, he said, "You can come in, Dad." When the door creaked open, he closed his book (it was not as if he were getting anywhere with it anyway) and turned around to acknowledge his father.

"How're you doing, kiddo?" Leo asked, stopping before his son.

"Fine," Chris muttered, though far from it. Sighing heavily, he admitted, "Kinda frustrated."

With a sympathetic nod, Leo guessed, "From your charge?"

Glancing at his dad through suspicious eyes, the teen accused, "Mom told you."

Chuckling, Leo placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "Did you not want her to?" he asked, knowing full well Chris's answer.

Reluctantly, Chris admitted, "No." As an afterthought he added, "But I didn't want her to know in the first place. She just sort of… you know… got it out of me." The boy looked annoyed at himself for having let her drag it out of him. Leo almost chuckled; how long would it take Chris to realize Piper would always be able to get answers out of her children?

"Yeah, she does that." As he spoke, Leo moved to sit down on the bed. Looking back at Chris, he suggested, "Maybe I can help you. I was a whitelighter a long time ago, but I'm pretty sure I still remember the tricks of the trade."

Chris groaned at the trite expression. "No offense, Dad," he remarked dryly, "but things have changed since your time. I don't think you can help me."

Far from feeling insulted, Leo only smirked. "Chris, the Elders are anything if not set in their ways; the last time things changed, it was because Titans wiped out more than half of their ranks. Until the next epic battle, I highly doubt anything's going to change again." Even so, unperturbed, he stood and glided towards the door.

With an inward groan, Chris called, "Dad." Patiently, Leo turned. Though he hated to admit it, Chris knew his father was right. Blushing, the teen mumbled, "What were you going to say?"

"What, my old-timer experience may be helpful after all? Well, lucky me." Closing the door, he stepped back into the room.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Chris muttered, even as he joined his dad on the bed. "So what's this great advice you have for me?"

Without speaking Leo made himself comfortable on his son's bed. Finally, once Chris began to think his father would not answer at all—just to spite him, maybe make him beg for it—he said, "For you being a whitelighter will be more difficult than most."

"Hey!" Chris interjected, but Leo held up a single hand for time to explain.

"Let me finish," he said. When Chris quieted, albeit reluctantly, the former Elder continued, "For you none of this comes naturally. Not only are you only half-whitelighter; you have other things on your mind." Seeing Chris scowl crossly, he rushed to assure, "Don't worry, it's not a bad thing—it may even be expected. Normally, a whitelighter is… well…" With a raised eyebrow, he stated bluntly, "Dead. As whitelighters, all they have to worry about are their charges… and, if they're so inclined, the rules they're supposed to follow." After chuckling lightly at his own joke, he continued, "You have a life. Literally. You have to worry about your charges—"

"Charge," Chris corrected. "I have only one."

One eyebrow raised, Leo countered, "I was an Elder for a couple of years, Chris, and a whitelighter for much longer than that; I know what I'm talking about. Just wait. If you do well with this one, they'll be quick to give you another few." Ignoring his son's muttered, "Great," he repeated, "You have to worry about charges, your witchcraft, school… It's not the same; you're bound to get frustrated."

Pensively, Chris remarked, "No, that's not why I'm frustrated. I'm keeping up with life just fine. It's that…" With a sigh he ran a heavy hand through his hair. "He's just so… closed. It's like he's scared of me or something, but I keep telling him there's nothing to worry about!"

Leo couldn't help but chuckle in surprise. "That's what's bothering you?"

"Well, yeah." In annoyance Chris glowered at his dad. "I've been there three times already, twice that I've spoken to him. Things should be moving forward, but they're just not. It's so…" Scowling, Chris cut himself off and demanded of his father, "What is so funny?"

It took Leo two failed attempts before he could answer without falling into helpless laughter. Finally, he got out, "Chris… this stuff takes time—no, don't interrupt yet. Three days is not time. He's got an angel to watch over him, Chris; that kind of adjusting takes more than three days." When Chris still didn't look convinced, Leo pressed, "If in three weeks you see no change in your relationship, then you can start doubting your abilities."

"But, Dad," Chris pointed out, "This sort of thing isn't supposed to take this long."

Raising an eyebrow, Leo sighed in realization. "Chris," he said at length, "how long did it take you and Dwight to become friends?"

Though surprised at the sudden change in subject, Chris wasted no time in answering, "About fifteen minutes."

"And some of your other friends?" Leo continued.

"I don't know," Chris shrugged impatiently. "Not much. What's this got to do with anything?"

"That's the problem, Chris," Leo explained to his impulsive son. "You make friends quickly and easily, which is a wonderful trait; but obviously your charge isn't like that. If you want him to warm up to you, it has to happen on his terms, not on yours. Do you understand? Figure out why he is slow to trust and work from there."

Thoughtfully, Chris paused, staring at the wall as he pictured his charge. Blond hair, brown eyes, skinny arms and legs… a young, abused child… While Chris easily understood why Jake would hate his mom—and maybe even all women and mother-type figures as a general rule—the teen just could not figure out why this mistrust extended to himself? Not only that, though he expected Jake to loathe his mother, the boy did not. His actions implied that he even loved his mother, and yet he feared his guardian angel. Besides, Chris had promised not to hurt Jake! Wasn't that enough?

Vaguely, he heard his dad's voice say, "I'll leave you to think on it. 'Night, buddy."

As Leo left the room, Chris absentmindedly called, "'Night…" still deep in thought.

Remember - reviews are golden!

Sidenote, everyone must check out the amazing Harry Potter/Charmed crossover, Brewing Storms and Burning Bridges. It is outstanding!

Replies to anonymous reviews:

firepony16 - I am the same way. After a few months, I am no longer satisfied with what I have written and, to fix that niggling feeling, have to go back and rewrite the entire story. It drives my teacher up a wall because she insists I just sit down and finish something. I finally did - as a favor to her after everything she has done for me. laughs Why don't you register on this site, I wonder?

pinkphoenix1985 - I know you are not normally an anonymous reviewer, but I figured I would respond this way because you wrote an anonymous review this time (and I am much too lazy to send a PM). I agree - it is heartbreaking when a child cannot trust the smile of his mother to have no ulterior motive. It is something many children in real life must face, unfortunately.

bahzad - As always, I loved to receive your review! You are the happy medium that everyone should strive to achieve. I know it is nigh impossible for the average person to write such a detailed review as and Artsfan write, and it would be unreasonable for me to ask that of everyone. Your reviews are exactly what I wish people would strive for! Not because I am selfish and need the frequent stroke of my ego (although, hey, who doesn't enjoy that once in a blue moon?) but because I think every writer deserves that! People should take a page out of your book and learn from your reviews.

kennyk12 - I know you were not anonymous, but as I said to pinkphoenix1985 I am much too lazy to respond at the moment. Profuse apologies for my laziness. I hope you take no offense from it. blush Your compliments are lovely; thank you so much for saying such wonderful things about this story! If you want a story that is good and hard to come by, though, you should check out 's crossover. I am telling you, her work is absolute gold. I am envious of her raw talent. You need not worry because there will be many more Jake/Chris interactions to come. The story is first and foremost about Chris and secondly about his charge. Jake is more of the subplot, but since we do not learn more of the big plot until later on he will get quite a bit of attention. Funny, I don't have a hatred for the Elders. I believe... that people hate them only because they were taught to hate them. If you think about it, it is illogical to believe that they are evil when, in actuality, they are the paragons of good. Even Gideon - what he did was awful, of course; but what did he repeat over and over? What he did was all for the Greater Good. He went about it poorly, but his motives were clear. None could fault him for that. He wanted to protect the world from a future evil that would destroy everything!