In Moments and In Pieces

In Moments and In Pieces

It shouldn’t have been a problem. Just one of their regular meet and greets, followed by a swift defeat, for the really nasty looking demons they’d been sent to deal with; just a typical day in the lives of the eldest brothers of the next Halliwell generation.

Only, so it turns out, not so much.

Battle plan in motion, Chris takes his position, his body automatically finding its most comfortable fighting stance. Just a few paces in front of him, he sees Wyatt do the same. And then they’re off. The first wave of demons, of five or so, are easy pickings, which was only to be expected really.

Wyatt takes them out without so much as taking a step; all he needs is a slight flick of the wrist and they’re dust.

Chris, in the great scheme of things, tends more towards recon, backup, transportation and making sure the innocents are out of harms way in plans such as these, only, in this case, all they really need to do is kill the bastards, which Wyatt is more than capable of doing on his own.

Or so it had always been.

As such, it is with great horror that Chris notes, on the second wave, two demons a piece this time, that when Wyatt waves his hands nothing happens.

Chris can tell, even from the awkward angle and his own limited view of Wyatt’s face that his brother is pretty much as dumbfounded as Chris is. Still, in apparent disbelief, Wyatt waves his hands again, before glancing back over his shoulder at Chris in dismay – because nothing happened – and getting blasted by one of the demons.

Chris’ heart clenches as he hears Wyatt breathe, “Oh, shit,” just before he’s hit. It’s as loud to him as he imagines it would be had Wyatt whispered it directly into his ear.

That that hasn’t changed might’ve come as something of a comfort, were it not for the fact that all Chris sees now is Wyatt falling, and in suspended seconds he wonders whether he’s ever felt more scared in his entire life.

He thinks not. Just the thought, of a Wyatt without powers, is so completely foreign to him; so much so that he can’t even begin to imagine it. And he certainly doesn’t want to start now.

Because a Wyatt without powers is a vulnerable Wyatt, one that Chris isn’t sure he’ll be able to adequately protect. Not that Wyatt would stand for it; after all, he’s always been Chris’ protector, shielding him even in infancy, not the other way ‘round.

It doesn’t stop Chris from trying.

Enraged, Chris kills the one who’d gotten in that cheap shot, quickly and efficiently, because the only thing on his mind right now is getting Wyatt to safety. Grabbing a hold of his brother’s arm he orbs them away.

When they rematerialize in their room at the Manor, Wyatt looks up at him dazed. Likely because he’s so unused to being injured, or even in pain.

Chris heals him, as quickly as he can.

His grasp about Wyatt’s wrist tightens to the point that his own fingers turn white from the pressure. It’s only once the charred flesh of his brother’s shoulder is completely healed, his favourite red jumper intact once more, that Chris loosens his grip.

“What happened?” Wyatt asks then in a slightly shaky voice, blinking as the pain clears from his expression.

“Hell if I know,” Chris mutters in reply, anxiously running his now free hand, the one he’d used to heal, over Wyatt’s freshly fixed shoulder, reassuring himself that it’s fine. They’re fine.

Wyatt frowns, before waving his hand in a strangely familiar flourish.

Chris stares.

Wyatt gasps the words out, sounding as if he’s been sucker-punched in the gut, “I have no magic.”

Chris can’t help it if his flingers flex involuntarily at Wyatt’s shoulder when he hears his brother say that. The sight of that gesture with no ensuing surge of power, no sudden rush of the magic that is intrinsically Wyatt’s, is inherently wrong, and Chris shudders at the feel of it. The lack of sensation.

Wyatt’s gaze swivels immediately to catch Chris’ own, his eyes narrowing as if he felt Chris’ shudder, which he may very well have, given how tightly Chris is still holding both a wrist and a shoulder. He demands in that tone of his that commands attention and obedience, “Why don’t I have any magic?”

At least his voice isn’t shaking anymore, but now, there’s a slight tinge of panic colouring the words instead. It makes Chris feel slightly panicky himself.

“Relax,” Chris soothes, hoping that saying it out loud will help him relax as well. It doesn’t.

Wyatt, however, takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, so Chris figures it was the right thing to say.

On the next exhale, Wyatt blurts, “What do we do?”

“You’re asking me?” Chris demands, the panic now feeding just a little bit of irritation. “How I am supposed to know?”

“Well,” Wyatt says carefully, after he draws in another deep breath, “you are the brains of this outfit.”

“Oh, right,” Chris snorts, “of course I am. Whereas you, without doubt, are the brawn. Am I right?”

Wyatt grins, a shade cheekily, apparently having recovered somewhat from the shock of not having any magic anymore, at least enough to reply, “Naturally.”

Chris can do nothing but smile at Wyatt’s tone, the one that states without pretence his absolute certainty; it’s the arrogant, oddly accented sound that is at once so familiar and so novel every time he hears it.

Staring intently at his face, Wyatt lifts one hand to cup Chris’ cheek, the touch both gentle and strong, filled with many of the dichotomies that Wyatt always seems to be made of. For all the careless optimism his brother shows the world, Chris knows better. Wyatt is complex and deep, unfathomable, even to him. Still, Chris knows, without a doubt, that out of everyone and everything in this world and any other, he’s also the one who knows Wyatt best.

The feel of Wyatt’s fingers brushing tenderly against his skin removes some of the chill from Chris’ heart, abates the spreading cold of fear that had gripped him since that very first astonished look Wyatt had sent him what feels like an age ago. With a gentle but insistent tug, Wyatt pulls Chris forward, close enough for them to rest their foreheads one against the other.

Chris’ eyelids flutter shut as he basks in his brother’s presence.

“You’re also the beauty,” Wyatt murmurs sincerely, not breaking the silence, so much as filling it. What takes Chris’ breath away is not the words as they wash over him in a soothing stream of lyrical song but the smile, poetic in its pure, uncomplicated simplicity, which he opens his eyes to.

Wyatt is smiling in that beaming way of his that is by far too bright to look at directly. As the bringer of light and warmth, Wyatt is the sun, the centre of Chris’ universe. And yet, not once has Chris ever been able to look away. Nor does he imagine he ever will.

As he tilts himself further forward, letting his head fall to the side, before pressing it against his brother’s untouched shoulder mainly to hide his blush, Chris thinks to himself, ruefully, that for Wyatt he would gladly burn.

He doesn’t say this out loud. He doesn’t need to, because Chris knows for a fact that Wyatt knows him, possibly even better than he knows himself.

What he says instead is, “Right,” before repeating that same word to himself under his breath, all the while thinking what do we do?

“We’ll fix this,” Chris settles on eventually, still speaking mostly to Wyatt’s shoulder. Chris feels more than sees Wyatt nod. The hand at his cheek has already moved, sliding back gracefully to card through Chris’ hair, which, at the moment anyway, is longer than Wyatt’s own.

“First, we need to think,” Chris continues, nuzzling a little closer, inhaling the smell, the scent of his brother, because strangely enough, it helps him process better. “How could this have happened?”

“Shouldn’t we be more worried about who did it? Rather than how it was done?” Wyatt enquires calmly, as he runs his fingers reassuringly through Chris’ hair.

“Only once we know how, can we think who. I mean, was it a spell? A binding? A stripping? A transfer?” Chris ponders out loud.

“Still, that’s a lot of guess work,” and Chris can practically hear the frown in Wyatt’s voice, “I mean, there’s no one left with the power to take mine.”

“Not now, anyway,” Chris mutters, as an idea takes form.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wyatt queries.

“Just that…” Chris pauses, thinking about how he should articulate the thought, “if something happened, in the past, if someone changed the timeline, and inadvertently, back when there were people, uh, demons or you know, whatever, powerful enough to strip you of your powers, and either ended up letting that happen to you… or… directly making it happen to you… well, I guess, Occam’s Razor.”

There is a slight pause, as Wyatt apparently thinks this over. “Meaning?”

“…Oh, come on,” Chris bemoans. “You know this!”

He can totally tell that Wyatt is still frowning at him.

“Fine,” he caves. “Aunt Phoebe told us about it, like, barely two years ago.”

“Barely?” Wyatt repeats, his tone slightly incredulous.

“Shut up!” Chris pouts. “It wasn’t that long ago! And if I can remember, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be able to, too.”

“I thought we already established you, brains,” Wyatt laughs slightly as he adds, “Me, brawn.”

“Hmph,” Chris harrumphs. Irritated on his brother’s behalf, despite the fact that it was Wyatt who had said it, Chris protests, “You’re not stupid. You’re not even average, in any sense of the word!”

“Why, thank you,” Wyatt deadpans.

Chris scowls, but says anyway, “At its very base, it’s the theory that the simplest explanation is always the best.”

“And you’re telling me,” Wyatt enunciates carefully, “that time travel is the simplest solution?”

“For us, I’d say, pretty much.”

“Yeah. I thought so, too,” Wyatt sighs.

“Want me to write the spell?” Chris asks, curling his arms about his brother, tangling his fingers in Wyatt’s shirt.

“Please,” Wyatt replies, before pulling Chris towards him to gently kiss the last of the sternness from his lips.

“That’s better,” Wyatt whispers to Chris’ tongue as he feels his brother melt into him.

They stay like that for a moment, intertwined, before Chris reluctantly shifts to stand, pulling Wyatt up along with him. Despite Wyatt being taller, Chris is no shrimp himself, and he’s had enough training and sparring that he’s far stronger than he looks.

Grabbing a piece of paper, and a pencil, Chris writes.

‘Through time and space
To powers displaced
Take us so we may them embrace.’

When he’s done he hands the sheet over to Wyatt, who glances at it, raising an eyebrow as he does so. “Is that specific enough?”

Chris glares, “Seeing how we don’t know any specifics, you’d think so.”

Wyatt shrugs. “You’re the expert.”

“That I am,” Chris states smugly. “Now let’s go. We’d probably best do this near the front door. At least that way, if there’s something in the house that shouldn’t be, we can at least make a quick getaway.”

“Assuming whatever’s in the house doesn’t have guards at the front door.”

Chris huffs in indignation, “Worse case scenario, I’ll just orb us.”

“So, what’s the point of doing it there in the first place, if you’re just gonna orb us?” Wyatt questions.

“Just do it,” Chris commands, seriously tempted to stomp his foot as he says it. Somehow he manages to restrain himself. He doesn’t miss the slight twitch of Wyatt’s lips though, which is evidence that Wyatt knows exactly what Chris was thinking.

The twitch expands into a full smile, as Chris grabs Wyatt by the wrist and yanks him along behind him.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Wyatt concedes, and yet not once does he try to pull free his wrist from Chris’ hold on it.

As they reach the designated area, Chris lets go, only to find himself spun and pressed against the wall, as Wyatt steals another kiss.

“Hey!” Chris objects.

“No one’s home,” Wyatt soothes, kissing him again.

“So? We’re about to go god knows how far into the past, and you’re looking to give yourself pash rash?!”

Wyatt sighs, but licks Chris’ bottom lip in farewell before pulling back, and straightening Chris’ jumper where he’d grabbed a hold of it and bunched it up lopsidedly.

“Thank you very much,” Chris gripes, even as he pulls Wyatt to stand at his side, the back of Wyatt’s hand lightly brushing against his own.

Wyatt just smiles, understanding that Chris isn’t so much about words as he is about actions, the sight of which Chris catches out of the corner of his eye as he holds the torn, little piece of paper up for them to read from.

Together they say the spell, pressed shoulder to shoulder, feeling at ease as the lights surround them and scoop them up, taking them back to when they needed to be to make things right, and to make Wyatt whole again.