A/N- There's not much to explain, it's just some musings on Chris. I apologize to all Leo fans I offend; I mean no harm by it. Leo is my favorite character after Piper and Chris, so don't send me hate mail. I was simply writing in character. Feel free to comment/critique as long as it's helpful. I'm not a newbie to fanfiction writing, but I'm just getting back on the bike and would love to hear what you love and hate about this. Thanks bunches!
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Memories
You never understood why the old manor made you feel so safe. Its stale musty smell, its antique wood walls, the moaning and creaking of the stairs under your feet made you feel warm inside, make you feel home. Even at night, when the world is at its most terrifying, you've never had trouble sleeping under this ancient leaky roof that rocked many generations before you to sleep.
You have memories of this place, memories that have yet to be. All the birthday parties, the family dinners, the bedtime stories, and the laughing fits…As you walk quietly through the lower floors, you remember them, relive them, happy times in a forgotten childhood…
Yet, you don't smile.
You can't, because they don't bring you anymore joy…
There is simply longing and a sense of frustration within you, because along with the good, you remember the bad: all the nights spent locked in a room huddled under the bed for safety, the orbing drills just in case a demon suddenly attacks, the times you'd never know if they would come back safe…or normal…or even alive.
And despite how hard you try, you cannot forget the night you had to leave this place for the last time, the night the tables turned, knocking the wind out of you, and leaving you to cry yourself to sleep on the pillow of a cheap, strange motel.
Of all the people on earth, you never expected him, the one person you would give your life for, the one who you trusted on an unspeakablely feral and basic level, could turn on you. In one moment, he ceased to be, as you knew him.
Every inch of this place mocks you now. It shows you imagines of the two little boys who grew up here, the two strange little boys learning to deal with their world and who they were, learning to defend themselves and each other and their loved ones. You cared for each other, picked each other up after a fight; you watched his back and he watched yours. In many ways, you were more than brothers; you were apart of one another.
You have a room at P³, but some nights the backroom casts a spell of wakeful restlessness on your mind, and you find yourself orbed over to the front hallway of the lofty house.
Just being there soothes something in you.
So, you wander the house, caressed in darkness, breathing in the smell of home. You've learned that by three a.m. they're all asleep. Sometimes, Phoebe comes down for some kitchen water, and occasionally, Piper goes to sleep on the couch after a feeding, unable to fall back to sleep in her own empty bed.
Now, the ground floor was empty, lit only by the moonlight radiating from the sun-porch.
You'd never known such a scene existed until you had to come back. It reminds you of how different it is now, how much has changed and how much has yet to be.
Sometimes, when you're lost in the moment, you catch yourself thinking that you're still in your time. You marvel at the mistake, but remember the words an Oracle told you once.
You have chosen not to relive your past but the past of those that came before.
You are the second chance, the barrier between their world and your disaster, the do-over, the savior…the stranger in your own home.
It was strange now, seeing them, the women you idolized as a child. They had been the most powerful people you'd ever known, goddesses in your memories. Now, you see them struggle and fight. You see their flaws and their imperfections. It's comforting, yet disconcerting.
More importantly, you see her, the women whom you barely knew before her death, alive and breathing and strong. She's just how you remember, affectionate and protective, beautiful and powerful. She may not hold the world in her hands, but she certainly holds her own.
They all do, the women that cared you, that kissed you goodnight, that fixed that scrap and gave you hell for not cleaning your room. They are the most powerful witches in the world, despite their misgivings. They were the village that raised you.
They didn't trust you when you first appeared. In some ways, they still don't. Why should they? Why should they trust someone they've only ever met in your memories?
It still hurts.
You've often wondered which was harder: losing them the first time, or becoming a stranger to them? Having their love in memories or their distrust in their full flesh?
You still don't know.
You moved from the sunroom to the living room, running a thin boney hand over the soft couch upholstery. More memories came: doing homework on the floor, watching your aunt being beaten by a demon, playing orb-tag around the room, a dagger to your throat as your parents bartered for your life.
Your hands twitched at the thought of the metal touching your skin. It was one of many that still would awaken you in a freezing sweat, if not at the sense of touch but at the look of concern on your mother's face as your father spoke calmly and firmly.
Your father
The one man you never cared to know.
You don't hate him. No, how could you hate a man you never got to know?
Perhaps your brother knew him, perhaps he had formed a bond with the man that didn't raise you…
…but you are not your brother. And even if the man's affections had been given to your sibling, with who your brother became, perhaps you are better off.
Is that what went through your mind when you imprisoned him?
No…
Maybe…
Could you help but blame him, the angelic father who wasn't there for you, who wasn't there for either you or your brother in your times of adolescent fear? Even when she passed, the world came first, work came first.
You've seen him with the infant. He's loving, now. He cares and protects like your mother does, such a side you never saw from him in your time, only tough love and strict order.
He's not the man you thought he was.
But maybe you weren't wrong. He proved that when he crossed over.
Maybe he's still to blame, maybe, if he had been there for your brother…watched him… noticed the signs before you did…
It's your fault he's an elder.
But, it wasn't back then, but you still managed to come in last place on every list.
You walked quietly to front hall, towards the door, touching the old wood of the strong banister leading up to the house's inhabitants. You looked into the mirror.
There is some of him in your face. It's faint but there, your more manly features, your height, but the rest is dominated by her. She gave you your deep brown hair, your wide eyes, that nose, that chin. Her beauty is in your face.
But in your mind, you are a visual reminder of everything you fear losing.
You can remember the rain that fell the night she lost her life. You remember the sunny, empty funeral, the seven that stood by her grave.
You remember the look in your brother's eyes, the cold, bored look that scared you to your core. You remember how solemn your father was, how darkly he said, 'I have to go' and orbed to back to his own world. You remember the tears of the sisters she left behind shed when they thought they were alone.
You remember missing her until your arms and legs ached and your mind was so fuzzy you though you would faint.
You miss her now, yet she's just upstairs.
You long for the ache to disappear.
You long for the memories to vanish.
You long for the sun to come up and for her to be there, old again, your brother smiling at her side, laughing about this awful dream.
You long for that grave in your mind to erase and release you from its strong, cold power.
You long to hold her and cry and cry, confess your heart and shake off your burden and melt into her small, comforting arms.
And she's just upstairs.
But there are rules and consequences, an order not to be disrupted for fear of deletion from time.
Beside, are your fears even justified? Do you know if the tragedy will strike at all? How do you know if you're actions or presence or knowledge hasn't steered those you love away from the danger you hide in your heart?
Do you know anything at all?
You don't even know that.
There memories waiting in this old house, times yet to be shared, pain yet to be suffered, joy yet to be had…
You catch yourself thinking you're back in your own time. You chuckle at that face she always made. You laugh at some unwritten joke that has yet to be told. They stare at you for your strange, cryptic comments.
They'll understand in time.
And you'll be there, in synch with the moment, with your family again together, the whole twisted bunch.
You smile, not at your memories, but at those even you don't know…
…those yet to be written…
You reached out to the mirror, perhaps to grasp the rare expression, touch its surface, then orb into the night.