Thanks to hippiechick2112, HalfSquirrel, ellie, and feathered moon wings for reviewing! There are times I just want to write Charles and Scott talking about feelings, so I'm always so glad to know other people like those scenes, too. As to the ethical questions raised in the previous chapter, I think they're all good questions with complicated answers.

With three days left of his leave, Chris nearly bumps into someone on the street, apologizes, starts to move on—but she apologizes, too. He takes a closer look at the small form in the heavy coat. It's filthy, that coat. So is the person inside it. Grime marks her face, but he recognizes the brightness in her eyes. Even dimmed, he recognizes it.

"Katherine!"

She tries to move away from him. "I'm sorry, I don't—"

He grabs her arms, won't let her abandon him. "Katherine, stop."

"You have me confused with someone else."

A useless excuse: he has looked into her eyes, known her face, seen that she knows his. "Katherine."

She tries to pull away from him. It's nothing he's ever felt before, someone trying to fight away from him like this—he's not always the good guy but he doesn't hurt people. This is wrong—this is different—this is Katherine. The same Katherine who gave him everything in the shadow of a Peashooter.

She loved him then. Why doesn't she love him now?

He can't believe she doesn't love him now.

She wrenches away and he pulls her close. She's so thin now, but between them—

He swears. "Katherine?" he asks, gently, barely a whisper.

They sit on the same side of the booth in a diner. He buys himself a coffee, buys her a hot chocolate because chocolate is supposed to be bad for you. He remembers that, his sister saying something about chocolate making her bloat.

Most of Katherine could do with some bloating. (Not that he notices—not when she's so poorly, so thin, so dirty… but her breasts are looking positively delicious.)

"What about your parents?"

She shakes her head.

He talks about Alaska while they drink. He tells her about the view from the base, the staggering mountains, the long days and the long nights he knows will come. "You'll love it," he promises her. He knows it's true. "You'll be happy there."

"Chris, I can't go to Alaska with you."

"Not as Katherine Marshall," he agrees. "Have to make an honest woman out of you first."

She wears her least patched dress, straining over her swollen belly; the ring is a piece of twine; she laughs as she wipes the tears away and blames it on hormones.

The following morning, Charles woke, dressed, brushed his teeth and combed his hair as he would any morning. Then he paused. He set down the comb and unbuttoned his shirt. The mirror showed bruising on his collarbone. Charles gingerly brushed his fingers over the marks.

After they parted ways with Chris, it took all of Charles's self-control to rant instead of shouting. Mostly he stammered. A key piece was clear, though: he wanted Chris gone.

Ruth had murmured vague agreements, kissing his neck.

He was angrier than he knew he could be.

She took off his shirt…

They both fell asleep soon after. It was around three in the morning after a nightmare and a very difficult conversation, and as he reflected on those events, Charles realized it was the best possible way to fall asleep. Too blissed to care.

Now he looked in the mirror and barely noticed what Ruth was doing, only that she was there.

"Ruth?"

There were times he resented her awakeness. How was she up and functioning at peak efficiency when he felt like a hungover undergrad. She had already gone running. Normally, however, he didn't mind—Ruth wasn't shy about toweling off after a shower and that was enough to make Charles very happy.

Today he wanted some sign that she, too, felt aching all over. Where were the dark circles under her eyes?

"Hm," she replied.

"I've done a terrible thing."

Ruth did not seem to understand how deeply he meant this, because her response was a light, "And what thing is this?"

"Chris being here…" Charles shook his head. "All that time wasted on Milbury."

"Who?"

"The man who ran the orphanage in Omaha. He used to… he hurt Scott. I don't know the details, he won't talk about it. I thought it was Milbury who made Scott the way he is. You don't know how he thinks, Ruth. He's so afraid of me. You don't know what that's like. He thinks I'll get rid of him, he…"

"Okay, Charles."

He had not realized how upset he was until she hugged him. All he felt was comfort and warmth (and her wet hair on his shoulder), and a vague awareness that he should have felt something more. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed this on a quite different level.

"Years trying to understand… and it's his fault. Chris showed him that no one ever would and he spent so many years just wishing for someone to love him. To keep him."

Charles heard how little sense he made. He heard himself jumping between subjects, between people. Bad nights were supposed to look better in the morning. This time bright light only showed the bruises more clearly.

"You do," Ruth reminded him. "You love him. You keep him."

"It's only now that he can step out of line and believe I won't. And he's still afraid I'll get rid of him."

"Charles, listen to me." Ruth drew back to look him in the eye. "I know it is not easy, but you need to stop feeling now. You need to think. You need to decide what is the best thing to do."

"He has to leave."

"And then?" she asked.

Charles shook his head, frustrated. "And then things go back to normal."

"Alex will not be upset?"

"Alex is an adult, he'll get over it."

"No, Charles, he will mourn and drink. Your son will care for him regardless of what this should mean."

They both knew it was true. The worse things became for Alex, the more devoted Scott would be—and they knew now that this was what Scott had always done. From the time he was barely more than a baby himself, he looked after his brother. It explained a lot about both of them.

Charles talked through the options: "I could bury it, make all of them forget, maybe, but it's… if it's incomplete, and it might be—and Chris has to bear this, he has to—he's responsible. But he'll leave eventually. No, but as long as he's here, Scott—unless—but I can't hide it, I… I don't know," he admitted. "I can't tell him."

"Why not?"

"Because his drunk father beat him senseless! I can't ask him to carry that!"

Ruth didn't have to say it.

Charles reached the conclusion for himself.

"But he is already carrying it. It's eating him up and he doesn't know why." He took a deep breath. "And that's spilling over onto everyone in this house."

She sighed and, gently, stroked his cheek. "Now you understand, darling. Children make us so very vulnerable."

After he had buttoned his shirt again, concealing the hickeys on his collarbone—it had been years since he needed to worry about that!—Charles made his way outside. When he first lost the use of his legs, getting around was impossible. There had been no ramps. He had to be carried into the mansion and swore he would never leave it again.

He had the means to do anything available to anyone—more than was available to most. But the ramp that allowed him to leave his own home, the one by which he left now, had nothing to do with his resources. Sean, Alex, and Hank built it. Charles still didn't know how, he wasn't much with his hands.

"Chris?" he called.

Chris stepped out of the spacecraft. He looked chastised, uncomfortable, and Charles would not help but feel a bit pleased. He should be uncomfortable.

"'Morning."

In fact, Charles had seen that look before—on Alex, when he misbehaved. Summers charm indeed.

"I've done some thinking," Charles began. His chest felt light, like his lungs were to half-capacity but not with oxygen. Like he couldn't quite breathe. "It would be best for you to stay out of the mansion for a while."

Chris nodded, accepting. He wasn't going to challenge Charles at the best of times, certainly not now.

"I'll be explaining this to Scott. He needs to understand and that can't happen until… well, you should understand as well."

"I do."

"No, you don't," Charles replied. Even he heard that he had been too sharp. As angry as he had been back in his bedroom, here now he saw Chris as a remorseful human being. "Scott is a wonderful young man and I'm very proud of him, but it's been quite difficult for him to understand that. He's… he's struggled. You destroyed that child—it was one bad day for you, Chris, but it set the course for his entire life."

And for that Charles was truly, deeply angry. Chris might have spent the last years repenting and forgiving himself. Chris had known that was appropriate; he was an adult. No one taught Scott how to understand and since Charles had not known…

Chris did not respond for a long moment. Charles was genuinely trying to be fair, to hold Chris responsible without being cruel. And it would have been easy to do.

"Alex doesn't have to know about this," Charles offered.

Chris nodded. "Thank you."

"And I am sorry for the way I behaved last night. I was angry and I said things I should not have."

"I understand that," Chris assured him. "I've done far less forgivable things in anger."

"There's something else. I'd like you to continue calling him Matthew."

"That's fair enough. You know, I never told anyone about what happened that night."

"Well, you left your children behind you—no, I didn't mean it like that," Charles said. It had been cruel to say and he knew it. "They were a different part of your life and you became a different man," he explained. That was all he had meant.

"You made me promise to leave him be," Chris said. That morning, only a few days ago, all he wanted was to know that his son was safe. Charles saw in Chris's mind that aching question: would Charles have told the truth?

He didn't know.

"Are you going to keep me away from my boys until I go?"

It was not asked with any suggestion that this was unfair. Chris truly wanted to know what Charles intended.

Charles shook his head. "I believe you mean no harm to them now. I also believe that your presence here has been nothing but beneficial to Alex and I'm grateful for that. He's an adult, anyway, he can make his own choices. You're Alex's dad, but Scott doesn't want or need the same. If he decides he wants you to be a part of his life, I won't object."

It was about the most Chris could hope for.

"You asked what he's like. Scott is… Scott has a very big heart. He puts others before himself and he doesn't give up on anything. Give him time. He'll forgive you."

Charles tried to remember that later, as he looked across his desk. Scott sat opposite him, holding a geometry book. They were overdue for a lesson, but that was an optimistic piece to bring.

Chris had said that Scott's heart came from his mother. Katherine, he said, had a good heart, too. Charles was not so sure.

"I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean it."

"You're not in trouble. You could do with a haircut, though."

Charles added that in as a joke. Gone was the long hair that had caused so much confusion. Both Ruth and Charles mistook Scott for a girl the first time they met him.

Of course, there were other changes. Scott had grown, or carried himself differently, or a mix of both. He had more of a presence. Even now, exhausted and embarrassed, he took up more of the room than he had two years ago.

Scott was not in a place for jokes. He touched his hair, thinking about a cut.

"I read your mind last night, during your nightmare. I'm afraid this may be difficult, but I think it would be much better if you understood what had happened. You were right that your dreams are memories."

Scott nodded. That much was simple. To Charles's relief, he seemed to believe the lie about reading his mind—of course, he knew it from Chris.

The next part was more complicated.

"I'm going to find it, in your memory, I want you to see what happened. All right?"

Another nod.

"Now… try to relax."

The human mind is a complicated place. It was not like picking through a card catalog. Although Charles knew what he was looking for, he did not know where to find it. He had only the impressions gleaned from a psychic dip into Chris's memories.

Crying. That had been the strongest aspect of Chris's recollection, the way Scott looked and sounded, crying and trying not to.

So Charles chased memories that felt like that sound.

Pain.

Pain like his head would split in two.

The tears didn't help. They wetted up his eyes and blurred the world and it came back into too-sharp focus and he hurt all over. The tears didn't help, but he cried anyway.

It hurt.

Then, suddenly, a hand gripped his hair, lifted his head, and smashed it down. He was lying flat on a very cold table. The impact made his ears ring.

"Shut up!"

He tried.

Wherever he was, it was bright and cold. He was scared. His head hurt so badly.

He began to cry outright.

Another smash, this time a fist against the table, next to his head. "What did I say?"

"Sh-sh-sh—"

A mutter: "Worthless little idiot." Then the figure beside him came into focus, a face looming too close, a hand gripping his chin so he couldn't look away. "I said shut up. Shut. Up. No whimpering, no whining, no speaking unless spoken to. Do you know what I'll do if you don't learn?"

His mouth didn't answer, but his body did. He wet himself.

Mr. Milbury chuckled. Like a conclusion, "You are pathetic."

A needle pricked his arm. His body began to feel very, very heavy…

The wrong memory.

Charles didn't want to go further. He wanted to rewrite that memory. Could he do that, he wondered. Could he revive that trembling little boy, stroke his hair and tell him that he was loved?

He swallowed and focused on the boy in front of him. The same boy, of course, but older now. At least it seemed that Scott did not know what Charles had seen; that was a mercy.

Charles once more delved into his memories.

It was difficult. Scott's mind had built barriers around certain moments and Charles understood why.

"Relax, Scott."

Forcing open his memory was the last thing Charles wanted, but it would be his only choice unless Scott let go.

"Take a deep breath… good… focus on my voice. There's no one else here. You're safe. You're fine."

Charles continued that way for a while, murmuring every soothing nonsense term he could bring to mind and all the while staying aware of Scott's mind. Slowly, the barriers around his memories began to lessen.

"Chris, would you mind keeping an eye on the boys? I'll only be a few minutes." Katherine was already winding a scarf around her neck. Whatever had called her away, it must have been important.

He nodded. "I will."

"Thank you." She hugged Alex, who squirmed away, and Scott, who let her kiss his forehead. "Be good for Daddy."

He tried to. He was quiet and working on his writing, the pencil held tight in concentration. Most of his name was difficult to write and Scott went through the entire alphabet obediently, with a little excited flutter at 'c' and 'o' and 's' (even though they were the hardest) and joy at 't' because he could write it properly. Well, much as he wrote any letter properly.

Scott was good, but Alex was… Alex. He was all noise and energy.

Scott was wary of his father, of this stranger, but when Alex spilled he drink Scott was scared. He was terrified. But he took care of Alex—Alex, who was little and innocent and didn't know any better.

So Scott said the meanest things he could think of. They were a little bit true, deep down.

Scott's memory was worse. Hearing it had been painful, but Chris was drunk and barely remembered. Scott remembered.

Showing him that night meant remembering it with him. Charles knew he would have a difficult time talking to Chris for a while. He thought he had almost accepted that the man had moved on, but knowing what he had done and seeing it were two very different things.

He let the memory end when Katherine returned. It was the best place for it, with five-year-old Scott safely in his mother's arms.

Sixteen-year-old Scott had gone pale. His mouth gaped, but he could not put the words together. When he did, Charles wished he hadn't: "It was my fault."

"It was your father's fault."

Scott shook his head. "No, he—I knew what would happen—"

"Perhaps your mother should have known better than to leave you with him."

"Hey, don't—"

"Alex should have controlled himself better."

"That's not fair, he was only a baby!"

"So were you, Scott. You were a young child in far too big a situation and you did the only thing you could to protect your brother. There is no excuse for hurting a child."

"I… I would want to hurt someone who wished I was dead."

"You might want to," Charles allowed, "but you wouldn't. And you would never hurt a child."

"I don't know—"

"I do. I know how your mind works, I know who you are. Even if you don't."

Scott pushed up his glasses and pressed the cuffs of his sweater against his closed eyes. He thought about when the Brotherhood broke into the mansion just a few months ago. He had put Angel in the hospital when he learned she had trained there…

"The Brotherhood broke into our home and threatened you and the other children. You defended yourself. I wanted you to know what happened not because it was your fault in any way, but so you would understand that it wasn't. What your father did to you, what Milbury did to you, it wasn't your fault."

"But he was my dad. He was… why?" Scott asked, his voice broken in a dozen places. Like a little boy, "Why did he do that?"

Charles shook his head sadly. "I don't know, Scott, but I'm glad you understand that he did. It was never your fault."