-Of Sundays and Studying-

"I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters and brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at." –Maya Angelou

[Sunday, October 13, 2019]

As it turned out, it took only about a week for Piper to lighften up on her middle fchild. To Chris it had been too long. If forced to take notes any longer, he thought he might very well explode. By now he had history dates and names spilling out of his ears. Finally, after an agonizing week, he could fall back into the routine to which he was long accustomed. At least tomorrow he could; today, thankfully, was a much-needed and well-deserved Sunday.f

Chris's head reached the foot of the bed, his bare feet propped up against the headboard. A few feet above his face hovered a thick book written by a man named Donald Smith, whose name was printed in large, arrogant letters on the cover. He would have preferred to be playing Gaymz on his computer to this; unfortunately, his computer had crashed earlier that morning, rendering this wish impossible. The instant his first complaint of boredom had parted from his lips, Piper had sent him upstairs with this book, The Rise of a War Hero.

"Reading will do you some good," she insisted. Except that it only generated more boredom as far as Chris was concerned. He had no interest whatsoever in reading about the war of 2012 from the point of view of a surviving soldier with a massive God complex. Chris had to wonder how the guy could stand with an ego the size of New Guinea. Somehow, this Sergeant Donald was under the deluded impression that he had single-handedly stopped the war and brought democracy to multiple third-world countries.

"How do they let morons like this get published?" Chris wondered aloud.

When someone knocked loudly on the door, he lifted his head only a couple of inches. The door opened before he could even call, "Come in." Scowling, he watched his older brother step into the room.

"You could try waiting," the younger teen muttered crossly. "I could have been getting dressed or something."

Wyatt rolled his eyes. "It's not like you have anything I've never seen before," he snorted, which only made Chris's glower even more pronounced. Eyes straying to the book floating in the air, the blonde remarked, "That's personal gain, you know."

Chris sat up sharply on his bed and swatted the book to the floor. "What do you want, Wyatt?" he grumbled irately.

For a moment Wyatt looked as if he wanted to pursue the original subject, but he seemed to wisely decide against it. Instead, he told his brother, "I need a favor."

Eyebrows raised, the younger boy asked, "What?"

"I need you to tell Mom I'm going to Sam's to study."

Instead of answering immediately, Chris gave his brother a quick once-over. He had on an old pair of jeans and a dark blue t-shirt with a picture of a dog whose teeth were bared. On the back of the shirt, Chris knew, were the words "Beware of Rabid Human" in bright red letters. He had a heavy-looking backpack slung over his shoulder that could have been filled with textbooks, except that no sharp edges indicated such. Instead, it bulged shapelessly, as if some sort of fabric had been stuffed inside.

Finally, Chris responded. Through narrowed eyes, Chris questioned, "And where are you actually going?"

Surprised, blue orbed stared at Chris guiltily. "To Sam's to study."

"Right," Chris snorted. "The only reason you would need me to tell Mom is because you know she'll catch you lying—easy. So…? Where are you going?"

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Wyatt admitted, "Underworld to do a bit of hunting."

In that case the knapsack made sense. If Chris had to hazard a guess, he would feel quite comfortable assuming that inside was the trench coat his brother often used for demon hunting. It made blending in that much easier.

Hesitantly, Chris said, "I don't know, Wyatt. If Mom or Dad finds out, we're finished."

"Come on, Chris," Wyatt pleaded, "They'll never know. You owe me one for the time I covered for you when you snuck to what's-his-name's place that night."

Rolling his eyes, Chris growled, "Dwight."

Indifferently, Wyatt said, "Yeah, him." When Chris said nothing, his brother cajoled, "Come on, what's the worst that could happen?"

Sarcastically, Chris snapped, "Oh, I don't know—maybe the fact that Mom would completely blow up at me if she found out the truth." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Not to mention you might get killed."

Breezily, Wyatt waved away his brother's concerns. "Relax, Chris. I'm more powerful than anything in the Underworld. Besides, it's just one teensy, weensy, little demon hunt; I won't die."

Unimpressed, Chris replied, "And Mom?"

"As long as you don't tell her, she has no way of finding out," Wyatt assured. "Nothing can go wrong."

Crabbily, Chris grumbled, "Says you."

"Can I take that as a yes?" Wyatt asked, already halfway out the door.

Reluctantly, Chris concurred, "Yeah, yeah, take it as a yes."

"Thanks!" Before Chris could change his mind, Wyatt orbed to the Underworld, leaving his brother's bedroom door wide open.

Scowling, Chris hopped off his bed and went to close the door. As he did so, he muttered in annoyance, "I don't know how I get myself into these things." Just before the door clicked shut, it stopped short against something. Chris opened it to find out what had obstructed it and came face to face with Prue, whose foot was wedged between the door and the threshold.

"Get yourself into what things?" she asked curiously. "Where did Wyatt just go?"

"Nowhere," Chris said quickly. "Move your foot." He tried to close it, but again she pushed it back out of place.

"And where might 'nowhere' be?" When Chris did not answer, she threatened, "I'll tell Mom about it if you don't tell me."

"Go mind your own business," her brother snapped in irritation. "Leave me alone."

Glowering at him, the preteen whined, "You're such a jerk, Chris." As she turned to storm away, she heard a self-satisfied, "Thanks," that tipped her over the edge. Angrily, she screamed, "Mo-om!"

At her receding back, Chris yelled, "Butt out!"

Still, that did nothing to stop Piper from getting involved once she had been summoned. A couple of minutes later, when Chris had returned to his lousy excuse for a book, his mother entered the room. Hands on hips, she reprimanded, "Chris, be nice to your sister."

Without looking up, he challenged, "Why? She's not nice to me."

"Chris…" When he didn't respond, she sighed in exasperation and changed the subject. Casually, she took a seat beside him on the bed. Though he still did not look up, the boy felt his mattress dip and only just managed to bite back a groan. He was in for a long lecture, then, if she was making herself comfortable. "She said you know where Wyatt went?" the long-time mother prompted.

After reading for over an hour, Chris learned only three facts from the book: Egypt had been intimately involved in the war of 2012, Sergeant Donald had been situated there, and said sergeant was a big-headed jerk. He had no qualms about closing the useless text. Doing so, he muttered to his mom, "Of course she did."

"Chris," Piper said again, this time with a warning in her tone. "Where is your brother?"

To himself he answered, He went on a demon hunt and decided not to tell you because he knew you would never approve.

The teen put on his very best look of innocent exasperation. "Wh—are you kidding?" he cried, sitting up beside his mom. "He told me to tell you he orbed to someone's house to study for some big exam or something." Pretending to look thoughtful, he added at length, "Sam, I think he said.

I dunno, whatever. But why does Prue always have to get involved, huh? It's none of her business. She butts in and then makes a big deal out of everything."

For a moment Chris held his breath, watching his mom out of the corner of his eye. When she accepted his answer without question, he allowed himself only a small smile of relief. That was only half the battle won; he still had to keep up the charade until she deigned it time to leave the room.

"Look, Chris," Piper sighed, "your sister feels left out. You and Wyatt—well, you boys are always doing things together: playing basketball, going to the movies, just hanging out. You never include her in anything."

"Wh—but-but—" Chris stammered incredulously. Hopping off his bed in agitation, he crossed his room to put space between himself and his mother. Prue had butted into something that had absolutely nothing to do with her and here he got the lecture? How was that for unfair? Piper always took her daughter's side in arguments just because she was the girl, or perhaps because she was the youngest. Chris wasn't sure the reason, only sure of the facts themselves. At length, he cried, "She's a girl. I would think she'd want nothing to do with us."

Smirking, Piper remarked dryly, "You know, believe it or not, Chris, I think your sister is old enough to realize by now that boys don't have cooties." Eyebrows raised, she said, "What do you think?"

What did he think? He thought she was a spoiled brat that needed to learn the meaning of personal boundaries. Of course, he didn't voice that. He had no interest in a second lecture, thank you very much. Saying nothing, he offered only a silent, sullen shrug.

With a soft sigh, Piper stood and started towards the door. As her parting words of wisdom, she offered, "She loves you guys, even if she doesn't say it. All she wants is a little attention from her older brothers. Is that really too much for her to ask, hmm?"

Stubborn as any Halliwell, Chris let out a grumpy, "Yes. It is."

Hand on the knob, Piper murmured, "Oh, Chris…" Shaking her head, she left her son alone in his bedroom. Before closing the door, she quickly poked her head back in to ask, "When did you say your brother was coming home again?"

Gruffly, so as not to attract suspicion, the teen replied, "Late. Big test."

"Right." The door closed, leaving him in silence. He waited a breath and then flopped back down onto his bed, staring up at the peeling paint of his ceiling. Shaking his head, he muttered, "Wyatt, you so owe me for this one."

That night Chris lay awake into the early hours of the morning, his churning mind thought surprisingly not of demons or even of Jake this time but of all the possible ways he could dispose of The Rise of a War Hero. His imagination went through the garbage disposal, burning, and flushing down the toilet. Even as he fell asleep, his mind was picturing a gruesome, salivating dog tearing it to shreds. That, he thought pitilessly, is exactly what a guy like Donald Smith deserves done to his precious book.

Without much sleep that night, waking up Monday morning became an absolute nightmare. By the time he stumbled out of his room, Wyatt had already left the house. At least that was what his mom told him as she insistently ushered him towards the front door. Though Chris would never admit to it, he let out an inward sigh of relief. Now he knew Wyatt had gotten home safely. Of course, he had known nothing would happen but still—confirmation helped.

Though he missed the bus by several minutes, he took his sweet time gathering his things for his bag. Piper insisted he get out of the house because she refused to drive him to school (yet again). When she had nagged enough, he orbed out of the manor, her angry objections ringing in his ears.

With the need to pay attention no longer in effect, biology moved fairly quickly. Tuned out, he heard only Mr. Garcia's parting words for the class. After the bell rang, the former college professor called to their retreating backs, "Don't forget, you guys have a test next Monday. Come prepared, please."

What a useless thing to say, Chris thought to himself: "Come prepared." As if that would help. The people who don't plan on coming prepared won't no matter what.

In the ten minutes before the next bell, Chris grabbed his history book from his locker and then went in search of Dwight. The boys shared every class but one: When Dwight took biology, Chris volunteered at the library. During Chris's period with Mr. Garcia, Dwight learned all about becoming a "stay at home mother" in home economics. As he suspected, the young witch found his friend outside the home ec. classroom. Chatting, the two walked to their next class.

"Bridget Vanguard?"

From the back, a freckly blonde answered, "Here."

"Matt Waters?"

Briefly, Matt lifted his weary head off of folded arms and blinked at his teacher. "Yeah," he remarked, every move of his aching with lethargy.

"Good." Ms. Gowell set down her attendance sheet, replacing it almost immediately with a piece of light blue chalk. "Now, last Friday we left off with General Lee, who fought for the…?"

"Confederates," someone called out. She tried to ignore the fact that only one of her students (two if she counted Duncan, who would not answer the question anyway) knew the answer to a fourth-grade-level review question.

"That's right. And his equal on the union's side was…?" When her question was met with silence, she almost groaned in defeat.

When the bell rang at ten o'clock, Chris immediately began to gather his possessions and stuff them into the knapsack beside his desk. Dwight stepped up behind him and the two boys followed the rest of the crowd to the door.

"Chris, a word?" Ms. Gowell called from her station behind her desk.. Chris only just bit back a groan but dutifully turned to acknowledge his teacher. "Thank you," she said as Dwight reluctantly closed the door behind him.

As Ms. Gowell gathered together her own notes, Chris listened to the fading voices and footsteps of his classmates with a muted sense of dismay. At length, the teacher turned around. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, jumping straight into the predicament without circumvention.

"What?" Chris asked, somewhat put off by her reproachful question. "Nothing."

Walking around her desk, she glided towards the blackboard. As she spoke, she began to erase the previous lesson in preparation for the next. "Today you seemed a bit…"—how shall I put this? she pondered—"spacey?"

Flatly, Chris repeated, "Spacey," eyebrows raised.

"Yes," Marcy replied matter-of-factly. "I noticed that your behavior today was a bit… lacking." When he said nothing, she plowed onward, stating more bluntly, "You've stopped paying attention." As if he didn't already know that.

This time concern filtered through her voice, throwing him off slightly, when she asked, "Is everything okay at home? You were doing so wonderfully for a few days there, remember?" Of course he remembered; he remembered the torture involved in sitting still all day long with hardly any time to relax. "I was very proud of you."

The genuine concern in her words originally surprised Chris, but the end of her statement already had him concealing a shudder of disgust. Proud of him? She sounded like his mom or something—ew.

Though he wanted to gag, he answered her question instead, trying to ignore that last part of her comment. Carefully, he responded, "There's nothing weird going on at home, no." After all, to the Halliwells having demons popping in every so often was as commonplace and routine as waking up to morning coffee. In Chris's mind, it wasn't weird. At least, that was what he told himself in order to mentally excuse the lie.

"Then would you care to explain your strange behavior?" Marcy prompted. By now she should have known better than to actually expect an honest—or at the very least straightforward—answer from this particular student. Maybe she was just naïve that way, though, because it came as a surprise to her all the same.

"Who said it's strange?" he challenged, eyebrows raised. "Up until a week ago, I was always like this. Now…" He shrugged. "Now I'm just back to normal."

"Whatever you'd like to call it," Ms. Gowell interrupted impatiently, "why is it happening?"

"Because," Chris retorted, "everything is finally going back to normal." The bell for next period chose that moment to ring. He stared at his teacher without bothering to hide his boredom and asked, "Can I go now?"

Marcy sighed; she knew she would get no further with him at the present. Before he left, she reached over the desk to her bag, which sat on her chair. From there she extracted a late pass, hastily and messily filling it in. Signing it at the bottom, she handed it over to her student.

Chris glanced at it only briefly and said, "Thanks," and left the room. As he suspected, Dwight was waiting for him by the door. When they started to walk toward their math classroom, the mortal asked simply, "What color?"

This time, Chris analyzed his late pass carefully. Squinting, he decided, "Green," and then groaned. "Why do they always have to use such random pen colors? How are we supposed to—"

"Chris, I'm insulted at how much you underestimate my abilities," Dwight interrupted, stopping in the hallway. He braced himself against the wall and he swung his backpack over to lean against his chest while he rummaged through it. He tugged out random items, which he ignored, handing over to Chris to hold: a flashlight, a vomit-colored highlighter ("never know when that could come in handy," he laughed), and a pad of late passes he had swiped the previous month. Since at the top of each page was written the month, they were useless the moment September ended. He kept them anyway—"I can use them next year," he explained.

After dumping into Chris's palm a short piece of red string, he cried, "Found it!" Quickly, Chris surveyed the empty hallway to make sure they had not been heard. When he returned his gaze, he found Dwight looking triumphant. Clutched in his hand was a dark green pen, almost identical to the color Ms. Gowell had used to write up the late pass.

"Here," Dwight said, "hand it over." Chris did so, placing the late pass in his friend's outstretched hand. Dwight sat back on the balls of his feet with his back propped up against the wall and concentrated on adding his name in Ms. Gowell's handwriting. As he did so, Chris began to stuff the other things back into the open pocket.

Still focused on his work, Dwight said absently, "Be careful with the string."

Eyebrows rising in bemusement, Chris stared at his friend. "Uh… oh-kay…" Very slowly, he replaced the red strand in his friend's knapsack. Just as he did so, Dwight stood up, finished with his masterpiece.

Looking it over, Chris whistled. "Nicely done."

"Thanks. It's pretty accurate, isn't it?"

Casting a sidelong glance at the self-satisfied grin on Dwight's face, Chris rolled his eyes. He ignored the remark and began to walk away, not bothering to wait for Dwight to catch up. Behind him, he heard his best friend's loud laughter ringing down the hallway. That was it: they were definitely getting caught.

Six minutes ago, Mr. Randall jotted down twelve math problems on the computerized whiteboard present in all mathematics classrooms. He gave the class ten minutes to finish; Chris had already completed and checked all of his answers. Cheek resting against the palm of his left hand, he stared lazily at the teacher's desk at the head of the classroom. Straying eyes moved toward the late pass sitting on the corner of the desk. When the two boys came in, Mr. Randall raised an eyebrow but let them through without a fuss. As the teens had known would happen, the teacher hardly spared more than a moment's glance for the note. The best friends relied on teachers' immediate trust.

"Uh… excuse me?" From the door, the secretary timidly poked her head inside the room. Only afterwards, she rapped her knuckles lightly against the wood of the threshold.

Glancing up from his students' bent heads, Mr. Randall inquired with a smile, "Is there a problem, Miss Sanders?"

"Um, well, no but, um…" Looking at Chris, she finally got out, "Mrs. Halliwell is here to pick up her sons for their eye doctor appointments."

Mr. Randall turned toward Chris, chuckling good-naturedly. "Coming late, leaving early. Eh, Halliwell? I guess if you're going to skip out on class, you might as well do it right, huh?"

As he gathered his stuff together, the witch smiled. "My mom thinks Wyatt needs glasses," he said, when in truth both boys had almost perfect vision. "She decided to drag me along for the ride while she was at it." When, in fact, they—and Prue—had gone to the eye doctor already in June. Still, Chris casually played the lie as he swung his knapsack over his shoulder.

"Make sure you call Ryder for the homework," Mr. Randall reminded, and Chris nodded before following Miss Sanders back to the office.

When he got there, he saw his mother pacing nervously just outside the office. A few seconds later, she caught sight of him as well.

"Chris!" she cried, half in relief and half in admonishment. "What took you so long? We'll be late for our appointment!" Dragging him to the office, she explained, "Wyatt's already in the car, but I couldn't sign you out until you got here. Now that you're down, I can. Go wait in the car; I'll be right there."

Still having no idea of why she had come, he trudged into the autumn air and through the parking lot. Above him gray clouds spanned the sky, concealing the heat of the sun. With a shiver, Chris hugged his arms around his chest and surveyed the lot for Piper's car. He found it a few seconds later and hurried across the asphalt to the vehicle.

Wyatt, who was sitting in the passenger's seat, barely took notice when Chris slid into the seat behind him. Only when the fifteen-year-old asked, "What time did you get home?" was he acknowledged.

"A little after midnight," Wyatt answered. "And I glamoured over it so Mom and Dad don't notice anything suspicious."

The first part Chris had expected, but the second… "Glamoured over what?" he demanded somewhat angrily. "You said you wouldn't get hit."

"No," Wyatt calmly corrected, "I said I wouldn't get killed. I'm fine, Chris."

"Great. Turn around." As witches with whitelighter blood, both brothers had the ability to glamour for short periods of time; it was this very power that allowed them to detect and even override the ability on others. If Wyatt claimed he was not bad off, Chris wanted to see just how "fine" his brother actually was.

Slowly, Wyatt turned in his seat to face Chris. At first the younger boy saw only pale, glowing orbs around the seventeen-year-old's right eye and on his left cheekbone, as if someone had accidentally sprinkled glitter all over his face. After a moment, that faded only to get replaced with the ailments Chris had both feared and suspected. A dark bruise formed a black ring around the witch's eye. Along his cheek was a long albeit shallow gash that had been haphazardly taped together with butterfly stitches.

Chris sucked in a sharp breath. "Damn, Wyatt, you're lucky Dad isn't a whitelighter anymore. If he saw this…"

In his defense, Wyatt retorted, "I took care of it just fine on my own, thanks. Look, I even rubbed some disinfectant on the stuff first, didn't I?" He turned in his seat in order to better face his younger brother. Chris glared evenly, arms folded.

"You are completely insane. How can you just—"

Wyatt saw Piper rushing towards the car through his window. Cutting off Chris's statement, he hissed, "Shut up before Mom hears."

Would serve you right if she did, Chris thought but did not say. He closed his mouth just as Piper squeezed into the car. Façade calm, Wyatt turned back around to face forward in his seat.

"Demon?" he guessed solemnly. Eyes staring intently ahead of her, Piper only nodded.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Chris piped in, "What about Aunt Phoebe and Aunt Paige?" The car sped down the empty street as Piper's knuckles turned white in their ferocious grip on the steering wheel.

When they paused at a stoplight, Piper responded to her son's query. "Paige isn't answering my calls, which just means she's in her classroom because she turns everyone on mute when she's teaching." The way her lips pursed tightly showed the boys exactly what she thought of that idea. Not that they needed the reminder. Whenever they got tired of Mom interrupting a good time, they would conveniently put her on mute. Well, that built no pleasure in her. The instant they returned home, the brothers would receive the earful they had missed by silencing her before… plus interest. Long ago they had learned not to use that handy ability with their mother, and neither boy could understand how Paige still had not seemed to comprehend that.

"What about Aunt Phoebe?" Wyatt asked.

"Yesterday she told me she'd be in meetings all day, and my guess is she either turned off her phone or left it in her office." Eyes betraying her reluctance, she glanced in the rearview mirror at Chris and then sideways at Wyatt. "As much as I hate to pull you guys out of school like this, I don't have any other choice this time."

Cheerfully, Chris replied, "Oh, that's okay, Mom; we don't mind."

Wryly, Piper stared at him through the mirror. "You know," she remarked, "this may come as a surprise to you, but I would actually like for my children to get a decent education."

"Oh, Mom, chill out," Wyatt laughed. "Missing one day of school won't kill us."

No, Chris thought mildly to himself, but this demon might. That thought, however, he did not voice.

A few minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of Prue's school. Piper stopped in front of the building and ran inside, leaving the keys in the ignition to save time. When she next returned, she had her youngest child trailing behind. The preteen looked just as eager as her brothers had at the prospect of getting taken out of school to vanquish a demon. Half-a-step in front of her, their mother looked less than pleased. In the backseat, Prue opened the door on the driver's side and first threw in her knapsack. Afterwards, she squeezed in beside it.

"You got your seatbelt on?" Piper called to her daughter, starting up the car before she received a response.

As they drove out of the lot, Prue scoffed, "Of course."

They reached the manor faster than Chris would have assumed possible. Chris had to silently wonder if Piper had used magic to ensure optimal traffic conditions, but of course he didn't dare voice the suggestion; even if it were true, better to be left in a state of ignorance, he decided, than to know and have to endure Piper's wrath at the insinuation. Motor off, the long-time mother-of-three immediately ushered her children out of the car. "Let's go," she insisted, "we have a demon to catch, and I'm getting you all back before school is over—"

Reaching in to grab his knapsack, Chris snorted, "Fat chance." When Piper turned her warning eyes on him, he quickly turned his remark into a sheepish cough. Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he hurried after his siblings into the shelter of the manor.

Reviews are golden. What with the recession, I could probably use the extra shiny-stuffs. Please? Such an effortless way to help a damsel in distress.

Replies to anonymous reviews:

Firepony16 - You're probably more relaxed now, what with school being out and all. Hope you have more time to yourself.

Ssatsuki - Ah, what a lovely thing to say. You got that spot on, by the way. When Jake's mom isn't intoxicated, she can be quite sweet. The problem is, you can't have this dual personality. A child isn't able to differentiate; all he knows is Mommy hurts him. Mommy must hate him, or he must be a bad boy. Carmen, Michael, and Jordan are three characters integral to the story. Towards the middle of the story, they and Chris will collide. When they do, you will understand their importance. Until then it seems like just a cute story to break up the chapters every once in a while. I assure you they are of great importance, however. Don't worry, I won't stop posting for an entire year. The reason the updates are sometimes few and far between is not at all my fault, actually (coughcoughSAMcoughcough). Hm, wonder if she's reading this right now. Anyway, and I post together, so to speak. This time was my turn to post first, and next time will be hers; we switch off. She wasn't ready yet, so this was totally, totally not my fault. :) (Got that, Sam? -smiles innocently-)

pinkphoenix1985 - All of these you will see again - more Chris/Dwight, a bit more Chris/Casey. Cute scenes, some of them, hafta admit.