Chapter Text
Raven keeps her hair short and red, cupping the back of her skull. It's impossibly unfashionable, but the incredible confidence she now carries herself with makes Charles wonder if she'll start a trend soon, with short bobs slowly swarming the streets. He almost wishes he missed the little sister he felt like he needed to care for constantly, but this new Raven seems so perfectly content with her life, even taking care of him, that he can't. She's older and wiser and seems to have finally grown into a woman, and Charles is slowly finding that he likes having a sister instead of a baby sister. He likes not worrying about her constantly.
It's an uncomfortable switch in positions, having Raven so confident and mature while Charles feels like an adult trapped in a baby's life, struggling to get out of his own bed, to move around, to live.
They say he'll walk, possibly. Maybe in a few more months of recovery, or maybe never, and when he does he'll most likely have only a few months before he's back in the wheelchair, recovering again, and then the cycle will begin all over again. It's disconcerting to pinch his thigh and feel a distant pain, like his body knows it's in pain and is informing him, rather than it being Charles in pain. He can't stand on his own, since all his legs register is pressure and weight and don't know to stay up instead of falling back down, but he can move when he's sitting or laying down. Sort of. It's a work in progress. Still, it's better than being dead or paralyzed or, worst of all, being perfectly fine but responsible for Erik's death.
"You ready?" Raven asks him, and Charles sighs, staring at the entryway into his apartment building. The building has an elevator, thank god, but it also has three stairs leading to the entryway. Charles doesn't even know why they decided to put three stairs there, but it's the first and last struggle of any trips he takes. He can't remember even really noticing them before the wheelchair, except possibly when he first moved in.
Charles nods, and tries to not grit his teeth when Raven helps him down the three wide steps, wheels going bump-bump-bump before he's on the concrete sidewalk, Raven smiling at him. "We're getting better at this," she says. Charles has yet to figure out whether her optimism is real or faked; honestly, he thinks she might not know either.
"We're adapting," Charles agrees, and does his best to not feel like a child in a stroller as Raven pushes him along the five blocks to the police station.
She tells him about how her latest audition actually went well, about a few of the stranger patrons at the restaurant she waitresses at, about how she's thinking of asking out one of the regulars but he might be under eighteen and that's a little too cradle-robber-ish for her. And, of course, there's the not terribly subtle, "I haven't seen Erik around, either."
"Shaw is still a missing person, he's probably hunting the man down," Charles says, even though they both know there's nothing to find but whatever's left of his body. His money is on Shaw having been fed to dogs, but Raven firmly believes he's buried in cement.
"Of course he is," Raven says smoothly, pulling him into the elevator. "And what are you going to do when he's done hunting Shaw and comes back?"
Charles thinks about lying, or telling her that he thinks Erik is never coming back, not after Charles tried to give him to Shaw, no matter how good a reason he had for his betrayal. "I don't know," he says instead, because it's the honest answer.
Emma is waiting, of course - and it's another day of her proudly showing off her scars, wearing a bustier that's risqué even for her standards. Raven, of course, says, "You look fantastic."
"Of course I do," Emma says, as if she doesn't even register the compliment, but Charles knows her well enough to recognize the subtle bit of stretching she does for what it is. "Now go away, Raven, we have criminals to catch."
"You up to lunch?" Raven asks him.
"I have a feeling we'll be busy," Charles says, squeezing her hand in his own. "Thank you."
"What are obnoxious little sisters for?" she asks, planting a kiss on the top of his head before winking at Emma (winking; Charles really doesn't want to wonder about what his newly confident sister and Emma may or may not have going on and he never will) and leaving Charles alone with his partner.
"Oh don't worry, I wouldn't fuck her without asking permission," Emma says.
"Please god don't bring that up ever again," Charles says. "Ever."
Emma shrugs, noticeably making no promises whatsoever on the matter. "We have a crime scene to look at. Double homicide, or maybe a murder-suicide. Want me to push you?"
Charles sighs. "I'll manage, thank you," he says, but she doesn't even ask about helping get him out of the office. They've done their best, but the thing is tiny, and he's not experienced enough to manage a one hundred eighty degree turn with that little floor space by himself. Still, after that she leaves him alone, and Charles can manage. He can. "Married couple, then?"
"It's creepy when you do that," Emma says. "And it looks that way. I've heard there's a lot of blood, though."
"Your kind of day, then," Charles says, and enjoys the unrepentantly excited smile it earns him. She doesn't smile as often as she used to.
----
The Summers house is a nice two-story affair of homey red brickwork. Charles really doesn't know why they were put on the case, since it's more a case about the dead couple's missing children than the murder. It's a fairly simple case of burglary gone wrong, or so it seems. Looking at family pictures, Charles can see why they'd take the boys - strong, attractive, malleable, vulnerable - but why a burlgar would take two screaming boys, one of which was definitely old enough and strong enough to fight back, but leave the TV, Charles doesn't know.
"I don't think they were abducted," Emma says, doing an excellent job of ignoring the way every man (save Charles, who by now is completely desensitized to Emma Frost's body) is staring at her chest as she leans down to look at the windows more closely. "They either killed their parents or weren't here when it happened, because the father would have made a noise when he went down, and only the wife came to check."
It takes Charles a moment to really figure it out. He looks at the picture on the mantle, and then back at the body in the entryway...and then back again. "I'm not sure that's Chris Summers," he says carefully.
"Sure looks like the picture," Emma says, showing her usual respect for the dead by rolling him over with a casual, well-placed boot. "If his face wasn't blown in I'd say you're losing it, sugar."
"But Chris Summers was a wash-out astronaut," Charles says. "You can't be an astronaut if you're over six feet tall, and this man's very tall."
"So is the man in that picture," Emma says, arms crossed. "What, you think Chris faked his own death and took the kids with him?"
"...No?" Charles says, because he's not quite sure what he's getting at. "I mean, not the kidnapping his own children. But maybe he faked his own murder. I don't know. It's just..." He takes a deep breath. "It's just weird."
Emma sighs, and leans down to stare him in the eye. "Are you really ready for this?"
"Of course I am," Charles says, frowning. "Do you think I'm not?"
"I think you're making big enough jumps in your logic that you're either finally using all those brain cells you let die during the reign of CK, or you're looking for patterns that aren't there because you have something to prove," Emma states. "And I'm willing to shelve you if you'll be back on top of things when you come back."
"You don't get to shelve me, Emma," Charles states, and takes a deep breath, because this is actually how Emma shows she cares. It's not her fault she was born this way, and he needs to be tolerant. Deep breaths. "I'm fine, I promise. I just think this isn't as simple as it seems."
"It doesn't seem simple," Emma says, but moves to look at the wife's body instead of arguing.
----
Emma pulls them off the case.
She's still the senior partner, even if it's only by one year of experience when they've worked together for four, and the chief (now skittish and terrified of them for some reason) lets her make the decision for them both. Charles assumes she lied and said he couldn't manage the stress, be it physical or mental, because otherwise the chief usually just tells you to suck it up and stay on the case. It's a busy city and crime never sleeps, after all. Not everyone can get their way. Not unless they're Emma Frost, at least.
"You really think I'm acting that strangely?" Charles asks, staring at her because this Emma isn't the usual Emma. She's far less willing to take risks, far more ready to take on a fight, and sometimes Charles catches her tracing her new scars with a strange expression on her face. "You really think one call that might be wrong deserves-"
"We're both off the case, Charles," Emma says impatiently. "And I wanted that case. So what does that tell you?"
Mostly it tells Charles that Emma cares about him even if she's wrong about him needing help, but that's not the answer she wants. It takes him a moment to figure out, and that in itself makes Charles think she may, actually, be right. "You don't think you're ready either."
"Bad shit has happened to you recently, sweetie," Emma says. "Do you really want to see more of it right now?"
Charles frowns. "I know you do."
"Go home," Emma says, and Charles can't help but wonder.
He knows Emma and Shaw had a...thing. Sometimes they even seemed happy together, when she decided to forget she hated him. And as uncomfortable Charles feels thinking about it, they definitely had similarities. In a lot of ways, they fit together perfectly, even if those similarities were what seemed to make Emma want to murder him in his sleep half the time. And then Shaw had stabbed her five times, dragged her into her bathroom, and tied her up in the hopes she'd watch herself bleed to death.
Charles wonders all too often what happened in that car.
He sighs, but nods. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, and heads for the elevators.
---
The minute Charles gets back to his apartment building, he realizes he forgot to call Raven. But. Three steps. He could manage that. He can do one or two, and the stairs are longer, so that means it's safer, doesn't it? It doesn't really matter either way, though. It's either forward (by backwards), or find a pay phone. Plenty of people go up steps, though. They do it every day.
He's considering the stairs when someone says, "Can I help you?"
The speaker is a young man, blond and apprehensive, but Charles can face facts - the kid wouldn't be taking the chance of talking to him if he wasn't in a wheelchair. So, Charles smiles at him. "Would you? I'm still not very good at stairs, I'm afraid."
"Sure, no problem," the boy says, a small relieved smile on his lips for a moment before it vanishes, but it's fast enough. Charles recognizes him as Alex Summers the minute he looks like he's not being hunted down by ravenous dogs. "Hey, you live in this building? Do you know who lives in 602?"
Of course he does, since it's him, but he doesn't say it. The boy is (theoretically) still a murder suspect, after all. Charles takes his time lining his back wheels up instead, and says, "I think I might. Works long hours, so the neighbors all like him." Or they did until the apartment became a crime scene thanks to Cain and Erik, but Alex doesn't need to know that. "Why?"
Charles can't see Alex's expression thanks to the young man pulling him up the stairs one by one. It's jarring and makes his spine spasm a bit every time he hits the next step, but it's over fast enough. "I just heard he might be able to help me with...something. I have a phone number, too, but I think it's his desk phone."
"I see," Charles says, and thanks Alex again when he opens the front door for him. "Well, let me introduce you, then, and if he's not there I'll lend you my phone to call the work number. It's the least I can do."
Alex seems surprised by the offer, for some reason, but he nods, following Charles into the elevator. "Thanks." He stops for a moment, and then that skittish smile comes back. "I wasn't sure about this, considering the guy I got it from, but thanks. You've been a lot of help."
"As have you," Charles says, and forces himself to not hope about these things. "Any chance you could tell me who sent you?"
"I don't know. He was just there, you know?" Alex says as they step out onto the sixth floor, and yes, Charles thinks a little hysterically, he knows how that feels. "Wait, you-"
"I'm 602, yes," Charles says, and doesn't stop rolling along when Alex stops walking. "Forgive the misdirection; I was shot in the spine three months ago and haven't quite rid myself of the paranoia that someone will come finish the job. I need to know everything you can tell me about the man who sent you to me."
"You think he's the guy who shot you?" Alex asks, and of course he's trailing along again. A good mystery always hooks the young.
"I think he's the man who saved me, actually," Charles says, much more quietly than he intended, and opens the door to his apartment. It's still in the process of becoming wheelchair-friendly, with furniture pushed up against the north wall, occasionally piled on top of each other. He'd thought there was almost nothing in his apartment until he couldn't walk around it. "But we'll start with what I can do to help you. What's your name, friend?"
Alex hesitates. "He didn't say you were in a wheelchair."
"Do you need me to scale a mountain for you?" Charles asks. "Or climb a tree, perhaps?"
"No," Alex says, frowning. "That'd be stupid."
"Then so would thinking I can't help because I'm not able to walk," Charles says. "Although I'll admit if you need wheelchair lessons I'm not going to be very good at that, either."
Alex nods, a dusting of shame-induced blush on his cheeks. "Right. My name's Alex, and I need someone to protect my brother." When Charles waits, Alex sighs and settles into one of the armchairs. "Our parents were killed, and we were out for pancakes - it's a thing we do; he did good on a test so we sneak out and eat pancakes - and I open the door and there's my parents, and-"
"Where is your brother, Alex?" Charles asks, because he knows Alex will eventually break down, but now isn't the time, not with the younger brother still out there, probably alone. Charles is a big brother, he knows the instinct to take care of your family and run when something's being threatening. He trusts it'll take priority again.
"He's at the park," Alex says.
Charles wonders why he thought that was a good idea, but doesn't let himself wonder for very long. He nods, and heads out the door again, Alex following. "Why didn't you go to the police?"
"You can't trust them," Alex says, and frowns. "Hey, what's your name, anyway?"
"Charles. Nice to meet you," he says, and there they are, again, at the stairs. Maybe he should ask about installing a ramp. Or a railing. Or learn how to deal with stairs. "Would you be willing to-"
"Oh, sure," Alex says, and really, he's horrible at this, it's like a car with no shocks, but it's better than Charles' twenty minute attempts that end with him emotionally exhausted and ready to throw things. "But the chief of police was totally in on the serial killing thing with Mayor Shaw, I'm not going to put my kid brother in their hands. Not if they were letting a serial killer run around like that."
"Of course," Charles says dryly, letting him choose their path to the park. It takes Alex a moment to realize that Charles will be able to keep up with him, but after that they manage fine. "Clearly I'm the better option. You do know that one man does not make up an organization, yes?"
"When he's in charge of the police? Yeah, he kind of does," Alex snaps. "I shouldn't even be trusting you with my brother, but you're better than the police."
Charles frowns. "Thank you?"
"I didn't mean it like that," Alex says.
"Oh, don't worry, I used to have foot in mouth disease when I was your age," Charles says. "It's a common affliction in teenagers, sort of like a social skills chicken pox. You'll get better eventually."
Alex gives him a hesitant smile. "That's actually pretty reassuring, professor."
"I am not a professor," Charles says, and realizes that dear god, he probably looks like some sort of rolling armchair doctor of philosophy. God, he's even wearing the elbow patch jacket today. Raven must have been feeling particularly mischievous this morning. "This is actually a disguise, Alex. I'm really quite dangerous."
Alex looks very doubtful. "Are you."
Charles finds himself smiling. "Well, my friends are, at least."
"Friends in high places?" Alex asks, turning into the park. "Or friends in low places?"
"More like friends in merciless places," Charles says. "I've suspected my partner is a psychopath for years." Or sociopath. Or some other personality disorder that revolves around narcissism, apathy, and truly terrifying amounts of amounts of schadenfreude. He smiles at Alex. "But she's mine, and I wouldn't trade her for the world. What's your brother like?"
"He's a kid," Alex says, awkward. "I mean, he's smart, but he's seven years younger than me. That's a difference, you know?"
"I do," Charles says, grateful that Alex hasn't offered any more help when the path turns to packed dirt, because he really can do this. He sighs. "It's a shame such horrible things can happen on such lovely days."
"Yeah," Alex says, and Charles can tell it's the first time he's registered the world beyond his family. It's a lovely cloudless day with a temperature in the high sixties, a slight breeze making the leaves on trees rustle just enough to sound like nature's letting out a long, peaceful sigh. He turns to look at Charles. "How are you gonna protect us, professor?"
"Still not a professor," Charles says. "And don't worry, I think best on my feet."
"Ha," Alex deadpans.
"I thought it was good," Charles says. "But my plan is simple, and not to be revealed at the moment." Particularly since it more or less comes down to 'shoot anyone who threatens the Summers boys and hope I don't die in the process', which Charles knows won't be very reassuring to an overprotective brother with reason to be protective.
When they finally find Scott, he's sitting on a bench with a book in hand, one that looks suspiciously similar to one of the Dickens novels Erik stole from Charles' apartment almost a year ago. He's one for mementos. It's jarring, seeing it in the hands of a nine-year-old wearing huge glasses.
"Why don't you go explain what's happening," Charles says, and Alex looks helpless for a moment, so Charles musters up a smile. "Tell him I'm going to keep you both safe, so long as you don't push me into a ditch."
"You don't have to do that, you know," Alex says.
"Do what?" Charles asks.
"The wheelchair stuff," Alex says, frowning as he waves a hand at Charles' legs. "The jokes. You don't have to try and make it seem easier to deal with than it is."
Charles nods, fully aware the smile on his face is fading. "Then tell him I'm going to keep you safe," he says.
"Sure thing, prof-"
"Not a professor," Charles says, and watches Alex walk to his brother, watches the wary but caring smile that lights up Scott's face. When Scott's face starts to fall, Charles turns away, back into the trees where he can wheel himself next to a bench and pretend he's just sitting for a moment on a brisk walk, enjoying the weather on a public park bench.
He feels like a fool when he takes his tie off and holds it loosely in an upraised hand, but. But if Erik is around - no, Charles knows he is, that was the book he stole, that was him who directed the Summers boys to the only member of the police he actually trusts. If he trusts Charles. If blackmail and bloodlines haven't ruined everything between them.
Really, there's no point in offering a bloody blindfold to the empty air; there wouldn't have been a point in it even if Erik was still around every other day and. God, this is ridiculous. Pathetic. It's been three months. Knowing he's in the city does nothing for Charles; even when they were together and as happy as a detective and serial killer in an extremely inadvisable relationship could be, he never found the apartment Erik had kept him in after the trap at the club.
But he's never been able to hear Erik coming, not unless he wanted Charles to hear him, and as hard as he tries he can't break himself of that pointless, useless optimism. So, like the love struck fool he is, he sits there watching his tie flick in the easy breeze, like some meaningless banner that calls for nothing.
The hand that carefully snatches it out of the air is strong and familiar, and it's habit that keeps him rigid, eyes forward. "I didn't think you'd want to see me," his killer says, quiet and still behind him.
Charles can see the flick of his tie in the wind out of the corner of his eye, but can't bring himself to turn. Old habits die hard, it seems. "I always want to see you," Charles says. "I don't know why there'd be any difference now."
Erik doesn't say anything for a long moment, and then arms wrap around him from behind, tight and careful. It takes only a moment for Charles to realize that Erik is kneeling. "I'm so sorry," he says, and he sounds like it's being ripped apart, like he's having to torture the words out of his own throat. "I tried, Charles, but-"
"You have nothing to apologize for, I should be thanking you," Charles says, and he can't do this, not without seeing him. He turns to look at Erik, and all he sees is the top of his ginger-brown head, forehead pressed to the back of the wheelchair. "You did try, Erik, and I'm." He swallows, and grips Erik's forearm with a cautious hand, his quickly-forming calluses brushing strangely against the once-familiar leather of his jacket. "You humble me, with how far you're willing to go even when you know I can't follow your lead. You're the most courageous man I've ever met."
"I thought you were dying," Erik says, words ragged. "You were up there dying and then Shaw walked down those stairs and." His grip tightens with one arm, but the other, the one Charles is holding on to, shifts until they're holding hands. It makes him swallow down something he refuses to think about, because for the life of him, Charles can't think of a single time it was Erik who meshed their fingers together in a perfect snarl of scars and smooth skin. "By the time I came back, I thought it was too late."
"Erik, look at me," Charles says, but Erik has never listened to him. Not when it's for his own good, at least. It's awkward and painful to twist himself around in between the pain in his spine and the grip Erik has on his chest, but he manages to get his free arm around and carefully, slowly tilt Erik's face up. He can't force Erik to open his eyes, though, so Charles takes a deep breath. He's used to taking what he can get. "I need you to understand something, and if you don't understand it, you are going to ask for clarification until you do, alright?"
Erik opens his eyes, and yes, that's the man he fell in love with, the man with tired, fond eyes. "I'm listening," he says, and there's a hint of humor, thank god. They're salvageable.
"You are always, always what I want to see," Charles says. "First thing when I wake up, last thing before I fall asleep, over lunch, after work, every time I look through a crowd of strangers, I look for you." He watches the words sink into Erik, sees the redness in his eyes and the way he slowly, slowly softens - one of the most fascinating, beautiful things Charles has ever seen. "And I make sure I always have a blindfold to offer you. I didn't even wear ties until-"
"Children," Erik says.
Charles stares at him, because the only logical conclusion he can reach is not one he thinks Erik would consider logical. "What?"
Erik's familiar amused smirk curls onto his face. "They're coming this way. I'll see you later."
"Why do you have to leave?" Charles asks. "They already know you, it's not like you'll scare them away." When Erik only frowns, obviously lacking a good reason, Charles says, "You don't have to stay. I just don't ever want you to leave."
And...that wasn't quite what he meant to say, but it seems to be the right thing, because Erik is smiling. And Charles means it.
"Could you cut down on the killing, though?" Charles adds.
Erik shrugs, and stands. He looks like a very pretty skyscraper. "I'm willing to negotiate," he says.
If Alex and Scott think there's anything strange about Charles kissing the top of Erik's hand, they're smart enough to not say anything about it.