Fic: “The Home-Stretch,” BtVS/Hary Potter, Xander Harris/Charlie Weasley, Xander Harris/Harry Potter
Why, it’s a Festivus for the rest of us! (Seriously, it’s become a tradition that I write and post fanfic on Xmas Day, godless heathen that I am. Why break it now, despite not having internet at home for the past seven weeks?) My gift to all my f-list and visitors to my journal.
If you haven’t read the previous bits, they’re listed in my memories. If you’ve missed just the last few bits, they’re the entries immediately prior to this one. Feel free to read and comment as you like. And above all, enjoy. Happy Festivus!
The Home-Stretch
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: BtVS/Harry Potter
Pairing: Xander Harris/Charlie Weasley, (Harry Potter/Xander Harris UST)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: Approx. 6400
Notes/Warnings: Canon compliant for both ‘verses. M-Preg. Set post-Chosen by about eleven years, and post DH/e by ten years (I fiddled with timelines a bit). Spoilers for BtVS “Chosen” and DH/e. Previous stories in the Impressions-verse can be found here.
Disclaimer: Maybe mine . . . but probably not.
Summary: Xander and Charlie are in the home-stretch . . . of course, that’s when the problems start.
“But, baby, I’m fine,” Xander whines between two jaw-cracking yawns, covering his mouth with one hand, the other doing its best to push him upright even as Charlie gently, but firmly pushes him back down to their bed.
“Yes, you certainly sound fine. Fourteen hours of sleep and you’re still yawning, love.” Charlie sighs worriedly. “I may not be a Medi-wizard, but that doesn’t equal fine in my brain.”
Xander yawns again, for a third, not unprecedented time, his eyes slipping shut for a few seconds before flying back open: spring grass-green and sable brown, both in seas of irritated, rubbed-raw red, with pinprick pupils.
“Charlie, really, I’m just a little sleepy, is all. One of the main perks of being pregnant. And yeah, maybe I overdid it a bit at work over the past couple weeks, but I promise you, two days of practically being confined to our bedroom-with no sexy-times, I might add-and I’m-”
“Fine?”
Now, Xander sighs, his weariness replaced by irritation. “Look, I said I’m fine and I meant it, Charlie, now will you back the fuck off and let me get ready for work?”
“I don’t think I will,” Charlie says quietly, and Xander’s mouth drops open. “I’m not speaking as your husband now, but as your supervisor: your due date is literally twelve days away, Mr. Weasley. Twelve days. You’re officially on paternity leave till at least three months after the baby is born.”
For a few moments, all Xander does is blink and splutter.
“You-you can’t just do that!”
“Actually, I can. And I just did,” Charlie says resolutely, and Xander splutters some more.
“You-you’re a-a despot and an asshole!”
Charlie snorts. “I’ve been called worse by my employees for doing less, I’m sure. Now,” he attempts to cup Xander’s face in his hand and Xander turns away, muttering as if! “Lay back down and I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”
“I don’t want you to bring me anything-fuck off.”
Then with more strength than Charlie would’ve expected, considering how winded and tired is from simply climbing the stairs, Xander shoves Charlie away from him. Charlie actually slides off their bed, landing on his arse, and by the time he’s got over his surprise enough to get up, Xander’s already out of bed on unsteady legs. His so-called “sweatpants” are, Charlie notices absently, all-over dusty and torn at the knees, as if Xander’s spent the night hiking and climbing trees or something, and his socks are in even worse condition.
That’s odd, he thinks. But then he’s on his feet and inserting himself quickly between Xander and the door, only to get the frostiest look he’s ever seen in those normally warm, merry eyes. But he doesn’t let that stop him. Not when it’s Xander and Jakob’s health he’s out to protect.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Charlie crosses his arms like the bloke doing guard-duty outside a trendy Muggle club, and Xander’s eyes narrow angrily, thawing from cold disbelief to hot anger. “Back into bed.”
“Get outta my way, Charlie.”
“No.”
“Charlie-”
“Either make me get out of the way, or get back into bed, Xander,” Charlie snaps, serving Xander’s glare right back at him, this time bracing himself for the show of desperate strength he gets when Xander shoves him again. Not away from the door, but against it. Hard. Then again. And a third time. Each time is a little less hard than the last. But Charlie’s expecting a fourth shove when Xander simply hits Charlie’s shoulders hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to rock Charlie back against the door again.
Xander’s glare, meanwhile, has been fading, turning to hastily blinked-back tears of frustration, confusion, then, finally, weary-very weary-resignation. At last, his hands slide down Charlie’s chest and away. He turns away, wrapping his arms about himself, his shoulders hunched.
“Love,” Charlie begins gently, his own annoyance fading as he reaches out, but doesn’t quite touch Xander at the last moment. As if sensing that, Xander flinches away and takes a few steps toward the window.
“Leave me alone, Charlie, just . . . leave me alone. Go to work, if you’re going. I’ll see you when you get home,” he says in a flat, emotionless voice, stepping carefully toward the heavy cherrywood rocking chair Charlie had gotten him for Christmas. The one Xander had been wanting and hinting about for nearly five months. The one that’d been received with no small thanks on Xander’s part . . . had that just been three weeks ago? Charlie wonders, not sure whether to approach Xander, who’s now sitting gingerly in the chair with a sigh. It’s turned to face the window, and Xander doesn’t change that angle, instead looking out the window, his face gone stoic and mask-like.
“Xand . . . I know you’re upset with me now-”
“I’m not upset, Charlie.” Same flat voice, soft and utterly lacking inflection. Rock-rock-rock, goes the chair, slightest creaking as it gently impacts the floorboards.
“This is for your own good . . . even Medi-wizard Braden wants you to get more rest. And you can’t do that if you’re spending ten hours a day talking to bloody dragons,” Charlie says-pleads, practically, crossing the room to kneel at Xander’s feet. “It’s wearing on you, physically and magically . . . I just want you to be healthy. You and our son.”
“I understand that, Charlie.”
And maybe Xander does. But he still won’t look at Charlie, who sighs, and lays his head on Xander’s bare, dusty knees. “But you’re still angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Then what are you?” Charlie demands, suddenly feeling as helpless as Xander had no doubt felt just a few minutes ago. All Charlie knows is that, despite the happiness of the days leading up to Christmas, and Christmas itself, the three weeks after, have increasingly seen Xander toss and turn while sleeping, and be manic or irritable, and apathetic at turns while awake. The former eventually leading Xander to cry himself to another fruitless sleep, the latter eventually leading Xander to the same.
Charlie looks into at Xander’s stone-face and reaches up to turn it toward his own. Xander doesn’t resist him. Merely gazes at him with those undreadable, absent eyes. As if he’s dismissed Charlie almost completely from the sphere of his attention.
“I’m fine,” Xander says, and smiles, just as absent as his gaze, before looking back out the window. “I’m fine. Have a good day.”
Charlie searches Xander’s face and sighs, nodding. “I’ll try. It won’t be the same without you.”
Silence.
Charlie cups Xander’s face in his own, turns it toward him and kisses Xander chastely, but with passion. The kiss is returned perfunctorily. But it is returned.
Then Charlie’s leaning down to kiss Xander’s t-shirt-covered stomach, as he does at least several times per day. He lingers and smiles when Jake starts kicking.
Our son, Charlie thinks, his hand coming up to follow the flurry of kicks. Our little man.
It’s the first time Charlie’s thought of Jake that way, and it reminds him of the promise he’d made to himself and to an unknowing Xander: that he’d broach the subject of Xander’s dreams . . . dreams that are telling him to find unicorns in the Forbidden Forest, for some reason, and with the help of none other than Fireneze, whom Xander shouldn’t even know exists. . . .
Charlie remembers this, looks up into Xander’s blank face, and sighs again.
Perhaps it can wait another few days, after all, he tells himself doubtfully, laying his head on Xander’s knee once more, worry and discontent tearing at the last of his Yuletide cheer. And his guilt; he's been putting off talking to Xander about the dreams for weeks. Or at least till we’ve seen Medi-wizard Braden again, which we’re doing before Wednesday, if I have to drag Xander kicking and scream-
Just then, Xander’s hand settles lightly on Charlie’s head and softly, almost tenderly, strokes his hair. Charlie closes his eyes on tears that want to escape, and his thoughts scatter, refusing to be marshaled until, with a final kiss to Xander’s forehead, he leaves their bedroom.
And by then, his mind is already on the refuge-the escape-that has always been work and his dragons.
*
When Charlie gets home late that evening, he expects to find Xander asleep, tossing and turning and muttering, as he has been for the past few nights. What he gets instead is a Xander waiting up for him in the livingroom, reading the Evening Prophet and wearing Charlie’s favorite robe on him-the sable and green one that matches his eyes.
And nothing else, if Xander’s shoeless, sockless state is anything to go by. One of Xander’s many wordless cues that so-called “sexy-times” are imminent.
“What’s all this?” Comes tumbling from Charlie’s lips before he can think to say otherwise.
Xander smiles wanly when Charlie steps out of the fireplace and puts the paper down, standing up and crossing the room to greet him with kisses that tease and tantalize.
“I missed you,” he breathes between kisses, his arms winding around Charlie’s neck. Charlie, surprised and a little wary, holds Xander tentatively about the waist.
“Mm . . . missed you, too,” he replies, and Xander’s kisses wend their teasing way to Charlie’s ear where they turn into sharp, but playful nips of Charlie’s ear lobe.
“Have you eaten?” Cool breath, heated tone, throw-away words.
But Charlie shivers. He had eaten. “Romanian take-away. Gav’s treat.”
Xander chuckles and nibbles on Charlie’s ear till Charlie’s breathing picks up. “Sounds ab-fab, hon. That means you’re more than ready for dessert. . . .”
And despite the emphasis on dessert, Charlie’s still wary after this morning, and leans back to look his husband in the eyes. Xander’s face is tired, but sincere in its sultriness. That stoic, mask-like quality is gone.
Charlie reaches up and brushes Xander’s cheek with his fingertips, still somewhat surprised when Xander leans happily into his touch. Dark-light eyes meet Charlie’s own, brimming with love and longing and happiness.
“C’mon, babe, let’s go soundproof our bedroom, then give that spell a run for its money,” he says, waggling his eyebrows in a fairly ridiculous way that always makes Charlie smile. This time is no different.
Pulling Xander close and kissing him hard, Charlie moans when Xander’s hands each find tasks: one cupping his face tenderly, the other unzipping his fly and cupping his bollocks rather less so.
“Oh, Xand,” Charlie breathes, and Xander leans in to nuzzle his neck. “Merlin, but I’ve missed you, too!”
“I know.” Those hands tremor minutely, and Xander’s looking into his eyes once more, as somber as his own have ever been. “We’ve barely even kissed over the past few weeks-I’m sorry, I-”
“That’s not what I meant by missing you, Xander . . . or at least not the only thing.”
“I know, I know,” Xander sighs as Charlie takes his lips in another kiss. “I’m so sorry, baby. So sorry. It’s just-I’m so tired. And all the time. . . .”
“I know, love, I know. It’s alright. I’m here for you no matter what.”
Xander’s breath hitches on what’s almost but not quite a sob. “Sometimes I’m so tired I can barely think, barely . . . feel anything. And sometimes I’m just angry that I don’t have the energy I used to have. Not even remotely.” Tears leak out of Xander’s closed eyes and he opens them, looking up into Charlie’s. “I feel like I’m on the verge of collapsing all the time, and I’m always about two seconds away from simply stopping in the middle of whatever I’m doing-just stopping, sitting down on the floor, and crying till I pass out.
“Charlie . . . I’m so tired.” Shaking now, Xander lays his forehead on Charlie’s shoulder with a mirthless laugh. “I’m afraid one of these days I’ll just . . . fall asleep, never to wake up again.”
“Xand-”
“Is that even possible?” Xander leans back, his panicked eyes meeting Charlie’s. “Please tell me that’s not possible. Even if it is, please, lie to me.”
Searching Xander’s eyes, Charlie dredges up a smile and makes a mental note to fire-call Medi-wizard Braden first thing in the morning. “Even if it is, it won’t happen to you. We’re going to see the Medi-wizard tomorrow and he’s going to figure out why you’re feeling so poorly, and fix you up in a trice,” he promises, and that, too, may be a lie. A different one than the one he’d been trying to avoid, but one that’ll actually let him look at himself in the mirror in the morning.
And even if it doesn’t, Xander’s smile, that bright gorgeous smile, is so worth it.
“You’re the best husband I’ve ever had,” Xander says, pecking Charlie’s lips. “Way better than all those others.”
“Well, I try my best,” Charlie responds, scooping Xander up in his arms and carrying him toward the stairs. Xander hangs on tight, giggling a little, almost desperately.
“God, am I glad you’re such a Rhett Butler-type. I dunno how I was gonna make it up these stairs, otherwise . . . I dunno how I even got down them, but going back up. . . ?”
“It’s alright, love. We’ll put you to bed, and you can catch up on rest,” Charlie murmurs, kissing Xander’s crown. When he gets to their bedroom door he nudges it open and carries Xander in.
“Illuminatus,” he says softly, and the two lamps in the room light with a gentle yellow glow. On their bed, Jason snores lightly, twitching in a way that means he’s about to wake up. Charlie smiles a little. “Oi, bark-machine! Am-scray!” And Jason wakes, barks once, and hops off the bed. Tail wagging, he darts out the door and likely to the top of the stairs, where he sits guard every night.
“I’m totally rubbing off on you,” Xander says, giggling again as Charlie kicks their door shut. “Or I could be. Just say the word.”
Laying Xander on their bed, Charlie sits next to him just in time for a kiss that carries on far longer than Charlie means it to. “Xander . . . I know you’re tired-bloody exhausted-”
“Not too exhausted for this,” Xander whispers, his hand snaking its way back into Charlie’s jeans. “Been needing this for weeks.”
“Merlin help me, but so have I,” Charlie admits, letting Xander pull him down on top of him. He braces himself on his arms and straddles Xander’s legs. They kiss for long minutes, and during and in between kisses, remove Charlie’s clothing and unbutton Xander’s robe (he is wearing it the old-fashioned way . . . nothing underneath), till they’re finally skin to skin. Xander runs his hands up Charlie’s chest, tugging peremptorily on chest hair till Charlie gets the picture and settles more fully-though not completely-on top of him. They look into each other’s eyes, smiling, and finally Charlie leans down to press a lingering kiss on Xander’s already kiss-swollen mouth.
“You’re so beautiful, so wonderful. And I love you more than I’ll ever be able to properly express,” he murmurs, and Xander takes them both in the same hand, gasping, as Charlie does, at the doubled contact. His eyes widen, lashes fluttering.
“And you’re . . . more and better than I’ll ever deserve. But I’ll never stop trying to be worthy,” he breathes, arching up against Charlie, his hard prick sliding damply in his grip and against Charlie’s. Then he’s groaning, long and loud, when Charlie’s larger hand closes around his own, squeezing and adding his strength to Xander’s.
Then they’re kissing once more, slow and long, till Xander gasps and stiffens, coming hard on his stomach and Charlie’s. Tears once more leak out from behind his closed eyelids, but for a different reason. Charlie kisses them away even as Xander’s breathing-panting-evens out a little, and his hand starts moving on their pricks again, tight and no-nonsense, till Charlie, biting out an oh, fuck! comes, too, the world becoming a negative of itself before briefly blotting out altogether.
“Love, love, love,” he hisses as he comes back to reality, to Xander’s thumb smearing come across the tip of his prick and still, alternately, stroking him off. Urging Charlie on with delightfully filthy words of encouragement.
Can’t come again, love . . . it’s been such a long day and we’re both tired, Charlie means to say, but then Xander’s shamelessly working his still half-hard prick, finding that one spot below the head that sends Charlie’s already compromised brain to what Xander calls The Place of Completely-Not-Working. His face is sexily smug as he stares up into Charlie’s eyes.
“I dunno about you, babe, but I’m literally counting down the minutes till you can fuck me again. ‘Til I can feel you pushing this monster into me. And after two months of not being fucked, I’m gonna be so tight around you again-you’re gonna have to break me open with this.” Extra-slow stroke, but extra-tight, too. “Wide. Open.” Xander does some hissing himself, though not in Parseltongue. “Gonna feel so good.” His hand tightens almost, but not quite, to the point of being no longer pleasurable. To the point that Charlie’s mind tricks him into believing, if only for a few moments, that he’s actually inside Xander’s tight, twitchy-fluttery heat, driving relentlessly inward to touch the core of him.
And those few moments are all it takes for Charlie grit out Xander’s name before groaning and spilling over Xander’s slippery, possessive grip, the pleasure bordering pain for a short eternity, before letting him go from its iron-clad grasp.
Then he’s collapsing, with just enough presence of mind to not do so on his pregnant husband. Still panting, he rolls onto his back, pulling a very willing Xander into his arms. For a while, they simply lay there, breathing and basking, then kissing and touching whatever parts of each other they can easily reach.
“That will never cease to be my favorite superpower,” Xander finally muses, sleepily petting Charlie’s sticky, damp stomach. Charlie knows one or the other of them should Scourgify them, but he can’t be arsed to move just yet. As Xander would say, the afterglow is far too epic for that.
“Mm . . . and what superpower is that, love?”
“The power to, even at thirty-one weeks pregnant, make my husband come twice in a row.” Xander sighs and kisses Charlie’s jaw. “Best superpower ever.”
“Won’t catch me disagreein’,” Charlie chuckles, squeezing Xander close. “I love you.”
“And I love you.” Xander starts giggling again when Charlie pulls his hand up to his face to kiss it then lick it clean, one finger at a time.
*
Charlie finishes his fire-call to Charlene Malcolm and the last of his morning coffee, and jogs upstairs to wake Xander.
It’s nearly ten in the morning, and they have an appointment with Medi-wizard Braden in two hours and fifteen minutes. It takes less than five minutes, all told, to get to Braden’s office and fill out the requisite paperwork. But it’ll take at least an hour get Xander properly awake. Maybe longer. Even after twelve-plus hours of sleep and a full day of sleeping before that.
One of the reasons Charlie’d been so keen to make an appointment with Braden as soon as possible, rather than wait for their next scheduled one. And after telling Braden how much worse Xander’s tiredness had gotten since they last had an appointment, the Medi-wizard had insisted they come in as soon as possible.
But despite that-despite everything-for the first time in days, Charlie feels optimistic. Not only had Xander not argued with Charlie last night, when Charlie’d insisted on making the appointment first thing, but Xander had actually seemed to think it a good idea.
“You take such good care of me,” he’d murmured, kissing Charlie tenderly, and Charlie, so prepared for a fight, had been totally disarmed, completely floored. He’d held Xander close and kissed him back hard, yearningly, desperately.
“I’ll always take care of you, Xand. Because I’ll always love you,” he’d promised fervently, and kissed him again. Kissed him until Xander was obviously falling asleep in his arms. . . .
Now, Charlie sits on their bed and leans over to kiss the back of Xander’s head with a resounding smack. “Love, wake up. It’s time for breakfast, and almost time to go see Medi-wizard Braden.”
Normally, Xander’s response would be either a grumble or a whine, or both. But this morning, however, Charlie got no response, whatsoever.
Rolling his eyes fondly, he fully acknowledges to himself that this morning might see Xander taking even longer to wake up, after their . . . bit of fun the previous night.
“C’mon, love, up and at ‘em. Mum’s promised she’d make your favorite breakfast and there’re a few chocolate chocolate chip biscuits leftover from last night with your name on them. And maybe there’ll be time for a little canoodling, if you’re up for it . . . and if we don’t dither over breakfast. . . .” Charlie rolls Xander over onto his back, one hand settling on Xander’s stomach, as usual, expecting a flurry of tiny kicks, also as usual.
Jake, however, is not kicking, and that, after three months of him kicking Xander awake every morning, is . . . instantly worrying.
But not as worrying, however, as the fact that, unless Charlie’s imagining things, Xander’s pale, naked body-especially the parts of it that should be rising and falling with his breath-is as still and limp as a deflated balloon.
*
“Mr. Weasley?”
Charlie looks up from his contemplation of the white linoleum floor of the emergency room at St. Mungo’s, into a sympathetically smiling nurse’s eyes. His own eyes feel gritty and dry. “Yes,” he croaks out, standing up. Mum stands with him, holding his arm as if to lend him strength. But Charlie feels neither less nor more strong than usual. In fact, he doesn’t feel much of anything at all. As if he’s in some sort of odd stasis.
“How are they?” Mum asks, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. The nurse’s smile grows, if anything, even more sympathetic.
“You and Mr. Weasley can see Mr. Weasley, now. Medi-wizard Braden is performing a few final stabilizing spells, but he’ll be able to tell you more about his condition than I can. If you’ll follow me this way.”
With a tug on Charlie’s arm, Mum follows the nurse, tugging her second eldest son like a barge gone adrift.
*
Xander looks pale, small, and unwell, surrounded by so much clinical white, covers pulled up under his arms.
He looks lovely . . . so fragile . . . but so lovely.
And from the moment he steps into Xander’s room-private-Charlie has eyes for nothing and no one else but his unconscious husband. Xander’s breathing is so slow and light that, just like this morning, Charlie can’t even tell that he is breathing, for sure. He immediately appropriates the chair next to the bed and takes Xander’s cool hand, kissing it and pressing it to his cheek. The pulse at Xander’s wrist is glacially slow . . . but there.
“Love,” Charlie whispers as that protective stasis cracks, and a thousand emotions-worry, anger, and fear the chiefest among them-well out of him, and threaten to overwhelm him completely. “Oh, love.”
Mum’s hand settles on his shoulder. “He’ll be alright . . . won’t he, Medi-wizard Braden? And the baby, too?
Braden, a portly man with a manner that normally puts Charlie in mind of Albus Dumbledore at his most twinkly, is far too solemn and hesitant for an answer that is either simple or good. Something that is borne out by his first words since they’d entered the room.
“Mrs. Weasley . . . that depends. . . .” he begins, shaking his head, and Charlie finds himself speaking.
“On what? Tell me, and I’ll do it-I’ll do anything for them,” he says, squeezing Xander’s hand. He gets no response, as he hasn’t since this morning. “Please . . . tell me what to do so he’ll wake up.”
Braden sighs, his light brown eyes never leaving Charlie’s. “I’m afraid that’d be a dangerous state for your husband and son right now, Charlie. At this point, there’s nothing to be done but keep Xander stable, and his condition from deteriorating-”
“What is his condition?” Mum asks, and Braden’s head tilts at a considering angle.
“In laymen’s terms, Mrs. Weasley, your son-in-law is in a coma, one that was occasioned by the demands on his energy of the pregnancy.” Braden’s bushy brows draw together. “You see . . . when a wizard becomes pregnant, from the moment of conception, the pregnancy draws on that wizard’s physical and mystical strength to keep the child healthy, or even just alive, in some cases. In those latter cases, unforunately . . . the wizard rarely carries the child fully to term. And the child, is rarely born alive or healthy. But Xander’s . . . been exceptionally strong and healthy throughout his pregnancy. His reserves of physical and mystical energy have been more than enough to keep him and Jake going along without any unmanageable problems. Until now.” His eyes dart between Charlie and Mum before settling on Charlie. “Both child and father have, of necessity, been rendered so deeply unconscious that the loss of energy has been halted to almost none at all. Their vitals are almost nonexistent-even brain and heart activity. And that’s a good thing, please, believe me,” Braden goes on, holding up his hands. “The coma means that Xander’s system is still strong enough to do what it needs to do. And right now, it needs to rest, and to conserve all its energy, so that that energy can go toward keeping them both healthy and alive until Jakob is ready to be born.”
Charlie’s shaking his head. It’s difficult to think beyond his own cyclone of emotions and dearth of coherent thought. But one thing struggles through the morass to come tripping off his sluggish tongue. “So you’re saying this . . . coma . . . is safe? Good, even?”
Braden nods. “And it’s certainly better than the alternative, Charlie.” He pauses to let that sink in then continues. “We are, of course, able to wake Xander from this coma, but I wouldn’t recommend that until after the birth.”
“But that’s . . . still another two weeks away!” Charlie exclaims angrily, half-standing, but still holding Xander’s hand. “We can’t leave them in a coma for a whole fortnight!”
“If we want them both to survive, we will, in fact, do exactly that,” Braden says so sternly, Charlie blinks and sits back down. “Your husband is, right now, at his most vulnerable. Even bed-rest wouldn’t be enough to keep him and Jake healthy. They need this coma, and his body knows that. Now, I’ve performed several monitoring spells, as well as stabilizing spells that will keep his body calm and insulated from any outside influences-”
“You mean he doesn’t even know that I’m-that we, his family, are here with him?” Charlie asks, somewhat horrified at the idea of Xander being trapped in his own mind, all alone.
But then, he’s not all alone, is he? He has Jake . . . or at least the Jake who appears in his dreams. . . .
“He’s likely not even aware that he isn’t awake.” Braden frowns. “Unfortunately, we haven’t documented what goes on during this particular sort of coma, as regards the patient’s dream-state . . . or lack thereof.”
“Oh, Merlin . . . what if he’s having nightmares in there?” Charlie moans, kissing Xander’s lax hand and closing his eyes on tears that fall, anyway as he imagines his love, his Xander trapped in nightmares for two weeks.
But it’s better than Xander dying, isn’t it? Better than losing him forever.
Mum asks Braden a question which he answers heavily and at length, but Charlie’s tuned out. He brushes Xander’s hair back away from his face and cups Xander’s cool cheek. “I love you. And I’ll always take care of you,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss still, grey lips. “Whatever it takes to keep you and Jake alive . . . I’ll do it. I love you.”
Xander doesn’t respond. Doesn’t so much as take a deeper breath. And won’t for another two weeks, at least.
Charlie hangs his head and holds his breath for the next two days.
*
“Charlie. . . ?”
Charlie hasn’t so much as said hello to anyone or noticed anything that isn’t Xander since Braden had left Xander’s hospital room.
The Medi-wizard had been back twice since, as part of his daily rounds of the maternity ward, and had spoken at Charlie each time about how stable and well Xander and Jake were. And each time, he’d eventually left with a sigh when Charlie didn’t respond.
Other voices and presences had come and gone, some staying longer than others, some speaking to Charlie, some offering silent support. Some few talking at Xander’s sleeping form-Lily had been one of those, chattering on about how the dragons had been in Xander’s absence, till she’d started to cry, and her words became the hisses and sighs of Parseltongue-others taking the hand Charlie hadn’t appropriated.
None of them had really captured Charlie’s attention, beyond the most peripheral.
But this one . . . this one. . . .
“Harry?” Charlie looks up at the person seated at Xander’s other side, holding his other hand. It is, indeed, Harry Potter, looking much the worse for wear. He’s got what Xander called crazy homeless-guy stubble, and his eyes are an irritated red around the green . . . like Christmas past.
But he smiles when Charlie acknowledges him. “Hullo,” he says quietly, as if not wanting to disturb Xander. Charlie snorts a little.
If only Xander could be so disturbed.
But no . . . better that he sleep, to keep himself and Jake healthy. Charlie understands that. But he also understands something else:
Whatever prompted this coma isn’t, as Medi-wizard Braden seems to think, natural. It is, in fact, very unnatural. Why, all of a sudden, this drain on Xander’s energy? Out of nowhere? Xander’s energy, which has been heretofore nearly boundless? Yes, he tires more easily these days, but that energy is always replenished. Never has it drained away, and stayed drained.
It’s as if something is playing Keep-Away with that energy. . . .
No, it is a most unnatural coma, and Charlie, despite the despair encroaching on the last of his reason, has been attempting to put some puzzle pieces together. And the picture he sees is one he doesn’t like at all, but it’s far too obvious to be ignored or dismissed.
As he has been doing for weeks, and at his husband’s and child’s peril.
But no more.
“-anything I can do . . . anything at all,” Harry’s saying in a choked voice, staring at Xander’s face and chafing his hand as if it’s the most fragile, delicate bird ever to light on his palm. In that moment, Harry’s heart in his eyes, Charlie understands something else he hadn’t before-either because he hadn’t noticed or hadn’t wanted to notice.
“You love him.” It’s less an accusation and more of a statement. And Harry looks over at Charlie, his face miserable, but his eyes still dry.
“Of course, I do-we’re family, and family-”
“You know what I mean, Harry Potter.” Charlie sighs, shaking his head. “I’m not angry or anything. I understand why you feel the way you do. Honestly, I can’t imagine anyone who knows him not being madly in love with him.”
“I promise, Charlie, I’m not at all pursuing any sort of action on whatever feelings I . . . may be experiencing,” Harry says lowly, earnestly, his green eyes steady on Charlie’s, tears falling now, unheeded and unchecked. “I would never, ever betray you, or myself by attempting to-”
“I know, Harry, I know. Steady-on.” Charlie smiles a little. “I trust you completely. And more importantly, I trust Xander. “ He sighs again. “And I never did thank you for all the ways you’ve been a friend to us-all the little and not so little things you’ve done to ease our life together-”
Harry snorts, now, waving his hand. “If you mean the Romania-thing. . . .”
“That, yes,” Charlie agrees. “And all the ways you’ve greased the Ministry wheels to allow Xander and me to have as normal a life as possible. The way you’re still no doubt greasing those wheels. And even for the seemingly small things, like hiding a rocking chair at Grimmauld Place, or letting a rusty old Seeker catch a snitch on Christmas Eve to impress his love.”
Blushing, Harry looks away. “Charlie-”
“But you love him, too. And for some reason, rather than make me as blind-jealous as it should-after all, what wizard in his right mind would knowingly choose an aging dragon-wrangler over the Harry Potter-”
“Xander would.” Harry’s eyes tick to Charlie’s again. “Every minute of every day. And he has been for the better part of a year. And always will.”
“-it makes me feel less alone. You love him, too, Harry Potter, and that means I can trust you to do what’s best for him. To help me save him, no matter what.” Charlie pauses and looks down at Xander, steeling himself for voicing the toughest thing he’s ever had to say. “I know that they’re dying, Harry. No, listen,” he says, when Harry would interrupt with staunch protests and reassurances. “Braden may not think so-may think he’s got them stabilized and safe. But they’re not. I know there’s something more to this than Xander not having enough energy to function anymore.”
When Charlie looks up at Harry again, Harry’s frowning down at Xander, no attempt to hide the quiet, but fierce feeling in his eyes. In his heart. “And what do you think this more is?”
Charlie squeezes his husband’s hand and, moved by some emotion he can neither name nor ignore, reaches across Xander for Harry’s hand. After a slight hesitation, Harry takes his hand. Squeezes it tight enough that the bones in Charlie’s hand creak just a bit.
Harry’s eyes are intent, determined and Charlie draws strength from a love for his husband that just might rival his own.
“I think they’ve been Cursed,” he says simply. And rather than scoff or dismiss Charlie’s simple statement of fact-and it is a fact, Charlie simply wants evidence to prove it . . . evidence that only Harry Potter could possibly help him find-Harry’s grim face grows, if possible, even more grim.
“By whom?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters,” Harry says calmly, something dangerous and deadly flashing in those dark lord-slayer eyes. Charlie shudders and looks away.
“I don’t know who or what did the Cursing. But . . . Xander’s been having dreams. . . .” he shakes his head again. “Dreams I’ve been putting off doing anything about-and this is the result.” Swallowing, he blinks back tears. “He talks in his sleep. A lot. Always the same things. About the Forbidden Forest and unicorns. And for the longest time I told myself that it meant nothing-that it didn’t mean what it meant. But it does. No one, even someone largely ignorant of the threats of the Forest, would be willing to go there to seek out unicorns unless they were dying. Or so fatally Cursed as to make no difference.”
Harry’s glance slides to Xander again, curious and considering. “And the benediction of a unicorn-or the blood-can cure anything. Even death. Though the cost is great no matter which, benediction or blood, one is after-”
“I know.” Charlie says softly, sighing. “Which tells me that whatever this Curse is, it’s . . . bad. Even if Xander’s dreams are telling him to get just a benediction . . . it won’t come cheap. The price may be more than we can pay, in which case. . . .”
“In which case, that’s what you have me for,” Harry finishes softly, reaching out to touch Xander’s cheek. But he hesitates at the last second and glances at Charlie, who nods once.
When Harry’s fingers brush Xander’s cheek, Harry shivers, and quickly pulls his hand away. He stands up briskly, wavering a little, as if dizzy then striding around the bed to put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, which he squeezes.
“With the Forbidden Forest now in our sights, the next thing to do is speak to Firenze. If nothing else, as a powerful Divinator, he may be able to tell us more about this Curse. And if we’re lucky, he may also be willing to lead us into the Forest. To the unicorns. After that, only Merlin could say. Or possibly Albus Dumbledore,” he says, all business, now, though the mantle of Harry Potter is quite brittle, and maybe has been for a long time. As brittle as the smile that accompanies the mention of Dumbledore. “I’ll go to Hogwarts straight away.”
Charlie nods again, meeting Harry’s eyes, holding their intense gaze, and searching it briefly. “Thank you, Harry.” He covers Harry’s hand with his own for a few moments. “For believing me. For helping them. For everything.”
Harry quirks his hard, wry grin when Charlie lets go of his hand.
“What else are brothers for?”
Then he’s gone.
Charlie heaves a sigh of relief and turns back to Xander, brushing the same spot Harry had, just on the opposite cheek.
“You see, love? It’ll be alright. You’ve got two men here who believe you. Who love you. Who’ll do everything in their power to save you and Jake.” Charlie pulls Xander’s hand to his cheek once more and resumes his vigil, his other hand letting go of Xander’s to come rest on his ominously still stomach. “Just hold on. Both of you. Please.”
If you haven’t read the previous bits, they’re listed in my memories. If you’ve missed just the last few bits, they’re the entries immediately prior to this one. Feel free to read and comment as you like. And above all, enjoy. Happy Festivus!
The Home-Stretch
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: BtVS/Harry Potter
Pairing: Xander Harris/Charlie Weasley, (Harry Potter/Xander Harris UST)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: Approx. 6400
Notes/Warnings: Canon compliant for both ‘verses. M-Preg. Set post-Chosen by about eleven years, and post DH/e by ten years (I fiddled with timelines a bit). Spoilers for BtVS “Chosen” and DH/e. Previous stories in the Impressions-verse can be found here.
Disclaimer: Maybe mine . . . but probably not.
Summary: Xander and Charlie are in the home-stretch . . . of course, that’s when the problems start.
“But, baby, I’m fine,” Xander whines between two jaw-cracking yawns, covering his mouth with one hand, the other doing its best to push him upright even as Charlie gently, but firmly pushes him back down to their bed.
“Yes, you certainly sound fine. Fourteen hours of sleep and you’re still yawning, love.” Charlie sighs worriedly. “I may not be a Medi-wizard, but that doesn’t equal fine in my brain.”
Xander yawns again, for a third, not unprecedented time, his eyes slipping shut for a few seconds before flying back open: spring grass-green and sable brown, both in seas of irritated, rubbed-raw red, with pinprick pupils.
“Charlie, really, I’m just a little sleepy, is all. One of the main perks of being pregnant. And yeah, maybe I overdid it a bit at work over the past couple weeks, but I promise you, two days of practically being confined to our bedroom-with no sexy-times, I might add-and I’m-”
“Fine?”
Now, Xander sighs, his weariness replaced by irritation. “Look, I said I’m fine and I meant it, Charlie, now will you back the fuck off and let me get ready for work?”
“I don’t think I will,” Charlie says quietly, and Xander’s mouth drops open. “I’m not speaking as your husband now, but as your supervisor: your due date is literally twelve days away, Mr. Weasley. Twelve days. You’re officially on paternity leave till at least three months after the baby is born.”
For a few moments, all Xander does is blink and splutter.
“You-you can’t just do that!”
“Actually, I can. And I just did,” Charlie says resolutely, and Xander splutters some more.
“You-you’re a-a despot and an asshole!”
Charlie snorts. “I’ve been called worse by my employees for doing less, I’m sure. Now,” he attempts to cup Xander’s face in his hand and Xander turns away, muttering as if! “Lay back down and I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”
“I don’t want you to bring me anything-fuck off.”
Then with more strength than Charlie would’ve expected, considering how winded and tired is from simply climbing the stairs, Xander shoves Charlie away from him. Charlie actually slides off their bed, landing on his arse, and by the time he’s got over his surprise enough to get up, Xander’s already out of bed on unsteady legs. His so-called “sweatpants” are, Charlie notices absently, all-over dusty and torn at the knees, as if Xander’s spent the night hiking and climbing trees or something, and his socks are in even worse condition.
That’s odd, he thinks. But then he’s on his feet and inserting himself quickly between Xander and the door, only to get the frostiest look he’s ever seen in those normally warm, merry eyes. But he doesn’t let that stop him. Not when it’s Xander and Jakob’s health he’s out to protect.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Charlie crosses his arms like the bloke doing guard-duty outside a trendy Muggle club, and Xander’s eyes narrow angrily, thawing from cold disbelief to hot anger. “Back into bed.”
“Get outta my way, Charlie.”
“No.”
“Charlie-”
“Either make me get out of the way, or get back into bed, Xander,” Charlie snaps, serving Xander’s glare right back at him, this time bracing himself for the show of desperate strength he gets when Xander shoves him again. Not away from the door, but against it. Hard. Then again. And a third time. Each time is a little less hard than the last. But Charlie’s expecting a fourth shove when Xander simply hits Charlie’s shoulders hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to rock Charlie back against the door again.
Xander’s glare, meanwhile, has been fading, turning to hastily blinked-back tears of frustration, confusion, then, finally, weary-very weary-resignation. At last, his hands slide down Charlie’s chest and away. He turns away, wrapping his arms about himself, his shoulders hunched.
“Love,” Charlie begins gently, his own annoyance fading as he reaches out, but doesn’t quite touch Xander at the last moment. As if sensing that, Xander flinches away and takes a few steps toward the window.
“Leave me alone, Charlie, just . . . leave me alone. Go to work, if you’re going. I’ll see you when you get home,” he says in a flat, emotionless voice, stepping carefully toward the heavy cherrywood rocking chair Charlie had gotten him for Christmas. The one Xander had been wanting and hinting about for nearly five months. The one that’d been received with no small thanks on Xander’s part . . . had that just been three weeks ago? Charlie wonders, not sure whether to approach Xander, who’s now sitting gingerly in the chair with a sigh. It’s turned to face the window, and Xander doesn’t change that angle, instead looking out the window, his face gone stoic and mask-like.
“Xand . . . I know you’re upset with me now-”
“I’m not upset, Charlie.” Same flat voice, soft and utterly lacking inflection. Rock-rock-rock, goes the chair, slightest creaking as it gently impacts the floorboards.
“This is for your own good . . . even Medi-wizard Braden wants you to get more rest. And you can’t do that if you’re spending ten hours a day talking to bloody dragons,” Charlie says-pleads, practically, crossing the room to kneel at Xander’s feet. “It’s wearing on you, physically and magically . . . I just want you to be healthy. You and our son.”
“I understand that, Charlie.”
And maybe Xander does. But he still won’t look at Charlie, who sighs, and lays his head on Xander’s bare, dusty knees. “But you’re still angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“Then what are you?” Charlie demands, suddenly feeling as helpless as Xander had no doubt felt just a few minutes ago. All Charlie knows is that, despite the happiness of the days leading up to Christmas, and Christmas itself, the three weeks after, have increasingly seen Xander toss and turn while sleeping, and be manic or irritable, and apathetic at turns while awake. The former eventually leading Xander to cry himself to another fruitless sleep, the latter eventually leading Xander to the same.
Charlie looks into at Xander’s stone-face and reaches up to turn it toward his own. Xander doesn’t resist him. Merely gazes at him with those undreadable, absent eyes. As if he’s dismissed Charlie almost completely from the sphere of his attention.
“I’m fine,” Xander says, and smiles, just as absent as his gaze, before looking back out the window. “I’m fine. Have a good day.”
Charlie searches Xander’s face and sighs, nodding. “I’ll try. It won’t be the same without you.”
Silence.
Charlie cups Xander’s face in his own, turns it toward him and kisses Xander chastely, but with passion. The kiss is returned perfunctorily. But it is returned.
Then Charlie’s leaning down to kiss Xander’s t-shirt-covered stomach, as he does at least several times per day. He lingers and smiles when Jake starts kicking.
Our son, Charlie thinks, his hand coming up to follow the flurry of kicks. Our little man.
It’s the first time Charlie’s thought of Jake that way, and it reminds him of the promise he’d made to himself and to an unknowing Xander: that he’d broach the subject of Xander’s dreams . . . dreams that are telling him to find unicorns in the Forbidden Forest, for some reason, and with the help of none other than Fireneze, whom Xander shouldn’t even know exists. . . .
Charlie remembers this, looks up into Xander’s blank face, and sighs again.
Perhaps it can wait another few days, after all, he tells himself doubtfully, laying his head on Xander’s knee once more, worry and discontent tearing at the last of his Yuletide cheer. And his guilt; he's been putting off talking to Xander about the dreams for weeks. Or at least till we’ve seen Medi-wizard Braden again, which we’re doing before Wednesday, if I have to drag Xander kicking and scream-
Just then, Xander’s hand settles lightly on Charlie’s head and softly, almost tenderly, strokes his hair. Charlie closes his eyes on tears that want to escape, and his thoughts scatter, refusing to be marshaled until, with a final kiss to Xander’s forehead, he leaves their bedroom.
And by then, his mind is already on the refuge-the escape-that has always been work and his dragons.
*
When Charlie gets home late that evening, he expects to find Xander asleep, tossing and turning and muttering, as he has been for the past few nights. What he gets instead is a Xander waiting up for him in the livingroom, reading the Evening Prophet and wearing Charlie’s favorite robe on him-the sable and green one that matches his eyes.
And nothing else, if Xander’s shoeless, sockless state is anything to go by. One of Xander’s many wordless cues that so-called “sexy-times” are imminent.
“What’s all this?” Comes tumbling from Charlie’s lips before he can think to say otherwise.
Xander smiles wanly when Charlie steps out of the fireplace and puts the paper down, standing up and crossing the room to greet him with kisses that tease and tantalize.
“I missed you,” he breathes between kisses, his arms winding around Charlie’s neck. Charlie, surprised and a little wary, holds Xander tentatively about the waist.
“Mm . . . missed you, too,” he replies, and Xander’s kisses wend their teasing way to Charlie’s ear where they turn into sharp, but playful nips of Charlie’s ear lobe.
“Have you eaten?” Cool breath, heated tone, throw-away words.
But Charlie shivers. He had eaten. “Romanian take-away. Gav’s treat.”
Xander chuckles and nibbles on Charlie’s ear till Charlie’s breathing picks up. “Sounds ab-fab, hon. That means you’re more than ready for dessert. . . .”
And despite the emphasis on dessert, Charlie’s still wary after this morning, and leans back to look his husband in the eyes. Xander’s face is tired, but sincere in its sultriness. That stoic, mask-like quality is gone.
Charlie reaches up and brushes Xander’s cheek with his fingertips, still somewhat surprised when Xander leans happily into his touch. Dark-light eyes meet Charlie’s own, brimming with love and longing and happiness.
“C’mon, babe, let’s go soundproof our bedroom, then give that spell a run for its money,” he says, waggling his eyebrows in a fairly ridiculous way that always makes Charlie smile. This time is no different.
Pulling Xander close and kissing him hard, Charlie moans when Xander’s hands each find tasks: one cupping his face tenderly, the other unzipping his fly and cupping his bollocks rather less so.
“Oh, Xand,” Charlie breathes, and Xander leans in to nuzzle his neck. “Merlin, but I’ve missed you, too!”
“I know.” Those hands tremor minutely, and Xander’s looking into his eyes once more, as somber as his own have ever been. “We’ve barely even kissed over the past few weeks-I’m sorry, I-”
“That’s not what I meant by missing you, Xander . . . or at least not the only thing.”
“I know, I know,” Xander sighs as Charlie takes his lips in another kiss. “I’m so sorry, baby. So sorry. It’s just-I’m so tired. And all the time. . . .”
“I know, love, I know. It’s alright. I’m here for you no matter what.”
Xander’s breath hitches on what’s almost but not quite a sob. “Sometimes I’m so tired I can barely think, barely . . . feel anything. And sometimes I’m just angry that I don’t have the energy I used to have. Not even remotely.” Tears leak out of Xander’s closed eyes and he opens them, looking up into Charlie’s. “I feel like I’m on the verge of collapsing all the time, and I’m always about two seconds away from simply stopping in the middle of whatever I’m doing-just stopping, sitting down on the floor, and crying till I pass out.
“Charlie . . . I’m so tired.” Shaking now, Xander lays his forehead on Charlie’s shoulder with a mirthless laugh. “I’m afraid one of these days I’ll just . . . fall asleep, never to wake up again.”
“Xand-”
“Is that even possible?” Xander leans back, his panicked eyes meeting Charlie’s. “Please tell me that’s not possible. Even if it is, please, lie to me.”
Searching Xander’s eyes, Charlie dredges up a smile and makes a mental note to fire-call Medi-wizard Braden first thing in the morning. “Even if it is, it won’t happen to you. We’re going to see the Medi-wizard tomorrow and he’s going to figure out why you’re feeling so poorly, and fix you up in a trice,” he promises, and that, too, may be a lie. A different one than the one he’d been trying to avoid, but one that’ll actually let him look at himself in the mirror in the morning.
And even if it doesn’t, Xander’s smile, that bright gorgeous smile, is so worth it.
“You’re the best husband I’ve ever had,” Xander says, pecking Charlie’s lips. “Way better than all those others.”
“Well, I try my best,” Charlie responds, scooping Xander up in his arms and carrying him toward the stairs. Xander hangs on tight, giggling a little, almost desperately.
“God, am I glad you’re such a Rhett Butler-type. I dunno how I was gonna make it up these stairs, otherwise . . . I dunno how I even got down them, but going back up. . . ?”
“It’s alright, love. We’ll put you to bed, and you can catch up on rest,” Charlie murmurs, kissing Xander’s crown. When he gets to their bedroom door he nudges it open and carries Xander in.
“Illuminatus,” he says softly, and the two lamps in the room light with a gentle yellow glow. On their bed, Jason snores lightly, twitching in a way that means he’s about to wake up. Charlie smiles a little. “Oi, bark-machine! Am-scray!” And Jason wakes, barks once, and hops off the bed. Tail wagging, he darts out the door and likely to the top of the stairs, where he sits guard every night.
“I’m totally rubbing off on you,” Xander says, giggling again as Charlie kicks their door shut. “Or I could be. Just say the word.”
Laying Xander on their bed, Charlie sits next to him just in time for a kiss that carries on far longer than Charlie means it to. “Xander . . . I know you’re tired-bloody exhausted-”
“Not too exhausted for this,” Xander whispers, his hand snaking its way back into Charlie’s jeans. “Been needing this for weeks.”
“Merlin help me, but so have I,” Charlie admits, letting Xander pull him down on top of him. He braces himself on his arms and straddles Xander’s legs. They kiss for long minutes, and during and in between kisses, remove Charlie’s clothing and unbutton Xander’s robe (he is wearing it the old-fashioned way . . . nothing underneath), till they’re finally skin to skin. Xander runs his hands up Charlie’s chest, tugging peremptorily on chest hair till Charlie gets the picture and settles more fully-though not completely-on top of him. They look into each other’s eyes, smiling, and finally Charlie leans down to press a lingering kiss on Xander’s already kiss-swollen mouth.
“You’re so beautiful, so wonderful. And I love you more than I’ll ever be able to properly express,” he murmurs, and Xander takes them both in the same hand, gasping, as Charlie does, at the doubled contact. His eyes widen, lashes fluttering.
“And you’re . . . more and better than I’ll ever deserve. But I’ll never stop trying to be worthy,” he breathes, arching up against Charlie, his hard prick sliding damply in his grip and against Charlie’s. Then he’s groaning, long and loud, when Charlie’s larger hand closes around his own, squeezing and adding his strength to Xander’s.
Then they’re kissing once more, slow and long, till Xander gasps and stiffens, coming hard on his stomach and Charlie’s. Tears once more leak out from behind his closed eyelids, but for a different reason. Charlie kisses them away even as Xander’s breathing-panting-evens out a little, and his hand starts moving on their pricks again, tight and no-nonsense, till Charlie, biting out an oh, fuck! comes, too, the world becoming a negative of itself before briefly blotting out altogether.
“Love, love, love,” he hisses as he comes back to reality, to Xander’s thumb smearing come across the tip of his prick and still, alternately, stroking him off. Urging Charlie on with delightfully filthy words of encouragement.
Can’t come again, love . . . it’s been such a long day and we’re both tired, Charlie means to say, but then Xander’s shamelessly working his still half-hard prick, finding that one spot below the head that sends Charlie’s already compromised brain to what Xander calls The Place of Completely-Not-Working. His face is sexily smug as he stares up into Charlie’s eyes.
“I dunno about you, babe, but I’m literally counting down the minutes till you can fuck me again. ‘Til I can feel you pushing this monster into me. And after two months of not being fucked, I’m gonna be so tight around you again-you’re gonna have to break me open with this.” Extra-slow stroke, but extra-tight, too. “Wide. Open.” Xander does some hissing himself, though not in Parseltongue. “Gonna feel so good.” His hand tightens almost, but not quite, to the point of being no longer pleasurable. To the point that Charlie’s mind tricks him into believing, if only for a few moments, that he’s actually inside Xander’s tight, twitchy-fluttery heat, driving relentlessly inward to touch the core of him.
And those few moments are all it takes for Charlie grit out Xander’s name before groaning and spilling over Xander’s slippery, possessive grip, the pleasure bordering pain for a short eternity, before letting him go from its iron-clad grasp.
Then he’s collapsing, with just enough presence of mind to not do so on his pregnant husband. Still panting, he rolls onto his back, pulling a very willing Xander into his arms. For a while, they simply lay there, breathing and basking, then kissing and touching whatever parts of each other they can easily reach.
“That will never cease to be my favorite superpower,” Xander finally muses, sleepily petting Charlie’s sticky, damp stomach. Charlie knows one or the other of them should Scourgify them, but he can’t be arsed to move just yet. As Xander would say, the afterglow is far too epic for that.
“Mm . . . and what superpower is that, love?”
“The power to, even at thirty-one weeks pregnant, make my husband come twice in a row.” Xander sighs and kisses Charlie’s jaw. “Best superpower ever.”
“Won’t catch me disagreein’,” Charlie chuckles, squeezing Xander close. “I love you.”
“And I love you.” Xander starts giggling again when Charlie pulls his hand up to his face to kiss it then lick it clean, one finger at a time.
*
Charlie finishes his fire-call to Charlene Malcolm and the last of his morning coffee, and jogs upstairs to wake Xander.
It’s nearly ten in the morning, and they have an appointment with Medi-wizard Braden in two hours and fifteen minutes. It takes less than five minutes, all told, to get to Braden’s office and fill out the requisite paperwork. But it’ll take at least an hour get Xander properly awake. Maybe longer. Even after twelve-plus hours of sleep and a full day of sleeping before that.
One of the reasons Charlie’d been so keen to make an appointment with Braden as soon as possible, rather than wait for their next scheduled one. And after telling Braden how much worse Xander’s tiredness had gotten since they last had an appointment, the Medi-wizard had insisted they come in as soon as possible.
But despite that-despite everything-for the first time in days, Charlie feels optimistic. Not only had Xander not argued with Charlie last night, when Charlie’d insisted on making the appointment first thing, but Xander had actually seemed to think it a good idea.
“You take such good care of me,” he’d murmured, kissing Charlie tenderly, and Charlie, so prepared for a fight, had been totally disarmed, completely floored. He’d held Xander close and kissed him back hard, yearningly, desperately.
“I’ll always take care of you, Xand. Because I’ll always love you,” he’d promised fervently, and kissed him again. Kissed him until Xander was obviously falling asleep in his arms. . . .
Now, Charlie sits on their bed and leans over to kiss the back of Xander’s head with a resounding smack. “Love, wake up. It’s time for breakfast, and almost time to go see Medi-wizard Braden.”
Normally, Xander’s response would be either a grumble or a whine, or both. But this morning, however, Charlie got no response, whatsoever.
Rolling his eyes fondly, he fully acknowledges to himself that this morning might see Xander taking even longer to wake up, after their . . . bit of fun the previous night.
“C’mon, love, up and at ‘em. Mum’s promised she’d make your favorite breakfast and there’re a few chocolate chocolate chip biscuits leftover from last night with your name on them. And maybe there’ll be time for a little canoodling, if you’re up for it . . . and if we don’t dither over breakfast. . . .” Charlie rolls Xander over onto his back, one hand settling on Xander’s stomach, as usual, expecting a flurry of tiny kicks, also as usual.
Jake, however, is not kicking, and that, after three months of him kicking Xander awake every morning, is . . . instantly worrying.
But not as worrying, however, as the fact that, unless Charlie’s imagining things, Xander’s pale, naked body-especially the parts of it that should be rising and falling with his breath-is as still and limp as a deflated balloon.
*
“Mr. Weasley?”
Charlie looks up from his contemplation of the white linoleum floor of the emergency room at St. Mungo’s, into a sympathetically smiling nurse’s eyes. His own eyes feel gritty and dry. “Yes,” he croaks out, standing up. Mum stands with him, holding his arm as if to lend him strength. But Charlie feels neither less nor more strong than usual. In fact, he doesn’t feel much of anything at all. As if he’s in some sort of odd stasis.
“How are they?” Mum asks, one hand coming up to cover her mouth. The nurse’s smile grows, if anything, even more sympathetic.
“You and Mr. Weasley can see Mr. Weasley, now. Medi-wizard Braden is performing a few final stabilizing spells, but he’ll be able to tell you more about his condition than I can. If you’ll follow me this way.”
With a tug on Charlie’s arm, Mum follows the nurse, tugging her second eldest son like a barge gone adrift.
*
Xander looks pale, small, and unwell, surrounded by so much clinical white, covers pulled up under his arms.
He looks lovely . . . so fragile . . . but so lovely.
And from the moment he steps into Xander’s room-private-Charlie has eyes for nothing and no one else but his unconscious husband. Xander’s breathing is so slow and light that, just like this morning, Charlie can’t even tell that he is breathing, for sure. He immediately appropriates the chair next to the bed and takes Xander’s cool hand, kissing it and pressing it to his cheek. The pulse at Xander’s wrist is glacially slow . . . but there.
“Love,” Charlie whispers as that protective stasis cracks, and a thousand emotions-worry, anger, and fear the chiefest among them-well out of him, and threaten to overwhelm him completely. “Oh, love.”
Mum’s hand settles on his shoulder. “He’ll be alright . . . won’t he, Medi-wizard Braden? And the baby, too?
Braden, a portly man with a manner that normally puts Charlie in mind of Albus Dumbledore at his most twinkly, is far too solemn and hesitant for an answer that is either simple or good. Something that is borne out by his first words since they’d entered the room.
“Mrs. Weasley . . . that depends. . . .” he begins, shaking his head, and Charlie finds himself speaking.
“On what? Tell me, and I’ll do it-I’ll do anything for them,” he says, squeezing Xander’s hand. He gets no response, as he hasn’t since this morning. “Please . . . tell me what to do so he’ll wake up.”
Braden sighs, his light brown eyes never leaving Charlie’s. “I’m afraid that’d be a dangerous state for your husband and son right now, Charlie. At this point, there’s nothing to be done but keep Xander stable, and his condition from deteriorating-”
“What is his condition?” Mum asks, and Braden’s head tilts at a considering angle.
“In laymen’s terms, Mrs. Weasley, your son-in-law is in a coma, one that was occasioned by the demands on his energy of the pregnancy.” Braden’s bushy brows draw together. “You see . . . when a wizard becomes pregnant, from the moment of conception, the pregnancy draws on that wizard’s physical and mystical strength to keep the child healthy, or even just alive, in some cases. In those latter cases, unforunately . . . the wizard rarely carries the child fully to term. And the child, is rarely born alive or healthy. But Xander’s . . . been exceptionally strong and healthy throughout his pregnancy. His reserves of physical and mystical energy have been more than enough to keep him and Jake going along without any unmanageable problems. Until now.” His eyes dart between Charlie and Mum before settling on Charlie. “Both child and father have, of necessity, been rendered so deeply unconscious that the loss of energy has been halted to almost none at all. Their vitals are almost nonexistent-even brain and heart activity. And that’s a good thing, please, believe me,” Braden goes on, holding up his hands. “The coma means that Xander’s system is still strong enough to do what it needs to do. And right now, it needs to rest, and to conserve all its energy, so that that energy can go toward keeping them both healthy and alive until Jakob is ready to be born.”
Charlie’s shaking his head. It’s difficult to think beyond his own cyclone of emotions and dearth of coherent thought. But one thing struggles through the morass to come tripping off his sluggish tongue. “So you’re saying this . . . coma . . . is safe? Good, even?”
Braden nods. “And it’s certainly better than the alternative, Charlie.” He pauses to let that sink in then continues. “We are, of course, able to wake Xander from this coma, but I wouldn’t recommend that until after the birth.”
“But that’s . . . still another two weeks away!” Charlie exclaims angrily, half-standing, but still holding Xander’s hand. “We can’t leave them in a coma for a whole fortnight!”
“If we want them both to survive, we will, in fact, do exactly that,” Braden says so sternly, Charlie blinks and sits back down. “Your husband is, right now, at his most vulnerable. Even bed-rest wouldn’t be enough to keep him and Jake healthy. They need this coma, and his body knows that. Now, I’ve performed several monitoring spells, as well as stabilizing spells that will keep his body calm and insulated from any outside influences-”
“You mean he doesn’t even know that I’m-that we, his family, are here with him?” Charlie asks, somewhat horrified at the idea of Xander being trapped in his own mind, all alone.
But then, he’s not all alone, is he? He has Jake . . . or at least the Jake who appears in his dreams. . . .
“He’s likely not even aware that he isn’t awake.” Braden frowns. “Unfortunately, we haven’t documented what goes on during this particular sort of coma, as regards the patient’s dream-state . . . or lack thereof.”
“Oh, Merlin . . . what if he’s having nightmares in there?” Charlie moans, kissing Xander’s lax hand and closing his eyes on tears that fall, anyway as he imagines his love, his Xander trapped in nightmares for two weeks.
But it’s better than Xander dying, isn’t it? Better than losing him forever.
Mum asks Braden a question which he answers heavily and at length, but Charlie’s tuned out. He brushes Xander’s hair back away from his face and cups Xander’s cool cheek. “I love you. And I’ll always take care of you,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss still, grey lips. “Whatever it takes to keep you and Jake alive . . . I’ll do it. I love you.”
Xander doesn’t respond. Doesn’t so much as take a deeper breath. And won’t for another two weeks, at least.
Charlie hangs his head and holds his breath for the next two days.
*
“Charlie. . . ?”
Charlie hasn’t so much as said hello to anyone or noticed anything that isn’t Xander since Braden had left Xander’s hospital room.
The Medi-wizard had been back twice since, as part of his daily rounds of the maternity ward, and had spoken at Charlie each time about how stable and well Xander and Jake were. And each time, he’d eventually left with a sigh when Charlie didn’t respond.
Other voices and presences had come and gone, some staying longer than others, some speaking to Charlie, some offering silent support. Some few talking at Xander’s sleeping form-Lily had been one of those, chattering on about how the dragons had been in Xander’s absence, till she’d started to cry, and her words became the hisses and sighs of Parseltongue-others taking the hand Charlie hadn’t appropriated.
None of them had really captured Charlie’s attention, beyond the most peripheral.
But this one . . . this one. . . .
“Harry?” Charlie looks up at the person seated at Xander’s other side, holding his other hand. It is, indeed, Harry Potter, looking much the worse for wear. He’s got what Xander called crazy homeless-guy stubble, and his eyes are an irritated red around the green . . . like Christmas past.
But he smiles when Charlie acknowledges him. “Hullo,” he says quietly, as if not wanting to disturb Xander. Charlie snorts a little.
If only Xander could be so disturbed.
But no . . . better that he sleep, to keep himself and Jake healthy. Charlie understands that. But he also understands something else:
Whatever prompted this coma isn’t, as Medi-wizard Braden seems to think, natural. It is, in fact, very unnatural. Why, all of a sudden, this drain on Xander’s energy? Out of nowhere? Xander’s energy, which has been heretofore nearly boundless? Yes, he tires more easily these days, but that energy is always replenished. Never has it drained away, and stayed drained.
It’s as if something is playing Keep-Away with that energy. . . .
No, it is a most unnatural coma, and Charlie, despite the despair encroaching on the last of his reason, has been attempting to put some puzzle pieces together. And the picture he sees is one he doesn’t like at all, but it’s far too obvious to be ignored or dismissed.
As he has been doing for weeks, and at his husband’s and child’s peril.
But no more.
“-anything I can do . . . anything at all,” Harry’s saying in a choked voice, staring at Xander’s face and chafing his hand as if it’s the most fragile, delicate bird ever to light on his palm. In that moment, Harry’s heart in his eyes, Charlie understands something else he hadn’t before-either because he hadn’t noticed or hadn’t wanted to notice.
“You love him.” It’s less an accusation and more of a statement. And Harry looks over at Charlie, his face miserable, but his eyes still dry.
“Of course, I do-we’re family, and family-”
“You know what I mean, Harry Potter.” Charlie sighs, shaking his head. “I’m not angry or anything. I understand why you feel the way you do. Honestly, I can’t imagine anyone who knows him not being madly in love with him.”
“I promise, Charlie, I’m not at all pursuing any sort of action on whatever feelings I . . . may be experiencing,” Harry says lowly, earnestly, his green eyes steady on Charlie’s, tears falling now, unheeded and unchecked. “I would never, ever betray you, or myself by attempting to-”
“I know, Harry, I know. Steady-on.” Charlie smiles a little. “I trust you completely. And more importantly, I trust Xander. “ He sighs again. “And I never did thank you for all the ways you’ve been a friend to us-all the little and not so little things you’ve done to ease our life together-”
Harry snorts, now, waving his hand. “If you mean the Romania-thing. . . .”
“That, yes,” Charlie agrees. “And all the ways you’ve greased the Ministry wheels to allow Xander and me to have as normal a life as possible. The way you’re still no doubt greasing those wheels. And even for the seemingly small things, like hiding a rocking chair at Grimmauld Place, or letting a rusty old Seeker catch a snitch on Christmas Eve to impress his love.”
Blushing, Harry looks away. “Charlie-”
“But you love him, too. And for some reason, rather than make me as blind-jealous as it should-after all, what wizard in his right mind would knowingly choose an aging dragon-wrangler over the Harry Potter-”
“Xander would.” Harry’s eyes tick to Charlie’s again. “Every minute of every day. And he has been for the better part of a year. And always will.”
“-it makes me feel less alone. You love him, too, Harry Potter, and that means I can trust you to do what’s best for him. To help me save him, no matter what.” Charlie pauses and looks down at Xander, steeling himself for voicing the toughest thing he’s ever had to say. “I know that they’re dying, Harry. No, listen,” he says, when Harry would interrupt with staunch protests and reassurances. “Braden may not think so-may think he’s got them stabilized and safe. But they’re not. I know there’s something more to this than Xander not having enough energy to function anymore.”
When Charlie looks up at Harry again, Harry’s frowning down at Xander, no attempt to hide the quiet, but fierce feeling in his eyes. In his heart. “And what do you think this more is?”
Charlie squeezes his husband’s hand and, moved by some emotion he can neither name nor ignore, reaches across Xander for Harry’s hand. After a slight hesitation, Harry takes his hand. Squeezes it tight enough that the bones in Charlie’s hand creak just a bit.
Harry’s eyes are intent, determined and Charlie draws strength from a love for his husband that just might rival his own.
“I think they’ve been Cursed,” he says simply. And rather than scoff or dismiss Charlie’s simple statement of fact-and it is a fact, Charlie simply wants evidence to prove it . . . evidence that only Harry Potter could possibly help him find-Harry’s grim face grows, if possible, even more grim.
“By whom?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters,” Harry says calmly, something dangerous and deadly flashing in those dark lord-slayer eyes. Charlie shudders and looks away.
“I don’t know who or what did the Cursing. But . . . Xander’s been having dreams. . . .” he shakes his head again. “Dreams I’ve been putting off doing anything about-and this is the result.” Swallowing, he blinks back tears. “He talks in his sleep. A lot. Always the same things. About the Forbidden Forest and unicorns. And for the longest time I told myself that it meant nothing-that it didn’t mean what it meant. But it does. No one, even someone largely ignorant of the threats of the Forest, would be willing to go there to seek out unicorns unless they were dying. Or so fatally Cursed as to make no difference.”
Harry’s glance slides to Xander again, curious and considering. “And the benediction of a unicorn-or the blood-can cure anything. Even death. Though the cost is great no matter which, benediction or blood, one is after-”
“I know.” Charlie says softly, sighing. “Which tells me that whatever this Curse is, it’s . . . bad. Even if Xander’s dreams are telling him to get just a benediction . . . it won’t come cheap. The price may be more than we can pay, in which case. . . .”
“In which case, that’s what you have me for,” Harry finishes softly, reaching out to touch Xander’s cheek. But he hesitates at the last second and glances at Charlie, who nods once.
When Harry’s fingers brush Xander’s cheek, Harry shivers, and quickly pulls his hand away. He stands up briskly, wavering a little, as if dizzy then striding around the bed to put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, which he squeezes.
“With the Forbidden Forest now in our sights, the next thing to do is speak to Firenze. If nothing else, as a powerful Divinator, he may be able to tell us more about this Curse. And if we’re lucky, he may also be willing to lead us into the Forest. To the unicorns. After that, only Merlin could say. Or possibly Albus Dumbledore,” he says, all business, now, though the mantle of Harry Potter is quite brittle, and maybe has been for a long time. As brittle as the smile that accompanies the mention of Dumbledore. “I’ll go to Hogwarts straight away.”
Charlie nods again, meeting Harry’s eyes, holding their intense gaze, and searching it briefly. “Thank you, Harry.” He covers Harry’s hand with his own for a few moments. “For believing me. For helping them. For everything.”
Harry quirks his hard, wry grin when Charlie lets go of his hand.
“What else are brothers for?”
Then he’s gone.
Charlie heaves a sigh of relief and turns back to Xander, brushing the same spot Harry had, just on the opposite cheek.
“You see, love? It’ll be alright. You’ve got two men here who believe you. Who love you. Who’ll do everything in their power to save you and Jake.” Charlie pulls Xander’s hand to his cheek once more and resumes his vigil, his other hand letting go of Xander’s to come rest on his ominously still stomach. “Just hold on. Both of you. Please.”