Chapter Text
Wyatt remembered being in the attic in his playpen. Not trapped, because he was never trapped, but waiting. Waiting for his Mom to come get him or maybe for his Aunts to come play with him or if he was lucky, for his Dad to orb in. In his memory he knew none of them were there.
The only person with him was a man who was worried about something. Wyatt had a vague remembered impression of agitated pacing that ended with the guy coming over to him and saying something about getting Wyatt out of there. At the time that had confused him; where was safer than the attic?
He'd learned how wrong that assumption was almost immediately though, as he watched his protector killed right in front of him.
Truthfully, Wyatt was never sure how real that memory was anyway because no matter how hard he tried to recall it correctly, in his head his defender always looked just like Chris.
Obviously Wyatt knew that wasn't real, that it was just his subconscious replacing a too faded recollection with a well known face. He'd done psychology in school and he didn't have to be a genius to figure out the rationale behind why it was Chris, the one person who was always there for him no matter what, that he'd cast in the role of the unknown white-lighter who died trying to save him.
Even so, Wyatt could never quite shake the almost soul-deep knowledge that somehow it was his brother that had kept him safe that day. Not that he'd ever tell anyone that, but still...