It has to...

He hesitates for a few seconds, and thensuddenly Wesley doesn’t seem to find thisconversation as funny as he once did.

Send 'SPIT IT OUT!' and I'll randomly generate a number. Whatever number it is, my muse will blurt it out to you!

"Can you help me put on my shoes?"

Max had never been one for empathy or if he had been, he had lost this capacity when Sherwood destroyed his life, but seeing his brother like this, hearing him asking for help... it did something to him. He didn't show it of course, he didn't comment either, but he felt it. Without a word he kneeled in front of Charles, swiftly putting the shoes on, put off by the weirdness of it all.

He grimaces slightly around a mouthful of his drink, fingers tapping against the glass. Honestly, if they could only get along… And Charles understands, he really does—Max is a cop, Wes is a killer. And he loves Wesley, truly he does, and he understands why he’s done what he did but… making Max understand is an impossible thing. He’s given up on trying.

He was made to catch criminals, to do justice in a world more and more corrupted. Those fucking bastards who thought they could go about and around killing people? Well they haven't met him yet, because never would he condone murder, no matter the reason, no matter if there is a just cause behind it.

Murder is murder.

"If you're a chicken, Charles you can go easy. But I won't."

He downs his glass.

Though he keeps his mouth shut, Charles still tries to give his brother what he hopes is an encouraging sort of look as he pours two more glasses, setting one in front of Max and taking the other for himself.

He tries to do as if he doesn't care, hell he's the best in the family for that kind of shitty indifference, but the look Charles gives him, his presence, it somewhat relaxes him, helps him. He feels his leg stitting and he sighs.

"How worse it can be, two Xaviers drinking till the night ends uh? At least if that useless shit don't come here tonight it may even be a good night."

Well, he doesn’t really need an explanation. What Max says is enough—hell, Charles doesn’t even ask if he wants to talk about it. He isn’t stupid.

That man is haunting his nightmares and everyone smart enough knowing his story knows that. But he's glad Charles keeps his mouth shut for once.

"—I’d tell you that’s not a good idea, but I’m not exactly the  best example of sobriety myself. What’s on your mind?”

"Yea, you're almost as worse as me now. That's fucking concerning knowing you."

There's a pause.