Numb3rs Fic: Lucky, 3/3
Title: Lucky
Author: Leah Harper (prairie_city)
Summary: See Story Index
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Part Three
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He shifted groggily and tried to lift an arm to move the thing off his face, over his mouth and nose and smelling unpleasantly of plastic. Something held down his arm, and he fluttered open his eyes to protest.
There were men in uniforms surrounding him. He was…on the floor?
Charlie lolled his head to one side, looking for his father and Don. Found them, standing back, his brother’s arm across his Dad’s chest, restraining him, tear tracks running down both of their faces.
-----
“What do you mean, you didn’t find anything?”
Don’s raised voice brought Charlie out of the lethargic doze he’d fallen into after the medical personnel had completed their tests. Blinking groggily, he turned his head towards the sound of his brother’s voice, outside the room.
There was more low-toned talking, too quiet for Charlie to understand, and then there were hurried footsteps and the curtain was whipped back viciously. Charlie’s father flung himself into the room, the expression on his face a mixture of fury and terror. Before Charlie had a chance to open his mouth, his father was striding around the bed, and he pulled Charlie upright and into his arms as he sank down to sit on the side of the bed, cradling Charlie’s upper body against his chest.
“It’s okay, Charlie,” Alan said hoarsely, although Charlie was likely the least upset of all of them. He leaned limply against his father and clumsily patted one of his hands, and Alan held him tighter still.
After a moment, a white-coated doctor came in, Don following so closely he was almost walking on the poor man’s heels, wearing an expression of exhausted and impotent rage.
“Hello Charlie,” the doctor said with admirable calmness considering the storm he’d wandered into. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Charlie said drowsily, hoping he’d get to go home if he told them he was fine. The doctor smiled lightly at him and came over to shine a light in his eyes.
“Can you tell me what you remember, Charlie?” the doctor asked, and Charlie blinked and cast his mind back.
“Not much,” he replied finally. “But…it was weird. Everything went…” he trailed off, remembering the way the world around him had gone electric and out of focus, with haloes of pastel pinks and greens, at a loss as to how to explain it. “Like sunspots,” he said finally, helplessly.
“Do you remember what you were doing before you started seizing?” the doctor questioned, looking intently at Charlie.
“We were watching a movie,” Charlie mumbled. He was tired, and wanted to go home. Barring that, he wanted to sleep. “Mission: Impossible. The new one.”
“My wife dragged me to see that movie in theatres,” the doctor said, smiling. “But that’s good, I’m glad you can remember so clearly.” The doctor straightened up. “I’d still like to admit you for the night, for observation. Like I told your family,” here, the doctor canted a wry, sideways glance at Charlie’s father, “the CT scans didn’t find any abnormality. This is undeniably a good thing, although there is always a chance that there is something there that we just can’t see.”
“I want to go home,” Charlie protested, and the doctor looked properly sympathetic.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But I really can’t in good conscience release you yet. We have to make sure that this was a one-time thing.”
Charlie looked helplessly up at his father.
“He’s right, Charlie,” Alan said. “If you have another seizure, you want to be here.”
Charlie gave in, too sleepy to really care at that moment. He nodded his head instead and limply rested it against his father’s shoulder.
Don said something quietly to their father as the doctor nodded goodbye and let himself out. Charlie missed the first half of what he said, but caught, “…post-ictal state and looks really tired. You should maybe let him lay down.”
That sounded like a good idea to Charlie, whose thoughts were sluggish and incomplete. He let his father gently manhandle him back into a prone position.
His eyelids felt like lead weights, but Charlie forced them open for another moment.
“’m okay, Dad,” he mumbled, patting his father’s hand again in reassurance. He didn’t wait for his father’s reaction. Between one breath and the next, he fell away into sleep.
-----
Several times he was woken during the night, each time becoming progressively more alert. Each and every time, his father was nearby, sometimes touching him on the shoulder or forearm or hand, sometimes seated on the other side of the room. The lights never dimmed below neutral, but Charlie found it didn’t bother him until the early hours of the morning, when he woke up enough to realize it.
In and out all night were the nursing staff, checking Charlie’s vitals and asking his father questions, shaking Charlie awake to check his pupils and cognizance. And the entire time, Don was in and out also, in a pattern differing from the nurses but one Charlie could identify and recognize, even in his own bewildered state. It was Don’s ’restless and sleepless’ pattern, going out for coffee, coming back to sit, up within seconds to pace, down again to put his face in his hands, the very picture of exhaustion.
“You should go home and sleep,” Charlie said one of these times, and Don lifted his head in surprise at Charlie’s voice.
“Hey,” Don said, voice soft. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”
“Comes and goes,” Charlie murmured, suppressing a yawn. “But really, Don. You’re exhausted. Go home. Sleep.”
“Wouldn’t be able to even if I wanted to,” Don muttered, flicking a sideways glance at their father. Alan was snoring in his bedside chair, head back and mouth open, dead to the world.
“Too much coffee?” Charlie asked, twitching his lips up into a smile.
“Something like that,” Don replied, returning the smile. The movement only highlighted the deep lines on Don’s face, illuminated the soft, exhausted expression. But Don had already refused to go home - reiterating it now would only irritate him. Instead, Charlie warily pushed himself up onto his elbows, searching for the button that would raise up the head of the bed. Don leaned forward when he saw what Charlie was trying to do, locating and pressing the button with unerring accuracy.
“Thanks,” Charlie murmured, leaning back against the bed with a sigh. He looked around, noting the absence of a window, and the lack of a visible clock. “What time is it?” he wondered, and Don glanced at his clock.
“Almost six,” he replied. “Five thirty.”
“No sun yet,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “I was thinking - two, maybe three o’clock.” He paused thoughtfully, then asked, “Do you think I’ll get to go home today?”
“I have no idea,” Don shook his head, rubbing his palms briskly along his thighs. “D’you want me to call a nurse?”
“Nah,” Charlie sighed. “They’ll come eventually.”
They lapsed into silence then, with Don fighting the urge to lean back and drop off like their father, and Charlie turning inwards, wishing for a pad of paper and a pencil.
And they both sat, and waited.
-----
“You had a good night, then?” the doctor asked, and Charlie nodded. “Then I don’t see any reason you can’t go home.” Charlie cautiously brightened at the thought, and the doctor rifled through several sheets of paper. “It says here that you’re due to get your bandages taken off entirely on Wednesday?” the doctor questioned interrogatively, and Charlie nodded again. “If you want, we can take them off now, rather than have you come back again on Wednesday, then again on Monday to get the stitches out.”
“Okay,” Charlie responded. “That sounds good.”
“All right then, we’ll get that done,” the doctor said, stepping forward and setting his papers down.
Charlie turned and glanced at his father and brother while the doctor cut through the bandages on his head. They were both sitting across the room from him, and smiled at him when his eyes met theirs.
A rush of cold air hit the side of Charlie’s head, and he shivered and lifted a hand. Touching the short, bristly hairs was a jolt - although he’d known intellectually that his surgeon had needed to shave his head, the reality of it was still a surprise.
And it was cold. Charlie cupped his hand over the great swath of short hair, instinctively trying to keep his head warm. He glanced over at his father and Don, expecting them to be grinning at his likely awful haircut - half shaved, half long curls.
But Alan was looking at him with a dull, hollow look, and Don - Don was staring at Charlie’s hand where it covered the scar from the bullet. When Charlie met his gaze, Don dropped his eyes and then buried his face in his hands.
His chest suddenly aching, Charlie turned his own eyes away, reaching up self-consciously to cover the puckered scar he could feel on the side of his head.
Nobody said anything.
-----
On the way home from the hospital, Charlie found a pen in Don’s SUV. He dug around a bit but couldn’t find a piece of blank paper, and so scrawled hurried equations across his forearms and palms, fleeting little thoughts that caught in his head and niggled until he wrote them down, then vanished forever.
As he scribbled, he felt his mind slowing down, calming itself, and Charlie could pull his mind away from the expressions on his father’s and brother’s faces and the way his hair was cut and push it towards the math, the one constant in his life. Full of absolutes.
When they got home, Charlie sent his father a defiant look and headed straight for the garage.
-----
They let him be for several hours, hours which Charlie spent at his blackboards, his hand darting over the surface and Tool blasting in his ears, for once actually enjoying himself. When his hand cramped too badly to continue, Charlie turned his attention to the stack of many boxes in the garage that he’d been sorting through before the shooting.
There was a mass of loose paper on computational fluid dynamics that he was trying to sort out, currently untitled. Charlie said down cross-legged beside the box and shuffled through the notes, trying to find the first page.
In the midst of all the loose papers, a blue folder appeared, familiar although out of place. Frowning, Charlie flipped it open to the title page. A Mathematical Analysis of Friendship Dynamics, it read.
Charlie stared down at it, brooding. For years, thoughts of that time in his life brought a sick, sharp feeling of unhappiness along with it. Now, with all the years intervening, all Charlie felt was a sort of dull despair.
What a stupid kid, he thought flatly, staring at the scrawled handwriting of his twelve-year-old self. Stupid, stupid kid. Charlie tore his eyes away from the paper and the bad memories associated with that time, closed up the old blue folder and put it on top of one of the boxes, fully intending to throw it away.
“Hey Charlie,” came Don’s voice from the door. Charlie jumped, startled.
“Hey, Don,” he said, craning his head around the box blocking his view of the door.
“Came to see if you’re hungry,” Don said, coming around so Charlie could see him. He looked down at Charlie for a moment before his gaze went to the blackboards. Memories haunted Charlie, of the last time his brother stood in the garage, and discomfort twisted in his belly. He looked down at the sheaf of papers in his hand, trying to forget. “Charlie?”
“Yeah?” Charlie looked up.
“You hungry?” Don asked again.
“Is it dinner time already?” Charlie asked, surprised.
“Way past,” Don said. “Dad grilled some chicken on the barbeque. We saved you some, we just thought you might want some time alone for a while.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said, quirking a smile up at his brother. “I’ll come, in a few minutes.” He tossed the loose papers back into the box. He suddenly didn’t feel like going through them at all, and bringing up the memories with them.
“Hey, I recognize this,” Don said suddenly, and Charlie looked over. His stomach lurched.
Don was holding the blue folder, a smile quirking his mouth.
“It’s the friendship math, right?” he asked, looking up at Charlie.
“Don’t,” Charlie said woodenly. “Don’t. I know it’s stupid. I was twelve years old.” He reached out and grabbed the folder away from his brother, feeling his neck and ears grow hot in embarrassment.
“Charlie - ”
Charlie flipped open the folder and seized the papers inside, yanking them out and tearing them in half, all at once, then stacking them together and tearing them in half again. Then he crumpled up the pieces and let them fall, already leaving the garage by the time they settled on the floor. He heard Don say “Charlie,” again, but he didn’t stop.
He’d hoped his father would still be in the kitchen, but slamming through the screen door showed an empty room and the faint sound of a shower running upstairs.
There was the sound of footsteps on the back steps, hard and angry. Charlie turned as the screen door banged open and fell shut again.
“What the hell’s your problem?” Don growled. Charlie spun away and flexed his hands in front of him, fingers fluttering helplessly.
What the hell is my problem? he thought, and flapped his hands again; turned back towards Don.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he forced out, and couldn’t bring himself to look straight at his brother’s face. Fleeting glances showed Don scowling. Angry.
“Then what was that about?” Don asked, and his voice turned entreating. Again, Charlie turned away; this time stayed that way, shoulders sagging.
“I don’t know, Don,” he choked out. “I - I - ” I’m sorry, he wanted to say, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to apologize for the incident with the math paper or another incident entirely. One that took place in the garage years before, and still stood between them.
There was silence for a long, long moment. Charlie wrapped his arms around his sides and shivered. Upstairs, the drone of the shower continued on unabated.
Then, abruptly, Don said, “It’s because of what I said, isn’t it? After Mom died,” and Charlie’s stomach fell away with a hot, sick swoop.
“W - what?” he whispered. Then he shook his head. “N - no, Don - ” he stuttered, turning back to look at his brother.
“I don’t suppose it would help if I said I was sorry,” Don said flatly. “But I’ll say it again anyways. I’m fucking sorry, Charlie. More than I can say.”
“No, Don,” Charlie managed. “Don’t. Don’t say sorry, okay? You were - you were right.”
“Then what…?” Don started, and then trailed off. Charlie saw the realization as it crept into his eyes, saw Don go suddenly breathless.
“No,” Don choked. “Ah, hell, Charlie. No, I was not right. I couldn’t have been more wrong. That’s what this is about, isn’t it.” Don took a deep breath and shook his head. “You’ve been punishing yourself for three years.”
“No,” Charlie said instantly, automatically; but it was a lie and he knew it, and so did Don.
“I always wondered,” Don said quietly, musing. “You were always so forgiving, our entire lives.” He paused, staring down at the floor. Charlie held his breath and could feel his heart pounding a tattoo against his sternum. “And after I apologized, the first time…” he shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice was choked. “I always thought that you’d never forgiven me.” Don’s head came up and his eyes latched on to Charlie, who was standing frozen in place. “But you haven’t forgiven yourself, have you?”
Charlie broke then, felt his body give and his eyes drop. Breathing suddenly became an effort.
“I left her,” he rasped with effort, forcing the words through a reluctant throat. “Don...I left her."
“Yeah,” Don whispered. “I didn’t understand at the time. Mom tried to explain it to me…” and with sudden inspiration, he said, “she wouldn't want you to blame yourself. And I understand now, Charlie. I really do. When you got shot - ”
Don’s voice failed him for a moment, and he covered his face with one hand. Charlie couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
Don looked up again, and his eyes were tortured. “I’m sorry for what I said,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean it, Charlie. Not then, and especially not now.”
Charlie didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to feel. For so long he’d taken what Don had said to heart, even after Don apologized the first time. But now, what his brother was saying - it lifted a burden off of Charlie that he hadn’t even realized he wore.
Without really meaning to, Charlie found himself nodding, once, and breathing suddenly became easier. He dropped his gaze, unable to keep looking at Don’s pained face.
“Come here,” Don said after a moment, and Charlie looked up, furrowing his brow, and took a few steps, stopping several feet away and looking at his brother questioningly. Don beckoned him closer. Blinking, Charlie took another small step, bewildered. Don shook his head. In exasperation? Charlie didn’t know.
At any rate, Don gave a sigh and stepped forward himself, slowly, as though trying not to startle a wild animal. Charlie frowned, feeling uncomfortably like he was invading Don’s precious personal space, off-limits since high school. He shifted in discomfort, confused.
Don wrapped his fingers gently around Charlie’s upper arms, staring into Charlie’s face, frowning in something like concentration. And then, simply and calmly and without any ceremony or sign of discomfort, Don released Charlie’s biceps and instead wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders and ribs, pulling him close and tucking his head into his own shoulder. Charlie started a little in surprise and stood stiffly for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Don was hugging him. And while he stood there like a statue, Don continued to hold him close, strong and confident and safe.
All at once, Charlie collapsed against him, soaking in that feeling of security and leaning into his brother’s strength, pressing his cheek against Don’s shoulder. In response, Don tightened his grip and rested his own cheek against Charlie’s short, bristly strands of hair and the bullet scar beneath them.
Charlie let out his breath in a shuddering sigh and relished the first hug he’d received from his brother in nearly twenty years.
-----
Something woke Charlie up that night. He lay wide awake, trying to figure out what had woken him. Everything was silent, and so still that the blackness pressed close and heavy. After a long moment, Charlie felt his heart slow and let out the breath he was holding.
Then he heard it again. A slight rustling from the next room, the one that Don was using. A barely audible sound, like a grunt of protest. Then…rasping. So soft he could only hear it if he held his breath and listened with everything he had. Short, soft hisses, like someone gasping for breath.
Don, Charlie thought. And then on the heels of that realization came another one. Panic attack.
Charlie sat up, kicking off the blankets and almost falling out of bed. With the ease of long practice he avoided the floorboards that tended to groan and made his way out into the hall and down to Don’s old room, now made guest room. The door swung open silently on well oiled hinges, and in the glow of the digital clock Charlie could see his brother. He paused for a moment, confused.
Don was still asleep.
Disoriented, Charlie started to back away, convinced he’d been hearing things because clearly, Don wasn’t having a panic attack at all.
But then Don shifted, restlessly, and made that sound again. Deep in his chest - a protest, a denial. Charlie paused and frowned, and Don’s mouth moved silently in the very slight glow.
Curious, Charlie moved closer, trying to hear.
Don said it again, a barely audible breath of air between his lips. “Charlie.”
Charlie swallowed convulsively and watched Don’s face twist, just slightly, a deep furrow appearing between his eyes.
He was having a nightmare, Charlie realized, somewhat surprised. A nightmare that involved Charlie. And suddenly he remembered his father’s words, after seeing Don’s panic attack at the base of the stairs.
“Can you imagine finding someone you love in a pool of his own blood, with a gunshot wound to the head?”
Charlie hesitated, confused. Should he wake Don up? It didn’t seem like a particularly violent nightmare. He shifted uncertainly, undecided, and Don made that sound again. Just as quiet as before, and full of horrible, twisting grief.
The sound yanked Charlie forward.
“Hey,” he murmured, leaning over the bed. He hesitated, then put his hand on Don’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said again. “Wake up.”
Don’s eyes opened and glinted in the red glow, still seeing his dream world.
“Charlie?” he murmured, his voice thick. His hand brushed Charlie’s wrist and his fingers grasped on and held.
“Yeah, hey,” Charlie responded. “It’s okay.”
Don tugged on Charlie’s wrist, and he obligingly climbed onto the bed beside Don, laying on his side facing his brother. Don stared at him for a minute, looking confused. After a moment, he reached out and cupped his hand over the short part of Charlie’s hair, over the bullet scar, as though his hand would keep the bullet from finding its mark. And who knew, Charlie thought.
Maybe in Don’s dreams, it would.
Don sighed then, deep and weary, and his eyes fluttered shut. With his hand cupping Charlie’s head, he sank back into the sleep he hadn’t ever really come out of.
His hand was warm, and Charlie was surrounded by the smell of his brother. Clean and comforting.
Sleep tugged at Charlie’s eyes, and he didn’t resist the pull.
-----
There was coffee in the pot when Charlie stumbled down to the kitchen early the next morning, but Don was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, Charlie dug around for the sugar and poured himself a cup of coffee, glancing at the clock as he did so. It was not quite six-thirty, and Charlie’s dad was still in bed.
Which was where Charlie would be if he hadn’t fallen asleep on top of his brother’s covers last night, only to awaken to the chill of morning with the other side of the bed empty.
Don had been in the in-between state of sleep and wakefulness when Charlie had gone in last night, and he wasn’t quite sure Don even remembered it. A slight twist of discomfort curled in his stomach at the thought, and he took a hurried gulp of coffee to cover it. In all likelihood, Don had woken that morning to find his baby brother asleep beside him with no memory of how he’d come to be there.
Frankly, Charlie was surprised that Don hadn’t woken him with a good solid boot off the bed.
But that wasn’t Don anymore, Charlie remembered. At least, he didn’t think so.
He remembered the Don from yesterday, and the embrace they’d shared. And he remembered the Don in high school, both guardian angel and worst enemy.
Charlie shivered and curled his fingers around his cooling cup, flicking his eyes around the kitchen in an attempt to focus on something.
Then quiet footsteps sounded outside, coming up the wooden steps to the kitchen door. Charlie turned as Don shouldered through, an empty coffee cup in one hand and a familiar blue folder tucked under his elbow.
“Don…?” Charlie asked, setting his coffee down on the counter. Don put his cup down as well and grasped the edge of the folder, offering it to Charlie. He reached out to take it and flipped it open.
A Mathematical Analysis of Friendship Dynamics looked back at him, badly crumpled, torn into fourths, and carefully straightened and taped back together again.
“Charlie, I don’t know what - I mean, I know you were only twelve and everything, and I don’t know anything about the math and I can’t make heads or tails of it, but…”
Charlie looked up at his brother, fascinated by the uncertainty in his voice, the non-linear sequence of his words.
“It’s not stupid,” Don finally got out. “It’s not stupid, even if you were only twelve when you wrote it. And I don’t know what kind of headspace you were in at the time, but nothing about you is stupid.”
Charlie tried to wrap his mind around what Don was saying, in his own backward and half-strangled way. He felt a smile quirk his mouth.
“You read this?” he asked, looking down at the paper again.
“Tried to, anyway,” Don replied, sitting down at the table with a smile of his own. “Twice. I tried to read it in…what was it, eleventh grade?”
“Really?” Charlie asked, grinning wider. “Why on earth?”
“Oh, you know…” Don got up and went to get another cup of coffee. “Thought I could pick up a girl.”
Charlie gave a bark of laughter.
“I’ve actually read a lot of your stuff,” Don continued, softer, and Charlie stopped grinning, suddenly unsure what to say.
He looked down at the folder, laying open in front of him on the counter.
“I haven’t read this paper since I wrote it,” he finally admitted quietly.
“Well, maybe you should do that before you decide to throw it out,” Don replied, just as quiet, and Charlie flipped the folder closed and rested his hand on it contemplatively. The revelation that Don read his work was a new and confusing thought.
“Do you know,” he said abruptly, looking up at Don, “that you can’t break spaghetti in half by bending it?”
Don blinked at Charlie’s sudden change in topic.
“Can’t say I that I do,” he said, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Why can’t you break spaghetti in half by bending it?”
“Fragmentation theory,” Charlie said, reaching into the cupboard above his head and pulling out an unopened package of standard spaghetti. He took the package to the table with him, beckoning at Don with one hand.
“Richard Feynman and Danny Hillis took twenty years to figure it out,” he explained, pulling a piece of spaghetti out of the package. “They once spent an entire night bending spaghetti, and every time…” Charlie paused and bent a piece of spaghetti. It splintered and several pieces shot away to ping against the far wall. Don jumped and Charlie smiled. “…it breaks into three or more pieces.”
“Let me try,” Don said, reaching out for the package of spaghetti. He watched carefully as he bent it, and the middle piece leapt high in the air before bouncing back down on the table. Charlie grinned at Don’s expression.
“Is there a purpose to this conversation?” Don asked after a moment, slowly bending another piece.
“Does anyone really need a reason to bend spaghetti to watch it break?” Charlie asked philosophically, and watched another piece splinter. Across the table, Don grinned.
-----
“My leave is up tomorrow,” Don said casually over French toast. At the stove, Alan straightened up from flipping another piece of bread. Charlie stopped sweeping up bits of spaghetti, frowning at the tone in Don’s voice.
“That’s…good?” he tried, confused, and Don flashed him a quick smile.
“Yeah, my shrink - ” Don shook his head. “My therapist signed off on me the other day.”
“No more panic attacks?” Alan asked, turning away from the stove.
“No,” Don replied. Short and with finality, clearly not wanting to talk about it. Charlie swept the floor lightly a few times, contemplating. Don was returning to the scene where Charlie had been shot, preparing to go back to work even after having been so negatively affected that he’d had to have a therapist sign off on his mental stability.
Frowning thoughtfully, Charlie went on sweeping.
-----
Charlie came stumbling down the stairs at six the next morning, showered, dressed, and with his newly buzzed head freezing in the chill morning air. He hit the bottom and flipped the light on in the dim kitchen, rooting around for the coffee grounds and measuring it out to start brewing. Upstairs, he heard Don stagger out of bed and make for the bathroom.
Charlie smiled to himself. Don had always been a creature of habit, one that was easy to anticipate. Even years later, Charlie knew what he had to do to catch his brother before he left.
He was standing at the counter with a large mug of coffee when Don came blearily down the stairs, already perking up at the smell of fresh coffee.
“Wow, Charlie, thanks,” he mumbled, pouring himself a cup.
“Sure,” Charlie said casually, watching as his brother took a gulp and started the wake-up process. Charlie shook his head slightly. He’d never been a big coffee drinker. He’d drink one with other people, but most of the time he simply staggered down the stairs and straight out the door in the mornings. He and Don both had addictive personalities - Charlie went out of his way to avoid the addictions that he could.
Watching Don struggle to wake up, he was glad that he did.
After a few minutes, Don checked his watch, looking a little more alert.
“You going to school?” he asked, raising his eyes to Charlie’s.
“No,” Charlie replied quietly.
“Why are you up so damned early, then?” Don asked curiously. Charlie dropped his gaze uncomfortably. He hadn’t asked his brother for something like this in…well, in a very long time.
“I want to go with you today,” he blurted out in a rush. “To the office, I mean.”
There was a stunned silence, and Charlie raised his head. Don’s jaw was slack, but as Charlie watched, his brother snapped his teeth together and his jaw muscles rippled.
“No,” Don said with finality. “No way.”
“Why not?” Charlie asked, struggling to stay calm and not let his voice shake. Don shook his head, mouth opening and then shutting again voicelessly. “Don?”
“You know why!” Don said, finally, raising his voice. “No way, Charlie. Not going to happen.”
Charlie took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, feeling his fingers tremble. He twisted them together.
“Why not?” he asked again, and his time his voice did shake. He winced slightly.
Don surged to his feet in agitation, coffee cup in hand. He turned away, towards the counter and the coffee pot, busying himself with pouring more coffee into his cup, despite it only being half empty.
“Don,” Charlie said quietly.
Don stilled at the counter, his shoulders slumped.
“Last time I took you there, someone shot you,” he said, so quietly Charlie almost missed it. Charlie rose to his feet and took a step towards him.
“You’re a reasonable man, Don,” Charlie murmured. “You must know, the odds of that happening again are…”
“Astronomical, I know,” Don replied wryly, turning slowly to face him. “And yes, I am a reasonable man, and this isn’t a reasonable fear. But fears rarely are, Charlie, and I can’t…I can’t…”
“You can’t blame yourself,” Charlie said, surprised. “Don, you don’t blame yourself, do you?”
Don shook his head, once, like he was trying to stop hearing Charlie’s voice. He winced.
“I try not to,” he said finally, hoarsely. “I know in my brain that I could never have known, but…”
“I know,” Charlie said quietly. For a long moment there was silence, each one remembering their past, and their mother’s slow death and the terrible fight that came after.
Charlie broke free of the memories first.
“I still want to come with you,” he said, and Don scowled, opened his mouth. Charlie blurted out, “Please.”
And Don froze, a conflicted expression spreading across his features. He shut his mouth and looked down at the ground, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath and nodded once, reluctantly. Charlie let out a breath of relief. “Thank you,” he whispered, and Don nodded again.
-----
Don wouldn’t let go of Charlie’s elbow.
Not that Charlie was really doing anything about it, but it was disconcerting all the same, in a nice sort of way.
It kept the experience of walking into the FBI offices from being too familiar, too much like déjà vu. In fact, it was different enough to be surreal. This wasn’t the Don that Charlie had become accustomed to in the last three years, hard-assed and angry and strong as hell.
This Don was openly nervous, his eyes darting around the rooms, checking out potential spots that may or may not be hiding a madman poised to go on a shooting spree. This Don had a hold of Charlie’s elbow with a grip that dared anyone to pull them apart.
It wasn't that Charlie disliked the feeling - quite the opposite, in fact - but it was so disconcerting that he found he couldn’t lift his eyes from his shoes while they stood in line at the security gate.
Inside the bullpen, Charlie made himself look around. He remembered the sound of shattering glass, the sharp, deafening reports of a service weapon being discharged, the distant, startled cries of support staff, the shouts of FBI agents.
Charlie shivered.
Something wet beneath his fingers.
Charlie shook his head, pushing the thought away, along with the memory of the coppery scent of blood. Don’s fingers were gripping his elbow, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to be grounding. Charlie looked up at his brother’s hard face gratefully, and Don looked down at him and flashed a quick smile.
There was something in Don’s eyes that told Charlie that his brother was remembering that moment too. Charlie reached up with his other hand and reassuringly patted Don’s fingers where they held on to him, trying to tell his brother without words that it was okay, that everything was okay.
That something in Don’s eyes relaxed just slightly, and his fingers followed suit.
Then they were in the bullpen and people were turning to look at them. There was the sounds of the office - fax machines, telephones, low-toned voices, only now they were joined by soft greetings. Left and right - hi Charlie’s and hey there, glad to see you’re okay’s.
Charlie nodded at each of the greetings and smiled at people who smiled first, but otherwise remained intent on the far side of the room where Don’s desk was. As they moved, Don snagged a rolling chair from another, empty desk and pushed it into place beside his own.
“Here, take a seat,” Don said quietly to him, finally letting go of Charlie’s elbow. “Today is mostly just paperwork. Did you bring anything to work on, or did you want to…see…?”
Don trailed off, looking confused and hesitant. Charlie couldn’t help grinning at him.
“I’m fine, Don,” he said reassuringly. “I don’t remember a whole lot. It isn’t the same for me as it is for you.”
It was the first time Charlie had said as much, and he was surprised at the look of intense relief that spread across his brother’s face. Don all but collapsed in his chair, a breath of air escaping in a rush.
“Really?” he asked, and to Charlie he looked painfully hopeful. “You don’t remember anything?”
Charlie faltered in the face of Don’s strange reaction, backpedaling in surprise.
“Well no, I remember some things,” he stuttered, confused. “It’s just…everything’s kind of foggy, I guess. Distant.”
“So…it doesn’t scare you, being back here?” Don whispered, and Charlie frowned.
“No, not really,” he murmured in reply. “It’s a little nerve-wracking, I guess, but…no. It seems like a dream, almost. I barely remember arriving that day, in fact.”
It was like he’d taken a load of Don’s shoulders, whose expression was one of crushing relief. He opened his mouth to say more, but the elevator dinged. Charlie turned to look as Agent Reeves came in.
She caught his eye and smiled wide.
“Charlie!” she greeted when she got closer. “It’s great to see you.” She leaned over and gave him a one-armed hug; he scrambled to his feet as she did so, feeling himself flush in embarrassment.
“Agent Reeves, hi,” he said, squeezing her elbow lightly in apology. “You too.”
She grinned at him. “Just Megan, please.”
“Megan, then,” he acknowledged, and she smiled at him for a long moment, seemingly memorizing his face. Charlie saw her take note of his short, short hair, and saw her eyes fasten on the knotted scar above his ear for an instant before flicking away again. Charlie flushed again and glanced at Don, sitting at his desk and watching them. He smiled when Charlie looked at him but didn’t say anything.
Megan took his hand and squeezed it gently before releasing him.
“It’s wonderful to see you, truly,” she said again, backing away a step. She seemed to realize his discomfiture, however, because she quickly became businesslike. “I’m going to get some coffee. Either of you want some?”
“Sure,” Don said, but Charlie shook his head. Megan nodded and left.
“Huh,” Charlie said, watching her, and Don looked up with a smile.
“If she thought she could get away with it, she probably would have kissed you,” he said, laughter in his voice. Charlie blinked back at him in bemusement.
For several minutes after that, Don settled himself down with several stacks of paperwork and Charlie pulled out a notebook and his iPod, and they worked silently side-by-side until two shadows brushed by them. Charlie looked up and found two faces grinning down at him, Agents Sinclair and Granger. He stood up, pulling his ear buds out of his ears.
“Hey, Charlie,” Agent Sinclair said, reaching out a hand. Charlie shook it automatically.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you?”
“We’re all the better for seeing you back on your feet,” Sinclair said. “You remember my partner, Colby?”
Charlie did, although like everything that had happened that day, the memory was clouded and distant. He nodded anyways, smiling at Agent Granger and shaking his hand.
“It’s good to see you, Charlie,” Granger said quietly, as though he’d met Charlie more than once. Charlie nodded and returned the sentiment despite the fact that this man was a near stranger.
Then they both went to their separate cubicle and settled down to work. Feeling antsy, Charlie stayed standing.
“Where’s the bathroom, Don?” he asked after a moment, and Don looked up and pointed to the other end of the room. Charlie took a step out of the cubicle and Don rose to his feet.
Charlie stopped and sent his brother an exasperated look, and Don dropped back down in his seat sheepishly.
“I’ll be fine,” he said to his brother reassuringly. “It’s fine.”
Don nodded but didn’t look any happier as Charlie walked away.
Out of Don’s line of sight, Charlie slowed his walk. He had been mostly truthful to his brother; he didn’t remember a lot about that day.
He stopped at the edge of the room and simply stood there for a moment, letting what little he remembered mesh with what was around him right now. He took in the smells of the office, the sounds. The sensation of the air pouring down on him from the air-conditioning vent.
After a moment, he inched his way along until he came to the room. Here, shards of memory flashed. The sound of shattering glass. The onetwothree of deafening gunfire. Fifteen reports in all.
One of which had hit Charlie.
Dreamily, Charlie pushed open the door and stepped in, taking note of the flawless pane of glass, the spotless floor. The same table, unharmed. No whiteboards whatsoever. The damaged one hadn’t been replaced.
He stood in the middle of the room for a moment, remembering what he already knew, and trying to remember what he couldn’t.
Charlie took a deep breath of the sterile office air and knelt by the table. Where it had happened.
Something hit him in the side of the head, like the sting of a wasp.
Kneeling there, Charlie waited for the reaction. Horror, possibly anger. Certainly fear.
But there was nothing. Just those tiny snapshot memories, like watching a movie, or reading a book. Charlie knelt there beside the place where he was shot, and felt nothing.
The door opened then, and he looked up. Don stood in the doorway, face lined with the remnants of shocking grief.
“You okay?” he asked, but Charlie heard something else. Desperate, anguished, his voice cracking, as though he wanted to scream but couldn’t make his voice work.
“Charlie, oh my god, Charlie.”
Charlie stood up, moving towards his brother.
“I’m fine,” he said intently, stopping a few feet away from his brother. “I promise, Don. I’m okay.” And he was, but his memory of his brother’s voice told him that Don might not be, still.
Don nodded and didn’t say anything else for a long moment. His eyes roved from the spot where Charlie had bled on the ground to the pane of glass that had shattered, and his eyes were dark with remembered horror.
When he took Charlie’s elbow again and led him away, back to his desk, Charlie didn’t protest.
Even though he’d never actually gotten to the bathroom.
-----
Charlie was putting his books in his bag when Don came down the stairs, a duffel slung over his shoulder.
“I’m off,” his brother announced, snagging his keys from the kitchen table.
“Bye,” Charlie said, looking up from what he was doing, and Don slapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Lunch this week sometime, okay?” he asked, looking at Charlie intently, and Charlie nodded.
“Come for brisket on Friday,” he said, trying not to sound imploring. Don was going back to his apartment today, and Charlie didn’t want things to go back to the way they’d been before.
“I’ll be here,” Don said, and the way he said it was like a promise. “Have fun at school today.”
Just the thought was enough to make Charlie smile.
“I will,” he said confidently. “Have fun at work.”
“You bet,” Don grinned back, but then the smile faded. “Be careful when you’re biking,” he said, stepping towards the door. But the look in his eyes was intent. This was more than just a token farewell.
“I will,” Charlie promised firmly, and watched his brother nod his head and open the door.
“Lunch this week,” Don reiterated, and then he was gone, out of the house and back to his life.
Charlie blew out a sigh and ran a hand through his short, spiky hair.
No more nightmares, Don, he thought to himself, then picked up his pack and followed his brother’s footsteps out the door.
-----
It took Charlie a long time to figure out what was different about CalSci. And the answer, when he found it, was not about CalSci at all.
It was him.
When he realized it, he found himself falling into his chair and taking deep breaths just to savor the feeling, one he hadn’t felt in…years.
Relaxation.
The compulsion to be at his boards was gone, and with it was the dread that someone would knock on his door and take him away from them. He thought about his classes, set to start later in the week, and didn’t feel resentment for having to teach them. He thought of office hours and didn’t want to turn up his music to avoid the thought.
He took another deep breath and found himself smiling.
Someone knocked on the door, and he turned his head, still smiling. It was Amita, Charlie’s old thesis advisee, smiling tentatively through the open door.
“Hi Amita,” Charlie greeted, standing up. “What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to stop by,” Amita replied, looking slightly embarrassed. “I wanted to say, ‘Welcome back’.”
“Well, thank you, I appreciate it,” Charlie said honestly, coming around the desk. “It feels wonderful to be back.”
Amita took a couple of steps through the door, and Charlie’s attention was suddenly caught by her shirt. It was a pretty blue wraparound type, long and form-fitting. It was the thread designs that caught his interest, the Fibonacci sequence in sparkling silver.
“Oh, I like that,” Charlie said without thinking about it, stepping closer and indicating the shirt. Amita looked down in surprise and confusion. “The stitching,” Charlie qualified. “The Fibonacci sequence. It’s pretty.”
“Oh, thank you,” Amita said, flushing in pleasure. “My mom actually sewed it on for me. It didn’t come this way.”
“She’s very talented,” Charlie commented, cocking his head to admire the design. Then he shook his head. “I’m going off on tangents now,” he said wryly. “How are you, Amita?”
“Quite well,” Amita replied. “And you, Charlie? Is everything…okay?”
Her eyes flicked up as she said it, towards the side of Charlie’s head and the scar above his ear.
“Better than okay,” Charlie said, grinning. “I think the vacation was good for me.”
He felt Amita scrutinize him, and wondered what she saw. But she smiled then, and Charlie was suddenly struck dumb.
“I can see that,” she said, grinning, and Charlie struggled to find something to say that wouldn’t sound idiotic. Amita smiled at him for a moment longer, then seemed to have a thought. “I was thinking of going to the little coffee shop for a mocha,” she said, suddenly sounding shy. “Would you care to join me?”
Don’t say anything stupid, don’t say anything stupid -
“Yes,” Charlie blurted, and blinked in surprise at his own daring. He felt his ears grow hot and found himself smiling at his own silliness. “I’d like that,” he continued, slower. She stared at him for a long moment, smiling that sparkling smile, and Charlie shook himself. “Just…let me get my wallet,” he muttered, turning away to look for it on the mess that was his desk. “Just a minute…”
“Is this is?” Amita asked from behind him, and Charlie turned to look. She was holding the battered black wallet that he’d owned since he was a teenager. He felt himself flush again.
“Yeah,” he said, and had to laugh at himself. Amita grinned with him. “Let’s go,” he said, accepting the wallet and walking with her to the door.
He closed it behind him and didn’t look back.
-----
It was in the mirror that night that he saw was Amita saw, what his father had seen just that evening when he’d done a double-take at dinner when Charlie walked in.
Toweling himself dry, Charlie glanced in the mirror and stilled, staring at his reflection.
He stood like that for a long time, trying to pinpoint what was different about him. What had changed. His first thought was, of course, the hair, shaved on the sides and spiky on top like it had been when he was a teenager and young adult. But there was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger…
Then he stopped, and furrowed his brow at himself. Reached up and touched his own cheek, where the hollows were that he’d had his entire adult life, for as long as he could remember.
They were noticeably shallower now.
Charlie took a step back and tried to look with fresh eyes.
His own face stared back at him, a man touching thirty, his eyes calm and clear for the first time since his mother had died, and his face ever-so-slightly fuller than it had been before.
Maybe this vacation really had been a good thing, he thought, touching his face again.
He didn’t think he minded the effect, at any rate.
-----
He was late arriving for his scheduled lunch with Don on Wednesday and found himself rushing down the street, pedaling his bike furiously. Luckily, the café Don had chosen was only a few minutes from campus, so he was only about ten minutes later than he said he’d be.
He found Don at one of the outdoor tables, nursing an iced tea, in sunglasses and a dark suit.
“Very G-man,” Charlie said, grinning as he pulled up outside the café. Don laughed.
“What can I say?” he shrugged. “Comes with the territory.”
“Says the man who went to work last week in a t-shirt relegated to pajama status fifteen years ago,” Charlie parried back, leaning his bike against the railing. He glanced around for watching eyes then simply hopped over the rails, landing beside his brother and sidling around the table to sit. “Who designed these tables, anyways?” he grunted, his knees bumping into Don’s.”
“Someone who was five foot two and from a family of five foot twos,” Don grumbled in reply, straightening a little from his slouch. Charlie grinned at him. “And that shirt’s comfortable. And I wasn’t on duty.”
“Clearly,” Charlie snorted. “I mean, I wouldn’t have thought you’d have gone out of the house in that old thing.”
“Like you’ve got room to talk,” Don retorted, eyeing Charlie’s baggy jeans and ratty sneakers.
“Touché,” Charlie admitted good naturedly. He glanced up at the waiter who paused by their table to take their drink orders.
“Lemonade,” he said. “Thanks.”
“How’ve things been?” Don asked when the waiter went away, and Charlie found himself blushing. “Ooo hoo,” Don chuckled. “What’s this?”
“Nothing,” Charlie said rapidly, staring down at the tabletop.
“Come on,” Don protested. “Tell me!”
Charlie hesitated, then spilled.
“I have a date tonight,” he blurted, then flushed even hotter. Don grinned broadly.
“Yeah? Do I know her?”
“Maybe,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “Do you remember one of my old thesis advisees, dark hair, Indian descent?”
“Which one?” Don asked, grinning. “The boy or the girl?”
“Don!” Charlie protested, but he couldn’t help but laugh a little, at himself and Don across the table, relaxed and smiling in the sunshine.
“I think so,” Don relented. “Real pretty girl, right?”
Charlie grinned, wide and unashamed, and Don laughed loudly.
“What’s her name?” he asked cheerfully.
“Amita,” Charlie replied. “Amita Ramanujan.”
“Good luck,” Don snickered.
“Shuttup,” Charlie groaned, kicking lightly at Don’s ankles beneath the table. Don twitched away, a wide smile stretching his face as he mercilessly teased his younger brother.
And it was then, the both of them happy in the warm afternoon, that Charlie suddenly caught his breath at the surrealism of the moment. He faltered for a moment, his mind separating from his body in a way that made him feel as if he were watching someone else’s life. Disconnected from the Charlie Eppes sitting at a sidewalk café, laughing with his older brother.
Don seemed to sense his sudden pause. He stilled, watching him.
He and Don - they’d never been on exactly the same page. At least in the way their minds worked.
But at that moment, seeing Don’s dark eyes fasten with his own…
Charlie moved his hand forward across the table and stopped with his fingertips just barely touching Don’s own, flat on the tabletop. He glanced down at them numbly, suddenly confused.
Then Don moved his own hand and brushed his fingers across Charlie’s knuckles, fingers calloused and rough; a wordless reassurance.
Fin
Author: Leah Harper (prairie_city)
Summary: See Story Index
-----
Part Three
-----
He shifted groggily and tried to lift an arm to move the thing off his face, over his mouth and nose and smelling unpleasantly of plastic. Something held down his arm, and he fluttered open his eyes to protest.
There were men in uniforms surrounding him. He was…on the floor?
Charlie lolled his head to one side, looking for his father and Don. Found them, standing back, his brother’s arm across his Dad’s chest, restraining him, tear tracks running down both of their faces.
-----
“What do you mean, you didn’t find anything?”
Don’s raised voice brought Charlie out of the lethargic doze he’d fallen into after the medical personnel had completed their tests. Blinking groggily, he turned his head towards the sound of his brother’s voice, outside the room.
There was more low-toned talking, too quiet for Charlie to understand, and then there were hurried footsteps and the curtain was whipped back viciously. Charlie’s father flung himself into the room, the expression on his face a mixture of fury and terror. Before Charlie had a chance to open his mouth, his father was striding around the bed, and he pulled Charlie upright and into his arms as he sank down to sit on the side of the bed, cradling Charlie’s upper body against his chest.
“It’s okay, Charlie,” Alan said hoarsely, although Charlie was likely the least upset of all of them. He leaned limply against his father and clumsily patted one of his hands, and Alan held him tighter still.
After a moment, a white-coated doctor came in, Don following so closely he was almost walking on the poor man’s heels, wearing an expression of exhausted and impotent rage.
“Hello Charlie,” the doctor said with admirable calmness considering the storm he’d wandered into. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Charlie said drowsily, hoping he’d get to go home if he told them he was fine. The doctor smiled lightly at him and came over to shine a light in his eyes.
“Can you tell me what you remember, Charlie?” the doctor asked, and Charlie blinked and cast his mind back.
“Not much,” he replied finally. “But…it was weird. Everything went…” he trailed off, remembering the way the world around him had gone electric and out of focus, with haloes of pastel pinks and greens, at a loss as to how to explain it. “Like sunspots,” he said finally, helplessly.
“Do you remember what you were doing before you started seizing?” the doctor questioned, looking intently at Charlie.
“We were watching a movie,” Charlie mumbled. He was tired, and wanted to go home. Barring that, he wanted to sleep. “Mission: Impossible. The new one.”
“My wife dragged me to see that movie in theatres,” the doctor said, smiling. “But that’s good, I’m glad you can remember so clearly.” The doctor straightened up. “I’d still like to admit you for the night, for observation. Like I told your family,” here, the doctor canted a wry, sideways glance at Charlie’s father, “the CT scans didn’t find any abnormality. This is undeniably a good thing, although there is always a chance that there is something there that we just can’t see.”
“I want to go home,” Charlie protested, and the doctor looked properly sympathetic.
“I know,” he said quietly. “But I really can’t in good conscience release you yet. We have to make sure that this was a one-time thing.”
Charlie looked helplessly up at his father.
“He’s right, Charlie,” Alan said. “If you have another seizure, you want to be here.”
Charlie gave in, too sleepy to really care at that moment. He nodded his head instead and limply rested it against his father’s shoulder.
Don said something quietly to their father as the doctor nodded goodbye and let himself out. Charlie missed the first half of what he said, but caught, “…post-ictal state and looks really tired. You should maybe let him lay down.”
That sounded like a good idea to Charlie, whose thoughts were sluggish and incomplete. He let his father gently manhandle him back into a prone position.
His eyelids felt like lead weights, but Charlie forced them open for another moment.
“’m okay, Dad,” he mumbled, patting his father’s hand again in reassurance. He didn’t wait for his father’s reaction. Between one breath and the next, he fell away into sleep.
-----
Several times he was woken during the night, each time becoming progressively more alert. Each and every time, his father was nearby, sometimes touching him on the shoulder or forearm or hand, sometimes seated on the other side of the room. The lights never dimmed below neutral, but Charlie found it didn’t bother him until the early hours of the morning, when he woke up enough to realize it.
In and out all night were the nursing staff, checking Charlie’s vitals and asking his father questions, shaking Charlie awake to check his pupils and cognizance. And the entire time, Don was in and out also, in a pattern differing from the nurses but one Charlie could identify and recognize, even in his own bewildered state. It was Don’s ’restless and sleepless’ pattern, going out for coffee, coming back to sit, up within seconds to pace, down again to put his face in his hands, the very picture of exhaustion.
“You should go home and sleep,” Charlie said one of these times, and Don lifted his head in surprise at Charlie’s voice.
“Hey,” Don said, voice soft. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”
“Comes and goes,” Charlie murmured, suppressing a yawn. “But really, Don. You’re exhausted. Go home. Sleep.”
“Wouldn’t be able to even if I wanted to,” Don muttered, flicking a sideways glance at their father. Alan was snoring in his bedside chair, head back and mouth open, dead to the world.
“Too much coffee?” Charlie asked, twitching his lips up into a smile.
“Something like that,” Don replied, returning the smile. The movement only highlighted the deep lines on Don’s face, illuminated the soft, exhausted expression. But Don had already refused to go home - reiterating it now would only irritate him. Instead, Charlie warily pushed himself up onto his elbows, searching for the button that would raise up the head of the bed. Don leaned forward when he saw what Charlie was trying to do, locating and pressing the button with unerring accuracy.
“Thanks,” Charlie murmured, leaning back against the bed with a sigh. He looked around, noting the absence of a window, and the lack of a visible clock. “What time is it?” he wondered, and Don glanced at his clock.
“Almost six,” he replied. “Five thirty.”
“No sun yet,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “I was thinking - two, maybe three o’clock.” He paused thoughtfully, then asked, “Do you think I’ll get to go home today?”
“I have no idea,” Don shook his head, rubbing his palms briskly along his thighs. “D’you want me to call a nurse?”
“Nah,” Charlie sighed. “They’ll come eventually.”
They lapsed into silence then, with Don fighting the urge to lean back and drop off like their father, and Charlie turning inwards, wishing for a pad of paper and a pencil.
And they both sat, and waited.
-----
“You had a good night, then?” the doctor asked, and Charlie nodded. “Then I don’t see any reason you can’t go home.” Charlie cautiously brightened at the thought, and the doctor rifled through several sheets of paper. “It says here that you’re due to get your bandages taken off entirely on Wednesday?” the doctor questioned interrogatively, and Charlie nodded again. “If you want, we can take them off now, rather than have you come back again on Wednesday, then again on Monday to get the stitches out.”
“Okay,” Charlie responded. “That sounds good.”
“All right then, we’ll get that done,” the doctor said, stepping forward and setting his papers down.
Charlie turned and glanced at his father and brother while the doctor cut through the bandages on his head. They were both sitting across the room from him, and smiled at him when his eyes met theirs.
A rush of cold air hit the side of Charlie’s head, and he shivered and lifted a hand. Touching the short, bristly hairs was a jolt - although he’d known intellectually that his surgeon had needed to shave his head, the reality of it was still a surprise.
And it was cold. Charlie cupped his hand over the great swath of short hair, instinctively trying to keep his head warm. He glanced over at his father and Don, expecting them to be grinning at his likely awful haircut - half shaved, half long curls.
But Alan was looking at him with a dull, hollow look, and Don - Don was staring at Charlie’s hand where it covered the scar from the bullet. When Charlie met his gaze, Don dropped his eyes and then buried his face in his hands.
His chest suddenly aching, Charlie turned his own eyes away, reaching up self-consciously to cover the puckered scar he could feel on the side of his head.
Nobody said anything.
-----
On the way home from the hospital, Charlie found a pen in Don’s SUV. He dug around a bit but couldn’t find a piece of blank paper, and so scrawled hurried equations across his forearms and palms, fleeting little thoughts that caught in his head and niggled until he wrote them down, then vanished forever.
As he scribbled, he felt his mind slowing down, calming itself, and Charlie could pull his mind away from the expressions on his father’s and brother’s faces and the way his hair was cut and push it towards the math, the one constant in his life. Full of absolutes.
When they got home, Charlie sent his father a defiant look and headed straight for the garage.
-----
They let him be for several hours, hours which Charlie spent at his blackboards, his hand darting over the surface and Tool blasting in his ears, for once actually enjoying himself. When his hand cramped too badly to continue, Charlie turned his attention to the stack of many boxes in the garage that he’d been sorting through before the shooting.
There was a mass of loose paper on computational fluid dynamics that he was trying to sort out, currently untitled. Charlie said down cross-legged beside the box and shuffled through the notes, trying to find the first page.
In the midst of all the loose papers, a blue folder appeared, familiar although out of place. Frowning, Charlie flipped it open to the title page. A Mathematical Analysis of Friendship Dynamics, it read.
Charlie stared down at it, brooding. For years, thoughts of that time in his life brought a sick, sharp feeling of unhappiness along with it. Now, with all the years intervening, all Charlie felt was a sort of dull despair.
What a stupid kid, he thought flatly, staring at the scrawled handwriting of his twelve-year-old self. Stupid, stupid kid. Charlie tore his eyes away from the paper and the bad memories associated with that time, closed up the old blue folder and put it on top of one of the boxes, fully intending to throw it away.
“Hey Charlie,” came Don’s voice from the door. Charlie jumped, startled.
“Hey, Don,” he said, craning his head around the box blocking his view of the door.
“Came to see if you’re hungry,” Don said, coming around so Charlie could see him. He looked down at Charlie for a moment before his gaze went to the blackboards. Memories haunted Charlie, of the last time his brother stood in the garage, and discomfort twisted in his belly. He looked down at the sheaf of papers in his hand, trying to forget. “Charlie?”
“Yeah?” Charlie looked up.
“You hungry?” Don asked again.
“Is it dinner time already?” Charlie asked, surprised.
“Way past,” Don said. “Dad grilled some chicken on the barbeque. We saved you some, we just thought you might want some time alone for a while.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said, quirking a smile up at his brother. “I’ll come, in a few minutes.” He tossed the loose papers back into the box. He suddenly didn’t feel like going through them at all, and bringing up the memories with them.
“Hey, I recognize this,” Don said suddenly, and Charlie looked over. His stomach lurched.
Don was holding the blue folder, a smile quirking his mouth.
“It’s the friendship math, right?” he asked, looking up at Charlie.
“Don’t,” Charlie said woodenly. “Don’t. I know it’s stupid. I was twelve years old.” He reached out and grabbed the folder away from his brother, feeling his neck and ears grow hot in embarrassment.
“Charlie - ”
Charlie flipped open the folder and seized the papers inside, yanking them out and tearing them in half, all at once, then stacking them together and tearing them in half again. Then he crumpled up the pieces and let them fall, already leaving the garage by the time they settled on the floor. He heard Don say “Charlie,” again, but he didn’t stop.
He’d hoped his father would still be in the kitchen, but slamming through the screen door showed an empty room and the faint sound of a shower running upstairs.
There was the sound of footsteps on the back steps, hard and angry. Charlie turned as the screen door banged open and fell shut again.
“What the hell’s your problem?” Don growled. Charlie spun away and flexed his hands in front of him, fingers fluttering helplessly.
What the hell is my problem? he thought, and flapped his hands again; turned back towards Don.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” he forced out, and couldn’t bring himself to look straight at his brother’s face. Fleeting glances showed Don scowling. Angry.
“Then what was that about?” Don asked, and his voice turned entreating. Again, Charlie turned away; this time stayed that way, shoulders sagging.
“I don’t know, Don,” he choked out. “I - I - ” I’m sorry, he wanted to say, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to apologize for the incident with the math paper or another incident entirely. One that took place in the garage years before, and still stood between them.
There was silence for a long, long moment. Charlie wrapped his arms around his sides and shivered. Upstairs, the drone of the shower continued on unabated.
Then, abruptly, Don said, “It’s because of what I said, isn’t it? After Mom died,” and Charlie’s stomach fell away with a hot, sick swoop.
“W - what?” he whispered. Then he shook his head. “N - no, Don - ” he stuttered, turning back to look at his brother.
“I don’t suppose it would help if I said I was sorry,” Don said flatly. “But I’ll say it again anyways. I’m fucking sorry, Charlie. More than I can say.”
“No, Don,” Charlie managed. “Don’t. Don’t say sorry, okay? You were - you were right.”
“Then what…?” Don started, and then trailed off. Charlie saw the realization as it crept into his eyes, saw Don go suddenly breathless.
“No,” Don choked. “Ah, hell, Charlie. No, I was not right. I couldn’t have been more wrong. That’s what this is about, isn’t it.” Don took a deep breath and shook his head. “You’ve been punishing yourself for three years.”
“No,” Charlie said instantly, automatically; but it was a lie and he knew it, and so did Don.
“I always wondered,” Don said quietly, musing. “You were always so forgiving, our entire lives.” He paused, staring down at the floor. Charlie held his breath and could feel his heart pounding a tattoo against his sternum. “And after I apologized, the first time…” he shook his head. When he spoke again, his voice was choked. “I always thought that you’d never forgiven me.” Don’s head came up and his eyes latched on to Charlie, who was standing frozen in place. “But you haven’t forgiven yourself, have you?”
Charlie broke then, felt his body give and his eyes drop. Breathing suddenly became an effort.
“I left her,” he rasped with effort, forcing the words through a reluctant throat. “Don...I left her."
“Yeah,” Don whispered. “I didn’t understand at the time. Mom tried to explain it to me…” and with sudden inspiration, he said, “she wouldn't want you to blame yourself. And I understand now, Charlie. I really do. When you got shot - ”
Don’s voice failed him for a moment, and he covered his face with one hand. Charlie couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
Don looked up again, and his eyes were tortured. “I’m sorry for what I said,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean it, Charlie. Not then, and especially not now.”
Charlie didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to feel. For so long he’d taken what Don had said to heart, even after Don apologized the first time. But now, what his brother was saying - it lifted a burden off of Charlie that he hadn’t even realized he wore.
Without really meaning to, Charlie found himself nodding, once, and breathing suddenly became easier. He dropped his gaze, unable to keep looking at Don’s pained face.
“Come here,” Don said after a moment, and Charlie looked up, furrowing his brow, and took a few steps, stopping several feet away and looking at his brother questioningly. Don beckoned him closer. Blinking, Charlie took another small step, bewildered. Don shook his head. In exasperation? Charlie didn’t know.
At any rate, Don gave a sigh and stepped forward himself, slowly, as though trying not to startle a wild animal. Charlie frowned, feeling uncomfortably like he was invading Don’s precious personal space, off-limits since high school. He shifted in discomfort, confused.
Don wrapped his fingers gently around Charlie’s upper arms, staring into Charlie’s face, frowning in something like concentration. And then, simply and calmly and without any ceremony or sign of discomfort, Don released Charlie’s biceps and instead wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders and ribs, pulling him close and tucking his head into his own shoulder. Charlie started a little in surprise and stood stiffly for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Don was hugging him. And while he stood there like a statue, Don continued to hold him close, strong and confident and safe.
All at once, Charlie collapsed against him, soaking in that feeling of security and leaning into his brother’s strength, pressing his cheek against Don’s shoulder. In response, Don tightened his grip and rested his own cheek against Charlie’s short, bristly strands of hair and the bullet scar beneath them.
Charlie let out his breath in a shuddering sigh and relished the first hug he’d received from his brother in nearly twenty years.
-----
Something woke Charlie up that night. He lay wide awake, trying to figure out what had woken him. Everything was silent, and so still that the blackness pressed close and heavy. After a long moment, Charlie felt his heart slow and let out the breath he was holding.
Then he heard it again. A slight rustling from the next room, the one that Don was using. A barely audible sound, like a grunt of protest. Then…rasping. So soft he could only hear it if he held his breath and listened with everything he had. Short, soft hisses, like someone gasping for breath.
Don, Charlie thought. And then on the heels of that realization came another one. Panic attack.
Charlie sat up, kicking off the blankets and almost falling out of bed. With the ease of long practice he avoided the floorboards that tended to groan and made his way out into the hall and down to Don’s old room, now made guest room. The door swung open silently on well oiled hinges, and in the glow of the digital clock Charlie could see his brother. He paused for a moment, confused.
Don was still asleep.
Disoriented, Charlie started to back away, convinced he’d been hearing things because clearly, Don wasn’t having a panic attack at all.
But then Don shifted, restlessly, and made that sound again. Deep in his chest - a protest, a denial. Charlie paused and frowned, and Don’s mouth moved silently in the very slight glow.
Curious, Charlie moved closer, trying to hear.
Don said it again, a barely audible breath of air between his lips. “Charlie.”
Charlie swallowed convulsively and watched Don’s face twist, just slightly, a deep furrow appearing between his eyes.
He was having a nightmare, Charlie realized, somewhat surprised. A nightmare that involved Charlie. And suddenly he remembered his father’s words, after seeing Don’s panic attack at the base of the stairs.
“Can you imagine finding someone you love in a pool of his own blood, with a gunshot wound to the head?”
Charlie hesitated, confused. Should he wake Don up? It didn’t seem like a particularly violent nightmare. He shifted uncertainly, undecided, and Don made that sound again. Just as quiet as before, and full of horrible, twisting grief.
The sound yanked Charlie forward.
“Hey,” he murmured, leaning over the bed. He hesitated, then put his hand on Don’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said again. “Wake up.”
Don’s eyes opened and glinted in the red glow, still seeing his dream world.
“Charlie?” he murmured, his voice thick. His hand brushed Charlie’s wrist and his fingers grasped on and held.
“Yeah, hey,” Charlie responded. “It’s okay.”
Don tugged on Charlie’s wrist, and he obligingly climbed onto the bed beside Don, laying on his side facing his brother. Don stared at him for a minute, looking confused. After a moment, he reached out and cupped his hand over the short part of Charlie’s hair, over the bullet scar, as though his hand would keep the bullet from finding its mark. And who knew, Charlie thought.
Maybe in Don’s dreams, it would.
Don sighed then, deep and weary, and his eyes fluttered shut. With his hand cupping Charlie’s head, he sank back into the sleep he hadn’t ever really come out of.
His hand was warm, and Charlie was surrounded by the smell of his brother. Clean and comforting.
Sleep tugged at Charlie’s eyes, and he didn’t resist the pull.
-----
There was coffee in the pot when Charlie stumbled down to the kitchen early the next morning, but Don was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, Charlie dug around for the sugar and poured himself a cup of coffee, glancing at the clock as he did so. It was not quite six-thirty, and Charlie’s dad was still in bed.
Which was where Charlie would be if he hadn’t fallen asleep on top of his brother’s covers last night, only to awaken to the chill of morning with the other side of the bed empty.
Don had been in the in-between state of sleep and wakefulness when Charlie had gone in last night, and he wasn’t quite sure Don even remembered it. A slight twist of discomfort curled in his stomach at the thought, and he took a hurried gulp of coffee to cover it. In all likelihood, Don had woken that morning to find his baby brother asleep beside him with no memory of how he’d come to be there.
Frankly, Charlie was surprised that Don hadn’t woken him with a good solid boot off the bed.
But that wasn’t Don anymore, Charlie remembered. At least, he didn’t think so.
He remembered the Don from yesterday, and the embrace they’d shared. And he remembered the Don in high school, both guardian angel and worst enemy.
Charlie shivered and curled his fingers around his cooling cup, flicking his eyes around the kitchen in an attempt to focus on something.
Then quiet footsteps sounded outside, coming up the wooden steps to the kitchen door. Charlie turned as Don shouldered through, an empty coffee cup in one hand and a familiar blue folder tucked under his elbow.
“Don…?” Charlie asked, setting his coffee down on the counter. Don put his cup down as well and grasped the edge of the folder, offering it to Charlie. He reached out to take it and flipped it open.
A Mathematical Analysis of Friendship Dynamics looked back at him, badly crumpled, torn into fourths, and carefully straightened and taped back together again.
“Charlie, I don’t know what - I mean, I know you were only twelve and everything, and I don’t know anything about the math and I can’t make heads or tails of it, but…”
Charlie looked up at his brother, fascinated by the uncertainty in his voice, the non-linear sequence of his words.
“It’s not stupid,” Don finally got out. “It’s not stupid, even if you were only twelve when you wrote it. And I don’t know what kind of headspace you were in at the time, but nothing about you is stupid.”
Charlie tried to wrap his mind around what Don was saying, in his own backward and half-strangled way. He felt a smile quirk his mouth.
“You read this?” he asked, looking down at the paper again.
“Tried to, anyway,” Don replied, sitting down at the table with a smile of his own. “Twice. I tried to read it in…what was it, eleventh grade?”
“Really?” Charlie asked, grinning wider. “Why on earth?”
“Oh, you know…” Don got up and went to get another cup of coffee. “Thought I could pick up a girl.”
Charlie gave a bark of laughter.
“I’ve actually read a lot of your stuff,” Don continued, softer, and Charlie stopped grinning, suddenly unsure what to say.
He looked down at the folder, laying open in front of him on the counter.
“I haven’t read this paper since I wrote it,” he finally admitted quietly.
“Well, maybe you should do that before you decide to throw it out,” Don replied, just as quiet, and Charlie flipped the folder closed and rested his hand on it contemplatively. The revelation that Don read his work was a new and confusing thought.
“Do you know,” he said abruptly, looking up at Don, “that you can’t break spaghetti in half by bending it?”
Don blinked at Charlie’s sudden change in topic.
“Can’t say I that I do,” he said, raising a questioning eyebrow. “Why can’t you break spaghetti in half by bending it?”
“Fragmentation theory,” Charlie said, reaching into the cupboard above his head and pulling out an unopened package of standard spaghetti. He took the package to the table with him, beckoning at Don with one hand.
“Richard Feynman and Danny Hillis took twenty years to figure it out,” he explained, pulling a piece of spaghetti out of the package. “They once spent an entire night bending spaghetti, and every time…” Charlie paused and bent a piece of spaghetti. It splintered and several pieces shot away to ping against the far wall. Don jumped and Charlie smiled. “…it breaks into three or more pieces.”
“Let me try,” Don said, reaching out for the package of spaghetti. He watched carefully as he bent it, and the middle piece leapt high in the air before bouncing back down on the table. Charlie grinned at Don’s expression.
“Is there a purpose to this conversation?” Don asked after a moment, slowly bending another piece.
“Does anyone really need a reason to bend spaghetti to watch it break?” Charlie asked philosophically, and watched another piece splinter. Across the table, Don grinned.
-----
“My leave is up tomorrow,” Don said casually over French toast. At the stove, Alan straightened up from flipping another piece of bread. Charlie stopped sweeping up bits of spaghetti, frowning at the tone in Don’s voice.
“That’s…good?” he tried, confused, and Don flashed him a quick smile.
“Yeah, my shrink - ” Don shook his head. “My therapist signed off on me the other day.”
“No more panic attacks?” Alan asked, turning away from the stove.
“No,” Don replied. Short and with finality, clearly not wanting to talk about it. Charlie swept the floor lightly a few times, contemplating. Don was returning to the scene where Charlie had been shot, preparing to go back to work even after having been so negatively affected that he’d had to have a therapist sign off on his mental stability.
Frowning thoughtfully, Charlie went on sweeping.
-----
Charlie came stumbling down the stairs at six the next morning, showered, dressed, and with his newly buzzed head freezing in the chill morning air. He hit the bottom and flipped the light on in the dim kitchen, rooting around for the coffee grounds and measuring it out to start brewing. Upstairs, he heard Don stagger out of bed and make for the bathroom.
Charlie smiled to himself. Don had always been a creature of habit, one that was easy to anticipate. Even years later, Charlie knew what he had to do to catch his brother before he left.
He was standing at the counter with a large mug of coffee when Don came blearily down the stairs, already perking up at the smell of fresh coffee.
“Wow, Charlie, thanks,” he mumbled, pouring himself a cup.
“Sure,” Charlie said casually, watching as his brother took a gulp and started the wake-up process. Charlie shook his head slightly. He’d never been a big coffee drinker. He’d drink one with other people, but most of the time he simply staggered down the stairs and straight out the door in the mornings. He and Don both had addictive personalities - Charlie went out of his way to avoid the addictions that he could.
Watching Don struggle to wake up, he was glad that he did.
After a few minutes, Don checked his watch, looking a little more alert.
“You going to school?” he asked, raising his eyes to Charlie’s.
“No,” Charlie replied quietly.
“Why are you up so damned early, then?” Don asked curiously. Charlie dropped his gaze uncomfortably. He hadn’t asked his brother for something like this in…well, in a very long time.
“I want to go with you today,” he blurted out in a rush. “To the office, I mean.”
There was a stunned silence, and Charlie raised his head. Don’s jaw was slack, but as Charlie watched, his brother snapped his teeth together and his jaw muscles rippled.
“No,” Don said with finality. “No way.”
“Why not?” Charlie asked, struggling to stay calm and not let his voice shake. Don shook his head, mouth opening and then shutting again voicelessly. “Don?”
“You know why!” Don said, finally, raising his voice. “No way, Charlie. Not going to happen.”
Charlie took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, feeling his fingers tremble. He twisted them together.
“Why not?” he asked again, and his time his voice did shake. He winced slightly.
Don surged to his feet in agitation, coffee cup in hand. He turned away, towards the counter and the coffee pot, busying himself with pouring more coffee into his cup, despite it only being half empty.
“Don,” Charlie said quietly.
Don stilled at the counter, his shoulders slumped.
“Last time I took you there, someone shot you,” he said, so quietly Charlie almost missed it. Charlie rose to his feet and took a step towards him.
“You’re a reasonable man, Don,” Charlie murmured. “You must know, the odds of that happening again are…”
“Astronomical, I know,” Don replied wryly, turning slowly to face him. “And yes, I am a reasonable man, and this isn’t a reasonable fear. But fears rarely are, Charlie, and I can’t…I can’t…”
“You can’t blame yourself,” Charlie said, surprised. “Don, you don’t blame yourself, do you?”
Don shook his head, once, like he was trying to stop hearing Charlie’s voice. He winced.
“I try not to,” he said finally, hoarsely. “I know in my brain that I could never have known, but…”
“I know,” Charlie said quietly. For a long moment there was silence, each one remembering their past, and their mother’s slow death and the terrible fight that came after.
Charlie broke free of the memories first.
“I still want to come with you,” he said, and Don scowled, opened his mouth. Charlie blurted out, “Please.”
And Don froze, a conflicted expression spreading across his features. He shut his mouth and looked down at the ground, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath and nodded once, reluctantly. Charlie let out a breath of relief. “Thank you,” he whispered, and Don nodded again.
-----
Don wouldn’t let go of Charlie’s elbow.
Not that Charlie was really doing anything about it, but it was disconcerting all the same, in a nice sort of way.
It kept the experience of walking into the FBI offices from being too familiar, too much like déjà vu. In fact, it was different enough to be surreal. This wasn’t the Don that Charlie had become accustomed to in the last three years, hard-assed and angry and strong as hell.
This Don was openly nervous, his eyes darting around the rooms, checking out potential spots that may or may not be hiding a madman poised to go on a shooting spree. This Don had a hold of Charlie’s elbow with a grip that dared anyone to pull them apart.
It wasn't that Charlie disliked the feeling - quite the opposite, in fact - but it was so disconcerting that he found he couldn’t lift his eyes from his shoes while they stood in line at the security gate.
Inside the bullpen, Charlie made himself look around. He remembered the sound of shattering glass, the sharp, deafening reports of a service weapon being discharged, the distant, startled cries of support staff, the shouts of FBI agents.
Charlie shivered.
Something wet beneath his fingers.
Charlie shook his head, pushing the thought away, along with the memory of the coppery scent of blood. Don’s fingers were gripping his elbow, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to be grounding. Charlie looked up at his brother’s hard face gratefully, and Don looked down at him and flashed a quick smile.
There was something in Don’s eyes that told Charlie that his brother was remembering that moment too. Charlie reached up with his other hand and reassuringly patted Don’s fingers where they held on to him, trying to tell his brother without words that it was okay, that everything was okay.
That something in Don’s eyes relaxed just slightly, and his fingers followed suit.
Then they were in the bullpen and people were turning to look at them. There was the sounds of the office - fax machines, telephones, low-toned voices, only now they were joined by soft greetings. Left and right - hi Charlie’s and hey there, glad to see you’re okay’s.
Charlie nodded at each of the greetings and smiled at people who smiled first, but otherwise remained intent on the far side of the room where Don’s desk was. As they moved, Don snagged a rolling chair from another, empty desk and pushed it into place beside his own.
“Here, take a seat,” Don said quietly to him, finally letting go of Charlie’s elbow. “Today is mostly just paperwork. Did you bring anything to work on, or did you want to…see…?”
Don trailed off, looking confused and hesitant. Charlie couldn’t help grinning at him.
“I’m fine, Don,” he said reassuringly. “I don’t remember a whole lot. It isn’t the same for me as it is for you.”
It was the first time Charlie had said as much, and he was surprised at the look of intense relief that spread across his brother’s face. Don all but collapsed in his chair, a breath of air escaping in a rush.
“Really?” he asked, and to Charlie he looked painfully hopeful. “You don’t remember anything?”
Charlie faltered in the face of Don’s strange reaction, backpedaling in surprise.
“Well no, I remember some things,” he stuttered, confused. “It’s just…everything’s kind of foggy, I guess. Distant.”
“So…it doesn’t scare you, being back here?” Don whispered, and Charlie frowned.
“No, not really,” he murmured in reply. “It’s a little nerve-wracking, I guess, but…no. It seems like a dream, almost. I barely remember arriving that day, in fact.”
It was like he’d taken a load of Don’s shoulders, whose expression was one of crushing relief. He opened his mouth to say more, but the elevator dinged. Charlie turned to look as Agent Reeves came in.
She caught his eye and smiled wide.
“Charlie!” she greeted when she got closer. “It’s great to see you.” She leaned over and gave him a one-armed hug; he scrambled to his feet as she did so, feeling himself flush in embarrassment.
“Agent Reeves, hi,” he said, squeezing her elbow lightly in apology. “You too.”
She grinned at him. “Just Megan, please.”
“Megan, then,” he acknowledged, and she smiled at him for a long moment, seemingly memorizing his face. Charlie saw her take note of his short, short hair, and saw her eyes fasten on the knotted scar above his ear for an instant before flicking away again. Charlie flushed again and glanced at Don, sitting at his desk and watching them. He smiled when Charlie looked at him but didn’t say anything.
Megan took his hand and squeezed it gently before releasing him.
“It’s wonderful to see you, truly,” she said again, backing away a step. She seemed to realize his discomfiture, however, because she quickly became businesslike. “I’m going to get some coffee. Either of you want some?”
“Sure,” Don said, but Charlie shook his head. Megan nodded and left.
“Huh,” Charlie said, watching her, and Don looked up with a smile.
“If she thought she could get away with it, she probably would have kissed you,” he said, laughter in his voice. Charlie blinked back at him in bemusement.
For several minutes after that, Don settled himself down with several stacks of paperwork and Charlie pulled out a notebook and his iPod, and they worked silently side-by-side until two shadows brushed by them. Charlie looked up and found two faces grinning down at him, Agents Sinclair and Granger. He stood up, pulling his ear buds out of his ears.
“Hey, Charlie,” Agent Sinclair said, reaching out a hand. Charlie shook it automatically.
“Hello,” he said. “How are you?”
“We’re all the better for seeing you back on your feet,” Sinclair said. “You remember my partner, Colby?”
Charlie did, although like everything that had happened that day, the memory was clouded and distant. He nodded anyways, smiling at Agent Granger and shaking his hand.
“It’s good to see you, Charlie,” Granger said quietly, as though he’d met Charlie more than once. Charlie nodded and returned the sentiment despite the fact that this man was a near stranger.
Then they both went to their separate cubicle and settled down to work. Feeling antsy, Charlie stayed standing.
“Where’s the bathroom, Don?” he asked after a moment, and Don looked up and pointed to the other end of the room. Charlie took a step out of the cubicle and Don rose to his feet.
Charlie stopped and sent his brother an exasperated look, and Don dropped back down in his seat sheepishly.
“I’ll be fine,” he said to his brother reassuringly. “It’s fine.”
Don nodded but didn’t look any happier as Charlie walked away.
Out of Don’s line of sight, Charlie slowed his walk. He had been mostly truthful to his brother; he didn’t remember a lot about that day.
He stopped at the edge of the room and simply stood there for a moment, letting what little he remembered mesh with what was around him right now. He took in the smells of the office, the sounds. The sensation of the air pouring down on him from the air-conditioning vent.
After a moment, he inched his way along until he came to the room. Here, shards of memory flashed. The sound of shattering glass. The onetwothree of deafening gunfire. Fifteen reports in all.
One of which had hit Charlie.
Dreamily, Charlie pushed open the door and stepped in, taking note of the flawless pane of glass, the spotless floor. The same table, unharmed. No whiteboards whatsoever. The damaged one hadn’t been replaced.
He stood in the middle of the room for a moment, remembering what he already knew, and trying to remember what he couldn’t.
Charlie took a deep breath of the sterile office air and knelt by the table. Where it had happened.
Something hit him in the side of the head, like the sting of a wasp.
Kneeling there, Charlie waited for the reaction. Horror, possibly anger. Certainly fear.
But there was nothing. Just those tiny snapshot memories, like watching a movie, or reading a book. Charlie knelt there beside the place where he was shot, and felt nothing.
The door opened then, and he looked up. Don stood in the doorway, face lined with the remnants of shocking grief.
“You okay?” he asked, but Charlie heard something else. Desperate, anguished, his voice cracking, as though he wanted to scream but couldn’t make his voice work.
“Charlie, oh my god, Charlie.”
Charlie stood up, moving towards his brother.
“I’m fine,” he said intently, stopping a few feet away from his brother. “I promise, Don. I’m okay.” And he was, but his memory of his brother’s voice told him that Don might not be, still.
Don nodded and didn’t say anything else for a long moment. His eyes roved from the spot where Charlie had bled on the ground to the pane of glass that had shattered, and his eyes were dark with remembered horror.
When he took Charlie’s elbow again and led him away, back to his desk, Charlie didn’t protest.
Even though he’d never actually gotten to the bathroom.
-----
Charlie was putting his books in his bag when Don came down the stairs, a duffel slung over his shoulder.
“I’m off,” his brother announced, snagging his keys from the kitchen table.
“Bye,” Charlie said, looking up from what he was doing, and Don slapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“Lunch this week sometime, okay?” he asked, looking at Charlie intently, and Charlie nodded.
“Come for brisket on Friday,” he said, trying not to sound imploring. Don was going back to his apartment today, and Charlie didn’t want things to go back to the way they’d been before.
“I’ll be here,” Don said, and the way he said it was like a promise. “Have fun at school today.”
Just the thought was enough to make Charlie smile.
“I will,” he said confidently. “Have fun at work.”
“You bet,” Don grinned back, but then the smile faded. “Be careful when you’re biking,” he said, stepping towards the door. But the look in his eyes was intent. This was more than just a token farewell.
“I will,” Charlie promised firmly, and watched his brother nod his head and open the door.
“Lunch this week,” Don reiterated, and then he was gone, out of the house and back to his life.
Charlie blew out a sigh and ran a hand through his short, spiky hair.
No more nightmares, Don, he thought to himself, then picked up his pack and followed his brother’s footsteps out the door.
-----
It took Charlie a long time to figure out what was different about CalSci. And the answer, when he found it, was not about CalSci at all.
It was him.
When he realized it, he found himself falling into his chair and taking deep breaths just to savor the feeling, one he hadn’t felt in…years.
Relaxation.
The compulsion to be at his boards was gone, and with it was the dread that someone would knock on his door and take him away from them. He thought about his classes, set to start later in the week, and didn’t feel resentment for having to teach them. He thought of office hours and didn’t want to turn up his music to avoid the thought.
He took another deep breath and found himself smiling.
Someone knocked on the door, and he turned his head, still smiling. It was Amita, Charlie’s old thesis advisee, smiling tentatively through the open door.
“Hi Amita,” Charlie greeted, standing up. “What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to stop by,” Amita replied, looking slightly embarrassed. “I wanted to say, ‘Welcome back’.”
“Well, thank you, I appreciate it,” Charlie said honestly, coming around the desk. “It feels wonderful to be back.”
Amita took a couple of steps through the door, and Charlie’s attention was suddenly caught by her shirt. It was a pretty blue wraparound type, long and form-fitting. It was the thread designs that caught his interest, the Fibonacci sequence in sparkling silver.
“Oh, I like that,” Charlie said without thinking about it, stepping closer and indicating the shirt. Amita looked down in surprise and confusion. “The stitching,” Charlie qualified. “The Fibonacci sequence. It’s pretty.”
“Oh, thank you,” Amita said, flushing in pleasure. “My mom actually sewed it on for me. It didn’t come this way.”
“She’s very talented,” Charlie commented, cocking his head to admire the design. Then he shook his head. “I’m going off on tangents now,” he said wryly. “How are you, Amita?”
“Quite well,” Amita replied. “And you, Charlie? Is everything…okay?”
Her eyes flicked up as she said it, towards the side of Charlie’s head and the scar above his ear.
“Better than okay,” Charlie said, grinning. “I think the vacation was good for me.”
He felt Amita scrutinize him, and wondered what she saw. But she smiled then, and Charlie was suddenly struck dumb.
“I can see that,” she said, grinning, and Charlie struggled to find something to say that wouldn’t sound idiotic. Amita smiled at him for a moment longer, then seemed to have a thought. “I was thinking of going to the little coffee shop for a mocha,” she said, suddenly sounding shy. “Would you care to join me?”
Don’t say anything stupid, don’t say anything stupid -
“Yes,” Charlie blurted, and blinked in surprise at his own daring. He felt his ears grow hot and found himself smiling at his own silliness. “I’d like that,” he continued, slower. She stared at him for a long moment, smiling that sparkling smile, and Charlie shook himself. “Just…let me get my wallet,” he muttered, turning away to look for it on the mess that was his desk. “Just a minute…”
“Is this is?” Amita asked from behind him, and Charlie turned to look. She was holding the battered black wallet that he’d owned since he was a teenager. He felt himself flush again.
“Yeah,” he said, and had to laugh at himself. Amita grinned with him. “Let’s go,” he said, accepting the wallet and walking with her to the door.
He closed it behind him and didn’t look back.
-----
It was in the mirror that night that he saw was Amita saw, what his father had seen just that evening when he’d done a double-take at dinner when Charlie walked in.
Toweling himself dry, Charlie glanced in the mirror and stilled, staring at his reflection.
He stood like that for a long time, trying to pinpoint what was different about him. What had changed. His first thought was, of course, the hair, shaved on the sides and spiky on top like it had been when he was a teenager and young adult. But there was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger…
Then he stopped, and furrowed his brow at himself. Reached up and touched his own cheek, where the hollows were that he’d had his entire adult life, for as long as he could remember.
They were noticeably shallower now.
Charlie took a step back and tried to look with fresh eyes.
His own face stared back at him, a man touching thirty, his eyes calm and clear for the first time since his mother had died, and his face ever-so-slightly fuller than it had been before.
Maybe this vacation really had been a good thing, he thought, touching his face again.
He didn’t think he minded the effect, at any rate.
-----
He was late arriving for his scheduled lunch with Don on Wednesday and found himself rushing down the street, pedaling his bike furiously. Luckily, the café Don had chosen was only a few minutes from campus, so he was only about ten minutes later than he said he’d be.
He found Don at one of the outdoor tables, nursing an iced tea, in sunglasses and a dark suit.
“Very G-man,” Charlie said, grinning as he pulled up outside the café. Don laughed.
“What can I say?” he shrugged. “Comes with the territory.”
“Says the man who went to work last week in a t-shirt relegated to pajama status fifteen years ago,” Charlie parried back, leaning his bike against the railing. He glanced around for watching eyes then simply hopped over the rails, landing beside his brother and sidling around the table to sit. “Who designed these tables, anyways?” he grunted, his knees bumping into Don’s.”
“Someone who was five foot two and from a family of five foot twos,” Don grumbled in reply, straightening a little from his slouch. Charlie grinned at him. “And that shirt’s comfortable. And I wasn’t on duty.”
“Clearly,” Charlie snorted. “I mean, I wouldn’t have thought you’d have gone out of the house in that old thing.”
“Like you’ve got room to talk,” Don retorted, eyeing Charlie’s baggy jeans and ratty sneakers.
“Touché,” Charlie admitted good naturedly. He glanced up at the waiter who paused by their table to take their drink orders.
“Lemonade,” he said. “Thanks.”
“How’ve things been?” Don asked when the waiter went away, and Charlie found himself blushing. “Ooo hoo,” Don chuckled. “What’s this?”
“Nothing,” Charlie said rapidly, staring down at the tabletop.
“Come on,” Don protested. “Tell me!”
Charlie hesitated, then spilled.
“I have a date tonight,” he blurted, then flushed even hotter. Don grinned broadly.
“Yeah? Do I know her?”
“Maybe,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “Do you remember one of my old thesis advisees, dark hair, Indian descent?”
“Which one?” Don asked, grinning. “The boy or the girl?”
“Don!” Charlie protested, but he couldn’t help but laugh a little, at himself and Don across the table, relaxed and smiling in the sunshine.
“I think so,” Don relented. “Real pretty girl, right?”
Charlie grinned, wide and unashamed, and Don laughed loudly.
“What’s her name?” he asked cheerfully.
“Amita,” Charlie replied. “Amita Ramanujan.”
“Good luck,” Don snickered.
“Shuttup,” Charlie groaned, kicking lightly at Don’s ankles beneath the table. Don twitched away, a wide smile stretching his face as he mercilessly teased his younger brother.
And it was then, the both of them happy in the warm afternoon, that Charlie suddenly caught his breath at the surrealism of the moment. He faltered for a moment, his mind separating from his body in a way that made him feel as if he were watching someone else’s life. Disconnected from the Charlie Eppes sitting at a sidewalk café, laughing with his older brother.
Don seemed to sense his sudden pause. He stilled, watching him.
He and Don - they’d never been on exactly the same page. At least in the way their minds worked.
But at that moment, seeing Don’s dark eyes fasten with his own…
Charlie moved his hand forward across the table and stopped with his fingertips just barely touching Don’s own, flat on the tabletop. He glanced down at them numbly, suddenly confused.
Then Don moved his own hand and brushed his fingers across Charlie’s knuckles, fingers calloused and rough; a wordless reassurance.
Fin