Promises
Genre: hurt/comfort
Warnings: major character injury, and medical-ish stuff, and sadness, and extended Kleenex-worthy scenes, aaaaaah!
POVs: Don, Alan, Charlie
Summary: installment 1 of some AUs I have in my head about points in this show where things could have gone very differently and very badly… this is set in Season 1, episode 10 "Dirty bomb".
*********Numb3rs**********
Don paced forward, watching his FBI agents as they headed out to search the square. He could have joined them—applied his impatience to something more productive than watching them work—but there was only eleven minutes left on the clock, and someone needed to be ready to pull his team out at six minutes, or call in explosives handlers if they found something anywhere in this square. There was a dirty bomb somewhere in this square, and Don wanted to have his team well out of the way before the clock ticked down—
Fifty feet away, a trashcan disappeared in a wall of flames.
Don staggered under the concussive wave of pressure that hit him. Two of the DOE's agents had just been walking towards… All he could see was the mushrooming fire where they'd been standing. He threw an arm up against the intense blaze, trying to get a better look—trying to glimpse them. There. The men had been wearing full decontamination suits, and Don caught a glimpse of one prone. Without further thought he ran forward to help.
Ten minutes later, Don sat on the back edge of a fast-responding ambulance truckbed, and watched, this time, as the responding paramedics fought to salvage the two men Don had helped to rescue. Don wasn't really paying attention at this point; rather, he was leaning, with elbows on knees, waiting for the adrenaline, which was still coursing through his body, to evantually subside as he breathed through his nose. He'd approached, maybe, within twenty feet of the blast? The bomb—he didn't need one of Charlie's equations to tell him what that probably meant if the bomb was dirty. Nonetheless, he found himself shakily punching in Charlie's number into his cell, mostly to hear his voice.
"Hey, Charlie."
"Yeah—"
"Tell Dad he was right on the money."
"Yeah?"
"We got all the civilians cleared out in time." Running a hand through his hair. "No, Charlie, not exactly—look, I'll call you back when we know more, I guess, okay?" No, everyone who had been there was not okay.
David and Terry stepped over to him, keeping their distance. "They're setting up some kind of portable radiation showers," Terry volunteered, her face betraying worry she was keeping out of her voice. "They've confirmed the bomb was dirty."
Oh, man. Don felt the world spinning under him. "Hey, you guys had probably better keep your distance," he said. "I was pretty close to the blast radius."
David nodded, sympathetically. "We have to get checked for radiation," he said, pointing to the technician who was running a Geiger counter over one of the team of DOE agents.
"Right."
The man finished and stepped over to them. He motioned for David to hold out his arms. "I'll get you guys done before I do his scan," he said, indicating Don. He waved the Geiger counter over the tall agent's body. "Okay, looks like you picked up a fairly minor dose. Upwind of the blast?" He asked.
"Yeah, I think so," David nodded.
"Right," The technician said. "Okay. I'm going to have you decontaminate and change. Sorry, the clothes are going to have to be disposed of. But you should be fine." He turned to Terry and repeated the procedure.
"I was with him," she said, tilting her head toward David by way of explanation.
"Okay," the technician said again. "Same instructions go for you. Your dose was a little lower than his."
They all turned to Don, who had remained sitting on the edge of the ambulance. He shifted to his feet and stood.
"You were near the blast?" the technician asked matter-of-factly.
"Yeah," Don agreed. "Twenty feet out or so."
"Okay," the tech said approaching, Geiger counter already in hand. "Okay, I'm going to need you to strip off your outer clothes. Let me get you a bag." He came back with a heavy plastic bag in hand. "Tie the bag, set it down and step about five feet away from it. Shoes go in the bag. Sorry, Agent."
Don nodded. He pulled off his tie, jacket and shoes first. Soon he was standing in t shirt and boxers, only. The spring breeze held a slight chill in it.
"That's good enough," the tech said as Don began fumbling with his watch band. "We can probably decontaminate the metal."
"Great," Don said. He didn't feel great. He felt worried; he wished the technician would hurry up and tell him—tell him how bad it was. The man moved back in, scanning around and under his arms, across and down his legs. The technician kept a studied look of impassive professionalism on his face. The counter ticked far more rapidly, Don thought, than it had for either David or Terry. Don thought he saw the technician's expression falter, than replace itself.
"Okay," the man said, "let's get you to the shower to be decontaminated. Then you're going to have to be seen for medical examination."
"Um," Don said. "Then I guess my exposure was pretty high, I take it?" He felt his blood pound in his ears almost too hard to hear the technician's noncommittal reply.
"Well know more when we've factored in the direct blast exposure," he hedged. "But yes, the exposure was high enough to pose risk."
Don made his way over to the makeshift decontamination shower that had been set up by the radiation disposal team. From the looks people were giving him and the way they kept their distance, it was pretty clear they thought he was glowing like, well, a canister of nuclear waste. They must have gotten told by radio; no one would quite make eye contact. "I just—" he tried to catch someone's eye and pointed. "Okay."
The shower had a pull handle and an overhead spray that poured water down on his head and into a plastic liner. He scrubbed himself under it for a full five minutes, until he was given the go ahead to come back out. A set of medical scrubs awaited him behind the screens set up at its entrance. He thought wistfully about his shoes as he put the scrubs on. "Okay, coming out," he announced in case anyone was waiting. A paramedic he hadn't met yet was ready for him. David and Terry were there too, standing well back. The medic, wearing gloves, guided him by the arm to a different waiting ambulance. The asphalt was hot under his bare feet.
"It's Agent Eppes, isn't it?" the paramedic asked, pulling off her stethoscope.
He nodded.
"I just need a set of vitals," she said. "We'll be taking you to Mercy."
"Okay. Hey, David?"
"Yeah, Boss?" David and Terry looked awkwardly like they were trying not to look worried.
"They took my cellphone. Can you give my dad a call?"
"Uh, sure." Don was about to give the number but David raised a palm. "Don't worry, I've got it." He was already dialing.
Don wished he could hear what was being said.
"All done, Agent Eppes. We'll be heading out in a minute. How are you feeling?"
"I don't know," Don admitted. "A little nauseous, I guess."
"Okay. Let's get you comfortable." She made him lie down on the ambulance gurney and began affixing monitors.
"We'll meet you at the hospital," Terry called out. "Alan and Charlie are on their way too."
*********Numb3rs**********
By the time Don had reached Mercy Hospital, he was reasonably certain it wasn't just the nerves. He was becoming unreasonably shaky, and during the short ambulance ride he'd vomited up everything he'd eaten that day and, it felt like, the past week, to his chagrin. The paramedic was understanding and attentive, and did her best to keep him calm during the ride. As she and her partner wheeled his gurney into the ER, his father and Charlie met him.
"Donnie!" Alan looked frantic. "David wouldn't tell us anything except that there was a bomb…" but he was appraising Don's lack of apparent injuries. "You're in one piece, thank God. I was so worried…"
The paramedics were pushing forward, Charlie and Alan sticking close. "Dad—Dad." Charlie raised a hand to interrupt his father. "The bomb was dirty, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, Charlie." Don felt weak. He could see the fear in Charlie's eyes and he could do nothing to assuage it. The paramedics were pushing Alan and Cbarlie aside and Don was surrounded by a flurry of medical personnel; and he caught a last glimpse of Alan's worried face as the treatment doors swung shut behind him.
*********Numb3rs**********
The doctors and nurses didn't stop swarming him once the doors closed. They very quickly had him transferred to a treatment table and hooked to an array of monitors. Both his arms had wide-bore IVs before he'd had time to blink, and his new scrub clothes were unceremoniously cut off and replaced with a hospital gown while the doctors and nurses talked rapidly with each other and not him, except to ask questions like "how are you feeling?" and "is this okay, Agent?". He tried to be patient. Finally, after he'd been thoroughly poked, prodded and examined, and settled into a bed of wires and screens, the lead doctor turned from checking the EKG again and gave him his full attention. "Now that we've got a baseline on you," he said in a friendly tone, "we should talk about your condition."
"Okay," Don nodded, suddenly feeling very alone despite the crowd. Where were David and Terry, or Alan and Charlie? "How bad is it, Doc?" Don was pretty sure that even though he was feeling a little better on the IVs, he had plenty to be worried about. What had Larry called it—the 'walking ghost phase'?
Doctor Fields pulled over a stool and sat down on it, arms crossed. "I won't b.s. you," the silver-haired ER physician said, sympathetically. "It's pretty serious. The Department of Energy gave us an estimate of your total radiation dose. They think you received at least twelve Grays, which is not always, but usually, fatal."
Don had set his face stoically, but inside he felt his pulse begin racing again, and he wiped a sweaty palm against the thin hospital gown fabric covering his knees. The EKG's audible beep picked up its pace. He was both relieved Charlie wasn't there, and desperately wished he was. Charlie understood probabilities better than anyone, and he'd know what the word 'usually' meant—exactly how dead he was. "So, what do we do?" he asked, taking refuge, as he often found himself doing, in the practical.
"Well," Doctor Fields said, responding in kind, "obviously we're going to admit you. The hope is that by treating the acute effects of radiation exposure as soon as they present themselves, we'll be able to increase your survival odds."
"And these acute effects are...?" Don asked, uncomfortably.
"Radiation damages rapidly growing cells fastest," Doctor Fields replied. "With a full-body dose like what you received, we're initially most worried about blood disorders, damage to the lining of the gut, and skin burns."
"My skin feels fine," Don commented.
"Radiation burns can take a few days to show up. You know how a sunburn doesn't start peeling for several days? It's the same thing."
"Oh," Don said.
"With a high dose like you received," Doctor Fields went on, "we can see damage to other organs that don't contain rapidly growing cells, like the kidneys, liver, or the heart. Any organ system where rapid cell death is likely to cause symptoms. We can even see progressive brain damage or coma."
"Great," Donn said, trying to look less glum than he felt. "But there's like, pills that can bind up some of that radiation, right?" Chelators had been the word Larry had used, he thought. "Key—something."
"Chelation therapy only works when the radiation dose was ingested or otherwise absorbed as heavy metals, which would otherwise stay in the body. The radiation dose you received was mostly in the form of gamma rays, which have their effects instantaneously. The only treatment is supportive care."
"Okay," Don said, nodding as calmly as he could. "Realistically, how long do I have?"
"Realistically, a week. Maybe two. You should get your affairs in order." Doctor Fields got up from the stool. "Is there anyone I can call for you?"
Don shook his head. "My dad's outside."
*********Numb3rs**********
Don was as ready as he could be when Alan and Charlie were ushered in, but still, he had difficulty keeping his voice calm when he saw the sadness in Alan's eyes. He had to be positive for Charlie's sake; the only thing he wanted was to bury his head in Alan's arms and sob like he last had when he was five. "Hey, Dad. Charlie," he said, if not brightly, at least not really the opposite.
Charlie approached the bed uneasily, hands in his pockets. "Hey, Don. How are you.. are you feeling?"
Don reached a hand out to squeeze Charlie's arm. "I'm okay, buddy."
Alan's shoulders seemed to square a little in relief, but Charlie's slumped further in on themselves, and he pulled away from Don's hand. "Don, I can't do this," he said, whirling so that their father was included in the conversation. "I can't just listen while you pretend everything's gonna be okay, because it isn't, Don, and we both know it isn't! And I know you never want to talk about things like that, but I can't just pretend the way you do!"
Charlie's eyes were streaming with tears, and Don felt another jolt of fear. He could face his own suffering, but he couldn't watch Charlie withdraw into himself the way he had when their mother had died. If Charlie did that again, it could be for good. "No Charlie, it's okay," he started, reaching a hand out again, but Charlie cut him off.
"No, it's not, Don. How can you say it's okay when we both know it's not?"
"That's not what I meant, Charlie," Don hastened, closing his hand around Charlie's arm and drawing him in close to the bed so that he had nowhere else to look besides at Don. "I mean it's okay if you need to talk about—it. You know," he added, throwing an anxious glance at Alan. "It would be a good thing."
"Really?" Charlie said, sarcasm bleeding through even though he was still crying. "Don
Eppes, holding a serious conversation about his own… what am I saying? You're going to die, Don!" Charlie's shoulder's scrunched and his large brown eyes were fragile pools of tears, and Don once again felt a stab of fear on his little brother's behalf. He pulled Charlie in so he was shaking in Don's arms.
"I know," Don said, quietly, feeling the ragged, jerking gulp Charlie made in response. "Doctor Fields explained everything, and I know, statistically speaking, this radiation thing isn't something I can survive. And—and I accept that, I guess, because we were trying to save a lot lives, and we succeeded."
Charlie cleared a phlegmy-sounding throat. "Ninety-eight point two percent," he managed.
"What?"
"You said, statistically," Charlie repeated. "There's a ninety-eight point two percent mortality rate for your level of exposure."
At Charlie's words, Alan's face went ashen, but Don's heart suddenly felt a tiny shade lighter. "See, Charlie?" he said, hugging the diminutive math professor a little tighter before letting go. "You've just given me something to shoot for. You know, the doctors are going to try their hardest to pull me through this, and a one point eight chance isn't much, but I'll take it." Don glanced up at Alan, then back at Charlie. "I need you to promise me one thing, though. No P versus P."
Charlie straightened. "Don…"
"I'm not kidding, buddy. No matter what happens. Dad needs you. If you want to go back to that P thing after you've had a chance to deal, and things are okay again, that's okay. But not… not now. Promise me you won't do it now."
"It's P versus NP, Don," Charlie said. "And I promise."
"Okay." Charlie had held Don's gaze while he said it, and Don breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the younger Eppes would keep his word. "Hey, Chuck, now that we've got through the heavy stuff, would you mind going to the hospital cafeteria and snagging me a cup of coffee?" He lifted his arm to emphasize the IVs. "I'm kind of tied down here." He looked up at Alan. "Also, there's some boring stuff Dad and I should go over, and I'd like to speak with him privately."
Charlie was nodding, following the hand. "I'll go see what I can find."
"Thanks, buddy," Don said gratefully.
*********Numb3rs**********
After Charlie had left the room, Alan pulled over the stool that the doctor had used and sat on it. Don felt his shoulders sag. He had been trying so hard to look brave for Charlie's sake. He wasn't sure he had the strength in him to keep up the front for Alan; but his father tended to see through things like that. Don rubbed a sweaty hand down his face tiredly. Alan watched him silently, until Don felt the silence under Alan's concerned, critical eye become unbearable. "I would do it again," he said, uneasily. "There were people's lives at risk, and someone needed to be there making sure the area got cleared, and the search teams pulled out when they were supposed to." It's not something there was a choice about.
"I know, Donnie," Alan said, his voice wry but gentle. "Your mother and I had a decade to come to grips with the fact that you were never going to run away from danger in the process of protecting people."
Don raised his eyebrows briefly, and looked down. "I should have gotten everybody out of the danger zone sooner. You know, two of the radiation disposal team from DOE died in the blast. I shouldn't have trusted the bomber's timeline."
"What do you mean? The bomb went off before the bomber said it would?" Alan asked.
"Yeah, Dad. And two men are dead because I believed him." Don hadn't realize until that moment how sharply that failure stung.
"Donnie, you can't beat yourself up over this," Alan said earnestly. "You're not responsible for what happened. The men who planted that bomb are responsible."
Don sighed. "Believe me, Dad. I'm not." There wasn't time to spend doing that.
"If you say so," Alan replied. "Because I know you, and…" Alan let his statement drop and fell silent a moment, watching Don. "I guess this isn't the time for that, is it?"
"No, Dad, it's not," Don said.
Alan cleared his throat, which sounded suspiciously husky. "The doctors—did they give you a—a time estimate?"
"A week or two, maybe less. There's a lot to get done," Don said, raising his gaze to Alan's.
"Tell me what I can do," Alan said, shifting on his stool uncomfortably in a manner that reminded Don of his restlessness at his wife's bedside a year ago.
"Well," Don started, "there's the apartment. The car—I'd like to get as much of my stuff dealt with now as I can, so you and Charlie don't have to deal with it after… I've got a will, which should probably be re-checked to make sure there's no hang-ups in probate, I guess, and my life insurance. That's about it, I guess." He picked at the hospital sheet over his knees, straightening it.
"Isn't that a little premature, Donnie?" Alan asked, shifting again. "You could pull through."
"Charlie told us the score," Don said shortly. "It's not." A silent moment seemed to stretch into a gulf between them. A gulf between the living and the dead, Don thought, hollowly; until Alan moved from his stool and took a seat on the edge of Don's bed.
"I'm so sorry, Donnie," Alan said, pulling him into a close hug. Don felt himself shudder into it, and the tears which he had been holding at bay for the past two hours sting in his eyes. "Your mother and I always knew some time we might find out that you had been killed in some shootout, or shot chasing down a fugitive somewhere and, I guess we prepared ourselves for that. For the shock of finding out we'd lost you after the fact. The way we lost your mother last year—" Alan rested his head on top of the younger Eppes' bent, dark-haired one. "it's hard for a father to imagine losing a child that way. You think if you just hang onto them, nothing should be able to touch them." He rubbed a hand gently down Don's still-shuddering back.
"I'm scared, Dad," Don admitted, his voice gravelly from the tears that were collecting in his throat. "I don't want to leave you and Charlie." The tears burned his tightly-closed eyes, finally spilling themselves in a release foreign to his adulthood, and he felt them soak into the shoulder of his father's golf shirt. Alan didn't seem to mind, but held him more tightly and rocked through the long, jagged breaths.
"I know, Donnie. I know."
*********Numb3rs**********
When Charlie returned, three cups of coffee and a cup holder in hand, he almost stopped and backed out the doorway to Don's room instead of going in. Alan was sitting with Don, and Don was crying—no, sobbing brokenly, the long harsh sobs that signal the person originating them has already been crying for some minutes and is fighting exhaustion and an airway full of choking liquid. Don doesn't cry. Charlie had never seen Don cry. The sight terrified him. Charlie couldn't help it; he didn't know how to handle what he was seeing. He needed to clear his head. The drink tray found a spot on the table by the door as his body seemed to automatically impel him backwards. Alan's eyes met his afraid ones, and stopped him with a wordless note of caution.
If you leave, you won't come back. If you leave, Donnie will never forgive you.
Charlie knew that was his own insecurity talking.
If you leave, Don will never forgive himself.
Charlie put his head down and forced his mind to go blank. There were no equations for this. This was life and death, and he had to face it in the same plane of time and truth as his brother, or he would never face it. He couldn't be there for Don with math.
Charlie gulped and stepped gingerly over to the bed and added his own arms to the hug surrounding Don. Alan gave a slight nod. It wasn't much, Charlie thought, as he leaned his forehead into Don's shoulder. And it was everything.
*********Numb3rs**********
It was a long seven minutes before the wracking sobs began to flag, and Charlie felt his brother's chest switch to deep, winded breaths. Gradually these slowed also, and Don lifted his head from Alan's shoulder, pinching at the tears that were running toward the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Sorry," he managed, not making eye contact with either Charlie or Alan.
"You've got nothing to apologize for," Alan insisted. "If a father can't hold his son…"
"I know. I just… thanks," Don finished, looking embarrassed. "Both of you." He looked at Charlie meaningfully.
"I'm not going anywhere this time," Charlie decided aloud. "I'll cancel all my classes if I have to, or I'll get Larry to cover them. But I'm going to be here every day, no matter what happens."
Don's tear-stained face cracked a small, wry smile. "Thanks, buddy," he said, giving Charlie's shoulder a light squeeze. "You don't know how much that means to me."
Charlie just shrugged. No, he thought, but I think I can guess.
*********Numb3rs**********
Despite Charlie's protestations, Don had managed to convince him and Alan to go home and sleep in their own beds instead of the chairs in his room, and so Don had nothing to distract him from his own sleep, except the steady beeping of his monitors, and the weight of his thoughts in the dark. The case had been solved; David had come by earlier that evening and explained how he and Terry had tracked the bombers to an art theft ring with ties to a known political organization. "Probably would have been easier with Charlie's help," David had laughed, "but we got the guys. The bomb was a cover for a very large art heist. Letting it go off, as far as we can tell that was a bonus for their backers; something about convincing the military industrial complex of the need to increase spending on security."
"What about the radiation?" Don had had to ask. "What do the NRC guys say?"
"They've got a couple square blocks cordoned off for cleanup," David had replied, "but thankfully the spread was minimal. Apparently they used sub-threshold charges for achieving any kind of wide scatter, despite the location. NRC says cleanup should only take a couple of weeks."
Don had shaken his head, relieved yet still sickened at what could have been. Now, instead of sleep, he mulled it. Homegrown terror. Nothing higher than politics and greed had claimed two lives and were asking for another. Alone, in the dark, he resented the demand. But if not his, whose? David's? Terry's? Any of countless unknowing citizens, who would have been dead if he, Don Eppes, had not been in charge—if he had not brought in Charlie, if he had not listened when his father, the former city planner, had made the call about the likeliest target site? If not him, then who? The price was too high to pay, and yet he had always known he would pay it. There were no ifs there.
*********Numb3rs**********
Charlie Eppes stood outside the general medicine ward and raised his voice in frustration. "I'd like to see my brother. He's in room three D. I promised him I'd be back this morning." He clenched and unclenched his small palms together, betraying a general inability to hold still. "He needs to know I'm here."
"I'm sorry," the young female desk clerk repeated, we don't have a Don Eppes in room three D. In fact, there is nobody in three D. You can go look for yourself if you like."
Oh, no, no, no… Charlie was suddenly deflated. "Tell me he's not…" He couldn't say the word; not when it was suddenly so close, clawing at his throat. "I have to find him; I have to find Don…"
The girl looked taken aback by his sudden loss of composure. "Please, Mister," she bit off her words. "Let me… what was the name again? I'll see if I can find him. They might have moved him to a different service."
"it's Eppes," Charlie said again. Charlie was shaking like a leaf. "Don Eppes." He didn't stay and wait for her to type the name into her computer, but hurried down the hall to the room he'd been in with his brother and father the day before. She had said he could look.
Oh, no, no. He repeated the refrain in his head. He wasn't ready… the room was empty, the bed unoccupied and neatly made. The morning sun falling across the smooth bedsheet as if to emphasize that all traces of Charlie's brother having been in it were cleared. Oh, no, Don. Charlie was fighting back his own tears again. I'm gonna miss you so much…
The tap on his shoulder made him jump.
"Your brother's been moved upstairs," the desk clerk said kindly. "They moved him to the ICU around three o'clock this morning."
"Then, he's not… he's not dead?" This time Charlie brought himself to say the word, clearing his throat.
"No," the girl said. "Come with me, I'll point you in the right direction."
*********Numb3rs**********
A sharp metallic smell of sickness greeted Charlie's nose as he entered the ICU suite, and looked around for Don. His brother was in the second bed on the left, and he was awake, but recumbent, and Charlie could tell he was not feeling good. "Hey, Don," he said, doing his best to sound cheery as he approached.
"Hey, Charlie." Don shifted in the bed and turned his head. "Good to see you, buddy."
Charlie nodded, self-consciously. He'd said he'd be there, and it felt like Don was saying he hadn't expected him to follow through, even though he knew that wasn't what Don had meant. "Hi, uh… hi, Don," he stammered. "How are you feeling?"
Don rolled his eyes. "I've been better, I guess," he said. "Actually, I've been throwing up all morning." He pushed himself up on his elbows. "This medicine they're giving me is supposed to help." He nodded in the direction of the IV pumps. "Dad come too?"
"No," Charlie said. "He said you asked him to go talk to the management at your apartment complex this morning."
"Okay, good," Don said.
"Yeah, um." Charlie pulled over a chair and sat in it, and made a face. "You've got a sunburn."
"The radiation," Don said. "It itches."
Don's face was reddened, and Charlie noticed the sterile non-stick bandages taped to Don's forearms and right shoulder. "Transient erythema," Charlie said quickly, then stopped. "Larry told me that. Did you know that there were four criticality accidents at Los Alamos during the Manhattan project? We know much of what we know about acute radiation injury because of people studying physics."
"No, Charlie, I didn't know that," Don said. "So the itchiness, it goes away?"
"I guess so."
"Good to know."
"Yeah," Charlie said, looking down again. "Listen, Don. If Dad's doing what I think he is…"
"Look, buddy," Don interrupted. "You know I wasn't going to talk with you about this, because I know it's really hard for you, but you know, maybe I should." Who was he kidding—hard for Charlie? He was the one who wanted to pretend everything was normal. "Dad is making arrangements to end my lease. I won't be going back there."
Charlie looked up as if he'd been struck. "You're giving up, aren't you?"
"I'm just being realistic, buddy. You know what the doctors are saying."
"Don, you can't." Charlie was shaking again, ready to spiral out into the bad place he'd been when their mother had had the same news, Don thought, and he reached out a hand to ground him.
"Look, Charlie," he said, pulling him in closer to the bed with a gentle but firm grip on his arms. "Nobody's giving up, okay? But if anybody understands the odds on my making it through this, it's you. You've already done the math, Charlie."
Charlie brushed at the hair above his eyes and looked away in a vain attempt to avoid Don's too-sharp gaze. "Less than one percent, now," he mumbled, so low that Don had to prompt him to repeat it. "There's a less than one percent chance that you will survive." Charlie had to clear his throat to say it. Don could see the same chill that had settled on his heart when he heard the number reflected in Charlie's face.
"Right," Don said, carefully. "And with those odds, it makes sense to take care of everything I can now, rather than putting it off to when it'll be harder for you and Dad to deal with. That doesn't mean I'm not going to fight as hard as I can."
"Just like Mom did," Charlie said, slowly, painfully Don thought.
"Just like Mom did. And if I beat this thing, all my stuff's gonna be at your house."
"Okay," Charlie said. "On the condition that you have to promise me to try."
"Believe me, I promise," Don said.
*********Numb3rs**********
Alan arrived at Mercy just after noon, and when he arrived at the ICU, he was told that Don had been taken upstairs for some tests, but actually, if he didn't mind, Don's doctor would like to speak with him and discuss some things if he had the time. Alan had said yes, and now he was waiting with Charlie in a small conference room where the chairs were more comfortable than the muted atmosphere. Charlie was only holding still with difficulty, and the tension in his face was evident to his father. "What… what do you think they're going to tell us?" Charlie asked anxiously.
"I don't know. Why don't we wait and see," Alan started, just as the door to the room swung inward and Don's criticalist stepped in. She was a no-nonsense, imposingly tall doctor, and Alan had noticed that she didn't usually take time for discussion, so Alan was surprised she was the one who wanted to talk to them.
"Mr. Eppes," she spoke crisply and extended a hand. "Professor Eppes."
Charlie got up and shook her hand too.
"I need to talk to you about the treatment for your son's condition," she said.
Alan looked surprised. "Why aren't you talking to Don?"
She nodded slightly to acknowledge his question, but continued. "The dose of radiation your son received was high enough to wipe out his blood cell precursors, precipitating what we refer to as bone marrow failure. We're already beginning to see a drop in his blood cell counts. Essentially, he'll be unable to make new blood cells without a transplant. He'll become very anemic, and he also won't be able to fight off infection."
"Can he have a transplant?" Alan asked, but Charlie cut in.
"You need to test us for a tissue match," he clarified.
"The best-matched donors are family, typically siblings," she agreed. "We can test both you by a blood test, if you agree."
"Of course," Alan said, "but what if there's no match?"
"Then we look at the national registries and try to find an unrelated donor, but we need to find a donor as soon as possible."
Charlie nodded and cleared his throat. "Will this be, you know, curative?"
She looked at Charlie squarely and Alan found himself dreading her candor. "Not if the damage to the rest of his body is as severe as the radiation dose he received predicts, but it's necessary if he's to have any chance of survival at all."
Charlie gulped. "Then I'd like to be tested." He glanced at Alan and back at the doctor. "Does donating bone marrow hurt?"
"It's moderately painful," she said, "so we use local anesthesia and pain medication to control that."
"Okay."
Alan couldn't help but feel proud of Charlie, who had always shied away from physical pain and doctors, but wanted to help his brother so badly. "Maybe I'll be able to donate," he said, giving Charlie's shoulder a squeeze, "and then you won't have to worry about that."
*********Numb3rs**********
"Hey, Charlie. Dad," Don waved at them from the bed, and this time Alan's eye cued in on the bag of red liquid hanging from one of the IV stands. So they were already treating the anemia, which couldn't be good.
"How are you feeling?"
"Oh, you know." Don shrugged. "Pretty much like crap, I guess," he said, with a self-deprecating smile. "But I've got my very own nausea drug cocktail now." He fingered one of the IV lines running to his arm. "In theory it's supposed to help. I guess Mom found it helpful."
"Yeah." Alan didn't want to make the comparison. His wife's chemotherapy treatments had been unsuccessful.
"So, Charlie," Don changed the subject. "What's with your arm?"
Charlie glanced down at the cotton tapped to the inside of his elbow.
"Your brother," Alan said proudly, "got blood tested today to be your bone marrow donor. If he turns out to be a match. So did I," he added.
"Hey, Charlie, that's great." Don smiled. "I know you're not big on the whole needles thing, so that means a lot."
"Yeah, well," Charlie said, shrugging. "I guess if you can handle all those IV's…"
"You haven't seen the needle they use for bone marrow," Don said, raising his eyebrows. "You may change your mind when you see it. I had this biopsy done in the morning, and I kid you not, the needle was four inches long."
"I won't." Charlie stuck out his chin stubbornly. "I can be just as brave as you when I need to be."
"You'll be out of there so fast we'll have to have Larry find you with that… that fast particle detector thing…"
"Okay, break it up." Alan knew they were joking with each other, but didn't want Charlie to get worse cold feet. "Did they give you the results of the biopsy?"
Don sobered. "I'm gonna need that bone marrow transplant from somebody, I guess. The doctors said mine is pretty much water."
"You're not making blood cells," Charlie said.
"Yeah."
"They'll find you a donor," Charlie said. "I can get Larry and Amita, and the guys on your team to come in and get tested."
"And I can ask Stan, and the guys in my golfing club," Alan added.
Don smiled. "Um, thanks."
"If anybody tries to say no, I can just remind them that I'm afraid of needles and I did it anyway," Charlie added.
"People have a hard time saying no to you, Chuck. I think it's the curls."
"What?"
Don snickered, and Alan shook his head at the familiar warmth that spread through him whenever he listened in on his sons' playful teasing. Oh God, don't take this away. Not now. It's too soon.
"So, Dad," Don was clearing his throat, returning to seriousness, "How did things go this morning? Charlie tells me you went to deal with the apartment."
Alan nodded. "It went okay," he said, putting a brighter face on how things went than it had really been. "Your management was pretty understanding, and once I showed them the power of attorney papers you sent along, and explained the situation, they agreed to end your lease. The movers are boxing things up on Friday." Alan looked over at Charlie. "I'm afraid the only place we have to put Don's stuff is the garage."
"That's okay," Charlie said. "I've seen Don's place. You don't have that much stuff," he said to his brother. "Mom had more than you do."
Don smiled wryly. "I don't want to keep you from being able to work in the garage, Charlie. Don't feel like you have to move the furniture."
"You're going to need furniture, Donnie," Alan said. "If it doesn't fit in the garage, we'll get a storage unit."
"If by some miracle I'm alive to need furniture," Don agreed, "IKEA is a thing. I'll make do."
"You let your father worry about your sofa set," Alan insisted. "It's giving me something useful to do, and heaven knows I need that right now."
*********Numb3rs**********
Charlie ran up the hospital steps, out of breath from his faster-than-usual dash from his Wednesday morning office hours at Cal Sci to the faculty parking lot, the frustratingly heavy LA morning traffic, and then the half block from the hospital visitors' parking ramp. He nearly ran headfirst into David on the way up.
"Whoa, Professor," David smiled at him. "You might want to look in front of you when you're going that fast."
"Oh, uh, sorry." Charlie skidded to a stop on the steps. "I take it you were here to see my brother this morning?"
"Uh, yeah, Charlie." David's voice was calm but Charlie could read the concern hi his eyes. "Just wanted to keep him updated on how things are going at the FBI, and, you know, check up on him."
Charlie nodded. "How's he doing?" he asked, unable to keep the anxiety out of his voice.
David shook his head. "Not good, Charlie. He took a turn for the worse last night, and, well, your dad's with him. Look, I've got to go get back to the office. Your dad promised to call if there's any news, so…"
"Right." Charlie patted the agent's shoulder. "I'll make sure he doesn't forget." He watched David go for a moment, then turned to hurry inside. When he reached the ICU, he found Alan, as expected, seated in one of the bedside chairs. He looked up from a book he was holding.
"You're here," Alan said. I tried to call this morning."
"I left my cell at home by mistake," Charlie said, running his hand through his disheveled curls. "It seems like nothing's been going right this morning." He looked over at Don, who seemed asleep, and dropped his voice. "I ran into David on his way out. He said Don's worse?" He phrased it as a question.
Alan nodded and set the book down. "I've been trying to read that and I think I've been staring at the same page all morning," he said. "The doctors said he dropped his white cell and platelet counts precipitously last night. They're having trouble keeping his red blood cell counts up, even with transfusions, and he's been in and out of consciousness since about ten p.m. They are starting to talk about brain injury." Alan looked over at his older son. "He was awake earlier, but he wasn't responsive, and I honestly don't know if he knew I was here or not."
"Oh." Charlie swallowed the large lump that had formed in his throat. This was bad. He pulled another chair in and sat down where he could reach his brother's hand. It was colder than it should have been. Don stirred slightly, but didn't open his eyes. "Is that why you called me?"
Alan shifted in the chair as if he was stiff from sitting. "I called because the doctors have some news on our blood tests," he said, his tone hesitant. "It turns out I'm not a match, but you are."
"Oh," Charlie said again, the sudden stab of anxiety making his heart rate speed up. "That's good, right? I mean, he really needs a match."
"That's right, Charlie." Alan sounded relieved. "I'm sorry it wasn't me, you know. I'd rather be the one to do it."
"No, it's okay, Dad," Charlie made his voice more firm. "I can do this. When do they want to do it?"
"I don't know," Alan admitted. "Soon, I think. The doctors made it sound like time is of the essence now. They should be back to talk to us pretty soon."
"Okay." Charlie squeezed Don's hand again. Anything I can do, Don. I promise.
*********Numb3rs**********
The doctors didn't take long to arrive, and Charlie felt overwhelmed listening in on their medical jargon as they went through their midmorning assessment. Don seemed to stay largely oblivious through it, although at one point one of the doctors rubbed his knuckles against Don's sternum very hard, and his eyes opened and stayed that way. Don's gaze was fixed and unfocused, and Charlie felt the anxiety he'd felt about the bone marrow transplant give way to cold fear that it wouldn't be enough—that he'd already lost his brother. At last, the lead criticalist turned to him and Alan. "Have you decided whether you want to do the marrow donation?" she asked.
Alan and Charlie looked at each other, and Charlie nodded. "I want to do it."
She turned to Alan. "You both should know," she said, "that with or without the transplant, your son's chances are very poor—a few percent at the most, based on the rapidity of his progression. Without the transplant, he won't survive, but even with it, we almost never see anyone survive a radiation dose large enough to induce symptoms this quickly."
"What you're saying is," Alan said, "it wouldn't be inappropriate for us to decide that the benefit didn't outweigh the risk."
"That's right. I'm making sure you know that if you decided to just have us do what we can to make him comfortable, the outcome would likely be the same, and it's okay to do that."
Alan cleared his throat, Charlie thought, uncomfortably. Charlie felt the weight of a wordless dread. Was she preparing them for the news that they weren't going to do anything further?
Alan spoke. "I understand," he said. "I recently went through this with my wife's cancer, and what do you recommend?"
The doctor glanced over at Don, whose eyes were partially closed. If he was listening, Charlie thought, there was no way to know it. "I would go ahead with the transplant," she said. "Even if the chances that it will help aren't good, it's unlikely to cause harm, and it's the only thing we can do. But it's up to you, Professor Eppes," she added.
Charlie nodded, relief across his face. "l do, please. I want to do this for Don." I have to give him that chance.
She nodded. "Alright. Doctor Baker will be in to set things up, then." She turned to go. "I can tell you love your brother very much."
*********Numb3rs**********
It was four days later, and Charlie was sitting on the floor of his office, a chair cushion between him and the corner wall, when Amita walked in. "Charlie, you look mopey. Are you okay?" she asked, coming over and sitting down next to him.
"It's just this bone marrow donation thing. I want to do it for Don, but I'm also terrified about it."
Amita squeezed his shoulder. "You're afraid it will hurt?"
"No… yeah. I don't know. I'm afraid it won't be enough."
"You're afraid even if you do it, Don won't get better?" she asked.
"What if someone else out there is a better match, or the transplant doesn't work and he dies because my bone marrow wasn't good enough? What if the transplant makes him worse? That happens sometimes," Charlie argued. "It's called graft-versus-host disease, and people die from it. Or what if my immune system doesn't protect him over the long term and he ends up dying of an infection, or cancer? How do I live with that?"
"You can never predict every contingency," Amita said. "You have to make decisions with the best information you have at any given moment." She rubbed her hand gently down his tightly wound back muscles. "You look like you don't feel very good, Charlie."
Charlie rubbed his eyes with his hands. "I mean, I guess I don't," he started, "but that's not it exactly." He scooted in against her and rested his head on her willing shoulder. "They've been giving me these injections that are supposed to help my body make more of the cells my brother needs—bone marrow stem cells—and they said it would make my bones ache, and I guess it does. But my heart aches worse, you know?"
He looked up at her and she could see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "For Don?" she said.
"Yeah." He put his head down. "I mean, every day it feels like we're losing him a bit more. He doesn't wake up when we're there anymore, and he looks so sick. He looks like Mom did." His voice broke, and she threw both arms around him.
"I'm so sorry, Charlie," she said. "It's okay to cry if you need to."
He nodded against her shoulder, but he couldn't speak, because he was.
*********Numb3rs**********
"Hey, Dad." Charlie slipped into the chair next to his father's, quietly, the instinct to not disturb his brother's quiet form prevailing even though the doctors had said it was a coma now, not sleep; and he hadn't opened his eyes since Charlie and Alan had had the talk with the criticalist. "Any change?"
Alan shook his head. "I know they don't think he can hear me," he admitted, "but I've been reading this book aloud to him."
"Movie Stars of Hollywood's Golden Age?" Charlie read over his shoulder.
"Yeah, well. You know Donnie loves those old movies," Alan said, setting the book down. "So I guess your donation is this afternoon, isn't it?"
Charlie nodded quickly. "I'm actually on my way there, Dad. I just wanted to stop in and say hi first." He tried his best to sound game, but Alan gave him a discerning look.
"You're scared, aren't you, Charlie? Would it help if I came with you?"
"No, I'm fine, Dad," Charlie lied. "It's just a needle, and I'll be fine. You should stay with Don."
Alan frowned. "If you're sure you don't need me."
"Don said Mom liked it when you read to her," Charlie said. "Keep reading to Don."
"Okay," Alan nodded.
"I'll be back as soon as I can."
*********Numb3rs**********
It was three hours before Charlie was back in the ICU, a half-drunk bottle of orange juice in his hand. Alan thought he had never looked more proud of himself; not even when he had marched for his graduate degrees. "It went okay, then?" Alan asked, feeling equally proud of his younger son.
Charlie nodded, the glow on his face not diminishing even as he turned to his brother. "How's Don?"
"The same, I guess," Alan replied, closing his book. "the doctor came by to check on him a little while ago, but they didn't really say anything."
Charlie had eased past his father to the bedside and he looked at Don, brushing his hand lightly across his brother's forehead, needing to feel his presence. Don's face was getting bonier, a consequence of overall weight loss that was marked in just the few days since his exposure, and it hurt Charlie to feel it. Don was always so vital and strong. "Don would be mad as hell if he knew about his hair," he said. Don's hair was coming out in bunches, an expected consequence of the radiation dose, the doctors said, and tufts of it came away in his hand as he smoothed it.
"Your mother wore those scarves over hers, remember?" Alan said.
"She had all those bright colored ones. Can you picture Don with his hair in a scarf?" Charlie laughed softly.
"I think he would just wear one of those baseball caps he has so many of," Alan pointed out. "Or, you know, just shave it all off."
"Yeah," Charlie agreed. "You'd probably like doing that, wouldn't you?" he mused, stroking the ragged locks. "I'll bet you'd think you looked tough."
Don shifted under Charlie's hand and Charlie jumped slightly.
"Oh. Uh, Dad—Don. Hey, Don!" Don's eyes were fluttering open for the first time in days. "You're awake. Dad, I think he's awake."
Alan was out of his chair and pressed close so he could see too. "Donnie, can you hear me?"—but Don's half-open brown eyes had settled in Charlie's direction, and he was moistening dry lips as if it were difficult to speak.
"What is it, Don?" Charlie couldn't hide the anxious squeak in his voice, or the nervous fidgeting of sleeve ends with the hand he had awkwardly withdrawn. "Dad and I are right here."
"Charlie." Don managed the word. Charlie felt a jolt of joy. The doctors hadn't been sure how badly his brain might be affected; but he still knew his brother. "You stayed."
"Yeah," Charlie said, suddenly choking up. "I mean, I've had to go teach my complex group dynamics seminar, but other than that and office hours, I've been here."
"And you… did that bone marrow thing for me."
Charlie nodded. "Yeah… I donated bone marrow. Today."
Don mustered a tiny smile that barely touched his lips, but crinkled around his eyes in a way Charlie had known as genuine his whole life. "Thanks, buddy. I know you hate stuff like that."
Charlie patted Don's arm, which, like its mate still sported an IV. "Well, I figured you don't get the luxury of avoiding needles, so I shouldn't either." And I wanted to help.
Don smiled again as his eyes drifted closed. "Proud of you, Chuck."
Charlie said nothing but gave the arm a little squeeze. They fell silent for a long moment.
"Dad here?"
Alan cleared his throat. "I'm right here, Donnie."
"The book's pretty good."
Alan shared a glance with Charlie. "Okay, we can read some more of it."
"Sounds good." Don's voice sounded spent, and Charlie met his father's eyes with concern written large in his own.
"You should get some rest, Donnie," Alan pronounced, reaching over to tuck the hospital sheet slightly around his older son's chest.
Don gave a weary smile without opening his eyes. "I am very tired, so."
"I'm not going anywhere," Alan said, and looked over at Charlie.
The anxiety on Charlie's face had deepened, and Charlie's movements were jerky as he patted his brother's shoulder again. "I have to go back to school right now, but I'll be back, I promise. Just rest, okay, Don? I'll be back soon." He looked at Alan. "I can't get out of my grad seminar tonight. I'll come back after and maybe I can read for a while."
Alan waved toward the ICU doors. "Go ahead, Charlie. I'll be here when you get back."
Charlie fussed over Don again for a moment before hurrying out, and Alan settled back into the bedside chair. Don seemed to have relaxed back into whatever kind of stupor he'd been in, and as Alan cracked his book open again, he realized he was newly concerned about the distress he'd read between the lines of his younger son's body language.
*********Numb3rs**********
Larry Fleinhardt wandered in to his colleague-and-former-student's office and looked entirely startled to find it occupied. "Charlie, I didn't expect to find you here," he said to the back of his friend, who was apparently engrossed in gazing out the window at the campus quad below.
Charlie Eppes replied without turning around. "Larry, if you didn't think I'd be here, why did you come looking for me?"
"Well, you know what they say," Larry said. "Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. But Charlie, wasn't your seminar over an hour ago? Don't you usually leave after?"
Charlie didn't answer for a long enough minute that Larry picked up the metal sphere-shaped knot sculpture that graced the corner of Charlie's desk, and began examining it, before Charlie turned around, despair on his face.
"Charlie, if something's happened," Larry began sympathetically before falling silent.
"No, it's not that, not yet. But I can't go back. I have to go back—I promised Don I'd go back, and I can't."
"Charlie, what happened?" Larry fidgeted the sculpture uncertainly.
Charlie leaned back, palms flat against the window, and looked away and up as he spoke, pained guilt written across his face. "Larry, remember when my mom… when she was sick, and I just worked that math problem?"
"P versus NP? Yes, I remember," Larry said. "I think you made more progress on it than any other mathematician I know."
"Larry," Charlie said, "the last time I saw her, she had been through what I think was the last round of chemo, and she looked so sick, and she told me was so tired. And that was the moment that I knew that she was going to die, and I couldn't face it. I couldn't go back. My mother was dying and I didn't go see her again, Larry."
Larry set the model down again, carefully. "That was a year and a half ago, Charlie."
Charlie shook his dark, curly head. "Don said those same words to me and all I can think about is how guilty I've felt since. It's not fair to Don; what kind of person am I that I can't face this memory, when he's the one dying?"
"Charles." Larry reached an arm out to his friend and guided him to the edge of the desk so that he could lean against it and place a comforting arm around his former student's shoulder. "Let us continue to hope not, surely; and if so…" he paused. "You're familiar with the theory of dark energy?"
Charlie cocked his head, and Larry noticed that tears had spilled down his cheeks, which explained why he gave no reply. Larry continued. "Dark matter has visible effects on the universe. Even though it's dark, we can quantify the amount of dark matter present in a galaxy based on the gravitational pull that dark matter exerts on the stars around it; and we can locate dark matter-rich regions of space from their effects on the bending of light itself; but dark energy—dark energy is pure math. We know it exists, somewhere in some form, because our equations tell us it must to make the total density of the universe as we know it come out even. But no one's ever seen it; no one even knows what it looks like, Charles."
Charlie lowered his head. Larry continued.
"If the universe can surprise us with something as mystical as that on its balance sheet, how much can the human capacity for the unexpected surprise us? You may hold within you sufficient dark energy to expand beyond the fears that are holding you in their gravitational pull, Charles."
Charlie wiped at his face with both hands, streaking it with wetness. Larry couldn't help but feel some of that heaviness for his sake; his words to the contrary, it was hard to see Charlie as anything but unequipped for loss. "Come on, Charles. I'll drive you. You just orbit and I'll hold the supercluster together."
*********Numb3rs**********
Don Eppes stirred under the restricting weight of something pinned across his chest. A hand lifted up to feel it confirmed that it was an arm, lying unmoving across him in some protective impulse that failed to take into account the difficulty it was giving his aching chest muscles. It was getting harder just to keep the air going in. He was so very tired.
There was something dark and curly tickling his cheek, and he turned his face into it, letting the well-shampooed smell of his brother's familiar crop fill his nostrils. Oh. Charlie was apparently sleeping, one arm across Don's chest, head resting against Don's like he'd done when they were little and he'd been afraid of the creaking of the house at night. Hope Dad and Amita know how to comfort you, Charlie. Don's thoughts felt sluggish, matching the wearying pain in his body, and he would have let sleep take him again as relief if Charlie hadn't shifted.
Charlie's arm tightened briefly, and then Don heard him clear his throat a little. "Don?"
"Yeah, Charlie." He felt like he was slurring the words. Charlie's voice was quiet and rasping, and Don knew why he'd had to clear it.
"You know, I've never really believed in this sort of thing, but if you see Mom… if you see her, tell her I'm sorry."
"I will," Don promised into his brother's hair. "And I'll tell her you were here. And that I'm proud of you." He thought he'd said that before; he wasn't sure. But if not, it mattered that Charlie knew it.
He patted the arm that crossed his chest with the fingers he'd used to find it. Charlie's arm was rocking a little, and Don knew he was letting his tears go once more, face buried in the side of Don's pillow. "I'm gonna miss you so much." Charlie's words were muffled by more than just the pillowcase.
"I'm gonna miss you too, Charlie."
*********Numb3rs**********
Epilogue: Six months later
Author's note: Are you crying yet? AAAAaaaaaaaaaaa
*********Numb3rs**********
Don Eppes leaned against the side of Alan Eppe's Suburu and let the warm Southern California sun soak into his bones. The grass in front of his father's Craftsman home smelled freshly cut. Somewhere in the trees over his head, a thrush was singing its heart out. Don knew how the tiny bird felt.
Charlie came hurrying out of the front door. "Okay, Don, I've got the couch cleared off for you, and Dad's figuring out where to stash your suitcase. Ready to go inside?"
"Not quite," Don replied, as he lifted his F.B.I. insignia baseball cap and settled it backward on the quarter-inch of new growth that just covered his head. "Hear that?"
Charlie came over and leaned into the warm car paint next to him. "Yeah," he said. "Thrush?"
Don nodded. "That bird has what, maybe two or three years—but he's not letting it keep him from enjoying them."
"He's probably warning other birds to keep out of his territory," Charlie said. "Songbirds do that to protect access to resources, like food and mates. You know, with acoustic modelling, we can classify bird calls by type to figure out meaning, and we can even identify regional dialects."
"Maybe," Don laughed. "I still hear joy in it."
They both listened to the decadent warbling for a long moment. "The doctors said your coming home was pretty much a medical miracle," Charlie said.
Don nodded and looked down at his brother. "Yeah, buddy. You helped with it, though." He had almost died; there had been a point in his illness when he had been just as certain as his doctors that he wouldn't live to see the following day, before Charlie's donated marrow had begun to kick in and give his body the chance to fight long enough to heal.
Charlie didn't take the bait. "Don, they also said there could be long term effects. Early organ failure, or even cancer."
Charlie didn't look up, and Don knew what he was asking. Like the bird. "Charlie, nobody knows how long they have. The doctors say there's no way to know. I could live a year, or I could live a normal life. There's no model."
"I know," Charlie said.
"But that's always been true," Don added. "My job carries risks, and I do my best to manage them, but…" he shrugged. "You've got to take joy in the basic act of being alive, buddy. That's what I've learned, I guess." He closed his eyes and pointed his face up into the sunshine. After a moment, he felt a set of unruly curls rest itself on his shoulder.
"I'm really glad you're home," Charlie said.
"Me too," Don replied, not minding his brother's rather childlike show of affection. "And I'm really thankful for what you did. You know, I wouldn't have made it without what you did, or without knowing you and Dad were rooting for me."
Charlie wrapped a protective arm around his shoulder, more easily than he would have six months ago. Don already had a schedule to work with a physical therapist on regaining the lost body mass; so far, the appointments were hard work, but he didn't mind; after all, the PT was cute. Charlie tightened the arm into a hug. "You're my brother," he said, simply.
Don smiled. "You know, I can frame you for crimes, now, right, Chuck? Just leave a little blood at the scene… the DNA will say it's you…"
"You know, I can hack the F.B.I. DNA database and replace your DNA with mine, or get the N.S.A. to accidently delete your security clearance… or maybe your drivers' license…"
"Do you think Dad's beginning to wonder what happened to us?"
"Wanna go inside? I hear there's a comfortable couch with your name on it. You have to share it when Dad's watching the basketball finals."
"Hey," Don said, "he can watch curling if that's ribeye I smell."
Charlie moved to help him to the house, help he'd decided he wasn't going to be ashamed of if he needed, at least as long as David and Terry weren't there; but Charlie stopped, and looked up. "Are you sad about your place? I mean, not having your apartment to go back to?" he asked.
"Nah," Don said. "I mean, a little, but I can get another one, and it's gonna be a while before I go back to work, so I can use the company here."
"Plus, Dad's a good cook," Charlie added, pointedly.
"Dad's a great cook," Don replied. "C'mon. Let's go pester him about some steaks."
Finis