Title: Lethal Weapon
Author: FraidyCat
Disclaimer: I am happy to report that these characters are the ultimate responsibility of Falacci, Heuton et al.
Summary: Tag to The Fifth Man, season 5: Back By Popular Demand!
A/N: The continuation of this "oneshot" is dedicated to Connie, she who is so seriously offended by Charlie and his fans that she chooses to remain anonymous. Since my writing affects you so deeply (which is the goal of any author), I decided to post a little more. For the record, my name is on my work, along with review and PM links.
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Chapter 2
There was a strange undercurrent in the house. Granted, Don had slept away the first couple of days. It was impossible to get any sleep in a hospital. Someone was constantly taking his blood, shuttling him to x-ray, making him breathe. It had taken him the better part of two days to recuperate from being sick!
Today had been the third day, however, and he had spent much of it in the living room, in his father's recliner. He had moved to the couch for a while during Robin's visit, so he could sit with her, but had gravitated back to the chair after lunch. It was comfortable, and the slight incline of the back eased his breathing. It was Saturday, and Charlie had no classes. His brother had been home most of the day, leaving only long enough to take the grocery list to the store and complete the weekly shopping. Both Alan and Charlie had been almost embarrassingly solicitous the last few days, bringing Don whatever he needed or even considered desiring. Today they had at least added a few household chores to the routine. In addition to the shopping, there had been laundry, vacuuming. Alan was even now spending some time working in the yard. It should have felt good for things to be approaching normal again – except for that strange undercurrent pulsating under everything.
Charlie had gone upstairs after a book, and he came thundering down them now, smiling at Don. "What can I get you?" he asked, pausing at the bottom. "We have lots of soda, and snacks...is the remote where you can reach it? There might be a game on."
Don smiled fondly. "Settle down, Chuck. We just had lunch a couple of hours ago -- and the remote is right here, in my lap! Unless I could talk you into sneaking me a beer while Dad is outside?" He looked at his brother hopefully.
Charlie grinned, shook his head. "Uh-uh. Not while you're on medication, Don. Besides, I'm pretty sure Dad locked them up."
Don chuckled quietly, careful not to disturb his healing chest, which was actually feeling pretty good at the moment. "Worth a shot," he said. He tilted his head on the backrest when it hit him; one of the missing pieces. Charlie hadn't done any of his own work all day. "I'm really fine, you know," he told his brother. "You can go out to the garage, get something done. I'll probably just surf for a game for a while, maybe take a nap."
Charlie waved a hand in dismissal, coming around to sit on the couch, facing Don. "That's okay," he responded. "I'm not working on anything right now. Do you feel up to company for dinner? Amita was thinking of stopping by, maybe renting a movie."
Don shifted a little in the chair. "Sure," he agreed amicably. "Besides, Amita isn't 'company', so much as she's 'family'." He could tell from Charlie's shy smile and telltale blush how pleased his brother was to hear that, and he was glad. "Robin's got a thing tonight, or I'd invite her to join us. Some judge is retiring."
The front door blew open and Alan entered. He had kicked off muddy shoes on the porch, and now he padded in on sock feet, stopping to beam at his sons. "I needed that," he confessed. "Beautiful day to dig in the dirt!" He continued on toward the stairs. "Let me wash up a little and then I'll come down and make you boys a snack. Charlie found some beautiful mushrooms at the store, and they're just begging to be stuffed!"
Don rolled his eyes at his brother, who merely grinned and looked down at his now-open book. "Dad," the oldest son protested, "we didn't just get off the school bus. Take your time; Charlie's got it all under control."
Something flickered in Alan's eyes and his smile faded as he glanced quickly at his youngest. "I'm sure he does," he answered. When he walked behind the couch Don saw him lift a hand, as if to tousle his brother's hair, but then he pulled it back quickly, as if he was afraid to do it. "Well," he said to no-one in particular. "I'll be down soon."
Don watched him ascend the stairs and then looked again at Charlie, who was absorbed in his book. His malfunctioning hinky alarm -- which he really could have used about ten days ago, before he managed to get himself stabbed -- sent out a clang, and he suddenly put his finger on something else that was wrong. There was something...off...with his father and Charlie. When he thought about it, Don was able to remember several instances during which he had seen his father look sadly -- almost longingly -- at his brother. And while Charlie wasn't exactly treating the old man badly -- on the contrary, Don thought, he had been almost aloof, stiffly polite when talking to Alan -- he certainly wasn't acting altogether comfortable when they shared space in the same room. Don let his gaze wander to the ceiling and tried to remember the last few days. Either Alan or Charlie was nearly always available to him, practically suffocating him in their attempts to help; but, they were seldom together. Today was the first day Don had joined them in the kitchen for meals, and he recalled now that his father talked in a nervous, almost constant chatter, about anything at all. Charlie, on the other hand, only responded to him when directly questioned. Always, without fail, cordial and polite.
"What's up?" Don asked, narrowing his eyes and squinting at his brother.
Charlie looked up quickly from his book, a little startled. "Huh?" He closed the book and leaned forward as if to stand, guilt and fear doing battle on his face. "Did you want something? I'm sorry, I..."
Don raised a hand and interrupted. "Hey, hey, whoa. Whoa, buddy. You didn't miss anything -- but I'm starting to feel as if I did."
Charlie's brow furrowed, and he perched on the edge of the sofa. "Beg pardon?" he asked, confused.
Don lowered the recliner a tad so that he could get a better look at Charlie's face. "Are you angry at Dad about something?" he asked, point-blank.
Charlie reddened and slid back into the corner of the couch. "Of course not," he huffed, opening his book again. "Dad's good. We're good."
"Mmmm," Don murmured. He watched Charlie read for awhile, coming to the conclusion that the situation in the Craftsman bore more watching, and careful consideration. He closed his eyes to do just that, but his body betrayed him and he dropped off into sleep.
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When he awoke, the light in the room was different and Alan had taken Charlie's place on the couch, book and all. Don yawned and smiled at him. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," Alan smiled back, closing the book and tossing it onto the coffee table in front of the sofa.
"I think you need a better book," grinned Don. "That one just can't seem to hold your attention."
Alan's smile wavered. "No book is better than looking at the healthy face of your child," he admitted, and Don changed the subject before things got too cloying -- although it might be too late for that.
"Where's Chuck?"
This time the smile completely fell from Alan's face. Strangely enough, he looked as guilty and fearful as Charlie had earlier, when Don had started the conversation about their father. "He and Amita went to the video store, and then to pick up some Chinese takeout." Alan's eyes flickered from Don's face. "Is that all-right for you, or it is too heavy? We weren't sure, but I told them to go ahead and get your favorites. I could make something else."
Don's stomach rumbled loudly. "Apparently, Chinese is good," he said, and Alan smiled and looked back at him. He needed to hit the head, but Don wasn't letting the opportunity pass him by. "So what's going on with you guys, anyway?"
Alan's eyes widened. "Going on? Did Charlie say something?"
Don shook his head. "Not a word," he confessed. "Not blind, here, Dad. Charlie's not working, the two of you are barely talking...I'm recovering from a stab wound, I'm not brain-dead."
Alan blanched so dramatically that Don regretted his words instantly and opened his mouth to apologize. Alan beat him to the punch. His face lined in misery, the father looked sadly at the son. "Oh, Donny," he breathed. "I think I did something really stupid."
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Don knew his mouth was gaping open, but he didn't want to speak too quickly and make his father feel worse than he obviously already did. He also didn't want to misunderstand. "You said that to him," he confirmed. "You held Charlie responsible for what happened to me?"
Alan nodded his head miserably. "I'm not trying to make excuses -- really, I'm not – but I was so scared. Until you have a child of your own, I cannot do justice to explaining the fear I felt. I thought I was going to lose you. I tried to turn some of that fear into anger, and Charlie was a convenient target. He said that he had promised you something and not delivered; he'd let you down, and I was more than ready to latch onto his guilt."
Don frowned. "That's not true, Dad. Charlie's never let me down. Yeah, he could have put a day or two more into the analysis, but with the information I gave him, that wouldn't have changed the outcome." He snorted. "Hell, if you want to blame someone, blame me. I should have called in backup, at least another team. Instead, we went in four-on-four, and I nearly got us all killed. Nikki and I were hurt, and how David and Colby escaped that firefight unscathed is beyond me."
Alan interrupted. "I know, I agree," he said. "Well, I don't agree that you were to blame, but I agree that Charlie wasn't at fault, either. Frankly, I didn't even remember saying what I said until a week later. I stopped by CalSci to tell Charlie you were getting out of the hospital. While we were talking, he mentioned that he's given all his cognitive emergence research to another mathematician, and reminded me of what I said in the hospital. He says I was right to say it, Don, and that there's no room in his life for his own research anymore!" Alan rubbed at his forehead for a moment and then dropped his hand listlessly to his lap, staring at it as if it were a foreign object. "I'd give anything to fix this, Don; but I said what I said."
Don was still stunned by the cognitive emergence revelation. "He just gave away all that work?"
Alan nodded miserably. "I hurt him, Donny. He says he doesn't blame me, but things are different between us; even you've seen that." His tone grew bitter. "I've told you what your grandfather said to me when I married your mother. I never forgot that, even though he apologized after he sobered up." His voice wavered. "Have I done the same thing to Charlie?"
Don considered before he answered. "You've told me other things about your father. He was an emotionless, hard, judgmental man, virtually friendless. In that light, I don't think what he said was out of character for him." Don lowered the recliner so that his feet were flat on the floor and leaned forward as far as he could. "That's not true of Charlie's father," he added gently. "Yes, you hurt his feelings, and that's going to take a little while to get over; but in his heart, he knows you didn't mean it. You've never shown anything but love and support for us; Charlie knows that, Dad."
Alan blinked rapidly. "I hope so," he murmured.
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One more chapter...(Connies everywhere, beware)