Disclaimer: Do you really think they change owner rights now that there are no new episodes to be aired?
Rating: This is a bit darker than the rest. It's probably not more upsetting than for instance any random Criminal Minds episode (or watching the news, for that matter), but I still don't think 13-year-olds should read this, so I'd like to rate this chapter M, just to be on the safe side.
Timeline: late season 4
A/N: I think I could have written 26 stories all beginning with C (car, cash, crash, cold, childhood, caesium, chloroform…), but I decided on "Classified" and I was SO excited when I started. Now, it just seems too rushed and superficial and I'm not sure what to think about it. However, I don't want to spend any more time on it either (at least not right now), among other things because I'm also pretty excited about the next one (can you guess the title?). Maybe that one will finally be a bit shorter than the others (though I seriously doubt it).
Still, I hope you enjoy. Just keep in mind that the genre is Hurt/Comfort, maybe that will make things better.
Classified
Charlie was curled up as tightly as his body would allow. He was shivering violently, but he should probably be glad about that. As long as he was still shivering, his body hadn't developed hypothermia. He knew that as soon as that happened, his chances of survival would become too slim to remain significant. He was surprised though at how little that thought disturbed him. Survival had lost a lot of its value since it meant living in this hell.
He wondered how long it had been. Couldn't be more than a couple of days. His stomach had stopped grumbling a while ago, apparently accepting the fact that his protests against the complete lack of food were leading nowhere.
They hadn't given him water, either. Or in a way, they had. They always tied him to the chair first, though, always started with the slaps, the punches. By now, Charlie couldn't name a single part of his body that he was sure was uninjured. But he could take that. He'd been a living punching bag for most of his childhood, he wouldn't give in that easily now. He just immersed himself in P versus NP and shut them out. He jolted out of this state every now and then, when a particular vicious blow hit him, but he always managed to get back to the math, to hide himself away in his mind.
They had other methods, though.
After the beating, they always brought the water. Still slightly numb from the blows, the first time they duck his head into the icy liquid always came as a shock. The panic of not being able to breathe would bring him to sudden alertness. In between those periods when his head was under the water, often tainting it red with his blood, they would ask those questions again, hardly leaving him time to answer or to breathe before dunking his head back down into the water. P versus NP wouldn't help, he just couldn't find his way into the problem before sensing with panic that his air supply was gone again. Instead of getting used to it, his panic grew, and every time his head was submerged, his struggles became more desperate. Then, they would become weaker, but the panic would still be there. He needed air, this had to stop, please make it stop…
When they were done and he lay on the floor panting, they would take the bucket and pour out the water over his body. The cold would take his breath away one more time before they would take him back to his cell to let him wait for the next round.
They had executed this whole procedure five times by now. Charlie wasn't sure if his senses were playing tricks on him, if maybe the increasing weakness of his body was taking its toll, but he could have sworn that the intervals between these assaults were getting shorter. They were getting impatient. They would get more vicious soon.
But I can't take any more than this.
A hot tear ran down Charlie's icy cheek, landing somewhere in his damp curls. He longed so much to be home, to be anywhere but here, but at the same time felt utterly helpless to change anything about his situation. Well, there was something he could do, but he couldn't do that, he just couldn't…
Why not? a petulant little voice in his head asked. Just give them what they want, then they'll leave you alone.
He couldn't, though. It wouldn't be right.
Who cares about what's right? Most people will never find out, perhaps nobody will ever know…
But he would know. He couldn't live with that. Plus, as soon as he gave them what they wanted, what reason would there be for them to keep him alive?
You really prefer staying alive like this to the alternative?
Charlie shuddered, a sensation of cold grasping him that had little to do with his body temperature.
I just have to, he willed himself to think. I have to stay alive, I have to keep fighting. They will find me soon. Oh G-d, please let them find me soon…
The door burst open and when Charlie realized that it was real, that he wasn't dreaming, that rescue had indeed come to take him away from this hell, he just couldn't hold back the tears any longer.
Two days later, Charlie opened the front door of his house, willing his hands to stop shaking. He felt a lump in his throat. He was both yearning for this moment and dreading it, the moment when he would see his family again. The moment when they would see him. The bruises, especially the ones on his face, were still visible; the time that had elapsed had actually made them more colorful and thus more prominent.
At least he would only have to deal with his father for now, he told himself. When he'd called yesterday to tell him about his imminent return, he'd learned that Don would come over for dinner tonight, but that still gave him a couple of hours to prepare himself for the encounter. The only question was how he was going to do this. He knew that it would be hard to keep them from asking questions about his assignment, but they would understand eventually. He'd worked on classified projects often enough for them to get used to the secrecy.
No, what he was really worried about was having to see the looks on their faces. He knew there would be terror in their eyes, a terror that would take him back to that hell.
Sighing, he stepped inside, calling out, "I'm home!" and wondering if he would at least be able to check his face in the mirror one more time before he'd be stopped by his father.
He wasn't that lucky.
"Charlie!" a happy Alan exclaimed as he emerged from the kitchen. "Welcome –" Just as Charlie had feared, the welcoming was cut short and his father's eyes widened with shock. "Charlie… what on earth happened to you?"
"It's not as bad as it looks like, Dad. It hardly hurts anymore." That was true. As long as he didn't try poking his face, he hardly felt it.
"But what happened?"
Charlie swallowed. "I got into a fight," he said and told himself that this little cover story wasn't a lie. He'd been fighting – not physically, since he'd been restrained, but he could have given in and told them everything. Instead, he'd resisted and thus he'd been fighting. In a way.
Alan looked at him earnestly. As he studied his youngest son's appearance, there was a sadness in his eyes that bespoke a deeper understanding of what was going on than Charlie's words allowed.
"Are you alright, son?" His voice was quiet.
Charlie nodded, felt the moisture in his eyes and accepted his father's hug, clinging onto him for dear life. "I'm okay," he whispered and managed to pull himself together. He was home. It was over. He was safe.
He took a deep breath and loosened his grip. "I'm fine," he repeated and smiled, which cost him less effort than he'd feared. Maybe everything would go back to normal after all.
Don smiled when he noticed that the lights in the garage were on as he pulled into the driveway. Charlie was back then.
He decided to check in with his brother first before going into the house and see his dad – after all, Charlie had been gone for over a week. Granted, there'd been times when he might not even have noticed his absence, but over the last couple of years they'd become close enough that Don had to admit to himself that he'd actually missed his little brother.
The smile was still on his face when he opened the door. "Hey, Chuck."
Charlie turned around and Don stopped abruptly, feeling like he'd just hit a solid wall. The smile was gone.
"Oh, hey! Dinner ready?" the rainbow face that had once been his brother's asked casually.
Don, however, was still aghast. "What the hell happened to you?"
"Oh, this? It's nothing, really." With his eyes kept carefully on the ground, Charlie pushed past him. "I'm gonna see about dinner, I'm starving."
Don's mind was still having trouble getting back into working order, so he was too slow to hold his brother back and had to resign to following him into the house. Maybe it was better that way, he was sure that their father would be on his side.
Charlie was already setting the table when Don slowly stepped into the house. He knew what his brother was doing. He was keeping himself busy so he could avoid the confrontation. Well, that wasn't about to work.
"What happened, Charlie?"
"You know I can't talk about it," Charlie mumbled.
Don could sense a feeling of impatience awaken within him. "I'm not asking about your assignment. I'm asking what happened."
"I got into a fight."
"Which you obviously lost." He paused. "Who did that, Charlie?"
Charlie's words, though still a bit hoarse, came clearer now, irritation etching away his insecurity. "That doesn't concern you."
"I think –"
"No, it doesn't!" Now, Charlie was looking at him, no, glaring at him. "This is none of your business, Don. We're not in high-school anymore, I can very well take care of myself."
"Yeah, as evidenced by your face."
"Boys!" They whirled around. "I suggest you both calm down so we can have a nice dinner. Charlie, hand me that knife, please?"
Their father's request was only half met. They stopped arguing, true, but they were far from having a 'nice dinner'.
Three days later, Charlie got up early – really early – to work on the code. After his debriefing, Bob had asked him worriedly if he was sure he wanted to keep working on this case. Not that the NSA and he as their assistant director didn't need his help, but after the debacle of his abduction, Bob had been reluctant to ask Charlie for anything other than his forgiveness. The fact however remained that despite this less-than-optimal development, the assignment Charlie had originally been working on had been a success: they had managed to intercept several messages of their opponent. Messages which now had to be deciphered.
At first, immediately after his rescue, all that Charlie had wanted to do was to go home. Then, however, he'd been filled with an almost raging urge to complete the task, to finish this case and bring everyone who was involved to justice. Sure, the group that had been responsible for his abduction had been arrested, but that was only one small cell within a bigger organization. They all deserved to be punished.
Now, he was glad he'd made the decision to continue his assignment. It gave him something to do, something to occupy his mind, something to divert his attention from the demons that kept looming in the back of his mind just waiting for him to show weakness, to let his guard down, so they could attack.
That attacks usually came at night. In his dreams, Charlie had no control over his thoughts and they would invariably take him back to the cell, to his kidnappers, to the cold and the fear. When he woke up, bathed in sweat, he was always too upset to go back to sleep, so he would go quietly down to the garage and occupy his mind.
At first he'd tried P versus NP. That problem was so complex, so manifold that he could always find an aspect to work on. But he couldn't. P versus NP was what he'd used during the beatings to escape his captivity. He'd immersed himself in the problem, a well-tried coping mechanism – or at least a means that he was sure could take his mind off things. Like always, he'd considered minesweeper, always trying to find new ways, new algorithms to solve it, and each time checking whether the solution could be computed fast enough. It hadn't worked until now, but there was no reason to give up. Or rather, there hadn't been a reason, until now. Now, the problem had entered Charlie's nightmares. Each time his kidnappers would throw a blow at him, a minesweeper bomb would go up and ruin his thought process, blowing off other minesweeper bombs, each of them hitting him like a physical blow, and he couldn't start anew, couldn't immerse himself back into the problem, because when all the bombs had gone off, they always started with the water…
And now, even while waking the problem would take him back to his captivity. It had stopped working. Just as he tried to use it to get out of his head, to get the images away, it would pull him right back in with a force he had nothing to counter. So, instead of P versus NP, he'd immersed himself in another problem, one that – surprisingly enough – wouldn't take him back to that place he never wanted to see again: the problem of deciphering the codes.
He knew he wasn't working efficiently. He could have very well done something else during the hours the computer let the programs run that he'd written, each time trying to get one step closer to the solution, instead of trying manual ways to decipher the code. But the fact was: there was nothing else he could work on. It was spring break, he'd performed all his duties with the university apart from his own research – and he really couldn't work on that right now. Cognitive emergence? Exploring the twists and wonders of the human mind? Well, no thanks.
Neither was there a case he was helping Don with and Charlie had a very distinct feeling that this was by his brother's design. He couldn't help but feel a bit badly about the way he'd been treating Don and his dad these past few days. They'd been trying to get him to talk, they'd been concerned, but Charlie fended them off. He couldn't do this now, he had to get back to normalcy. If he just pushed the memories away, everything would get better soon.
It hadn't helped that in addition to his bruises, he'd developed a cold which manifested itself in a pretty nasty cough. Which, of course, made especially his dad worry about him even more, which, in turn, fueled Charlie's annoyance. Couldn't they just get off his back?
By now, that seemed to be their plan. Yesterday, Charlie had left no doubt as to his desire to be left alone, and after an intense argument, his dad had indeed retreated.
Charlie ran his hands over his face, exasperated. He knew he should apologize. He'd said things to his dad… G-ddammit, won't you ever leave me alone? It's just a cold, Dad, give it some rest! Or are you still trying to compensate for the time you shunted me to Princeton? His father had been speechless and hadn't pressed the matter further.
Charlie sighed. Why had he said that? That wasn't him, and he knew his dad was meaning well. He just didn't know what was going on with him, he was always so impatient since he'd come back, easily irritated and completely unable to function normally around other people. Even Amita had noticed that something was not right – and she was on the other side of the planet, visiting her family in India.
What the hell was wrong with him?
Willing to stop the tears that were pressing against the backs of his eyes, he stood, just as his computer announced he had finished the latest attempt to solve the code. With a relief that seemed inappropriate in its intensity even to him, he hurried over to the desk to examine the data and was back in his element. Oh right… this could very well… He grabbed a pen and a notepad and started writing. If he was right about this, then he would soon have –
Damn. Oh damn. This wasn't good. So not good. Did fate or whatever just hate him or what?
He thought about running it again, but he knew it was useless. He had his answer, he had it in the clear, he had deciphered the code. Running it again wouldn't change that he didn't like what it said.
"Hey, Charlie! Glad you could come. Man, you look awful!"
Charlie coughed and stepped wearily into the conference room. "It's just a cold," he quietly replied to Agent Steven Monroe's assessment. He saw the two NSA agents exchange a glance before the smaller one, Desmond Winslow, spoke up. "Look, Charlie, we're sorry, we know you wanted to keep quiet about this, but the people involved should have full disclosure about everything we know, and that includes full disclosure about what happened to you."
Charlie waved him off. "I know."
The room started filling with other agents now – FBI agents – and Charlie did his best to ignore the curious glances they gave him, just returning their greetings and otherwise keeping his focus on the presentation they were about to give. It was true, both the prospect of having to talk or even hear someone talk about what had happened and the fact that soon all these agents would know about it terrified him. But that wasn't even what he was worried about most.
"I heard your brother will also be part of this operation." That was what he was worried about most. "You know we could have made sure that he didn't work on this case," Desmond continued.
Charlie shook his head. He'd thought about this, of course, but he had soon realized that it would have been of no use. "Because he wouldn't have found out anyway with half the office being involved?" he sarcastically voiced his doubts.
At that moment, Don and his team entered the room and any discussion about keeping them out of the loop became void.
"Whoa, Charlie, what happened to you?" David hadn't been able to hide his surprise, but also Megan and Colby eyed the waning colors on his face (which now sported a slightly feverish blush on top of the bruises) with undisguised worry. So Don had actually kept this to himself.
"Nothing," Charlie replied to David's question, but hardly spared him a glance. Instead, his eyes were kept on his brother. Don had his brows furrowed, obviously trying to determine what his little brother was doing at this emergency conference in the FBI building with NSA agents standing next to him.
Desmond cleared his throat. "You know you don't have to stay up front with us the whole time, right? You could stay at the back of the room with your brother's team until we need you."
Charlie looked at him and couldn't hide the pure gratitude that showed in his eyes. He felt like the most despicable coward walking the face of the earth, but he just couldn't stand the idea of having to watch the agents' expressions when they learned what had happened, least of all the expressions of Don and his team. Nor could he stand the idea of being watched during all this, so his decision was soon made. "Thanks, yes, I think I'll do that." And without another word, he pushed past Don's team towards the back of the room.
They didn't take long to join him. "So what's this all about?" Colby asked. "You've been working for the NSA again?"
Charlie nodded, and before he had to think about what to reply, Desmond started the presentation of the case. By now, the room was full with FBI agents, around three dozen of them, all wondering why they had been called in here and what the NSA had to do with it.
"Thank you all for coming," Desmond started. "Let me begin by making clear that all information you are about to hear during the next hour is strictly on a need-to-know basis." He paused and said very slowly: "Nothing that will be said here today is going to leave this room. Am I clear?"
He got confirmation from every agent in the room and nodded satisfied. "Alright. We have come here today because we have solid information that there are plans to launch a terrorist attack in the L.A. area in about a month." There was a sharp intake of breath from multiple lungs, and Desmond gave them a moment to digest the news before he went on. "That's the reason why this project has to remain classified; we can't risk a public panic. Now, in order to avert this attack, the NSA will work together with this office. To do that, we – that is Agent Monroe here, our consultant Dr. Eppes, whom most of you probably know, and myself, Agent Winslow – will now lay out before you the information we gathered so far and then explain to you our plan to proceed." At that, most heads in the room turned around to Charlie, most of them with surprise, for most of them didn't know about his NSA affiliations. Charlie tried his best to ignore the curious looks, staring straight ahead at the presentation.
At the wall, the projected pictures of several known men within the terrorist organization in question appeared. Desmond explained very generally how they had established the group's structure and what other information they had gathered so far. Charlie just stood there focusing on his breathing, glad that he didn't have to pay much attention to the information presented because there was nothing of importance that was new to him. Then, however, Desmond started to explain how they had apprehended that one cell, and keeping his breathing regular became a real challenge to Charlie.
Don was trying hard to keep his focus on the presentation while at the same time piecing together the puzzle his kid brother had become at the back of his mind. So Charlie had been working for the NSA again, that was hardly a surprise. Don just hadn't expected it to be this big. A terrorist attack right here in L.A…. No wonder Charlie had been so busy and secretive these last few days. And irritable. So irritable that Don had finally given up on getting him to talk about that fight he'd been in. It had become apparent that Charlie was getting a cold, and when his little brother was stressed and sick, he was always cranky enough that Don was glad to have an own apartment to retreat to. After all, Charlie had assured him that whoever he'd been fighting with had been apprehended, so Don had thought that his specialties as a big brother were no longer called for.
Now, however, he wasn't so sure. Instead of the cranky Charlie he would have expected to see, his brother seemed to be more despondent than anything else and… somehow not right. He was unusually quiet. Was it still the secrecy? But why, if the NSA agents were about to inform them about everything?
Out of the corners of his eyes, Don could see Charlie tense up even more and his breathing become more labored. He tore his eyes away from the thin figure and looked back at the screen where now the pictures of six men of Middle Eastern descent appeared. "Eight days ago," Agent Winslow was just explaining, "an unfortunate incident occurred, which nonetheless provided us with some valuable information. While working on the project, Dr. Eppes was abducted by one of the terrorist cells we've been watching."
Don's head jerked to the speaker, his eyes widening. What?! He must have heard wrong.
Just like every other head in the room, he turned to look at his brother. Charlie was staring hard at the floor, his jaw clenched, his arms crossed tightly before his torso as if to offer some protection.
G-d, Charlie…
Before Don had started breathing again, Winslow continued. "He was extricated three days later in an operation during which we managed to apprehend these six men who formed one of the cells I've been talking about. They'd tried to get Dr. Eppes to reveal information about our level of knowledge and our investigative methods in this case, which he refused to deliver."
Even though all the heads had turned back to the NSA agents by now, the tension that followed these words was palpable. Each agent in the room understood what Winslow's calm, matter-of-fact words implied: torture. They'd been trying to get information from Charlie by torturing him.
Don felt his throat close up and tears form at the corners of his eyes. His breathing had become unnaturally loud in his own ears. Three days… Charlie had been at the mercy of those terrorists for three days, they'd tortured him for three days…
Acting on an impulse, Don grabbed one of Charlie's upper arms. His brother didn't look at him, but Don could sense him tense up even further. He wouldn't let go though. He had to make sure Charlie was still there and not in some torture chamber, and he had to make sure that Charlie knew that he was there. For him.
When the tension in Charlie's body receded, Don forced himself to focus on the presentation. He'd be there for his brother, yes. But he would also make damn sure that everyone who was involved in hurting him would be brought to justice.
When he felt the touch on his upper arm, Charlie would have almost cried out. Then, however, he realized it was his brother and forced himself to calm down, well aware he was being watched. It was hard, but not as hard as he would have thought. With surprise he realized that the simple contact with his brother made him feel a little better.
Desmond was just explaining how his abduction had not only led to the arrest of the six terrorists, but that they had also been able to deduce their opponent's state of knowledge about their investigation from the questions they'd asked him during the torture. Charlie almost laughed, not sure why he considered it so funny that his experience in hell had a silver-lining after all.
Then, it was over, and it was Steven's turn to inform the agents about the coded messages they'd intercepted. And then it was Charlie's turn.
He knew that most of them would be staring at him with that look now, the look that told him that there was something wrong with him. He'd seen it before, in Desmond's and Steven's eyes, when they'd learned about what he'd gone through, and he braced himself for it. He knew the FBI agents had to know about the code, they had to know what they were up against and what to keep their eyes open for in case they stumbled upon further encrypted messages. He kept telling himself that he could do this. This was math. Math was his element. He could do math.
When Steven finished, he freed himself from Don's grip and strode to the front of the room. Steven had pulled up part of the code he'd been working on, so everything was ready for him to start. Out of sheer habit, without thinking, he did what he always did when giving a lecture: he looked up at his audience.
Well, shit.
He'd been right. They were staring at him with that look on their faces, or at least most of them did. Don did. Their gazes interlocked for a moment before Charlie tore his eyes away. He couldn't do this now. He settled on a face in the first row he didn't know, a face without that look, and started his presentation.
It went surprisingly well. He even managed to keep the coughing at bay. It wasn't one of Charlie's more spirited or witty talks, and since he never took his eyes off that one face, he couldn't tell how much of his audience he lost on the way, but he was reasonably certain to have made the matter sufficiently clear. He explained to them what the code looked like, gave them a general idea of how it worked and finally presented what it said. That was when Steven took over again to present the conclusions they had drawn from the decoded messages before Desmond concluded the meeting by assigning tasks.
When it was over, Charlie breathed a deep sigh of relief and purposely kept looking at the ground or the laptop screen while the agents left the room and got to work.
"Charlie."
Charlie carefully kept his eyes at the computer screen, around Desmond's elbow. "I'm busy." That was a lie. There was absolutely nothing he was doing right now. He still had to check some details with Desmond and Steven – for example, where to set up – but they were currently busy talking to other agents.
Don took a deep breath that shook just slightly. "Charlie," he repeated, "you know you have to talk about this."
Charlie had to fend off another cough and maybe that was why his voice sounded so flat. "Let's just get to work and finish this case, okay?"
He could tell that Don was still there, even though it took him some moments to gather the courage to speak again. "You're hoping that solving this case will make it all go away, but there's a good chance that it won't."
"And how the hell would you know that!?"
Charlie was looking up now, so he couldn't miss that every single agent that was still in the room was staring at him. No surprise there. Plus, he didn't shout often. He just didn't know what was wrong with him. Why did he keep hurting everyone who wanted to help him?
An apology was lying on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. He didn't know why, he knew that Don just meant well. But he also knew that he was sick of it. He was sick of other people telling him what he should or shouldn't do, as if they knew better than him. None of them had any idea what he'd been through. None of them could imagine what he was feeling. And none of them seemed to see him as a person, with an own free will, they just kept judging him and trying to make decisions for him, treating him like a puppet or a dog, just like they had done.
"I've seen enough people crack over the years," Don continued very quietly. The others had resumed their conversations, so that there shouldn't be anyone close enough to hear. Not that Charlie could be sure of that, since he'd gone back to staring at the floor, willing the tears to stay at bay. "Both victims of violent crimes and co-workers. They all thought they could deal with what they'd been through on their own, but they couldn't, and it ate them up from inside. Charlie…" He could hear emotion enter Don's voice. "I don't want that to happen to you."
Impatiently, Charlie wiped his eyes. He knew that Don was right. But he just couldn't do this, not here, not now, not before they had finished this. Maybe, just maybe, it would go away on its own? "Let's just get to work," he said tonelessly and pushed past Don and his silent team, headed for the restroom.
Don stood when he saw Charlie emerge from the restroom few minutes later, but his brother didn't spare him a glance as he went straight ahead to one of the smaller conference rooms to get to work. A room without the usual glass front, but with solid walls instead.
"You okay?"
Don started to turn around, but found that he couldn't take his eyes off the door that had just closed behind his little brother. "You should ask Charlie that," he said quietly.
Megan nodded. "I probably should. But it's obvious you're hurting as well, Don."
"Then why ask if I'm okay?"
Megan sighed. "Just see it as an offer? One that's still standing. You know I'm here for you, Don – for both of you. And so are David and Colby. You just have to say the word."
Don's voice was still quiet, even despondent. "Can you make him feel right again?"
Megan bit her lip and stayed silent.
"Yeah. I thought so."
He finally tore his eyes away from the door, pretending to look at the paperwork in front of him he didn't really see. He could sense that she was still there, watching the back of his head, before she turned around again to do her job.
He ran his hands over his face. "Megan," he said and waited until he heard her turning towards him. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. I'm –"
He felt her small hand on his shoulder. "Hey. It's okay. I understand."
He nodded his thanks, glanced at the door to the conference room one last time and finally set to work.
A few hours later, Don glanced at his watch, not for the first time during the past hour. It was getting late. True, they had an important case at their hands, but they would be working on it for another couple of weeks. There was no sense in pulling an all-nighter and working themselves into a state of exhaustion at this early stage; they had to pace themselves. Besides, from the information they'd gathered from the code, it was evident that the terrorist attack wasn't about to happen for another four weeks, possibly longer. Granted, the arrest of the six members might prompt them to act more quickly, but even so they still weren't prepared to strike for another three weeks or so.
Most of the other agents had gone home by now. His team was still there, but Don knew that they'd only stayed because he was still here. And the only reason he was still here was because Charlie was still here.
Don sighed. He just didn't know what to do. He knew they should all go home right now, but he sure as hell wasn't going to leave without his brother. The problem was, he wasn't sure whether Charlie would come with him. They hadn't talked since after the briefing, and Don knew that there was little chance that Charlie would talk to him now. He did have a tendency to push issues he didn't want to deal with aside, as if that would solve them somehow. It was almost funny, he would attack every cognitive problem head-on while hiding away from anything that bore even the most remote possibility of emotional hurt. He'd done it frequently when they'd been kids, then again when their mother had died, and even with pursuing a relationship with Amita he'd taken an absurd amount of time just because he'd been too afraid to face his emotions.
This time, Don could actually understand Charlie's reluctance to face his emotions, but that didn't mean that he would let his brother go through with it. However, he also knew that in order to keep him from doing what he always did – doing math and stretching his body to its limits – he might have to make a compromise.
"Alright guys, let's call it a day."
He saw them exchange glances, but it was Megan who spoke. "You're heading out as well?"
He nodded. "I'm gonna grab Charlie and we'll see you tomorrow bright and early." His smile didn't reach his eyes.
Megan noticed. "Need some help?" None of them had any trouble understanding that she was referring to getting Charlie out of his temporary office.
He waved them off. "I'll manage," he said with more conviction than he felt. "See you tomorrow."
They said their goodbyes and Don took a deep breath. He had a feeling this wasn't going to be easy.
He actually knocked, but didn't wait for a reply before he entered. There was a good chance Charlie hadn't even heard him.
"Charlie?"
He might have heard, Don wasn't sure, but in any case he didn't turn around or show any other kind of reaction.
"Charlie, I'm heading out now. You coming?"
There was silence for some seconds, but eventually his brother answered. "I'm here with my own car."
"We can ride back in together tomorrow. I'm gonna stay at the house tonight." It was only after he'd said it that it occurred to him that he probably should have asked Charlie and not stated his intention as a fact – it was his brother's house, after all. But he didn't, not even now that he realized his faux pas. Usually, he wouldn't even have thought about it, but tonight, he was actually afraid he wouldn't be welcome.
"So, you coming?" he pressed when Charlie remained silent. More silence followed. "Come on, buddy, you need to take a break. We all do. Practically everyone else has already left."
Charlie sighed, which instantly turned into a nasty cough. "Alright," he said flatly when he could breathe again. "But I'm gonna take my own car."
Don was about to agree, thinking of his intention to compromise, but seeing the pitiful state his brother was in, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. "Charlie… you look awful. I don't think you should drive right now. Did you even sleep last night?"
At that, Charlie rolled his eyes and got back to his whiteboard, scribbling more agitated than he had before.
Don sighed, fighting hard both the urge to strangle his brother and to rush forward and pull him into a hug. "Charlie, please." He knew he could usually bring Charlie to do almost anything, but right now, he wasn't even sure if begging would help.
"You're just trying to get me to talk about it," Charlie muttered without looking at him.
This was his chance. "No, Charlie, I'm not. I promise. I won't try again until you either want me to or until this case is over."
There was a moment of silence. "Promise?" Damn, his voice sounded so frail, so insecure. So lost.
"Promise."
Whether it was a sign of his willingness to cooperate or mere exhaustion, Don didn't care, he was just glad that Charlie accepted the arm he laid around his shoulders. This close, however, he couldn't miss the thin layer of sweat covering Charlie's face. "Geez, buddy, you're feeling a little warm there. Maybe you should go see a doctor in the morning."
Charlie stood abruptly. "No talk about my health – either emotional or physical."
Don shook his head. "That wasn't the deal, Charlie –"
"It is now. I consent to get to and from work with you, but you're not allowed to criticize how I treat my own body, nor to give me any advice about my physical or… or my emotional state."
Shit. What should he do? Charlie had the upper hand. It wasn't like he could just drag him to the SUV against his will.
Although…
Don pushed the thought aside and was met with the determined look in his brother's eyes. Why did he have the feeling he could only lose this argument? If he agreed, there was no way Charlie was going to see a doctor anytime soon. He would push his body to its limits and work himself to exhaustion. If he didn't agree, however, Charlie would just stay here and continue his self-destruction tonight instead of in the morning. Thinking about it logically, it wasn't really a matter of debate.
"Fine," he muttered, knowing full well he would regret his words later.
Four days had passed. Don had started regretting his words the moment that they'd arrived at the Craftsman that first night and he almost had to carry Charlie into the house. By morning though, the fever seemed to have gone down some, so that their dad didn't even make a comment when Charlie left the house with Don to go to work, but just gave him a stern, disapproving look. The coughing, however, had increased and continued to do so. By now, it was difficult to have a conversation with Charlie – not just because he continued to retreat, but also because of the coughing fits and his almost inaudible voice. Their dad and Charlie had stopped talking altogether – or rather, Charlie had stopped reacting to his father's admonishments.
Don always felt like crying whenever his eyes fell on Charlie these days, but there was nothing he could do. He'd thought about just not taking Charlie to work with him in the morning, but he knew that his brother would just take a cab or something and that from this moment onward, he would no longer consider himself liable to their agreement. This way, he at least got rest at night, even though Don suspected that Charlie kept working on the case in his room, for he always took a notepad filled with illegible scribblings with him on the rides to and from work.
They were just processing the witness reports of a van that they knew belonged to the terrorists when they heard the hacking that undoubtedly meant that Charlie was approaching.
Few seconds later, he was leaning against the doorframe, and Don caught his breath. His brother looked awful, ready to topple over. Don instantly stood, filled with the need to get to him even though he had no idea how to help him. Charlie was still fighting a coughing fit, a particular nasty one, pointing towards his temporary office and trying to catch his breath to say something. "I've got –" he managed before the coughing got the better of him again.
By now, Don had reached him. He put his arm around his brother in a gesture he hoped was comforting, but he couldn't miss the fact that he was utterly useless to him. "Charlie, what is it? Do you need something?" Charlie shook his head, still bent over from the coughing, clutching his chest, and Don started to get scared. "Colby, get him some water." He was just about to turn back down to Charlie when he noticed the weight against his chest.
"What the –"
Instinctively, he encircled his brother with both his arms now, and it was a good thing he did that. An instant later, Charlie collapsed.
"Charlie!"
The limp form in his arms tore him downwards. Filled with a terror he hadn't known before, he carefully laid him on the floor and only now noticed that his team was at their side. Colby was checking Charlie's pulse, while David uttered a soft expletive. "He needs oxygen, look at his lips. We need to call an ambulance."
Megan was already on the phone, but she, like Don and Colby, turned to look at Charlie's face at David's words and gasped: Charlie's lips had turned blue.
Without hesitating further, Don took his brother's face in his hands and put his mouth to Charlie's nose. At the last second, his training had set in, telling him to be careful: Charlie's condition, especially the blue lips, could also be a sign of some sort of poisoning. Better avoid mouth-to-mouth.
"His pulse is shallow and rapid, but regular." He heard Colby's voice as if through a mile-long tunnel, concentrating on his task to fill his brother's lungs with air.
"He's really warm," Colby added quietly, as if he wasn't sure whether he wanted to reveal that fact.
Don blocked him out. He could feel the heat himself, he could feel the sweat on Charlie's cheeks. All that wasn't important now. The only important thing was supplying him with oxygen, keeping him alive.
Charlie's eyelids fluttered open and Don was so captured by the sight that he stopped his task for an instant. A frown formed on Charlie's forehead, and his eyes flew through the room until they landed on his brother.
"Don…" The croaking sound wasn't even a whisper and hardly qualified as a word, but it led way to another cough, though infinitely weaker this time.
Don blindly found his brother's hand and squeezed it tightly, never breaking eye-contact with Charlie. "It's okay, buddy, don't talk. Everything will be fine, the ambulance is on its way." It would make him feel so much better if he could only believe his own words.
Those big, dark eyes looked up at him, now not only filled with confusion, but with downright fear. Don suspected it had something to do with Charlie's laborious efforts to breathe. "Calm down, buddy, help's on the way. You just collapsed, you seem to have a fever. Just keep breathing, nice and slow, okay?"
The fear was turning to panic now. "Can't –"
Don squeezed the hand tighter and tried to keep up his soothing words, but found that he couldn't. His throat was tight, no words were coming out.
"Listen to Don, Charlie, just calm down." Don was so grateful for Colby's support that his throat constricted even more. "Just relax. You won't suffocate, you know we won't let that happen to you. Just try and take some deep breaths."
That seemed to work somehow, although Charlie still seemed to have trouble getting air into his lungs, and his lips hadn't lost their blue tinge yet. There was a whistling sound in his breathing that Don didn't like, just as he didn't like the paleness of Charlie's exhausted features as he lay there on the floor, concentrating only on breathing and keeping himself alive.
"Don!"
Don's head jerked up and he stood, the nausea rising inside him simultaneously with the movement, as he watched his father approach.
He didn't even manage a greeting before his dad went on, "What happened?"
He swallowed, trying to get the image of his brother's pale form and his blue tinged lips out of his head. "Charlie collapsed. His cough had become really bad and he had trouble breathing." That was all he could say for now, and he didn't even think he'd added any information to the facts he'd delivered when he'd called his dad. There was no new information. Charlie was still being treated, and still they didn't have any word on him. For almost an hour now.
Don warily eyed his father, waiting for a reaction. He'd both feared and longed for his arrival. He'd feared it because he was afraid his father might blame him for what had happened, and he knew there wasn't anything he could oppose to his accusations. On the other hand, he just needed him here right now. True, Megan was waiting with him and he was immensely grateful for that, but she wasn't his dad, and she wasn't Charlie's dad.
"I knew this was going to happen." His father was agitated, pacing impatiently up and down the width of the hospital corridor and using his hands to make his point. "I told you he shouldn't go to work, that he needed rest. So maybe now you think that there might be more important things than your job?"
"Dad –"
"Don't talk back to me! You saw the state he was in, but you just decided to use him for your work anyway! Do you realize now what that did to him? Do you still think it was worth it?"
"Alan!"
Megan's forceful voice was piercing through the sterile hospital air. An angry spark had entered her eyes. She'd always been fond of Alan, he'd been like a father to her, hell, she'd envied Don and Charlie for their dad. Now, however, she was seriously pissed off with the man. Yes, he was worried about his son – but he had another son as well. And right now, Don looked pitiful enough to deserve his father's embrace, or at least not his accusations. He had buried his head in his hands, and Megan wasn't sure if maybe, he was crying.
"With all due respect, Alan, I think you have no idea how much Don tried to take care of Charlie these last few days."
"Well, he obviously wasn't very successful!"
"But it's not his job either!"
"Megan –"
She ignored her boss. "Charlie's an adult, he knows when he needs to take a break. And you should also know that it wasn't Don's idea to get Charlie to help on this case, he got involved very much on his own account. It's hardly Don's fault that Charlie failed to take care of his own physical needs."
She'd rendered the older Eppes silent, but apparently only fueled her boss's anger. "What are you doing? You're blaming Charlie now?" Now that he was directly looking at her, she could see that yes, his eyes were still dry, but she also couldn't miss the somewhat haunted expression in them. "He's lying in there, maybe fighting for his life, and after everything –" He stopped short, shaking his head as if to fend off an image that preyed on his mind. It took him a second before he could go on, "And now you blame him?"
Megan forced herself to stay calm, or rather, to get her calm back. How again had she managed to get in the middle of a family fight? "I'm not blaming him. But you can't blame yourself either, Don. Charlie's his own man, he's the one accountable for his own decisions and actions, not you. And he wasn't even working on something for us this time."
Before Don could find a reply, he saw Charlie's doctor approach and immediately gave him his full attention.
"You're all here for Charles Eppes? I'm Dr. Fletcher, his attending physician. Any family members?"
"I'm his father," Alan said before Don had found his voice.
When that was all he said, the doctor prompted, "Would you like to discuss your son's condition in privacy or –"
Alan's impatience got the better of him. "Just tell us what you know, they can hear everything you have to say."
Dr. Fletcher nodded. "Let's sit down," he said and when they did, he opened the file in his hands. "Your son is suffering from a severe case of pneumonia. He'll be with us for a few days, but we're optimistic that there won't be any lingering effects. Apart from the primary symptoms of the pneumonia, that is the fever, the cyanosis you may have noticed – you know, the bluish skin –, the cough, the respiratory problems and the increased level of inflammatory markers in his blood, he's suffering from other symptoms that may have played a part in bringing the pneumonia about, namely malnourishment and overall exhaustion. We suspect that he may have caught a bout of acute bronchitis which failed to heal properly, seeing the state your son's in probably because he neither got any treatment nor allowed his body the necessary rest when he fell ill. Can you confirm that?"
Alan nodded. "Sounds about right," he mumbled.
Dr. Fletcher became serious now. "This is something we do not want a repetition of. Even after Charles gets released, he will need to take things slow for another couple of weeks and he'll need to take better care of his body. Otherwise he'll be back in here before you know it."
Alan's voice was bitter when he answered, "Trust me, I'm aware of that. And I hope that Charlie will see this as his wake-up call."
"Well, he'd better. We put him in the ICU, primarily because of the fever and to decrease the risk of further infection. We are using a non-rebreather mask to support his breathing for now, but if we find that he can get enough oxygen on his own, we will switch to a nasal cannula later tonight. If everything goes according to our plans, we may move him to a regular room some time tomorrow. As soon as the antibiotics have started to kick in and the fever has sufficiently gone down, your son may continue his convalescence at home."
Alan nodded. "Can we see him?"
"You can, but I have to ask you to keep your visit short. What your son needs most right now is rest."
Few minutes later, they arrived at Charlie's room in the ICU. Don was just about to disinfect his hands when his father's quiet, yet stern voice stopped him. "I hardly think you should go in there. The doctor said he needs his rest."
Don stared at him. "Dad… what makes you think –"
"It's not that I don't trust you not to be able to shut up about your job for a couple of minutes," Alan interrupted him. His tone, however, left some doubt as to the amount of trust he really had in his eldest son. "But you know your brother, as soon as he sees you he'll be adamant to go back to whatever stupid case it is you're handling."
Okay, so his dad was still pissed. Don felt a hand on his upper arm and looked in a female face that seemed to be just as irritated. "Maybe it's a good idea if he goes in alone first. Let's check in with David and Colby in the meanwhile."
Don swallowed, hung his head defeated and let Megan lead him outside.
As soon as Alan stepped into the room and saw his youngest son amidst a conglomeration of machines, his strength and the façade he'd upheld until now left him. He sank into a chair next to his son's bed, took his hand in his, and let the tears come. Therefore, he was even a bit relieved that Charlie was sleeping. He couldn't have held his emotions back any longer.
He looked at his youngest son's calm, albeit flushed face, and had to fight a crying fit. Charlie looked beaten, defeated, utterly exhausted – but that wasn't even the worst part. Those things – the fever, the cough –, they would all subside with time and under the watchful eye of the medical personnel. Alan, however, knew that there was more that was vexing his son, there were things that weren't so obvious to the naked eye, and thus couldn't be treated with such comparative ease.
He'd known it the moment Charlie had come back from his trip. The look in his eyes had told him enough. Something had happened, something that still bothered Charlie, something that made him retreat to his mind and forget about his body. He knew that Charlie couldn't tell them what had happened, so he had stopped searching for the cause of his behavior and resorted to trying to treat the symptoms – without success. Then he'd noticed that Don knew something. Charlie must have told him what had happened, Alan could see it in their eyes, in how they wouldn't look at each other and search each other's eyes at the same time. They were keeping it from him, but that wasn't what bothered Alan. He could live with the fact that their bond with each other was stronger than their bond with him, the fact that they had become so close filled him with a happiness he couldn't find anywhere else. What bothered him was that Charlie's act of confiding in his brother hadn't made things better, but worse, and Alan just didn't understand why. And he couldn't for the life of him figure out why his eldest, instead of helping Charlie cope with whatever had happened, wasn't only tolerating, but even supporting his path of self-destruction. He knew that Don cared more about his brother than about his job, and he knew he was sometimes reluctant to ask him for his help because he thought he was using him. But then why would he do just that?
He felt a movement under his hand and hastily wiped his eyes. He was too slow. He was still trying to hide the tears when he saw Charlie's dark, solemn eyes looking up at him.
"Dad," he whispered and the sound was even more muffled by the oxygen mask.
"Hey there," Alan said quietly, trying his best to keep the emotions out of his voice. "How are you feeling, son? Do you need anything?"
Charlie looked at him for a few moments, obviously still having some difficulty to keep his eyes open. Then Alan heard the muffled sound again, "I'm sorry."
He felt the tears threaten anew. More than anything he wanted to tell Charlie that it was okay, that everything would be fine, but he knew he couldn't, not if he really cared about his son. Charlie had to understand that he couldn't do something like this again, that he had to take better care of himself. "You just concentrate on getting better, little one."
Charlie nodded slightly and, few seconds later, was back asleep.
Don was unaccountably nervous when he stepped into the hospital room the next day. True, his dad had eventually agreed to let him see Charlie last night, but he'd been sleeping then. Today, according to his dad, Charlie was much more alert and had already asked about the case. He had just been transferred and Alan had gone home – he needed some rest himself, having spent the night at the hospital –, and when Don had told his father that Charlie's work on the case was done and that he would make that abundantly clear to him, his dad had finally agreed to let him see him before he himself had to go back to work.
The fact was that they were still tying things up, but it was true that they didn't need Charlie's help anymore. He'd already done his part. When David and Colby had inspected his office yesterday after he'd collapsed, they'd found that he'd finished his analysis of the terrorists' most probable hideouts. Since then, they'd had agents staking out each of them and were planning a coordinated attack, which would probably take place tonight. Then this whole nightmare would be over.
Don paused. Would it? Would it ever be over for Charlie?
Two dark eyes and silence greeted him as he opened the door.
"Hey, buddy," Don said softly. "How are you doing?"
Charlie didn't answer that question. "Did you find the results of my analysis? Dad said he'd tell you where to find them."
He still sounded hoarse and had to stifle a cough every now and then, but he seemed much better than the past few days. Just the haunted look in his eyes was still there. "Relax, Charlie, David and Colby found everything long ago. The case is as good as closed."
Charlie nodded and a wave of relief washed over his face, but it was soon replaced by something more solemn, less relaxed. "So," he had to clear his voice, not that it helped much, "I guess this is it, then. My period of grace is over? You came here to talk to me about… what happened?"
Don let himself lower onto a chair next to Charlie's bed. Yes, that had been the deal. He just didn't think he could do this right now, neither to Charlie, nor to himself.
"I'm here if you want to talk, Charlie," he said earnestly. "But I won't push you until you're better."
Charlie nodded, avoiding his eyes. "Thanks." It was almost inaudible, and Don guessed that emotion played its own part at rendering talking for Charlie difficult.
"So, how are you doing today? I have to tell you, I'm glad to see that mask is gone." He indicated the place that now hosted a nasal cannula. "Looks much less scary."
Charlie just nodded, still avoiding Don's eyes. Don felt lost. He wanted more than anything to make Charlie feel better, he just didn't know how. Worse, he wasn't sure whether his mere presence wasn't upsetting Charlie, because despite Don's words, he might still feel pushed to talk about something he wasn't ready to talk about.
He waited another minute and decided that had to be it. "Alright, buddy, I'll see you later, okay?"
He gave Charlie's leg a squeeze and stood, but a voice held him back. "Don."
He looked down and was a bit taken aback by the miserable look on Charlie's face. That was nothing, however, compared to the expression in his eyes as he looked up earnestly at his brother. "I'm sorry."
Don frowned and quickly sat down again, grasping his brother's hand. "What for, Charlie? What's going on?"
"I… What I did… it wasn't fair to you. I knew you just wanted to help, but… I just couldn't do that at the time. I know I was a real jerk about… well, everything. But I never should have put you in that position, I shouldn't have… blackmailed you into tolerating how I treated myself. I'm sorry."
Don squeezed his brother's hand, suppressing the urge to say it was okay, because they both knew it wasn't. Instead, he said, "I understand, buddy. And I'm not mad at you. Just… please, don't pull a stunt like that again."
Charlie nodded earnestly. "I promise. I'll take better care of myself."
Don smiled. "Good. Tell Dad that sometime. He'll hold you to it." The smile had become a bit forced at the mention of his dad. Yes, after Megan had admonished him like that, he hadn't reproached Don again, but he hadn't shown any particular degree of forgiveness either. Or of repentance. Don knew that he hadn't been very successful at taking care of Charlie, but his father had to know that he'd at least tried, that he'd done his best to keep Charlie from hurting himself? Yesterday, however, it had sounded like he thought that Don had somehow spurred his brother on to work that hard, that he had put his job before Charlie's health, even though their dad had to know he would never do that.
"Something wrong? Something with Dad?"
The croaky voice pulled him out of his musings. "No, buddy, don't worry. Dad's fine."
Charlie frowned. "What's wrong?"
Huh. So his little brother had picked up on that.
Don sighed and ran his hands over his face. "Don't worry about it," he started, but when Charlie looked at him expectantly, he felt compelled to go on, "He just… He thinks I shouldn't have let you work on the case."
Charlie's frown was still there. "'Let me'?" he quoted. "He knows it was my decision."
"Yeah, well, it may have been, but it was my decision to let you go through with it."
Charlie's frown became deeper. "No, it wasn't. It wasn't your case. Plus, I didn't exactly leave you a choice." There was a moment of silence, then Charlie said, much softer now, "He doesn't blame you, does he?"
Don looked down at the white sheet over Charlie's legs.
Charlie stared at him wide-eyed. "Don… I'm sorry. I had no idea." He was silent for a minute. "I'm gonna talk to him." He swallowed and winced, apparently noticing how painful the reflex was. "I know you did all you could to keep me from… from doing that, and I know I was acting like a real jerk. I just… I couldn't stop it, it's like there was a whole other person inside of me taking control and hurting everyone around me –"
Before his brother could go on in his self-accusation, Don interrupted him, "Stop it, Charlie, it's okay. We all know you didn't mean it."
Charlie nodded and managed to get his composure back. He actually managed a slightly insecure smile. "I'm sure Dad didn't mean it either."
Don joined in that somehow sad smile. "Maybe not."
"I meant what I said, Don. I'm gonna talk to him. He needs to know what you did for me."
Don's smile became more sincere, and he lightly patted Charlie's knee. "You just concentrate on getting back on your feet, okay?"
Charlie nodded, but avoided Don's eyes. They were silent for a moment, but Don kept a watchful eye on his brother. And if he wasn't mistaken, Charlie was fighting hard to hold back tears.
"What is it?"
Charlie kept his silence a bit longer, and when he finally spoke, the desperation had crept back into his voice. "It's just… I don't know if I can do that. I don't know how. I don't know how I can make it go away."
"Hey," he tried to calm his brother. "Don't worry about that now. You just get some rest, okay?"
But it wasn't okay for Charlie. "What if this doesn't go away? Don, I… I can't go on living like this."
Don thought his heart stopped beating. Was Charlie saying what he thought he was saying? "Charlie…" He could feel tears on his own now, pressing against the backs of his eyes, and he squeezed his brother's hand more tightly. "You can't say that, Charlie, please…" His voice, choked to begin with, was now gone completely. He couldn't let this happen, he wouldn't let anything happen to Charlie, he'd protect him from everyone who tried to hurt him, even if it was Charlie himself.
A look of understanding crossed Charlie's face, and his eyes widened. "Wh-? No! No, Don, I'm not… That's not what I meant."
Don gave back that wide-eyed stare, but didn't relinquish his hold of Charlie's hands. "I'm sorry," Charlie whispered. "I didn't mean to scare you. I'm not… I won't do something like that." His voice became more unstable. "I just… I just don't know what to do if this doesn't go away. I don't know what to do, Don."
The tears had sprung to Charlie's eyes, and Don let his other hand join his grasp around Charlie's fingers. "You're not alone, Charlie. I'm here for you, and so is everyone else. We won't let you go through this alone."
The tears were streaming down his face now. "What good could come from that? It'll only hurt you, I'll only hurt you, just like I did these past few days. You'll soon get sick of trying, and you'll have every right to."
"Charlie, listen." Don had no idea what he was going to say, he just knew he had to stop his brother's pain. "You remember when Mom died?"
Charlie looked at him, confusion now seeping through the pain. "Of course."
"And does it still hurt as much as it hurt back then?"
Charlie shook his head. "No," he said and seemed to calm down a bit.
"See, that's what's going to happen here. It will not hurt like this forever, Charlie. This thing won't dictate your life if you don't let it. But you can't just wait for it to go away on its own, you have to fight it. You have to deal with your emotions, and you might wanna think about getting some professional help. But I promise you, you won't have to fight alone. We're all here for you, I'm here for you. You just need to be open and honest with us." He bent down closer to his brother's face. "I know you can do that, buddy. You didn't cave in when they had you, and you won't cave in now. We can't let them win, and we won't."
Charlie nodded, wiping away the remnants of his tears. A look of determination had entered his face. He took a deep breath, locked eyes with his brother and said with conviction, "No, we won't."