Disclaimer: - Some adult language

Superheroes

'Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'

Marc Brown

Part Ten

Don opened his eyes and blinked up at the sun which enveloped him and shimmied on the water. He was lying back, must have been drowsing, the fishing pole dipping down in his hands. It was an effort to move and he felt oddly frail, filled with weakness and a strange sense of lassitude, and it was almost too tempting just to go with the flow and drift off to sleep again.

No, there was something – just a prickle of awareness – more of vigilance and not really danger. Just a sense that for various reasons, it was imperative he should stay awake. He pushed himself up on his elbows and shifted sideways in search of his brother. Charlie sat on some rocks a couple of yards away, shading his eyes as he stared across the lake.

"Penny for them?"

Charlie sighed and the sound was distinctly wistful. He didn't move or even bother turning around. "Don't think they're worth all that much. Not anymore."

Don frowned and studied the back of his neck. It was pale and seemed conspicuously vulnerable. By rights, he should be looking at a riot of curls, not a shorn line of darkened re-growth. Subconsciously, he reached up to his own head. It was ironic that his hair was longer, and of late he'd eschewed his usual rigid short cut, because Robin preferred it this way. Of course, he wasn't going to let it run too wild – not a chance - the mere thought made him shudder, and if it meant losing out on the scalp massages, it was a sad risk he'd just have to take.

Nope, he wasn't going back down that route, no chance, not even for Robin. Not after a lifetime of wrestling with the dreaded Eppes curls and insisting on wearing it short. To this day, he remembered the tears in mom's eyes when he'd first won that particular battle.

It had been something to do with the aunts, he recalled, and the way they got all misty when they looked at him. They'd waxed lyrical over his ringlets and the angelic length of his hair. It was customary in Jewish lore to leave a boy's hair uncut until he was three, and although mom and dad weren't particularly religious, they'd chosen to adhere to this tradition. He'd kicked up an almighty fuss after that, and in the end, dad marched him off to the barbers, where he'd been trimmed and snipped and subsequently buzz-cut, to within half an inch of his scalp.

Much later, it had taken on new significance, in the grim weeks following mom's chemotherapy. When her hair began falling in handfuls and he could see her loss of hope and despair. He'd cried then, in the privacy of his bedroom, the day she'd asked him to make a few phone calls, and it was her turn to insist on a radical new look when the hairdresser came out to the house.

He didn't know why it should bother him now, or why Charlie's hair was suddenly so important, but he knew that somehow, it was of consequence, and that the thought had jogged his memory for a reason.

Talking of memories, he felt saddened, half-annoyed with himself. Must be the quiet, but he was feeling nostalgic. There was something soothing almost soporific about being up here by the lake. The late sun was warm but not overly hot as it flashed and glittered over the water, accentuating shadows in the tumble of rocks with a watercolour wash of rose and slate. The light was shifting and subtly thinned, to his eyes, almost unbearably fragile. The landscape tinged with an ethereal outline of gold and the hazy allusion of a dream.

Don smiled then, and shook his head ruefully.

Since when had he become so poetic?

From the time he'd started searching for answers, asking more questions, and accepting he'd changed. It was strange how things were slotting into place now, just like a puzzle or a melodic piece of music, and every note, each intonation made more sense to him, somehow harmonious and less discordant to his ear.

It had started with the Erika Hellman case and an insistent tug towards his identity. The odd notion a part of him was dormant yet still called out and sang in his veins. It was funny thinking back to his childhood because his family had never been religious. Being Jewish had meant more about heritage than any spiritual sense of the word. Not any longer, he could acknowledge it now, and concede the enrichment it gave him. He was starting out with baby steps along a well-trodden road, and had a feeling his long search was over.

Until now, he'd been pretty unsure of it all, so he'd kept quiet and been fiercely protective. His feelings were nascent even vulnerable, so he'd stayed reticent and hugged them to himself. He was neither self-conscious nor uncomfortable, and it wasn't that he was embarrassed. It was rather that he wanted to tread lightly and explore this brand new world in private.

Charlie was so definite, so staunchly convinced in the complete non-existence of the spiritual. He'd made his thoughts absolutely unambiguous, and in a way, Don admired him for that. On the other hand, it was also intimidating and put the kibosh on any further discussion. Which explained his reluctance to talk about his faith and was kinda why he'd kept his mouth firmly shut.

He sighed – he wished it could be different. That it had always been different between them. The problem had never been a shortage of love, rather a fundamental lack of understanding.

He really didn't want Charlie dissing this – not now it was so surprisingly important. Not after he'd taken such a major step forwards and set fire to some bridges on the way. Don knew, by now, when to leave well-alone and not veer into fruitless discussion. There could be no winning of arguments with Charlie, not when he was certain he was right.

His brother would give him that patent smile – the one reserved for small children and FBI agents - and then launch into all sorts of reasons, a whole plethora of mathematical explanations why the metaphysical couldn't possibly exist. He supposed it was the arrogance of genius – and most of the time, he was able to put up with it. To shrug it off and argue his own corner, and if all else failed, reach for a beer.

But this, well, this was not up for scrutiny.

He didn't want it laid under the microscope.

He hoped Charlie might someday respect that choice, even if he didn't understand.

Talking of Charlie . . . he looked across at his brother. There was something he felt he ought to be remembering. A small concern beyond the fringes of his consciousness, it was almost there, yet dancing out of reach. His brow crinkled as he sought to recall what it was, but the memory was vague and elusive. It diminished like his view of the mountains, fading away behind the mist shrouded peaks. For some strange reason, his vision was blurred and he shook his head in an effort to clear it. A mistake, as he then found, and to his unexpected cost, unprepared for the white shaft of pain.

A lowering cloud moved across the sky casting long shadows and darkening the waters. They lapped around him, suddenly sinister, deep and immeasurably black. Don shivered and the sense of harmony was gone. The granite rocks stretched and towered around him. Charlie sat, just a few feet away from him, nonetheless, he felt oddly alone.

"Hey, Chuck?"

He took refuge in pushing Charlie's buttons, seeking to recapture his earlier serenity, but the mood had changed along with the weather, and there was a strange sense of dread in the air.

"Charlie?"

He was beginning to panic now and there was still no answer from Charlie. It was as though his brother couldn't hear – couldn't see him – as he continued to stare over the lake. The wind whipped up across the surface of the water. The glassy calm became roughened and choppy. It brought the rain clouds down off the mountain tops and blew Charlie's hair back from his face.

"Time to go."

The same wind snatched the last of his breath away, the cruel squalls seizing the air from his lungs. He reached up and loosened his collar, but it didn't seem to make any difference. He tried to inhale and then realised his chest hurt. The pain ripped through him like the blade of a knife. Something was wrong and he was truly afraid.

The world around him revised and altered as the rosy-tipped ambience vanished. Storm tossed clouds flogged the leaden sky and the light silvered eerie and monochrome. He flailed and lost his grip on his fishing pole, fighting hard to overcome the shock of terror, and then he was sliding down the rocks into the water, being dragged into the black depths of the lake.

He tried to get up but there were hands on him. Keeping him down and pushing him flat again. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, there was a weight on his chest . . . struggling to talk, but he couldn't explain. He fought them with every last ounce of strength. Needed to move, wanted to get back to Charlie. There was something he had to remember, something he'd said or a promise he'd made.

It was hopeless, dear God, he realised it was hopeless.

He couldn't speak, couldn't make himself heard.

He was fighting and gasping with fear and pain, trying to make them understand what he was saying. There was danger waiting out there in the mountains, a deadly menace stalking through the trees.

The same hands were moving all over him and blocking his last feeble efforts. They were stronger than him, more restraining, and then Don realised there was nothing he could do. One last look at the rock but Charlie had gone, slipping inexorably down under the surface.

Couldn't get to him, couldn't reach out and save him.

It was too late and Charlie had drowned.

Something was missing, he couldn't quite place it, and a sudden sense of panic rippled through him. Trapped behind a white wall of stillness and calm; for the moment, he was aesthetically lost. The scent of trees and damp earth and the dark thump of blades . . . they were gone now, all torn away from him. Charlie lay very quiet for a moment or two and then at long last he opened his eyes.

A shaft of sunlight shone into the room casting zebra stripes across the counterpane. There was someone standing next to the window, looking out through the vertical blind. He turned his head on the pillow and tried to take it all in. He was clearly in some kind of hospital. There was a monitor keeping tabs on his heart rate and an IV in the back of his hand.

He felt terrible, weak and battered. His gut roiled and churned with nausea. His head pounded with each sullen surge of his pulse and every joint in his body ached. He blinked and his acuity sharpened, the room swinging into sharpened focus, and then she turned with a sudden intake of breath, the sunlight gleaming on her long black hair.

"Oh, Charlie, thank God."

She moved across to the bed, her voice subdued almost as though she'd been crying. Her eyes were red-rimmed, a little swollen, and it was then he realised she still was.

"Amita - " dear lord, he sounded terrible. Charlie cleared his throat and tried again. "How . . ."

"Hush," she reached for the call-bell. "I'd better let them know you're awake."

The feel of her soft hand was comforting and he clung on, gripping tightly to her fingers. For a while he simply lay there and floated, lost in a world between sleeping and waking. In the distance, a black cloud was hovering but for now, he shied away from remembering. It was far easier to drift here in limbo rather than face the truth he knew waited out there.

After a while he opened his eyes again. The sun had shifted and the stripes adorned the wall now. He must have been out of it for several more hours and it was much later on in the day. If anything he felt even wearier than before, or at least, from a physical aspect, but things made a little more sense to him, coalescing with a sharper cohesion.

Amita still sat in the chair beside the bed. Other than that, the room was empty. He told himself it was good thing. It was a good sign dad wasn't here. It meant that by implication, he had some place other to be.

"Where are we?"

He forced the age-old question. He couldn't bring himself to ask the other, all important one. The thought of it was simply too painful and he knew they would tell him soon enough. She raised her head, a look of joy on her face, eyes drained and lack-lustre with fatigue. He felt irrevocably guilty; his fear and silence had brought her to this.

"Fresno, Saint Agnes Medical Centre. This is the - " her voice broke down and faltered. "Oh, Charlie, it's been two whole days."

He could hardly believe it. "Monday?"

"You've been unconscious since they brought you in here. You went into adrenal crisis. You had a seizure on board the helicopter and they were afraid you might sink into a coma."

"I'm sorry."

He didn't really need to apologise, or at least not for having the seizure, but right now, he felt sorry for so many things, and he knew the words had to be said. She nodded and her bottom lip trembled and then she looked at him with tacit understanding. There was sympathy and implicit forgiveness, but her eyes stayed wet with sadness and tears.

"I know, but this isn't really the time. Now you're awake, we can talk about it later. They're treating you with intravenous steroids to get your cortisol back to something like normal. Once it reaches an acceptable level, then they can re-schedule your surgery again."

He looked up at the clear plastic tubing dripping liquids and drugs into his system. It reminded him of wet leaves and sodden branches - of leaden skies and the rain-soaked woods. He cleared his throat, feeling unutterably weak, almost too brittle to ask the million dollar question. It all hinged on the next couple of seconds, and for good or ill, he had to know the truth.

"Where's dad?"

Even now, he was asking in a roundabout way, still hedging bets and avoiding the subject. He lost some of his nerve then and wavered, and the silence nearly broke him again.

Don stood up. Don fell.

He couldn't catch him.

Don stood in front of the gun to take the bullet.

Don was grey, having difficulty breathing, his face as pale as the rain-washed skies.

He was stricken by a sequence of images, overwhelming and none of them pleasant. Senses flooded with a tumult of data as a vice of pain clamped tight around his head. Sheer terror and the whump of the helicopter blades, a nightmare jangle of sound and awareness. A brief impression of despair and futility and of the gun pointed straight at his head.

The weapon had jammed – he remembered it now. Not unlike a stay of execution. A frozen moment of fate and mortality stuck forever in the annals of time.

"Where's Don?"

His voice sounded strangely childlike and he was terrified of hearing the answer, but in the end, he had to ask the question. Had to quieten down the clamour in his head.

Amita lowered her eyes. "I'll get Alan."

"Wait, Amita, please - "

"I think it's better if you talk to him."

She let go of his hand and moved out of the room, leaving him alone with the white and the silence. He stared dully at the butter-coloured sunshine as the stripes worked their way up the walls. The glare was so relentlessly bright it hurt his eyes to even look at it. He would far rather lie here in the darkness and wished they would come in and close the blinds.

The rain and the trees still nudged at him like a gamut of post-mortem memories. He turned his head on the pillow, far too broken to let them come in. If after everything, it had all been futile, all the pain and struggle and effort; well, he knew then, it didn't mean anything. Not if, in the end, Don was dead.

In the year preceding the tumour he'd been feeling pretty invincible. More confident and settled than ever before, his life had rolled on a series of highs. The book had brought a moderate dose of fame and the royalties had boosted his bank account. Along with CalSci and his external consulting gigs, he had his work with the FBI.

Wherever he went, he was in high demand. Doctor Charles Eppes, the lauded professor. For the first time ever, if he'd chosen to, he could have embarked upon a glittering social whirl. He had plenty of admirers, no doubt about that, but he was wise enough to see past the hype. He could still count his true friends on his fingers. He had everything he wanted out of life.

Had he been cocky or arrogant?

He guessed there might be some who would say so. And if arrogance equated to self-confidence, well, then, they were probably right. He was sure of his gift and bright genius with math and convinced of his own singular abilities. One of the honoured few with special access to a world filled with clarity and exceptional light.

He remembered something Larry had said to him once, about youth and the arrogance of genius. Oh, to be young and brilliant and full of yourself. It made him question now, if Larry had been right. For the first time, he wondered which had come first, the tumour or the goddamned email, and in light of all the subsequent happenings, had it been cause or effect?

He clenched his fists on the counterpane. In the end, it had all been so simple. Last Friday, when Doctor Rosen had told him the truth, all he had wanted was Don.

The door opened quietly and dad came in alone. Some end to his golf trip in Vegas. He looked shattered, eyes shadowed with unspoken grief, as he sat down in the chair by the bed. Charlie opened his mouth but nothing came out. The speech died in his throat, choked and frozen. He was unravelling, freefalling through empty layers of void, and besides, what the hell could he say?

Alan reached across and placed a hand on his arm, and the gesture was absurdly comforting. It conveyed love and relief and so much more without platitudes or unnecessary words. "Amita told me you asked about Don?"

"Please, just tell me."

He was afraid of the answer, and of the sorrow which seemed to cling like a miasma. Afraid of hearing it had all been for nothing and he would never see his brother again.

"He's alive. Only just - " Alan's voice broke with anguish and Charlie felt his hand tremble. "At first, they didn't think he would make it. Those two men, they hurt him so badly." He took a breath before he continued, too overcome by a wash of emotion. It was clearly affecting him terribly, but then he rallied and soldiered on. "The broken ribs caused problems with his breathing . . . a punctured lung and probably pneumonia. He has a break in the bone around his eye-socket, cerebral oedema and a fractured skull. He's in ICU in a coma. They – they can't guarantee he'll wake up."

"Dear God."

Charlie closed his eyes and took it all into account - all the details of the beating coming back to him; the look of maniacal glee which shone on Harrison's face and the dull thud of boot against flesh. He shivered as the man's words rebounded on him – about them having something in common – that it was his fault Don suffered the beating. Perhaps he should have done more by the lake.

Logistically, he knew he was grasping at straws, there was nothing and Harrison had been playing him. It didn't stop the insidious helix of doubt or the coil of self-blame in his head. It had been his idea to go fishing and for a whole bunch of selfish reasons. Telling Don had been a kind of compulsion, and like a vampire, he'd been dependant on his strength. At the same time, deep-down, Don had realised. He'd guessed something was up with his brother. It was why he'd bitten the bullet and driven up to the lake.

Charlie felt a pang of self-loathing, as looking back, he forced himself remember. He'd been too self-absorbed to even notice Don's pain on the long journey out of LA. As a pill, it tasted so damned bitter on his tongue, but there was no point being overly-dramatic. He knew he wasn't solely at fault here. It didn't stop him from wanting to cry. If Don had only been a little more open with him . . . yeah, well, then flying pigs would take to the skies.

He wanted to ask about the Harrison's, but some deep abhorrence made him hesitate. It was bad enough he'd let Kyle get to him – that the man had climbed inside his head. No, the Harrison's could wait a little longer, because for now, he had to focus on his brother. His health and well-being depended upon it – they were linked by an invisible chain.

There was no question Don would get better.

No question, and hadn't he promised?

That he would be there, and lend his strength for the surgery, because Charlie was counting on him?

Charlie sighed, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. The load of sorrow was almost too much for him. He should have handled the whole thing more openly, more maturely right from the start. The threat of cancer had acted like a physical blow, stripping any fragile semblance of normality, and to his chagrin, he'd reacted with sheer terror and retreated into a world of his own. As world's went – it wasn't a nice one. Filled with dark skies and swirling with panic. Swept breathlessly along at high velocity, and thrust head first into a vast and bleak unknown.

It was crucial he say it. "I'm sorry, dad."

First Amita and now his father. The reasons might have been different, but the inherent need was the same. The best laid plans of mice and men, dear God, he almost choked on the cliché. He'd been so very damned sure he was saving them from pain, so convinced he was doing the right thing. The lake trip had seemed like the answer to his prayers and telling Don had been the solution.

Not now.

He perceived it all with fresh eyes, and God, he ached, what the hell had he been thinking? Using his brother as a shield to avoid all their hurting, he saw with hindsight, it was only evasion. A way of distancing himself from reality. And, dear lord, if he was brutally honest, another smokescreen for P v NP.

"Oh, my son, why didn't you tell me?"

Charlie stiffened, the hurt feelings were palpable, yet more cause for self-recrimination. An unbidden sob rose up in his throat, he didn't know if he could deal with this now. Don was . . . Don might be dying, and he was lying here self-absorbed in his feelings. He looked up in sudden frustration and spoke more sharply than he'd intended.

"Dad, can we just . . . can we just please not do this right now? Not at present, while Don's still in danger. I should have told you – should have trusted you all, but at this instant, it's all too overwhelming." He might have flinched at the brief flash of distress on dad's face, come and gone and then disguised in an instant. At any other time it would have hurt him, but he was strangely impervious today. "I understand you're upset, I guess I would be too, and I know now my actions were misguided. I planned on telling you when we got back from the lake. That's why I went up there with Don."

"I see." Alan was oddly calm. "So, in effect, you asked your brother to play linebacker."

"If you like."

His voice faded away and he was so very tired. There was a part of him which couldn't really be bothered. All the reproach, all the anguish and heartache, he didn't want to get into it now. A flash of insight and then he understood a little. Both mom and Don – they really were so similar. Each reliant on their own private armoury to either deal with or deflect any pain.

Drifting, he was drifting away again, and ducking down behind a smokescreen of inertia. In lieu of talking, he squeezed dad's fingers, and hoped he would understand. He watched the drips – they were mesmerising – and in a way, surprisingly soothing, willing the steroids to work a little bit faster, and then he could get back on his feet. He guessed they would transfer him out of here once his cortisol levels were normal. He needed stabilising prior to surgery and Doctor Rosen was based in LA.

Anger shuddered through him, and then an onslaught of grief. It hit home, raw and excoriating. He thought he'd gone through it so carefully. It was not supposed to happen this way. Him and Don, a touch of brotherly bonding, a few beers and some down time spent fishing. Then he would tell him the truth about the tumour, before heading home once again. It was all so simple in theory, but the practise had turned into a nightmare. He closed his eyes and turned his head away from Alan. It was a way of seeking refuge from the pain.

Don had made promises up at the lake, and again during the course of their ordeal. Now it was his turn to make a few vows of his own – to undertake some very private guarantees.

He wouldn't leave Fresno until Don was awake. Not until he knew for sure his brother would make it.

And if it meant delaying his surgery, then so be it, it was a price he would pay.

TBC