Disclaimer: - Some adult language
Superheroes
'Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.'
Marc Brown
Part Fourteen
Charlie let Amita fuss him a little as the nurses helped him into the wheelchair. There was still a hint of strain left between them and he realised he had some ground to make up. She was quieter than usual and thinner, her dark eyes shadowed and somewhat guarded. Charlie acknowledged he was behaving unfairly and the last few weeks had taken their toll.
She stood back and examined him critically with a tiny shake of her head. Obviously, the conclusion wasn't favourable and he guessed he looked as awful as he felt. He found himself wishing she would go again. Her close scrutiny made him suddenly self-conscious. His face remained puffy and swollen with two panda black and blue eyes.
"Are you sure you're really up to this?"
The hurt in her voice bled through the concern and he felt guilty just at the sound of it. He reached for her hand, but they didn't quite connect, as she pulled her fingers quickly away.
"Yes, I'm sure, Amita, please try not to worry. It's only going to be for a little while, and Doctor Rosen says it's okay."
"If you say so," she nodded, abruptly. "I'm meeting up with your dad and Larry, and they've promised to buy me a coffee. Or I rather suspect your dad has. I can't see Larry footing the bill."
Charlie laughed, but searched her face anxiously. "I hope you can comprehend why I'm doing this, I mean, aside from seeing Don again? I promise I'm not trying to shut you out or exclude you from a part of my life. After everything that happened back there at the lake – God, I wish I could explain it more succinctly. It was terrible and yet revelatory, like some kind of rite of passage. Don gave me strength, he was there for me, and I have to share this moment with him."
"I know that you want your brother, and I can see why, under the circumstances. But knowing why doesn't make this any easier. I just wish you wanted me."
He needed her to understand this. "I know none of this has been easy, and I recognise I'm asking a lot of you, but I always want you, Amita, and in your heart, I hope you know that's true?"
"Oh, Charlie," her voice wobbled slightly. "Ask me again when all this is over. These last weeks have been a nightmare and I'm not sure I'm ready just yet. I love you – and you know I'll be here for you, but that doesn't change the fact you should have told me. I didn't think we kept secrets and it hurts to know I made a mistake."
"I'm sorry."
The words sounded painfully inadequate. He only hoped she knew how much he meant them. All of his well-intentioned efforts to protect her had only caused more hurt in the end. Furthermore, since waking up in the hospital he knew he'd been reserved and introspective, going over and analysing the play of events again and again in his head.
In a way it was a form of therapy. All the self-questioning seemed to help and calm him. It was the only means of making any sense of it all, of coming to terms with his distress.
This was all well and good from his own point of view, but not great if you were dad or Amita. He knew his withdrawal had caused some concern and hurt them all over again. He scrubbed his hand over his forehead, for a moment forgetting the bruising, and then wincing at the physical contact as he pressed on the tender flesh.
He'd undergone the procedure five days ago, resigned at last to having the surgery. Doctor Rosen had removed the tumour and sent the damned thing off to the lab. It was all as the neurologist had promised him – the process was quick and innovatory, microsurgery with the use of an endoscope, and a triumph of modern technique. No need for incisions or visible wounds, the Frankenstein image still haunted him; no shaved heads or lines of sutures, and no scalpels slicing into his brain. Since then, he'd been quietly determined and his recovery had been quick and uneventful. He'd been docile and done everything they'd told him while he focused on getting mobile again.
The main problem was an omnipresent headache which was grinding and persistent in tenacity. His face ached, especially around his sinuses and it felt as though he'd been punched on the nose. Other than this, he was doing okay, and there was no evidence he'd even had major surgery, all apart from some spectacular bruising which had blossomed like a rose across his face. He raised his hand and touched his nose gingerly, gently pressing on the swollen pads of tissue. Strange, but he found it profoundly upsetting, in-light of his recent ordeal.
When he looked in the mirror, he was reminded of Don. Hard not to be, under the circumstances. Both sets of bruises had been deliberately inflicted but with a very different endgame in sight. The Harrison's had intended to maim and destroy, to mete out as much damage as possible, and the fact they had so nearly succeeded still hit hard and far too close to home.
They'd spoken to each other everyday on the phone, and it had helped him more than any analgesia. Hearing Don kept him centred and grounded, made it easier to deal with the discomfort. The conversations had been short by necessity – Don was still pretty sick - didn't have to be a genius to hear that. He would break off to cough far too often, his voice straining as he laboured for breath.
Funny – they never touched on what had happened, just kept it cheerful and fairly light-hearted, and although they discussed Charlie's surgery, neither one of them referred to the lake. Robin kept him a little bit more up to date, in the few minutes which followed every conversation, and he was appreciative of her direct honesty and the way she simply gave it to him straight. If he was truthful, some of the old fears still dogged him, and the phone calls made him feel little guilty. He was grateful for the lifeline they provided, but not at the cost of Don's health.
The news from Fresno was tempered with caution and Robin didn't pull any punches. The skull fracture appeared to be healing and there was no evidence of any further brain swelling. Don was awake and that was a very good thing, but the bout of pneumonia had been bad. Purulent coughing plus fractured ribs equalled a very large sum of pain.
Not that Don ever mentioned it.
Charlie sighed, he really should know better. Just because they'd both been to hell and back, didn't mean things were going to change. A part of him wanted to talk this one out – to sit down and totally dissect it – but he was sufficiently wise to respect his brother's need for silence; God, he knew Don well enough by now.
Don would talk if and when he decided. There was not much point trying to press him. He buried it all so deep beneath the layers, there was a good chance he might never talk at all.
In the past, this had frustrated the hell out of him, and he'd agonised over Don's seeming abstruseness. There'd been times when he'd genuinely wondered if his elder brother actually had feelings.
Detached was the word and it filled him with shame, especially when he looked across at Smokey. There was so much warmth and understanding in that gesture. In the gift of a small stuffed bear.
He realised now it was a coping mechanism. His brother couldn't give into the luxury of falling apart at the seams. Don pulled it together and was forced to be tough for the very simple sake of his sanity. He dealt with the bad and the ugly and could not afford to let it take him down.
On the surface they were both so different, but wanted desperately to meet in the middle. His brother wasn't merely some problem whom he could solve with a simple equation.
If he was, it would make life much easier.
Charlie was honest enough to admit it.
And while he was still on the subject . . . he sighed again and looked at Amita. He didn't know how to appease her right now. How to soothe or alleviate her hurting. He wondered a little at his selfishness and knew he was probably wrong to shut her out. From his own point of view, it made complete sense and the explanation was perfectly straightforward. His world had become a capsule, tightly surrounded and enclosed from the outside. It was small and incredibly focused with very little room for anything else.
"I'm sorry," he tried the two words again. They didn't sound any better than the first time. "I really was trying to protect you, but in retrospect, I made a grave mistake."
She looked at him sadly. "Yes, you did, and I'm trying hard to understand why. I feel the same way about your histology results, Charlie, I get it that you made Don a promise, but it feels like you're shutting me out again. I thought I was a part of your life."
"You are – or at least, I hope you are," he was weary of the need to reassure her. "All of this – it's been so hard to come to terms with, please believe me, you've done nothing wrong."
She paused for a second, her hand on the door, looking back at him over her shoulder. "You know what, Charlie, in all of this mess, that's the one thing I'm actually sure of," and then some of her bravado faltered. "Good luck with your results."
He called after her. "Wait, Amita - "
It was too late, she had gone.
All of a sudden, he was assailed by a slew of doubts. The abruptness of her exit had shaken him. His eyes flickered over to his cell phone and he was tempted to call her back.
Was he doing the right thing?
He no longer knew.
It had all seemed so principled in theory; he'd followed the circumference full circle and ended up at the beginning again. For now, he was alone in the room, and glad of the few minutes of silence. The solitude offered a spell of respite and gave him a brief time to think.
Don had transferred from Fresno this morning and been moved into a room at the same hospital. At long last, he'd been passed fit enough to travel, although he was still far from well. Charlie looked up at the clock on the wall. It was also sink or swim day. The single day on which everything counted and he got his histology results.
These final minutes . . . these precious few seconds . . . might be the last time he was free of the cancer. He could hardly remember the feeling. It seemed such a long time ago. The shadow leaned down and surrounded him, wrapped him up in a pall of dead ashes, and for a moment the darkness edged closer and threatened to engulf him again. He hovered briefly for a perilous instant or two, mind trembling on the brink of surrender. It would be easy to succumb to temptation, to drift off into its deadly embrace.
He wrapped his fingers tightly around the arms of the chair, taking a breath as he gripped even harder. Whatever happened now, he was stronger. The shadow dimmed and then faded away.
A tap on the door and the nurse came back in. "I just spoke to Doctor Rosen. He asked me to pass on a message and tell you he has your results. Professor Eppes, are you still okay with this?" She paused and waited for his affirmation. "Then we'd better not delay any longer. He's on his way up to your brother's room, now."
Don leaned back with a sigh of relief and smiled reassuringly at Robin. The whole casual thing might have worked a little better, if he hadn't just hacked up half a lung. By now, he sort of had it covered – well, kinda - or at least he had it worked out in principle. It didn't hurt quite so much if he held onto his ribs and coughed genteelly from the back of his throat.
This was all very reasonable in theory, but not all that good in reality, and in order to overcome the pneumonia, he was supposed to cough from the base of his lungs.
Try telling that to his ribcage.
It was a whole different ball-game entirely.
The whole coughing from the base of his lungs thing – not such a terrific idea.
He opened his eyes with a sudden jerk and realised he'd been drifting, straightening up with a groan of discomfort, in order to stop it happening again. Robin gave him an old-fashioned look, but bit her lip and refrained from making any comment, reaching over for an extra pillow and tucking it in firmly behind him. Her hand lingered between his shoulder-blades, sliding in through the half-open gown, and the feel of her flesh was warm against his, as she began to rub in lazy soothing circles.
"Um, pretty good, maybe a bit lower down," he arched backwards into her touch, and a glinting smile crinkled his good eye. "Yeah, that's it, feels a lot better. Know what would really be the icing on the cake? If you moved round a little more to the front."
She leaned closer and whispered into his ear. "You know, Eppes, you don't fool me for a minute. A brave attempt, but all talk and no substance." She trailed her fingers softly to the base of his spine, leaving a path of little goose bumps behind. "Right now, I'm happy to settle for this. Ask me again in a few weeks time."
Her hair brushed his cheek and he chanced a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her perfume. She was jasmine, white flowers and moonlight, a subtle hint of slightly flushed female skin.
"Better believe it," he cupped her face tenderly. "Worse thing about this is I miss you. Miss waking up without any covers on and hearing you do that cute little snort thing."
"Hey," she mock-cuffed him gently. "I do not do a cute little snort thing."
"Yeah, you do," he leaned forward and kissed her, "just like you steal all the top sheet."
She slid her hand up his back and they were quiet for some time, as she reached around and grasped hold of his fingers. Her grip strengthened on his, until her knuckles turned white and he was aware of a sudden sea-change. She tried to pull away, but he held on for dear life, just as equally determined not to let her, and shattered ribs withstanding, he turned her into his arms and held her as tight as he could.
The next step was completely inevitable, and in a way, he'd been waiting for this moment. She was crying – dear God, she was crying – body shaking with each muffled sob.
"It's okay," he whispered, softly, smoothing her hair and feeling her shiver with anguish. There was salt and the wetness of tears on his lips as she buried her face in his neck.
"No," she mumbled, half-incoherently. "No, Don, really, it isn't."
He felt a quick stab of fear, what the hell could he say?
No snappy answer to make her feel better.
Her distress hurt him more than the coughing had done. Was there any way of making this right?
She looked up at him, eyes bright with crying. "This thing we have, this time, it feels special. Like something precious and I don't want to lose it. It's taken us a long time to get to this point and that bastard nearly stole it away."
"Yeah, he tried but he didn't succeed." He pulled her close and dropped a kiss on her forehead. The sheer intensity of her short speech had shaken him; made him want to respond in kind. "It is precious and we're not going to lose it. You know, I'll always do my damnedest to come home to you, Robin. I don't want you to go through this again."
She pressed a hand against her chest and pulled away from him, a shaky smile hovering on her lips. "Careful, Eppes, that almost sounded like commitment."
"I hope so," he held her eyes steadily. "Because I kinda think that's what it is."
"It is," she touched his bruised face gently. "This time, I really think it is."
Something inside him gave way in relief and the grip of fear suddenly released him. He was aware he felt a little unsteady and not just through lack of oxygen or pain. She'd been such a rock throughout all of this – so calm and straightforward and funny. When he needed some privacy she left him alone and she read all his moods like a book. It was different, he realised, this time around, and needing her was nothing to be scared of. The thought of losing her again was untenable. She was both spark and balm to his soul.
His breath hitched. "I was afraid you might hightail it out of here. I know none of this has been easy. I've seen it happen to some other guys I've worked with. Guess I couldn't really blame you if you did."
She stilled and then nodded slowly. "I can't say it didn't occur to me, this whole thing has been pretty horrible, and a year ago, I probably would have done. Would have chickened out and called it a day."
"What changed?"
"We've changed, or more accurately, I've changed. I can't imagine my life without you. Walking out wouldn't alter anything, and I'd still be losing you, either way."
"You know, it's gonna stay like this for awhile, until the day I finally take that desk-job. There'll always be an element of risk involved, I can't offer any guarantees."
"There aren't any, and we both know that. Just some hope, a little faith in the future. I hate to say it, Eppes, but you're stuck with me. I'm not going anywhere, anytime soon."
"I like that," he leaned forward and kissed her again, "in fact, it suits me just fine."
His throat tightened and he gave a groan of dismay, a whole ten minutes without any coughing. It was too much to hope for any more of a respite, he'd been lucky enough, as things stood. Five minutes later and he was feeling exhausted. Ribs on fire and screaming for morphine. Both physically and mentally and emotionally, it had been one hell of a day.
He'd been transferred back from Fresno this morning after some pretty relentless persuasion. They had finally pronounced him fit enough to travel after much reluctant shaking of heads. He wasn't about to admit it, but the short flight itself had been torture, and for most of the time, he'd been out of it, doped right up to the eyeballs on meds.
Even now, the one thing which had driven him was an overwhelming need to get to Charlie. They might have spoken on a daily basis but a phone call was not the same thing. To give him credit, Charlie sounded really chipper, but Don was wise enough by now to see right through it. There was something, just a small hint of nuance, which implied it really wasn't okay. From the sound of it, the surgery had gone smoothly, and talking to dad had later reassured him. There'd been no snags or nasty complications and Charlie was recovering well.
This was all fine and dandy in theory.
Don ground his teeth in frustration. He felt as though he'd been thrown into the maelstrom and had his fate cast to the wind. It was supposed to have been a simple fishing trip. Just a few nights alone – him and Charlie. To kick back and relax in the warm autumn sun, eat fresh-caught trout and sink a few beers.
Instead, it had turned into a nightmare.
A hate-fest of violence and bloodlust.
How the fuck was Charlie going to recover – to come out smiling in just a couple of days?
To hear the news you might have cancer and then be confronted with the Harrison's. So close – they had come so close to losing it all – to tipping over the edge into infinity. Dear God, he couldn't speak for Charlie, but right now, he was having a little difficulty dealing. The nightmares were going to haunt him for a very long time, in-fact, he wondered if they'd ever go away.
He woke up in a sweat hearing Harrison's voice, saw his face when his eyelids dropped southwards. There were times, when his mind was confused by the meds, that he thought he could still feel the rain.
It was hard to believe they were both still alive. For a while back there, he'd thought he was dying. Even now, some of his memories felt splintered and vague, most especially the ones by the lake. Ice cold of the water and moonlight on stones, the shape of mountains brooding on the skyline. The slip of his feet on the shingle and sharp scent of leaves on the air. Don shivered at the onslaught of images, trying to sort them into some kind of order. He had a sense they might elude him forever, unless he actually went back there one day.
"Don," Robin's voice was a little concerned. "Are you okay, I'll go get the nurse?"
"No," he put a quick hand on her arm. "Don't go yet, I want you to stay."
"I told you, I'm not going anywhere," she didn't sound any less worried, "but that last coughing fit was a nasty one, and your pain meds are about due again."
He pushed himself up higher. "Almost four o'clock. Charlie'll be here any minute. I'll call for the meds after he's had his results. I need to stay sharp for this."
She gave a small sigh of resignation. "You're a good brother, you know that?"
Don thought back to Charlie and the time in the woods. "Hey, it's kind of a mutual thing."
TBC