WP

Chapter 25 - Revelations

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews. Here's 25…

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

Wednesday, April 30, 2014, evening

"Okay, now, I want you to take a deep breath, and cough."

Don winced in sympathy as Charlie complied, his feeble cough ending in a gag as the intern swiftly pulled out the breathing tube. His brother drew in a weak shaky breath, his eyes watering, and Dr. Van, who was standing by, nodded. It was after seven-thirty in the evening, Charlie had been moved out of the ICU into a regular private room, and Don glanced over his shoulder. Robin was due to come by with Charlotte, any minute.

Dr. Van spoke, as a nurse moved forward with a cup and a straw. "How does that feel, Charlie?"

Charlie blinked. His lips moved, slightly, but no sound came out. He looked at Van for a moment, and gave a slight nod, but there was a question in his eyes.

Van nodded back. "It may be a little while before you can talk again. Your throat is still a bit swollen, and will be pretty sore and irritated for a day or two. You still have the NG tube in for feeding, but that shouldn't interfere with speech or swallowing – and that's what I'd like you try right now – can you swallow for me?"

Charlie closed his mouth, and swallowed. He winced in pain as he did so, and it looked to Don like it was an effort for him, but Van smiled and gave a nod to the nurse. "Okay, the lovely Debi is going to give you a sip of water – just a tiny one; let's see if you can handle that."

Debi moved forward with a cup, and gently guided the straw toward Charlie's lips. He took a small draw on the straw and swallowed again, grimacing just a bit, but Don saw a look of profound relief come into his eyes. He leaned his head forward and took another sip, then leaned back and closed his eyes with a sigh that sounded so satisfied that Van and Debi chuckled. Her eyes twinkled. "Liked that, did you?"

Charlie opened his eyes, and smiled. It was weak and he appeared tired, but he looked more like himself than he had since they'd brought him in. His eyes found Don's, and Don smiled back at him, reassuringly. In spite of the smile and the look of relief, there was still something in those eyes – fear, maybe, or uncertainty. Or maybe, just reserve or a lack of familiarity. Maybe Charlie still felt uncomfortable around them – Don had no way of knowing. For all he knew, Charlie might view him as a near stranger.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Robin and Charlotte, who waited until Van, the nurse, and the intern all filed out. "Hi, Charlie," said Robin, smiling at him. "Tube's out, huh? I'll bet that's a relief."

Charlie smiled and nodded, and then his eyes fell on Charlotte, who appeared from behind Robin. His smile faded a bit; and he looked at her uncertainly. He hadn't seen her when she'd been there before; he'd been asleep the whole time. Don imagined he was probably remembering Charlotte's reluctance around him the first time they met, and he saw Charlie's eyes widen a bit as Charlotte trotted right for him and climbed on the chair next to his bed. She didn't stop there; she crawled right onto the bed next to him, and propped her favorite stuffed rabbit on her lap, as if to show it off to him.

Charlie glanced up at them; he looked a bit disconcerted, and Robin moved toward the bed. "Charlotte, you should get down, sweetie. That's Uncle Charlie's bed."

Charlie shook his head at that, with more energy than Don had seen out of him so far, and he held a hand up to stop Robin's advance. Don translated. "That's okay – she can stay there. That's what you're trying to say, right, Chuck?"

Charlie nodded, and his gaze drifted back to Charlotte. He smiled at her, a bit shyly, and Don had to grin at the role reversal, compared to their first encounter at the airport. Now Charlie looked apprehensive, but Charlotte was perfectly comfortable. She began to hop her rabbit around on the bed and began a lively discourse, not seeming to care that it was one-sided. Charlie stared at her, entranced, a slow smile creeping back to his face as she prattled on.

Robin stepped next to Don and murmured, "Well, that's going well."

He smiled at her. "Thanks to you."

She smiled back. "Where's your dad?"

"Home for the night. He's beat; he's been here almost non-stop."

Her gaze wandered back to the duo on the bed. "Charlie looks a lot better. You talk to him much today?"

"No. Dad was here – he said Larry stopped by again, and Charlie was sleeping. Larry's been going nuts; he's been dying to talk to Charlie about his papers, but Charlie's been out like a light every time he's been here."

As if to punctuate his statement, Charlotte turned her head and said suddenly, "Unca Charwee go night-night."

Sure enough, Charlie's eyes had already drifted shut. His right arm was stretched out sideways, between where Charlotte was sitting and the edge of the bed, as if Charlie had been keeping it ready to hold her up if she slid off. Not that there was much chance of that; Charlie could hardly lift his arm, much less hold Charlotte, but the placement of his arm created a natural nook. Don's eyebrows rose as Charlotte turned back to her uncle and lay down on the bed, nestling next to him between his arm and his chest, tucking her rabbit between them and closing her eyes with a contented little sigh. He and Robin stood there silently for a moment, just taking in the sight of the two dark curly heads, the two sets of closed, long-lashed eyes, the two faces composed, and completely relaxed.

Robin broke the silence. "I thought Amita was supposed to come back tonight."

"Yeah, she said she was. I think her presentation was still going on today – I wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't late tonight before she gets here."

Robin glanced at him sideways, with a raised eyebrow. "You really think she'll come back?"

Don looked at her, puzzled. "Yeah, why?"

She shrugged and looked back toward the bed. "I don't know. They've been apart a long time, and Larry mentioned she's been seeing someone else – she might have intended to come back, but once she got out there… Well, I guess I wouldn't be shocked if she changed her mind."

Don shook his head, with conviction, although the news that Amita was seeing someone else was disturbing. "Nah, she'll be here."

Robin kept her eyes on the bed, and they rested speculatively on Charlie. "He's been pretty out of it until this evening. Do you think he even knows she was here the first time?"

Don was staring at his brother also, musing, and he shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe not – even if he did, Doc Van said the pain medication could make him forgetful."

Robin smiled, softly. "I'd love to see his face when she shows up."

Amita sighed with relief as she spoke into the receiver. "Yes, thank you, I'll take that one. Can you give me the flight number and exact time again?" She jotted the information down, completed the details of the transaction, and hung up the phone, gently. It was near midnight in Boston, and Jim had already gone to bed; she was trying to be quiet.

"So you're really going back there?"

Amita jumped, and rose defensively. She hadn't been quiet enough, apparently; her boyfriend Jim was lounging in his pajamas against the doorframe of the small hallway that led to their bedroom, his face dark and disapproving. A pang of something shot through her – regret, perhaps, or guilt. She tried to keep her voice level, reasonable. "Yes. I have a flight tomorrow morning. They didn't close the case yet – I'm going to help them finish it, and visit Charlie, then I'm coming back."

Jim's scowl deepened. "You already visited him. I've read the papers. As far as that case goes, most of the guys they were after are dead. You're really going back to see him again, aren't you?"

Her face twisted in spite of her best efforts, and she looked away.

He studied her for a moment and when he spoke again, his voice was heavy. "What does all this mean? What does it mean for us?"

She looked back at him, a plea for understanding on her face, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "I don't know," she whispered.

He stared at her for a long moment, then turned and went into their bedroom, and came out bearing a blanket and a pillow, headed across the hall for the other bedroom. He didn't say a word, and the door closed behind him with a sound of finality.

Thursday, May 1, 2014, morning

Larry Fleinhardt puffed up the stairs, with the air of a man on a mission. He had been showing up every day after classes, but not once had he caught Charlie awake – late afternoon seemed to be the patient's siesta time. Alan had assured him it wasn't simply bad timing on his part – that Charlie spent much of his time sleeping and was rarely awake no matter what the time of day, but Larry wasn't convinced. He was certain morning would be a better time, and Thursday mornings were light for him, so he'd gotten someone to take his one class for him, and headed straight for Loma Linda that morning.

It was early, and there was a throng of people in the elevators – why, Larry wasn't sure; maybe people were stopping to see patients before they rushed into work for the day, like he was – but he was too impatient to wait, and he took the stairs. He wasn't even certain that Charlie would be able to communicate, but Larry was ready to burst; he simply had to talk to Charles about his papers. Someone had to bring him up to speed and let him know that research centers and prestigious universities were already trying to line up speaking engagements. Dean Wilson was deferring them, but he was promising that as soon as Professor Eppes was able, he would arrange a press conference and a question-and-answer session at Cal Sci. Larry snorted with disgust as he rounded a corner. Dean Wilson had tried to unseat Charlie from his position when he'd first appeared back at Cal Sci, and now, to hear the man speak, one would think that he discovered Professor Charles Eppes himself.

"Opportunist," grumbled Larry to himself, as he scanned the room numbers. Charles had been moved from the ICU the last evening to a regular private room, and Larry hadn't been there yet – ah, there it was; the guard was a dead giveaway. He nodded at the man, who recognized him, knocked lightly on the half-ajar door, and stepped into the room.

He was greeted by a pair of dark eyes, and a warm smile. "Larry!" The name came out as a whisper, but the expression made it an exclamation, and Larry beamed.

He strode over to his friend's bedside. "Charles, I can't tell you how good it is to see you awake. You look infinitely better." He caught Alan in his peripheral vision. "Doesn't he, Alan?"

Alan smiled back at him. "Yes, he is. He spoke his first words this morning since he's been back – you timed your visit well, Larry."

Larry grinned and rolled his eyes. "For a change." He looked back at Charlie. "I've been here every afternoon, absolutely frantic to speak to you about your papers, and you've been asleep every time."

The smile faded from Charlie's face, and he blinked. "My papers?" he whispered.

He swallowed and winced, and Larry had to try hard not to wince with him. "Of course, your papers. The research institutions, the universities – all the top ones – MIT, Oxford – you name it; they all want you to come and speak. Of course, Dean Wilson has been making the official statements for the university, and he has told them that you're in no condition -,"

He broke off, staring at the look of confusion on Charlie's face. "Charles, you did publish your papers, correct? They weren't inadvertently sent out against your wishes?"

"Yes, I did, but -," Charlie whispered, then choked and coughed, his face contorted in pain, and Alan darted forward to give him a sip of water.

Larry stared at him as he recovered, and realization seized him. His jaw dropped. "You didn't know. Of course – you didn't know! You released your papers before you left witness protection."

Charlie nodded. He had composed himself, but his eyes were watering, and Larry tried to phrase his questions so they could be answered with a nod or a shake of the head. "They were supposed to have been issued to your list of recipients a week before you came home, but they were delayed – did you know that?"

Charlie's eyes widened, and he stared at Larry. He shook his head slowly.

Larry stared back at him. "My gracious – Charles, you really didn't know."

Alan was looking back and forth between them, as if he were watching a tennis match. "Didn't know what?"

Larry spoke slowly, and kept his eyes on Charlie. "Because of the delay, Charlie's papers didn't reach their intended recipients until the Saturday he was abducted – some didn't get to them until Monday or later, depending on shipping time."

Charlie swallowed again, and a look of pain crossed his face that looked as though it were generated by more than just a sore throat. "I thought -," he whispered, "that they didn't -,"

He swallowed, his eyes watering again, and Larry, fearing another fit of coughing, interjected. "You thought they had already been out there for a week, and since no one was calling, that they weren't being accepted, is that it? Oh, Charles, how could you possibly even think that? Good heavens – they're sensations, both of them, but especially your treatise on relative dimensional scales, and their role in the bridge between Newtonian and quantum physics." He grinned. "They're nicknaming your paper 'Size Matters,' – a rather catchy phrase, don't you think?"

Charlie was still staring at him with a dumfounded expression, and Larry chortled a little and shook his head. "Charles, don't you get it? You did it – you finally did it. They're calling you the biggest sensation since Einstein." He waved a hand. "Your life's work – all the talk about living up to your potential… You finally did it."

Amita, fresh off the plane, passed Larry in the hallway of the hospital. His news, that Charlie was awake and talking, or at least whispering, should have brought joy to her heart, and it did, but it was mixed with a sudden sense of trepidation. Five years was a long time, and they had agreed to move on. It wasn't Charlie's fault that she couldn't seem to do that, and there was a good chance that he wouldn't feel the same way.

"The same way as what?" she whispered to herself, as her walk towards his room slowed. They both must have changed, at least somewhat, in five years. Did she really still love him, or did she just love a memory, the reality dimmed by time? When she spoke to him now, when their eyes met, would she love him still? She paused at the doorway, knowing that in moments she might be giving up that memory, and a piece of her heart along with it. She'd come a long way, however, and she had to know. She took a deep breath and walked in the door.

For a moment, she thought he was asleep. His eyes were closed, and her first thought was how much better he looked. Oh, he still appeared frail, painfully thin, but the infernal ventilator tube was gone, and his face had filled in just a touch, and had regained some color. Then his eyes opened, and her heart stopped.

She just stood there for a moment as they stared at each other, and then Charlie whispered, "Hi," and her heart started beating again. She walked toward him on legs that seemed ready to collapse, and sank into a chair, hoping he couldn't see her trembling.

"How are you?" she managed. "You look a lot better."

He stared at her, confusion on his face, and then it seemed to clear a little. "You were here, weren't you?" His voice was weak, just a raspy whisper. "I thought I was dreaming."

She managed a smile. "Yes, I was here. You were pretty out of it. I had to go back to Boston for a couple of days, and I just got back in." Silence descended. "I wanted to see you again."

More silence. Charlie was gazing at her, then he seemed to collect himself, and he swallowed, wincing slightly. "That was nice," he said, and they stared at each other, the inane conversation at odds with what was in their eyes.

Finally, Charlie took a deep breath and said, with that odd little tilt of his head that he made when he felt awkward, "So, how's MIT?"

"Good," she said, straightening and trying to speak with conviction. "Challenging."

"Mmm." He nodded, drifted into silence again, and she drank in the sight of his dark eyes. Beautiful… intelligent… eyes… and that hair. As mussed and matted as his curls were, she was still seized with the desire to run her fingers through them. Even as the thought occurred to her, a sense of giddy relief bubbled up through her, like champagne. She did still love him, she did! On its heels came a sobering thought - did he feel the same? It had been so long, could they make it work again?

He cleared his throat, and winced again. "I – uh -," he hesitated, then whispered, "Are you still seeing Jim MacDonald?"

The words came out in a rush, fast and sibilant, and she almost didn't understand him at first, she was so fixated on the sight of him. Jim's name hit her like a blow, and she stared at him and stammered, "How did you know?"

His face fell, and then seemed to close. He swallowed again, and whispered, "Larry told me. He'd heard it from some colleagues…," his voice drifted off, and silence fell again.

The speaking of Jim's name had brought him into the room, almost like a physical presence. She loved Jim, too, and to leave him would break his heart. That love was different; however, if she hadn't realized it then, she did now. The love she bore for Jim was comfortable; he was a safe haven. It had none of the passion she felt for Charlie – Charlie could be maddening, could get completely immersed in his work to the exclusion of all else, but they connected, and not just on a physical level. Charlie's mind fascinated her, and although she was sure that no one would ever truly understand the magnitude of his genius, including her, she also knew no one would ever appreciate it, be able to accommodate it and his eccentricities, better than she could. They had not simply been lovers or companions; they were soul mates, connected on an intellectual plane, at a level that seemed nearly spiritual.

Charlie closed his eyes, and a sudden sense of desperation took her. She didn't want him to take her response to mean that she was no longer interested - "I am still seeing him, it's true," she said, and his eyes opened again. "But he's a friend -,"

He frowned, puzzled. "Larry said you were living together -,"

"I was," she amended hastily. "I mean, I am, but I don't think I can be anymore." Her words were coming faster now, tumbling over themselves. "He's nice, he's been a great friend – I know he wants to be more, but I c-can't, and I'm going to ask him to move out, and it's all a complicated mess -," she stopped short, a little breathless. His eyes were riveted on her, and had widened as she spoke. She stared at him a moment. "I still love you, Charlie."

There was complete silence for a moment, and she took a breath, and tried to speak more slowly. "I know it's been a long time, and that you might not feel the same way. And it is complicated – I'm on the other side of the continent, now, and I'll have to find a way to break it off with Jim without hurting him too badly, but – I would like to try again, if you would. We can take it slowly -,"

He reached for her then, and clasped her hand. "I would," he whispered. "Like to try. Very much." And then he gently pulled her toward him, and for the first time in over five years, she kissed him.

End, Chapter 25