Title: Mistaken Identity

Chapter 29: Standing Next to You, Miles Away

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

Charlie was miserable, and more confused than everyone put together. He hadn't been concerned at first in the hospital, because he knew he was lying to Dr. Wilkes. When he had blanked out in the middle of the Eppes Convergence, though, he had freaked. Was he going to lose everything, then? His brother, his girlfriend, the right to control his own body, and now his genius?

Even after they finally sent him home, every day brought new and heartbreaking discoveries. The first night he had insisted on hopping up the stairs so that he could sleep in his own room. In his mind's eye, he had been picturing it for days. The soft jersey sheets on the bed. The matching, rich maroon down comforter. His feather pillow. The view of the koi pond in the back yard from his window. In his mind, there was a comfort in his old bedroom that could no longer be found anywhere else. His lover was gone. His brother had never loved him. His father was in a constant state of worry that was more draining than comforting. Charlie could not wait to fall into his bed – he wasn't necessarily planning on ever leaving it, again. So he had ignored the pain the jarring hops up the stairs had started in his head and his thigh.

At the landing, he stopped so abruptly that he felt his lurking father bump into him lightly. "Charlie? Do you need to rest, son?"

Charlie had gaped a few times as if one of the koi himself. He looked to one side of the hallway; then the other. Finally a shudder shook his entire body and he turned frightened eyes to his Alan. "Which…which one is mine?" he had been forced to whisper. Alan's own eyes had flashed dark with a pain he could not disguise before he smiled and indicated the direction in which Charlie should move. When Charlie finally located his bed, he spent the next two days in it, felled by a migraine that would not be tamed by any of the medications the hospital had sent home. He kept his eyes squeezed shut and his hands tightly gripped the sides of the bed – which seemed more like a listing ship. Now and then he would wake, taking turns sipping water and rolling to the side to heave into the trash can Alan left by the side of the bed. When sleep was denied him, he could hear the soft murmur of voices below in the kitchen; drifting up through the air vent. He recognized his father, Larry…even Don. When that one registered in his foggy mind, he made himself sick again worrying about how to avoid him, in the future. Charlie had been serious at his student's funeral – he would never deny his father access to his oldest son. He had to let Don come by the house. But now, effectively trapped in it himself, there was a new dilemma. Charlie knew that if he had to see Don on a regular basis, be reminded over and over that Don didn't love him…it would eventually completely break him.

Groaning into his pillow and wondering briefly when he had rolled onto his stomach, Charlie had finally decided he didn't really care.

He was broken already.

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Colby was silent as long as he could be.

He sat in the Eppes dining room sharing a beer with Alan and his gray eyes narrowed over the rim while his mind took notes. Every time Don approached a room that Charlie was in, the younger man would painfully use his cane to pull himself up, and limp away. Sometimes he made an excuse – like a drink of water – but usually he just disappeared for awhile.

Colby knew that Alan noticed, too. For one thing, he was on his third beer since Colby came over to catch the game with them. Since the pre-game show still raged on the new, large screen plasma television mounted to the living room wall…that qualified as a lot of beer already.

Plus, the TV itself was weird. Alan took a great deal of pride in the Craftsman. He had always maintained it well, keeping his hand in even after Charlie had purchased the house – and the monstrous technology was not exactly a period piece. It stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the antiques in the otherwise tastefully decorated home. Colby had been surprised to see it when he had arrived, on two counts. One, it was so out of place. Two, Don hadn't mentioned it – by the look on Don's face, he wasn't even sure he knew about it.

Alan noted Colby staring at it now, and took another drag off his beer, draining another bottle. "I just joined the 21st century," he said suddenly, slightly defensively. "Charlie is stuck at home here a lot, and he can't even work for long periods at a time. The migraines." He sighed, watching Don edge into the living room silently and perch on one of the chairs at the edge, trying not to alert his brother, who seemed to be dozing on the couch. Alan lowered his voice a little. "Plus, Don hardly ever comes over anymore. I upgraded our cable, too, and added this NFL package…I thought maybe…"

Colby was a little shocked at that confession, and wasn't sure what to say. He was saved the trouble when Charlie jerked awake on the couch, seeming to sense Don at the edges, and automatically started casting about for his cane. Don jumped out of his chair as if he'd been shot, mumbled something about another beer, and retreated past them quickly, into the kitchen.

Colby looked at Alan, who was staring at the dining room table and playing with his own empty bottle. He stood and snatched it away. "I'll get us a couple of more," he stated, and followed Don through the swinging door. In the kitchen, he set the empties on a counter and observed the team leader silently for a while. Don was sitting morosely at the table, and there was no beer in front of him. Colby crossed to the refrigerator, opened it, and took out a couple of cold ones. Then he walked to the table, thunked one down in front of Don, and sat a few feet away in the nearest chair. He opened his own bottle and took a long drag. Then he sighed, and set it carefully on the table. "They released Elena Barrito, the flight attendant, from protective custody today."

Don's only response was a grunt and a pull on his beer, and Colby studied him for a moment. "You're giving up pretty easily," he finally stated.

Don jerked his head up, and his eyes flashed at Colby. "Just leave it alone, Granger. You've seen him. He doesn't want me here. He barely tolerates me since he got back."

Colby shook his head, slightly. "You're not thinking clearly. This is a problem that started before South America. Didn't he tell you at that student's funeral to stay away from him? This is all about Penfield."

Don pushed his chair back from the table and stood angrily. "You're wrong. You don't know what in the hell you're talking about! He was upset, then. He knows now that I care about him – hell, I went to South America after him!"

Colby looked up at him and lazily arched an eyebrow. "For him? Does he know that? He probably thinks you did it for your Dad."

Don flushed an angry red and bent slightly over the table. "You're welcome in this house to watch football. You're not qualified or invited to provide therapy." He straightened back up and snatched his beer off the table, heading for the door to the back yard.

Undaunted, Colby called after him. "Think about it. It's unfinished business. In his mind, you not only did not want him on the Quantico job – you picked the one person who would hurt him the most. The guy tried to debunk his work in front of his students and his peers. He tried to pick up Amita right in front of him. Now, Charlie even knows that Penfield hated him enough to give him to Macedo. And this is the guy you chose over him. Does he even know that Penfield really managed to escape, and you didn't just let him go?"

Don froze; his back to Colby. Seven seconds of silence passed before his shoulders drooped a little and he answered in a soft voice Colby could barely hear. "What am I supposed to do? I'm not sure he even remembers any of that – yesterday, Dad said he couldn't remember how to tie his shoes, once he got them on the right feet. I don't want to bring up something he's not ready for – and what could I say, anyway? I was an idiot. An idiot. But this isn't about me, right now."

Colby stood himself and started back for the dining room, purposefully forgetting Alan's fourth beer. "No shit," he intoned dryly, turning away from the kitchen table. "At least you got that one right."

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Don knew Colby was right, as far as it went, but he stood in the dark listening to the soft swish of the koi pond pump, and convinced himself that Granger didn't have the whole story. It was all good and well to imply that Don should clear the air with Charlie once and for all – but he wasn't going to put his brother through any more stress. Their father said that Charlie still fluctuated between insomnia and nightmares. He would mumble in his sleep and thrash around even when forced into slumber by a migraine medication. He had an astronomical, enormous, unimaginable amount on his plate. If focusing on an ill-perceived misunderstanding with Don helped keep his mind off Amita, or Macedo, or whatever the hell had happened to him in that prison – then Don was going to let him have that. Sure, it hurt to think of the new distance in their relationship…but he was doing this for Charlie.

By the end of the beer, he was convinced of that – even if no one else was.

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It was Millie's idea for Charlie to return to campus. Even though it was two weeks after the start of the fall semester, and his classes were covered for the remainder of the term, she convinced Alan that the atmosphere would be good for him. "He can prepare his syllabi for next semester," she argued, "or fact-check for some of the other math and science professors who are about to publish. Hell, he can just sit in his office and smell the chalk. The students miss him. Conversations with them, and other faculty, will stimulate his mind, and help him heal. You know how important academia has always been to him."

Alan has hesitated before broaching the subject with Charlie. "His brilliance is what almost got him killed," he pointed out. "I'm not sure he feels the same way about it anymore."

Larry, who had so far been a silent witness to the conversation in the kitchen, finally spoke. "I certainly hope that's not the case, Alan. Millie is correct. As long as I have known Charles, the work has defined and energized him."

Millie couldn't resist a last shot. "It's about time we found out, at any rate."

In the end, Alan had waited until everyone left and Charlie was limping toward the staircase, headed for bed, to bring it up. "Son…do you…that is, you don't have to…but Millie and Larry thought maybe you'd like to return to campus? Just for a few hours a day?"

Charlie, exhausted from yesterday's migraine and today's physical therapy, hardly realized to what he was agreeing. "Sure," he said, continuing up the stairs. "Right. I'll do that, Dad."

And so he had, at first just because his father drove him there after a doctor's appointment the next day. Now, almost 10 days later Charlie stood at his office window, overlooking the campus, and admitted she was right. He had only experienced one migraine since he had been back, and the gaps in his memory were less apparent. Several days ago he had stood in front of the microwave for five minutes, trying to remember how to use it, before Alan found him and helped out – but nothing similar had happened since.

Unfortunately, Charlie knew, Millie had been too right. Once on campus, memories of Amita flooded back. Charlie remembered her as an undergrad, and then as a graduate student. He recalled several papers they had worked on together, as well as several FBI cases. Sometimes, sitting in the office where she had spent so much time with him, Charlie could still smell her perfume. Although his memory seemed to be improving, his insomnia was growing worse. Charlie was torn between two loves – his first, and his last. Being on campus did remind him of how much the work meant to him – but he wasn't sure how long he could take this. Every time the door opened, he looked up expecting Amita. At least once a day a student, or a colleague, would mention her name, saying how sorry they were…

He sighed, letting his forehead fall against the window pane. This was so important to everyone. His father was ecstatic at Charlie's improvement. Millie smiled like a Cheshire cat and talked about the full class load she expected him to carry next semester. Larry dropped by so often, always shyly grinning, that Charlie found himself wondering if the physicist ever taught anymore. He thunked his head against the window twice, burrowing his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans. They would all be so disappointed. They had done so much for him, and they would all be so disappointed.

Charlie turned back to his desk, looking for something with which to distract himself. There was little actual work to be done – but Larry wouldn't be able to give him a ride home until after his last class. Two more hours. He sat, and found himself staring at the small photo of Amita that was still on the corner of his crowded desk. His father had been shocked to learn that at first, Charlie had thought her death was his fault. When Charlie explained that Macedo had told him he had his man disconnect her equipment because of Charlie's attempt to put the tracer in his programming, Alan had hastened to explain what really happened; that the Ramanujans had ordered it per Amita's wishes, and they were all present when it was done. It provided a trivial amount of comfort; Charlie still knew that it was her association with him that put her in that position to begin with. She'd been drugged because she was with him. It was because of him that she was gone.

After a few moments, he reached out to touch the glass briefly; then pulled his hand away. The photograph reminded him of their last date, because it had been taken in the same place – in front of the L.A. Convention Center. On their last date, they had attended a symphonic concert, there – a pianist from Russia. Andre something. The photograph was taken almost a year earlier, when they had gone with some students to an important lecture on global warming. Charlie smiled slightly, remembering. Even though there were students with them, that afternoon had certainly been more successful than their first date. That had been a disaster….

Charlie looked away from the photo, disconcerted. It had been a disaster, right? He felt as if it had been bad – but he could not for the life of him remember. Any of it. He could not remember where they had gone, or why it had been a disaster. He could not remember why, if it had really not gone well, they decided to try again. He frowned at the closed door, his heart beginning to race, and tried to remember what she was wearing. What he was wearing. Where they had gone, what they had done…. He stood quickly; then sat again just as quickly. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. This wasn't right, it wasn't fair. Not only was Amita gone, but now he was losing his memories of her as well!

Charlie squeezed shut his eyes and ran a hand through the hair he had artfully arranged that morning to cover the short fuzz and the scar on the back of his head. A jolt of pain stabbed behind his right eye and he flashed on another, unbidden memory of Amita. Her hands were twisted in his hair, and she loomed over him, eyes closed in ecstasy and mouth open to gasp his name. "No!" he yelled, his own eyes popping open. He groaned, cursing his memory, now. He could live the rest of his life without remembering how much she had loved his hair….His ridiculous hair. He would give it all up, for another moment with Amita.

His eyes frantically searched the desktop until he found what he wanted – what he needed – what would save him. Grabbing the scissors with one hand, he sobbed as he lifted a lank curl with the other. "I hate this," he half-moaned, snipping wildly with the scissors. The curl came away in his hand, and Charlie let it fall to the desk so he could feel for another. If he cut them all off, maybe he would remember.

Better yet – maybe he would forget.

End, Chapter 29