Chapter 36…

The cabin didn't appear much better in the late afternoon than it did at night. Mold was devouring the log walls, cobwebs conquered the corners and the stench of vomit had nestled in. Unfortunately, the latter issue wasn't due to the rotting walls.

On a chair opposite the sofa where Raven and Alex sat, Hank didn't bother talking. Any arguments had been stifled by the sound seeping through the bathroom's door. Inside, Angel was practically vomiting organs now.

Standing by the bathroom's entrance, Sean grimaced, his pinkish face practically green. The girl had been doing that all day. Earlier, Hank had spent most of his time trying to convince Raven to give up Erik.

All of that was put on the backburner as Angel's illness took over. She'd complained about headaches and blurred vision; Hank thought she'd might have been faking it. As her gag—barf resonated throughout the cabin, he was reconsidering his original suspicions.

Out of the bathroom, the black-haired beauty wandered out. On her face, a towel. They didn't bother tying her up anymore. They made that mistake a few hours before; Hank still had vomit in his fur.

As Angel sat beside Raven again, Hank already knew something had to be done. The girl had gotten knocked down pretty hard at Castlebrook, and might have lost consciousness.

"Sean," Hank said. "You have a pretty good idea how to get out of here now, right?"

"Uh," the other man shrugged, "yeah, I could find my way, I guess. Why?"

Hank didn't want to do it—after all, the only real leverage they had were the girls. Nonetheless, he wasn't about to risk anybody's life if he could help it.

He nodded towards Angel. "We're letting her go," he said to Alex and Sean.

"What?" Alex instantly came back.

"She's sick," Hank replied. "She might have sustained a concussion."

"So what?"

"So we're not going to act like Erik. We need to finish this and get Charles back. But reducing ourselves to his level…we need some boundaries here. She's sick, so we let her go. She can communicate to Erik and bring him here. Maybe after what happened with Azazel, we'll be able to get through to him this time."

"What about this one?" Sean asked as he gestured to Raven.

Hank turned his head back to the blue-skinned woman. "You're staying here."

A shadow of defeat crossed Raven's face, but she nodded anyway.

Sean and Alex helped Angel towards their car; Sean agreed to drive her to the nearest hospital to get checked out and then wherever else she needed to go. The car zoomed out of the driveway. From the cabin's front porch, Hank watched until Sean and Angel disappeared around the winding country road.

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The doctors were not keen on Charles being discharged from the hospital; in fact, they flat-out told Moira it was asinine. Nonetheless, Charles insisted on it and even threatened to start calling cab companies if Moira wasn't willing to help.

Maybe he couldn't stand hospitals anymore; maybe he desperately wanted to find Hank and the others. But Moira suspected he didn't like all the attention the medical staff was giving him and his brain. He didn't like being considered a miracle to everyone but himself.

So by late afternoon, Moira found herself driving her rental car up to the patient pick-up/drop-off zone at the building's entrance. Charles was already sitting in his wheelchair by the curb, waiting. He wore a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a matching, unzipped jacket with undershirt. The outfit drowned his skinny form like a child putting on his dad's wardrobe. Moira tried not to notice as she stepped out of the car.

"Can I help with anything?" she asked.

As Charles opened the passenger's car door, he gave a nod towards his wheelchair. "Can you fold it up and put it in the back for me, please?"

Manually, he lugged both feet into the vehicle, and then using the car's hood, transferred himself into the passenger's seat. Moira did as he asked, and collapsed the chair. She tucked it into the backseat, half-dropping it with a clank to the car's floor.

"Sorry," she whispered.

Charles didn't respond.

Moira closed the car door. She circled around to her side, got in and then positioned her foot on the clutch. Pressing on the gas pedal, she shifted the car's gears and the car began to accelerate.

Away of the hospital's sunroof, the California sky was clear and sunny. Daylight still hung bright even in the late afternoon, and as Moira rolled down her window, the breeze captured her hair, twirling the strands around her as if they were alive.

To her right, Charles didn't budge. He didn't talk. His eyes were glued straight ahead, his face as empty as the sky above. Moira continued driving, shifting gears as she worked the foot pedals. She talked. It was all trivial things, she realized—in the hospital, she had already told Charles about Hank, Sean and Alex being somewhere close by, searching for him. There was nothing else she could think of except silly, random topics: Isn't it amazing how different the west coast looks compared to the east coast? Did you know that even the diners out here serve burritos?

Charles shifted his attention to the passenger window, gazing out.

Moira tapped her fingers across the steering wheel. Should she tell him that she had regained all her memories from Cuba? Should she mention that she'd read the CIA reports that explained what had really happened on the beach? Should she beg forgiveness for ruining his life because she'd been too dumb to realize Erik would deflect her bullets away?

As she shot a glimpse at the man beside her, she instantly knew the answer to all those questions. And it was no. Charles' hair was disheveled, his bangs matted to his forehead. The stubble across his jaw was almost a beard and his skin was whiter than the hospital's bed sheets. He no longer resembled the man she had met half a year ago. Back then, that one had draped an arm across her shoulders within a second of meeting her, and spoke with more confidence than one man should possess. At the time, it had annoyed her a little bit—this half-drunk guy assuming she wanted him just because she had stepped into his path.

That man was gone and how badly she wanted to see him again. The one sitting beside her…he was like a house made of paper; with one tiny spark, someone could destroy him completely.

"Could you take East Ocean Boulevard, please?" Charles suddenly spoke.

Surprised, Moira jumped her focus back to the road. She did as Charles instructed and eased the car to the right.

"So," Moira said as she merged with the afternoon traffic, "what's the plan here?"

As Charles continued to gaze out of the windshield, all he said was, "We need to find Hank and the others."

Then, he lifted his left hand. Planting his point and middle fingers to his temple, he closed his eyelids for a breath and then his pupils focused for the first time since leaving the hospital.

Moira concentrated on the road, and throughout the rest of the afternoon, they drove around Long Beach searching for the others, neither of them saying hardly a word to one another as they went.

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It was close to ten at night before Charles and Moira decided to give up for the evening. They returned to the Loma Vista Hotel, parked the car and then wandered to a small diner across the street. Charles nibbled at his dinner as if the hamburger and potato chips tasted like sawdust.

Moira asked him what he intended to do once he returned home, but he merely shook his head like the question was more complicated than she realized. She tried to brush off his disinterest and stuck to simple topics.

"We need to get you some more clothes," she said. "We'll stop by one of these Hollywood clothing outlets tomorrow morning."

He nodded.

"How about we go for a James Dean look?" she suggested. "Or Elvis. Would you like to look like Elvis for a few days?"

She was hoping he might smile at that, or at least give her a look like she was nuts. He did neither. With another bob of his head, he picked at the bread from his half-eaten hamburger and gnawed on it like he was chewing bark.

They returned to the hotel. They got ready for bed. The hospital had provided Charles with a few supplies to last him for about a week. He went into the bathroom and stayed in there for almost an hour. When he reemerged, his hair was damp from bathing; he didn't bother shaving his face. Moira lay in her bed and watched as Charles wheeled to the other one. He shook off his robe; underneath he wore the navy sweats and undershirt.

He positioned his chair to the bed's edge, and grabbing his pants, moved his legs one at a time to the mattress. Then, he shifted his whole body over, grabbed a pillow and slid it between his knees. A second later, he drew the covers to his chest.

As he settled on the bed, Moira reached out a hand to the lamp. "Good night," she said.

"Good night," he replied automatically. His voice was raspy like he was sick.

Moira tugged on the lamp cord and then the room darkened. Only the dim glow of the outside streetlights provided any illumination as it bled through the cheap hotel curtains. Across from her, Moira could barely make out Charles' form. Head on his pillow, he breathed like it required forethought.

Moira closed her eyes. She wasn't certain exactly when she fell asleep, but she woke with a startle several hours later. The soft breaths from the other bed had deepened. They were struggling now—strained. After a heartbeat, a slight groaning accompanied them.

Moira opened her eyes.

Covered down to his waist with the bed sheets, Charles gritted his teeth. His eyes were squinted shut. His right arm was wrapped behind him like he was trying to pull a knife from his back. Moira remembered that image. It was almost the same as the one from the beach as she watched helplessly while Charles' lay on the sand, writhing in pain.

After he was shot.

"What's the matter?" Moira asked as she snapped up.

Charles opened his eyes. Pain contorted his features, but there was also a touch of embarrassment. He didn't mean to wake her. Nonetheless, the agony on his face only intensified and as Moira approached his side, he finally let out a gasp.

"My back," he struggled to say. With his left hand, he pointed to the nightstand between their beds. "Could you get…my pills for me, please?"

"Where does it hurt?"

"Just…" He sucked in a breath. "It's all right. Just get them, please."

With a frown, Moira stepped to the edge of his bed. Sliding the covers down a bit more, she got on her hands and knees, and crawled to Charles' side. He asked what she was doing, but as she rested her hands on his biceps, she said, "Here—try to roll over. Get the pressure off your back."

He let out a sigh like her insistence was bugging him, but as she held tightly to his arms, he finally complied. With her help, he rolled towards her. His right arm still grasped to his backside like that would do any good.

Leaning over, Moira lifted the back of his shirt. She brought her hands to his skin and gently applied pressure. He winced for a heartbeat, but as she rubbed the lower part of his back, the tension in his face gradually calmed. He opened his eyes, watching her as she caressed him.

"Is that better?" she asked.

He nodded. Then, for the first time that day, the tiniest bit of serenity traced his features. "Thank you," he whispered.

He shut his eyes.

Moira continued massaging him, feeling the warmth of him underneath her fingers. His skin was smooth—soft. There were only two exceptions and as Charles' breathing relaxed, Moira grazed her fingers on top of them.

In the arch of his back, a small scar blemished his skin. It was oval-shaped with smooth edges like someone had dotted him with a speck of paint. Above it, there was a line, just as smooth and subtle. At least six inches in length, it was parallel with his spine. A surgical scar.

They appeared almost harmless, nothing more dramatic than a bad scratch.

How looks could be so deceiving.

Below her, Charles had fallen asleep. Her hands still resting on his back, Moira began rubbing his skin again. Just for a minute longer—just to make sure the pain was gone. She pressed them into his muscles; she glided her fingers, feeling the smooth, warm texture of him. Then, her hands inched upwards. They slid above his scars and across his shoulder blades. Charles didn't stir, but on his face, that trace of serenity now conquered his entire expression.

With that, Moira pulled one of her hands from underneath his shirt and brought it to his head. Gently, she brushed her fingers through his hair. In his sleep, he almost resembled the Charles she remembered.

Almost.

End of Chapter