A/N: Welcome to the story, Edna Pests. Boy, a lot of you must be reading my mind, notably, twintrekkers, tearbos, redpeacock and Ms.GrahamCracker - you're hitting close to the mark. Thanks for the reviews, everyone, you keep me motivated to keep cranking out the chapters! Charlie gets a double emotional whammy this chapter - a couple more nudges toward a conscious state.

See Disclaimer, Chapter 1

Bird Flu - Chapter 38

Alan looked at his youngest son and sighed. When he'd shown up after lunch, he'd been shocked to find Charlie sitting up and writing, his bed littered with papers. Dr. Raine was watching him with a frown on her face, and she explained to Alan that he'd been writing since early that morning. There was a thick stack of papers on the table next to him; periodically, she'd collected them, examined them, and set them aside. Charlie was completely absorbed, his writing nearly frantic, although he looked exhausted. Finally, Dr. Raine took his latest tablet and the pen from him. It was like shutting off a switch; Charlie leaned back against the bed supporting him; his hand twitching from spasms generated by writing for so long, his eyes again far off, staring at the opposite wall. Alan had sat next to him and massaged his hand, and it hadn't been long before his son drifted off to sleep, worn out by his efforts.

Now, at around three in the afternoon, he was still sleeping. Alan had been sitting quietly next to him, working on a cost estimate, when a knock sounded at the door. He looked up, and a weary smile came to his face as he saw the figure in the doorway. "Jill – it's nice to see you." He rose and extended a hand as she came through the doorway, his eyes traveling over her shoulder to the tall, thin man behind her. "I thought you were in Seattle."

She smiled at him and took his hand. "Hi Alan. I was – I came back for a visit. Alan, this is Mike Shire, SAC of the Seattle office."

Alan felt a surge of sympathy as he looked at the other man. He'd heard what had happened to his wife from Don, and he could still see a haunted look in the man's eyes. He held out a hand. "Mike. It's good to meet you. I'm sorry for your loss – I'd heard from Don."

Mike's murmured thanks were quiet, and his manner somewhat tentative, but his grip was firm and heartfelt, somehow conveying an acknowledgment of their status as the family of victims. Their eyes traveled to Charlie, and Alan noticed his son's eyes were open again.

"Charlie, you have visitors."

Jill looked at Alan in surprise. "He's been responding?"

Alan sighed and lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. "No, not really. He did sit up for the first time today, and the doctor gave him a tablet – he started writing and wrote for hours, but nothing that a non-mathematician can decipher, I'm afraid. The doctor says we should speak to him normally, however. She says he can hear us; he's just not processing what he hears."

Jill nodded thoughtfully, trying to compose her face as she drank in the sight of him. He looked much better; the bruising was receding and the IV's were gone. He still had a nasogastric tube in his nose for feeding, and was painfully thin, but was cleanly shaven, and had regained a bit of color in his face. She looked at Alan. "Actually, that's what we're here to do. Mike agreed to come and talk to him; we thought maybe it would help for Charlie to hear from someone else who had been – hurt – by the man who hurt him."

Alan raised an eyebrow, and he looked at Shire. He was both surprised and touched by the gesture. "That's – that's very generous of you – to come all the way here to try to help."

Shire shook his head, with a wry expression. "Thank Jill – she convinced me to come." He looked at her and held her gaze. "Now that I'm here, I'm certain it was the right thing to do – for me, also."

She sent him a tiny smile, and looked at Alan. "Would you like to get some coffee?"

Mike Shire's gaze returned to the figure in the bed, barely hearing Alan's acceptance, or Jill's promise to return shortly as they left the room. He had spoken the truth – it had been the right thing to come, although now that he was alone with the young man, he wasn't quite sure what he should say. Would it even matter, he wondered to himself, as he looked at the far-off expression on Charlie's face. Even if Eppes could hear him, he didn't know him that well – what in the hell could he say that would register? Sorry you had to go through that. Sorry you were beaten, abused. Sorry you had to witness my wife's death…

The thoughts broke off suddenly as a huge wave of grief swept through him at the thought of Joanie, and he felt tears come to his eyes. He shuffled forward and felt for the chair next to Charlie's bed, sinking into it, as he ran a hand over his eyes. God, this was hard, it was making him think, remember, making him face his grief, without the numbing effect of alcohol. He sat for a long moment with his head bowed, and then raised it and looked at Charlie. "Charlie, it's Mike Shire. I think you probably remember me from the meetings, remember my wife, Joanie." His voice cracked a little, and he cleared his throat.

There was no response; the professor stared straight ahead and his eyes closed, then opened again, deliberately, although his breathing had quickened. Somehow, the lack of eye contact made it easier to talk, and Mike continued. "Joanie – she – and the kids - were my reason for living. I wish you could have seen her before – she was so full of energy, of life. She'd walk into a room and just light it up; she had this way about her – she just put people at ease, you know? She was a great mom, a good person – it made no sense that this would happen to her."

He wiped another tear from his face; they seemed to be unstoppable, and he'd given up trying. "I know you were there when she died – I know it had to be terrible." His voice shook, and he closed his eyes, fighting another almost overwhelming surge of grief. When he opened them, he saw that Charlie's eyes were now closed, also, his face drawn into a look of pain, his good hand clutching the sheet.

"I'm sorry," said Mike, "I don't mean to hurt you. I know you went through horrible things, and saw even worse. What I want to tell you is – he took Joanie from me. There's nothing I can do about that. Your dad, and your brother – they care about you just as much. I can tell you this is especially hard on your brother. I know – when you're working the case, like he and I both were – you feel responsible for what happens. On top of all the pain, there's this terrible, crushing guilt. Joanie can't come back, but you can. Don't let him take you, too – don't do that to your brother. Don't let that bastard win."

He wiped his face again, rose wearily, and walked out of the room, head bowed, missing the single tear that streaked down the professor's face.

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Don's cell phone beeped; and he flipped it open as he guided his SUV through the early evening traffic, his heart skipping a beat as he glanced at the number. "Yeah, dad? How's Charlie?"

"He's fine." His father's voice was weary, but not distraught, and Don felt a twinge of both relief and disappointment. "He wrote for the entire morning and into the early afternoon, and Dr. Raine finally took the tablet away from him to let him rest."

"What did he write? Anything that means anything?"

"No – it's all math. Dr. Raine was wondering if we could give it to another mathematician and have them look at it, try to figure out if there's something there besides just an analysis. I was thinking that Amita might do it."

Don's mouth twisted in a tight line. He hated to ask her for anything – she couldn't even bother herself to visit. "Whatever. We'll find someone. Is that why you called?"

"No, actually – are you on your way here?"

"Yeah. I'm only fifteen minutes from there."

"Okay, good, I need a favor. Susan wants you to pick up some ice cream – preferably Charlie's favorite."

Don gaped. "Ice cream? He's eating?"

"Not yet. I think she wants to try it."

"Yeah – I, uh, okay – there's a grocery store in the next block. I'll be there in a bit."

Twenty minutes later, he was striding down the hospital corridor, with a pint of the most expensive strawberry ice cream he could find. He'd had to think for a moment about which was Charlie's favorite, but memories of long ago trips to the ice cream store as kids came back to him; he remembered Charlie ordering strawberry every time. As he walked into the room, he saw that Susan and Alan were waiting for him. His eyes traveled automatically to Charlie; his brother was sitting up again, but otherwise seemed no different than he had for days. He wondered why Dr. Raine thought he'd be willing to eat.

He gave her a nod and handed Alan the ice cream, and his father sat beside Charlie with the pint and a spoon. Don glanced at the NG tube in Charlie's nose, and then at Dr. Raine. "He can eat with that tube in him?"

"Small amounts of something relatively liquid," she said. "I'd really like to see if we can get him off that tube – in addition, taste is a powerful sense. The more sensory stimulation we can give him, the better."

Alan dished up a bit of ice cream on the end of the spoon, touched it gently to Charlie's lips, and waited.

--

Charlie braced himself at the sound of his brother's voice. He had been focusing on keeping at bay the conversation from someone else a short time before – Mike Shire, who had told him he needed to come back, for Don's sake. He'd fought it off, fought off the acknowledgment that his brother was now here, along with his father. They were too distracting; they pulled him out of the numbers, toward the pain.

A spoon suddenly appeared in front of him and touched his lips, and he closed his eyes, his heart starting to pound. An image flashed through his mind – he was suddenly back at the abandoned house with his captor – the killer was holding him, feeding him soup…

--

As Alan held the spoon to Charlie's lips, he wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't the closed eyes, the expression of despair, the strangled half-cry that came from his son. He immediately pulled the spoon away, watching with chagrin as Charlie's face twisted in fear and he began to breathe heavily, his good hand balled into a white-knuckled fist, pressing into the sheets. Alan stood abruptly, the ice cream container and spoon still in his hands, and began to back away. "Apparently this wasn't a good idea." He tried to speak lightly, but his voice was shaking, and Dr. Raine frowned, a look of concern on her face.

Don stepped forward and took the spoon and container from his father. "Let me," he said, and moved forward to sit in the chair, ignoring their surprised expressions. "Charlie," he said softly, and reached out a hand, brushing the curls at Charlie's temple with the back of his hand. The gesture had seemed to calm his brother during the shaving sessions, and Don used it again, now. He spoke soothingly for a moment, his voice just a murmur, and gradually, Charlie's breathing slowed.

"Chuck, it's just me, and it's just ice cream. Don't think, just take a taste."

"No," Charlie whispered, his eyes still tightly closed.

Don exchanged a startled look with Alan and Dr. Raine, then turned back to look at his brother. Had Charlie just responded to him, or was he speaking to whatever or whoever was inside his head? "Come on, Charlie," he said, a little more forcefully, and decided to challenge him, to push a bit. "I thought you had a little more backbone than that. Do it for me." He got a fresh bit of ice cream on the spoon, and pressed it gently to Charlie's lips.

Charlie's eyes were still shut, but he had opened his mouth slightly and Don seized the opportunity. He gently slid the bit of frozen confection onto Charlie's tongue. A puzzled look appeared on Charlie's face, and he opened his eyes. They still appeared to be focused on something else, but the fear was fading, and replaced by a look of wonderment. Don couldn't help but grin as the tip of Charlie's tongue appeared and licked a pink spot of cream on his upper lip. "Good stuff, hey, Buddy? Come on, let's have some more."

He shoveled in another bit; Charlie took it, but this time he laid back and turned his head away to face the window. His hand still gripped the sheets tightly, and he closed his eyes, his breathing still rapid and mechanical. "That's enough," said Dr. Raine, quietly.

Don swiveled to face her, protesting. "We just got started – he was doing fine -,"

"He's done a lot today," Dr. Raine interrupted him. She was smiling, but her voice was firm. "He did do well, but we're trying to ease him out of this, not yank him out. He's sending you a signal – he's had enough for now. We'll try something else tomorrow morning."

Don looked at his father as if for support, but Alan shook his head, although he too, looked a little disappointed at her words. "She's right, Donnie," he said softly as Dr. Raine left the room. "He did all of that writing, and Mike Shire came in to talk to him this afternoon – Charlie looked a little shaken up when he left."

Don stared at him. "Mike Shire!"

Alan nodded. "He and Jill Cash came down from Seattle, just to see Charlie. It's quite amazing when you think about it, and especially when you see the man – he didn't look well." He gestured at the spoon and the container, still in Don's hands. "You might as well eat that – you look like you could use a pound or two, yourself. Speaking of which, I'm going to make a pan of lasagna tonight – I'll package up some portions, freeze them, and run them over to your place one of these evenings – something you can microwave when you get home."

"That's okay, Dad, you don't have to do that – I've been grabbing a bite from the cafeteria here every night."

Alan sighed. "I know – but cooking relaxes me, and I need to do something when I get home before I try to go to bed. Plus, you could apparently use something besides cafeteria food." He fell silent, and they both stared at Charlie for a moment.

The silence was heavy, and it brought up Don's darkest worries. "Do you think he'll come out of this?" He hadn't really meant to ask the question, but it seemed to come out of its own accord. He really didn't want the response, either, but got one anyway.

"I don't know," said Alan, quietly. He gazed at Charlie, the soft light in the room reflecting in his eyes. "I hope so." He put a firm hand on Don's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "I'm going now. I'll see you tomorrow."

Don sat hunched in the chair with his elbows on his knees; and with a sigh, scooped up a spoon of ice cream, and ate it reflectively, morosely staring at the figure in the bed. He swallowed, still staring, the spoon suspended in midair. He blinked, then, sighing, he laid the spoon on the table, pitched the container in the trash, and put his face in his hands.

Day after day of heartbreak, of Charlie's lack of response, of sleepless, tormented nights had finally caught up with him. He felt heavy, like his body and mind alike were weighed down with lead, and a deep despair settled in his soul. He could feel tears stinging his eyes, and he took a deep unsteady breath. "Charlie – I don't know what to tell you – to let you know everything will be okay – you know it's gonna be okay, right? It's okay to come out."

He raised his head, and looked at Charlie pleadingly. His brother's head was still turned away, facing the window, and Don suspected that his eyes were closed. "I can't - I can't do this, if you don't come back. I'm sorry, I know it was my fault – I should have never left you or Dad unprotected. And you know that thing I said over the phone, about not liking you – you know that was an act, right? I was trying to get him to think you weren't who he wanted - I thought, hell I don't know what I thought, I was about out of my mind. Anyway, it's behind us now – I want you to come back – I love you." He dropped his voice and whispered, as if to himself, something he would never have admitted a few weeks ago. "I need you, Buddy. Please, just come – back…"

His voice broke on the last few words; he could go no further, and he put his head down with a quiet intake of breath, a half-sob. He had no idea that his brother's eyes were open, and as Charlie stared out the window, he blinked.

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Ryan Morgan pushed the cleaning cart down the hallway at 11:30 p.m., and stopped at the door. It was Eppes' room, he was sure of it, but there was no guard, and he paused in confusion. There was an empty chair in the hallway just outside the room; and there were none in front of the others – it had to be a chair for the guard. He felt a flash of chagrin; he hadn't planned anything that night other than a scouting mission, and if this were a mistake on their part – if they'd left Eppes unguarded and Ryan was not ready for this opportunity, he'd be furious with himself. With a pounding heart, he looked down the hallway. He could see a portion of the nurses' station at the end of it, but it was several yards away, and the station curved around out of sight. If there was a nurse working there, she was out of view, and it followed then, that so was he. He gently pushed down on the door handle, and eased open the door, just a bit.

In the reflected light from the hallway, he could just make out a prone form in the bed against the far wall, but it was the figure near the door in a chair who got his attention. There was a guard; he was slumped in a recliner inside the room, and Ryan could see his face, slack, eyes closed, and hear the regular breathing. Sleeping on the job – no wonder the man had chosen the chair inside the room – no one could see him doing it. Still, he would make things difficult – he would hardly stay asleep if Ryan waltzed in and began cutting. He might stay sleeping, however, if Ryan made it fast, snuck in silently, a hand on the mouth, a scalpel drawn across the neck, quick and quiet, and then out again…

The problem was; that wasn't what Ryan wanted. He wanted to take his time, to see the professor watching him with frightened eyes as he flayed him, as he caressed that glorious skin. His eyes narrowed, and he softly drew the door shut as the guard stirred and snorted in his sleep. There might be a way. It would take some preparation, but there might be a way.

End Chapter 38