Yes, this is based on another story of mine, but what with the dearth of Don H/C, I thought I'd rewrite it just a tad and plunk it in this universe. No, there isn't any more to it. Maybe someday . . . after I finally finish the original. ;)

Don's Promise
BeckyS
August 2005

He hurt.

For a long time that was all he knew. Eventually the thought came that there should be a way to get away from the pain, but it was at the center of his being, wrapped intricately through his very essence. To lose the hurt would be to lose himself.

And for a while it was what he wished.

But something held him to this world where his body felt torn apart. There was a sound…irregular…like the wind through the mountains.

He had a memory then, of some place—some time—where the warm, dry winds blew, where they ruffled his hair and sang through desert canyons and reminded him of a young child crying. There'd been music. A simple song, a song of longing. And someone telling a story of love, of loss. What were the words? If he could only remember…

But the words were there, were being whispered in his ear.

"You can't go. Please, you've got to hear me."

The voice stopped, and he heard the soughing wind again.

No, not the wind – crying. Then more words rushed by, the voice thick with tears.

"Don, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten mad, I shouldn't have left. If I'd just stayed with you, if we'd stayed together like you said—" the voice stopped.

Charlie? the name floated in his mind, rising over the surface of the pain.

He became aware of a warmth on his hand, a convulsive grip that squeezed as the voice continued, "Don, you have to wake up. Don't leave us. Don't leave me before I can tell you…"

Then the warmth left his hand, and a weight buried itself against his side. His brows drew together in concentration as he tried to unravel the threads of reality. He dragged his eyelids open, and gradually a white room came into focus—a hospital room. He looked around and his gaze finally rested on the lump pushing into his ribs. It was a curly head of dark hair, mussed into confusion, and he realized it belonged to the voice he'd heard earlier.

Charlie, the name came again, and the words, Don't leave . . .

He reached his hand toward the soft curls, gently touching them with shaking fingers. His voice was just a whisper, barely audible. "I won't go, buddy. I promise."

The curly head came up with a jerk, and a joyous cry rang down the hallways: "DON!"

END