A:N/ Wow! Thanks for all the spiffy comments. So many in just a few chapters. Very encouraging. I'm glad it's being enjoyed, and that you are so confused. It was the effect I was hoping for. I wanted something surreal, and if I can accomplish it with this story then there is hope for my own stories.

Ch. 4

Just go, and keep going...

Charlie awoke, and wished he hadn't. Charlie was not a heavy drinker, whenever he drank at all. He did not like the idea of chemicals fogging up his brain and distorting his linear mindset. However, he was fairly certain that the pain exploding within his skull must be what it was like to have a hangover.

Charlie's sticky eyelids peeled apart but revealed only blue-gray darkness and vague, fuzzy shapes. Then Charlie rememberer.

Leon. His fury. Pain.

Charlie was in pain now; his back, face and ribs. He was sore to the point that he could hardly even twitch a finger, and there was a strange weight on his back as though something were lying on top of him. He squeezed his eyes shut, shivering. He coughed and his side seemed to crack. He let out a small gurgle of pain, then froze, straining his ears for the slightest sound. There came no scrape, no footfalls, no angry words. Leon was gone.

Charlie inhaled a shuddering breath and let it out slowly, but the relief he wanted to feel was only a temporary twinge. Leon would be back, and find something else to be angry about. The man was like nitroglycerin.

But why? What was Charlie doing wrong? Why was Leon doing this?

Because you deserve it.

A new kind of pain constricted Charlie's heart.

A Coward and selfish.

Charlie forced his arms to move, pulling them up against his sides, then paused.

Something wasn't right.

The floor felt exceptionally gritty today, as though dirt had been poured on it. Then Charlie curled his fingers, feeling what should have been solid concrete give way as his fingers dug into it. His heart pounded with confusion so that Charlie could hear it thumping through the floor.

No, not the floor.

Charlie's muddled senses seemed to shoot to life as terror forced his brain to try to make sense of things. Instead of dust and mold Charlie smelled earth and moisture. Instead of stale air, there was a cool breeze toying with his hair and brushing along his face. Charlie blinked rapidly several times until the film over his eyes finally cleared. He saw, twitching and bending before him, a clump of dried weeds. He then rolled his eyes up to a sky overcast with dark gray clouds. Charlie was outside.

The shock of this made Charlie forget his pain and terror. He pushed himself to his knees and glanced around in both confusion and wonder. He was outside. He was free.

The hill Charlie had tumbled down was directly in front of him, and behind him – some distance away – was the warehouse standing empty and alone. The many windows were shattered, the outer wall chipped and paint-flecked, and the pavement and road leading to it cracked and weed-choked.

Charlie continued his disbelieving scrutiny of his open surroundings, then did a double take on what he saw next. His bike was only a few feet away from him. Then Charlie remembered the weight at his back, which was now on his shoulder. He reached up and felt the cloth strap of his back pack. He yanked it from his shoulder and ripped the zipper open to stare slack-jawed at his books, papers, and laptop nestled safely inside.

Charlie began panting, furrowing his brow. " What?" He looked around again from his bike to the building and then to the hill. He began trembling. He looked back at the building, then to his bag.

This wasn't right. Charlie looked around again, and again, trying to think, trying to understand. Had Leon been that disgusted with him? Had he thought Charlie dead and dragged him out?

Or had it been a dream.

Charlie's hand went to his side that throbbed unmercifully. But that could have happened in the fall, the same with his face. Then he reached back, feeling beneath his sweater and shirt the scabs that stung when he touched them. He remembered with nausea Leon pulling at the scabs as though trying to rip them open.

Leon. His fury, his fist, his boot striking bone. How could that be a dream?

Leon had needed me, Charlie thought. He needed a hostage. So why am I out here? Why not just kill me if he didn't want me around any more?

Back and forth, Charlie's thoughts battled eachother with logic, with neither side winning. He looked back at the cold building with its black windows like empty eye sockets. Right now, it did not matter what the truth was. He needed to get away, he needed to get home.

With his mind still battling, Charlie pushed himself painfully to his feet, pausing when his head swam and the world spun. After it cleared enough for him to catch his balance, he moved slowly toward his bike and picked it up. He then bent to grab his bag, wincing when the muscles of his back were pulled. He slung the bag on the handle of his bike, then wheeled it along the base of the hill until he found the disheveled road leading from the warehouse. He followed it as it rounded the hill to where it was less steep and climbed. Charlie past a few spindly trees, then an abandoned gate with no windows. Beyond the gate was paved road and a sidewalk, which Charlie took to.

I felt everything; being dragged, kicked, punched...

But the pain from the fall could have made the dream real...

Somehow, between the constant back and forth debate of his mentality, Charlie found his way. He paid little attention to anything around him; not buildings, cars, the few people passing by giving him odd looks, or the increasing heaviness of his limbs. He even ignored someone asking him if he was all right and needed help. Charlie heard the voice, but found it more an interloper of his concentration, so paid little attention to it except to say " I'm fine."

And somehow, perhaps by instinct or from mere habit, Charlie entered his neighborhood just as night came with a light mist and cold air. Charlie shivered as moisture seeped into his clothes and drizzle spat in his face. Then he was home, but noticed only how odd it was that there was no car in the driveway, and no lights on in the house. Charlie, moving like a robot controlled by years of custom, wheeled his bike into the garage. He took his bag, dragging it along the ground since his arm seemed unable to lift it.

The fear was so real. Leon's anger even more real.

But dreams could be very real when they wanted.

Charlie climbed the stairs leading from the garage to the house. His legs began to tremble, and he slipped, bashing his knee against the step and knocking his sore chest. He cried out in agony and exhaustion, and for a moment stayed where he was, shivering fitfully as tears poured down his face. But he was cold, and tired of being cold, so crawled the rest of the way up, pulling himself to his feet on the last step. He reached into the pocket of his sweater for his house keys, but found the door already unlocked when he used them. So he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Everything was dark and quiet. Charlie stood with his back to the garage door, still trembling and feeling like a stranger in his own home. He did not know what to do now, and there was no one around to tell him.

Why wasn't anyone home? Where was his dad? Where was Don?

Charlie felt suddenly sick, and realized he was hungry. But more than that he was cold, and extremely tired. He did not remember ever being so tired to the point that his bones felt twenty pounds heavier.

There was also a strange feeling about him, as though small and unseen insects were crawling all over his flesh. Charlie released his death grip on his bag, then turned automatically and headed up the stairs to the bathroom. His head felt as though it were floating, as though everything around him were a dream. He was only partly aware of the warm shower that took away the cold, and him scrubbing with a cloth at the scabs. When he looked at the cloth, he saw blood on it. When he finished, he wrapped himself in a towel and went to his room. He clicked on the lamp, then grabbed a pair of gray sweats and a red T-shirt, and dressed, forgetting the cuts.

Leon had not made sense... like a dream.

Charlie headed back downstairs and clicked on the light in the kitchen. He was hungry, and yet at the same time had no real appetite. So he took out a can of tomato soup, opened it with the electric can opener, dumped it in a bowl and heated it in the microwave. He then got a glass of milk. He took both into the dining room, setting them before him, along with a spoon. He sat, clasping his hands together in his lap, and stared blankly at the wall before him.

Maybe this is the dream.

Charlie's heart would not stop pounding, and his hands, even clenched, would not stop shaking.

Was it a dream?

Charlie did not want to think on it anymore, but his mind just kept going...

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"... Yeah, I already thought of that, dad," Don said, squinting against the eye-burning headlights of a passing car. Colored spots danced in Don's vision after the car drove on. " ... Yeah, I got David on that. I'm going to take Charlie's route to school again tomorrow, so don't even think about taking it on your own, in the dark, with a flashlight. Not again. Just come home dad, you need to take a break... Yeah... Yeah... I know he's still out there. Just a small one, dad. Come on, you need it. You'll be able to search better... Okay... see you at the house."

Don flipped his phone shut with one hand then set it on the seat beside him, the seat that on any other day might have been occupied by Charlie. He was aware of the empty seat through the corner of his eye, and glanced at it twice with a tightening in his chest and a churning stomach. The only time he had ever felt this scared was when he had that bank robber's gun pointed at his face. It had scared Charlie pretty bad too.

Was Charlie scared now, where ever he was?

Don rubbed the side of his face with one hand, attempting to clear the sleep trying to weigh his eyelids down. He couldn't help thinking such thoughts. Fear wouldn't let him stop. Outside he maintained a picture of perfect control. Inside he could hardly breathe.

Charlie missing. Charlie gone. In his head they were just words, but they would not go quiet. It made Don realize how much more different, even unusual, it was when the person he was searching for was his own brother. When the case was his own brother. He had done so many missing people searches, handled a numberless account of kidnappings, all with the same kind of urgency spurning him on. The urgency still fueled him, but he felt strange, almost helpless. No matter what he told himself, or how many times he said it, this could not be handled as any other case, not internally. Charlie had once, non-discreetly, commented about being detached, which Don had taken as a personal remark, though he had admitted himself as being detached.

Apparently, Don wasn't as detached as he had thought. But then again it wasn't exactly possible to be detached when it was his brother's life that was the issue.

For some reason, Don's focus on why Charlie was missing would not stop dwelling on kidnapping. There were other possibilities: Charlie getting lost, getting hurt in an unknown place. Yet Don's thoughts kept going straight for the worst. He had done checks on those criminals Charlie had both helped find and personally met, such as the men who had stolen the radioactive material. But they were all safely in prison, or wanting nothing more to do with Don and his brother. Even that kid, that computer whiz (Don had forgotten his name, which alarmed him) held nothing against Charlie. In fact he had appeared genuinely sorry that he was missing. Meagan had said so after listening in on the interview.

It could be a personal vendetta against Don, but then there would have been some letter, e-mail, video or some form of visual message sent to Don to torment him. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, to say that Charlie had been kidnapped. Yet it was not enough to push the thought back as only a mere possibility and not fact.

Don pulled into the driveway of his childhood home, all Charlie's now. He noticed a light on in the kitchen, but did not see his dad's car.

Must have forgot to turn it off, Don thought. Sighing wearily, Don turned off the ignition, opened the car door, and slid his heavy body from the seat. He had hassled his dad about getting rest. He needed to hassle himself.

Don headed up the sidewalk to the front door and, to his chagrined, found it unlocked. His dad had insisted on keeping the door unlocked just in case Charlie showed up and had lost his keys. Don shoved his car-keys into the pocket of his jeans and moved into the dining room to head to the kitchen.

Then Don froze.

The news of a missing loved one was always followed by the involuntary looks at doors or in rooms, and the expectation of seeing that loved one coming through those doors or sitting in those rooms.

But to see what was supposed to be a mind trick become fact caused Don's mind to reel dizzily, and his perceptions to flip. He took a step back, half-expecting Charlie to disappear, while at the same time wanting to run to him, embrace him, and know that he was real.

The young professor was sitting before a partially eaten bowl of soup and a half-full glass of milk. His normally curly hair hung limp and shiny as though wet, and there were dark-brown stains on the upper part of his faded red shirt. His dark brown eyes were staring empty at the wall, with his hands clasped on his lap and his shoulders hunched as though he were cold. In fact, Don could see the twitches and slight jerks indicative of someone shivering.

Don took a shuddering breath, realizing that he had stopped breathing the moment he saw Charlie. Don could see Charlie's gaze from where he stood. He had assumed it to be blank, but Don did see something in that far-off gaze. Confusion, fear... Sorrow? Don approached slowly as one would to a frightened animal. He saw wet traces on Charlie's face that could only be tears.

Don tilted his head slightly to one side. " Charlie?"

Charlie's mouth twitched. " Hey Don." His eyes never even wavered from the wall.

Don creased his brow in consternation. " You okay buddy?"

" Sure."

As Don neared, his eyes moved from Charlie's face to the back of his neck, then his back. The stains on the shirt did not look like they had been made from water, and they still looked wet.

" You sure about that?" Don asked. Charlie jerked his head up and down in a nod.

" Fine." He then stood slowly, taking his bowl and glass from off the table. He turned, about to head into the kitchen, when Don reached out a hand to stop him.

Don had yet to even touch Charlie when he flinched, causing soup to slosh all over his arms. He moved away from Don, shrinking slightly, and continued on into the kitchen. He deposited the bowl and glass into the sink, then wiped his arm on a dish towel and headed out of the kitchen toward the stairs.

Don followed. " Charlie, wait," Don said in an almost commanding voice, reaching out once again. This time the tips of his fingers brushed against Charlie's shoulder.

Charlie whirled around so suddenly that Don couldn't help being startled. Charlie seemed to shrink into himself, hunching his shoulders and rubbing his arm up and down with a shaking hand. He began backing away from Don in no particular direction, his gaze going everywhere except for Don.

" P-please don't..." he said with a voice trying to remain calm but cracking slightly.

Don blinked in surprise, and tried again to reach out for Charlie. Charlie backed quickly away as though Don's hand were a poisonous snake. He bumped into the couch, only to maneuver around it, then held up a shaking hand as though to ward Don back.

" D-don't touch me. Just... Just don't, okay? Please don't..."

Don dropped his hand immediately and backed off. " Yeah, okay man. Just calm down, all right? Can you tell me where you were, what happened?"

Charlie stopped backing away, but still refused to meet Don's gaze. " What... happened?"

" Yeah, buddy, what happened? Where were you?"

Charlie's forehead scrunched in uncertainty. " Where?"

Don shoved back rising frustration by running his hand through his hair. Yes, he wanted answers, but looking at his brother made answers suddenly trivial. Charlie was so pale, eye and cheek bruised, his eyes sunken and shadowed. And the look in his eyes – Don had never seen such a look, not even when their mother had died. There was so much confusion in Charlie's gaze it became a visual representation of the turmoil roiling like a storm in Charlie's skull.

" I was... Gone?"

" Yeah, Charlie, you were gone. You've been gone for three days. Where were you?"

Charlie's mouth moved but no words came out. The shaking in his hands became in all out trembling, which spread to wrack his thin frame. He brought his hand to his head, rubbing at his temple as he often did when he was in deep thought or agitated.

" Three... Three – days?"

Don watched helplessly as he witnessed the gradual breakdown of his little brother. The confusion became almost palpable, then moisture flooded Charlie's eyes. He blinked, and tears rolled down his bruised face.

" Three..." he said in a small, weak voice. He then clamped his mouth shut and swallowed. His eyes roved around, looking inwardly, as his jaw trembled.

" I..." he began uncertainly. " I'm – I'm tired. I'm tired Don. I really need to sleep. I want to sleep."

" Maybe we should get you to a doctor," Don said, fear swelling in his chest, threatening to choke him.

Charlie shook his head fiercely, teetering on the edge of sobbing. " I'm going to bed now. I'm sorry."

He moved passed Don, keeping space between them. Don stepped out of Charlie's way as his brain worked to say something, anything, that would stop Charlie and snap him out of this...

Out of what?

Charlie cringed slightly as he passed Don, and it made Don's heart break to see it. It was as though Charlie were actually afraid Don might hurt him; as though he didn't trust Don. Don swallowed back the tightness constricting his throat, but it would not stop hurting.

" Charlie?" Don said, but could only watch as Charlie made his slow, teetering way up the stairs to his room. Don waited until he heard the creak and click of a door being shut. Don then waited a little longer, minutes feeling like hours. All the obvious questions kept buzzing in his head: What was wrong? Why was Charlie acting like this? Was that blood on his shirt? Why was his face bruised?

Why won't he let me touch him? It was too strange to comprehend. Yes, Charlie was not big on physical contact, especially rib crushing hugs, but did not mind a clasp on the shoulder or an arm around the neck, especially from Don. It was as though a part of Charlie was still missing. His body had returned, but not his mind - not all of it.

Don finally headed up the stairs, treading softly. In all truth he knew he needed to convince Charlie to see a doctor, but he couldn't. It felt wrong considering Charlie's present state. Don did not have to be a psychologist to know that Charlie was unstable, and the last thing Don wanted to do was send his brother over an edge he might never return from. Still, it did not mean Don couldn't try to do something.

When Don reached Charlie's room he grabbed the knob and slowly turned it. He then pushed the door open even more slowly to stifle the creak. Inside it was dark, and rather than risking turning on the light, Don pulled out the mini-Mag lite he kept in his side pocket. He walked carefully around Charlie's bed. Don passed his light over Charlie's form, curled into a tight ball but still as a corpse, which made Don uneasy. He was at Charlie's back, so could not see his face and whatever expression he wore. Don knelt by the bedside and slowly moved the covers away from Charlie's back. Even more slowly he lifted Charlie's shirt, and jerked his head back in alarm.

The top part of his back, just below the neck where the backbone curved to be slightly visible, was all scratched up with deep cuts, some of which were oozing slightly. Sickened and shocked, Don stood and headed into the bathroom where he grabbed the first aid kit hidden under the sink and then a wash cloth. He headed back, but stopped just outside Charlie's door in realization. If he tried to treat Charlie's cuts, and Charlie woke up, he would freak. Charlie had nearly flipped out when Don touched his shoulder. He didn't want to see what would happen when he discovered Don messing with the wounds on his back.

Don leaned against the frame of the door with the kit in one hand and the flashlight and cloth in the other. From downstairs came the rattle of the knob and the whine of another door being opened.

" Don?"

Don glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Charlie, sighing in defeat. He quietly entered the room to set the kit and cloth on Charlie's desk next to his bed. He then pulled the shirt back down and covered Charlie back up, careful not to touch him.

" You're all right, buddy," Don whispered as he did this. " You'll be all right."

Charlie didn't even move, and Don leaned in close until he could hear Charlie's soft breathing.

" Don!"

Don finally pulled himself away from his brother and headed downstairs. He found his father trying to hang up his own jacket, only to drop it several times.

" Don, I'm telling you, I can't take this anymore. I mean I must have searched every place Charlie could have gone fifteen times." Alan finally managed to get his coat hooked on the stand, but still clung to it as though holding on for support. He dropped his head, like a man in defeat, and sighed. " I don't know how you expect me to get any rest. If I haven't the past few days, I sure as hell am not going to tonight."

Don stood quietly on the bottom step. " Dad?"

" How could this happen? I know Charlie can be a little absent minded, but get himself lost..."

" Dad."

" I can't stop thinking what might have happened to him. What could be happening to him..."

" Dad!"

Alan finally turned to look at his eldest son. Don saw moisture in his father's eyes, and on his father's face, and for a moment Don was taken back. It was only when their mother had died that he had seen his father cry, and the relief Don felt about giving Alan the news almost brought him to his own tears.

" Charlie's home."

Alan's hands slowly fell away from his jacket. " What?"

" Charlie's back home. I came in the house and found him at the dining room table. He's upstairs asleep."

The moisture that had hovered on the edge of Alan's eyes filled and spilled over. He put both hands to his mouth, then dropped them.

" He's – he's back?" he barely breathed.

Don turned his mouth up in a brief smile. " Yeah." Now came the hard part, and Don dropped the smile. " But... Something's wrong."

Alan visibly paled. " Wrong? What do you mean wrong? What's wrong? I want to see him."

He moved to the stairs, only to have Don block him. " Dad, hold on, just wait. We need to talk. Charlie was acting strange, I don't know how to explain it. He was acting... I don't know – confused, scared, a whole lotta things. He," Don took a breath and swallowed. His dad wasn't going to like this next part, but it had to be said. " He's hurt. He wouldn't let me touch him. He refused to go to a doctor."

Alan's mouth fell open, and he covered it with both hands. " Donnie, you didn't make him go?"

Don looked to the floor to avert his father's gaze as he tried to put his emotions on a leash. " I couldn't. I... I can't really explain it. It's something you had to see for yourself. I just – I couldn't do that to him. Maybe tomorrow we could try and convince him. Maybe he'll be a little clearer, I don't know. I think he just needs a little bit of time, that's all. I felt I needed to give him that. He can't be too injured, he didn't seem like he was. But I'll stay overnight, just in case you need my help. The thing is dad - when you see him - don't touch him."

Don could see in his dad's eyes the torment of having to rein in all questions, but he finally consented with a single nod. Don then led Alan up the stairs to Charlie's room and clicked on the flashlight.

" Didn't want to wake him," Don whispered. Alan stepped around Don to kneel at the bed, facing Charlie. He was like that for the longest time, unreadable in the dark, but Don did not have to see his father's face to see the struggle of wanting to place his hand on his youngest son's arm, neck, or head – to feel him and know this was not some dream or a figment of weariness - but fighting the urge. Finally, Alan settled for adjusting Charlie's covers. He then pushed himself to his feet, so slowly and stiffly that for a moment Don thought he was in pain. The two headed from the room, shutting Charlie's door softly behind them.

Alan leaned his back against the door, rubbing his face with both hands. He then threw his hands up in a questioning shrug.

" What happened, Donnie?" He cleared his throat, and Don could see that he was trying not to cry. When he next spoke, his voice cracked. " What happened to him?"

Don looked back down the stairs where he could see the light from the dining room spill like liquid amber across the floor. No matter the fact that Charlie was safe at home and in his bed, Don could not help feeling that he was still not found. And for some reason, Don felt even more helpless now than when Charlie was actually missing.

" I don't know."

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A/N: I would like to thank people for helping me correct Laymans term (bet I still don't have it right.) But please, no more pointing it out, I get it. I'll correct it one of these days. Even English majors aren't always perfect spellers.

Alice I - You're right about Charlie's character, but I find him a bit tricky to work with. Yes, he is very spirited, yet also easily disturbed from what I gather. So, with being both hurt and tormented by a wacko, I imagined he would be very out of character. The truth is, until we see something bad happen to Charlie on the show, there's no true way of telling how he would react.