By
Tru False
Chapter 7
Don had anticipated the pain, but he had underestimated it. As his thumb gave way, a white-hot fire shot up the entire length of his arm, ending somewhere behind his shoulder blade. If felt like someone had grabbed one of the nerves in his arm and was squeezing as hard as they could. He threw his head back against the pillar and squeezed his eyes shut tight, breathing hard through his nose. After a few moments, the pain lessened to a heavy throb. He lowered his head and opened his eyes, taking a moment to gather himself—he still had to pull his hand out of the cuff.
He couldn't tell if he had broken anything, but he hadn't heard a loud crack, and for that he was thankful. He knew his efforts had been successful though…aside from the blinding pain, his hand felt like it had caved in on itself. He tried gingerly moving the other fingers and found that he had limited functionality, and that moving them drove the pain back up the length of his arm.
He grasped the cuff on his damaged hand with his good one and braced himself. Just one more time, and the worst would be over. He jerked down hard on the cuff—Don had always been one for the quick rip over the slow pull. It caught on the wide part of his hand for a moment, and then slipped off. The pain returned with a vengeance, but somehow it didn't seem so bad. It probably helped that he had just realized that he was finally, actually free.
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Terry had watched in mild confusion as Don pulled violently against the cuffs behind his back. It was clearly causing him severe pain.
She slowly became dismayed, thinking that perhaps the strain had finally gotten to him mentally…that he had had a break from reality. It shocked her, then, when he suddenly brought both hands around to his front—the cuffs still fastened and dangling from his right wrist—and cradled his left arm in his lap. She followed the length of his arm and took in the wholly unnatural appearance of his left hand. Her eyes widened slightly. Jesus.
He pulled the gag down out of his mouth and looked right to the table where their guns and keys had previously lain, but they were gone. Terry had seen Danny take them back with him when they had brought Charlie in. He pressed himself back flat against the pillar and glanced cautiously back left, trying to see the main counter area, but jerked back suddenly—he must have realized that the area that way was completely open …he needed to stay right where the furniture of the waiting area and the position of the counter itself would afford him some cover. Terry knew he would look to her next, so she turned to check Danny and the others…they were still in discussion, and tensions seemed to be mounting again. For once, that was a good thing—they would be distracted. She turned back and nodded quickly…You're clear. Cautiously, Don crept forward towards Charlie.
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As Don slowly slid towards Charlie, he experienced a wash of emotions. On the one hand, he had been fixated on getting to Charlie for so long now that he was utterly relieved to finally be doing it. On the other hand, the closer he got to Charlie and the more he took in his appearance, the more real the situation became to him. Charlie was barely breathing. And he was pale. And still. He was laying flat on his back with his arms down by his sides…just like all those bodies Don had had to look at on the coroner's table. As Don reached him, he lay a trembling hand on Charlie's forearm.
"Charlie?" he whispered hoarsely. But there was no response. He drew his hand back. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. Nothing felt right.
Think Don's mind commanded angrily. What do I do?
Check the injury came the answer, ingrained by training.
Don looked at Charlie's chest. The wet patches on his sweatshirt hadn't grown much in size—not at all, really. That gave Don hope. Maybe this would be okay after all. Maybe he could do this.
He reached out and pulled the zipper on Charlie's sweatshirt down. He looked back over his shoulder to check that they were still clear…no one was coming. He turned back and pulled the halves apart, revealing Charlie's grey Calsci T-shirt beneath. It was soaked in blood…bright red. Don froze. Suddenly the hazy, delicate world he had been crawling through shattered around him. Panic galvanized him into action, and he quickly began unbuttoning his dress shirt with his good hand.
"Charlie" he tried again, more forcefully this time, as he worked the buttons. It was awkward with one hand, and the handcuffs dangling from his wrist didn't help. He got about half way down and just pulled the rest apart. He shimmied out of the shirt, leaving him in his Kevlar vest and white undershirt, and balled the dress shirt up in his lap. He placed it over the lower of Charlie's two wounds, and though his left screamed in protest, pressed down firmly with both hands.
Charlie came to awareness quickly and his eyes shot wide open. He moved his hands up to Don's and pushed weakly against them as he tried to stop the assault, his face twisted into a grimace.
"Charlie," Don whispered urgently as his eyes filled with water, "Charlie it's okay. It's me. It's just me buddy. You're okay." The tears threatened harder as Charlie continued his weak struggle.
"Stop…please" he rasped, turning his head to the side as if trying to escape the pain.
"It's okay Charlie. It's just me. Everything's okay. You're fine." But Don's voice broke, betraying the lie. He couldn't hold the tears back anymore.
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Charlie came to in agony. For some reason, the crux of the pain was now focused in one area—like someone was stabbing him in the stomach. He tried to push the offender away, but he had no strength. He begged them to stop, but they wouldn't. And then from somewhere, a voice began to break through to him "…just me. Everything's okay…" He knew that voice. Don.
Charlie forced his eyes to focus and found his brother's face hovering above him. Slowly his brain came back up to speed, and he felt immediate relief. Don was here. Don was here, and he was applying pressure to stop the bleeding…that was good, that was the right thing.
But something else was wrong. Don was…Don was crying. In all Charlie's life, he had never—never, seen Don cry. He was sure that he must have…when he was little, before Charlie was born or old enough to remember. Maybe sometime later over a girl. Surely when their mother had died. But as far as he knew, Don had never cried in front of anyone. And certainly not in front of him. Charlie didn't like it. It scared him. It meant the whole world was falling apart.
"Don…" he rasped. It was really difficult for him to speak; it hurt, and he couldn't get enough air as it was. "Don…don't—" he didn't say the word. "I'm okay," he lied, then added as an afterthought, "…it doesn't hurt."
Don's brow arched at that and his lower lip quivered slightly. "Oh, Charlie—" He bowed his head, and for one terrible moment, Charlie thought he was going to start sobbing. But instead, when Don raised his head a few moments later—it was all gone. His eyes still shone brightly, but his face was set, and when he spoke his voice was steady, firm. "Charlie, everything's gonna be fine, you hear me?" After a brief moment, Charlie nodded carefully. "I'm gonna take care of it, I promise. All you need to do, is breathe. Just keep breathing for me. I'll take care of the rest."
Relief washed through Charlie and he gave another small nod. He felt himself relax. Don was here, and he would fix things.
Don could do anything.
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There was a place, deep down inside of Don, where he kept bad feelings. Feelings like being jealous of Charlie. Feelings like resenting his parents for not spending as much time on him. Feelings of violent hatred for the people he pursued. Feelings like being lonely. He knew it probably wasn't the healthiest thing. He was sure that Terry would say it was bad—in fact, he thought maybe Terry knew about the place…when she looked at him in that way that made him uncomfortable, he sometimes thought that maybe she was searching for it. But he was sure no one else knew about it. It may have been bad, and it may have been unhealthy—but it made him strong.
Now he took all the fear, all the distress and anguish he was feeling, and pushed it far down into that place. Charlie needed him to be strong. He needed him to take care of things. When he looked back up and told Charlie everything was going to be okay, he could literally see him relax. That felt good. It felt like things were starting to work right in the world again.
His left hand was now throbbing relentlessly, so he shifted his grip on the shirt slightly, which caused Charlie to wince.
"Sorry," he said quietly.
Charlie shook his head gently to dismiss the apology. He brought his hand up from the floor and gently laid it on Don's. They sat in a comfortable silence for a while.
"Hey," Don offered after a moment, breaking the stillness. His eyes began to dance the way they always did when he teased Charlie. "I thought I told you to stay in the car."
Charlie managed a small smile, then swallowed. "I don't have to do what you say," he croaked.
Don smiled broadly. He was about to say something else when suddenly Charlie's eyes opened wide. Don tensed, afraid that Charlie was having trouble breathing again. But when he heard Terry give a muffled yell, another thought occurred to him. He turned his head just in time to see the butt end of a shotgun come crashing down on him.