Ask and ye shall receive! Another new chapter is here, just in time for the new season! Yes, it's been a whole month again, and I actually had most of the chapter written about three weeks ago. Sorry for making you all wait this long! I know, I know, I'm really bad at this…
Anyway, my muse went on overdrive, so instead of having one more chapter, there will be two. So I'll round it off at a nice 10 chapters. Warm and fuzzies abound!
Many thanks to Storyspindler for providing the inspiration that made this chapter a thousand times more powerful than I had ever imagined it could be.
CHAPTER VIII
"I thought you said we'd be able to take him off the respirator today?"
Don met Doctor Meisner's eyes with a tinge of acrimony and accusation. The doctor returned his gaze, unperturbed and sporting a friendly demeanor intermingled with his usual air of utmost professionalism.
"Perhaps I overstepped myself when I said that, Mr. Eppes. We can't take him off the respirator, at least not completely. But, since he's getting stronger we'll configure the respirator so that it only breathes for Charlie when he absolutely needs it."
"Needs it?" questioned Alan between them. The three men conversed in Charlie's room, the doctor standing at the foot of the bed, Alan in the chair beside it, and Don standing next to his father.
"It will regulate his breathing, that's all. If his breathing becomes too shallow or too fast it will get him back on a steady pattern. It's a step in the right direction, really. Once he shows signs of consciousness we'll probably be able to take the respirator out within a few hours."
"Signs of consciousness?" Don's ears perked at the thought.
"Well, he may not be completely coherent, but opening his eyes is probably the best indication we have."
Alan gazed pensively at Charlie's face. "I thought … you said he was on some sort of drug to keep him from fighting the respirator?"
"That was only when it was really touch-and-go, when he was dependent on the respirator to keep him alive. Now that his vitals have improved, we'll take him off those drugs and just let him come out of the coma on his own."
Alan sighed, expelling in it his fears and worry. He moved to face the doctor. "So … he'll wake up soon?"
"Well, it all depends on Charlie, really." Dr. Meisner stole a look in Don's direction, exchanging a friendly smile as he remembered their conversation the night before. "But I don't think it will take him very long."
Don's eyes wandered to Charlie's face, no longer a stilled face of death, but a latent expression of hope. It wouldn't take him very long. Don's emotions, already minced, swirled wildly at this new information. He didn't know whether to be hopefully anxious or deathly afraid.
"Thank you, Doctor Meisner." Alan may have been overjoyed, but he was drained. It showed in his posture, his voice. He needed Charlie to awaken as much as Don did, if not more.
Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and it swung open, admitting an older, clean-shaven man with an impressive silver coiffure. Of a medium build, he carried himself much like his counterpart across the room, sporting an air of professionalism with an aura of almost friendliness that permeated from his features.
Doctor Meisner turned to greet the man and shook his hand vigorously. Turning to Don and Alan he added: "Dr. Auerbach is here to adjust Charlie's respirator."
Doctor Auerbach, the respiratory specialist who had been monitoring Charlie in ICU, had become quite familiar to Don and Alan over the past three days, making his presence known every few hours to check on Charlie's vital signs. He exchanged greetings with each of the Eppes men, the first spoken contact they had made in the entire time they had seen each other.
"It should only take a few minutes to make the adjustments," he spoke. "I'll stay here just to make sure, but I don't foresee any problems."
With a smile and not another word he began his work, spinning to face the machinery and to study the luminescent figures, checking on Charlie's vital signs. Finding them sufficient, he leaned over the respirator and pressed at several buttons.
"What I'm doing is adjusting the respirator, as I imagine Dr. Meisner already explained to you?" He looked up from the machinery to face the Eppes men as he spoke. "It'll be a gradual weaning until it stops breathing for him completely, unless absolutely necessary."
As if on cue, the gentle rush of oxygen from the respirator subsided and Dr. Auerbach whipped back to his work. There was a sudden pause, a deafening silence.
And then Charlie took his first unassisted breath, a ragged whisper of a sound a bit too shallow for the doctor's liking.
Alan held his own breath, trepidation weighing heavy on his chest, the gravity of the situation becoming an actual physical mass. Time stood still. Doctor Auerbach pursed his lips, focused intently on the glowing figures. The respirator rushed to life and faded away a second time. The brief moments between the respirator's end and the beginning of Charlie's shuddering breaths became the longest moments of their lives, excruciatingly painful to endure. But Charlie's breathing came ever more strongly as the respirator gradually sighed away and eventually stopped completely.
There was no longer the soft click and rush of air, a sound that had become almost second nature to Alan and Don. It was instead oddly quiet, with nothing but gentle and periodical intakes of air. Charlie's breaths. An action that until now had been assisted, unnatural. To see the rise and fall of his son's chest, the definitive sound of life rushing to and from his body, brought a sting of tears to Alan's eyes. Charlie was breathing, the undeniable proof of life.
Dr. Meisner smiled, catching the astounded expression on Alan's face. "That's all Charlie, Mr. Eppes."
Alan made a sound, an attempt at words, but even such a simple task betrayed him. Seeing infallible proof that Charlie—his son—breathed like any healthy man elevated his earlier visions of hope from a far-fetched reality to an undeniable truth.
Whereas time for the past two days had passed at an inexplicably slow pace, the next few minutes showed no elastic quality; it was as if Charlie's small step on the path to recovery had returned a slice or normalcy back into Don and Alan's lives. Dr. Auerbach announced the transition complete and, with a friendly smile, took leave of the other men.
"I'll be back in a few hours. Call Nurse Maple if you need anything," offered Dr. Meisner as he closed the door softly at his back, unafraid to let a brilliant smile flash for a moment across his face.
The respirator's unnatural sounds were gone. The hours passed in beautiful, unadulterated silence. Don and Alan found comfort in the softness, in the familiar familial presence. It had been hours since Charlie had begun to breathe on his own, one step closer to life, to his family.
"Don," Alan unwillingly disrupted the silence. "I think … we need to talk."
Don glanced at his father out of the corners of his eyes, wary of the sudden conversation. "About what?"
"… About what I said before. You know, before—"
"How I had him going out on crime scenes? How Charlie could never say no to me?" Don hissed with a fair degree of heat.
"Don, stop it. You know I never blamed you and I'm not about to start now. But this is serious. I don't know if … if we should let Charlie consult with you for a while…"
Don digested the thought in a moment of silence.
"Yeah," he offered meekly. "I was thinking the same thing."
"It's not that I don't think you can protect him, Don. I know it's just the opposite. But I just don't want him … exposed. I don't want to risk that something like this could happen again."
Though he tried not to, Don visibly showed his hurt, his inert feelings of failure.
"Yeah."
"I mean … your brother wants to go off and do … more than slightly dangerous things. I learned how to deal with that with you, but … I don't know, Donny. With him, it—" his voice faded away into uncertainty.
"He's not a cop, Dad. I know, you've said it before. And he almost … died…" he choked out the word "because of … mistakes. Our mistakes. And we just came to realize them too late." He studied Charlie's face without fear. "I don't blame you. I don't even know if I want to see him consulting … ever again."
"Don!"
"No, Dad, hear me out. It's more danger to Charlie than it's worth."
"But it makes him feel closer to you, Don. Don't you see?"
Again Don stared at him though the corners of his eyes. "So he's trying to bond with me and gets himself shot. It seems like a bit of flawed logic, doesn't it?"
"Don, I can understand you're upset, but… taking him away from consulting all together? Don, that's ridiculous!"
"Would you rather have Charlie consulting, or staying alive?"
"Donny, now you're just overreacting!"
"I don't want him to get hurt again, Dad."
"Taking him away from consulting will hurt him more than bullets ever will, Don. You've become a part of Charlie's life again—I don't know if you realize it. He wants to consult for you. Not for the money, but for you. To prove himself to his older brother—whether his older brother likes it or not."
Don closed his eyes, heaving a sigh. He didn't even pause to contemplate. Turning his head to face his father he spoke through an ashen expression.
"I've made my decision, Dad."
Alan returned his son's gaze with his own of steel. "You're not going to be able to stop him."
Don replied, emotionless, "yes, I will."
Silence overcame them again, Alan's response dying in his throat. Don's fluctuating feelings of blame and guilt, obviously locked in a proverbial battle of good and evil against his otherwise healthy emotions, was an enemy Alan no longer had the strength to face.
He heaved himself to his feet, unwinding the knots in his back. "I'm going for coffee. Would you like any?"
Don had begun pacing, barely muttering a "no" between his furious thoughts.
Alan debated reaching out to his son again, but doubted if anything short of a miracle could bring Don out of his most recent rut of self-deprecation. Caffeine's siren song pulled him from the room, leaving his two sons alone, hoping that somehow they could find their way back to one another.
The small television hanging in the corner kept jumping from an arm's length to a considerable distance as Don paced the width of Charlie's ICU room at a furious rate. The constant surreal sounds of the respirator no longer weighing him down, the silence in the room was painful to his ears. Only the rhythmic beeping of the pulseoxymeter occupied him, a distant lulling sound, merely background noise.
Alone with only his unconscious brother to occupy him, Don purged his thoughts. He forgot about his father, about his job, about every facet of the world around him; his mind opened instead to his own innermost torture. Every waking thought focused on his brother, still unconscious on a hospital bed after two and a half agonizing days. It had been nearly three days since he had last heard his brother's voice or seen his eyes. Nearly three days since he had held Charlie in his lap, bleeding, watching him die.
My fault, my fault, in the end it's all my fault. The hellish thought that had haunted him for the past three days came back in full force. Dr. Meisner may have opened the door, but Don still hesitated to pass through it.
Suddenly, a movement. He felt it more than saw it, as if a small, invisible connection between himself and his brother had suddenly been created. His head whipped around and he stared at Charlie intently. The pulseoxymeter droned on, the flickering of its crystalline numbers the only motion in an area of otherwise perfect stillness.
Had he been hallucinating?
No. A sound. A whisper of life. It would not have been audible had adrenaline not perked Don's senses. He took a step closer, his heart hammering against his chest, so loud it all but resonated and so fast that it hurt.
"…Charlie?" Don could barely hear himself over the deafening beating in his ears.
And then he saw it again. A movement of the curls so subtle a blink would have effaced it completely.
Don rushed forward, fighting the desire to have his legs crumble uselessly. He threw himself into the chair beside the bed, skirting it several inches across the floor with his weight.
"Charlie!" Though all his strength backed it, the word came out at nothing more than a hoarse squeak. Don gripped Charlie's hand in his own, scarcely realizing his own strength, nearly trembling with pure emotion. "C-Charlie!" he repeated, louder this time, his emotions becoming too much to bear. "Come on … wake up, buddy."
Charlie turned his head toward the sound—ever slowly, but movement. Don heaved a huge breath, releasing in it the bulk of his turbulent emotions of the past three days. Charlie was moving; infallible proof he was alive, that the sniper had not claimed victim number ten, that Don would not have to bury his brother, that Professor Eppes would live to lecture again.
Don trembled. Terror, hope, sorrow, anger, agony—all of his emotions tumbled into one maelstrom of speechlessness.
Eyes moved, though only slightly and under closed lids. Don leaned in closer, his bone-crushing grip on Charlie's hand becoming even stronger. He stared, half-gaping, propelled into a case of tunnel vision.
A soft flutter of eyelashes. A sliver of brown, nearly absorbed in shadows. Charlie uttered a soft sound, the respirator nearly muting it. But it was a sound. In time Don would not remember it, but at that moment it was a sound as beautiful as a symphony.
Everything moved in slow motion. For only a moment Don caught the full circle of Charlie's eyes, empty and unseeing, gleaming obsidian in the light, before the lids consumed them again. Opening for a second fragile moment, Charlie's eyes rolled back into his head, showing only slits of pearl white. Don trembled, remembering with staggering clarity the very similar action from when Charlie first slipped into his coma in the ambulance.
"Come on, Chuck, don't do this to me."
Don's grip on his brother's hand never faltered. When his brother's hand suddenly moved in response to his touch, Don nearly jumped out of his own skin. Gentle and no more than a whisper of movement, it sent a shiver of fire down Don's arms. In that one movement he could feel every ounce of his brother's struggle, of his fight back to reality. He pressed his other hand on top of both of their own, willing his want, his strength.
Charlie's eyes fluttered again, opening for a fraction longer. He moved his head again, trying to turn it to the presence he felt beside him.
"D-Dad's on his way, Charlie," Don sputtered. "Wake up for him, Charlie. For us."
Charlie drew in a deeper breath, releasing it almost in a sigh. He opened his eyes again, albeit lethargically, squinting against the light. They still remained empty and glassy, seeing nothing but a blurred and depthless world without color or form. Charlie's lids drooped, not having even the strength to blink.
"C-Charlie," Don breathed, scarcely able to comprehend what he was seeing.
Charlie's eyes traveled slowly toward the voice. His mind fought to focus through the drugged haze and, once settling upon Don's presence, it did. Confusion slithered into Charlie's otherwise empty thoughts, an intense fear radiated throughout his body. He couldn't see; everything was shrouded in an impenetrable gray light. He had heard his brother's voice. He didn't know where he was, how he got there, or why he was there. A strange place. Strange smells, strange sounds. He felt an oddly hollow sensation all over his body, but a terrible feeling centered about his throat. Anything but hollow, he felt something stuck there, unbearable, uncomfortable. He had not the strength to gag, but the feeling scared him. He wanted to slip back into an unconscious sleep--his body struggled against the powerful drugs that kept him unaware--but his mind fought for answers, his primitive responses to an unknown fear propelling him past the bounds of his endurance.
Don could see the fear playing across Charlie's face, the confusion and terror building slowly in his lethargic eyes. The pulseoxymeter's rhythm threw itself into a rapid accelerando. Charlie's body tensed, his eyes darting as frantically as the medicine would allow, trying to make sense of the pandemonium running rampant through his head. By instinct his breaths ran shallow and close together, ragged with fear. Don fought down his own similar feelings as he watched his brother having nothing short of a panic attack.
Don clutched his hand tighter, seeking out Charlie's eyes. "Charlie, come on. C-Calm down, Charlie. It's okay…"
Charlie's eyes focused on Don but could not see him. He tried to raise his free hand, the fingers clutching at nothing. Suddenly the respirator rushed to life, ushering in a stream of air in hopes to steady Charlie's frantic breaths. The sudden sensation of having a column of oxygen forced down his unsuspecting throat did nothing for Charlie's already frayed consciousness. He tried to gasp but found it impossible; the respirator momentarily stunted any air he tried to take in and forced him to choke over his own breaths, his entire body jerking with the motion, arrows of pain pulsing from his throat as he fought against what had kept him alive for the past three days.
Don stumbled for the nurse call button and jammed it at least half a dozen times with shaking fingers. His other hand, gripped hard against Charlie's own, hardly wavered. Pulling himself away from the call button he leaned in close to his brother, all he could do save taking him in his arms.
"C-Charlie," he began, forcing as much strength into his voice as he could muster. "Charlie, you've got to calm down." One hand sought his brother's uninjured shoulder, where he could feel every tremble of his body. The respirator turned over again and Charlie's lurching began anew.
"Charlie!"
"Donny!"
Don's head whipped around to see his father standing in the doorway, gaping and pale. "Donny, w-what's happening?"
"He's scared, Dad. Y-You've got to help me!"
Alan rushed forward, leaning over both his sons. His immediate concerns for Charlie far overshadowed his initial relief at finding him awake. He sought Charlie's frightened eyes, unaware that his son could not see him.
"Charlie!"
But even his father's voice could not mollify him. Charlie had moved from a world of simply unseeing to total sensual darkness; he saw nothing, heard nothing, and felt nothing but the pain, the intense fear.
Agony clutched at Alan's heart, and only seconds passed before his paternal instincts surfaced. His hand touched down on his youngest son's forehead and caressed the clammy skin, reaching up through the dark and tangled curls. It was a gesture born in childhood, the once thing that could infallibly pacify both his sons no matter how harrowing the circumstances. Stronger than any word he could ever create, Alan hoped that the simple action would work its latent magic and put an ease to Charlie's torture.
Charlie shivered under his father's touch, the action's healing connotation slowly purging his pain, his terror. He became aware, his surroundings slowly coming into focus like images approaching through mist. He could feel his father's touch and his brother's warmth against his hand. They were distant, only remotely beyond his reach, but he could feel them, sense them. And it felt warm, comforting, safe.
There father and sons remained in an unchanging body, the minutes passing by unnoticed. Nurse Maple glanced inside, holding her breath at the sight. She debated whether or not to speak, to disturb something so powerful, so sacrosanct.
Alan spoke for her in a voice nothing short of regal. "Everything's all right here, Nurse Maple."
She had not the will to even respond to him, but simply closed the door behind her soundlessly, feeling touched, almost humble. She did not need either of the Eppes men to confirm what she suspected simply from that simple scene; without hesitation she went to page Doctor Meisner.
Alan continued his gentle ministrations without deviation and whispered softly to his son. "Everything's okay now, Charlie. Go back to sleep."
But Charlie's already tired eyes had begun to waver long before. Lids drooped, confident that his father and brother were there and would protect him. He gave into the drugs, slipping no longer into a coma but rather into a dream. A safe and peaceful dream.
As Charlie drifted away, Don spied what looked like the start of tears clinging to his brother's eyelashes, coating them in a vibrant crystalline glaze. And suddenly he fought back tears of his own, of hope and relief that—finally--everything would be all right after all.
To Be Continued…