A/N: You know, I have to say that it's gratifying to find so many people who want to read about Don. For the longest time I thought I was out here all alone.

Chapter 17

Lift. Aim. Fire. Lift. Aim. Fire. Lift…c'mon, c'mon, Don…lift…but everything was so heavy. Not as hot anymore, so maybe he wasn't burning after all, maybe he was just still flattened on the roadway with the sun beating down, wishing he could lose that damned Kevlar and get a little air…

Lift. Lift. He's getting away, don't just lie there like a useless piece of wood…twenty years. Ten bodies. No, eleven, counting Karen…how many more if I don't…god, how did I mess this one up? LIFT. Nothing moved, except one hand, the smallest twitch - that was no good. What did that help? C'mon, you can do better than this - mind over matter - over physical limitations. He'd done it before. But this time his body didn't seem to be convinced. Frustrated, angry, he tried to pull his leg loose, felt something move free for a moment - then it was back, the smothering weight. Desperate, he tightened his grip on the gun. Lift. You don't have time. Seconds, maybe, before everything goes up in flames and Twilliger goes free…his hand actually moved. Okay. Okay - aim…but he was blind. The world was as dark as a moonless night and he was finding a target strictly from memory. This is why you're not supposed to operate a firearm when impaired, Eppes…but maybe these were extenuating circumstances. And if he took out anybody, it was going to be himself and Twilliger. A calculated risk. He could live with it. Or die with it, if need be.

Aim. Aim. Aim. Yeah. He thought he had it. His hand felt steady.

Now. Fire. He took a in breath. Squeezed on the out breath. Felt the gun jam.

Don came awake with such a jolt that his head swam, his vision a swirl of bright colors and flashing lights. He closed his eyes to make them go away but they lingered behind his eyelids, stabbing at his temples. He swallowed down a rising nausea.

"Don?"

His fingers twitched, trying to reach for his earpiece, but they were strangely heavy and didn't make it very far.

"Hey. Don. You okay? You awake?"

A pressure on his shoulder and he jerked from it, sending pain shooting through so many parts of him that he couldn't quite track them, the breath sucked out of him. But he was remembering something…another pressure on his shoulder…someone safe had…"David?" That would be good. David could stop Twilliger.

"No, Don. It's me - Charlie."

Charlie. Charlie? No, no - that was crazy. It couldn't be…he didn't want Charlie here, in the middle of this mess - somebody should make him go away. He tried to shift his leg, but it was inert, immobile, a column of fire. He pushed down a hysteria-laced laugh. It was going to be really hard to make this one seem nonchalant…

"Charlie…" Wow. His throat was like sandpaper and that one more word left him so sapped he couldn't imagine how he was going to rally any persuasive arguments. "Don't…tell Dad, okay?…I'll…"

"Don," Charlie interrupted abruptly. "Dad knows. He's just gone to take a walk. He'll be back any minute. Just - take it easy."

He…? Wait. He lay very still, bewildered, because there actually was some memory of his father, and he couldn't quite fit it in with everything else, with Twilliger and the car and…wait…it was like he had a dozen pieces, all from different jigsaw puzzles, and couldn't begin to figure how to put them together - or even if they would fit together at all. It frightened him much more than Twilliger had, as if he was sliding toward some yawning black hole of meaninglessness, unable to grab purchase and slow his fall. He wanted Charlie to set up his blackboards and draw him some charts - see, Don, this is where it started, at point A - then we move to point B, and see? From here, we find ourselves at…it all makes sense, once you see the numbers…God. He moved to lift a hand to rub at his eyes and maybe force some sense back into them, but something was clinging to his finger. He tried to shake it free.

"Don't - " He felt a weight on his hand, and this time it really did seem like Charlie's touch. "Leave that on your finger. You'd be amazed how many people run in here, all bent out of shape, when you take that off."

Take…what off? He tried to move his hand again, to get a look, but the movement seemed feeble even to him, and the gentle pressure on it was more than enough to keep it in place. Oh, well, he couldn't see a damn thing anyway…what had Charlie said…running people…what people? His team? The LAPD guys? "Who…?"

And what about Twilliger? Charlie shouldn't be here. He should go. How the heck did he get here anyway? "Charlie - " The words evaporated in the dryness of his throat, so he tried to move his free hand to indicate his meaning, shoo him away.

"Water," Charlie sounded reflective, as if he had just remembered something important. "You want water. I almost forgot - "

Something small and plastic poked at his mouth and he closed his lips around it and drew in automatically. Coolness drenched his tongue and dampened his parched throat. How long had he been lying here, longing for just that? It was a blessed relief, almost enough to make him glad Charlie was there until he thought of Charlie watching him go up in flames or, worse, going up with him…he pulled away from the plastic straw, swallowing carefully to moisten his voice. "Go." It's not safe - are you crazy, being here? Go -

"You want Dad? Is that it? He'll be back in a minute. Drink some more of this - you're supposed to stay hydrated…"

Dad? Oh, yeah, that would be about perfect, Dad here - Dad. Wait. There had been…he had something wrong.

C'mon, Charlie, help me out here - I could use one of those lectures of yours…See, Don? If we start from your current location and add all the parameters, just a few assumptions will lead us back to your point of origin…point of origin. Arson lingo. Arson. Twilliger. Fire. Ready. Aim. No. Wait…Dad.

"Char…" He tried to grab at the hand on top of his but his stiff fingers wouldn't even make a fist, the movement lighting little ribbons of fire along the backs of his knuckles. Fire…fighting a thin shiver of alarm, he tried the other hand instead, found it encumbered too and jerked as hard as he could manage, to free it. There was resistance, then sudden give, then a metallic crash and a sharp sting in his arm.

"Hey!" The pressure left his right hand, followed by scrabbling noises and a firm grip on his left arm instead, then an odd tilting sensation under his left side. The grip on his left arm turned into a light rub before he could fight it off. "You know, you really have to stop doing that. Totally ticks off the nurses. Not to mention what it does to you - you need that stuff. Antibiotics…saline…morphine…the doctor thinks the new antibiotic is helping."

Antibiotic. Wait - he tried to lift a hand again to press some sense back into his head, but it was so heavy - he managed to lever it up a few inches before it dropped leadenly back on his chest. Someone had…he swallowed, trying to relieve the drought in his mouth. Would he ever not be dry again?

"Stitches," he croaked, groping for the faint thread of a memory.

"Yeah. Stitches. You got plenty."

Yeah. I…Dad said… "Appendix." Eureka. Dad had…hadn't he?

"Yours is gone - it blew - hope you weren't too attached to it."

He half opened his eyes again, trying to place himself, but the world rushed past giddily and he closed them hastily, clutching at the surface underneath to keep from being tossed into the vortex. Well, great. He couldn't see, his voice wasn't worth crap…he tickled the surface under his hand with his finger tips. It was material and it felt rough and familiar, even through his calluses. A few of the jigsaw puzzle pieces shook together - not quite making a picture, but maybe a few recognizable shapes. He twisted his head, seeking a comfortable position. The sudden lightening of some only half-realized pain there made him wish he'd thought to do it sooner. Okay. He fumbled for Charlie, but something was still restraining his arm.

"Hospital?" His voice cracked.

"Yeah." The tilt at his side released suddenly, jouncing him, making him a little sick. "I'm getting you more water. You're in the hospital. What did you think?"

You don't want to know. The tilt was back, but now careful deduction brought him to the conclusion that it was Charlie, sitting next to him. On a bed. Wow, way to go piecing together the clues - you're one hell of an investigator, Eppes - nothing much gets past you. The plastic straw poked at him again and he took it tentatively. After a minute even that was too much work and he turned his head away. Besides, there were a lot of things he needed to know. He tried to catch at Charlie's arm again, this time snagged a sleeve. "Twilliger?"

"That's your serial rapist, right? You got him. According to all the news accounts, you shot him."

Oh. Good. Losing his tenuous grip on Charlie's sleeve, he let his hand drop. That's right - Ready. Aim. Fire…Fire. Fire. Fire. He shivered.

"You cold?"

Yeah, actually, now that you mention it, AND hot, which is really kind of…wait, wait, this wasn't what I wanted to talk about…he swallowed. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no sense of where he was in the time/space continuum, what day it was, what time of day…

"…arraigned…?" Man, he sounded bad - even to him.

"I don't really know the details…David warned Dad not to watch the news reports, so I have to sneak them when he's out of the room. At least I can read the papers in the cafeteria."

Oh. Good man, David. But what the heck was Charlie doing watching them? Okay, not that he thought he could really forbid Charlie to watch the evening news, but maybe he didn't need to watch it when it involved his brother? Naw, that wouldn't work either - that was how Charlie processed things: Research. Data collection. Analysis. You might as well ask him not to breathe as to stop. He squirmed uncomfortably, trying to think what might be on the news that Charlie would be better off not knowing. The FBI and the LAPD would try to suppress some stuff, but reporters tended to over-dramatize every little thing…and without him available to explain and tone it down some…he startled at the brush of a hand on his forehead.

"You know, you seem kind of hot. Not that you haven't been, but…maybe I should call somebody."

No, no - don't do that…wait a minute…did Charlie just check my temperature…? For some reason, that unexpected mental image made him chuckle.

Not that it was much of a laugh, but Charlie must have heard it, because he said, "What's funny?"

Aw, no, not the kid brother voice - a little hurt, a little petulant, a little angry… c'mon, Charlie, don't be mad - not when I don't have the energy to explain…he coughed to clear his throat. "Just - " he floundered for the right words and the breath to say them. "…me…you…"

"Oh." Charlie must have followed his cryptic non-explanation, because he felt the mattress sink again, and he could visualize him perched on the edge of the bed without even being able to look. "Yeah. Guess we're kinda lame at this, huh?"

Yeah. That's it. He felt himself smile, had some passing idea that he hadn't done that in quite a while.

"Drink some more."

Sheesh. He was starting to feel like he was being bottle fed. He concentrated on lifting his arm again, made a haphazard gesture to take the cup himself, must have overshot, because there was that tug on his inner arm, followed by an exclamation from Charlie and a wild rocking of the mattress. Whoops. But no crash this time. He thought about trying to look, but suddenly his head ached with tiredness. He heard Charlie's gusty sigh.

"Okay. That - uh - that was close. No dramatic gestures, okay? You're going to tear a big hole in your arm or something. And you don't need any new holes."

Well, what do you expect? Seems like there are…things…stuck to every part of me…driving me nuts. And it's hot in here. Or cold. Or something. And it feels like there's still a car sitting on my leg. Um…there's not, right?

Maybe there was, and nobody wanted to tell him - he tried to shift his leg, to see if he could move it, felt the blanket slither free. He heard Charlie's groan, and this time his voice sounded further away and more muffled - closer to the floor and filled with flustered exasperation.

"You know, I might be a lame nurse, but you - you're a worse patient! Much worse."

Don coughed a laugh. Okay, now this was more normal.

"…not." Yeah, yeah, he probably was, but he couldn't give in that easy - it was a point of pride.

"You are." He could hear a flapping as Charlie shook out the blanket. "I think I heard the nurses drawing straws about who was going to get stuck with you."

His smile stretched into a grin and he turned his face into the pillow and let everything begin to fuzz pleasantly away. "…liar."

"Well, maybe they were using 'rock, paper, scissors' but it brings us to the same conclusion."

Ouch. Ouch. Have mercy, Charlie, hurts to laugh…

Charlie was silent now, for so long that Don began to wonder if he had read his mind, or if he really was mad. He wanted to ask, but everything was blurring again, his thoughts leap-frogging untidily in his brain. After a minute, he felt the weight of the blanket spread over him, was surprised and touched at how carefully it was tucked around him.

"You know what?" there was a different note in Charlie's voice now, calculatedly casual and…something else, and he tried to figure out what it meant. "I think I am going to get a nurse in here after all."

TBC