Chapter 11

Someone was pulling on him, shoving at him, yelling about him, but Charlie just wanted to be left alone. He was having a bad day. He couldn't exactly remember why, but he recognized the feeling of dread in his stomach. He didn't want to wake up. He was happier sleeping. Besides that, he was having a dream about Don. It seemed so real, too – although Charlie did wonder why he dreamed an imperfect Don. In his dream, Don slurred his speech, as if he was drunk. "Lemmeeup," he kept repeating, with an occasional "brudda" thrown in.

Then something foul-smelling entered Charlie's consciousness. He jerked away from it, and suddenly felt such an intense pain in his wrist that his eyes flew open in protest. He found himself eye-to-eye with Dr. Headson, and bits of his memory started coagulating again. "Where's Don?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

The doctor's face seemed too close to his own, and Charlie was having trouble focusing on words, even though he could see his lips moving. Instead, he heard Don again, from his dream. "Brudda…" He turned his head a little, to see if his dream had somehow escaped his head, and found himself looking at Don – who was looking back, when he wasn't struggling with at least two orderlies, trying to climb off a gurney. "Lemmeego," he growled. "Chawee!"

Charlie started struggling himself then, but he didn't have any arms. One was still tied up in a sling, and the other was being firmly gripped by Dr. Headson. Charlie yanked at it and the pain nearly blinded him, this time making his eyes squeeze shut.

"Charlie," he heard in his ear, "tell your brother you're all right. If we don't calm him down I'll have to sedate him, and he just woke up again. Do it now!"

Charlie opened his eyes and sought out Don above him. It was at that point that he figured out he was on the floor, between the bed and the gurney, and he wondered vaguely why, but still did as he was told. "Donnie," he gasped, "Donnie. I'm all right. It's okay. Just relax."

He watched Don slowly stop struggling, search him out with bleary eyes. "Yer on da floor," he said drunkenly.

"I was tired," Charlie answered.

"Me, too," admitted Don, and he allowed himself to be completely laid back on the gurney.

Charlie looked back at Dr. Headson, who raised an eyebrow at him and spoke lowly, trying not to upset Don again. "He woke up in the middle of the MRI, so we brought him back. Opened the door, and you were on the floor unconscious. Looks like you used your good hand to try and break the fall – it's not your good hand, anymore. Looks fractured to me. Do you remember what happened?"

As soon as the question was voiced, Charlie did. He tried to look at Don again, but the orderlies were moving the gurney to the other side of the bed so that they could transfer him back. "I saw something on the television," he said.

Dr. Headson laughed. "I know what you mean. Hard to believe someone writes that stuff."

Charlie ignored him. "I have to go to the ER," he said, struggling to sit up.

"No kidding," Headson replied, holding him down. "Max will go get a wheelchair and take you down to get that wrist x-rayed. I think I see some fresh bruising on your head, too."

Charlie heard Don murmuring again. "..uddy…".

He pointed himself at the bed and talked. "It's okay, Don, everything is all right. We're both good. I'll take care of everything, don't worry."

"…kay…" Don sounded like he was going to go to sleep again, and the thought both terrified and relieved Charlie. He knew Don needed rest, but would he wake up again? The orderly formerly known as Max materialized with a wheelchair, and he and Dr. Headson helped Charlie into it. He insisted that they take the scenic route, by Don's bed.

His brother wasn't so out of it that he didn't recognize a wheelchair when he saw one, and he started to move in the bed. "Wrong?"

Charlie wished he could touch Don, and again cursed his lack of arms. "Take this sling off," he asked, and to his surprise, someone did. He reached out, wondering if his shoulder was getting better or if it just seemed that way because of his wrist, and grabbed Don's hand. "Nothing's wrong, Donnie, I just got tired of standing." Don squeezed his fingers and Charlie would have happily sat there with a broken wrist forever if he hadn't heard the drone of the television suddenly. "Please!" He turned to the orderly beside him frantically. "Turn it off!" Max found the remote on the floor and did, then started pulling and pushing Charlie away from Don, whose eyes were closed again.

They popped open when Charlie's hand lost contact with his, and he saw his brother receding into the distance. "Going?"

Charlie waved at him from the end of the bed, then reached over and squeezed a toe through the sheet. "Just for a little while. I'll be right back, okay?"

"…kay…" Don repeated and Charlie glared at Dr. Headson. "You'd better damn well find a way to wake him up when I get back."

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Charlie was wheeled past the waiting area in the ER, directly by a cadre of FBI agents. He recognized several of them, and saw David's bald head in the crowd. "Please stop," he said to Max, but the orderly had just checked his watch, and his shift was almost over, so he kept going.

Charlie took a deep breath, shouted "Megan!" at the top of his lungs, and was surprised when it didn't seem to phase anybody. Apparently they were used to people screaming in the ER. Max parked him in triage, and walked away a few feet to speak with a nurse. He turned back to Charlie. "Just wait here, man," he said. "Somebody'll come for you when there's a room. Later!"

Charlie sat for a while and tried not to hyperventilate. For some reason, his mind kept replaying the scene at the house that morning. He kept feeling Colby poking his finger into his chest. Charlie had screwed up again. He'd become useless to his family in almost record time, Colby had brought him back, and he hadn't even thanked him. Instead, he had let Colby go back to work as an FBI agent, making the terrible assumption that he would see him again later. Now he was somewhere, just a few feet away, fighting for his life…he hoped.

Cradling his wrist against his stomach and trying not to put too much pressure on his shoulder, which mercifully had not been put back into the sling, Charlie climbed carefully out of the wheelchair and started back for the group of agents in the waiting area. When he reached them, he spied David's head again and headed toward him, seeing halfway there that Megan was in a chair on the other side. They seemed to get farther away every step he took, but finally he stood before them. "I saw the news," he said, and they both looked up, startled.

David spoke first. "He was wearing his vest, Charlie. There's a chance it won't be too bad…" He seemed a little confused. "But there was blood." He looked at Megan. "I saw blood. Did you see blood?" She nodded silently.

Another agent squeezed past Charlie and jostled him, sending dizzying waves of pain radiating from his wrist. He grunted, and Megan looked at him again, and tilted her head, frowning. "Where's your sling?" she asked, She tilted her head the other way. "Isn't that the wrong arm? What happened?"

The dizzying waves radiating from his wrist had found a partner in his head, and Charlie broke out in a cold sweat. "I- I think I br-broke something," he answered, and then he passed out again.