A/N: Well, here we go at last. And we open Friday, so I should probably be pretty much back to normal then. Just another good reason not to post in progress. Hard to believe now that I expected to have this story put to bed in September, but I expected it to be about 15 chapters shorter, too. Many thanks to everyone who has stuck with me so far, and many apologies for the delay.

Chapter 31

"Easy, easy - you want to take it slow…"

This is fast? Last year I took down a track star at a dead run. Believe me, this is nothing like fast.

"You may be a little dizzy at first…"

Don curled his right hand tightly in the sheets. His left arm, still trammeled by the sling, pitched his equilibrium and he tilted sideways. Out of his one-sided peripheral vision he saw his father move toward him, but the nurse was faster, holding him steady and gradually rebalancing his center mass. Don shut his eye for a moment. The ophthalmologist had removed the bandages yesterday and replaced them with a gauze pad and an eye patch. He felt a little silly about the eye patch. And now that he could keep it open for longer periods of time, this one-eyed thing was getting weird. With the absence of peripheral vision on one side, he was startled by the sudden presence of indistinct and un-nameable shadows, dimly threatening. Like a damn horse, he thought grimly.

"How you doing? Okay?"

Okay. Well, now that the most embarrassing of the equipment had been removed, things were definitely looking up. "Yeah," he breathed after a minute. "Okay." At the edge of his vision, he saw his father roll his eyes and resisted the urge to say something smart. Oxygen was at a premium these days, despite that plastic thing the respiratory therapist kept making him blow into.

"All right, ready to stand? Slide, don't jump - you don't want to jar anything."

Jump? Right. They were hilarious around here. He felt the solid pressure of the floor push against the soles of his feet, strangely foreign, took a second to find his balance. All this fuss over a trip to the bathroom.

He caught the light from the window, then a glimpse of green, turned toward it instinctively.

"Whoa - I think a trip to the bathroom is enough for right now. If you're feeling well enough later, maybe you can try sitting up in a chair for a while."

Sitting in a chair. Woo hoo. How much excitement can one man take?

"All right, let's walk - you're doing fine - how's that feel?"

Feel? A whole lot more like shuffling than walking. A whole lot like somebody snuk in in the middle of the night and swapped my body with that of an eighty-year-old geriatric. A whole lot like I'm trapped in some bad dream and keep waiting for the alarm to wake me up.

"The bathroom's right here."

No. And all this time I've been thinking that was the door to the Yankee dugout. To make up for his uncharitable thoughts, he offered the male nurse a weak smile and pushed the door inward. The nurse did not release his careful grip on him and the weak smile faded. He turned his head questioningly, so he could find him with his unpatched eye.

"I can't leave you alone, Mr. Eppes," the nurse explained politely. "You could fall."

You…? Don just stared at him, trying to make sense of what that meant.

"You couldn't catch yourself with one arm," the nurse continued kindly. "And if you punched any of those ribs into a lung…well…"

"Why don't I do it?" He could just make out movement from his father's corner of the room.

"No - " Wow, Eppes - is that really the voice that commands raids? He lifted his good hand, caught at the door frame when that unsettled his balance again. "S'okay." It was anything but okay, but it was unavoidable, so…Dad, nurse - what difference did it make? At least the nurse did this kind of thing all the time.The nurse steered him gently inside and shut the door behind them. Don closed his eye and waited for it to be over.

This is great, he thought crossly. Somebody else washes me. Somebody else shaves me. Somebody else helps me do my business. There has to be some way to regain some shred of human dignity.

He took a tentative breath, testing his ribs. The doctor had replaced the epidural infusion thing with some kind of local block, so his ribcage still seemed curiously far away, as if his detached head and shoulders were mysteriously free-floating above his legs.

Legs. Well, it was nice to have those back anyway, useless though they seemed to be. No, the discomfort wasn't in his legs, or his ribs - it was firmly centered in his skull, where no drugs seemed able to fully ameliorate the pressure behind his eyes, the sudden sparkles across his vision. It nagged at him, a steady, whining, gnawing pain, endlessly building and receding, even in his sleep.

The light hit his face again as they started their unspectacular pace back toward the bed. Now here was a question - why was it that those windows never opened? Wasn't fresh air supposed to be good for patients? I'd about kill for some non-manufactured, non-filtered, honest-to-goodness, smoggy LA air. He stopped again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the view.

"Need to rest?"

Don shut his jaw on a biting answer he didn't have the wind for anyway. Besides, the nurse - what was his name again, Mike? - was a nice guy. Tried to make things easier for him. It wasn't his fault that he felt like crap, inside and out.

"Naw," he puffed instead. They shuffled to the bed again, and Mike helped him to lower slowly onto the edge. Can't do a damn thing with one arm. He sat a minute, catching his breath. "Do I - still need the sling…?"

"I'll check with the doctor," Mike was sliding his slippers off of his feet. Just in case the eye patch didn't make him feel stupid enough. "But probably. You don't want to lean on that hand, and it helps support your ribs."

This time he did grumble something indistinct under his breath and he saw his father's mouth turn up at the corners, his expression an odd combination of exasperation, affection, amusement and…something else. Admiration, maybe? Naw, that couldn't be right.

"Why don't I take it from here, Mike?" The smile lingered in his father's voice. "You must need a break from him by now."

"Hey," Don protested unconvincingly.

"Nope - he's one of my favorite patients," Mike said comfortably. "But if you want to take care of this, I'll get his vitals."

Don gave his dad a triumphant look. He felt a firm support at his back, a gentle hand help him swing his legs up. Somehow, lifting his legs had become a veritable circus trick.

"How do you like those pajamas?" His father's voice rang a little in his ears.

"Great," he huffed. "You raid…Ward Cleaver's…closet?" Heck, there was always enough breath to be a little smart.

The covers dropped back over his legs. "Those stripes are classics."

Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought his father sounded just a little bit smug. Laugh it up, Dad. I won't be here forever. And I have a long memory. Very long. The covers felt disturbingly cozy, and being able to put his head down again was like the answer to a prayer. All from a measly trip to the bathroom. Man.

"So. How are you feeling?"

Like crap. Like hell. And so, so, so, so tired of this. His eye drooped, but he forced it open again. "Hey, Dad?" He caught his father's expression and shifted uncomfortably. He's not going to read me Good Night, Moon or something, is he? I mean, at least wait until Mike's gone.

"Yeah?" His dad's voice held an oddly tender note.

"Isn't it…time I went…home?"

"I think you're going to need to be a little more ambulatory before you can go home, Donnie."

Don, Dad. My name is Don. My birth certificate says so. He could hear Mike checking things, hear the scratch of his pen as he wrote them down.

"Come on - you know you love us. Don't be in such a hurry to leave."

Don snorted faintly, wondering, with some alarm, if it was even possible that he might be going to sleep again. A distant memory from the drug-hazed fog that was his mind rose to the surface and he frowned. Love us…

"Mike…" he asked, with no little trepidation. "I didn't…propose to you…too…?"

The world was falling away beneath him now. It took him a while to figure out that someone was lowering the head of the bed. No, no wait - I wanna stay awake…I wanna be - normal again…

"Just a quick nap. I promise nothing exciting is going to happen while you sleep…"

So they could read him now. When did he become so transparent? That was Charlie's job…

"Yeah." Mike's voice now. "But don't worry about it. Dr. Hannigan and I have it all worked out. We're dueling over you with hypos at dawn. Hope I win."

Funny guy. He licked his lips to voice an answer, heard the sound of his chart slamming closed. He'd need to turn his head all the way to see if Mike was still there, and he didn't think he could manage it.

"You know, if I'd known that this was all it took to get you to propose…not that Mike is exactly what I always pictured, but you get more flexible with your expectations as you get older."

"You're…a riot…"

"Don't fight it so hard. Sleep is a good thing."

"I don't…I'm not…" C'mon, Eppes, he mocked himself, you're not what? "…s'all I do…"

"Well, concussions make you sleepy. Drugs make you sleepy. Healing makes you sleepy. Guess you need to factor in a lot of sleep for a while."

But I hate it. He didn't even try to say it out loud, it sounded so petulant. "…my…watch…?"

"Why? You got someplace you need to be?"

C'mon, Dad - I just want some idea of how much time goes by - what day it is. Just some little, tiny measure of control - is that so bad?

He hadn't minded it at first - he really hadn't. It had been such a relief to know that Charlie was relatively unhurt, that he was still alive, that the worst of it was over - he hadn't found the energy to care much about anything else. And with the bone-gnawing dread of the last few days finally put to rest, and those dual intruders, drugs and pain, combining in a kind of smothering inertia, it had felt like he could sleep for a month straight. Now his body still seemed to want to sleep for a month, but his mind was bored, restless.

"Where's…Charlie…?" He could tell from his father's expression that he had asked that question before - maybe too many times. He struggled to find a casual tone. "…working…?"

"He's with Amita - they're getting set up to start the year. Unless I'm mistaken, there's a plot afoot to make sure he's never left alone. He'll be by later."

Good for them. "He doesn't…have to. I just…wondered…" Soames was in lockup. It was ridiculous, this lingering sense of dread. The guy had a right to get back to his life - just like he'd like to get back to his own. "How's he…sleeping…?"

There was a pause and Don tried to study his father's face in the shaft of blurry sunlight.

"Sleep walking," he said at last.

Don frowned. Damn. But - inevitable, probably. "Should…see somebody."

"Megan set him up with some expert - Trauma Recovery. You know Charlie - likes to talk things through."

"Good." Don closed his eye.

"I thought so. I'm glad you think so."

Subtle, Dad…subtle, subtle. "They'll…make me."

"They'll make you go. They can't make you do more than go through the motions."

Don swallowed drowsily. It was different for him - for him it was just a way of life. Not so for Charlie. "Yeah. Well."

"If you could promise me to give it a real shot - I might be persuaded to bring you a watch."

Don gave a bark of laughter that started him coughing. He accepted the bent straw his father proffered and sipped slowly. After a second he released the straw. "Man, you don't…play nice."

"Tough love, my friend. What do you say?"

Don carefully turned his head, trying to find the window again. "Whatever…"

"Ah. The ambiguous non-answer."

"I don't get…what you think there is…for me to talk about…"

"How about your friend? The kid that died?"

Don looked at him sharply. Ouch. Way below the belt.

"Or your brother. You seem to be stuck there, too."

"Well, Charlie was in…danger. Just from coming…to see me…"

"I guess that would be my point."

Don's throat burned and he coughed again, discreetly, to clear it. "People are in danger…just because they're in my life. You think a shrink…can fix that…?" His voice rose sharply, flattening his lungs and pinching at his temples, the words stark and surprising as they hung, neon bright, in the air. Where had THAT come from…?

No. No. That wasn't right. It wasn't that simple. It was just…

Oh, God.

Spots danced before his eyes and he massaged his good eye, then the eye patch, trying to concentrate and getting his lungs working again. In. Out. Come on, you can do it…it just - it just sounded bad. It wasn't like that. Not really. It wasn't. It was…"I'm …tired…" Coward.

"All right. Megan wanted to stop by later."

Yeah, great - just what I need. One more person poking through my head.

"I'll call her when you wake up."

Sure. Show off that YOU have a phone…

"I'll be here in case you need anything."

He coughed again, felt his lungs settle into a steadier rhythm. "Yeah…well…it's your life, I guess…"

"Damn straight."

Don't be so cavalier. Being near me is evidently a high risk occupation. No, I can't think like that. I'm just tired. A little sleep will put everything back in perspective.

He clenched his eyes tight shut and willed sleep, so close just a few seconds ago, to come and blot everything out. He was almost there when he felt a ghostly touch brush over his hair, then a light pressure rest there. He had an urge to laugh, could sense that it was too perilously close to tears to risk and just kept breathing instead.

I've been in countless firefights. Seen men throw themselves on grenades, stand firm before speeding cars, take down killers twice their size and firepower. But, Dad, even with all that - you are still the bravest guy I know.

TBC