Ch9: Can't We All Be Friends?

Ch9: The Best Laid Plans

Couldn't pick which title to use. Pick one you like the best.

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Disclaimer: Does anyone else notice that I haven't been putting in a disclaimer the entire book? Well… Here's one.

IF I DON'T OWN HALF THE WORDS TO MY OWN STORY, HOW THE HECK AM I SUPPOSED TO WRITE AN INTERNATIONALLY FAMOUS TV SHOW? Meh. You people are funny.

Okay. Now that I know I have reviewers, continue to review, please. I hope to get the next chapter out when or before I hit 5 reviews. I just have to finish typing it, first…

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Charlie glanced at Frank at the supper table. It was apparent that he was excited that his brother Joe was there. Despite the emotional trauma of his recent confession to Don, which still nagged at his subconscious about some important lost detail, Charlie found himself pleased to see Frank so relaxed and happy. Frank sat protectively close to Joe, and Charlie got the feeling he wouldn't be letting his little brother roam very far away for a while. He glanced at Don, across the table, and half-smiled. He knew what it felt like to have an older brother who looked out for you that way – and there was no other feeling like it.

Alan informed his sons that Joe would be joining them for the summer, and Don pounced on the information. If Fenton was in an agreeable mood, he might as well bring up the idea of taking them to his apartment for the evening. "Hey," he said casually, reaching for the salt. "I'm not on call, tonight, Dad. Charlie and I were thinking we should take Frank and Joe back to my place, after dinner. Get a taste of the bachelor life in L.A., and all of that." Alan frowned slightly, and Don hurried on. "You know I hardly ever have nights when I'm not on call. Especially during the summer, and the team ends up covering for everybody else's vacations. Besides, you and Fenton might enjoy a little bonding time yourselves, after so many years!"

Alan was listening, but his eyes were on Charlie. He had been unusually quiet, and he seemed a bit flushed. He had been working hard this week, getting very little sleep, and it hadn't been that long since he'd been down for four days with a particularly nasty flu bug. "Charlie? Son, are you feeling all right?"

Charlie was a little startled when he felt everyone's eyes on him. In truth, even before he had made his confession, he had a pounding headache. He had been watching Frank and Joe at the dinner table because looking at the food made him slightly nauseous. Still, Charlie tried to smile and did his part to ensure the plan worked. "What? Yeah, Dad, I'm okay. I'm up for Don's idea, really. The boys would love it."

Alan looked dubious. "I don't know. It's true that Don is hardly ever off call, and Frank and Joe would enjoy seeing a little L.A. nightlife" – he shook a finger at Don –"although you shouldn't keep them up too late, or use your ID to get them into some place they shouldn't be!" He redirected his attention to Charlie. "I'm just not sure it's a good idea for you to join them, tonight. You look tired, and a little feverish."

Don looked quickly at Charlie. Crap. His father was right. That quickly, he found himself exactly where he did not want to be. He knew Charlie had really been sick a couple of weeks ago, and he realized he had pushed him hard, this week. Plus, his brother was probably still reeling from what he'd admitted at the FBI office. The whole plan could go down in flames.

If Don suddenly decided to stay here, it would look suspicious. Plus, there were already so many people here, he would end up bunking in the garage, and he couldn't keep anybody safe from there. It was absolutely imperative that he get Frank and Joe out of here, tonight. He swallowed thickly, feeling like a traitor. "Maybe you should get some rest tonight, Buddy. Fenton, I really would enjoy having the boys for the night. It'll make me feel young, again!" He registered the shock and dismay on Charlie's face, and it hurt more than the time a perp caught him in the arm with a 7" knife.

Fenton chewed thoughtfully on his steak, then took a sip of wine while at least three people at the table held their breath – and one started to sway almost imperceptibly. "I think that could work out," he said to his glass as he set it back down, smiling. Quickly, he looked across the table at Don. "I mean, yes, perhaps my sons would get a kick out of that." His eyes flickered to Charlie and took on a glint of steel. "Plus, if Charlie's ill, he doesn't need two rambunctious teenagers disturbing his rest, now, does he?"

Frank felt immediate joy clouded with terror. He could tell Charlie really was sick, and there was no way they were getting him out of here. On the other hand, he could get Joe out. He listened to his brother, who had no idea what was going on but was genuinely excited by the idea, thank their father politely, watched Charlie suddenly pale and stagger to his feet. Even when Charlie lurched down the hall, crashing into the downstairs bathroom, and Frank could hear him throwing up, he wasn't sure who felt worse.

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Don had waved his father back down into his chair and followed Charlie down the hall. Now he knelt beside him on the cold tile floor and rubbed his back. He had shut the door behind them, both because he did not want to be heard, and because it wasn't all that pleasant to eat dinner while you could hear someone throwing up. Still, he spoke lowly. "Charlie, Buddy, I'm sorry. It's obvious you're sick, Dad would never go for you leaving the house tonight. I swear, it'll be all right. Fenton would never try anything with Dad in the house."

With his free hand Don stretched to reach for the glass beside the sink and managed to get some water into it. He offered it to Charlie, who was hugging the toilet, but eventually let go, sat back on his heels a little and accepted the water. After rinsing out his mouth, he handed the glass back, wiped off his face with the back of one hand and looked miserably at Don. "I hope you're right," he almost-whispered, and Don's heart lurched.

Dear God.

So did he.

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Don took the long way back to his apartment, so that he could drive past the FBI building and show Joe where Frank had been hanging out all week. He looked at the brothers in his rear view mirror. They were obviously pleased and relieved to be together, even though they were pretty quiet. They had insisted on riding in the back seat, and Don was sure it was so that they could be together. He was a little jealous, and definitely had to work to suppress his "hinky-ometer", as Colby called it. He wished his own brother was safely tucked in the passenger seat. They stopped at an al-night market, since Don had only beer and one moldy tomato in his apartment, and while they were at the checkout counter, he decided he had waited long enough. He called home to talk to Charlie.

Alan informed him that Charlie was soundly asleep, safely tucked in bed, and encouraged him to have a good time with the boys. With one hand Don flipped his cell shut, while with the other he tossed some Oreos on the conveyor belt.

Son of a bitch. His "hinky-ometer" was driving him crazy.

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At the apartment, the Hardy brothers tore open the cookies, as well as a bag of tortilla chips, and threw themselves on the floor in front of the television. Frank looked up at Don, who was impressed at the steel in the young man's voice. "If it's okay, we'll just watch that DVD Joe rented at the store. Then I'll tell him why we're really here. You don't have to take us out, or anything."

Joe looked up, surprised, chip halfway to his mouth. "What? What do you mean, 'why we're really here'?" He had been lying down, but now sat up so he could see his brother better. "What's going on?"

Don decided to give them a moment alone before providing Frank some back-up. Besides, while he was making up the guest room, he could call Colby. He wanted the team and Oswald at the offices bright and early. They were going to find a way to fry this bastard.

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Charlie lay on his back in the darkness of his bedroom and stared at the general direction of his ceiling. His father had checked on him before he went to bed himself, and Charlie had pretended to be asleep. In reality, he was much too terrified to be asleep. In reality, he was counting the seconds before the digital numbers in his alarm clock rolled over to a new minute, not really realizing he was doing it. He was trying not to think. He didn't want to remember whatever it was his mind was trying to bring to the surface – there was probably a good reason it was buried. And he didn't want to lie here feeling abandoned, and angry at Don. His brother had done the best he could – and at least Frank and Joe were safe.

In spite of his resolve not to sleep, Charlie's fever eventually won out, and as he knew they would be, the nightmares were waiting to pounce. When he awoke, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, his father was smoothing the hair from his brow. "Shh, Charlie, it's a dream. It's only a dream. You're all right, son."

Charlie kept his eyes squeezed his shut and tried to slow his breathing. Was the fever really that high? It had been so real, so terrifying…

He was falling down stairs. Where? Why? He couldn't remember. He shuddered, and half-sobbed as his father continued to soothe him. Jessica. He could see Jessica…

Without fully awakening, Charlie was claimed by sleep again. The next time he awoke, Fenton Hardy was standing over his bed. Charlie gasped and struggled with the covers, trying to sit up, sure he was trapped in another nightmare.

Fenton laughed lowly and pushed him back down with one finger to the shoulder. "Hello, Charlie," he whispered. "Time for us to have some 'quality time', don't you think?"

Charlie shrank into the pillows, willing the nightmare away. "Please," he pleaded. "Please. I need to wake up, now."

Fenton laughed again. "Trust me, you are awake." He leaned toward Charlie, his voice menacing. "Tell me what you told your brother in the conference room today."

Charlie could feel his breath on his face and blinked in terror. This nightmare was even more real than the last one. He shook his head, and tears flew out of the corners of his eyes. "Go 'way. Stop. I d-d-didn't tell him anything!"

In one movement, Fenton clapped one hand over his mouth, effectively stifling Charlie's scream when he pinched his arm so hard with the other hand that he drew blood. "You aren't dreaming, Charlie," he hissed. And you told him something. There's a break in the case he's working, and I know it's because of you. Do you not know by now who you're dealing with? I have ears everywhere! I promised you once before, little Eppes, you breathe a word of what happened in that basement, and I will kill you both. I will make you watch, when I kill him! You know I'll do it. You know that, Charlie."

The only way Charlie was stopping this nightmare, he realized at the same moment that he realized it was not a nightmare, was by passing out.

And so, he did.

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The DVD he had rented long forgotten, Joe stared at Frank and shook his head. "No," he insisted. "That's not true. None of it."

His voice broke at the end, and Frank spoke gently. "Then what happened to your arm? That scar wasn't there when I left, Joe. It doesn't matter which one of them did it to you – Dad, or Jeff – neither one of them has the right to touch you!"

Joe started crying and looked away. Frank groaned inwardly. He had been trying to make his brother talk, not cry. "Look," he said, "I know Dad's hit you in the past – we live in the same house, remember? The walls are thin. And I know he sent you to Jeff. Talk to me, Joe."

Joe blinked, still looking away, trying unsuccessfully to stem the flow of tears. He nodded miserably. "He was angry I found out," he finally choked.

Frank repeated his words. "Angry you found out…" Cold fear clenched in his stomach. "Joe, do you know about the organization?"

Joe's head whipped around, his tears temporarily under control as he gaped at Frank. "You know, too? Is that was really happened to you, when you were kidnapped?"

Frank didn't really want to admit it, but it was important that Frank understand how high the stakes were. "And the…the gang, too. He arranged that. We need to help Don stop him."

Joe shook his head, again. "Alan said we could both live with him," Joe said. "Won't that work?"

Frank looked at him sadly. "Joe, this isn't just about you and me. And even if it was, it's not like anywhere is safe, for us. He would still know where we are He has people everywhere. I'm pretty sure even Chief Collig's one of them."

Joe's eyes widened. "What? That's impossible! He tried to help me, I told him Dad was hitting me…." He paled, suddenly remembering that it was after he went to the Chief for help that his father had sent him to Jeff. "Oh, no…"

"We gotta talk to Don," Frank said, scrambling to his feet. "Right away."

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Alan had been quiet in the kitchen, loathe to awaken Charlie. His son had been restless all night, and he had wanted him to sleep in as long as he could. Now, though, he crashed into Don's old room like a bear, shouting his friend's name. "FENTON!"

His old friend turned, still buttoning his shirt, raised eyebrows. "Alan?"

Alan spoke rapidly, running a hand through his hair. "My God. I just got a call…I don't know what happened, since he wasn't supposed to be on call last night…it was the hospital. Don's been hurt."

Fenton feigned surprise and concern. "Oh, dear. I hope it's nothing serious…"

Alan pressed a slip of paper and a door key into his hand, his voice growing more frantic. "I don't know, I don't know…. Here's my key to Don's apartment, and his address. You'd better go pick up the boys, and bring them back here." He frowned, slightly. "I can't believe Don left them alone…"

Fenton stepped in to distract him. "Is Charlie going with you to the hospital? He probably shouldn't take his germs there," he gently pointed out.

Alan looked toward Charlie's closed door. "No. He's still asleep, and I don't want to worry him before I know what's going on. I already called you a cab, you can make the trip to Don's apartment in 10 minutes. With any luck, Charlie will sleep until after you all get back…and I'll call as soon as I can…"

Fenton smiled, patting Alan on the shoulder as he steered him out of the room. "Go," he said. "Don't worry. I'll take care of everything."

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The house seemed eerily quiet, when Charlie finally pried his eyes open. Morning sunlight streamed through his window and made the ache in his head start up again. At first, he considered simply rolling over and going back to sleep. Then he remembered his nightmares – one of which he was pretty sure really happened, and sat up quickly. He swayed dizzily and looked at the door, trying to think rationally.

A quick glance at the clock told him it was only 6:30 in the morning. If he could get downstairs before anyone woke up, he could sneak out of the house and take the first bus he found. Eventually, his destination would be Don's apartment. As stealthily as he could, considering he kept having to grab things so he wouldn't fall over, Charlie dressed and staggered to the door. He placed his ear against it for a moment. Hearing nothing, he slowly creaked it open. His father's door was shut, as was the door to Don's old room, where Fenton was staying. Charlie started for the stairs, and then hesitated. He decided to risk a trip to the bathroom, deciding that wetting his pants on the bus might attract unwanted attention. Also, he intended to grab some aspirin.

He was careful not to run any water, dry-swallowing the pills with a grimace. He also avoided the noise of flushing, even though it oddly disgusted him to do so. He repeated the ear-against-the-door trick, and then opened the door a few inches, squeezing into the hallway as soon as he could.

He had gotten three steps away from the bathroom when a surly voice behind him momentarily froze his feet. "Hello, Charlie. Long time, no see. Jessica sends her best."

Charlie looked quickly over his shoulder and confirmed his fear. Jeff Henderson was leering at him from his position just outside the bathroom. Immediately, Charlie's "flight-or-fight" response kicked in, and he started running the way he was going in the first place, for the stairs. He didn't even bother to scream, he just took off, determined to get away from the apparition.

Charlie had time to think that Jeff Henderson must not be a ghost as the hit to the back of his knees sent him flying down the staircase. As he tumbled, head over heels, to the floor below, he suddenly remembered that little, nagging, thing about the basement that had eluded him for years.

And when he did, he greeted unconsciousness with open arms.

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A/N: Thanks to FraidyCat. This book would not exist as it does. For those who think I've much improved, it's because I'm improving under her help. (I appreciate the compliment, though!)