Title: The Sound of Silence

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: In truth, how can anyone "own" another person? I say to you that these boys are real, and they own themselves. Yet the end result remains the same: I hold no title, I make no profit, and I respect all who do.

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Chapter Five: 2 + 2 Equals 3

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Don had called his father the night before, with Charlie's remarkable news. It had been all he could do to persuade the man not to drive back to the hospital. "He practically fell asleep on the phone," he argued. "He would have called you, too, but he was tired." He then distracted Alan with the cheese/lasagna story, and before their own phone call ended he could hear the rattling of pots and pans, and the slamming of cupboards. Shaking his head and smiling, he knew his father was making lasagna all night; and he didn't blame him a bit.

His next call was to Megan. As he knew she would be, she was very happy to hear that Charlie was doing so well. She promised to update Larry and then rushed a little nervously into a proposal. "So here's the thing," she started. "A.D. Wright said you shouldn't hesitate to take some PTO; this is why it's there. He also said to remind you of the federal family leave act, but it sounds like Charlie is doing really well, so you might not need that."

Don vacillated between relief and resentment. "You talked to Wright?"

Megan launched into full defense mode. "He came through the bullpen and asked where you were; I had to tell him something! I guess it didn't occur to me that this was supposed to be some kind of secret. Are you embarrassed that your brother had a stroke?"

Don growled and almost hung up on her. "Good God, no, Reeves! I'm not embarrassed about needing some PTO to meet with a loan officer at a bank, either, but it's still my story to share."

As he had known it would, that shut her up; but only for a moment. "What? Look, I'm sorry if I stepped on your toes."

He tried to maintain a fume, but he was still too happy about Charlie. "I decided to buy one of those condos Dad was looking at last year," he admitted gruffly. "The market is so ripe right now…why did Wright come by the bullpen?"

He could hear the smile in Megan's voice – she knew he was faking it. "That's great, Don. If your Dad ever decides to go through with it, you'll be neighbors! He wanted to talk to you about assigning the team to work with Garibaldi this week; he's about to take down that gun-running op."

"My Dad says Amita might be moving into the house, so we could end up neighbors sooner than you think. Man, Garibaldi's been working that case for almost six months!"

"Seven," Megan corrected. "His man inside said it's going down this week. Since David is on vacation and you were out, Wright assigned Colby and I to his team for the rest of the week." A hint of a tease entered her voice. "You come back now, you'll just discombobulate everything and force a lot of people to do a lot of paperwork. In triplicate." Don snorted and she planted a final jab. "Perhaps you and your father should get a three- or four-bedroom place together. Pool your resources."

"Right," Don agreed, half-seriously. "Dad's cooking whenever I want it; that's actually pretty tempting. Listen," he continued, his voice growing serious, "you guys watch each other's backs on this. Don't wait for Garibaldi's team to do it; you and Colby have each other."

"Not a problem," she assured him. "So what do I tell Wright?"

He sighed. She'd beaten him again. "Yeah. I'll be off on PTO the rest of the week." A glint sparked in his eye. "Maybe I'll use Charlie's ticket and go to Larry's award banquet in Edmonton."

"I hate you," she murmured after a moment of silence.

He laughed joyfully. "If it makes you feel any better, Millie promised Dad to have it all filmed, so Charlie can watch later. I'm pretty tight with the guy; I might be able to get you a copy."

"I love you," she responded, and Don laughed again. "Seriously, keep me updated on Charlie, okay? Give him my love."

Don made a face and shook his head. "I can do one of those things," he responded. "I'll let you guess which one."

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It was a relieved duo that strode down the hospital corridor the next morning. Charlie could swallow; Charlie could talk; all was right with the world.

When Alan and Don turned into the open door of his room, it was even better to see him awake, sitting in the large chair next to the bed. He beamed up at them. "Hi! I went for a walk; and I had oatmeal; and they took those things off my legs, at least for awhile; and does my hair look all-right?"

Both men chuckled indulgently as they looked around for seats in the crowded room. Don didn't know about Alan, but he knew he was relieved to hear his brother's run-on sentence. He'd laid awake half the night afraid that the regained speech the night before had been some kind of fluke. And now he had been walking, too! Don couldn't seem to wipe the smile off his face as he perched gingerly on the edge of the bed. "Let me get this straight," he teased, looking at his watch. "Exactly 26 hours ago you had a stroke, and what you're worried about the most is your hair?"

Alan covered a shudder with a laugh and followed Don to the bed. "Shove over," he ordered, and Don created a space for him to sit.

Charlie frowned at them, looking so serious that Don got a little worried. When his brother spoke, he thought it might be a little soon for teasing. "You said Amita is coming, right? Did I not understand that?"

Don leaned over to squeeze Charlie's forearm, careful of the IV still in his hand. "No, you understood right, Chuck. Dad's leaving in about half-an-hour to pick her up at the airport." He smiled fondly as he straightened his spine. "Something tells me she won't be too concerned about your hair, Buddy."

Charlie blushed, and Alan stood again, turning for the small closet in the corner of the room. "I brought some things yesterday," he remembered. "I see you're wearing the sweats, but I'm sure I put one of those pick things you use in there…." He opened the door and leaned to pick up a bag, continuing to narrate as he rummaged through it. "You do have a bit of 'bed-head' going there."

"Good morning." Alan stopped rummaging and looked to the door. Dr. Ben Lincarli, a neurologist he had met the day before, stood there smiling at Charlie. "I understand you were dragging the physical therapy tech all over the hospital this morning."

Charlie smiled shyly. "It was just so nice to get out of bed."

The doctor nodded, and came farther into the room. Alan turned a little in his corner so he could watch him better. "I'm sure it was," the physician said, checking the chart in his hands. "Frankly, it's a welcome surprise to be having an actual conversation with you this morning, as well!"

Charlie tilted his head a little and regarded the man seriously. "I feel fine," he said. "I mean, I'm tired. I keep dropping off…but are you sure I had a stroke?"

The doctor returned his demeanor. "Absolutely. Both the MRI and the CT scan confirm that. As strokes go, Charlie, this seems to have been a very mild one. Plus, your father must have found you soon after it happened; the tPA you were administered in the ER did its job."

Charlie was silent, obviously digesting that, and Don spoke up. "That's amazing stuff," he observed, offering the doctor his hand. "I'm Don, Charlie's brother."

Alan made a noise of distress from his corner. "Forgive me, I forgot you two hadn't met," he began as Dr. Lincarli shook Don's hand. "Son, this is Dr. Lincarli, a neurologist here in the hospital."

Don shot the man a genuine smile. "Thank-you for all you've done for my brother."

The doctor returned his smile and looked again at Charlie. "I think your brother has done most of the work," he answered. "Charlie, I know you're feeling better, but I'd like to keep you one more night. We'll DC the IV a little later today, and PT would like to see you one more time to set up an outpatient schedule of visits." After Charlie nodded, he continued. "As I said before, this was a small stroke. However, your history of migraines and the results of the MRI do indicate the presence of ischemic cerbrovascular disease. You'll need to work with your primary care physician to address this matter on an extremely proactive level. Plus, the tiredness is to be expected; even a small stroke is a major shock to the body."

"I understand," Charlie said quietly. "What about work?"

A shadow crossed the doctor's face; something Don did not miss, and he tensed slightly. "You can discuss that with your PCP," Dr. Lincarli answered. "You should see him Thursday or Friday, if you can."

"I'll call and set up an appointment," Alan interrupted, then he looked quickly at Charlie. "Do you want me to do that?"

Charlie just nodded, and the doctor started talking again. "Charlie, I have some pretty stupid questions, but I'd like for you to humor me. I've been reading some research conducted by colleagues at MIT and France, and there's something I'd like to check out."

"Okay," Charlie agreed, and Don shivered. He'd have to ask Charlie to expunge that word from his vocabulary.

The doctor grinned. "I'm aware of your profession, but please. Recite the basic multiplication table. 1 through 10."

Charlie grinned at his brother and opened his mouth. "One times one is 1. Two times two equals 4. Three times three is 9. Four times four is 16. Five times five, 25. Six times six, 36." He paused and took a breath. "Seven times seven equals 49, and eight times eight is 64. Nine times nine is 81, and ten times ten equals 100." He stopped and covered a yawn with his hand.

"Excellent," said Dr. Lincarli, making a note in his chart. Looking up in time to catch the end of Charlie's yawn, he hurried on. "This won't take but a moment more. Tell me, what is 2 + 2?"

Charlie rolled his eyes, leaning his head back against the chair. He opened his mouth again – but this time nothing came out. After a moment of stunned silence he lifted his head and regarded the neurologist with wide, frightened eyes. "I don't know," he whispered. At first Don thought he was making a bad joke, but the look on his brother's face convinced him otherwise. He could sense his father coming toward them out of the corner, and he turned his head to exchange a look with him before he looked at the doctor, who did not seem at all surprised.

"All-right," the physician said mildly. "Remember, your recovery is not complete yet. Don't expect too much too soon. I'm going to ask you now which number you prefer as an answer to that question. Do you like 3, or 9?"

Charlie was losing color, and frowning. He shot a look at Don, then looked back at the doctor. His hand crept up to tug at a wayward curl. "I…3," he finally decided. "I like 3. Is it 3?"

Dr. Lincarli closed his chart and came closer to Charlie's chair, then actually sat on the floor in front of it, legs crossed, his posture casual. Don found himself slipping to the floor himself, and copying his actions, and Alan settled onto the bed again. All they lacked was a campfire and a few marshmallows, Don thought, as he reached up and rested a hand on Charlie's sweat-covered knee.

"The theory," began the doctor, "is that there are at least two circuits in the brain for representing a number. One is language based, and stores tables of exact arithmetic knowledge, like the multiplication tables. Since you have regained your speech, Charlie, you have also regained this knowledge."

Charlie's hand had crept near Don's but was not touching it yet. "And the other?"

"Obviously, independent of language," answered the doctor. "It is sometimes referred to as the 'number line', used to approximate and manipulate quantities. Our brains solve mathematical questions in remarkably different ways."

"The answer is not '3', is it?" asked Charlie, his voice growing a little frantic. The fingers of his hand clawed at Don's, and Don scooted a little closer so that he could grab hold. "It was '9', then?"

Dr. Lincarli kept his voice soft, and even. "Charlie, your progress has been remarkable, but this is still considered the acute phase of stroke recovery, when comprehension is the most impaired. During the subacute stage, we can expect the right hemisphere of the brain to 'take over' some of the tasks previously carried out by the left hemisphere. Even more remarkable, as the left hemisphere heals, there will be another shift as it reclaims its territory. The brain is fascinating. The more we learn about it, the more we understand that we do not know."

Don could feel Charlie's fingers sweaty and trembling in his own, and for a long time there was only silence as they sat, each encapsulated in his own reaction.

I was sure it was 3, Charlie thought, and what is 7 minus 2?...

Charlie without numbers is worse than Charlie without words, Don thought. Numbers have always been his words…

Does she love him enough?, Alan wondered. Will he lose both of the loves of his life?

They were so close, Dr. Lincarli sighed. The line between comedy and tragedy, between success and failure; it's no wider than the distance between 3, and 4.

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End, Chapter 5