Just so you know, of all the chapters in this story, this one is the one that has been rewritten/reworked the most. And it's not beta'd, so I'd say this chapter is the most likely place where there might be a lot of editing mistakes, just because I've erased and rewritten things in so many spots. But oh well.

Thanks to all of you who have stuck with me so far! I appreciate each and every review I get. You guys have all made me feel pretty good about myself. But I also appreciate those of you who are reading silently in the background too! Here's the next chapter, as always, please read and review!

Chapter 7 (Charlie)

"Amita, there's nothing wrong with me," Charlie insisted. "I just—I'm having a major breakthrough with this, and I just need to work through it. I don't want to lose it by interrupting things too much. Don's fine, he's in the hospital. I think this here requires more of my attention."

Amita scoffed. "Did you honestly just prioritize your work over your family? And you say there's nothing wrong with you."

What was wrong with her? Charlie wished he knew. Why couldn't she understand? She was a mathematician, too. A very bright one, at that. Why didn't she, of all people, understand his need to get his thoughts down and organized? This was the biggest breakthrough he'd ever had on his Cognitive Emergence work. He needed to work and push himself forward, before his ideas were gone forever. His work on this theory had been slow-going enough. Now that he was finally moving on it, he wanted to keep it that way. Don would understand, right? Why couldn't Amita?

"Charlie," Amita sighed, clearly frustrated. "Why is talking to you so impossible lately? You don't even listen to anything anyone says. I might as well go stand outside and talk to the koi pond."

He almost wished she would, because that would mean she'd leave him alone to work. His frustration was growing rapidly. He just needed to concentrate, dammit.

"Look, I'm sorry Amita," he ventured. "Now just isn't a good time. Can we talk about this later?"

Amita started at him incredulously, as if he were growing an extra head or something.

"Okay, I guess," she consented. "Let me just say one thing first before I leave, though. I don't want you to think I'm angry with you, Charlie, because I'm not. I'm just concerned about you. I know your impatience to get back to your work isn't really about your work. You're having a hard time dealing with all that's going on with Don, and yourself, and it's okay. You've been through a lot, you know? You were in a serious car accident yourself. Even if you and Don had both walked away from it unscathed, it would still be extremely traumatizing. Us trying to convince you to stop working and go see Don is just us trying to help you get through this and feel better about things. But maybe it's not helping. Maybe . . . maybe I just need to leave you alone to work through this yourself."

Charlie was stunned by her words. They were so accurate, and yet he didn't even know about any of it until the words had left her mouth. It was like every sentence had flicked on a light inside his mind. This whole business with his Cognitive Emergence Theory was indeed his strange way of working through his own shattered and tossed up emotions. It helped, he found. Whether or not it was the best way was debatable, he supposed. But for now, he just wanted to work. And Amita was offering at least a temporary out from this conversation.

"Thanks," he squeaked out, unable to say anything else.

Amita pulled Charlie into a hug, which he awkwardly returned. She pulled away after a few seconds, flashing him a small, sad smile before leaving him alone in the solarium.

Charlie couldn't ignore his hunger pangs anymore. He wasn't ready to have any serious conversations with anyone about anything, but maybe he could sneak down to the kitchen, grab a quick snack, and sneak back upstairs unnoticed. With any luck, Amita would be busy with something else, anything else. Maybe she wouldn't even know he'd come down.

He'd been avoiding everyone as much as possible the last day or so. Ever since his father had come home last night, wandered silently into the solarium, unnoticed by Charlie at first. His dad, true to his clever ways, had wordlessly pulled out his cell phone and begun dialing. He startled Charlie, telling the youngest Eppes out of the blue that there was someone on the phone who wanted to talk to him. Charlie had been just thrown enough that he couldn't think to turn his father down before the phone was placed in his hand. However, Charlie had figured it out before he brought the phone to his ear and promptly told his father that he couldn't possibly take a break now for a phone call, and handed the phone back. His dad had looked disappointed that his attempts had been thwarted, and had come clean with the obvious fact that it was Don on the phone. Charlie had pretended to ignore his father, insisting that he needed to return to his work.

The crushed look on his father's face was still stuck in his mind. Even now, Charlie wasn't quite sure exactly why he wouldn't even talk to his own brother on the phone - he just knew that he couldn't. His father had left the solarium wordlessly, presumably to explain to Don what Charlie had said. Charlie had then thrown himself back into his work, trying to forget what had just happened.

Charlie felt awkward each of the three or so times he'd run into anyone since then, unable to explain his own actions. He figured they were all angry with him for refusing to even talk to his brother, but he just . . . hadn't been able to.

He took the stairs one at a time, trying his best to remain silent. He had one clear advantage on his side—the fact that he'd lived in house for all but just a few years of his life. Thirty-some years spent here taught Charlie which parts of which steps squeaked the most, and where he should put his feet in order to avoid creating too much noise.

By the time he was halfway down the stairs, his feet were exposed to anyone who might be in the dining room. He crouched down, peering through the banister to make sure no one was seated at the large table. He was in the clear so far.

He rushed down the last half of the stairs, still going for quiet. He made it all the way to the swinging door to the kitchen and inside without incident.

Okay, now. What did he want? He'd become a little soured on turkey sandwiches after having puked one up five days ago. His father hadn't been home much recently other than in the late evenings and hadn't cooked, so there weren't any leftovers in the fridge. On a whim, he opened the freezer. Hmm. Frozen waffles. The people living in this house weren't usually the types to eat pre-packaged, frozen waffles, but then it hadn't been a normal last few weeks. Didn't seem like a bad idea, though. He pulled the box out, took two thin waffles out of the packaging, and plopped them in the toaster. He let his mind wander while he waited for his waffles to cook.

It occurred to Charlie all of a sudden that he hadn't seen or spoken to his brother in three weeks, not including the few minutes he'd seen Don's sick, unconscious form struggling to survive in the small, dark hospital room. Thinking about it, Charlie guessed the last time he'd ever gone that long without even speaking to his older brother, including the time he and Amita spent in England, was before their mother got sick. In all honesty, Charlie missed his brother.

The thought of actually going and seeing his brother put knots in his stomach. He had tried so hard not to think about how Don felt about him and what happened, ever since he'd talked to his father and subsequently thrown up in the toilet. And he'd been fairly successful, too, with the exception of maybe last night-but even then he'd done an okay job of blocking it all out. It was almost as if he couldn't quite get a handle on how he felt anymore. His previously strong and powerful emotions had faded quietly in the background, and Charlie just felt numb. It was almost as if he couldn't remember how to work up his feelings of guilt to the level they had been at five days ago.

That wasn't to say the guilt had left him entirely. Charlie had half-realized that it was still there, and it was still the core of all of his current problems.

Deep down, Charlie longed desperately to see Don, and talk to him. He secretly regretted not taking the phone call last night. But the fear of his older brother not forgiving him—his fear of his brother's rejection—had made the act of visiting Don in the hospital seem impossible.

And the longer Charlie went not visiting Don in the hospital, the more difficult it became to consider doing so.

Everything was so messed up, and Charlie was tired.

Pop.

The waffles were done, pulling Charlie from his thoughts. Before he reached the toaster, he stopped dead in his tracks at the creaking of the kitchen door being swung open.

"Charlie," his father's voice called from the doorway. "I'm surprised to see you down here."

"I was hungry," Charlie mumbled, barely above a whisper. "But now I don't know if I am anymore. You want these waffles?"

"No, thanks," his dad said. "Robin's out here though; she might want them. She was starving when we got here—you know, must be the whole eating-for-two thing, I guess."

Robin was here? That hadn't happened yet. From what Charlie gathered, Robin had spent all her time either at the hospital or at her and Don's place. He hadn't seen her since he'd been released from the hospital, either.

Wordlessly, he pulled the waffles out of the toaster, tossing them onto a plate and handed them to his father.

"Come out here with me, Charlie," his dad requested. "Come on, just for a minute. I want to talk to you, and I don't care what else you have to do. You're going to come out here and just listen, okay?"

His father started through the door, and Charlie rolled his eyes. Here we go again. He sighed, but he followed anyways.

"Hey, Charlie," Robin greeted with a smile that didn't reach her eyes at all. Dad set down the waffles, along with some maple syrup that Charlie hadn't seen him grab, in front of Robin. She smiled her thanks at him and started eating.

"Have a seat, Charlie," his dad said, watching him expectantly.

Charlie was confused. What was going on? Dad and Robin were here, forcing him to sit and talk to them. And where was Amita? He was sort of feeling a little ambushed. Was this an intervention?

Okay, that last question may have been a bit of an overreaction, but really. What are Dad and Robin up to?

"What's going on?" he asked tentatively, eyeing his father carefully.

"Charlie, I know you'll probably just insist you have work to do," his dad began. Here it comes. "But I'd really like you to reconsider coming down to the hospital. Amita and I have told you a million times already . . . but Don really wants to see you. He really does. I can't stress how much."

"No," Robin interrupted. "Actually, Charlie, Don needs to see you. He needs to be sure you're all right. We keep telling him that you're fine, but you know him, he needs to see for himself."

Charlie remained silent; he was unsure of how to respond.

"Charlie, you're not still feeling responsible for this, are you?" His father sounded genuinely concerned, but Charlie could detect a note of exhaustion there that he could relate to. "Come on, you have to see that there wasn't anything you could have done differently. And I've said this once already, but I'll say it again as many times as I have to. If it weren't for you, Don probably would have died. Okay? You saved his life."

Heaving a big sigh, Charlie looked down at his lap to play with his hands. All these things people kept telling him made so much logical sense—but it just did not fit at all with his own thinking. It was just so confusing. He wished he could make better sense of it all.

"Charlie." Charlie snapped his head up to find the source of the voice. It was Amita, who had randomly materialized in the doorway of the dining room.

"Charlie, come on, you're a mathematician," Amita was saying. "Look at all the data. The rain, the surface you were driving on and how fast it became too slick, the mass of the car, the angle of the turn you were taking. And so on. If we absolutely have to—if you don't believe us, we can get you this data, and you can work this out yourself. You couldn't have done anything differently to change the outcome of what happened."

He had to give her credit. She sure knew him extremely well. It was a little difficult to tell if she was being serious or if she was just trying to prove a point. But either way, he smiled a little.

"These are good waffles," Robin suddenly commented. "I mean, for toaster waffles, anyway. Charlie, I hope you don't feel like we're ambushing you. I just think there's something you don't quite understand, and I'd like to take a shot at explaining it to you."

Her cool demeanor made Charlie's head spin. His sister-in-law's words were delivered so matter-of-factly. It was as if once she'd casually complemented the waffles, an everyday subject, her tone had been stuck in everyday conversation mode. He was amazed; how was she so calm?

"I just—I want you to know something," she continued, probably once she realized Charlie wasn't going to verbally respond. "I don't really know myself how you've been. I mean, I haven't really seen you lately. But Alan and Amita have told me a lot—they said you've been feeling pretty bad about everything."

"I think I have pretty good reason to," Charlie snapped. He realized he wasn't being entirely fair, but he couldn't stop himself. "I know it was raining and I know the roads were wet and slippery, but it doesn't matter. And I know it could have happened to anyone, but it didn't! I was the one driving. And I mean, we all know that I'm not the greatest driver in the world. Something like this was bound to happen eventually."

And just like that, all the thoughts in Charlie's head were clear again, and he knew exactly where he stood again.

They all stared at him, stunned into silence. Robin, Dad, Amita. They all looked at him, unsure what to say next. Maybe he'd finally made them understand. Maybe he'd won this battle. Maybe they'd leave him alone to punish himself now.

But no, his dad broke the silence after a moment. "Charlie, you can sit there and tell us that all you want, but there is still one thing that doesn't change, son. And that's that Don does not blame you. He doesn't, okay? Now, Charlie, I love you, and I just want you to feel better about this and yourself, because I'm worried. It's been a difficult time to be a father, let me tell you. I've got one son who's locked himself in his own home, letting his guilt over something he shouldn't feel guilty about literally eat him up inside to the point where he can't listen to logic and reason despite the fact that he's a mathematician trained in logic and reason. Meanwhile, I've got another son stuck in the hospital who's suddenly found himself with a permanent physical handicap that's going to change his life. And he's wondering why his own brother hasn't even come to visit him in the nearly three weeks he's been there and frankly, I don't know what to tell him, because I wonder why, too."

"I'm sorry, Dad, I really am." Charlie couldn't stop the tears that were coming down now. It was like it was raining down his face again, just like in all the nightmares he'd had lately. "I just can't get it out of my head that it's my fault and that Don should blame me."

"Well, he doesn't," Robin jumped in. Previously she had been the epitome of calm and collected, but now she was close to tears as well. "He doesn't at all, no one does. If Don had been driving and you had ended up in the hospital, would you blame him?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Okay. No. You wouldn't," she interrupted, and Charlie felt as if he were being cross-examined by AUSA Robin Brooks instead of being persuaded by his sister-in-law. "And neither does Don. Charlie, do you realize what this is doing to him? I had this conversation with him the other day, and everything clicked in my head then. He's already so scared and frustrated that he doesn't even bother to hide it. Which we all know is not like him at all. He's emotional. And when he asked about you, I told him everything I knew, and he just seemed to crumple. Right there in front of me; I thought he was going to pass out."

Charlie hoped she realized how much this wasn't helping him. So far, he was just feeling top of everything else, he'd caused Don some extra emotional anguish.

"Don't you see, Charlie?" she continued after taking a moment to collect herself. "You blaming yourself so vehemently is making him feel worse about everything. You may feel like this is your fault, and that Don should blame you, but face it. He doesn't. He's feeling guilty too, although he won't admit it, because he feels responsible for you feeling like this." She laughed bitterly. "It's amazing how much alike you two really are. You have to go see him, Charlie. It's the only way to make yourself feel better. It's the only way to make Don feel better."

So much for clarity; Charlie's head was spinning again. With numbers, this time, quickly assigning values to his beliefs and weighing them against what Robin, his dad, and Amita were telling him.

He looked up, searching the desperate faces of his family. Their gazes were piercing. They were silent, except for the occasional watery sniffle from Robin. They were waiting for him to respond, to give them an answer. He felt himself panicking, panicking like he hadn't since his brother had been pinned by his totaled Prius.

His mind was flashing back and forth between the three people in front of him, and images of his brother's broken and bloodied body, eyes silently begging for his help. His breathing and heart rate quickened; he was floundering. Don was in trouble, and Charlie was the only one who could save him.

His family flinched when he slapped himself loudly on the forehead, bringing himself back to reality.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm so sorry. I need to fix this. Right now, let's go." Before he had a chance to even think about what he was doing, he abruptly rose from the table. His father, Amita, and Robin were right behind him as he made a bee-line towards the front door. The four of them left, leaving a half-eaten plate of waffles sitting abandoned on the dining room table.

TBC