The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.

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Chapter 11

Don helped Alan get Charlie home the next morning, when he was released, and hung around the house most of the day, since he was on medical leave himself. There was an undeniable, deep comfort in lying around in the recliner, watching Charlie propped on the couch, while their father "Jewish-mothered" them both nearly into oblivion. It was almost like when they were kids, and they both had the flu at the same time. Their mother had a case in court that week, so Alan had stayed home to take care of them. Every dish of gelatin and mug of soup that Alan pulled out of thin air, every cool glass of water, every handful of pills, even – it all felt like home, and made Don believe that everything would be all right as long as they were together.

Charlie slept most of the day, but Don worked on the book he had purchased in the hospital gift shop for a while, then made a few quiet phone calls before he, too, was down for the count. He awoke around 4 because the doorbell was ringing – although Charlie slept blissfully on. Before Don could fight his way out from under the blanket Alan had covered him with while he slept, his father was out of the kitchen and halfway to the front door. He returned with Larry and one of Charlie's T.A.s. They had gone through Charlie's office and gathered up anything that looked like it might be remotely important, and they each placed a large box on the dining room table. Larry introduced the student as Matthew, and he smiled shyly and said that he would go to the car for "the rest of it".

Don was up by now, and he wandered into the dining room and looked at the large boxes. "There's more?", he asked Larry.

The physicist placed his hand on one box. "Oh, yes. This one alone are the term papers submitted last week, according to Matthew." He pawed through a few of the papers on the top. "Of course, these are the hard copies. Many students submit their work in some form of computerized format as well, now, which is why we brought nearly ten pounds of assorted disks with us."

Matthew, effectively blind behind two stacked boxes, bumped into Don, who turned and guided him to the table. The student dropped the boxes. "I'm so sorry," he started, but Don waved him off.

"No problem," he said. "There really is an enormous amount of work, here."

Larry jingled his keys. "Yes. Finals approach, as you know. Besides term papers, there are regular assignments and tests. I included Charles' laptop, of course, and his back-up disks…he also asked me to bring both Dr. Haven's paper and my own. I believe there's also some Cognitive Emergence work in here. At least his final exams are already written and submitted to the Division secretary. I asked."

Alan crossed his arms and looked at Larry. "They can't expect him to do all this work. He just…had surgery."

Larry tried to reassure him. "His students understand that this semester's grades will be a little later than usual. We had to approve graduation applications a month ago, so there's really no rush even to complete the seniors' work. Please remind Charles that he doesn't have to stick to the usual schedule on this. A few hours a day, at most. When I am able, I will be happy to come and assist, if I can."

Alan didn't look much happier, but he invited them for dinner anyway. Larry smiled and thanked him, but claimed he had to get Matthew back to campus for a student council meeting. He glanced toward the couch, where Charlie was still dead to the world. "I had rather hoped to say hello to Charles, but I can see that will have to wait."

Alan shuffled a little, uncomfortably. "Yes, well. He has been sleeping a lot, today. I may have told him a pain pill was an antibiotic."

Don looked at his father in shock. "You lied to him?" Another thought shocked him more. "Me, too? Is that why I feel asleep?"

Alan frowned. "No, of course not. I told you I was giving you some aspirin, and that's what it was. And I did give Charlie his antibiotic. I think he must have at least suspected the other one was for pain. The fact that he let me get away with it tells me he needed it."

It was true that there was so much activity at the hospital yesterday that Charlie didn't get to sleep as much as he wanted. It was also true that he had been lying on the couch in basically the same position for almost four hours, and it was going to hurt like a bitch when he did wake up. "Yeah, well, just don't get used to it," Don mumbled, dreading the awakening.

It came fifteen minutes after Larry and Matthew left. Don was back at his book, Alan was in the kitchen working on dinner, and Charlie was apparently in hell. He shifted on the couch and groaned. He shifted and moaned. He shifted again, and sighed. Don finally looked up from the book to see liquid brown eyes pathetically staring at him. "I can't seem to move," Charlie informed him. "Did Dad staple me to the couch?"

Don grinned and got out of the chair. He hooked his good arm around Charlie's good arm and pulled him up into a sitting position. "St-Stop now," Charlie breathed, and Don let go and watched him close his eyes and convulse his hand on the pillow. Presently, he opened his eyes again and attempted a smile. "Okay. Crutches. Please."

Don leaned over and picked them up off the floor. "Where we going?" He hooked arms with Charlie again and pulled him to a more-or-less standing position, helping his brother arrange the crutches.

Charlie looked around, blinking. "I don't know. I just don't want to lay there anymore." He saw the boxes on the dining room table. "What's that?"

"Stuff from your office. Larry and….Matthew, they brought it. Papers and tests and disks and computers. And one kitten. I saw a kitten in there."

Charlie peered at him from under his hair. "Very funny. Let's go there. I'll sit at the table for a while."

"Okay," Don agreed, stepping to the side. He thought it was too soon for Charlie to be thinking about work, but it was almost time for dinner anyway. Might as well go to the table. Charlie started out a little wobbly, and Don almost called his father, but he grabbed the waistband on Charlie's sweats and hung on, and they made it to the dining room without incident. After he had helped Charlie lower into a chair, Don took one on the opposite side of the table. Charlie started to raise a hand toward his forehead. "Leave it alone," Don warned.

Charlie glared at him, but dropped his hand. "Itches," he sulked, and dragged one of the boxes a little closer. He brought out a fistful of papers and laid them on the table in front of him. The he leaned over and looked at the rest of the contents of the box. He turned his attention back to the papers on the table. He spent about a minute looking at the first one, and then awkwardly thumbed through them all with his good hand while he held the stack in place with his casted arm. Finally, he looked up at Don. His eyes looked sad, and a little frightened. "I can't do this."

Don stood and started for the other side of the table. "Of course you can't," he agreed. "No-one expects you to." He started moving boxes from the table to the floor, shoving them in the corner behind the hutch. "Not today, certainly. Larry said to remind you there is no rush on any of this." He scooped the papers Charlie had taken back into the box they came from, and moved it with the others. He stood behind Charlie and let his hand rest on one of his brother's shoulders. "Dad drugged you, you know. That's probably why it's hard to concentrate."

He heard a small chuckle escape Charlie. "I know. I think it was the big 'Vicodin' on the pill that gave it away."

The swinging door to the kitchen opened and Alan poked his head out. "Oh. Good. You're both awake and at the table. Don, can you help me bring some things out?"

Fifteen minutes later, Alan sat and watched Charlie pretend to eat. He was a little disappointed. He had made an old recipe of Margaret's, what each of the boys always asked for when he needed some comfort food. It was a chicken-noodle casserole. Simple, but usually popular. Alan looked at Don. At least he seemed to be enjoying it. He looked back at Charlie. "Is there a problem, son?"

Charlie jerked his head up, guilt and despair hitting Alan like a hammer. He loaded up his fork. "I'm eating. I'll eat, Dad. Don't be angry, I'm sorry… It's good. I'm sure it's good."

Don was a little surprised at the frantic outburst, and from his angle, he could see the fear in Charlie's eyes again. He tried to intervene. "It's a rich dish, Dad. Maybe it's too much?"

Alan groaned and reached across the table to stop Charlie's hand, halfway to his mouth. "Of course. I'm sorry, Charlie, I didn't think. I could heat up some of the soup you had for lunch…or, or…I got some of those drinks, like you had in the hospital."

The fork and Charlie's eyes both dropped. "One of those would be fine, thank-you. Maybe some crackers?"

Alan stood and took Charlie's plate. "Not a problem." Charlie's demeanor concerned him a little. "Don't fret son, this was my mistake. I should have realized your stomach wasn't quite ready for something so heavy." Charlie just shrugged silently, still looking at the table. Alan exchanged a look with Don on his way back to the kitchen.

While he was gone, Don watched Charlie. He speared a chunk of chicken. "You should have given that to me. I would have eaten it."

Charlie lifted his head and his eyes sparked when he looked at Don. He spoke sharply. "Could you just not criticize every last thing I do? Is that too much to ask? Or am I so horrible the opportunities are just too endless?"

Shocked, Don barely managed to swallow. He quietly released his fork onto his plate and stared at Charlie. "I-I'm not. I was kidding. And no, you're not horrible. Have I done something to make you feel that way?"

Charlie looked away, good hand rubbing at his temple. "I have a headache," he said, not really responding to the question. "I'm tired. Why am I tired? I just got up."

Don wasn't sure if he was still in trouble or not. He decided to risk another opinion. "You just got out of the hospital this morning, Charlie. You'll feel better tomorrow." He watched Charlie's eyes close, watched as Charlie massaged his temple, and hoped that he was right.