The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.

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Chapter 12

Between the two of them, Don and Alan managed to get Charlie up the stairs after his dinner of half a nutritional drink and four crackers. They both lurked outside the bathroom, listening to hops and waiting for thumps, and then tag-teamed Charlie to bed. It was still early, and Don tried to stay and watch a movie with his Dad when they went back downstairs; Alan woke him when it was over, and it wasn't hard to convince him to stay the night.

He awoke in the morning, in his childhood bed, hearing sounds from that era. "Ow! Don't pull so hard! That hurts!"

"If you didn't insist on keeping your hair this long, it wouldn't be so difficult to get a comb through it, now, would it?"

"You're doing it wrong! Did you use conditioner?"

"Charles Edward, I emptied the bottle. Now keep your voice down. Your brother is still sleeping."

"Just let me do it. Give me the comb."

"If I can't do it with two hands and traction, what do you think you can do with one?"

Don rolled over and laughed into his pillow. He saw the clock as he turned over. 8 o'clock, and the two of them had been up early enough to find a way to wash Charlie's hair already? Don pushed himself out of bed and padded down the hall toward the bathroom.

"Dad, please. I'm not going anywhere, I just wanted it clean. Leave it the way it is."

"I swear, Charlie, why your mother liked your hair this way has always been completely beyond me. Did you whine like this when she used to help you?"

"I'm not whining," Charlie answered in a voice that obviously was. "My ankle hurts. I need to put my foot up."

Don was close enough now to see Charlie leaning precariously on his crutches while Alan stood behind him and tried to yank a comb through his wet hair. As soon as Charlie said that his ankle hurt, the comb froze. Alan looked at Charlie's reflection in the mirror, and the comb was tossed to the counter. "All-right." He saw Don take a position in the doorway. "Do you want to go downstairs?"

Charlie shook his head, and drops of water flew off and hit Don in the face. "Hey. I prefer taking my own shower."

Charlie tried to take a step with his crutches, and the left one skidded, flew out and crashed to the floor. Charlie started a slow spin with the other one, trying to maintain his balance. Alan and Don both reached out to grab him, but they were coming from two different directions and he wasn't prepared for that, either. He jerked away from Don, bounced off his father, and the second crutch skidded. Before anybody could stop the inevitable, Charlie had dropped his remaining lifeline, grabbed awkwardly for a counter he couldn't quite reach, touched his casted foot to the floor and jerked it back up again. It was an overbalancing move, and it tipped him over backwards into the bathtub.

Don heard the solid "thunk" of Charlie's head on the wall and grabbed onto the only thing he could still contact – Charlie's casted arm. He braced himself against his father and tried to slow his brother's descent. Eventually, Charlie reached the bottom of the tub, and Don felt his movement stop. He stood breathing heavily from exertion and fear, and locked eyes with Charlie.

"Son of a bitch," Charlie breathed. "Let go of my damn arm!"

He hadn't really realized until then that he had a hold of the broken one. As soon as he did, Don released it, quickly, and Charlie's arm flew back and conked him in the face. Charlie quickly covered his face with his good hand, and Don saw his shoulders shaking. "Shit, Buddy, I'm sorry." He leaned over the tub a little. "Are you all right? What hurts?"

Charlie lowered his hand, and Don saw that he was laughing. He sat in the tub, casted foot propped on the edge, holding his casted arm, a bruise already forming on his cheek, laughing so hard tears were running out his eyes. "Y-Y-You know what they say," he finally squeaked out, wiping his eyes and trying to breathe between the nearly hysterical waves of laughter. "80…oh, God…80 percent of accidents occur in the h-h-home!"

"Charlie, calm down," Don heard his father say, and just when he was about to relax, he figured out that this really could be hysterical laughter.

He sat on the edge of the tub. "Seriously, Chuck. Do an inventory. How's your head? I heard it hit the wall."

Charlie stopped laughing long enough to scream, "How's the WALL?" and erupted again in a fit of giggles.

Don looked at Alan. "Has he had any pain meds this morning?"

Alan looked worried. "Yes. I insisted that he drink one of those things and take two before I would wash his hair. I thought we'd be done before they really kicked in."

Don raised an eyebrow. "Two?"

His father became a little defensive. "The label says he can have two. And he had a restless night."

He had? Don had slept right through it.

"NIGHT!" yelled Charlie, capturing Don's attention again. He was still giggling, although now he had added hiccups to the mix. "There was a BLIGHT in my NIGHT, and it caused my father FRIGHT. Donnie."

A smile played around Don's mouth and he turned his head and spoke lowly to his father. "He's stoned. Let's get him out of there and pour him back into bed."

Alan didn't look convinced. "He could be hurt."

Don looked at the wall Charlie's head had hit. "I don't see any blood. The casts are intact. We can take him to the hospital and let them x-ray and CT scan everything again, but I really think he's okay. It wasn't that big a fall, and I had him most of the time." He looked back at Charlie, who was still hiccupping and giggling, although both had slowed down a little. His eyes were at half mast.

"Dad, Dad, Bo-Bad," he singsonged, groggily. "Donworee. Chuckie's bood." He suddenly sneezed violently. "I gean, mood."

"I knew I shouldn't have washed his hair," Alan mumbled, and somehow, Charlie's largely boneless body was hauled out of the tub. They didn't bother with crutches, but had him hop down the hall between them.

About halfway to his room, Charlie stopped and tried to take his arm from around Don's shoulder. "Gunna take a liddle nappie," he slurred, and Don held onto the wrist, glad he had thought to hang on in the first place. At least it was Charlie's good arm, this time.

"Not quite yet, Charlie," he said, and managed to get him moving again. Three minutes later he was safely in bed, lying in his favorite position on his side, smiling.

Alan stood over him, tucked him in securely and patted his wet head. "Good-night, son."

Charlie's eyes popped open. "Hey. Hey. DAD."

Alan smiled. "Yes, Charlie?"

Charlie grinned in sheer delight. "Affer my nap, will you wash my hairs?"

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They agreed that one of them would check on Charlie every half-hour. It turned out to be more like every 15 minutes. It was 2 before he showed signs of waking, and 2:15 before the jury came back in. He regarded Don silently through heavily-lidded eyes when he came through the bedroom door.

Don smiled and sat on the edge of the bed. He had brought a bottle of water with him, and he offered it to Charlie, then set it on the edge of the desk near the bed and started to help Charlie push himself up in bed. The younger man pulled away from him. "I can do it," he protested softly. It was difficult to watch him struggle, with one hand, but Don restrained himself and let him do it. He retrieved the water again, glad that Alan had thought to twist the top off for them, and had it waiting when Charlie finally leaned against the wall. His brother finally accepted it and drank almost half of it in one swallow.

"Hey, hey…" Don reached for the bottle. "Take it easy. I'll help you downstairs and you can have some lunch."

Charlie gave up the bottle but shook his head, then let it sink against the wall. "No, thanks. I think I'll just stay up here, today."

Don put the bottle on the desk again and frowned. "Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself in the bathtub this morning?"

Charlie looked at him, confused. "Bathtub? I can't take a bath."

Don grinned. "Remember asking Dad to wash your hair?"

Charlie automatically reached for it and smoothed curls that had dried in wild disarray. "Yes…it's a little fuzzy after he tried to get a comb through it."

"I'll bet. Short story – you fell. Does something hurt worse than it's supposed to?"

Charlie dropped his hand to his lap. "No."

Don searched for something else he could ask. "Good…I could help you to the bathroom?"

Charlie lifted his head again and looked away. "You don't have to do anything. You can go back to what you were doing."

Don reached out as if to touch Charlie, but dropped his hand at the last second. "Are you….angry with me, or something?"

Charlie looked back at him. "Of course not. Why?"

Don shrugged. "You don't seem real friendly right now, Charlie. And last night, what you said to me at dinner…it reminded me of the roof."

Charlie paled. "I don't remember."

"Which? Last night, or the roof?"

"Either one. I said something last night?"

This time Don did lightly touch Charlie's hand below the cast. "You said I criticize you all the time. On the roof, you said that no-one would help you, and that you didn't have time to do everything we all wanted. You talked about losing time. With Mom, and Amita." Don inhaled deeply. When he had come up here with water, he hadn't intended to talk to Charlie about the roof. He wasn't even sure Charlie was sober enough to remember this. He didn't know exactly how this conversation happened. He wasn't ready to stop it, either. "Charlie, you talked about being unable to solve things on time. Being too late for Mom, too late on the case… I never meant to make you feel like that. I know we don't always talk about the stuff we probably should. We never really talked about Mom. And after the case went bad…that night after work, the rest of the team and I got drunk. It was bad for us, too…it was bad for me. I lost myself in it, and I didn't even wonder how you were handling it. I'm sorry."

Charlie looked as if he might be sick. "I said all that?" He spoke in a small, unbelieving voice. "But…it was sleep deprivation. The doctor said…"

"The doctor said that's why you went off the roof, Charlie. Sleep deprivation led to a grandiose delusion, you thought you could fly. I believe that, I was there. What I don't want to believe is that I haven't been the brother I should have been. Not supporting you, guilting you to work on cases after you've told me you're busy, never coming out and telling you that I understand what happened, with Mom…"

Charlie's eyes widened. "You do?"

"I think so," Don answered. "I was never as angry about it as I tried to pretend I was. I was angry, all right – at a lot of things. I was angry that I hadn't moved home sooner. I was angry at Kim, for not coming with me. I was angry Mom was dying. I was angry that you and Dad had already been forced to watch that for almost two years.You were an easy target. I'm sorry."

Charlie had wrapped his arms around his stomach, and he was getting that shell-shocked look again. "I..I..." He turned away from Don again, and looked toward the window. "Can I be alone for a while?"

Don tensed. "You believe that I'm sorry, don't you? About everything?"

Charlie leaned his head against the wall again and closed his eyes. "I believe that."

Don waited for Charlie to say it was all right. That he was all right. That everything would be all right. It was almost five minutes before he decided that it was not going to happen, and walked sadly from the room.