A/N: unfortunately my brain had a bit of a hard time spitting this chapter out, so my appologies for the delay, and i hope you enjoy -- (and if this chapter seems too brief, keep in mind that there is plenty more to come)

-don't forget to review please-

Chapter 3 - Right Place, Wrong Time

Monday, May 16th - Six weeks earlier...

From the moment Charlie woke up, he had the distinct impression that it wasn't going to be a good day; the first thing he saw was the gray, dreary sky outside his window that spoke of rain on the verge of falling, which would probably fall on the bike ride to school, the first thing he smelt was the stench of burnt toast wafting up from the kitchen, and the first thing he felt was an unsettling nausea in the pit of his stomach, which the burnt smell was aggravating. With a low groan, he turned over in bed, using his left arm to boost himself up into a sitting position while his right arm wrapped itself around his stomach, willing it to calm down enough so that he could get out of bed without ruining his sheets.

When he was sure that his previous night's supper would stay where it belonged, he carefully swung his legs out from under his covers and planted his feet on the floor, slowly drawing himself up to stand and just as slowly getting dressed, eternally grateful that he wasn't going to have to call in sick; today was going to be the last day of preparations before summer finals, and he knew how much his students would like to squeeze in all of their last minute study questions, and would probably ask him to go over some of the review questions.

Once he'd collected his satchel and had secured his laptop inside, he headed downstairs clutching his stomach harder with each step he took downwards, the smell worsening. Just outside the kitchen, he had to stop and take several shaky breaths to ease the churning, already knowing that there was no way he was going to be grabbing breakfast that morning as he finally entered to see his father angrily sweeping two pieces of black toast into the trash can. He was filling a glass with water from the tap when Alan noticed him and gave a small smile.

"Good morning - sleep well?" Charlie nodded behind his glass, leaning up against the counter while he watched his father rinse the black crumbs off of his plate before returning to the open loaf of bread. He turned back towards Charlie after he'd deposited two more slices into the toaster, an eyebrow raised at the lack of breakfast being made, as well as at the hand that had found its way back to Charlie's stomach, rubbing small, careful circles. "Are you feeling okay?" Charlie frowned slightly, thinking for a moment.

"Yeah, it's not so bad now," he said, finishing off his water and depositing the glass in the sink. "I guess supper yesterday didn't sit too well with me."

"Or you could be coming down with the flu. Maybe you shouldn't be going to work today." Alan's suggestion earned him a dismissive wave.

"Really Dad, it's not that bad. It's not the flu, and it's definitely not worth missing today over; a lot of students will be depending on my being there for last minute help before finals - I'd have to be either crazy or heartless to skip out on them." When he exited into the hallway, he wasn't surprised that his father followed behind him.

"On the other hand, you won't be able to be of much help if you end up getting sick in the middle of a lesson," he said, giving him a pointed look as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned up against the hallway wall. "Can't you call in and get another teacher to fill in for you? I'm sure they'd be able to answer any questions that your students would ask." Charlie failed to hide an impatient sigh, slinging his bag over his shoulder and sliding into his shoes all on his way over to the door.

"I'm fine Dad. In fact, I'm already feeling better - there's hardly an excuse for me to go hunting for a teacher to replace me for the day," he assured, forcing a smile onto his face despite the still constant churning. In spite of its falseness, the smile seemed to convince Alan somewhat that he was indeed fit to be working, and Alan sighed in defeat.

"Alright Charlie, you win. Just don't hesitate to call me if it gets worse and you don't want to bike back - I've got the day off, so you'll be able to reach me here at home." Smiling again, this time with genuine gratitude, Charlie opened the front door, shivering slightly when a blast of cool wind met him full force, making him glad that he'd decided to wear his thicker suit jacket today.

"Thanks Dad, I will."

And with that he stepped outside, closing the door behind him. He walked quickly over to his bike, glancing up at the darkening sky and wishing fervently that his car wasn't still at the mechanic's as he climbed on and started down the street. Keeping his speed moderately slow, he was very careful to avoid as many potholes and cracks in the sidewalk as he could to avoid provoking his nausea any further, the result being that it took double the amount of time it normally would've taken him to bike to CalSci. Unfortunately, despite the extra precautions taken, he was still sweating and shaking slightly by the time his feet returned once more to solid ground and he secured his bike into the rack, the rain choosing right then to start up with a light drizzle.

With one final deep, shuddering breath, he strode into the Math building out of the bad weather, even managing to smile and return the greetings of students that bid him good-morning all along the path he took to get to his office/classroom, where his first class of the day would be held. He had just unpacked his laptop and was in the midst of organizing his lesson notes when there was a soft knock on the open door. Looking up, his expression brightened slightly when he saw who his early morning visitors were.

"Larry, Amita, come on in," he said, doing his best to cover up how poorly he was feeling as they accepted his invitation and entered, coming to stand beside him behind his desk, Amita leaning up against its edge. Apparently his best wasn't good enough, for when at last he looked back up at his friends, he could see concern in both of their expressions, and could hear it clearly in Amita's voice.

"Charlie, are you feeling all right? You look pretty pale," she said, to which Larry nodded his agreement.

"Indeed you look as though you're about to be sick, Charles. Perhaps you should return home? I'm sure we could find another professor to cover your classes for the day." Chuckling mirthlessly, Charlie continued the process of unpacking and organizing, shaking his head.

"Between you two and my father, it's a wonder I don't stay home every other week, with how often how I'm feeling could be qualified as feeling sick enough to be missing work." Smirking at him, Amita crossed her arms over her middle.

"With how little you deem yourself sick enough to stay home, I'm starting to wonder why the board even bothers to grant you sick days at all. You should talk with them, tell them to divide your sick time equally between those of us that will actually use it." Snorting at her comment, he looked up, about to voice a retort when he saw that the first students of his Advanced Mathematical Theory class were shuffling in, leading him to gently shoo his colleagues out the door.

"I'll meet you both for lunch?"

"Definitely - we'll see you here at noon," Amita assured, Larry agreeing quickly before jogging off down the hall as he remembered that his own class was due to start momentarily as well.

Returning to his desk, he finished his final preparations and began jotting down the beginnings of the lesson on the board, trusting his students to copy as he went. After another five minutes, he turned to face them, doing a head-count and glad to see that each of the twelve Math majors were in their seats. Deciding to leave the door open to keep fresh air coming in, Charlie turned back to the board to finish the equation he'd started, beginning to explain it as he wrote, once again feeling grateful to have such a small class first thing in the morning and being able to teach out of his office, for with how he was feeling right then, the last thing he would've been able to do was make his voice carry through a lecture hall.

He couldn't say for sure how far into the class it was before he vaguely heard a door slam far off down the hall, the sound of pounding footsteps echoing off of the walls as they rapidly drew nearer. Figuring that it was merely a late-arriving student on his way to a class that had already started, he continued speaking, thinking nothing of it until the pounding came to a halt outside his office, the sound of harsh, heavy breathing filtering in a second before the person darted in and slammed the door behind him. Quickly depositing the white-board marker in the tray, Charlie strode angrily over to the black-clad stranger, who had his left hand pressed up against the closed door, the other hand hanging at his side, hidden from view by the duffle bag that hung from his right shoulder. He approached him on his left side, reaching a hand out to grab his shoulder.

"Excuse me, what do you think you're do-" The second his hand touched his shoulder, the man's head whipped around to face him, the wild, glazed look in his eyes distracting Charlie from his other hand that shot up, the butt of the gun that was clutched in it striking Charlie sharply on the side of the head, abruptly cutting off his sentence, and sending him crashing unconscious to the floor.

--

His return to consciousness was gradual, and at first painless as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that while his lower half was definitely sprawled on the stiff carpet covering the floor, his shoulders and head seemed to be elevated, resting quite comfortably on a warm, softer surface; the second was that aside from one or two sniffles, the quiet shifting of someone behind him, and the heavy, erratic breathing off to his left, the room was dead silent, so much so that he began to wonder if whatever was going to happen had already happened, and he'd missed it while he was out. The third came to him when he finally tried to pry his eyes open, the fluorescent lighting directly above him pulling a low, tortured groan from his throat: his head felt like it was slowly being split in half, diagonally across his face from the top of his ear to the underside of his jaw.

"Hey, I think he's coming to!"

"Thank God..."

"Professor Eppes? Are you with us now?" The whispered question came from directly above him, the female voice equal parts concerned and scared. Despite the tone, Charlie found himself tempted by the idea of sinking back into unawareness, all too tempting in its offer of reprise from the intense pain coming from what he had pinpointed as some sort of wound on the side of his head. However, it seemed as though he wasn't going to be allowed to accept that offer as gentle hands carefully shook his shoulders. "Professor Eppes? If you can hear me open your eyes... wake up, please, we need you to be awake."

Deciding that there was no way he would ignore such a plea, Charlie slowly, painstakingly opened his eyes to slits, groaning again quietly as the blurry, upside-down view of the young woman's face doubled, the two images sliding periodically together and back apart, reminding him sharply of his earlier situation as the nausea returned and went into overdrive. His gut clenched and his eyes squeezed shut with dread as spasms rippled through his stomach and throat muscles, bringing bile up to the back of his mouth, and pulling a strangled whimper past his lips.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Shit, he's gonna be sick - turn him on his side, quick! Do it guys, before he chokes!"

He could've cried with the gratitude he felt towards that student, whose name currently eluded him, except that right then all of his energy and attention was diverted to keeping his face off the ground and to the act of emptying his stomach until he was plagued by dry heaves, followed closely by hoarse, grating coughs that thankfully lasted little more than ten seconds. When at last it was over, his eyelids slid open again and he squinted at the mess beside his face, monumentally glad that last night's dinner had apparently already passed through his system, so he and the others wouldn't be forced to see it instead of just bile. All the same, he wanted desperately to put some distance between it and himself, and so shakily rolled over onto his other side, wrapping his arms loosely around his stomach as he curled into a loose ball, releasing a faint moan.

"Feeling any better Professor?" Slowly, he turned his head so that he could look up at the woman whose lap he had been replaced in, realizing once his vision finally cleared that it was in fact Tina Willows, her delicate features now scrunched with worry. For her sake, as well as the others', he forced a weak half-smile.

"A little," he rasped, swallowing hard in an effort to get rid of some of the residual burning. "Thanks, by the way - a two-percent credit is going to whoever it was that saw what was happening." His miniscule attempt at humor had the desired effect, and a quiet wave of nervous laughter met his ears.

"That would be me Professor," came a voice from behind Tina. Charlie didn't have to see him to know the voice belonged to Gary Hoskins, the sixteen-year-old scholarship student to whom he was rapidly becoming a mentor, much like Larry had become for him when he'd first started at Princeton.

Any further attempt at levity was obliterated when a voice sounded outside, clearly being magnified by a megaphone.

"Tony Prail - this is the LAPD! We have the building completely surrounded! Throw down your weapon, and come out with your hands behind your head!" Charlie frowned as he glanced back up at Tina.

"How long have I been out?" Whispering was only making the burning in his throat increase, but he found he would much rather the extra discomfort than risk drawing the attention of Prail who was sitting with his back facing them on the other side of Charlie's desk, rocking back and forth, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath while his fingers compulsively flexed their grip on his handgun.

"About five minutes, give or take a few minutes - it was for however long it took for the other classes to be evacuated. I can't say I'm surprised you took so long to regain consciousness," she responded, and Charlie winced slightly as he felt a cool fingertip gently prod close to the source of his pain. "He hit you so hard... we were all scared he'd cracked your skull or something, with how much it bled." The genuine fear behind her words, as well as the nervous murmurs of agreement from the others encouraged Charlie to push aside the residual queasiness, solid determination springing up within him as he reminded himself that head-wound or not, he was the oldest adult in the group, their teacher, and it was up to him to be the strong one, to take charge of keeping the calm in their group until they could get out of there and to safety.

When he suddenly pushed himself up into a sitting position on the floor, Tina jerked with surprise, then moved to catch him as he swayed dangerously on his knees, almost falling back to the ground as the room dipped, blurred and dimmed around him. Accepting their support, he stiffly moved to sit cross-legged in front of the other twelve, purposely placing himself directly between Prail and his students, an action that did not go unnoticed by his silent audience. Once he was sure he wasn't going to fall over, Charlie raised a hand to carefully examine the damage, scrunching his eyes shut as he accidentally scraped the semi-deep, inch-long gash just bellow his hairline at his temple. Pulling the hand back, he saw that his fingertips were indeed stained a deep crimson, and he suddenly became aware of the feel of a itchy stickiness trailing all the way down the side of his face. He looked up to find that he was once again under the concerned and fearful scrutiny of twelve pairs of wide eyes. He quickly scrubbed his fingers clean on his jeans, flashing a small, hopefully reassuring smile.

"Nothing to worry about - head wounds always look worse than they actually are; no doubt I have a sizable concussion, but nothing at all life-threatening. I'll be fine." His whispered assurances had the desired effect and he watched as a small portion of tension eased out of their expressions and their body language.

Mission successful, he thought to himself. It certainly wasn't a lie either - I will be fine, once I've been to the hospital to get a few stitches. Yep, he'd be just fine... 'be' being the operative word, for at that moment he felt anything but fine, feeling as though he were sitting on the deck of a boat on the ocean in the middle of a storm, having to constantly refrain from tipping and tilting with how off-balance his body felt, while the throbbing in his head reached a crescendo. He was relieved to see that his vision still remained clear though, thereby allowing him to occasionally glance over and keep track of Prail's position relative to their spot on the floor, praying silently that he would keep his distance until the cavalry could jump in and save the day, which would hopefully be soon, quite possibly could be. After all, it had been a few minutes already since the megaphone voice had quieted - maybe the SWAT teams were already out there, preparing to execute whichever master plan that would end this before it really began.

The fuzzier, less organized half of Charlie's thoughts, the half that was borne of his recent blow to the head, decided to jump in with the first topic that came to mind.

Here's hoping that's the case - I don't want to miss my lunch date now, do I?

TBC