Chapter 24

Alan chopped vegetables with a vengeance. He had thought that getting Charlie home would help him recover, not only physically, but emotionally, but if anything his son had seemed worse. Maybe it just appeared that way because the familiar surroundings of home emphasized how unfamiliar everything seemed. His older son seemed quiet, unsure, and uncomfortable every time he was here, and Charlie, well, Charlie was a shell of his former self. He had retreated to the garage, purportedly to work on his Cognitive Emergence theory.

At first, Alan was relieved that he was making the effort to work on anything, but as time went on, he realized that his son was using it as an escape. It had become an obsession, 'Just as bad as that P vs. NP stuff,' thought Alan in disgust. Charlie refused to come out for meals, picking at whatever Alan brought him in the way of food.

He was still weak and exhausted, and would stand at the boards for as long as he could, then retreat to the sofa. Even then he didn't always rest; he pecked away at his laptop, his face grim; the intensity in his eyes fraught with pain. More than once, Alan had come out to find Charlie passed out on the old sofa, overcome with exhaustion. Pushing himself like that could not be good. Alan vacillated between trying to give him his space and fussing over him like a mother hen; and neither appeared to be working.

Worst of all was the fact that his sons did not appear to be talking to each other. It was always Charlie that had seemed to hang on his brother's every word, every action, with hope in his eyes, anxious to please. In an incomprehensible reversal, it was now Don who was acting that way; and Charlie was ignoring him, closing himself off in chalk dust and equations. Every time he looked either one of his sons in the eye, Alan saw hurt and confusion. He didn't know whether to scream in frustration or cry, and there were times when he was alone that he did both. Tonight was going to be different, though.

That afternoon, he had decided that allowing Charlie to go on as he had been just wasn't the right course of action. He would make him socialize; interact with people, regardless of whether or not Charlie wanted to. Alan had no idea whether this would help matters or not, but he had to do something. Anything was better than this. Galvanized by his resolution, he had called Don at the office, and invited him and his team over for dinner. It was a Friday night; everyone could use a little R&R. A good dinner could cure a lot of ills, he told himself.

He hadn't told Charlie yet – he wanted to wait until they were close to being on their way over, and the food was prepared – until it would be too late to call it off. He glanced at the clock. It was about that time. Charlie needed a shower before they showed up.

He heard a noise at the door and glanced up. Speak of the devil. Charlie limped in, leaning on his cane, and headed to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. It wasn't until he turned that he noticed the huge salad his father was preparing, and saw the big basket of rolls on the table. He frowned, and before he could speak, Alan jumped in. "I invited Don and his team over for dinner." Charlie stared back at him speechless, a thundercloud growing on his face.

Alan glanced at him, his eyebrows raised. Charlie was wearing rumpled clothes from yesterday, and was sporting a day's worth of stubble and about a quart of chalk dust. "You'd better get a shower."

"They are not."

"What?"

Charlie was defiant. "They are not coming over. This is my house."

Alan pursed his lips. "I'm sorry," he said insincerely. "I should have asked you first. It's a little too late now, though. The food is made, they're on their way." He raised his eyebrows at his son and turned back to the salad, nonchalantly. "It won't kill you. Go get cleaned up."

Charlie stared at him. His father had been walking on eggshells around him for the past two weeks, catering to him, and this sudden change of attitude was disconcerting. He really didn't have a good argument, he realized. Scowling, he plunked his water down on the table, and limped toward the stairs. He would make an appearance, eat, and head back out to the garage. They could socialize all they wanted.

He was still upstairs when they arrived. Alan made sure everyone had a drink, and they gathered in the living room, chatting. Colby was in the middle of a story when Charlie appeared on the stairs, leaning on his cane. Colby broke off and beamed as Charlie hit the last step. "Hey Charlie, lookin' good!" He came over and gave him a hearty pat on the back as the rest of them gathered around, and Charlie lurched forward a step at the blow.

He did look better, thought Megan, but she wasn't sure she would classify it as good. There was nothing to him; he was painfully thin and pale, and most disconcerting, he hadn't lost that dead look of despair that she had seen in his eyes after the attack. She tried to hide the concern she felt and gave him a quick hug, which he tolerated but didn't return. He murmured polite greetings, but the vibe she got was distance – Charlie was putting as much emotional distance as he could between them. He didn't even acknowledge Don, she realized, and she saw the twinge of hurt on Don's face as Charlie limped past him. She was beginning to understand why Don hadn't talked to him.

Dinner seemed lively and relatively normal on the surface. Colby was always happy when food was part of the setting; he and David seemed to take Charlie's silence in stride, and carried a lot of the conversation, with help from Megan and Alan. Don jumped in occasionally, but he was quiet too, casting sideways glances at Charlie that his brother didn't return.

For Charlie, the meal was pure torture. It reminded him of happier times, when he thought he had friends, when he thought he had a relationship with his brother. The meal was delicious, he was sure, but the food stuck in his throat, and more than once he reached for his water glass as he felt tears of hurt and anger threaten, trying to swallow them before they started. It took a supreme effort to keep his composure, and as the meal drew to a close, he escaped to the kitchen with his plate, and headed out to the garage. He stood in front of a chalkboard, still fighting tears, watching the numbers swim in front of him.

The dining room fell awkwardly silent for a moment as they heard the door, and realized that Charlie wasn't coming back to join them. Alan came in carrying desert, trying to paste a smile on his face, and they started talking again, a little too loudly. Don sat silently for a moment.

This was the same behavior that had hurt him for the past two weeks. If he had been there alone, without his team, he would have just taken it. Still overwhelmed with guilt over bringing Charlie into the case to begin with, he felt he deserved it. His team didn't, however, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. They had, in the end, saved his brother's life, and Charlie was just being downright rude. His jaw set, he got up from the table to bring his own plate to the kitchen. The group fell silent for the second time as they heard the door, and they simultaneously buried their forks in dessert.

Charlie heard the door open, and cast a fleeting glance toward it. Don. He stiffened, pushing the tears back impatiently. He would not cry in front of him. What in the hell was he doing in here, anyway?

Don limped angrily out into the garage. His brother was standing in front of one of his infernal chalkboards, and Don stopped next to him. "What was that about?"

Charlie started as if he'd been slapped, but he didn't turn his head. He set his jaw resolutely. "What was what about?"

Don stared at him. The hurt and frustration that had simmered inside him for the last two weeks came bubbling up, translating themselves into fury. He controlled himself with an effort. "They came over here to see you. Oh, and there's the little fact that they rescued you. You can at least be civil."

Charlie's jaw worked. 'Rescued me? Yeah, after they got me into the situation to begin with. How naïve does Don think I am, anyway?' He shook his head in disbelief, his dark eyes flashing with anger and hurt.

Don saw the headshake, and mistaking it for a refusal, snapped. He grabbed Charlie by the arms and swung him around. "Look at me when I talk to you." Charlie winced, and looked up with a strange combination of misery and defiance in his eyes, and Don loosened his grip, but didn't let go.

"You can blame me all you want for bringing you into the case, but they don't deserve that."

"Why not?" Charlie shot back, anger and disgust in his face. "They were in on it too."

Don scowled impatiently. "In on what?"

"In on the plan." Charlie retorted as if he thought Don was dense, angry tears again threatening. "The plan to-," A lump rose in his throat; he couldn't finish.

Don stared at Charlie in confusion and slowly released his arms. "Charlie, what are you talking about? They weren't in on any plan. When we found out that you had gone off with Edgerton, I sent them after you."

It was Charlie's turn to look confused. "Sent -," he started to repeat. "But you wanted me to go, why -,"

"Wanted you to go!" Don's heart took strange dip, as if he was riding on a rollercoaster. Comprehension dawned on his face, and with it, anger. He grabbed Charlie's arms again, his eyes searching his brother's. "Charlie, what did Ian tell you?"

Charlie swallowed hard, and tried to fight back the persistent moisture in his eyes. He couldn't breathe. Why was Don doing this? His emotions were clouding his thought processes, and he looked up at Don in confusion. "About what?"

"Charlie!" Don almost shook him in frustration. "What did Ian tell you to get you to go with him?"

Charlie stared. "He said that you and he talked about it, that you needed me to go retrace my steps." He hung his head. "I said no at first, but then he said-," Charlie paused, staring at his feet.

"Said what?"

"He insinuated that you'd be disappointed. So I said I'd go." Charlie's face twisted with bitterness. "He didn't tell me that your plan included giving me to Mansour."

Don's stomach lurched. Charlie had gone out there because of him. Ian had lied to his brother; and Charlie thought all along it had been Don – "Oh God," he breathed. He shifted his grip on Charlie's arms. "Charlie, look at me."

Charlie raised his head, his face miserable, and Don spoke earnestly. "Charlie, Ian never talked to me about any of that. He lied, Charlie." Charlie stared at him, not comprehending, and Don continued urgently. "Think about it. He waited until we were out of the room, and he got you out of there before we got back. You don't think there was a reason for that? God, Charlie, I would never have sent you into that situation – how could you even think it-," Don's voice broke.

Charlie just stared for a moment, his thoughts whirling; a desperate desire to trust warring with suspicion, but as he looked into his brother's eyes and saw the earnestness, the anxiety, the hopefulness, Charlie realized that he was seeing truth. A gamut of emotions ran through him – comprehension, pain, relief, hope – and his face suddenly crumpled, as all of the pent up terror and despair of the past few weeks released. He put a hand up to his forehead, desperately trying to hide the tears that finally burst forth, his shoulders shaking.

Don saw him start to collapse and drew him to his chest, holding him, as tears of his own sprang to his eyes. The enormity of what his brother had been through hit him full force, and his gut clenched with something nameless.

He felt Charlie sag, and he pulled himself together and guided his brother over to the sofa. They sat; Charlie bent over his knees, his hand still over his face, struggling to get control of himself, Don with his arm around him. Eventually Charlie gasped, straightened a bit, and wiped at the tears on his face, too choked up to see his brother do the same thing.

Don gave his shoulders a light squeeze, and said gently, in a voice husky with emotion, "I've got a deal for you. You tell me your side of this, and I'll tell you mine. I think it's about time we cleared all of this up."

Several moments later, Alan opened the garage door a crack and peeked in. He was rewarded with the sight of his sons talking earnestly, Don with his arm around Charlie. He closed the door gently, and headed back out to the dining room. His words were contrite, but he couldn't wipe the smile from his face. "I have to apologize for my sons; they seem to be having a discussion about something. I have a feeling that this may be a while."

Megan had been feeling uncomfortable and tense since Don had left the table. She was the one who had recommended that they talk, but when Don left with such an angry look on his face, she had a bad feeling that the conversation was not going to go well. She caught Alan's smile with relief, and relaxed. David had no idea what was going on, but he picked up immediately on the suddenly lighter atmosphere, and smiled. "That's okay Mr. Eppes; I need to get going anyway. Dinner was great."

Colby left with David, but Megan volunteered to help with the dishes. It took a while to clean up, and before she left, she decided she would peek in on the brothers and say good-bye. She stepped out to the garage and opened the door a bit, but Don and Charlie were so deep in conversation, she thought better of it. Alan had come up behind her and peered over her shoulder for a moment; then they quietly shut the door. Megan caught Alan's eye and smiled. "Now that's more like it."

He smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners warmly. "It certainly is."

Hours after Megan left, Alan put down his paper, and glanced at the clock. It was much later than he realized, and the boys still had not come out. He rose and headed for the garage, intending to shoo them to bed, but when he opened the door, he caught himself. Don was lying with his head back on the sofa, his arm still around Charlie, and Charlie was slumped next to him, leaning on his brother, both of them fast asleep. Alan stood for a moment, savoring the sight, his eyes misting with tears of relief.

He shut the door quietly and headed into the house and upstairs to bed, with a satisfied smile, congratulating himself. There was no underestimating the power of a good dinner.

--------------------------------End Chapter 24---------------------------------------------------