Mind Games

Chapter 48

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks so much to my reviewers.

Don took up his post again after dinner, leaning against the wall on the edge of the living room, studying Charlie. Something had changed since yesterday; Charlie was nervous, fidgeting; he wouldn't make eye contact with him. At first, Don had thought his brother was just a bit stir-crazy from being housebound, but as the evening went on, he had become convinced that something was wrong – and whatever it was, it had to do with him.

He could tell by the places that Charlie directed his gaze – or more to the point, where he didn't. Charlie had no problem looking at the others in the room, but refused to look at Don for more than a few seconds, his gaze darting away like a manic hummingbird whenever they made eye contact. The odd part was; Don himself had felt more comfortable there that evening than ever. He'd slept relatively soundly the night before, and had only dreamt once of Charlie. It was a dream that now reoccurred every night – one that featured Charlie running, and Don pursuing him. Don still wasn't sure of its significance but it was relatively benign, so he tried not to dwell on it too much. Now, here tonight, he was seeing that dream realized; Charlie was running from him - at least as much as he could in the confines of the house. He refused to make eye contact, and refused to sit still. Don watched as he paced away from him toward the dining room, so intent on observing his brother that he didn't notice Amita's approach until she sidled up next to him.

Her eyes were on Charlie too, as she spoke. "So, what's going on?" she asked softly.

She shot him a questioning glance, and his gaze darted towards her as he tried to get a quick read of her expression. "What do you mean?"

He left the question hanging and directed his eyes back toward his brother, watching as Charlie turned and ambled toward far end of the living room. Wilkes was watching Charlie, too, Don noticed, and so was Ian; their sharp eyes missed nothing. The rest of the group was scattered about the room in chairs, engaged in casual conversations.

"Even Larry noticed," she said. "You and Charlie both seem on edge, and -,"

She was still talking, but the rest of her words trailed off into the background as Don saw Charlie turn. Something – the slight sharp quick crackle of a window being pierced by a round, the faint puff of the bit of sheer drapery, the almost immediate thunk of a bullet burying itself in a wall… It was so fast, and was so overridden by the other sights and sounds in the room that Don almost missed it, and wasn't sure that he'd really seen and heard it. His feet had started to move toward Charlie, however, who had stopped in his tracks with a confused look on his face. He'd heard the sound too, and so had Ian, his head snapping up as he sat erect in his seat, his gaze fixed on the far side of the living room, and on Charlie.

Several things happened in the next few seconds. Amita trailed off in confusion as Don moved suddenly away from her. Ian had risen to his feet, and Don heard him say, "Charlie!" just as the second round came through. This one shattered glass; a piece of the already-cracked picture window gave way. Charlie had seen Don coming toward him; his eyes widened with fear – not of the real threat, which he hadn't realized was there, yet – but of Don himself. Ironically, that fear saved him, because as the second bullet came through, Charlie had already turned away from Don, as if to run. It creased the back collar of his shirt; Don could see the fabric tear right in front of his eyes as the bullet passed between them, as he dove for Charlie, driving him hard to the floor behind the sofa.

The second bullet and the breaking glass caught the attention of the men outside stationed in the shrubs, and immediately pandemonium broke loose. The front door burst open, and men in assault gear poured into the room as the other agents sprang to their feet. Amita shrieked in fear as Larry and Alan stared in shock at the spectacle. Don could feel Charlie struggling underneath him, writhing in panic, but he wasn't about to let him up, back into the gunman's line of sight. Charlie fought with strength imbued by terror, however; and he managed to twist in Don's grip, turning underneath him so that he faced him, and tried to push Don off with his arms. His breath was coming in gasps, and Don's heart contracted at the look in his eyes – wild, deranged with fear.

"Get off him!" Wilkes' voice cut through the din, and Don could feel hands pulling at him, dragging him off Charlie, who now free, scuttled backwards on all fours like a crab, stopping two yards away against the wall, his terror-filled eyes still riveted on Don, his chest heaving. Don was pulled to his feet, and he jerked his arm angrily out of Wilkes' hands. "He was being shot at, asshole!" he snapped at Wilkes, and he jabbed a finger at the window, where the torn sheer drapery fluttered in the breeze.

The members of the protection unit were already filing back out through the door at a run, and shouted commands could be heard from outside as the men dispersed through the neighborhood, looking for the sniper. The room fell silent, and Don felt every eye on him, appraising, judging. It was suddenly, harshly clear that none of the people in the room trusted him yet, with the exception of Larry and Amita, who didn't know what he'd done. Don could tell by the looks on their faces. Not Colby, not David. Charlie, least of all. He was sitting, backed up against the living room wall, staring at Don as if in some kind of trance, fear still naked on his face.

Amita's voice broke the silence, tremulous and plaintive. "Will someone here please tell me what's going on?"

Charlie sank shakily onto the sofa, which had been pulled to the side of the room away from the picture window, and took a deep breath. As Wilkes and Colby had helped him to his feet, he'd come slowly, gradually back into the present, out of the nightmarish flashback that had possessed him when he saw Don coming for him across the room. He hadn't even been aware he'd been shot at, at first, until Wilkes murmured in his ear, gently explaining the situation. Wilkes knew somehow that Charlie had been too disoriented to understand what had happened, and as he helped Colby guide Charlie to the sofa, Wilkes said softly, "It's all right. Someone took a shot at you, and Don pulled you down out of the line of fire. Take some deep breaths; relax. Your brother just saved your life."

The others were dragging furniture in a tight group across the floor - that part of the room had no windows and the rest of them were congregating there. Someone had doused the light near the shattered window, plunging that side of the room in darkness. Charlie could see Larry across the room, blinking at him owlishly; one hand plastered to his cheek, and Amita sank onto the sofa beside him, her face filled with fear, confusion, and concern. Alan stood over her shoulder, his expression a mirror of Amita's. "Are you okay?" Amita asked, putting an arm around Charlie and peering into his face.

Charlie nodded. "Yeah." His voice came out sounding cracked, rusty, and he cleared his throat and patted her free hand with what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. "I'm fine."

Masters came striding across the room toward them, snapping his cell phone shut. "I just talked to the Director," he said brusquely. "I briefed him on what happened and he gave us the go-ahead to give the basic facts to Doctors Ramanujan and Fleinhardt." He emphasized the words 'basic facts,' and looked directly at Charlie. "They might as well hear it from you, professor. You were the one who wanted to tell them to begin with. Although I'm not so sure about your judgment anymore – you were also the one who thought that there was no more threat. I guess tonight answered that question."

He sounded angry, sarcastic, and as Amita and Larry swung bewildered faces toward Masters, Brian Rogan spoke up, looking at Charlie. "Don't pay any attention to Bill. He gets cranky when he gets worried."

Masters shot him a nasty look, but Rogan's statement broke some of the tension in the room. Charlie could see Ian, Colby, and David all trying to stifle a grin. His eyes passed over their faces and came to rest on Don, who was sitting silently across the room, his body still taut. Don wasn't smiling; he looked upset, and Charlie saw him run a hand through his hair; something he usually only did when stressed. Charlie could feel his heart rate start to accelerate, and he looked away again, quickly, before panic could set in again.

He really wished that Masters would do the speaking; he was still rattled, but the rest of them were all watching him, waiting for him to begin, so he looked at Amita and Larry. "Don and I weren't at Quantico in a class," he said. His voice still sounded shaky, and he cleared his throat again, and tried to speak more steadily. "We were on an undercover assignment. We verified what we were assigned to discover, with the exception of the identity of one of the people involved." He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. He didn't want to tell them more than they needed to know – the less they knew, the safer they would remain. "I can identify that person, and he's still at large, so they put Don and me under protective surveillance. We went to Washington to testify against the rest of the group, but there's – obviously – still a threat from that unknown man. We hadn't seen any sign of him until tonight, and I thought the threat was over." Charlie's gaze flitted uncomfortably to Masters. "I guess I was wrong."

Amita was frowning, her forehead puckered. "And the scars I saw on your chest? Was there really an accident, or was that a story, too?" Charlie could hear the ring of betrayal in her voice.

He looked at her, steadily. "No, there really was an accident." He broke off, and looked at Rogan and Masters helplessly. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Don's face. Don looked miserable, and Charlie realized that he was anticipating Larry and Amita's reactions when Charlie told them what really happened. For the first time that night, Charlie felt something other than fear as he looked at his brother; his heart twisted in sympathy. 'There's no reason for them to know,' he thought to himself. The room was silent; everyone else there knew the truth, and were waiting to hear what Charlie would tell her. He looked back at Amita, who was eyeing him dubiously.

"There was an accident," he repeated. "We were being extracted, and they tried to run us off the road. Don was hurt – he – had a concussion, but I wasn't. I was attacked later – it, uh -," he paused, and saw Don close his eyes. "I was stabbed." There, he'd said it, without incriminating Don. A look of horror came over Amita's face.

"Charlie!" she breathed, and Charlie heard Larry murmur something unintelligible, distress in his voice.

Charlie swallowed. "I'm fine, okay? It's over." He looked at Don as he said the last two words and saw that his brother's eyes were open again, filled with gratitude that seeped through something darker. Charlie tore his gaze away again – he still couldn't fight back the unreasonable fear that if he made eye contact, Don would come for him again, would lunge at him from the chair across the room. He'd lied again, he knew, as he felt Amita's arms come around him. This was far from over.

Bill Masters accompanied Don back to his apartment, trailing him up the stairs. There had been an extra man with them, one of the protective detail as a precaution tonight, and he was waiting out in Master's vehicle. Everyone was on high alert now. They'd already boarded up the front window of the Craftsman, and Colby and David had escorted Amita and Larry home. Ian Edgerton had slipped out into the darkness with a few members of the protection detail, looking for the sniper. It hadn't taken them long to determine where he'd taken his shot from, and that he was long gone. The detail had converged back on the house, and tightened up their ring around the grounds. Masters and Rogan had wanted Don to stay there so they didn't have to split up security resources, but Don knew he needed to get out of there – for Charlie's sake, and his own. His own limits had been sorely strained by the excitement and emotion of the night; and it had become apparent to him that Charlie had also reached some kind of limit – had cracked somehow, and it was just as clear that Don was the cause.

So he'd insisted on coming back to his apartment, and had sat silently in Masters' SUV in a suffocating envelope of isolation on the way there. Granted, Charlie hadn't told Larry and Amita the full truth; they didn't know how close Charlie had come to dying, and they didn't know that Don had been the one who had almost sent him there. Don was grateful for that, but really, it didn't matter that Charlie hadn't told them – Don could see their horrified reactions in his mind, just as clearly as if they had been told. He knew exactly how they would look if they knew, could imagine the shock, the revulsion on their faces. It didn't matter, because Don knew the stark, horrible truth.

The worst part of all of it was he didn't see any way out. Even if he got himself back to normal, it wouldn't make any difference if they took Charlie away and put him into witness protection. Plus, if they didn't catch the man, Don would be stuck with the wiring in his head – stuck because he'd impose that on himself. He wouldn't let them remove it as long as he thought that the man might try to contact him, as long as he thought there might be a way to get to the unknown threat, and give Charlie his freedom back. Finding that man was the only way out, and finding him didn't seem very likely at the moment. As he climbed the stairs, his legs felt like lead; the fluorescent lighting made the stairwell look cold, bleak, ugly.

He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping aside to let out the agent who was watching his apartment. The man jumped up guiltily from the sofa, fumbling for the remote and hastily turning off the television before he ducked out through the doorway. Don turned and gave Masters a nod, and Bill said, quietly, "I'll have a man at the bottom of the stairs, and another in your hallway tonight. I'll be outside. We're meeting at your brother's house at eight, remember – I'll pick you up at seven-thirty. See you in the morning."

Don watched them turn for the stairwell, then slowly entered his apartment, and closed and locked the door. He started to cross the room, but stopped as he saw the package on his coffee table. The guard in his apartment should have told him it came, but the man was so flustered when they caught him watching television, it probably had slipped his mind. A whisper of foreboding drifted through Don, as he stepped over to the coffee table. He hadn't ordered anything recently; there was no good explanation for the package. He bent over for a closer look, and then he felt it – an almost imperceptible sensation, odd, yet familiar, in his head. It was followed, as he almost knew it would be, by words.

'Pick up the package, and open it.'

The voice in his head was back.

End Chapter 48

A/N: Out of the frying pan, into the fire…