Mind Games
Chapter 62
See Chapter 1 for disclaimer
A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, all.
Late that afternoon, Don sat silently in his hospital bed, upright, leaning against it for support; he didn't feel like reclining it and lying down. He didn't feel like sitting there either, for that matter – he wanted to jump up, run upstairs, do something. Instead, he just sat in his room while Charlie lay dying, unable to be with him, because his very presence seemed to torture his brother.
His peripheral vision caught movement, and Robin stepped into the room. She had a slight smile on her face, but it was sad and anxious, and he realized that she knew about Charlie's condition. Everyone had known but him, apparently. Everyone but the knife-wielding monster who'd cut him those weeks ago, and set him up for the infection that was claiming his life. He'd assumed that his father hadn't told him about Charlie's condition because he wanted him to go through with his surgery, but maybe it was because Alan didn't want him there. Maybe he blamed him – maybe his father would hate him for this. It would be perfectly understandable – Don hated himself.
"How are you feeling?" Robin asked him gently, and he shrugged.
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." Her smile twisted ruefully. "I stopped upstairs – your father said you'd been up to see him."
"For a little while." Don couldn't keep the pain, the bitterness out of his face. "He heard my voice and started to freak out. They chased me out of there."
Robin frowned, and her eyes flashed. "He's been delirious since yesterday. How do they know it was your voice that triggered his response? And even if it was, you have a right to be there."
Don shook his head. "You didn't see him. Why would I put him through that?"
"Because he listens to you, he always has. You need to spend some time with him, Don – if the worst happens, you'll regret it if you don't. And you may be able to get him through this. No matter what he feels or remembers when he hears your voice, he has a tendency to do what you ask him."
Don grimaced. "Yeah, like he listened to me when he took this assignment. I told him it was a bad idea, and he decided to do it anyway."
Her voice softened persuasively. "And how much of his rationale for taking it was trying to impress you, or maybe just spend time on something with you – on something really significant? You told him it was a bad idea – did you ever tell him specifically not to go?"
"I didn't order him not to, if that's what you mean," replied Don wearily. "It wasn't my place to do that."
"You order him around enough when it comes to your cases," Robin said wryly.
"That's because they're my cases, and he's a team member when he's working on them."
"But he's still your brother; he could tell you to stuff it, but he doesn't. Have you ever stopped to think about that?" she asked gently. "He may be stubborn, and he may not follow your direction all the time, but I'm telling you, he listens to you when you ask him to do something. You hold more power over him than you think – and I think you should use that, here. Get up there and talk to him, order him to fight. Be there with him."
Don said nothing, just shook his head.
Her voice rose. "Since when do you give up so easily? Is that what you really want - to sit here and not try?" She waited for a moment, but he didn't reply, and a look of disappointment settled on her face. "Fine, if that's what you want to do." She turned and began to walk toward the door.
"Wait." She stopped and turned to face him and Don looked at her, his expression filled with doubt, but he said, "Get the nurse to have an orderly bring my wheelchair."
Alan raised his head wearily at the movement in the hallway, and stared as Don came rolling through the doorway propelled by an orderly, with Robin behind them. Earlier, Wilkes had convinced him that it wasn't good for Don to be there – that it was hard on both of them – frightening for Charlie and painful for Don. Alan had felt doubt, deep inside; he'd wondered if Don should have stayed, no matter how difficult it was, but he'd grown to trust Wilkes, and his own exhaustion had made it hard to think. When Don had gone, apparently willingly, Alan had let it be. Now, however, Don was back, and Alan knew well the look in his eyes – a look of stubbornness that both his boys shared – a look that dared one to try to convince them to change their minds. Inside, a part of him was relieved that Don was back, and was apparently there prepared to fight, just when Alan, Amita and Larry had begun to flag, to give up hope.
Charlie's condition had deteriorated just a bit more, until they put him on the new antibiotic, then it had stabilized. Stable wasn't necessarily good, however – his fever was still too high, the infection still present. Charlie was losing strength by the hour. What they needed was improvement. They'd looked for it, hopefully at first, but as the day had worn on, doubt had regained a foothold. Was this finally the beginning of recovery, or just a brief respite before this medication failed, also? The very fact that the ICU staff were allowing multiple visitors in the room indicated that they seemed to think that this was the end. By late afternoon, Alan, Amita and Larry had been reduced to sitting in a silent fog of despair and exhaustion, their hopes waning.
Don's gaze roved over them as he was wheeled into the room, but he didn't address them; instead, he asked the orderly to push him next to Charlie's bedside. Not asked – commanded – in spite of his hospital gown and the wheelchair, Don had swept into the room looking every bit the agent on a mission. At Charlie's bedside, he immediately undid the nearest restraint, and grasped Charlie's slack hand firmly. In spite of his decisive movements, his voice was gentle. "Hey, Charlie. How are you doing, buddy?"
Charlie stirred just a bit, but didn't open his eyes. That didn't deter Don, he kept talking, a constant stream of conversation in a low voice – regurgitating thoughts, feelings, memories of past cases, family stories, without regard for anyone else in the room – he was focused entirely on Charlie. Amita, Larry and Robin stayed for a bit, but after a few moments, each of them found an excuse to leave the Eppes men in privacy. Alan sat and listened; he could hear desperation and determination mingled in Don's voice.
" ... Charlie, look at me. Just open your eyes; I know you can. You've slept long enough. Listen, I've got a case for you – I need you to look at it for me. I could really use your help."
Charlie lay there, his expressions fluctuating slightly, but disappointingly unresponsive. Alan knew what Don was trying to do – he knew that Charlie rarely said no to him, especially when he needed his help, and this was a last, desperate effort to get Charlie to respond. It was heartbreaking, and suddenly something inside Alan simply cracked. Don's attempt to pull some reaction from his brother was so touching, yet so doomed, that it nearly broke Alan's heart. He couldn't take any more. He rose on shaking legs, tears starting to his eyes. "I'll be back," he said, in a voice made gruff by choking grief, and he tottered out the door.
Charlie could feel himself floating. It was quiet now, only the occasional murmur registering in his brain, soft voices that he recognized, vaguely. He was floating, sinking, the lurid dreams receding as he descended into grayness, he was so tired…
Then another voice came, louder, but kind; gentle, yet demanding. He stirred uncomfortably – why didn't they just let him sleep? The new voice wouldn't, however – it kept talking, picking away at the grayness, making him hear again. At first, it didn't register as anything other than a noise that kept him from sleep, but as an hour passed, then two, words started to assert themselves – real words, with meanings, and then phrases. The voice had grown hoarse and tired, but it still kept on, along with the firm grip on his hand, a grip that pulled him back, out of the grayness.
He wasn't quite sure when he realized that it was Don who was speaking, and he had the sense that he should be afraid, but somehow wasn't. This was Don, his brother, with the firm grip and the firmer tone, Don – his voice by turns commanding, wheedling, pleading – sometimes resolute, sometimes cracking with emotion, but always Don. Not undercover Don, not a crazed murderer with a knife - just his brother - and as he heard the words, "I love you, buddy," Charlie felt a tear streak down the side of his face. He blinked, and with a tremendous effort, opened his eyes.
Don was staring at him, looking as if he were holding his breath, and Charlie gazed back at him through half-open eyes, trying to summon the strength to speak, even though the chances of his words being heard under the oxygen mask were slim. It was too much, too difficult to keep his eyes open. He could only hope that Don had read the meaning in them before they closed.
He drifted off again, not into the grayness, but into a restful sleep.
Don sat, finally silent, his head bowed, still holding Charlie's hand. He'd talked for hours; he wasn't quite sure where all of it came from, but the words had spilled out automatically. Once he started talking, he was taken with the unreasonable idea that he wouldn't stop until Charlie opened his eyes and acknowledged him, until his brother realized that Don was there for him, and that he wasn't going anywhere until he knew that Charlie was safe, beginning to recover. He was aware of others, coming and going; checking Charlie's vital signs. His father, Amita, Wilkes, Larry, and some visitors he probably wasn't cognizant of stepped into the room or watched from the doorway. He didn't care; he shut them all out, and just concentrated on Charlie. After a while, it seemed that it was working, that he was getting through, and as the afternoon wore on, Charlie's respiration and temperature slowly began to improve. It was probably the antibiotic, Don knew, but he couldn't help but hope that maybe his presence had something to do with it. The decisive moment finally arrived late in the afternoon. Charlie opened his eyes and looked straight at him, and Don held his breath, hoping for some sign that there was a chance that their relationship was still salvageable, for some sign that Charlie might accept him again. Instead, he got something that twisted his heart with disappointment – a single tear; then Charlie closed his eyes again.
He was resting now, improving, hopefully on the road to recovery physically, but Don feared the worst, mentally and emotionally – the dread that their relationship would be forever damaged by what had happened – that Charlie would never look at him again without seeing a monster.
He heard slow shuffling footsteps, and Alan sank into a chair next to him, tears of relief glittering in his eyes. "Dr. Safak thinks he's turning the corner," he said. His hands were shaking; he looked about to drop – very similar to how Don felt, now that he thought about it. Alan looked at him with concern. "You should get back to bed, Donnie – you were with him during the worst of it; and you need to rest, too." His eyes searched Don's face, and puzzlement was added to his expression. "What's wrong?"
Don looked at him, then back down at his lap and shook his head. "Nothing," he replied softly. "I'm just tired."
An orderly came in a few moments later to wheel him back to his room, and he stared at his lap all the way there, still seeing that single tear trace a shining trail down his brother's cheek.
End Chapter 62
A/N: I've pulled Charlie back from the brink of death, or rather, Don has, but the brothers are far from out of danger. At least I didn't leave you with too much of a cliffie. Have a great week!