Mind Games
Chapter 65
See Chapter 1 for disclaimer
A/N: Thanks for the call for reviews, MGC; that was sweet. Yes, this is winding down – but a lot happens in the last few chapters. I changed the ending significantly just yesterday. Thanks so much to all my reviewers, and rest assured; the action isn't over yet.
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Charlie sighed dispiritedly as Amita let herself out the next afternoon after her lunchtime visit. She'd run over between classes and could afford a mere twenty minutes; enough time to make him a sandwich, enough time to make him think about how long it had been since he felt her skin against his, and then she'd gone. He was tired and despondent; he'd spent a restless night the evening before. Tomorrow was Thursday; he was finally going to formally identify Marsh, and as the day approached, he could feel nearly unbearable tension rising. His sleep the night before was riddled with nightmares, more violent than they'd been in over a week, and he kept telling himself it was because he was anticipating the coming face-to-face with Marsh – not because he was cooped up in an apartment with Don.
He had to face it, he didn't want to be there – he didn't want to be there because Don apparently didn't want him there. The awkward silences and forced smiles spoke volumes, and were obvious even to Charlie, who had been accused of being less than observant when it came to people. It was clear that Don was putting up with him for Alan's sake. Charlie's worst fear had been realized. Their relationship was decidedly broken; they hadn't communicated well before, and now it seemed impossible. He could feel despair growing, mingling with tension and a leftover undercurrent of fear, a sense of anxiety that he couldn't seem to shake. He knew that Wilkes would call it post-traumatic stress, but labeling it didn't make it any easier to handle, or to understand how to stop it. Charlie had the sense that all of it was welling up inside, festering like the infection that had almost killed him. It needed release, it needed to come out somehow, but he didn't know how to get it to do that.
No, it didn't help at all to be stuck with Don when he didn't want him there, and on top of all of it, Charlie had to face the humiliation of being a burden, of being cared for like a child. He was still relatively helpless, and that, he was certain, only added to the irritation that Don surely felt at being saddled with his presence. He was dreading the night – he had to get cleaned up for the next day. He would have to take a bath; he needed to keep his cast out of the water, and he was too unsteady on his one leg; it made a shower out of the question. He had considered asking Amita to come to help, but she was swamped, covering her own classes and some of his, trying to catch up after her trip, and besides, he wasn't sure she was strong enough. He would have to ask Don for assistance – it was one more manifestation of his annoying state of helplessness. He sat on the sofa and poked listlessly at his keyboard and his sandwich for the rest of the afternoon, wincing as he heard the sound of the keys in the door that signified Don's arrival.
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Don rinsed the last plate, and stuck it in the dishwasher. Tonight had been worse than last night, if possible; Charlie seemed wound tight, his dark eyes filled with a look that wrenched Don's heart. Don was almost tempted to call Wilkes, to tell him he should come over and see what was eating at Charlie, but he knew what Wilkes would say – he would tell Don to find out for himself. The problem was, Charlie didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to look at him; hell, he didn't even want to be in the same room with him. He had retreated to the bedroom immediately after dinner, mumbling something about grading papers for Amita.
Don plunked down morosely on the sofa, stared at the television and turned it on with a dispirited flick of the remote, taking a pull at a bottle of beer. Somehow, the apartment, which usually seemed like a haven, seemed lonely, cold, in spite of the fact that for once, he wasn't alone. Charlie was here, yet he wasn't.
He'd made it through one beer and was halfway through the second one, when the slight thunk of a crutch hit his ear and he caught movement in his peripheral vision. He turned his head to see Charlie in the entrance to the hallway that led to the bedroom, looking embarrassed and miserable. "I, uh, I need to get cleaned up for tomorrow," he said.
Don raised an eyebrow. "So, go ahead, you can use the bathroom."
Charlie hesitated. "I'm not supposed to get my cast wet. I'm going to have to take a bath instead of a shower, and prop my leg on the tub."
Don rose from his seat. "I'll get you a trash bag; we can put that around your cast." He strode into the kitchen purposefully; it felt good to offer help, to be doing something, anything, along the lines of interaction. He grabbed duct tape and a plastic trash bag and headed toward the hallway, stopping short as he entered it to see Charlie standing uncertainly outside the bathroom door.
Charlie looked up at him, the dark eyes huge in the relative gloom of the hallway. Don was reminded of a spooked deer, ready to bolt. "What's the matter?"
"I – uh – I don't think I can, uh, get in without help." Charlie looked down, and even in the dimness of the hallway, Don could see the flush staining his cheeks.
"I can help you," he replied matter-of-factly, before the implication hit him. This meant nudity, and was obviously going to be a humiliating prospect for Charlie; hell, it was going to be embarrassing for him. It was too late to back out after his statement, however, and he wasn't sure that he could refuse, anyway. He'd promised his father that he was going to take care of Charlie in his absence. Of course, when he'd made that promise, he hadn't thought about the fact that Charlie might need help in the bathroom. He swallowed. "Uh, why don't you go in and get undressed and get the bag on your leg." He waved tape and the plastic garbage bag at Charlie, then stepped around him and into the bathroom, placing the items on the sink. He leaned over and started the water. "How do you want your water? Warm?"
"Uh, yeah," Charlie's voice sounded uncertain. "Kind of hot, if that's okay. I'm a little cold."
Don straightened so fast he got a kink in his back, and he grunted as he turned around to face Charlie. "Cold? You're feeling okay, right?" he asked anxiously.
Charlie stared at him, then a look of comprehension dawned on his face. "Yeah. It's not chills or anything. I just get a little cold when I'm sitting there, not moving around."
Relieved, Don leaned back over and tested the water, and then stepped out of the room, with a vague wave behind him. "Okay, go in and get ready, and yell when you want me to help you in."
He put his head down and shuffled off to the living room, standing there aimlessly for several minutes, waiting for Charlie to call him. "People do this all the time," he told himself. "Nurses, home health aides. So it's a little embarrassing, it's not a big deal."
At Charlie's, "Okay, I'm ready!" he trudged back. Charlie was standing next to the tub on one leg like a stork, one hand gripping the towel rack for support, the other, to Don's infinite relief, holding a towel around his waist. He almost cracked a joke, but then he got a good look at Charlie, and bit it off, his heart lurching. Charlie had a face that was deceptively full, and always wore baggy clothing. The combined effect made him look heavier than he really was; Don knew that even when healthy, Charlie weighed a mere 145 pounds, give or take. Now he was painfully, heartbreakingly thin, and Don was shocked; he hadn't realized how gaunt he was. The scars on his chest were also still evident; that was bad enough, but the look on his face made Don realize that this wasn't a laughing matter, not to Charlie. This went way beyond embarrassment; Charlie was breathing rapidly, and had a panicked look in his eyes.
He felt vulnerable, Don realized suddenly – the situation had made Charlie realize how helpless he really was, and now he found himself cornered in the tiny bathroom, facing a man who, not too long ago, had tried to stab him to death. Don moved slowly, trying to make his movements and voice soothing, as he stepped closer. "Okay, Chuck, turn a little, I'm going to put my hands under your shoulders and help lift you in."
The old nickname rolled off his tongue as it always had, and it made Charlie's head come up quickly, and just a bit of the apprehension left his face. A bit, but not enough; he still looked petrified, miserable, humiliated. Don put his hands under his brother's shoulders and averted his face as Charlie dropped the towel and swung his good leg into the tub. Then Don eased him down into the water, and gently positioned the cast on the edge of the tub. Charlie hissed a little as he was lowered into the water. "Too hot?" Don asked, looking at the sink.
"No, it's good," came Charlie's voice, shakily.
Don stared at the sink and rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. "Okay, uh, well, call me when you're ready to get out." He stumped out, trying to force the vision of the scarred, emaciated figure out of his mind. It hurt just to look at him, and brought home just how much Charlie had been through physically; how close they had come to losing him, twice. Don sat back down on the sofa and took another swig of his beer, trying to force it down past the lump in his throat.
He had been idly flicking through channels, and was reflecting that Charlie had been in there for while, when a knock sounded on the door. He stiffened and set his beer down, moving quickly to the door, and looked out the viewing hole. He relaxed as he saw that it was Robin, and mentally berated himself for his nervous reaction - apparently, Charlie's tenseness was contagious. He swung the door open, and Robin smiled at him, and held out a covered pan. "I thought you two might need some dinner," she said. "Did you eat?"
"Oh, uh, yeah," said Don, hesitating, then taking the dish as she held out to him, wondering how he was going to eat all the food they'd been given, especially since Charlie didn't seem to be helping much.
"Then put it in the refrigerator for tomorrow," she said, smiling. "Unless you guys want to go out and celebrate after Charlie's done with his line-up." Her smile turned teasing. "You'd better eat it at some point, though – you know I don't cook every day." She peered around him. "Where's Charlie?"
Don flushed a little. "He's taking a bath. Not exactly the easiest thing to do with that cast. I'll probably have to help him out of there in a minute."
Her eyebrows raised in slight surprise as she considered the prospect, and then the teasing grin returned. "That'll be good practice for when you have to give your kids a bath someday." She held his eyes, smiling a little wickedly, and a slow answering smile came to his face. It occurred to him suddenly that having kids might not be such a bad idea, especially when it came to making them with her.
"Is that an invitation?"
Her smile widened. "Maybe – but not tonight. In fact, I should get out of here. I'm sure Charlie's embarrassed enough by the situation without having me hanging around." She leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. "Have a good night. I'll see you tomorrow. Do you need help getting him there?"
"Nah," he murmured, and leaned forward kissed her again. "Colby and David will help me get him there and back. I'll see you there."
"Goodnight," she murmured and shut the door. He just stood there a moment, holding the casserole with a stupid grin on his face, and then suddenly it dawned on him that Charlie had been in there a while, and he hadn't heard a sound.
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Charlie sat rigidly in the hot water, motionless until he heard Don's steps recede down the hallway. His hamstrings and the surgery site in his lower left abdomen were protesting the position of his injured leg, propped on the side of the tub, and he shifted gingerly, trying to get his leg into a more comfortable position. The hot water felt good, he realized as he began to calm down – no, it felt like heaven; he'd had nothing but sponge baths at the hospital, although he did get his hair washed over a basin once. That, like the last sponge bath, had been barely adequate, and too long ago. He sat there for a moment, trying to calm the beating of his heart, willing himself to relax as the heat seeped into his body.
"It's damn bath, for Pete's sake," he muttered to himself. "Granted, it's a little embarrassing, but it's nothing to get worked up over." Even as he spoke to himself, though, he could feel apprehension roiling in his gut. The fact was, he couldn't control his reaction, the sudden spasm of fear that shot through him as he stood there helplessly in the small room, and the door swung open. He'd almost degenerated into a full-fledged panic attack on the spot, but only almost, he reminded himself. He'd managed to keep control. He didn't even think Don had prompted it – it was the situation, the small room, the almost unbearable feeling of anxiety he felt over seeing Marsh the next day. He wasn't even sure why the prospect of seeing Marsh was affecting him so profoundly – but he did know that his apprehension was increasing, and he didn't know how to stop it.
He sighed and reached for the shampoo, dampening his hair, lathering and rinsing. It was so long; he needed a haircut badly, and rinsing took a while. He shivered a little; the water was cooling off, or was that fear creeping up inside him again?
The guilt didn't help - the knowledge that none of this would have happened if he hadn't insisted on taking the undercover assignment, the certainty that Don would forever blame him for what they'd gone through. Now Don was caring for him as if he were a feeble child; putting up with him for their Dad's sake, because it was the right thing to do, and Don always did the right thing. Charlie laughed; a sardonic brittle sound that echoed slightly in the tiled room. He'd taken the assignment because it had been the right thing to do for his country's security, because he'd been trying to impress Don, because he'd wanted to do something meaningful with his brother, because he wanted to connect. It had all backfired; all of his reasons, except for his desire to support his country, lay in shambles. Impress Don? Hardly. He'd fumbled his way through the assignment and had gotten lucky enough to get the information. Effective, he supposed, but hardly impressive. Do something meaningful with his brother? Connect? He winced at those thoughts. The assignment had nearly cost them their lives, and it was a wonder it hadn't cost Don his sanity. It had driven a wall between them, a stake in their relationship. The only original goal that was still intact was to put away the people behind the plot – to put away Marsh. Somehow, he had to get his head together and get through that without screwing it up. Maybe then, Don might eventually if not respect him, at least be able to tolerate being around him again.
He was getting tired and ready to get out, and the water was starting to get cold, but now he could hear voices in the other room – it sounded like Robin, and Charlie grimaced. Without a doubt, Don would much rather be spending the evening with her than with his helpless, feeble, invalid of a brother. He closed his eyes and waited, dejectedly.
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Don strode toward the bathroom door, panic mounting in his chest. It was quiet, much too quiet. He never should have left Charlie in there alone. What if he slid underwater, and couldn't pull himself out because of the cast? Hell, what if he'd passed out, or something? He reached the door and flung it open, lost his grip, and it banged against the wall. Charlie had been sitting with his head down, but at the noise his head jerked up, and he gasped. He was chalk-white, and Don could see tremors running through him, and a flood of relief and chagrin went through him at the same time. "Shit – I mean, I'm sorry, Charlie. I didn't mean to bang the door like that. I got hung up talking with Robin – did you call?"
"N-n- no," stammered Charlie. His eyes flitted past Don to the hallway.
"She's gone," said Don, more gently, making sure to enter slowly. He picked the towel up from the floor, where Charlie had dropped it, and handed it to him. "Here – you hang onto this, and I'm going to try to lift you out."
Out was tougher than in, and Don could feel his newly-healed arm twinge with the effort. Not that there was much to lift; Don was certain that Robin weighed more than Charlie did at this point. It was just awkward, in more ways than one. The last time Don had seen his brother without clothes had been as a toddler, and he preferred to keep it that way. Especially when Charlie looked like a victim of some horrific famine.
Somehow, he got him out of the tub and standing, and somehow during the process Charlie managed to drape the towel around his waist. He stood there, shivering, pale, uncertain, his weight on his good leg, his head down. "Here," said Don, and put an arm around him to support him. "Hop over here and sit down." He put the lid down on the toilet, and got Charlie situated on the seat. "I'll be right back."
He came back with a clean T-shirt and boxers, oversized and made of a stretchable material so Charlie could get them over the cast. "Can you get these on?" Charlie nodded and took them, and Don backed out and closed the door, and then ducked into the bedroom and pulled down the rumpled covers. The sooner he got Charlie into bed the better; he looked freezing and ready to drop. Hell, he looked more than that, Don thought. He looked whipped, drained – face it, he looked terrified. Best to deal with him quickly; get him into the bedroom where he obviously felt a little safer. He would talk to Wilkes tomorrow, Don decided; this simply wasn't working. It was too hard on Charlie, and he had to admit, too hard on him to see that look in his brother's eyes, and know it was there because of him.
He knocked lightly on the bathroom door and pushed it open. Charlie sat there, hunched and still shivering in his boxers and T-shirt. His damp hair straggled down around his face; with the long damp curls and the soulful dark eyes, he reminded Don of a cocker spaniel that had been out in the rain. Don handed him his crutches. "Can you manage to get to the bedroom?"
Charlie hesitated, then nodded. He pulled himself up stiffly, and began to crutch out of the room and down the hall. His arms were shaking so badly with the effort Don was afraid he was going to collapse, but he made it to the bed, and Don helped him swing his cast up onto the mattress, and pulled the blankets over him. "Do you need anything? Tea, or something?"
"N-no." The words came out as a half whisper. "Th-thanks, though." The dark eyes rested on him, and Don thought he caught a flicker of gratitude in their depths.
"Okay. Just yell if you need something. I'll wake you up in plenty of time to get ready tomorrow."
He turned out the light and shut the bedroom door, conscious of the two dark eyes that followed him. Out in the living room, he shut off the television and sighed. He was too tired to bother with pulling out the sofa bed; instead, he grabbed the neatly folded blanket and his pillow from where he'd stashed them in the corner, turned out the light, and crawled onto the sofa.
He lay there for a moment, thinking over the images of the evening, and felt a wave of despair wash over him. Not only was regaining their relationship an apparent pipe dream, he was beginning to wonder if Charlie would recover from this. He was so – so beaten – so unlike his usual confident self; crushed, to the point of being non-functional… or maybe not. Charlie hadn't looked nearly this rattled two nights before, at the Craftsman. 'It has to be me,' Don thought, with a pang. 'It freaks him out to be around me.' He thought of Robin and their conversation earlier, the mention of having kids, and suddenly those happy visions didn't seem so bright. He wanted Charlie to be a part of that future when it happened, but that was looking less and less likely. He sighed, and closed his eyes.
He woke again three hours later, to an ear-splitting scream.
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End Chapter 65