Mind Games

Chapter 67

See Chapter 1 for disclaimer

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. This chapter is a personal favorite.

Charlie's eyes followed Amita and Larry out the door; they'd both stopped by at lunchtime, eager to hear how the identification had gone. The three of them had sat in Don's living room while Don puttered around in the kitchen, rinsing dishes and filling the dishwasher. The cleanup was necessary, but not at that particular moment, and Charlie got the impression that Don was distancing himself. He turned his head as Don stepped into the living room, finally showing himself as the door closed behind Larry and Amita.

Charlie looked at him, then reached for his crutches. "I'm pretty tired," he said. "I might take a nap." He grunted as he pulled himself to his feet; it was no lie; the events of the morning had exhausted him. He felt relieved, but strangely empty; finally sealing the charges against Marsh didn't generate the feeling of victory that he'd expected. Of course, that victory was hollow; things would never be the same between himself and Don. Their relationship, or the hope for a chance at one, was a casualty of everything that had gone before, a stream of events that had been started the day he chose to take the undercover assignment. It was understandable that Don couldn't forgive him for that, and Charlie didn't expect him to forgive, or forget.

Once on his feet, he faced Don. "You might as well go hang out with Colby and David tonight; you could use a break from babysitting." He tried to muster a smile. "I'll be okay."

Don was silent for a moment, then he said, "I'll see. I might run into work this afternoon, if it's all right."

Charlie wasn't expecting anything different, but still, he felt his heart drop at the stiffness, the lack of emotion in Don's response. He gave a brief nod, put his head down, and began to crutch for the bedroom.

Don's voice stopped him. "You did good today, buddy."

Charlie didn't turn, he just nodded, and hobbled out of the room.

Once in the bedroom, he leaned his crutches next to the bed, and lay down, propping his leg carefully on the bed first to avoid pulling on his incision site. Don had cleaned up his mess from the morning and made the bed, and his ministrations somehow made Charlie feel worse, instead of better. He could hear Don moving around in the other room, and the eventual sound of the door to the apartment opening and closing. At that moment, his cell phone vibrated on the nightstand, and he reached for it and flipped it open. His father's voice floated out of the earpiece as he answered.

"Charlie! How'd it go?"

"Good, Dad. It was easier than I thought – no issues. They can complete their charges against Marsh now, and they're moving him to a federal prison. The trial will be several weeks from now, in Washington."

"That's great. How are you doing?" Alan's tone was hearty, but Charlie could tell it was a bit forced; it contained an undercurrent of anxiety.

"Good. Don's been taking good care of me." He had been, thought Charlie, sadly. Don had been the model caretaker – feeding him, bathing him, cleaning up after him without complaint. Calmly, detachedly doing his duty. "We got lunch and he went back in to the office. Colby and David were going out tonight after work – I told Don to go with them. He could use a break, I'm sure."

"No celebration?"

"I think that's what they're going out for – they invited me, but I'm just not up for it yet. Actually, I'm pretty beat, I think I'm going to take a nap."

"Oh." Disappointment was evident in his father's voice, and Charlie winced. Alan had been hoping they would spend some celebratory moments together; he was sure. His father had always wished for them to be closer; he was facing a lot more disappointment, Charlie was afraid.

He changed the subject. "How are things going in Juneau?"

"Extremely busy – in fact, I have to get to a meeting with some contractors. It was a good thing I came up here – there was no way Stan was going to handle this on his own."

"Well, don't worry about us, Dad – we're doing fine - really. I'll talk to you later." He flipped the phone shut at Alan's good-bye, and stared at the ceiling.

Don sat in his SUV outside his apartment, gazing blankly through the windshield. The keys were in the ignition, but he hadn't started the vehicle yet. He felt deflated; he wasn't sure what he'd been hoping for, but it hadn't been a dismissal. Colby was right; they should be celebrating. If not that, at least trying to talk through things. Charlie didn't seem ready or willing to do that, however, and Don didn't want to push. For all he knew, it was still difficult for Charlie to be around him. Maybe it always would be.

He closed his eyes, and snatches of events and conversations played through his mind. No matter how hard he tried to forget, the bloody scene in the glass conference room was there, lurking on the edges of his consciousness. Then Charlie, lying on the ground in the park, in agony, begging him to end it. How could Don expect him to go through that and still want to be around him? Sure, he could push to regain what they had, but he would probably only succeed in making Charlie more uncomfortable. It would be easier just to let it lay, try to muddle through life; they were both pretty good at putting up fronts. They might even be able to work together again, business as usual, after enough time had passed, if he didn't rock the boat. Or he could push, and risk… what?

Wilkes' voice sounded in his head. 'Maybe you've always been afraid – afraid that if you let your guard down with him, that if you reach out, he'll reject you… God forbid you should ever open up with him, make yourself vulnerable…,' It was followed by Ian's cryptic observation from that very afternoon. '…maybe it's time to worry less about being trusted, and instead, to have trust in someone else.'

He groaned, and ran a hand down over his face. He wasn't ready for this, and it would be so much easier just to go into the office. "Aw, hell," he muttered, and wrenching the keys in the ignition to start the vehicle, he threw it into gear.

He got back at around five that evening. The apartment was quiet, and the waning afternoon light filtered through the windows. His arms were full, and he made his way into the kitchen and set his packages down with a clunk, and then headed for the bedroom to check on Charlie.

He was greeted at the door by a wide-eyed apparition, his weight on one leg, wielding a crutch over his head. He ducked instinctively, but as soon as Charlie saw it was him, he froze, and then lowered the crutch. Don had to grin at his dumfounded expression. "Hey – I know I interrupted your nap, but you don't have to take my head off."

Charlie's gaze fell, and a flush stained his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I thought you were going out after work – I wasn't expecting you back, and I woke up and heard noises – it kind of freaked me out. I guess wasn't quite awake yet."

Don's expression softened. "Nightmare again?"

Charlie's eyebrows rose as he considered the question, and his voice was tinged with surprise. "Actually, no. I slept like a rock." He craned his neck to look at the alarm clock. "Wow – after five." He looked up, and finally met Don's eyes. "That's the best I've slept in days. I guess it must help to know that Marsh is finally out of the picture." He looked back over his shoulder. The other crutch was still propped against the wall, and Charlie turned and hopped back toward it. "I thought you were going to go celebrate after work."

"I am," said Don. "Right here." He saw Charlie's head start to turn, a surprised expression on his face, and he turned and headed out the bedroom doorway, not waiting for a response. "Come on out to the living room when you're ready."

Charlie crutched out to the living room, and Don called to him from the kitchen, over his shoulder. "Have a seat. I'll be right out."

Charlie made his way to the sofa and sat, as the microwave fan sounded from the kitchen. "Maybe he's just heating dinner," thought Charlie. "Maybe he'll head out afterward." He hoped that was the case; he wasn't sure how much more guilt he could handle. He knew Don didn't really want to be here with him, and he was beginning to feel more and more like an inconvenience. He looked up as Don came into the room and he felt a rush of embarrassed surprise, and even more guilt, as he saw that Don was holding two curved glasses.

Don grinned at him, and handed him one of them as he sat himself. "Hurricanes," he said, unnecessarily; Charlie recognized the unique shape of the glass. "Took me a couple of hours to find the doggone glasses, but it was worth it." He held up his drink, and clinked the edge of Charlie's glass. "To the end of a successful mission."

Charlie stared at him, uncomfortably. "You really didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did," responded Don amiably. "You just foiled a major plot to smuggle weapons technology out the country, and put away the last man involved in the plot – that's not something you do every day." He took a sip of his drink. "I've got one of Dad's dinners heating in the microwave – drink up."

Charlie realized his mouth was open, and closed it, then looked at his drink. "I'm not sure I can handle one of these," he said, cautiously.

"I think you can," said Don, cryptically. "Just try it."

There was a straw in the glass, and Charlie took a tentative sip. The drink was smooth, not nearly as strong as the one he'd had in New Orleans. "This is good – did you leave out the alcohol?"

Don smiled, ruefully. "No, there's alcohol in it – it's just the correct amount. I have a confession to make. That first night in New Orleans, Ian had them load your drink up with extra alcohol – you were threatening to come with us, and he figured you wouldn't argue with us if you were, uh, inebriated." He made a face. "Not one my prouder moments." He looked at Charlie, intently, a bit anxiously. "I'm sorry about that, Charlie – in retrospect, we should have just asked you to stay at the hotel."

Charlie sighed. "No, you were right – at the start of that assignment, I probably would have given you a hard time. I was a little too eager to get in on the action." An expression of disgust crossed his face. "You weren't the only one who did that to me – Charlotte did too, the night I -," he broke off and glanced sideways. "the night I thought I did cocaine. Some undercover agent I was – I must have appeared pretty inept for that to happen twice."

"You didn't, Charlie," said Don, quietly. "You actually did a great job, for your first time undercover. You don't have anything to compare it to, so you wouldn't know this, but that was a really complex assignment. Not something you'd usually send a rookie on. Ian and I made mistakes, too – remember the bug Montreaux put in the Monte Carlo we rented? You pulled it out when we were running for the airport. Well, after the accident, our guys also found a GPS tracker in the back seat. That was how Montreaux's men were able to follow us to the highway. Ian and I have experience; when we found the bug under the dash we should have checked the entire vehicle, and we didn't. If we had, Montreaux's men might never have caught up to us, and everything that occurred after that wouldn't have happened. I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that when you're undercover, nothing is predictable. Sometimes you make mistakes – you just roll with the situation, and do the best you can."

Charlie shook his head, apparently unconvinced, and sighed. Don looked at his troubled expression, and a feeling of guilt enveloped him like a cloud. Silence descended for a moment, then suddenly, they both turned to each other, and blurted, "I'm sorry."

Don stared at him; Charlie looked miserable, and for the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps Wilkes was right, perhaps he wasn't the only one who was feeling guilty over what had happened. Maybe, just maybe, Charlie's avoidance had to do with something other than resentment or hurt over what Don had done to him. Maybe….

He swallowed the lump in his throat, not daring to hope, as Charlie spoke again. "No, you were absolutely right – that assignment was no place for me. I should have listened to your advice. What happened to you – to us – afterward, was my fault." His eyes glittered with suspicious moisture, and he looked away. "I just – I wanted us to be close – like brothers, instead of colleagues who work together." He snorted softly, derisively. "I had this vision of being this -," he waved his hand vaguely, "- this Secret Agent Man, or something. I thought if I did something bold, that it might make you respect me."

Don stared at him. "Charlie – I do respect you - hell, everyone respects you. There are only a few people in the world who can do what you do."

Charlie grimaced and took a healthy swallow of his drink. "That's exactly what I mean. Everyone sees me as some kind of walking supercomputer. Don't get me wrong – I'm not ungrateful for my abilities. It's just -," he trailed off, searching for words. "I have the feeling that you respect what I can do – but you never respected me as a person, as a man. I never had the social skills, the physical ability – not like you. I guess I took the assignment partially because I wanted you to see me as an equal on a personal level, without all the math." He smiled ruefully. "Wilkes says I have a hero complex when it comes to you – I imagine he's right."

The smile disappeared, he swallowed, and his voice shook. "I love mathematics. I see the world that way, but when it comes to you, all it does it get in the way. All I ever wanted was to have that – human – brotherly – relationship. No numbers – just us, as people. I don't think I would have turned down the assignment – my country needed me, but I also saw it as a chance to finally be seen as a person, for us to finally get that closeness." He closed his eyes, his face pinched with pain, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. "Instead, I nearly got both of us killed, and I ruined what we did have."

Don had been listening, spellbound, hope increasing inside him with every word, but at Charlie's last statement, his heart dropped. It was true – Charlie was trying to tell him he could never look at him the same way again, and the lump in his throat became a painful constriction. "I'm sorry, Charlie," he repeated helplessly, and suddenly it seemed too hard to go on. He could feel tears starting to his eyes, and he closed them and bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to control the wave of grief and regret that was rushing through him. He spoke again through the pain, with his eyes still shut. "I know I did something horrible to you – I still see that conference room in my sleep, and I'm sure you do, too. I just hoped -," His voice cracked; he couldn't go any further, and he dropped his hand, and looked up at the ceiling, agony in his face. He took a deep breath, and forced himself to look at Charlie. Charlie was staring at him, his drink forgotten; tipping precariously in his hand.

Don set his own drink carefully on the coffee table, and reached inside his shirt and pulled out a plastic envelope on a string. "I want to show you something." He pulled out the two folded pieces of paper inside with unsteady hands, unfolded them, and handed one to Charlie. "These are printouts that Wilkes took, representing my feelings for you. The one you're looking at now was taken right before they started my brainwashing; it was how I felt about you before all this started. It's a bar chart – you can see the colored bars, and underneath each bar, the emotion it represents is labeled. You need to disregard the bar over fear – it was higher than normal, because we'd just had the accident, they'd taken you away, and I was worried about you. That wouldn't be there, in a normal situation, but the other bars would."

Charlie set his drink down and stared at the chart, studying the small bars over hatred and envy, and the much larger one over the bar labeled 'love.' Don watched his face as he continued. "Wilkes told me that it was a classic profile of normal familial love – especially of one sibling for another. There's nearly always a component of envy among siblings, and a small amount of dislike – there's always something about any person, especially someone as close as a sibling, that can irritate you. The bar over love, however – he told me that it is stronger than most. I may not always have acted like it, Charlie – hell, I obviously didn't, based on what you just told me, but I always loved and respected you as a person. That sheet proves it." He smiled softly. "It even presents it in quantifiable terms, something even a math geek can appreciate."

Charlie suddenly gave a choked laugh and ran a hand over his face, and when the hand came down, his cheeks were glazed with wetness; the tears had gotten the better of him. "Well," he managed, "isn't that ironic? What I was searching for was right there all along." He put his head down, obviously overcome, and his voice cracked; filled with bitter disappointment. "It was there – and I messed it up…" He stopped and bowed his head, his hand covering his face.

Don stared at him, feeling hope stirring once again, an odd little flutter in his gut. "Charlie, no – just wait a minute, you need to look at this." He handed Charlie the other paper, and Charlie took it and glanced at it, his face still filled with pain.

"This is the same thing." He shoved it back toward Don.

"No it's not," said Don, gently. "Look at the date. That was taken a couple of weeks ago, while we were in the hospital. Wilkes took one last reading before they took the wiring out – it's nearly identical to the first. The bar over fear is still high – at that point, you were still in ICU, and I was pretty worried about you. In fact, if you look, the bar over love is even a little higher. Whatever they did to my head, Charlie – well, it's gone now. We've got Jon Wilkes to thank for that – he deprogrammed me completely." Charlie was staring at the paper, and Don's voice dropped. "The one I've been worried about was you. What happened, what I did, well, it might have programmed you, in a manner of speaking. I was afraid you'd never look at me the same way again; that maybe you couldn't stand to be around me, after what I did."

Charlie tore his eyes from the printout, and looked at Don earnestly. "That's not true. It wasn't really you – I know that."

Don smiled sadly. "Charlie – you know it had an effect. The panic attacks, the nightmares…," He paused. "I know I'll always carry it with me – what happened."

"It had an effect," Charlie conceded slowly. "I may even have some PTSD to deal with yet. But the important thing is, I don't associate it with you – I don't blame you. It was Marsh, all along, and even my subconscious must realize that. As soon as we put a name to his face, my dreams started to change – I guess it made him seem real. I told you last night, if I have a nightmare, he's the aggressor in it, not you." His face twisted, sadly, as he regarded the bars over the negative emotions. "However, looking at this – and some of the things you said to me – they were references to the past; they had to be rooted in your true feelings for me."

Don shook his head, and spoke earnestly.. "Charlie, no one who knows us would say that we don't have some issues. Me, most of all." He reached over and jabbed a finger at the paper Charlie was holding, tapping the bar over 'love,' sharply for emphasis. "At the end of the day, though, this bar is the only one that matters, don't you think? If we have that, we can work our way through the rest of it."

Charlie nodded slowly, took a deep unsteady breath, and picked up his glass. "I think I need a drink," he said, and smiled shakily. He raised his glass, and Don grabbed his own glass from the coffee table.

"Here's to starting over," said Charlie, lifting the glass, and the two pairs of dark eyes met.

"There's nothing I would like better, buddy," said Don softly, and they drank to that.

End Chapter 67

A/N: And now for the last two chapters, both on the long side.