A/N: Do we even remember this story? My apologies for leaving the threads dangling for so long. If you're happy to see a wrap-up to this, then the thanks goes to Patty, whose review absolutely shamed me into writing it, and also to Simanis who twisted the knife a few days later. And while I'm thanking people, I would be remiss not to give a nod to AJ Wesley, whom I had some very good charter discussions with while writing this…someone dropped the conversation ball there, and it was almost certainly me. Anyway, on with the end of the story. Hope it reads okay…it was kind of tough to get back into this after so long, but this is more or less the ending I had in mind originally.
The Space Between
By
Tru False
Chapter 183 weeks later
Don entered the hospital through the west entrance, his many visits having made him far more familiar than he ever would have liked with the building's myriad hallways and corridors. Charlie had been moved twice since the day he had woken up; once out of ICU and a second time to the hospital's rehab wing. In the process, Don had gotten to know his way around pretty well. Most of the time he took the stairwells rather than the elevators, and some of the staff were familiar enough to nod as he passed.
He pushed through the double doors and turned into Charlie's hallway with a bounce in his step. Charlie was looking good these days…his color was back and he had somehow managed to gain a few pounds on hospital food. Don was fairly sure they would release him soon and he was truly relieved—for once that happened, everything could go back to normal. No more trips to the hospital. Don could go back to work. Hell, pretty soon Charlie could go back to work. He was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel—a return to normalcy. It was crazy, but the old routine had never seemed so appealing to him. The old routine was good—great—in fact. Because in the old routine, there had been no defibrillators, no ventilators…no all-night bedside vigils.
Don opened the door to Charlie's room to find Amita sitting in a chair beside his bed, her cheeks puffed out as she blew hard into a plastic container. She broke into a laugh at a comment Charlie made to her and abandoned what she had been doing. They both turned to look at Don as he stepped inside.
"Hey Charlie," he said. "Amita." He nodded to her.
"Hey Don," Charlie answered, smiling. Amita put the tube-like container down on the table by the bed, giving Don a slightly embarrassed smile.
"You know, if I'm interrupting anything…" Don started alludingly.
"No," Amita replied, "I was actually just leaving—I have class in an hour. I just can't get enough Physics," she said, turning her attention back to Charlie, "it's so…dynamic" she added with a sly smile. He rolled his eyes and she grinned at what Don could only assume was an inside joke between them. "I'll see you later Charlie," she told him, and started for the door.
"Okay," he answered softly, his eyes never leaving her form as she drifted across the floor. "Thanks for coming by."
She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a coy smile as she closed the door softly behind her. Don watched her go and felt a little sorry for his brother…he had a feeling Amita knew how to play the game just a little bit better than Charlie did.
"So?" Don questioned him after a second.
Charlie leaned back against his pillows and put his hands behind his head. "So what?"
"So…Have you decided to do anything about that yet?"
"You know, surprising though this may be," Charlie started sarcastically, "I find my current situation something of an obstacle insofar as 'doing something about that' goes," he said, indicating the bed he lay in.
"Well, there you go. You're looking at this all wrong," Don informed him. "This is the perfect opportunity. This," he pointed at the bed, "is a clear advantage…the sympathy play."
"The Sympathy Play? Really." Charlie seemed unimpressed.
"Yeah," Don replied, as if Charlie should've been intimately familiar with the concept. "The Sympathy Play. Remember this, Charlie: all women love sensitive guys—"
"—Hence your consistent lack of female companionship," he cut in.
"—and 'sensitive' is second cousin to 'vulnerable', which is what they really love the most. It's like the whole puppy dog and baby thing—Trust me…next time she comes by, you're so weak you can't even feed yourself. She'll melt."
Charlie laughed. "I tell you what…I'll stick to my strategies, and you stick to yours, and we'll see who arrives at puppy dogs and babies first."
"Hey, if you don't want to learn from my years of experience—"
"—you mean rejection?"
"—then so be it. You know, you can only teach the willing Charlie."
Charlie smirked at Don's use of one of his own lines. When Charlie offered no further comment, Don smiled back at him, victorious.
"So," he offered, changing the subject. "What is that thing she was messing with?" He indicated the container on Charlie's table.
"Ah," Charlie started, sitting up a little straighter. "This," he picked up the tubed container, "is a spirometer. Well, a very basic one. The more advanced models are digital and can record both the forced vital capacity, or 'FVC' as well as the functional residual capacity, which is basically just the flow of—"
"—okay, short version Charlie," Don cut him off.
"Uh…basically you breathe into it as hard as you can. The further up you can move the ball inside the tube, the better your pulmonary health. It also helps to keep your lungs clear of fluid."
"Oh yeah?" Don said, "Lemme see you do it."
Charlie put the tube in his mouth and took as deep a breath as he could before the pain flared in his side. He blew out and moved the ball to just over the 3 liter line. Don watched with interest.
"How'd you do?"
"Not great," Charlie admitted. "I'm at about 65 of where I should be."
"Oh yeah?" Don said, taking the spirometer from him. "Well, you're still recovering."
Charlie nodded.
"So, what's average?" Don asked nonchalantly.
Charlie smiled—for some reason, Don was always obsessed with being better than average. "Four to Six Liters. That marker on the side there…that's five liters. That's my goal."
"Huh," Don commented. "Mind if I…"
"Go ahead," Charlie said. He watched as Don drew in an enormous breath, then exhaled long and hard. Charlie leaned over to look at the meter.
"Wow," he said in earnest, "7.4…that's...wow."
"Pretty good, huh?"
Charlie raised his eyebrows. "Yeah," he agreed. "I'd say that's…exceptional—probably for an athlete even."
Don smiled broadly at him.
"So," Charlie commented, "I guess now we know you're a blow hard—"
"Shut up," Don said, tossing the spirometer at Charlie, who caught it easily.
"Hey, I actually came by because the game's about to start. I thought you might wanna watch it?"
"Yeah, okay," Charlie replied. He put the spirometer back on the table.
Don picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV up on the wall. Charlie watched him as he flipped through the channels. Despite his impatience with the sluggish remote, Don looked really good these days…better than Charlie had seen him look in a long time. He was tanned and relaxed, and he smiled easily—all the time. Charlie liked the new, relaxed Don—he liked him a lot. But then something about Don's improved mood had also been nagging at Charlie for a while now.
"Hey, Don?" he ventured after a moment.
"Yeah?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure." He said, still flipping through the channels. "What's up?"
Charlie studied him for a moment, mulling. "Do you like your job?"
Don stopped what he was doing and looked over at him. "Umm…yeah Charlie," he replied, clearly unsure where this was going. "I mean, there are parts of it that aren't easy," he continued, "like what happened with…" he indicated vaguely towards Charlie, "you know." Charlie shifted his gaze down to his hands. "But yeah, I like it. I mean, I would hope I do, since I spend most of my time there. It's more or less the reason I exist."
Charlie considered this for a moment. "But not lately you aren't…spending all your time there."
"No, not lately. Because I'm on leave—you know that." Don was beginning to look at him with concern.
"Yeah, I know," Charlie replied quickly. He fiddled with the spirometer on the table for a moment, then dropped his hand back to his lap and fixed his gaze on Don again. "I guess it's just that lately—since you've been away from work—you seem really…happy," Charlie explained, "A lot happier than I've seen you in as long as I can remember. So I just wondered."
Don looked at Charlie, an incredulous smile spreading across his face. "Charlie," he started, and half-laughed. "You almost died. And now you're okay. Do you understand that?"
Charlie stared blankly at him.
Don's cell phone chose that moment to ring, and he shook his head at Charlie with a relieved look as he excused himself. "Eppes," he answered.
Charlie watched his brother move away from him with mild fascination. The idea that his own recuperation had that much to do with Don's good mood seemed unfathomable. But then, even as Charlie toyed with this revelation, he could hear Don talking in intense tones to the person on the other end of his phone, assuring them that it wasn't a problem, that his doctor had cleared him for duty and he was ready to go—that if they needed him, he could come in right then. The conversation continued from that point with Don doing a lot of listening, and when he ultimately flipped his phone shut a few minutes later and looked over to Charlie…that was it. In the blink of an eye, Relaxed Don was gone. Fun Don was gone. And in his place, working Don was back…that guy who walked around with that look in his eyes—intense and firm, determined, and full of purpose.
"Charlie, I have to go," he stated flatly.
"I know," Charlie replied and smiled slightly, for Don was already backing himself out of the room with one hand on the door. "I heard."
"I'm gonna need to be out of town for a while." Don pointed at Charlie. "Hey," he paused for a moment, and nodded at him. "I'm gonna call you and see how you're doing, okay?"
Charlie gave him a small, knowing smile. "Yeah, okay. See ya—"
His only response was a whoosh of air as the door swung shut. Charlie leaned back against his pillows and, taking a deep breath which inevitably caused a stab of pain in his side, punched the channel button on the remote. Three channels up he found the ballgame, which he watched with a half-hearted interest.
123123123
2 weeks later
Charlie sat at the dining table, scribbling notes into his binder with a great intensity. Alan looked up from where he was setting the table and considered his youngest, thankful still to have his son back—even if he was once again oblivious to everything around him except his work. Alan had sworn never to complain about that again, and he meant it. He would rather have Charlie there, even if his mind wasn't there, than the all too real alternative. The thought still sent a chill down his spine.
Charlie paused for one moment to pull up the sleeves of his sweatshirt before diving back into his notes. Alan crossed the room and turned the thermostat down a few degrees.
"Dinner's ready Charlie."
"Hmm…Okay," Charlie responded without slowing down or looking up and Alan knew he hadn't registered it.
He put Charlie's plate down on the placemat that sat at an angle to his books and went about eating his own meal. Charlie would get around to eating at some point – probably long after the food was cold – and while normally this might have irritated Alan, right now he was just happy to have Charlie healthy and active. At this particular point in time, Charlie could do no wrong in his father's eyes—and even Alan knew it. Had Don been around, he mused, he probably would have chided Charlie for not taking better advantage of it.
As if by telepathy, the phone rang then. Completely unfazed, Charlie continued to work as Alan went to answer it.
"Hello? Hey, Donnie! I was just thinking about you…No, we just haven't heard from your for a while. Mmhmm…well, it would only take you 30 seconds to pick up the phone and call us you know. Yeah, well, not to me you're not. No he's doing well, he looks good. Yes, of course…hang on a second." He approached Charlie. "I'd better warn you though," he added, "he's working…" Alan held the phone down into Charlie's line of sight.
"Charlie, it's your brother."
Charlie moved his head to one side so he had a clear view of his paper, then took the phone in one hand while he continued writing with the other. "Hey Don," he said distractedly.
Alan watched as Don apparently did most of the talking and Charlie responded with grunts and "yeah's". Then Charlie perked up a little and asked, "So you need my help with that?"
Whatever Don answered must have confused Charlie because his forehead furrowed slightly as he continued with his equations.
"Well, I don't see why you're calling then…" he said finally.
Don responded with something and Charlie paused. Alan watched with interest as he slowly set his pencil down next to his binder.
"Oh, okay. No, no—" Charlie added quickly "…I'm not busy. Ah…" he paused, "…well, not much—the usual." Don said something else and Charlie seemed to relax in his chair a little. "…No, I didn't watch it but I read about it the next day…You know the odds of that were like 5 million to 1—Well, actually it was more like…" his voice trailed off into a quick muttered calculation, "…4.82…6…So yeah," Charlie's voice returned to normal volume, "about 5 million to 1…". Charlie pushed his chair back from the table and propped his feet up in the one next to him, laughing at whatever Don's response was.
Alan got up from the table to take his plate to the kitchen. He felt a smile cross his lips as he realized he was listening to something he had never heard before, something that would have made his wife eternally happy. For the first time he could remember, his two boys—polar opposites and consummate rivals—were chatting to each other like old friends.
THE END