It is hour eighteen when he wakes up.

Somewhere around hour fourteen, Spencer kissed my temple and drove Estelle home. I told him he didn't need to stay. There's a case. One of us should be at work. Me, probably, since Spencer still can't be in the field, but I just. I couldn't leave the hospital. Not without my brother.

The doctor sits in front of that stupid fucking painting.

"Can we just see him?" Bastien asks, leaning against the wall.

"We just... we want to prepare you for who you will be meeting," the doctor says. "There hasn't been enough time to run the tests we need necessary to diagnosis your brother's issues."

"But he's awake?" Bastien presses on.

The doctor nods, "yes. It will take more time, and some specialists, but we tentatively think he has some combination of dyspraxia and aphasia. Dyspraxia involves difficulties in physically speaking while aphasia is a condition involving the comprehension of speech. Your brother isn't able to speak coherently, and it is unclear to us exactly how much of what we say he understands."

Caro reaches under the table and squeezes my hand. She reaches back for Bastien, who reluctantly steps in closer, but I can't move. Stéphane is in another room, awake, but it sounds like he meaningfully isn't there. As if there isn't another connection.

"Now, we are unclear how long this could last," the doctor says. "It could be short-term, or it could take a few months for his speech to fully recover."

"Can we see him?" Bastien asks.

The doctor nods, "just... don't overwhelm him. It may be stressful for you to see him like this, but it will help him if you are calm and reassuring. Try to speak in simple sentences with short words and simple vocabulary."

"We grew up speaking French," Caro shifts on her chair, and Bastien and I adjust along with her. Tethered together. "Would that, maybe... or should we just try English?"

"French might be helpful," the doctor says. "His languages might be impacted differently, and they might recover at different rates. Trauma to the brain manifests differently in every patient we see, and so we can't say exactly what is going to help or hinder him just yet – not until we have more time to see how he's impacted."

The doctor stands up, and Caro uses me as a crutch to pull herself up. Bastien finally rips himself for her grip, but I help her stand. Over the past few weeks, I've made a good prop for Spencer. I guess I'm used to it.

I have to have it together. I do.

When we get to Stéphane's room. Caro winces.

He's purple and swollen everywhere. It's gotten worse.

Bastien is the first to approach his bed. It smells like rubbing alcohol in here. Caro lets go of me to cover her mouth with both hands. I just stand there. I just fucking stand there.

"Hey," Bastien tries, in French. "How are you?"

Stéphane's eyes flicker between our faces.

I wish I was a profiler. I don't see recognition in my brother's eyes, but I don't see anything. I don't see fear or confusion or relief. I just see bloodshot eyes. Stéphane licks his lips and then opens his mouth.

And jumbled sounds come out. Not words, but he stutters and then sounds come out, and I don't understand him. He furrows his brow and makes different sounds, louder this time, and Caro turns around and Bastien looks at me and I can't fucking move at all.

Running has always been my calling card. Now, I'm stuck here. Stéphane tries to say something else, and it's jumbled again. Caro steps into the hallway. I hear her let out a loud sob.

But in the end, she is the one who stays. Bastien just started his new job, and I insist he goes back. I think he'd quit it if we needed someone here, but the last thing we need as a family is Bastien with too much time on his hands. He's already missed Wednesday, but he says he'll be back over the weekend to see how Stéphane is progressing.

We hug in the parking lot. It's sweltering out, probably soaring into the nineties. It's a heat wave. I only spent a year in Oxford, but I expect English weather on a day like today, not Australian.

Bastien gets in his car and drives away. I stand on the pavement. Inside that hospital, Caro is waiting for me. I don't know what she's doing or where she's living, but she said she wasn't leaving. Probably, she'll stay at mine. I'll have to give Estelle a heads-up.

She's been dating my brother. Secretly. Since before Caro's wedding, since before I even started dating Spencer. God, my head doesn't understand it.

What really doesn't make sense is that the rest of the world keeps happening. I should remember it from when my father died. Maybe I have a good memory, but the body doesn't recall pain. I should be grateful, since I can't remember what it felt like in that basement, can't feel that terror zipping through me, can't imagine the static build-up from screams in my throat. Of course, I remember that I felt it, but I can't actually conceptualize what that means in my body now.

Which I should be even more grateful for, because that means hopefully Stéphane won't remember whatever he is feeling now.

The thing is, life goes on. June 2009 becomes July. I return to work and sit across from Spencer. Caro stays with Estelle in my bedroom and visits Stéphane at the hospital. It becomes Thursday and then Friday, and I'm supposed to have a weekend, but I spend the entire thing in my hospital with my siblings. Spencer heats up food and brings it to us, in containers I know belong to Estelle, and I haven't spoken a word to her, not even to let her know Caro would be there, and Caro doesn't mention her either.

When my father died, there was a funeral to plan, and an estate to inherit, and custody of my siblings to be decided. There were lawyers and family friends and junk runs and memories all over the damn place. I came home from Australia to settle it. This time around, there are some discussions of Stéphane's treatment in the ICU and his prognosis, but it's mostly a return to form. I work. Spencer and I stop carpooling because I'm in the office for twelve hours a day plugging through research. I work so much I duck out of the hospital early Friday and buy myself wrist braces for Monday, since my wrists hurt so much from typing. There are condolences in the office and cards, and suggestions I take time off, but the only thing that really feels beneath my feet is the office. I even turn off notifications from my personal email, since I can't really think about my PhD applications.

The only time I ever flinch from working is when my phone rings or buzzes. Then, I feel the adrenaline of that call all over again.

On Tuesday night, a week after my brother's head injury, I lie in bed next to Spencer. He holds my hand. It's too hot for sheets, too hot for our bodies to curl into each other. It's at the point in the summer where I debate getting a pixie cut all over again.

"I'm sorry," Spencer whispers.

I furrow my brow, "why?"

"Estelle's been calling," Spencer swallows, his voice still squeaky. "She wants to know how you are doing, but I know you don't like when people report on you, so I haven't said anything specific, just that you are coping. I did though, um, well, I told her that Stéphane hasn't made any progress. I thought she deserved to know about what's going on with him at the very least, and I didn't want to make any of you guys tell her."

I roll onto my side to face him, arm still outstretched in front of me to grasp his, "thank you."

"You... you can take time off work, you know," Spencer says. "I'm probably going to switch to a cane during my next doctor's appointment, and then I'll be able to return to team missions."

"I think work is the only thing keeping me grounded," I huff out a sigh.

He twists his head over to look at me, a frown tugging at the corner of his lips. I can't tell what he's thinking anymore than my brother. Constantly I'm upsetting Spencer and I've got no idea how I'm doing it, or how to fix it. This is easier if I just bury my head in my work.

Our proximity has never mapped out linearly. He's felt close when he was across the country, and he's felt far sitting in the bullpen with me. Right now, he feels no closer than usual. Even though I'm sleeping in his bed, living in his apartment, I couldn't chart the journey between us. It's too perilous, too nebulous.

He remembers everything and I'm supposed to be good at recognizing patterns, and somehow this feels new and old, the same and different. I never understand him and he never understands me. My exile is self-imposed. His is naturally formed, a chasm that would dwarf the Grand Canyon.

"Do you remember pain?" I ask. "I know that people in general can't, but can you?"

He shakes his head.

I'm not surprised, since I don't know how Spencer could step outside ever, after everything he's been through, if he recalled every feeling he has had. Tortured, shot, poisoned, and rejected by me, over and over again.

"Stéphane will feel better when he recovers," Spencer squeezes my hand.

I turn back onto my back and turn out the light.

At work on Monday, I wear my wrist braces and my glasses, and I'm only pulled from my phone when my phone rings. I flinch instinctively, just from the sound, and flinch a second time when I see the caller ID.

~~~~~

Sorry it's late. Next chapter might be delayed too.