Charlie
Consciousness returns slowly, like dawn’s first light seeping under heavy eyelids.
At first, all I know is that something aches.
Then I realize everything aches—every muscle, every bone, every inch of skin.
A ragged breath escapes my clenched lips, a groan so gravelly it scarcely sounds human.
Instinctively, I shift beneath the blankets, searching for relief, the movement lasting less than a heartbeat before a white-hot flare of agony shoots through my shoulders, collarbone, and skull, stealing my breath.
I freeze, panic surging like ice in my veins.
But then I smell a familiar scent—Niko—and my eyes snap open.
Overhead, the bedroom ceiling comes into focus.
Home.
I’m home.
A flood of recollection drowns my lungs, and for a moment I cannot draw breath.
A broken, awful sound escapes me, then another, as tears carve hot tracks down my cheeks.
I make no attempt to stop them. All the fear, the helplessness, the certainty that I’d never see him again, pours out, followed by overwhelming gratitude that he came.
He found me.
He brought me back.
My body trembles with sobs. “Daddy…”
The door swings open, and there is Nikolaus, every line of his face etched with relief and exhaustion. His hair is rumpled; the sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up and wrinkled, revealing forearms tense with fatigue.
“I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice rough with unshed tears. His hand, warm and sure, settles into my hair, fingertips stroking my scalp gently. “I’m right here.”
In the doorway stands the doctor, and beyond the doctor in the hallway, there’s just a flicker of movement—an older woman with dark curls. I barely glimpse her before the doctor comes in fully and closes the door.
He exhales a long sigh of relief when he sees my eyes open. “Thank god,” he says, voice smooth but strained with emotion. He sets his bag on the bedside table and moves to my side. “Charlie, how are you feeling?” His tone is calm, clinical, yet threaded with kindness.
I manage a shaky laugh that ends in a wince. “Bad.” The single word tastes bitter on my tongue.
He nods sympathetically. “That sounds about right.” A small penlight appears in his hand, and he examines each pupil, shining the beam gently into my eyes.
He asks a series of questions—where I am, why I’m here, who he is, and who Nikolaus is.
“Good,” he says quietly, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Very good.”
I ask, “Am I dying?”
Both men react instantly—the doctor’s brow furrows in horror, and Nikolaus’s fists clench.
“No,” they answer at exactly the same moment.
The doctor clears his throat. “No, Charlie. Quite the opposite.” He perches on the edge of a nearby chair. “You’re incredibly fortunate in that regard.” His face grows serious. “Your nose was broken. I reset it while you were unconscious.”
My hand rises toward my face, but Nikolaus’s hand closes over my wrist first. “Leave it alone, sweetheart.” His tone brooks no argument, and I obey.
The doctor continues, voice soft but steady.
“And I suspect several ribs are cracked.” A cold wash of understanding sweeps through me—no wonder every breath wounds me.
“They don’t seem fully broken, which is good news,” he adds quickly.
“The rest is significant bruising and soft-tissue injury—painful, but recoverable. Based on what you looked like… I assumed much worse.”
I probably looked dead.
The doctor glances nervously at Niko, then returns his focus to me, still looking rather uncomfortable. “I have my own conclusion based on examination, but I need to ask you this for a myriad of reasons.”
“Okay? What is it?” I ask, anxious.
He swallows, the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing. “Were you penetrated by any animate or inanimate objects, either orally or anally?”
The question makes me gag.
“N–no.” I struggle to push the word out. “No, I don’t remember—no.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears.
The doctor doesn’t look relieved; if anything, the corners of his mouth pinch tighter.
“There were no signs of trauma that I could see, but if you don’t remember, I’d still really like to do an STD panel.
I want to make sure you’re safe, and that you know you can tell me if anything comes up.
Or, if you’d prefer, I can refer you to someone else. ”
“I know. I’m not sure why I said it like that. They were um… they were close to doing that, but it didn’t happen.”
Nikolaus’s thumb brushes over my wrist, back and forth. He says nothing, but the silence is a net holding me aloft.
“Um… but could anything be transferred through spit?” I ask, my teeth clenched.
“It would be extraordinarily rare, but technically possible. I would recommend the tests just in case.”
I nod shakily and squeeze Niko’s hand.
“Is there anything else I should know about? Anything else ingested or anything that I can’t see?”
“Oh, yeah…” I take a breath. They um… they forced me to drink alcohol.”
Both men go still; the doctor’s eyes narrow.
“How much?” he asks, voice taut.
“I’m not sure. It was a half-full bottle of vodka, but a lot of it ended up on me. It was enough that I was choking on it, and could feel it like in my nose, if that makes sense? I also threw up a few times, so I’m just not sure how much is in my system.”
He nods, lips pursed. “That’s… a large volume for your size. You’re lucky not to have aspirated it.” His fingers linger on the pulse in my wrist, counting silently.
My mouth feels thick and clumsy. I can barely swallow, but I force myself. “Is it bad? Like, alcohol poisoning?”
“You’re showing mild withdrawal symptoms. Seems like you’ve metabolized most of it by now, which is frankly remarkable.
” The doctor’s eyes flick up from my wrist to my face.
“But if you start feeling confused, if you see or hear things that aren’t there—or if your pulse races or you get the shakes—tell someone immediately.
You may still have a rough night or two,” he says, “but you’ll pull through. ”
“Okay,” I answer.
“With that said, given your medications and history, I can’t afford any risks. I need to start an IV now.”
I exhale. “Will it help?”
“It will.”
I nod. “Okay then.”
“I’ll be right back.” Then he turns to Nikolaus, whose face has gone pale. “And you need to relax.”
Nikolaus frowns. “What?”
The doctor lifts one eyebrow. “You won’t make a very helpful partner if you have a heart attack.”
He then departs before Nikolaus can argue. The door clicks shut, and the room settles into silence.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Nikolaus remains seated beside me, hand still clasping mine, eyes fearful I might vanish again.
After a few minutes of quietly soaking up his presence and my safety, I whisper, “You found me.”
Pain flickers across his features. “Of course I did,” he says softly, as though there could be no other choice. “Turns out Russians aren’t great with secrets when there’s a gun to their head.”
Tears well in my eyes again. “I thought—” My voice breaks. “I thought I wasn’t going home, Daddy.”
His grip tightens until my fingers whiten. “You were always coming home, baby. I’m so sorry that I didn’t realize what was happening with Constantine. I would’ve never let him near you if I had even an inkling—”
I shush him. “I know. But it’s okay, because you saved me.”
“It’s not okay, baby. Look at you. Look at how much pain you’re in. Look at… what could have happened.”
“Daddy, I’m okay.”
He bows his head and brings my hand to his lips, holding it there as if trying to inhale my pulse, the proof I’m alive. His beard is scratchy, but I savor it, even the sting of soft hairs against my battered knuckles.
“Never again,” he says, voice thunderous and low. “Never fucking again.”
He sits like that for a long moment, his hand engulfing mine, the ferocity of his grip squeezing blood to the surface and making my already throbbing fingers sting.
I almost protest, but then he softens, tender as a bandage.
He keeps kissing the back of my hand, as if that could somehow undo the last twelve hours.
I can’t stop crying.
I don’t even try.
The tears just keep coming, my chest hitching with every raw, sodden breath. I want to be brave, to make him proud, but all I can do is cling with my good arm and let him pet my head and tell me, “Shh, shh, Daddy’s got you, Daddy’s here.”
Eventually, my exhaustion gets the better of me, and my blubbering slows to a hiccupy silence. I blink crusty salt from my eyes and study his face, just to reassure myself he’s real. Not a dream, not a mirage.
“Daddy,” I whisper. “I love you.”
“Oh,” he gasps out wetly, “baby, thank you. I love you too. More than anything.”
A gentle knock interrupts the moment.
Nikolaus catches his breath, sighs, and glances toward the door, wary, but only slightly. “Charlie?” he asks.
“Yeah?”
“There’s someone here who really wants to meet you. Can she come in? If you don’t want any visitors, that’s fine. Everyone will understand.”
Confusion ripples through my exhaustion, but I end up shrugging. “Okay.”
“Come in,” Nikolaus calls out.
The door opens, and the woman I glimpsed earlier steps in, dressed in a tailored jacket of deep burgundy, with a silk scarf in autumn hues draped at her neck, and dark curls threaded with silver that catch the lamp light.
She pauses by the bedside, eyes flecked with both reproach and relief. “I cannot believe you kept him hidden from me,” she says, voice crisp.
“Mother—”
Mother?
“For months!” she snaps. Nikolaus opens his mouth; she ignores him, turning to me. Her sharp features soften instantly. “Oh, sweetheart…” She reaches out, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I have been worried sick.”
My heart aches with the unfamiliar warmth in her tone. “You have..?”
She nods, concern shining in her eyes. “It’s a blessing I dropped in for a visit when I did. Oh, the way he walked in here with you in his arms, all bruised up and looking like death herself. I was beside myself, and then—then he told me he loves you and you’ve been living here with him!”
Nikolaus groans; his mother pays no heed.
“And then he keeps me waiting for hours! And I’m just sitting there thinking that I’m about to lose the precious boy my son has only just told me about! Oh, Charlie, you must be feeling terrible.”
I manage, “I’m sorry that we’re meeting now, and not like when I’m not all beat up.”
She waves it away. “Oh, sweetness, don’t apologize. This is all my Nikolaus’s fault. All of it.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Hush, you,” she hisses at her son.
A tremulous laugh escapes me, and she smiles broadly, as though it were the best sound she’s heard all year.
“Now, I heard it was your birthday a few days ago…” Nikolaus’s mother goes into a monologue and starts fussing with my pillows as the doctor reenters with an IV stand and supplies.
Cool antiseptic wipes kiss my skin, then the sharp prick of the needle. Soon, a slow drip of fluids, antibiotics, and pain medication flows into my vein.
Relief does not wash over me all at once—the sharpest edges of agony dull, melting from white-hot fire to a manageable ache.
The bedroom itself starts to soften. The doctor murmurs healing timelines; Nikolaus’s mother frets softly about blankets and pillows and keeping me comfortable.
But my gaze never leaves the hand clutched in mine.
Nikolaus never lets go. His thumb brushes over my skin again and again—a gentle promise, the last thing I feel before sleep sweeps me away once more.