A/N: March 15th 2010 marks the fourth anniversary of my mother's death. I wrote this in her honor. I still miss her very much and will continue to do so each day. Au revoir et merci, maman.
Summary: In an instant, everything can change, never to be the same again. Alan passes.
His cell phone vibrated next to his hand. He grumbled a sigh and dropped his chin to his chest. Not again. Not today. He was getting too old to go for more than a couple days without sleep and the sun was just now breaching the horizon for the third time since he'd last slept. He glanced warily at the call display and chuckled, relieved. Charlie. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He put the phone to his ear, taking the ever-present pencil out of his mouth.
"Hey buddy," he said into the phone, letting some of the weariness creep into his voice.
"Don."
The tone of his brother's voice had him sitting up, catching his team's attention, his heart rate all but doubling.
"Charlie, what's wrong?" he asked, a million scenarios in his head, fear paramount.
"You have to come home," Charlie murmured, his voice rough and uneven. "You have to... come home. Please Don... I..."
"Charlie!" Don snapped, worry thick. The tone of Charlie's voice brought back sharp memories of Amita's kidnapping. He was on his feet before he realised he'd moved, grabbing his jacket off his chair, Colby and David rising behind him. He was halfway to the elevator when he realised he'd likely lose the signal the moment he stepped in. "I'm on my way, buddy, but... Tell me what's wrong. Please Charlie, just tell me."
"Dad," he said simply, his voice breaking. "It's dad. He… Dad's... He's... he's gone."
He didn't hear the rest, the phone slipping out of suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor, numb shock crawling up his spine. He felt himself take a step back, bumping into something solid. There was a hand on his shoulder and under his arm and a deafening roaring in his ears. Something solid materialised behind his legs, his vision going gray at the edges.
He gasped and drew in a breath, the world coming back into focus with a rush. He found himself sitting on a chair in the middle of an aisle with no idea how he got from the elevator to there, David kneeling in front of him, Colby just behind.
"Don! Talk to me! You okay?" David was saying. He shook his head and swallowed.
"I'm fine," was the first thing that made it out of his mouth and he just wanted to laugh. He was anything but.
"Sorry man but you're white as a ghost! What's up with Charlie?" he asked, motioning to the broken cell phone lying on the linoleum by the elevator.
He dropped his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut against the surge of grief that rose when he thought of what he had to say.
"Charlie... He, um... My dad... My dad died," he said quietly, letting his hands fall to his lap.
David grabbed his shoulder and squeezed, Colby cursing softly behind him. "Charlie needs me at home," he whispered, not moving. He finally looked up, exhaling sharply.
"I'll drive you," David said, his voice flat and toneless, a hand on his arm. "Colb?"
"Right behind you."
He pushed to his feet and followed David, lost in a daze, his mind refusing to accept his brother's words. He heard Colby talking behind him, heard the words, not really understanding them.
"Robin, it's Colby. No, Don's okay but... something's happened. It's Alan. We're driving him to Charlie's. Okay."
The drive passed in a series of flashing images and noise, David driving fast with strobes and siren. The flashing red and blue of the Charger mixed with the EMS blaring crimson to paint the Craftsman in eerie fires. Two LAPD cars were already in the street.
Part of him saw the neighbours out on their lawns, the car door left open on Charlie's Prius. All he could focus on was Charlie, sitting on the front step, looking utterly lost and alone. He was there in an instant.
"Charlie," he called out, surprised by how rough he sounded. Charlie jumped to his feet, arms going around his neck and holding on fiercely. Don held on just as tight, feeling his brother's tears soak through the shoulder of his shirt. He felt himself shake, breathing harsh, eyes burning.
"Where is he, Charlie?" he managed to ask.
It took a while for Charlie to pull back and answer. "I came home from work… I spent… the night
on …We were supposed to go to breakfast together..."
"Shhh. It's okay, Charlie," he soothed, "I just… I need to see him. You understand?"
"In his bedroom."
"Okay."
"Go. I'll take care of Charlie."
Don startled, turning to face David. He nodded, smiling thinly.
"Medics are waiting for a doctor to confirm."
"Thanks," he said, glad his voice was at least a bit steady. He walked into the old house to find it
crawling with LAPD, looking through the mail, photographs from the mantle in their hands. Fierce, intense rage surged up. His hands balled into fists, reason swallowed by grief and anger.
"Everybody out! This isn't a damn crime scene!" he barked.
"FBI. This one's ours, guys."
Don pressed his lips in a thin line, breathing hard. He felt Colby's hand on his shoulder and the rage evaporated, as fast as it had come. He shook his head
"I'm sorry. I know those guys are just doing their jobs but…"
"Don't worry about it. Go see your dad."
He heard Colby's steps retreat behind him and the front door closing quietly. He exhaled softly, listening to the quiet of the house. He drew in a heavy breath and blew it out, trying to gather himself. He climbed up the steps slowly, limbs heavy, heart more so. He paused at the bedroom door, his fingers gently resting on the old oak. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. He wasn't ready for this. He placed his palm on the door and ever so softly pushed it in.
Bright morning sunlight shone through the window, painting an intricate pattern on the dark wood floor. The soft, early morning breeze stirred the white chiffon curtains. Don felt a pang of old grief as he took in the décor. His father had never redecorated his bedroom after his mother's death. It was one thing to put away clothes and personal items but to erase all traces of her presence from this room...
He had to grab on to the door frame to steady himself. As kids, Charlie and he rarely intruded into their parent's bedroom. It had always been understood that this was their private space, not off limits but a haven still.
The last time he'd stepped into this room was to say a last, final goodbye to his mother, on a morning much too much like this one.
He drew in a deep breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, rubbing a hand over his face. He took another slow breath and lifted his eyes to the bed.
His knees almost gave, words escaping his throat unbidden.
"Oh, Dad..."
His father lay in his bed, on his back, lips slightly parted, his left arm draped over the covers. Don swallowed hard and stepped into the room, unshed tears brightening his eyes.
Death had been gentle to his father, claiming him in peaceful slumber, away from fear and pain.
For that, Don was grateful. He closed his eyes as his fingers brushed his father's still hand, sending a silent prayer of thanks to the heavens. He sat on the bed, taking in his father's peaceful face, silvering hair catching the light.
He let his head fall forward, taking the cool hand into his and squeezing it lightly.
"I'm gonna miss you, Dad," he whispered, his vision blurring. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the tears slip from his eyes and fall on the hand that rested in his lap. He swallowed a sob and exhaled slowly.
He sat there for incalculable minutes, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of his father's hand. Gently, he uncurled the fingers and slipped off the wide gold band still there. He grasped it tightly, letting it dig into his own left palm. He exhaled forcefully and carefully slid his hand from his father's and leaned forward, brushing his lips to his dad's forehead.
"Goodbye Dad."
He rose off the bed, turning his back to it. He sniffed and pinched the bridge of his nose, fresh tears falling from his eyes. He wiped them away and bit his lip, checking his watch. He took another minute to gather himself before taking a step towards the door.
"Donald?"
He lifted his head at the soft call of his name.
"Dr. Fellan," Don said, instantly recognising the white-haired man as their old family doctor. The man always, ialways/i used his full name, no matter how often he'd asked to be called Don.
"I wish I could say it's good to see you, Donald. I'm so sorry for your loss," the old man offered, extending a hand. Don took it and smiled sadly.
"Thank you. I'm... I'm just glad he went in peace."
The old man nodded, squeezing his shoulder. "Small mercies. I'm sorry but I have to ask..."
Don nodded, eyes lost somewhere between the floor and his soul. "Same as Mom. I'll give them a call."
"Let me. Go to your brother."
"Thank you."
He walked down the familiar steps slowly, feeling utterly lost, heavy with grief but strangely calm and serene. He'd dreaded this day, had dreaded it for a long time. He'd feared it, feared his family's collapse, his own. What would he do if his father was no longer there to guide him? He was fiercely independent but... Whenever he felt lost, unsure, confused, his father had always been there. And now...
It amazed him somewhat, to see he was still calm and collected, functioning, still standing. And yet it didn't.
iHe's made you strong. You can stand on your own. You always could. /i
The insight came to him unbidden, clear as the sun rising high.
"Don!"
He lifted his eyes from the steps and found Robin, waiting for him in the foyer. She ran to him and he drew her to him in a crushing embrace, burying his face in her hair.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured into his chest, her voice wavering. "I'm so, so sorry."
"I'm okay," he said, his own voice rough. "I'm... not okay, but..."
"I know," she said, looking into his eyes.
"Thank you for being here."
She shook her head, not saying what he knew she thought, things like 'where else would I be?'.
"What can I do? Just ask..."
He shook his head, a million things going through his mind. "Just... I need to see... I gotta take care of Charlie."
She nodded, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. "I'll be here."
-----------------+
He found him by the koi pond and he was glad for that. Today, he didn't think he could have handled the garage and the numbers.
He didn't say a word, simply put a hand on his shoulder, words locked in his throat. Five years ago, Charlie would have buried himself in numbers again. He'd grown a lot since then, stepped into the real world, out of his bubble. Don had voiced it as a wish, right here, hands fisted in his brother's shirt, hurting him in his own anger. He had a feeling if he did that now, he'd get punched in the face. The thought made him smile.
"You okay?" he asked, for lack of something better. "You know what I mean," he amended.
"P vs NP," Charlie replied, voice shaking.
"We'll be okay," he said, draping his arm over his shoulders.
"I should... I need to call Amita."
"She at CalSci?"
"Should be."
"Okay." He flipped his cell out of his belt and to his ear.
"David. Can you pick up Amita at CalSci, bring her here? Thanks."
"Thank you. You don't have to do this..."
"Charlie..."
"He was your father too," his brother said harshly, turning his tear-filled eyes on him, pushing off
his arm. "Why the hell doesn't this affect you? Dad is dead, Don. And he is never coming back."
"I know that, Charlie. Okay? I know," he replied. "Just..."
Fat tears fell from his brother's eyes and the words died on Don's lips.
He held Charlie tightly against him, his quiet sobs vibrating against his ribs. Charlie sniffed loudly and pushed back a little, looking up at him.
"You... don't need to be strong for me, Don. We both lost him," he said, his voice breaking. Don knew what Charlie meant, what he wasn't saying.
"I'm okay, Charlie," he replied, his lips twisting in a ghost of a smile.
"You don't have to do this, Don."
"What do you think I'm doing?" he asked softly.
"What you always do. Being strong for others. Not letting yourself grieve. You don't have to be strong for me. You've already made me strong, stronger than I ever was. Let me be there for you."
Don dragged his brother back into his arms, holding him tightly.
"You are, Charlie. You are." And suddenly, it was real, immediate and raw. He was fully prepared for Charlie to fall apart. Not for this. The sudden weight of grief crushed him, stealing the air from his lungs. He wasn't prepared for the depth of the loss that suddenly enveloped him. His lids squeezed tightly shut but there was nothing he could do to stop the flow of tears. He felt the morning dew soak through his pants, cold on his knees. His hands tightened, fisting into his brother's jacket.
For the first time in his life, Don Eppes surrendered.