A/N - Hey all, I'm back...

This story's a bit different. Takes place pre-canon, back in Don's Fugitive Recovery days. I was watching my S3 dvd's and was struck when Liz and Colby were talking about Don back when he was her tactical instructor. It got me thinking about why he left FR and how things could have gone so hinky in Albuquerque.

I suppose it could also be a story to figure out how Don became as dark as he has, especially since "In Security," (which will be henceforth known as "the episode that shall not be named" or TETSNBN for short) with the mention of the black mark.

This has been quite the job. I've been rewatching my Numb3rs dvds, and let me tell you... Research has never been so... captivating before. There hasn't ever been mention where Don was living while he was in FR (unless I was drooling and distracted if Don ever mentioned it, which is very possible especially if it happened during Tabu), so I randomly chose the Chicago office because I like to go there (to the city and not the actual FBI) on weekend trips, even though the traffic sucks. (And sort of gives me the advantage of writing locales I somewhat know.)

Please let me know what you think!

"Are you going back to man hunting now?"

"Oh, I see. Dad, come on. Don't. This is one case."

"I seem to recall your saying that about only one case once before. But if you remember, they were not good days for you or for me. I mean, we didn't see hear from you for weeks. We didn't even know where the hell you were."

"Dad..."

"You do realize, chasing after someone you could be running away from yourself at the same time."

-Alan Eppes (Judd Hirsch) to Don Eppes (Rob Morrow). Man Hunt, Numb3rs Season One.

September 14, 1998

Southwest of Ely, Minnesota.

Thirty miles south of the US - Canadian Border.

oOo

"I don't know, Eppes…" the voice drawled over the radio. "You look kinda cute up there."

"Yeah, yeah…" Don shifted his position, straw stuck stubbornly to his jacket, breaching his collar down his back, "Next time you get the crappy seat."

He let out a breath, the air fogging in the cool September air, only made colder by the northern latitude. Zipping up the jacket to under his chin didn't really help, but it made him feel a little better. He could almost say that he didn't quite believe that Coop had talked him into perching in the loft, but it had happened before.

And as surely as Lucy lifted the football before Charlie Brown could ever kick it, it would happen again, he thought wryly. Theirs was a nearly equal partnership, nearly equal in experience and time on the field.

Still, it didn't stop Billy Cooper from pulling rank every now and again.

There was a full harvest moon spilling out over Minnesotan corn fields, the dried stalks rustling in the wind causing him to look deeper. There was no guarantee that their quarry would come tonight. He hadn't the night before or the night before that.

The anticipation had the agent on edge.

The old farm had come up in an extensive background search. Three days of leads and a long ago forgotten summer home of a felon's ex-girlfriend popped up on the radar. It had been a long chase up from the charm school down in Joliet.

Don rubbed his hands together, the thick fingerless gloves offering some warmth. The cabin had been long since abandoned and from his ringside seat in the haymow, could watch the drive as well as the front door. Coop covered the back.

He clicked the radio twice on instinct when he saw an unnatural and slightly human shadow slinking down the road. The night vision goggles were freakin' ugly, he thought. But they picked up an indeterminate limp that corresponded with the police report and clothes that fell short of wrists and ankles on the six two frame.

"Got him," Don whispered into his jacket sleeve. "Heading southwest along the fence line. He's alone, can't see any weapon."

"Roger that," Billy responded. "Working my way over now."

Don crept away from the window, the glass long since gone and shudders hanging precariously in the wind. He stepped across the floor, sketchy wood, too far gone to be reliable. The squeaks were avoided as he hoisted himself down the ladder and to the half open, ground level door.

"Target sighted. Approaching from the northeast."

Don knew the general direction Coop was coming from, mentally mapped the route in his mind, "Copy that."

He pressed himself up against the small granary room that ran along side the ladder. The moonlight filtered through the gaps and slats, years taking toll as the barn went from something that had protected to being something in need of that protection.

A draft from overhead pushed cool air down on him, urging him to move, but the need to stay was stronger as he watched a shadow melt into another and then the tall form slip in as an old pulley system creaked as he pushed open the door.

The radio clicked another three times. Target in sight, too close to make verbal contact. Don knew the man was unarmed, knew that for now, at least, had no weapon in hand. There were a lot of spare parts and two by fours lying around. He shuddered a little at the remembrance of a nasty reel of barbed wire.

Time to get the show on the road.

The convict had moved far enough inward so that there were no ready escapes. Don positioned himself between the open door and the man, raised his gun, "FBI. Put your hands up."

The calm, almost bored monotone startled him. The shadow man whipped himself around, raising hands that were somewhere between defense and surrender, "Who the hell are you?"

"FBI." Don took a step closer, "Fugitive Recovery." He took another step, "I said get your hands up and get on your knees."

The man complied, lowering himself and opening the near fists to near perfect jazz hands, shaking like some bad sort of pantomime. Don grabbed the left wrist and caught a whiff of fetid breath and rotten wood, "Do you ever brush your teeth?"

The man growled, his face heavily stubbled, difficult to discern the grime and soot from the dark facial hair. He hadn't an easy trip to Minnesota, "Sorry if that offends you, Agent," he hissed. "I've been a little busy this past week."

"Hey, I'm all about getting up close and personal, but I don't think you're exactly my type," Don pulled his other wrist, moved it towards the cuffs. He could hear footsteps behind him, steadily growing louder over the breeze.

"Started the party without me, Eppes?" Billy's tone was light, almost jovial. His flashlight glinted off the silver cuffs as Don finished closing them.

"Coop. I think we scared him. Don't think he was expecting any visitors tonight." Don dragged the man up to his feet, Coop shoved the gun in his holster and flashlight to his belt, taking the man's other side.

"See, now my mom always taught me that it was polite to keep the door open and the light on just in case," Billy's gruff voice explained.

In a quick flash of one last try, Custer's Last Stand and the Alamo, the man made an effort to pull himself from Cooper, catching his elbow on Don's face, only to be slammed up against the hewn lumber and wrestled down to the floor, "Don't go now. The night's still young."

Don cursed as he tasted a familiar salty flavor in his mouth, "Son of a bitch…"

Coop gave him a worried look, one that said to man up and give him a hand if he could, still had the man pinned to the floor, "Okay, Eppes?"

"Yeah," he flexed his jaw, his words ever so mushy. "Not too bad." He touched his hand to his mouth, his fingers sticky and wet. He rolled over from his back and pulled himself back up on his feet.

It was just a split lip but he was pissed.

He wiped his hand on his jeans and then nudged Billy's shoulder before his partner made another point with the prisoner again.

The man's nose was bleeding but neither of them did anything about it. The two partners walked on either side of their prisoner, hands firmly holding on to his arms as they dragged him to the waiting SUV. Don clapped him on the back as they pushed the fighting man into the back seat, "I was thinking a nice dinner, maybe a bag of ice right about now. What you thinkin', Coop?"

The agent took a peek in the rearview mirror at the scowling man and then back again at Don, "I'm thinking it's about time we get Mr. Nevis home. He's got some people who are real eager to see him again. Isn't that right, Mr. Nevis?" Cooper said his name in that tone, the kind a junior high student uses with a teacher they didn't really like, didn't really respect, so silently mocked instead.

The man swore and Coop told him to shut up. He started up the car and Don radioed in their catch. They would drive the four and a half or so hours south to the Minneapolis field office to drop Nevis off. Then in another day or so, back home to Chicago for a couple of days off.

Something hit his seat, Don turned around fuming when he saw the kicking feet, "The nice man said shut up! Now if you don't be quiet, Mr. Nevis." Don could do surly teen as well. "The ride back is going to be a lot less pleasant for you that it could be."

Don had perfected a dangerous voice over the last year, one that said almost exactly what his vocabulary couldn't. He looked back at the man behind the wire frame that kept returning fugitives from planning mutiny and takeover. Nevis silenced, though his eyes were equally dangerous.

Don pursed his lips and kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. The time on the clock read just past one or so in the morning.

Happy freakin' Birthday to me...

oOo

He threw his keys on the table by the door, alongside the mail that had collected while he'd be away. The midday sun came through the windows, leaving diagonal streaks and smudges resembling a distorted fire escape across the wall and beige carpet. The apartment wasn't much of a mess for the sole reason that there wasn't a lot there.

The building was seven stories and a hundred years old, or so his landlord claimed. He lived on the sixth floor, stuck halfway in something between a studio and a one-bedroom with brick walls, even more bricks arranged in arches over the windows with the bed hidden behind a half wall. He liked the character and his neighbors claimed there were ghosts that haunted the old once-factory, over-worked and under-paid immigrants that died in something like Upton Sinclair's Jungle.

The duffle bag fell to the floor next to where he kicked off his shoes. The jacket hung off the hook by the door, still swaying as he fell back on to the couch. Don could see the steady red flashing light, the answering machine teasing him, curiosity thick enough to push the button, not nearly enough to return calls.

"Donnie, its your mother. I hope you're having a wonderful birthday."

"Bonsoir Don, its Gisella…"

"Don, it's your dad here. Wondering if you were…"

"Mr. Eppes, calling about an overdue movie…"

"Hey Don, will you be able to make it home for Thanksgiving? Charlie will be home…"

"Agent Eppes, this is Nicole from Human Resources in regards…"

The remotes were in easy reach and he flipped through the channels, letting it finally land on ESPN. Sosa had beat Roger Maris's home-run record on Sunday, hitting number sixty-one and sixty-two off the Brewers. Chicago had been ecstatic, the fans at Wrigley off the charts. Coming back to the city a few days after the fact left him with the feeling that he had walked in on the aftermath of a party someone forgot to invite him to.

After all, he had left that particular dance…

Don pulled himself off the couch and to the kitchen, the two microbrews the only thing worth attention in the refrigerator. The door tried to shut and only did once Don kicked it fully closed. There would be always time to discuss that with his landlord later. He popped off the cap, held the cold glass to his bruised mouth and crossed back to the living room, back onto the sofa.

The Louisville Slugger was propped up in the corner near the tv. He turned his eyes from there to the gun resting on the coffee table and then back again. He tilted the drink towards the television and then to the bat, took a long draught and let himself fall against the cushions, the sounds of the city echoing 'cross the busy streets and a familiar sportscaster running through the day's scores.

The phone rang, quietly and a bit obtrusively. He checked the phone still on his belt, so it wasn't work, wasn't another assignment.

There was always time to call whomever back anyways.

"Don, it's your dad. Just wondering where you're at. Hope you're alright. Sorry we didn't catch you on your birthday. Hope it was a good one…"

He turned the tv up a little louder.