Author's Note: Originally archived at the CalSci Library. Dedicated to wolfpup. She does so much for every fandom she's in than she realizes. You're the best!
ZZZ
Snipers, like all serial killers, rely on patterns. Based on history, preference, environment, and even self-medical history, the patterns of their movement and choice of victim was a set pattern that could be gauged, calculated, and predicted.
They were supposed to be predictable.
Charlie Eppes couldn't convince himself of this right now, sitting on the sidewalk, his brother bleeding onto his lap.
The FBI office of Los Angeles had a situation brewing for the past six months. Eight targets, all dead, shot from an impossible distance, and all within a grid pattern Charlie was able to discern after three days when his older brother Don gave him the data. Charlie saw the pattern. He predicted the next location. It had an 83.70 chance that it would happen here. But not for another two weeks. Nothing was supposed to happen for another two weeks.
The killer was early.
The killer shot Don.
"Charlie? Don? Can anyone read me here? I heard shots fired. We're pinned here behind the bank. What's your location?"
Don's radio, crackling in the distance just over his shoulder was demanding answers. But Charlie, for the first time in his life, didn't know where he was. Still disoriented from when his brother, after seeing the first telltale red dot of a laser scope, pushed him away and inadvertently putting himself in the line of fire. Still disoriented from trying to make the connection of seeing a red dot blossoming out from Don's lower torso to the weight of his brother's body slamming into him, driving him down to the asphalt on his knees.
"All units! We've located the shooter. Upper floor, on Fifth and-"
"I need all personnel to respond! Sinclair? Raison? Eppes? Eppes!"
"Don? Charlie? Where are you?"
Where was he? He was here. Where else would he be? Charlie numbly looked down at his brother, dangling halfway across his lap facedown, one arm outstretched to the sidewalk with the pistol he pulled out when the red dot had appeared. One arm, half wrapped around his middle. Even now, Don was still trying to get Charlie down from the sniper's range.
Glass was breaking somewhere…
"Shots fired! We have shots fired!"
No. Shots were already fired. Once. No. Maybe twice? Dimly, Charlie thought he could see the X and Y coordinates in ghostly chalk materializing and superimposing over Don's body. The 83 bisected 40 before going across to a 30-degree angle. It created impact and aftermath splashes from between 22 to 55. He thought he could see the numbers intersecting from where the bullet punched through his brother to the splatters on his shirt. An invisible hand writing the numbers no one else seemed to understand but him. Wait.
Am I bleeding?
"Charlie? Cha—I have an agent down! We need paramedics over to Oakley and—"
Charlie raised his head and thought he saw Don's partner Terry speaking to him, his eyes frantic, her hands pulling his away from where he was covering Don's shoulders in a pathetic attempt of a shield.
"Charlie? I need you to let me see. Just hold him like that, good, I- Oh God. I-It's going to be fine, Charlie. He's alive. Don's alive."
He knew Don was alive. He could feel his brother's broad chest rising and falling against his thighs. He was distracted though by the warm, liquidly sensation spreading across his legs.
The red splatters. Wait. All the coordinates make sense but the one on his jeans; a huge wet spot that he could now see clearly as Terry rolled Don over to lie perpendicular to him. All the spots including the one on his neck and shoulder were from initial impact. It didn't make sense. How did this one fall beyond the range of the Z-axis? The angle was all wrong. It was totally—
Terry was grabbing his hands, tugging them forward and suddenly his palms were warm, very warm. Numbly he looked down and saw she forced his hands to sandwich Don's body between them, the ugly holes trapped between his palms.
He felt ill. He wanted to throw up.
"Charlie!" Terry pressed closer to his face; eyes narrow, lips bleached white on her thin face. "Charlie, I want you to stay here. Don't go anywhere. It's too dangerous. The sniper's moved away but there's enough cover behind the tables here. Ambulance is on its way. Just keep your hands on the wound and apply pressure. Can you do that for me? Charlie?"
Don twitched; a gurgle that should have been a groan escaped. Terry glanced down. She swallowed. Charlie could feel the body between his hands jerked.
"I'm hurting him," Charlie's voice cracked. He looked at Terry, pleading. Why can't she do this? Didn't she understand? Something didn't make sense here. Nothing. No, everything. "I'm hurting him."
Terry looked pained. She squeezed his shoulder as she rose slightly into a crouch, her own gun clenched inside a fist. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I know. It's for the best. Keeps the bleeding to a minimum until help arrives." Another look over her shoulder, first to Charlie with a reassuring smile, then something else different lingering on Don and she was gone.
Charlie's breathing quickened. His hands flexed, tightening without thinking and Don groaned again, this time more clearly.
"Char—" Don jerked once more and his eyes cracked open. He looked up to Charlie. "H-hey."
Velocity could have been a factor to force the last splatter to land beyond the Z-axis. That was it. Velocity…velocity of what?
"Char-lie." A weak hand grabbed him by the right sleeve, forcing Charlie to look down at Don. Something in his eyes made his brother struggle to rise.
"Don't get up!" Charlie panicked. Don grunted as the pressure increased on his torso and he flopped back down onto to the sidewalk. "D-don't get up. S-she said that we have to stay…stay here and wait for help. Help. I mean, it's on its way, Don. I-I…"
Don reached over again to his sleeve, pulling at it until Charlie finally got the hint and lowered his head to his ear.
"It'll be okay," Don rasped. His body still jerked, unable to cope with the pain. Even his mouth was white as if the blood from his lips had drained out of his body as well. "Just stay small, l-low to the…" He sucked in his breath, but it seemed to make the pain worst and he began to pant. "Ah d-damn…stay low to the ground. S-smaller tar…tar…" He couldn't get in enough air it would seem to finish the word.
"Smaller target. Stay low. Got it," Charlie babbled, lowering his head but still not moving away. Terry said to press down on the wound. Lessen the bleeding. Hurting his brother in order to help him.
Don groaned, Charlie's name tortured in his lips, and he panicked. He began to tell Don about the problem. Maybe Don would know. His brother didn't wrap his mind around mathematics as he did, but Don had incredible instincts. He would know. Don always knew, knew what to say even if it wasn't kind in order to get him thinking again in the right path.
Charlie told his brother about the volumes of the dimensional space, how X, Y and Z were correct for everything so far, but for the one spot on his jeans. He didn't know where it come from, how it gotten to be that much larger than the rest. Anything could have been a factor as the variables were predictable and consistent with the exception of this one spot. Charlie didn't understand. Maybe Don knew what was—
"D-don't do this." Don, somehow finding the strength, pulled hard enough on Charlie's sleeve that he was now slumped over his head. "Damn it…don't do this, buddy. P-promise me…"
His brother shuddered, a guttural groan ripping from his body. Charlie, not thinking, accepted the hand clawing at his stained shirt and pulled his brother sitting up. His red hands now clutching Don in fear. He could hear sirens wailing in the distance. The sound of glass breaking and the radio shouting a multiple of voices were gone for some reason. He could hear Don's whisper in his ear clearly now.
"Promise me. P-promise me you won't start that P-p versus P c-crap again." Don's eyes were remarkably clear of pain, serious and pinned to his face. "P-promise. No uns-solvable Ps."
Charlie looked at his brother, dismayed. "D-don."
"No! N-no matter what h-happens. Don't." Don yanked weakly at the shirt. His body slumped into Charlie. Despite Don's larger physique from many years as an athlete, Charlie bore the weight easily, his arms shakily circling his brother's so he won't fall.
"P-promise!" Don insisted, his words whistling between clenched teeth. "D-damn it. Don't leave dad outside w-wondering when you'll come out of that garage!"
"Don!" Charlie thought he heard himself wailing now. He shook, a loud roar filling his ears. What was that screeching to a halt behind him?
Abruptly Don smiled, the iron flint in his eyes dulling to a gray. His hand uncurled from the claw grip on his shirt and now patted Charlie on the chest.
"It's okay," Don whispered. "It'll be okay. Just…just promise me." His eyes looked distant. "N-no more P versus P, okay?"
Charlie opened his mouth to speak but then Don's eyes closed with a finality that frightened him. He couldn't speak, even as the paramedics pulled his brother away from his arms, Terry talking soothingly into his ear, trembling hands on his shoulders as Don was loaded up to a gurney and whisked away. Faintly, he thought he heard Don's newest agent Sinclair reporting the sniper was arrested, but he didn't care. Car. He needed a car. His bike? Where was his bike? No, Raison had driven him. Where was-?
"Here, Charlie. Let me drive you there." Terry again, hands more steady, now on his arm and guiding him to a car ready to take Charlie to the hospital. He heard a lot of other things but all he could do was watch the medic in white climb into the ambulance. Don's shoes were sticking out from the gurney. There was blood on the bottom of one sole. Then the doors slammed shut and suddenly the ambulance grew smaller and smaller.
Charlie swallowed. He looked down at his lap. At the blood.
"Promise," he whispered.
ZZZ
"So what's the deal with that guy?"
David Sinclair tore his gaze away from the dark Corolla pulling away from the crime scene. Welter and Hawkes were combing the scene for Ballistics, Irons pulling sketches. For a brief moment, David envied them, feeling like he was given the short end of the straw when Terry tossed him the keys. Then again, he didn't envy Terry. From the looks of things, Charlie was having a rough time and the usually capable female agent appeared to be at a loss on how to deal with him.
"Looks like he was whacked out or something," Samson muttered with all the delicacy of a sledge hammer swinging in a crystal shop. He didn't notice the dirty looks fellow agents were tossing him as he watched the younger Eppes brother steered towards the car.
"That's Eppes' brother, Samson," one called out, clearly annoyed. "Watch your mouth."
"Brother, eh?" Samson frowned, looking pointedly at David.
"He's one of our consultants," he said shortly, jiggling the keys in his hands.
"Yeah?" Samson didn't sound impressed, scratching under the slight paunch his shirt failed to hide as he hurried to keep up with David's long strides to his car.
"Yeah." David paused before the car, his key poised over the door.
"Want me to handle it?" Samson offered half-heartedly, not even sure what he was offering to do.
For a brief moment, David was tempted until he imagined the field agent driving up the Eppes' driveway, Samson's brusque nature telling Alan Eppes his son was shot. Alan looked like a good guy; treated them all decently when he or Terry would come by. No, Don and Charlie's dad deserved a hell better than that.
"No," David shook his head as he climbed in. "Think it might be better if I pick up Mr. Eppes, myself." He slammed the door before the other could ask him anything else, but even under the start of the ignition, he could hear Samson.
"Another one?" Samson yelped before jumping back at the sound of the brakes. "What is this? A family affair?"
David was very thankful at that moment for Terry tossing him the keys. He watched with grim satisfaction as Samson hopped away to avoid the sedan spinning on its rear wheels before speeding off.
David wasn't feeling too grateful to Terry minutes later when he pulled up the driveway and discovered a white-faced Alan Eppes already standing in the open doorway waiting for him.
ZZZ
"Do you have any paper?"
After long minutes of silence, the distant voice in the car startled Terry. Her hands actually jerked and the car responded with a minute swerve off the lane. She recovered quickly, the car back in the center, tailing behind the ambulance.
"I'm sorry, Charlie," she murmured, eyes glued to the back and the word 'ambulance' mirrored on its doors. "What did you say?"
"Paper?" Charlie's hands waved in the air for a moment before he lowered them. "I need some paper to…there's something I have to figure out."
Figure out? Terry spared a glance to her right. Charlie's eyes were glued to the front, but his hands fidgeted as if they held a life of their own.
"Figure out what, Charlie?" Terry welcomed the conversation. The silence before was unbearable. Sitting in the car, following after an ambulance yet unable to see what was happening inside. They couldn't spare the room for her or even Charlie. The sniper done his damage and right now, two victims were doubled up in the unit, the other three already taken to the local general hospital.
"There was something about…" Charlie gulped. Still facing forward, he absently plucked at the drying spot on his lap. Terry looked over again, saw the red blotch drying to brown on his jeans. She whipped her eyes back front. Her hands curled tighter around the wheel.
"He'll be okay, Charlie," she muttered. She wasn't sure if she was reassuring Charlie or herself. For Charlie, of course, she told herself.
"It doesn't make sense…" Charlie muttered, his hands rubbing at his thighs more frantically now. "The patterns, they weren't supposed to be…" He looked down at his hands. His face blanched.
"Stop the car."
Terry frowned, not understanding. "What?"
"Stop the car. Please. Now."
Charlie sounded like he was gasping. Terry looked over once more and swore. She gave the back of the ambulance a final look before signaling for a turn. She didn't even bother with the parking, skidding to an abrupt halt parallel to a row of SUVs. Before she could react though, Charlie was already out of the vehicle, traffic honking furiously at his wake as he stumbled to the asphalt.
The heaving sounds came pretty quickly, Charlie doubled over and hidden in view between two cars. Terry's mouth crinkled as she listened but decided to give him some privacy, opting to instead staring after the disappearing ambulance. When Charlie climbed back in the car, he was silent.
"Charlie—"
"I'm okay," he mumbled. He blinked when a Kleenex was waved under his nose. "Thanks." After a few sniffs, a fumble for the offered water bottle, he squinted blearily at the window. "We should…you know…go." He paused when Terry reached over with a legal pad she favored for writing down notes.
"Found some paper," she said quietly before starting the car again. She knew where the ambulance was heading, but suddenly not having it in front of her was making her nervous. A quick and disturbing thought flickered in her mind- what if they were too late? What would happen then? To Charlie? To me—
Terry stopped, silently berating herself. Get to the hospital and find out yourself. A quick turn, harder than she really needed to be, the car started and headed back for the road again. She could hear Charlie absently leafing through the pages, idly skimming through her precise handwriting as he sought a new page.
She felt compelled to say something. "He will be okay, Charlie."
Another page turned.
"Don's had wor—" She stopped. Don got a pretty independent streak in him. Who knows what he might have held back from his family? She cleared her throat. Charlie didn't seem to have noticed though, pages still turning. "He'll be fine," she repeatedly more firmly.
Charlie still didn't say anything and Terry gave up. She wished she knew the number of that professor Charlie was friends with. But she didn't have the number and the only one who might was getting farther away from her in a car she was tailing just a few minutes before. For all her psych degrees, she couldn't read Charlie right now. Even the little conversation she tried to have with Charlie about another case didn't draw Charlie out of his self-imposed solitude. She gave up finally and concentrated on getting to the hospital. Once they're there, it'll all be okay, she told herself.
The streets whizzed by as she drove, the silence now more white noise with the rest of the sounds outside. She was startled out of silence again by a hesitant voice.
"Do you have a pen?"
ZZZ
Alan Eppes couldn't remember if he had said thank you to the FBI agent who picked him up and drove him to the hospital where they have taken his boys. Both of them. His heart hammered loudly in his chest as the vehicle drew up to the entrance. He was calm when the car drew up to his driveway. He was calm when he opened the door in time to greet agent Sinclair. He knew the look. The suit, the awkward yet solemn expression. His oldest son Don carried it once or twice. More often it was weariness, but there were times when Don gets the call about another victim, his face grew cold as if readying itself for a blow.
He knew they came to say it was Donny. That it was Donny the television was talking about when the breaking news came in about the serial sniper. Oh God, he knew it.
He just didn't expect to hear Charlie was there, too.
What happened, he wondered as he nodded absently to Terry, recognizing the slender agent waiting stiffly for him at the entrance. He remembered Charlie typing away on his laptop, doing some recalculations before muttering an exclamation that something was off. Charlie grabbed a bunch of notes and was hollering he would be back soon, out the door before Alan even realized his boy left his computer running and his uneaten sandwich on the dining table.
He mechanically nodded as she explained why Charlie was here as well, that he wasn't hurt, and that Don was still in surgery. His boys. Oh God, where were his boys?
He knew Charlie was helping out Don again with some case from the FBI. But Don assured him everything was fine. Don was usually right. He took Charlie's safety very seriously, sibling rivalry aside. Wouldn't even let Charlie looked at the photos of the rape victims at the first violent crime case he consulted on. Don claimed that they were private, restricted files, but he heard his son's concerned lilt when he told Charlie he didn't think Charlie should be looking at that. Even when he had frowned upon how his parents sheltered the young genius in the past, his own instincts were telling him to do the same. Don would never, ever put Charlie in danger.
The sight of the lone figure scribbling something furiously on some legal pad made his heart ache. The normally curly dark locks reminiscent of his wife were in wild disarray around Charlie's head. He must have been pacing before. Every so often though, he would look up to the long hallway leading to the OR before going back to whatever he was doing.
Alan knew Charlie saw him the last time he looked up. Whether it didn't register or he chose not to acknowledge it, Alan didn't know. He nodded to Terry, who whispered she would go check with the nurses on the progress. Alan sighed heavily and sat down on the empty seat besides Charlie.
He could hear Charlie muttering under his breath. Something about Z? Something that didn't make sense. Alan sighed once more to himself. Nothing made sense—how he and his wife could create such an exceptional boy, how they thought they did everything right by that boy yet did everything wrong with Don, leaving the older son to fend for himself. By all means, Don could have turned out so wrong. So completely and utterly wrong, but no, Don came out a tough talking but softhearted man. Made him a better FBI agent. Made him a better man.
Made him a hell of a son, too.
Don't let me lose him, Alan prayed as he watched the writings grow more and more erratic; a clear sign to Charlie's state of mind. The mathematician's handwriting was usually neat, as concise and even as the equations that dance in his head. But when he's upset like when his mother grew ill with cancer or like when Don was hurt on the job, those equations grew to the madding scribbles of loops and crooked lines. Charlie was forcing himself to think nothing else but the math that made sense.
Or so his wife told him. Her wasting form on their bed at home, weak fingers stroking his palm after Don had stormed out of the room, upset Charlie had barricaded himself in the garage with his blackboards and chalk. His wife understood, far more than the men in her family ever could.
She would understand now. And Alan, if he paused to think beyond the ticking of the clock on the hospital wall, was beginning to understand it, too.
"Doesn't make sense."
Charlie's despairing voice filtered into his thoughts. The patriarch turned and looked down at his son, who was looking only at the paper on his lap. His bloody lap.
"What doesn't make sense?"
"Z." Charlie waved at his lap. Alan could now see it was dried blood. He closed his eyes briefly.
"It…it doesn't follow with the rest." Charlie's hand floated towards his shirt now, speckled with red spots. Alan wished his son would keep still, but his thoughts were spurring his body to keep moving.
"It should make sense," Charlie stammered, suddenly looking so much more younger, his voice betraying him. "I-I…everything falls at a rate of angle and direction from a single force or ob—" He swallowed. "Objects."
"Son, I don't understand." Alan leaned back, studying the confusion on Charlie's face. The young man refused to say anything more, the pencil he must have borrowed, now writing deep grooves into the paper, numbers that made even lesser sense to Alan.
He looked like this when Don was first injured in the line of duty. A weapons dealer, Don had commented casually while sitting on a gurney as the ER resident stitched up a frighteningly long gash across his back. Charlie was still young; barely able to cope with being an adolescent in an adult world. He had raced to the emergency room from the university almost in tears when he got the call from their mother. He didn't say anything though. Didn't even ask if Don was okay. Just stared wide-eyed at the needle going up and down before it occurred to Alan to take the boy out of there. He himself was too busy shaking and trying to hold back the demands that Don stopped this foolishness about the FBI. He lost that right long ago when he and his wife turned their attentions to finding a school system wide enough to fit Charlie's sometimes-scary intellect and Don voluntarily got reassigned to Albuquerque.
Charlie waited outside on his own accord and when Alan came out with a white-faced Don, they'd found Charlie had written all over his textbook, correcting and retesting the mathematical equations inside the book.
His clever, clever boy. Yet so lacking. Their own fault, really. They concentrated on his mind, assuming his heart would follow just as brilliantly.
Charlie started talking again, going on and on about how he had made the equation for Don, all the premises he made, why everything should have worked. He took everything into consideration. Everything.
"Didn't I?"
Alan wanted to reach over and…he didn't know what. Hug him? They were all grown men, one younger than most, but grown, stubbornly independent in their own way, refusing to believe they could be as vulnerable as the day he held them in his arms as babes.
"Charlie, not everything is about the math."
"Everything is about…" Charlie shot up on his seat. He looked down at his father, appearing betrayed that Alan would even suggest such a thing. "Everything is quantifiable, calculable. It…" Charlie looked down at his jeans. His face blanched. Waving Alan off, Charlie staggered and stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom.
Alan looked from one end of the hallway, then down to the next where Terry was quietly knocking on the restroom door, coaxing Charlie to come out. He scrubbed his hands across his worn face and sighed again.
ZZZ
It hurt.
A lot.
Hell, he has a funny feeling this was going to hurt a lot more once whatever it was dripping from the IV worn off.
Don woke to find white walls. He tried to raise his head but it was too heavy. So he laid there, blinking crusty eyes at a ceiling that was both unfamiliar and familiar to him. The beeping of the heart monitor told him he at least wasn't in any danger. Now if he could just remember what it was that got him here in the first place—
Charlie.
Eyes widening, he sucked in his breath. The pain just above his right hip forced the memories to vivid clarity. The sniper must check out a site for weeks before picking off targets. He was there even as they all thought themselves clever and ahead of the perp's schedule.
The gun. The laser dot.
Don fidgeted, worry fueling a groggy body that still didn't know its owner was awake. He tried to raise his hand to fumble for the call button, demand a nurse, ask for a phone, anything. When he couldn't, Don realized something was pinning it down.
Turning his head to his right, he was surprised to see a curly top head pinning his hand down. Soft snores from his left told him his father had opted to stay in the room as well. How the hell they managed that Don hadn't a clue.
"Hey," Don rasped. His throat ached from the dryness. He tried again to pull his hand out from under Charlie. "Hey."
Charlie didn't rouse. Poor guy must have been here all night. Don studied him with mild exasperation.
He vaguely recalled what happened, how Charlie seemed upset. Okay, granted, Don couldn't blame him. He was pretty damn upset himself for getting shot, even more so that it was in front of Charlie. He knew his younger brother cared in his own eccentric way. Who else would visit him before a huge operation with armed felons and give him a physics lecture instead of words of encouragement? Don knew, in Charlie's own weird mad genius sort of way, that his younger brother did worry. But Charlie was also a bit of an isolationist, bred from too many years of been the youngest kid in the crowd, the one labeled genius and treated like some valuable piece of artwork by both parents and academia. Charlie knew nothing about what Terry had jokingly referred to, "Hitting the strip bars and the booze". Charlie coped the only way he can. With numbers.
That damn P versus P thing.
Don was finally able to pull his hand out. Charlie's head landed on the bed with barely a thump. He winced as the movement seemed to jar everything in his body. He managed to land the hand, however, on top of Charlie's head and gave the loose dark curls a small pat.
When their mother was dying, Charlie reacted in the only way he knew how. Only their father and Don didn't understand it at the time. But his father at least had took it in stride, as one of those quirks having a young mathematical genius in the family.
Don couldn't understand. He remembered staring at his mother's thin form, stroking back wispy white locks that were only recently lustrous blonde. She had smiled, her voice a poor imitation of her booming laughter. And Don felt angry. Angry that the doctors caught it too late. Angry that he could catch a murderer from killing more kids yet couldn't even provide his mother an hour's reprieve from pain. Angry that the son he knew was their favorite, Charlie, wasn't even here to see her suffer.
They had argued. Well, Don had. It was very one-sided; Charlie silent except for his chalk darting the blackboard like an annoying woodpecker. Rap, rap, rap. Nothing on his face, not even the rapture he held when doling out another complicated sequence of numbers. No. Just some damning, unsolvable P versus P crap. And as smart as Charlie was, he never solved it. He kept trying though, all the way even to the funeral. And Don had stormed out of the house; anger mixing with grief, unable to bring himself to look at Charlie, barely able to step inside that house for a month. Only for his father did Don come back. And they had resolved their differences; or at least never mentioned it until it went away like a forgotten toy in the attic.
Don would have expected Charlie to be home right now doing the same.
Don pressed his head back to the pillow and listened to his own heart chirp a beat on the machines.
It wasn't that Charlie didn't care this time. But something…there was something else he needed to remember…
"Welcome back."
His father's gruff voice drew his gaze over to the left. The older man wiggled uncomfortably in the seat, struggling out of his own jacket he used as a blanket.
"Hey."
His father nodded. Rising painfully to his feet, Alan Eppes walked over to the bed. He reached down and squeezed Don's left hand.
"Hey yourself." The smile on Alan's face lightened the darkness brewing in the same dark eyes they all shared. The father's relief, so overwhelming, Don felt compelled to say something.
"I'm fine, dad."
"Sure." Alan was not rebuffed. He waved a large hand towards his oldest son, then to Charlie. "You're fine. He's fine. We're all fine."
"Dad."
The patriarch exhaled heavily. He placed his hand on top of Don's shoulder. The agent was too tired to shrug it off. This was nothing, he told himself. He expected it from the job. He told his father this the day he passed the FBI exam. There were never any regrets.
"You know your brother's been here all night."
Don frowned. "He should have taken you home." He nodded weakly towards the chair. "Not good for your back."
"Eh," Alan waved it off. "I'll survive."
"Terry could have gotten you guys home." Don's hand pulled away from Charlie. "You shouldn't have been here."
"We needed to be here, Donny."
He gave his father an annoyed look or at least the best one he could muster given how he was feeling right now. He opened his mouth to say something more…and yawned.
His father chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm going to get some coffee." He nodded towards Charlie still dozing at the side.
Don scowled at his father's back. But he said nothing, watching the door shut softly before turning his head back towards Charlie.
"All night, huh?" Don murmured. He stared up to the ceiling. Brow furrowed, he could hear catches of Charlie, talking, no, babbling about some weird letter. How it didn't make sense. Don reached down to his middle, gingerly touching the bandage there. He winced. That was definitely going to leave a mark.
Charlie muttered something, his head rolling to the left, then right. Whatever it was woke him and his head lifted up cautiously. He blinked, not quite seeing, but as soon as his eyes focused, he straightened in his seat.
The two brothers stared at each other for the longest moment. Charlie's eyes were beginning to unnerve him and Don began to speak. But the moment he tried, he began to cough.
The raspy sound roused Charlie from whatever thoughts must have been spinning in his head. Glancing around quickly, he spied the pitcher by the stand and quickly filled one of the disposable cups with water. He murmured something under his breath before leaning forward to give it to Don.
Don raised his head. To his annoyance, he realized he could barely sit up without his back aching from the strain. He lay back on the bed with an annoyed sigh.
"Here."
It was the first word Charlie spoke. His hand slipping behind Don's neck, giving him the extra leverage needed. Don gratefully took a long sip, then another before shaking his head at the rest of the water. He lay there, wishing he didn't feel so exhausted from just one drink. At the sound of Charlie sitting back down, the chair scraping noisily across the linoleum, Don turned his head.
"Hey," Don whispered.
A flicker of a smile before Charlie murmured his own, "Hey."
Don waved a hand weakly towards the pitcher. "Thanks for…you know."
An indescribable emotion swirled in Charlie's dark eyes. The younger man swallowed.
"I'm okay, Charlie."
Charlie nodded.
"Really, I am."
Charlie looked like he wanted to say something but at the last second, his mouth snapped shut. Abruptly, he rose to his feet and began to pace.
After a few minutes, Don grew tired of watching the back and forth. He waved wearily at Charlie.
"Will you knock it off? You're making me dizzy."
"I just—"
Don stopped.
Charlie covered his mouth with his hand. He stopped in his tracks at the foot of Don's bed.
All he needed was chalk and that damn garage and he's back there again, Don thought. Then it struck him. What he told Charlie. What Charlie never told him. Don cleared his throat.
"Didn't expect to see you here," Don told him gruffly. He tilted his head towards the seat besides him. "Figured you might…you know."
"I said I wasn't going to work on that anymore." Charlie knew exactly what Don was referring to. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
"What happened to your clothes?" Don noted the shirt was their father's, far too big for his brother, the sweatpants toting the hospital's name indicating they were new.
"They," Charlie's eyes flickered over to him before they turned to his feet. "They got dirty. Back when you were, ah…" His voice trailed off. Charlie swallowed.
"Charlie, I'm ok—"
"Stop saying that!" Charlie began his pacing again. "Do you know that was the fifth time you said that to me? And you weren't okay! You…you got shot and you were bleeding all over the…the ground. There was blood on the ground and I…I…"
"Whoa, whoa!" Don waved a hand up in the air. He grimaced, his other hand with the IV attached slid down to the bandage.
"Don?" Charlie was suddenly there, his hands on the bed rail. He leaned forward anxiously.
"I'm—" Don stopped. He breathed out slowly and grunted. "Alright, I'm not exactly okay, Charlie, but I'm here. I'm alive."
"Statistically, from that range, you could have easily—"
"I don't care about statistics!" Don coughed harshly. He was startled to see another disposal cup floating in front of him. "Thanks." This time, he managed to hold the cup firmly and took a sip of the tepid water. He gave the cup back to Charlie. Don took the opportunity to study the back of his brother's head as Charlie placed everything back. Their eyes met when Charlie turned around. The younger man stilled.
"Charlie." Don stared hard at his brother. "Even if I wasn't okay, I don't want you back there."
Charlie sighed. He circled the head of the bed before dropping down on the seat his father just emptied. "Yeah," he murmured. "I know." He lifted his eyes and met Don's steadily. "It didn't happen."
Don leaned back in his bed. He pursed his lips, scrutinizing his brother. Then he swore.
"But it did almost happen, didn't it Charlie?"
Guiltily, Charlie's gaze slide away.
"Damn it, Charlie, you can't just go and hide in a—"
"In a bubble, I know. I remember," Charlie said tightly.
Don winced. His own words flung back at him sounded a lot harsher than he remembered saying them. His mouth snapped shut.
"You got shot."
Don nodded. He looked down at himself, gingerly touching the bandage. He winced again.
"I mean…you got shot because of me."
Narrowing his eyes, Don raised his head.
"If you didn't pushed me away, if maybe I figured out the equation sooner—"
"If the sniper hadn't been there, if he was facing the other window, if I wasn't fast enough," Don exhaled carefully. "Charlie, that's a hell a lot of ifs, buddy."
Charlie didn't seem to have heard him, his eyes distant as he rubbed his palms on his thighs. "There was this one spot, see? One that didn't make sense when you calculate all the other positions using force and velocity and im-pact and—"
"Charlie."
Charlie raised a hand. "Please. Let me finish."
Don frowned but held his tongue.
"One spot I just didn't get. Right here." Charlie pointed to his lap. "It didn't make any sense. The trajectory didn't collaborate with it's positioning on either X, Y, or Z and then it hit me." Charlie's eyes were huge when they fixed on Don. "It was you. Your blood, you bled over me when you saved me. That's why it was wrong." He shot up to his feet and began to pace. "You could have just pushed me away, dodged to the left or right, either way you would have accomplished your goal and still remain out of the trajectory. Yet you went along the axis and intersected with that sniper's bullet." He stopped in his tracks, at the foot of the bed. He swallowed hard and couldn't finish, but Don knew what Charlie wanted to say next.
Why?
"Would you rather I did nothing at all?"
Charlie's jaw clenched.
"Maybe let you," What was the word he used? "Intersect with that bullet. I'm sure dad would really appreciate that very much. He already thinks each time you join me at the scene, there's a bulleye's painted on the back of your head." Don started to fold his arms, but a distant sensation of pulling stopped him. He resigned to putting as much as he could into his glare, but Charlie wasn't even blinking at it, opting to stare only at the wall by the door. Don shook his head ruefully.
"Okay, let's put it this way. You know how you get after an equation?" A wry smile tugged at the corner of Don's mouth. "You keep going over and over the answer and still thinks there's a chance another answer might pop up this time?"
"You should always verify your results—"
"Ah uh. My turn to talk and for you to listen."
Charlie's mouth snapped shut.
"Okay, you want to…verify your results so you keep testing and testing, then hound me for more data just so you can retest it again and again." Don waved a hand weakly at his brother. "Just so you can be completely sure the answer stays the same." Don leaned back into his pillow.
"That's why, Charlie. So I can be completely sure."
Charlie frowned. "But you got shot."
Don shrugged carefully. "Hey, buddy. Not exactly what I was aiming for, but I knew it was a possibility. Besides," he joked. "Between a math genius and just a jock, if there had to be a choice—"
Charlie glowered at Don, as if he already didn't like what Don was going to say. Don trailed off and just grinned at Charlie.
"Just needed to be sure, Charlie."
Charlie's shoulders slumped. "I don't like you getting shot."
"Wasn't exactly fun for me either, big guy."
"I wouldn't recommend doing that again."
"I will take that advice under consideration, Doctor Eppes," Don joked. He was relieved to see Charlie smiling back at him. "I promise not to run into bullets again and you promise to stay out of that garage."
Charlie's smile wavered.
"Charlie?"
"I almost did," Charlie murmured, looking ashamed. "It just…like I couldn't stop but I'd promised you."
"You did?" Don looked pleased.
Charlie nodded. "I know when mom—" Charlie paled. He drew in a shaky breath. "When she got sick, I couldn't…I wish I did, Don. I wish I was there for mom, for dad, for you."
For him? Don didn't understand why Charlie threw him in the mix. He studied Charlie's profile and remembered another time when Charlie was looking forlornly at a mother inside an oxygen tent, dying of a disease a world had forgotten.
"She never asked why," Don said quietly. "She said it was okay." He didn't get it then, but he was beginning to understand now. "Important thing is you're not going to any more."
"I said I wouldn't."
Don nodded, relieved. "Because if something does happen to me." He paused at Charlie's flinch. "You gotta watch out for dad. For yourself."
Charlie looked ill, but he stuck out his chin and nodded anyway.
"Thanks."
Charlie's eyes were suspiciously bright as he croaked out, "No, thank you."
Don was going to say "Any time" but realized it would only probably just remind Charlie that there were no guarantees in his line of work. He elected to just lean back instead. He watched blearily at his younger brother gathering up the random odd sheets of writing. Charlie tossed Don a guilty look. It reminded Don of a time when he caught Charlie in his room, small hands full of the baseball cards Don had so carefully packed in the tin box under his bed. But Don said nothing this time, watching with heavy eyes as Charlie discarded the stack.
"If I hadn't made it," Don didn't know why he felt compelled to ask. "Would you have…?"
Charlie shook his head. He didn't even pause to think about it. "I'd promised you, Don."
Don sighed, his eyes slowly closing on his own accord. Damn drugs. "Good," he mumbled. He struggled to reopen them when he felt his brother's presence standing over him now. "That's real good, Charlie," he slurred.
"Get some rest," Charlie whispered. He must have fiddled with the bed controls again because Don suddenly found himself in the warm sensation of sinking without really falling.
"Just going to…rest my eyes for a sec," Don thought he heard himself saying. "You and dad go head on home. Stay out of that garage." He didn't hear Charlie reply to that.
"Just sleep, Don. No more P versus NP. I promise." Charlie paused and his voice was suddenly closer. "Just promise me you don't put me in that kind of situation that calls for it again."
Don wanted to tell Charlie there was no way he could ensure that. That the world was too dark and dirty to even promise a day of peace without the fear of darkness returning. He wanted to, but then Charlie tentatively squeezed his left hand. Don weakly returned that squeeze.
"Promise," he whispered, drifting further to sleep. "Promise," he repeated and it occurred to him that he truly meant it. He was going to make damn sure to try his very best not to test Charlie's resolve in this.
With that last thought, Don slept, their promises ringing in his ears like a lullaby.
The End