Author's notes: This is quite dark and contains description of violence done to a child. It's not meant to shock. It's simply to tell a story. Much more my usual fare.

It was mentioned to me that the state Don was allowed to go home into wasn't realistic and I agree. However, I chose not to change it because I like the story the way it is so I'll invoke the writer's best friend, creative licence. Thanks anyway for making me re-think this story, Rinne!

He walked in the door to the old house and stopped there, letting his jacket and keys fall to the floor, shoulders slumped, head down, his burden too heavy to bear, his soul too raw and beaten to do anything but buckle underneath the weight of it all. He had no words left to describe the weariness that invaded his entire being. All he wanted was to stop thinking, to stop feeling, just for a minute. Peace had always been elusive but... Tonight... He just needed to rest.

He dragged his feet to the dining room and found the bottle of Scotch in the liquor cabinet easily. He turned it in his hands, hesitating. He heard his father's steps in the kitchen and he closed his eyes tightly. For a moment, he contemplated picking up his things and just walking out, the thought of being here with all those memories unbearable. He didn't. It was why he'd come here in the first place, instead of his own apartment. To find solace.

"Donnie, is that you?"

He didn't bother replying, his father spotting him from the kitchen door. He heard the sharp intake of breath and shook his head before his father could speak again.

"It's not mine."

"Oooookay.... Then..."

"Not now." he said, his voice low, never looking up. "Just... Not now."

He walked out, heading towards the garage, taking the bottle with him, dragging his feet. His father knew well enough not to follow. He dropped onto the old, ratty sofa, staring at the bottle in his bloodied hands. He gently put it on the floor and pressed the heels of his palms over his eyes, willing the images in his head to disappear. He picked up the bottle again, turning it in his hands.

Blue eyes full of fear stared back through the amber liquid, the little girl's face so starkly white as the blood spilled from the slash on her neck.

He didn't know how long he'd held her, her small body growing cold and rigid in his arms. He closed his eyes, the scene playing in slow motion against his lids: Morrison grabbing his daughter, fury in his eyes, pressing the knife to her throat, yelling to them that no one but him would possess her soul. The shot rang in his ears, the recoil vibrating in his bones, a fraction of a second too late. Blood sprayed high, the knife arcing up, catching the sunlight in a blinding flash.

He wrenched the cap off the bottle and drank deeply, letting the burn of the alcohol sear his throat, hoping it would burn away the images from his soul.

He saw himself slide to his knees and grab the child, his hand trying vainly to stop the rivers of blood, its warmth slipping through his fingers, seeping into his pants, sticking to his skin.

Scotch slipped from the corner of his mouth, leaving a cold trail on his chin.

Dead blue eyes stared into his, pleading.

He lifted the bottle to his lips again, drinking until he couldn't breathe.

Alan Eppes watched his son disappear from the house, worry raking at his heart. Still, he moved towards the foyer, picking up the discarded jacket and keys. As he dropped them on the table, he noticed the slick wetness on his hand, the coppery tang of blood in the air, saw the red smear on the liquor cabinet. He'd seen the blood on Don's clothes, on his face, his hands... in the depth of his eyes. He'd never seen his son look so wrecked.

He took a rag from the kitchen and wiped away the traces everywhere he found them, eyes straying towards the garage more than once. He sighed and retreated to the kitchen, grumbling and cursing. He washed his hands and finished peeling the carrots, placing them in cold water, his movements methodical and slow. He washed and cut the celery too, adding it to the water. He tidied up the counter, washed the cutting board and put away the vegetables, watching the sun sink below the neighborhood roofs. He checked his watch and sighed again. He'd waited long enough. He twisted the bloodied rag in his hand as he stepped outside the house.

He walked into the garage quietly, torn between worry and sorrow. Don sat on the beat up sofa, staring at the floor, looking utterly lost and completely destroyed. Alan knew the kind of horrors his eldest faced daily and more often than not, he found a way to cope, but Donnie had never slipped into excess, not until tonight. Oh, he knew his son had probably drowned himself in alcohol before, after a hard case, but never had he come home to do it.

He made no attempt to hide his approach, coming to sit next to him. He saw the bottle of Scotch on the floor, now half empty. Wordlessly, he took Donnie's hand into his own and gently rubbed it with the cloth in his hand, cleaning away some of the blood.

"I hesitated," Don said, his voice choked and broken.

Alan stayed silent.

"He... I couldn't... She was just... four years old," he whispered. "Father slashed her throat... before I shot him," he blurted out, pulling his hand out of Alan's grasp. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

Alan placed his hand on the back of his son's neck, sorrow mixing with anger; anger at this man who dared savage his own child, at his son for choosing such a harsh life, at himself for his powerlessness to ease Don's pain. He felt the tremors shaking through Don long before the first sharp exhale of tears. He blinked hard, his own heart breaking. Don had never cried for his mother. But he was crying for that little girl. Or maybe for himself, for his failure to act in time, if he even could have. Alan doubted that very much that he could have. Don was very like his mother in that respect, taking on burdens that weren't his own to bear or that didn't exist other than in his own head. Still, someone needed to mourn that child and if it was to be his son, then so be it. His own role was simply to be there.

"She bled out... in my arms," Don whispered. "She was so... so scared... There was no comfort I could give her. There was nothing I could do..." he said, voice shaking with tears and rage. "She's dead because of me. Because I hesitated." He inhaled sharply, holding his breath. "Because... I didn't want to take another life."

Alan shook his head, inhaling sharply, his anger showing through. "That is not true, Donnie. That is. Not. True. You gave that bastard a chance but I know you did not for a second, hesitate to shoot to protect that child. You didn't put that knife there, nor did you use it." he said forcefully. He paused, letting his words sink in, gathering himself and reigning in his anger.

"You did what you could for that child. You... you held her," he said softly, squeezing his son's shoulder. "You were there for her, eased the fear of her passing. She didn't die alone because of you. You did what you could, all you could. That's all you can ask of yourself."

Don shook his head and just wept, never moving. After long minutes, the shaking slowed and finally stopped.

"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up, all right?"

Don didn't move. "I don... think... I can walk, dad," he murmured, his words slurred and thick, exhaustion mixing with the alcohol.

"Hmm, Scotch will do that to you when consumed to excess. Just lean on me. That's what you came here for, isn't it?"

Don lifted his head and locked still shining eyes to his. "Yeah."

Alan smiled thinly, grunting an acknowledgement. He pushed to his feet, dragging Don's arm over his shoulder. He guided him into the house and upstairs, to the bathroom. He sat him down on the edge of the tub, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair. He drew warm water in the sink, unbuttoned Don's shirt, removed it, pulled the undershirt over his head and did the same with the rest of the clothes, all of it soaked in the child's blood. Time and time again, he wet the cloth in his hand in warm water, erasing every trace of it off his son. He left him there only long enough to gather something clean for Don to sleep in, before guiding him to his childhood bed and laying him to sleep as he'd done countless times, so many years ago.

As he closed the door, he paused, hearing Don's soft whisper. He listened, lost in memories again.

"Ye'varech'echa Adonoy ve'yish'merecha.

Ya'ir Adonoy panav eilecha viy-chuneka.

Yisa Adonoy panav eilecha, ve'yasim lecha shalom."

Alan closed his eyes, wetness sliding down his cheeks. He'd never been the religious type, never embracing faiththe way his son had. But he knew that prayer. It was a child's blessing, told on the eve of Shabbat. It was the very first one he'd recited to Don, as he'd put him down to sleep that time too, his very first night in this home. He closed the door as Don's breath evened out in sleep, leaning against it for a while.

When he'd pulled in the driveway, spotting his brother's Suburban, as well as the flickering lights in the living room in the otherwise darkened house, he'd expected to find Don in front of the TV.

"Dad?"

"Hey Charlie."

"Where's..."

"Upstairs. Asleep."

Charlie dropped his bag and keys on the table next to Don's, a puzzled frown growing on his face. The gruffness of his father's voice was... It was filled with a sorrow he hadn't heard since his mother died.

"Is... Is everything all right?" he asked, suddenly afraid to turn on the light.

"I knew it would eat him up, one day. That job. I mean you expect the bullets and the knives but..."

"What happened?" he asked, concern turning into fear. He knelt by his father's armchair, placing a hand on his arm. "Dad, what's wrong?"

Alan sniffed and wiped a hand over his eyes, wiping away the moisture Charlie saw shining in the broken light from the television.

"It's... something your brother confided in me and I'm not sure he wants to share that burden with you, Charlie. He, um... he never wanted that kind of life for you..."

Charlie sighed, pressing his lips into a thin line. "I know. And you didn't choose it either."

"I'm his father, Charlie. No matter what he needs of me I'll give."

"No matter the cost to you?"

"That's the price of having children; accepting their choices and living with them, no matter what it does to you."

Charlie sighed, squeezing his father's wrist. "What can I do?"

"Just... be there if he needs you," Alan replied simply.

"And what about you? Dad, I'm here, for either of you. For both of you."

A callused hand ruffled his hair, a tired smile ghosting on his father's face. "I know, Charlie, I know. Come on. It's getting late."

He woke with a start, ears straining. He knew he'd heard something... It came again. He closed his eyes and sighed.

The unmistakable sound of retching came from the other side of the wall. He rubbed a hand over his face and got up, padding quietly into the hall.

He paused in the bathroom door, watching the form hunched over the toilet. He could smell the vomit and the booze from where he stood.

"Don?"

"What."

"You okay?"

More retching. "Wha' d'you think?"

Charlie chuckled quietly, entering the bathroom. He turned on the water in the sink and let it run cold. He grabbed the washcloth from the hook and wet it, wringing out the excess water. He adjusted the temperature to match his skin and filled the glass that sat on the counter before shutting it off. He winced as his brother retched time and time again. A part of him wanted to run away, to leave him be, like he knew his brother would want. He leaned against the sink and waited. The spasms began to die down, turning dry.

He placed the cloth on the back of Don's neck, setting the glass on the floor by his hand. He sat on the edge of the tub and waited. His brother coughed and spat, clearing his throat.

"Go back t' bed, Chuck."

"Shut up. Drink some water if you're done."

It was a few more minutes before Don lifted his head up and dragged his hand to the glass. He picked it up slowly, rinsed his mouth, spitting into the toilet before taking few sips, eventually draining it. The glass clanked hard on the tile as he set it down.

"You all right?" Charlie asked after a couple more minutes.

"Yeah."

"I don't mean your stomach."

"I know."

"Then why are you lying to me?"

Don let out a long breath and buried his face in his hands. "I'm just so tired, Charlie. I just want some peace, to sleep at night without those faces haunting me... She was just four years old... And now her blood is on my hands too, because I can't find my footing, because I waited a second too long," he said, his voice more broken than Charlie had ever heard it. He just sat there, his back against the antique tub. "It's not you I'm lying to. It's to myself. Problem is, I don't believe it anymore." He let his head fall, hissing a disillusioned chuckle.

The confession hit Charlie like a ton of bricks, suddenly understanding what his father had said earlier. He bit his lips, eye burning with unshed tears, helpless to ease his brother's pain. He knelt before him, grabbing his hand and dragging him to his feet. He guided Don back to his bedroom, wrapped him in blankets and sat by his side until he surrendered to sleep. He gave Don a light squeeze on the shoulder before going in search of a phone.

Alan gingerly climbed down the stairs, careful to avoid the cracking step only to find Don in the kitchen, watching the sun rise, coffee cup in hand. He'd heard his son in the bathroom last night, had been on the verge of getting up when he'd heard Charlie's door open. Now, Charlie wasn't anywhere to be found and Don was staring out the window, looking as lost as Alan had ever seen him, the haunted look from the previous night scarcely dulled.

Don didn't offer a greeting or a smile. He simply looked at him, the corners of his mouth twitching in acknowledgement.

"Donnie..." he said, unsure of what to say, wanting to be there, not knowing what to do.

"It's okay, dad. I'll... be okay," he said slowly and for the first time, Alan doubted he would be.

"Don!" Charlie shouted from the door, bursting into the house, a sheaf of paper in his hand.

"What is it, Charlie?" Don grumbled, dragging his feet as he met him, a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"You didn't hesitate."

Don blinked and screwed his features in total incomprehension. "What?"

Charlie dumped his pack on the table and rummaged through it, hands gesturing wildly as he did. "I got a hold of all the audio and video recordings made at the… You know what? It doesn't matter how I did it. It just proves that you didn't hesitate for even a moment. In fact, if you had fired that shot 0.289 seconds sooner, the bullet would have hit the girl, Don."

Don shook his head, confused. "Charlie, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying it was your intuition. You saw the outcome. You expected his movement and held your shot till the girl was clear. There was absolutely nothing you could have done to save her. If you'd had fired sooner, you would have killed her."

Charlie dropped the sheaf of paper in his hand, grabbing Don's shoulders. "This was not your fault, Don. It wasn't," he said, head cocked, looking straight into his brother's eyes.

Don simply shook his head, slowly stepping towards the couch, sitting down heavily. He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the cup of coffee in his hands, seeing a pair of blue eyes looking back.

His brother's numbers had brought him many things in the past

He would never have thought they would bring him absolution.

Fin.......