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For H – she'll be fine, dude.

Denial

Don hung up the phone and leaned back into the welcoming softness of the sofa, tilting his head back but closing his eyes. He really didn't want to see the expanse stretching between him and the high ceiling – it was another form of distance, and right now the only distance that mattered to him was the one between New Mexico and California. He couldn't feel the warmth of the rays of sunlight filtering through the blinds in the otherwise dark apartment on his face – at the moment, all feelings, if numbness could be counted as a feeling, were internal.

For all that he'd silently bemoaned the fact that his day off in what seemed like forever hadn't coincided with his fiancé's day off, now he was just glad to be alone. He really didn't need an audience at this moment, even if the description of 'audience' included the woman he'd proposed to, and was ready to spend his life with.

After five minutes –maybe longer, he couldn't tell - of thoughts which he couldn't recall, he finally noticed that his right knee was constantly bouncing up and down, and forced himself to stop. When the phone call had come, he had muted the TV and since then the apartment had been silent save for the jittery, irritating sound caused by his booted foot thumping constantly against the wooden floor. He needed the silence, if only to hear what was going on in his own head.

She'd be fine. Of course she would. The last time Don had seen his mother, her hair hadn't even started greying. In fact, it wasn't a stranger shade than usual to suggest secretive usage of hair dyes. His father's hair, on the other hand… But then, only last week had Don been to a crime-scene where he'd seen the body of a girl who hadn't even reached puberty, let alone follicle maturity.

Cancer. It was new to Don. Not the idea of death, no – his days were filled with death caused by gunshots, stab wounds, blunt trauma, decapitation, overdoses, you name it, he'd seen it. But those had been acts of man - acts of God were a wholly different ballgame. Nurture, he could handle, but nature…

Don shook his head, for all the good it did his thoughts. This was the twenty-first century. The medical field had never been more efficient, more effective. Gone were the days when the wonders of science weren't at your finger tips to extend life even though all hope had faded. Besides, Don had gone up against enough lawyers in his career to know they were one tough breed to do battle with, and Don would expect nothing short of a full-fledged war from his mother. Feelings of sorrow and mourning would only mean Don had thrown in the gauntlet and expected his mother to simply lay down and die.

Extending a hand over the table next to the sofa, Don picked up his wallet and lifted his hips high enough to slip it into his back pocket before standing up and grabbing his keys, cell phone and his gun, clipping the last two items onto their regular place on his belt. It may have been his day off, but right now, Don just wanted to go back to work, be amongst the controlled chaos that was the FBI office in Albuquerque.

There was always some criminal- murderer, rapist, drug dealer – out there to catch, to put behind bars. And if Don couldn't do anything else, he could at least do that.

Khatum (The End)