Resurrection, Part II, Death of a Mathematician

by Serialgal

Part II of a three-part series of one-shots. In Part I, Death of an Agent, Charlie deals with Don's death. In Part II, Death of a Mathematician, Don deals with Charlie's death. Part III, Resurrection, pulls the two seemingly unrelated stories together.

Resurrection Part II - Death of a Mathematician

A/N: Part II of a series. Don deals with Charlie's death. It is recommended that you read Part I, Death of an Agent, first. Trust me, it will all be better tomorrow, when you read Part III. In the meantime, here's another tear-jerker.

Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs or any of the characters, although I do claim rights to original story concepts. All characters are fictional; any resemblance to real people, living or dead; is coincidental.

Resurrection - a Numb3rs Series

Part II: Death of a Mathematician

Don stood, watching them lower the casket into the ground, each element of the day standing out in stark relief. The sunlight, the mottled colors of earth in the hole, the grass stippled with dry strands, victims of the L.A. heat. A soft wind caressed his face as he stared unblinking behind dark glasses, his face set like stone, his body just as rigid, feet apart slightly, arms down, but hands clasped tightly in front of him, as if he were preparing to raise them in prayer. Incantations floated around him in the air, emanating from the rabbi, but the words held no meaning for him. His soul was as impervious to prayer as his body was to the wind – solid, earthbound, as dead and unmoving as rock.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Several days earlier…

Charlie's first case after getting his security clearance back was an investigation into a series of bomb hoaxes in the L.A. area. The LAPD and the bomb squad had been called to two separate incidents before they capitulated and went to the FBI for help. Both of the incidents had taken place in public areas, one, a library, the other, a shopping mall, and had resulted in evacuations. The bomb squad in both cases had been alerted to look for a suspicious package in a particular spot, and both times had found and dismantled a working bomb – working that is, except for the explosive. Both had been designed by experts and both had an empty space that could hold a sizeable amount of C-4, but neither had contained any of the explosive material. It reminded Don of a prior case they'd had, in which the perps had made bomb threats and used the resulting evacuations as a distraction – the motive then had been theft, not terrorism.

In this case, however, they had yet to find a motive. It could be theft, it could be a series of pranks, and it could be practice runs by a terrorist group. They had no way of knowing. They were doing everything they could think of, including trying to run down the components of the bombs to see if they could find where they'd come from, and examining surrounding businesses to see if there was a likely target for theft. Don had Charlie working on an algorithm that tried to draw conclusions from the locations, and as he stepped into Charlie's office at CalSci with lunch, he was about to give him a third data point.

"Hey, Charlie."

Charlie looked up, his expression of intense concentration relaxing as he saw his brother. "Hey, yourself." He smiled, and rose from his desk and pulled a chair forward. "Have a seat."

Don held up the bag from the deli as he headed for the chair. "I brought lunch – and another data point."

Charlie's eyes widened. "Another one – another bomb threat?"

Don handed him a sandwich and a folder. "Yeah, it's in there. They called it in this morning – this one was at the bus station downtown, right during the morning commute. We had to evacuate again. A bunch of people were late to work this morning."

Charlie flipped the folder open and took the sandwich almost as an afterthought, unwrapping it absently as his eyes raked the contents of the file. His expression held an intensity that it hadn't for weeks, and Don knew, from the time Charlie was putting in on the case, from his eagerness to be involved, he was glad to be back, consulting.

For his part, Don had mixed emotions. When Charlie had sent the email to Pakistan that had gotten his clearance revoked, Don had been frustrated, fearful of what the action would do to Charlie's career, and angry that Charlie might have thrown away his reputation and years of sacrifice on both his part, and their parents', for an idealistic whim. And face it, Don told had himself, it had hurt. Alan had always maintained that Charlie idolized Don; that he'd do anything for him, and although Don had his doubts, he secretly thought that maybe it was true. Oh, they argued, and sometimes it seemed there was an insurmountable distance between them, but he'd caught the look on Charlie's face when Don tossed him a compliment, the almost childlike excitement that occasionally slipped through that let him know that Charlie was glad to be working with him. Charlie's recent action, however, had made him wonder if that were true – if Charlie really wanted to be around him, he wouldn't have thrown away his consulting privileges, wouldn't have separated himself from his brother with one click of a computer key.

The fact was, although they'd come a long way, they still weren't to the point where they seemed to have much in common, other than the casework. That had been an eye-opening and disappointing revelation to both of them, and they'd spent the last few months floundering, trying to resurrect a relationship that didn't have much of a base outside of work. The reinstatement of Charlie's clearance had been a big relief to both of them. It took the pressure off – the pressure of trying to come up with things to do together, to force the issue. They now had the excuse of work to spend time together, and could ease into a brotherly relationship, could take their time, instead of trying to push things. In spite of that, Don was committed to advancing their relationship outside of work. That, he had vowed to himself, was something he would pursue; then if Charlie ever had to give up consulting again, it wouldn't matter – by that time, they would have a solid relationship independent of whether or not they were working together. He had to consider that Charlie might not be consulting for him in the future – any number of things could claim his brother's time – and in spite of his relief to be working with him again, Don wasn't sure it was really the right thing.

He'd voiced that opinion after the Parks case, trying to suggest that Charlie should spend his time on research, on bigger things in the mathematical world, even while secretly hoping his brother would stay. It wasn't so much that he thought that Charlie was being pulled away from research; he probably was to some degree, but Charlie was such a dynamo, Don figured he'd find a way to do both. No, it was the fact that his brother had been attacked during that case, had been run off the road and fired upon by the suspects. Don knew he could never live with himself if Charlie was hurt by his association with Don's work, and the case had brought that home, hard. The only good thing about the last few months had been the absence of worry – if Charlie wasn't working on cases, Don didn't have to worry about him being endangered by something related to their investigations.

Now, however, Charlie was back, and Don had to acknowledge a mixture of emotions related to that fact; everything from anxiety to relief. He watched as Charlie set the folder next to his laptop, took a bite of sandwich, and typed in a few lines. "This is going to help," he said, after a few chews. "We still don't have a lot, but it will triangulate the likely area of operation." He looked at Don, concern flitting across his face. "It was unarmed again, right?"

Don nodded. "Yeah. Whoever is building it has definite explosive expertise, but they're choosing not to arm the devices. We could be dealing with someone trying to make some kind of non-violent political statement, but without the statement, it's hard to tell."

"Even if they don't intend any harm, they've got to know someone might get hurt during an evacuation."

"Yeah." Don took a bite of sandwich and chewed reflectively for a moment, as Charlie sat back in his chair. "This is bothering me," Don admitted.

Charlie spoke through a mouthful of sandwich. "That's understandable."

Don shook his head. "No, I mean, really bothering me – I have a bad feeling about this one." He glanced sideways at Charlie. In the past, that statement might have earned him a lecture on the merits of basing conclusions on data instead of hunches, but Charlie was silent. "What," said Don, half-teasingly, "no jabs at my unscientific approach?"

Charlie grinned, a little ruefully. "Actually, I've come to realize your hunches are often based on observations and perceptions you've amassed over the years. They're really based on many data points, in addition to emotion."

"So that makes it credible?"

Charlie's eyes glinted, teasingly. "Not necessarily."

Don shot him a wry glance, and mumbled through his sandwich. "Yeah, I kind of figured you'd say that." He regarded his younger brother for a moment; then said quietly, "It's good to have you back."

Charlie looked back at him, and Don saw a look of gratitude flash over his face. "It's good to be back," he said. His eyes were shining; but the gaze, the moment was a little too emotional for either of them, and Charlie looked down at his computer keyboard.

He gestured with the sandwich. "Thanks for lunch, by the way – that was nice." He looked up hopefully. "I can reciprocate, if you're free tonight – Dad's out, but I can throw something on the grill if you want to come over."

"Nothing going with Amita tonight?"

"No. She's free – I just thought it would be good to – uh, you know, hang out together once in a while. Or if you want, you could call Robin – the four of us could go out."

Don's face softened into a smile. "Nah," he said. "Hanging out together sounds good."

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

It was good. Charlie actually made a decent meal – salad, a fresh loaf of crusty bread with herb-infused dipping oil, and two Black Angus rib eye steaks with mushrooms and onions. Alan appeared to be starting to rub off on him in more ways than simply passing on his liberal political tendencies. The meal was accompanied by imported beer, and they sat and chatted companionably for several hours. Don couldn't remember the last time they'd done that – hell, of course he couldn't remember it, he told himself – it had never really happened before. Oh, they'd spent time together, but not like this – this was comfortable, easy – just two guys hanging out, enjoying each other's company. Don left that night with a full belly, a glow in his heart, and hope for the future.

9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

The next morning, Colby hung up his phone abruptly and rose from his desk. "We've got another one," he said.

David looked up from his desk, and Don and Liz turned toward Colby. "Where?" asked Don.

"Tierney Plaza," said Colby. "LAPD and the bomb squad are already mobilizing."

Don shook his head. Tierney Plaza was a newly renovated section on the north side of downtown, and was surrounded by brand new sleek office buildings and posh shops and restaurants. Their suspects were selecting targets that were more exclusive. "All right," he said, "let's get geared up."

David looked at him. "You think we really need to? The bomb squad's been handling it anyway."

"Yeah," said Don firmly. "Until we know why they're doing this, everyone gears up."

The plaza was a mob scene. Don didn't want to be cynical, but he was certain that the mayor had sent out a lot more police and rescue for this threat than for any other so far, even the bus station. Apparently, the wealthy shop patrons and executives warranted more attention. The plaza was rimmed with LAPD patrol cars, fire trucks, HAZMAT trucks, and SWAT vehicles, along with the stars of the show, the bomb squad trucks. Just like the previous cases, a suspicious box had been left in the open, this time in the center of the plaza. It had required a huge evacuation – many of the surrounding high-rises had glass windows, and hundreds of people had been ordered from the buildings. Don and his team were safely situated on the outskirts of the plaza, all of them in flak jackets and behind shelter, as the bomb squad maneuvered a robot around the package, exposing the device inside. Don's eyes narrowed, trying to determine whether this one was armed or not, but he couldn't tell from that distance.

His radio beeped, and he depressed the talk button. "Eppes here."

The bomb squad leader's voice came on. Don could see him talking into his radio, across the plaza. "It looks clear," he said. "I'm sending some guys in for a closer look – just keep your people back for a minute." As he spoke, several squad team members lumbered forward, their protective gear making their movements awkward. At the same moment, Don caught sight of another figure, which had just appeared between two vehicles across the plaza, and the sight of the dark curly head made his heart skip a beat.

He let out a growl of exasperation as he went for his cell phone. What in the hell was Charlie doing here? And who had let him so close, without protective equipment? It didn't make sense, and in spite of the bomb squad leader's reassurance that the bomb wasn't armed, Don felt a surge of panic. He had just pulled his phone out of his pocket when the blast went off.

It wasn't the decoy device; the bomb was in a trash receptacle near Don's side of the plaza, and although he was partially protected by his SUV and the explosion was several yards away, the blast made him stagger. At the same time pain ripped through his upper arm; he looked down to see a small gash in it from a piece of shrapnel; heard a thunk as another piece of shrapnel buried itself in the side of his SUV. The explosion had been small, but would have been lethal at close range. His ears were ringing slightly, and he was sure if he'd been turned completely sideways to the blast, it would have burst an eardrum. He looked around quickly to make sure the people around him were safe, and then looked up across the plaza, just as Charlie spotted him, and started to dash across the plaza toward him. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, wondering why no one had bothered to stop him, and he raised his good arm, trying to wave Charlie off. "Charlie, get back!" he screamed, but Charlie kept coming, a look of urgency on his face.

Don took one step forward, and hell erupted.

Charlie was about halfway across the plaza and well away from the center where the bomb squad was working – but the second blast came from only a few feet away from his position, behind some landscaping. He had just rounded a trash receptacle, and was facing the landscaped area squarely, when the explosion ripped through the air, sending Charlie, the trashcan, and two benches airborne. Charlie literally left the ground, flying backward until his back made contact with the side of a nearby truck. Don watched, stunned, as his body crumpled to the ground and came to a stop, half-leaning against the truck; leaving an indentation in the thin metal of the truck's side panel.

There was deafening silence for a moment, then, as Don sprinted across the plaza, shouts began. Some of the bomb squad that had been examining the decoy device ran forward – one of them to the blast site near Don's SUV. Two others loped to the site near Charlie, and stared at it in shock as Don reached Charlie's side and fell on his knees, breathless with fear.

"Charlie," he rasped, and his heart contracted painfully in relief as Charlie opened his eyes, and blinked. Don feverishly ran his hands over him, looking for wounds, but miraculously, other than a small scratch on his brother's wrist, there were none. Colby, David and Liz had joined him, as Charlie shakily tried to prop himself into a sitting position against the van, then slumped against it.

"Where does it hurt?" asked Don anxiously. Charlie looked up at him, dazedly.

"Not sure," he mumbled. "Doesn't hurt too much."

Don took a huge unsteady breath of relief and sat back on his heels. "Jesus, Charlie." He grinned, shakily. "You've got to be the luckiest guy on the face of the earth." His gaze traveled up to the truck and he pointed to the side panel. "That thin metal must have cushioned the impact," he said to his team members, as emergency technicians trotted up, pulling a gurney. David and Liz smiled, but Colby was frowning, studying Charlie.

"I think you better get him checked out," he said, and Don glanced at him.

"Yeah, of course," he said, and he stepped back as the technicians moved in, watching as they prodded and gently moved limbs, asking Charlie again if anything hurt.

Charlie was pale, and his skin looked clammy. "Doesn't hurt – just feels funny." His voice was weak and he sounded slightly breathless, and the medics wasted no time immobilizing him on a board and getting him on the gurney. They seemed to be in an inexplicable hurry, and Don felt a little frisson of fear slice through him, as anxiety returned. He glanced at his team. "I need one of you to cover the scene," he said, "I need to go with him."

"I've got it," said Liz. "You guys go ahead."

Don shot her a look of gratitude. "Thanks." The medics had disappeared around the edge of the truck and Don jogged around it, to see them loading Charlie into the ambulance, head held motionless by the brace. He looked small, helpless. "Where are you taking him?"

"Cedars," one of the medics shot back. "You'll have to meet us there."

Don dashed forward, putting his face in Charlie's field of vision, which was limited to the air above his face because of the brace, and grasped Charlie's hand. "Okay, buddy, I'll see you there. You're going to be fine."

The corner of Charlie's mouth twitched into a weak smile, his words made short and choppy by quick inhalations. "Okay. Wait until I - tell Larry. I've got - a launch story to rival his."

Don grinned back, heartened by Charlie's response, and he turned and dashed for his SUV. "He'll be okay," he told himself, trying to fight off the horrifying vision of his brother flying through the air. "Knocked the wind out of him. He'll be okay."

He drove himself, but the ride to the hospital was a complete blur. He didn't really remember getting there, but he found himself in the ER waiting area, as Colby and David came up behind him. "Charles Eppes," Don said to a receptionist. "They just brought him in."

She glanced at her screen and nodded. "Okay, have a seat – the doctor will come out to talk to you when they've examined him."

Colby and David were already sitting, and Don walked over and sat beside them, running a hand over his face. They looked unaccountably somber, and Don frowned a little. Granted, it was frightening – face it, it had scared the hell out of him, but it looked as though Charlie had emerged miraculously unscathed. "I imagine this'll take a while," he said, to no one in particular.

"You might want to call your dad," said Colby quietly, and Don blinked.

"Jesus, yeah." He dialed, and gave his father the news, prefacing it by assuring him that Charlie looked all right, and that he should take his time. The last thing he needed was for Alan to rush, and get into an accident.

He had no sooner hung up the phone, than a doctor pushed through the doors to the ER bays, and called, "Anyone here for Charles Eppes?"

Don was on his feet. "Wow - that was fast. I'm Don Eppes, his brother."

The doctor looked at him impassively, and at Colby and David behind him, taking in their flak jackets, emblazoned with "FBI." His eyes came to rest on Don's arm, and his bloody sleeve, but he didn't acknowledge the injury.

"Come with me," he said, indicating all of them, and he pushed through the doors. He led the way down a hallway to an exam room just across from a desk area, and turned and faced Don. He introduced himself, but the name left Don's mind as soon as he uttered his next words. "I'm sorry."

Don felt a flood of ice in his veins. "What?"

"You need to go in and spend some time with him," the man said, his face bearing an expression of sympathy. "He has what is called PBI, primary blast injury –multiple internal injuries from the blast, too many to repair. He's bleeding internally – he has only moments. I suggest you prepare yourself, and go in as soon as you're ready."

"What?" Don stammered again. He looked frantically at Colby and David, who gazed at him sadly but seemed oddly unsurprised by the news, then back at the doctor. "That's impossible – he seemed fine – he had one little scratch – how do you know –,"

The doctor interrupted him gently. "We suspected it from the exam and took a quick scan; it showed multiple bleeds, his lungs and liver in particular sustained a lot of damage. Please – he doesn't have long. For his sake, you should compose yourself, and go in."

Don stared at him, momentarily overcome by a wave of despair and disbelief. "Does he know?" he managed, and the doctor nodded. Don swallowed, feeling as though he'd suddenly been hit by a blast himself, one that had left him with a growing agony in his heart. "Okay," he said. It came out as a hoarse whisper, and the doctor put a hand on his arm, and gently guided him through the doorway.

He approached Charlie's gurney on legs that suddenly barely seemed to support him. They had removed the brace from his neck, and Charlie turned his head slightly as Don approached. Charlie's face was filled with emotion, emotion he was bravely trying to fight.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, as Don looked down at him. The soft sound of the door came from behind as the doctor slipped out of the room. There was a light over Charlie's bed, but otherwise the normal garish ER lighting had been dimmed. Tears glittered in Charlie's eyes, his face pale against the dark curls. His breathing was shallow and rapid, and Don stared at him, numb with shock.

"I should have - waited," Charlie said, the words faint, broken by quick gasps for air. "Wanted to see - if you – were okay. I'm sorry – please don't – be angry. Tell Dad – and Amita -,' he stopped for a moment, overcome by emotion, "I love them – love you, too -,"

"No." It came out strangled, agonized, and then Don spoke more loudly. "NO!" He whirled on his heel, ignoring the desperate cry of his name behind him, and burst through the door.

Colby, David, and the doctor were still standing in the hallway, and Don strode up to the doctor and jabbed a finger in his face. "You're gonna operate on him, now!"

The doctor shook his head, apologetically, "It wouldn't do any good – there are too many ruptures -,"

Don grabbed him by the lapels of his white lab coat and pulled the doctor's face toward his, growling furiously. "I don't give a shit – you're gonna operate, and you're gonna save him!"

He was out of control by now, shaking the man in a fit of rage and fear, and David and Colby leapt forward and pried the doctor away. "Don, Don!" Colby yelled, finally getting his hands on Don's shoulders. He grabbed him and put his face in front of Don's, forcing him to looking into his eyes. Don could see the torment in them, the deep sadness, and even worse, the acceptance. "He's right, Don. I saw it in Afghanistan. I was afraid of this the minute I saw him at the plaza." Don stared back at him, slowly shaking his head.

Colby's tone softened as he felt Don's shoulders slump, saw the look of despair in his eyes. "You need to go in there, man," he said quietly, sadly. "He needs you now."

Don looked at David as if for help, but David just looked back, his dark eyes filled with sorrow. Don took one step back, and as Colby's hands fell from his shoulders, turned, and walked silently back into the room.

He could see the fear and desperation in Charlie's face as he entered, and he cursed himself mentally for leaving him, even for a moment. "Charlie, it's okay, I'm here," he said, and he saw relief flood Charlie's face.

His brother's breathing was more pronounced, shallow, fast, labored. "Donnie," he said. His voice was weak, a half-whisper.

"I'm sorry – about the – clearance -," he got out. "Lost so much – time – together -,"

A sudden huge wave of grief welled up inside Don. This couldn't be it – he couldn't lose him. "No," he whispered back. "Charlie, please -,"

Charlie looked up at him, helplessly, and the tears glittering in his eyes finally spilled over, leaving behind deep sadness, regret. "Always loved - you -," he said, and stopped, looking at Don pleadingly.

Hot tears stung Don's eyes, and he bent slightly, as if in pain. "This is – I can't -," he choked, and Charlie reached forward and grasped his sleeve.

"Say it," he pleaded. "Just once. I need – to hear you – say it."

Don looked down at him, shaking his head in denial, but the desperate look on Charlie's face brought him to his senses, and he fought to speak over the pain. 'Have I really never told him?' he wondered, stunned by the revelation. He took Charlie's hand. "I love you, Charlie. I've always loved you, buddy."

A sob broke from Charlie, but he smiled at the same time, a huge smile of bittersweet joy through his tears, and he looked at Don with such depth of feeling, with such love, that Don felt suddenly both hugely blessed and unimaginably cursed. He reached out a shaking finger, and gently brushed a tear from Charlie's face. Then the dark eyes flickered shut, a last soft sigh escaped, and the features relaxed, although a faint smile remained, ethereal, unworldly.

The unbearable sense of loss, the agony in his heart, brought Don to his knees, and he sagged to the floor next to Charlie's gurney, his hand still clasping his brother's, his head resting against the metal bed rail, painful tears coming, unbidden and unstoppable. It was there that Alan found him, kneeling like soul in hell, praying for deliverance.

999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

Hell, apparently, had a far reach – Don couldn't escape it – not at the Craftsman, certainly, with its memories of Charlie, and the presence of his father, crying silently in his chair, looking old and utterly beaten. Not at his apartment – Don thought of all the time he'd spent alone there, reveling in his independence, his ability to retreat to his own space. That space mocked him now, empty, and promising only future emptiness. And hell, certainly, most definitely, resided at the funeral home.

He wandered through the rooms, through the throngs of people. They'd reserved the largest funeral home in town, the entire facility, and it still wasn't enough. Hundreds of students, faculty, people from all over the country showed up to pay their respects. He was amazed by the faces there, especially the heads of government security agencies. He'd been naïve to think that the FBI was the only reason Charlie had gotten his clearance back – he recognized heads of the NSA, the DEA – and most flabbergasting, the CIA. Charlie and the spooks? The thought boggled his mind.

There were distinguished professors and luminaries from the mathematical and science disciplines also, people that Don didn't recognize, but the reactions of the students made him realize that they were stars in their field. It had happened, just as he had feared. The world had lost one of its great minds, and it was his fault. He'd known he should have left things as they were; he should have been a bigger person, and discouraged Charlie from returning to consulting. He'd known that, but he'd listened instead to his own desire to work with his brother again. Now no one had him – not the world, and not Don – and he knew that as much as the world would miss Charlie, he would miss him so much more. His guilt was compounded by the fact that he'd never apparently let Charlie know, in all those years, what he'd meant to him – had waited until Charlie's final moments to actually tell him that he loved him. His brother had spent all those years not knowing for sure, all that time wasted, gone. At least he'd given him that, at the end, he thought bitterly, remembering Charlie's smile. A moment, no more.

He felt a soft squeeze on his good arm and turned to see Amita next to him, her eyes red-rimmed, and they traded looks of support, of shared sadness. Her presence reminded Don of how unfair it all was; Charlie and Amita had been finally getting somewhere; his brother's life had finally been clicking into place. Now he'd never be married, never have children…

He hugged her, they exchanged some words of mutual support and sympathy, and he moved away.

Several hours later, he sat there, alone. Robin had just gone; his father was in the other room speaking with the funeral director. Don rose to his feet and approached the casket. The funeral was the next morning. After tonight, he would never see his brother's face again. He looked at it, impossibly youthful-looking, peaceful; bordered by his brother's trademark dark curls. The face seemed somehow incomplete with the eyes closed; those dark eyes, brimming with intelligence, forever gone from the world, forever lost to him. "Good-bye, buddy," he whispered, the endearing nickname catching in his throat as his voice broke. "I'll never forget you."

That night, like each night since the explosion, he sat in his dark apartment, nursing his sore arm with pain pills, and his shattered soul with a bottle of whiskey.

99999999999999999999999999999999999

The rabbi was finished with his prayers and incantations, and Don watched, unmoving, as they lowered the casket into the ground. He still had his hands clasped in front of him, and he felt Robin's hand snake through one of his arms, lending soft support. The breeze stiffened, and a cloud passed over the sun, and then, just as the coffin was set in place, there was the sound of Amita's quiet sob, and the sun flashed out again.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999

The ride on the elevator was new pain. It seemed so familiar, so normal. Less than a week ago, he'd ridden the same elevator to the same bullpen, and had walked in to find Charlie waiting at his desk. Today there was no Charlie, he thought, there never would be again, and it didn't seem right that the office looked the same.

He stepped into the conference room, and the agents' heads came up in surprise. Wright was there, directing while Don was off for bereavement and his shoulder injury. Time off to get over his loss - as if such a thing were possible in a week, or a lifetime. Liz was there, and Colby and David – so familiar, so normal, and so wrong, without his brother's presence. "I'm sorry I'm late."

Colby looked at him, concern in his blue-green eyes. "Don, what are you doing here?"

Don stood and faced them, resolutely. The first case without his brother after Charlie had lost his clearance had been hard to take, but at least he'd still had him, still had the hope that someday he would be back. This was unimaginably painful. He wasn't ready to go back to work; he was too raw. There was no question; this would be the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, but he would avenge Charlie's death no matter what the price. "I'm here for the meeting on the bombers," he said, his voice sounding strangely composed, yet resonating with the pain, still fresh. He was determined to do this, in spite of what it cost him, and when they found the perpetrators, they and every perp afterwards, every murder he prevented, every citizen he helped the team protect, would be for Charlie.

Wright shook his head. "Don, you don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do," said Don, quietly but firmly. "Charlie gave his life for this – not just this case, but everything we do here. I owe him this." He sat and listened as Liz outlined the latest findings, hoping that Charlie saw somehow, from wherever he was, and approved.

That night, Don got home to his apartment, and sat on the sofa in the dark, hunched over his knees. It was late, he was exhausted, and he knew he had to give up the whiskey sooner or later. It was a bad combination with the pain medication, but that mixture provided the oblivion he needed for sleep. He could see his pill bottle on the coffee table in the silvery light from the window. He opened it, shook out a pill, and then stopped, staring at the contents.

It still hurt as badly as it had when it first happened, worse, in fact, as the finality of it had set in. It left a hole in his heart, a horrible ache that was almost too much to be tolerated. He could feel a pull, a blackness that beckoned him. He could end it all, end the pain – it was as simple as the bottle of pain pills in front of him, along with the half bottle of whiskey on the table. There were times when he felt so strongly that he couldn't go on, the taste of the guilt was so bitter; that the thought of suicide was a very real possibility. Each time, though, one thought pulled him back – the urge, indelibly inscribed on his very soul since he was small, the desire to gain Charlie's respect. He couldn't take his own life – he'd always felt the need to set an example, to be a leader, to make his brother proud. To give up would be cowardly, and would tarnish Charlie's sacrifice. Somehow, he would have to find a way to carry on, without him.

He firmly capped the pill bottle, then poured himself a shot and downed the single pill, and then a second shot. Only two tonight, instead of three, and tomorrow, only one, he told himself. He staggered down the hallway to his bed, and lay there on his back staring into the darkness, as two tears rolled down the sides of his face, and seeped into the pillow.

99999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999

End Part II