"Did you know? Eagles kill their weaker nest-mates. When the smaller fledglings compete for food or simply annoy them, the larger nestlings just push 'um out of the nest on to the jagged rocks below," I declared without opening my eyes or shifting positions on the sofa.

I recognized the sound of those footfalls anywhere. Charlie had a rather distinct sound to his walk. I always thought the distinctness of his walk came from his head always leading his body around, like when nature crafted him, he was given a body simply as a means to move that astounding brain about.

"Now you can't deny you enjoyed that documentary."

"Did not, "I grumbled out loud, refuting this outrageous accusation, "I was sick with the flu, catatonic with boredom, and stoned out of my mind on the green, death-flavored Niquil Dad had laced my food with."

"You pumped your fist in the air and shouted "Yes" at the end when the fledging eagle soared away."

It was regrettably true. "It had killed its smaller, weaker, sibling and was escaping its parent's nurturing clutches. I was living all my dreams vicariously."

"How do you always know it's me?"

"Too many years working fugitive recovery and that older brother sixth sense."

More sound of shuffling feet, closer this time, "You never talk about your time in Fugitive Recovery."

I opened my eyes, meeting a concerned pair of brown ones looking down at me, and stated in a tone that left little room for argument, "You're right. I don't."

I was not digging up old nightmares tonight. These days I had enough new ones.

"If you ever need to..."

Wiping a hand over my eyes in an attempt to chase the cobwebs away, I asked, "What time is it?"

"About eleven thirty," Charlie replied. "You bailed out on dinner and crashed on the couch."

Noticing the box Charlie was holding, I sat up and asked, "What's in the box?"

"A peace offering," Charlie replied sheepishly. "I owe you an apology for trying to pull you in to the middle of it with Dad and me when you walked in tonight. It was out of line and I'm sorry."

"Ah... I get it. Trying to buy my favor." I gave him a fake, snotty, look as I gave the box a quick glance, "My forgiveness does NOT come cheap, Geekboy."

"It's a cheesecake from Armando's."

Rich.

Creamy.

One slice causes irreparable Coronary Artery Disease.

SOOO worth it.

"Give me," I proclaimed happily as I scooted over to make room for him on the couch. "I can be bought."

Charlie, chuckling with remark, flicked his wrist and slid the cake box on to the coffee table as he took his seat. Two plates were put right next to the box on the table. "These things are going to kill us some day, Bro."

"What a way to go!" I stated happily, opening the box and cutting myself an extra large slice.

"Here. Here."

"Sooo," I started, giving Charlie a sideways glance, "You want to tell me what tonight's tactical engagement was all about?"

"Guess."

"You've found several dozen baby books 'conveniently' lying around the house with baby names underlined and highlighted?"

Charlie shuddered visibly. "Not yet."

"He pulled out our baby pictures, took Amita hostage, and rambled for hours about what beautiful children you'd produce together?"

Charlie gave me a look that resembled a cute furry creature in its last moments right before it met its untimely death by on-coming traffic, and squeaked out "He wouldn't actually do that...Would he?"

"Oh yes," I affirmed gleefully. "He has no problems with inflicting civilian casualties. He'll even produce studies about how the longer a man waits to have children, the greater risk of birth defects in the offspring. The fact he hasn't done this yet leads us to the conclusion either he's mellowing in his old age."

"Mellowing. Yeah, like that's gonna happen," Charlie announced as he cut a slice of cake for himself.

"OR," I continued, "He's plotting. Since he for all intents and purposes raised me, I tend to see Dad as the most devious, scheming, human being on the face of the planet, and/or Satan himself, so I lean more towards 'plotting' then 'mellowing'. It's a personal judgment call."

Charlie suddenly sighed and blurted out, "I really dislike that woman you know?"

"Since I was considering going back to my car for my S.W.A.T. gear tonight, you hid it so well."

Charlie flinched, "Sorry." He sighed again, "I know Mom's gone and Dad's going to move on."

"But?" I prompted.

"He was talking about Millie the other day and he had that look on his face. You know? That soft one he always wore when he talks about mom, and I just saw red."

Oh Boy.

I miss Larry.

Dr. Larry Fleinhardt would have some incredibly insightful Zen, warm, cuddly, weird, deep, cosmic metaphor that would guide Charlie to a new larger perspective on the situation. I, on the other hand, do not do warm and/or cuddly and meaning of life celestial metaphors make my head want to explode.

In other words: I was probably going to screw this up. Big time.

"Charlie." I took a deep breath hoping my younger brother would at least give me points for honestly if not for finesse and style, "Of the two of us, you were closer to Mom. She essentially raised you. Knowing she's gone and accepting she's gone are two different things. There's a lot of emotional stuff from her death you didn't deal with and still need to shovel." I turned to look him in the eye. "Just don't beat Dad bloody with the shovel while you're shoveling it."

He was quiet, considering my words for few moments, and suddenly broke the silence by asking, "So what's your opinion of Millie?"

"I never thought I'd see Dad cast as the role of Beauty in "Beauty and the Beast".

Charlie choked on his forkful of cheesecake. "You're terrible." He managed to grasp out, "What scares me is, she thinks you're actually the nice one." Suddenly he got a strange look on his face and gestured from him to me, "Are we having an Oprah moment here?"

Horrified at the mere thought, I scooted over to the furthest end of the couch, "You get teary-eyed, or try to hug me. I'm going hit you."

"You know, Don," Charlie dryly retorted, "Your ability to open up and express your inner-most feelings is one thing I truly admire about you."

"Hard."

"I SO feel the love in this room right now."

"Just stay on your end of the couch, Mr. Sensitive."

After Charlie and I had our 'Oprah' moment, we did the only thing any two emotionally damaged, not-in-touch-with-our –feelings males like us could after coming within a hundred yards of any of that touchy-feely crap. We tried to expunge 'the incident' from our memories as quickly as possible by getting completely trashed.

Okay, I retract that statement.

Charlie got pickled. I got buzzed enough to lose my installed "Dad's going to kill us" default brain-washing ingrained from my teenage years, and introduced Charlie to a drinkable little piece of heaven, made to go with cheesecake, by the name of Baileys. Let's just say Charlie embraced the lesson with the same passionate, enthusiasm he brought to everything else in life.

That could probably explain the reason I woke up with my face stuck to the Scrabble board and my father glaring down at me, looking like he was mere seconds from going completely nuclear.

Then again, it might be the Christmas light display that Charlie and I hung at one in the morning, too. Our front yard outrage could be sponsored by the words "Taste" and "Bad" in no particular order, and without a doubt should not be viewed by anyone with a smidgen of decency or one iota of class. I was really too busy howling with laughter from the hydrangea bushes at Charlie's antics to really keep track of what he did to poor Frosty.

You know? I'd really forgotten exactly how much fun Charlie could be after a few drinks. Alcohol tends to strip away the uptight, reserve he always hides behind and stomps out that desperate need for approval streak of his. It's like getting a fast-forward sneak peek at the person Charles Eppes will be in a few years when he's grown comfortable enough in his own skin to stop caring what the world thinks of him. I really like that person. I'm enjoying watching him emerge slowly from his shell too.

My father, on the other hand...

"Nice pants, Dad. Didn't you have a pair just like them on last night?"

With that opening volley, my father's scowling face got darker, leaving little doubt in my mind that if he had the Zeus-like gift to throw lighting bolts, I'd be nothing more than a smothering corpse right now, first born son or not. Screw it. I learned a long time ago in this family a good defense is an even better offense.

Besides who did my Dad really think he was fooling with just changing out of his shirt from last night, anyway? It might sneak pass Charlie's naive notice, but please give me a little credit for being the teenage hellion I was. If they gave out PhD's for sneaking around, I would have been a world renowned leader in my field at sixteen.

"So," Dad began calmly, framing his next words in the form of an alluring leading question, "What did you and your brother do last night after Millie and I left?" And people wonder why I aced FBI interrogation training 101? My Dad really could have taught my trainers at Quantico a thing or two about grilling tactics.

"We did a little brotherly bonding," I replied trying to pull off the butter-wouldn't-melt innocent act all the while trying to find a point of leverage to release my face from the Scrabble board. Who knew drool and paper could bond like that? I didn't. I really hoped it wasn't the Scrabble tiles that spelled out the word "Loser" that had left the impression on my forehead. I had a really bad feeling those were the tiles though. "You've been after us to spend time together that didn't involve crime scene photos."

Chuck owes me twenty bucks. His friend in the anthropology department did model that Aztec priest in his human sacrifice exhibit after Dad. Charlie's friend didn't quite capture the essence of the angry, I-plan-to-make-you-suffer, wrath-of-the-gods expression though.

"What do you suppose your mother would have thought of this 'brotherly bonding' you think?"

I gave a good push and managed to disengage my face from the game board and replied, "Probably that we need a touch more tinsel, maybe a few more lights."

One of these days I'm going to learn that when I'm in a deep hole, to stop digging.