Charlie fiddled nervously with his ID badge as he waited for the elevator. He was at the FBI offices on what was, for lack of a better term, a reconnaissance mission, and he had yet to come up with an adequate cover.
Don had not dropped by last night. Don had not called, Don was not answering his phone. Charlie chewed at his bottom lip as he stared up at the floor indicator, watching the glowing red lights count down. While their father, Alan, had shrugged and gone to bed, Charlie had gone out to the garage, where he'd dug up an old notebook and quickly flipped to one particular series of expressions.
Charlie fingered the notebook in his pocket. After that ATF agent, Nikki Davis, had died in what looked like a suicide, and Charlie's research had uncovered a disquieting number of suicides, broken relationships, and mental health problems among law enforcement professionals, he'd run Don's life through his model and discovered that, with his and Alan's help, Don should be okay.
He'd been so sure that his calculations were correct; he'd been so relieved. But had he weighted everything correctly? Had he chosen the right life experiences to quantify? Or had he merely been fooling himself? Even if his calculations had been correct at the time, Charlie had discovered that variables never vary more than when used to describe human beings. For example, Don had one more broken relationship to factor into the equation. How many girlfriends had Don had, anyway? What else didn't Charlie know about his brother? How much data was missing?
The elevator chimed, the doors slid open, and Charlie stepped inside, now more thoughtful than nervous. He pushed the button for Don's floor and rocked back on his heels, nibbling on the edge of his badge.
This whole therapy thing, for example. Was it truly helping Don? No doubt in the long term it would, but in the short term it seemed to be rendering him more vulnerable to his demons. Charlie hated seeing his brother so--somber. He had to talk to Megan. Not only to ask her to keep an eye on Don, but to discuss the whole process of psychotherapy--at least as it related to cases like Don's. He felt a little guilty as he realized that such a discussion could also provide input to his Cognitive Emergence work. But first he had to come up with an excuse for this impromptu visit--an excuse that Don would buy--because Charlie was, as everyone continually pointed out to him with such glee, a horrible liar.
Maybe Don wasn't there. Maybe Charlie wouldn't even see him.
The elevator stopped, still shy of the correct floor, and the doors slid open. Don, engrossed in the contents of a folder, stepped on.
Shit.
Charlie, backed up in the corner, held his breath as Don turned to face front and jabbed at the already-lit button for his floor, still reading. Charlie flashed back to the day before and his own foc--okay, obliviousness. Maybe Don wouldn't even notice him...
"Hey, Charlie, what brings you here? I would have called if I had something more for you."
"You, um, didn't stop by last night."
Don blew out a gusty sigh. "Yeah. Sorry 'bout that. Got caught up in something."
"You're not answering your phone." Best defense was a good offense, right?
"Yeah. Been busy. Did you leave a message? I do eventually respond to messages." This last said in a mildly dry voice. Don looked up from the folder. "You here to check up on me?"
Charlie swallowed before that penetrating gaze. Half-truths were always better, but which half? "I need to see Megan," he blurted.
The elevator doors slid open and Don turned away. Charlie felt nearly giddy with relief. He followed his brother out into the foyer. Maybe he'd been worried for nothing. Maybe that simple statement would be enough. Maybe Don was too preoccupied to care what Charlie was up to--
He suddenly realized that Don was still talking. "--lunch with Larry, but she should be back soon." Don checked his watch. "Yeah, couple of minutes. You can hang out in the break room if you want. Sorry I'm not better company, but we've been canvassing those Northridge neighborhoods and turning up more pills. More pills and more kids to interview." He waved the folder at Charlie. "I want to go through these reports."
"Hey, no problem." Charlie turned toward the break room and safety.
"Why do you want to see Megan, anyway?"
"Uh--" Charlie stopped.
Because I want to ask her just how depressed you really are. No. Bad idea.
Because I want to ask her if she thinks the therapy is worth all the pain it's causing you. Naw, not that, either.
Charlie's mind always worked at light speed, but, when faced with Don, all too often that extreme velocity was tied up in the angular momentum of spinning wheels.
"Charlie?"
Megan--therapy--
Then Charlie saw the answer, and it was good.
He turned to Don. "I need Megan's help with my Cognitive Emergence Theory."
Don's eyebrows went up. "Yeah?"
Charlie nodded. "Yeah. Psychopathologies are giving me problems." His delivery wasn't very smooth, but Charlie was convinced that Don would buy his story, for the simple reason that it was true. Psychopathologies really were giving him problems, and talking to Megan about them was a great idea. After he talked to her about Don, of course.
Don eyed him for a moment, and Charlie wondered if he'd been a little too enthusiastic. Geeze. How fair was it if he couldn't even get away with telling his brother the truth? Then Don shrugged. "Makes sense," he grunted. "Just don't talk to her too long. She's got a job to do, you know."
"Bill me," Charlie shot back. He grinned.
Don chuckled. "Maybe I should. You can afford it."
"If it isn't my second favorite CalSci professor."
Charlie turned. Megan, arm in arm with her first favorite CalSci professor, smiled beatifically at them. Larry gestured vaguely with a vanilla milkshake.
Charlie had to smile back. Larry had been heartbroken when he'd returned from his ISS mission only to find Megan on the other side of the country, on a temporary DOJ assignment--almost as heartbroken as Megan had been when she left. But now both were back and seldom spent an entire day apart, and Charlie had sensed a new serenity, a new acceptance of the relationship on Larry's part. As for Megan, she positively glowed.
"Did I hear my name taken in vain?" she asked.
Don swatted Charlie lightly in the shoulder with his folder. "That's my cue, Chuck. Talking psychopathologies can be fun, but not right now. Maybe I'll have some more data for you in a while."
"Sure thing, Don," he said, aware of Megan's quizzical gaze. "I'll check in with you before I leave." He gestured for Megan and Larry to proceed him into the break room, explaining as he went. Colby and David were already there, squabbling over the last of a bag of French fries and talking March Madness. Colby smirked at the sight of Megan and Larry, but then he always did and probably always would. David's smile was warmer.
"Larry, my man. Good to see you. Pull up a chair."
"What am I?" Megan asked, with an unconvincing pout. "Chopped liver?"
"You've got work to do," Colby said. "We want to talk to Professor Right Stuff."
Everyone else in the room winced.
"As much as it pains me to disappoint you, Colby, Charles was just about to inform us of his latest progress on his Cognitive Emergence Theory." Larry had been surprisingly reticent concerning his experiences on the space station; this wasn't the first time he'd deflected attention onto someone else, and Colby groaned.
"It's not really about any progress, Larry," Charlie said hurriedly. He dropped into a chair at the table and reached for the fries. "More about my next line of inquiry."
Larry raised his eyebrows.
"Whenever I try to deal with psychosis, the equations blow up on me. I'm missing something."
David grinned. "Are you sure you want to use that phrase in an FBI building?"
Charlie frowned at him. "Oh. 'Blow up' is a math term. Colloquial mathematics, perhaps, but still a math term."
"Doesn't sound good," said Megan.
"Well, when you run into infinities you're generally in trouble."
Colby grinned. "That's very metaphysical."
Charlie gazed heaven-ward.
"You have a procedure for renormalizing them?" asked Larry.
Charlie shrugged. "Not that I've found thus far."
David nudged Colby, who shook his head. "Naw. Too easy."
Larry sucked thoughtfully on his straw. "You know, Charles, we've discussed specifics of your work, but I don't believe I've ever asked you if you have any sort of guiding model."
Charlie stopped, considered, nodded. "I think you're right."
Larry smiled. "Perhaps I'm learning to simplify, to take the longer view, so to speak." He shared a look with Megan.
"As a matter of fact, I do have a model," Charlie said. He grabbed another fry, which was deftly snatched from his fingers by Colby. "At first I thought of individual humans as--as electrons writ large--"
Larry choked on his milkshake.
"--being struck by the quanta of unforeseeable events, getting knocked into higher orbits, continually trying to return to their ground states."
"Stick to math, Charles," said Larry mildly.
Charlie humphed. "But now I think we're more like harmonic oscillators, under constant bombardment from chaotic energies, forever looking for that restoring force that might return us to equilibrium."
"That sounds cheerful," said David.
Megan nodded. "So you want to ask me what can knock people permanently out of whack."
Charlie nodded. Megan was always the one who came the closest to getting it. Except maybe Don. Charlie, suddenly reminded of his brother, looked out through the glass walls of the break room. He spotted Don at his desk, head in hands, and the warmth of the break room banter drained from Charlie, leaving him worried and even a little frightened. Charlie looked away to find Megan watching him.
"It is one of life's unfortunate truths that a certain number of us remain trapped in a debilitating state of disequilibrium," said Larry thoughtfully.
"Can't you just say that some people snap and spend the rest of their lives as nut cases?" asked Colby.
"Why, Colby," said Larry with a gentle smile. "I believe I just did."
Megan leaned over the table and laid a hand on Charlie's forearm. "Come on," she said. "No time like the present for that nice chat about psychopathologies you wanted. You do know the way to a girl's heart, Charlie."
He felt himself blush as both Colby and David snickered. Megan's smile was for only one man. "Tonight?" she asked softly.
"I'll be counting the Planck seconds," said Larry, which was nearly Charlie's cue to snort until he saw the way Megan dimpled at the words. The little cosmologist caught himself as he stood, as though he kept forgetting about gravity, but his stride was steady as he walked though the door.
"Planck second? What the hell is that?" asked Colby.
"Larry just means that for him it's going to feel like a very, very, very long time until he sees Megan again."
"Do you talk like that to Amita, Charlie?"
"Uh, no, not really," he said weakly. "She's kind of no-nonsense." With Megan in the room he couldn't exactly say that Amita would only burst out laughing at a statement like Larry's. In a way, she knows too much, he thought a little sadly.
"And I'm not no-nonsense?" Megan stood. "Come on, buster. I'm gonna no-nonsense march your behind to my cube."
Charlie stood with her. "Megan? Can we find an empty conference room or interrogation room or something?"
She studied him, and he had to force himself not to look at Don. "Sure, Charlie. Follow me."
Megan led the way to an unoccupied room. She closed the door behind them and seated herself across the table from him, hands clasped loosely in front of her, eyeing him with a bright, expectant smile.
Charlie stared back, suddenly unsure of how to begin.
"Come on, Charlie," Megan wheedled. "Now that we have a totally unnecessary door between us and a floor full of people who already know what I would be telling you if we truly were going to talk about what you said you wanted to talk about, what are we talking about?"
"Uh--I need a moment to parse that."
"Don?" asked Megan softly.
Charlie looked away. "Yeah, Don."
"Charlie! That means you lied! Good for you!"
"Well, no, not really--I do want to talk to you about psychopathologies--but I only realized it when I needed an excuse. First I want to ask you about Don."
"Ask me what, Charlie?" She frowned. "I don't know what I can tell you. I probably know less than you do." She twisted a silver ring around one slender finger.
"I wanted to ask you about his therapy."
Megan's eyebrows went up and she raised a hand. "Oh, now you're really getting outside my comfort zone. How would I know anything about his therapy?"
Charlie sighed, frustration mounting. "Can you at least tell if it's doing him any good?"
Megan leaned back in her chair and switched from worrying the ring to gnawing on a thumbnail. "Charlie, I'm a forensic psychologist. I'm not a clinical psychotherapist. I don't think I can help you--"
Charlie turned on the full force of his "kicked puppy" look. "Please, Megan," he said.
She stared at him, her lips pressing tighter and tighter together. Charlie kicked himself. What was he thinking? She was a profiler, she could tell what he was doing--
Megan burst out laughing. "God, Charlie, you should see your face! Do you have to practice that in the mirror?"
"Not anymore," he admitted, and flashed a modest grin.
Still chuckling, Megan shook her head. "I still don't think I can help you, but try more specific questions."
Charlie nodded. "Fair enough." He steepled his fingers together on the table in front of him and marshaled his thoughts. When he spoke, it was with a deliberate detachment. "Here's something that you might be able to explain. I keep hearing about certain of Don's behaviors in two different lights. Sometimes the gallows humor, the bouts of denial, the bottling up of feelings are termed self-destructive, and sometimes they're simply called coping mechanisms. Which are they? They can't be both."
"Yes, they can, Charlie," Megan replied. "They're short-term coping mechanisms, designed to hold unpleasant experiences at bay until such time as the person is strong enough to deal with those experiences and integrate them in as healthy and as non-destructive a manner as possible. But if the short-term coping mechanisms are all the farther that person gets--" She shrugged, her face full of sympathy. "Then yes, they can be pretty self-destructive."
Self-destructive. Not a phrase he wanted to apply to his brother. "Is that why his shrink is trying to get Don to stop using those strategies?"
Megan stared at him, her brow furrowed. "I don't understand, Charlie. Short-term or no, those 'strategies,' as you call them, are called coping mechanisms for a reason. Bradford would never strip Don of such defenses unless other, more successful mechanisms were in place." She shook her head. "And as far as I can tell, that hasn't happened yet."
Charlie swallowed, his carefully cultivated air of detachment gone. He heard Don's hollow voice: I mean, you spend a lot of years purposefully not thinking about stuff, and then somebody wants you to think about stuff... "Megan, keeping in mind that we're talking about Don, if he's taken it into his head that what he's been doing to protect himself all these years is wrong, what do you think he would do?"
Megan's eyes widened. "Okay, now you're scaring me."
"And now you're scaring me." Charlie sucked in a cold breath. "What do I do, Megan? How do I help him?"
She reached for his hand. "The way you've always helped him, Charlie. Be there for him. We'll do the same here."
"Can you--is there any way to mention this to--"
"Bradford?" Her grip on his hand tightened as her gaze turned inward. Finally she sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Charlie, but not yet."
"Why not?"
She met his eyes. "Because right now this is just speculation. I've seen nothing to indicate that he's a danger to himself, and lately he's actually been less of a danger to others." She smiled a rueful smile. "To be honest, this team runs on trust. If he got yanked off field duty because of something I said...well, I'd be looking for another team." Charlie tried to pull away, but Megan's grip tightened. "Not to mention the only way I can help him is if he trusts me. That goes for you, too." She released him and Charlie turned away from her. Megan sighed. "We don't know for sure, Charlie."
"He seems so--sad."
"I know." Her voice echoed that sadness. "He's got a lot of stuff to work through. As much as we hate to think it, Don's not going to be a happy camper for a while, no matter what happens. But give him time, and support him as best you can."
Charlie unaccountably found himself thinking of some of the times Don had not been there to walk him home from school. He realized he was scrubbing his hands together and clenched them into fists. So much for having outgrown feeling powerless. If there was anyone who could take him back to all the old, bad places, it was Don. Stop it. It's not like he means it.
"And watch him."
Charlie looked up.
"Like a hawk. An unobtrusive hawk." Megan winked, and Charlie managed a smile.
A brisk rap at the door, and Don poked his head in. Charlie froze. "You two done in here?"
"I have my assignment." Megan smiled serenely.
"Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Megan. I really appreciate all the help you're giving me. It's going to make a huge difference in my work." Charlie knew he was beginning to babble, but he couldn't seem to stop. "I'll name a lemma after you or something--ow!" She'd kicked him under the table.
"Too late," Megan said grandly. "Larry already promised me a lemma." She turned to Don. "You want to talk to me?"
"No--yeah, but him first." Don nodded at Charlie. He seemed totally oblivious to their byplay. His fingers where they gripped the door were very white. "I might have something that Charlie can work with."
