A/N - Okay, so what was up with the season finale? I mean, it was incredibly amazing and I absolutely loved the Don and Charlie moments. But there is something definitely afoot (aside from the obvious treason). I know Dylan Bruno's not written off the series, so I can't wait to see how they explain what happened. I'm thinking deep undercover. Very deep.

So on that note...

Colby's still a good guy in my book and will be written as such. (Though I have to say, I have a feeling that fanfiction is going to be very messed up this summer!)

And thank you to all for your reviews! I love them and they put me in my happy place

Music falls on the silence like a sense,

A passion that we feel, not understand.

-It Must Change, Wallace Stevens

The headlights of the SUV flashed briefly as Don hit the button on the keychain. He glanced up at the clear sky, a few of the braver stars breaking through the smog and city lights. Twinkle, twinkle little bat... Megan opened the side door first, Don pausing to throw one last glance over his shoulder at Disney Hall.

The streetlights gave the building a sort of golden sheen, yet it felt like it's shadow, or something dark was bearing down on him. A shiver worked its way down his spine. Don wasn't sure if it was from the weather, or maybe, the atmosphere. It was a dark and stormy night... There was a steady drizzle, and the halos around the streetlights brought back to mind Raymond Chandler and Humphrey Bogart, film noir and mystery novels. He half expected to see Gene Tierney sauntering down the sidewalk with a cigarette between her fingers...

The door swung open and he slumped in the seat, fumbling with the keys, finding the right one and jamming it in the ignition. It was almost three now, according to the clock radio. Megan's handbag dropped unceremoniously on the vehicle's floor, "A ten million dollar violin..." She let out a low whistle, "Did you catch that look on his face? You'd think it was his wife or something..."

Don nodded as he turned the key, "I'd be more worried about handling it wrong and breaking it." The SUV pulled out on the road, Don steering it back towards the FBI offices, "You good for a little pick me up?"

The profiler drew her attention from the notes on her lap, "Sounds good." She held up the papers, "Maybe after a little coffee these little black squiggly marks will start making sense."

The SUV came to life and Johnny Cash came on over the speakers. Johnny Cash and Gene Tierney... Now there's a picture. Megan regarded her boss, "CD or radio?"

Don made an effort to be extra vigilant as he glanced out the windows before pulling out onto the road in vain effort to ignore her amusement. "CD," he replied. "Why?"

Her head was turned out towards the city lights that sailed by, "I just think it's kind of funny to see a law man humming along to Folsom Prison Blues..."

Don's mind flew backwards, trying to remember if he really had or if Megan was just pulling his leg. But then it was too early, or maybe too late, to really think. So he shook his head at her and sighed, "It's a good thing I found that note on your desk before someone else did."

That was Megan's turn to blush and look away as her hand worked it's way towards her jacket pocket. It was a star chart with one particular heavenly body circled and named for her. It had carelessly slipped out of her handbag and in the walkway between the cubicles. "I never did thank you for that, Don." The paper rumpled as she gripped it tightly and remembered when Don scooped it up and away from Colby and David's prying eyes.

"Ah, no problem."

There was a twenty-four seven diner down the street from the FBI. It was small and Don suspected, older than he was. He figured they made most their money from the constant flow of agents coming and going at all hours of the day and night. He was almost certain that he had seen half the office there at one time or another.

The bell tinkled as Megan pushed the door open, a familiar waitress waved them on over to an empty booth in the corner. It reminded him of Hopper's Nighthawks. Coffee was poured and an order of a cheeseburger with fries and a turkey on rye made it to the little carousel where the short order cook set to work.

The tables were all formica, mismatched in ugly avacado greens and a strange musky blue. Hideous fake wood paneling covered the walls, boldly poking out from behind sun-faded Norman Rockwell prints. The waitresses all wore pale yellow shirt-dresses, edged in blue with tiny white aprons and tired, old Keds. Someone had frozen time here, forgot to tell them forty years had gone by.

"What do you play?"

Megan's question startled his attention from his thoughts. He had hoped that Megan had forgotten about Leismuller's comment... "Ah, piano about a million years ago."

She raised her eyebrows, not quite ready to give up that certain line of questioning, but Don's posture clearly told her it was off-limits. Letting it go, Megan flipped through the dessert menu propped between the salt and pepper shakers. "So when do you think the fake was swapped for the original?"

Don slid his black jacket off and let it slip down the back of the padded blue vinyl behind him, "Leismuller was fairly sure after the concert. But then even he said that he wasn't certain it was a fraud until he had his second chair take a look."

Megan flipped through her notebook, letting it fall open to a page toward the back, "So do you think it was swapped back in Chicago?"

The conversation paused as a perky young woman with black pigtails set their food down on the table, "A turkey for the lady and a burger para usted, senor."

He lifted his arms off the table and let them fall back to his side. The name tag read Rosalita and her spicy perfume reminded him of a high school girlfriend and French lessons as it melded with the aromas off his plate. She refilled the coffee and stepped back behind the counter, gossiping with another woman at the cash register.

Rubbing his hands through his hair, Don noticed his attention had waned a bit as he thought Rosalita looked a little like Gene Tierney and wondered if she smoked. Assiduity returned as a manicured finger slipped a fry off his plate. "Hey there," he protested, but did nothing to stop her. "It's possible... A Chicago swap. But I'm thinking that it happened here, in LA, probably right after the concert."

"An inside job?" Megan questioned, eyes sparkling and half-eaten fry pointed towards a photo of the del Gesu. "Yeah, I pretty sure that Leismuller's too wrapped up with that instrument to not notice a change."

Don picked up the coffee with one hand and unconsciously guarded his plate with the other, "So can I mark that down as the official profiler's verdict?"

There was a bit of laughter in her voice, "Only if I can get another one of your fries."

Numb3rs...Numb3rs...Numb3rs...

The sun had yet to break through the LA smogscape as Don pulled into the drive. The Prius was missing, Charlie and Larry had left early the day before to celebrate the end of the semester with a camping trip. "It's great, Don. We head up into the mountains where Larry can set up his telescope and I go hiking. Don had been invited along, but after weighing geek trip versus crime fighting, there really wasn't much contest.

After the quick breakfast, or was it dinfast or breaner? Don and Megan had returned to the FBI building. There were searches for similar crimes, similar modus operandi and a pot of coffee that didn't quite make the impact it needed to. So Don called David and filled him in, having him pick up lead while he drove to Pasadena and Megan went to her apartment to catch up on sleep. After all, who wants to work with someone who looked like they came straight out of Tales from the Crypt?

The lock turned with the ease of familiarity. He was careful to close the door quietly, piano, not forte. The rush of memories brought on by the nameless Moonlight Sonata player had placed him off balance. In fact, this whole case was starting to get to him in a way he hadn't expected. There had been something about being in the concert hall, not really creepy, but not particularly mystical either. It was right there in front of him, but he couldn't see the forest through the trees...

He flipped a lamp on in the living room, the light casting weird shadows on the furniture and pictures on the wall. The jacket was hung on a hook by the door and his keys landed with a light thud in the green, fluted bowl on the table. The afghan was in the closet and as Don pulled it out, his mother's piano beckoned him from the corner.

The cover folded easily back from the keys, the bench was lifted, not scraped, across the floor. He smiled as he remembered lessons with Mrs. Petrie and how she showed him to hold his hands, gently, constantly reminding him to keep his wrists off the keys. The ivories were cool in the early morning, fingers skating over them, not quite realizing that he had actually started playing till the sounds reached his ears.

Don skitted through some scales, falling into bits of familiar songs, fingers searching out what he thought he remembered. Mrs. Petrie said that he always played with grazioso, grace. He remembered being secretly proud before blowing the compliment off to make baseball practice on time. What little boy would want to be a concert pianist when he could play ball?

The B was flat, and his index finger slid off the key in protest, have to get this tuned. Stubble itched as he rubbed his face with his hand. Trying again, Don skipped the B and his fingers slid into the first few bars of the Moonlight Sonata, the steady repetition of notes lulling his nerves. He held out at the fermata and dropped his hands to his lap.

"You are a musician, Agent Eppes. You understand why this is so important then..."

Leismuller's words came back and drummed in his head along with the rhythm of the music. You are a musician... Don shook his head and he glanced over to the empty chair in the corner. Margaret use to sit there as he practiced. Margaret was the musician... His lips curled up at that melodramatic thought. Don slid the cover back and glanced at his wristwatch, Almost five...

The couch was mostly comfortable and with the afghan he could almost imagine his mother, using the blanket as some sort of tailsman to the past. A past where his mother wrote music in secret and crocheted to keep fingers nimble while he played baseball by day and practiced piano at night. Proust had his madelines and Don had the afghan... Was it silly for a grown man to still hold an attachment to a blanket?

The afghan had seemed to shrink over the years. Or was it that he had grown? When he was little, it was large enough to wrap around himself multiple times or to stretch out over chairs for a fort. Now, it was frayed and wasn't quite as thick as he remembered. Don held one edge down with his ankles and tucked the other around his shoulders as he fell to sleep.

He couldn't help but wish his mother was still around to hear that piano player from before...