A/N - Okay, so I'm a dork but I'm uber-excited because I now know how to knit socks. In fact, I knitted a pair and not only do they resemble socks, they actually fit. Life is very good.
Shrimp - thank you for reviewing! My brothers go to da U, so I now know more about hockey than my brief education from the cheesiness that is Cutting Edge.
"Commie."
"G-Man."
- Don Eppes (Rob Morrow) to Alan Eppes (Judd Hirsch). Protest, Numb3rs Season Two.
September 22, 1998
Apartment 621
Chicago, Illinois
oOo
Don rubbed the towel fiercely over his head, the friction causing his hair to stand up on end. He used a comb but bypassed the shaving, the stitches fading nicely into the dark growth, leaving him with a rather rakish look.
He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.
He had left his parents in the living room twenty or so minutes before, his dad putting the coffee maker to use and his mom lightly dozing on the sofa. They had fussed, though not too much, and he hadn't missed the deep shadows or worry lines that wrinkled their faces. Alan had seemed quieter than usual, Margaret thinner and more worn down than he last remembered.
His hand reached for the dark blue button-up. It was dressier than what he originally would have worn had he spent the day by himself, but his mother had taught him how to keep up appearances and there was no time like the present. And all the other clichés that went along with that.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
The time was going on eleven thirty, so he figured they could find a restaurant and grab something to eat. After that, he wasn't exactly sure what to do with them. He needed to stop by the FBI building sometime that day. Margaret would most likely get a kick out of it. She, being a lawyer, tended to appreciate law enforcement. His father, being a war protester with an impressively large file, not quite so much.
oOo
"Are you aware of your father's 'history' with the Bureau?"
Don shifts uncomfortably in the chair, he vaguely remembers his mother teasing his father about his criminal record but it had been years and nothing but a fleeting memory jumbled between daycare and Sesame Street.
The interview has been going well up to that point. He had been in his element, talking easily, trading quips and talking baseball history with the stern-faced man behind the desk.
Timothy Rilke has a good twenty years on him, has steel gray hair and a habit of looking over his reading glasses. He has a commanding presence that morphed from fatherly to best drinking buddy and now to bald-faced interrogator.
"Yes," he finally says. It would be pointless to deny it, but wouldn't it beat all to make it through the physical fitness and the boatload of intelligence and psychological tests just to be denied at the last minute because his dad decided to play Ghandi in an earlier life.
Alan would be pleased at the turn of events.
He should have never quit baseball.
Agent Rilke is flipping through a manilla file folder, his eyes are lowered but Don knows that the man is studying him, looking for a reaction. Don is uncertain if more of an answer is demanded of him.
Is he to be held accountable for the sins of his father?
Rilke makes a noise acknowledging Don's response, continues to peruse the file as if it is the New York Times and he has all day to work the crossword puzzle. In pen.
"Okay then," he finally says, closing the paperwork and then standing behind the desk. "It was nice to meet you, Don."
"Thank you, sir," Don answers, his heart sinking to his stomach because he didn't succeed in baseball and he has failed the FBI before he even has the chance to start. He shakes the man's hand and turns to walk out the door.
"Eppes," Agent Rilke says. "Report to Quantico by the twenty-second." His smile is broad where his expression was nearly unreadable just moments before.
"Welcome to the FBI, son."
oOo
Don convinced Alan that it was easier to hop on the El for fifteen blocks than lose the parking space that it took him twenty minutes to find. The sidewalk was too narrow for three people to walk side-by-side. Instead, he found it to be a strange turn of pace to be the one his parents were following until Margaret took him by the hand and slid her arm through his.
They talked sweet nothings: her cases, his father's new condo development, Charlie and the series of lectures he was completing at Princeton before returning to California. They skirt the issue of his job.
"Do you remember Professor Fleinhardt?"
Don nodded. It had been a while since he had met his brother's mentor at the graduation ceremony at Princeton but the eccentric man had made an impression on him, "Yeah, he roped Charlie into those talks?"
Alan answered, "Actually, Larry moved out to Pasadena while Charlie was in London. He just recruited your brother into accepting a professorship at CalSci."
His mother smiled happily and could see how excited both his parents were to have one son moving close by, "Moving home, huh?"
"Yes," Margaret said. "For the time being anyways. He hasn't had time too look for apartments and I think he's been having a rough time ever since he and Susan broke up."
"They did, did they?" Don wasn't surprised, knew long-distance almost never worked. At least, it had never worked for him. "So when is he getting back?"
Margaret rested her arm against his shoulder, her curls bouncing ever the slightest as they kept in step, her grip tightening as she scuffled on a crack in the cement. "Some time in early November he thinks. It won't be definite until he finishes a paper he's co-authoring with a Professor Jamison on something or other."
"He's always writing on something or other," Alan said good-naturedly. "It's what he does. And some day we just might understand what it's all about."
It was more of the manner in which his Dad said those words rather than the words themselves that gave Don reason to look back. Alan and Charlie had never been particularly close, not the way that he and Alan were. Charlie was loved deeply, yes, was the reason for more achievement celebrations in the Eppes house than Don, but came across as unknowable at times, mysterious as the esoteric equations that dotted the chalkboards that could be found anywhere from his bedroom to the attic and even the garage.
Don spoke in simple, familiar terms, played baseball, golf and hockey. He liked girls more than homework and had a sense of humor that revolved more around the gauche and sarcastic as opposed to pi and golden ratios.
Don had an uneasy feeling now that maybe his father felt not let down, but perhaps as betrayed as he with the way his life had gone. He looked again to his father and his broad smile, the easy gait and chatter. Betrayed maybe not, he pondered.
Maybe finally accepting...
oOo
"You're what?"
Alan paces the length of the dining room only to turn around to give a look that bordered on explosion. His mother had on her blank lawyer expression and for a moment he wasn't sitting in a familiar missions-style chair but ready to give testimony for a frigid audience and a violent judge.
He isn't looking directly at his parents as he tells them of his plans. He looks at the piano, his mother's wedding photo, nick-knacks that have collected over the years. He looks every where but at his father's deep red face, his mother's frantic, worried one.
They tell you to never look directly into the sun.
They say you'll go blind.
He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that if he can't keep his cool now, he'll never in the future where it will count even more. "I don't want to stay in the minors my whole life, Dad," he says. "My numbers aren't good enough for the pros and time isn't going to change that."
Margaret has been silent this whole time. Her face is white and her lower lip trembles, heavy with unspoken words, "But the FBI, Don..."
She swallows and for the briefest moment he nearly loses his resolve. But he can't now because he's stubborn and somehow, somewhere truly deep, he knows this is the right thing for him to do.
"I'll be good at it," he says. "I'm fast. I've got good eyes and I'll be making a difference." He doesn't tell them that he has good aim, not only with a ball, but with a bullet as well and he throws the last bit in there because it is something Alan has drilled in him over his entire life. "I need to do this."
The air is tense and Don feels almost sick for doing this to his parents. But it's too late to go back now, even if he wanted, and it's the strangest feeling of liberation he has when he realizes he has bucked all expectations and is now preparing to forge his own way. And even more importantly, he doesn't want to go back.
His father leaves the room, leaving behind a trail of frustration and misunderstanding. Margaret stands up and envelopes him in a hug that says she wants to never let him go. "He'll get over it, sweetie," she says. "But are you sure, Don? Are you really sure?"
He leans back a bit and brushes a curl away from her watery eyes. "I am, Mom." His tone is final and it even feels more right than he thought it could, "I really am."
oOo
They stepped into the restaurant, an old converted firehouse that found new life as a Chicago themed pub. There are pictures of the City's proud sons covering the wall: Lieutenant Edward O'Hare in uniform and gold wings, Harrison Ford firing Han Solo's blaster, Mike Ditka pacing Soldier Field's sidelines and Michael Jordan soaring through thin air.
City of the Big Shoulders…
The waitress left them in a corner booth by a large paned-glass window with menus as reading material and dripping glasses of water with lemon slices balanced precariously on the side.
Don looked half-heartedly through the laminated papers. He already knew what he wanted and so instead dropped the lemon inside his glass and mashed it to a pulp with his straw. He watched the flakes rise and fall as he stirred the ice faster and faster. The sight was somehow mesmerizing and he found himself more tired than he realized.
He mentally added coffee to his order and let his gaze shift out the window. It was faintly overcast now, wind was beginning to kick up orange and yellow leaves off the sidewalk, twirling them down the street to only toss them recklessly aside to the gutter.
Chicago in the fall. There's nothing like it.
The conversation had waxed and waned and now seemed to be at one of its lower points. Alan studied his menu closely, flipping between the pages, indecisive and pensive. And Margaret gave him thoughtful, baleful stares.
"Can't go wrong with the pulled roast beef," Don said. Quiet or conversation didn't matter much to him. He had ridden the Rangers team bus all the way to Portland without more than a 'hey, how ya doing?' more than once. Yet now the silence did nothing but discomfort. "They're pushing the Stacker of Wheat angle."
"The great Carl Sandburg." The waitress had returned bearing too full glasses, ice splashing the sides, drops spattering here and there. She gave the trio a broad and toothy grin, setting the glasses in an uneven zig-zag in the center of the table. "We also have really good pulled pork barbeque that goes along with the Hog Butcher of the World. Or there's the ribs which are great but really messy. We also have a soup and salad combo, with either Potato or Minestrone. That is," she paused dramatically. "If you're ready to order."
oOo
Don takes one last look in the mirror before he leaves the men's room. His chin has stopped bleeding from where he cut it shaving earlier and he's skated through so far without landing anything on his shirt.
Terry is waiting for him. She's leaning into the wall, twisting her hair back as she chatters with Victor and Jamie. They are graduating soon, their Quantico graduation is this Friday. Assignments have been announced and he is joining Fugitive Recovery and she will be heading west to Portland.
(She drawls it out as Ore-gonn when she told him earlier because she is from Kansas and doesn't know that the proper pronunciation is Or-gin, sharp and quick, a gunshot, a snap of thunder and lighting...)
There are several notebooks folded in her arms that she pulls tightly to her chest as they fall into step besides each other. Theirs is a comfortable relationship and Don knows he loves her. At first he wasn't sure if it was something she did or said, if its her hidden weakness for Wham! or her vivacity, maybe it was that she could lay him out on the mat during sparring sessions and isn't afraid to fight or play rough. Either way, she's pretty as hell with a wicked, dry sense of humor.
And he doesn't want to let her go.
The buildings are proudly drab at Quantico, a perverse pleasure is taken in the monotony and no effort is put into making them more attractive. So instead they walk the grounds, finding a quiet bench hidden by oak and sycamore. His arms drift across the back of the wooden slats and Terry unconsciously leans into him.
It is a beautiful day in Virginia and he can smell cherry blossoms and lilacs. He tips his head to be closer to hers and she giggles (he is amazed that tough and strong Terry can giggle like any other girl) as a squirrel dashes across the lawn, clutching a long-discarded sandwich between its teeth.
"Are you packed yet?" She asks him.
"No," he says. "I'll ship a few things back with Mom and Dad when they come out. Sounds like I'll be moving around a lot."
She breathes softly, a sigh nearly escapes notice, "Hard to believe it's almost over."
"I'll miss you," he blurts, the words escape before he can think. He winces inwardly and hope he doesn't sound sad and desperate, like some Air Supply song.
Her hand rests on his thigh, her thumb skates across the denim in a steady repetition. "I'll miss you too, Don."
"Do you think...?"
"Don, we've talked about this: me in Portland and you, God knows where..." Her voice is heavy with regret, "how will that work?"
He swallows tightly and something in him knows that this is the end for them. Telephone calls wouldn't be enough, they needed the safety of proximity and that would be over soon.
(Nights in a laundry mat with pizza and conversation with her sitting cross-legged on a washing machine and him showing her how to block a puck, she teaches him how to properly throw a frisbee. Her breath heavy with pepperoni and onions as they make out in the shielded corner, far from prying eyes, neon lights and large plate-glass windows.)
He squeezes her hand tightly, kisses her forehead before he walks away, "Well, I'll be seeing you Agent Lake."
She is so beautiful sitting there and he lets himself look at her one last time before he crests the top of the hill.
"Good-bye Don," she says and once again he finds himself saying so-long to something he loves.
oOo
"It shouldn't take long..."
"Go on, sweetie," Margaret said. "We'll just wait for you here."
He blushed slightly at the endearment and raised his eyebrows as he left the main foyer for the elevators. He had thought briefly about pushing for visitors passes, but both his parents assured him they would be fine on their own and if he didn't see them there later, they'd be waiting for him at the bar down the street.
Don was relieved at that, didn't truly like the collision of his two worlds: family and FBI. It was too strange, much too polar opposite for him to be comfortable with. Donna Reed serving dinner to John McClane, he thought.
The elevator was empty save for him and he rapidly pushed the button to close the doors before any stragglers found there way in. He was tired, he was drained and damn it all if he had to admit that for once in his life the normal pace, innocent topics of Charlie and the weather was exactly what he needed.
It was nice to see happy lives out there besides all the crime.
It was nice to see he was apart of one.
He went to a floor higher than he normally did. With Bonheur out for an indeterminate amount of time, Don would report to Warren's superior, a Candice Collins. She was a tall woman with a commanding air and the cojones that took her further into the boy's club than other female agents.
The phone was balanced between her shoulder and her ear as she waved Don in the office, her dark mocha hair was pulled back and pinned low showing off a long amber neck and almost suggestive cleavage. He took a seat in the chair on the left in front of the broad desk and waited as she spoke quietly, half turning so her back was nearly facing him.
"...So we're looking at WitSec then... Right. Exactly." She gave Don a brief acknowledgement, her index finger wobbled at him and he figured the conversation on the line was steadily coming to a close. "Yes, I've spoken with him and I say that I agree. Well, get that ball rolling and put it on the agenda. It still needs to get cleared by Jimmy Chase. Well thank you, Alex. I'll let him know."
The phone call ended with a click as she placed the receiver back on the cradle. Her hand was busy making notes in the large daily planner that laid open on the desk, "When I was younger and more naive, I never knew it was paperwork and meetings that made the world go 'round." Candice gave a small laugh and held out her hand toward the forms Don had in hand. "I take it this is everything?"
He passed them across the desk and she started flipping through them, looking for crossed t's and dotted i's.
"Yeah, we left copies in Winnebago and they sent duplicates of theirs." He made a brief motion indicating the extra and unfamiliar yellow and pink carbon copies. He stole a look at his watch, hoped this wouldn't take much longer than a standard debrief.
"Looks like it's all here," she said. The chair didn't creak as she leaned back and pulled her red framed glasses from her face. "You did good out there, you and Agent Cooper. Warren called and he's putting you both up for commendation. Have to say that I agree."
Don was numb, heard her words and heard himself thanking her. He went into a more official summation, adding color to the black and white text that Director Collins held in her hands. He told her about the apartment, about finding the doll and hearing the shatter of broken glass. He didn't tell her about the look of terror on Krista's face as he chased after them, the sting on his face as he rolled on the ground to catch her. He doesn't tell her how two tiny hands held onto him and wouldn't let him go.
"Agent Eppes," she started. "Have you considered leaving Fugitive Recovery?"
He had half tuned her out at this point, words of praise were not what he wanted to hear, from either her or his parents waiting downstairs. But as he tried to reconcile what she just said with how pleased she said she was even he could see that something did not quite add up.
"What?"
"This was not your area of expertise yet you handled the situation and the press with decorum," Collins head cocked to the side and she raised an eyebrow in a most effective way. "You're sharp, you make the right moves and Bonheur has consistently given you positive reviews. I shouldn't have to tell you what a remarkable achievement that is since the man thinks he's goddamn Patton reincarnate."
Don twitched a grin at that.
"There's a tactical instructor position opening up at Quantico and I would like you to take it." Candice leaned forward, a modest gold tennis bracelet rested at her pulse point. Her voice was thick and smooth like honey and he couldn't help but wonder when he landed in Oz.
"And maybe your own field office after that..."
oOo
He is running as fast as he can, half covered in mud and shouting, looking like a crazy man as he hightails it through the woods. The fugitive he is chasing is fast, an athlete even with suspected night vision as he makes quick work of the slippery trail before him.
Don has already fallen once, is catching up and herding the man to where he knows Steven is waiting with the truck and back-up that's been called in, who are even now echoing through the the piece in his ear.
Being an FBI agent is far from glamorous he decides. The rain is only falling harder, his knees sore from when they slammed to the ground. He is freezing his ass off here in the woods. Don decides he will write a letter to Paramount, Scorsese and Coppola and let them know how wrong they've got it.
He is a newbie, stuck with the dirty gopher work. What he'd give for someone to ask him to fetch some coffee.
Anything had to be better than this.
They are getting closer, he knows it. There is a log half-lying on the trail, and instead of skirting it, he jumps over with practice and rounds the bend to only see Zane kneeling over their runner, looking impossibly dry, chewing his gum and has a look that thanks Don for finally deciding to join them.
God, there are times he just hates this.
The man is cursing and even surprises Don a little with the creativity of the profanity coming from his mouth. Zane shuts him up with a growl and passes him over to the back-up that is fresher and willing to haul the slime-ball in.
After all, the dirty work has already been done.
Don stands there in the rain, it is coming down impossibly hard and he hopes that it will clean off whatever it is he has landed in. The Suburban roars to life and he realizes then his teeth are chattering and he's shivering almost violently. He hopes he has a chance to change into something dry soon, hopes Zane gives him the chance to change into something dry soon.
His hand rests on the door handle, the rain is so thick he can barely see the interior of the SUV. He will sit on the floor, he decides. He will sit on the floor and hope Zane will not get pissy about the carpet or upholstery.
The plastic garbage bags covering the seat surprise him. The towel resting on the dashboard shocks him even more.
"Waiting for Christmas, Eppes?" Zane says. "Get your ass in here."
Don climbs in and has never been more thankful. The jacket he peels off and lets fall into another waiting bag. The heat has been cranked as far as it can go and the vents are humming happily.
The trip out of Yellowstone is long, the road nothing more than two deeply gutted ruts that the tires fall into at random. Don toes off his boots, his filthy gray socks and is glad the Ranger station is not too far ahead.
The radio plays softly, a sad saxophone and trumpet that try so very hard to be jazz, but never quite make it. Zane peers intently through the windshield, his amused smirk firmly in place.
"You did alright today, probie," he says. "You did alright."
oOo
He walked quickly along the sidewalk, cars driving by quickly, people rushing by, impersonal and isolated. He cannot believe what has just happened. Cannot believe that he's been handpicked for something like this. A tac instructor. His own field office. Special Agent in Charge...
He liked the sound of that, SAC Eppes. Never thought this was a way for him through the ranks, had always figured it be something closer to Zane, a ghost spoken of in reverent whispers and skeptical admiration, a Lone Ranger riding off into the sunset.
Special Agent in Charge Don Eppes.
The neon lights of a convenience store distract him. The sight of his reflection causes him to pause. Time for a haircut. September winds had picked up behind him and played with the edges of his jacket, the tails of his shirt. His pants hung looser than he remembered and the split lip still hadn't fully healed. Honestly, he looked like crap. How his parents had refrained from fussing and force-feeding him, he didn't know.
Alan was sitting at the bar nursing a Goose Island microbrew when he walked in, REO Speedwagon drifting over the patrons. Don sidled up next to his father, the basket of popcorn moved in front of his face.
"How'd it go?"
Don paused from tossing the kernels back, waved the bartender down, "Not too bad. They promised to not call me in before next Monday, so things are looking up." He looked around, the place faintly buzzing, still early enough in the day to not reach its peak. "Where's Mom?"
"Went to the Starbucks," Alan motioned towards the doors and due east. "Wanted a mocha something or other. Said we'd pick her up once we were done here."
The barkeep set a cold one next to the half-empty basket, Don toyed with the label before taking a sip. Fortify thyself, for thou hast yet a perilous journey before thee...
"Can't tell you how surprised we were to see you on tv…" Alan started.
Don could see both their reflections in the mirror, both of them not looking at the other, this was a conversation to elude eye-contact. "Wasn't exactly planned."
"That's what I figured." His father let out a long breath, "She gonna be okay?"
Don looked up, smoothed his hand down over his lower face and then spoke, "I hope so. She's my boss's niece, the whole reason why we were even on the case in the first place. They thought her mom was gonna pull through last I checked. S'what I'm hoping for anyways."
Alan hitched a breath, "Are you okay?"
The song had been Riding the Storm Out and it somehow never seemed more appropriate to him. His fingernail steadily worked at the gummy label, had nearly a quarter of it off by then. He considered his father's question, considered that for the first time in a while that this wasn't a what were you thinking when you joined the FBI argument. His Dad was concerned and he was okay with that.
He considered his response, knew a canned I'm good wouldn't cut it. They were both on neutral territory and bar protocol demanded honesty.
"Give me a few days," Don finally said. "Friday by the latest."
Alan gave a small chuckle and finished off his beer, "Sure enough, tough guy. Seems reasonable."
They sat like that for a while, listening to familiar AOR and enjoying the peace and relative quiet before they stood in unison and Alan insisted on paying for the drinks, drawing out his wallet and handing over a couple of bills before Don could. They left the smoky haze behind, heading towards a sweeter smelling place.
"Don…"
"Yeah?"
Alan tentatively rested a hand on his shoulder, "I'll be the first to admit that I haven't been giving you the easiest time the last couple of years."
Don ducked his head, "Dad, please…"
"No, Don," he said. "I haven't been fair to you." He paused, his voice cracking and skating away in the wind. "I want you to know, I'm proud of you, Don. And not just because of all this…"
Their eyes met briefly and a flicker of acknowledgement (understanding, relief, respect) passed between the two men.
The sun is responsible for so much more than blindness and sunburn, Don knew. It was there to bring life, to illuminate the darkness, to signal the start of a new beginning, a sign that the storm has finally subsided and so Noah can finally walk of that damn ark instead of floating out in the void.
"You've done good, Donnie." He pulled his son into a hug, Don's back stiffened, his arms hung at his side not sure of what to do with them and Alan not caring for a moment if he embarrassed him, "You've done good."
