Question: Okay, who else thought it was totally hilarious that in "real life" (on TV) David Sinclair gave Colby Granger a wooly bugger as a token of goodwill? That'll set the British slashies a-flutter.

A/N: Yes, for those who are interested, the title of this story is taken from the curious phrase on Colby Granger's grave marker. And yes, you will find out what it means … eventually. So don't go running for your handy-dandy Spanish-English dictionary or Babelfish. All will become clear. :D

Chapter 9: No seas una esa, mija

"And the rookie …" Don shook his head in disgust as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "I swear to God, this kid was rubbing his two brain cells together and praying for a spark." David snorted. "How he managed to graduate from the Academy I don't know, but I need to make a phone call over there or something."

It was Friday, a little after one. Don had just gotten in to the office but he had been up for a long time already, so a perk was in order. He turned to his audience. Liz, Megan and David were all ears.

Megan swallowed her jelly bean and popped in another one. "Was he the one that arrested Charlie?"

"Yes," Don sighed, "Because my math genius brother, and I stress the word genius, said something so dumb that…" He bit his lip on that little diatribe and tried again. "Okay, I'm rolling up the street, right?"

The team nodded.

"So I'm driving along, la-dee-dah, and I look to my left, and there's Charlie and the rookie talking, and then all of a sudden the kid smashes him against the car and cuffs him. I think I parked on the sidewalk or something. So I run over there, and just as me and the cops are going at it, Dad shows up with Millie, like he didn't just wander off and scare us both to death." Don took a sip. "Anyway, the cops went to talk our neighbor and that was the end of it."

There were appreciative nods.

"When Charlie shows up, can we ream him?" David asked seriously.

Megan smirked at the question. "What did he say to the rookie, anyway?"

"No, that's my department," Don answered David, "And I have no idea," he said to Megan. "He wouldn't tell me."

"Probably because you were teasing him until he turned purple," Liz commented.

"Probably," Don agreed with a grin. He was praying for an easy day today. The morning had been … involved.

– Much earlier –

Don was doing his newborn kitten impression. Nothing coherent had come out of his mouth yet and he could barely see. But somehow he'd managed to drive to Pasadena without killing himself or anybody else, so he took it as a sign that things would go well. He fumbled with his key and let himself into the house as quietly as he could but the door squeaked, attracting Charlie, who stumbled into the foyer half-asleep and slurping coffee. He pointed at the cup in question. Don nodded with a soft yawn and Charlie walked off towards the kitchen. He missed banging into the dining room table by an inch.

Don stretched a little, rolled his head around trying to work out a kink in his neck, and checked his watch. It was six in the morning. They were right on-time. Some heartless bastard had scheduled their father's surgical check-in for the ungodly hour of seven a.m. in the outpatient center at Glendale Adventist. The freeways (even at this hour) were unpredictable and that issue, combined with the complicated logistics of waking a sleeping, injured parent and getting him out of the house, meant they had to start moving now.

As Charlie staggered back over and Don accepted a cup of hot, fresh coffee – made with a French press instead of a drip machine – he wondered how this would go down. Thankfully their dad had taken the suitcase threat to heart and behaved himself since Wednesday. And Amita, now down to just Tylenol, was being very helpful. According to Charlie, she'd done most of the laundry on Thursday as payback for his hospitality and had offered to stick around and help Alan out. Charlie was happy to have her.

"See sill asleep?" Don mumbled.

"I dunno. Mm' I?" Charlie mumbled back.

Don just patted his brother on the shoulder. The poor kid had been running everything around here for a week. He was getting a little ragged around the edges.

"I'll check. Siddown."

"'Kay."

Charlie slowly sank down onto the sofa with his coffee and Don plodded off towards the master bedroom, slurping his own brew and waiting for the caffeine to work its magic. He opened the door, expecting to have to help his zombified dad get ready to go but instead …

"Hi Donnie," Alan said quietly.

The bedroom was dark except for the little light on the nightstand, but to Don's surprise his father was fully dressed – except for his right foot, which he couldn't reach with his knee in the brace. He was sitting on the bed with his right leg resting on a pillow and tying his left shoe.

"Hey Dad," Don replied, pleased that his tongue was finally working. "Here, let me help you out."

Alan nodded and handed him his other sock. Don set his coffee down on the nightstand and grabbed the other brown lace-up from the floor. In silence, he walked over to the foot of the bed, wiggled his father's other sock on, maneuvered his foot into the shoe and tied it.

"Thanks."

Don nodded. Alan maneuvered himself off the side of the bed and grabbed his crutches, which were leaning against the wall between the bed and the nightstand.

"Ready for this?" Don asked, nabbing his coffee and taking another sip.

"As I'll ever be," came the tired reply, followed by a suspicious look. "Are you up to driving? You look a little sleepy."

"I'm fine. Let's go. Charlie's in the living room."

Don followed his dad out into the front area of the house and Charlie stood up immediately, looking a little more awake.

"That was fast," Charlie commented.

"He was already up," Don explained, and shuffled over to the door. "Here Dad, take a jacket. Sun's not up yet. It's still pretty cool."

Alan balanced on his crutches and put on his blue windbreaker. Don drained the last of his coffee. Charlie took both cups into the kitchen, came back and soon they were out the door into the windy, dark morning.

The sun was just rising as the SUV pulled into the hospital parking lot, speckling the horizon with gold under the last traces of midnight blue. The three Eppeses got out and walked abreast into the carpeted reception area. The receptionist, a middle-aged blond woman in cheerfully patterned scrubs, looked up.

"Alan Eppes, for Dr. Kuramoto," Alan said.

The receptionist checked her chart. "LCL repair?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Fill these out and have a seat," she said, handing Charlie a clipboard heavy with triplicate and a cheap hospital pen. "We'll get you into a room in about 20 minutes, okay?"

Surprisingly, the twenty minutes were actually twenty minutes, and all too soon Charlie and Don were called in to see their father before the surgery. They walked in together and for no reason that Don could figure out, his heart started thumping. He didn't get it. It wasn't like he was having the surgery. His heart wasn't listening to him; he swallowed and took a deep breath in an effort to calm down.

Alan was flat on his back in the bed with a white blanket bunched at his waist, IV'd and gowned up and wearing one of those stupid shower cap things. Charlie had explained that he'd opted for the general anesthesia rather than the twilight cocktail – "What, I'm going to watch the blow-by-blow of my own surgery on the operating room TV? Are you out of your mind?" A young Armenian woman in blue scrubs was standing near the bed, fiddling with the drip.

Don and Charlie had their game faces on a split second before she turned to them. Don, out of habit, read her nametag, which said Dr. Hazmic Bakalian.

"Hi," the woman said, shaking their hands warmly. "I'm Hazmic. I'm your father's anesthesiologist. I've already started the sedation. Go ahead and wish him luck, but keep it brief, okay?"

They nodded and shuffled over to the bed so they could lean down on either side of him.

"Hey Dad," Charlie said, taking his father's hand. "You're going to be fine. Dr. Kuramoto's one of the best and we'll be right outside, okay?"

"Yeah, we'll see you in a bit and get you home," added Don, patting his shoulder.

Alan smiled sleepily at the two of them and nodded, squeezing Charlie's fingers a little. The anesthesiologist gently shooed them away.

So they headed back to the waiting room, sank into neighboring chairs and hunted for something to pass the time. Don watched with some amusement as Charlie located an ancient copy of Cosmo – it was the only thing nearby – and began to read it like it was a math text or something. Out of pity he tossed him a copy of GQ and delved into a battered New Yorker from three weeks ago before he lost interest and found a Sports Illustrated hiding at the bottom of a pile of gardening magazines.

They read and fidgeted and tried not to look at each other for over an hour. Finally an Asian guy came out into the waiting area, pulled off his mask and said, "Eppes?"

They tossed aside their materials immediately and went to him.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Kuramoto," he said. "I did the surgery on your father," he went on needlessly, shaking their hands.

"How did it go?" Charlie asked.

"Very well. I expect that with some bed rest and a little physical therapy, he'll make a complete recovery in less than two months."

"Wow, that's fast."

"I know. The tendon was in better shape than I expected and there were no complications. I was able to properly fix the tear. It should heal completely. Anyway, it all worked out great. I just wanted to let you both know."

"Thank you," said Don. "Can we see him?"

"In a few minutes. Someone will call you."

They held firm until the doctor was out of sight. Then they simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief, noticed the other had done the same thing, and smiled.

"So you were a little nervous too, huh?" Don asked.

"Just a bit," Charlie admitted. "At least this mess is halfway over with. Now all we have to do is figure out who's going to be home when. What's the date?"

Don checked his watch. "Uh, the 24th."

"Good. School doesn't start until September 10th – that gives me at least two weeks to be part of the shifts. I can split it with Amita, I think."

"Hey man, it's not like you have to do all this yourself," Don argued. "I'll be around."

Charlie looked very skeptical.

"What? I will!"

"Mm hm. We'll see," Charlie said, trying for doubtful but ending up at kidding.

Don shook his head and clucked his tongue. "No faith in me at all. What's this world coming to?"

"Eppes?"

They turned. Hazmic was smiling at them. "Hi. We just moved him to recovery. He should wake up in a few minutes." She motioned them to follow her and they did, all the way down the beige hallway and left at the end. "We'll probably keep him here for a couple of hours to make sure everything's okay and then we'll release him," she said, walking backwards. "Oh and here's the scrip for his pain meds," she finished, digging a pad out of her pocket and ripping off the top sheet. "Who wants to fill it?"

"I got it," Don said, taking it from her. "Charlie, if Dad wakes up while I'm gone, tell him I'll be right there."

After some brief instructions from the anesthesiologist, Don trotted off for the pharmacy and Charlie followed her into the recovery room. Alan was out, snoring softly. Charlie sat down next to him and looked around for the Kohl's bag that held his father's clothes, before finally locating it on a chair in the corner.

All was still for a while, but then there was rustling from the bed and snuffling noises. Charlie stood up and leaned down. His father was blinking, and then he smiled.

"Ah Charlie, how are ya?" he croaked.

Charlie smiled back, a little amused at his dad's tone. His normally sharp parent wasn't quite firing on all cylinders. "I'm fine, Dad. Yourself?"

"I'm … God, I'm the loopiest shmuck ya ever saw. I'm flyin' so high …"

Charlie laughed. "Listen Dad, the doctor said your surgery went really well. He fixed everything. You'll need to be off your feet for a little while, but you'll make a full recovery."

"It was okay?"

"It was perfect," Charlie assured him.

Alan nodded, sleepy and satisfied. "Good. Where's Donnie?"

"Filling your prescription. He'll be back soon."

"Okay. Charlie?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"I've been up since five in the morning. I'm tired."

Charlie patted his father's arm. "Then close your eyes and rest. I'll wake you up when Don comes back, okay?"

"Mmkay." His eyes slid shut.

At 11:30 the black SUV rolled into the driveway of the Craftsman house and the front door opened. Amita walked out onto the porch, still slightly puffy around her jaw but dressed, alert and cheerful. She looked a lot more like herself.

"Hey," Don greeted her warmly as he stepped out of the SUV. "You're looking better!"

"I feel better," she said. "And I'm so glad to be off the Vicodin. I can actually think again. Where's Alan?"

"Stretched out in the back," Charlie said, hopping out the passenger's side and joining the conversation. "I think he fell asleep."

Amita nodded. "Okay, well I turned down the bed and put out some extra pillows for him. Oh, and there's water on for tea. Can I take anything?"

"Yeah, sure," Don said. "Here." He tossed her the pharmacy bag. "I think he's going to need one of those pills in an hour or so. Check the label, would you?"

"Sure," she said as she caught it, and walked back into the house.

They both opened the back doors to help their father out of the car. Charlie had assisted Alan with getting dressed at the outpatient center, so naturally his flannel shirt was one button out of alignment and his pants were twisted a little to the left. Don shook his head at this but decided to comment on something else as he helped their family's latest patient into a sitting position. It wasn't easy, as the senior Eppes really had fallen asleep during the ride home and was only starting to wake up.

"So Charlie, not to sound like this one," he said with a nod towards their half-conscious dad, "But Amita sure looks good in that doorway."

Charlie flushed and sighed. He'd expected this. "Yes, well, not to give either of you any ideas, but I ordered a new bed from Thomasville. I um, I think I need a bigger one. Whether it's overly optimistic or … well …"

Don grinned like a fool. "Oh, this is fantastic. Thank you God, the pressure's off me!" he crowed.

"Oh shut up!"

"Wha' happa?" Alan asked sleepily, cutting them off.

"Nothing, Dad. Come on, scoot towards me," Charlie instructed. "There you go. Don, where are his crutches?"

"Trunk," Don grunted, pushing slowly from the back. He didn't want to jar his father's knee.

It was a team effort to get their dad into the house and off to bed, but with Amita's help they managed it with a minimum of fuss. Soon afterward the brothers found themselves in the garage, Don nibbling on a toasted bagel and Charlie eating a bowl of microwave oatmeal, lightly drizzled with honey, dotted with raisins and swamped with milk.

"So I've been working my analysis, trying to figure out the connections between your victims to see if I can posit a probable killer," Charlie said, gesturing at the board in front of them, which was covered in graphs, equations, and other stuff that Don could make no sense of.

"And?"

Charlie sighed and stirred his oatmeal. "And it's not going well."

"Look Charlie, it's been a rough week. You haven't exactly had all your brainpower to devote to this."

"I know, but I still feel bad. I want to help you catch this guy."

"And I'm sure you will," Don acknowledged and turned to another board. Half of it was covered in math, and the other half was covered in stick figures. He frowned. "What are these?" he asked.

Charlie came over and stood by him, looking slightly embarrassed. "Oh, I was just doodling," he said. "I was mad and tired. Dr. Marsden – she's in the Psychology Department – she told me once that doodling is a great, harmless way to express your frustrations and relieve stress."

"That … would explain why … Dad?"

Charlie nodded.

"Dad is hobbling off a cliff," Don commented. "And is that Millie?"

"Mid-fall? Yeah."

Don snickered. Charlie blew on a spoonful of oatmeal and ate it while Don examined the other drawings.

"And we have … Megan on a unicycle …"

"Yeff."

"And David dancing with … Liz."

Charlie shrugged. Don peered at the last drawing and scratched his head. A stick figure with little spikes for hair was flying through board-space with its eyes scrunched shut and mouth open, trailing motion lines and a small cloud. Below and behind it was a crudely drawn … something.

"And this is …?"

"Mm," Charlie said, with his mouth full. "Dash yew bein' shot out of a cannon."

Don glared at the picture. Then he turned to Charlie, who looked far too amused for his taste. "I'm about to hit a wall," he pointed out sternly.

Charlie looked at the board. Sure enough, the shrieking stick-Don was heading directly for a stray vertical line.

"Oh." He rubbed out the line with his fist. "Eh ya go."

Then he grabbed a bit of chalk, swallowed his oatmeal and quickly calculated something in his head. After a few moments he traced an imaginary arc to where the figure would come down to the level of the cannon, swiped a little "x" on the board, and drew a long skinny rectangle around it. Satisfied, he put down his chalk and spooned in another steaming lump of oats.

Don looked at the rectangle in annoyed confusion, then back at Charlie. "What the hell is that?"

"A mattriff," said Charlie. He clapped his brother on the shoulder and wandered back into the house.

– Now –

Don checked his watch and groaned at the dial. 1:30. Damn. He had at least three and a half hours before he could legitimately call it quits for today. So close, and yet so far. The sound of a female throat clearing got him to look up from his paperwork. Liz was standing in the doorway of his cubicle, looking noncommittal as usual, but studiously so. Something was up.

"Um Don, can I talk to you?" she said.

"Sure," he said casually, leaning back in his chair.

"In uh, in private."

He eyed her. "Okay." He stood up and they both walked together into an interrogation room. Megan followed them with her eyes, but didn't say anything and only shrugged when David mouthed, "What's going on?"

Liz meanwhile closed the door behind Don. He flicked the blinds closed and turned on the light, feeling the same nonsensical heart flutter he'd had this morning at the hospital. She leaned uncomfortably against the wall while he hitched his hip on the table.

"All right, so what's up? Talk to me."

Liz heaved a sigh. The stone face fell away and she bit her lip. "Look, I have to tell you something. But you have to promise you'll let me finish before you … do whatever. Is that okay?"

Don immediately knew the thumping in his chest was no longer irrational. "Liz, what the hell's going on? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Oh, I'm about to be," Liz muttered. She sighed and looked him dead in the eye. "Don, I … I screwed up. Or um, 'around' I guess is the better term. I screwed around." And she stared miserably at the floor.

Megan and David looked up when Don came storming out of the interrogation room a few moments later, silent and pissed off. Liz, pained and taut, trailed him at a safe distance. He sat down at his desk with his jaw still tight and ticking, and in an effort to get his rage under control he decided to staple some forms together. He tried the stapler three times before realizing it was out of staples. So he violently ripped it open to fill it again, fumed to the point where he could no longer remember why he was holding the object, and threw it on the floor with a clatter.

That caught David's attention. He stood up. Megan, horrified, waved him down just in time and glanced over at Liz, who was a few shades paler than normal and unable to look anywhere but at her computer screen. Don had managed to bottle himself for the moment – he was now glaring at his own screen and typing a little harder than was necessary – and Megan shook her head. So much for psychology.

This chapter's title is pronounced "Noh SAY-ahs OO-nah EH-sah, MEE-ha." In reference to Liz's gaffe, I used old-school terminology. The phrase literally translates as "Don't be a that, my daughter," but in common parlance it means "Now don't you be one of those girls, honey." I think you can all figure out who "those girls" are. Hint: they stand on corners. A lot.

In other news, I begged Charlie for a copy of his doodles. He sent them to me via e-mail and gave me permission to send them out to those who want them. (He's so kind.) So if you're bored/curious/etc. and want to see them then e-mail me (or better yet review) and I'll send them to you. :D