Don sat at his desk, suppressing a groan as he rubbed his forehead. Because Colby went and got himself shot, there was a mountain of paperwork that he needed to complete: a write-up of the incident, a copy of the doctor's report, a schedule of time off for Granger, a substitute agent until Granger comes back. A legitimate mountain of stuff he had to deal with because one lousy criminal would rather die for his cause than come in quietly.
Megan leaned back in her chair, stretching. "Hey Don, I'm beat. I'm heading home." Her voice held hints of anger and frustration. At what, Don could only guess.
David copied her movements, adding a yawn of his own. "I should get going too."
He nodded. They could all use a rest. It was over fifteen hours since they had arrived at work that morning. None of them had been able to sleep after what happened to Colby. They came in to work to work out the anxious tension within them; the feeling of helplessness was not something that they enjoyed.
Don sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. They could all relax. Before he could stop himself, he asked, "Anyone want to grab a beer?" It had become something of a ritual between the four of them. After a hard case, that night just the four of them would head out to relax at a cop bar a few blocks away. Soon after that they would celebrate with Charlie. Sometimes, they just wanted to decompress with someone who knew exactly what they had been through.
"No, sorry. I got to go home." David said apologetically. He truly looked sorry; this was usually one of his favorite things to do.
Megan smiled a little. "I can go." The three of them stood and gathered their things. David left them in the parking lot to get his own car while Megan and Don left together for the bar.
It was a respectable bar, known for the amount of police that wandered in there after a hard day. Called The Scratching Post, the modern ware and contemporary feel were a definite plus. The bartenders were personable, always willing to talk or listen or stay away. The prices were reasonable—a miracle in LA, where extortion was the norm.
Their evening was passed in comfortable chatter. They sipped casually from beer bottles, savoring the flavor instead of trying to drown in it. They talked about anything and everything that was unrelated to the case, neither the one they have now nor the one they had been booted off of, the NSA agent Jayden Phillips, Charlie, Colby, bombs, or work in general. Instead, they sat and talked about sports—Don was only a little surprised that Megan loved a good soccer game. She was a federal agent and an independents woman, after all—books, movies, the best way to incapacitate a bank robber with a spoon, knife, and fork. It was fun.
The fading sunlight left entirely, abandoning them to the dangerous clutches of night. The boisterous crowd that had been occupying the bar with the two FBI agents slowly began to disperse. Table by table the bar emptied. Bottles were deposited carefully at the counter. Chairs scraped noisily against the tiled floor, pushed back from the tables. Spills and crumbs were swept up with practiced ease. Now, the only ones left in the bar were the heavy drinkers—the ones who came to forget, to drink themselves to oblivion.
That was when Don and Megan left. They grabbed their jackets and walked into the chilly night air. They were still happy and content from their banter in the bar. It had been too long since they'd done this. Don voiced his thoughts.
"You know, when was the last time we brought Charlie to this bar?" Megan's question followed his wistful statement. And with that, his good mood dimmed. Not evaporated, but dimmed.
"I don't know. Have we ever?" He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. At Megan's reproachful look, he rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. "Please, Megan. Let's keep this night fun. It is our night."
He could sense her disapproval, but she held her tongue. Suddenly the fresh air seemed to weigh him down. He just wanted to have a normal evening. What was wrong with that? He wanted a meal away from troublesome mathematicians and their secret filled past. Okay, maybe he did sound like a petulant child. Maybe his desire was selfish. But he had already been through the wringer. First they got the NSA case, then they got Phillips and the ginormous can of worms that came with him, and now they lost Granger temporarily. He wanted peace and quiet with his partner.
Megan nodded. Don briefly wondered if she had psychic powers and could tell what he was thinking. When she smiled slyly at him, he confirmed it. "What do you want to do, boss? Go dancing? Another bar? Home?"
Perhaps it was his imagination, but he heard longing when she said "home". He dismissed it as a figment of his drained mind. "We could see if there's extra lasagna at Charlie's. Sound good?"
Her grin was all the answer he needed. They walked over to the parking lot and clambered into the dark SUV. The powerful engine purred to life and they began the drive home.
Streets passed in increasing increments. Charlie would figure out the rationality behind every change in distance, and give us a useful little analogy to boot. What is it like in his head? Do numbers just float to him? Does he just get the answers? Obviously not; we would solve our cases in no time at all. Don frowned thoughtfully. This wasn't the first time he had questioned what was going on in his brother's head, but he had never fully thought it through. Maybe it was exhausting. Maybe it was exhilarating. Probably the latter, if Charlie's fervor for math all these years was any indication.
Don glanced over at Megan. She was leaning against the door, seemingly too tired to keep her head up anymore. She was a profiler. It was her job to think of these things. An urge to ask her opinions and thoughts rose, but he banished it. He was Charlie's sibling, not her. If he wanted to find out, he had to do it himself.
He nearly missed the turn off, and cut the corner close. A jaw cracking yawn forced him to concede how tired he was and how much stress he was under. He gently maneuvered the car onto the driveway, vaguely noting the absence of Chuck's car before thoughts of sleep and a bed pressed upon his mind. They entered the house like two battle worn soldiers coming home and slept. It wouldn't be long until their sleep was interrupted with an intruder in the garage.
Hello! Thank you for reading! I shall have an update next week.