A/N: Thanks all, for your comments...

Chapter 25

Alan saw David sprint around to the front of the house and burst through the door. The sharp report of a pistol cracked through the air, and then SWAT was running for the door, as well. Alan found his own feet moving and contrary to instructions, he ran after them, his heart pounding painfully, and stopped short in the doorway. Both of sons were lying on the floor, and there was blood…

He staggered and went to his knees, and an arm caught him as he pitched sideways.

Colby darted out to help the SWAT team member who had a grip on Alan's arm. "We got another one down," he yelled over his shoulder, and he took Alan's other arm, helping to pull him away from the doorway, and lie him down on the walk. Two SWAT team members were wrestling Sean Moran out the door, no small feat; in spite of his appearance, Moran was wiry, and hatred and madness gave him strength. He was fighting the men who had firmly gripped his arms, kicking and screaming, and Colby stood protectively over Alan until they had passed. He stripped off his vest and pushed it gently under Alan's head as the SWAT team member took a pulse. "Good pulse," he said, "I think he just passed out."

Colby nodded and darted back up the steps, to find David pressing a towel against Don's side. Megan looked at him, relief in her face. "It's just a graze along his rib cage – a nasty one, but no entry or exit. He must have hit his head when he fell – he's got a bruise." Colby could see it – an egg-sized knot forming on the side of Don's forehead, and he took in a deep breath. "How about Charlie?"

Megan shook her head, looking at the pale form stretched out next to Don. "I think he just passed out. I couldn't find an injury."

Colby glanced back through the door and saw medics pulling a gurney from an ambulance, still out in the street, and he could see Alan stirring on the walk, the SWAT officer still crouching by his side. "I'd better tell Alan," he said.

Megan turned back to Don, just in time to see his eyes flutter open, and she dropped to his side as he groaned. "Hey," she said, with an encouraging smile. "You okay?"

Don blinked, and winced. "Side hurts." He grimaced, and raised a hand toward his head.

"You've got a nice graze on your side," David said. He was positioned near Don's head, leaning over him to apply pressure to the towel. "It'll need some stitches, but it's nothing serious. We got Moran – they took him out already."

Don's eyes widened, and he struggled to sit up. "Charlie -,"

David gently pushed him back down. "He's right next to you."

Don turned his head – too fast, and the room whirled. His pale face whitened further as he saw Charlie lying there, unresponsive. Someone had freed his hands; they lay limply by his sides. As Don turned to look at him, his brother moaned, shuddering, and his eyes opened.

Charlie stared blankly at the ceiling for a second, but as his memory returned, he felt the blood drain from his head, and he began to shake. Don was dead, Don was dead because of him - Tears stung his eyes, and he took a shuddering breath, as the trembling grew more violent.

Megan had stepped over to him, concern on her face. "Charlie – it's okay now – are you hurt?"

He didn't meet her gaze; his eyes remained on the ceiling, glazed with pain and tears. "Donnie -," he whispered, and his voice broke, as his throat clutched with emotion.

He felt a hand on his arm, heard a voice, "Charlie." It was hoarse and weak, and it sounded like Don – at least as well as he could tell; his ears were roaring again. He turned his head, and stared into Don's eyes.

It took a moment for it to register through the fog of emotion, but then Charlie was struggling, pushing himself up with his good arm, dragging himself across the meager inches separating them, until he was sitting unsteadily next to Don – their bodies nearly touching. Don's voice cut through his consciousness, tight with pain, but calm. "I'm okay, Charlie – it's just a graze."

Charlie shuddered again; he was shaking violently now as shock set in – and the horror, the pain, the unbearable tension of the past days coalesced into one huge fragile bubble, as he finally cracked. He was dimly aware of David rising to his feet as medics appeared in the doorway, and he bowed his head as the tears started, as uncontrollable as the shaking; his head was swimming, his heart was bursting, he couldn't breathe… A hand pulled at him gently, and he found himself lying next to Don, lying on an arm – it was Don's hand, Don's arm curved around him, and he buried his face in his brother's shoulder, vaguely aware that he was crying, shuddering with silent sobs, breaking in front of all of these people, but too far gone to care.

Don murmured softly into the dark curls. Despite the fire in his side, he held the shaking body next to him, his blood seeping into Charlie's shirt, Charlie's tears seeping into his. "It's okay, Buddy, we got him, it's over."

Don swallowed hard, trying to fight down the lump in his throat as his father appeared in the doorway, looking shaky and pale himself, supported by Colby. Their eyes caught, and for seconds, time was suspended, caught in a strange unearthly moment filled with nameless emotion – the sensation that they had passed close, too close to the other side. Then the medics pushed in with the gurney and the moment passed, timelessness replaced by hurry, inertia replaced by motion, as the world pulled them back.

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Three nights later, they were gathered in the living room. They had all gone to the hospital to be checked; and the hospital held both Don and Charlie for observation overnight. The doctors were concerned about shock and aggravation of the shoulder injury in Charlie's case, and about Don's second head injury in a matter of days. Alan, too, was thoroughly examined; the doctor prescribing an EKG and attaching a heart monitor for a couple of hours – a nod to his age, and the fact that he'd passed out. Don's bullet wound had turned out to be long and ugly, requiring a combination of stitches and butterflies, and it was painful, but ended up being less of a concern than the concussion. Finally, after a scan of Don's head, an MRI of Charlie's shoulder, and a sojourn overnight, they were released. The doctors gave Don strict orders to rest, and he found himself once again on leave.

An initial assessment of Sean Moran had found him mentally unstable, and he was committed to a psychiatric ward, pending further evaluation. Don could only imagine the scene – he'd seen meth addicts in withdrawal before, none of them as badly addicted as Sean, and it wasn't pretty. Dillon Moran's attorney was petitioning for an audience with a judge to review the charges against his client, but they had yet to meet. Both Morans were in custody, the dark cloud of tension had been lifted, and things were returning to normal.

Normal was a relative word, however. Don was battling residual tension and anxiety of his own, but he submerged it, pushing it deep inside, because Charlie was obviously still struggling; and Don didn't want him dealing with anything disturbing. Charlie seemed embarrassed by his breakdown, and tried hard to act normally, but Don could still see signs that the effects of the ordeal were just under the surface. His hands shook, and his eyes would unconsciously fly in Don's direction if he moved, as if Charlie was afraid to let him out of his sight. Don could see the anxiety in the set of Charlie's shoulders, tight, rigid – he seemed unable to relax, even when Amita stopped by.

Worst of all were the nightmares; Don had gone into Charlie's room the night before to find him curled, shivering, on the floor in a ball, in the throes of some hellish dream. He had to drag an explanation out of him, but finally Charlie admitted that he would wake disoriented, and the mattress felt like a body; the blankets felt like dirt covering him. Shocked by the admission, Don had gathered his senses and had finally talked him back into the bed, falling asleep next to him, one arm carefully draped over Charlie, avoiding his injured shoulder. The fact of the matter was; Don hadn't been sleeping too well himself – but last night they seemed to draw some reassurance from each other, even in sleep. Don woke at dawn, feeling more rested than he had in days, and slipped out, leaving Charlie sleeping peacefully.

Today had been better, maybe because of the rest; Charlie actually seemed to relax a little. He'd gone with his physical therapist, George, out to the garage, for his session. They'd arranged for Charlie to have therapy at home while Sean Moran was still on the loose – it was easier from a protection standpoint. Now that reason no longer existed, but Charlie left it set up that way, in spite of the added expense – Don suspected he felt more comfortable at home. Today, Charlie had actually stayed out in garage for a bit by himself after George had gone – it was the first time he'd done that since his kidnapping ordeal. Small shreds of normalcy, but they grabbed at each one, and hung on as if it was something precious.

This evening was another gem – the three of them together, the scene blessedly mundane. Alan rose from his recliner, disrupting Don's thoughts. "I'm going to get something to drink. Do you boys want anything?"

A beer suddenly sounded like the best thing in the world. It smacked of normalcy, along with the ballgame Don had just found as he manipulated the remote. "I'll take a beer."

Alan's eyebrows rose. "With pain pills? And what about your head?"

Don sent him a small grin. "I actually didn't need any pills today. And my head's fine. One beer won't kill me."

Alan pursed his lips and nodded, his gaze turning to Charlie, who was fidgeting on the sofa, trying to feign interest in the television. "Charlie?"

Charlie pushed himself to his feet with his good arm. He was going without the sling for periods of time, but he still couldn't use his arm much. "I'll get it. I don't know what I want." He rose, and Don caught the expression on his face, the tension in his body. Charlie had seemed more relaxed all day, but now inexplicably, the anxiety was back. Don frowned, wondering what had changed. He watched them head into the kitchen and thought idly that maybe they should make some popcorn – Charlie liked popcorn.

Charlie had been feeling just a bit more relaxed, but Don's request for a beer sent his gut into a tight clench. It seemed normal, and Don's return to normal was a reminder that Don's return to work was coming. Charlie tried to tell himself his anxiety over that was a reaction to Don's injury, to him nearly being killed by Sean, but he knew, deep down, that wasn't all of it. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was the end of their growing relationship – because this time, when Don returned to work, it would be without Charlie. He was no longer a consultant, no longer part of the team. They, and Don, would slowly drift away – they in their world, Charlie in his. This case had marked the end; and Don's presence at the Craftsman was just a brief respite, a short shining moment before life resumed, and the divide between them began to widen.

He pushed blindly into the kitchen ahead of Alan, his throat tight. As bad as the recent events had been, as frightening as the attack and kidnappings had seemed, this was worse. It was as if he was losing Don anyway, in spite of the fact that his brother had survived the attack. Without the work to bring them together, there really was nothing; they didn't socialize much – they were both usually too busy, and Don had always split his free time with other interests. Charlie would be in the position where he had spent all of his life – outside, looking in. An appendage – affectionately regarded, to be sure – but not vital, not close. Just like when they were kids. They'd traveled all this way, had gotten to the edge of something, and now they were preparing to go backwards. It was almost too much to bear.

He leaned over the sink, his good arm stiff, pushing against it, his head bowed. Alan eyed him with concern. "Charlie? Are you not feeling well?"

Charlie straightened and shook his head, letting his arm drop, but didn't lift his face. "Just thinking," he mumbled.

Alan was silent for a moment. "Maybe you should talk to someone," he began, but Charlie cut him off.

"Yeah, I think I need to," he said in a shaky voice. "Not a therapist though. I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

Don had risen from the sofa and was about to push through the door into the kitchen to suggest popcorn, but he stopped as he heard the last exchange. What he and Charlie had just gone through had connected them – they had gone through hell together, and Don felt closer to his brother than ever before. He should talk with Charlie, he thought suddenly. He'd been searching for a way to offset the fact that Charlie wouldn't be consulting anymore, and what better way than to figure out how to talk – to really talk, heart to heart. He wasn't very good at that stuff, but he could learn. They could take their new-found closeness and build on it, grow together, be there for each other, without work in the way. It was the right thing to do – the next step for them. The thought made his hearten lighten, and he was about to continue in through the door, when Charlie spoke again, his voice unsteady.

"I think I'd like to talk to Colby. I'll call him tomorrow."

Don stopped short as if he'd been hit with a slap in the face, and his heart plummeted. He turned slowly on his heel, drifting listlessly back to the sofa, and sank back into it, overwhelmed with hurt. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter – what was important was that Charlie was starting to open up, to deal with what he'd gone through, but he knew it was a lie – it did matter. Right now, he needed Charlie as much as Charlie needed him – and instead his brother was turning to someone else. Deep down, he knew he was to blame – he'd spent his entire life holding people at arm's length emotionally, never allowing them in. It had taken a journey through hell to get to the point where he was willing to try open up, to grow, at least with his brother – and by the time he'd arrived, Charlie had moved on. The peace, the warmth of the evening had been shattered. When Alan brought out the beer, it was all Don could do to choke it down.

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End Chapter 25