Okay, so I'm posting way faster than I said I would. Since it's a completed fic, I just want to share faster :). As always, thank you for the reviews and as always, any further feedback is revered.

-

The next six months flew by and Don found himself climbing the FBI chain of command. After only being with Bureau for three years, he was given his own op to run and to his great pleasure, it went well. The suspect was found and apprehended before more damage could be done. It was all he could have hoped for.

Soon he started running more and more operations. He started living at his desk. His coffee mug - the one Charlie had bought and sent him from CalSci - was never completely empty. He started to forget exactly what his apartment looked like, and found he didn't care. When he could completely close a case file on his desk, there was a sense of accomplishment that he'd never, ever had experienced before.

He wondered if this was how Charlie felt when he solved an unsolvable math problem or when he finished his thesis, or stood in front of his own class.

The thesis portion of Charlie's life happened shortly after Don wrapped up a grueling case. The right man was dead, but not before taking three hostages with him. It had been a long week and Don had barely slept the entire time. He spent the flight home nodding off, but the would jerk awake at the slightest noise. The sound of gunfire still echoed in his dreams and several times a concerned flight attendant asked if he was all right.

He was a mess when Dad greeted him at the airport and Dad told him as much.

"Tough case," he responded, not able or wanting to go into much detail.

"I'll say," his father said, but worry colored his tone. That ever-so-slightly worried, one that fathers just seemed to perfect.

Don needed to change the subject. "So is Charlie excited?"

It seemed to work. His father smiled. "Charlie's Charlie. Of course he's excited. He's been bouncing off the walls since he defended the thing last month. Your mother's just happy to see him at home more instead of on campus or in the garage writing across those blackboards of his."

"Blackboards?"

"Sixteen of them, I think. I lost count. He kept dragging more home. I think the entire garage is covered in chalk dust."

Don grinned. "Sounds like Charlie."

Dad nodded. "He'll be thrilled that you're here, you know, so brace yourself."

"Thrilled? Doesn't he know I'm coming?"

"You weren't sure if you could make it last week. Your mother didn't want to be disappointed."

"Right," Don muttered. That made sense. Last week he'd been tracking a robbery/murder suspect. He'd barely had time to return Mom's phone call and could offer her no guarantees. When the dust had finally settled thirty-six hours ago and he'd been able to make it home and take his first long hot shower in what felt like ages, he'd called the house and said he would be there. Mom was happy and started muttering about dinner reservations.

"You have any baggage to claim, Don?'"

Don shook his head. "No. Let's just go home."

--

Don never thought he'd seen such a big smile on his brother's face since he was four and Don had let him look through his baseball card collection. When Don let him keep a few, Charlie had looked like Don had offered him the moon. Charlie had always wanted to use Don's things when they were growing up. What a child prodigy obsessed with numbers wanted with a few beat-up baseball cards Don had never quite understood.

"You came," Charlie said. Dad was right; there was an even greater bounce in Charlie's step then normal.

"Of course I came. You think I was going to miss my little brother's graduation? Again." He ruffled Charlie's hair.

"Hey." Charlie reached up a hand to stop him. "It's not that big of a deal."

"Not that big of a deal, huh? Says the guy who's glowing here."

Charlie grinned. "I may be a little excited." Don arched an eyebrow. "Okay, maybe a lot excited."

"I'll say," Don agreed. "A PhD is a pretty big deal. So where now, Dr. Eppes?"

"Doctor..." Charlie muttered. "Now that sounds weird. CalSci offered me a job, actually. Which is remarkable because I was sure I'd have to do some post-doc work or teach high school classes while I developed theories or -"

"Whoa, slow down there, Professor. Huh," Don mused. "Guess that title will fit now, won't it. I assume you are taking the job, right? Or are there any better offers?"

"I love CalSci. I can't imagine another place I'd rather teach at. I mean, after Princeton..." Charlie trailed off. Don had never gotten the whole story about what happened at Princeton but from what he'd pieced together from unspoken words and raised eyebrows, Princeton and Charlie had not meshed well. CalSci had truly been a blessing.

"Anyway, that's all tomorrow's news. How's New Mexico?"

"Hot," Don replied. "Busy."

Charlie's smile faded a bit. "That's it? Any interesting cases? Shoot outs? Anything?"

"First off, Charlie, you listen too much to all that media hype. And secondly, I can't discuss cases with you. You need security clearance."

"Oh." Charlie was silent a moment. "You know mathematicians consult for the FBI all the time. You might need my help someday."

Don sat down on the couch. For a brief second he heard the echoes of gunfire. Nothing could have stopped that outcome. "Numbers can't solve crimes, Charlie."

"How do you know that? Everything is numbers."

Don smiled at the thought. Of course Charlie thought math could save the world. And while Don was well aware that a mathematician or two had been called in on a bank fraud case he'd worked on a few months back, he didn't see how they could've helped save three hostages from a madman. If only it was that easy.

Everything might be numbers, but they were numbers he'd rather his little brother never saw.

"Don?" Charlie had moved and was looking at him.

"Numbers can't stop violence," he said, and then sighed. Time to change the subject again. "So what's Mom making for dinner?"

--

Perhaps he realized it halfway through the hooding ceremony. Or maybe it was when Charlie introduced him to Professor Larry Fleinhardt, the man that had been Charlie's thesis advisor. But two days later, when Mom put up some new pictures on the sideboard of the whole event, Don found himself, yet again, feeling slightly inadequate.

And wondering why he still felt that way.

He had the FBI, a whole new life in New Mexico, separate from his brother and his accolades. Word on the street was that the head of FBI field office was transferring to Maryland in a few months and Don might get his big chance to run an entire field office, a feat nothing short of remarkable, given his age. He was gaining his own triumphs just as quickly as Charlie had.

So why was he thinking this way?

He glanced across the sideboard at the various photos. There were a few from Charlie's previous graduations. A few of his parents. Some from vacations, holidays. A lone picture from his baseball days.

He picked up that photo. It was of him and Charlie. Don was still in uniform and Charlie had a notebook tucked under one arm. They were both smiling.

"That was nearly seven years ago. Amazing how time flies, doesn't it?"

He almost dropped the frame, only keeping it from slipping at the last second. "Yeah..."

His mother smiled and reached out to take the photo from him. "You know, this is the most recent photo of you I had, you know. Until this visit." She set the frame down and picked up another. He and Charlie, again, from two days previous. Charlie was ginning from ear to ear. Don was smiling, but it was far more subdued. He studied the photo.

He realized he looked uncomfortable.

"You should come home more often, Donnie," Mom said with a sigh.

"Home," he muttered and that's when he knew.

That's what was missing. Home.

He was pretty sure New Mexico wasn't home. At least, not yet. Maybe it never would be.

Charlie had his home. He'd never left. He had a sense of security Don lacked.

He stared back down at the photo and listened to his mother retreat, her footsteps taking her into the kitchen. He heard a cabinet open. The one to the right of the stove, he knew; he recognized the squeak the hinges made. A second later, a couple of pot clanged.

Mom never kept pots there. Pots were three cabinets over.

That's when he knew. Things had changed. This house - the very one he'd grown up in - wasn't home either.