Here you go! Real life sucked me in and Mea Culpa took a backseat to a backseat's back burner as I tried to get everything sorted out. But finally, things quieted down for a few days and I finished this chapter! Yay!

I have good/bad news. Ready? There is only one more chapter! That's right! One more! It's almost the end here! And what a journey it's been! Stick around, because I promise this final chapter will be up as soon as humanly possible (read: not in a month and a half). If it isn't, I give you permission to throw things at me. Gently.

Many, many thanks to Storyspindler for keeping me in check and putting up with me. Without her, this story would probably be dead. In fact, I know it would.

CHAPTER IX

"Donny … what you said yesterday … you still want to go through with it?"

"Yes."

Alan's shoulders slumped. "I still think you're making a mistake."

"I'm not."

"Then … why? Why do this?"

"Because, you don't want him to get hurt again, do you?"

"That's beside the point, Don."

"He doesn't consult, he won't get shot. It makes perfect sense."

"Maybe that does, Don. But not to Charlie. He never thought about the danger. None of that mattered to him. Stopping him from consulting … that would be a disaster, Don. Even if you don't take him out to … crime scenes … you don't have to sever him completely. Don't you know he cares about you?"

"For crying out loud, of course I know that! And I care about him too, that's why I want to do this. I can't be there for him all the time. I … thought I could. But it's for his own good."

"You don't think Charlie can take care of himself, then?"

"Dad! No! It's not that, it's just … I don't want to have to—well, for something like this to hap—"

His father suddenly grabbed at his arm, stifling his words. With his other hand he gestured at the bed. "Charlie," he all but whispered, the words dripping in relief. He reached past Don, his hand coming to rest softly on his youngest son's. "Hi, son."

Don whirled, coming face to face with the depths of Charlie's eyes. A far cry from the emotionless blurs of the night before, Don could sense a spark of his little brother's energy buried deep within them. With the respirator now gone, it seemed almost like a small smile turned up the corners of Charlie's pale lips.

"Hi, Buddy."

Charlie tried to speak, an action that for some reason now seemed so foreign. He managed a sound somewhat of a hybrid between 'Dad' and 'Don,' barely loud enough to be heard. But even such a gentle motion sent needles of searing pain throughout his throat. It bit through even the thick haze of his drugs, causing him to flinch visibly, squinting his eyes shut against the pain.

"Don't try to talk, Charlie," Alan offered, stroking the backside of his son's hand.

"…No."

It was hardly defiant, but the fact that he spoke through the pain at all proved to Alan that his son needed to say something important. To hear his son's voice, even as weak and raspy as it sounded, sent shivers of some mix of relief and joy throughout his entire body.

"…Don."

Don leaned closer, meeting his brother's eyes. "Yeah, Buddy?"

"…Sorry," his lips moved to form the sentence, but only mere snippets of sound passed through. But Charlie's eyes completed what his words could not, sincere and absolute. Charlie then managed a lopsided sort of smile. "…Not your fault."

And those three simple words hit Don like a gunshot to his chest. He gripped the side of Charlie's bed, all he could do save collapsing on the spot.

Don had no hope of sleeping that night. His restless mind yet again offered no solace. Even pacing had brought him no comfort, so he resigned himself to sitting in the hushed darkness on the living room couch, brooding in a room that offered so much comfort.

He tried to piece everything together, chaotic memories, blood-spackled and agonizing events burned into every nerve of his body. He clutched a beer can in his nervous hands, cold hours ago, but now only half empty and wholly unappetizing. Disjointed sounds floated in from inside, dark slowly receded to dawn. Don yawned. Every so often his head would droop, his body longing for rest, but his mind would take no such sojourn.

"Not your fault."

Everything in Don's mind screamed that yes, it was. Yet everyone—even his brother—defended the opposite. It seemed so childish, but it made absolutely no sense. Don did not know what to think. Every moment he tried to accept that it was not his fault, his mind flashed back to him running fruitlessly toward his brother as he collapsed in a flurry of shattered glass and crimson blood. And then the guilt rushed through his veins, a fierce inner fire. He wanted to forget but could not, guilt and innocence waged war within his heart. Charlie was alive; he was in the hospital; everything would be all right; things may never be the same again; Charlie was strong; he struggled to stay alive; Don should stop blaming himself; but who else was there to blame?; there was nothing he could have done; he did everything wrong; all his fault, not his fault, no one's fault, blame guilt machinery glass blood sniper—

"Don?"

The fire went out.

Don jerked around to find his father, half shrouded in pre-dawn shadows.

"Dad."

"Couldn't sleep?"

"I was—uh, no. No. Not with … all—"

"Thinking too much?"

Alan shuffled to the couch and sat down by his son. Even in the semi-darkness, Don could tell his father had not seen much in the way of sleep, either.

"I guess you could call it that," Don muttered. He crushed the beer can between his hands and, staring at it for a moment as if in disbelief of his own strength, rose to discard it. He returned, standing next to the couch for a few seconds before his exhausted body gave in and he collapsed upon it, scrubbing his hands across his haggard face.

"… Don," Alan began at a whisper. "Tell me… tell me what happened."

Don snapped like a man electrocuted, whipping to face his father with as astounded face as his tired muscles would permit. "W-What?"

"Tell me what happened at the scene. All of it."

"Dad—I-I can't…"

"Oh, damn the protocol, Donny! I'm not asking for complete details of the investigation. I want to know what happened to my sons. What happened to Charlie and to you. I want to help, Donny."

Don drew in an elongated breath followed by an equally drawn-out sigh.

"I… we went to Bannotek Towers … saw the sniper's van. We cleared everyone out, but there were uniforms everywhere. We sent out teams to find the Sniper … and David must've shown up. He had Charlie with him. He … didn't know that the Sniper was there. No one had told him. So many uniforms … and I look over and see Charlie … and I just knew it was going to happen, Dad. I tried to call out to him, but then I heard the gunshot … and I was screaming at him, Dad. And I ran… but I… I watched David dive for him. But …" He turned his head away.

Alan remained quiet, offering his son a strong hand on his shoulder, trying not to let the horrid details drive him to his own catharsis.

"There was so much blood. Everywhere. I never knew…never knew someone could…bleed that much. And he didn't make a sound. And I held him in my arms. And it was warm … his blood was warm … but he was so cold. So … pale. Scared the hell out of me. Still does. And I tried to stop the blood, but I had… it was everywhere. All over me, the ground. I couldn't stop it. And I … lost him, in the ambulance. His eyes. Dad, he looked so … dead."

The last word echoed, reverberating against the walls of the room for what seemed like an eternity. It made Don shiver, turned the room twenty degrees colder.

"It was terrible," Don sputtered in an effort to diffuse the horrible feeling.

"Don, listen to yourself. Never once did you mention something you did wrong. Something you didn't do. It sounds like you did everything you could. Everything in your power. Everything that, in that situation, I would do. You did nothing wrong, Don."

Don eyed his father suspiciously.

"What would you have done differently? If something like that had happened again?"

"… I would've… would've taken the bullet for him."

"Which is why you were running. What else?"

"Stopped the sniper first."

"Which is what you were doing at Bannotek Towers in the first place."

"Let him know about the danger…"

"Which is why you called his name."

"Kept him away…"

"You thought it was safe. I didn't protest."

"Damn it, Dad!" Don threw up his arms in desperation.

"You see now, don't you?"

"I might've tried … but I didn't do it well enough. I wasn't fast enough. Loud enough. Smart enough."

"Don, I never asked for you to be perfect. To be fast enough, smart enough, strong enough. What you did saved Charlie's life. It didn't matter that you weren't fast enough or anything. You saved his life all the same. I understand that, and so does Charlie."

Ice crept up from the floor and encased Don's body in a frigid shell.

"I-I …" He sputtered, fighting for words. "I don't know what to think anymore, Dad." He paused. "Maybe … maybe I've been an idiot."

Alan reached out and clasped his son's shoulder. "No, Don. You've been human. And I've never asked for anything else from you. Remember that."

Don laid his head back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"You understand now?"

"…Yeah. Yeah, I think I do." Don drew in a shaky breath. "Thanks, Dad."

"… Then, are you still not going to let him consult?"

Don sucked in a breath through his teeth. "I … I don't know. I thought for sure you'd be behind me on this."

"I thought I was, too. But I realized that stopping Charlie from consulting would be like stopping him from doing his math. Impossible. Unhealthy. Now I can't stop you, Don, but please, don't tell him yet. Wait on it. Give yourself some time to think it out. Maybe your mind will change in a few more weeks. This is something too dangerous to decide in just a few days. Just please, think it through."

"And if my opinion hasn't changed?"

"Then… you can go ahead and do what you have to. But don't tell him yet, for your own sake. Please?"

Don licked his lips, deep in thought. "… Okay, Dad." He sighed. "I'll wait."

Alan smiled. "Thank you, Don. Now get some sleep. You need it."

Charlie's eyes floated between his father and his brother, fighting to make sense of the random spurts of information assaulting his synapses. His last vivid memory was of Bannotek Towers, of an image that seemed so far in the past now, almost beyond his reach. After that was a blank space, a chasm of thoughtlessness that separated past and present. He fought to remember, piecing together fragments of gray thoughts to no avail.

"D-Don," he gasped, barely audible over the heart monitor at his bedside. His fingers traced along the side of the bed, searching for the warmth he knew had once been there. His eyes settled on Don's fuzzy outline through the drugged haze.

Don drew closer and scooped up his brother's hand, holding it tightly. "Hi, Buddy."

Alan leaned over Don's shoulder and after a moment Charlie smiled at him, something that even now seemed to take all of his strength. "Dad."

Alan returned the gesture not without a tinge of relief in his eyes. "Hi, son."

"… Where…?"

Father and son paused for a moment, exchanging a quiet gaze. Alan placed his hand over both of his sons', looking his youngest straight in his foggy eyes. "You're … you're in the hospital, Charlie."

"… W-What?" Charlie uttered, pausing for a moment to let the definition of said noun register in his sluggish mind. Suddenly his eyes swiveled around the room, putting together the pieces. "… Why?"

"You… you were hurt, Charlie," Alan began. "But don't worry. You're fine now."

Charlie paused to think, eyes drooping, the simple action draining all of his strength. "…S-Sni-Sniper?"

Don and Alan stared at each other, neither knowing what to speak. Alan remained still and did not speak. Charlie stared up at him vacantly, waiting for an answer in vain until his body gave into rest again several minutes later.

Don found it hard to believe than it had been almost a week. Time seemed so strange and foreign in a place like the ICU with no natural light. Finally free of all machinery but the IV, Charlie was finally able to move from the ICU and into a regular room in the hospital. And none too soon, as Charlie's longer periods of wakefulness brought about a pervasive restlessness that the small room in ICU was almost unable to contain.

Don was on his was back to Charlie's room when, to his surprise, he found Terry and David waiting by the elevator. He greeted them as if he hadn't seen them in two years, rather than two weeks.

"It's nice to see you, Don. You doing better?"

This was the first Terry had seen of her partner since his hastened trip to the office two weeks before. Though he didn't look any better—in fact, he was in many ways much worse in that department, with thick worry lines across his face and nearly black circles under his eyes—but he had a lighter air than his past self, one of hope and relief rather than despair and brooding. She and David had come to the hospital to check on their partner and his brother—both of whom they had not heard news of in nearly fourteen days.

Don sighed—he'd been doing too much of that lately. "Yeah. It's been a hard two weeks, but I'm getting along."

"Good," Terry continued. "And you father?"

Don smiled. "Oh, that old man's been running circles around me. I just now had to force him to go home because he never sleeps when he's here. His paternal instincts don't have an off-switch."

Terry returned Don's infectious smile. David, standing several paces behind her, remained silent. He dared not look Don in the face. Shame weighed him down.

"And Charlie?" Terry questioned.

"They're going to release him tomorrow afternoon." The way it came out, Don hardly believed it himself.

"Oh Don, that's great! And it's only been what--two weeks?"

"Two weeks too long," Don muttered. The strain of said fortnight showed poignantly in the heavy lines on his face. "He's still not back to a hundred percent yet. Won't be for awhile."

"But at least he'll be home," Terry countered. "That's good. For all of you."

Don sighed. "Yeah. I haven't seen my apartment in who knows how long. Dad's been here every night and day this week until now; I wouldn't be surprised if they boarded the house up by now."

Terry chuckled and Don joined her with a smile. To see her fellow agent in good spirits was in many gratifying, a fragment of the old Don emerging from the stagnant darkness.

"You … wanted to see him? I know he's been wanting to talk to you, David."

David looked up for the first time during the entire conversation. He couldn't speak, merely nodded.

Don laughed, "I bet he's probably tired of seeing nothing by my face, anyway." Don nudged the door open. "Come on in."

Despite his leaps and bounds of medical progress, Charlie looked quite disheveled. Unkempt, unshaven, his face a mess of chiseled lines of pain and stress and weariness, he looked thinner, paler, a shadow of his former self. But even this constrained body could not suppress his vivacious spirit; his bright mind had already sprung back as his body lagged behind.

Presently he leaned over a notebook--his sole salvation swindled from Larry several days before—and scribbled fierce bundles of equations in oblique patterns. His left arm, fully and rather uncomfortably strapped to his body from shoulder to wrist, made even the slightest movement impossible. Since steadying his tablet was out of the question the notebook migrated wildly with every number he scribbled on its pages. The IV still in his hand made his grip on the pencil loose and pained, but his math offered salvation, something he was willing to fight for.

Something he had almost died for.

He did not hear the door open, something not at all surprising, and only when Don stood beside him did his mind take notice. He dropped the pencil from otherwise nerveless fingers.

"David, Terry."

"Charlie," Terry began. "How're you feeling?"

Charlie motioned a shrug with his free hand. "As well as can be expected, I guess."

Terry smiled gently. "That's good. You had us scared for awhile there."

Laughing sent a spiral of pain through Charlie's body. Unable to mask it, he tried to ignore the displeased expression on his brother's face. "Yeah, so Don's told me." Smirking slightly, he added, "many times."

A hush fell over the room, neither party quite sure how to continue the conversation. Terry was about to nudge David, encouraging him to talk, when Charlie spoke up, voicing the one question he had been afraid to ask, the one question he needed to know.

"The Sniper …" he pinched his eyes shut, as if the phrase caused him great pain. "Is he--?"

Terry shot a gaze over her shoulder to Don, unsure how to proceed.

"… He's dead, Charlie," Don offered with a hesitant air.

" … How?"

"Edgerton shot him. Right after …" Don stopped. He could not bring himself to finish the sentence, to relive those memories.

Charlie sighed and closed his eyes, pensive. "If only I had finished those calculations sooner. We could've … found him before this all ever happened."

"Charlie, no!" Terry sputtered.

Even David could not restrain his outcry of indignation.

"Charlie, if anyone's at fault here, it sure as hell isn't you." Don added, looking his brother square in the eyes.

"I know, but… to… die like that." Charlie swallowed hard and shivered. "I wouldn't wish that … on anyone."

"Charlie…" Don faded off, speechless.

A pervasive silence followed. Thick. Almost agonizing. Suffocating.

"… He knew the risks, Charlie." David's voice was no more than a whisper, the only words he had truly spoken since entering the room. "He probably… expected it."

"David," Charlie had almost forgotten the other man's presence. "Don told me … what happened."

David's breath caught in his throat and he turned his eyes away. "Yeah…"

"What you did …if it wasn't for you knocking me down like that, they said the bullet would've … probably killed me. I … I practically owe you my life…"

David sputtered, unable to believe that something he thought of as a failure could possibly bring him merit. "C-Charlie," he sputtered.

"I guess—well … thank you," Charlie offered, succinct yet powerful.

David's mouth hung open. "I … well… you're welcome, Charlie—"

At just that moment, Terry's cell phone rang. She stepped to the side to answer it. After only a few seconds she snapped it shut.

"We've gotta run, David. Duty calls."

David turned to join her.

"You hang in there, Charlie," Terry called as the two headed for the door.

Charlie made a thumbs up, a bright glint in his smile.

"We'll be back tomorrow, Don." David said, clapping his partner on the shoulder.

Don lowered his voice so that only David could hear. "I never blamed you, David. Charlie didn't, either. And we never will."

David nodded. "I know, Don. I thought I didn't. But I do now."

"Good."

Don's infectious smile spread even to Terry who, just from intuition, could detect every word of the conversation. All the pieces had come back. The team was whole again … almost.

David and Terry said their goodbyes and, as the door closed behind them, Don fetched the nurse and another round of medication. Don took the paper cup containing the pills and returned to his brother's bedside.

"The sniper… he probably would have died anyway, Charlie." Don spoke. "It's doubtful that any jury would let him live after what he did."

"You don't know that, Don."

"It's sad to say, but it's true. If Edgerton hadn't taken him down then, who knows who else he would've shot? Killed? We were vulnerable. Would you have wanted someone … someone else to go through … what you went through?"

Charlie shuddered. "…No."

Don sighed. "It sucks sometimes, buddy. I won't argue that."

"That doesn't mean I … can't feel bad about it. To think that I was involved—even indirectly—with a … a person's… death. I mean … that's hard, man."

Don masked the astonished glare in his eyes. Charlie's was a mindset very similar to his own, for eerily similar reasons.

"In many ways, Charlie, I feel the same way."

"You do?"

"Yeah." He sighed, paused for a moment. "…It's something you might never be able to erase, you know? But you move on eventually. You have to. You can't afford to let it dwell on you—too many other people are counting on you to move on…"

Charlie reached out and touched his brother's arm. "You do know I'm not blaming you? For what happened?"

Don smiled. "Yeah, buddy. I know. But that doesn't mean I can't feel bad about it, right?"

It took Charlie a moment, but he smiled. Bright and genuine. "Thanks, Don."

"Yeah, yeah," Don replied with pseudo-sarcasm. He handed Charlie the paper cup. "Now take those meds and get some rest. You've got a big day tomorrow, you know."

The next morning Charlie was grateful, if anything, to finally have the IV removed. Walking was a chore. Even his short trips around the hospital floor proved to be difficult. Had his brother and father not been supporting him on either side he would have collapsed rather painfully because of his rubbery legs. Even the short trip to the wheelchair—no more than five feet—tired him beyond belief, the pain notwithstanding. He tried to hide it, but it was obvious that the youngest Eppes was nowhere near healed just yet.

Both David and Terry had come to escort Charlie to his ride and, though he tried to ignore it, he could not help but notice the firearms they both carried in plain view on their belts. Their tone was a subdued one, happy to see Charlie leave this place, but uncertain of what awaited him out there. The Sniper Zero case had been closed, but having come so close to disaster once before, none of them were willing to take chances again.

In the two weeks since Charlie had seen daylight the whole world seemed to have changed. Shedding the sterility of the place he now left behind, everything seemed brighter, meaningful, full of life. Of the life he now had a much deeper appreciation for. The life that had almost been snuffed out.

He saw his brother's SUV, Terry and David's vehicles flanking it in front and behind. And suddenly he realized that, for all his new appreciation for life, he was also well aware of its dangers. Of how a man had aimed a gun at him and fired. Of how, statistically, he was dead. Of the bullet that could come from anywhere and take anyone. Of the bullet that had almost taken him.

To Be Continued.