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Some prices are just too high, no matter how much you may want the prize. The one thing you can't trade for your heart's desire is your heart.

-Lois McMaster Bujold

The sun was just peeking over the horizon, bathing Los Angeles in a warm, pink glow. Don drove down the familiar and nearly deserted streets to his apartment. He had planned on stopping by to see Charlie, but he'd finished work earlier than expected and didn't want to disturb his brother if he was actually sleeping. Lord knows he could use it.

Parking in his designated place, he stepped out and took a moment to enjoy the cool morning air. Last night had been tough. His team had been tracking the movements of a bank robber with a propensity for killing bank tellers that gave him resistance. A hot tip had come in as to his location just before dinner time, so he and his team had geared up and moved out.

Somehow, the suspect had found out they were coming and had fled with all the cash he'd stolen. The Assistant Director had then insisted everyone get a few hours rest and approach the case with a clean slate later the next day. That was easier said than done as Don could still feel the anger and adrenaline surging through him. Rest was the last thing on his mind at the moment.

Once at his apartment, Don tried to slide the key into the lock, only to have the door creak open before the key was fully inserted. With a jolt, he realized the door hadn't even been latched. Fearing the worst, he cautiously drew his gun and entered the apartment with instincts on high alert.

Looking to his left, he saw a dark figure slumped on the couch in front of the TV and immediately relaxed. Charlie.

"Charlie!" he barked as he quickly holstered his weapon. "What the hell are you doing here? How'd you get in?"

"You gave Dad a key two months ago," he quietly answered.

Something in Charlie's tone put Don on edge. He sounded drained. No. Defeated.

"Charlie?" he asked in a softer tone. "What's going on?" He slowly walked over to the couch and stood a few feet from Charlie's left, taken aback by his appearance. "Did something happen to Dad?"

His hair was uncombed, and for the most part falling in front of his eyes as his head was bowed. Don could see the pale tinge to his skin, and the way his hands trembled. He was even wearing the same clothes he had been yesterday. It was obvious something big had happened and Don temporarily forgot his anger.

There was a moment of silence before his brother answered, a barely detectable hitch in his breathing. "I almost did it."

"Almost did what?" Don quietly coaxed, afraid to ask.

Without answering, Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out a white envelope. Wincing slightly, he leaned forward and set it on the table.

Curious, Don glanced at Charlie's carefully composed face before reaching forward and grabbing the envelope. His breath caught in his throat when he realized what the envelope contained. Money. A lot of money.

"Charlie, what are you doing with all this money? Charlie, talk to me." Don was scared now, and making no attempt to hide it.

Charlie's neutral expression faded slightly. "Last night. I... I needed something. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't think I had a choice. It was only logical." His voice was wavering like it usually did when he was stressed over something.

"What was only logical, Charlie?" He walked around the table and sat beside his brother, noticing his eyes starting to tear.

"When the doctor told me no more, I got sick. I still am and I can't... I can't function. I'm hurting the people I love. I can't do what I love. I needed it, you see?" he forcefully intoned, still not making eye contact.

"What did you need, Charlie?" Don had a pretty good idea now, but was refusing to believe it. His little brother would never do that. His little brother that loved knowledge and logic and abhorred any sort of self destructive behaviour because it didn't make sense would never do that. Never.

For the first time, Charlie turned his head and looked directly at him. The sadness, pain and confusion in his eyes blatantly obvious. "I was going to buy drugs, Don. But... but I couldn't. All I could think was how disappointed you and Dad would be. The thought of letting either of you down..." his voice trailed off as the tears started to flow.

"My god, Charlie." Don reached over and pulled his brother to him, wrapping his arms tightly around him and feeling warm tears soaking into his shirt. He couldn't help but notice how small Charlie felt in his arms. His baggy clothes had obviously been hiding a loss of weight he could ill-afford to lose.

The anger he was feeling was indescribable. His brother had been about to do the stupidest thing in his entire life. How long had Charlie been considering obtaining drugs illegally? Charlie had people he could talk to. He knew that, so why the hell didn't he ask for help? The relationship with his brother was strained, but he never thought it was so bad that Charlie would rather risk destroying his life than talk to him.

He shuddered to think what could have happened. At its best, but still not good, Charlie would have become a drug addict, illegally using street drugs for years. At its worst, Charlie would end up in jail, or worse, in the morgue, the victim of an overdose. Don knew exactly the type of world drug addicts and dealers lived in, and the thought of his little brother becoming involved in it scared and angered him. Especially when it so easily could have been prevented.

Don did not like the flood of images in his mind and pulled back. Placing his hands on Charlie's shoulders, he turned him so they were face to face. "What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded, his anger bubbling near the surface now. Not only his anger at Charlie, but from the disastrous night before. "You could have gotten yourself killed! Why the hell didn't you come to Dad or I? Or Larry? We could have helped you, damn it!"

"I didn't think-"

"Damn right you didn't think!" He jumped off the couch and angrily paced the room. "Why, Charlie? Why didn't you ask for help?"

"I didn't think it was that bad."

"You were about to buy narcotics, Charlie! Illegally! How could you not think there was a problem?" Don incredulously asked.

"I thought it was the flu. The pain got so bad, and the doctor wouldn't help. He gave me a weaker prescription."

"Did it help? The weaker drug?"

Charlie looked at his feet.

"You didn't take it, did you. Did you?" Don implored.

Charlie didn't look up.

"I'll bet you also didn't tell the doctor you were doubling your Percocet dose either." Don made no effort to hide the disappointment on his face.

His brother glanced up, surprise on his face. "How did you know?"

"It's what I do, Charlie." One of his brother's earlier statements came back to him, Charlie's naiveté showing through. "You're going through withdrawal, Charlie. It's not the flu. I'm willing to bet not only is the withdrawal causing the pain to be more severe, but your expectations as well."

Charlie looked inward, mulling over his brother's statement. If possible, he looked even more broken. "You're telling me, I've been in pain and about to break the law because of something that's all in my head?"

Charlie looked everywhere but at Don. He knew what he'd see on his face. Anger. Frustration. Possibly guilt. But worst of all, pity. Pity because he'd let the situation get out of hand. For years, he'd never understood why people would break the law and destroy their lives. Especially when the problem's solution simply involved speaking with a family member, friend, doctor, counselor. Any number of people. Well, now he understood.

All he'd ever wanted was to be seen as a grown-up. He lived with his dad in his childhood home, sought his brother's approval with each FBI case he assisted on, and was blessed or cursed depending on how one looked at it with a youthful appearance. He wanted to be seen as someone capable of taking care of themselves. He could take care of himself all right. He would have taken care of himself right into jail.

Now, he was being told there was nothing wrong with him? That his imagination had essentially run wild?

"I don't doubt for a minute you're in pain, Charlie. I think you let it get out of control. If you had just swallowed your pride and come to one of us, or told your doctor, none of this would have happened!" Don stated, almost echoing his thoughts exactly. "It shouldn't have happened at all."

That last part was said so quietly Charlie almost missed it. "Don?"

"You never should have been there, Charlie. I should have let you out of the car a block away and-"

"And lose precious time?"

"It's my fault you got hurt, Charlie. If that had never happened, then you wouldn't be where you are now."

Charlie didn't realize Don had felt that way. His angry words from the day before came back to him in a rush and he felt his stomach drop even further. He hadn't thought that would even be possible. "Please, Don. Don't say that. I didn't mean what I said. I never blamed you."

Wishing he could give Don a bit more reassurance than the words could, he stood, but at the same time a sharp pain tore through his hip taking his breath away. With his vision clouding, he swayed dangerously on his feet.

"Charlie!"

He could feel Don's hands grabbing at him before he planted himself face first into the carpet. "I'm all right, Don."

"No, Charlie. You are definitely not all right. Has the pain been this bad the whole time?"

Grabbing onto Don's shoulder for balance, Charlie righted himself before answering. "This is the worst it's been. I left my cane in the cab and I guess I kind of stiffened up from sitting here so long. I just need to sit down."

Don's arm around his waist tightened slightly as he moved back towards the couch.

"I'm taking you to the doctor's, Charlie. Don't sit down or I might not be able to get you up. What about some aspirin before we leave to take the edge off?"

Not only was his stomach not about to accept anything in it, but he seriously doubted it would do anything. "Not unless you want it to make a reappearance in your truck," he jokingly replied.

"When was the last time you ate?" Don realized with a sickening feeling that not only had Charlie been losing weight because he felt too sick to eat, but any pain medication he might have tried wouldn't have stayed down long enough to give him any relief.

"There's a difference between eating something and keeping it down," Charlie stated.

"In other words, it's been too long," Don answered while he tightened his grip around his brother's slim waist, careful not to place his hand too low and press into his hip. At the same time, he started steering Charlie towards the door.

"Isn't it kind of early to be going to the doctor's?"

"There should be someone on call. If not, then I'm taking you to the hospital."

Step by step they made their way down to the truck, Don supporting Charlie in more ways than one.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

TBC

I'll post the final installment after Christmas. Merry Christmas everyone!