A/N: So this, then, is the next piece. Interestingly enough, this chapter was not intended for this fanfic. It was actually the beginning of another fic I was working on months ago. I was perusing my files, looking for something totally unrelated, when I rediscovered this and began reading. I realized this would fit in the story quite amicably. Please do not hesitate to let me know if you disagree.
Chapter 2:
Two Weeks Earlier…Professor Charles Eppes stood motionless just inside the entry of his house, the open door forgotten. Barely breathing, he waited for the response that was not long in coming.
"Fine!" his older brother yelled. Don Eppes turned from his position – toe to toe with their father – and strode angrily toward the front door.
"Don, you walk out of here now and that's it!" Alan threatened. The warning didn't even cause hesitation in the other man's pace. "I mean it!"
The FBI agent called back over his shoulder. "I got it the first time! I may not be a genius, but I'm not stupid!" The front door slammed behind him.
In the ensuing silence, Charlie let out the breath he was holding. Asking about what just happened wouldn't be a good idea, he knew, so instead he quietly set his knapsack and laptop down on the hall table.
Alan cast a glance in his direction, but didn't speak. After a few seconds, he growled, "Damn!" and headed for the kitchen.
Feeling like someone who had barely escaped a tidal wave, Charlie pulled out a chair from the dining room table and lowered himself into it. Fully five minutes passed before the elder Eppes walked out of the kitchen and pulled out another chair.
"I'm sorry you had to hear that."
Charlie didn't speak, merely shaking his head, his eyes never leaving his father's face. He waited. Alan rubbed the back of his neck wearily. He looked very old.
"I suppose you heard everything?" he asked.
Shaking his head again, Charlie replied, "Only the last part."
Alan glanced up briefly before returning his gaze to the tabletop. "I imagine you want to know what happened." It wasn't a question. "Your brother and I had… a difference of opinion," he finished lamely.
"No kidding,"
Lifting his head, Alan regarded his youngest son with a withering look. "I don't need that from you right now."
Charlie held both hands up in a defensive gesture. "Whatever's going on, I'm not the one to blame."
Alan sighed. "You're right, of course. I'm sorry." He rubbed his neck again. Suddenly, he burst out "What the hell is wrong with him!"
The young mathematician could also tell when his father was kicking himself for something. The best option in that situation was to let him get to the point where he'd almost run out of epithets before stepping in to stop the flow.
"Of all the stupid, pig-headed, moronic…" Alan sputtered, searching for words.
"What has Don done?" Charlie asked quietly.
"What's he done?" Alan replied, fighting to control an urge to shout. "What's he done? Nothing! Yet." He pushed back from the table roughly and began pacing. "That's the problem. He thought he'd come over and drop a bombshell in my lap to…" he waved one hand in the air, once again searching for an accurate description. "…I don't know – gauge my reaction, I guess. 'Let's see if this one will give the old man a heart attack!'
Charlie stood. He was halfway to the staircase before his father asked, "Where are you going?"
"My room," Charlie replied, scooping up his computer as he passed. "Let me know when you've calmed down." He took the stairs two at a time, leaving his dumbfounded parent standing alone in the dining room.
Almost an hour went by while Charlie worked on his lesson plans. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, he was motionless except for his fingers flying over the keys.
The knock on his bedroom door was soft and hesitant, but not unexpected. He had heard his father's heavy tread on the stairs long before the tapping began. "Charlie, can I come in?"
"Yeah," Charlie replied, not lifting his eyes from the screen. "I'll be done in a minute."
Alan entered the room and stood awkwardly in the doorway, his hands in his pockets like a recalcitrant child. "I apologise," he began, "I didn't mean to take it out on you."
Charlie finished up, saving his work before closing the laptop and setting it aside. Looking up at his father, he invited, "Pull up a seat."
Alan smiled slightly and moved to sit on the bed beside him. He considered for a moment before continuing. "It's just that… sometimes your brother can really get under my skin, you know?" He turned in time to see Charlie's short nod. "Well… so can you, for that matter. But with Don, it's like he's deliberately baiting me."
"Sometimes I wonder if he isn't," Charlie agreed. He uncrossed his legs and turned to face his father. "So… are you going to tell me what happened?"
Alan shook his head – not in negation, but in frustration. "Don came over today to tell me he's considering asking for a transfer."
The simple statement had the profound effect of causing Charlie's heart to leap into his throat. He swallowed hard before asking "Transfer? To where?"
The older man replied "Possibly back into fugitive recovery. He was kind of vague about it."
Charlie thought hard about the implication. During the time his brother spent in fugitive recovery, they didn't hear from him for days or weeks at a time. Once, it was almost six months between phone calls. Something must have happened. "I thought he was happy where he was?"
"So did I!" Alan threw his hands up in exasperation. He stood and walked over to Charlie's dresser, picking up a book and examining it. Shrugging, he added, "I guess we were both wrong."
If Don did want a transfer out of his current position, there must have been some underlying cause. He'd said more than once that he loved his job. "He didn't say anything else?"
Alan gave him a long look before replying. "No." Charlie could tell there was more to it than that, but decided to let it drop. "What did you tell him?" he asked instead.
"I told him not to be an idiot," Alan replied. He dropped the book back onto the dresser. "What else could I say? It's his life."
Charlie shrugged, his mind racing through possible scenarios. Nothing like having a high IQ and an overactive imagination to make a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe Don didn't really mean it, or maybe he was just contemplating. Time would tell. "What did you mean by 'that's it'?" he asked.
"Nothing," Alan replied, too quickly. "Supper will be ready in half an hour." He left the room, his pace faster than necessary.
Charlie frowned. He could have headed downstairs to grab the phone but decided against it. Pulling out his cell, he dialled Don's number.
"You have reached the voicemail of Don Eppes…" Charlie was surprised, barely managing to collect his thoughts in time for the beep. "Don, it's me," he said. "Call me on my cell." Snapping the phone shut, he set it down on the bedspread beside him and laid back.Charlie stared at the ceiling with his hands tucked behind his head and thought about what his father had said. It wasn't like Don to say something out of the blue like that. There must be something else going on that he just hadn't talked about. Pulling his left hand out from behind his head, Charlie picked up the cell phone again and dialled another number.
"Megan? It's Charlie. Is Don there? Oh… well, I…" He paused, listening. "Could you ask him to phone me on my cell when he gets in? Thanks." Once again he folded the phone and laid it on the bed. He was deep in thought when his father's voice drifted up the stairs, calling him to supper. He pushed himself off the bed and headed down, hoping his brother would call before he did anything foolish.