A/N: This chapter has beenupdated due to an oversight of mine. Nothing has changed except 'astrology' has been replaced with the correct term 'astronomy'. My apologies to the astronomers out there - it was a typographical error only. I do know the difference.

Chapter 8:

Charlie and Don made their way into the house slowly, Charlie slightly behind his big brother but not touching, as per Don's request. It didn't work.

"Don!" their father exclaimed, coming into the room. "What happened?"

Glancing at his brother to remain silent, Don replied, "Fell down, Dad. Nothing serious."

Alan scrutinized him carefully. "You fell down," he repeated. His voice was heavy with disbelief. He looked to Charlie for confirmation. At his youngest son's nod, Alan pursed his lips thoughtfully. Once Don got settled in a chair he asked, "Why did you fall down?"

Don looked to Charlie for help, but the young mathematician held his hands up in surrender. "You're on your own on that one Don," he said. "I have to go phone Amita." He turned and headed for the kitchen.

Alan sat on the couch. Looking at Don's hands, he commented, "Must've been a hell of a fall."

Don glanced down. He'd forgotten about the bandage. "Yeah, well," he mumbled. "You know how it is…"

"No, I don't," replied Alan. He leaned back on the couch and folded his arms. "But I'm positive you're going to tell me." The experienced FBI agent suddenly felt as though he'd been busted for breaking a window. "Dad…"

"Don't you 'Dad' me, Don Eppes. What have you done to yourself this time?" Alan leaned forward and studied his face carefully. "You haven't been looking after yourself, have you my son?" he added softly.

Don glared at his father. "What makes you think I haven't?"

Alan stood. "If you're going to act like a child, you'll get treated like one." He headed for the kitchen. "Stay put while I find you something to eat." He met Charlie coming out. "Did you know about this?" Alan asked.

Charlie shook his head. "No idea."

Alan glanced at the back of Don's head and frowned before entering the other room. After the door swung shut, Charlie walked over and sat by his brother. "How're you feeling now?" he asked.

"Like I've been run over by a truck." Don sighed. "He certainly hasn't lost his touch, has he?"

"Nope." Charlie gazed at him thoughtfully. "You know," he mused. "You shouldn't be feeling that badly."

"Figure of speech, Chuck."

Alan strode out of the kitchen, tray in hand. "I want you to eat all of this, Don," he ordered. "And then you're going to go straight to bed." He set the tray on the coffee table.

Don looked at the spread sadly. "Dad, I appreciate it, but…" He shook his head. "I'll never be able to eat all this."

Charlie leaned across and picked up the sandwich plate. Setting it in his own lap, he said, "Not to worry, bro. I'll help you out."

Smiling slightly, Alan conceded "All right, Don. But eat all of the soup, okay?" When Don obediently picked up the spoon, he turned to Charlie. "Where's Emma?"

Charlie glanced at Don. His brother's spoon had faltered briefly, spilling soup back into the bowl. Swallowing a mouthful of bread and roast beef, he replied, "Amita's bringing her over. I left her with Amita and Larry." At Alan's disapproving look, he added, "She wanted to see Amita's book on astronomy. She wouldn't have wanted to leave just then, anyway." He nodded his head at Don. "He needs to drink water."

"Water?" Alan asked.

"Lots of water."

Don protested. "You're going to make me sick, you know."

Alan headed back to the kitchen. "You are sick, you know!" he countered. The door shut on any response Don would've made.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Larry and Amita arrived shortly after Alan sent Don to bed. Emma was full of information about the book she'd seen. "…And there's one called the Crab – uh, the Crab…" She turned to Amita for help.

"Nebula," the young woman offered.

"The Crab Neb-yoo-la." Emma wrinkled her brow in disgust and then shrugged. "…And the Horse Head Neb-yoo-la, and…" Charlie smiled as the little girl seated on his lap recited a litany of stellar formations.

Alan watched from the dining room, marvelling at how well the two got along. "It's like…" he began saying to Larry in an undertone, but stopped.

Larry looked at him knowingly. "She's his own," he finished.

Nodding, Alan replied, "I didn't want to say it. I thought I might jinx it."

"I understand," Larry confided. "I too find the entire situation and the ease with which Charles has adjusted to be almost… surreal."

Something Charlie said caused Emma to laugh. He looked over at his father, his eyes shining in triumph. Alan smiled sadly. Charlie ducked his head at that moment and so missed the expression on his father's face. Larry, however, did not. "Something wrong, Alan?" he asked.

"No," he whispered. Clearing his throat, he repeated firmly, "No. I was just thinking… His mother would have been so proud…"

"She would have indeed," the physicist agreed. "And yet, I believe, on some existential plane, she may already know."

Alan looked at him. "She does," he replied. "I'm sure of it."

-x-x-x-x-x-

When Don came down the stairs several hours later, it was to find the lights off and everyone in bed. He paused, considering going back up, but extreme thirst overwhelmed him and he headed for the kitchen. Two large glasses of water later and he was ready to go back to his room. He wandered into the dining room, only to pull up short at the sight of a small figure standing by the table. Stepping forward slowly, he bent down on one knee and asked, "What are you doing up, sweetie?" When she didn't reply, he held out his hands. "Come here," he said gently. Emma ran over and threw her arms around his neck. "Hey!" he exclaimed in surprise. "What's the matter?" He patted her back awkwardly. "You can tell me, Emma – what's wrong?"

She pulled back a little and whispered, "I miss my mummy."

"Well, of course you do honey," Don replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're supposed to."

She looked at him disbelievingly. "I am?"

Don's head was beginning to spin again. Getting slowly to his feet, he said, "Come sit on the couch with me and I'll tell you why." The two of them walked to the living room hand in hand, Don trying desperately to maintain his balance. It wouldn't reassure the little girl much if he passed out right now, and reassuring was exactly what he wanted to be. He eased himself down onto the cushions and then patted the seat beside him. Emma climbed up on her own – much to his relief. Once she was settled comfortably in the crook of his arm, snuggled up against his chest, he explained. "You see Emma… grownups try all the time to be special. Maybe they want to be special to another person, or maybe they want to do something special in their job…"

"Like my mummy," she nodded.

Don glanced down at her. "Okay," he agreed, raising his eyebrows. "Like your mummy. And they try hard all their life to be special in some way. You following me so far?"

"Yes," she replied. She suddenly climbed into his lap and sat staring up at his face, waiting.

"Uh… okay," Don stammered. "So… people want to be… um…"

Emma spoke up. "Special."

Don nodded. His thinking processes weren't that clear at the moment anyway, and Emma climbing on his knee was unexpected, to say the least. "So, if they go away and you miss them, then they did it, right?"

"Did what?"

Don rubbed his face with his hand. "They… made themselves special." He looked down at Emma. Her gaze never wavered. "Understand?"

She nodded solemnly. "Then mummy was really special." Suddenly wrinkling her nose, she asked, "Is Uncle Charlie special?"

"'Uncle Charlie', huh?" Don smiled. "Yeah, pumpkin – Uncle Charlie is about as special as you can get."

Emma began playing with his fingers, the effect of which was oddly soothing. After a few minutes of silence she said, "He said I could call him that."

"Don't you want to?" Don asked.

"Yes." She fell silent again. "I don't think I can call him daddy," she added finally.

Don sighed. "You don't have to call him anything you don't want to, Emma," he told her softly.

"Okay." She cuddled up closely to his chest. Don leaned back into the cushions and rested his head on the back of the couch, relaxed and drowsy. "Can I…" she began, then amended, "May I call you Uncle Don?"

"Only if you want to."

"Okay."

That was how Alan found them the next morning – curled up together on the couch, fingers entwined. He smiled as he noted his eldest son's arm wrapped protectively around small shoulders.

They were getting there.