Title: Shall We Play A Game?

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: remains in effect

My Name is FraidyCat, and I'm a whump-a-holic.

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Chapter Twenty-Seven: Alexander Graham Bell

Robin sounded a little…groggy. Amita glanced at the small alarm clock on Charlie's desk and chewed on her fingernail. "Uum sorree. Ur u sweepin'?"

A tad more energy entered Robin's voice. "Amita? Are you all right?"

Dr. Ramaujan spit out her own finger; it didn't taste all that good, anyway. "You were probably still sleeping," she said much more clearly, in a tone of apology. "It's only seven, but I waited as long as I could."

"Yeah," Robin agreed. "It's seven. I'm usually up by now, but Don kept me awake half the night trying to make up his mind if he wanted to brag or complain about being an uncle. He ended up doing both."

Amita sighed. "I'm sorry about that. I seem to be botching everything. Poor Charlie doesn't even know yet, but I think everybody else in California does. I didn't know Don would call you last night; I should have gotten back to you and explained the mix-up of the blood samples…"

She was starting to sound a little frantic, and Robin tried to calm her down. "Don't worry about it Amita – I'm sure you've had your hands full. Fortunately, the future Mrs. Eppes can handle simple addition -- yu know, 2 plus 2 -- so I pretty much figured out what must have happened."

Amita frowned into the phone. Her voice became a little frosty. "I'm not sure I'm going to marry Charlie, just because…I mean, he hasn't even asked…"

Robin interrupted again. "I'm not talking about you." The answering silence went on for so long, she felt a little nudge was in order. "You do teach university-level mathematics and physics, right?"

"Mostly astronomy," Amita corrected automatically, then gasped as her synapses finally connected. "Oh, my God! You and Don are getting married!?"

Robin laughed easily. "I knew you could do it. Listen, we still have to negotiate the details, and I want to be there in person for that – do you think you can keep our secret for a while? Better than you kept yours?"

"I hate you," Amita pouted. "How's your sister? Seattle?"

Robin still sounded amused. "Emily's doctor will decide today whether to wait a little longer, or to schedule her for inducement. As for Seattle, it's usually rainy. I'm not sure about today, though – but then, I am in Spokane."

Amita felt herself blushing even though no-one could see her. "I swear, I'm going to ask Charlie to design an algorithm that determines exactly how many brain cells per day a woman loses during the first trimester of pregnancy. Until it started happening to me, I thought it was a fallacy. I feel like I've turned into Larry overnight."

Robin snorted. "I'll keep that in mind. How is Charlie? Don told me that the doctor advised against your visiting until the Brucella is deemed inactive. Have you at least gotten to talk to him?"

Amita shook her head, as if Robin could witness that fact. "I would never wake someone up this early," she grinned. "I'm going to wait until 9 if it kills me – and it just might."

"I doubt that Alan will wait that long," Robin observed. "My money's on 8, tops."

"Maybe I can distract him by asking to see Charlie's baby pictures again," Amita mused. She lowered her voice. "I will deny this forever, Robin, but I'm a little concerned about the nose."

Robin almost choked on a laugh, and finally managed to gasp her response. "So, how are you going to tell him?"

"I was hoping you'd have some ideas," Amita wheedled.

Robin spoke firmly, like a prosecuting attorney in her closing argument. "Oh, no, sweetheart. This one's on you."

Amita exhaled dejectedly into the cell. "I was afraid you'd say that."

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Liz gathered her long, lanky dark hair and pulled it back into a neat pony tail. She took a deliberate step away from Agent Granger, and whispered. "Knock it off. I will not compromise this assignment."

Colby toed the soft carpet in the crib room and shrugged adorably. "Aw, I wasn't suggesting we go all the way," he protested. "I was just trying to steal a little kiss."

Liz nodded at his rumpled shirt, and began to straighten her own. "You'd better tuck that in – the last thing we need is for Don to find us in a compromising position." She breathed deeply as she watched Granger unbutton his jeans so that he could rearrange his t-shirt. She smoothed the hair at her temples and forced her eyes up to his face. "Speaking of getting caught, did Alan ever figure out that you had a visitor when you were staying with him?"

Colby shifted things stage left, buttoned-up and grinned at her tell-tale blush. "Nah, I told you Dad would never wake up. He was still medicated to the gills. Slept like a baby." He frowned, slightly confused, as he heard himself say the last word. "I still can't believe The Whiz Kid is gonna be a father. It's always the quiet ones, ya know?"

Liz staggered back another half-step and felt her eyes go wide. "Charlie is what? When? Who? Where?"

Colby laughed and she shushed him again with a finger to her lips. "Amita let it slip at the hospital last night," he whispered. "Those two have been playing their cards pretty close to the chest – Don didn't even know!" He tilted his head, thinking. "Didn't seem to surprise Alan, though. Course, the where was probably at the Craftsman, and he wasn't sick or recuperating then, so he may have…heard something…."

"All right, all right!" Liz cried, holding up a hand. "Let's just skip the details. How do I look?"

Colby smiled. "Delicious. That's what got us into trouble in the first place."

She rolled her eyes, but smiled in spite of herself. "I'll go out first. Stall for a while back here – go check on the army in the classroom next door, or something. And no more of this…stuff…on the job, understand?" She set her face in stone. "I mean it."

Colby saluted sharply and clicked his heels together. "M'am! Yes, ma'am!"

Liz started for the main room, looking for Don, muttering under her breath all the way.

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Planet Green descended from the apartment while it was still dark. Cracker sent Team Van in one direction – on foot, of course – and he and Dawn went in the other. Each team had enough money from the Kitty to stop at a fast-food franchise for breakfast. Then, Cracker and Dawn would ride the Metro to the Edendale branch of the Los Angeles Public Library, on W. Sunset. The two of them could catch up on the news there, sit in the lounge; hell, they probably had enough time to read a book. A little afte noon, they would start making their way back across town, to the Y daycare center.

Marcus, Aaron and Patty would stay on-foot until they found a van. All three of them were experienced at hot-wiring, and at successful liberation of items not originally their own. They would look for quiet, residential areas. When they had targeted a van, the three of them would spread out and watch the neighborhood for at least half-an-hour, making sure it was safe to approach the vehicle.

It was after 10, and they were headed in the general direction of an auto salvage yard to look for plates, when they lucked out, and stumbled upon a rundown house with three rusty car shells in the front yard. There were no dogs to sound an alarm, and the property was protected from the prying eyes of neighbors by a high fence that was about to fall over. While Aaron and Patty continued down the sidewalk, Marcus strolled onto the lot as if he had every right to be there. He walked right up to the front door and knocked, ready with a cover story about asking for directions in case someone answered. After several minutes and another rap to the rotting wood, he decided that no-one was home and he quickly procured the plates from the dead Dodge Colt parked closest to the house. Anyone happening by wouldn't notice anything right away; view of the Colt was blocked by the Chrysler LeBaron that squatted on its four flat tires between it and the street.

Marcus caught up with Patty and Aaron just a few blocks later, and the trio kept walking. It was after 11 before they found what they wanted. Patty had been bitching for two hours about her feet, and had tried to whine the men into the first van they saw. It was a '67 Volkswagen, though, considered a collector's item – even in its rather deplorable condition. Both Aaron and Marcus knew right away that there was a very good chance it would be reported stolen immediately. Even if it wasn't, the van would serve to call attention to them; for one of the first times in her young life, Patty did not get her way.

They finally settled on what had to be one of the most boring, nondescript panel vans in California. It was a Ford Econoline, and it looked like a giant, rectangular box on wheels. It had probably once been white, but it was difficult to tell. Besides not having been introduced to soap and water in the current century, the vehicle had obviously taken a few hits. There was some red paint transfer on the dented front passenger-side fender, and blue on the rear driver's side. Aaron had a can of black spray paint in his backpack, and he figured if they covered the red swatch, the van would be sufficiently disguised. There really wasn't much remaining body that didn't carry some sort of dent or scratch already. They'd find an alley on the way to MacArthur Park and stop to spray on the paint and switch out the plates Marcus carried in his pack. It was doubtful they could find something to kick, as Cracker had suggested – but maybe they could crack a window, or something. Aaron's main concern was whether or not the van would even start, but it grumbled to life right away when he popped the hood and ran a wire from the hot terminal of the battery to the coil. He slammed the hood, open the unlocked driver's door and climbed inside. While he was waiting for Patty and Marcus to climb through the passenger door into the back, Aaron used his fingers to feel around the sun visor, searching for a key. When he didn't find one, he shrugged – he would do a more thorough search once they got away from here, into an alley somewhere. Maybe it was in the glove compartment; it was amazing how many people were idiots about their spare keys.

Marcus pulled the passenger door shut and Aaron reached down to put the van into gear. He groaned aloud when he found the vehicle's key – sticking out of the ignition.

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"And this one," Alan shared, jabbing a forefinger into the photo album, "was taken at the San Diego Zoo. Charlie was three. Donny was eight, and he was having his tonsils out when one of his little friends had a birthday party – those brave parents took 20 boys to a circus. He'd really been looking forward to it, and I think the only time he cried over the whole tonsillectomy was when we told him he couldn't go. So when he was feeling better, Margaret and I took the boys – just our boys, not all 20 of them – down to the zoo."

Amita had seen the picture before, but everything was new these days. Don looked happy, grinning at the camera and holding a hot dog, but little Charlie, his dark hair curly even then, appeared to be sullen. His little arms were crossed in front of his tiny chest, and he was frowning. Amita smiled – she was familiar with that expression. "Did they enjoy the day?" she asked. "Charlie doesn't look very happy."

Alan chuckled fondly, ghosting his hand over the photograph. "Oh, Donny had a great time. He tried to talk us into taking along at least one of his friends, but I honestly think he had the time of his life tormenting his little brother. He told him the apes were his Aunts and Uncles, and that the Reptile House was empty because all of the snakes had escaped and were eating small children to survive." Amita giggled and he continued. "He was incorrigible, but Charlie was unhappy before we even got there. He didn't understand the concept of road signs, and mileage. As we left L.A., he saw '121' on a marker, and Don said that's how far it was to San Diego. Twenty miles later, Don pointed out an '81' to him. Charlie multiplied the two numbers, and became convinced we had to travel 9,801 miles."

Amita's eyes widened. "He was three?"

Alan nodded somberly. "I confess, Margaret and I never did figure out what he was doing; every time we passed one of those mileage signs, he just continued to multiply, coming up with astronomical numbers that were nonsensical to the rest of us. We all thought he was just being a typical three-year-old. By the time we got these photos developed…" – Alan smiled – "you know, back in the day before digital, Margaret had started to notice other things and she put it all together." He shook his head. "That's when the fun really started."

He flipped the page of the album and discovered that they were at the end; the rest of the book contained a few mementos, such as ticket stubs and birthday cards, but no more photos. He started to close the book. "I'm sure I have a few more of these around here somewhere…."

Amita placed her hand on his to keep the book open, then pointed to a small card stuck in the binding. She could read 'Happy Father's Day' on the front. "Did one of the boys give you that?" she asked, pointing.

Alan carefully pried the card from the album. It was over 30 years old now and slightly yellowed; a little brittle. He offered it gently to Amita. "It was the first card that Charlie gave me."

"How sweet," she responded, accepting the card. "How old was he?"

Alan laughed. "He was a fetus." Amita almost dropped the card, and he laughed again. "When Don turned one, Margaret and I started trying for another child. After a few years, we all-but gave up hope. Almost three-and-a-half years, and Margaret finally discovered she was expecting again. She broke the news by leaving this card for me next to my dinner plate." His eyes grew suspiciously moist. "Poor dear had to bribe someone at a Hallmark® store to go into the storage room and scrounge up some Father's Day cards. It was only February, after all!"

Intrigued, Amita took great care in opening the card. On the inside front were the cursive words, 'New Joy, New Hope, New Father, New Baby'. On the right side of the card, she read: 'May all the special discoveries of fatherhood be yours; the wonders, the joys, the love that keeps on growing for a lifetime. Happy Father's Day.' A simple signature was at the bottom: 'With love, Margaret…and Baby X'.

Amita turned the card over, then softly closed it and then looked up, unleashing doe eyes on Alan. "Could I…I understand if you don't…." She sighed softly, and placed the card back into the photo album. "You should keep that safe. You've had it a long time."

Alan was silent for a moment, struggling not to burst into tears and seem unmanly. Finally he withdrew the card from the album again, and pushed it toward Amita. "I can't think of anything more perfect," he assured the young woman. "If you recycle Margaret's card by giving it to Charlie, it will almost be like she's sharing the wonderful news with all of us. You should add your signature, under hers, and after, we will put it in your first family album. Maybe someday the baby will grow up and be the third generation to send this card." He was proud of himself for saying all of that without crying, but in the end it didn't really matter. Amita threw her arms around him and buried her face in his chest, and her own tears soon soaked through his sweater. Alan blinked rapidly, smoothed her dark hair and patted her back encouragingly, smiling over her shoulder at the portrait of Margaret on the dining room wall.

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Colby watched a game of 5-card draw for as long as he could before, disgusted by the fact that the F.B.I. swat team was losing to LAPD, he decided he had let enough time lapse and left the small classroom. He headed for the main play area near the front door. "Hey, Don," he called, traversing the short hallway, "you wouldn't believe the embarrassing way those guys…" His voice trailed away as he caught sight of his Team Leader.

Don's face was gray, his expression stormy. Liz was standing near him, also facing Colby, but she refused to meet his eyes. Instead, she was standing with her hands on her hips, biting her bottom lip and staring at the floor. Colby slowed his steps and felt a chill run the length of his spinal cord. "What?" he asked.

Don waited until Colby stopped walking, just a few feet in front of him. He seemed to be having as hard a time looking straight at Colby as Liz was. "Wright just called," he muttered lowly. "Ian's down."

Colby staggered back as if sucker punched. "David?"

Don did meet his eyes then. "He's…not hurt," he answered. "He had to take Sarah out. Wright's not releasing any information to the press; we don't want to spook PG."

Colby winced. It was never easy for any law enforcement officer to use his weapon in the line of duty – no matter what you saw on television or in the movies – and it was an added burden when the perp was a woman, or young. He was relieved that his partner wasn't injured physically, but he knew from experience that there was still cause for concern. "How bad is Ian?" he asked, redirecting his thoughts.

Don frowned, frustrated -- not for the first time -- that he could not be at two places at once. "He's on his way to UCLA," he informed Granger. "Wright said he'll call with updates."

Liz joined the conversation. "What exactly happened, anyway?"

"It was a set-up," Don growled. "She managed to bury a knife in his gut. Thank God Sinclair went with him. If Edgarton had gone in without back-up – the way he wanted – it would have been his dying request."

Don abruptly stopped speaking and dropped his gaze to the floor again. Agent Granger summed it up for all three of them. "Shit."

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Oh, No! The team is separated and feeling each other's pain! Will Amita distract Alan so successfully that they both forget to call poor Charlie? Will Robin's sister ever pop? Will Don get married before Charlie becomes a Daddy? Will Ian bleed out on the way to the hospital? I'm tired.

A/N: My apologies to all the fanfic prison population who have made careers out of hotwiring cars; I had to use Google…