A/N: Well, this one's been giving me fits. I've made the chapters for this story a little longer than the ones for Collateral Damage - partly because I was supposed to have it done before the new season started, partly because I planned on it being significantly shorter than CD. Well, it clearly wasn't done on time and it's not as short as I'd expected either (that will go on my gravestone someday - "I thought this story would be shorter").

This chapter got very long, so I finally split it into two, to make it less unwieldy. To make up for the brevity of this one, I'll post the next in another day or so. Thanks for your patience.

Chapter 12

"You're home early."

Charlie tossed his backpack on the couch and shut the door. "Yeah - things went really smoothly. Pretty much unheard of in the history of - hey! I haven't seen those in years!" He moved through the living room to the dining room, to where Alan was seated at the table, a stack of albums at his elbow and one open in front of him. Charlie leaned over his shoulder. "Look at us! Man, those haircuts were brutal! What, were you guys afraid we'd have something left you'd have to actually comb?"

Alan gave him half a smile. "That was the fault of Sully, the local barber's assistant. He was an ex-Marine. It was the last time he cut your hair, believe me."

"That's lucky." Charlie flopped into a chair next to him. "Especially considering all the hair you got to keep." He pulled the album closer. "I can't believe how young you look."

"Yes, that was before I turned into Methuselah," Alan agreed dryly. "Something, by the way, that seemed to correspond with my raising children."

"Must have been Don," Charlie observed piously. "I was - um - a little angel."

"Ah ha." Alan pulled the album back and turned the page. "You have a very creative - and - ahem - inaccurate - memory. No doubt a function of the genius brain."

Charlie grinned and reached for one of the books. "What made you dig these out?"

"Oh…" Alan fidgeted, looking a little self-conscious. "Don was here the other day looking at them and I gave him the one of his baseball photos to take with him…thought I'd look and see if there were any others that he should have."

Charlie propped up the book he had opened. "You don't have to go through all of them for that," he pointed out. "Mom labeled them in the front cover."

"Yes, well, I know that - " Alan smoothed the corner of one picture, his tone just a touch defensive. "But some of them have photos of both of you…I thought you should both have copies. Those are easy to make these days, right?" His smile crept out. "Look here - remember this? Halloween, 1983."

Charlie leaned in to look. "Oh, yeah. I remember how frustrated I was that I had to keep explaining that I was supposed to be Albert Einstein, not a mad scientist. Even with "E equals mc squared" written on my pocket."

"It was probably a little too subtle for the average neighborhood home."

"I thought it would be neat if Don went as Max Born, so that we would match, but he went as Zorro."

"Yes, well, it's hard for even a Nobel prize-winning physicist to compete with a sword and a cape."

Charlie's brows meshed. "Really?"

Alan's chuckled. "To a twelve-year-old boy."

Charlie's still looked unconvinced. "Okay."

"To Don as a twelve year old, then."

"I guess." Charlie turned a page, then burst out, "You know, Born was - I mean, his advances in the statistical interpretation of quantum mechanics alone - "

"I have no doubt," Alan assured absently, smiling at a new photo. "Maybe if he'd carved a "B" in his papers with a sword Don would have been more impressed."

"What made him pull these out anyway? I mean Don, not Max Born."

"Oh - he said he was thinking of selling his baseball cards on eBay - made him think of the albums."

Charlie stiffened. "His baseball cards? He - said that?"

"That's what he said."

"Oh." Charlie squirmed a little. "Um - but he loved those cards."

"That was years ago, Charlie. People move on." His smile grew sad as he gazed at the page of photographs. "Well, it doesn't seem to be my strength, actually, or yours for that matter, but people do. Your mother and Don were always a little better at letting go." He looked up from the album and smiled. "Then again, in the end he decided to keep them - said they held a lot of good memories - so maybe he's not really any better at it than we are, hm?"

"He did." Charlie forced a wan smile. He looked down at the album in his hands and abruptly closed it. "You know, I was supposed to meet Don at - three, but since I'm free early, maybe I'll just run over there now - see what he needs."

"You working on Don's case?"

"Well, I've been doing some work on it…but he asked me if I could stop by and go over everything. He seemed pretty discouraged about it when he stopped by."

"He stopped by?" Alan sat back in surprise. "When was this?"

"Oh, um - late - late last night. Very late."

"And nobody thought to wake me up? I wouldn't have minded saying 'hi'."

"Dad, it was the middle of the night - he didn't wake me up either. I heard somebody moving around down here and got up to check. We only talked for a few minutes, then he was gone before I got up this morning. I think he just crashed here so he wouldn't have to drive too far with his hand."

"His hand." Alan looked flabbergasted. "What about his hand? What's wrong with his hand?"

Whoops. Charlie hesitated. "Um…he…um…injured it. Just - just a little. At a crime scene, I think."

Alan stared. "And no one thought this was worth waking me up for?"

"No - Dad, it was nothing. He seemed fine. Maybe a little tired, but it was late. Really, I don't have any of the details." That last part, at least, was perfectly true, and Charlie was relieved to find himself back on solid ground again.

"Hmph." Alan gave him a hard stare, then returned to his album. "All right. Tell him to come back with you for dinner instead of this sneaking in and out."

Charlie rose hastily. "Well, I'll tell him. But just remember - I'm only the messenger."

000

Don felt the lock finally give and pushed the door inward. Funny how you depended more on your non-dominant hand than you realized - a simple thing like opening a locked door turned into a wrestling match. He tossed the keys on a small table by the door, added a stack of mail. He should probably make a little stronger effort to get his mail to all come to the same place, instead of having some of it still trickle into Charlie's after…how long had it been now? He locked the door behind him. The air inside felt stale and unused - he needed to air this place out, too. He needed to do a lot of things.

He strolled down the small hallway and paused at the kitchen to check out the refrigerator. He wrinkled his nose. It smelled even mustier than the apartment. Just as soon as this case was put to bed, he's have to pay some attention to the domestic aspects of his life. Or at least, restock the beer. He let the refrigerator door swing closed and wandered deeper into the apartment, to the bedroom. He'd left his bed unmade since…how many mornings ago now? Okay, Mom, I know - don't start.

He struggled out of his jacket and tossed it across the end of the bed, then dug into the closet for the box of school memorabilia and dragged it into the light, dropping it on the bed and sitting down next to it to paw through the remaining contents. He had inherited his mother's penchant for tidy files, so it didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. He'd take these back to the office and put them with his other school stuff. Pretty soon his whole life would be at the office. The idea was mildly depressing.

He yawned as he opened an envelope of photos and flipped through them. Sitting on the bed had probably been a bad idea. Sitting, period, seemed to be a bad idea. He tossed the photos back in the box and carried the whole carton into the hallway, swearing half-heartedly as he struggled for a position that didn't put pressure on his bad hand, his voice loud in the small apartment. It was so quiet here during the day…most of the other tenants were professional people like himself, gone until evening. He set the box by the door and leaned into the doorjamb for a second and closed his eyes. Wow. Where was all that handy adrenaline when you needed it?

He told himself to get moving, rolled onto his back so that both shoulder blades were pressed into the wall instead, but couldn't seem to get himself to budge any further. Okay, okay…he lifted his wrist high enough to squint at his watch. Maybe a power nap was in order - just a quick one. He had a couple of hours he could spare. With a sigh, he unfastened his belt and bundled it onto the table next to the mail, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as he headed down the hall. Couldn't risk sleeping in one of his only remaining clean shirts…his jeans, on the other hand, would have to stay - way too much work to try to get in and out of those with only one hand. This is where it would be nice to have somebody soft and sweet smelling around, he mused as he shouldered his way back into his bedroom. Somebody waiting at home to help you out of your jeans…he phoned his position in to the office and tossed his cell phone on the nightstand, then set the clock alarm carefully, pushing the mess of the covers aside and easing onto his back with a sigh. Man. That felt good.

He closed his eyes, burrowing into the blankets, his breathing already deep and slow. Oh, who was he kidding… he never seemed to go for the kind who were waiting at home for you anyway…looked like he'd be struggling with his own jeans for…

He was asleep before he could even finish the thought.

TBC