A/N: You know, I don't think I can remember another winter with so many people so sick for so long. Glad you enjoyed the toast with toast - I tend to see things visually first, and then try to write them, so I didn't see that problem until I was already there. That last line sure gave me a headache, trying NOT to say "toast with toast"!

Chapter 29

Alan waited patiently while the guard at the check-in point examined the contents of the box, piece by piece, wondering mildly how FBI Agents ever got fed if this was part of the regular routine. He knew for a fact that they depended largely on take out, and the thought of some young pizza delivery guy having to go through this daily made him shudder. Amazing that anybody would deliver here at all. Then again - his eyes swept the elevator banks - it would be lucrative enough to warrant the inconvenience, maybe.

He nodded his thanks to the guard as he waved him through, surreptitiously slipping him a donut as he collected his box. He wondered if that could be considered bribing an officer of the law. It would be awful if Donnie had to drag himself out of the hospital to defend his father's honor. His heart quivered a little, then righted itself.

Donnie was - well, not fine, despite any protests he might make to the contrary - but unmistakably alive, and for right now, he was willing to take that as enough. And Charlie was alive as well - also not really "fine", though the alcohol last night had kept him thankfully asleep in a semi-comatose stupor. He smiled faintly at the memory.

For right now, he chose to count his blessings. Don was getting good care, and Charlie - well, he was more perplexed as to how to deal with that one. He wondered if it was wrong of him to count on Don for a hand with it - Don, after all, had his own fallout to contend with - but Don could at least empathize with Charlie in a way that he could not. And he had a feeling Charlie was going to need that.

The elevator doors shushed open and he stepped into the hallway, balancing his burden carefully. He saw Megan just leaving the glassed-in war room and smiled a greeting. "Good morning." She looked tired. He hadn't really noticed it yesterday, but she looked as worn as he had ever seen her. "I thought I'd stop by with breakfast. A sort of - thank you."

"Oh, God bless you - " Megan pecked a kiss on his cheek. "Not that you need to thank us for anything, but that box smells wonderful. I'll get the boys - "

"And anyone else who helped!" Alan called after her. "I brought - well, a lot!"

He set the box down carefully on a large dark glass table and got busy emptying it - first paper plates and cups and napkins, then bags of still-warm bagels and small tubs of different flavored cream cheeses. There was a box of donuts and a large tray of cinnamon buns, courtesy of Mrs. Nussbaum, who had evidently heard about Don's hospitalization and dropped them off with a note of consolation. They smelled wonderful, and he and Charlie would never eat their way through them in time by themselves, so had it seemed providential; though he was starting to have an uneasy feeling that there might actually be something to Charlie's teasing. He pushed the thought aside - nonsense. They had been neighbors with the Nussbaums for years, and Mrs. Nussbaum had lost Abe not long after he had lost Margaret - she was simply used to cooking for more than one, no doubt. He would have noticed sooner if there was anything more there. She was just a kind-hearted woman.

He pulled out a cardboard jug of coffee, noting with satisfaction that it was still hot. Of course, they had coffee here, but - well, he had tasted it. He wasn't one for fancy coffees himself, but in this case, he couldn't believe that something a little more "designer" wouldn't be appreciated. He unloaded a basket of mini-muffins as well, then a box of mixed pastries, eyeing the spread in some alarm. It hadn't seemed like so much when he had ordered everything, but at the time, he had been almost overwhelmed with a need to show his appreciation for their friendship and faithfulness - not just in the large things, like arresting that monster and getting his boys to the hospital - but in the small things, like the courtesy of personally taking their statements, and the way they had tucked Charlie under their wing and gotten him through that first, horrible evening. Every time he thought of it, his eyes filled and words stuck in his throat, so he had resorted to that which he always found spoke just as clearly as sentiment - food.

He stepped back from the table to get a better look. Well, it was a lot of food, all right, but somehow he didn't feel it would go to waste. He shot a look over his shoulder through the glass, but didn't see any sign of Megan or David or Colby yet, so he glanced around the room. He had never had the luxury of being in here alone - this place where his son spent so much of his time. It was full of glass and chrome - sleek and sterile. He wasn't sure he liked it. He eyeballed the large, high tech viewing screen - everything here was state-of-the-art, that was for sure. He drifted past the table to the other end of the room, and smiled. Here things looked a little more low-tech, even downright old-fashioned - a spatter of photographs push-pinned to a board. Something caught his eye and he took a step closer. Donnie.

Curious and intrigued, he moved even closer, until he was almost nose to nose with the board. Donnie's baseball card. How funny to see it here. He remembered how proud he'd been the first time he'd seen it - how he'd read the stats until he had them memorized, handled it until he feared the print was in danger of rubbing off from overuse. He'd carried that card around with him for years, where it could fall into view every time he opened his wallet and excite conversation. It had made him feel like the father of a celebrity. If he was honest with himself, he still carried it today, just tucked farther back behind more recent photos and ID. Maybe he'd take it out someday, to make room for photos of grandchildren. Maybe.

His eyes jumped to the next photo and he folded his arms over his chest. He remembered this one too - college. Donnie looked young here, even to him. And of course, if his team had seen this one, then Donnie's terrible secret was out - that, given the smallest opportunity, his hair would curl. Alan chuckled silently. Poor kid. Genetics were a bitch. If he kept cutting it shorter to keep it under wraps, before long, he wouldn't have any hair at all. Lucky for him it was so thick or he'd freeze.

The next one was High School, and Alan felt a bittersweet twinge of memory. The last time he had seen that particular face, it had been driving away in an old, overstuffed Volkswagen, college bound. He had made plans for himself to fly east with Margaret and Charlie later that day to get them settled in New Jersey, so Donnie had taken off for college alone. He had insisted it was no big deal, and Donnie had always been an independent kid, so Alan had chosen to believe him; but somehow, he still couldn't think of it without a pang, without feeling that he and Margaret should have come up with some way to manage better. Though even today, he couldn't imagine what that would be. He sighed. Life - you made your best guesses then lived with your regrets later.

Margaret. The next one looked like a photocopy of an old news clipping, and though Margaret had remarked at the time that no woman really wanted her photograph taken so soon after childbirth, he thought she looked radiant, aglow with the wonder of producing their first child. Funny how, no matter how many generations of people all over the world did it before you, you still felt that you had discovered something unique and miraculous when you held your first baby. Warmed by his reminiscences, he glanced over at the next photograph. And fell back a step.

It was like one of those nightmares that started out as a pleasant dream, only to suddenly descend into darkness and horror. Instinctively, he tried to wake himself, but the images still danced before him, as familiar as the old photos had been, and yet completely unfamiliar too: a hallway he knew as well as his own but splashed with blood, a close up of a bruised and torn wrist he also recognized, a bald man he didn't know strapped to a gurney, a lump rising on his forehead…more…much, much more…he tried to pull his eyes away, to shake himself awake, but his gaze stayed riveted, following the pictures, trying to read their story. He was distantly aware of cheerful voices, then abrupt silence, then a hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear, repeating his name softly, trying to draw him away. After a minute, he let them.

He knew it was Megan, let her steer him docilely to - some - quiet area, away from the war room, let her get him seated. She was talking to him, asking him if he wanted coffee? Or maybe water…? He nodded, burying his face in his hands; was barely aware that she went away, barely aware when she returned and touched his shoulder again to get his attention, handing him a cup of water.

"I'm sorry, Alan - I didn't think - "

He brushed it off. Nonsense. As if she was to blame for any of this - "What does it mean?" he asked at last. "I mean, the other photos - I - I guess I know what that means - but - the ones of Donnie - why - ?"

Megan seemed to hesitate. "They're - part of the case. Evidence."

"Evidence." He still didn't seem to be getting it. "Evidence?"

Megan leaned back, her arm still on his shoulders, and he could tell that she would much, much rather that Don explained all this to him. Stubbornly, he didn't let her off the hook. "They - were showing up at crime scenes. We knew Don was tied in somehow, we just didn't know how until - well, you know when."

"But they're so - personal. Like our own family album. How would someone else get them?"

Megan shrugged. "You can get a whole lot of stuff these days on the information highway, Alan. If you know where to look, or you're determined enough."

Alan nodded, his mouth tight. "So this - Soames. Was stalking my son."

Megan hesitated. "Sort of. Luring him, we think."

Alan nodded again. "I see." He started to rise.

Megan's hand remained on his shoulder. "Are you sure you don't want to sit a little longer? Or I could drive you home."

Alan gave her a mirthless smile. "No. I want you to get back in there and get a share of the food before it's all gone - I've seen those boys eat."

Megan returned his smile, but her eyes looked anxious. "Will you join us?"

"No." Alan's voice was firm. "I want to get to the hospital. To Charlie and Don." He disengaged her hand gently, then kissed it lightly. "Go on. I can drive. And I do appreciate everything you did for both my boys."

"All right." Megan pulled away reluctantly. "I'm going to call and make sure you get there all right."

Alan gave an aborted wave, stepping blindly toward the corridor.

The trip to the hospital was long and slow. He pulled over once because the road kept blurring and further exploration proved that he was crying. He wasn't quite sure why - he only knew he felt angry, sad - violated. As though this monster had reached into their private lives and defiled their private memories. He was angry at Don for not telling him about it, then angrier at himself, because he knew that he really didn't want to know - didn't want to spend the helpless days sick and twisted with worry that some psycho had singled out his son to torment. It wouldn't have helped them solve the case and his terror would have been a distraction for Don, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. But he still felt, somehow, that he should have been able to do better - to be a bulwark of strength for his son. Still, what parent could hear such a thing without going half-crazy with worry?

He pulled into the hospital parking lot and found a space in Visitor's Parking, turned off the engine and reached for his package, containing small toiletries and pajamas and the optimistic addition of a robe. Then he took a minute to arrange his face. Neither of his sons needed to see him like this - if he couldn't be a bulwark of strength before, then he could certainly be one now.

He felt fairly composed when he reached the elevator and pushed the button for the fifth floor, was already working out conversation in his head, something light, maybe, about Charlie's drunken utterances. When the doors parted, he stepped out into the hall, marveling that it could be so filled with sunlight, when inside he felt so dark and cold. He glanced up at the pair waiting for the elevator, his eye automatically classifying the man in the sober suit and sunglasses with the crisp professional air and the pistol that created a discreet bulge on his hip. One of Donnie's brethren, no doubt. He'd know the look anywhere. His eye drifted further to take in his companion, then halted. A newly familiar face. His gaze continued up and up, studied the bruise-covered bump on the shaved forehead, the narrow, predatory eyes, the wrists shackled at the waist. He stopped dead, addressing the man in the suit.

"That's Soames," he said abruptly. "Isn't it?"

He couldn't read the man's eyes behind the sunglasses, but he saw him stiffen. "Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "I need to catch this elevator."

"I'm Alan Eppes," Alan continued, as if the man hadn't spoken, but his eyes were fixed on Soames. "I'm betting Mr. Soames recognizes me."

One corner of Soames' mouth curled up in a sneer.

The Agent hesitated. "Mr. Eppes," he repeated. "Of course. I'm - transporting Soames to a federal lock up right now. Please give Special Agent Eppes my best wishes for a speedy recovery."

Alan nodded, but he was watching Soames.

"So, your kid made it, huh?" Soames drawled. He sounded amused. "Too bad. Give him a message for me, too - that tomorrow is always another day."

The Agent tugged on Soames' arm. "Murder of an ATF Agent, attempted murder of an FBI Agent? I'd say your tomorrows are numbered, Soames."

Soames' eyes danced with unholy amusement. "You never know."

The Agent manhandled Soames toward the elevator. "You just don't know when to shut up, do you?"

"Hey, Daddy Eppes," Soames called over his shoulder as the elevator doors buzzed warningly. "Make sure he knows I'll be thinking of him. I'll hang his picture right over my bunk."

The Agent gave him a shove. "That's enough outta you!"

Alan blinked. "No," he heard himself say, as if from very far away. "That's all right. I have a message for Mr. Soames, too."

He was a peaceful man, given to solving problems with brain and words, not brawn. He had been arrested protesting for peaceful measures, still believed in them and supported them.

So even as he saw his fist shoot forward, heard the crack of bone and saw the spray of blood as it connected and felt Soames rock backward into the elevator wall under his leaping weight; even while his arm pulled back for a second blow, abruptly stalled by the Agent's grasp, he was caught by his own surprise.

TBC