A/N: Well, I was worried when I split the last chapter as a separate part that this one would be too short, but it turned out just the opposite. First I thought it would just be a little long, but then it got longer and longer and I realized it really needed to be split into two. So one more chapter after this before the epilogue, though it is really a continuation of this chapter. The good news is that the next chapter is done.

These two chapters deal with Don's past, and while I have tried very hard not to embroider, I have had to make some guesses and assumptions in order to write it. What do we know? That Don worked in Fugitive Recovery (see Man Hunt - probably his first assignment out of the Academy), that he taught at the FBI in Academy right after that (see Longshot - we don't know for how long, but FBI training is seventeen weeks), that he was in Albuquerque when his mother got sick, just before he transferred to LA (see the Pilot). We know he lived with Kim in Albuquerque, that she worked for him there and that he and gave her a ring, which she mailed back (see Counterfeit Reality), and that he ran his own office at some point (see the Pilot). I feel very comfortable assuming this was Albuquerque, since Don was only about 35 in the first season and that was his last assignment before LA. I'm guessing he either worked his way up through the ranks in Albuquerque, or else there is some assignment in between that we have yet to learn about. Hopefully, we'll find out some day. In the meantime, this is the best I can do.

Chapter 35

Terry Lake - down front, because she was so short. Old Jericho, standing in the back, because he was so tall. Brian Cavin - God, remember him? We had wicked fun - an unholy combination, vowed to stay in touch forever. Brian had been killed in the line of duty just two years after they graduated. Seeing his face made him miss him all over again.

His mother had drawn a little arrow pointing to his picture: second row, third from the left. Yup, that was him all right - all teeth. He looked so young. They all looked so young. Had it really been that long?

He stared at the blur of navy blue FBI polo shirts. How many of them were still in the FBI twelve years later? How many of them were still alive?

Did you worry, Mom, that I might end up like Brian? But I'm still here. You're the one who died. Which just goes to show…something. Something ironic. That escapes me just this minute. He crossed his arms over the cover of the book and held it splayed open against his chest. Maybe I'm not ready for this. Maybe I need a beer. His eyes strayed to the half empty glass of juice at his elbow. But, of course, I'm on the wagon. Oh, well - not being ready has never stopped me before.

He tilted the book away from his chest and peered at the next page. That's right - he'd won a couple of awards. How was it for a mother to hear that her son was Marksman, Best in Class/Category, Handguns? Wasn't quite like discovering the Eppes Convergence. But at least she'd known he could protect himself.

Too bad you couldn't shoot cancer; then he could have protected her, too.

He turned the page and it sparked a grin. Him and Coop, that time they'd stopped by Pasadena on their way back in. Man, they looked like a pair of reprobates. No wonder his Dad had asked if they were allowed razors on fugitive duty. Always hard to explain how the time melted away on the road: no time to think when you were on the trail and nothing to do but when you were on stake out. You lived, breathed and ate the hunt - kept your focus or lost your life. The old joke was that, fresh in from that particular field job, you were barely human. Or maybe it wasn't a joke. Truth was, it did sort of make you forget polite society - like coming in from the wilderness. Really wreaked havoc with your people skills. He stared at the picture a little longer. Mom had taken this one. He'd have to show it to Coop if he stopped by - he'd love it.

On the road together, they'd been closer than a lot of couples - spent more time together, too. He hadn't thought about it a lot himself - his mind was usually occupied with the puzzle of how to get in this one's head, to flush that one out, to corner that other one. He'd been good at it, too. Damn good. The mental puzzle had jazzed him up and the physical exertion had let off steam. A lot like baseball. And like baseball, he could actually remember the moment when he had decided that it wasn't for him any more.

They'd been hanging out in the cemetery, waiting for a murderer who Don was convinced would come, when Coop had said jokingly, "So, whattya think? If we keep on like this for enough years does that count as common law marriage?"

It had been funny and he had laughed. It wasn't until much later, their felon bagged and delivered, that he found the words keeping him awake. Okay, it had been a joke - he knew that. But…what the heck was he doing? He loved Coop, but did he really want him to be the most intimate relationship in his life? When was the last time he had dated, anyway? Or even noticed a woman as more than a lead to a perp? For that matter, when was the last time he had eaten a meal sitting at a table, read a book, had a conversation that didn't include the words, "So you come around the front and I'll…"?

Worse, getting into these guys' heads was starting to creep him out. What if one day he couldn't find his way out again? Was this really what he wanted his future to be? That had kept him awake more than a few nights, so, on top of it all, he had started to lose his edge. Finally, he had got up the nerve to tell Coop that he was breaking up the team. It had felt a lot like a divorce.

He told Madden he wanted a transfer as soon as they went in for their next assignment. Madden had looked at him for a long time, then reached inside his desk and pulled out a clutch of papers. "You guys make a good team," he'd said thoughtfully.

They did. How could he explain that it wasn't enough?

"But fugitive detail can be a burnout job." Madden pushed the papers across the desk. "The Academy is looking for someone to teach Tactics to the next couple of new classes of recruits. You got high marks in that as a student and I'm betting you've picked up some new tricks on the road. Why don't you try it while you decide what you'd like to do next?"

Don had stared at the papers, surprised, then jerked a nod. That would be good. Give him some time to clear his head. He'd smiled slightly. A teacher, huh? Wouldn't Charlie get a laugh out of that?

They'd shaken hands and Don had taken the forms with him. He was at the door when Madden's voice stopped him. "You're good at this, Eppes. And you and Cooper are a good fit. But I know that's not enough - the job has to be a good fit, too. Still, if you ever change your mind, you've always got a place here."

Good. It was nice to know that he always had a place somewhere. He had filled out the forms, sent them in, and agreed to show up at the Academy only a couple of weeks later. But first, he caught a plane to LAX. Time to check back in at home, too. Someplace else he was hoping he'd always have a place.

He'd taken a cab from the airport: mostly to keep them from having to make the grueling trip in traffic, but partly because he wanted to see the house again alone for the first time. The cab pulled up out front and he saw the old Craftsman, beautiful and serene, just as he remembered it. Just for a second, his vision blurred.

They must have been watching for him, because he'd only made it a couple of steps up the drive when the door had burst open and his mother ran out. She threw her arms around him and for a minute, overbalanced by the weight of his duffle bag, he was sure they were going to end in a heap on the driveway, but he felt the bag lifted from his hand and managed to get his face free of his mother's hair long enough to see his father standing right behind her, looking more subdued, but pleased.

Mom had pulled back to study him. "You look tired," she decided, running a hand down his cheek. "And so thin. Don't they feed you on Fugitive Recovery?"

He'd laughed, slipping his arm around her waist to lead her back to the house. "Trust me - we eat. Coop never met a meal he didn't like. It's just - you know - hectic." He saw his father's lips tighten with disapproval but pretended not to notice.

He stared at the next photo in the book, taken on that same trip home. He did look tired, and not just physically. He actually looked a little lost, staring out at the koi pond, almost, ironically, in the exact same position as today.

He let the album lie open across his lap and gazed down at the flashes of movement in the small pond. He wondered if the koi ever got tired of listening to his troubles. He hoped not - they had proved to be pretty good company over the years - for a bunch of fish. Not much for conversation, of course, but that wasn't always a bad thing. Half the time conversation didn't get you anywhere anyway. He and Dad had had some pretty fruitless conversations on that visit, as he recalled.

Mom had pulled him into the house and straight through to the kitchen. "Lasagna's almost ready - and I have steaks for tomorrow - I thought we could grill. Maybe have some of the neighbors over - they'd love to see you…you must be starved…would you like anything to drink? I made iced tea…"

Don inhaled deeply, snitching a slice of tomato topped with mozzarella and basil from a platter and biting into it. Why was it that everything smelled and tasted better at home?

She had given him an exasperated look that was so familiar that he had laughed before he could stop himself. "I know I taught you better manners than that," she'd grumbled, her face oddly pleased. "How bout that tea?"

"For heaven's sake, give him a beer, Margaret," his father had piped up unexpectedly. "He's not twelve."

Mom had looked startled, then stared at him as though seeing him for the first time. "Of course he's not," she said quietly, rubbing his arm as she passed him on the way to the refrigerator. He couldn't figure out why she looked so sad.

"So, this teaching thing - that sounds like a good job."

He had accepted a beer from his father and taken a swallow. "I guess so - for now. It's only temporary. I'm a guest teacher."

"Still. There must be teachers who are permanent, right?"

"Yeah. Sure." He'd tried to swallow down a faint annoyance with the beer. "Older guys, guys who can no longer work in the field due to age or injury - it's like coaching, you know? They can't play anymore, but they can share their expertise. I haven't got a whole lot of expertise to share yet."

"Somebody must think you do, or they wouldn't have offered you the job."

"A lot of agents do it between things. It's temporary. Until - until something else opens up." Saying 'until I get my head together' would not make this conversation any shorter. "I'm a field agent, Dad - I'm not ready to be benched yet."

"There's a lot to be said for teaching. It can be very rewarding."

Right. Teaching. "I'm not Charlie, Dad."

"Alan." Mom's voice had been quiet, but brooked no argument. "Could you set the table for me, please?"

Great. Not home an hour and things were already tense. "I'm - going to say hi to the koi."

He had spent a lot of time with the koi on that trip.

He looked back at the photo of himself and the koi pond, then at the two photos on the facing page. Oh, yeah. He had almost forgotten about those. He found himself smiling.

"That's not what I meant. I just think you'd be good at it, that's all." Dad had followed him out, handed him a slice of garlic toast, hot from the oven. "You shouldn't drink without something in your stomach."

Don had accepted the toast, scooted over to make room for him on the bench. He felt his father's weight settle next to him.

"Don't burn your mouth."

He tried not to roll his eyes. Once a parent, always a parent. "Based on what? I never taught anybody anything in my life."

"Sure you have - Charlie. Taught him how to ride a bike, how to catch a ball. You were good at it."

He'd snorted around his bite of garlic toast. "Doesn't take a genius to do that." Whoops. Bad choice of words.

His father had stretched an arm along the back of the bench, almost, but not quite, touching him. "It doesn't take a genius to do a lot of things, Donnie," he said quietly.

Donnie. A sure sign that they were okay. He settled back into the bench and relaxed. "Speaking of geniuses…" he licked garlic butter off his fingers. "…how's Charlie doing across the pond?"

"Okay, you two - let's have a picture!"

They exchanged an amused glance at the inevitable camera that appeared in front of them. "Pretty good, it seems. Likes Cambridge. He's living with a girlfriend."

"Yeah?"

"Smile, now!"

"Yeah." Dad elbowed him. "Older woman."

Don quirked his brows. "Go, Chuck."

The camera clicked.

Don stared down at the photo. They were both smiling. Dad looked younger, too. He'd definitely aged since Mom's illness and death. He looked at the photo underneath it - him and Mom this time, courtesy of Dad manning the camera. He held the book closer, trying to remember that outfit she'd been wearing, how she'd sounded, how she'd smelled. She looked so young and healthy.

"Now get in the house before my lasagna burns, or you're eating take out."

"I like take out," he'd protested. "I eat it all the time."

"All the more reason why you're not eating it here." She took his arm.

"Dad says Charlie's living with a girlfriend."

"Oh." She made a face. "Apparently. I hope he knows what he's doing."

"Let's see…he's aces at geometry…physics…pretty good at chemistry…I'd say he's got all the bases covered." He winked at his Dad. "And besides - that's something else it doesn't take a genius to do."

His mother was not amused. "I just hope he's ready."

"Mom, he's over twenty-one - believe me, he's more than ready."

He'd expected a sarcastic rejoinder, so he'd been startled when she slid her arms around his waist and hugged him instead. "I'm glad you're home," she whispered.

"Yeah," he agreed, hugging her back. "Me too."

"Donnie," she held him back as Alan proceeded them into the house, tugging on his arm until her lips were close to his ear."…he doesn't mean it like it sounds."

Yeah, right. Whatever. "Okay."

She'd taken his face in her hands and turned it until he looked directly at her. "He worries. He just doesn't know how to say that."

Oh. He'd sighed. "Mom - there's nothing to worry about. Really. I can take care of myself."

She'd smoothed the hair over his ear and cupped his cheek, studying his face as if she were memorizing it. "Okay."

He leaned his head back, watching the clouds scuttle across the sky. He wished now that he'd had the forethought to memorize hers.

She had done that a lot that trip - hugged him, touched him, more than usual - almost as if she thought it might be…he groaned aloud at the sudden realization…the last time. Was that what she was worried about?

Not for herself - for him.

He rubbed his eyes and glared at the koi. "You could have clued me in," he grumbled.

TBC

PS: 3rd gal, I always think of you when I finish and Alan/Don scene. But they do all the talking, I just type.