Part 2

Charlie parked his car in the first space he found. It was all the way at the back of the lot, very far from the doors, but he couldn't be bothered. A space was a space, and this little exercise was all about minimizing travel time and frustration stemming from driving. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced. The time he saved looking for a closer parking space gave him more control. He would now be able to make his way to the hospital using a more reliable mode of transport, unaffected by the rules and irritations of traffic: his legs.

He practically sprinted across the parking lot.

By the time he skittered into the waiting area, he had to pause and get some air. While doing so, he looked around for Megan. The sleek, modern waiting room was about half full; it took him a moment to locate her among the coughers and the sneezers and the minor bleeders. He finally spotted her off to one side, intent on a magazine, long legs crossed at the knee, straight ponytail flopping over one shoulder.

He made his way over and sat down next to her. She looked up, and they shared a sad smile.

"You got here okay?" she asked, and looked at her watch. Her eyes went wide. "Twenty minutes? From Pasadena? Charlie, you must have been doing a hundred!"

Charlie at least had the grace to look embarrassed about his crazy driving, but rallied quickly. "The roads were clear, and nobody pulled me pulled over," he rationalized. "How's Don? What happened to him?"

Megan sighed. "Well, there's no word yet. They brought him in here with a minor head injury, and he got injected with something. Probably right before he shot Yates."

Charlie blinked at her. "Is Yates dead?"

"Oh yeah," Megan said, with a bit of grim pride. "Judging from the scene it looks like he attacked Don and really paid for it. Don plugged him at center mass before he passed out. Five times."

Charlie needed a second to wrap his brain around that. "Wow. I mean, I always knew Don was tough, but …"

Megan smiled. "He's going to be okay. I can feel it. It didn't look too bad when they brought him in. So look, good news, your dad just called me. I'm going to go pick him up at the house. You can wait here?"

Charlie nodded at Megan. The agent looked exhausted, but also slightly pleading, like she'd rather be anywhere but the hard plastic seat she was currently occupying. She was chewing her lower lip.

"I certainly will," Charlie said kindly. "If they come out with news, I'll call you."

"Good. Okay, shift change!" she said, with some attempt at her usual cheer. She patted his knee, unfolded her tall, skinny self from the plastic seat and stood up. "I'll be back."

"Drive safe."

"That would fall under 'do as I say, not as I do,' right?" she asked, with a sly grin.

Charlie crossed his arms. "Ha ha. I've got my phone. Call if you need anything."

Megan nodded and left. Charlie, remembering his cell phone, took a moment and reset the ringer. About ten seconds after this little task it occurred to him that he was now the designated waiter in a large impersonal urban hospital … and he hadn't brought a single thing to do. With a sigh, he picked up the magazine Megan had abandoned. It was a dirty, roughed-up copy of Cosmo from about five months ago – one of those publications with too many fashion ads and not enough writing. He cracked it open.

"Let's see," he mumbled, wrinkling his brow like this demanded serious study. "What Kind of Animal Are You in Bed? Page sixty-eight. Okay, let's find out." He started flipping pages to find the quiz.

Colby stared hard at Lyndsey Fuller. "Why'd you help that d-bag, anyway?" he asked, almost conversationally.

"Go to hell," she murmured, and turned away from the bars.

Fuller was safely in a holding cell and Colby was about to leave for the hospital, to wait with the others for word on Don, but he had to at least give it a try.

"You know, you don't have to protect him anymore. He's dead."

That got her attention. "What?"

"Yeah. He sneaked up on my SAC and got shot for his trouble."

Lyndsey looked like her knees were about to give way. "You're lying."

Colby shook his head. "No, I'm not. We'll be talking to you tomorrow. The wisest thing for you to do, when that happens, is to tell the truth. See you later."

Charlie was bored. He had already discovered that he was a "badger," snorted his way through the hilariously inaccurate "What Guys Are Really Thinking!" section, and was on his way to discover some unusual skin remedies when …

"Donald Eppes?"

He threw the magazine aside and stood up. A white, thirty-something redheaded guy with glasses was standing about ten feet away, scratching at a stain on his blue scrubs. He held a clipboard and eyed Charlie as he approached.

"Donald Eppes?" the doctor said again, when Charlie stopped next to him.

"I'm his brother, Charles," Charlie said, and held out a hand.

He and the doctor shook.

"Dr. Clarke. I was your brother's attending physician in the ER."

It felt pretty weird to be doing this all alone, but Charlie pressed forward. He put his hands on his hips and tried to look as though he did stuff like this every day. Nobody else was here to take charge and for once Don seemed to be his responsibility rather than the other way around. The idea sent a surge of strength up through his legs. He looked the doctor square in the eye.

"Can you tell me anything? Or better yet, can I see him?"

The doctor smiled. "I can tell you some things, and yes, you can. Come on."

He walked quickly down the hall and Charlie kept pace.

"Basically, your brother got extremely lucky. Do you know what a hot shot is?"

"It's a lethal dose of a drug, right?"

"An opiate, specifically," the doctor added, nodding. "Generally it's administered with a needle, which was what Agent Reeves handed us. In this case, the offending drug was morphine."

Charlie did his best to still his face. Jesus Christ. "He got lucky, you said?"

"Definitely. There were about 50 milligrams of morphine in the needle originally, enough to kill a person, but we figured that at most only 25 of them made their way into your brother. Now granted, that's still a bit much for a guy his size, but barring any complications, he should just wake up with a headache and wonder what happened. Your brother is … in law enforcement?"

"FBI."

"Ah. 'Attacked by a suspect' is what I was told. Donald must have put up a hell of a fight."

Charlie considered explaining that his brother had put five bullets in said suspect, but refrained. "Don," he corrected the doctor. "And I have no doubt that he did. So, morphine and …?"

"Some minor head lacerations. Apparently he was hit with a wine bottle. Caused some cuts and a small lump, and we had to rinse out some glass, but the wounds were mostly very small, and there was no concussion. He only needed a few stitches. So we cleaned him up and got him into a room. Visiting hours are over, but I'm sure the nurses can make an exception."

They had stopped at the elevators. The doctor pressed the "UP" button and checked the chart he had.

"Fourth floor. Check in at the nurses' station and they'll direct you from there."

"Thank you very much," Charlie said calmly, and shook the man's hand again. "I appreciate it. Um, when do you think he'll wake up?"

"Oh, sometime tomorrow, I expect – probably late morning, early afternoon."

"So, get here early?"

"I wouldn't hurry. Between the bump on the head and the morphine, he's gonna be out like a light for a while."

Charlie nodded. "Thanks again."

"Not at all."

The doors opened and he stepped in. It wasn't until after the doors closed, separating him from the doctor and the rest of the world, that he allowed himself to slump against the wall in exhaustion. Without a lazy gesture, he jabbed the button for the fourth floor.

By the time the doors opened again, Charlie's strong mask was back in place. He walked straight to the nurse's station, introduced himself, and asked to see his brother. The nurse at the counter eyed him suspiciously and asked for identification. He showed her his CalSci ID and, when she remained stoic and unimpressed and demanded to see something else, he pulled out his NSA clearance.

"Is that all right?" he asked politely.

Her eyes went a little wide. "408 is that way," she said, and pointed. "I can let you visit until eleven."

"What about tomorrow morning?"

"Well, the hours start at ten, but I guess I could let family in at nine."

"That would be great," Charlie said with a confident smile.

He moved quickly to 408, taking a little time to compose himself at the door before opening it.

Whatever he'd been expecting, this was not it. He was relieved. The room was mostly bare and sterile, but not oppressively so. There was a bed, a rolling stool, a night table, and a large window. The blinds were halfway open, letting in a little moonlight. A heart monitor was beeping. But there were only a few machines as opposed to the oppressive technology he'd imagined while giving into panic on the drive over and Don, other than the little oxygen tube running under his nose, the leads on his chest and an IV in one arm, frankly didn't look so bad. A little pale, a little still, definitely out like a light, but otherwise blessedly okay.

Charlie's strength left him for a moment. He rolled the stool up to the bed and plopped onto it so he could get a better look at his brother. Don was bundled up in a few blankets, which Charlie wondered about. It wasn't critical; he could ask the doctor later. He rolled the stool close enough to put his elbows on the mattress so he could prop his face on his palms.

For a solid minute, he watched the heart monitor beeping steadily.

"I'm sorry he got the jump on you," he said at last. "I'm just glad you turned it around on him before he could really hurt you. Mostly I'm glad you're all right." He gently squeezed his brother's limp right hand through the blankets. "I'm gonna call Megan, see where she is with Dad. You'll be okay if I step out in the hall for a moment?"

Predictably, Don had nothing to say.

Charlie licked his lips and stood up, a little wobbly. He made his way outside and placed a few phone calls. Megan picked up immediately – she was indeed on her way with Alan. The eldest Eppes had been out doing some last-minute shopping, because he was planning a surprise for the caterer tomorrow. They were on their way, and, she said with a wince that Charlie could practically hear, he'd cancelled tomorrow's date in view of the situation with Don. Charlie gave her directions up to the fourth floor and called David, followed by Colby, to give them the same information. Both were on their way. There was nothing more that David could do for Mrs. Yates, Colby was done with Lyndsey Fuller for now, and they wanted to see their boss.

They all converged on the fourth floor nurses' station at approximately the same time. Charlie came out to meet them, shoulders back, head up, looking as strong as he could. With Don out of commission for the moment, he figured it was up to him to lead.

"Hi, everybody. Come on, follow me. We have about twenty minutes with Don, and then they're kicking us out until tomorrow morning."

He turned and walked away, his chest out just a little bit. Everyone followed. David, Colby, and Megan were trying not to laugh at his bravado. Alan just raised an eyebrow.

So this was Charlie's tough-guy impression, Megan realized. It was pretty funny. Of course she was also pretty tired, so everything was a little funnier right now than it should be. The small flock of FBI agents, an academic and a retiree made its way down the blindingly white hallway to Don's room.

Just as they approached the door a bespectacled Asian doctor, maybe thirty, spiky black hair cut short, approached from the opposite direction. His expression was bland and he was reading a chart, not making eye contact with any of them. Megan wondered vaguely if he was Don's doctor. It was almost like playing "chicken." If he was, why wasn't he making eye contact? If he wasn't, who was he going to see? In the end, the mystery was solved when the doctor followed them into the room, closed the door behind him, and looked up with a patient smile.

"Hi everybody," he said kindly. He sounded like a native Angeleno. There was no trace of an accent. "I'm Dr. Huang. I'll be overseeing Don's care until his release."

He took in the variety of faces and skin tones before him. "Uh … you're all family?"

Colby and David gave him identical amused expressions. Charlie muttered, "Basically." Only Megan was close enough to hear him, and she grinned. Alan just looked around with a tired, accepting expression, and gave the doctor a noncommittal shrug.

"I'm sure whatever you have to say can be shared with everyone here," he said quietly.

The doctor smiled. "All right."

He gave them the run-down. Don would most likely wake up tomorrow with a headache, and also feeling a little sick and thirsty, both common side-effects of too much morphine. Once he came around, the doctor wanted to keep him under observation for a few hours to make sure he was okay, and then he'd be released. Charlie asked about the blankets. Dr. Huang assured him it was nothing to worry about. Getting cold was another common bodily response to the drug, and once the morphine was out of Don's system, he'd be back to normal.

By the time the doctor had finished explaining, the mood in the room had brightened considerably. David and Colby were nodding. Megan was chewing on her thumbnail, but she looked almost as assured as her colleagues. And Alan looked more settled, far less shaken. The doctor took a quick look at Don and left, allowing them all some privacy until eleven o'clock. Charlie and the rest of the FBI team clumped together by the window to quietly discuss what would happen with the case. Alan, unnoticed by everybody, walked over to the bedside of his eldest and ran his left hand through Don's hair. He laid his right on his son's chest, and seemed satisfied that it was rising and falling appropriately. Then he closed his eyes and let out a breath.

"Thank God," he mumbled.

Oh man. My head … has been used … for a dance floor. By elephants. Ow. Oh, throbbing. Throbbing not good. And here comes the pressure. Christ, I'm not … even talking. It literally hurts … to think. … Ow.

All right, time to take stock. Position: mostly flat. He was on his back, with a couple of pillows under him. Temperature: comfortably warm. There were soft blankets covering him. Location: no clue. What was that beeping noise? He had to figure out where he was. He opened his eyes.

Okay, perhaps "open" was too strong a verb, but he produced slits through which he could see a little bit. Sadly, those slits let in light, which was not his friend at the moment. He wanted to say hello, to ask if anybody was here with him. He wanted to ask if someone could please shut off the lights.

"Liiihh. Mrrf. Nnnuh," he said.

What the hell was that Eppes, your final exam for Gibberish 101? Damn, that was kinda scary. Hey, wait a minute. I can complete a sentence in my head. Maybe …

There was a sudden commotion with paper somewhere to his right, and then the bed was sinking a little, and a hand cupped the top of his arm. He felt a thumb rubbing the crux of his shoulder.

"Don?"

Charlie. Charlie was here, wherever "here" was. That was good. He tried saying "Charlie," in hopes of convincing his little brother (and perhaps himself) that he hadn't somehow woken up a drooling moron.

"Shhharlie?" he asked quietly, and coughed. Immediately there was another hand behind his neck, cool, strong, and bony, pulling on some kind of tape there. It was lifting his head up a little. The hand on his shoulder disappeared and a moment later, a straw bumped against his lips. He took the straw and got a sip of water. It was cold and wonderful. He took another sip, bigger this time, swallowed, focused, and tried again.

"Charlie?" This time it came out almost clearly.

"Yeah Don, I'm right here." His head met the pillow again and the hand behind his neck slipped away, only to materialize on his forehead. "Just take it easy. You're in the hospital. It's almost noon. Good thing you woke up – you've been boring the hell out of Dad and me all morning."

The joke fell flat. It sounded more like he'd been worrying the hell out of them all morning. Don decided not to comment.

"C'subbuddy…" He swallowed. "Kill the lights?" he said quietly. There. Five words, and three of them coherent. Yay.

"What's the matter, you can't see?" Charlie asked.

"Too bright," Don murmured. "Hurts my eyes."

"Oh. Yeah sure, hang on a second." The hand on his forehead left, and Don heard the squeak and patter of sneakers around his bed and the swish of blinds closing. "Uh, Don, I can't make the lights go all the way off – they're on a dimmer. But I'll get it as dark as possible, okay?"

"Okay."

"… All right, that's as low as it goes. Try to open your eyes again."

Don managed to get his eyelids to half-mast this time, and looked around the darkened room, which was a little swimmy. He could just make out the dual outline of his brother.

"Can I turn up the light a little bit?"

"Yeah."

So Charlie brought up the dimmer switch a little. Don blinked and let his eyes adjust, and Charlie clicked it up again. It took about a minute, but finally the lights were up all the way and Don was focusing on him, as that seemed to hold the room tolerably steady. That was the way Alan found them when he came in, carrying two coffee cups.

"Hey, Charlie, they ran out of coffee, so I got you some hot chocolate inst– whoa! Donnie! When did you wake up?"

"Just now," Charlie answered for him, taking the cup his father offered.

"Oh, that's great," Alan said. He set his coffee down on the nightstand and leaned over Don. "Leave it to you to do the important stuff the second I'm out of the room," he groused with good humor.

"Sorry," Don croaked. "Force of habit."

Alan smiled and pulled the blankets up to Don's neck. "How ya feeling?"

"Lil' dizzy. My head hurts, but other than that … I'm fine."

Alan snorted. "'Fine,' huh? We'll see about that. I'll go get Dr. Huang. Charlie, you stay here with him."

Charlie nodded obediently, waited until Alan was out of hearing range, and then let it rip. "No Dad, I'm think I'm going to abandon Don and run off to join the circus," he said sarcastically, taking a small sip of his hot chocolate.

Don smiled, and licked his lips. "Hey, Charlie, can I have some more water? Maybe sit up a little?"

Charlie was up in a second. "Uh … water, yes, but I don't know about the other."

Don managed to drink half the glass before Alan came back with Dr. Huang and a petite blonde nurse, who was pulling a small rolling cart. Both of them strapped on latex gloves and got to work.

The doctor raised the head of Don's bed, waited for the resulting dizziness to pass, and examined him, checking his head wounds and the site of the injection, changing the small dressings and poking him at various spots. A few pokes made him wince, but it was nothing major. The nurse seemed to be fiddling with something further south.

"Well, the injection site and the head lacs are coming along nicely," Dr. Huang said finally. "Just put antiseptic ointment on them and keep the bigger ones covered with a little gauze. They should heal up fast." He turned to Charlie. "I'll write him a prescription for the ointment before he's discharged. He was talking when he woke up?"

"Yes." Charlie mercifully neglected to mention that Don's first attempts at talking had been less than coherent. "He's dizzy, though."

Don very much wanted to pin Charlie with a glare, but moving his eyes too fast made his head spin, so he nixed that idea.

"I'm not surprised," said the doctor. "That should fade away pretty soon." He felt different areas of Don's face, gently put his thumbs under Don's eye sockets and asked him to look up, down, and sideways.

"Okay, just a few questions – standard practice for a head injury. I know yours was minor, but we have to do it. What's your name?"

Don almost laughed. "Don Eppes."

"Good. Do you know who this man is?" he asked, pointing at Charlie.

Oh, come on. You're kidding, right? "That's my bro-THAAH! Whoa!"

He bucked his legs in surprise, but Dr. Huang grabbed one leg, the nurse had the other, and his father was suddenly standing, pressing a hand on Don's chest to keep him flat. Charlie was standing off to one side, looking pointedly at the floor. Something was happening … down there. It didn't hurt, but it felt extremely weird. And then it was over. Dr. Huang settled back into his seat. Don was breathing a little hard.

"What the hell was that?" he snapped.

The nurse looked up at him. "Sorry," she said. "But that's it, I'm all done." She patted his legs, flipped the blankets back over him and stood up, holding a clear plastic bag full of bright yellow liquid and a long, long tube attached, which she deposited on the cart.

Don, mystified, blinked at the doctor and raised his eyebrows in question.

"Catheter," the doctor said. "We pumped a lot of IV fluids into you so your system could clean itself out, and with you unconscious, well …"

Don groaned. Dr. Huang laughed. "Had to be done, sir. Our apologies. Now again, the guy with the curly hair is …?" he asked.

"My brother Charlie." Charlie had moved back into his previous position, standing behind the doctor.

"Excellent. What day is it?"

"Uh…"

Don had no idea what day it was. This wasn't because of his head injury – he was just tired, and he tended to lose track of time on cases anyway. Fortunately, Charlie came to his rescue. Since he was standing right behind the doctor, he watched the nurse messing with the cart, waited until the exact moment that Alan turned and stared at Don like "Well?", and mouthed "WEDNESDAY!" at his brother.

"Uh, Wednesday," Don said nonchalantly, as though it had just come to him. He'd have to thank Charlie later.

"Doing great," the doctor said. "Occupation?"

"Special Agent with the FBI," Don replied, sounding a little bored.

"That's so cool, man," said the doctor, scribbling something on the chart. He looked up and shrugged at Don's surprised face. "My big brother is LAPD. I wanted to join too, but Mom said she could barely handle one cop in the family."

Charlie grinned from his spot.

"Are you serious?" Alan said with interest.

"Yep." Dr. Huang stripped off his gloves. "I was two years into college and I brought home the brochures for the police academy." He smirked at the memory. "Mom freaked out, and Dad had a fit. They both said 'no way.' So I went into medicine. Speaking of which … Agent Eppes, we need to draw some more blood for a new tox screen, to make sure your levels are okay. Kelly, would you?"

The nurse nodded, and opened a drawer on the rolling cart, digging out a strip of rubber, a needle, and some vials. Don watched her with grim anticipation.

"And Agent, I know you haven't had any food in a pretty long time. Do you feel up to eating something?" the doctor said, distracting him.

"Uh…"

His stomach made a noise, causing his physician to smile. "I'll take that as a yes. Kelly, when you're done send those samples to the lab and put in an order for a light lunch. I'll be back in a few hours."

"You got it," Kelly said.

"Thanks," Don said.

"No problem," Dr. Huang replied, and left, hanging Don's chart on the door and closing it behind him.

The three Eppes men were left with Kelly. Don looked unenthusiastically at the rather young nurse as she approached him with her supplies. "No offense, but you know what you're doing, right?"

Alan slapped his shoulder.

"Ow! What?"

"If she didn't know what she was doing, she wouldn't be here," Alan said sternly.

The implied statement of "you show some respect, young man" came through loud and clear. It had been something of a childhood mantra.

Don sighed through his nose, subdued but completely unrepentant. Alan glared at him, which was a waste of energy as Don only had eyes for the nurse and what she was about to do to him. And Charlie, who had zero interest in watching a blood extraction (or a confrontation between his dad and his brother), walked over to the window and stared out, hands clasped behind his back.

Kelly almost fought off her grin. Almost. She flipped up the blankets to expose Don's left arm, since his right was occupied with the IV.

"Agent Eppes, to answer your question, I've been told I'm the best stick in this whole place."

She expertly snapped the tourniquet around his bicep and wadded up the blankets under his elbow to straighten his limb. While waiting for the little vein to pop up in the crook of his arm, she swabbed the area with alcohol.

"Make a fist for me, please. … Oh my, that's a good one! All right, here we go."