Even Heroes Have the Right to Bleed
Chapter Eight
Less than two hours after collapsing into his bed, Don realized he was awake. He was not entirely certain when he had woken up, or if he had even ever slept, but if he had slept, it could not have been more than an hour. His thoughts were cycling on repeat, and he had no idea how long they had been doing so.
The door opened just a crack and he glanced over at the light, not at all surprised to see his father peering in at him. "Donnie, why aren't you asleep?" Alan asked softly, opening the door further. Don turned his gaze back to the ceiling.
"Just a lot on my mind," he admitted quietly. Alan stepped into the room, coming to sit on the edge of Don's bed, as he had so many times when Don was growing up. Don pushed himself into a more upright position against his pillows.
"What's going on?" Alan asked simply.
Don sighed and did his best to stifle a cough. "I'm sure Charlie filled you in on the case already," Don started, pausing for Alan to nod his agreement. "Things could have ended up a lot differently today."
"But they didn't. You got the guy."
"We did," Don agreed. "It's just…I make a lot of decisions every day that would kill a lot of people if I were wrong. I wasn't wrong today, but I will be someday."
"You put too much pressure on yourself," Alan protested. "You have a team, you have a boss, there are people checking your work."
"Usually," Don agreed. But sometimes there wasn't time and they just needed a course of action and the first person to speak would be the leader, and it was always Don. And even though everyone always said you couldn't be blamed for decisions made under duress, those were the decisions he made every day. You can be blamed for those decisions. He made the split-second decision to shoot Crystal Hoyle because the idea of waiting even another second for Ian to take care of it was unbearable to him – and not for the reasons people wanted to think. He didn't want to kill her; he did not even want her dead. He did not want the glory and he did not enjoy shooting anyone. He chose to shoot her because she was endangering his life and the lives of his team and he could only put up with that kind of threat for a few seconds before he had to snap to action.
"If the attack had gone through today, it would have been my fault," he said instead. "And I know you're going to tell me that I didn't make him do anything, but I knew he was out there and I decided not to warn the public. If I had chosen to issue a statement, everyone would have been safe."
"It's FBI policy to keep those things under wraps," Alan countered.
"It is," Don said. "But we make exceptions. I didn't even ask the ADIC to make an exception. I didn't even tell you," he added, unable to meet his father's eyes as he considered what would have happened, had Alan eaten the ricin-laced food, had Alan been a victim of an attack he not only failed to stop but helped to cover up.
"Sometimes Charlie tells me about the things he sees consulting for the FBI," Alan said thoughtfully. "Blood and bullets and crime scenes. He tells me how you've risked your life for him, and for people you don't even know."
"It's my job," Don said faintly, closing his eyes and resting his aching head against the headboard.
"That's my point exactly. Charlie tells me these things he sees that scare him sometimes, and he and I both know that it is only a fraction of the things you see. I would give my life for you, Donnie, and I would like to think I would do the same for a stranger, but I don't know. But you do it every single day." Don started to shake his head, uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation, but Alan persisted. "I know that if there was a way to save more lives, you would be doing it. I trust your judgment, Donnie. I know you try to protect me; I know you wouldn't let anything happen to me or Charlie."
Don nodded, meeting his dad's eyes again. "You're good at your job, Donnie. And I know that in the moment you're confident in your decisions, even if you second-guess them when all is said and done. But if there ever comes a time when things don't work out so well, I know you did all you could, and it wasn't your fault."
Don swallowed hard, an unfamiliar lump forming in his throat. He attributed this to the stress, the illness, the lack of sleep. Don Eppes did not cry for anything or anyone, ever. "Thanks Dad," he managed.
"One more thing," Alan said mock-sternly. "I know you want to protect me, but I was protecting you long before that. You can always tell me those things you see that even Charlie doesn't know about."
"Don't want you to worry."
"I worry either way. And maybe I would worry less if I knew you were talking about it." Alan reached out to Don and made a motion Don would have called brushing his hair from his face, had Don had long enough hair to do that with, but as it was, it was an obvious temperature-check of a worried father. Alan pursed his lips and stood up, bustling out of the room with a quick "be right back." Don sank further down in bed, drawing the blankets higher once more. Alan returned with a couple Tylenol, placing them in Don's hand. "For the fever," he said, handing Don the bottle of water that had been resting, conspicuously full, on his nightstand. "And drink the rest of that," he ordered.
"Yes, Dad," Don said, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly, making a show of taking the pills and drinking a bit of the water.
"Night, Donnie," Alan said, pulling the door closed behind him. Don took one more sip, then buried his head under a pillow, listening to his thoughts quiet until he finally drifted to sleep.