Author's Note: Wow… pucktofaerie, you're definitely right about college. Now that I'm here and have actual work to do, I'd rather just be writing this story. Muses are weird.

Anyways, to all reviewers (especially reviewers who have reviewed multiple times): gosh you're awesome! Reviews are awesome to read, and they are only made awesome by the awesomeness of the awesome people who write them.

To all the people who don't review…I hope you like the story anyways, even though I have no way of prying into your head for your reactions cuz you're not an awesome reviewer.

Yeah…so that's pretty much all for now…

Disclaimer: you guys know the drill…bananas…

Chapter 4: A Night of Rest

Alan glanced up briefly as he heard the rumble of a powerful engine shutting down in his driveway. Returning his eyes to his cooking, he fished a lone noodle out of the pot of spaghetti, gently blowing on it before tasting to see if it was fully cooked. The test results came back a firm negative, informing him that this test would have to be retaken in a few minutes.

Shifting his eyes back to the frying pan in front of him, he continued stirring the sauce into the browned beef. The delicious smell of fresh spaghetti sauce assailed his nostrils even as his keen ears picked up the tell-tale click of the opening front door.

It wasn't often that Alan was able to coax his son to dinner these days, but even so, he could tell exactly what kind of a mood the FBI agent was in just by the way he walked into the kitchen. His footsteps were slow and heavy, and without turning around, Alan knew that he would find Don's face replaced by a mask of neutrality, which in turn hid a cloak of tense weariness.

Turning to his son with a welcoming smile, Alan asked the question to which he already knew the answer: "How was work today, Don?"

A sigh was his only acknowledgement for several seconds. Then, as a chair was pulled back from the table and a body collapsed into it, a response heaved itself between half-dead lips: "It sucked."

Slightly surprised, Alan regarded his son between brief glances at the contents of the stovetop—no sense in killing dinner. Don was now resting at the kitchen table, eyes covered by one hand. Based on the hazy hints he had managed to pry from his son during infrequent visits, he had surmised that the FBI workload had been sucking for quite a while, but normally Don was less blatant about it. There was just something about being vague that seemed to appeal to the FBI agent.

"Are you still working on that serial killer case?" It had been a while since their last conversation, and Alan didn't really want this one to be about the gore of an FBI life, but he couldn't think of anything else to say at the moment. He supposed he could ignore the situation and create a faux-fix by cramming food down his son's throat, but then again, that was more Marie Barone's style.

"Yeah. We think we've found another vic, but we're still waiting on DNA confirmation," Don replied half-heartedly, avoiding his father's gaze.

"Oh. Who—who was the victim?"

"Just a little girl."

Alan couldn't think of anything to say to that, so he merely sighed heavily, a sound that encompassed the universal sorrow of all parents that had ever lost a child.

Through his exhaustion, Don picked up on the sound, and quickly moved to steer the conversation away from the subject of loss. Grasping for a new topic, he settled on yet another aspect of his job, albeit a less personally depressing one.

"We've got a new guy coming in to work on the case, all the way from the east coast. He should arrive tonight."

"Oh? What kind of new guy?"

"A math consultant."

"They're shipping a math consultant coast to coast to help crack this case?" Don could hear the incredulity in his father's voice, along with a few chords of disbelief. "What exactly is a math consultant going to do to help you out?"

"I don't know, but he helped out the east coast feds well enough. I don't know the inner details of the math, but whatever his work was, it nearly caught the Coast Killer."

"Really?" Alan's interest was definitely peaked by now. "How?"

"Well," Don explained, "the east coast feds had a theory that the Coast Killer was working from a base point, that after every kill, no matter how far away it was, he always went back to one particular place. Our math guy confirmed this theory, and what's more, he figured out just about where this home base was." Don rose from his chair, heading for the cabinets. "The feds searched the area for him, but by the time they got there, CK had skipped out. But they did find a place that they think was his."

"Wow. Did that help you figure out anything about who he is?"

"We got the name of the guy who was renting the apartment, but it was a fake. The guy must've known we were coming somehow, because we didn't get much DNA evidence from the scene. We did get a few prints though, and those are now in the system."

"Sounds like this math guy is going to be pretty helpful," Alan smiled, fervently hoping that his son's late nights at the office might soon come to an end.

"I hope so," Don replied, extracting two bowls from the flowery-papered depths of the cabinet. "He's a math genius."

Don froze as soon as he uttered the words, and watched as his father very abruptly stopped stirring the delicious smelling sauce into the steaming heap of spaghetti in the pot. 'Damn,' he cursed to himself. 'Why did I say that? I shoulda known better!' Not knowing what to say, he opted for pretending that nothing had happened, and made a mental note to finish off the math subject now. No sense in dredging up half-dead hopes and alive-and-kicking agony for the rest of the night.

"That's all I really know about the guy," Don ventured hesitantly, breathing a secret sigh of relief as his father resumed his stirring. "I'm not expecting the world from him. I mean sure, he's helped out a lot in this case, but then again, I have an entire team of fully trained agents working on this. I expect that we'll make more headway than him, 'cause we're the ones who'll actually be out in the field, tracking this guy down. But then again, who knows? Maybe he'll surprise me."

A strange feeling washed over Don as he settled twin bowls on the table, one at his father's place and the other directly in front of him. He was struck with a sudden sense of prophecy as his own words echoed in his mind: "Maybe he'll surprise me."