Sorry it's late, guys. Writer's block is a pain, and it rarely comes at a good time.

Read, smile, or cry (this one's kind of sad) and review!

13. Hands Held High

"On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone drops to zero." – from Fight Club

Thumpathumpathumpathumpathumpa…

His heart raced along with his mind as he watched Sean approach him once more. The man prowled like a big, angry cat, but as soon as you heard his voice, you thought, snake. Or at least that's what most people thought; when Sean spoke next, Don thought something more profane as he struggled to maintain his nerves.

"You serious, Eppsie?"

He swallowed. "Yeah, Sean, I am. Go ahead. What's stopping you?"

"Nothing. It's just that birdie's singin' two different tunes in as many minutes. Makes us Dick Cheneys with the bird shot a bit… nervous."

Don paused. The line he was walking was an especially fine one; he has to taunt Sean enough to convince him of his sincerity, and yet, too much goading, and he may actually follow through. To tease or not to tease had become synonymous with to be or not to be.

"So what changed, Eppsie? Sean moved closer, a light in his eye that Don didn't like. "You call your little friends? We talked about that, Eppsie. No sneaky trying to escape, remember?"

"No. How could I—"

Perhaps his answer was too quick, or maybe his tone was too innocent; in any event, he received a sharp backhand in return.

"What did you tell them, Eppsie? Who I am? Where we are? Answers, Eppsie, I need ANSWERS!"

Don decided silence was the best course of action, and Sean raised his hand to hit him again, but it was halted in its path by a battle cry that was like the voice of an angel in Don's ears.

"FBI!"

With a bang, a door flew open, and light flooded the basement, as well as an impressive array of red laser gun sights. Spinning, Sean noted the deteriorating situation he was in and let out a snarl; a hand dove into his pocket as boots pounded on the stairs. Regaining his composure and smiling one last time, Sean turned, grabbed Don by the shoulder, and, without hesitation, drove the needle straight into his heart.

"Give my regards to Katherine." These were the last words to tax Sean Lawson's lungs before an army of bullets blew them to pieces.

Breath deserted him in an instant; Don balked, eyes wide, as his nerves colorfully reported to him that there was something in his body that shouldn't be there. It was as if someone had looped a belt around his chest and had suddenly tightened it as far as it would go. Gasping to sustain himself, he sat and watched the world spin as blades slipped in between his wrists and the cord that bound them. Soft hands peeled his arms from those of the chair, and, when the cord at his ankles snapped and gave him up, the same hands urged him forward. Unfortunately, not particularly in control of his body, he did little more than slither off the chair to the floor. There was SWAT all around him, running and stamping and pointing their guns, but it wasn't they who turned him over.

"Colby, I can't lift him, give me a hand…" It was Megan's voice, and stressed yet businesslike, and yet the figure that held him wore a red dress and an amorous smile. Too, t he figure that approached to oblige her request was a great, hulking form, but not that of Colby Granger. Instead, bear-like arms heaved him up by the shoulders, and he was brought face-to-face with another childishly grinning countenance.

"Coop?" he managed to fit in between shallow breaths.

Katherine and Coop exchanged a worried look, and when Don blinked, the world flickered, and they were instantly replaced with Megan and Colby, who just carried him away that much faster. Don's last sight as they climbed the stairs was a brief glimpse of the broken body of Sean Lawson, a clown's smile stretched across his face. Then he was outside, set down on cold pavement, staring up at a sea of winking stars. He wondered what they reminded him of… another night sky, so long ago?

He was vaguely aware of someone saying his name, but whenever he opened his mouth to reply, all that came out was the wheezing of his breath. A hand on his neck – someone was taking his pulse; trying to calm hypersensitive nerves, he listened to his heartbeat, and indeed, it did seem to be slowing, maybe too much.

Thumpa thumpa thumpa thumpa thumpa…

"Pulse is weak," reported Megan. Her mouth kept moving, as did Colby's, but he couldn't hear what came out, and he watched them for only a moment before his gaze drifted up once more to that star-adorned sky. He blinked, and the stars rearranged themselves, the windshield of a car framing the celestial array as it had back then. Crickets and peepers chirped noisily from their refuge in the garbage cans, and the blind white eye of the moon stared down at him accusingly. The night had started out hot, the trick-or-treaters shedding their jackets as they walked from house to house, extorting candy with sweet smiles, eggs, and toilet paper.

"Don. Hey, Donnie, wake up."

It was Coop's gruff voice, and he could almost smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. "Come on, sleepyhead, we've got our mark…"

"DON! Goddammit—"

The voice was so out of place, he jerked awake, the world falling into place around him. A blurry, shadowed face came slowly into focus, bleeding concern: Colby. The interior of an ambulance swam into view behind him, all compartments, metal, and buttons. His shirt was gone, the air unusually cold on the bare skin.

"Just keep breathing, man," urged Colby. "Stay with me…"

He tried, he really did, but with all the flashing lights and sounds, it was hard not to slip back into the memory, just close his eyes and imagine he was in the junky 4X4 with Coop, napping on a bed of fast food wrappers and cigarette butts, the binoculars pressed tight to his chest…

"Eppes! Wake up, ya greenie. We gotta go!"

"Come on, Don, hang on…"

"All right, all right, Coop, I'm coming…" he whispered, weak and slurred. Colby looked confused, and his ears picked out another sound from the hustle and bustle: someone crying. Turning, he squinted to make out the source, sighing when he did. Reaching out, Don took Charlie's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"It's okay," he insisted quietly. "I won't be gone long."

Then something in his chest seized up; choking, he listened to the shouts and activity this inspired. A blink, and he escaped to the front seat of that truck, fifteen years ago, watching a beautiful woman in a red dress walking up the steps to her little piece of suburban sprawl. He didn't know her name yet, but after tonight, he would never forget it.

"Don? Don! DON!"

Thump a thump a thump a thump a beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep…