Author's Note: It's good to be back Thank you so much for the reviews – I was a little afraid at first that no one would remember the story or no one would care if I finished it, so I'm glad to see that some people still like it! I'm going to do my best to finish it! The rest of the story won't be heavy Amita/Don, but I always loved their chemistry (also love Don & Robin), but I wanted to write something kind of funny into this story – like Amita's attraction to Don. Anyway, thanks for not hating it, and here we go again. Hold on, this one's a rollercoaster.

Charlie startled himself when he crushed the dry, brittle leaves under-foot and he realized that he'd stopped under a tree, in the midst of a bright carpet of fall leaves. It was mid November in LA and while it wasn't cold, the wind was a bit brisk, causing him to clench his fist around the collar of his coat and pull it a bit closer.

Where was he? He glanced around.

The cemetery.

Fear clenched in his stomach. Don? Don was dead? It didn't seem real – it didn't seem right. He turned, feeling desperate – feeling like something was terribly off. But everything seemed so real. He looked up at the sky bitterly. Sun? On the day they were burying his brother? Couldn't it have at least had the decency to rain? The yellow ball seemed to blink down at him, spreading a little warmth through the city. Charlie bit back a strangled gasp.

He turned to look behind him, and there on the well-worn dirt road through the cemetery, was a line of non-descript government vehicles – the majority of them black, sporting various state and federal plates. The line seemed to stretch on forever – sedan after sedan, followed by SUV after SUV – but not Don's Suburban. Not that Charlie could have picked it out of the line if he'd wanted to. It seemed there was quite a crowd.

And why wouldn't there be? Don was a hero in his own right. He'd touched the lives of hundreds of people over his time as an FBI agent – fellow agents, superiors, partners, other LEOs – not to mention victims and their families. Charlie could have continued to list those that Don had helped, could have even come up with a formula to more accurately detail the number, but his gaze was distracted by the hearse rolling down another road towards the small crest where he was standing, a full LAPD motorcade escort, sirens silent, but lights flashing in respect.

Charlie turned away, a feeling of panic rising up in his chest. It was terrifying and he wanted to run – wanted to flee – but how could he? How could he leave his brother's own funeral? He looked down at his feet, noting the scuffmarks on the toes of his black dress shoes. How had he gotten there? He didn't remember getting dressed and going to the cemetery, let alone leaving the hospital, or whatever had ultimately finished Don off. He flinched. How cold could he be?

Commotion behind him caused him to turn and look. The hearse had come to a stop and the pallbearers were waiting to help remove the casket. Charlie froze. Why wasn't he down there? His eyes burned as he took in each person huddled around the hearse – David and Colby were to be expected, but Megan was there as well, and Billy Cooper – Don't partner from Fugitive Recovery – when had he gotten there? Ian Edgerton was there as well, something that ever so slightly surprised Charlie. That was five – who would be the sixth? Then he felt Megan's eyes on him expectantly.

"Oh. It's me." The words seemed hollow, even to himself.

Forcing his feet to move, he made his way down the crest, slowly trudging the distance to where his brother's colleagues and friends were waiting. They were all somber, dressed smartly in black suits, their eyes strangely empty. No one said a word to him, but Megan touched him lightly on the shoulder before the funeral director told them what to do.

Soon enough, Charlie found himself gripping the silver rail on the elegant mahogany colored casket. No doubt the best money could buy if his father had had anything to do with it. Still, Charlie couldn't shake the feeling that something seemed off. The casket didn't seem heavy enough. His mind whirled, numbers bouncing in and out as he tried to calculate what kind of weight he should be feeling, split amongst the six people who were honoring his brother, but he realized too late that he had no basis on which to draw a conclusion – he had no idea what a casket was supposed to weigh. Why would he?

They made their way up the short incline until Charlie laid eyes on the gaping hole where they intended to bury his very best friend – his brother. The thought was almost enough to freeze him in place, but a gentle nudge from Colby kept him moving. He was hardly aware of lowering the casket onto the rails over the hole when he felt a hand squeezing his, pulling him gently to the side. He turned to find Amita, sheathed in black, looking unbelievably sad, but instead of her own grief, she was trying to ease his. He thought he might throw up.

His eyes wavered, then turned to face the sea of people surrounding them. There were only a few chairs, but the majority of people stood – and there were dozens of them – dozens and dozens of FBI agents and other LEOs. Charlie felt chilled to the bone that so many people had respected his brother so much. Still, it didn't seem real – it couldn't be – Don couldn't really be gone, could he? Searching for answers, he nearly missed seeing Larry in the crowd and he felt a sudden surge of gratefulness that his friends cared. Then his eyes came to rest on his father.

Alan looked unspeakably old and broken, his face a mask of despair and tragedy. Charlie wanted to go to him – wanted to say something that would take all of this away. He had the sudden urge to run to his father, to tell him that this was all wrong – that it wasn't happening – that Don wasn't dead. Panic bubbled up inside of him again. Shouldn't they be still sitting in the hospital? Wasn't Don still alive?

It was like roots had grown out of his feet though, holding him in place and his eyes darted wildly from the coffin, draped carefully with a flag, to his father's broken face, to a tombstone he was very familiar with. They were burying Don next to his mother. Right next to Margaret Eppes. How could they? How could they survive this? First his mother – the light in their family – and now Don – their glue, their protector, their voice of reason, their rock in a storm. Charlie couldn't breathe. He couldn't do this. Couldn't lose Don. What would he do? Come to the cemetery and seek his brother's advice there? There was no stone now, but Charlie could only imagine what it might read – Donald Eppes – beloved son and brother, protector and friend, who touched the lives of all those he knew.

Desperately, Charlie swiped at his eyes, willing the deluge of tears away. He heard the soft hum of Hebrew verse and raised his head to see a distinguished looking Rabbi speaking on behalf of his brother and it was too much. Charlie wheeled away, desperation tearing at his heart as he tried to flee. It was strange, like no one noticed that he was running away – either that, or everyone had simply suspected that that was exactly what he was going to do. He cast one more glance over his shoulder. No one had moved. His father still looked broken-hearted, Don's team still looked to be in the throws of deep grief, Amita was still holding her hand as if she was compassionately clutching his – and the rows of FBI agents were still there, the sun glinting off their black sunglasses – sunglasses so similar to the aviators Don always favored – but no one was moving, it was as if they were frozen and everything seemed wrong.

As Charlie realized he didn't want to live in a world like that – a world without Don – a world that had lost a special bright spot, a protector of the weak, a soldier for justice, and a much needed brother and son – everything seemed to start to fade around him and he wondered if he was passing out. As the cemetery slipped away, he heard someone calling his name worriedly.

"Charlie? Charlie!" the voice was insistent and distinctly feminine. Charlie was still trying to grasp onto the last straws of his vision before he realized hands were shaking him.

His eyes flew open.

Megan was standing in front of him, her hospital visitor's pass hanging off the bottom of her sweater next to her gun and FBI shield. Her face was creased in worry.

The hospital. He was in the hospital. Not in the cemetery. Not at Don's funeral.

"Don!" he cried out, voice weak with exhausted emotion. Megan looked startled.

"Charlie, it's ok. Take a deep breath – you were having some sort of nightmare," she tried to sooth him with her words, her eyes calculatingly telling him she thought he needed to seek some mental help.

"Where's Don?" he demanded, the rudeness in his voice hurting his own ears and he instantly regretted the tone, but Megan didn't seem fazed.

"They just took him up for a CAT scan about forty minutes ago. You were sleeping – we didn't want to wake you. Don't you remember? Dr. Wild was here about an hour ago to let us know she wanted to see where the swelling in his brain was at?" She stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"Don's not dead." Charlie knew it half sounded like a question and half like a statement, but he desperately needed Megan to confirm that his brother was indeed still alive.

"Don's not dead," she repeated to him, suddenly understanding. "It was just a nightmare Charlie. He's still here – he's still hanging on."

"I was in the cemetery – and there were all of those frustratingly black government cars – and the police… And the hearse! And you were there with me, with everyone – with Billy and Ian – and we were carrying the casket… My father… There was a hole in the ground… Right next to my mother…" his words were fraught with pain and desperation as all of the horrifying emotions from the dream came flooding back.

Megan crouched in front of Charlie, waiting for him to finish, recognizing that he needed to get it out.

"They were burying him. And everyone looked so sad – and all of those FBI agents…standing there in their suits and their sunglasses…." Charlie trailed off, stiffening. "Where are Don's sunglasses?" he asked, as if the whole world hinged on the answer to his question.

Megan stared at him speechlessly for a moment after he'd jumped the track so quickly. He knew she was doing what she did best – knew she was putting her profiling skills to work – and Charlie had a good idea that she thought he was starting to lose it – that the toll of Don's injuries and failure to recover was sending him in to a downward spiral. Charlie was a little afraid that she was right.

He'd been quite irrational. He refused to leave the hospital except for the bare necessities, he'd ignored his employers and had ignored Olivia's phone calls, and he seemed hell bent on believing that Don was a lost cause – that he was as good as dead. He'd told his father that. He'd told anyone who would listen that. He'd announced his prediction on when they'd have to decide to take Don off the ventilator. He'd told his father that it was his fault that Don was an FBI Agent, and by default, that it was his father's fault that Don had been shot five times and was now lying in a coma, in desperate need of a miracle. Now, after having stood by his pledge that Don was as good as dead, he was freaking out after having a dream that his brother was truly gone – which had led to him desperately needing an answer to where Don's sunglasses were.

"Don's sunglasses?" Megan asked finally.

"Yes, where are they?" He could hear the desperation in his voice. "When we went into the bank, he took them off and put them on his head, like he always does. So where are they now?"

Megan looked at him like he'd truly snapped. "I don't know Charlie. I don't remember what happened to them." She didn't say it, but he knew what she was thinking – that she'd had more important things to be paying attention to – like the criminals – like the woman who'd shot Don.

"They must be somewhere…maybe in the evidence bags?"

"Charlie…"

"Please Megan…." He sounded like he was begging. He was.

She sighed, but pulled out her cell phone.

"Colby? It's Megan. No…no, Don's fine. Same as before," she paused. "No, it's something for Charlie. Can you check and see if Don's sunglasses were recovered from the scene?" There was another pause. "Just check for me," she said, and Charlie could imagine Colby's bewildered expression and the questions he must be asking. Silence dragged on for the few minutes it took for Colby to search the computer log of the evidence from the bank. "Thanks Colby," Megan said, and flipped her phone closed. "They recovered one pair of sunglasses," here she hesitated, but then continued, "…listed as broken."

Charlie sat still in his chair. He wasn't sure why it mattered. After all, they were just sunglasses. But to him, those sunglasses defined part of who Don was. They were just like the mask his brother put on every day when he was a federal agent – something to hide the most intimate part of himself – a shield against the world, all the while looking calm, cool and collected on the outside.

Charlie jumped to his feet. Don needed those sunglasses. Maybe not the pair that he'd been wearing into the bank – undoubtedly broken when he'd fallen and hit his head – but he needed a pair. Charlie needed for him to have a pair. Because that would seem normal.

"Charlie?" Megan asked, her voice very worried.

"It's ok Megan, I'll only be gone a few minutes. I just…have to go down to the gift shop." He could hear her start to speak, almost like she was going to protest his actions, but he didn't listen – he didn't care. He had a pair of sunglasses to find.