Title: High Society

Chapter 2: In Retrospect - Charlie

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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In retrospect, Charlie had to ask himself if getting his security clearance back was worth it. Several weeks ago, that wouldn't have been a question. Now, however, he had to ask himself – was it worth his life?

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Several weeks earlier…

After he'd lost his security clearance by sending a well-meant but ill-advised email containing Professor Sanjrani's genetic research regarding crop optimization techniques to Pakistan, there was no doubt in Charlie's mind that he wanted his clearance back, that he'd do anything to get it. Well, almost anything. Anything legal, anyway. He'd found flaunting the law hadn't exactly provided optimal results.

His lawyers assured him they were working on it, but the wheels of justice ground exceedingly slowly. They insinuated it would be good for him to call in a marker, to lean on any contacts he had in high places. He'd done that – he'd swallowed his pride and called Bob Tompkins, Assistant Director of the NSA, and several other contacts in other agencies, of the same rarified government level as Bob. Oh, they were sympathetic, at least most of them were. More than one of them, though, was pissed off. Pissed off that one of their valuable resources had been dumb enough to get himself into a situation where they were no longer allowed to use him, pissed off that the reason for Charlie's action had been, as one of them put it, "a goddamn misguided bleeding heart liberal impulse."

Considering the fact that most of them were, like Don and others who spent their lives fighting crime, a little on the hawkish side, Charlie could understand their reaction. He didn't agree with it – well, maybe the impulsive part; that was hard to argue. If that had been the only way to help those starving people, he would still have done it all over again. However, the more he thought about it, the more he had to admit that there might have been other ways to get the job done, without an impassioned push of a button on his part.

It made his self-imposed exile even more galling. The thought that he could have prevented this if he'd just thought it through a little more carefully scratched his psyche constantly, like an especially prickly burr. It was worse around Don. His brother was still immersed in a world where Charlie no longer belonged, and although Don had cut way down on the office talk, snippets of information on the cases he was working still made it into the conversation when he stopped by. It drove Charlie absolutely crazy to hear of them, and sometimes he suspected Don of dropping the tidbits on purpose, just to torture him. Because Don wasn't happy either.

He could tell by the way Don looked at him that his brother felt let down, disappointed, and that was the most distressing part of all of it. Charlie had spent a lifetime trying to impress his brother, trying to get closer to him, and now, with one imprudent, although altruistic, action, he'd destroyed any tiny progress he'd made to date.

As time went on, however, Charlie, although desperate to get his clearance back, had resigned himself to getting back to the life he knew before Don had come back to L.A., before he'd started working cases. He'd focus on his research, he decided, his writing. He was capable of making a quantum breakthrough of some kind in the mathematical world, over and above the work he'd done already. He had it in him, still, and now was the time to do it. He tried hard to convince himself this was kismet; that there was a reason for this seeming setback that would someday pay off in a huge mathematical advancement. It helped that Don's needling little hints and generally snarky attitude were starting to get annoying. It helped that they argued about everything and anything these days. It almost made Charlie believe that it was for the best. Almost.

The truth was; his feelings were a bit hurt by Don's reaction. It was almost identical to the feeling he got when he'd looked for help from his government contacts. His action had caused them some inconvenience – and apparently, Don felt the same way. It wasn't that he missed working with him, oh no, thought Charlie bitterly. Don had gotten used to the help, and was irked that he had to do without it. Why else would he keep on with the snide remarks, instead of being supportive? The more hints and reproachful looks he got, the more Charlie was determined to make it look as though they didn't bother him. He was his own man, goddamn it, security clearance or not. He no longer worked for his brother; no one could tell him what to do. It was liberating, that's what it was. Goddamn liberating.

That's what he told himself that hot summer day, as he pounded furiously with chalk on a hapless chalkboard in the garage. Don had apparently given up on trying to get his goat for a while, and had only been to the Craftsman once in the past week – and that was on an evening when Charlie wasn't there. Charlie wasn't sure which was worse – the arguing, or not having him there at all.

A bead of sweat rolled off his forehead, and he wiped it away, angrily, and checked the logic of his last sequence. Another drip and he'd had enough. He stripped off his shirt. He was down to shorts and sandals, and still the fan's breeze was inadequate. Oddly enough, it supported his work – global warming was a hot topic, and conclusive analyses by credentialed mathematicians were in demand. He was working on one right now. Another week or two and he would have it ready for publication, if he wanted to present it as a paper. He had plenty of material, however, enough for a book. His publisher would be thrilled if he could generate another book. His first one -- well, at least his first non-textbook publication -- was still on the bestseller list, and as it gained in popularity, he'd had countless demands for book signings, talks, and appearances. He'd turned a lot of them down, while he was working cases for Don. Now he had time for them.

He had time for Amita, too. She was the one person who was happy with the turn of events. She'd never been thrilled about his consulting work for Don; she felt it took Charlie away from his true calling. People who had the capability to advance the level of understanding of mathematics, who could come up with true breakthroughs, were rare, she stated. Charlie was one of those few, according to her. He'd been a star in his early career, with his development of the Eppes Convergence. He could do it again, Amita declared, and she was behind him all the way. If Charlie had been thinking straight, if his sorely damaged ego hadn't needed that stroking, he might have wondered about it – wondered why she pushed that so much, wondered if she wasn't more interested in dating a math star than she was in dating Charlie Eppes. In his current frame of mind, however, her cheerleading made him feel better, and he felt as though they had finally reached that nebulous point – it was time for another level of commitment. He had decided to propose.

It was set for later that week, and so far, no one knew about it but him and the jeweler. He'd made reservations at the outrageously pricey Bastide, the most expensive restaurant in LA.

He'd gotten the engagement ring, diving into the research for the perfect diamond with his usual fervor for knowledge, and emerged with a four-carat yellow beauty, which he'd had set in platinum. It had set him back a pretty penny, but it didn't matter. Just because he didn't have clearances to consult for law enforcement agencies didn't mean he couldn't consult for private businesses – and they paid more, much more. He had more time for that now, too.

Yes, his life was just starting to take off – he'd been an idiot to be sidetracked for so long by the FBI. He would be wealthy and famous, with a beautiful, intelligent bride, and work he loved – he would have a life about which others could only dream. Why in the hell, then, was he so – so – what? Upset, pissed off, depressed, his subconscious answered. Among other disagreeable emotions. He jabbed at the chalkboard again, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and stood back to examine his work. He'd had enough for the moment – it was time for a shower.

He was still examining the equations, his hand outstretched, moving it over the equations as he read, as if to pronounce a benediction. He was completely focused; so when Don's voice came from behind him, he jumped.

"Working hard, I see."

Charlie turned, a little flustered, and Don's sardonic grin did nothing to improve his temper. Don was holding a beer, leaning against the doorway, and as always, looked cool, in more ways than one. As always, Charlie felt woefully inadequate around him. "Don't you ever knock?" he shot back grouchily.

Don shrugged. "The door was open." He eyed his brother. Charlie was dripping with sweat, his curls disheveled, with a flushed face and snapping eyes that had portended a whopper of a fight on more than one occasion. He looked thinner, Don noted, too, and had dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn't been sleeping well. He pushed those last observations out of his mind. He didn't want to be sympathetic. The fact was; he was as pissed off as Charlie looked. He was spoiling for a fight, had been all week. It was why, in fact, he'd stayed away, until his irritability had eroded his better judgment and he'd decided to stop over. A little needling was in order – was just the thing to improve his mood. His therapist, Dr. Bradford, would call it passive-aggressive, and a regression into Don's high school behavior. Don called it satisfying.

Well, not really, his subconscious admitted, because he always came away from his recent encounters with Charlie more irritated than when he arrived, even though he nearly always managed to achieve what he came for – to piss Charlie off. Don's subconscious would tell him that he was doing this because he was angry and hurt by what could only be described as abandonment. His subconscious would tell him he was threatened that his younger brother would finally take off into stratospheric success, and leave him behind. His subconscious would say that he missed his brother more than he could say – but then his conscious mind would step in, the one that said he'd always been his own man, that said he didn't need some geeky little twerp dogging his steps, that said he was too worldly, too cool for the stuffy academic bullshit that his brother espoused. Charlie, with his head in the clouds – with no clue of what reality was. It took a tough person to deal with reality; Don couldn't afford to stick his head in the clouds, couldn't afford the luxury of pushing a button and blowing away his security clearance. That option was for spoiled, idealistic, holier-than-thou little brothers…little brothers who would stand on principle for some unknown peasants a world away, and in the process throw away a tenuous but growing relationship with their older brothers…

He took a swig of his beer – Charlie's beer, to be exact. "Looks interesting." He smirked.

Charlie grabbed his shirt from the floor, and switched off the fan impatiently. Don's words were friendly, but the tone and the smirk were intentionally condescending. He felt his irritability increase. "It is, although you wouldn't know."

He moved toward the doorway, but Don didn't budge, made him wait, while he took another drink of beer. "If you say so."

"Do you mind?" Charlie asked crossly. "I'd like to go up and take a shower."

Don shrugged and moved aside, sauntering lazily off toward the koi pond.

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It went perfectly, better than Charlie had hoped. Friday night at 7:30 p.m., he picked Amita up in a limo, much to her surprise and delight. She looked tremendous, in a sexy little white dress, so good that he almost wished he'd skipped the limo and arrived at her place himself with the pre-dinner champagne, so they could start the evening off in her bedroom. He chided himself for the thought – this was her night, and she deserved it to be as romantic as she dreamed it would be. He gallantly poured the champagne into flutes, in the back seat, as steadily as if he'd done it hundreds of times. How he managed that, he wasn't sure; his heart was pounding with nervousness and excitement.

"Charlie." Amita was flushed with pleasure. "My goodness, you're really pulling out all the stops, aren't you? What's the occasion?"

He pretended to look disappointed. "You don't remember?"

Her eyes widened a little; she looked slightly disconcerted, a little anxious. "No."

He smiled. "It's the anniversary of the day we met. I'll never forget it. You walked into my classroom…"

She smiled back. "And you were wearing headphones, and rocking away at the chalkboard, with some of the most elegant math I'd ever seen flowing from your fingertips."

His grin widened. "That's not exactly what I remember, but it might be true. Any other memories I had of that moment were blown out of my head when I took the headphones off, and turned to look at the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen."

He cocked his head and blushed as he delivered the statement, and the slightly geeky mannerism made her smile. "Charlie, I can't believe you remembered that – what day it was – it was a warm fall that year, too, wasn't it?" She winked at him. "Maybe it's been you all along, making me hot." Charlie's blush increased to crimson and Amita sighed happily. "This is so sweet."

"I have a little more time to think of these things now," he said, and he raised his glass. "To us."

"To us," she repeated, dimpling, and the look she sent him over the glass as she sipped had his heart pounding even harder.

Bastide was tremendous. It was a tiny, exclusive spot, a house in a garden on Melrose Place, with a limited number of tables. Charlie had turned down the coveted chef's table with its view of the kitchen for a more romantic spot in the garden, next to the fountain. The prix fixe menu was deceptively simple; there was no description for any of the seven courses they were served other than the most basic – titles like "Fish," and "Thai." The composition of the dishes changed daily at the whim of the chef. The chef even used the word "amuse" instead of "appetizer"; Charlie wasn't sure if it was a reference to the fact that the dish amused the guest's palates, or if amused the chef to make it. Perhaps both. Every selection was an artfully prepared surprise.

They held hands across the cozy table and talked. Unlike their first dates, when they had fumbled for any topic other than math, the conversation flowed easily. A lot of it did concern math – they'd gotten to the point where neither of them felt they had to apologize for discussing their first love. At Bastide, one paid a premium, but it bought a table for the entire night – leisurely courses, accompanied by champagnes and good wines. Charlie was certain that he was knocking her socks off, or her silk hose in this case, and as she rose to find the ladies' room and reapply her lipstick, he sat back in his chair, and let out a huge shaky breath with a smile. It was a tremendous night, and he was having a great time himself, in spite of the nervousness. She couldn't say no, he told himself, wouldn't possibly say no.

He'd been so captivated by her, he'd paid no attention to the other diners at the discreetly scattered tables in the garden, and therefore was surprised as one of them got up and approached him. The man was around six feet tall and powerfully built, with broad shoulders under an expensive Italian suit, and shoes that Charlie was certain cost more than his own suit, which hadn't been cheap. In spite of the man's build, he moved with feline grace, and extended a hand to Charlie with an apologetic smile, which was offset by the calculating gleam in his eye. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have to ask; you're Dr. Eppes, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Charlie, as he shook the man's hand. The grip was powerful; even though Charlie got the impression that the man was toning it down. He held Charlie's hand for just a fraction of a second longer than seemed comfortable. "I'm sorry, you are -?"

"Forgive me," said the man. "J. T. Morrison. I'm a big fan of your book." He released Charlie's hand.

Charlie's jaw dropped. J. T. Morrison – the famous producer – one of the richest and most powerful men in Hollywood – that J. T. Morrison? "I'm pleased to meet you," he stammered. He was blushing, he realized, with mortification, and the other man was smiling, seemingly amused at his discomfiture.

"Likewise," replied Morrison. "I won't keep you – I just wanted to say hello, and how much I enjoyed your book. Perhaps I'll see you on the social circuit."

"Perhaps," returned Charlie, managing to salvage a smile; and the man departed, as Amita returned to their table.

"Who was that?" she asked curiously.

Charlie grinned and shook his head. "J. T. Morrison – the producer."

She stared. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. He came over to tell me he liked my book."

An amazed smile crept over her face. "Wow."

He smiled back. "Yeah." 'Chalk up another point,' he thought to himself. 'She couldn't possibly say no…'

She didn't. After dinner, he had the limo take them up the coast to another exclusive little spot known for its view, and terraces set into the hillside. In the moonlight on one of the terraces, amid honey-scented flowers, he proposed, and after she'd gotten over the shock of the ring, she excitedly accepted. As he kissed her under the stars, he felt that his heart was ready to explode with happiness.

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End Chapter 2