Title: High Society

Chapter 21: Retrospect Redux

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

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Charlie's intention was to call Amita as soon as he got home with his new phone Monday -- but apparently, a few other customers had the day off as well, and it took much longer than he anticipated to complete his business at the cellular franchise. By the time he got back to the Craftsman at 10:30, Cooke and Leach were already waiting.

He spent the next several hours working with them. Their sketch artist software was a joke, but Charlie did what he could to the code to bump it up a notch. After manhandling the laptop away from Leach, Charlie was able to create sketches that at least resembled the man who had taken his wallet; the hostess in the back of the semi -- as well as the one working in Dreamscape. Then they went on to the man he had seen J.T. talking to – although there was not much he could offer – the man's face had been in shadow, and Charlie only had a vague impression of his features. Finally, he generated a drawing of the young girl who had offered herself to him. His experience with the child still had him shaken, and he spent several hours searching the Missing Person and Amber Alert databases for missing children; suspected runaways, or kidnapping victims. He couldn't believe that the girl's parents weren't frantic somewhere, and he almost made himself sick with renewed worry by the time Cooke called an end to the session at almost 6 p.m. Charlie was exhausted, and unhappy with his efforts -- he had not been able to locate the girl or anyone else from the party in assorted databases, and the more he looked at the sketches, the more convinced he was that they were inadequate -- but he quickly settled on the couch and called Amita, before it grew too late in D.C.

It took several rings for her to answer, and she did somewhat formally, not recognizing the number displayed by her Caller I.D. Still, Charlie smiled at the sound of her voice. "Sweetheart, it's me! Have you been trying to call? I'm sorry; I managed to break my cell on Friday. I had to get a replacement today -- this is my new number."

There was a pause as Amita digested all that. "They wouldn't let you keep the old one?" she finally asked.

"They offered," Charlie admitted, "but that would have taken even longer. Besides, I've been getting too many solicitation calls lately; I decided to start fresh." He changed the subject. "How are you? How's Larry? Megan?"

He thought he detected a small sigh on Amita's part - but it could have been the connection. "They love it here - they're very happy. I've been busy, trying to prepare my lectures. I'm actually at the Georgetown Blommer Science Library tonight; I decided to give them some time to themselves. That's why it took me so long to answer; I had to step into the restroom, so I could talk."

Charlie frowned. "Larry's letting you cavort around D.C. unescorted at night?"

Amita chuckled dryly. "The library does not equal 'cavorting', Charlie -- and he made me take a cab, and promise to take another one back to their place."

Charlie still wasn't entirely happy, but decided to change the subject. "Did you get a lot done this weekend? Dane made his flight back today?"

Amita hesitated. "Actually, he left early yesterday. I'm sure he's home by now."

Charlie furrowed his brow in confusion. "Was there a problem? I thought the long weekend was the whole point of scheduling this trip now!"

"I think it...just turned out to be...more than he bargained for," she answered evasively. "We all decided; Dane won't be part of the project anymore. Larry and I are going to try webinars to supplement our e-mail communication." Charlie was stunned. He had no idea Rastenbaum wanted out. Before he could think of a response, Amita redirected the conversation. "How about your party?" She sounded slightly offended by the subject.

Charlie rubbed his forehead and took his own turn at evasion. "It was all right," he said. "I'm not sure I'll be invited again - I was one of the first people to leave. I think you and Don may be right; this isn't really my crowd."

Amita's tone warmed slightly. "Well. Since Dane and I won't be working together on Friday nights anymore, you and I can start spending more time together."

"I'd like that," Charlie smiled. "We have a wedding to plan, after all."

Amita grew almost imperceptibly frosty again. "Listen, Charlie, they're dimming the lights; the library is closing. I'll put your new number in memory and call soon, all right?" Before Charlie really comprehended what was happening, the call was as disconnected as he was starting to feel.

A little over five hours to the East, Amita leaned against the restroom wall and closed her eyes against the harsh light, and hoped beyond hope that Charlie didn't Google® the Blommer Science Library. If he did, he would find out that it closed at 11 p.m. - which was still two hours away.

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Charlie's next call was to J.T.

He apologized again for becoming ill Saturday night, and gave the man his new phone number.

"You have impeccable timing," Morrison noted. "I'll be leaving in the morning to spend several days in San Francisco. I'm wooing a novelist, trying to option his book for a screen treatment. My sources inform me that other studios are now involved, so I anticipate some unwelcome competition. I do hate this part of the job," he sighed. "I may not be back until Sunday, so I'm cancelling this Friday's party."

Charlie's heart fell. He wasn't so much disturbed by the prospect of missing out on one of J.T.'s parties as he was by the fact that his friend didn't even mention not being available for a repeat trip to Fantasy. Charlie wanted to help Cooke and Leach nail this Mr. X - not just for his clearance; not even just for Don's career. He wanted any man capable of doing what he was doing to other human beings - to children! - to rot in prison for the rest of his life. "I understand," Charlie answered, sounding so despondent that J.T. was nearly brought to orgasm on the spot.

Morrison discovered that he needed to get off the phone to take care of some rather...urgent...business. Once he had dealt with his own physical needs, he would start calling Markus, pressuring him for passes to the Stairway of Heaven; he would surely die if he didn't get his hands on Eppes soon. "I'll speak to you when I get back," he promised before disconnecting.

I've screwed up pretty much everything, Charlie was left thinking.

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He stepped into the kitchen for a beer before his third call. He sipped at the brew while he waited for Don to answer, and nearly choked on a mouthful of suds when he did.

Charlie coughed into the phone. "Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I just called to give you my new number."

"I thought you'd keep the old one," Don answered.

Charlie sighed. Not wanting to explain again, he instead began to speak about their upcoming altercation. "Listen, I'm not sure how much good this 'fight' is going to do. J.T. will be out of town all week."

Don grunted. "I thought you believed Morrison to be ignorant, anyway. We'd better follow through; if someone is watching, they could report directly to Mr. X."

Charlie bristled. "Look, I know you don't agree..."

Don interrupted him. "No, I don't, Charlie. There are things you and I should just not talk about, and your clearance needs to be added to that list. I'm still your brother, and we need to agree to disagree on this one."

Charlie blinked back tired and angry tears, and almost told Don the real reason he was working for Cooke and Leach. Instead he heard himself asking, "List? What else won't you talk to me about?"

Don sighed. "Let's not do this, Charlie."

Of course, that statement assured that Charlie would 'do this'. "What?" he demanded again.

"Maybe 'list' was the wrong word," Don answered. "Right now I can only think of the 'P vs. NP' months."

Charlie's gasp was audible. "We don't talk about that because you're still angry? I thought it was because you understood!"

"I understand more than I used to," Don countered. "That doesn't mean I fully understand." Charlie accepted that statement in stunned silence. At length, Don felt he had to give his little brother a little something more. "Look," he continued in a more gentle tone of voice, "this is just how I deal with things. Maybe later, I'll understand more about why clearance means so much to you." Charlie was still silent, so Don hurried on. "I talked to A.D. Wright. He says the fight should have a physical aspect - he says if we're gonna do it, we want as many people gossiping about it as possible. He's even planning on publicly suspending me after I drop your scrawny ass."

Charlie was just going for another mouthful of beer, and now he spit it back into the bottle - and all over the kitchen table. "I beg your pardon?"

He could tell that Don was grinning. "Come on; everybody will expect me to win. I'm older than you, bigger than you, more trained in combat techniques than you. I'll try to pull my punch, dude, but it's got to look real. I'll shove you around a little, but then you have to remember to duck." His tone became serious. "Bring your arms up; protect your face."

This is just getting better and better, thought Charlie. Aloud he admitted impending defeat. "Wonderful. I'm supposed to meet Colby at one."

"I'll try to arrange my own lunch hour so I'm coming back to the office when you get there," planned Don. "We can ride up in the elevator together and then -- it's showtime. I'll let Wright know when to be ready."

"Absolutely," answered Charlie drily. "Wright should be ready."

Don laughed briefly. "Chuck," he reminded before disconnecting, "just don't forget to duck."

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In retrospect, Don knew that he had gone too far. Sitting glumly in the break room, ignoring a cup of coffee, he could even pinpoint the moment he had crossed the line.

His mind drifted back to that point in time, just moments before. He'd met Charlie in the parking garage for a little pre-fight planning, and found his brother in a disgruntled mood.

"I don't even know why we're doing this," Charlie grumbled. "I haven't heard from J.T. all week – he more than likely has completely forgotten about me. My chances of getting an invitation back there are next to none."

Don grunted. "And that would suit me just fine."

Charlie glared at him and Don could sense he was spoiling for a quarrel. Charlie could be moody, and sometimes argumentative, but his idea of fighting usually was to reason his opponent into a corner; in fact, Don remembered more than once trying, unsuccessfully, to goad him into a fight, and getting nothing but a lecture. Occasionally, however, Charlie would get into a mood so prickly, that a fight, a real fight, was inevitable, and he appeared to be of that mindset right now. That, Don thought to himself, was nothing less than ideal; if he worked this right, he could prod Charlie into a dispute that would look believable in the office. He jabbed at the elevator button, and said coolly, "I think you ought to back out of this anyway. Let's face it; you're not cut out for it."

The elevator doors opened, and as they stepped on, Don caught a satisfying glimpse of Charlie's eyes, flashing fire. He felt an inexplicable desire to argue rising inside him – months of pent up anger and irritation were coming out of nowhere – generated by what? His hurt feelings over Charlie's cavalier email to Pakistan? The fact that Charlie's new quest to regain his clearance had apparently nothing to do with Don? He couldn't put his finger on it, and he didn't even consciously try. For the past several weeks they'd been arguing, off and on, little jabs that spoke of an underlying agenda that was simmering below the surface, waiting to explode.

The elevator doors closed, and Don looked sideways at Charlie. His brother's jaw was set in a stubborn line, and his eyes were directed straight ahead, boring into the keypad. "We should have rehearsed this, Charlie."

Charlie's voice was tight. "What's to rehearse? You think I can't handle this, you've made that pretty clear."

Don scowled. "I didn't mean it that way."

Charlie snorted derisively as Don glared at him and punched a button; stopping the elevator between floors. "This isn't a game, okay? I'd think twice about sending a seasoned agent into this."

Charlie finally turned to look at him, his eyes snapping. "You aren't sending me anywhere. I'm taking an assignment from the DEA. You aren't controlling this operation, and you might as well come to grips with that."

Don fought down a boiling surge of anger, and spoke, his lips tight. "We still should have figured out what we're going to say, here."

Charlie jabbed the button and the elevator started moving again. He shrugged impatiently. "I'll hold up my end. You're the 'seasoned agent.' I'm sure you can manage to make it believable. Just say what you really think."

"Fine," snapped Don. "Let's at least agree on this - I'm going to throw a punch at some point. I'll give you plenty of notice; just be prepared to duck, or to block it."

"Yeah, whatever."

The door opened, and Charlie stepped off the elevator, heading toward the bullpen, with an impatient stride. Don paused for a second; then followed; the angry set to his jaw and shoulders didn't need to be faked. "All right, Chuck," he said to himself. "You want to run with the big dogs; then here goes."

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He sighed, and contemplated his coffee cup. Contrary to how it might appear, he had pushed the envelope long before he broke his brother's nose. In the truth of hindsight, he knew he had broken something more important the instant the words flew out of his mouth.

You're an arrogant ass, Charlie, and it's time you understood that this office does not revolve around you, any more than the world does. I'm sorry that I ever agreed to let you consult on your first case. I'm sorry you were ever born!

He had seen the flash of hurt when those last words rolled off his tongue. Undeniable, even if Charlie hadn't lost his place in the tableau, forgetting to duck or even attempt to block Don's blow. His fist had crashed into Charlie's face, and Don had almost passed out himself at the crack heard 'round the bullpen. Blood had spattered back onto his own face, and he had withdrawn bruised knuckles to stare at them in horror.

Charlie had grunted and dropped to his knees. Don had felt someone – later, it turned out to be David -- pulling him back, and made a half-hearted attempt to struggle. He watched Colby rush to Charlie's side, and wanted to cry out how sorry he was, push him away and take his place. Things had gone horribly wrong, miserably wrong, permanently wrong.

They should have had a script. They had talked about a general direction for the disagreement to take, but Charlie had refused to rehearse, and Don had let him get away with that. A real agent would have been prepared, he told himself with disgust. A real leader would have taken charge, would have forced the issue, no matter what Charlie thought. Instead, he'd let them both walk into a disaster.

Don had no idea where that phrase had come from. I wish you had never been born. He hadn't said that to Charlie since he was seven years old. His mother had overheard him and he had spent the next two weeks grounded every afternoon after school. Every day he had to write a paper for her: One reason he was glad Charlie was his brother. He still remembered some of them. The first, "I gots the only liddle bruther that kin do all my homewurk fer Mrs. Angel." Mrs. Angel was his math teacher, and that paper had persuaded Margaret to have a little talk with her. Don's work had mysteriously doubled, and she started making him stay in at recess to complete the assignments.

A throat cleared behind him, and Don recognized Sinclair. He picked up his coffee and took a sip, to hide his face. He had to do this. He couldn't let the other agent suspect. Besides, he needed to stick around the office long enough for the rumor mill to rev up and reach warp speed; long enough for Wright to come down to the bullpen and publicly suspend his ass.

"Don…are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital? Colby just called, and the plastic surgeon on duty is going to check Charlie's nose. I could give you a ride."

Don set down the coffee mug and snickered. "Did him a favor," he said, sarcasm dripping off his tongue. "He should have had a nose job years ago."

He felt David shift behind him. "Isn't your dad still out of town? Maybe Charlie shouldn't be alone, tonight."

Don clutched the mug and hoped Sinclair didn't see his knuckles turning white. They had thought it good timing, that their father was off on his visit to their Aunt Irene in Santa Barbara. They wouldn't have to worry about Alan finding out what was going on, or fretting over something that wasn't real. Things had suddenly taken on a shocking reality, though, and now Charlie was hurt. He would be in pain, and he would go home alone, and Don could not go to help him. Even if it killed him. "He's got friends," he grumbled, and he succeeded in making himself feel even worse. Amita and that…that professor guy, the one who had taken over the bulk of Larry's Hoggs boson research…they had squeezed in a quick trip to D.C. to meet with Larry, but they were supposed to be back by now. At least that had been the plan, but Millie had called a few days ago asking after Alan, and had mentioned how busy Charlie had been, helping to cover Amita's classes since she was staying on at Georgetown for a few weeks. Surely, Colby would at least ask Charlie if he should call Amita or something, and figure it out? Damn.

Don took another sip of coffee and was glad when it burned all the way down his throat.

He deserved it.

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End, Chapter 21