shaolingrrl
06-06-2007, 01:34 AM
Here, *finally*. I write too long.
Set just after "Take Out," so it contains more Don angst. Gotta get away from that. On the other hand, it's what's in my head, and as a beloved character once said, sometimes I have to work on what's in my head.
Whether or not what's in my head makes any sense is another question entirely.
L is for Lost and Found
Don Eppes is still unconscious as he's shoved out the right rear door of the slowly-moving sedan. He falls hard to the wet gravel of the shoulder. As glowing red tail lights vanish into the night, Don's limp body rolls over the edge of the embankment and down, crashing through weeds, bouncing over rocks, scraping past a spidery manzanita, finally coming to rest in the low scrub at the bottom of a shallow ravine.
He rolls onto his back, slack face raised to the overcast sky. The lights of the distant city paint the clouds a glimmering silver-gray, and that pale, ghostly illumination is echoed by the pallor of his skin. A steady drizzle soaks into his hair, his clothes, but it's falling too lightly to wash away the blood.
Los Angeles is little more than an hour away, Pasadena even closer. Yet for all the nearby trappings of civilization, the masses of people just beyond a horizon he cannot see, Special Agent Eppes is very far from home. And for the first time, not by his own choosing.
*****************
"'Lo?" Don stuck his head around the solid oak front door of his childhood home and listened. No immediate "Donnie!" from his dad, or "Hey, bro!" from Charlie, but he could hear quiet voices from the kitchen and he sighed with relief as he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
As he tossed keys and handcuffs on the small table in the entryway, Don realized that this moment was precisely what he needed--to be near his family without actually being a part. Of course, in a few moments they'd discover his presence and he'd be expected to make small talk, but even then he could depend on Charlie to handle most of the dinner conversation. Afterwards, a companionable quiet would fill the house; Charlie would peck at his laptop, Dad would immerse himself in a book, maybe they could have a game on in the background. Don could be alone with his thoughts, but not alone.
As he turned away from the table, he heard a sharp "tik!" and froze. His gun had bumped the table edge. He looked down at it, pulled it from his hip, hefted the lump of matte black metal in his hand. Don usually didn't bother disarming when he wasn't staying over. Dad didn't have a safe place for his piece, and although he knew that neither Charlie nor Dad had the slightest desire to pick up a loaded firearm, Don could also list a depressing number of accidents with firearms that shouldn't have happened but did.
Yet--lately he'd been conscious of a growing sense of distaste when he looked at the weapon. There were times when he didn't want to touch it, didn't want it touching him.
Too bad the problem wasn't the gun.
A bit of bumper sticker philosophy popped into his head: "Guns don't kill people. People kill people."
Is that what I am? A killer? He thought back to the conclusion of the team's last case, the shot he could have taken but didn't, because really, he was tired of killing and Colby and David were both right there--
Except Colby and David had both been too slow, and now Bernardo Infante was dead.
Maybe the question wasn't, Am I a killer? Maybe the question he needed to ask was, Do I have to be?
"Yo. Don't get comfortable."
Don slammed the gun to the table, cushioning the sound against a tapestry runner. "Geeze, Charlie, do you have to sneak up on me?" He turned around.
Charlie stood in the kitchen doorway, eyes wide. "I-I wasn't sneaking, Don, it's called a swinging door, there's no latching mechanism to make noise, and if the hinges start creaking, Dad yells at me."
"Don't be silly, Charlie." Their father, Alan, appeared behind Charlie and gently maneuvered him out of the doorway. "I don't yell at you for creaking hinges. I yell at you for other things. Like forgetting the cornstarch. And your wallet. Hi, Donnie."
"Hey, Dad." Don raised a hand in greeting, but forced himself not to look away from Charlie's scrutiny. "You lost your wallet? Did you cancel your cards?"
"No, because it's not really lost. It's at Morton's Grocery, and you can't get comfortable because you need to take me down there to get it."
"And some cornstarch," Alan added. "And bananas, while you're at it."
Charlie wrinkled his nose. "Why bananas?"
Alan nodded at Don. "For his breakfast. He likes bananas on his cereal."
"I don't need any bananas--"
"Well, I'm not making pancakes."
"Dad, I don't need anything for breakfast. I don't even live here."
"Tell that to my grocery bill," Charlie said darkly.
A familiar sense of bewilderment swept over Don, as though he'd once again opened the wrong door or taken the wrong turn and become lost in the convoluted interactions of his family. "Hold it. Hold it. Just--hold on."
Both Eppes the Elder and Eppes the Younger fell silent, watching Don with bright, expectant gazes. "One--one, singular, solo, one at a time," said Don, holding up a forefinger. He pointed at Charlie. "You. Go."
Charlie took a deep breath and glanced at his father. "It's not a big deal. I was supposed to stop at Morton's on the way home and pick up a few things--"
"From a list. Which had cornstarch written on it."
"Ah-ah-ah. Did I not say one? One at a time?"
"I obviously didn't get my math brain from you, Dad," muttered Charlie.
"You got your math brain from the aliens," said Don. "We already knew that. Keep going, Chuck."
Charlie glared at him, but continued. "I got distracted and left my wallet there. But it's not lost," he said, forestalling Don's next words. "It's not lost because I left it right at the checkout counter and Mr. Morton had already called by the time I got home."
"You got distracted at the checkout counter?"
"There was a big display of oranges at the front of the store. Nice face-centered cubic arrangement--"
Don and Alan exchanged a look.
"Sphere packing algorithms!" Charlie spoke as if that explained everything, and to Charlie it probably did.
"So, go get your wallet," said Don.
"I don't have my license."
Don actually rolled his eyes. "You've got to be kidding me. Morton's is like five minutes away."
"I don't have my license. How embarrassing would it be for you if I got stopped?"
"Hey, it wouldn't embarrass me. You're the one who forgot your wallet." Don looked at Alan. "You want the cornstarch. You take him."
Alan crossed his arms. "Charlie needs to learn that other people can't just drop everything and come running when he's messed up."
Ah. Alan was on another responsibility kick. Don exchanged a sympathetic glance with his brother. "What do you need cornstarch for, anyway?"
"To thicken gravy. You can't thicken gravy without cornstarch."
"You mean you guys haven't eaten yet?" Don shook his head. No wonder they were both as crabby as toddlers who hadn't had their naps. They were getting hypoglycemic. "Just use flour, Dad. Even I know that."
"You don't use flour unless you want doughy gravy. Did your mother ever use flour?"
"When she ran out of cornstar--"
Do killers have conversations like this?
Don stopped, and his eyes widened as he stared at his father and brother. He swallowed convulsively against a sudden twist of nausea.
"Don?" Charlie, voice soft and uncertain.
"Donnie? What's wrong?" Alan took a step toward him, hand outstretched, and Don turned away, scrabbling at the tabletop until he felt his keys under his palm.
"Grab your coat, Charlie," he said, moving toward the door and away from his father's hand. "This is getting ridiculous. Let's go get your damned wallet." He stopped, one hand gripping the doorknob, one "Are you okay?" or "Want to talk about it?" away from bolting.
Instead, Charlie cleared his throat. "Okay. Yeah, sure. Give me a minute. I'll be--I'll be right back."
Don heard footsteps on the stairs and forced himself to turn to his father. "Cornstarch, right?"
Alan nodded once. "And bananas."
Don smiled at that. "And bananas. You want anything else?"
Alan was silent so long that Don thought he hadn't heard. Then he sighed and shook his head, his gaze heavy and--sad. "Want something? What more could I possibly want? No--wait. Say hi to Bill for me. I've been making Charlie do the shopping and I haven't been in for a while."
Charlie appeared on the stairs, zipping up a windbreaker, and Don nodded. "Will do. Back in ten. Eat something, okay, Dad? Don't be so stubborn."
Alan's eyes widened at that. "Me, stubborn?" Don pulled the front door open and ushered Charlie through.
The first three minutes of the five minute trip to Morton's passed in silence, and Don began to hope that the entire errand would be conducted in like fashion. Then Charlie said, "Want to talk about it?"
"No!" The word erupted with far more force than necessary--more force than he'd intended, certainly, and Charlie flinched. Don sighed. Charlie acting afraid of his big brother pushed way too many buttons, and Don peeled a hand from the steering wheel to massage his forehead. Maybe Charlie and Alan weren't the only ones suffering from hypoglycemia. "Look, Charlie, I appreciate the offer, but, this isn't something I can talk about with you."
"Why not?" Charlie, logical as ever.
"Because--" Don stopped, searching for an answer, and came up blank. Because there were no words in his head.
Don occasionally wondered how it had happened that Charlie had not only gotten all the numbers, but most of the words, as well. He couldn't spell worth beans, but that didn't mean his vocabulary wasn’t quite extensive. Don had long thought that Charlie had learned all those big words to try to explain the numbers to people like him.
Or maybe Charlie got the words because Charlie always had someone who'd listen.
Don shook his head, disgusted with the self-pitying turn his thoughts had taken. Here was Charlie, ready and willing to hear him out. He just had nothing to say.
"It's not you, Chuck. I--I don't even know what I'm thinking right now."
"That's why you start talking," said Charlie softly. He touched Don's arm. "You'd be surprised at how quickly thoughts start emerging from the stream of words."
They pulled into a parking spot in front of Morton's and Don shut off the engine. They sat in silence for a moment, as a light rain misted the windshield, turning the store's neon sign into a blurred band of color. Don unfastened his safety belt but Charlie didn't move, and after a moment Don sank back into his seat. An image came to him.
Charlie had gone on a maze kick for a while, tacking up photos of them, making replicas, even trying to talk their father into turning the backyard into a miniature hedgerow maze. Once he'd explained to Don how easy it was to navigate a maze: "Put one palm against a wall and don't ever pull away."
Don had thought he was doing that with his life--marching steadily along, eyes front, one palm tight to the wall, letting it lead him--but somewhere along the line, he must have lost touch. And now, when he looked around he didn't see the inside of the car, he saw paths he didn't recognize, paths he didn't want to follow.
"You like your job, don't you," he said softly, almost in a whisper. "Heck, you love your job, right?"
Charlie started, and Don could feel his brother turn to face him, could feel Charlie's scrutiny. "Yes, I do. So do you." A note of hesitation. "Don't you?"
Don sighed. No. I am my job. It's a little different. "What would you do if something happened to ruin it for you? Like if you hadn't been able to fix the problem with your equation that jerk Penfield pointed out?"
Charlie chuckled. "I never give up and you never back down," he murmured.
"What?"
"That's a good question," Charlie said more strongly. "And I'm honestly not sure how to answer you. I guess that's partly why I'm working on Cognitive Emergence--so that my entire reputation will no longer rest on one major accomplishment."
"More than one," Don protested, and Charlie smiled.
"No matter what happened, I'd have to figure out some way to keep being a mathematician, because I'm not fit to be anything else."
Don sucked in a sharp breath. I am my job. Not fit--
No. He could not do this now. He was hungry, he was tired, Dad was waiting--
Don forced himself to speak normally as he reached for the door handle. "We'd better get that cornstarch, or Dad's gonna disown us both." Then he was out, slamming the car door on Charlie's startled, "What did I say?" Without waiting for his brother, Don strode toward the door of the little grocery. He frowned at the "Closed" sign in the window as he shoved the door open. Well, no wonder the parking lot was almost empty, but that had to be a mistake, because Morton's was open until ten on weeknights--
"Get your hands up."
Set just after "Take Out," so it contains more Don angst. Gotta get away from that. On the other hand, it's what's in my head, and as a beloved character once said, sometimes I have to work on what's in my head.
Whether or not what's in my head makes any sense is another question entirely.
L is for Lost and Found
Don Eppes is still unconscious as he's shoved out the right rear door of the slowly-moving sedan. He falls hard to the wet gravel of the shoulder. As glowing red tail lights vanish into the night, Don's limp body rolls over the edge of the embankment and down, crashing through weeds, bouncing over rocks, scraping past a spidery manzanita, finally coming to rest in the low scrub at the bottom of a shallow ravine.
He rolls onto his back, slack face raised to the overcast sky. The lights of the distant city paint the clouds a glimmering silver-gray, and that pale, ghostly illumination is echoed by the pallor of his skin. A steady drizzle soaks into his hair, his clothes, but it's falling too lightly to wash away the blood.
Los Angeles is little more than an hour away, Pasadena even closer. Yet for all the nearby trappings of civilization, the masses of people just beyond a horizon he cannot see, Special Agent Eppes is very far from home. And for the first time, not by his own choosing.
*****************
"'Lo?" Don stuck his head around the solid oak front door of his childhood home and listened. No immediate "Donnie!" from his dad, or "Hey, bro!" from Charlie, but he could hear quiet voices from the kitchen and he sighed with relief as he slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
As he tossed keys and handcuffs on the small table in the entryway, Don realized that this moment was precisely what he needed--to be near his family without actually being a part. Of course, in a few moments they'd discover his presence and he'd be expected to make small talk, but even then he could depend on Charlie to handle most of the dinner conversation. Afterwards, a companionable quiet would fill the house; Charlie would peck at his laptop, Dad would immerse himself in a book, maybe they could have a game on in the background. Don could be alone with his thoughts, but not alone.
As he turned away from the table, he heard a sharp "tik!" and froze. His gun had bumped the table edge. He looked down at it, pulled it from his hip, hefted the lump of matte black metal in his hand. Don usually didn't bother disarming when he wasn't staying over. Dad didn't have a safe place for his piece, and although he knew that neither Charlie nor Dad had the slightest desire to pick up a loaded firearm, Don could also list a depressing number of accidents with firearms that shouldn't have happened but did.
Yet--lately he'd been conscious of a growing sense of distaste when he looked at the weapon. There were times when he didn't want to touch it, didn't want it touching him.
Too bad the problem wasn't the gun.
A bit of bumper sticker philosophy popped into his head: "Guns don't kill people. People kill people."
Is that what I am? A killer? He thought back to the conclusion of the team's last case, the shot he could have taken but didn't, because really, he was tired of killing and Colby and David were both right there--
Except Colby and David had both been too slow, and now Bernardo Infante was dead.
Maybe the question wasn't, Am I a killer? Maybe the question he needed to ask was, Do I have to be?
"Yo. Don't get comfortable."
Don slammed the gun to the table, cushioning the sound against a tapestry runner. "Geeze, Charlie, do you have to sneak up on me?" He turned around.
Charlie stood in the kitchen doorway, eyes wide. "I-I wasn't sneaking, Don, it's called a swinging door, there's no latching mechanism to make noise, and if the hinges start creaking, Dad yells at me."
"Don't be silly, Charlie." Their father, Alan, appeared behind Charlie and gently maneuvered him out of the doorway. "I don't yell at you for creaking hinges. I yell at you for other things. Like forgetting the cornstarch. And your wallet. Hi, Donnie."
"Hey, Dad." Don raised a hand in greeting, but forced himself not to look away from Charlie's scrutiny. "You lost your wallet? Did you cancel your cards?"
"No, because it's not really lost. It's at Morton's Grocery, and you can't get comfortable because you need to take me down there to get it."
"And some cornstarch," Alan added. "And bananas, while you're at it."
Charlie wrinkled his nose. "Why bananas?"
Alan nodded at Don. "For his breakfast. He likes bananas on his cereal."
"I don't need any bananas--"
"Well, I'm not making pancakes."
"Dad, I don't need anything for breakfast. I don't even live here."
"Tell that to my grocery bill," Charlie said darkly.
A familiar sense of bewilderment swept over Don, as though he'd once again opened the wrong door or taken the wrong turn and become lost in the convoluted interactions of his family. "Hold it. Hold it. Just--hold on."
Both Eppes the Elder and Eppes the Younger fell silent, watching Don with bright, expectant gazes. "One--one, singular, solo, one at a time," said Don, holding up a forefinger. He pointed at Charlie. "You. Go."
Charlie took a deep breath and glanced at his father. "It's not a big deal. I was supposed to stop at Morton's on the way home and pick up a few things--"
"From a list. Which had cornstarch written on it."
"Ah-ah-ah. Did I not say one? One at a time?"
"I obviously didn't get my math brain from you, Dad," muttered Charlie.
"You got your math brain from the aliens," said Don. "We already knew that. Keep going, Chuck."
Charlie glared at him, but continued. "I got distracted and left my wallet there. But it's not lost," he said, forestalling Don's next words. "It's not lost because I left it right at the checkout counter and Mr. Morton had already called by the time I got home."
"You got distracted at the checkout counter?"
"There was a big display of oranges at the front of the store. Nice face-centered cubic arrangement--"
Don and Alan exchanged a look.
"Sphere packing algorithms!" Charlie spoke as if that explained everything, and to Charlie it probably did.
"So, go get your wallet," said Don.
"I don't have my license."
Don actually rolled his eyes. "You've got to be kidding me. Morton's is like five minutes away."
"I don't have my license. How embarrassing would it be for you if I got stopped?"
"Hey, it wouldn't embarrass me. You're the one who forgot your wallet." Don looked at Alan. "You want the cornstarch. You take him."
Alan crossed his arms. "Charlie needs to learn that other people can't just drop everything and come running when he's messed up."
Ah. Alan was on another responsibility kick. Don exchanged a sympathetic glance with his brother. "What do you need cornstarch for, anyway?"
"To thicken gravy. You can't thicken gravy without cornstarch."
"You mean you guys haven't eaten yet?" Don shook his head. No wonder they were both as crabby as toddlers who hadn't had their naps. They were getting hypoglycemic. "Just use flour, Dad. Even I know that."
"You don't use flour unless you want doughy gravy. Did your mother ever use flour?"
"When she ran out of cornstar--"
Do killers have conversations like this?
Don stopped, and his eyes widened as he stared at his father and brother. He swallowed convulsively against a sudden twist of nausea.
"Don?" Charlie, voice soft and uncertain.
"Donnie? What's wrong?" Alan took a step toward him, hand outstretched, and Don turned away, scrabbling at the tabletop until he felt his keys under his palm.
"Grab your coat, Charlie," he said, moving toward the door and away from his father's hand. "This is getting ridiculous. Let's go get your damned wallet." He stopped, one hand gripping the doorknob, one "Are you okay?" or "Want to talk about it?" away from bolting.
Instead, Charlie cleared his throat. "Okay. Yeah, sure. Give me a minute. I'll be--I'll be right back."
Don heard footsteps on the stairs and forced himself to turn to his father. "Cornstarch, right?"
Alan nodded once. "And bananas."
Don smiled at that. "And bananas. You want anything else?"
Alan was silent so long that Don thought he hadn't heard. Then he sighed and shook his head, his gaze heavy and--sad. "Want something? What more could I possibly want? No--wait. Say hi to Bill for me. I've been making Charlie do the shopping and I haven't been in for a while."
Charlie appeared on the stairs, zipping up a windbreaker, and Don nodded. "Will do. Back in ten. Eat something, okay, Dad? Don't be so stubborn."
Alan's eyes widened at that. "Me, stubborn?" Don pulled the front door open and ushered Charlie through.
The first three minutes of the five minute trip to Morton's passed in silence, and Don began to hope that the entire errand would be conducted in like fashion. Then Charlie said, "Want to talk about it?"
"No!" The word erupted with far more force than necessary--more force than he'd intended, certainly, and Charlie flinched. Don sighed. Charlie acting afraid of his big brother pushed way too many buttons, and Don peeled a hand from the steering wheel to massage his forehead. Maybe Charlie and Alan weren't the only ones suffering from hypoglycemia. "Look, Charlie, I appreciate the offer, but, this isn't something I can talk about with you."
"Why not?" Charlie, logical as ever.
"Because--" Don stopped, searching for an answer, and came up blank. Because there were no words in his head.
Don occasionally wondered how it had happened that Charlie had not only gotten all the numbers, but most of the words, as well. He couldn't spell worth beans, but that didn't mean his vocabulary wasn’t quite extensive. Don had long thought that Charlie had learned all those big words to try to explain the numbers to people like him.
Or maybe Charlie got the words because Charlie always had someone who'd listen.
Don shook his head, disgusted with the self-pitying turn his thoughts had taken. Here was Charlie, ready and willing to hear him out. He just had nothing to say.
"It's not you, Chuck. I--I don't even know what I'm thinking right now."
"That's why you start talking," said Charlie softly. He touched Don's arm. "You'd be surprised at how quickly thoughts start emerging from the stream of words."
They pulled into a parking spot in front of Morton's and Don shut off the engine. They sat in silence for a moment, as a light rain misted the windshield, turning the store's neon sign into a blurred band of color. Don unfastened his safety belt but Charlie didn't move, and after a moment Don sank back into his seat. An image came to him.
Charlie had gone on a maze kick for a while, tacking up photos of them, making replicas, even trying to talk their father into turning the backyard into a miniature hedgerow maze. Once he'd explained to Don how easy it was to navigate a maze: "Put one palm against a wall and don't ever pull away."
Don had thought he was doing that with his life--marching steadily along, eyes front, one palm tight to the wall, letting it lead him--but somewhere along the line, he must have lost touch. And now, when he looked around he didn't see the inside of the car, he saw paths he didn't recognize, paths he didn't want to follow.
"You like your job, don't you," he said softly, almost in a whisper. "Heck, you love your job, right?"
Charlie started, and Don could feel his brother turn to face him, could feel Charlie's scrutiny. "Yes, I do. So do you." A note of hesitation. "Don't you?"
Don sighed. No. I am my job. It's a little different. "What would you do if something happened to ruin it for you? Like if you hadn't been able to fix the problem with your equation that jerk Penfield pointed out?"
Charlie chuckled. "I never give up and you never back down," he murmured.
"What?"
"That's a good question," Charlie said more strongly. "And I'm honestly not sure how to answer you. I guess that's partly why I'm working on Cognitive Emergence--so that my entire reputation will no longer rest on one major accomplishment."
"More than one," Don protested, and Charlie smiled.
"No matter what happened, I'd have to figure out some way to keep being a mathematician, because I'm not fit to be anything else."
Don sucked in a sharp breath. I am my job. Not fit--
No. He could not do this now. He was hungry, he was tired, Dad was waiting--
Don forced himself to speak normally as he reached for the door handle. "We'd better get that cornstarch, or Dad's gonna disown us both." Then he was out, slamming the car door on Charlie's startled, "What did I say?" Without waiting for his brother, Don strode toward the door of the little grocery. He frowned at the "Closed" sign in the window as he shoved the door open. Well, no wonder the parking lot was almost empty, but that had to be a mistake, because Morton's was open until ten on weeknights--
"Get your hands up."