Author's note: All the usual disclaimers apply – I don't own the show or the characters, only the words on this page. This would take place anywhere in late season 2, but definitely after 'Mind games'. As always, I'd love to hear what you think.

Between brothers
by BHP

The elevator doors slid open and the words spilled out.

"No, see, you combine a reverse Steiner tree with a regression analysis of the second order variables, and then …"

"No, Charlie." Don's voice was tired, but he couldn't help but smile at his brother's confounded expression. He waved a hand at Charlie, stilling the unborn objections to his words. "I don't see. And let's be honest, here: I'm never going to see what you're trying to tell me."

He shook his head before Charlie could start explaining again. "And that's okay. I don't have to get it. You get it, and it works. That I do understand." He patted Charlie's shoulder and his smile grew. "And now that guy we arrested yesterday gets it too. He'll have a lifetime in prison to figure out exactly how you helped us catch him."

The parking lot stood almost empty in front of them, but Don swept it with his eyes anyway. Letting your guard down was always risky, especially when carrying a weapon. More importantly, letting anything slip when he had Charlie with him would be unforgivable. The lot was quiet, and Don could distantly hear the clanking of the exit gate, and the rumble of a car leaving. Most likely Megan, as she had left a few minutes ahead of him and Charlie.

The subdued hum of the lighting was the only other sound, but Don paused again, turning in a complete circle to survey the whole garage. A few Suburbans, a couple of agency sedans, a delivery truck half-full of bottles for water coolers, and a service van from the cleaning company that cleaned the FBI offices. Nothing out of place, no unusual sounds, no figures in the shadows where a few lights had burned out, and yet … something just felt wrong, felt off in some way.

Don had always been a believer in instinct, making the most of that particular talent in his baseball career. He'd always had an eye for a good ball to swing at. Apart from the low and outside pitches, his instincts had always steered him away from the bad balls too. Right now, his instincts were putting Irish banshees to shame, shrieking alarm in tones to bend metal, but he couldn't find a cause.

"Don. Hey, Don." Charlie's slightly worried voice split his attention. "Don, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, Charlie." Don let his gaze linger around the garage one last time and then settled it back on Charlie's face. Charlie had paled a little and was nervously scrubbing a hand through his curls.

"You sure, Don?"

"Sure." Don put every ounce of certainty he could into his voice. "Just thought I heard something, or … Never mind, there's nothing to worry about."

Charlie's face cleared and his eyes smiled again. "Good. That look you just had … I have to say, it's a bit scary."

"What?" Don wasn't sure what Charlie meant. "What look?"

"Very intense, bro. All don't-mess-with-me, and very take charge. Take no prisoners."

"Seriously, Charlie? What on earth have you been watching on late night TV?" Don laughed at the thought. "Take no prisoners. That can't be right. My job is all about taking prisoners."

Charlie shook his head, and Don could see him marshalling arguments to explain himself. He knew what Charlie was talking about, and privately, he also referred to his instinctive earlier response as 'take no prisoners'. But he didn't see any reason to make Charlie worry, or worse, to give Charlie any more ammunition in his ongoing quest to understand Don's every motivation. So when in need, change the subject.

"Thanks, by the way."

"Sure. Um, for what?" Charlie's response was pleased, but puzzled.

"For coming in this afternoon. Making sure we had all the facts straight. Explaining that equation again. I really didn't want this guy to walk on some sort of technicality."

"Anything to help." Charlie laid a hand on Don's shoulder and gently shoved him towards the Suburban. "Now, are you going to take me home?"

"What's the rush, Chuck?"

"Don't call me that." Charlie's complaint was a matter of form, offset by a grin. "Well, it's five thirty. I've set up this new traffic tracking programme on my laptop, using GPS data, traffic reports, traffic signal timing patterns, and flow rate calculations," Don shook his head, but Charlie kept going, "and I think we can make it to my place by six thirty."

"An hour?" Don's laugh was incredulous. "Charlie, it's LA on a Friday afternoon!"

"I know." Don was sure he'd never seen Charlie look quite so smug. "Trust me, this will work." For a second, Charlie faltered. "It had better. He'll kill me if we're late."

"Who will?"

"Dad. I promised him we'd be there by six thirty."

"Are you nuts, Charlie? What possessed you?"

"Nothing. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. Kind of, an added incentive to dinner."

"What's on the menu?" It had been a long week, and the thought of one of his dad's meals perked Don up.

"Lasagna."

"That recipe you said was actually worth digesting?"

"That's the one."

"Well, let's get moving then." Don headed for his Suburban, momentary unease banished.

A flick of the remote and he heard the quiet click of the locks opening. He pulled off his jacket and dropped it on the back seat, as Charlie dumped his jacket next to Don's and his bag on the floor behind the passenger seat. Charlie grabbed his laptop and then settled himself in the passenger seat, flipping open the lid of the computer and booting up his latest traffic programme. He shifted the computer around on his denim-clad knees while he waited for the programme to finish loading.

"You know, if I can perfect this programme, you guys could use it to get to crime scenes faster. Get through traffic and find suspects before they get such a big head start."

"So this isn't just to get you out of trouble with Dad?"

Don laughed at Charlie's innocent, wide-eyed expression and slid the key home in the ignition. His first inkling that his earlier unease might not have been misplaced was the dry click when he turned the ignition. The engine didn't even turn over, but the door locks flipped shut. Don pulled at the tab, but couldn't get the lock to shift. Then he tried the window controls, only to find them unresponsive as well.

"Charlie, try your door."

His only response was a barely audible hissing noise. He turned his head to look at Charlie, feeling strangely disconnected and uncoordinated, only to see Charlie slumped against the car door. His brother was staring at him, huge pleading brown eyes focussed on Don's face, fingers fumbling on the keys of the laptop. Then Charlie's eyes slid shut and his fingers went still, and Don could feel the darkness reaching out to drag him down as well.

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