Work Text:
It was time.
Nathan Crane methodically put his rifle together, setting up in one of the windows overlooking the square. He fiddled with the controls of his focus. Once he was finally satisfied, he began searching for his target.
There was no one there. Frowning, he did another sweep, but it was still empty. The people sitting on the bench, walking up and down the stone paths, gone. Everyone was gone.
Sirens caught his attention. A helicopter overhead, flashing red and blue lights below. They were here, they’d found him. His hands started to shake. His vision blurred. They were going to catch him before he was done, before he’d finished fixing his failures.
No. Not this one, at least. He had one more shot - literally. He searched the square again. Cops, agents, everyone wearing bulletproof vests. No, no, someone he could actually shoot had to be there. A car pulled up, and a man stepped out. A civilian, and right in his line of fire. Perfect.
Nathan followed the man as he walked around the car, writing something on a clipboard. He adjusted his aim. Closer…
His finger twitched against the trigger. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Aim…
He fired.
Don stared up at the buildings around him. All the civilians were evacuated from the square, but his people were still sitting ducks until they figured out where the sniper was. Sitting ducks in bulletproof vests, at least.
Entry teams were going around all the buildings directly looking into the square, but chances were if they didn’t find him fast, he’d get away. He directed another team into the building across the way. David was on the phone, Terry was talking to a team leader, Charlie was writing something on a clipboard, Agent Edgerton was somewhere around the square…
…Wait, Charlie?
He looked again, and yes, there was his little brother, not wearing a bulletproof vest, smack-dab in the middle of a sniper’s hunting ground. What was Charlie even doing here? He should be at the office, or on campus, or anywhere that wasn’t here. He needed to get his supposedly-genius brother (because Don was starting to doubt the legitimacy of his intelligence as he watched him walk around, in plain view of a sniper, without any kind of protection) out of here before Crane decided to take advantage of the easy target.
As if summoned by his thoughts, a gunshot rang out, shattering the back window of the car next to Charlie. “Charlie, get down!” He shouted, reaching for his gun and breaking into a dead sprint. The sniper, the one who’d already killed four people, was targeting his baby brother. He was too far away, he’d never make it in time. Charlie looked up from his clipboard and called back, “What?” He’d somehow missed the gunshot, with his back to the car and his nose buried in his work. David saw, though, and was already on the move.
“Charlie, get down!” David yelled, reaching out to push Charlie down. The gun fired again, shattering the window closest to them just as David shoved him and they both hit the ground. “Charlie, stay down!” Don shouted, already scanning the windows for where the shots had come from. David got up, keeping one hand on Charlie and the other on his gun. Charlie stayed flat on the ground.
There were shouts and chaos as teams rushed to mobilize and take Crane down before he could fire again. A third rifle shot sounded, but this one came from much closer. It hit the sniper. Someone was already ordering agents into the building, but Don only had eyes for his brother. He raced over, finally closing the distance between them. Charlie was still down on the ground, but he was awake and alert. He pulled his little brother into his arms, propping him up against the car. Once he knew he was fine, he was going to kill him.
Charlie got out of the car, already analyzing the probabilities of Crane’s position. He’d want a height that was too high to be seen easily, but not high enough that he had to worry about strong winds messing with the bullet’s trajectory. So maybe… fourth, sixth floor? Given that each floor is an approximate height of 12.86 feet…
He walked around a police car, glancing up at the windows to check against the possibilities he’d narrowed it down to. Not that one… that one’s too far… this tree obscures the view for all of those…
His pencil scratched across the paper, leaving behind the handwriting that his dad always swore was illegible even though Charlie could read it just fine. He was so focused on cross-referencing his data against what he’d observed that he almost missed Don’s voice. Charlie looked up, seeing his brother running toward him. “What?” He called. Don had shouted something, probably something important based on his expression. Did they have new information about the location of the sniper that they needed him to analyze? But, no, would that really make him sprint like that?
“Charlie, get down!” David’s voice came from behind him. A strong hand connected with his back, shoving him down just as a gunshot rang out and the car window next to them shattered. Charlie hit the ground hard, grunting in pain when his shoulder smacked down against a rock. He stayed down because his brother said to, but a large part of it was that he was terrified. His brain, usually processing numbers and data faster than most people could think, was filled with fog, stuck in a loop of The sniper is firing at us. At me.
The part of his mind that wasn’t frozen in fear was thinking, always thinking, analyzing the situation around him. The bullet came from an approximate 82° angle based on the way the window shattered. Glass shards were around him, on him. Further away, too. Two bullets. How did I miss that? Numbers and symbols overlaid his vision, the familiar sight allowing him to block out the sounds of gunshots and yelling around him. Broken window here and there, each hit from an easterly direction. About 40 inches apart. He closed his eyes, bringing up the data spread in his mind. Out of the windows I haven’t crossed off, factoring in approximate wind speed, weight of the ammunition, spatial distance between hits; the shots should have come from… A small grouping of windows highlighted themselves on the sheet. He would’ve liked to narrow it down further, but there were too many variables, too many approximations, and too much chaos.
He opened his eyes, ready to tell Don, but another sniper round fired and cut him off. It came from nearby, on the ground. There was shouting about the sniper being hit, getting teams into the building, then familiar shoes pounding into his line of sight. His brother pulled him into his arms, tight grip a grounding force against all the chaos.
“You alright?” Don asked, propping him up against the car. “Yeah.” Charlie panted. He was trembling and hyperventilating, there was broken glass on his jacket and in his hair, and his shoulder was throbbing from that stupid rock, but he was fine. He grabbed at his data sheet from where it had been lying under him. It had stains on it from being tossed to the ground. He absentmindedly brushed at them, still trying to catch his breath.
Agent Edgerton was suddenly next to them, holding a rifle. The rifle he must’ve used to shoot the sniper. Why did it take so long for me to put the pieces together? “The shooter is down. Is he okay?” The agent addressed his brother, who was still holding him in his strong, comfortingly familiar arms. Don turned to him instead of answering. “What, are you crazy? You could’ve got yourself killed!” Charlie barely stopped himself from wincing at the ire in his brother’s tone. “I was just… I- I was… working on some probabilities for where I thought… Crane might position himself.” He defended, showing them his data sheet. The numbers he’d calculated earlier, adjusted for where he knew the sniper had been positioned now, started flying through his head and out his mouth in an absentminded mumble. He wanted to write them down, adjust his data for the correct answer, but his hands were still shaking too badly to write. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, releasing a small shower of tiny shards. Washing it later was going to be a nightmare.
Don sighed and rocked back on his heels. “All right, I wanna get you out of here.” He repositioned his arms around him, preparing to haul him to his feet. Charlie gasped when it made his shoulder throb harder, a hammering staccato instead of a steady heartbeat. “You sure you’re alright?” Don asked, giving him a side-eyed glance. Charlie took a moment to catch his breath before answering. “I’m go-” He was cut off by the pounding in his shoulder sharpening into an intense white-hot agony.
Don pulled Charlie in tight, crouching on the ground next to him while his agents ran around, shouting orders and dealing with the sniper. “You alright?” He asked, feeling how Charlie was trembling in his arms. It made sense, after what just happened, but that didn’t make him like it any more.
“Yeah.” Charlie panted, still hyperventilating. There was broken glass on his clothes and in his curls, a scrape on his cheek, and he was several shades paler than normal, but he wasn’t shot and dead. Don was going to buy David’s first five rounds the next time they went out for drinks. Edgerton came up to them, still holding the rifle he’d shot the sniper with. “The shooter is down. Is he okay?” While definitely distressed, Charlie was physically alright, which was the best outcome Don could’ve asked for.
He looked at Charlie, who was messing with the data sheet in his shaking hands. A fierce frustration welled up inside, fueled by the full comprehension that he could’ve just lost his little brother forever suddenly slamming into him. “What, are you crazy? You could’ve got yourself killed!” He barely refrained from full-on shaking him. Charlie looked up at him, leftover fear still lingering in his eyes like a bad taste. “I was just… I- I was… working on some probabilities for where I thought… Crane might position himself.” Charlie panted out, showing his clipboard to them. Don frowned, taking a closer look at his brother. He was pale, trembling, and unable to catch his breath. All of which were easily explained by shock and adrenaline. But there was just… something else. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something felt off.
“Actually, he was pretty close.” Edgerton remarked, looking from the paper to him and back again. Don sighed. His knees were starting to hurt from crouching for so long, and Charlie was muttering numbers and words he didn’t understand too fast for anyone to understand. The shock was really starting to set in. “All right, I wanna get you out of here.” He leaned back, hooking one arm under Charlie’s and the other around his back to help pull him up. “You alright?” He asked, glancing back when his brother let out a sharp gasp. “I’m go-” He started saying, before he was cut off by one of the sounds Don hated most in the entire world. The sound of his baby brother in pain.
Charlie cried out, stumbling away from him. Don followed, gently pushing him back down against the car. His face was screwed up in pain, breathing harsh and fast through gritted teeth. “Charlie, what is it? Where’s it hurt?” Don urged, perching on his knees next to him. Charlie’s eyes cracked open, tears welling up and clinging to the long lashes. “My… shoulder. Hit it on… a rock… when I went down.” He gasped out, right hand coming up and gripping his left shoulder.
Don exchanged a glance with his team. There were no rocks anywhere nearby. His gaze caught on the discarded clipboard on the ground. More specifically, on the dark spots he’d brushed off as ink stains. He lifted it to take a closer look, and his breath caught in his throat.
They weren’t ink. Everything was written in pencil, and besides that; ink stains aren’t red.
He passed it to someone behind him. All his attention was focused on his brother, who was heaving for breath, whimpering in pain, and all but collapsed against the side of the car. Don gently lifted Charlie’s hand away from his shoulder and his heart stopped. The entire world was snatched from beneath his feet like a rug when he saw the dark stain spreading across his brother’s jacket, the bright red blood dripping from his brother’s palm.
Charlie yelped, stumbling away from whatever was hurting his shoulder. Warm hands brought him down and propped him up against something solid. Don’s hands, against the car- the helpful, not-blinded-by-pain part of his brain informed him. Don’s voice filtered through, the unusual urgency in his tone catching Charlie’s attention.
“-is it? Where’s it hurt?” It took him a second to parse the meaning of the words. Don wanted to know where the pain was. His shoulder throbbed, as if reminding him in case he’d somehow managed to forget. “My… shoulder. Hit it on… a rock… when I went down.” He panted out. His breathing was even harsher now, probably from his earlier attempt to move. Clearly his shoulder disagreed very strongly with that idea. He reached up to hold it, something in the back of his mind urging him to put pressure on it. Something… hovering on the edge of his awareness, teasing him with knowing there was something to know without knowing what that something actually was. This happened sometimes, frustrating as it was. When his subconscious knew something his conscious hadn’t yet picked up on. Following that instinct had never steered him wrong before - and had, in fact, led him to many a breakthrough in his work - so he listened and pressed down on the part of his shoulder that had been smashed into the rock, gritting his teeth through the wave of pain that followed. It was egregiously painful for a bruise, and putting pressure on it didn’t make much sense to him, but he didn’t really feel up to arguing with his subconscious at the moment.
A hand, Don’s hand, lifted his from his shoulder with annoyingly little difficulty. He bit back a groan and cracked his eyes open, not exactly sure when he’d shut them. Don was frozen, and he had a look on his face Charlie had only seen a few times in his life. One of which was when they found out mom was sick. Don was carefully holding his hand by the wrist, as if afraid he’d break it. His gaze was drawn to his palm. It was sticky and wet, trembling in Don’s frozen grip. It was covered in warm, glistening, shockingly red blood.
Charlie’s mind froze like a malfunctioning computer. Blood. On his hand. Whose blood? And how did it get there? The dots weren’t connecting. The something from before pressed in harder on the edge of his mind. The knowledge was right there, practically pounding on the intangible barriers of his conscious, but it darted out of reach the moment he tried to grasp it, like it was taunting him.
Voices and movement distantly registered, then the dots finally connected with a violent explosion of pain in his shoulder. It wasn’t a bruise, it was a bullet wound. He’d been shot.
Sparks danced across his vision as he cried out and tried to push away at the sudden force bearing down on him. His head whipped back as he struggled, connecting with the solid metal behind him. Pain blossomed there too, but it was nothing compared to the agony slamming through his shoulder. He pushed away, but the force was stronger. He knew the hands doing this, but he couldn’t remember who they belonged to right now. He could hardly think at all right now.
He grappled with the hands and the person behind them with the comforting voice that he knew would make everything okay if he could just calm down long enough to hear what they were saying. But he couldn’t calm down, couldn’t stop twisting and trying to get away because his shoulder hurt dammit. He just wanted them to leave him alone, to get this pressure off of him, but they wouldn’t go away and it wouldn’t let up.
Then the hands relaxed, just a little, but he took advantage of the weakness with a renewed vigor, shoving them off and finally breaking free. He slumped forward immediately, wincing at the pull on his back, but it was so worth it to not have that unrelenting pressure pressing down and making everything hurt so much more.
New hands pushed him back up. He fought against them, trying to get back to leaning forward where his shoulder hurt less to the point of being just on this side of tolerable. His earlier strength was nowhere to be found, though, and the hands held firm. He was exhausted from the pain and the fighting and something else that he couldn’t remember. Then the other hands returned, pressing down right on his shoulder where it hurt the most, and he just couldn’t take it.
He opened his eyes, looking around for the person putting him in so much pain, but he only saw Don. That can’t be right. He looked from his shoulder, the red-soaked fabric being pushed into him, and up, following the trail from the hands to the arms to the shoulders to the neck back up to Don’s face. Don was the one hurting him? His brother, who he trusted with his life? Who he loved, and thought loved him too? Had he finally just snapped and had enough of his know-it-all, attention-seeking little brother?
His throat hurt and his voice cracked on the first word, but he persisted. “Don…? Ngh-” He was cut off by a spike of pain lancing through his shoulder as Don pushed down harder. Why? Why was his brother hurting him? “Stop, Donnie, ‘t hurts, please…” He whimpered, a sound he hadn’t even known he could make, as he pleaded for his own brother to stop hurting him worse than he’d ever hurt in his entire life. His face was wet, with tears or blood, he didn’t know. At this point, either seemed likely even though his face didn’t hurt. Any pain could easily be being overshadowed by the sheer agony in his shoulder (and the jagged feeling of betrayal carving itself into his heart).
Don was saying something, but Charlie couldn’t make out what over the ringing building up in his ears. He forced his eyes open, but everything was getting blurrier and darkness was creeping in on the edges of his vision. His eyes kept sliding shut of their own accord, until he finally gave in to the comfortable darkness pulling him under.
Blood. Charlie’s blood. The sound of someone cursing behind him - David, maybe - gave Don the jumpstart he needed to unfreeze. Charlie was watching him warily, hand still shaking in his. The tremors, the paleness, the inability to catch his breath, it was all so obvious in hindsight. Don scrambled to yank off his FBI jacket, bunched it up, and pressed it down into the bloodstain. He winced when Charlie yelped and instinctively tried to push away from him, banging his head on the car door behind it. Fragments of glass were shaken out of his wild curls with every smack against the metal. “Okay, you’re gonna be okay Charlie.” Don said, trying to make his voice soothing. He couldn’t let on that he was panicking, because that would make Charlie panic, and the best thing for him right now was to stay calm and get immediate medical attention. Which, in an ideal world, would be here on site already.
Speaking of, “Terry, what’s the ETA on an ambulance?” He asked, voice high and strained with the effort of applying pressure to an increasingly uncooperative Charlie. It was somehow worse than trying to get him to take cold medicine when he was sick, and the only one who’d ever managed that was their mother. “Eight minutes. There was a wreck, they had to take an alternate route.” She responded. Even without seeing her, he could hear the worry in her voice. In the few months since he’d started consulting for them regularly, Charlie had grown on her. Don had caught more than one hair-ruffling occasion.
Charlie made a horrible, choked-off keening sound when he readjusted his grip on the now-damp jacket, trying to curl over in pain. Don grit his teeth and didn’t let him, ignoring the way his chest hurt at the amount of pain on his brother’s face. His brother, his sweet, genius baby brother who never should’ve been in the position to get hurt, to get shot, to begin with. Charlie belonged in front of a chalkboard, scribbling away to his heart’s content, solving the mysteries of the universe with his brain and a piece of chalk. Not bleeding out on the ground, shot by a sniper, forced to endure agonizing pain inflicted by someone who loves him in order to save him.
While he was lost in thought, Charlie brought his hands up. He pushed Don away, a feat that in any other circumstance would’ve been impressive, given the minuscule amount of strength he had to work with. The moment’s respite from the force of Don holding him up allowed him to finally curl over, and his blood to take advantage of gravity and start leaking faster. Don, of course, immediately scrambled to push him back into his position leaning against the car. Edgerton was already there, having moved forward when Charlie shoved Don away. He, surprisingly gently, pinned Charlie back up against the car so he couldn’t lean forward again. Charlie let out a moan of pain that turned into a sob when Don reapplied pressure to his wound. Edgerton backed off once he saw that Don had it under control, retreating to where his team was waiting for the ambulance. They weren’t far, only about fifteen feet or so, but he appreciated the attempt to give him and Charlie a little privacy either way.
Charlie had mostly stopped struggling, worn out from his earlier efforts and the blood loss. He opened his eyes, meeting Don’s. They were confused and afraid, usual intelligence veiled by a haze of pain. But what punched him right in the gut was the sheer amount of hurt and betrayal. “Don…? Ngh- Stop, Donnie, ‘t hurts, please…” He trailed off into a whimper, screwing his eyes shut. It didn’t stop the tears from streaming down his cheeks.
Don felt like the biggest asshole in the world, each sound of pain twisting into his heart like a dagger. He had to do this, he was saving Charlie’s life, he couldn’t let him bleed out. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to hear his baby brother begging him to stop hurting him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his own eyes suspiciously wet, “I gotta, Charlie. It’s for your own good. You’ll- you’ll understand.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. Logically, he knew that once his brother was more coherent, he would understand why Don had to put pressure on his wound like this. But right now, Charlie wasn’t coherent, and all he understood was that his big brother was hurting him for no reason.
Charlie blinked at him, slowly. Once, then twice, then his eyes shut and didn’t reopen. His head lolled forward, curls hanging down like a curtain. Don risked taking one hand off the jacket, lifting Charlie’s head and shaking him gently. “Hey! Hey! Charlie, Charlie wake up! No no no, no sleeping buddy!” He lightly smacked his cheek, then harder, but Charlie still didn’t wake up. His eyes remained firmly shut, expression slack on disturbingly pale skin that was now streaked with the same red that stained Don’s hands. If it weren’t for the shallow, too fast rising and falling of his chest, Don might think- he might think-
“He’s alive, Eppes. Just passed out, probably from the pain and blood loss.” Edgerton’s firm voice (When had he come back over?) filtered through Don’s rising panic. He was right. Charlie was still alive, and like hell was Don going to let that change. But still, seeing his little brother like this, so… so corpse-like…
He lost his battle to keep the waterworks at bay, a lone tear sliding down his cheek and dropping onto Charlie’s jacket just as sirens approached the square. He whipped his head around, feeling a wave of relief wash over him at the sight of the ambulance turning the corner. Terry was already getting up and jogging over, waving her arms in the air. The ambulance rolled to a stop and a pair of paramedics jumped out of the back with a gurney and a bag. They followed Terry back over to Charlie, pushing Don and Edgerton aside to make room. Don couldn’t look away from Charlie’s face; he looked so relaxed, like he was just asleep, not unconscious from blood loss.
The paramedics hooked him up to machines and lifted him onto the gurney. One started wheeling him back to the ambulance while the other turned to face Don. “Are you family? A friend?” She asked, eyes a color he wouldn’t be able to remember later if asked. She sounded sympathetic but impatient, glancing back at the ambulance. “Y-yeah, I’m his brother.” He forced out, following her gaze to where his brother was disappearing into the emergency vehicle. “We’re taking him to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. You did good keeping him alive until we got here.” She clasped his shoulder briefly before racing back to the ambulance.
The sirens turning on again snapped him out of whatever trance he’d been in. He took off for the car he drove here in, patting himself down for the keys frantically. “Get in the passenger’s seat. You’re not driving like this.” Terry’s voice came from behind him. She flashed him the keys, because right - they’d driven here together. His heart pounded in time with the rapidly disappearing sirens as the car pulled out of the lot, going far too slowly to satisfy the nervous energy racing under his skin.
Don paced around the waiting room for the thousandth time, ignoring the nurse at the front desk burning a hole into the back of his neck with her glare. He’d already asked her for an update seventeen times, and if he was able to walk the waiting room again without any news, he’d make it eighteen. Larry was sitting next to Dad, reading a book. He was still on the same page he’d been on when he opened it. His father was slumped in a chair, holding a cup of crappy coffee. He and Amita were drawing mutual comfort from each other, talking in low tones about… something or other, he didn’t know. What he did know was that there were fifty-six chairs in the waiting room, it took one hundred and eighty-seven steps to walk all the way around it, and it had been exactly two hours and forty-three minutes since Charlie disappeared behind those glass doors.
One eighty-five, one eighty-six, one eighty-seven.
Just as he turned to go and irritate the nurse manning the front desk for the eighteenth time, a doctor stepped out. “Family of Charles Eppes?” She called, looking up from her tablet to scan the room. Dad and Amita jumped to their feet and Larry looked up from his book. Don couldn’t get his mouth to work properly, but the doctor looked at him and smiled anyway. He briefly wondered what his expression looked like, and how often she must see it.
“Charles suffered a gunshot wound to the shoulder and significant blood loss. The surgeons had to go in and pull the bullet out, but it didn’t hit the bone or any major arteries. With a few weeks of rest and light physical therapy, he should regain full use of his arm. We transfused two units of O-negative for the blood loss, and there shouldn’t be any lasting effects. He’s asleep, but you can see him now. He’s going to be pretty exhausted from the trauma and surgery for a while. All in all, I think he should be good to go home in about four days, provided that he continues to rest and there are no post-op complications.” She had a warm, sympathetic voice and kind eyes as she delivered possibly the best news they could’ve received. In just four days, he would be fine to come home. Don felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, relief flooding his system and stretching a wide grin across his face. His dad and Amita hugged each other, laughing as the tension winding the small group up evaporated. Larry didn’t join the group hug, but the large smile on his face as he closed his book said enough. Don ran a hand through his hair - he’d spent twenty minutes washing them when he first came into the ER and saw his brother being wheeled away, unable to stand the feeling of Charlie’s blood drying on his hands - and thanked the doctor. “What room is he in?” He asked, already devising strategies to confine Charlie to his bed. He hated hospitals, and as soon as he was able he was going to try using that genius brain of his to come up with escape plans.
“Room 313. Ask someone to page Dr. Miller if you have any questions, okay?” Dad asked her something, but Don was already halfway to the elevators and didn’t hear what. If it was important, he would tell him.
He was outside Charlie’s door, poised to come in, when he finally realized he had no idea what he was going to say. Should he apologize? Tell him off? Tell him he couldn’t work for the FBI anymore, not if it put him in danger like this? A memory flashed behind his eyes - Charlie, teary and in pain, begging Don to stop hurting him - and he was pushing the handle down and stepping inside before he could think about it any more.
Charlie was asleep, which was convenient because it gave Don time to reconcile the man in front of him with his lively, bright little brother. Charlie was always moving in some way, whether it was scribbling on a chalkboard, fidgeting with some mathematical puzzle, darting around the room for a demonstration. But now, now he was still. Not even the usual stillness of his sleep, because even in sleep he would shift around or murmur under his breath or, on extreme occasions, sleepwalk. Don lost several years off his life the last time Charlie had sleepwalked into the garage in the middle of the night, leading to him and Dad frantically searching the house when they woke up to find him missing. That had been just a few months after Mom.
Don took comfort in the steady rising and falling of his brother’s chest, so different from the shallow, rapid stuttering it had been on the scene. He pulled a chair up next to the bed, wincing when it screeched along the floor. Charlie’s eyes stayed shut. The doctor hadn’t been kidding about the post-op exhaustion. Taking advantage of the temporary solitude, he reached out and took Charlie’s hand, just holding it. His skin was warm and soft beneath Don’s, surprisingly callused for a math professor. A math professor that enjoys hiking and climbing trees, he amends.
Charlie looked so innocent while asleep, younger than his twenty-nine years. He’d always looked younger than he was - frequently being mistaken by students for a student himself, if his impassioned rants were to be believed - but it had never been so apparent before. It was unsettling, if he was being honest, to see Charlie so peaceful and at ease. It wasn’t like his brother walked around constantly distressed, but he’d always had an underlying tension that Don had never known how to address, ever since they were little and Charlie started stringing together numbers before complete sentences.
He loved his brother. They fought, like all siblings did, but even when they were kids Don had known he would do anything for Charlie. Even when Charlie was naturally outshining him (because no matter what teenage Don had wanted to think, he wasn’t doing it on purpose, to be cruel, because Charlie didn’t have a cruel bone in his body), Don loved him and never wanted to see wide bright eyes become teary and blackened, never wanted to see a smile so perfectly suited for mischievous grins and long rambles about math become bloody and chipped.
The steady beeping of the monitor, Charlie’s deep breaths, and the stable thrumming of his pulse under Don’s fingers all combined to create a soothing symphony that meant his brother was still alive and kicking. Don had been on course for an adrenaline crash for the last three hours, and it seemed that now it was finally happening. He let himself be lulled to sleep by the sounds of Charlie’s continued existence, propping his head up on one hand, still holding his brother’s with the other.
Alan didn’t know what he was expecting to see when he came into Charlie’s room after giving Don a few minutes alone, but it wasn’t this. His eldest, usually so uptight and guarded, always wearing a mask of complete control, was fast asleep in a position that had Alan’s neck wincing in sympathy. His head resting on one arm, the other outstretched to hold Charlie’s hand. Alan hadn’t seen them sleeping anything like this since they were both small enough to be picked up. He turned over his shoulder and raised a finger to his lips, shhing Larry and Amita behind him before they could wake Don up. He’d always been a light sleeper, but even more so after he joined the FBI.
Alan settled into a chair against the wall with the newspaper he picked up from the gift shop downstairs, content to watch over his boys and work on the crossword and maybe take a little nap himself. Lectures about responsibility, safety, and not giving him a damn heart attack could wait until later. For now, he was going to sit back, relax, and bask in the knowledge that the two most important people in his life were alive and safe.