Considering the facts, Don was in a pretty decent mood

Title: Dangling Participles; Part II of the Mistaken Identity Series

Chapter 1: "Closure" Only Applies to Windows

Authors: Rabid Raccoons

Disclaimer: (a) a denial or disavowal of legal claim… (b) a writing that embodies a legal disclaimer… Definition courtesy Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary, G. & C. Merriam Company, Springfield, MA, U.S.A. Copyright 1979. COLLEGIATE is a registered trademark. Furthermore, NUMB3RS is a trademark of CBS Studios Inc. TM, © and ® by Paramount Pictures. All rights reserved. The Mistaken Identity series, a Rabid Raccoons production, is not recommended for young children. This disclaimer applicable to the Mistaken Identity series in its entirety. The corporation known as "Rabid Raccoons" further disavows claim to any or all fan fictional works attributed to FraidyCat and/or Serialgal. At this point we also deny any connection to unsolved federal crimes. The compilation of this disclaimer took longer than the story you are about to read.

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Don's experience with a drunken Charlie was limited.

For one thing, his brother had never developed much of a drinking habit. An occasional beer over football, a glass of wine with dinner -- that was pretty much it, most of the time. There had been an incident or two during his college years, but Don was fairly certain that Charlie was not aware that he knew about them. Most kids who leave home for college endure a certain rite of passage at some juncture; but then, most are not ridiculously underage and living with their moms. Of course, Margaret had told Alan as soon as they got back to the West Coast for summer break after Charlie's junior year. Don remembered, because he was pretty pissed off already that summer. He was supposed to be getting his feet wet with the Rangers as a summer replacement. An unfortunate ankle twist during the last game of the college season had sidelined that plan, and instead he had to go home and lie on the couch and listen to nothing but endless discussions about Charlie.

"I know he'll be a senior this fall, but he's still only 16! He can afford to lose a little time. I think we should pull him out. He's mixing with the wrong crowd there — he's come back to the apartment drunken twice this year!"

Don had burrowed into the couch a little farther and tried to tune out the voices in the dining room when he learned that his father must be having a bad day of his own. "Well what the hell are you there for? Why are we paying to maintain two households on one income if you have no control over the boy?"

His mother had gasped, and choked out his father's name. "Alan! How can you say that to me? Are you forgetting that we agreed..."

With an uncharacteristic impatience, Alan had interrupted his wife. "We agreed not to send a 14-year-old out there alone. He's older now. Obviously he has friends. Maybe some of them are disturbingly normal -- Don was only 15 the first time he came home drunk -- but he has a support system at Princeton, now. What about that Professor Fleinhardt guy? He seems to have taken an interest, listing Charlie as co-author on his last paper and all." His father's voice was taking on an edge of sarcasm, and Don was growing uncomfortable. They must not realize he had limped down the stairs and settled on the couch. He thought about moving, but froze at Alan's next words. "Unless it's not Charlie who's really capturing his attention. Maybe there's another reason you want to be at Princeton so badly."

Don shuddered violently, more from the memories than the night air, and tightened his grip on Charlie's arm. Yeah, it had been a volatile summer, but his parents had worked it out. They always presented a united front for him and Charlie, and if he hadn't been hidden on the couch that morning he never would have known. He always wished he didn't, every time he found himself thinking about the summer he was 21. It wasn't difficult to see, now, with the distance of time – and the guidance of Bradford, shrink extraordinaire. He had added that episode to the ball of resentment against Charlie that he carried in his gut for years. Now, he dragged the Singing Tenor up the sidewalk towards the Craftsman and reminded himself that it had all worked out. Charlie had gone back to Princeton for his senior year alone. Mom had started working again, and as far as he could tell on his weekend visits home the next year, things were back to normal between his parents. After he had transplanted himself to L.A., Larry had become one of Alan's best friends, and a part of the family himself.

Charlie stumbled, his unrecognizable aria ending in a yelp, and Don remembered what had started him down this path in the first place. Besides those college experiences, Charlie had been drunk twice that Don knew about. Apparently there had been something so bad that alcohol poisoning was involved. Charlie had told him about that one himself, just a couple of years ago -- when that Susan woman had showed up. Their time together in London was educational in many ways. When Charlie had fallen right back into step -- and into bed -- with her, it had scared him enough to come clean with Don and ask for advice. The other time Don had witnessed himself, after a misunderstanding with Amita during the start of Charlie's relationship with her. He couldn't recall all the details, but remembered that it had been fairly innocuous and trivial – yet had still driven Charlie to literally cry in his beer. In actuality, Don had been waiting for this episode for the last six months. Losing the love of his life had been anything but trivial for his brother.

He pulled Charlie into the small alcove near the front door and fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He may have had one too many himself before they moved the party. Charlie had gone strangely silent at his side. "Good thing Dad took off for the weekend," started Don, finding his keys at last. "He'd give me all kinds of hell for this. Aren't you still on some medication? Shit."

The keys jumped from nerveless fingers, bent on committing suicide on the concrete sidewalk. Charlie hiccupped once; then giggled, reaching out to twist the door knob. "I DINT LOK IT!" he screamed.

If Don hadn't been bending over to search for the keys, the shout might have deafened him. As if was it scared the crap out of him and he jerked, hitting his head on the solid oak door jamb. "Dammit Charlie," he whined, rubbing the top of his head. After two aborted attempts he managed to locate the keys. He snatched them up and straightened, following his brother through the door. "Keep your voice down! And how many times do I have to tell you to lock the friggin' doors!" His tirade stopped when he heard a sniff from the vicinity of the couch. Great. Charlie had moved to another stage of insobriety. His mood was going to change without notice.

"I'm sorry," his brother answered, his voice thick with tears. "Oh, Donnie. I'm worthless."

Don rolled his eyes, which made him stagger for some reason, and wondered how Charlie had gotten a bottle in his hand already. Somehow he crossed the few feet to the couch and fell next to Charlie, putting his hand out to paw at the Jose. "Don't tell me you're a crying drunk," he began. "Again." He regarded the bottle with interest. "I didn't know you kept tequila in the housh. You should probly gimme that."

Charlie sniffed again and turned to glare at him before he took a long swig straight from the bottle and then thrust it toward Don. When he spoke next, his voice was hard and full of resentment. Stage Three. "That old man is driving me crazy. I mean, look at thish! You had to promise to baby-sit me before he took that consult in Shan Diego!"

This time Don giggled, then took a draw of the fiery amber liquid himself. "Shan Diego," he chortled, when he at length lowered the bottle. "You're shit-fashed." He cleared his throat. "Faced. Give him a break, he just worries. Been a hard year."

Charlie reached for the bottle, but Don wouldn't let go. He pulled at it determinedly. "For you, too! You were woo...woo...woo...shot..., and then you boke up wid Liz, 'n he doeshn't follow you around!" Charlie's speech patterns were rapidly deteriorating.

Don finally realized Charlie was after the Jose, and abruptly let go. Since Charlie was pulling at the time, the bottle shot back and hit him hard in the chest. He stared at it as if it were a live thing threatening to take him down. Don had to laugh at the look on his face. "Maybe we've had enough. Dad doesn't follow you around, either. And itsh not the shame thing. Liz and I agreed to stop seeing each other. Not like she was..." He barely stopped himself, the realization that he was about to say "killed" hitting him like a brick between the eyes, a harsh and sobering experience.

Charlie glanced up from the bottle he still clutched to his chest, and his eyes flashed dark with pain. "DON'T SAY THAT!" he shouted, struggling to get off the couch. "DON'T YOU THINK I..." His voice suddenly dropped to a whisper, and he stopped struggling. He sighed, and absently wrapped his free hand around the bottle as well. He settled back into the corner of the couch and leaned his head back. He seemed suddenly a great deal more sober himself when he spoke again. "You shouldn't throw away whash imperfect, Don. When I think of all the yearsh Amita and I wasted…all the time we spent running scared, afraid to choose eash other over everything else…." He blinked rapidly and his arms slacked, the fifth of Jose heading for a nasty nosedive.

With more effort than it should have required, Don managed to lean forward and grab the bottle. He dangled it from his fingers for a moment. "That was short of the point, Charlie. For Lish…Liz… and me, I mean. We never had what you guys had. You were friends, and loved each other for years, and eventually it became something else. All we ever had was sex, and the job." He laughed suddenly, and moved his gaze from the bottle to his brother. "Once, sex on the job. Ask me about that when one of us is sober." He saw Charlie's lips part in a smile, but the younger man remained silent, so Don continued, speaking slowly and trying to force his thick tongue to articulate. "We want what you guys had – get it? For ourselves, and for each other, because we both deserve that. We just decided we would never find our – soulmates, I guesh – as long as we were using each other to hide behind."

Charlie rolled his head on the arm of the couch so that he could lock eyes with his brother. "I'm almost drunk enough to believe that. Yet what confuses me is how you expect this shoulmate to do all the work. To just show up at your door someday. Sheems to me you might actually have to date. Or something."

Don gripped the edge of the couch, and tried to push himself off with one hand and still hang onto the bottle with the other. It required enormous coordination – more than baseball ever had. "Shuddup," he grumbled. "I don't see you spending a lot of time on the market yourself." He stopped, chagrined. He really had to learn to keep his mouth shut when he was drunk.

Charlie drew in his arms and legs and tucked his head, a turtle withdrawing into its shell. "I'm shleeping down here," he mumbled into the back of the couch. "Leave me 'lone. Don't wanna talk anymore."

Don sighed, realizing an apology would only make things worse right now. He pushed against the edge of the couch again and this time managed to sway to his feet. He sighed again and staggered toward the kitchen, to empty Jose down the drain.

End, Chapter 1

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A/N: Readers exercising the proper amount of stunned and voracious consumption of this chapter will have noted that at no point is it stated that either Don or Charlie drove home in their condition. We first find the boys on the sidewalk in front of the Craftsman. Raccoons do not condone or perpetuate the practice of drunk driving.