Disclaimer: I deny ownership.

A/N: A result of a half buried plot bunny from eons ago and reading Love in the Time of Cholera (for pleasure) and Endgame (for school). I thought I'd get this one out before the chess episodes –what a coincidence, huh? – but I guess that didn't happen. Darn procrastination.

References most especially to Structural Corruption and Man Hunt.

For the twins-

And The Saints

"You do realize that the only reason Dad wanted us out of the house was so he could cook up a feast, right?" asked Charlie, slowing his pace to match his elder brother's gait.

"What gave it away? The more than usual number of bags from the grocery run, or the Spanish cuisine book he's been immersed in for the past week?" queried Don as he put up a valiant effort to maintain a normal pace for all that he was hindered by the crutches that had been forced on him due to an injured right leg.

"His acting suspicious – the man cannot tell a lie to save his life," replied Charlie with a smile as he recalled his father's antics.

"Alright, I'll give you that," conceded Don. "So, how long should we give him before heading back?"

"Since he always messes up new recipes on the first try… we have about three hours before he tells us to come back home, pizza in tow."

"Then it's a good thing we drove to the park," commented Don.

Charlie snorted. "Sure. As if that Dad would really let you walk all the way to the park on that leg of yours."

"It's really not that bad." Don was a lot more optimistic a person than people gave him credit for.

"Who you trying to kid, bro? I was there when the doc told you that under no circumstance were you to put weight on that leg for the next fortnight at least."

"Eavesdropper," accused Don without any heat.

"Deaf door-post," rebutted Charlie but half-seriously.

"Well, Dad was right about one thing: it's too nice a day to spend cooped up inside," Don said, remembering the argument their father had put up to get both sons out of the house: With summer in full swing, Charlie had been spending almost all of his time in the garage trying to make headway in his Cognitive Emergence Theory before school started up again, and Don, with a bum leg, wasn't much given to movement. The outing to the park had been a nice reprieve from the couch, although it came with the condition that Don had to use the hospital-issue crutches.

"The man will say anything to get me out of the garage – the fact that the weather is actually nice is just the icing on the cake," murmured Charlie darkly, remembering all the excuses his father sometimes dredged up to make his youngest "get some air" - as though LA air was something to be sought.

Realizing they were just about to complete one circuit around the park's man-made mini-lake and that was more than enough exercise for his presently one-legged brother, Charlie suggested, "Wanna sit?"

Don's eyebrow rose. "We have three hours to burn and you want to just sit?"

"Well, I could always decorate your crutches with pink ribbons again," offered Charlie innocently.

"If you want to die an early death, be my guest," retorted Don as he remembered how a few days ago, he had woken up from a siesta on the couch to find his crutches a whole lot more colourful than he remembered. It just went to show how far the brothers had progressed in their relationship – Charlie of pre-puberty would never have risked the wrath of his elder brother by pulling such a prank the last time Don busted his leg playing baseball in high school.

"Touchy, touchy," muttered Charlie.

Don responded by mumbling something that probably would have had their mother reaching for the soap and telling Don to open wide.

"Look, how about a compromise?" Charlie offered, pausing in his steps and pointing to their left.

Don followed his gaze to the series of benches set up under a small cluster of trees where groups of two sat facing each other, playing chess. It was far enough from the lake for the players to not be disturbed by the ruckus of excited children, but within viewing distance nonetheless.

"Charlie," began Don, "I realize we're not getting younger and you haven't yet set out to find the Fountain of Youth, but are we really at the point that we spend the afternoon playing chess alongside octogenarians?"

"Come on Don," wheedled Charlie, "I know that's just your ego talking. You can just simply say you don't want to lose to your little brother and we can find something else to while away the time – something easier on that rusty brain of yours, perhaps."

That little comment was met with a glare that had been perfected over the years but was ignored with a just as perfected ease.

"Move it, Chuck," growled Don as he began swinging the crutches towards the tables. "And this time, don't blame distractions when you lose."

"Big words, bro, big words," cautioned Charlie with a smile as he effortlessly kept pace with his brother, pausing when Don did as they took a closer look at the scene in front of them.

The park, being a relatively old one, worked on a basis on trust. Chess boards were painted onto every stone table, some under the shade of the trees, some prey to the sun; the pieces were carefully placed in a box along with the timers, and it was widely understood that no-one would attempt to damage or lose the equipment and every night, park authorities would clear away the boxes, only to put them back the next morning. People were welcome to bring their own pieces but only the very serious and regular players went to that length. At the moment, only a few tables were occupied and with the exception of one father-son competition which had the father biting at his index finger as he anxiously waited for the next move which would send his pieces scuttling off the board, most of the players were either bald or white-haired but neither through choice.

Don and Charlie were just about to move to an empty table in the corner when they heard somebody call out:

"Young men!" The caller, a man with a head full of white hair and a surprisingly very straight back, had to be referring to them. None of the other men in the vicinity could have possibly been classified "young" for the last 4 decades and the son in the father-son duo was too busy kicking his father's behind in the game of strategy to pay the old man any attention.

"Us?" asked Don as the older man approached him and Charlie.

To both the brother's surprise, the man actually snorted. "Of course you two. You think I'm going to call any of those old fogies, other than Simon over there," he pointed over his shoulder to the dark-haired teenager who was now sporting a satisfied grin on his face as he moved his queen across the board, "young? Please. I may be old, but I ain't blind yet."

Don and Charlie were just starting to figure out a response to this when the man stuck out his right hand as he introduced himself:

"Paul St. Clare. My brother over there," again he jerked his thumb behind him, this time motioning to a similar looking older man who waved when Charlie and Don looked over, "and I couldn't help but notice that you two seemed interested in playing. Since Peter and I are tired of competing against each other and the pickings are slim today, we were wondering if you'd like to play against us. If you two don't mind, that is."

Since Don didn't seemed to be inclined to answer anytime soon seeing as he was still staring at the man, Charlie reached forward and took the man's hand in his:

"Charlie Eppes. And this is my older brother, Don." Smiling, he added, "Actually, we'd love to play with you – saves us the dilemma of me ditching my brother here and going home alone if he beat me."

Paul laughed as he saw the elder brother reach over and swat his brother on the back of his head before sending a grin his way and hobbling towards the tables, trusting Charlie and Paul to keep up with him.

"I hate to say it, but I'm on his side there," Paul said to Charlie as they slowly followed Don, who by now was shaking hands with Peter and sitting down opposite him.

"Let me guess: you're the older brother?"

"I suppose you could say that," responded Paul with a small grin, his answer eliciting a puzzled glance from the younger man. Both men then proceeded to sit down on the chess table next to where their brothers were already sitting and setting up, Don's crutches resting on the ground for the moment.

"Hey Charlie, I'm Peter," greeted the other St. Clare and reached out his right hand which Charlie shook before sitting diagonally opposite his own brother, Paul doing the same.

"You boys play chess regularly?" Paul asked as he started placing his black pieces in their appropriate position on the slightly faded chess-board, Charlie doing the same with his white pieces.

"Charlie and my dad play relatively regularly – I sometimes team up with dad to play against him," Don pointed towards Charlie with a hand holding a black knight, "when I have the time."

"Two against one, huh?" Peter commented. "Which proverb fits for that: two heads are better than one, or too many cooks spoil the broth?"

"How about that when my Dad and Don get together, they cheat so they can win," suggested Charlie with a smirk towards his brother, hoping Don wouldn't attempt to try out the reaching capabilities of the crutches on him.

"Liar," shot back Don. "He's just being a sore loser – he knows he lost fair and square."

"Sore loser, huh?" Paul echoed. "Sounds familiar," he commented with a pointed look at his own brother.

Peter turned to Charlie, who was on his left. "If you manage to give my brother here a sound thrashing, I can make it worth your while son."

Charlie laughed. "I'll try my best, sir."

"Who you calling 'sir', boy? Stick with 'Peter'." Noticing that the pieces were all lined up on both the boards, he asked, "Shall we begin?"

Timers started, it was up to Paul and Charlie, who were both white, to move first. After a few moves, Paul spoke up:

"So… brothers, huh? How many years between you?"

"Five," replied Don as he picked up his pawn and moved it forward two spaces.

"And you're the older brother too, right Mr. St. Cl-," at a glare, Charlie quickly amended his words, "Paul?"

"Is that what he's been telling you?" came the indignant comment from Peter. As Charlie and Don exchanged raised eyebrows at this strangeness, Paul replied to his own brother.

"What? It's true, isn't it?"

"Four minutes, Paul. You're only four minutes older."

Suddenly, it all became clear to the Eppes brother. The St. Clare's were twins. A closer look told them that although they might have been identical once, the different experiences of life had altered them, setting them down different paths, leaving different lines of varying depth on their faces. Paul was the fitter, leaner of the two with a very straight back and calloused hands, suggesting his work to be manual in the least. Peter, on the other hand, although not as fit as his brother, was no slouch either but Don's sharp eyes noted that his hands were softer, less scarred, with a callous on his right middle finger much akin to those who wrote a lot and often, mostly among academics and the like.

While the Eppes brothers noticed this, the St. Clare brothers (or The Saints, as Paul later mentioned they were called by their friends through childhood years and beyond), continued with what appeared to be an old, and undecided, argument:

"Hey, older is still older, am I right?"

"Please. It takes longer to boil an egg."

"Well, I did always consider you a bit of an egg head." Paul look at Don and in a stage whisper said: "Teacher. Addicted to books, that one."

"Really?" Charlie spoke up, interest peaked. "So am I. What do you teach?"

"Taught," corrected Peter as he moved his knight forward to capture one of Don's errant pawns. "I taught History at a local community college. I retired a few years ago – you can't be much of a History professor if you can't remember which year Germany got independence or what were the exact terms of the Magna Carta. What do you teach, Charlie?"

"Oh, I'm a professor of applied mathematics over at CalSci."

"Great. I'm playing chess against a mathematician," grumbled Paul. "You could've warned me, you know. Older brothers have to stick together," he said to Don.

"Well, you could have warned me that I was up against someone who's studied wars and probably has battle strategies lined up at the tips of his finger," retorted Don as he captured Peter's rook with a vengeance and clicked the button on the timer to signal that it now Peter's turn.

"Alright, I guess that's fair."

"Don't feel too badly, Paul, Don has had more than his fair share of thinking strategically," Charlie added.

"Is that so?" Peter queried. "What is it that you do, Don?"

"Uh.. law enforcement," Don replied. "FBI"

"Hah!" The sudden exclamation from Paul had everyone looking in his direction with surprise. "Sorry," he said contritely before adding: "I told you he was a cop, didn't I Peter?" He waggled a finger in his brother's direction before turning to Don. "My brother never believes me when I pick out ex-military and cops in a crowd, but like recognizes like. Ex-army," he held his hand to motion to himself. "I learned to play chess during war-time."

"Oh yeah? One of my agents is ex-Army and he said the same thing," Don mentioned.

"Yeah well, that's good to hear. Doesn't matter how fancy weapons might get, barracks are still barracks. " He suddenly peered closer at the chess-board he was playing. "Ooh, and now I'm getting the feeling that Charlie here has wrapped a rope around my neck without my noticing and is a few moves from tightening it." Paul lapsed into silence as he tried to do some damage-control, the smirk wiping off Charlie's face as he made a particularly good move, foiling Charlie's Plan A.

Peter shot Don a grin at his brother's antics as he swept his queen clean across the board. "So my brilliant powers of deduction tell me that your crutches here," he tapped the wooden implements gently with his foot, "are a by-product of your work with the FBI?"

Don smiled self-consciously as he replied: "Yeah, did something stupid during a raid a few days ago." He glanced sharply at Charlie when he noticed his brother opening his mouth to add something.

Charlie shrugged in response and went back to concentrating on the board. He knew that in actual circumstances (thanks to Colby), Don's actions had helped save an agent's life. He realized that he'd never really got an opportunity to see how Don was in regards to the positive effects of his work. Disgruntled, impatient, grief-stricken families of victims – he'd seen his brother around them many a time, and it always bothered him that his brother had to take hits like that when families became accusatory, lashing out in their pain and worry. But when it came to the good things, seeing Don with the families of those reunited with their loved ones, he always missed the show.

Somehow, it didn't surprise him that Don would be modest about his actions which were downright heroic – his older brother always shrugged away any thanks, as though his actions were par for the course and didn't need any commendations. The thought warmed Charlie as he was filled with pride for his brother and at the same time, he was infused with a greater conviction to make sure his brother didn't just focus on what he considered his mistakes in the line of duty, or when he, his team, the whole Bureau was viewed as the enemy.

Then again, it was pretty funny how Don had charmed Ava the librarian whom he'd known not to be a big fan of "Feds", a reason why he'd never mentioned Don to her. She still asked how his brother was doing whenever Charlie had a reason to swing by the college's library, and all a result of Don spending five minutes with her, the charm turned on full. Their mother would be so proud.

Time slipped away very quickly without either pair of brothers realizing it, the only indications coming from games lost, won and begun again. Suffused as the time was with conversation, they'd only played two games (Don having to tip over his king both times in defeat, the second one barely but Charlie managed to beat Paul twice, and Don noted with some pride that his brother purposely made it seem as though it was a closer fought battle than it actually was) when Don's cell-phone rang and pulled everyone out of their stupor:

"Eppes? Hey Dad." Charlie saw Don roll his eyes. "No Dad, I'm not using my crutches." Don grimaced as he pulled the phone slightly away from his ear before speaking quickly: "Because I'm sitting down, that's why." A grin lit his face before he finally said: "Alright, Charlie and I will just pick up some Chinese and head home soon. See you in a bit."

"Wow, didn't realize it's getting to be about dinner-time," Peter remarked. "We should probably head home too, huh Paul?"

Paul glanced quickly at his watch and Charlie had to suppress a snort at how like Don the elder St. Clare twin looked when he did that trademark action of his brother's. "Yeah, the mention of Chinese food has suddenly made me feel hungry. I wonder if last night's-,"

"No, it's not, you had it for lunch, remember?" interjected Peter, looking back at Don and shaking his head.

"Darn," intoned Paul. Shaking his head, he pushed thoughts of food to the back of his mind. "Well, boys, it was a pleasure playing with you I must say, for all that Charlie here made me reconsider just how good a chess player I am."

"Just got lucky, I suppose," muttered Charlie with starting signs of a blush.

"Oh please. Who you trying to kid, son?" accused Paul good-naturedly, sending a grin his way.

"It was good playing against you too, Don, you had me worried quite a bit in both games," added Peter as he reached forward a hand which Don shook.

"Thanks, but you kicked my butt, no doubt about it," Don admitted.

"And for that, I thank you," spoke up Charlie, grinning when his brother sent him a glare.

As Charlie shook hands, Don reached down and picked up his crutches before carefully standing up, doing his best to not put weight on his injured foot. When he swayed slightly, both the St. Clare's and Charlie lunged forward to grab him by the arms.

"Crisis averted," said Don with a self-conscious grin when he became steadier on his feet. "Thanks."

"No problem. You boys take care now, you hear? Especially you," warned Paul, pointing at Don.

"And if you two feel up to a re-match, Paul and I are usually here almost everyday, same time," added Peter.

"We might just take you up on that," said Charlie after glancing at his brother to see what he thought.

"Alright. Evening, gents."

"Good-bye," echoed Charlie and Don.

With a last wave, the Eppes brothers headed back to the path that would take them to where they'd parked their car, Don's limping walk resulting in a longer journey time.

"So…," began Charlie.

"Yeah," Don said, glancing back to see that the Saints were clearing up the pieces and after doing so, were heading down the other side. "By the way, you're dead meat once we get home."

"What?" Charlie squeaked in surprise. "Why?"

"For planning to ditch me here if I kicked your butt in chess. I gotta tell ya, Charlie, you're in big trouble now."

Charlie quirked an eyebrow as he gave at pointed glance towards Don's crutches. "Oh yeah? You and what army?"

"Don't need an army – only need Dad," Don said smugly.

"You wouldn't," said Charlie, playing along.

"Look at it this way – you have between now and till we get home to convince me not to tattle-tale. I'd put that egghead brain of yours to good use, Chuck, you're going to need it."

Khatum (The End)

A few things to be pointed out: One, in chess etiquette you're not supposed to talk during a game but then that wouldn't make for much of a fic, would it? Besides, I'm the girl who once referred to the Knight as a "Horsie", causing my brother to crack up. The title is a slightly altered version of the song "When The Saints Go Marching In", 'cause my mind remembered the song as "And the saints...".

Have a lovely week everyone! Hope you enjoyed this very stubborn, plotless oneshot that took it's sweet time finishing.