A/N: Just for the record, my musae are evil. They're even evil enough to already cook up a sequel to this. And yeah, before anyone asks, I'm off right now to write more on "Bet Me A Lifetime".

The Last Goodbye

by Jules

I'm just dragging myself out of a dream, a very particular, vivid and recurring nightmare that accompanied me these last two weeks on a regular basis, rubbing my eyes and ascertaining the fact that I'm still in the garage, slumped rather uncomfortably down the thin cushions of the wicker couch, wrapped in an old fleece blanket that was stashed somewhere back here because I never seem to get warm these day, when I see a shadow move into my peripheral vision.

"Hey."

It's not the word, it's the voice and all the emotions attached to it that has me close my eyes immediately again. I clear my throat once, twice, but I just can't bring myself to utter anything. The sense of déjà-vu, eerie but not entirely unwelcome right this instance, settles in the pit of my stomach.

"So, what are you doing?" Don asks almost casually while he steps over to take a look at the scribblings on the chalkboard, his arms swinging slightly by his sides in an all familiar way.

"Oh," I croak finally, clearing my voice once again to bring it to a more familiar volume while I scoot up to sit straight, my cramped back complaining loudly at the change in position, "you know... work."

"Yeah?" His eyes crinkle up ever so slightly. "And here I thought you were holing up."

I shake my head. "I'm not."

Don turns around slightly and his eyes are still crinkled, his mouth curved into that patented semi-smile of his and my heart aches. "No?" His fingers reach out to stray over my writing. "I remember this. It's a CART, right?"

I don't really find it surprising that my brother would recognize a classification and regression tree analysis, he's seen me work these several times before. But the fact that I explained them to him, in lengthy detail, also tells me that he only needs to take one good look at what I've written there to know exactly what I'm doing; he's become really good at that over the years. If he didn't know already prior to coming here, if his coming isn't solely based on that knowledge.

He moves to the couch slowly and sinks into the cushions beside me. I resist the urge to jump up due to the awkwardness of the moment and force myself instead to feel his presence, the little pockets of air he's displacing with his movement, his shoulder bumping slightly against mine. It feels so natural and I know it shouldn't.

"So," he says after a while, "how did I do?"

I snort at that. Of course he knows what I've been up to. "You did good," I say after a while, "With all the data I had, I can say with certainty you did nothing wrong. Unless..."

"Unless what?" The smile is still there, but it's guarded now.

I have to take a deep breath before answering. "Unless you omitted any details which therefore never made it to the files." There, it's out.

Feeling Don's eyes on me, I peek sideways and can see his smile has been replaced by an expression of wistfulness, not a look I've seen on my brother often, and it startles me slightly, but at the same time tells me I might be on the right track.

"I didn't," he answers softly after what feels like an eternity.

"You didn't." Half a question, half a statement, and even I can hear the skepticism ooze out of my words.

"No," Don says and gets up again to walk back to the chalkboard with his hands in his pockets. "I didn't leave out any info I had pertaining to the case. It's all in the files."

"So you didn't know Patterson had a hit-man out on you?"

He's standing with his back to me and I watch how his shoulders clench and unclench while he turns around, each muscle moving at a time, that's how long it seems to take until he faces me again.

"And put myself right in the path? Putting my own life on the line like that to solve a case? Charlie, what makes you think I would've done that?"

It's all there, the wrinkles on his forehead, the incredulity laced with hurt in his voice, and I have a hard time not to either laugh out loud or break down in tears, because that's how it's always been. I never could call Don on his behavior, never could criticize him without having him pulling the big brother card of disappointment on me. Even in our younger years, when those squabbles often enough segued into wrestling matches, this was always his first reaction and even now, it still is. As if just the thought of me disapproving of anything he'd said or done is a personal affront.

I pull my legs up under the blanket and hug them, trying to mirror my internal struggle on my emotions with real action to maybe put both in sync. It's been a little more than two weeks since the shooting and I'm very intent on clinging to this moment as long as I ever can, just like I did with Mom.

"Well, for starters, it wouldn't have been the first time you put the job before yourself."

Don stays silent, motionless, his head bowed to hide his face and when he finally looks up again, he is open like a book, all those emotions he always tucked away so well traveling over his features and his eyes look bright.

"Go on, there's more, isn't there?"

I swallow, almost unable to force the next words over my lips, but they need to be said. "Yeah... you weren't exactly your happiest self lately. A lot of things didn't go the way you wanted them to. Leah Wexford, your breakup with Liz..."

Don nods and walks back over to sit down beside me. "It's the job, Charlie. That's how it goes in life, one day you win and another day you lose, but you always get back on the horse. It got frustrating sometimes, yeah, I give you that, but I would've never...," his voice trails off for a moment before he continues. "Sometimes, it was hard to see the light and I can't say I never entertained the thought, but it never was a real option, not with you and Dad around."

For the first time since this dream sequence started - for that's all that it is, a dream, because Don cannot be sitting here beside me, Don's dead, cremated and buried with all the honors more than a week ago – I dare to take a good look at my brother. His slender and strong fingers, the slight tan he always seemed to have, his spiky, finger-combed hair, his smile, his sudden openness... and then, I feel tears trickle down my cheeks as the big replacement starts.

Each gruesome image that took up so much space in my memory until now is replaced by a happier one. Don lying motionless, his head swathed in bandages, in that hospital bed while the doctors were fighting for his life makes place for Don playing baseball, a wide grin on his face as he hits the ball way past the outfield. The incessant wail of the heart monitor when his heart finally gave out is erased by his throaty laugh after I told him a joke only a few days before the shooting. The feel of his ice cold fingers after everything was over and I'd finally made it into his room one last time was replaced by his warm hand squeezing my shoulder, as he did so often over the years.

Those aren't just tears on my face, it's the ice around my heart melting. And it's suddenly so breathtakingly clear why I had to bundle up in sweats and blankets even though this was California in typical July over the last few weeks. Everything happened too sudden. With Mom, we had preparation, we knew it was going to happen, but Don dying, even if his career suggested a higher likelihood than for the greater public, came so abrupt. It sucked the warmth away and now, with him here, even if it's only a dream, it's slowly coming back.

I want to touch him, desperately, want to feel Don being alive again, even if he isn't. But I know I can't, I never could with Mom either, always had to wait until she touched me. Maybe Don knows, because his arm extends over the back of the couch and his warm fingers squeeze my neck.

"I'm sorry," I mutter and lean into the touch, still trying to get my composure back, and meaning multiple things. Sorry for breaking down like this, because I always hated losing it in front of my older brother. Sorry for doubting him. Sorry that he died.

"Yeah, make that two of us."

It's said so matter-of-factly that I have to chuckle and Don smiles as well while his fingers tighten on my neck.

"Charlie, you gotta stop doing this," he points his chin at the chalkboard, "It's not going to do you any good."

I worry a lint ball on the blanket with my fingers while I contemplate that. "Do you know why I always... recede to math?"

"Yeah, because math is full of absolutes while life isn't. But you're not going to find anything there that you didn't already know here."

I have to smile, because it so fits Don to fling my own words back at me like that. And then, I can feel the tips of his fingers through the layers of cloth directly over my heart and the knowledge sinks in deeply while the last shards of ice finally fall away. Our eyes meet, brown on brown, and his fingers are loosening on my neck to reach up and tousle my hair, a motion even Dad hardly gets away with anymore, but I let him. It's different, all is different this time. Now. For the rest of my life.

Don pushes up and walks a few steps away, his hands tucked deeply into the back pockets of his jeans. He takes one last look at the chalkboard and then at me and I can see in his face that there are a lot of things he probably would like to say still, but there is no need. I get him, without words. His shoulders shrug in an all-purpose gesture and with that, he slowly makes his way out.

I angle my face up to look after him. "Are you... are you coming back?"

He leans his hand against the timber frame and smiles. "Hey, I don't call the shots on this ride. But you never really know, right?"

I close my eyes and follow his footsteps through the kitchen, through the squeaking swing door and I know that in a moment, I will wake up and--

"Charlie, what are you still doing up so late?"

It's Dad, looking rumpled himself and I'm probably guessing right that he nodded off in the living-room again. He isn't sleeping much either these days and his shoulders are just that little more stooped since the funeral.

"Who were you talking to? I thought I heard voices."

I hold up one end of the blanket. "I was just... you know... probably talking in my sleep."

"Yeah, well, if you really want to sleep, you need a real bed. Now, come on."

His arm is extended towards me, his posture telling me that in a moment, I'll be shepherded inside the house and upstairs. But I have to do something else first. Dragging myself off the couch, I approach the chalkboard and pick up the eraser from its receptacle. It feels a bit silly, but I squint up at the ceiling and nod once before I wipe out all I wrote earlier with confident strokes.

It's like a soft breeze caressing the air, but for a moment, it feels like a hand ghosting over my back, leaving nothing but warmth in its wake.

THE END

This fic was written for the Angst vs Schmoop Challenge at Numb3rsWriteOff on LiveJournal. After you've read the fic, please rate it by voting in the poll located here: www . livejournal . com / poll / ?id1193994 (Your vote will be anonymous.) Rate the fic on a scale of 1 - 10 (10 being the best) using the following criteria: how well the fic fit the prompt, how angsty or schmoopy the fic was, and how well you enjoyed the fic. When you're done, please check out the other challenge fic at Numb3rsWriteOff. Thank you!