Charlie was busy concentrating on not throwing up in front of Marshall Penfield, but he knew without looking that it was Don's hand on his arm, by the unhesitating invasion of his personal space, the pressure that was calculated to be just on this side of hurting.

"Are you mad at me?" he said, giving in to Don's tug.

"I am just peachy," Don said, quietly, shoving Charlie back against the side of the Suburban. "Dammit, how many times do I have to tell you to stop scaring me like this?"

"Sorry," Charlie said inadequately. He ducked his head, but Don leaned in and down, meeting his eyes again.

"Sorry?" Don said. "You're talking like it's messing up my baseball cards when we were kids or something. Charlie, this is serious."

"I didn't mess them up," Charlie protested. "I was reorganising—" This babbling seemed likely to provoke Don into exploding, so Charlie switched hastily into explanation. "This location was on the list, but there was no law enforcement report—"

Don dragged a hand over his face. "Did it never occur to you, genius, that just possibly the reason there was no report was because the crime hadn't been committed yet?"

Charlie bit his lip. It ought to have, but he'd been so stampeded by Marshall, so eager to show off how at ease he was with crime scenes—he shivered, sick-shaky with dissipating adrenaline.

"Why didn't he kill me? He knew you'd come, it would fit with his pattern of past actions for—for you to be too late. He said—"

Don's fingers bit hard into Charlie's arm for a second. "Charlie, what?"

"He said—" Charlie took a second to repeat the words as accurately as he could "—he told me to take the number of people who'd seen him at crime scenes, and subtract the number of people who'd testified against him. But, Don, the way he said it—"

"Charlie, this is why you don't mess with crazy bastard killers, they go and make it personal," Don groaned, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "He's waiting until he thinks we're near closing in on him, or something, or—or wait. What's Tooner doing showing up at crime scenes himself?"

"Not the pattern," Charlie said.

"Escalation," Don said, eyes narrowing. "He's getting his kicks out of it." For a second his face was only thoughtful, and Charlie guessed that at that moment it was just a problem for Don, like a proof, no Charlie and no need to be angry or frightened. Then Don's eyebrows came together again, furrowing his forehead, and he patted Charlie's shoulder.

"We're gonna take him down, buddy, don't worry about it."

"Getting dressed down by big brother, Eppsie?"

Charlie blinked at the shock of being reminded of Marshall Penfield's existence, and then snarled "Shut up!" simultaneously with Don. Just like high school, he thought randomly. Me against my brother, me and my brother against the world.

Don rounded on Marshall. "You—there were quite enough damnfool civilians trying to play hero in this case already, thank you very much."

Marshall's mouth opened and closed. Exactly like a goldfish, Charlie thought.

"Combined IQ: about five hundred. Street smarts: zero," Don finished, with a glance at Charlie, and then he stalked off to speak to Nikki.

Charlie glared after him, prickling at the little betrayal in front of Marshall Penfield of all people. Marshall made a wry face, like when they were kids at Princeton and some adult had scolded them for arguing, as if being the youngest members of the university somehow implied they ought to be the best of friends. He opened his mouth, feeling like he needed to defend Don to Marshall, but Don's irritated yell of "Charlie!" interrupted him.

"Coming!" he called back. "You know, I think you overestimated Marshall's IQ just then..."

"I guess I'll get stuck with explaining this to Dad," Don said as he got into the SUV. "Again."

"We're gonna tell him?"

"The alternative being, what, that Colby's apartment was invaded by ants and that's why he's camping out at the house? I need someone keeping an eye on you."

"Um," Charlie said.

"Yeah, um. Oh, and in the interest of minimal use of FBI resources, you and Marshall are going to have to be joined-at-the-hip until Tooner's in custody."

"Don," Charlie protested, not sure if this was brotherly tease or serious.

"I'll allow you to go to the bathroom separately, though."

"Don...."

-~-~-~-

"Robin says to please finish up that chocolate dessert thing she brought, because she isn't taking it back home," Charlie said, juggling bowls as he came into the living room.

"It's a cunning kidnap plot involving feeding me to the point where I can't actually move," Don said contentedly, but he grabbed the bowl from Charlie fast enough.

"If you can't move you, how's Robin meant to?" Charlie said idly, although it was a trivial enough engineering problem. "She's smaller than you are."

"She's a smart woman, she'll figure it out. Why's she not out here herself, anyway?"

"She and Amita are bonding or something out in the kitchen."

Don sat up on the couch a bit straighter. "Tell me they're not talking about us. Tell me they're talking about, I dunno, shoes or something."

"Software licensing, actually," Charlie said. "The natural intersection of computer science and law, I guess."

Don grinned and dug in his spoon. "Smart women, like I said. Still, look at Mom, it's only what you'd expect."

"Smart women that pack heat, in your case," Charlie pointed out.

"Yeah," Don agreed, his grin fading out. "They're still doing post-mortem over whether it was Nikki or me who actually killed Tooner. Looked like they were both kill shots, from where I was standing."

Charlie swirled his spoon through the dessert, suddenly not hungry any more. "Is that bothering you?"

"No," Don said, leaning back. "Tooner was one of the lunatic ones, you know, the ones that never come in quietly, even when they're cornered. I don't—" he punched a cushion into shape. "I would come in."

"I know," Charlie said. "That would be part of the whole 'not a sociopath' thing we all like so much about you, brother."

That made Don grin, as Charlie had guessed it would. "It's just...when we shot Tooner, Caswell was...laughing, and I thought You poor bastard, he's made you as crazy as he is."

There was a pause while Don spooned in dessert. "But," he went on, rather indistinctly, "Tooner threatened someone I care about as well, so what makes me any different?"

"Donnie," Dad's voice said from behind Charlie, making him jump, "would you have done anything differently if he hadn't?"

Don looked up. Charlie shifted to sit beside him, feeling rescued. It wasn't that he didn't like Don talking to him, he did, it was just that he got out of his depth so often. And this looked like being mostly his fault to start with, which made it ten times worse.

"No," Don said finally. "I wouldn't have."

"Sorry," Charlie said quickly, to get it over with when he had the nerve. "I should've known better."

"Yes, you ought," Dad said firmly. Charlie wriggled a little; Tooner's death had made Dad stop treating Charlie like the time in kindergarten he'd walked out into the street when he'd been counting in binary, but this still wasn't exactly comfortable. Dad turned back to Don. "Anyone less like a crazed vigilante than you, my son, I find it hard to imagine."

Charlie licked his spoon, remembering a few squirm-making things Don had said to him back when he'd lost his clearance. Don liked structure and knowing that authority backed him up—huh. "Hey, is that why Temple?" Don and Dad both stared blankly at him. "You know, rules and stuff."

Don rolled his eyes. "When I said I didn't want a logical debate, that wasn't permission for a psychological analysis."

"Yeah, with my well-known people skills...seriously, Don—" It was weird, knowing someone as well and as long as he knew Don, and still not understanding him. He'd known for years, in a vague sort of way, that Don thought there was a God, it was just one of those things, same as Larry, but seeing Don do something about it was as much of a surprise as a Don who actually talked. "It was just something I thought of."

"And so was a few brief nerve impulses from falling out of your mouth, we know," Dad said indulgently.

"Psychology's just a natural progression from the self-help book business, Chuck," Don said.

"Laying out the mathematically advantageous course of action is completely different from working out why people do what they do," Charlie pointed out. "Oh, and Marshall has now started calling me 'Chuck' instead of 'Eppsie', thanks a lot."

Don laughed. "Maybe I oughta suggest a few other names. Like Chucky. Or Chuckles—"

Charlie set down his bowl and jabbed Don in the ribs; Don seized his wrists and held him off, his strength winning over Charlie's admittedly non-desperate struggles.

"Chuckykins....baby Eppes...Tadpole..."

"Haven't heard that one in thirty years," Dad said, chuckling.

Charlie tried to pout at Don, but he couldn't help grinning. He gave up on getting his hands free and head-butted Don in the shoulder instead. "You're so mean—"

Don let go Charlie's wrists, but only so that he could give him a noogie. "That's what big brothers are for, right?"

Charlie got in a couple of mock-punches before Don blocked him again. "Right."