"Life is what happens while you're making other plans." Thank you to the late John Lennon for this accurate summary of my summer, which included unplanned hospital stays and surgery (I know the first-hand experience will come in handy at some point in the future, but I could've done without it, thank you very much) and a new job that brings far too much stress. And here I was, counting on Numb3rs to lift my mood. Writing is still therapeutic though like it always was.

Crossroads

by Jules

It's a windy and dull Friday afternoon when they put Pete Fox to his final rest. Here in Lakewood, the early October grey is strangely highlighted by the colors of the turning leaves. Don leans against the tree beside him and watches from a distance as the small group of people he only knows by proxy from tales and photos shared a lifetime ago says goodbye to a loved one. He's sure he wouldn't be welcome among them. He knows he doesn't want to put them into a situation that only bears them down further. And yet, he is here.

Don aches, inside and out. Having lived in California for much of his life, it's a welcome change to see seasons happening, nature bowing to the natural cycle. But with that also comes the realization that life on the West Coast blurs the lines. The cold Colorado wind that tugs at his sweater and cuts through the layers below to chill his skin reminds him of that first cold winter in Detroit. The endless rainy days in Quantico. The stifling heatwave in New Mexico the year he and Kim moved in together.

Driving 15 hours out here instead of flying did nothing for his physical pains and the autumn chill he's so willingly exposing himself to right now won't do him any good either. The shoulder he's dislocated back in college has been hurting for weeks already, more than it did back then. His chest, while improved greatly from that first few weeks after the stabbing, constantly aches. Sometimes it's a nagging and distracting pain, sometimes it's slight, barely more than an afterthought. But it's always there, always reminding him that five months ago it could've been him instead of Pete. Almost was, a close call.

It's hard to acknowledge, but Don feels old. Tired. Disillusioned. And he hasn't even begun to address the internal turmoil yet.

His cellphone vibrates silently against his hip and he ignores it, just like he did the previous times. The office is secure in David's hands and he's on mandated leave since the shooting. Robin is in Sacramento for a trial and knows him good enough by now not to call. Dad simply told him before he left that he was there if he needed to talk. Charlie, on the other hand, didn't say anything. But he calls, every two hours, like clockwork. His voice mail is on, so Don's sure there are many little messages waiting for him once he's ready. They'll probably make him smile, just a little bit.

Charlie is scared, Don knows and understands that. He's scared too.

The ceremony in the distance is drawing to a close and Don's eyes stray one last time over the people's faces. Pete's father, his sister with her family, a handful of friends. Stony features, paralyzed by shock and maybe a dose of anger as well. He's grateful that the Bureau decided to withhold details from the press this long to give the family time to grieve, a last nod to decades of service for the country. By tomorrow morning, the story will hit the papers and these people's lives will take another downward turn.

As the casket is lowered to the ground, Don turns around and slowly makes his way back to where he parked the car, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets, his shoulders hitched to ward off the cold. He doesn't know what he was looking for here. If it was closure, it surely wasn't happening. He hits the remote and climbs back into the driver's seat, slumps against the backrest and closes his eyes.

Time to assess the situation. Friday afternoon and he's three states away from home. Instead of booking a flight like any other sane individual probably would've done, he's halfway through a 2,000 mile private round trip in his official car that will be a total nightmare to clear and explain once he's back in LA. Five days until his psych evaluation and the mandatory reassessment on the shooting range before he's cleared for full duty again. And then – what?

Five days to clear his soul and straighten out his life. One hundred odd hours to find back to where he was before this ordeal began. A scary thought.

Don pulls his cellphone free from its caddy and thumbs through the log. Five missed calls, three new messages, all from his brother. He hits the speed button for his voice mail with his eyes closed.

"Hey Don. It's a little after one in the afternoon... so, about noon where you are right now. Well, I hope you are there right now, but if the traffic wasn't bad you should be. I'm grading awfully ordinary papers all afternoon and if I survive that and, er, I'm not so sure I will, trust me, Amita and I will go try that new Italian restaurant you recommended." A longish pause. "Call me, okay?"

He ends the connection with the predicted smile on his lips, but the heavy sigh that follows isn't surprising him either. He won't call and they both know it. The little anchors his brother is throwing are welcome, even needed. But he needs the solitude more, he always did. He doesn't like that, but that's the way he is.

The sudden feeling of being watched tingles the hairs on the back of his neck and he looks up. The funeral is over and Pete's family and friends have come back to the parking lot. He parked as far away as he could from any other car, but it's not far enough. Half a dozen cars ahead of him, Pete's sister is looking straight at him with a strange expression and Don's flight instincts level up in milliseconds. But it's too late unless he wants to make a very speedy exit. Damn.

She walks over slowly and while they've never met before, he realizes that she knows who he is and his stomach sinks. He didn't want this, still doesn't and yet, he rolls down the side window when she's only a couple of steps away.

"Agent... Eppes?" Her voice is husky, matching the red blotches around her eyes.

"Cynthia, right?" He's astounded to hear that his voice is just as husky as hers and swallows against the tightness in his throat.

"Cinny," she says with a smile, "Pete, he... he always called me Cinny."

She turns away, looks back at the rest of her family, looks down at her feet and finally back up at him, her fingers curling around the edge of the window as if she needs the physical support.

"I'm sorry," she says and their eyes meet. A distant memory suddenly floats to the surface. Hadn't Pete once mentioned that his brother-in-law worked for the Denver PD? And he understands. He doesn't want to, convinced that he doesn't deserve this kind of absolution, especially from her, least of all right now, but he nods in acknowledgement nonetheless.

She turns away and walks back to her car and Don's fingers insert the key into the ignition before he can really think about it. He rolls out of the parking lot without another glance, down the street that will take him back to the interstate. His mind has gone blank.

Two miles past the Lakewood city limits, he steers the Suburban onto a small side road because his eyesight has become too blurry and the trembling in his diaphragm is seriously hampering his breathing. And for the second time within a week, Don Eppes cries.

He grew up in the shadow of his genius little brother which is why even his parents didn't know for a long time how much of a prodigy he was considered in his early FBI career. Barely six months out of the academy, he'd met Pete Fox on a joint operation back in Detroit and the older man had instantly taken a liking to this younger, wilder and extremely ambitioned Don Eppes. Pete had cleared the path for him to try out for the HRT even though his three year rotation wasn't up yet. And they reeled in some impressive successes in the two years he was on Pete's team. It was Pete who talked to him long-distance for over two hours during his second month in Fugitive Recovery after he had to kill on duty for the first time. It was his letter of recommendation that helped him into the teaching gig at Quantico when he'd tired of the monotony of manhunting.

Pete had shaped him, had taught him more than anyone else, before or after him. He owed this man his career. It seemed so obscene that it had to be him to pull the trigger.

Man. He's learned enough in therapy to realize that he's mostly feeling sorry for himself. A feeling that should be acknowledged, but it wasn't going to get him anywhere. He rubs his sleeve across his face, his mother's voice admonishing him that tissues and handkerchiefs were invented for a reason suddenly loud and clear in his mind and thinking of her nearly brings on fresh tears.

He's a mess right now, that much he knows. But he also knows where the real problem lies.

Pete taunted him in the shooting house and his last words were going to haunt him for some time to come. He had a choice, he could've aimed for his shoulder or a less likely to be lethal body shot to bring him down. But he didn't, he did what years of training had instilled in him. He did what Pete wanted him to do and not just to protect his own life.

Two suicides by cop in two consecutive cases. A streak of bad luck or just how life in law enforcement was these days? Don makes a mental note to talk to Colby and David about the Crater shooting, something he didn't have a chance to do yet but finds very important right now. The realization that this is the first constructive and future-oriented thought he had in over 24 hours is agonizing, but maybe this means there's still hope for him yet.

There's also that hollow ache in the center of his chest telling him how badly he wants and needs company right now.

He eyes the cell phone he discarded onto the passenger seat earlier and his fingers reach for it. Then, his mind changes, a sudden shift of thought that has him smiling and he opens the glove compartment instead. The street map is well-thumped and probably outdated, the creases showing the first tears already, but it serves its purpose. The satnav right in front of him would be faster, he knows that, but doing this the old-fashioned way is comforting. Finally, content that what he came up with is doable, he grabs the phone. The first call is short and gives him the answer he was hoping to get. For the second one, he leans back comfortably.

Robin's voice comes on after only two rings and her drawn-out "Hey" as a greeting feels like balm for his battered soul.

"Hey. Did the trial end?"

"Yeah, I finished the final speech an hour ago. I'm flying back to LA in the morning."

"About that...," he hesitates for a moment, not sure why. "What do you think of New Mexico?"

"Hot and humid."

He huffs a laugh at that, almost sad that she can't see him right now. "It's a dry heat. And it's not so bad this time of year."

"Are you still in Denver?"

"Lakewood, actually. But I'm heading south in a little while."

"And?" Again that drawn-out sound, she knows where he's headed and still plays along and this is just one of the many reasons why he loves her.

"And... there's an 8am flight to Albuquerque out of Sacramento tomorrow morning."

"Eppes, if you know the flight schedules by heart, why the hell did you drive out there?"

He's laughing now, loving the levity in her voice that does funny things to his stomach. "I don't. I called the airport."

Her smile is almost audible through the phone line. "I'm pretty sure I've not packed appropriately for a vacation."

"I plan to make sure you won't notice that."

"Is that a threat, Agent Eppes?"

A sizzle is palpable in the air around him and he closes his eyes, imagines her how she's perched on the edge of her hotel bed, one leg drawn beneath her. He wishes there weren't more than one thousand miles between them right now.

"No," he finally says, "it's a promise."

"Okay," she laughs, but then she turns serious. "How are you, really?"

He swallows, draws his lower lip between his teeth and stares out into the woods around him that have grown darker and darker in the encroaching dusk.

"Ask me again tomorrow."

They end the call and he shakes his head, trying not to think about how much his body will hate him after this trip. He remembers the days on end stakeouts back in Fugitive Recovery and how stiff they made him feel back then. Sitting in a car all day that wasn't moving was sheer torture, granted. Sitting in a car all day while you're driving was different though. In all the years he lived in Albuquerque, he only flew home once and only because he didn't trust himself to safely drive for twelve hours straight while he worried about his mother.

If the AAA handed our frequent driver badges, he would've earned his during his second year of college. Flying was comfortable and quick and often necessary, but driving was more physical, gave him time to think while he was covering a distance. He made some of his most important decisions in life on those road trips in the past. It seems a bit foolish given that he isn't a college boy anymore, but he needs this right now. And he needs Robin by his side for it.

A glance at his watch tells him it's getting late and he scrubs his hands over his face, putting the priorities in order in his head. He remembers he passed a motel a little further down the road on his way in. A bed for the night, a quick meal, a shower. Six hours on the road in the morning. He picks up the map again, rummages through the glove compartment for a pen and starts to draw. A solid line marks the passage already covered, a dotted line the route ahead.

His cell phone starts vibrating beside him and he's not surprised to see his brother's name on the display. He flips it open and brings it back to his ear.

"Hey, buddy."

A startled silence greets him, apparently Charlie didn't expect him to answer. He cannot blame him.

"So, you've survived grading, huh?"

"Y-y-eah. It was a close call though."

Don smiles. Charlie always complains about his student's papers and how awful grading is. He boasts just as much about their accomplishments, too.

"Listen, make sure that you take Amita to that new ice cream parlor down on La Brea after dinner."

"La Brea and Oakwood?"

"That's the one. Their Rocky Road is excellent."

"Duly noted."

Their contingent of small talk is pretty much used up after this, Don knows that. They could continue with stilted pleasantries, but he knows that Charlie won't go for that.

"Robin's coming down tomorrow," he says, an evasive answer to the question his brother hasn't even asked yet.

"To Denver?"

"Albuquerque. I'll meet her there."

"That's... what? 780, 790 miles south?" The incredulity in Charlie's voice is almost amusing.

"Yeah, sounds about right."

"You're not planning to move back there, right?"

Good question. Don doesn't have an answer for this yet, because he honestly doesn't know. Maybe. Ultimately though, it would be running away and he knows he's too weary for that.

"Hey, bro... are you okay?"

He doesn't know why he feared this question so much because the reply comes so easily and without any effort.

"No, Charlie. I'm not okay." He cannot be okay right now.

Don looks down at the map still in his hand and traces the lines he drew earlier with his finger. Los Angeles, Denver, Albuquerque. Maybe a stop in Phoenix on the way back.

"But you know what? I think I will be."

He isn't sure of anything right now, but he hopes it's the truth.

THE END