A/N: And now for the wrap-up. Thanks to all of you who stuck with this - SG

Chapter 22

It had been an eventful day. Don's team had stopped by, and so had Larry, and Don had taken two short excursions down the hall, and two to the bathroom. By the time early evening hit, he was exhausted and sore, and looking forward to his next dose of pain medication, even if it wasn't the really good stuff he'd had the day before. Charlie had spent the day bed-bound, still tethered to his catheter, and although he'd spent much of it drifting in and out of a restless sleep, he seemed even more exhausted than Don. His fever was on the rise, and the bag attached to the catheter, which had been starting to clear, was now looking dark again. Doctor Atchison and Charlie's attending physician had been in, along with another specialist in infectious diseases, and they'd changed his antibiotic for something stronger.

In spite of seeming weak and tired, Charlie seemed in good spirits. The visit from Amita had done him a world of good, and when he was awake, he seemed relaxed, content. While he was asleep, however, either the fever or some other demon took hold – he muttered and moaned, restlessly trying to throw off his covers.

Now it was around 6:30 p.m. Alan had gone home for dinner and a shower, Charlie had drifted off again after dinner, and Don was heavy-lidded, thinking about following him. His head jerked and he blinked as he heard a moan and stirring in the other bed, and looked over to see that Charlie had managed to dislodge his blankets again, along with his hospital gown, exposing a lot more of his physique than he should have.

Don sighed. Alan would have fixed the situation if he was here, but he wasn't, and Charlie would be mortified if Don pressed the call button. He hated to wake him, but… "Charlie. Charlie, wake up."

A soft groan was all he managed to provoke; Charlie's eyes were still shut tight. Don tried again, louder, with no effect, and finally, leaned forward and put on his air cast, and slipped out of bed, with a look of exasperation. He hobbled over, gingerly grabbed the end of Charlie's hospital gown, and yanked it down, and was reaching for the blankets as Charlie suddenly cried out, thrashing violently.

Don grabbed his arms, wincing at the pull in his chest, as Charlie's eyes opened, wildly, and he lay there panting. "Hey, hey, relax, Batman. I was just fixing your cape."

Charlie was trembling, but recognition came into his eyes, and he slumped back against the pillow, as Don gently released his grip. Don regarded the flushed face with concern. "You okay?"

Charlie stared back for a moment, then nodded and licked dry lips. "Yeah." He looked away, his voice hoarse.

Don frowned, watching him for a moment. "Nightmare?"

Charlie winced, and shuddered a little. "Yeah. The usual." He turned a bleary eye on Don, as it registered that his brother had gotten out of bed to attend to him. "Sorry."

The corner of Don's mouth quirked in a smile. "Don't mention it. I didn't want to leave you hanging out there – it might have given me nightmares."

He didn't think it was possible, but Charlie flushed even more deeply. "I guess I keep pushing the blankets off." He sighed. "I'd probably sleep better on the floor."

Don turned and hobbled for his bed. "When you get out of here, you are talking to someone about that. There must be some kind of mental cycle you need to break there."

A noise from behind him made him turn. Charlie was twisting sideways, his face green. "I think I'm gonna be -,"

Don stepped back quickly as Charlie gracelessly lost his dinner, and grimaced as he reached behind him for the call button. "I don't mind covering you up, Buddy, but I draw the line there." He sent Charlie a rueful smile, but concern stirred in his gut as he saw Charlie lie back with a groan, his skin covered with beads of sweat. He had a feeling that a long day was about to turn into a long night.

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It did, Don reflected, as he pushed tiredly at rubbery scrambled eggs the next morning. Charlie was doing a little better, finally, but he'd gotten worse before the new antibiotic started to kick in. His fever had spiked high enough that he was sent for a CAT scan at close to midnight, as the doctors, concerned about a possible abscess; tried to determine the extent of the infection. Fortunately, there was no sign of that, and finally, about four in the morning, Charlie's temperature started to come down. Alan had come back after dinner, and finally went home at around 4:30 a.m., and Charlie was now sleeping peacefully, his exhaustion ostensibly overcoming any dreams.

It also apparently overrode any extraneous noises, Don found out a few moments later. He looked up at the knock on the door, and set down his fork abruptly, startled, as Dave Maxwell poked his head in the room. "Agent – can I come in?"

Don pushed the tray away, and straightened a bit. "Yes – Director, yes sir. Come in."

Maxwell stepped in quietly, with a glance at Charlie. "I won't be long."

Don regarded him with barely concealed surprise. "Are you out here for a meeting?"

Maxwell smiled, his keen eyes taking in Don's appearance – the bruising, the pain and fatigue in his face. Still, the agent's eyes were sharp, his gaze direct and confident. A difficult man to rattle, apparently. But then, Maxwell already knew that. "Actually, yes. With you. I wanted to come out and see how you and Charlie were doing, and to thank you personally. Considering what you both went through, I thought I owed you that, and an update."

Charlie finally stirred behind him, and Maxwell and Don looked over as he opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. As he caught sight of Maxwell, his eyes widened in surprise, and he fumbled for the covers in front of him, obviously trying to make sure he was decent. Don tried hard to stifle a grin, as Maxwell stepped over and extended a hand to his decidedly flustered brother. "Director, I'm sorry sir, I didn't realize you were here." Charlie shot Don a quick glance that said, 'Why didn't you wake me?' as he shook Maxwell's hand.

"Don't apologize, Doctor, I'm sorry I woke you. I just got here, and was just preparing to give Don an update."

He pulled up a chair, and sat between them. "First of all, I wanted to thank you, agent, for your information on what your team found concerning the meth lab layouts and security in L.A. It proved invaluable when the Philadelphia team went in to take them down. And of course, Doctor, that would not be possible without your work to identify them. We believe we got them all, and most of the personnel involved. We also arrested Patrick Conaghan, Lenny Angelo's equivalent in the Philly area, and of course, Sean Moran and Jason Walsh."

A slight shadow passed over his face, and he looked at Don. "Jason, obviously, was a huge disappointment. I became suspicious of him during your dealings with Moran in L.A., especially his attempts to close down your investigation. I had nothing concrete until Charlie found the link with his programming -,"

"Willy," corrected Charlie, with a twinkle in his eye.

Maxwell grinned. "Until Willy found the link with his programming – although, Professor, in this case we have back-up tax records to corroborate your findings, plus Willy's assertion that the programming wasn't biased, so the judge is accepting your involvement in the Philadelphia case. It turns out we didn't need Willy after all – although I have to say, I think we've acquired a resource in him for the future. He's already offered his services to the Philadelphia office for future cases – you apparently were a big influence on him."

He sobered a bit, and continued. "Sean Moran has gone through a psychiatric re-evaluation. During the last few weeks, as the meth left his system, his thought processes regained some normalcy. He was due for a re-evaluation anyway, to see if he was fit to stand trial. The few hits of meth he managed to get his hands on during the hours he was out were not enough to re-initiate psychosis, and the results came back that he is rational. He's being held in prison while he awaits trial for attempted murder in your cases, and for first-degree murder of the firefighter. According to the D.A., he will face the death penalty. Jason Walsh, in addition to drug and money laundering charges, will face charges of kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder, and of tampering with federal records. He will more than likely spend the rest of his natural life behind bars."

He stood, and stepped over to clasp Charlie's hand again, and then Don's. "I want to thank you both for the personal sacrifices you made on this case." He looked at Don directly. "I know our inquiries into what happened concerning Charlie's field clearance, among other things, didn't make your life any easier, Don. For that, I apologize to you both, and I want to thank you for sticking with this, in spite of the roadblocks that were put in your way. I can assure you, Agent Eppes, I have no qualms about how you run your office – there's no doubt in my mind it's among the best in the country."

"Thank you, sir," replied Don quietly. He could see Charlie's proud smile from across the room, and somehow, it seemed to weigh more than the praise he'd just been given.

Maxwell nodded. "And with, that, I'll let you both get some rest. You've certainly earned it. Thanks again."

He stepped out, and silence descended for a moment. Don looked over, and caught Charlie's eyes on him, shining with pride. "So," said Charlie, "what do you do for an encore, Superman?"

Don grinned. "Well, for one thing, I take the Boy Wonder out for a steak when we get out of here, to thank him for watching my back."

"Batman."

"Whatever."

"Or maybe Rambo. I was pretty manly, toting that gun in your SUV."

"Don't push it." Don grinned at him, his eyes crinkling. He regarded his brother for a moment, and realized, with a hint of surprise, that he was actually looking forward to working with him again. The worry that Charlie might be in danger would never quite go away, he knew, but somehow, after the last week it seemed easier to deal with. He'd spent the last few weeks fighting something that he realized now had been close to depression – he'd been shaken to his foundations; his sense of conviction, his desire to do the job waning. Now that optimism was back, and he knew its presence had a lot to do with Charlie. "You know, we're not a bad team."

Charlie looked back at him, his smile full of affection. "I always thought so." He sank back into the pillow and closed his eyes.

Don regarded him with a mischievous smirk. "Rambo," he repeated, chuckling to himself with a shake of his head. "More like, Ram-boy."

"I heard that."

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Don paused, his body coiled like a snake, his eyes intent, the thump of the basketball in front of him the only sound for a moment. Suddenly, he charged directly toward Charlie, faked left; and veered deftly right. Charlie backpedaled, his arms up, but Don completed a graceful lay-up, and grinned cockily as he stepped back.

Charlie shot him a look of appreciation, with just a bit of wickedness in his smile. "Not bad for an old guy."

Don stooped and grabbed his beer, took a swig, and eyed Charlie speculatively, as his brother retrieved the ball. "Your arm looks pretty good."

Charlie raised his left arm straight up, demonstrating, as he dribbled the ball with his right. "Yeah, I can lift it almost all the way up now. It still gets stiff, but it's almost back to normal."

He turned, and put up a smooth jump shot, as Don took another drink. It was a sunny March Sunday, over four months since their dealings with the Moran brothers. Those months had come with challenges of their own – Charlie's corrective shoulder surgery, and Sean Moran's trial. Don still had a mental image of Charlie in the courtroom, fresh off the surgery, arm in a sling, his face pale and set as he observed the proceedings. They'd both had to testify themselves, which wasn't stress-free, either, especially for Charlie. His days spent as a captive of the psychotic killer weren't something that would easily be erased. He'd started physical and mental therapy at the same time, and Don had begun serious sessions of his own with Bradford. He knew his head was in a much better place because of it, and he wondered if Charlie was doing as well as he was.

The thought prompted the question. "How's the other therapy going?"

Charlie had been dribbling, and he stopped and put the ball under his arm, and bent to retrieve his own beer. "Good. He dropped me back to once a month."

"Sleeping okay?"

"Yeah."

"I mean – in a bed?"

Charlie took a swig of beer. "Yeah." He blushed a bit. "Actually, it wasn't so much the therapist who helped me out there. It was Amita."

Don grinned. "I'll bet."

Charlie's blush deepened. "Not like that – well, maybe – no, I won't go there. No, once I admitted to her that I was having the problem, when she started spending the night again, she made me sleep in the bed with her. I had nightmares, still, but she – well, it just helped to have her there, that's all. I still have a nightmare once in a while, but I can handle it." He sobered a little. "It helped to know that Sean Moran was put away for good."

Don gave an emphatic nod, as he took a drink. Charlie didn't mention Sean Moran' s ultimate punishment - he'd been given the death penalty. Don knew, in spite of what his brother had suffered that he had reservations about that - it bothered him that his testimony was helping to put someone else to death, no matter who it was. Don followed suit, and sidestepped the issue. "You got that right. We done here, or am I gonna kick your ass some more?"

Charlie snorted good-naturedly. "You're the one with the shoeprints on your butt. I think I've asserted my superiority sufficiently, thank you." He turned and trotted toward the garage, and tossed the ball inside.

He grinned as he walked back toward his brother. Don looked good, he thought. They were good. He'd never felt as close to his brother as he had in the last few months. There was still a void there, born of many years of both physical and psychological separation, and they didn't always understand each other, still, but they were closing the gap. His relationship with Amita, which had been rocked by what happened, remained somewhat uncertain, but in an important way, it was stronger. They talked more, they were more open with each other, and dealt with problems directly, which before, they would have avoided rather than confront. The weeks of fear and uncertainty had receded, and seemed to have left them all on solid ground.

They trooped into the kitchen, and Don took an appreciative whiff. "What's for dinner?"

"Chicken piccata," said Alan breezily, as he set vegetables on the counter. "One of you wash your hands, and help me out here."

Charlie obliged, and Don watched them for a moment, and then pushed through the kitchen door, wandering into the living room with his beer hanging from his hand. The television was on, and a weather commentator was discussing the long-term outlook for that year's forecast.

"Of course, after last year's devastating fires," she intoned, "everyone is wondering what the prospects are for this year. Mike, tell us what we expect this year's thermal flow patterns will do to the Santa Ana winds." Mike began an animated discourse, but the mention of the winds and the fire made Don's mind wander backwards to those frightening weeks. The events seemed far away now, but he knew well that they'd had lasting effects, mostly for the better, especially as far he and Charlie were concerned. It was as if they'd survived a trial by fire, and come out of it stronger, and wiser.

He looked around the room, drinking in the tranquil late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. There was a time right after he'd come back to L.A. where he felt a bit like a stranger here – he'd had memories of it as home, but it didn't quite feel the same, mostly because of his then tenuous relationship with his brother. Charlie had taken the place and made it his own, and Don had been unsure of his status there. Now, though, he knew he belonged, and it was because he and his brother had reached a place where they felt truly like family. He took a deep breath, and felt a satisfying peace in his soul. Charlie pushed through the door on his way toward the stairs, and gave him a warm smile as their eyes met, and Don smiled back. Yes, there was no question. He was home.

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End, Santa Ana Wind, Part III - Dillon