Title: May you live in interesting times (Part 1)
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen with mentions of Charlie/Amita and Don/Robin
Spoilers: Up to and including 5.23. Set post season 5.
Characters: Don, David, Alan, Liz, Amita, Colby, Nikki, Robin, Charlie
Word count: ~20,080 words total
A/N: Started mid 2008 for valerie84 for the Numb3rs summer gen ficathon. Finally finished with the help of ficfinishing after a long break. Thank you to my dad for answering lots of random questions about police work, goodisrelative for legal advice, and superbadgirl and bets_cyn for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Story is complete but will be posted in parts.
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid.
Summary: On his day off, Don gets taken hostage.
Alan smiled at the woman, steadying her as she rocked slightly on her feet. She pulled free from his grasp, walking off without a backward glance at Alan, the man she'd run into because she hadn't been looking where she was going. A roll of his eyes and a shake of his head at the lack of apology or thank you and Alan turned back to his eldest. He lifted his hand and glanced at his watch. They better get a move on or they'd be late.
"It starts in ten minutes, Don."
"Hmm?" Don finally looked away from the sports store's window and at his father. "What?"
Alan's eyebrows raised, silently berating him for his lack of attention. "The movie? The one you've wanted to see for months now?" He shook his head slightly, a fond but exasperated grimace on his face. "We don't want to miss it, do we?"
"Yeah, Dad, of course. Sorry, got a little distracted."
Alan picked up the shopping bag that he'd rested on the ground. "Yes, by all the shiny sporting goods. You know that you'd have more use for them if you—"
"Gave you some grandchildren, I know," Don interrupted with a groan and a roll of his eyes. He'd have thought with Charlie and Amita being engaged that his father would let up on him with this time-old mock argument.
Alan raised an eyebrow. "I was going to say if you organised the occasional game with your friends." He glared, with more humour than annoyance in the expression. "Stop putting words in my mouth."
"You have to admit, they're words that fairly frequently come out of your mouth." Don grinned and changed the subject. "Here," he grabbed the shopping bag out of Alan's hand, "let me take that. I'll put everything in the car." He did not want to be worrying about whether a roll of toilet paper was rolling down to the front of the theatre while he was watching the movie. Plus there was the added fact that it gave him some time away from his father so that he could buy the watch that Alan had been looking at. Shopping with his dad had proven to be the best way to figure out what to get him for his birthday.
"Are you sure? Donnie, you'll miss the previews!" Alan called after him as he walked away.
"As long as I don't miss the movie," Don called back as he moved ahead at a fast pace, dodging around slower shoppers, his own shopping bags swinging.
Alan shrugged and headed for the theatre. He wasn't going to be late—he had to have something to rub Don's nose in after the movie. A preview of a movie that he'd be dying to see in the future would be just the ticket.
Don put the last bag down, shut the door and locked the suburban. A glance at his watch told him that he'd see at least some of the previews.
"Have you got the time?"
The question came from behind him. He turned around, automatically glancing down at his watch again.
"Yeah, it's three—"
A flash of movement caused him to look up, instinctively raising his arms into a defensive movement. Don cried out in pain as something hard cracked down on his right arm, almost certainly breaking it. Dodging to the side, he assessed the threat. The man was in his thirties or forties, with brown hair and faded blue eyes enraged with grief and righteousness, wearing an ordinary pair of jeans and a shirt. The man wasn't someone he'd have given a second glance, but there was something vaguely familiar about him. The baseball bat—price tag still stuck on it—struck out towards him again and he fell back against the suburban, hitting it solidly with his right side. The resulting pain brought a hiss to his lips and blackness to his vision, and he automatically cradled his broken arm.
"There-there's no need for this," he ground out between clenched teeth. He was torn about whether to declare himself FBI. It might force the guy to back off, or it might make things worse.
The man's face crumpled into a bitter smile. "There's every need, Special Agent Eppes."
The words solved Don's dilemma: the man knew exactly who Don was. Don quickly looked around. There was nobody in their area of the parking garage to come to his rescue or spook the guy. The odds of there being no one around had to be phenomenally low. There was almost no chance that Don would be able to even try to run and dodge the guy, the guy was just too close to make it possible, unless Don put him out of action for a few seconds. With a mostly useless arm, it was probably his best choice. Don also didn't think he could pull his gun out before getting hit again.
"Do I know you?" Don asked with the right level of incredulity to trigger a further reaction. He just needed two seconds of distraction.
Outrage narrowed the man's eyes and it was all Don needed to strike. Diving in low, Don took them both to the floor. A rolling clatter indicated that the baseball bat was out of play.
Don staggered back to his feet and ran a few steps forward, trying to get his right hand to grab his gun, before a hand around his ankle brought him back painfully onto his hands and knees. Sensing movement behind him, Don rolled onto his back. The man was suddenly on top of him, grabbing his arms and trying to slam him down on the concrete. A well-placed leg and Don tipped the tide in his favour, flipping them so that he was on top. Breathing past the pain in his arm and the black spots edging into his vision, Don frantically grappled with the man, trying to get his one decent arm free enough to do some damage or pin him down with his body weight. A short, sharp jab to his injured arm turned the tide in the man's favour, opening Don up for several hard blows to the head. He was forced onto his back again, feeling like a beached whale. He put his left hand on the floor and tried to push off and continue fighting, adrenaline and fear giving him the impetus even as his head spun. Another hit to the cheek sent him crashing back onto the floor, his head bouncing with a crack off the concrete. His blurred vision showed the man moving to stand over him and raising the baseball bat up high.
"Don't—"
The bat swung down again and again. There was pain, and then there was nothing.
TBC...
