Notes: I like Numb3rs for a multitude of reasons and the family stuff is clearly one big reason. But I've never, ever bawled this much after watching anything than I did after "Running Man". Seriously. ;-) Being who I am, I had to sit down and write this little scene.

Revelation in G minor
by Jules

It was Friday, and a good Friday at that, too. The week had ended with a wrapped-up case, which always was a bonus, because it usually provided Don with a true free weekend. As a FBI agent, he was always on call, but unless something really big was going to hit the office, he and his team were off until Monday.

Which meant that it was a Friday which was going to end in true family tradition. Dinner at the house with his dad and Charlie and watching the game afterwards. He'd started to enjoy those companionable evenings more and more, especially since they'd become rarer as his workload increased.

The house seemed empty when he let himself in, but since he'd seen a dim light shining from the garage, he knew that it wasn't. He called out, moving further into the house until his eyes fell onto the green-covered booklet Charlie had shown him earlier in the week.

Their mother's compositions, musical accomplishments none of them, including their father, had known about. He immediately felt drawn towards it.

The sixpack in his hand suddenly felt heavy, so he deposited it on the table and skimmed through the pages of the scores. His mom's scores. A concept he still hadn't been able to wrap his mind around.

He stared at the notes, trying to fire up old synapses, longing to understand the music. Longing to understand a side of his mother he never knew about until now. It took some time, but the notes started to make sense and he tried to imagine how they would sound.

It was a spontaneous idea that suddenly sprang up, not thought through and checked from all possible angles like his mind usually worked. But he let himself go with it. He needed to. Don shrugged out of his jacket, threw it over the back of the nearest chair and, as if his feet had a mind of their own, drifted over to the piano.

Slowly, he sank down onto the bench in front of it. And found things hadn't changed much. He still felt dwarfed by the instrument, just like he had 20 years ago. The sheer expanse of the dark wooden frame, the knowledge that with the right technique wonderful music could be elicited from it, had frightened him back then. The expectations he never thought he'd fulfill.

Don never hated playing the piano. It just didn't fit into his concept back then. He loathed the lessons, yes, because while he was forced to practice scales and tunes that didn't mean much to him at the time, outside the window the world was moving forward. While he was stuck playing melodies of the past.

He never hated playing the piano, he just had a lot of things going on in his life he loved more. Baseball. Basketball. All different kinds of sports. Directing his energy outwards, being proactive. And yes, fitting in. When he'd reached 13, telling his friends about piano lessons earned him jokes, but never approval. He simply was part of the wrong crowd for that.

Don spread out the notes in front of him and placed his fingers on the keys, the action almost feeling natural, but there was a sudden pain in his heart. Until now, he never thought about how much it must have hurt his mother, because he was sure she knew. She never pressured them to continue. Charlie... he'd made a deal with her, promising to don't let music go completely and he remained true to his word, experimenting and inventing and fiddling around. But he, he'd just asked to please be allowed to stop, pointing out all the different activities that were so important to him. And his wish had been granted, just like that.

She had kept her disappointment to herself, along with her deep passion for music. She'd never even asked if he still played. Which he didn't, well, not really. He'd strummed a few notes here and there when the time seemed right. He'd experimented with playing drums while in college, but that was short-lived due to an shoulder injury he'd received while playing baseball. But he hadn't sat down to play in a long, long time.

He pressed down his finger and the first note filled the room. It took him a while to get a hang of it again, to have his fingers connect to that long-hidden part of his brain, the first chords still stuttering and unsure. But then, suddenly, it was as if the music played him and not vice versa.

He went through the whole piece once, alternating between looking at the notes and his fingers, and just started from the top again. And closed his eyes.

This was something their mother had done without sharing with them. For whatever reasons. He bet Charlie could understand it and maybe, when he found the right moment, he would ask him to explain it to him. But he could picture her composing it, sitting at the dining table while everyone else was out, the pencil tipping against her lips unconsciously while she strung together melodies in her head. He could picture her sitting at this very piano, playing the tune to herself and smiling.

The kitchen door behind him squeaked and suddenly, there was a soft breeze stirring the air around him. Like a hand caressing his hair, like soft lips placing a kiss on his cheek and his fingers stopped abruptly, ending everything with a harsh tremble.

Don sat very still, head down and hands hovering over the keys before him, blinking away tears.

After an eternity, he looked over his shoulder. Charlie was leaning against the table, his hands buried deep in his pockets, face obscured by his long curls as he stared down. "Go on," he whispered hoarsely, "don't stop."

Don raised the heel of his hand to his face, rubbing away the tears, smiling and aching inside. He leafed through the booklet, clearing his throat while searching for another composition to play. Behind him, he felt Charlie drift closer towards him and he scooted over to the right, making room and Charlie sank down beside him onto the bench, his back against Don's left shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, Don placed his fingers on the keys and started playing again. It felt easy now, natural, almost as if he'd never stopped at all.

In the kitchen, pans started clanking and drawers were pulled. It provided an odd yet wonderfully fitting background music, the sounds of home. The swinging door squeaked again as their father brought out plates and cutlery, but both sons were too entranced to really notice.

Don never opened his eyes, getting lost in the music and the feeling of his brother leaning against him, relished in the presence of their mother so palpable in the air around them. He leaned into the strong hand that cupped his shoulder from behind and held his breath as his father placed a soft kiss that almost felt like a benediction into his hair.

Don continued until dinner was ready and even then, it felt harder than he thought it would to get up, to leave this connection to the past behind. None of them talked much for the rest of the night. There simply was no need for it.

-The End-