Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, settings, plots, etc. of the television broadcast of Numb3rs; CBS has all of that.

Other:This is a one-piece short, for the simple reasons of that I don't have enough knowledge of mathematics and forensics, and I am just a little too lazy to do the research, so I'm going to have to settle for a descriptive piece.

Within The Problem

It hadn't effected him much; just a simple, desolate task from his brother dear. On the board was written something—something!—that had been lost. Lost into the unknown; the abandoned; the Void. What the thousands of scribbles meant now, no one knew, but he was destined to figure it out. It was his duty, and he couldn't let his brother down—oh God!—he just couldn't. It meant the world to him to complete each and every predicament; find each and every solution; break down each and every problem from start to finish until…

But this time was entirely different. It seemed that he'd never find the answer—ever. But how, how could that, would that be possible? Left in an irritating and aggressive state of pure mystification and abhorrence, he rubbed his chin with two fingers, marker in hand, drying out in the cold wind of the nearby air conditioner that blew his luscious auburn curls. This couldn't be happening to him. There had never been an equation he couldn't solve, but he'd been gone for so long, every single step completely slipped from his mind. Either that or it was stuck in the back somewhere, wedged into a hole or air socket that was impossible to chip out from. Yet he kept a perfectly straight face, as if the frustration was scarcely affecting him. Puzzled, yes, but also quite good at hiding his anxiety—this time.

The equation—or rather, the mad scribble of illegible notes—read many, many things, some of which were rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT. All of it, in his mind, was blank. He had nothing. Absolutely nothing. To him, the equations were random variables and numbers and supposable solutions. The steady clicking of a woman's dress shoes mocked his weary mind as he paced, his shoes making little noise on the tile floor.

"Hey," the feminine voice cooed, the head poking through the archway. When he turned to look, he smirked, in a pleasant sort of way.

"Hello," he said, turning back to his translucent board. He scratched his head, putting the marker tip to the board, but sighed, and dropped it again to his side.

The woman went further into the room, careful not to make to much noise, afraid to be a distraction or shuffle to his concentration. "Working late?"

"Uh…yeah," he replied almost instantaneously. "And probably every night for a while."

"Why?" she asked, her tone most of the concerned kind. He had just come back from a wonderful and well deserved vacation—did he, in all honesty, think that he needed to work late?

Charlie sighed, and cleared his throat, trying not to slam the marker on his desk as he leaned on it, his head dropped, hanging like a doll's from his neck in shame. "I can't...I can't remember," he choked from the bottom of his throat.

Amita furrowed her eyebrows, contemplating whether or not to put a tender hand on his shoulder in an attempt for comfort. "Can't remember what?"

He sighed, coughing and standing upright. "Can't remember what this all means," he answered, trying to make his voice a little stronger. He went over to the air conditioner and jacked it down a few degrees.

"It's freezing in here," she remarked, looking about and rubbing the upper parts of her arms.

"Twenty-four degrees," he replied. "Want me to turn it up?"

"Why on earth is it so low?"

"…I'm really hot right now. Stress can make me burn up, you know?" He endeavored to play a smile on his facial features, but it failed terribly in the process of creeping up his lips. "Want me to turn it up?" he repeated.

"No, not if you're too hot," she assured him, lowering her arms, though she didn't want to, but she didn't want to make him concerned about herself if he was preoccupied and needed to stay that way with his work. "So what is this?" she asked, gesturing to the board.

"Scribbles, marks, lines, graphs," he sighed disappointedly, leaning back on his desk, his body supported with his hands. "I'm oblivious as to what it means. And to tell you the truth," he added, turning to her, "it's driving me insane."

"Well…should I leave you?" she questioned, backing off. "I mean—I don't want to be an interference."

"Actually, your presence is quite refreshing," he said. "I've been staring blankly at this board all day. Guess that month vacation wasn't such a good idea," he sighed sadly, running a nervous, aggravated hand through his hair.

Amita scoffed, hiding her grin as she bowed her head slightly. "All right," she said softly, folding her hands across her middle. "Well, I'll see you later. I have to make due with the other coworkers I have a much lesser good time with." He brought her feet back first, and almost taking her head with it afterwards, gave him a full-fledged smile. She left.

He chuckled under his breath, looking at the floor. "Yeah," he said to the pretend woman that was in front of him. "Okay."

Charlie desperately needed a vivid, vibrant portrayal of what the hell was on that board, and he needed it then. Not later, not soon enough, right then. He was close to being an official insane madman. The thriving passion that was stabbing at his mind and his heart was nearly unbearable; he had to solve it! He just had to!

It was now twenty-seven minutes after ten o' clock that evening. All was silent in the college, not another soul wandering the hallways or busy working on their lesson plans or lectures for the proceeding day. Hardly close to slumber or being half-exhausted, as many would suspect he'd be after more than twelve hours of mindless staring and twiddling with his thumbs, his mind just about racing at full speed, he took another sip of water from the bottle; his twelfth for the day. He found that water kept him awake longer, rather than something like coffee or caffeinated soda pop.

Another hour went by quicker than he anticipated. Now it was thirty-two minutes after eleven o' clock. Charlie Eppes still had not left his room. He wasn't eating, wasn't sleeping, and was hardly even conscious of the fact that he hadn't moved an inch from two hours prior. What was coming to this man? Obsession and the feeling of pure duty he had to his brother. Compassionate, and noting that his brother had not come home, Don waltzed into the room casually; silently, and looked at his brother for a long moment, who was unaware to the fact that he was not alone.

"Why are you still here?" blurted Don quite bluntly.

Charlie, not letting his heart skip a beat, turned to Don and raised his eyebrows. "I beg your pardon?" he said absently, for the words his brother had spoken were simply a mass of blurs that had gone through one ear; hadn't processed in his mind. He was much too busy for small talk now.

"I said what are you still doing here?" Don repeated, advancing. "It's almost midnight. Thought you got hurt or something 'cause you didn't come home."

"You didn't assume I'd be with Amita?" Charlie retorted, looking back to his board as he slid onto his desk. "If I'm not home, I'm here, Don."

"Yeah, yeah, I know that now, but—why are you here…now?"

Charlie did not reply. The words were hardly comprehensible in his brain function now. His train of thought was somewhere else, not in a place where he was able to put together human speech.

The equations ran through his mind...rs2 + rs3 TOD…345/d DT. rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT…

"Charlie?"

rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT…

"Charlie!"

rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT… rs2 + rs3 TOD and 345/d DT…!!!!

"Don, I've got it!" Charlie proclaimed, standing. As his brother looked to him with an contorted expression of pure perplexity, Charlie, beaming with happiness and accomplishment, began to write on the board.