A/N: As stated in the summary, this is one of a collection of stories I managed to pull from the Numb3rs fansite before it shut down. I hope you enjoy.

Alan pulled into the driveway, his mind drifting pleasantly as he waited for the garage door to open. His lunch with Millie had been enjoyable, to say the least. The head of CalSci's math department was a welcome diversion these days, even if his youngest son didn't approve - although the eldest Eppes had to admit that Charlie seemed to have warmed to his boss quite significantly over the last year.

As he drove inside and turned off his car, Alan mused over the many changes the whole family had endured lately. Don coming home, Margaret's passing, Charlie assisting the FBI with their cases – further deepening the bond between the brothers. It had been a long and tumultuous ride, but Alan figured the road was finally smoothing out for the Eppes family.

He paused to ensure the overhead door was on its way down before heading inside, his thoughts already turning toward what to make for supper. Don had told him he was off this weekend, and Charlie's work load at the university was also lighter than usual. He figured both of his sons would be counting on him for a good, home-cooked meal.

That idea was quickly squashed, however, when Alan caught sight of a note lying on the dining room table. He fished his reading glasses out of the inside pocket of his jacket, sliding them on with one hand as he picked up the paper with the other. "Dad," it read. "Don't bother looking for your genius son. I have kidnapped him and am forcing him to watch baseball. If you want him returned to you unharmed, have lasagna ready by eight o'clock. Signed – the Notorious Agent Don." Alan chuckled softly. He knew without having to have seen it that Charlie would have put up a token protest against watching yet another baseball game with his brother, but only for show. He could just see Don grinning at his younger sibling as he steered him out the front door, promising that the experience wouldn't hurt.

Still laughing to himself, Alan headed into the kitchen to prepare the 'ransom'. When he at last closed the oven door on the large pan of pasta, he checked his watch and did a little mental calculation. The dish would be ready about half an hour before they were due back. Just enough time to cook some garlic bread and throw together a small salad, he thought. Perfect.

Settling into one of the comfortable armchairs in the living room, Alan picked up the evening newspaper and leaned back into the cushions with an audible sigh. Life was, indeed, looking up.

Some time later, while perusing the daily comic section, Alan was startled by the shrill ringing of the telephone. He reached for the cordless handset on the end table by his chair – only to curse softly when it wasn't there. Tossing the paper onto the table, Alan levered himself out of the chair and headed for the wall phone in the kitchen at a quick trot. The display on the phone showed a familiar number, and he picked up the receiver with a sigh. "You'd better not be telling me you won't be home for supper, Charlie," he warned.

"Dad…" Charlie's voice could barely be heard through the loud static. "Don…"

Alan's brow furrowed. "I thought he was with you?" he asked.

"…Is…" The signal was poor and Charlie's voice grew fainter with each passing second. "…Hurt… meet us…"

The older man's heart froze. "Hurt?" he echoed. "What happened? Where, Charlie? Meet you where?" His voice rose with every question until he was practically shouting. "Charlie!" he repeated when he didn't get an immediate response. "Meet you where?"

"LA County." The words, mercifully, came right as the static abated. "…Hurry."

"I'm on my way, son," Alan said. "I'll be there as soon as I can, alright?" There was no response. "Charlie?" At last, the line clicked and he heard a dial tone. Muttering imprecations at the unreliability of cellular telephone service, Alan dropped the receiver in its cradle and grabbed his car keys, pausing only long enough to shut off the lasagna.

As he drove down the 110, Alan's imagination went wild, suggesting scenario after scenario of how Don could have gotten hurt. Was he trying to stop a criminal from robbing one of the ticket offices at the ball park? Maybe he and Charlie had stopped at a convenience store after the game and walked into a holdup? Perhaps someone had tried to hurt Charlie and Don – in his ever-present 'big brother' role – had stepped in to defend him, not realizing his brother's assailant was armed?

Dismissing the activity as futile, Alan tried instead to imagine what kind of injury Don might have suffered. In his capacity as a law-enforcement officer – off-duty or not – that could range from a gunshot wound to a paper cut, he knew. Returning to his earlier speculations, Alan began mentally listing the possibilities. Gunshot, stabbing, hit in the head with some kind of object…

Alan turned onto the I-5 and sent up a silent prayer to the heavens that traffic was lighter on this stretch of freeway. Ever cautious, he kept the needle hovering right at the speed limit as he thought back to earlier in the evening. The note had given him a false sense of hope, he realized. There he'd been, thinking life was finally going to give them a fair shake, and now this…

Steering the car toward the off-ramp, Alan shook off the morose thoughts and concentrated on traffic. The last thing he wanted to do was miss his turn and have to waste precious time backtracking – time he wasn't sure his eldest son had. Almost exactly thirty minutes from the time he'd hung up the phone, Alan pulled into a parking spot at LA County Medical Center and hurried inside.

Charlie was in the waiting area when he burst through the double doors, sitting on one of the worn vinyl couches with his head in his hands. Alan rushed to his side, slowing a couple of paces away so as not to startle his son. "Charlie," he said gently.

"Dad!" Charlie bolted to his feet with a relieved smile. "Am I glad to see you!"

"How is he?" Alan asked, almost afraid to hear the reply.

Charlie's shoulders slumped. "They say he'll be fine, but…" His voice trailed off with a shrug. "I don't know, Dad. He was in a lot of pain when I saw him last."

Alan placed a comforting hand on Charlie's shoulder. "If they said he'd be fine, son, then he probably will be." Bracing himself, Alan took a deep breath and asked, "What happened?"

"It was so stupid," Charlie replied sadly. "Everything was going great – they were ahead five to one – when the other team hit a line drive right to second. The runner on first took off and while Don was distracted-"

"Wait a second," his father interrupted. "Why was he distracted? I don't understand."

Charlie blinked. "I told you on the phone, I thought."

Alan sighed and gestured to the sofa. "You'd better sit down and explain it again. Your cell broke up and I could barely hear what you said. All I caught was that Don had been hurt and I was supposed to meet you here."

Pausing in the act of resuming his seat, Charlie said, "Oh god, Dad – I'm sorry. I didn't know. I bet you rushed right down here thinking the worst."

"Tell me what happened," Alan repeated.

Nodding, Charlie related the story. Don had been playing second base for the FBI's baseball team when a player for the Medical Examiner's office had slammed into the preoccupied agent, knocking him to the ground and somehow – due, most likely, to the fact that Don had had one foot on the bag – breaking his ankle. "…And I told you on the phone he'd been hurt playing baseball, but I guess you didn't hear me. I'm really sorry for scaring you, Dad," Charlie added, genuinely contrite. "I didn't mean to."

"I'm fine, Charlie," his father soothed. "You know me – I'm not generally the type to jump to conclusions." Specifically, however, he thought, I can panic with the best of them. "Let's go see if your brother is ready to go home yet, okay?"

Charlie smiled gratefully and got to his feet. "Sure thing, Dad," he replied. "I'm really glad you came, though."

"Anytime, Charlie. You know that."

It only took a few minutes to ascertain where Don was being attended to. As Charlie and Alan headed toward a curtained enclosure in the emergency room, a young resident wearing green surgical scrubs hurried to intercept them. "Can I help you?" she asked in a pleasant, if tired, voice.

"We're here for Don Eppes," Alan replied. "The woman at the admitting desk said he was in here."

"Actually, no – he isn't," she said shortly, holding out her hand for Alan to shake. "Doctor Westin – I was Don's attending."

Alan shook her hand. "Alan Eppes, Don's father." He gestured to Charlie. "This is his brother, Charlie."

"I'm the one who brought him in," Charlie supplied, shaking her hand as well. "I want to apologize for…"

Doctor Westin cut him off with a wave. "No need," she said. "People in pain usually… lash out… at those around them." She smiled slightly. "He's apologized plenty of times since."

"He has?" Alan asked incredulously. "Don?"

She nodded, her smile widening into a grin. "Oh yes," she replied. "We gave him a shot of Demerol for the pain, you see…"

Alan returned the grin. "I can just imagine," he said. "You said he wasn't here?"

"No, he was taken to have a cast put on – oh," she broke off, glancing over the older man's shoulder. "There he is now."

Both Alan and Charlie turned, smiling at the sight of Don being pushed into the ward in a wheelchair by an orderly. Don was regaling the man with the tale of how he'd broken his ankle, while the man simply glanced down at him occasionally and nodded. When they got closer, Don noticed the group standing by, watching, and smiled broadly. "Hey Dad!" he practically shouted. "When did you get here?"

Adopting a serious expression, Alan chided, "Donny – keep your voice down when you're indoors."

This only served to set off a fit of laughter from the agent. "You haven't talked to me like that since I was ten!" Don howled. "Don't worry, Dad," he added when he'd caught his breath. He pointed to the cast on his lower leg. "I won't be running in the house anytime soon."

"Thank goodness for small miracles," Alan muttered under his breath. In a louder tone, he said, "It looks like you won't be running anywhere for a while."

Doctor Westin put in, "The Demerol should wear off in a couple of hours. After that, I suggest he take one of these every six hours for pain." She handed Alan a prescription. "It's Tylenol three. Pretty strong pain reliever. I expect he can probably go to regular Tylenol in a couple of days."

"Knowing Don," Charlie interjected. "He'll probably stop after the first dose."

"I doubt it," the doctor replied. "Broken ankles hurt worse than other types of broken bones – they're made to move, you see." To Don, she added, "You'll have to go see your regular physician in a week for a follow-up, Don. To make sure it's healing properly."

Don nodded sagely. "Sure thing, Doc," he said. "Will do."

Both Alan and Charlie thanked the doctor and she went out, saying "By the way, Don – don't forget to stop by the pharmacy and pick up a pair of crutches."

Looking up at his makeshift chauffeur, Don said, "To the pharmacy, James!"

"Don!" Alan said reprovingly. "Behave!"

Charlie snickered behind the hand covering his mouth, earning a sideways glance from his father. "Is that even your name?" he asked the orderly.

The man shook his head. "He's more cheerful than some of the other patients I've had to deal with, though." Turning the chair around, he told Don, "You realize I'm going to have to negotiate for better wages."

"Of course," Don replied, waving his hand dismissively. "I'll pay you double."

Alan looked at his youngest son as the other two headed out the door. "What do you say to that, Professor?" he asked.

Charlie grinned. "Double of nothing is still nothing," he answered. "Come on – let's catch up to them. I want to see Don try crutches in his condition."

"Sometimes, Charlie," Alan said, shaking his head. "You are just cruel."

They hurried down the corridor, barely catching a glimpse of Don and his 'chauffeur' as they rounded the corner. By the time they reached the pair, the orderly had already gotten Don his crutches and the agent was hopping on one foot as the pharmacist adjusted them to the correct height. "Thanks," Don said as he handed them over. "I can manage fine from here." He hitched them under his arms and took a few shaky strides down the hallway. "See, James?" he said. "Piece of cake."

'James' shook his head ruefully and moved to stand behind Don, ready to catch him if he fell. A few seconds later, Don almost did just that as he made to take a step, the stance of his crutches too wide. Grabbing the agent around the waist, the orderly said, "How about you save any more of that until you've had some practice, huh? If you break the other one, you'll have to stay in the wheelchair."

"You're probably right," Don answered, his voice trembling a little. "Better not to overdo it."

Alan grabbed the wheelchair and brought it over to where the two men stood. As Don lowered himself into it with the orderly's assistance, he said, "You're always trying to take on too much, Donny."

The agent shook his head. "That's not true," he argued. "It's not my fault a simple baseball game turned into… this." He waved a hand at the cast on his lower leg. "It's just one of those things. You know – karma."

"Well," his father replied, nodding his thanks to the orderly. "That's what you get for trying to kidnap your brother."

Don grinned. "You liked that, huh?" he asked as they headed for the exit.

"I just about fell over when I read that," Charlie put in. "'The Notorious Agent Don'."

"Well," Alan replied. "Notorious or not, I'm just glad everything turned out okay, considering how worried I was when you phoned." He looked down at Don with a scowl. "But I'll be keeping a close eye on you," he warned. "I wouldn't want you to try to do Charlie in, once you find out…"

Don's brow furrowed in confusion. "Find out what?" he asked.

Alan smiled. "Your ransom got cold."