Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs or anything associated with it. This story is for entertainment only.

Author's notes: I started a story about the Eppes men grieving a while ago but it sort of died and I apologise. I haven't written anything in a while but this came to me while I was re-watching season one.

The title comes from the song Memories and Dust by Josh Pyke.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Don's all alone. Alan's in the next room, talking to the funeral director. Something, the only thing, Don couldn't bring himself to do. The words getting caught in his throat. The dispassionate calm he's so good at finally starting to wear thin. Good at being cold, is that something he wants to be remembered for? Yet he knows that his training is the only thing that got him through the last couple of months. That and the stubbornness. The utter unwillingness to fall apart.

He was alone before. Alan doting on Margaret every hour of the day. Margaret too sick to be anything but a ghost. Charlie, an actual ghost. Don can't bare to look at him. Musn't think like that. The anger does nothing but tire him. And he can't afford to be tired now. Exhaustion too eager, too quick to consume him. Shaking his head, trying to clear his mind. Trying to think of something other than the immediate. The now, the slap in the face, the look on his father's face, his mother's eyes.

What now? How to go back to life? Does he even remember life? It wasn't that long ago. He's been working, trying to keep normal hours. He hasn't been into the office for over a week. Compassionate leave or something. Sorry can't come in today, my mother's dying. Terry said she'd arrange it. He'd have to buy her something, flowers maybe.

He's alone now, surrounded by his childhood. He can almost feel the house breathing. Or maybe it's not. It's stopped, just like everything else. It can't breathe because they're all holding their breath and she'd never breathe again. Mourning maybe. Or maybe still in shock. Is this mourning? This empty feeling, this stillness. He puts his hand on the wall and can't feel anything. He doesn't know what he was expecting.

And it's there. He's been staring at it the whole time. The image on the wall. The picture. Margaret on her wedding day. She was so beautiful. Those eyes. Both he and Charlie have her eyes. They both have her stubbornness too. Don has her heart. Charlie has her mind. Not the brains, no one knows where that came from. But the other stuff, perception maybe. The way they see the world. And that look. The 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' look. She always had that look. It was mystery, a little bit of the unknown. Charlie has the look too. He doesn't know it, but she did. Don always wished he had it. But he was too much like Alan. An open book. So painfully open. Wanting to be understood. She never wanted to be understood. And Charlie can't be. At least not by Don. Not now.

And the other picture, the one of he and Charlie. How old was he? Eight, nine, maybe. So young. And yet he remembers. That day. It was summer, they were outside playing together. The picture only telling half the story. They look so happy, so content. Two brothers enjoying each other's company. The picture taken by Margaret without them even knowing it. And a second later, Don puts sand in Charlie's hair and gets sent to his room. You can never trust a picture.

Another, on the mantel. Don can't look at it. Hasn't look at it in years. He and Charlie, side by side. Both in their graduation robes. Don, eighteen and tall, well as tall as he would ever get. Broad shoulders, a glimpse of stubble on his chin. And Charlie, thirteen and still a child. Almost tiny in the shadow of his brother. They both look happy, but only Charlie was. Don forcing a smile, dying inside. Wanting to be far away, already thinking about leaving. Promising that he would never be in that situation again. And if that meant never seeing his brother again then that's what he would do.

But he hadn't. Not in the end. He had gone, lived a little, got lost, got found, and come back. Back to the family. Back home. Home, a house that was practically a shrine to his childhood. The front window he broke with a stray baseball. The bannister he had slid down a hundred times. The kitchen where he ran into the bench, knocking out two baby teeth. He could still point to the exact place where he buried a troop of army men in the backyard. Could still see himself and Charlie lying in front of the TV watching cartoons. Could still hear himself slamming his door closed in Charlie's face.

And new memories. Margaret's bed in the downstairs room when she could no longer walk up the stairs. Hours spent on the couch, the couch was his second home. Alan on a chair by her bed. Charlie nowhere to be seen. That wasn't really true. Charlie was in the garage. It used to be such a common phase. Where's Charlie? Whenever anyone would ask they would sing out the answer together. In the garage. It was his space. Even Don could appreciate that. But not now. Now it was like a curse. Something that was uttered under his breath. Something that couldn't be mentioned at all. Why even ask the question?

Charlie's in the garage. Charlie had been in the garage for months. Charlie may never come out of the garage. Charlie doesn't even know their mother is dead. Or maybe he does and just doesn't care. But that's wrong. Even Don knows it. Charlie cares. Maybe Charlie cares too much. Maybe he's lost his mind. Maybe he's selfish. But it doesn't mean he doesn't care. Alan's by her bed, Don's on the couch and Charlie's in the garage.

And then he's not. It's hours later and the funeral man's gone, and it's dark. Charlie's out on the veranda, Don's watching him from the doorway. It's cold and Charlie's only wearing a t-shirt. And the only thing Don can think about is him being cold. Channelling his mother spirit, and the thought makes him sick. But Charlie's not in the garage and that has to mean something. The blackboards are all gone, Don checked. They're stacked in a corner. And there's chalk on the floor. Like someone has been crushing it with their feet. And that has to mean something.

Don feels broken. Broken and so terribly sad. The emotion getting caught in his throat. And he swallows. He wants to go away. Hide somewhere. But he can't leave because he has nowhere to go. Alan can't bare to go upstairs so he's sleeping on the couch. Charlie's not in the garage, he's out in the cold. Life is in pieces and Don's doesn't know how he'll ever be able to fix it. Or even if it's fixable. Can something be unfixable?

But Charlie's right there. And Don doesn't know what to say. He wants to be the big brother, to tell Charlie that it will be okay, but it would be a lie and he doesn't want to lie. There are tears on Charlie's face and Don can look at him for the first time in months. He's small, childlike. His arms wrapped around his knees. Vulnerable, and skinny. He's lost weight. And he looks like her. He looks sick. But he's just skinny. He's just ten years old again and worried about going to big school with his brother. He's four and has sand in his hair. He's thirteen and so happy. The window isn't broken anymore. And Don has all his teeth.

-----------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Is the ending too blunt? Tell me what you think.