*Blood Brothers*
Fandom: Numb3rs
POV: Charlie, Don
Genre: Friendship & Family, Action, Hurt/Comfort
Setting: Season 3
Rating: T for action, trauma
Prologue: 5 liters of blood in the human body. Two brothers. One FBI headquarters office. One bullet.
Disclaimer: I don't own either Eppes brother, but my Prius is named Charlie. I make no claims about the accuracy of descriptions of a law enforcement or medical nature. Not yet beta'd, which probably explains the overly complex sentence structures.
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"Charlie! Get down!"
Even though he'd heard those words before—twice, actually—coming from Don's mouth in the same sharp, commanding yell, Charlie still wasn't able to process them fast enough to react. Not before the distraction of the sound of gunshot hitting glass, and not before he was slammed to the rough carpet by his older and larger FBI agent brother. The weight of Don's body pressed him to the floor; seemed to vibrate with every strained nerve in the agent's frame as his arms scrambled to shield Charlie's head.
"Don't move, Charlie! I said don't move!"
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It had been routine; well, as routine as things ever were when Charlie was working a case with his older brother, which is to say not very routine at all, really, because for Charlie—and he was pretty sure Don too—the excitement of any case was in seeing how things shifted rapidly over time; how the variables resolved themselves. But today, all they had been doing was literally crunching numbers. Charlie had explained the details of a financial data mining algorithm to a bored looking Don for a white collar case they were working; and Don had only just been showing a spark of interest that came with understanding, when all hell in the FBI office broke loose.
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Oh man. Oh man. Oh man. I'm dead. I'm really dead this time.
The thoughts flashing through Charlie's brain were faster and more charged than most of his mathematical insights. The memory of the last time this exact scenario had happened hit him with the same wave of fear, and he cowered, surrounded in his mind by the blinding mixture of flashback and sensations. The shooter had been there; the gunshots wild, seemingly random. The sounds of fear and death outside—no. Something was different. All the shots seemed concentrated this time. Even with his eyes screwed shut, he automatically dissected the trajectories of the shots. The ones aimed at the shooter—FBI agents responding—sorted themselves into one pile. The barrage hitting the floor, the wall, Don's desk—another.
This room is the target. And I am really, truly, going to die.
Through the haze, he registered a soft thump, and knew instinctively that it was a bullet hitting flesh. Why couldn't he feel it?—feel the burn of pain it must have caused? He had so much adrenaline coursing through him. He'd heard sometimes people didn't feel a thing. Don's hand was scrambling at their respective waists, trying to unholster the gun that seemed to be caught between them. His other hand was still wrapped protectively around Charlie's head, and its grip in his hair abruptly loosened, and Don's whole body suddenly seemed to spasm; and Charlie knew—oh, he knew why he didn't feel the pain of that bullet. In his greater pain, he cried out.
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It was only seconds, maybe; a lot of rounds—automatic, but only the one that mattered—before the bullpen of trained agents took down the shooter, and someone—Megan—was kneeling next to Charlie's face, calling to him. Charlie could still feel his brother's weight on his back. He could feel something wet and warm soaking the back of his shirt, pressed between them. Now he could feel pain. My back… He could see Don's hand hanging over Charlie's eyes, and suddenly Charlie shivered, cold and in the moment. "Is he gone? Please tell me they got him…" were the words that rushed, terrified, from his lips once he realized he could still speak.
"Yeah, Charlie. We got him. It's going to be okay."
No it wasn't, not with Don being… he began to struggle to get up from under his brother's dead weight, but Megan stopped him.
"Don't try to move, Charlie. Let us do it." Unseen hands were rolling Don's limp body off of him—oh man. Was it his corpse?—and Charlie fought the sudden searing pain in his back as he righted himself so he could see where they were taking Don. His brother was only an arm's-length away from him where Colby and David were laying him out on the floor, and Charlie stumbled to his knees, his fear for his own life momentarily forgotten in anguish.
Don. The agent's face was unnaturally white; an effect, Charlie realized without meaning to, of the substantial volume of blood now staining his once-crisp, white shirt, which equaled a sizeable fraction of the approximately five liters of blood the human body was supposed to hold.
Don. Don. This… anything but this.
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Megan was still talking to him. Or, no—she was talking to her radio. "Look's like a single through-and-through to the chest. Yeah, but he's losing a lot of blood; I hope they put a rush on that ambulance." She clicked her radio off. "He's gonna be okay, Charlie. The paramedics are on their way." She leaned in towards him. "I need to know if you're hurt anywhere."
He stared blankly, not sure. Something had seared in his back when he leaned over Don, but it wasn't real pain; not like the pain in his heart. He shook his head, helplessly. "I don't know… he shot him. He shot Don, and I…" Charlie's vision was starting to cloud up, and he gulped, turning back to his brother before the profiler could see his chin start to tremble. Why hadn't he done something? How had he just stood there numbly and let Don… He reached a jittery hand out to his brother's neck. Don's face was getting so pale.
He remembered his mother when they brought him in to see her; he remembered what death looked like. How could Don be whiter than that? There was a pulse—a thin, slow beat under his unsteady fingers. He couldn't take his hand away, for fear it would stop, and then Don would be gone; and instead he bent his head down so that his dark curls mingled with his unconscious older brother's straight locks, and wept.
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The lighting was funny. He blinked his eyes rapidly against it, confused by its brightness. It was a lot less blue fluorescent in here than he remembered his office usually was.
With the light, the situation also came rushing back in a surge of adrenaline. Charlie! The haze of noise around him was oddly rhythmic, not like the staccato pops of gunfire that had filled his ear, he thought, a moment ago, when he had shoved Charlie to the floor and covered him. Where was Charlie? Had he passed out? He was lying on his back. Had the shooters, G-d forbid, simply dragged him off his little brother and taken Charlie?
Don tried to lift his arm, but the pain it flared in his chest was intense enough to stop him. He'd taken a bullet, then. Charlie! He had to find Charlie. The pain made him cough, and as his eyes widened all the way open someone's face swung into view in surprise. Dark, ridiculously curly hair; large brown eyes—very wet eyes. Crooked grin. Oh man. Don felt a flood of relief.
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Charlie was wiping frantically at his eyes with his sleeve, trying to look cheerful. "Don. Hey. You're awake." His tone was choppy, still at sea in whatever emotions he'd been processing a moment before. Don could guess.
Don reached out the fingers of the unlifted hand to catch Charlie's, resting on the blanket beside him. His voice came out in a hoarse croak. "Guess I worried you and Dad this time, didn't I? Sorry."
"Oh, Don." Charlie let out a strangled laugh that could have passed easily for a sob. Don winced.
"Yeah," Charlie said, "You did. The doctors weren't sure you were gonna wake up, even after they had you stabilized. You lost so much blood, and you were in shock for so long…" His hand, with its childishly small fingers, entwined Don's with a purposeful grip. "You bled all over the floor, and all over me." Charlie's tone was accusative. "And I thought…" His eyes were tearing up again. "I mean, I was sure I was gonna lose you." Charlie looked up at the lights, away from Don; and then down at the blanket. "Right there. Right there in your office."
"Hey. Hey, Charlie, no. I'm not going anywhere, see? C'mere." The other arm was a little easier to lift, and he waved it sluggishly, then drew his little brother close. Charlie was shaking, the anguish of what?—hours?—days?—he didn't know—seeking release as he buried his face in his protective older brother's shoulder. Don rolled his head against his little brother's curly hair, taking comfort in the familiar presence. He'd been so afraid he'd lose the one person he most felt a duty to protect.
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"Hey," Don drawled as Charlie's jagged sobs began to level off. "You need to lighten up on the conditioner, Charlie. You smell like a beauty salon." His little brother shook with a tiny, hysterical giggle. The skinny mathematician's spine, however, stiffened under Don's hand, and Charlie lifted his head, pulling a face. "Hey. You okay, Little Brother?" Don's words were slurring slightly. He was pretty sure, now that he thought about it, that they had him on morphine.
"Oh, yeah," Charlie said, nodding emphatically, a hand still resting possessively on Don's shoulder as if to be sure the older agent wasn't going anywhere. "Everything is fine, now."
Don's eyes were squinting into a shrewd frown. "You sure?" he asked, needing to be certain. "'Cuz you just… I mean, you're not hurt, are you?"
Charlie sat up straighter on the edge of the bed and put his hands in his pockets. "Oh. That," he said, his tone suspiciously offhand. "I guess I did kinda take a bullet."
"What?!" Don's eyes flashed wide. "Where?!"
"In the back," the younger Eppes said, with a shrug.
Don felt his heart start racing. How could he have, and yet he was… had Don's attempt to protect Charlie failed? Charlie had been shot?!
"How bad?" he asked, afraid of the answer. What if there was permanent damage?
Charlie shook his head. "Not bad," he said. "The bullet didn't go in very far. It just sort of pinches where they took it out."
"Oh," Don said, going quiet for a moment. Then, tiredly: "I shouldn't have involved you. I should have protected you better." He let his head roll away so Charlie wouldn't see the shame he felt. He heard Charlie laugh softly.
"You did protect me."
What? Don didn't make a noise in response. His brother's little hand found Don's chin and gently tilted it back so they were eye-to-eye again. Don drew in a long breath through his nose.
"Don," Charlie asked, too innocently, "what three things directly affect penetration power of a fired bullet?"
The answers filtered out of the agent's mouth automatically. "Speed of the round. Shape and caliber of the round. Density of the target material. Charlie, what's your point?" The morphine had to be messing with his head; Charlie was asking him physics questions he could answer.
"Exactly," Charlie said. "So unless the bullet that hit me ricocheted—which it didn't—or I'm actually the Man of Steel, which we both know I'm not—that bullet should have done a lot worse than lodge itself in muscle."
Don blinked. "Then we're missing something." Whatever Charlie was driving at, he had to let him give the whole explanation; that was how his little brother worked.
"We are," Charlie agreed. "The bullet went through something else before it hit me in the back while I was lying on your office floor. Something that slowed its velocity."
"That doesn't make sense," Don interrupted. "The bullet couldn't have gone through the floor, because when I knocked you down you were face down, and besides, that would mean there was more than one shooter on different floors…"
"Uh uh." Charlie raised a hand. "The bullet didn't go through the floor."
Don just stared.
"I was hit with the same bullet you were. You slowed it down." Charlie cleared his throat. "You saved my life."
Don raised his eyebrows, unsure how to respond; how to deal with the knowledge that Charlie was right—that if he hadn't been where he was and done exactly what he'd done, Charlie might be dead, or at least be the one lying in the hospital bed. Still, he felt guilty for Charlie even being there. He cleared his throat, choked up just like his little brother had been a moment ago, and gave Charlie a terse half-smile. "You know I'd take a bullet for you, Charlie," he said. "You're my little brother."
Charlie nodded. "I know," he said, not saying the obvious things that were written in his large brown eyes—that he was grateful he would, but wished he hadn't; that he, Charlie, was afraid that he wouldn't have had the courage to do the same, even though Don knew he would; that he was just so very glad Don was alive. "I knew you would," he repeated, squeezing Don's IV-wrapped hand. "You know," he added, "I'm not just your little brother now; I'm your blood brother."
Don snorted, then coughed at the pain in his chest. It was getting to be time for some more of that morphine. "You were already my blood brother, unless Dad has something he needs to tell me, which maybe explains how your genius brain and my occasionally dumb one wound up in the same family…"
"Yeah," Charlie agreed, "but now we're like, more so? I hope," he added, laughing, "you haven't got some sort of horrible blood-borne disease you failed to tell me about; you bled all over my bullet. Not to mention my bullet wound."
Don flicked his sluggish but free hand at his brother. "You got nothing to worry about," he retorted, feeling the need to set Charlie's mind at ease, even if he was mostly joking. "I'm as healthy as—"
"As a man who's been shot in the chest," Charlie cut in, deftly pushing the gesturing arm back to the blankets. "A man who's going to stop looking out for other people for just a little while and get some rest while he heals." Charlie swung his legs down from the side of the bed and settled comfortably back in the chair. Don felt his eyes starting to slide shut just at the suggestion of rest. He really was pretty tired. Surgery had a tendency to do that to people.
And meanwhile, Charlie's voice continued. "Your little brother—your blood brother—is going to be watching over you for a change."
*finis*