Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs, I just like to borrow its characters from time to time.

Who doesn't love a good drinking story? I mean the kind of drinking story where you can look back and laugh, not the kind you tearfully recount during a group therapy session. It could have happened to you, it could have happened to someone else, but the point is that they happened and that they're hilarious! Grab a drink and join me as we explore the lighter side of alcohol abuse…

The Hangover

The first thing he was aware of was darkness, plus a throbbing headache that felt like his brain was trying to force its way out of his skull.

He was no stranger to this kind of pain.

He groaned in agony and lay perfectly still, knowing from experience that there was nothing he could do but wait until the pain had subsided enough for him to attempt to get up. Ten minutes later, he finally gathered the strength to open his eyes, which felt as though they had been glued together; once that hurdle had been cleared, he blinked several times until the world came back into focus.

The first thing he noticed was that he was sprawled on a couch in a living room that looked as though it had been hit with a bomb made of empty potato chip bags and beer bottles. What was he doing here? What the hell happened last night? Was he supposed to be at work right now? Waking up with a massive hangover was bad enough, but waking up with a massive hangover and a ton of questions? The sudden stab of panic rallied his remaining brain cells, and they gave him the need-to-know information. Name: Don Eppes. Location: Charlie's house. Why: the Lakers game.

The mental kick-start got the wheels in his head turning, and they summoned hazy memories of last night. It was game 7 of the NBA championship, versus Celtics. The Lakers won, didn't they? Yes, yes they did, which resulted in a booze-fueled celebration on top of an already boozy evening; it was now the morning after, and time to pay the piper. Don groaned again and forced himself into a sitting position. Another hurdle cleared. The next hurdle was somehow getting a strong cup of coffee into his hands.

Don heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and quickly tried to shake off his stupor; it wouldn't be a big deal if those footsteps belonged to Charlie or Amita, but if it was Dad…

Much to Don's surprise, the footsteps belonged to David Sinclair, who was descending the staircase dressed in the same jeans and t-shirt he'd worn the night before. Both men froze at the sight of each other; although David had been to the Craftsman many times before, this was the first time he'd stayed overnight, let alone in one of the upstairs bedrooms. This new level of familiarity was uncomfortable for both of them.

"Hey Don. I…I slept in your old room. I would have taken the couch, but you were dead to the world and Charlie said it would be okay…" David's raspy voice did little to hide his anxiety.

"David, it's fine," Don said, holding up his hand. "Would you like some coffee?"

David shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. I gotta get going."

The wheels in Don's brain began turning again. Did he have to go anywhere this morning? He quickly ran through his mental checklist. Did he have to work today? No, it was Sunday. Where was Robin? She was in San Francisco for a trial. Was there anything he had to do today? Finally it all clicked into place; for the first time in a long time he had a whole day with absolutely nothing to do, which was why he allowed himself to get completely hammered last night.

"Don?"

Don was jolted out of his thoughts to find David and Colby standing over him. Don blinked. Where the hell did Colby come from?

"Don, we're leaving now," David said. "I had a great time. Thanks."

"Me too," Colby added. "See you tomorrow."

"Yeah…okay," Don absently replied. David and Colby then left his line of sight, and a few seconds later he heard the front door open and close.

Once again alone with his thoughts, the events of last night continued to piece together. Charlie had everyone over to the house for the Big Game. David, Colby, Liz, Nikki, and…who else? Larry? Yes, Larry was there at some point, but he left early. And what happened to Liz and Nikki? Where they still in the house somewhere?

Don heard another set of footsteps descending the stairs, and this time he didn't care if it was his father, just as long as it was someone he'd expect to see; he didn't need any more surprises this morning. The hangover gods must have decided to take pity on him, because this time Charlie came into view. Don took one look at Charlie's tangled mass of hair, bloodshot eyes and morning stubble, and greeted him the way only a big brother could.

"Hey Chuck, you look like shit. Why don't you go make some coffee?"

Shooting Don a glare that could peel paint, Charlie stomped past him and into the kitchen; a few minutes later, the smell of coffee floated into the living room. Don immediately recognized his favorite blend, a rich hazelnut from the gourmet coffee shop downtown. The heavenly scent was enough to pull Don off the couch, ignoring the protests of his aching head and body, and usher him into the kitchen. He saw Charlie sitting at the table enjoying a cup of the liquid ambrosia, and with eager anticipation grabbed the coffeepot.

To his horror, he discovered it was empty.

"Charlie, what the hell! Where's the all goddamn coffee?" Don cried. He was always short-tempered when he was hung over, and hadn't been this hung over in a long time. The only cure was coffee. He needed coffee NOW.

Charlie, however, was unmoved by his brother's distress. He slowly sipped his coffee, savoring every drop. "Oh, did you want some coffee, too? Sorry, there was only enough for one. But I think we might have some instant stuff in the cupboard."

Now it was Don's turn to give a paint-peeling glare; mumbling angrily under his breath, he yanked open the cupboard door and began to loudly rummage around. The clattering and clanking sounds piercing Charlie's temples like hot tiny spikes. "Do you have to be so loud?" He snapped.

"Well, how the hell am I supposed to find anything in here? It's a mess!" Don shot back. "Would it kill you to clean out this cupboard once in a while? "

"Give it a rest, Don!" Charlie snapped. "I already got an earful from Amita this morning. This house is now officially a nag-free zone." Charlie swooped his arms in big circles for emphasis.

The image of Amita yelling at Charlie greatly improved Don's mood. He found the instant coffee and put a few spoonfuls into a mug. "So where is your blushing bride today?" he smirked.

"At a teaching seminar in Anaheim," Charlie replied. "But before she left she made a point of telling me I made a complete ass of myself last night, and that it had better not still look like a frat house around here by the time she got back."

Don quickly glanced around the room. The kitchen table was littered with pizza boxes and wine glasses. A few empty wine bottles and Chinese take-out containers graced the kitchen counter. The garbage bin was overflowing with used paper plates and napkins, as well as the remains of Charlie's little "experiment."

Last night while they were all gorging themselves on the take-out, someone made the observation that Chinese restaurants didn't serve breakfast. Following this revelation, Charlie loudly declared it reprehensible that Spain and Denver had omelets named for them, but China had been denied the honor. He then set out to correct this grave injustice by creating a Chinese omelet; after several attempts involving eggs, dumplings, sweet and sour pork, and shrimp stir-fry, it was determined that China had gotten along just fine without omelets for the past 5,000 years, so why fix what wasn't broken?

Don filled the kettle in the sink, but in order to do so he first had to rearrange a pile of goo-encrusted pans. They'd used every pan in the house in pursuit of the Chinese omelet, because it had seemed easier to use a new pan for each creation rather than wash the same one over and over. Drunks were great at making messes, but not so good at cleaning them up; it was yet another little treat that awaited their sober selves.

Don put the kettle on and took a seat at the kitchen table across from Charlie. The two brothers sat in silence, each working through the pain of their hangovers, until the kettle whistled. Don got up to prepare his coffee, while Charlie looked for some sustenance in the pizza boxes; two of them turned up empty, but the last one contained a single slice of pepperoni. Charlie was about to take a bite when Don sat back down.

"That looks really good," Don said wistfully.

Charlie rolled his eyes before grabbing a knife and cutting the slice in two. He then handed one half to Don, who eagerly devoured it. The coffee and pizza infusion soon turned the throbbing in Don's head into a dull ache, and he started to feel like a human again…a tired, achy human who planned to spend the entire day lying on the couch eating junk food and watching old movies on TV. Sundays were made for hangovers.

But first, the FBI agent in him needed to ask a few questions. "So…you let David sleep in my room last night?"

Charlie contemplated his coffee mug for a moment before responding. "I didn't think it would be a big deal. You were passed out on the couch and we couldn't wake you so I…"

"Hey, it's fine, I was just wondering," Don interrupted. "And Colby spent the night, too?"

"Yeah, he crashed on the back porch. Where are they now?"

"Gone. They left together," Don replied, taking another sip of coffee.

"They left?" Charlie asked, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. "Nikki's still upstairs. You'd think David would at least have the courtesy to drive her home."

Don chocked on his coffee, triggering a violent coughing fit. "Tell me you're kidding!" He gasped, staring at Charlie with watery, disbelieving eyes.

"Believe me, I wish I was," Charlie sighed, shaking his head. "She was in the shower when I got up," Charlie replied. "She must be done by now…I guess she's too embarrassed to come downstairs as long as you're here."

Don's brain began to pound against his skull again. He put his head in his hands. "This is not happening…this is not happening…" he muttered as he stared at the tabletop.

"Hey, take it easy, bro," Charlie said. "Maybe if you cleared out for about 20 minutes, I can send her home in a cab and we can all avoid any 'morning after' awkwardness. Why don't you run down to Taco Bell and pick us up some breakfast burritos?"

Don looked up and studied his brother's face; Charlie seemed sincere, but his finely tuned FBI instincts told him something was amiss. He had detected a light quiver in Charlie's voice, and now he also noticed that Charlie's eyes were shining merrily, and the edges of his mouth were curved slightly upwards. Don's scrutiny finally proved too much for Charlie, and he broke down laughing.

"That wasn't funny Charlie! You nearly gave me a heart attack!" Don snapped angrily, but that only seemed to make Charlie laugh harder; there was nothing he could do except sit and stew until his conniving little brother settled down.

Finally, Charlie's laughs began to subside. "So does this mean no breakfast burritos?" He hiccupped as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

"Don't push it, Chuck!" Don snapped. "Seriously, that wasn't funny."

"Humor is rather subjective, don't you think?" Charlie smirked. "Remember that time you convinced me that I was a mutant, and mom and dad were going to send me away? You thought it was funny, but I sure didn't."

"Oh come on, Charlie, are you still hanging on to that? It's been 30 years! Let it go already!"

"I will, because all of those times you tortured me when we were kids has finally been avenged," Charlie happily declared. "Today will go down in history as the first time I successfully put one over on my big shot fed brother! I'll remember the look on your face until the day I die!"

"Yeah, you never forget the first time, do you?" Don muttered. Suddenly a grin spread across his face. "Speaking of first times, this reminds me of your other first time."

Charlie's mood quickly sobered, and he eyed his brother warily. "What other first time?"

"Oh, I think you know which 'first time' I'm talking about," Don smirked.

"And what would you know about that?" Charlie asked cautiously.

"Everything," Don said. "I was there, after all."

"Were not! You are so full of it!" Charlie scoffed.

"Oh, really?" Don smirked. "Here's how it went down. Beer was involved. You were nervous, awkward, and had no idea what you were doing as you flopped around like a fish out of water."

All of the blood drained from Charlie's face, and he gripped the edge of the table. "But…that can't be right, it just…you…you were…" he muttered as his eyes glazed over.

"Right there to witness the whole thing," Don said. "And so were my friends. They thought it was hilarious." At that point Charlie looked like he was about to pass out, and Don knew it was time to put him out of his misery. "Yeah, the first time you get drunk is never pretty, is it?"

"My first time…getting drunk?" Charlie blinked.

"Of course," Don smirked. "As I recall, it involved beer, awkwardness and a Laker's game, much like last night. So you can see why I was reminded of it."

"Um, yeah, sure," Charlie muttered, gulping down the last of his coffee, tilting his head far back to catch the very last drop.

"You're looking kind of pale there, Chuck," Don said innocently. "What did you think I meant?"

"Shut up, Don," Charlie grumbled as he stared angrily into his empty coffee cup. "And for the record, my first time getting drunk was a total nightmare and it was all your fault."

"Hey, I was just trying to do something nice for you for your birthday!" Don snapped. "It was a total nightmare for me too, and it was my ass on the line, not yours!"

"You gave me the beer, remember?" Charlie shot back. "You have no one to blame but yourself!"

"I may have given you a few sips, but I never intended for you to get drunk," Don snapped. "Allow me to refresh your memory…"

TBC...