Disclaimer: Numb3rs, woefully, does not belong to me nor do I profit from this endeavour.

A/N: Magister Equitum and I have started a community over at LJ "MissingN3", dealing mainly with compiling and offering prompts for all the episodes of Numb3rs, concerning missing scenes, tags, AUs and all that. Everyone is welcome to submit or claim a prompt. The link is: community. livejournal . com / missingn3 / . Either go here, or send a PM to me and I'll happily assist you as much as I can.

As for this fic, I had to re-watch UP again. What a sacrifice :-) Enjoy.

Fortunate Son

Don stood silently outside of Room 314, the door declaring the number through gold figures embedded into the while-polished wood. He hadn't yet knocked and so, wasn't expecting anyone to welcome him in yet, if he was foolish enough to even expect to be welcomed by the room's occupants.

He was using these precious few seconds to psych himself up for what was about to come, and idly wondered if the situation he was currently in was something anyone could be aptly prepared for, even if they had all the warning in the world.

After having quit the Stockton Rangers and signing up to be part of the FBI, Don hadn't been naïve enough to think death wouldn't be a closely following companion of both him and his colleagues, paying a visit to the office every once in a while. Death had come to greet one of his agents today, along with waving hello to Don himself, and he shouldn't have been surprised. It was par for the course, after all.

It was now his job to greet those whom McKnight had left behind – his parents, who'd boarded a plane headed to LA from Denver after an agent from the local FBI field office had shown up on their doorstep to confirm their worst nightmare, along with a pair of plane tickets, hotel booking information and a ride to the airport. Their government may have been infamous for underpaying their civil servants, but they were decent enough to not shuck the grieving family who'd lost their son in the line of duty to a dingy, two-star motel.

No, the FBI took care of their own, and it was Don's responsibility as the agent-in-charge to offer his shoulder to cry on – or a face to slap, depending on the stage of grief the parents were currently in, anger or acceptance.

Twisting his neck from side to side to get rid of the cricks, Don fixed the collar of his white dress shirt and straightened his jacket, taking care to make sure the blood stain on his side and left sleeve couldn't be seen. He tried to make himself look neat and presentable, or at least give the illusion of it, considering he hadn't had time to go to his apartment for a shower and change. He'd headed to the office straight from the crime scene, and from there to here. The McKnights didn't know much about the circumstances surrounding their son's death and who better to inform them than the agent who'd organized the arrest which had gone so horribly wrong? McKnight had gone where Don had told him to, at a he'd specified and done exactly what Don had ordered him to – to confront the bank robbers, and the young agent had lost his life for it.

The least Don could do was fill in the gaps of his parent's knowledge. He had sent a man to his death, but now was not the time for self-recrimination. He had the rest of the night – and his life – for that.

Clearing his throat, Don lifted his right hand and used the brass knocker to rap firmly on the door three times. Almost immediately, he could hear the sound of movement from inside, of footsteps approaching the door.

The McKnights had been waiting impatiently for his arrival and somehow, that just made Don feel even worse. He should have picked them up at the airport; should have been waiting for them on the tarmac; should have…

Damn it, why didn't Quantico have a course on comforting the grieving family of the agent you'd been responsible for but who was now lying on a cold, metal slab in the morgue?

The door opened and Don could barely muster a smile for his agent's grieving mother, but years of putting up a façade hadn't been for nothing. Twisting his face into a grimace that could be mistaken for a smile of greeting, Don spoke up.

"Mrs. McKnight? My name's Don Eppes, I worked with your son."

The blonde woman sniffed and opened the door wider to let him in. "Yes, we were told somebody from the LA office would come to speak to us. Please, come in."

"Thank you." Don stepped across the threshold, his eyes falling on the man who'd been sitting on the bed. If it hadn't been the fact that the man in front of him had some thirty-odd years on him, and that Don had seen his agent and friend's body taken away by the coroner himself, Don could have sworn Matthew was standing in front of him, and not his father. With the same facial features and light brown eyes, it was no secret whose looks Matt had inherited.

"Sir," Don intoned respectfully as he held out his hand, unreasonably glad when the man decided to shake it.

With the introductions over, Don relaxed enough to note that the TV was on, and swivelling his head around, noticed that the McKnights had been watching the news, the station repeating scenes from today's shootout and worst of all, giving a bird's eye view of the plaza in front of the bank. On the 18 inch television shoved into the cupboard beside the mini-fridge, the McKnights had been watching their son's sprawled body as it lay in the middle of the square, invisible bullets flying around him.

Holy shit.

Don quickly reached out and flipped the television's power button, the screen fading to black immediately. Turning back to face the family, Don smiled awkwardly and shrugged.

"Never liked that channel much."

"Please, sit down," Mrs. McKnight requested while pulling on her husband's arm and making them both sit on the edge of the bed, Mr. McKnight having yet to say a word.

"Thank you," Don murmured as he pulled forward the desk chair and placed it in front of his agent's parents before sitting on the seat's edge.

"I'm sure you must be wanting to know the circumstances behind today's… events."

"Please." Mrs. McKnight nodded, and Don couldn't help but admire her composure.

"Well, I'm not sure how much of the news has reached in Colorado, but in the last eight months, there have been at least sixteen bank robberies conducted by the same two men. The press nicknamed the Charm School Boys because they didn't use any violence, no guns or anything at all, and were polite during the actual heist itself. Today was their seventeenth robbery."

"Yes, we know about them," Mrs. McKnight interrupted.

"Right." Don scratched his chin. "Well, a little while ago my team was handed the case and we called in a consultant." Don paused at the incongruity of it all - his brother, the introvert mathematician whom Don hardly knew or got along with, now having such a position in Don's life as a Fed that he was brought up while talking to the parents of a dead agent. "The consultant was able to predict where and when the Charm School Boys might hit next. He gave us two locations – I was at one bank a little distance away, your son and the rest of my team were at the Savings Bank." Don saw Mrs. McKnight clutch her husband's hand tighter at the mention of her son, and dropped his eyes so as to be able to move on with the retelling.

"When one of my agents spotted our bank robbers, he called it in and I began making my way there. During that time, all agents on scene confronted the robbers on their way out, including Matt. What we didn't know at the time was that the two front-men had a back-up team of four standing outside, mingling with the general public, armed with heavy duty assault weapons."

Don took a deep breath before proceeding with the hardest part of the whole narration. "The first shot fired hit Matt, causing a fire-fight to break out. By that time, I arrived on scene and pulled him to safety." Don cleared his throat again, suddenly feeling very thirsty. "I know this won't be of much consolation, but… Matt wouldn't have suffered much, if at all. The shot was unexpected and… ahh…. it was quick." Don stopped speaking, not knowing what else to say, instead waiting for the grieving parents in front of him to make the next move.

It was the father who took over the duty of conversing, his voice low and hoarse. "Did you catch the guy who shot Mattie?"

"One of the back-up team members was shot and killed during, but we don't think he was the one who shot your son. The rest escaped but I give you my word that we are going to catch them. My team and I are being aided by a lot of other agents and progress is being made."

The room was silent for a few minutes, save for the sound of sniffles, and Don couldn't stop himself from chewing on his bottom lip. He wondered if maybe he should have taken Terry up on her offer to take his place. Not only did she have the woman's touch, but she was a profiler to boot…

But no, he'd made the right decision coming himself. Terry and David had seen enough that day, having witnessed McKnight getting shot and killed right in front of their eyes. Besides, he was the SAC – this came with the territory, undesired though it may be.

Putting in effort to not glance at his watch, a nervous gesture of his which he barely realized most of the time, Don was slightly taken aback when Mrs. McKnight began to speak again:

"Can we see our son?"

Don nodded even though he doubted they were looking at him. "I can drive you to where he is." Or rather, where his body was. For some reason, he didn't want to say the word 'morgue', as if by avoiding it, McKnight really wasn't dead, just… not here.

The drive to was silent, the atmosphere becoming exceedingly suffocating for Don. He was a silent witness to a private grief which he could not partake in, was not a part of, and was most likely responsible for.

Standing outside the coroner's office, Don turned to them.

"I know this might seem a bit soon, but the FBI will handle any and all funeral arrangements so you won't have to. Just call this number," Don handed over a card, "answer a few questions and it will be taken care of."

"Thank you," was the quiet reply as Mr. McKnight pocketed the card without looking at it.

Don nodded. He was still here in an official capacity and he had to fulfil his duty. "On behalf of everyone at the FBI, the Director, all the agents who worked with your son, we'd like to offer you our deepest condolences." Don paused. "But personally, I know nothing I say or do will make the loss of your son anymore bearable, or right. But I can tell you that we will catch those bastards, and Matt's death was not in vain. He was a fine agent, and it was an honour working alongside him."

He felt a moment of panic when Mrs. McKnight's eyes started over-flowing with tears. She'd managed to hold them at bay the whole while Don had been with her, but it seemed now it was too much. Reaching out to put an arm on her shoulder, he added: "You can stay here as long as you want, say goodbye. There'll be an agent waiting for you outside to take you back to the hotel. I have to get back and lead the investigation. But if you need anything, and I mean anything, just call this number and it'll be done." Don handed over a piece of paper with his direct phone number scribbled on it, absolutely sincere in his offer before reaching out and pulling open the door to his left with led to the outer office.

He was surprised when Mrs. McKnight gasped and grabbed a hold of his hand.

"Oh dear, is that blood?"

Confused, Don followed the McKnight's line of sight and inwardly cursed as he realized his reaching for the door with his left hand had opened his jacket enough to reveal his blood-stained shirt.

"Is it his?" Mrs. McKnight immediately added, not waiting for Don to reply, an edge of hysteria creeping into her voice.

"No no no, not at all," Don rushed to reassure her, tugging his jacket back into place. "It's mine. Like I said, a lot of bullets were flying around today."

"Agent, I understand you're under a lot of pressure to catch these guys, and we're not helping, but if there's one thing I know about my son and that is he wouldn't want his friends and co-workers jeopardizing their lives on a revenge kick." The speech seemed to have drained Mr. McKnight and his wife dutifully took up the mantle.

"I agree with my husband. Those men have already caused enough damage and grief, I'm sure you have a family to return to as well."

Don smiled genuinely for the first time today since he'd heard the sound of gunshots come over the radio. "Yes, I do ma'am, and I appreciate the concern, truly, but it's our job to catch those criminals one way or another, and Matt knew that too."

"We understand, but it doesn't stop us from wishing our son hadn't been so bent on protecting the innocent that he joined the FBI. If maybe he'd been a little more selfish, you and I wouldn't be standing here today," Mrs. McKnight added with a sad smile. "Thank you for all you've done, Agent Eppes, we'd like to see our son now."

x-x-x-x-x

Alan looked up as the front door opened to reveal his eldest son.

"Hey Dad," Don called out as he made a bee-line for the kitchen, emerging a second later with a bottle of beer which he'd already opened and was taking a deep sip from. It had been two days since the end of the Charm School Boys case and Alan had been glad to notice a decrease in tension in his sons, most especially Don.

However, it looked as though his eldest had suffered a relapse, considering the way he was now chugging down the alcoholic beverage. Alan peered over the top of his reading glasses as he lowered the newspaper he'd been perusing, watching carefully as his son take a seat on the sofa opposite the arm-chair he was occupying.

"Donnie. Wasn't expecting you to come over so early in the day."

"Yeah. Merrick – my boss -," Don added for his father's benefit as he started loosening the dark tie around his neck, "gave me and the rest of the team the day off."

"Well that's a pleasant surprise." That, and the fact that his son seemed to be dressed more formally than usual, Alan added: "You're looking nice. What's the occasion?"

The dark cloud that immediately entered his son's expressive eyes informed Alan that he'd asked the wrong question.

"It was the funeral for the agent who was killed. His parents decided to bury him in the city he'd died protecting," Don answered shortly before getting up. "Charlie around?"

"Stop right there," Alan commanded before Don could get very far.

Putting down the newspaper and reading glasses on the coffee table, Alan stood up and walked over to Don, putting his hands on his son's shoulders.

"What's eating you?"

He saw his son attempt to bite down a sigh. "Nothing, Dad, I'm fine. Just been a long morning, that's all."

Margaret Eppes certainly hadn't married a fool, and Alan was keen to prove it. "You're not still blaming yourself for that agent's death, are you?"

"No!" The answer came too quickly to be believed by anyone, let alone someone who'd known Don as long as Alan had.

"Don. That agent who died, he knew what he was signing up for when he joined the FBI. While his death is regrettable, it's not something you should blame yourself for. Only the person who pulled the trigger should have to carry that weight."

"I want to agree with you, Dad, I really do, but face it. If it had been me in McKnight's position, wouldn't you be looking for someone to blame, other than the person directly responsible?"

Alan's hand tightened on his son's shoulders but to his credit, Don didn't give any signs of noticing. The 'if' situation Don had just mentioned, him in the place of the dead agent, was already one Alan's subconscious had entertained far too many times during the last few nights. From Charlie's withdrawal, thankfully temporary, into P vs NP, which his youngest had only resorted to when a loved one was dying, to Don's getting "scraped" by a bullet – Alan had come far too close to knowing exactly what McKnight's parents might have been feeling. For the reprieve, he thanked his lucky stars.

"Don. If, God forbid, something were to happen to you, or Charlie, blame would be the last thing I would concentrate on. If you want the point-of-view as a parent, I can tell you with reasonable certainty that your agent's parents know in their hearts and minds that if it was possible for you, or David or Terry, to save their son, you all would have tried your best. And at the end of the day, that's all you can ask for."

"I'd really like to believe that, Dad, I really would. But I can't right now," Don replied quietly.

"Give it time, Donnie. A funeral is tough on anyone, regardless of what the circumstances are. You're home now, and Charlie and I are nothing but proud of the man you are, and the things you do everyday to make life safer for the rest of us." Alan smiled. "And you didn't hear it from me, but I think your brother is planning to bribe Terry into giving him blackmail material on you."

He was rewarded with the twinkle returning to his son's eyes, and Alan could almost feel a slight relaxation of Don's shoulder muscles under his hands.

"Is that so, huh? Well, we'll just have to see about that, won't we?" Don replied. Giving his father a pat on the arm before moving away, he called out in the direction of the garage. "Hey Chuck! We need to have a little talk!"

Alan watched as Don moved towards the garage with a slight spring in his step, and mischief in his mind, his youngest son surprising both of them when he actually shouted back a reply having not been too immersed in his head, and math equations, for once.

"Da-ad! I think Don's up to something."

Alan smiled to himself. He really was one lucky man.

Khatum (The End)