A/N: Because Ian is the ultimate badass, and badasses always make great characters for stories from inside their heads. He may be a snarky sniper, but he's still human. So this is a not-quite-episode-tag to Spree, Two Daughters, and Pandora's Box. It starts at the beginning of Spree and connects events in and between the three episodes. Some of the scenes are taken from the show, but as I move into the story it will be more focused on scenes that weren't in the episodes that I think should have been, including my take on why Don is so pissed off next time he sees Ian after the spree killer case.

All the parts in italics are Ian's thoughts.

Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs, the characters, any dialogue or descriptions taken directly from the episodes mentioned above (or any other episodes that may be referenced, including Sniper Zero and Toxin) and accordingly make no claim upon them. All that stuff belongs to Heuton and Falacci, who were kind enough to make this awesome show (why would you cancel it?!). The only thing I might own is my creativity and some of Ian's wonderful sassiness.

Okay, that's all the important stuff. Onward!


Special Agent Ian Edgerton hated calling in favors. In contrast to the longstanding tradition of frequently dangerous occupations, as well as the standard regulations of the FBI, the sniper/tracker specialist always worked alone. Even when his assignments saw him cooperating on an investigation with a team, he remained firmly entrenched in his lone wolf persona. And he saw no reason to change that; it had served him well over the years. Even in Afghanistan, where he'd quite literally been famous for it.

But in the past two years, he had finally been forced to make an exception to this rule. He could never quite identify the exact nature of the appeal that Agent Eppes's team from the Los Angeles field office held for him. Part of it was the great deal of respect that he felt for Eppes himself. In Edgerton's mind, he was an ideal field agent: just the right balance of experience and awareness of his weaknesses to be extremely capable without bordering on arrogance. In short, Don Eppes was someone Ian knew he could rely on, and that was not a designation he often assigned to the agents he was forced to work with.

Add to that Don's team. Reeves, a skilled profiler who never showed any insecurity about her exclusive position in "the boys' club." Sinclair, a steadfast and reliable guy who wasn't afraid to be a hardass when the situation called for it.

And Granger. Out of the agents on Don's team, Granger was probably the one whose personality was most naturally opposite to his own. The friendly, open, good-natured Idaho farmboy could be the poster child for the "All-American G-Man." Edgerton didn't buy it for a minute. No, Granger was a soldier. And Ian didn't have to talk with the man about his experiences to know what an impact Afghanistan had had on him. Although he could have done without the hero worship.

The true reason he had the best time with this team, however, was undoubtedly the Professor. Though he understood little of Dr. Charles Eppes's crazy math voodoo, he had to admit - at least to himself; never out loud - that it worked. But it was the man himself who really made him look forward to working cases in L.A. He could always expect something interesting, something unexpected. The Professor was... fascinating. Ian prided himself on his wit, and he admired anyone who had the balls to meet his challenges, as the Professor had when they'd first met.

So, in complete contrast to his usual standard of operating, Ian had to acknowledge two strange feelings when he sneakily made his way into the cramped small-town diner and found Eppes's team analyzing the scene. One, he was pleased to see them again. And two, he was slightly disappointed that Don hadn't brought his brother along. Can't believe I'm actually starting to look forward to hearing that angle-figuring soap bubble tree nonsense, he thought.

He noted the team discussing the obnoxious excuse for poetry scrawled in the condensation inside the door of a freezer, which he guessed had previously contained a decent quantity of burritos, and decided it would be a good time to make his trademark Linger-in-a-Corner-Until-the-Opportunity-Arises-to -Make-a-Sarcastic-Quip approach. Because people just don't seem to notice me until I talk.

"At least he got it to rhyme this time," he said by way of greeting the team. Their faces all lit up with recognition, handshakes were exchanged, and Ian began to explain the particulars of his latest hunt.

"Buck likes burritos. He eats them frozen, like popsicles."

"Buck?" Granger inquired, with just enough curiosity and surprise in his tone to make Ian mentally remind himself that these guys were used to tracking evidence, not fugitives. The familiarity with his quarry was unusual to them. Except, of course, for Don, who understood the mentality all too well from his own years in Fugitive Recovery.

"Winters," Ian supplied. "The other one is Crystal Hoyle. She left prints around the cash drawer." When those prints had hit the federal database, Edgerton, as the agent in charge of the case, had immediately been notified of another in a long chain of robberies by the two lovers. They'd been steadily leading him on a path directly into Eppes's neck of the woods, and, with little luck in determining their motives thus far, he had finally resigned to calling in some help.

"Thanks for making the drive," he said, with as much sincerity as he'd ever shown. "I know we're out of your AO."

"Eh, no problem," Don replied amicably as he turned to Reeves and Granger. "We owe Ian a favor or two, right guys?" He smiled that naturally disarming smile of his, and, in spite of his usual rugged stoicism, Ian couldn't help but return a small grin of gratitude.

After a brief rendezvous at the FBI office to discuss the details of the case and do an initial review of the evidence gathered thus far, Don made the suggestion that the two of them visit CalSci to consult Charlie about the crime spree duo's seemingly directionless cross-country flight.


Ian had seen torture. His time in Afghanistan had left him with a better understanding of the practice than he cared to admit, though he was aware of certain soft-spoken rumors related to that understanding that had spread through the FBI. But the last place he expected to see such a thing was in the Professor's chaotically organized office.

What the hell? was all he could think as he took in the sight of one of the Professor's fellow nutty academics - or so he assumed based on the man's demeanor and style of dress, complete with safety goggles - holding a mallet over the cement block lying on top of Charlie, who himself was lying on a literal bed of nails. Big ones. Edgerton didn't need the Professor's level of understanding of math and physics to know that the instrument was held at the apex of a perfect arc to send it crashing into the heavy block.

Don's sharp yell made him realize, a bit shamefully, that he had just been standing there, staring at the bizarre scene in confused fascination. It wasn't often something stunned him. He was even more confused when Charlie quickly reassured his brother that everything was fine, which earned him a typically sarcastic, adrenaline-induced response from Edgerton, before meeting Ian's bewildered glance with an amused smile. I know the Professor isn't exactly what you would call normal, especially in his interactions with people, but is he really laughing at the look on my face when he's about to be-

His train of thought was disrupted when the two scientists cheerfully decided that a "demonstration" would be the most effective way of reassuring the deeply concerned FBI agents, who were now looking at each other wondering if they should shoot the man and ask questions later. Not that it mattered; neither of them had time to pull their guns before Ian found himself jumping back and turning away from the sight of the mallet slamming down onto the cement block, which broke into pieces from the force of the blow.

A force which, according to the thankfully non-perforated Professor's explanation, had been dispersed by his evenly distributed weight upon the sharp spikes. Out of some sense of morbid curiosity, Ian strode forward to place the palm of his hand against the nails to gauge just how sharp they were.

"If you don't mind my asking," Ian said as the Professor sat up and removed the pieces of cement and the goggles he'd been wearing, "what exactly does all that accomplish?"

The reply came from the older man, whom Charlie introduced as Professor Larry Fleinhardt, that it garnered the "unwavering attention" of his physics students. I'll bet.

Ian recognized the name from a conversation he'd had with Charlie early on in their... Association? Collaboration?

Friendship?

One of the first things Ian had noticed about the diminutive mathematician was that he was not at all hesitant to talk about himself. He'd been happy to inform - not brag, as the Professor had defended when Edgerton made a crack about his seemingly boundless forthrightness - the agent all about his time at Princeton during his early teen years. The mention of his mentor had been relatively brief compared to the overshadowing descriptions of his premier accomplishments in academia, but Ian had a gifted memory. If not quite as gifted as the Professor's.

Don quietly filled Charlie in on the reason for their visit. Which, in light of the unnerving scene they had stumbled upon, Ian had to admit he had nearly forgotten. Despite the gruesome and excessively violent nature of the case, he could see Charlie's eyes light up with a sort of innocent excitement, anticipating a new problem to keep his brain occupied for awhile, and couldn't help grinning a little at the way his expression reminded him of a kid on Christmas morning. Not that he had much firsthand experience with that.

Ian recalled another more recent conversation he'd had with the Professor, while they were up in the mountain town of Sibley tracking down a wanted cattle rancher named McHugh. In addition to having enough public support to curtail any hope of the FBI and the Marshals getting assistance from the locals in apprehending him, McHugh had lived in the area his whole life, which gave him enough of a home field advantage to stay ahead of even the Bureau's best tracker.

Hunted that bastard for weeks, and then the Professor shows up and finds him in one day using his voodoo.

Ian had been skeptical. And, in truth, still was. But he also had to admit that the Professor's help had been invaluable in solving both his and Don's overlapping cases. So it was with these thoughts on his mind that the tall, stoic sniper crossed his arms over his broad, muscular chest and resigned himself to asking the sheltered academic for help.

"I remember how that voodoo of yours helped to tighten the search grid the last time around," he said with a slight smirk.

"Voodoo?" Fleinhardt cut in. And Ian noted with a hint of amusement that Charlie did not hesitate to seize on the opportunity to proclaim the injustice of Agent Edgerton's stubborn refusal to bow before his almighty math.

"In spite of my invaluable assistance," the Professor said, his voice rising in a preemptive defense of the retort he anticipated, "On two instances, mind you, Agent Edgerton remains skeptical of the analytical side of manhunting."

It was most certainly not in Ian's nature to back away from a challenge. But from the moment they had first met, in a sniper's perch overlooking the open street where a postal worker had been slain, and Ian had immediately taken a liking to clashing wits with Eppes's genius younger brother, he had known that the two of them would forever fall on opposite sides of a debate that would never be won. Even if they did, occasionally, have to acknowledge the merits of the other's position.

Besides, he had two killers on the loose, and every moment he took bringing them into custody could mean more lives lost. That was another thing he'd learned in Afghanistan: that patience, a fundamental requirement for a sniper, sometimes came with a price.

"The instinct part of me says not to miss any bets," he said simply, ignoring the slight disappointment on Charlie's face when the agent refused to bite.

"Well hey," the Professor replied, a bit of laughter evident in his voice as he made it clear he was about to have the last word. "Let's hope we can come up with something a little more substantive than instinct."

Ian's signature smirk returned. Don't get too cocky, Professor. I won't acquiesce to your neat, rational view of the world that easily. I just have bigger priorities.

As the Professor's dark eyes scanned over the map Ian had brought for him, the agent could see the familiar turn of gears as his brilliant mind worked on identifying and processing something the rest of them would probably never have thought to look for.

"Did you forget to mark a point... here?" Charlie asked, using his finger to highlight a spot on the map slightly north of the route he believed his killers had taken.

"No," he answered softly, mostly to keep the tinge of indignation out of his voice.

"No?"

"No, we've had no sightings anywhere in Wyoming," he confirmed, with a little more annoyance seeping through. As skilled as he was at reading people, Ian could never tell if Charlie's choices of phrasing when not in Math Lecture Mode were designed to irk people or if they could just be put down to simple social ineptitude as a byproduct of his genius.

Somehow, Ian knew it didn't matter. Because experience told him that the Professor's math was almost always right, even if he couldn't actually explain why. A memory flashed in his mind: the Professor's response when Ian had invited him to dinner as a thank you and asked him to explain how he'd come up with the soap bubble algorithm that had helped them locate McHugh.

"Everything is numbers. Math is logic; it's rationality. It's our way of understanding events and patterns in the natural world, of quantifying those events so that they can be analyzed, predicted, and reproduced. Can I tell you a secret, Ian? What I do really isn't any different than what you do. In the FBI, I mean. It's all common sense really. My methods and algorithms and theories are things you use every day. Most people just aren't aware of it like I am."

"Knowledge plus a guess," Ian knowingly responded to Charlie's long, overly technical explanation of the process that led him to the missing Wyoming dot. "Where I come from, that's a hunch."

Looks like I get the last word after all, Professor.


This idea started out as a very short one-shot, but uh... yeah. Once I start writing it turns into something like this. Hope you enjoy it!