Disclaimer: Nick, Cheryl, CBS and the Scott brothers provided all the hard work involved in creating and producing Numb3rs; all I do is play with them. I suppose, as it should be, they get the rewards and I own nothing.
Warning; Major whumping and tons of angst.
No spoilers
A/N: This is dedicated to 1st endeavor – who, after reading a teaser for this story, encouraged me to finish it NOW.
Summary: Please, help my brother. You have to save my brother.
In His Own Words
He was dreaming of two men, performers who work in the circus and swallow swords and flaming torches. They stood side by side in the sand, the desert rolling out behind them like a photographer's background. The tall, mustached man on the left stepped forward and raised a long deadly looking sword. With deliberate movements designed for dramatic effect, he twisted it in the sunlight, making sure the sun glinted off the polished steel, then with his head tilted backwards, he placed the tip of the sword to his open mouth and slowly slid the weapon down his throat.
He knew it was a dream - but as the sword disappeared down the performer's throat, his own throat flared in pain, as if the blade was slicing its way down his esophagus. He moaned in misery, trying to twist away from the torture, but there was no relief.
The man holding the burning torch, stepped up then, his eyes evil and dark, and mimicked the other man's actions, slowly inserting the flame into his opened mouth.
Lost and helpless as he was in his Nod-like musings he could only groan as he felt the heat blisters forming on the inside of his own throat.
The two performers almost seemed to be smiling as they continued their self-afflicted torture; smiling perhaps because he felt their pain, he squirmed with their discomfort.
Being a dream as it was, the details were disjointed and unclear, with no sense of reason or rationality. The two men disappeared and his head was suddenly swirling with images of being hanged; strung up from an old tree by a posse of withered cowboys who spit tobacco from atop their horses and nodded morally to each other as he convulsed and gasped for breath. In the next instant, the posse had ridden off into the sunset and he was alone, still suspended from the end of the rope and struggling to breathe.
The ground, several feet beneath his twitching legs, suddenly rumbled and split apart. The dark crevice that spread out below him was cavernous in its shape and sinister in its appearance. He swayed above it, his shoes dancing eerily over the darkness. He was afraid – no, terrified, of the menacing crater and what it held. There was something, or maybe someone, down there reaching out from the bowels of hell towards him.
He jerked violently against the constricting hemp and another agonized groan ripped from him. His eyes shot open and instantly teared at the onslaught of pain, intense and suddenly very real.
"Hold on there fella'. We got ya'. Just tryin' to get this thing off your neck."
Fragile tentacles of the dream remained and he tried to shake them off, focusing instead on the man's voice and the comforting, dark-colored LAPD uniform he was wearing. Disembodied hands moved around his head and neck, unwrapping, lifting, untangling, and suddenly the pressure around his throat eased.
"There now, that oughta feel better."
It did – until he tried to mumble his thanks. The pain exploded like fireworks in both his jaw and throat when he tried to talk. Confusing, swirling images of flaming torches and a hangman's noose threatened to drag him away again and he stiffened, bracing himself against them. He didn't want to go back there, but the pain owned him and he felt helpless against it. He groaned, then groaned again when the pain spiked in intensity. It took his sluggish brain a few seconds to put it together; it hurt more when he groaned. There was something wrong with his throat!
His breath quickened and he tried to get up.
"Take it easy now," the policeman said, holding him down. "You were buried under all that rubble and you could be hurt pretty bad. Don't try to talk. The medics will be here in a sec. Just be still. You don't want to fall into that hole."
Hole? There was a hole? Hadn't that been a dream?
Gingerly he tried to turn his head, but the movement brought on a spell of gagging and coughing that burned like the fires of hell.
"Hold on there, buddy. You can't be turning your head. You could have a spinal injury or somethin'. You have to be still."
He knew the policeman was right, but the gaping hole beside him seemed to have a mysterious pull on him. He couldn't resist it. He had to clear his head. He had to think. There was something . . .
The officer coughed and it was then he noticed the heavy smoke and dust in the air. There were sirens – it seemed like they were everywhere, all around him. Even without turning his head he gradually became aware of the level of chaos surrounding them. What . . . what had happened? He couldn't . . . There had been . . . With a sudden jolt he remembered; an earthquake! It had been bad, but he didn't think it had been the big one all the experts predicted - the one they say will separate the land at the fault line, sending most of western California drifting, untethered, into the Pacific, because that would mean he was floating, and whatever it was he was feeling right now, it sure as hell wasn't floating. His brain, which felt both scrambled and fried at the same time, told him it had been bad – definitely damaging, probably deadly, but not continent altering.
With that thought he closed his eyes, remembering where he had been when the quake struck, and as the images surged through his head, his injured throat tightened painfully.
Their father was out of town on a golf outing and he and his brother planned to meet each other at their favorite Italian restaurant for dinner. He arrived first and was standing at the door when he saw his brother pull in. He waited, watching as his dark-haired sibling walked through the maze of cars towards him.
Suddenly, the ground started moving, shaking violently. He reached out to the restaurant's wall beside him, trying to remain on his feet and saw his brother do the same with the large paneled van next to him. His brother's eyes were dark and wide with the realization they were in serious trouble – that it wasn't just a small tremor. With horror, he watched as the asphalt of the parking lot begin to buckle and wave erratically, sending cars careening into each other.
They were only a few yards apart, but it seemed like miles. He took a few steps away from the building, but fell to his knees at another violent shake.
Using the side of the large van for stability, his brother moved forward, trying to close the gap between them.
The ground suddenly roared and split in two, the fissure running in a long jagged line between them, separating them. Gripped with fear, he managed to get on his feet again, hoping to jump the opening before it got any bigger. The gap widened, though, cracking with a thunderous noise, and the ground in front of the van suddenly caved in, creating a huge sink hole within inches of where his brother stood. The large vehicle immediately slid down half-way into the opening, a brown cloud of dirt erupting from the crater like a volcano. He watched, helplessly, from the other side of the fissure, as his brother lost his footing and fell against the rear of the van.
He heard a loud crack behind him and turned towards the wall of the building. It was crumbling, breaking up. Large chunks of concrete and debris rained down on him and he tried to scramble away. Something struck his head and he fell.
Just a few feet away from his brother, now, he raised his head and watched in horror as the sink hole widened and the van slid further into the opening. His brother pushed away from the van and leapt to the edge of the crevice, towards him, his fingers digging into the ground, desperately trying to hold on.
He tried to inch forward to help, reaching out towards him. The tremors were relentless, though, crippling his efforts with violent shakes. For one endless, breathless moment, as they reached for each other and their eyes met across the distorted asphalt, he thought it would be alright. Just a few more inches! Another powerful rumble changed everything. The outer edge of the sink hole crumbled and he watched, horrified, as his brother scrambled to maintain his hold. At the same time, the building behind him lost it's fight to remain upright and started to collapse. In the instant before the structure toppled down on him, the van give a last desperate, metal groan and slid into the darkness - dragging his brother down with it.
His brother was buried in the hole with the van! Frantically, he looked around. He pushed aside the pain caused by turning his head and checked the area next to him. He saw the sink hole nearby, but here was no sign of the van or rescue attempts around the opening.
Do they know he's down there? How deep is it? How far down is he? What if he's hurt and can't yell for help? What if he's under the vehicle and they can't see him? What if he bleeds to death because no one knows he's there? What if he's already ...
Panic like he had never known before set in. He tried to tell the police officer, but the only sound he was able to emit was a hoarse, garbled noise of pain and frustration. He had already determined something was wrong with his throat, but now, as he tried to actually speak he could feel his jaw, disconnected, broken and useless on one side of his face. He couldn't talk!
The fear and pain obliterated all thought, all sense, except the sink hole and his brother. He thrashed about, his mouth opened as far as it could, silently screaming with an agonized, unintelligible sound that sent chills down the two policemen's back. They reached out, trying to calm him, but he struggled, unaware of the pain, not concerned with the damage he might be doing to his throat, his spine, his body; it didn't matter. The solitary thought in his mind was his brother was buried in that awful hole and he couldn't talk, couldn't ask for help, couldn't say a damn thing.
He flailed against the two men as they tried to hold him down, pushing himself, in a frenzy, past all limitations. His vision began to darken around the edges - he couldn't fight it - and just before he gave in to it, the posse returned and he felt the rope tighten around his neck again, cutting off all oxygen, and he blacked out.
- - Numb3rs - -
Awareness returned abruptly with a painful reminder as he groaned, then gasped at the searing agony in his throat. He wet his lips, frightened at the taste of blood and tried to get up. Full panic set in when he realized he couldn't move. He was lying on a hard surface, a board of some kind, and his arms were strapped to it. Unable to move his head, he assumed a cervical collar had been placed around his neck.
He tried to look around, moving his eyes back and forth rapidly, and was surprised to find he was still where he had been, still lying next to the sink hole. His heart clenched when he saw the area remained clear of rescue workers or medics. They still don't know he's down there!
His heart raced but he knew he couldn't panic again, couldn't lose control. He had been foolish to let it get the best of him before. If he lost consciousness now, he may wake up in a hospital, away from the scene, and the rescue workers would never know his brother needed help.
Using his limited vision he saw that the policemen who had originally helped him were gone and two paramedics had taken their place. One of them, a sandy-haired man, was making some adjustments on a small machine that was emitting a frightening series of irregular beeps. The other one, a young woman with short dark hair was applying tape to the IV needle in his arm. She looked down at him.
"Hey," she smiled, gentle but business-like, "just relax. We're going to take good care of you."
How can I make her understand? I have to make her understand. If I just had someway to communicate – even just something to write on.
Taking measure of his inability to move or talk, he flexed his hands and found he could still move them. He knew his arms were probably strapped because he had been combative before, but now, he just wanted to get her attention. He wiggled them up and down. It worked. She noticed them right away, but without looking at his face, she frowned and examined them.
"We may have a spinal problem, Josh. His hands are spasming."
Only the memory of the pain kept him from groaning in frustration.
The medic named Josh leaned into his sight. "Hey there, man." Like the woman, Josh sounded friendly, helpful, concerned and very business-like. He held something up – a small plastic card – and said, "We found this on the ground. Is it yours?"
With a strange detachment he looked at his driver's license in the man's hand. One small corner had been torn off – the rest of it was crinkled and bent. What was left was smeared with what he could only assume was his blood. It had dried, completely obscuring the photo and everything but his last name and the donor notification.
"Eppes." Josh read, "Is that you?"
He couldn't answer or nod his head, but he lifted the corner of his mouth in response and Josh smiled. "Alright, Mr. Eppes. Just try to relax."
His bloody ID told him he was obviously injured worse than he had known. There was a centralized burning pain low in his abdomen. His head throbbed with each heartbeat, and stretched out straight on the board as he was, his ribs ached with a searing intensity that made breathing difficult. With the exception of the excruciating pain when he tried to talk, however, there was a certain indifference about his own injuries. He was more concerned with alerting someone to his brother's entombment.
The paramedics were working quickly and he knew he only had a moment or two before he would be en route to the nearest hospital. He threw his focus to the female medic, fixing his eyes on her, staring, following her every move, hoping to make her uncomfortable enough to notice him. She did and his gaze became pleading, beseeching, begging her to try to understand what he couldn't say with words.
Please, help my brother. You have to save my brother.
He tore his gaze from her and looked at the sink hole, then back to her again, then returned once again to his brother's impending grave, then back to her. She frowned, but continued adjusting the drip on the IV, then started getting him ready for transport.
Exasperated with his inability to make her understand, his breath began to quicken. When she stood up and began to move the gurney into position beside him, he fought to control his breathing, afraid he would hyperventilate and pass out again.
She locked the gurney in place. "Ready?"
The unwanted answer came from behind him, beyond his shoulder. "Yep. Let's do it," Josh said.
Nooooo! Not yet!
The board was lifted and he felt a sudden rush of lightheadedness and nausea. His rapid breaths kept his stomach down, but his panic was rising. He struggled against the straps holding his arms down as they rolled the portable stretcher towards the waiting ambulance. With practiced ease they collapsed the metal legs and slid the gurney into the back of the vehicle. The woman jumped in beside it.
Desperate, now, he locked his dark, glistening eyes on her.
Please. We can't leave yet. He needs help.
He struggled harder, straining against the straps. In another time, or a different set of circumstances, the pain would have been unbearable. He could bear it, though. He had to. He had to make her understand.
The monitors screamed in the small confined area – his heart rate and respirations soaring to dangerous levels and she finally turned concerned green eyes to him.
"It's alright," she soothed. "You're going to be just fine, but, you have to relax, Mr. Eppes. Please be still. You're going to hurt yourself more."
He didn't care. It didn't matter.
The vehicle's engine roared to life and his heart nearly stopped. It was now or never – and he knew he couldn't live with never.
He pulled against the straps – using his entire body, twisting, straining. He felt something snap deep within his chest followed by a searing pain that took his breath away. His vision turned white behind his eyes.
"Josh!" he heard her yell. "Hold on! I'm going to have to sedate him."
With every bit of strength he had left, he tried again to talk, but no amount of will power could move the broken jaw. He tasted blood and had no choice but to swallow it, tears filling his eyes as he did.
Overcome with dread, he watched as she prepared a syringe with the drug that would both, put him to sleep and sign his brother's death warrant.
A cry, primitive and desperate, was wrenched from him. It came up through his injured throat, burning it's way along, and it felt like he was swallowing a thousand razor blades.
His back arched off the thin mattress and with one final pull, the strap holding his right arm down snapped, freeing him. She jumped, surprised, but before she could react, he grabbed her hand and the needle fell to the floor. Frightened, she tried to pull away, but he held her tight.
She turned towards the front of the vehicle, intending to call out to her partner for help, but he squeezed her hand tighter and drew her closer to him. Still afraid, she clenched her hand into a fist and looked at him again, then gasped at the torment she saw in his eyes.
He knew this was it. He had to convince her his brother needed help.
His dark eyes bore into hers. Tears ran down the side of his face, unheeded, into his hair. Lines of pain and fear and single-minded willpower stretched across his forehead. His lips were parted and trembling with effort. His ragged breathing stilled and he focused all his energy on her, begging her to understand. He pulled her hand closer to him, to his chest, and gently squeezed again. Reflexively, she opened her clenched hand and he placed it, palm down, over his heart.
Her breath stuttered and she looked at him, wondering. With a measured, deliberate movement, his eyes broke away from hers and turned to the back door of the ambulance – out the back window – directly towards the unseen sink hole. He broke his stare only when he felt her body jerk. He looked back at her and saw that her expression had changed. She was no longer afraid, but alert and focused, her eyes wide with sudden realization. He held his breath, almost afraid to hope she understood. Once again, she to her partner in the driver's seat and called out, "Hey, Josh, call search and rescue. I think someone's in that sink hole!"
- - Numb3rs - -
When he woke again, the world was white and silent. He felt the heavy veil of drugs weighing him down, pressing him against something soft. There was a tightness around his abdomen and a headache that felt as though his head had been split in two. There was something wrong with his mouth, or his throat, or both - he couldn't be sure. Befuddled, he sorted through images of cowboys with swords and terrifying black holes before the fog behind his eyes lifted and he realized he was in a hospital. Immediately, he flexed his hands – they were no longer strapped down. He tried to raise one up, but found it was held in place by something else – another hand. His father leaned into his sight. He looked worn and haggard, but he smiled, his eyes glistening and said, "It's alright. You're alright, son, just lie still."
He wanted to do just that, but with a sudden burst of clarity he remembered the earthquake and all thoughts of being still were gone.
Did they find him? Is he okay?
He tried to ask his father, but found he was still unable to move his jaw – still unable to talk. Gently, Alan reached forward, shaking his head, and touched his shoulder. "No, don't try to talk. You just came out of recovery. You were in surgery for seven hours. You have a few broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, a punctured lung and fifteen stitches in the back of your head. Your jaw was broken – they had to wire it together. It didn't matter, though, because your trachea and vocal chords were so damaged you wouldn't have been able to talk anyway. The doctors say the surgery went fine and you'll be alright, just no talking for a while."
He was stunned to hear the extent of his own injuries, but, as before, it was his brother's condition he was more concerned about. His father seemed to realize that, because he hurried to add, " Your brother is going to be alright, too. You hear me? He's going to be fine."
Disbelief and hope warred with each other as he tried to assimilate his father's words.
Alan shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. "I don't know how you managed to convince them to look in that awful sink hole, but..." He swallowed, fighting back the emotions. "The medics told me you wouldn't give up – that you kept trying to tell them he was there, even though you couldn't talk."
"When they finally found him he was - well, you were there - you can imagine the shape he was in. They said he woke up while they were helping him and he kept telling them you were trapped under the rubble of the building, that they had to help you."
Alan patted the back of his son's hand, barely holding himself together. "You two," he muttered, shaking his head again. With a grave expression he said, "I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that your brother is alive because you told the rescuers that he was there."
His jaw ached as he tried to hold back the tears. Drained and overcome with emotion, he tried to relax, let himself bask in the touch of his father's hand on his.
"You know, son," Alan went on, "I could quote the old "actions speak louder than words" here, and it certainly fits. But, I think there's more to it. A professor I had once at Berkley liked to quote von Goethe. One of my favorites was, "If you wish to know the mind of a man, listen to his words".
"Well, let me tell you this. Sometimes, I think words are overrated. Sometimes the unspoken word has more power than the spoken one. Think about it. Human beings are the only ones who communicate by speaking. All other living creatures communicate with sounds or gestures or instinct. Today, my boy, you outdid them all. You spoke your own way – with your own words; with strength of character, with courage and desperation and, most importantly, with love for your brother – and, if you ask me, it just doesn't get any better than that."
The door opened and a nurse stepped into the room. She turned and held the door open for the hospital bed that was being pushed in by an orderly. His brother was in the bed, his head wrapped in bandages and one arm in a cast.
"Oh, there he is, now." Alan said, standing up.
They saw each other at the same time and his eyes locked with his brother's immediately. As the bed moved across the room, they tracked each other, two sets of dark eyes overflowing with emotions and a multitude of unspoken feelings. Their connection was momentarily blocked as the orderly and the nurse moved the bed into position and the nurse busied herself with making her patient comfortable.
Finished with his brother, she turned to him, then, and checked his IV's and bandages. She must have said something because he heard his father say, "No, I don't think so. You just brought him what he needed."
He was still locked in a mutually visual appraisal with his brother. All the fear and anguish and terrifying desperation of their ordeal was finally over and he felt a massive surge of emotion spreading across his chest.
Across the room, his brother swallowed, his Adam's apple moving with the effort, and simply said, "Hey."
He raised his chin slightly – silently – in response.
"Well," Alan said, and stood up. He took a few steps into the center of the room and looked at both his sons. "Now that you two are settled, I'm going to drag this old body down the cafeteria for something to eat." Choking back his own emotion, Alan turned away, and walked to the door. With his hand on the handle, he stopped and looked at his two sons again. "Besides," he grinned, "it looks to me like you two have a lot to talk about."
The end
A/N; It's up to you, the reader, which brother fell into the sink hole and which one struggled against the odds to save him. If I did it right, it could go either way.