Disclaimer: Numb3rs belongs not to me, my pretties.

A/N: Title is from the T.S Eliot poem The Waste Land ("April is the cruellest month"). Hopefully, my usage will not cause Eliot to roll in his grave – it's just a spur of the moment shortie, is all.

And a Happy Birthday to my Dad for tomorrow -

April's Cruelty

Don welcomed the sight of the Craftsman with a deep sigh of relief as he turned into the driveway. He'd been called into Albuquerque on official FBI matters and had been there all this week and was only just now getting home. He was scheduled to actually come back to LA tomorrow but a quick wrap-up had him taking the opportunity to get back to Cali early and since he worked for the FBI and not the CIA, he didn't expect the agency to be tracking his every move ergo he could saunter into the office tomorrow early morning and act as though he'd just got back, no harm no foul.

Tonight, however, he was taking a few well-deserved hours off.

Shutting off the engine and getting out of the car, he took a moment to stretch. He'd gotten out of the practise of sitting in a car for hours at a time for road trips since he'd left Fugitive Recovery and to be honest, it was one skill he could reasonably do without. As his joints popped in relief, he noticed suddenly that his father was a short way down the sidewalk, head titled downwards as he talked to someone much shorter than him. Squinting his eyes so as to see better in the fading light of dusk, he recognized the form to be that of their old neighbour's, Mrs Heightmeyer. Cursing under his breath as he realized that the old biddy's head was turned towards him as she spoke to his father, he raised his hand and gave a small wave out of courtesy. He didn't want her thinking Margaret and Alan Eppes had raised their two sons without manners but that was the extent of his loyalty towards his parents when it came to Mrs Heightmeyer – or as half the kids in his neighbourhood had nicknamed her during his childhood: Mrs. Hell-Raiser. Don had always thought that she'd way more of an attachment to her precious lilacs than he thought healthy but who was he to argue? He'd always preferred staying as far away from her as humanly possible.

Quickly turning and making his way towards the front door of his own home before his father would notice his presence and beckon him over in a bid to rescue him, Don hurried inside, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him in his haste.

"Oi! Easy with the noise pollution!" came the voice of his younger brother from the living room.

Surprised at the frustrated tone of his usually easy-going brother, Don didn't bother shucking out of his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack, choosing instead to first investigate his brother.

"Chuck? You ok?" he queried as he made his way towards the living room and the couch which had his younger brother draped across it.

"Don!" Charlie greeted with a grin bordering on the goofy. "You're back!"

"Nice powers of observation you got going there, bro. You alright?" asked Don again with increasing concern over his brother's unusual behaviour.

"Fine, fine." Charlie lazily waved a hand in the air before putting it back on its previous position across his forehead. "Killer headache though."

"Really?" Don dropped into the leather arm chair next to the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. "Why's that? Too late nights in the garage this week?"

"Nah." Charlie hesitated before speaking further and in that moment, Don could have sworn he'd seen a glint enter his brother's eyes where there'd been none before. "Too many drinks with Larry."

"Larry?" Don's eyebrows furrowed in confusion – he'd never thought of the physicist as much of a drinker, what with his white foods and liquid addiction. But then, white wine could count, Don mused. "So this is a hangover, your headache? Charlie, it's almost night and you're still feeling the effects?"

"Hey, have you ever gone drinking with a physicist?" Charlie accused. "Larry sure knows how to hold his liquor, let me tell you that."

"Alright, alright." Don conceded the point. "So what was the big celebration?"

Charlie winced. "Well… I wouldn't exactly call it a celebration."

"Then what would you call it?"

Charlie remained silent for a moment before replying tonelessly: "Megan telling Larry that she's pregnant?"

"What?"

"Yup," Charlie confirmed, wincing as the increase in Don's volume did no mercies to his headache. "So how was New Mexico?"

"Back it up there bro, Megan's pregnant?" Don asked again in disbelief. Maybe he needed to have a talk with him team about what exactly constituted emergencies and made a hurry return from an out-of-town trip perfectly justifiable.

"Yup," Charlie nodded eagerly. "And not only that, she told Larry she's getting an abortion because she doesn't want her career at the FBI to be put on hold and the trouble you'll have to go through finding a replacement."

"WHAT!?" Don had hardly gotten past this latest bombshell through the shock absorbers in his head when his confusion was dealt another blow by Charlie suddenly giving him and full out grin and declaring:

"April Fools'!"

What the-?

"April Fools', Don!" repeated Charlie when his first declaration got no reaction from his sibling. "Oh come on, don't tell me you don't even what date it is today."

That must have had some reaction because suddenly, Charlie felt his headache to be the least of his worries.

"Yes Mrs. Heightmeyer, I realize that your lilacs are one of the bes-," Alan suddenly found his sentence cut short by the sound of something slamming against a hard surface followed by the unmistakable sound of people running. Alan turned his head to see what the commotion was.

"Charlie! When I get my hands on you, I'm gonna kick your ass, you hear me?"

Why was his thirty-eight year old son who was supposed to be in New Mexico running after his not-much-younger brother who at last count been suffering from a headache induced by lack of sleep? And that too running all the way outside and onto the sidewalk leading away from where he and Mrs. Heightmeyer were conversing? Speaking of Mrs. Heightmeyer…

"Heh. Boys will be boys, right Mrs. Heightmeyer?" Alan tried for humour without success as he turned back to look at his neighbour who was giving him a look that was not very congratulatory of his parenting skills, of that he was certain.

Oh his sons were in trouble now if he had anything to say about that.

Shantih Shantih Shantih

Khatum (The End)

No offense is meant through the telling of this tale. And a happy April Fool's day to everyone!