P is for Prayer
By Dragon's Daughter 1980
(Written for the 2006 Summer Alphabet Challenge)
Disclaimer: Other than being a devoted fan, I don't have anything to do with Numb3rs.
She's never been the praying type, at least, not the typical kind. You will never find her on her knees, unless you happen to catch her when she's retrieving something that has rolled under her studio table. Art is her religion and she worships through her charcoal and oil, through her hours pouring over ancient manuscripts, all lovingly created by people of the past, people who too celebrated their faith through art. The scenes and people who take form under the gentle brush of pencil against paper in her hands have always given her an inner serenity and a sense of safety.
But now her hands shake as they sketch out the outlines, as she grounds the pigments, as she dips her brushes in the paints. Her mind does not focus on the task at hand, the recreation of a masterpiece, the honor of being entrusted with such a daunting task of following the footsteps of the most talented painters of history, but rather the man standing behind her, the man with the gun pointed at her back, the man who promises to kill her if she does not do precisely what he says.
She knows her chances of survival are slim. She has seen too many movies and TV shows to think otherwise. She runs, she fails, she dies; she stays, she finishes, she dies. It's like her husband's saying, "Damned if you do, damned if you don't; either way, you're damned." In her mind, she can still hear the underlying contentment in his voice and see the little smile that settles on his lips whenever he looks at her. She wonders how he is holding up now, not knowing what's happened to her or where she is. When she used to read romantic novels, she never understood how anyone could miss someone so much that he or she would actually feel physical pain, but now she knows, because that fear of never seeing him again is tearing through her heart.
She moves her brush away from the canvas, waiting until her eyesight isn't so blurry any more and her body stops trembling so much. It has been made it clear that she's expendable if she causes trouble. She wants to scream and cry until she is empty, but she doesn't, because she is too afraid of the man standing behind her. She's too afraid, really, to do anything else except what she is told. She knows that will lead nowhere except to an early grave, so she begins to pray to a God she hasn't directly spoken to for a long time.
'Please, if there's anyone out there,' she begs silently as she begins to paint, tears blurring her eyesight, 'please help me… Please…'
Risks are part of life. That is a given fact. What is also a given fact is that his profession is by no means an ordinary, safe, white-collar desk job. For some reason he has yet to determine, he finds satisfaction in careers that have their moments of risk, whether with the CID or with the Bureau. There is less daily danger, though, working in LA, and that is fine with him. But that doesn't mean the stress level isn't different. Instead of dodging bullets and avoiding RPGs on a daily basis, he now spends his time trying to catch murderers and bank robbers before they strike again. It's not easy.
Take this current case, for example, a major art counterfeiting ring operating in five major cities, Los Angeles being one of the drop-off points. It had strictly been a fraud case until about two years ago when talented, but small-time artists started disappearing. Nearly six months ago, hikers had found the first body, dumped in a remote location up in the mountains. Sixteen missing artists, three others found dead; the team was in a race against time from the start.
But now, at least, they've caught a break. After hours of interviews, interrogation, research, Charlie's analysis and probably a bit of dumb luck, they've found the likely location of where all of the artists are being held. So with the warrants being processed as the team puts together a raid plan, it might be only a matter of hours before the hostages are freed. He can only pray that they are still alive and will remain so for a long time.
There's no way of knowing whether or not these counterfeiters are armed until they get there. The chances of them reacting violently are high; Charlie, for once, doesn't say a word about the risks. The professor knows that his brother's team doesn't need to hear it, and he is glad for it. Now is the time to focus on the task at hand, not on what might go wrong.
So as he straps on his Kevlar vest and checks his weapon one more time, rehashing the raid plan in his mind, a small part of him is back in Sunday school, calling on his faith to bring him some calmness of spirit. 'Bless us with your guidance, protection and grace. Watch over us today and all the rest of our days.' He holsters his weapon and looks questioningly at David who nods. It's time to go. 'Let us protect the innocent and, at the end of the day, return to our families.'
The first thing she notices as she rushes towards the man is his coworkers kneeling by his side. They are speaking quietly to him and receiving soft replies in return. One is applying rudimentary first aid, while the others seem to be taking orders from their injured colleague.
"Get yourself checked out," the injured man says through gritted teeth to the agent by his side. "That's an order, Colby."
"Hello," she says conversationally as she sets down her case, eyes already taking in the bloodstained T-shirt serving as a temporary bandage, the sweat on his pale face, his closed eyes, his harsh, trembling breathing. It looks like his vest failed him.
"Can you hear me?" she asks, loud enough to be heard. His eyes flicker open briefly, allowing her to see that they are warm brown, alert and aware of his surroundings despite the haze of agony overlaying them.
"Yes," the man whispers just before he groans in pain. She glares mildly at her partner who looks apologetic for a brief instant before his mask of professional calm settles back over his face. She turns her attention back to her patient. "What's your name sir?"
"Don…"
"Okay, Don, I just need you to stay awake for me here, okay? I know it probably hurts, but you have to stay awake." He nods slightly, his hand clenching his colleague's. She looks at the other agent, "Sir, did he pass out at any time?"
She checks his pulse — weak, but steady — before slipping an oxygen mask over his face. Her partner gives her a quick glance, one that is of controlled panic, and she knows this patient is in serious trouble. They need to get him out of here now.
The junior agent is shaking his head, "No. He's been talking the whole time. Where are you taking him?" Don moans quietly as they ready him for transport.
"UCLA," she replies, briskly pushing the gurney towards the ambulance. The other agent, refusing to relinquish his boss' hand, jogs with them.
As they load him into the ambulance, the other man says, "Don, we'll have someone get Charlie and your father, okay?"
She climbs in back, nearly shoving the other agent off the tailgate. "I'm sorry," she says hastily as she shuts the door. The wail of the siren begins almost immediately as her partner pulls away from the scene.
As the vehicle speeds down the streets of Los Angeles, she coaxes Don to talk about his family: his father, his brother, and his fiancée. Even through his pain, she can hear the love he has for them and they have for him. She smiles and reassures him that he'll see them soon as she works to staunch the bleeding. Then he begins to cough, body-wracking spasms that don't allow him to catch his breath. She adjusts his oxygen and tries to stabilize him. Alarms start going off as his blood pressure drops drastically. He stops coughing, but she can see the blood trickling out the corner of his mouth.
"Don?" she asks anxiously. When she doesn't receive a reply, her heart skips a painful beat and her eyes automatically, near frantically, checks the heart monitor. 'He's still alive.'
"Jimmy!" she yells, sounding almost like a panicked rookie on her first run.
"Almost there!" her partner calls back, braking ungracefully to a stop at the emergency room entrance.
The scramble as they unload him, rattling off vital signs and first responder information to the waiting medical personnel, is over quickly. A nurse shoves her out of the trauma room, leaving her standing outside of the swinging doors, watching helplessly as others work to save his life. Her part is done. For some reason, she finds that a hard pill to swallow.
'Let him live,' she prays silently before she turns away. 'Let him see his father and brother again. Let him marry his girlfriend and raise a family. Please… He doesn't deserve to die like this… Let him be okay….'
He knows the auditorium door squeaks whenever it opens. The maintenance staff has never quite gotten around to oiling the hinges, but the professors don't mind. It helps them keep track of tardy students, so what is the rush to make their lives more complicated than it already is?
Today, ten minutes away from the end of his lecture, the door squeaks and he turns around from his chalkboard, still explaining the theorem he's just written. There is a hint of exasperation in his voice as he directs his attention towards the back of the room — this student has already missed two very crucial lectures this quarter and is struggling to keep up as it is; he could not afford to miss any more classes — and then he stumbles over his words, causing his students to look up from their notes at him in puzzlement. A curious few turn their heads to see the cause of their normally verbose professor's sudden slip.
He knows the minute she walks into the room. It is more of her demeanor — determined, experienced, wearied— than her attire that gives away her profession. He doesn't need to, but he does, his eyes flickering down to the gun clipped to her belt, covered by her jacket. Noticing that she has caught everyone's attention and there really is no need for unobtrusiveness now, she moves quickly to the front of the room.
"My apologies, Dr. Eppes," she says quietly, formally. In a vague corner of his mind, he notices that his students are struggling to eavesdrop. He already knows why she is here, but her words still immobilize him. "I'm Agent Henderson with the Bureau. There was an incident involving your brother earlier today. The Dean has already been informed. He says that your classes for the rest of the week will be taken care of. If you could come with me…" Her gentle touch on his arm breaks his paralysis.
Shoving the suffocating fear into a corner of his mind, he nods sharply and raises his voice, "Class is dismissed early today." The students quickly scramble to pack up their belongings and vacate the room. He throws his books and papers haphazardly into his briefcase, all the while trying not to panic. He needs to hold himself together, and be there, for his father, for his brother. Numbers begin running through his mind, statistics he does not wish to think about, as he follows the agent's quick steps to her car.
On the way there, he asks hesitatingly what happened. The agent glances at him once, as if weighing the risk of having a hysterical relative on her hands, and decides to tell him: how a break had come in a case involving counterfeit art and kidnapped artists, that a massive raid had been executed on the warehouse. Everything had gone smoothly, until a hidden suspect opened fire on the agents. The hostages were all unharmed, but several agents were injured in the chaos, five critically. He asks, "How bad is it?"
She says quietly, "I wish I could tell you for sure." He swallows hard and looks away. 'God, please, let Don be okay. He has to be okay. Don't take him away from me now. Please, I need him. He's my brother.'
She rinses her flour-covered hands clean and pats them dry on her favorite dishtowel before she reaches for the ringing phone. As the extension cord trails her, she moves back to the kitchen table where she has been kneeling dough.
While her family and her husband's are both very wealthy, she has always enjoyed the feel of dough between her fingers. Personally, she uses it as a practical stress ball, the dough must be worked until it is soft and there is nothing like a good hour spent working away at such a task to release frustration.
But most of all, she loves the smell of baking bread, partially because it reminds her of her childhood days with her nanny and the housekeeper, safely tucked away in the kitchen while her parents were away or hosting yet another party. Even thought the two women were servants, she remembers them fondly and still chats with them from time to time. She knows she's rather unusual for a socialite in that matter, caring about the help, but she owes them for raising her to care for and love the simple pleasures in life that money cannot buy. She remembers the first loaf of bread she baked for herself, how proud she was when it came out of the oven, golden and fluffy and the praise that the maids and housekeeper had given her. The love of baking was something that she passed down to her daughters. She often likens baking bread and cakes to raising children; both are shaped early on, but the end results are unpredictable.
For example, all of her daughters had been raised as the children of socialites, who would marry wealthy and spend their lives dividing their time between committing philanthropic acts, running their households, volunteering at their children's PSTAs and relaxing at the country clubs. However, none of her children chose to go down that road, particularly her youngest, who chose — out of all the possible careers in the world — to be an FBI agent. A police officer, of all things! It was possible to talk about her lawyer daughter, her businesswoman daughter and her homemaker/writer daughter with the other mothers at the gardening club, but her federal agent daughter? The subject was implicitly taboo. Heaven forbid that she ever acknowledge that her youngest was working at such a demeaning job to the family friends!
"Hello?" she asks, cradling the receiver between her head and shoulder. She reaches down and returns to her task of baking bread for tonight's dinner.
"Is this Mrs. Reeves?" a man's unfamiliar voice asks.
"Yes, who is this?" she asks politely. She sprinkles a liberal helping of flour over the dough.
"I'm Agent Sinclair, ma'am," the man says. "I work with your daughter."
Completely forgetting her husband's dislike of finding floury fingerprints on the phone, she clutches the receiver, mindless of the dough on her fingers sticking to the smooth plastic.
"Is she all right?" she asks, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. "Is everything okay over there?" Despite her husband's frostiness towards their youngest and her own qualms about her daughter's job, she cares deeply and worries every day about receiving a phone call or, worse yet, a visit from some stranger telling her that the worst has happened. The fact that Megan seems to excel at and thrive on her job does nothing to ease her worries. Whenever she sees her child on the rare visit home, her daughter is strained and polite. She doesn't understand how her daughter can claim to be satisfied with a job that drains her of so much. Then again, Megan's visits home are always marked with a strained tension; it is what happens when one member of the family refuses to acknowledge another's existence.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Reeves," he tells her, the words she dreads to hear. "But Megan's in the hospital right now. An agent will be at your door in about an hour to bring you and your husband to LA."
She doesn't hear his words; instead, she is staring blankly out of the kitchen window, out at the immaculate gardens that are tended to by gardeners, beyond that, the golf courses at the country club. 'Would he care? For goodness' sake, he's her father, of course he does! Right?'
"Mrs. Reeves?" the man prompts gently, dragging her out of her mental wandering. "Are you with me?"
"Yes," her voice sounds strange, even to herself. "I am. Thank you for calling."
"I wish it was with better news, Ma'am."
After exchanging goodbyes with him, she walks an impossibly long distance to hang up the phone and slowly sits down on the kitchen stool. As the news sinks in, she begins to tremble.
'God, please don't take away my baby, don't take away my little girl…' She buries her head in her hands and sobs. 'Please don't take her away…don't call her home, not yet…'
He knows he should be back at the office, but he can find neither the strength nor inclination to move from his uncomfortable seat. He doesn't want to leave the hospital until he knows for sure his friends are okay. He doesn't want to deal with any paperwork or procedure until he knows everything will be all right. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm the raging storm of emotions inside of him.
It had been a straightforward raid. The hostages were being evacuated quickly, the suspects in custody, the building's preliminary sweep coming up clean. It was a good ending to a bad case.
They never saw the sniper in the rafters until it was too late.
Don was among the first to be hit. He can still hear the ringing gunshot that caused his boss to crumple to the ground, dragging the civilian he was protecting down with him. Then pandemonium as the hostages, terrified out of their minds, began running in all directions; as the agents, a few dragging kicking, screaming civilians, tried to find cover; as everyone tried to figure out where the hell the bullets were coming from as more agents were hit.
He still hears Megan's shout for him to get down, sees her running towards him, feels her body weight throwing him to the ground, hearing her cry of pain. He can still see her blood, staining both their Kevlar vests and pooling on the concrete floor of the warehouse after he's rolled out from under her. Her stifled groan as he applied pressure to the gunshot wound, that smartass comment she made through gritted teeth ("Bastard's using armor piecing rounds. Damn it, David, I need to breathe too."), the way her breaths became shallower and shallower, each breath a struggle to take, the way color was draining out of her face as her blood stained his hands, her weakening replies to his pleas, her last comment to him ("Not your fault, David.") before she stopped breathing.
He will probably never forget the icy horror that stabbed his heart for the rest of his life. The paramedics had shoved him out of the way — apparently the gunfire had stopped a while ago — and had begun to work on her. The moment they got a pulse, they quickly swept her away into the ambulance and to UCLA Medical.
By the time he arrived at the hospital, having turned over the crime scene to the Assistant Director, she was already in surgery. He spoke to Colby briefly before calling his boss' father and her parents. Then he came up here, the OR waiting rooms. He knows Colby will join him soon, as soon as he's cleared by the doctors.
Out of everyone on the team, he's the most fortunate. At least, he hasn't been physically harmed today. The other man was mistakenly cracked over the head by a desperate artist in the raid. Don and Megan are both in critical condition. The entire office will be reeling in shock soon, including him. Right now, the fear hasn't faded and his heart hasn't settled back into its normal rhythm.
'This wasn't supposed to happen,' he thinks, looking down on his bloodstained hands. 'This wasn't supposed to happen. God, please don't let it end this way. Please…'
As soon as the elevator doors open, her eyes search frantically for them. When she sees them, her fiancé's family sitting quietly together, she hurries towards them. Her father-in-law stands to greet her. Her brother-in-law glances up at her and smiles weakly in greeting, his hand clutching his wife's in a tight grip.
"Any news?" she asks, taking Alan's trembling hands in hers. He shakes his head as they both sit down in the hard chairs. She drops her carry-on bag on the ground and turns to her colleagues. Both of them look just as worn as she feels. They probably feel worse. Two weeks ago, they had both privately promised her to look out for Don while she was gone on a consult in New York. None of them thought it would be worse than getting him to go home and sleep every night. But none of them could have foreseen this.
"What happened?" she asks, completely forgetting protocol in her anxiety and exhaustion. Colby and David exchange a look, each silently asking the other if he wants the task of telling their boss' family and their friends what went wrong.
"There was an ambush," David finally says blandly. She says nothing, knowing all-too-well the surprise and scramble for safety that sometimes failed when a raid went to hell. When he doesn't offer anything more, she turns to stares blankly at the swinging doors, willing for a doctor to come through with good news.
'Let them live please,' she begs silently. 'I need him. Our baby needs him. Please… I want our child to know his both parents. Please… don't make me raise our baby alone.'
He supposes that somewhere deep in his heart, he had expected the possibility of an incident like this to occur. But in all reality, he was not quite prepared for the depth of horror he felt when he heard the news. He doubts anyone could reasonably be prepared to hear that a loved one has been gunned down, federal agent or not. Even Alan, having Don with the Bureau for the past decade, looks as shell-shocked, if not worse, than he does. Knowing facts intellectually did nothing to prepare one for when those facts decided to become reality.
It is one of the ironies of life that an innocuous, cylindrical metal object less than an inch in length possessed the ability to maim and kill. Five of them have nearly taken the lives of five agents, one of them whose bedside he is currently sitting beside. He has stayed with her for the past week, sharing the vigil with her parents, including her father, who finally seems to understand how brilliant his daughter is in her chosen career and the accompanying risks that she accepts without complaint. Her condition is still critical, and will remain so until she wakes up. He glances at the ventilator, its presence still bothering him, a constant reminder that she has stopped breathing twice—once at the scene and once more on the operating table— and has yet to truly breathe on her own. He detests the aide memoire.
Perhaps it's because he had never planned to fall in love with her, that he never thought about the risks of her job. Or, more likely, it was because he was too scared to think about the possibility of losing her to a bullet. He isn't the type to become attached to material objects or encumber himself with distractions, but she is neither of those and, for him, she never would be.
He takes one of her limp hands in his hands, gently messaging her palm. Her skin is warm against his fingertips and that reassures him immensely. To him, it is a promise of further exploration of a mysterious universe called Love with a woman who isn't put off by his tangents of thought or his insistence of living through experimenting. She challenges him, teaches him, surprises him…loves him.
'Wake up for me, Megan,' he thinks silently, caressing her hand. 'There's so much more that I want to share with you…. Please, wake up for me.'
He realizes that her fingers have wrapped around his just as the ventilator alarm goes off. In a panic, he half-rises from his chair, looking at the heart monitor, terrified of finding a steady flat line moving across the screen.
Then he feels a weak tugging on his hand, the one that is still holding hers. Half-disbelieving, half-rejoicing, he looks at her and finds himself falling into her warm green eyes for the first time in a week.
The hospital room is quiet, but filled to the brim with unspoken love. She smiles when she sees her youngest and his wife curled up together on a thin hospital cot. "Oh, Charlie," she sighs, "I'm so proud of you." Unable to break years of habit, she leans down and brushes a curl back from his face. He half-stirs in his sleep, disturbing his companion who shifts positions slightly before she returns to dozing. "You'll take care of him," she says to her daughter-in-law, "I know that. Just make sure you remember to teach him what life is about."
She moves silently over to the second fold-out cot and sits down on the thin mattress. The elderly occupant shifts slightly, as if he can feel her weight. With a light touch, she caresses his cheek, soothing his fears and concerns away. "Don't worry Alan," she says softly, "He's going to wake up soon." She leans down and kisses him. "I love you," she whispers before she reluctantly rises from the cot.
Next, she turns to the hospital bed, where her firstborn's fiancée is sitting in the bedside chair. The younger woman is using one arm as a pillow while her other hand holds onto her lover's in a tight grip. She tucks the other woman's hair back from her face, taking in the exhaustion and fear evident in the worry lines that crease her expression even in her sleep. She rubs a slow hand up and down the woman's back. "My grandson will know his father," she tells her, "and he won't be the only one. Take care of him, and yourself." Her eyes settle on her sleeping firstborn.
"Don, I'd tell you to be careful," she says quietly, "but you already know that. Just remember that you are forever dearly loved, whatever happens." She bends down and kisses her son's forehead.
At that moment, his eyes flicker open slightly and she hears his confused murmur, "Mom?" A second later, his fiancée wakes, alerted by the twitch of his hand. As his confusion begins to dissipate and his family wakes up around him, she smiles and vanishes, knowing all of her prayers have been answered.