Summary: Charlie's worst fear becomes a reality, and one thing matters above all else: no matter what happens, he must protect his family. Not an FBI case related fic. Please read Author's notes before beginning.

A/N: ok, first off, before you guys read any further, you need to know that i came up with the idea for this fic a loooong time before snowysleigh posted "to be brothers", and before serialgal posted "a walk on the other side", so i'm really not copying their idea - this fic was an original when i first started writing it (as far as i know), and i can promise all those who've read those other two fics that my story is going at this thing in a completely different way. so, with that said, i hope that you all enjoy this first chapter, and don't forget to review -- i promise to update at least once a week... possibly more often, if school allows, and if the reviews keep coming :)

Numb3rs: Black Old Sun

By: thebondgirl

Chapter 1

The page fell from nerveless fingers and swooped gracefully down to the floor before coming to a rest by his feet, looking so innocent now that he couldn't make out the words typed across it. It didn't matter though - the words may have been long, and stretched out to last a few paragraphs, but the main point behind the letter was simple and earth shattering enough for him to memorize it after only reading it through once. He stared blankly at his now empty hand for a long moment, still picturing the page that had been there, still seeing the fancy letterhead used only by a doctor who had enough money, time, and arrogance to burn in order to fashion himself some customary stationary with which to write to his patients, as though its fanciness might inspire confidence and optimism where there was none to be had.

After all, when you're sent a letter confirming your worst fears, does it really make a difference in the impact of that confirmation if it's addressed to you from a doctor with a bolded, gold-lined printed name and title?

Yes, the fifty dollar-per-page letterhead speaks the truth: I am the infamous James Porter, M.D... Oh, and by the way, you have leukemia.

Suddenly his lungs constricted, unable or perhaps unwilling to take in another breath and the room spun wildly, making him collapse backwards into his chair, which was thankfully in the right place to catch him. Through his blurry vision, he could see both of his hands trembling violently and knew that he had to force himself to be calm; otherwise he'd die of shock long before his disease could ever kill him.

If he could breathe, he would have laughed bitterly at that, and wondered idly if that was such a bad thing. After all, could he really handle the pain that was to come? Could he really hold on to hope while he became the second person in the Eppes family to slowly waste away like this?

'Stop it,' he thought angrily to himself, roughly shaking his head. 'You will not start thinking like that. Sure, Dr. Porter's letter said that the leukemia was far enough along, but that doesn't mean it's hopeless, so get a grip, right now

And just as suddenly as it started, his inability to breathe abated, and he dragged several ragged breaths into his lungs, leaning forward to rest his head on his knees as he forced himself to relax and just keep on breathing normally.

In... out... Deep breath... exhale...

When at last his head had cleared and his shaking had dissipated into merely the occasional shiver, he sat back up and stared pointedly at the page that still lay on the floor in front of him, contemplating just how unlikely it had been for him to have found out about this, this soon. Really, he'd barely stopped to wonder about all those extra bruises he didn't remember getting that kept showing up all over his arms and legs, nor had he paid much attention to how tired he always seemed to be, no matter how long he slept, and the fact that biking to school had become a chore, rather than a joy. What had finally made him turn to his physician had been when he'd gotten a nasty paper cut on the palm of his hand, and, though it hadn't even been incredibly deep, the cut had refused to stop bleeding for almost an hour.

That had been two weeks ago. He'd gone in the next day, explained his symptoms for documentation, and nervously sat through the collection of his blood for tests. And now here he was with a solid, undeniable diagnosis: he had a common type of cancer, and it was killing him. The one thing that offered him some sort of reassurance was the fact that his particular case had fallen under the cancer that Dr. Porter had called acute myelogenous leukemia, or AML for short; the good part about that was that if for once in his life he could be like everyone else, he would have a sixty percent chance of going into remission, and a forty percent chance of being cured all together. Obviously he would have felt much better with a higher chance of being cured but for now, he would settle for the simple possibility that he could at least make it through this first bout, and live to fight the next one, should it come.

He sighed outwardly, rubbing his eyes in a vain attempt to ward off the now familiar exhaustion as his mind unwittingly did what it did best: it began to plan, organize, hypothesize, and suggest solutions. The first and most obvious problem to tackle would be settling on a form of treatment. As described in the letter, he had several options he could choose from and though he definitely was in no state to be delving into details, he already knew that he would only take the treatment plan that allowed him to remain as an 'outpatient', away from the sterile hospital rooms that he was terrified of being confined to. The next issue that came up, following closely behind treatment, was his teaching schedule. He didn't need statistics to tell him that no matter what the treatment, chances were that the side-effects would make him pretty sick all on their own, and he knew that he would be left with no choice but to cut back on classes taught per day, per week, and probably end up putting a stop to them all together until he went into remission.

'Now there's a conversation with Millie that I'm not looking forward to,' he thought with a sigh, knowing that once he told her, it was quite possible word would spread like wild fire across campus so that mountains of unwanted attention could rain down upon him. It wasn't that he wouldn't appreciate his colleagues' or students' concern - it was that he would give pretty much anything not to be treated differently like he knew he would, to be treated like... well, like he was dying. And if he knew some of his students as well as he thought he did, they might even be tempted to drop by the house to check up on him, a well-meaning gesture that would serve only to increase the stress being put on his family...

The thought of his family stopped him cold, and he felt himself begin to hyperventilate again. How would they take the news of his diagnosis? He swallowed hard, already knowing the answer: the first step would be silent shock, and then complete denial and demands for a second opinion. Next, there would be tears and hugs, and reassurances that everything would be fine, when really neither of them could know for sure; they would put on a brave face, and say that they would be there for him, assuring him that they would do whatever he needed them to do with a calm composure that would make a mighty attempt to hide the total devastation and horror that was bubbling up inside of them.

He knew this because this had been exactly the way it had gone when Margaret Eppes had first sat Alan and Charlie down in their living room, wearing a sad, comforting smile as she told them that she had been diagnosed with cancer.

Charlie failed to hold in the sob that rushed up his throat as he remembered just how crushingly hard it had been on him, his father, and Don, when he had come home, to hear such news and to know deep down that they were probably fighting a losing battle, that with a prognosis as uncertain as hers, the odds were not in their favor (something that Charlie was very careful never to mention, not even think). It wasn't hard to remember that although he had been the only one to really show it to such extremes, all three Eppes men had suffered during Margaret's decline in health, each dying a little with her with every passing day until finally being left bone-weary and barely in one piece when she'd passed away. He couldn't ever remember crying so often, nor could he remember a time when his father had looked so old and fragile, and his older brother so small and broken, despite the agent's devout attempts at "compartmentalizing his emotions", like he'd been trained to do on the job. How could his family take another blow? How would they be able to make it through all of that pain, all of that heartache and despair, a second time?

Another thought occurred to him then, one that was so solid and certain in his mind that it drowned out all others: he would not allow his family to suffer like that - he would spare them the pain, spare them the anxiety that came before every round of treatment and afterwards, when the report saying that improvement was in the negatives was delivered by an apologetic doctor. He would protect his family from his disease; he would make the stumbling, terrifying journey alone. They would never be allowed to know, never be allowed to fear for him, not if he could help it.

The idea was all it took to set his breathing back to normal, though his heart still raced as he picked up that hated letter and stowed it away deep inside his briefcase and began to pack the rest of his work in preparation for leaving Cal Sci for the night. His infamous brain had once again taken over at this point - already, a plan was forming in his head as a solution to the problem presented by his goal of secrecy and by the time he made it out to his car, he knew exactly what he had to do and that it had to be done by the end of the week, when he was suppose to meet again with Dr. Porter to decide on and begin a treatment. That one piece of certainty and positive action for his family was enough to bring a small, albeit grim smile to his face as he began the long drive home.

Don, Dad... you'll both be safe from reliving the past, I promise you.

TBC