Disclaimer: I don't own NUMB3RS.

Notes:

1) I love this show. It's bad-ass, gripping, dramatic … and adorable. Talk about a genre-hopper. :D Anyway, I was inspired by the final episode of Season 2 and wrote this. My goal was just to publish something, since I haven't for a while, and spray some rust-remover on my writing skills.

2) If you've got the time, try the following experiment: Watch "Hot Shot," pause it right after Don passes out, and then read this. When you're done with the story, go back to the show and finish the episode. I'd be curious to see if anyone tries this, and what they find.

3) However you decide to come at this, please tell me if it works for you or not. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

THE SPACE BETWEEN

Megan was SAC in Don's absence, so the call came through on her intercom the minute she reported their pursuit was over. She, Colby, and David had done quality work, and Mrs. Yates had played her part well in the end, but the team's take had turned out to be the homely waitress from the bar. While Lyndsey Fuller was obviously in cahoots with Chandler Yates, she wasn't the catch they'd been hoping for.

Megan pursed her lips in frustration and called it in.

"Team is no longer in pursuit, correct?" the calm voice said clearly over the headset.

"Roger that, control."

"In that case I have a message from 3695, requesting immediate back-up. Assault in progress. Code 3. 355 Parker St."

Megan was jogging towards Colby and David before the dispatcher even finished. "Copy that. We're on our way. What was the last transmission from 3695?"

"Agent down."

Megan felt her stomach clench. Oh God. She closed her eyes for a moment. "Paramedics en route?"

"Confirmed. Two rigs are on the way. Three attempts to reach 3695 since last transmission – no response."

"What's the ETA on the busses?"

"Approximately ten minutes."

"Roger that. I'm rolling. Any more information, send it through."

"That's a 10-4."

Control broke it off just as Megan stopped next to the other half of the FBI team, willing her face into its usual professional mask. Colby was talking to Mrs. Yates, who still looked a bit rattled. David was leaning casually on the grey FBI-issue Taurus he and Colby had arrived in. Lyndsey was ensconced in the backseat, squirming slightly with her hands cuffed behind her back and looking rather miserable.

"Agent Granger, Mrs. Yates, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we have to go."

"Why?" Colby asked. "What happened?"

Megan bit her lip. "Don went to investigate a residence and had to call for back-up. Code 3. Control just got…" She glanced at Mrs. Yates. "… a very disturbing transmission. We need to move. Now."

David cursed under his breath. Colby's eyebrows went up. Mrs. Yates, who had no idea what a Code 3 was or what any of this meant, looked hard at Megan. She wrapped her arms around herself slightly, her long elegant fingers making wrinkles in the sleeves of her sleek gray suit jacket.

"What does that mean? Is Chandler all right?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, Chandler isn't who we're worried about right now." Colby said this calmly, professionally. It was like he'd stolen the words right from Megan's head.

Megan was immediately glad she hadn't said them, as they earned him a very angry glare from Mrs. Yates.

"You're not concern –… What's the matter with you people? What's going on with my son?"

"We don't know," Megan said truthfully. "David, you drive Mrs. Yates home. Colby, get Fuller back to HQ and book her. I'll head to the scene. Soon as I have some information, I'll call. Split up everybody, let's go!"

The team flew into motion at once. Megan ran for her car. Colby jogged around the Taurus for the driver's side and clapped his hands, holding them out to make a catch. David tossed him the keys over the hood and stepped back from the car, gallantly offering his arm to Mrs. Yates. She accepted it tentatively as he fished his cell phone from his pocket to call for a cab. Colby lit up the grey sedan. Megan jumped into her own black model, slammed the door, put it in drive and tore off. She'd gone half a mile before she remembered her seat belt.


The LAPD perimeter was up by the time Megan arrived at 355 Parker Street, lights flashing on her dashboard but the siren cut. Control had verified on the way over that this was Lyndsey Fuller's residence. If Don had suspicions about her, suspicions that apparently were right on the money, it made perfect sense that he would check out her place. Two ambulances were on the scene. She slammed the gearshift into park, hopped out and ran for the house, drawing her weapon on instinct, only to be stopped at the yellow tape. She flashed her badge at a uniformed LAPD officer, who let her through the tape and she dashed across the lawn, under the porch, and into the foyer.

The house, typical, small, and ugly, was fully lit. So much about Fuller was typical and ugly, Megan thought uncharitably. David had recognized her from the bar, making the ID right about when he was slamming her against the Lexus and cuffing her. She wondered vaguely what the woman was doing helping a loser like Yates. Once they got Don sorted out, she'd try to make some headway on that front.

Don.

The tall blond FBI agent took a moment to get her head back in the game and concentrated on getting through the house with her eyes properly open. LAPD had CSI with them, and the officers were swarming around the front rooms like ants. Megan found herself in the brightly lit kitchen. She heard the squeak of gurney wheels and sidestepped the oncoming object just in time, as well as the two paramedics hauling it along. A girl, blonde and pretty, lipstick and hair all over the place and clearly in shock, was bundled in a white blanket and strapped down for transport. The paramedic pushing from the rear had her IV bag in his teeth so it could drip properly. He nodded at Megan.

"He saved me," the girl slurred, as they approached. "Thank him for me. He saved me."

"What? Who saved you?" Megan asked, leaning over her and momentarily stopping the gurney.

"The man with the gun. He was on the other side of the window. He put his finger on his lips …"

"Hang in there, miss, we're getting you to the hospital," the medic in front said. He looked at Megan. "She's been like this since we found her. Hasn't made a lick of sense. Are you FBI?"

She nodded. "Where was she?"

"In the bedroom. Somebody duct taped her to a bed in preparation for God-knows-what. We're taking her in to get her checked out." The guy jerked his head down the hall. "The other live one's in the living room. Team 2 just got to him."

"Thanks."

She waited until they were past her and made her way into the living room, the girl's bizarre statement rattling in her ears. The living room was sort of a bland, cream-of-wheat color, with hideous orange carpeting and way too much polyester. There were bookshelves, couches, a TV. A black piano was nestled against one wall; it was disturbingly normal. But then her eyes found the broken glass on the floor, and the syringe dripping onto the carpet, and Yates, face-up and eyes open, making an impressive stain on said carpet, and Don.

Two paramedics were kneeling next to him where he lay on his back, crumpled against the wall. It looked like he'd made some attempt to protect himself. His right shoulder was jammed into the stained oak baseboard and he'd cocked his head in the same direction, leaving his neck in an obviously uncomfortable position and his forehead pressed gently against the wood. Even unconscious, he hadn't let go of his gun.

Megan said nothing. She just breathed out, very relieved that the "live one" was Don and not Yates. She took in the scene with her big green eyes as she knelt down next to the paramedics, holstering her weapon slowly. One of the uniformed workers had his latex-gloved hands under Don's head, and was gently prying him away from the wall.

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" he said. Don didn't respond.

The second medic pulled up Don's shirt so he could listen with a stethoscope, and felt his wrist for a pulse. Megan didn't even bother asking what happened. She took in the dripping syringe and the remains of a wine bottle and put two and two together. She found her voice.

"Get Crime Scene in here!" she called, twisting around. A uniform hovering in the doorway behind her nodded at the instruction and ran off to get some help.

"I got some small head lacs back here," said the first paramedic, and winced. "Ouch. And glass. Some kind of bump on his neck, too."

"Resps are slow, breathing is labored, and pulse is a little weak," said the second paramedic, popping the stethoscope buds out of his ears. "I don't like it. He needs oxygen and we should get him out of here. Mike, stay with him."

Mike, the guy with Don's head in his hands, nodded. "Bring the Circle. His head's kind of messy – I don't want it hitting the gurney."

The other man nodded in response, deftly weaved around Megan and left. Megan smiled gently at the remaining worker. He smiled back and carefully got one arm under Don's shoulders, moving him just enough to give his right shoulder room to relax and laying him flat on the carpet.

"Do you think he was drugged?" Megan asked quietly, glancing at the syringe.

"Probably," Mike said, starting to check his torso and arms for other injuries. "If he just got beaned with a bottle that could be enough to knock him out for a few minutes, but it's been way too long, and his breathing isn't right."

The medic took a small pen light from his pocket and gently lifted Don's eyelids, flicking the light across his brown eyes. "Yep," he said. "Small pupils, and the reaction is slow. He got zapped with something."

He carefully pried Don's fingers off the gun and handed it to Megan, who ripped a tissue from the travel pack in her pocket and shook it out. With the tissue over the handle, she accepted it. Mike began to feel along Don's legs for broken bones, having gotten nothing off his chest and arms. Megan knelt there examining the Glock, removing the clip and counting the missing bullets, until a CSI tapped her on the shoulder and held out a plastic bag. She loaded the clip back in properly and deposited the weapon inside.

The investigator took a few pictures of the syringe on the floor and a few of Yates before bagging the needle. Megan turned her attention to Mike, who was just finishing up the examination, taking Don's temperature with an ear thermometer. It didn't look like Don had any other injuries, although the medic clucked his tongue at the reading.

"What?" Megan asked.

"He's cold."

Without preamble, Mike turned Don on his side and began to gently touch the back of his head. Blood was clotting and drying on his spiky dark hair. He pulled out a few small pieces of glass and put them on the ground a safe distance away before digging some gauze from his pack and taping it over the wounds. The cotton began to darken almost immediately.

The CSI guy had just finished scribbling something on the evidence bag with a Sharpie. Megan stopped him and flashed her badge.

"Um, I need to take that with me, unless you can tell me what's in it. The hospital will need to know what he was drugged with so they can treat him. After that, it's all yours."

"Sure thing," the new guy said. "Just make sure their lab sends it along to us quickly, so the processing doesn't get held up."

"Not a problem. Any idea what's in it?"

The CSI shook his head. "No. Although judging by his condition, it's probably an opiate. Looks like somebody attempted to give him a hot shot." Megan was in full professional mode, but she still felt her jaw tighten. Fortunately the CSI guy wasn't looking her way. He furrowed his brow and carefully checked the needle in the evidence bag, holding it up to the light. "Good news is, it doesn't look like too much of this stuff made it into him. That actually bodes pretty well. Are you his partner?"

"I'm part of his team. Megan Reeves, FBI."

"Nice to meet you," Mike said. "And he is …?"

"Special Agent Don Eppes."

"Always good to have a name," Mike said, trying for cheerful but not quite making it. "UCLA's closest. We'll be taking him there. The other crew is already on their way with the one from the bedroom."

"Okay. Thanks." Megan stood and took out her cell phone, ready to call the team and tell them where she was heading. "He's dead, right?" she asked, pointing at Yates to clarify, and then immediately felt stupid for even inquiring. Anyone with functioning eyeballs could tell that the other man was history.

"Um, yes," Mike said patiently. "Steve and I had to check him before we got to Agent Eppes. I don't know how many shots your guy got off, but he hasn't had a pulse since we got here and that stain is … big. We just figured we shouldn't move him, you know, for them." Realizing he was babbling a little, he broke off and thumbed at the CSI guy who, as though punctuating the statement, took another picture of Yates.

Megan nodded, and absentmindedly put the cell phone back in her pocket. Calling the team could wait. The suspect was dead, and right now her job was to be here for Don and stay out of the way. Mike and the CSI guy worked in complete silence for almost a minute. Mike was mostly holding Don steady, bracing his head and neck in preparation for the arrival of his partner, and the CSI guy kept snapping pictures.

The silence was broken when Steve came back, a grey blanket slung over one shoulder. He was dragging a squeaky gurney, which he parked nearby, and his free hand clutched a thick, donut-shaped pillow. It looked vaguely like the ones that people with hemorrhoids used to be comfortable in office chairs, but thicker. Megan didn't need ideas about hemorrhoids right now. She focused her attention on the portable oxygen device hooked to one side of the gurney.

"All right, let's do this. You find anything else?" Steve asked.

"He's safe to move, but body temp's down," Mike replied. "CSI said it's a good bet that whatever was in that syringe is rolling around inside him. I'll start a line when we get to the car."

Steve nodded, and picked up Don's limp legs. Mike got his shoulders and head as best he could. They shared a nod, and with clean efficiency they hefted Don onto the gurney, settling him gently on his back. Megan realized with pride that these paramedics were something like her FBI team; they worked very well in tandem, very efficiently, and very fast. Steve slipped the oxygen mask over Don's mouth and nose and started the machine while Mike, never letting go of her fellow agent's upper body, slid the donut pillow under his neck, stabilizing his head while elevating it just enough to keep the back of it from hitting the gurney. Steve quickly spread the grey blanket over Don and tucked it around him while Mike strapped him down to ready him for transport. Moving as one, they snapped the guard rails into place and bore him away.

Megan walked with them all the way to the ambulance, staying on Don's right and looking down at him way too much as they left the house and quickly made their way across the lawn. The scariest part of this, she decided, was the deceptively peaceful look on her boss's pale face.


"Just calling to check in," Colby said.

"Anything interesting happen at Booking?" Megan asked, bent over and studying the tile floor in the waiting area.

UCLA Medical Center had a fine ER. Don was in good hands. She planned on telling Colby something along those lines, right after she caught her breath and he asked the inevitable question.

In a way, Megan was kind of glad that Colby had called her first. It saved her the trouble of working herself up to call him. She wasn't sure why she had dawdled about informing the team about what had happened to Don; maybe the scene at the house had freaked her out more than she thought. The blood and Yates's dead body wasn't a big deal. She'd seen that before. But there was something fundamentally wrong with an unconscious Don Eppes spread out on a carpet. Besides being a nice person, he was their leader – strong, intelligent, direct, loud – the epitome of a body in motion. He had just been so … still.

"… kinda squirmed when they fingerprinted her, but that was about it," Colby was saying. "She's in a holding cell for the night. She used her one phone call to talk to her sister, although what they talked about is anybody's guess. We'll interview her tomorrow. So what the hell happened at the house? What's the word on Don? Is he okay?"

Megan sighed and told him what she knew about the crime scene, and what she figured had happened to cause it. The needle was on its way to the hospital's lab to figure out what was in it, and Don was being worked on by the doctors. Colby offered to call David, so that David could tell Mrs. Yates the news about her son. In any case, it was one less person for Megan to call. She took him up on his offer.

Besides, calling Charlie was going to be difficult enough. She'd called the house, hoping to talk to Alan, but he was apparently out and she was forced to leave a message on the answering machine to call her back. She was trying not to alarm him, and hoped her tone had been okay – not too panicked, but urgent enough to get him to call her back immediately and then hurry over.

She sighed and hit speed dial five. At least one Eppes had to be informed directly.


Charlie yawned. He'd been working late again – more Cognitive Emergence stuff that wouldn't release him until he'd scribbled it on the boards in his office – and was finally on his way home from CalSci. The ringing of his cell phone startled him … and then made him furrow his brow … and then roll his eyes. He'd left his phone unattended for a few minutes yesterday at the FBI office and some practical joker (probably his older brother) had switched his ringer from the awesome John Mayer sample he'd downloaded to that incredibly stupid version of "When the Saints Go Marching In" – the dorkiest ringtone ever invented.

He gritted his teeth. Don was going to get it as soon as this case was over. He hadn't had a phone call for over twenty-four hours, but what if someone had called him during the Math Department conference today? He'd never live it down. He fumbled for his jeans pocket, snatched his phone out and answered it, wondering vaguely if it was his brother, saying the case was solved.

"Hello?"

"Charlie? It's Megan."

"Hi Megan, what can I do for you?"

"Are you driving?" she asked. She sounded tired, although there was a bit of amusement in her voice.

"Yes," he said a little sheepishly. He knew he wasn't supposed to drive and carry on a cell phone conversation at the same time, especially with his limited skill and experience behind the wheel. Don and the FBI team had playfully razzed him for it on a few occasions, but he just couldn't help multi-tasking.

"Pull over. Please."

That instruction stopped him dead. He did as he was told, finding the first available curb spot he could (it was red but whatever, he was in the car, it wasn't as though he was parking here) and putting more weight on the brake than he needed to. Something was really wrong. He could tell by Megan's tone of voice.

The words were out before he even knew why they were coming. "What happened to Don?"

There was a sigh on the other end. "He was forced to capture a suspect without back-up, and the guy sneaked up on him. I only saw what happened afterwards, but –"

Charlie cut her off. "Where is he? Is he in the hospital?"

"Yes. UCLA – Medical Center, not the Plaza. Trauma's on the ground level."

Charlie took a second to center himself. "All right," he said, his voice as firm as he could make it. "I'll be there as fast as I can. Have you called my father?"

"I tried to. He's not in. I left a message on the landline, and his cell went straight to voicemail."

Charlie groaned. "Of course it did. The damn thing's probably still on his night stand. You know, so he always knows where it is," he snapped in disgust. "That's my father, always thinking."

Despite the situation, Megan produced a small laugh. "Where do you think he could be?"

"I honestly don't know." Charlie paused then, his thoughts racing, as images of his father in danger started bubbling up. "Oh man, I hope he calls you back."

Megan, recognizing the first signs of Charlie-panic, refocused his attention on the immediate situation. "Charlie, no. No freaky thoughts. Just get over here. If you can stay and wait for Don, I'll go find your Dad. Deal?"

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm down. Megan was right – panicking wouldn't help anybody. "Deal."

"Good."

Charlie flipped his phone shut and tore out of his impromptu parking spot, making tracks for the hospital, trying to calculate the best route. It was 9:30 on a Tuesday night – not rush hour by any means. He was closing in on the Arroyo Parkway. Maybe he could just hit the 110, shoot through downtown and catch the 10 west out to … what was it, National? No, wait, it was further. The 405. The 405 to Wilshire. Now he remembered. He gave his blue Prius a little more gas and blew out a breath. Traffic wasn't operating at peak capacity right now, but the freeways rarely obeyed the laws of reason around here.


David stared at Mrs. Yates. She stared back. The FBI agent ran a hand over his shaved head and wondered if he'd somehow entered the Twilight Zone through her Victorian-styled dining room. As it was, he was wildly out of place in his suit amidst the doilies and china. But he couldn't believe he'd just heard that.

"I'm sorry?"

Mrs. Yates folded her hands in her lap and looked down. "I don't expect you to understand, Agent Sinclair."

"Ma'am, I just told you your son was dead, and you said 'Good.' That's not exactly a typical reaction. Forgive me for being a little surprised."

"I do forgive you. And you're right, it's not normal." She arched her eyebrows at David and studied him for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. "You have to understand something about Chandler: he used people. He used me. Yes, he was my son, and yes I loved him, and yes, perhaps I have a part in this, because I let his lazy behavior go on too long and then cut him off too quickly. But he did a terrible thing, and he died for it. And … maybe it's better that way. Maybe it's better."

Her cheeks were shaking a little, and soon her shoulders joined in. This, David was familiar with. He found a box of tissues on the sideboard and brought them to the table, where he set them down in front of her without a word. She took one and used it to hide her crumpling face, perhaps dull the noise of her sobs. It didn't matter how old the child was, David reflected. In the end, a mother's reaction to outliving him was the same. He sighed.