Disclaimer:Numb3rs isn't mine. Is it yours?

Author's Note:I never consciously realised how many different meanings exist for the word Jam. It's ridiculous, really.

If you're American, I'm going to have to ask you to mentally replace the word Jam in this chapter with Jelly :-)

J is for Jam

I

Jam: A spread made from fruit boiled with sugar

Don slammed the house door behind him as he entered; his mind intent on obtaining one thing, and one thing only: Food. And may all the deities of all the religions in all the world have mercy on anyone who dare come between him and his goal. A hungry Don Eppes was a dangerous Don Eppes.

Not caring who was in the house or what they were up to, Don moved with single-minded determination towards the kitchen, stretching out an arm to push open the swinging door to the kitchen.

Don paused in his mission.

The deities might have to be invoked after all.

Someone was in the kitchen before him. A hindrance; it could not, should not, be borne.

Don paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, trying to remember what his Mom always tried to inculcate in her sons. What was it? Oh yeah, 'patience is a virtue'. Besides, his mom might stop making rib-eye for him if he committed fratricide. In any case, it looked like if he didn't act soon, he would be more likely an unintentional accomplice to suicide rather than a murder of any kind.

Treading silently, he made his way to where his little brother of barely six years old had pushed one of the stools towards a wall-mounted cabinet and was now clambering on top of it in an attempt to gain access to whatever was hidden in the cupboard, well out of his reach. Wrapping his arms around Charlie's midsection, Don hoisted his brother off the tall stool and planted him back on solid ground. He placed a hand on Charlie's shoulder to turn him, and bent down a little to be at eye level with the minute genius.

"Charlie," Don began in what he hoped was a calm tone, albeit with a tinge of forced patience, "What did you think you were doing?"

A stubborn expression and what looked suspiciously like a rebellious pout overcame Charlie's features as he replied:

"I'm hungry"

"And what does being hungry have to do with deciding to clamber onto a stool that's taller than you are?" questioned Don.

"I want a sandwich. There's no strawberry jam in the fridge, so there must be some in the cupboard," reasoned Charlie. "I saw mom put it there yesterday."

"Ah," said Don wisely. "And why didn't you just ask Mom to make you a sandwich?"

"Mommy went upstairs with a headache. She snores," complained Charlie, crinkling his nose. "I thought I'd let her snore some more."

Don sighed before saying slowly: "Charlie? Next time you feel hungry, wake Mom up, ok? I think she'd prefer that rather than finding out her little genius has busted his head open 'cause he fell from the stool trying to get something well out of his reach. All right?"

Charlie's eyes had widened at the thought of cracking his head open to resemble the monsters in the movies Don seemed to be so fond of lately. Nodding his head fervently, Charlie promised.

Satisfied, Don nodded his head and straightened. "Ok Frankenstein, time to make something to eat." Grabbing his brother, he hoisted him to sit on the counter-top, "Sit tight and don't do anything I wouldn't do."

As Don opened to the cupboard to take out a new jar of strawberry jam, Charlie piped up, "Frankenstein was the doctor. Shouldn't you be calling me his monster?"

Distracted as he was with wrestling with the lid, Don didn't immediately reply. When the jar popped open with a satisfied plop as the air tight seal was broken, Don looked up and said, "Huh? No, I meant the scientist. You're the smart dude, aren't you, like the doctor? Although," Don bent down to take out two plates, "If you're going to be picky about it, you can be both. I'll even throw in Igor for free." Walking over to the fridge, Don pulled out the half-empty jar of peanut-butter, opening the lid and placing the container next to Charlie, the two plates, and the jam.

"No thank you Donnie," said Charlie, sticking in a finger into the peanut butter and having a taste.

Don lightly smacked Charlie's hand away, "Keep your germs to yourself, Chuckie." Yanking open a drawer, Don pulled out a butter knife and reaching around Charlie, he grabbed the loaf of bread and handed it to Charlie, saying, "Open."

Charlie did as he was told, undoing the elastic around the opening as he said, "Did you know there are more germs on store counters than there are on a public toilet seat?"

Don managed to look both bewildered and disgusted at the same time, "Ew. I didn't need to know that. You didn't need to know that. Where'd you read that anyhow?" He held out a hand towards his brother who obediently pulled out four slices of bread and gave them to his brother.

In answer to Don's question, Charlie simply shrugged. Swinging his legs as he sat on the kitchen counter, he watched silently as his brother first applied liberal amounts of peanut butter on the slices of bread, followed by the strawberry jam.

Halfway through, Don looked up and said, "Want to grab some milk to go with these?"

Without answering, Charlie leapt off the counter and grabbed two clean glasses from the dishwasher before opening the heavy door of the fridge with some effort to take out the carton of milk, placed low down for his effort. It was a pointless consideration from their mother, however, since Charlie almost never felt like having milk unless specifically asked to.

Handing Charlie the two plates containing the sandwiches and picking up the glasses (the six year old was more likely to have a crisis carrying the liquid rather than the solid), Don pushed open the kitchen door with his back, waited for Charlie to pass by him and then followed his little brother to the sofa in front of the TV set.

Halfway through the brother's meal, Margaret Eppes had quietly crept down the stairs, still half-asleep, with the intent of giving her little one his lunch, and to see if her eldest had returned, only to find her sons sitting side by side, engrossed in whatever the television was showing, eating their self-made lunch in unintentionally co-ordinated movements.

Without missing a beat, Margaret turned and went back up the stairs to sleep off the lingering headache. No need to worry about Charlie that afternoon, Don seemed up to the task.

Khatum (The End… of this part, at least)

Frankenstein was random, wasn't it? Ah well. I haven't seen the movie in ages. I think I'll go get the one with Gene Wilder in it...

Remember the song Jam by Michael Jackson? The one with Michael Jordan in the video? Man, I miss the '90s. And for someone who isn't good with kids at all, and being the youngest myself, I tend to do pre-series a lot, don't I?

Let me know what you think :-) And go make yourself a sandwich, if you're feeling hungry.