Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

Notes: Can't wait 'til break. And Precedent is getting there, I promise. btw Charlie, I'm almost sorry :p


The floor was hard and cold; it might have been the cold sweat glazing my skin, but somehow it seemed appropriate, for the floor to be as unforgiving as the harsh headlights creeping over the walls. The pills had been old – my father's – but unbearably enticing from their dusty place in the medicine cabinet. I vaguely remembered a handful of small white capsules, devoid of markings or an identifying label on the bottle, nestled firmly in my chalky palm. I remembered shaking hands, fuzzy sounds, the world shifting unsteadily, the numbers. I remembered being ninety five-percent confident. I remembered p. I remembered theories, spiraling out into the darkness of all-consuming unconsciousness.

Then the screech of tires somewhere outside and the detached sensation of a numb cheek pressed firmly against a floor, and the agonizing moment in which I lay. He shouldn't be home; why are you home? But the door had slammed open, and his voice sliced through the half-light gloom that would have settled over the house by now: "Where the hell are you?" I could hear him stomping around, throwing chalk, upending boards, nearly smashing lights in his haste to turn them on. "I need those answers, Charlie!" he called again, angrily, the sound filtering through the walls from the dining room. He would have found my work by now: scattered papers and open case files. It was staged that way, because I knew it had to be mistaken for an accident.

Closer now, and uncertain. "Charlie?" Vaguely, I realized I regretted the decision. He would find me, and the cowardice would turn his stomach. The dosage had to be wrong, or the pills different from what I'd originally thought – there had to be something, because I had calculated the reaction time several times over, and delivered encouraging results. His appearance obviously upset the equation, but by this time, a loss of consciousness should have signaled-

"Jesus Christ, Charlie!" Kneeling, somewhere nearby, cold hands trying to rub warmth into reluctant skin. "Buddy, can you hear me? Charlie? Charlie, say something, goddammit! Charlie!" He'd retrieved his phone. The numbers threaded idly through my hazy thoughts, and I tried half-heartedly to follow the conversation, still hoping guiltily that the meds would do their job and get it over with, before the cavalry arrived. Then: "Charlie," with the vocalization of a shattering heart. "Jesus, Charlie. Hang on, buddy- Charlie, stay with me, okay? Stay with me…."

I didn't know what to think, so I didn't. No response, because I couldn't hurt him like that, with such blatant false hope. He had his information ready and waiting on the dining room table, but for some unfathomable reason he hadn't stopped there, hadn't taken the data he'd been dying to have for two and a half weeks. He'd ventured upstairs. He'd opened the door to my room, to find me collapsed somewhere between the blackboards and the window, since I couldn't remember where I'd been headed when I'd felt the first dizzying effects.

I could hear sirens somewhere. He'd draped his own damp jacket over my chest, despite my awkward sideways position across his lap. Hands shaking, he dragged his stiff fingers through my hair, through the tangles that had accumulated from neglect. He continued whispering gibberish, mostly inane encouragement to cling to a life he didn't know I'd been trying to escape. This could have been the end to a winding road of self-destruction. Could have been. But I, a genius, had failed miserably at executing such a finale; my numbers were failing me. The grief might have broken through the detachment if it wasn't for Don's presence, and the anguish he radiated. It almost confounded me, until I remembered that I was all he had left for now.

All he had left. …And today, I had tried to rob him of that. I'd come home from classes – where I hadn't assigned homework for the weekend because I had hoped I wouldn't be there to grade it – and carefully laid the table with the case data. I'd sat down in the living and computed the seconds I would have left if I so chose to find the hunting knife I'd received several Christmases ago. I determined the trajectory of blood spatter from a gunshot wound, then decided that bloodying the walls would be a distasteful parting gift, especially in a house that would become his. I evaluated the probability of fatalities at various speeds for automotive accidents. In the end, I had decided on the unmarked bottle of pills – erroneously.

He was patting my face, begging me to come around, but I felt like a drowned rag doll. Couldn't move, didn't want to move, on the verge of sleep. He sounded distressed. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. The pills could be working, but did I want them to, after this? Confused. Muddled. Emotionless. Sirens.

Nothing.