Title: Snowing on the Beach

Author: Lady-Daine

Rating: PG (May go up later for language/violence)

Author's Note: Wow! Thank you so much to all my wonderful reviewers! I'm glad that you liked my writing style. I didn't know if it would work for fanfiction outside of books, but apparently the experiment is a success. And much as I love to get positive feedback, I'm always looking for critique, because one of my goals in writing fanfiction is to become a better writer. Any and All constructive comments will be much appreciated!

Charlie is my favorite character, as I find myself relating to him constantly (math genius- no; socially deficient- most definitely) so we'll be seeing a lot more of him in the coming chapters (and a bunch in this one.)

As I write this fiction, please bear with me- I'm making up (or stealing from other books) everything I know about the CIA, and the FBI, and the specifics on the math and science are limited. Also, If anyone is interested, I still would love to have a Beta reader to keep my grammar/spelling/strange and often bad ideas in check.

Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with the T.V. show numb3rs, nor do I own any characters, concepts, or anything else relating to the show. I'm not making any money. I'm simply borrowing some of them because I'm tired of making up my own…

Transition between time or perspective is denoted by 31409813948190283019283019s

Snowing on the Beach

Chapter 2

So let me get this straight. Nina Rissaya was an undercover CIA agent in California, working on some kind of giant case, and-"

"What kind of case?"

"CIA won't tell us." Don Epps looked ready to punch holes in the wall. He ran his hands through his hair, tugging on the ends in frustration. Leaping up from his spindling chair the agent began pacing the narrow space between the seats and the whiteboard in the briefing room, while his companions, a willowy woman with intelligent eyes and a tall black man, gazed at him with ironic amusement, his plight giving them a brief haven from their own exasperation.

"So, the CIA won't tell us much. What do we know? Start there." Don looked down at the woman who had just spoken and shook his head in wonderment at her even tone. Even in his most obstinate moods, the other agent seemed to cut right through them, ever levelheaded, ever reasonable. He gazed up impatiently at the overly-bright florescent lights and tried to calm himself, focusing on the stark white ceiling, the gray-blue rug, the grains in the table. He took a breath and closed his eyes for a moment before starting.

"Ok, we have an undercover CIA agent dead, three shots to her-head, close range, execution style."

"Any signs of struggle?" The black man, looked almost as though he was sitting in a book discussion rather then a murder investigation, sprawled across his chair.

"The woman had a gun in her hands. The license shows it to be hers. She wasn't helpless, just a little too slow."

"Then we're talking about a surprise attack," David said immediately, looking ready for a challenge to his statement. When no one made it, he added, "I know CIA agents. They're as good as it gets. If she didn't shoot him first, he must have found a way to sneak up on her. That means we have a highly experienced murderer on our hands."

"Or more then one." Terry responded quickly, glancing at Don. "Forensics say that the three bullets weren't from the same gun. They were from three different ones. Which means either we have a very handy criminal, or-"

"Three of them." Don finished her sentence. His uneasiness about this case was more then just the missing links. It was what they did have. Something about a dead government agent bothered him, especially one that was undercover. Anyone a sent to work under the pretense of being a scientist while working for the CIA was someone very good. Someone that good would not be easy to find out, and be evenharder to take out. Someone that good didn't usually have a daughter. "But only one stuck around to get nabbed, which means that he was waiting for someone else to come home. Someone who didn't require three gunmen."

"The daughter." Terry breathed the words slowly, closing her own eyes. A child, nothing more then a child. The silence that ensured was deafening.

"What was her cover identity?" David asked, staring at one of the many documents strewn across the desk.

"Nuclear chemist, worked at CalSci. She was a graduate student at MIT when the CIA recruited her. Apparently, she only taught two classes, and devoted most of her time to research. Her focus was the theoretical existence of dark matter." Terry read off the information as she scanned the sheets of paper impatiently, looking for something that might offer a hint. "It's supposedly the opposite of physical matter, and would essentially blow up anything it touched. Literally, anything. Including towns, cities, mountains, you name it."

"Sounds like a nuclear-chemist's dream." David said ironically. "I know a couple of people who would love to get their hands on some of that. Terry shook her head slightly.

"It's physically impossible, to create, according to a lot of people. Dr. Rissaya was only relating it to the creation of other universes. You know, the science department is close to the math sector, especially at a small school. I wonder if Charlie knew her."

"I asked this morning. He said he didn't. But I should ask again." The older agent was flipping through a notebook filled with his own scrawl. "Dad made him toast for breakfast." David looked up, startled.

"What?"

"Toast. He was more interested in the," Don couldn't help himself. He put an excited edge to his voice and heightened its pitch a little, "numerical constant for the relationship of heat to the viscosity of peanut-butter," his voice returned to its usual subdued baritone, "then in interacting with other humans." The bitterness in his tone was apparent. Terry couldn't hide her smile. David open his mouth, as though to laugh, but instead threw up his hands in frustration.

"Multiple weapons, multiple murderers, police all over the place before we even got there. The only profile we get is an undercover agent working under the pretense of a chemist. The CIA doesn't tell us to back-off, but they won't give us anything, including any information about the dead gunman. No motive, the scene is immaculate, courtesy of the CIA, and we have one nearly mute witness. Said witness is a relative. Daughter walks in right before we do, but after the suspect has been brought down," Don glanced at David who returned the gaze steadily.

"So we've got a half-conscious girl on our hands that has already managed to

get on Charlie's bad side. Beautiful."

"I didn't know Charlie had a bad side." Terry replied, covering another smile. The ever-lingering conflicting forces of leading a normal life and working murder cases was a compelling one. It was hard not to smile in good company, even if that good company was wading through puddles of blood. And yet, a single twitch of amusement could bring waves of guilt over her, the defilement of smiling in death seemingly cruel.

"What'd she do?" Terry asked. While the question seemed almost like morbid curiosity, it was actually a very businesslike inquiry- she was, after all, trained to handle human behavior and emotions. And with the lack of information they had, anything they could put their hands on was a blessing. Don shrugged, feeling the tension building in his shoulders. I'm going to have one hell of a back-ache after this he thought to himself, the wispy thought floating lazily through his mind and tangling itself on the delicate strands of case-files.

"I don't know, really. She was just exploring and she found his room and decided to have a look." Terry raised her head.

"A privacy violation." She murmured to herself softly. "I didn't know Charlie was so territorial."

"He nearly bit me once for throwing away a napkin with some goobly-gook written on it. She had actually picked up a piece of paper from his floor. Big no-no with Charlie." It would have been funny, had the circumstances not been…

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"Lily? Do you want to come down and eat something?" Don sighed in silent relief for his father. He didn't know what he would have done without the older man around to make things right, just as he had since the FBI agent was a young boy. As soon as Alan had heard about Lily's plight, he had become an instant fatherly figure, fussing and clicking his tongue over the girl as though she was his daughter. The subject of his thoughts moved away from the stairs and moved deftly back towards the kitchen, cooking mitt on one hand.

"What did she do all day?" Don asked in a low voice. He hadn't wanted to, but there had been no choice but to leave the girl at home through the day, seeing as her case needed investigation. Eventually, he'd probably have to see about getting her back in her school and functioning, but the smoke was still clearing, as were the flurry of thoughts that were entangled in his mind. His father's expression grew serious.

"She just stayed in her room this morning- she didn't get up or anything. I knocked on the door around ten, ten-thirty. She didn't answer so I opened it." The older man looked disturbed, almost frightened. "She was just lying there, staring at the ceiling, perfectly sprawled out on the bed, eyes open. If I couldn't see her breathing, I would have thought that she was-" he paused, unwilling to finish the sentence. He knew when his son decided to become an FBI agent that he would have to face trails such as the one before him, but he didn't think that they would come in the form of a child.

Don frowned, a headache beginning to form at his temples. He couldn't handle this. He was an FBI agent, not a babysitter, and not a people person. The psychology of a teenage girl was not one of the things they taught in school.

"She's been there all day?" he asked with a sigh. Alan shook his head.

"She came down the stairs some time after noon. She didn't look like she had slept. I was dusting furniture in the living-room. She just took an extra cloth and started helping me, going over all the pieces that I'd missed. Didn't say a word, didn't raise her eyes, poor thing. Just kept working until it was done. The same thing happened with the rest of the chores. I tried talking to her, but it was like talking to Charlie- nothing. When I was done, she just walked back upstairs" The older man laid a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. "I think you've got yourself in pretty deep with this one." Don shook his head, willing his headache away.

"I'll go…talk to her, I guess." Terry should have been there- she was the people person, not him. Maybe I'll have her over for dinner tomorrow and she can try her luck. Tiredly, Don climbed the stairs towards the old guest bedroom. The room had been his, until it was converted into a spare when he had gone to college. Having someone else in it was still an odd experience, even after years of living outside the house.

When Don reached the end of the hallway, he looked up, surprised, to see Charlie pacing outside the door, looking agitated.

"Charlie, what's up?" his brother asked quizzically. His headache was worsening. He glanced around at the cool colors of the upstairs, blues and greens fading into a hoary background. The desire to wrap himself in them and curl away from his own mind was almost overpowering. It was not to be. The curly-haired figure in front of him looked up, startled.

"Don…uh, there's a book in there." He glared at the wood of the door as though trying to bore a hole through it. Don squinted at him.

"Yeah, there are a lot of books in there Charlie. There's a shelf with-" Charlie looked even more exasperated at Don's fatigued tone, as though he thought his brother was intentionally antagonizing him. Don, for his part, quickly found himself annoyed with Charlie's half-spoken thoughts.

"There's a book I need for...something." he replied, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice.

"Then why don't you knock and ask if you can come in and take it?" Don asked angrily, pushing past the younger man and heading towards the doorway. The brilliant mathematician looked spellbound. Don cursed under his breath and rapped on the door softly. There was no answer. He tried again. Still nothing. His headache spread into an already sore back and shoulders. The man thought he might crumble apart at any moment. Don stole one more look at Charlie, who had stopped pacing and was now staring at him expectantly, and entered the room.

"Lily?" Don steeled himself for the worst, squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them. The lovely amber-gold of the sun was making its way gently into the darkened room, playing softly off of the oblong shapes in the emerald bedcover. The slightly paler walls echoed the color calmly, cooling the setting of the chamber and offering it a tranquil air.

The young woman was standing in front of the warm wood of the oak bookshelf, her eyes not quite seeing what was in front of her. The myriad of colors that the covers exuded was a sharp contrast to her pale features and limp coffee-brown hair. It hung loosely to her mid-back, the locks curling slightly as they reached out.

Upon hearing her name, Lily lifted her chocolate colored eyes ever so slightly, so as to stare at Don's shoes. She looked like a lost naiad in a cold forest, with the light coming across her face, turning her slight form into a study of shadows and glow. There was an emptiness within her very aura that struck the FBI agent immediately, and he involuntarily choked on the air her was breathing. He knew that look.

He wouldn't come out of the garage and go see her. The heartless little brat was too wrapped up in his numbers to say goodbye to his dying mother. Don shoved open the door to the dusty little structure and made his way towards his younger brother who was feverishly scrawling numbers across one of his blackboards. Unable to control himself, he took hold of Charlie's shirt and tugged- hard. The young man went flying across the small space and smacked against the adjacent wall, looking stunned.

"Damn-it Charlie! Our mother is struggling for every damn breath and you're done here with your…your…" The younger man- a child- looked up slowly, his hands bracing himself against the wall he had been slammed against, gasping for air.

That look.

The Man who had stood by and watched as bleeding and wrecked bodies were led past him without so much as flinching was struck to the bone. He stood there, absolutely stunned, his dark eyes locked on hers.

"Don?" Charlie broke the spell, coming up behind his brother, hands stuffed in his pockets. The curly-haired man looked nervous as he took quick appraisal of his brother's rigid form. Slowly, Don broke himself away from the gaze of the broken figure in front of him and tried to focus on his brother. The shorter man was wearing a forest-green tee-shirt with the words, "CalSci" printed on it, and faded blue jeans.

"My book? Can I have my book?" The slight worry he might have felt at his brother's hesitation was forgotten in favor of his math. That was how it had always been. Unless he knew that there was a dilemma, Charlie was oblivious, and even then, he would refuse to let himself believe there was an issue until it looked him in the face. He ran from trouble- he always had. Charlie only liked certain problems. Math problems. For a moment, the image of the garage was superimposed over the older man's eyes, and the anger of the moment came back to him.

"Damn-it Charlie, the girl just watched her mother die! She just had her whole world shredded into pieces, and she has no damn idea why! And the bastard who shot her has friends who are very probably still out there, and very possibly interested in putting a bullet through her head! And all you care about it your-" Don shook his head, the agony in his temples having spread through his brain. It felt as though his mind might split apart at any moment. He hadn't meant- for both Charlie and Lily's sake- to say what he had, but the words had spilled out as easily as his brother's numbers.

The younger man's countenance changed from impatience to fear, and from there, to pain. He backed up slowly, away from his brother, past the threshold and against the wall of the corridor. Charlie's hands were shaking, and he shook his head ever so slightly.

"I'm…sorry, I didn't, I didn't-" The mathematician turned around and raced down the hall, out of sight. Don stood for a moment, and watched him, wondering if he would regret his harsh words in the near future. With another breath, he turned back to the girl, who hadn't moved throughout the whole exchange.

"Do you want to come down to eat something?" he asked, trying as hard as he could to keep his voice even. It was pain and fear in those eyes, but more then that- a sense of such confusion, loss, the inability to account for anything, including her own emotions. She couldn't control them, couldn't understand, and couldn't deal with her own mind. And the pain of that, without one she loved to comfort her, to help her get back on the wandering path of her mind, was horrific in its intensity. She just couldn't exist, because she was stranded in the oblivion of her own making, and it was very close to pushing over her the edge. Of what, it was impossible to fathom.

Lily shook her head slowly, precisely, as though it were a move in a dance, and moved her gaze back to the floor. Don couldn't bring himself to say anything else, so he nodded and turned, closing the door behind him.

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"Charlie is in his garage." Alan looked at Don expectantly as his son entered the kitchen slowly. The younger man couldn't remember how he had made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, but now he was standing at the loaded table, vaguely wondering if he could bring himself to eat the decadent food set before him.

"Oh."

"Oh?" Alan raised his eyebrows and studied his son's eyes, disturbed at what he found in them. Don shrugged and collapsed into the nearest chair. He wanted to go back to the office. The empty tranquility that it would bring appealed to his raw senses.

"I yelled at him."

"You yelled at him."

"Yes, that's what I said!" the FBI agent's temper snapped again, and he lashed out at his father's innocent words. There was a long, unpleasant pause. Finally, Don spoke into the silence.

"I'm sorry, It's been..." he trailed off and buried his head in his hands. "Oh God, I can't even look at her, and the case is a complete dead end. There's nothing there for us- no trail, no suspects, and no leads. The CIA took everything, and yet they're still holding us responsible for it. And-"

"No equation?" Alan's shock at his son's outburst settled quickly, and he set a bottle of aspirin down in front of him with a glass of water, before taking a seat across the table.

"Charlie probably won't go near this thing with a ten foot pole. I just… I don't know what happened. He wanted a book or something in the guest room, and was distracted and didn't seem to notice anything but whatever it was that he-"

"As usual." Alan chimed in. Don's eyes were stinging, and he gulped down the tablets in front of him.

"He was just being- Charlie, I know, but he was being so insensitive, and I've had one hell of a day. I just let loose on him. I haven't done that since…probably since mother-" he didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

"He'll get over it." Alan said decidedly, picking up a bowl of broccoli and dishing himself some before handing it over to Don's limp hands, which were still propped on the table. He fumbled the bowl and quickly caught it, wondering how he'd gotten off so easily. "But you should go talk to him." His father amended.

"And apologize for being angry because he was being so damn insensitive?"

"Language, Don."

"Sorry dad, but he's got to learn this lesson eventually. Not everyone in the world is going to appreciate the fact that he's too busy tossing numbers around to pay attention to someone besides himself."

"I know, I've had that conversation with him many times. But he can't change who he is Don, nor can we, and frankly, given a choice, I wouldn't in a million years. I love your brother, his mind, and lack of thereof. And I know that you do too. We have to be patient."

"We've been patient for almost thirty years!" The younger man didn't know why he was carrying on the argument, but he couldn't help himself. He was tired of failing, tired of feeling as though everyone was beating on him. Tired of feeling insufficient.

"Don, if I had to wait for eternity, I would." Alan's eyes were serene as he began cutting up a piece of salmon that was on his plate, but his son could see layers of pain and fatigue behind them. He suddenly felt guilty for his sharp remarks. Slowly, he pushed himself away from the table.

"Alright, I'll talk to him."

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Charlie laid his hand gently across the calculations on his blackboard, his hand gripping a piece of chalk for dear life. His dark eyes scanned his work, a sense of both adoration and loathing in their glittering focus. With a sigh, he took a step away from it and ran his other hand through his dark locks, closing his eyes. They were heavy from lack of sleep. But that wasn't right- he had gone to bed early the night before. No- he had been up late struggling with- something. His mind vaguely pictured himself scrawling over blackboards in his classroom until well past midnight. He had been home but- he couldn't handle…it.

So he went back to school. But then he had slept in- his first class hadn't been until- no, that wasn't true. He had gone in early to help Larry with something. But the night before- the night before was the same. Charlie shook his head vigorously, as though trying to throw off the sleepiness that had overtaken him, but it was fruitless.

In fact, his whole body felt weak, his lithe limbs sagging even as he struggled to continue his work. P verses NP again. The ironic duality of his desire and repulsion to continue the elusive problem nagged at his mind, but he forced the feelings away. There was only the numbers. Only the numbers. Numbers didn't lie or bleed. Numbers didn't die.

As the calculations flowed from his mind, through his fingers and out onto the boards, Charlie relaxed and fell into his trance-like state of thought. It came as a jolt to him when everything stopped. He was in the middle of writing a "2" and his arm just… halted. He stumbled forward, trying to collect himself, yet unable to catch the strand of thought that he had lost. Raising his hand to the board again to write something, he found that nothing would come. When he drew back into his mind, looking for more numbers to spill out onto the board, he found it blank. The young man took a step back, wondering if taking a larger look at his work would help clear his head. Immediately, he stumbled and fell ungracefully backwards, landing on his back and staring up at the wood-planked ceiling.

Charlie blinked for a moment in surprise, wondering how he had seemed to bridge the space-gap between standing and lying positions without a time interval following suit. He was also somewhat curious to know why his blackboards were spinning above him. That didn't usually happen. Slowly, he pushed himself off of his back and made to stand up again, but the world continued to tilt around him, and he didn't want to end up back where he had found himself moments again. Resting on his elbows, Charlie again stared up at his work, trying to read the numbers even as they bounced up and down as though on a boat in a stormy sea.

Don's eyes, full of disgust and loathing. He didn't understand. He didn't understand that…

Her eyes. That look. He hadn't meant to look. He just wanted the book on the theoretic properties of dark matter. Larry had said that he'd find some interesting physical properties that contradicted math laws. He said it would be easier to- But those eyes. He knew those eyes. It was like looking into a sadistic mirror.

The walls of the garage began to sink inwards, the coziness of being surrounded by his own work was lost on Charlie in favor of a cold fear that came over the mathematician. He couldn't keep it out anymore. It had penetrated his numbers- his last defense again the cruel world around him. It was taking him in, closing him in, locking him in a section in his mind that he couldn't bring himself to visit. A place that housed images of the past, images that only came in nightmares, and left him sweating and screaming.

Charlie forced himself up, a look of sheer terror on his face as he bolted out of the garage, the chalk flying from his numb hands. The wall that he had held up so long that partitioned his mind away from…certain things, was wearing awfully thin. For the first time in a long while, the young man found himself sprinting with all the power that he could muster in his legs- across the dark lawn, up towards the lighted beacon of his house. The ground wasn't steady- it swayed under his frantic feet, and he stumbled terribly, nearly losing his balance several times. His breath came in quick gasps but he forced himself to continue, stuffing a fist in his mouth to keep away the cries that were threatening to escape.

Above him, the sky wound itself into a tapestry of hoary and black, the silvery stands of starlight frisking through the darkness that had overtaken the sky and forced it into submission. Charlie saw none of it. He was too busy watching- watching Don scream at him, over and over again, seeing those eyes. That look. Seeing himself. He stepped through an active sprinkler, soaking himself to the bone, but he couldn't feel it. There was only the agony, the torture of being pushed to the edge, and dangled over it. It was too much, too much.

Charlie burst through the back door and up the stairs, across the hall towards his bedroom. He just needed to get inside, to pull open the covers of his bed and lie down and let the darkness sooth it away. He would just sit still and let the pain end. Why was his shell, after being hardened through the years, suddenly cracking into nothing? Those eyes. That look. It seemed like forever, but in truth, it took the mathematician only a few minutes to make his way up to the intended destination.

He got to the (now firmly closed) door to his room and had his hand on the handle when he heard the noise. It was soft, barely discernable, even in the silent hallway, but it was enough to give the mathematician pause. He froze with his fingers on the knob, and listened, schooling his breath to settle into the silence. It happened again. A sob. No, not a sob. A gasping, lung-wracking, shuddering breath. A young man, the tears rushing down his cheeks as the chalk began to disintegrate in his salty hands. That look.

Charlie slowly pulled himself away from the door, almost detached from his own movements. He strode across the floor that separated his room from the spare, listening, just barely hearing it physically, but the same sound emotionally screaming across his psyche. He reached the barrier of a closed door, seeing right through it. Seeing the shaking, the shivering. He knew the frigid ice that was settling around its inhabitant. He knew those eyes. He knew that look.

Shaking, a chalk-stained hand reached out and touched the door, running its fingers down the wood-grained surface.