Changes and Choices
Disclaimer: CBS owns Numb3rs. I don't.
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I was slightly surprised by the number of you who were concerned about Terry's demise. While I do write angst, I'm not that great with killing characters off. So while currently precarious, Terry's health does not necessary mean that there will be a funeral in the near future.
In his line of work, Don was familiar with the FBI's handbook approach to delivering bad news to family members. This painful conversation would be done face-to-face. The agent would first ask the family to sit down in a private room. A few other colleagues might accompany him or her, but they would stay unobtrusive. The agent would keep his or her voice low and calm, breaking the news as gently as possible. Human contact was suggested as a way to prevent any violent outbursts. If a family member became aggressive, the agent would have to stay composed to defuse the situation. Any and all questions were to be answered truthfully to the best of the agent's ability. After delivering the news, the agents were expected to withdraw from the room and allow the family to grieve in private.
A part of him was glad that he was alone in the office and that the news was coming from someone three time zones away. The fact it wasn't Merrick personally delivering the news to him meant that Terry was alive. 'For now,' a traitorous part of his mind whispered fearfully.
"She was injured quite seriously tonight," said Lewis quietly. "I have been asked to contact her next-of-kin."
Don swallowed, "I…" Speaking seemed beyond his abilities as cold fear settled into his chest, constricting his throat and making it hard to breathe. He barely heard Lewis' next sentence, "I'm very sorry that this has happened. But I assure you that the man who did this to her is under arrest."
"I'm not her…" he trailed off. Terry had never told him that she had him listed as next-of-kin. He had always assumed she had her mother or some other distant relative as her emergency contact. Why didn't she tell him?
"Yes?" Lewis sounded puzzled. When he didn't answer immediately, she became concerned, fearing that he had gone into shock. "Agent Eppes," she said gently in a probing tone, "Are you still there?"
"Yes," he replied unsteadily. He forced himself to take a slow deep breath and think before he asked, "What happened?"
"I…" Lewis faltered for a moment before answering gently, "I don't think this would be best discussed over the phone. She was taken into surgery about an hour ago. The doctors…" She paused for a moment, "I think it might be best if you come see her."
"I understand," he replied and he did. Don had been an agent long enough to understand what was not being said. He had been right in suspecting that Terry's behavior before she left Los Angeles meant that she was not going to Quantico to just teach at the Academy. Don knew she wasn't lying about the classes — he didn't remember a time when she had lied to him — but she was helping the Bureau with another case, something that she couldn't talk about with him. Lewis had essentially implied that Terry was, possibly, mortally wounded. The doctors did not think her chances of survival were good. Don firmly shoved that thought away, refusing to even think about that possibility. Terry was a fighter; she would pull through. She had to.
"I've already called Agent Merrick and he's agreed to give you emergency leave until next Tuesday," the woman's voice pulled Don away from his dark thoughts. "Would you like me to book a morning flight for you?" A part of Don's mind wondered if that was protocol, but a larger part of him was much too worried to fuss over that fact. He barely heard himself accept Lewis' kind offer, asking her to call him on his cell phone with the flight information, and end the phone call. Everything seemed to be a haze. Don was half-expecting to wake up suddenly from this nightmare and find himself dozing at his desk, worn-out by the work hours he had put in this week. But he knew it wasn't a nightmare.
Don stood up slowly from his chair, each movement feeling like lead. Suddenly, finishing the report wasn't important anymore. He glanced at Terry's desk, his vision going slightly blurry and a constriction building up in his chest. He quickly wiped his hand across his eyes and put on his coat. After following the usual procedures to secure the office and waving good night to the evening security guard, he went down to the garage.
As he drove through the evening rush hour traffic, the part of him that was trained as a law enforcer remarked that shock was beginning to settle in and that driving would not be recommended in his current state of mind. He ignored it. However, Don didn't disregard the inner voice that told him to go to his family. He pulled into the driveway of his childhood home and got out. His father was out in the front yard, weeding the flower beds.
"Hi, Donnie," said Alan cheerfully before he saw his eldest son's face. The elder man stood up so quickly that his knees protested. "What happened?"
"Dad," Don swallowed, "I just — Terry — I need to fly out to see her."
"Okay," Alan didn't ask questions. Don had mentioned Terry's temporary departure for Quantico a few weeks ago. Given the history between the two of them and the secretive phone calls Don kept receiving ever since she left, Alan was fairly sure that the two's work relationship was taking a more personal turn. However, a father had to know when to press and when to just let things take their course, so Alan hadn't said a word about the phone calls or a possible relationship. But if something had happened to Terry — and the older man knew something did, just by the look on Don's face— Alan knew that his son would be incapable of answering any of his questions. Instead, the man quickly put a supporting hand under his son's elbow and guided him into the house. "Let's go inside."
"Charlie!" called Alan, once the two of them were inside the house, "Charlie!"
"What, Dad?" Charlie came down the stairs, his uncapped red pen still in one hand and a half-graded piece of homework in the other. "Hi Don." Then he took a close look at his brother, "Hey Don, are you all right?" Charlie frowned in concern.
"Charlie —" began Alan, but he was interrupted by a concerned feminine voice.
"Mr. Eppes, what's wrong?" Amita appeared right behind Charlie on the stairs, a stack of papers in one hand. It appeared that the two of them had been in the middle of grading work for one of Charlie's classes.
"Charlie," Alan pretended he hadn't been interrupted, "could you get one of the suitcases from the closet and pack it for Don? You know where he keeps his change of clothes."
"Sure," the mathematician was getting rather nervous, "What's going on?"
"Terry's hurt," said Don quietly. Charlie and Amita both paled. Only Alan noticed how Amita's free hand had found its way to rest on his younger son's shoulder.
"Oh… What —"
"I don't know, Charlie," Don was beginning to shake. He never broke down, not once, not in front of others. Alan quickly settled his elder son down on the living room couch and gave Charlie a look that told him to go and pack that bag. With a worried look, Charlie allowed Amita to pull him back upstairs, leaving the two men alone.
"Don, she's going to be all right." Alan tried his best to soothe his son's fears, "You and I both know that she's a fighter."
"Dad, I…" Don's voice broke, his shoulders slumping, "I'm so scared."
"Oh Donnie," Alan sighed and he hugged his son briefly. "The doctors are doing their best and she'll pull through this. You can't tell me she's never been hurt before."
"Not like this," was the whispered reply. "Dad, I wasn't there. I don't know what happened. I couldn't pro — … This is why… This is why I'm afraid to love her. If she — If anything happened to her in the field… What if she doesn't…"
"Don," Alan shook his son gently, "You can't make her decisions for her. You can try to protect her, but she's an officer of the law, just like you are. Both of you are going to take risks every day. You're not always going to be able to protect her. I worry about you and so does Charlie, and so did your mom. But we still love you, even though we can't always protect you."
"I'm just so afraid that we'll never have —"
"Donnie, don't you dare think like that," said Alan sternly. "The two of you are going to get a chance to talk about this. But, a word of advice, son, make sure you're sure of what you want and you're ready to give her what she wants before you two talk, all right?"
"I can't think," said Don agitatedly. Alan nodded his head, "I know. But as soon as you can, think it over, all right?"
"What if she thinks I'm doing this because I'm insecure?" asked Don. Alan resisted the urge to sigh; while his sons were geniuses in their respective fields, sometimes they could be very slow with romantic matters. "If Terry knows you as well as I think she does, she'll know that you're talking about this with her because you care about her, you love her."
"I just —" Don ran a hand through his hair, "what if she's not ready to talk about it? I mean, she's just been seriously injured and I want to talk about a relationship with her?"
"Just let her know that you're ready to talk about it when she's ready," advised Alan, "And be honest — not that you need to worry about that." He squeezed his son's shoulder and stood up. "Now, when is your flight?"
"I don't know yet," he replied. "They're supposed to call me when the flight's booked."
"All right… She's still in surgery, right?" Don nodded silently, his thoughts elsewhere. "Don. Don," Alan brought his son's attention to focus on him, "she wouldn't want you starving yourself. You're going to be doing a lot of traveling in the next twenty-four hours. You need to eat. Now help me make dinner, okay?" Don nodded again and stood up slowly, feeling every bit of his thirty-six years. It took a few seconds before his eyes caught sight of Charlie, standing quietly in the doorway, looking scared and worried.
"Don," said Charlie softly, his facial expression conveying all of his emotions. There was fear and confusion in his younger brother's eyes, the emotions of someone who both understood the situation and failed to comprehend its occurrence. This time, there were no panicky equations or mathematical statistics falling from Charlie's lips. Perhaps he knew Don's state of mind, or he was just too scared to think about the numbers and what they meant. The part of Don who was always on Big Brother duty worried that Charlie might retreat into P vs. NP again. After all, the sniper case had only been a few months ago and with Terry's shooting so close on its heels… who knew how the family's mathematical genius would react?
"I know, Buddy," said Don quietly. "I know." Charlie nodded.
"You boys want to help me cook dinner?" asked Alan. Amita appeared on the stairs, her knapsack slung over her shoulder and a few files in her arms.
"Amita, how about you stay for dinner?" offered Alan. "It won't be a problem to set another place at the table." The young woman shook her head, her dark curls bouncing.
"No, I shouldn't intrude right now," she glanced worriedly at Don, "especially with Terry…" Amita cleared her throat. "It's very kind of you to offer, Mr. Eppes, but I don't think tonight's a good night."
"It's all right, Amita," Don spoke up. 'Charlie looks like he could use the support you provide him,' he thought, but said to her, "You wouldn't be intruding if you stayed."
She glanced at Charlie and then at Alan before she nodded slowly, "All right. Do you need me to help with dinner?"
"Sure," Alan replied quickly. The meal was prepared in near silence, though both Alan and Amita tried their best to distract the brothers from their brooding. Don kept glancing at his cell phone, willing it to ring with good news, while Charlie fidgeted nervously as he stirred the tomato sauce.
Dinner was hardly a lively affair either. Don barely tasted his father's spaghetti sauce, uncertainty gnawing at him. All of the constant reassurances he told himself failed to calm his nerves. Charlie, who counted Terry as one of his friends, was struggling not to calculate the odds for her survival. He didn't want to know. Alan spent more time watching his sons' behavior than eating his dinner, knowing that if Terry didn't make it, his sons would be thrown into their own private hells. He hated feeling helpless, unable to protect his sons from life's cruel twists and turns. Amita ate very little; it wasn't that she didn't like Alan's cooking — it was wonderful — but she was scared. She had never had anyone close to her die before; Amita prayed fervently that Terry would not be the first.
After dinner, Charlie and Amita cleared the dinner table before she challenged him to a game of chess. Even though she was a novice player, Amita still hoped to keep Charlie distracted from his thoughts. Alan and Don were doing the dishes in the kitchen when Don's cell phone rang. He hastily wiped his soapy hands on a dish towel and answered it.
"Agent Lake's out of surgery and in the ICU right now," Lewis' voice sounded vastly more relieved than from three hours before. "The surgeon was cautiously optimistic. The next forty-eight hours are the most crucial. Your flight leaves tomorrow at 6:30 am on Continental Airline. One of your agents, David Sinclair, has already volunteered to deliver the ticket and boarding pass to your home once they're ready."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," she replied in her soft voice. "Oh, and sir, it would make things a lot easier if you didn't bring your firearm with you. Is that all right with you?"
"Sure." Don had already planned to leave his weapon in Los Angeles. At the moment, he did not really want to fill out the paperwork necessary to carry a weapon through airport security and onto an aircraft. All he wanted was to get to Terry's bedside as soon as possible.
"All right, I'll be waiting for you right outside the gate when you arrive. I assume you want to see her as soon as possible?"
"Yes," he then added as an afterthought, "please."
"That's not a problem. I'll see you tomorrow then." They exchanged pleasantries before Don hung up. A small weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. Terry was out of surgery and still alive. He clung to that fact like a lifeline.
"How is she?" asked Charlie, standing in the doorway. Amita stood behind him, just as anxious for news. Apparently Charlie had ditched the chess match as soon as the phone had rung. Don smiled weakly at his younger brother, "She's in the ICU now. The doctors think she has a good chance." Those weren't Lewis' precise words, but Don didn't want to leave Charlie in turmoil. "I'm flying out tomorrow at 6:30." Alan nodded as he finished up the last of the dishes and wiped his hands.
"Then you'll need to get some sleep," he advised his elder son. Don nodded in agreement. Even though he knew he would get little to no rest tonight, not with Terry hurt, Don didn't want to cause his father any more worry than he already was. However, being a father, Alan knew full well what was going through his son's mind, but he didn't say a word. If Don wanted to keep him from fretting, Alan would pretend not to fret.
Amita glanced at her watch and sighed, "My roommate will freak out if I don't get home soon." She picked up her knapsack and slung it over her shoulder before she looked at Alan, "Thank you for dinner Mr. Eppes."
"Thank you for staying," he replied, giving his younger son a significant look which the mathematician missed. Amita missed it too as she had turned to her thesis adviser and said gently, "Charlie, I'll see you tomorrow." She then turned to Don. It was difficult knowing what to say to him, but she finally decided to tell him, "Don…she's going to be okay." He nodded, swallowing hard. Charlie walked her to the door, handing Amita her coat, and watched her drive away while Alan escorted Don upstairs.
"Try to sleep, all right?" Alan told his son before he shut the door firmly behind him. Don sighed as he looked around his childhood bedroom. He knew his father would be up in a half an hour to check on him and to see if he was asleep or not. The bed did look inviting, Don conceded, and he did need to convince his father that he was resting, even if he wasn't. So Don changed out of his suit and climbed into bed. Physically exhausted from two fast-paced manhunts and emotionally drained from the events of the last few hours, Don was asleep within minutes.
Alan forcibly sent Charlie up to bed a little while after Amita had left. Charlie had spent a few minutes pacing nervously in the living room before Alan couldn't stand it anymore. He had sat by his younger son's bedside until the young man had dozed off. Then Alan had peeked into Don's room to find that his eldest son was sleeping uneasily. The father whispered some soothing reassurances until Don had settled down. Now he was the only one awake in the house. Alan picked up his latest reading project and sat down in the living room, hoping guiltily to distract himself from reality. It was nearly nine o'clock when the doorbell rang. Alan cautiously went to answer it. After all, this was Los Angeles. He was surprised when he saw the person standing on the front porch.
"David," greeted Alan, opening the door and stepping out of the way, "please, come in."
"Thank you Mr. Eppes," David Sinclair replied as he entered the foyer. "Can I speak with Don?"
"He's asleep," said Alan with a sigh.
"Oh, then there's no need to wake him," David handed Alan an envelope, "Could you just give this to him when he wakes up? It has all his flight information in it."
"Sure, that won't be a problem."
"Um, Mr. Eppes," David glanced at the floor, unable to meet the elder man's eyes, "do you know anything about Terry…?"
"Yeah, Don said that she's out of surgery and in the ICU right now." David sighed quietly with relief, "So she's going to be okay?"
"We hope so," replied Alan honestly.
"Good," David nodded, his hand already reaching for the doorknob. "I should go. Have a good evening, Mr. Eppes."
"You too David," Alan replied as David stepped through the front door and went down the porch steps. He sighed as he locked the door. Alan had stared at the same page in the book for ten minutes before David had arrived. He gave up on reading and decided to retire for the night. Alan left the envelope under Don's cell phone and went upstairs to bed, remembering to set his alarm clock for four in the morning.
Don was gently woken up a few hours later by his father who made him a quick snack and filled him in on David's visit. Alan reminded his son to remember to eat lunch and get some sleep on the plane. Don nodded distractedly as he picked up his carry-on with his spare change of clothes and checked to make sure that he had everything he needed. Alan squeezed his son's shoulder briefly in support before Don got into the airport taxi Alan had called. Alan did not want his son driving when he was tired.
Thankfully, the airport was nearly deserted at that hour of the morning and check-in produced no hassles for Don. The flight was on time and uneventful. He was seated next to a quiet college student on her way home for the summer who did not engage him in any lasting conversation. Perhaps she sensed his worry and exhaustion. More likely it was because she spent the majority of the flight asleep. Fatigue allowed him to nap during the three and a half hour flight.
As soon as he disembarked from the plane, Don began to search for Agent Lewis. He had found that, over the years, he was usually able to discern law enforcement personnel from civilians. Officers of the law were always, on some level, highly aware of their surroundings and always on the lookout for trouble. The majority of the time, they had an air of authority or reassurance, something that came with the job. Most of Don's female colleagues possessed strong personalities, even though a few of them were usually soft-spoken. It wasn't always that difficult to pick them out in a crowd.
"Don Eppes?" asked a business-suited woman standing right next to him. Don turned and studied the FBI agent who had spoken to him. She was petite with an air of authority that added a few inches to her bearing. Her shoulder-length brown hair was kept out of her eyes by a ponytail that rested lightly against the back of her navy blue business suit.
"Jasmine Lewis?" he asked in reply. She nodded, "I'm sorry that we're meeting under these circumstances." Don shook her hand. She gestured toward the airport exit.
"You'll be glad to hear that Agent Lake was moved into Recovery this morning," said Lewis, her smaller physique not hindering her ability to keep up with Don's longer strides as the two of them walked toward the airport exit.
"That's good," Don managed. "Is there anything else?"
"Even though she is out of the ICU, her condition is still critical, but stable," Lewis glanced at him, choosing her words carefully. "Things can still go either way." Don nodded.
Lewis didn't say much as she drove him to Benson Memorial Hospital where Terry was. Don watched the places pass by him in silence, recalling decade-old memories and comparing them to what he saw now. He remembered that Benson Memorial was one of the closest hospitals to FBI Headquarters and the Academy. When one of his classmates had taken a hard fall during a field exercise, he had been sent there for medical treatment. Lewis pulled into the parking lot and led him to the fifth floor of the hospital, going directly to the nurses' station for information.
"We're here to see Terry Lake," said Lewis. Don was standing nervously behind her. Hospitals always made him feel nauseous now. They reminded him of friends who had been injured in the field and coworkers who hadn't made it after a gunfight. They reminded him of the weeks his mother had struggled to battle against the cancer that took her life. And now, Terry was in one of these rooms, dependent on solemn-faced doctors and their medical equipment to survive.
"And you would be?" the nurse asked suspiciously, looking between the two people standing in front of her.
"Agents Jasmine Lewis and Don Eppes, FBI," replied Lewis calmly, pulling out her badge. Don did the same. The nurse took a good look at the identifications and nodded, "She's in room 306, down the hall, on your right. There's a guard outside her door. Dr. Meeker just checked on her. There's been no change in her condition."
It took all of his control not to go running down the corridor to her room as Jasmine thanked the nurse. Instead, Don walked as steadily as he could, his stomach rolling unpleasantly. Lewis walked by his side, still keeping her silence. Their footsteps echoed against the linoleum floor. The small part of Don that focused solely on logic wondered what Terry had been doing for the past month that would warrant a guard to be stationed in front of her door. But the majority of him was praying that she wasn't hurt as badly as he had been led to believe. He wouldn't mind if this was some cruel hoax, as long as she was all right and unharmed. As the nurse had said, a suited man was sitting outside of her door, reading a book. He stood up at Don's approach, barring his way.
"He's with me," she said, "Agent Lake's listed next-of-kin." The guard nodded and sat back down in his chair. "I'll be out here," she told him gently, knowing his wish to be alone with Terry. Don took a deep breath before he went in, steeling himself for what he was going to see.
He wasn't prepared.