Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or any character therein. Any character appearing in this story is fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: I hope I did better this time. Thanks for the reviews and help.And I promise to not get upset by reviews- if you promise to not get upset if I rewrite a chapter or make corrections. : ) First section the same- second part different. Oh, and a very nice lady from a traumatic brain injury place explained to me the therapies our favorite agent will need to help regain his skills and memories- after calling places for a week, she was the only person to call back- what a sweet person.

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The sun was working hard to blister the day, the heat thickly swirling. Outside the courthouse, Megan wiped the moisture from her eyes as she waited impatiently for the woman to appear. She was across the street leaning on the hood of a car and had her eyes shielded from the glare that was basking in the mid-day sun. When she saw the object of her impromptu stakeout exit the doors, she dodged traffic to cross the street and approach her.

Melinda saw her as she walked down the last step to the sidewalk. Pulling out a pair of sunglasses, she held them in her hand as she stood waiting for Megan to arrive.

"Dr. Thompson, may I have a word with you?"

Smiling sweetly, Melinda crossed her arms and shifted her hips in a relaxed pose. "I don't know, Agent Reeves, I had to leave my lawyer inside and want to be careful that I'm not tricked into saying something I shouldn't."

Megan wanted to laugh. She was sure the woman had known what she was going to say and do in that interrogation room, long before she hired a lawyer. "I highly doubt there's anything you've ever been tricked into saying- or doing."

Melinda's smile spread further across her face. Recognizing an opponent of equal worth, she asked pointedly, "What do you want?"

"I just came here to tell you this isn't over. You may have your freedom for now, but we haven't closed the case. There's something out there, some piece of evidence we haven't found yet; and when we do, I am going to personally place you in handcuffs and haul your ass away to a permanent cell."

Purposefully putting on her sunglasses, Melinda tossed her hair behind her, shaking the smile from her face. She pulled back her lips in a threatening grimace, her front incisors biting into her lips. "Well, you are right about one thing, Agent Reeves, this is far from over. After all, I still don't have my son." She enjoyed watching the worry lines that began to dig into Megan's brow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some friends I need to see." She lithely stepped around her adversary and walked confidently away, leaving behind a concerned and fuming agent.

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Charlie lay on his stomach in his living room surrounded by thrown-about papers and books; to the average viewer he would appear to be swamped within an unmitigated mess- but Charlie was far from average and took in his random surroundings as a singular paradoxical mound, an integral comparison of how invincible he believed his brother to be, and how weak and submissive the institute had described him. He finished the last of the evaluations that Dr. Wang had instructed his staff to perform on Don, then began jotting quick notes on the exposed page of the notebook before him, the slant of his writing corresponding to whatever angle he happened to have twisted his body, so that the lines of words seemed to spiral inwards like a nautilus shell.

Climbing onto his knees and then leaning back on his haunches, Charlie yanked an old, worn journal from amongst the newer-printed forms splayed about him, and then he swiftly flipped its pages to a clean sheet slightly crinkled in the back. Grabbing a new pen from within the tight curls of his head, he began writing quick summaries of what he had read in the reports, comparing them neatly to his personal beliefs about the survival capabilities of his brother; using the pen as an extension of his own determination, he wrote his personal reflections with wider and stronger and deeper strokes than he wrote the opinions that he had copied from the institute's staff reports, as if the heavier pressure on the page would will his prognoses into reality.

Though Dr. Wang had summarized the reports with his belief that Don could be completely rehabilitated, it was clear that the rest of the staff had set limitations upon that recovery. Charlie's own perusal of the reports and opinions of the institute's staff led him to the conclusion that they did not have enough data to make their projections; unlike Charlie, they had not taken into consideration Don himself and the strong, determined personality that he had- the triumph of will which Charlie believed would tear their inhibited speculations to shreds.

This last consideration Charlie noted in the journal, and then he flipped back through his previous entries; they were long and varied. After their mother had died and his brother had come back into his life, Charlie had been scribbling weekly transcripts within the journal's pages, chronicling his interactions with Don and observations about his brother's behavior when the latter was at the office, in the field, and at play. Charlie had always had a somewhat obsessive curiosity about his brother, who seemed to contradict everything that comprised Charlie himself; within the scope of their blood relationship, the differences between them were anomalies that he was continually trying to resolve but had yet to find an algorithm that would do so successfully. Charlie closed the journal and hefted it in his hands, knowing that on the scales upon which balanced on one side Don's current defeat, and on the other side his prospects for victory, the weight of the information within its pages would tip the scales in his brother's favor.

Looking at the time, Charlie snatched all the papers up from the floor and slid them neatly into a binder. He had carefully punched-holed each sheet the previous day and labeled several of the binder's sections, so that the data the institute had given them would be easily accessible to both himself and his father; the labels for this first binder included the titles: evaluations, medications, prognoses, and physicians/therapists. Charlie had bought more of the adjustable holders so that it would be easy to add and separate new data as it was gathered, which would include what the therapists told them and what he decided to research on his own.

Picking up the binder and his collection of recently-purchased books on traumatic brain injury and general psychology, Charlie carried them to the buffet in the dining room and placed them on its empty top. When his father went to stay with Don at the institute, he had cleared it so that they could keep all of his brother's information in one location; though maintaining the myriad of facts in Don's rehabilitation within the neatly constricted place was not necessary for Charlie to keep abreast of his brother's progress, it was something that Charlie was aware his father would need, as the elder Eppes was an engineer who was most comfortable with strict order.

Walking into the kitchen, he checked that the refrigerator was full of the strawberry adult supplements his father had told him Don favored; there was just enough to last four days, as it was Friday and when the weekend was over Don was to start eating soft, solid food again. Charlie shut the fridge and started checking the house for any errant pictures of his mother, discovering one tiny portrait hidden on a shelf, long forgotten; he ran his finger over his mother's face, clearing a path through the dust that cloaked it, wondering if Don's mind would work the same way- if Charlie's presence would be able to cleanse the fabrications that clouded and obscured his brother's perception of his own existence.

A sudden wave of powerlessness hurtled through Charlie, making his legs bend beneath him even as he willed himself to stand, clutching his mother's photo briefly to his heart; he prayed silently, apologizing for his weakness during his mother's suffering and pleading to God that for once he could be imbued with Don's strength, just long enough to shoulder his brother's physical and mental burdens during his time of suffering. He permitted a solitary tear to leave his eye before he shook his head, obstinately refusing to succumb to the desire- the need- to flee to the garage and the shelter his numbers offered him.

Locking the picture in a drawer, he ran his fingers over the new stacks of DVDs next to the television and then walked to the stairs, climbing them two at a time, ignoring the extra handrails newly pounded into the wall, his focus and determination returned. Entering Don's bedroom, he checked that the sheets were fitted correctly and considerately fluffed the pile of pillows, absentmindedly walking about the room. The bedroom was quite bare- just the bed, a nightstand, a recliner pressed in the corner, and a dresser with mirror. The rehab nurse had explained to him that they should try to have uncluttered rooms, so that Don would not have any problems maneuvering. Though it appeared that he would not need physical therapy for his gross motor skills- he could correctly use his limbs and did not appear unbalanced- until the occupational therapist completed his own evaluation on Don's first visit, it would be best to be overcautious. Besides, she warned, his brother could easily trip and not be able to reflexively grasp a piece of furniture to stop his fall; another blow to the head could cause more damage to his brain at a time that it should be healing, and further aggravate his current condition.

At her suggestion, Charlie also had bars installed along the walls in the bathroom, though his father had said Don's day nurse was adamant that they not leave him alone when in the shower or tub; the new railings along the stairs were an extra precaution, too- Don would need to be escorted going up and down them, just in case. When she left Charlie, the nurse had added that any other assistive tools Don might need would be listed by the occupational therapist during his first visit the following week, that maintaining neatness and organization in the house was the best thing that he could do at this time- and keeping an eye on his brother, of course.

Charlie had followed her directions, pushing the furniture in the living room against the walls, including the coffee table, which was shoved into the corner. In the bathroom, he had taped down the rug even though it was already non-skid, and replaced the hard four-cornered hamper with a cloth one that hung on the back of the door. He had lined the tub with a plastic cushion that stretched up to the edges of porcelain. In Don's room, he had removed the ottoman, wastebasket, throw rugs, and sports equipment that had somehow ended up haphazardly abandoned about the room, storing the last set of items in Don's closet. Having filled the dresser's drawers with basic clothing and toiletries for Don, the only non-necessity in the room was an unframed picture of Don, Charlie, and Alan with their arms around each other, taped to the upper corner of the mirror.

It was late evening when the sound of a car pulling into the driveway caught Charlie's attention, so he put the last pillow down and strode from the room. He was halfway down the stairs when he realized the house was truly ready, but he wasn't. Leaning his back against the old banister, he bowed his head and flattened his palms against one another, his fingers compressed upward to form a steeple upon which he rested his chin. He pulled at his lower lip with his teeth, steadying his nerves while sliding down to sit on the stairs, one knee drawn up in front of him, the other bent down as he balanced unsteadily between two steps. When the front door finally opened, Charlie released himself from the impossible pose and faced forward on the stairs, sitting as one normally would with both his feet planted on the lower step in front of him. He grabbed the balusters to his right and leaned his face between them, wanting to scrutinize the men as they came across the threshold. Charlie realized he needed more than written reports- he needed to make field observations in order to come to terms with all that he had heard and read.

Charlie had talked to his father on the phone earlier and knew the elder Eppes was exhausted, having spent the day trying to convince Don to leave the institution and come home with him. He had guiltily confessed to Charlie that he had exploded at Don the previous day, and because of that he was hesitant to force him to come with him. Alan had indirectly been able to accomplish the goal when Debra authoritatively walked Don to his car and then personally secured him in the front seat, giving him a tender kiss on the cheek and gently rubbing his hair, promising to visit if he was a good boy for his father. At the time his father called, stuck in traffic once again, he said Don was still massaging his cheek and smiling, as if he was having pleasant thoughts for the first time in months.

Only able to see the corner of the door as it opened, Charlie wondered if his brother would still be smiling when he entered the childhood home that was now so foreign to him; he knew that Don would cry when confronted with new people and places, so Charlie speculated that the smile was already washed from his brother's face.

Charlie was also curious about the stuffed toy that Don clung to and called Buddy. He was certain that Don had chosen to name the focal point of his security after his younger brother; this unsettled Charlie, as the thought of Don reaching out to him for protection from miles away stroked his repressed feelings of inadequacy. Despite the facts to the contrary, Charlie continued to admonish himself for not having been there for his brother when he obviously needed and wanted his help, had reached for it in the only way his sick mind could- deluding himself into believing an inanimate object encompassed the soul of his supposedly protective brother.

Unknown to Charlie, his father was torturing himself with similar questions and doubts about his own inability to save his son.

Soft whispers floated in the air. Out of habit, Charlie had only left on a small lamp in the corner of the living room and a light at the entryway. He realized they would have to forego saving electricity and start keeping the house fully lit; Don needed to be able to see clearly where he was going and where he was at. Because of the spread of nighttime, when Charlie first saw his brother his form was dark and foreboding, his features unclear and his body bunched. Alan walked next to him, holding his upper arm and leading him to the back of the living room; a few minutes later, his father walked past, not seeing him, going into the kitchen. Charlie was hidden, naturally blending into the darkness seeping over the stairs and banister. He watched as Alan walked past him again, heading back to Don.

Slinking down the stairs, Charlie sat on the bottom step and peered around the final column, unobtrusively studying his father and brother. Alan was seated at the end of the couch with a pillow on his lap; he gently rubbed Don's hair, then ran his arm around his shoulder, pulling his son tenderly to lay his head on his lap. Charlie froze when Don curled up and his stuffed toy Buddy appeared, squeezed tightly under his left arm; but he began to tremble when Alan pushed air from a bottle and without hesitation Don allowed its nipple to be pushed between his lips, the quiet sucking sounds he made reverberating in Charlie's head. Alan resumed brushing his fingers through Don's hair, while Charlie mimicked his father's motion with his own hands and head in an attempt to erase the noise and image from his consciousness- but it persisted. Hating himself for not having the courage to confront his brother's condition, Charlie was forced to flee, overwhelmed by the real-life applications of the evaluations he had read. Still, he refused the solace of his numbers, instead padding quickly up the stairs and seeking comfort in the familiarity of his brother's room.

Only, without Don's things, it was no longer familiar.

Charlie sat on the bed, chiding himself for his behavior and wondering if he would suffer memory loss, too- if he would be able to remember who Don had been, beyond the child who currently lay upon his father's lap. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine every moment he had spent with Don, but he was hindered in that quest by the hallucinatory suckling noises that continued to resonate in his head. When he opened his eyes, they traveled to the picture of him, his father, and Don taped to the dresser's mirror. Jumping off the bed, Charlie pounced on it and held it within his grasp, running the tips of his fingers across his brother's face. He looked up from his ruminations, and instinctively walked to Don's closet door, yanking it open as if it held the answers to his current quandary. Packed inside with the sports equipment was the old clothing that Don had left years before in the room; Charlie cleared himself a space amongst the junk and sank to the floor, pulling the door shut behind him, numbers backhanding his mind for attention as he forced himself to concentrate on Don, the family picture still clenched in his hand.

The sound of feet dragging across a carpeted floor drew Charlie out of his trance. He sat motionless in the closet, knowing that his father and brother must have entered the room. Slow, muffled words slipped through the crack at the bottom of the door, the slight interruption to his solitude lasting less than twenty minutes before he heard a click and darkness enveloped him. Dropping the picture from his hand, Charlie noiselessly turned the knob of the closet and peered out into the room, leaning on his knees so as to not tumble out in a heap.

A small triangle of light fell onto Don's bed. Charlie used the doorknob to pull himself up to his feet, and stepped gingerly into the room, crossing to his brother with catlike grace. Don appeared quite large under the mounds of blankets, until Charlie realized his father was sleeping behind Don, both lying on their right sides as his father's cheek rested on the narrow space between his brother's shoulder blades. Charlie attempted to sneak from the room, when a hushed voice called to him.

"I was looking for you." Alan had raised his head up from his pillow, hovering over Don's.

Turning back, Charlie stood next to the bed, his head hanging down and his right hand rubbing at the base of his skull. "I panicked when I saw Don and hid up here," he apologized.

Don drowsily lifted his head. Charlie noticed that Don had a bottle hanging half-way from his mouth, his lips pursing in and out in search of supplication. Without thinking, Charlie kicked off his shoes, crawled into the bed and sat up against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him. He maneuvered the bottle back into Don's mouth, his brother responding by turning over onto his back and deeply sucking the liquid. When Don had inhaled the last drop, Charlie rolled the nipple from between his teeth and placed the bottle on the nightstand.

Don secured his thumb in his mouth, his breathing deepening into a weak snore that scarcely squeezed out around the thick obstruction, while he pulled Buddy out from under his body, cuddling the rabbit in the crook of his elbow. Charlie gently ran his fingertips across Don's right cheek, ignoring the disconcerting behaviors- his awareness was of his brother alone.

"You don't have to apologize, Charlie," Alan whispered across Don, his right cheek now resting flat on a pillow.

"I feel like I do," Charlie stated, their hushed voices floating back and forth over Don's sleeping form.

"It will get better."

"I know." Charlie sank lower down the headboard, so he could see his father's face more clearly. "Just being near him makes it better."

Alan nodded into his pillow. "You know, I didn't exactly choose to be this near."

"No?"

"No. He was frightened, and wouldn't let me leave."

"He's afraid to be here in this house, isn't he?"

"It's not just that, Charlie. You read the reports- sometimes he has nightmares. Wang prescribed him sedatives, but says they don't always prevent them."

Charlie took this in, remembering the physical had uncovered scars on Don's legs, and that staff had heard him scream 'teeth' when waking from nightmares. As he and his father continued their whispered conversation, Charlie continued to descend down the headboard until he lay scrunched on his side against Don, an arm laid protectively over his brother's chest. Both father and son eventually fell silent, their fatigue overcoming them. Soon, the sound of three men snoring in time to their individual heartbeats filled the air, a simple symphony of thankfulness and innocent love.