Hello again, all! I've missed writing so much, but unfortunately, haven't been able to do much between school and working 18-25 hours a week. But I'm BACK! And this time, I am keeping my resolutions--updates once a week. . . different stories different days.

In other news: -Sobs-I can't believe it. . . I missed Numb3rs last week. I missed it! Just had to share that with some people who would be sympathetic, since my roommate is decidedly not so. In fact, I believe her response was a shake of the head and "You're such a geek". –Grins- I am!

Disclaimer: Caveman Bob says that I don't own the show. I think that's the only thing he CAN say. However, much as it pains me to admit it, he's right. I don't own Numb3rs, it's characters, or anything else affiliated with the show. So don't sue me. . . between myself and Bob here, we have about $15.

And, with that happy note, onward we go.

Love Me, Love Me Not: Roses

It had been a quiet two weeks. Since that first terrifying night, there had been nothing. No note, no gift, no phone calls, no nothing. She was surprised, but she was grateful. Maybe he'd moved on.

At least, that was what she'd hoped until the sun-drenched afternoon she got home and opened her door to find the inside of her apartment filled with dozens and dozens of roses. Red ones. She was smiling, thinking that Don had really gone out of his way this time, when she noticed that a videotape with her name written on the label resting innocently on top of the television, and she beamed as she pushed it into the VCR and pushed the 'play' button. The screen went black and a voice began to speak.

"Hello, beautiful."

She gasped. That wasn't Don's voice. Horrified, she stood, frozen, before her television, watching the blank screen and listening to the message,

"Did you think I'd forget about you? You know how I feel about you. Love like this comes only once in a lifetime. Perhaps not even so often as that.

I thought I told you to stop seeing Agent Eppes. You need to learn to listen to me, Terry. I'm afraid I'm going to have to teach you a lesson. It's not going to be pretty…but you'll thank me in the end. I'm doing the right thing.

Don't these roses smell pretty? Enjoy it while it lasts.

Goodbye for now, my love. See you soon.

I'm not going away. . ."

With a strangled cry, she ran for her purse and furiously punched the speed-dial for Don's cell phone. "Pick up, pick up, pick up. . ." She begged silently, waiting…

"Yeah, Eppes."

"Don? Where are you? What are you doing?"

"Terry? Are you all right?" He asked her, his tone obviously concerned.

"Where are you?" She repeated frantically.

"I'm on my way to the office to drop off a case file."

"No!" She yelped. "Not the office! Go to. . ." She wracked her mind for a safe place. "Go to Charlie's. I'll meet you there."

"Terry, honey, what's going on?"

"I got something from my stalker again." She said, trying to keep her voice calm and professional as she paced the length of her white living room. "He's threatening you. I don't want you anywhere that he can find you easily."

"Okay, okay." He said, trying to reassure her. "I'll call Charlie."

"Great." She hung up and, covering her hand to avoid leaving any more prints on the tape, she dropped it into a large Ziploc and fled the apartment. After a moment's thought, she hailed a cab in lieu of driving her conspicuous black SUV.

"Where to?" The driver asked her without bothering to turn around.

"The West Side." She replied, trying to keep the shakiness out of her voice. She glanced behind them as the taxi pulled out. Three streets later, even her most well-trained FBI senses were convinced that they weren't being followed.

"You okay, little lady?" The cabbie asked, his watery green eyes studying her in the cracked rearview mirror.

"I'm fine." She replied, pulling a rose petal from the bottom of her shoe and pitching it viciously to the floor.

---------------------------------------------------

Don switched off his car's engine, bounded up the steps, yanked the door open, and tossed his suit jacket down on the chair next to it. "Hey! Charlie, Dad! Terry here yet?"

"No. She just called to say that she was stuck in traffic and that she'll be here soon. She was very vague. What's going on?" Charlie called down the steps.

"I don't know for sure--it's got something to do with her stalker."

"Terry has a stalker?" Alan asked, appearing in the doorway to the living room, where Don was wearing a new trail in the shiny hardwood floor with his pacing.

"Again?" Charlie's footsteps descended the stairs and he appeared next to his father. "He's been quiet for weeks--why now?"

"I don't know, but she seemed pretty shaken up." Don said.

"Terry has a stalker?" Alan repeated, waiting for his sons to notice his presence.

"We thought he'd moved on." Don replied by way of explanation.

Alan shook his head. "You kids. . ."

Charlie chuckled, but before he could reply, the doorbell rang. Don, who was closest, opened it earnestly, but it was Amita standing on the other side, looking as pretty as ever but very confused. She smiled at them nervously, "Hi. Don, this was on your car." She held out a slim yellow envelope.

"My car?" FBI instincts kicked in, and Don covered his hand with a tissue from the box on the nearby coffee table before taking it and thanking her distractedly. He opened the envelope and shook the contents out onto the table--photographs. Using a pen, he separated the papers, and his mouth went dry at the sight.

They were all shots of Terry, taken through various windows in her apartment. One was of her watching television in her bathrobe, one was her walking across her bedroom in her pajamas, one was of her fixing her hair in her bathroom mirror.

But the last one, the one that stopped his heart, was the most innocent-looking of all. It was taken from inside her home: Terry, fast asleep, one hand tucked childishly beneath her porcelain cheek.

His heart stopped. Turning his back on the photographs, he paced back and forth across the room, his fingers a blur as they danced across the pad of his phone. Time and time again, he dialed every number he could think of--her home, her cell, even the office--and got nothing but her cheery voicemail in return.

Just as he was about to call David or Kylie and descend into full-blown panic mode, there came a quick knocking at the door. Charlie opened it this time, and Terry nearly fell into the living room.

"Terry! Oh, thank God." Don ran to her and, in a slightly uncharacteristic display of emotion, he pulled her to his chest and held her there. "I've been calling and calling you. Why didn't you answer your phone?"

"It's in my car. I took a cab." She replied, pulling the tape from her purse and handing it over, still held within its little plastic bag, to Don.

He took it and glared at it as though it were responsible for every evil in the world. Then he gestured to the photographs on the coffee table. "I got a present, too. Isn't that nice?" He said sarcastically.

She moved to study the pictures, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. The room lapsed into silence--Don with the tape in his hands, standing at the bottom of the stairs; Amita and Charlie side-by-side next to the door, her hand resting lightly on his forearm for support; and Alan leaning against a large armchair--as she gazed down at them. And then, she did something they weren't expecting.

She grinned. "Stupid man." She said, her voice cheery. "Look what he's gone and done. Isn't that nice?"

She pointed to one of the pictures, the one of her in her bathrobe watching television. Don studied it for a moment, wondering what she was getting at.

She smirked at him, "Look at it objectively, Eppes, and you'll see it."

So he did. Forcing himself not to think about the fact that it was his girlfriend, his Terry, in that photograph, he glanced at it again. And he saw it. There, in the corner, was a reflection.

The camera covered much of his face and the morning sun distorted quite a bit of the image, but it was clear enough--fortunately, he was hiding behind the half-closed living room curtain, which provided a nice white backdrop for his reflection. A slightly-paunchy white man, late forties, dark hair. He wore a blue-and-green checked flannel shirt, jeans that didn't quite cover enough of his bulging belly, and he had a wide-brimmed hat on.

"Good catch, Agent Lake." He said, resting his hand lightly on her lower back. She smiled at him, looking a bit pale and shaky, but completely under control.

"What can I say? It's a gift." She replied.

"All right. Let's get to the office. I'd say it's time we--" Don's words were cut off by the revving of an engine outside, quickly followed by a terrible crunching sound.

They rushed as one to the window, just in time to see a massive black truck backing out of the driveway. It reached the road and squealed away, leaving the group to gape at the enormous dent in the side of Don's SUV. Etched into the paint next to the depression, readable even from the window a hundred yards away, were words:

BACK OFF.

----------------

There you go. Little bit of a cliffhanger at the end. Sorry about that, but if I do much more, it will cut into the next chapter, and that wouldn't be good, now would it?

Which brings me to said next chapter's little preview:

Champagne

Don was busily dividing the papers into stacks and putting the stacks into folders for Charlie when his phone rang.

Without bothering to check the ID, he flipped the cell open, "Eppes."

"Don, it's me."

"Terry? Hey, what's up?"

"I--I need your help."

"Sure." He was already riding, pulling his suit coat over his shoulders and flipping off the lamp. "What's wrong?"

"I don't feel good." She said softly. For a moment, he was confused…why would she be calling him to tell him that she wasn't feeling well? That wasn't like her. Then, in the silence that fell in the wake of her statement, he heard sounds--chatter, the clattering of dishes, and the sound of soft music.

"Where are you?"

"At Giorgio's on Second Street."

That explained the delicate phrasing of her words. He grabbed his keys and took off for the elevator.

"What's bothering you? Your head?"

"M-hm." Was her affirmative answer, "I think. . ." She trailed off for a moment.

"You think what?" He asked, waiting impatiently for the arrival of the elevator car. He nearly missed her answer, it was so quiet.

"I think I've been drugged."

Whee, that was a long preview. For those of you that've checked my LJ, you know about my resolution for this year. . .you can expect an update next Friday. YAY! I am NOT breaking my resolution (if it's within my power, anyway) this year!

Catch ya Friday!

All my love,

Sila.