Nixie

Disclaimer: Not mine—(Although…Santa, I swear I've been a good girl…Can I have the ownership of the Numb3rs characters? ….Pretty please?)

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Chapter Three: I Feel So (Box Car Racer)

Don pulled into the truck rest stop, already feeling weary despite the fact he'd gotten at least eight hours sleep at the hotel. He glanced at his watch as he walked into the restroom. He'd only been driving a couple hours but it was already almost midnight. Don was rapidly approaching New York and the closer he got, the more the churning feeling in the pit of his stomach increased. He had talked to Jack on the phone right before he left the hotel, estimating that he'd be in New York at around one or two in the morning. Don figured that when he got in New York he could get a hotel and catch a few more hours sleep and come in to the FBI office at around six or seven and he'd told Jack as much.

Don turned on the faucet and splashed water on his face in a vain attempt to restore some wakefulness. He looked at the mirror that hung above the sink. He stared at his reflection, trying to find some answer that wasn't there.

He looked like hell.

His eyes were bloodshot, dried out from the heat and from having the windows rolled down while he drove. He wore a plain black t-shirt and the same worn blue jeans as the day before. Despite being basically clean clothes, he still had a rumpled and disheveled look. His hair was splayed out in all directions—he'd taken a quick shower at the hotel before he left but hadn't bothered even combing his hair—the hair-do he had now was the wind's work.

Don leaned forward, pressing his head against the cool surface of the mirror. What the hell was he doing? This was going to be a disaster; he knew it. He didn't know why he felt this way, just that he had some looming feeling that wretched and twisted his stomach in knots. He still felt tired despite all the sleep he had, but Don knew that it was because he hadn't slept fitfully. It was an uneasy slumber—the kind where you wake up more tired than when you went to sleep.

He had dreamt a memory.

She gazed at him with an icy gaze, smiling a smile that made Don's stomach flip-flop. She was so alluring and so terribly frightening at the same time. Don knew he should turn and walk away—leave the dingy hotel room that stank of cheap cologne and perfume—but he found himself unable to. Maybe it was the alcohol he had drank and maybe it was the fact that he needed a distraction, to not have to think—he wanted to be lost in something else so completely and entirely so he wouldn't have to remember the mangled bodies, the metallic smell of blood…

Come on sweetheart, she purred. Don felt himself move towards her and the bed unwillingly, he wanted it but at the same time, his senses were screaming at him 'No!'

Come on, She gestured with her finger, signaling for him to come to her, and he did.

He had found the distraction he needed, but he'd also gotten more than he bargained for.

The next morning Don woke before she did, and began to hurriedly dress. He regretted his actions now, but there was nothing that would undo that—he just wanted to get the hell out of there and to get the hell away from the woman that reminded him of his weakness.

As he buttoned his pants he started to look for his discarded shirt. Where was the damn thing? She stirred… Don froze—he hadn't been quick enough—she was waking up and now Don was going to have to deal with her.

Hey there lover, she cooed at him, spreading herself out over the bed, her blues eyes fixed on him like a hawk. Don didn't speak; he just looked at her, trying to figure out how he was going to get out of this. Suddenly she noticed that he was half dressed and her icy eyes narrowed and glared.

What are you doing? She sat up, were you going to just leave? She fixed him with a wicked stare. And Don winced.

Look, he started, I had a great time last night and you were what I needed but now I have to go…Don faltered.

She had gotten up and gotten dressed while Don had been speaking and now she moved around the bed menacingly. Almost too late did Don catch the glint of the knife.

Where did that come from? Don wondered, dumbfounded—then she lunged and Don barely got out of the way in time. Her face was contorted in fury and her blue eyes, those blues eyes, wanted blood. His blood.

Suddenly Don was frightened—he hadn't realized what he'd got himself into. She lunged for him again and Don managed to get out of the way once more and he made for the door. He wasn't stupid—she was armed and he wasn't—he'd left his firearm at his apartment when he decided to go drinking. He hadn't wanted to accidentally do something stupid; although now it appeared he was indeed ignorant for not bringing the gun with him.

He made it into his vehicle, closed the door and locked it just as she came flying up behind him. Don fished his keys out of his pants pocket, started the car, and drove away—the angry woman glaring at his vehicle as it sped away.

Don was shaken, but alive. At a stoplight, he pulled a spare shirt out of the back seat. He was glad he always kept spare clothes in his car. At another stoplight, Don raked his hand through his hair trying to tame it. Slowly, he was taking single steps towards regaining normalcy—He was still shaking inside, but on the outside he was looking more and more normal with each stoplight and stop sign going to his apartment.

As he pulled up to his apartment he briefly thought about calling someone—his parents maybe—well his mom at least; Don knew she wouldn't be angry with him. But Don thought about how although she might now be angry, she would be disappointed in him and Don couldn't take that. He couldn't ever stand the idea of either of his parents being disappointed in him. Charlie already made him look like the 'problem child' of the family and Don was going to be damned if he was going to fuel that fire.

No, he'd keep it to himself. No one ever had to know—it wasn't like it was important or anything.

Looking back now, Don saw that this was the ultimate 'past coming back to bite you on the ass.' Hell, it hadn't just bit him—it was tearing him up from the inside out. Don looked at his weary reflection and thought, what the hell were you thinking? How could you do something so stupid, something so low?

Don pushed both hands through his wind-blown hair, and as he walked out of the bathroom it occurred to him, that more than anything he was disappointed in himself and that while family and friends may forgive and accept him, he had to forgive and accept himself—and that was distinctly more difficult.

In his car once again, he turned up the radio, trying to drown out the self-recriminating thoughts and found a song that seemed to speak to him.

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A/N: Originally I had the song lyrics here but apparently that's a no-no now and I didn't want to get busted by Admin AGAIN.