Nixie
Disclaimer: Wish I owned numb3rs and despite all my letters to Santa, I still cannot claim ownership. : - (
A/N: OK change of plans people. First off, there was going to be another fluffy chapter here but after much deliberation I've decided to ax it—I might tag it on at the end as a final fluffy moment but that's still up in the air. This chapter is going to be mush moment + quasi-angst. Just a bit of background—doing a little backtracking. It was pointed out to me that Nixie's recovery was a little too easy and looking back I have to agree. Hence, my axing the planned fluffiness for something a little more substantial and relevant to the story; further more, I must give credit where it is due and say a little 'thank you' to deichtine—I had a moment of inspiration reading "Pitch Perfect" and since I didn't think of it on my own, I went the polite way and made sure it was ok to use and permission was graciously granted—so Don playing the piano originated in that fic. And finally, the song title (in case your interested) is a pretty bit of piano from the "Pure Moods 3" CD—yes I know I'm a dork. Anyway—Whew! I think I've said all I need to. On to the story!
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Chapter Fifteen: Christofori's Dream (David Lanz)
The night was peaceful and calm and yet, for some seemingly unknowable reason, Don woke suddenly in the darkness, sitting up immediately, having the vague feeling that something was amiss yet not really knowing what exactly it was. He sat for a moment and listened to the silence as his eyes adjusted to the gloomy darkness of the room.
After sitting still for several minutes, he was able to pinpoint what had awakened him.
Downstairs, so soft that he'd barely heard it, were the faint strains of meandering, senseless notes being plunked on the rather unused piano that sat collecting dust in the remote corner of one of the downstairs rooms. The agent rose from his bed softly and made his way downstairs as quietly as he could. He knew neither his brother nor his father ever touched the piano and neither did he for that matter; not anymore anyway—therefore by process of deduction, he concluded that it was Phoenix, who had bestowed curious looks upon the neglected piano many times before.
He rounded the corner of the stairs to peer into the dark room. His daughter sat on the bench in front of the piano, her face an epitome of concentration, carefully picking out seemingly random notes. The more Don listened however, the more he was able to pick out the simple melody she was so carefully constructing; it was nothing recognizable to him yet, it was still something. He entered the room and was halfway to Nixie was she finally noticed him.
She stopped playing as she sensed him approaching and turned to look at him from over her shoulder. Don could see the small stuffed dog perched in her lap and his eyes had adjusted enough as well to see the nearly invisible treads of recent tears that had trailed down her face.
"Hey sunshine, couldn't sleep?" he whispered softly to her, walking up the piano bench and slowly sitting next to her. She nodded to him mutely as he took his hands and turned her face towards him, gently wiping away the residue of her tears with his thumbs.
"Another nightmare?" Again she nodded silently, scooting over and huddling next to him, seeking solace and comfort, resting her head on his chest as he wrapped an arm around her. She still had nightmares regularly, though she didn't always wake him up anymore. He'd tried to encourage her to do so, but the fact remained that some nights he would hear her pattering around downstairs, alone in the night until he rose and went to keep her company in her insomnia.
"Want to talk about it?" Another question he always asked, that always seemed to remain unanswered. She sat still for a moment as if considering it, debating it internally. She slowly nodded and regarded him with a hesitant gaze. Don returned her nod slowly and then pulled her onto his lap, her back resting against his chest, his arms wrapped around her comfortingly as he leaned his chin on her slight shoulder so he could see her face.
"When I was living with mommy, we had this neighbor who was nice to me—she would invite me over when mommy wasn't there." She hesitated and Don nodded his head encouraging her to continue. "She told me to call her Nanna, but I don't know if that was her real name or not…but I'd go over there and she was so nice to me…she'd cook for me and she taught me how to read and how to add and subtract and about all sorts of things." Again, Nixie paused and Don could see her eyes filling with tears.
"What happened?" he whispered softly after she hadn't spoken for several minutes.
"I told her some things that I saw, and she got angry," the child's voice cracked, "I told her I was ok and that she didn't need to say anything but she told mommy she was going to call the cops on her…" Nixie began to cry, the tears sliding down her features, so raw with sorrow, "The next day when I went to Nanna's and I walked in the front door like I always did and…and…there were men that mommy knew…and…and…they had on gloves and they had a knife…and…she fell…and then she was gone…andI see it in my sleep, over and over—she was the only one who was so nice to me and I miss her." The small girl dissolved, hiccupping muted sobs, remembering the murder of the only kindness that she had known when with her mother. Don rocked her back and forth, murmuring platitudes and reassurances that none of what happened was her fault and that it was ok to miss Nanna. Soon, he was out of reassurances and sought some other method to comfort his daughter.
"Would you like me to play something for you?" he asked her softly after she'd calmed down a little. She nodded gratefully, leaning her head back wearily as she clutched the stuffed dog to her chest. Don had not played the piano in quite some time, the last time being for his mother just before she passed away. He made a few light jokes when he stumbled on a the first few notes, earning a small smile form Nixie, but soon his fingers remembered what he thought he'd forgotten and they danced across the ivory and ebony keys with grace and surety.
The melodic tune softly filled the room, the notes gracefully racing to and fro as his fingers plucked out the first song that had come to mind. It was the first moderately difficult piece he'd learned, and it had been the last thing he'd played for his mother after the cancer had decimated her body. Don played the last few bars of the song, half lost in memory, unconsciously counting the beats to his daughter's rhythmic breathing as she slipped into slumber, her features lax.
He held her in his lap, just for a few minutes, pushing a few stray strands of hair from her face and wiping away the more recent moisture of her tears. He cradled her slack body and managed to pick his daughter up without waking her, carefully carrying the child to her bed and tucking her in underneath the blankets, making sure that the faithful navy blue stuffed dog lay tucked in beside her.
He returned to bed, his mind weary yet racing, trying to think of ways to help his daughter recover from the trauma. She'd been through so much and had come so far, so fast, under Don's constant love and affection. He knew he could get her through the nightmares—it was just going to take more time.
Don was so wrapped up in his thoughts through the whole event that he failed to notice for the last half of his 'performance' and as he carried Nixie to bed, that he'd had a silent observer on the staircase; an observer, who, once Don re-emerged from the girl's bedroom, carefully, quickly and silently, padded back up the stairs, pushing his dark curls from his face. When Charlie snuck back into his room just moments before his older brother came up the stairs softly, he marveled at just how far Don had come and how fatherhood seemed to suit him far better than the math professor would have ever guessed.
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