Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or anything connected to it. I also do not own the version of "Bye-O-Bye-O-Baby" that is used in the story. The copyright belongs to Terry Kluytmans, 1998. I found it freely on a website, so I am assuming that means public domain.
Author's note: The title Kluytmans gives the lull-a-bye is "Bye-O, Baby", but when my mom used to sing it to me when I was growing up, it was Bye-O-Bye-O-Baby, so I am keeping that title in the story just because I'm stubborn. Also, I will be placing the verses out of order because they work better with the story that way.
Don was prone on his family's couch, lying on his back, his muscles aching from being in the same position for over an hour. His head was firmly planted on a small throw pillow, a permanent depression in its center, the result of his lack of movement. He had not been able to sleep, his jeans and black t-shirt clinging to him from both long hours of wear and dried perspiration- sweat from an overactive heating element at work, he told himself, not from stress, like David told him. The cold clamminess he felt- well, he just didn't know why he felt that, as the day outside was warm and sunny. It seemed like he hadn't been able to get warm for days, like the chill was another piece of clothing he put on daily, like his jacket or pants. Only, he hadn't been able to shed the chill like he did his other clothes every night, stuck with the unwanted apparel, like a second skin. Don shuddered slightly from thinking about the cold, then he tried to clear his mind so he could get some much-needed sleep.
As Don lay wondering about his current situation, he suddenly felt the throw pillow yanked out from under his head, the top half of his body immediately reacting to the sudden movement by springing into a sitting position as he whirled his face around to see who or what had caused the pillow to fly out from under him. To his amazement, he was looking directly into the eyes of a young girl with long black hair and a solid frown gorged into her face. Don's immediate reaction to yell at the girl was stifled when he saw what she held in her hand- his mother's old hairbrush.
Don glanced at the girl, then the brush, back and forth- his eyes marking laps in the air between the two. Finally, he realized that the girl probably wanted to brush his hair, and had removed the pillow in order to place herself into a position in which she could easily reach the top of his head. What is it with girls and hair-brushing, Don questioned himself. It seemed that girls lived to brush their hair, or anyone else's, if they got the chance. First, they brushed their baby dolls' heads, then Barbie, then how many hours did they play with their own hair as teenagers and adults. Don figured it must be a gene inherently found only in females, because no guy he ever knew had ever cared to fool with their own- or anyone else's hair- to the extent a female did.
Watching as the girl climbed onto the couch behind his back, Don quietly but firmly told the girl "Okay, but no more than a few minutes. I'm tired." Once the girl appeared to be settled in her seat, he lay back down on his right side, his back to the rear of the couch, and with his head in her lap. He tucked the throw pillow under his left arm as he gathered his hands under his chin, bending his knees slightly so that he was somewhat in a fetal position, tensing slowly as he waited for the girl to begin the first stroke.
Shelby was furious. She had approached the man because he reminded her of her daddy. She had wanted him to brush her hair, knowing he wasn't her daddy, but hoping that she could pretend like her daddy was there again, if even for a few moments.
She hadn't wanted to talk to the man, because she knew that if she talked to him and he talked to her, it would be harder to pretend she was with her daddy. So, she just pulled the pillow from under his head, knowing he would get up. Then, she sat on the couch and was just about to offer him the hairbrush when he laid his head on her lap, indicating he wanted her to brush his hair.
Now, here she was stuck with this big, heavy head on her lap, and the man was obviously waiting for her to brush his hair. She didn't want to talk to him, so she couldn't tell him to move. She thought about shoving him, but he was too large for her to move, and, besides, he didn't look like he was in a good mood; she wasn't sure how he'd react to being pushed, as he didn't look too happy when she'd grabbed the pillow.
Looking down at the left side of the man's face, she noticed him scrunch his face up, waiting for her to begin. She remembered she always did that, because the first time the brush touched her face it sent chills down her back, leaving a tingling sensation hovering over her scalp. Giving in to her situation, she took the brush and lightly pressed it to the side of his hair, pulling back halfway before lifting the bristles from his head. As his face relaxed a little, Shelby became angry that she had made him feel good. She purposely took the brush and pressed it so that it lay halfway on the man's face and his hair, then gave the brush a short, sharp tug that she was pleased to notice left a slight red mark on the upper part of his cheek.
The man winced. He scrunched his face up again, not trusting the next stroke to be any better.
Shelby smiled. It was his fault anyway. He should have been brushing her hair, not the other way around. But what Shelby really meant was that her daddy should have been brushing her hair. Without knowing it, Shelby decided to take out the frustrations of the past four months on the stranger whose head lay in her lap. Grabbing the hairbrush with both hands, she began to brush his hair in long, hard strokes, leaning on the brush so that half her weight was pressing hard bristles against his scalp. Shelby continued even as she noticed the edges of his hairline beginning to flush red, all her anger at the world vibrating in every stroke of the brush.
Don had scrunched in his face when the girl had started to brush his hair. As he felt her first half-hearted attempt, he had relaxed, assuming she was already disinterested in her task and would try a couple more strokes before giving up.
He was definitely wrong, he thought, as the next stroke caused a burning sensation on his face that made the chills down his back sing a solemn song. He involuntarily winced, then gritted his teeth as he felt the girl ready to brush again.
Who taught this kid to brush hair? Don groaned, as he tried to harden his nerves against the pressure the girl was scratching into his scalp.
I hope for the sake of her other victims that this isn't a nightly routine for her, Don thought, again wincing in pain.
Who could possibly put up with this every night, he wondered…then, as a tingling sensation enveloped his head, he remembered someone who could- and did.