Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or anything connected to it. I also do not own the version of "Bye-O, Baby" that is used in the story. The copyright belongs to Terry Kluytmans, 1998. I found the words listed 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. Next, I am having a little difficulty in separating the sections of the chapters- like putting something to separate Don's thoughts from Shelby's. I have tried symbols and lines, but they don't show up. Hopefully, my next attempt will work. Last, thanks for the comments. I wasn't sure if hair brushing would be a topic of interest to anyone else, but I have a lot of sisters, and it was indeed a source of connection between us to do each other's hair.

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Margaret Eppes sat on the edge of her bed, her husband, Alan, already asleep behind her, the sound of his breathing breaking through as a rhythmic snoring that tended to soothe Margaret's nerves rather than irritate them. One small lamp dispelled a wedge of darkness around her face and the upper part of her body. She held a large, silver brush in her right hand with which she was gently brushing the right side of her head, all the while humming a quiet lull-a-bye under her breath as she counted each stroke in her head- "forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty." She switched the brush to her left hand as she continued to hum, starting a fresh count, the sleeve of her long white nightgown gliding on the air as she moved her arm up and down from the elbow.

From around the corner of her door, she heard the sound of small footsteps coming down the hall. She continued to brush her hair as her expected visitor arrived. One tiny four-year-old Donald Eppes peered around the frame of her bedroom door, a pair of moist eyes staring in at her. Her son held a small bear in his left hand, while his right thumb rested firmly in his mouth.

Margaret was aware that her son had been having nightmares, and his visits were becoming a nightly occurrence. Alan had placed the child back in his bed the first night, assuring his son that there were no bogeymen that his father and mother could not battle and win. Donny had stayed in his bed long enough to hear his father's snoring; he had then snuck down the hall to the comfort and love of his mother's arms, believing she would not have the heart to turn him away. And she didn't.

As her husband had discussed with pride that his "tough love" had worked with his young son, and that he had not returned to their bedroom, Margaret felt guilty in hiding the fact that Donny had been coming to their room for over a week since that first night. She knew she'd have to do something to help Donny feel safe enough to sleep in his own room, but she could not think what she could do. In the meantime, she nightly accepted him into her arms as they quietly cuddled next to her sleeping husband. And every morning, before Alan woke up, she carried her son to his bedroom and stayed with him while she watched the sun rise through his window, the warmth of sunbeams and his mother's love kissing his cheeks.

Tonight, Donny came to her room earlier than usual, probably because his father had fallen soundly asleep the moment he had crawled under the covers of their bed, the result of an engineer job that had exhausted him that day. Thus, Margaret was still in the process of her other nightly routine-brushing her hair- when Donny came crying to her bedside.

Margaret placed her hairbrush on the nightstand next to the bed, opening her arms to invite in her frightened son, relishing the warmth of his body against hers as she knew all too well that he would not allows be so open with his expression of need for her. She cradled the boy in her lap, rocking him gently, both for comfort and to prevent the movement from disturbing her husband's sleep. She laid her chin upon Donny's head, moving it back and forth in a gentle massage, all the while rubbing his arms as a chill seemed to have settled upon his small form.

Donny looked up at his mother's face, the tears freely flowing down his cheeks as his eyes searched desperately for more reassurance. Margaret smiled down at Donny. She scooted further into the bed, her back to her husband's, lying down on her right side as she positioned her son next to her in the bed. She pulled the covers up to her son's chin as he lay on his left side, his bear lost under the heavy blankets, his face inches from hers. Margaret kissed her son on his forehead, and then blessed his eyes and cheeks with several more. Donny responded with one solid kiss to his mother's lips, as he stopped crying and gave his mother a sugar-cane smile. Not for the last time, Margaret thought 'You, Donald Eppes, are irresistible when you smile.'

Margaret folded her arm across her son and fell asleep.

A hard scratch on the side of Margaret's face woke her up several hours later. She was still tucked in between her son and husband, the covers of the bed bundled up around her waist. She opened her eyes as she felt another scratch on her face, and looked into the beaming face of her young son, who was wielding her hairbrush. Donny swung the brush in Margaret's direction, attempting to brush her hair, but landing a blow to the side of her neck instead. Margaret grabbed the brush from Donny's hand, the features of her face molded into disapproval as she began to admonish him for causing her pain.

But as she looked into the confused eyes of her son, Margaret could not bring herself to chide him. Instead, she placed the brush into his right hand, her own left hand covering his small fingers. She guided his hand to the side of her head, slowly raising the brush and his hand to her hair- up and down, twice, as Donny leaned forward to reach. She then let his hand drop and whispered, "Gently, Donny, gently".

Excited by the trust his mother had gifted upon him, Donny sat up in the bed and eagerly leaned over his mother. Margaret, being loving but wise, cupped her left hand around the side of her face, shielding her cheek along the hairline. When Donny tried anew to brush her hair, he again missed, but the hairbrush deflected off the back of her hand and caused his mother no pain.

Young Donny Eppes spent nearly twenty minutes trying to brush his mother's hair, gleefully thinking he was doing a superior job, when the brush became too entangled in Margaret's hair for the child to pull it out. Margaret lay her son back down in the bed as she unwrapped the brush from her hair. She thanked her son for such a wonderful job, showing her appreciation with kisses and a quiet lull-a-bye.

As Donny closed his eyes, plugged in his thumb, and began to fall asleep, Margaret wondered if her son and she had just formed a nightly ritual that could be transferred to his own room and bed; a ritual whose magic would be strong enough to keep Donny's nightmares at bay. As silly as it seemed, Margaret decided to have faith that a hairbrush and a lull-a-bye would be enough to keep her son warm when the chills of nightmares threatened to claim him as their own. She looked down at the face of her son, pulled him to her breast, and softly began to sing.

Bye-O! Bye-O!

Bye-O, little baby!

Bye-O! Bye-O!

Sleeping all the day,

Bye-O! Bye-O!

Bye-O, little baby!

Sleeping in your cradle

All the day.

(Terry Kluytmans)