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 it freely on a website, so I am assuming that means public domain.

Author's note: I hope this chapter hits the right note.

Shelby sat still. She couldn't move her arms any more; they hurt from her series of afternoon emotional expressions. Her legs were stiff from sitting in the same position for almost two hours. The little girl didn't know what to do. She wanted to go find her mother, but every time she thought the man had fallen asleep and she tried to leave, he opened his eyes and looked at her. For some reason, she felt she couldn't leave him. He had looked at her like a lost puppy dog, and, well, who could resist that.

Sighing loudly- that didn't seem to disturb him, she thought, slightly perturbed- she looked around the room. Maybe I should just get up and leave, she thought, he's a grown man, not one of my baby dolls. Finally resolved to leave, Shelby tried to maneuver herself from under his head, but she was stopped short by the feeling of warm air rubbing the back of her neck. She turned her head as far as she could, attempting to see if anyone was standing behind her. Silly, she thought, as she realized the couch was flush with the wall behind her, and the window above it was closed. She gazed out the window for a moment. The sun still hovered above the clouds in the sky, so Shelby was surprised when she turned to inspect the living room and saw several large shadows flit across the floor and walls, darkening the room.

Shelby tensed while warm air nuzzled her neck and hair. The shadows swirled about, the shapes inundating the room like the torn essence of loved ones long gone. Shelby felt a familiar sensation when a shadow embraced her shoulder.

"Daddy?"

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Don did not sleep. He closed his eyes and rested, but sleep failed to come to him. So, his body took advantage of his lack of exertion and rested.

He knew it was crazy to be lying with his head in the lap of a little girl he did not know. He knew she must be from his Dad's party, and he began to wonder why no one had come looking for her yet. He also wondered what they would think when they found them there, and she told them they had been like that for over two hours, not saying a single word to each other. But his body protested whenever he thought about moving, so he just lay there, looking at the girl whenever she moved; each time, he thought she was getting up, but she seemed to change her mind and resettle into her seat. So, each time, he resettled into her lap.

Finally, the girl moved like she really wanted to leave. She was trying to maneuver herself from under his head, so Don was mustering the energy to lift it up when she suddenly sat still, surprising the agent once again. The movement of her body had felt like she was twisting around. Don wondered if someone was looking in on them, but then he felt foolish. Who would be looking in on them? The more he thought about it, though, the more he realized that he did feel like he was being watched. He opened his eyes and observed that the room was darker than it should have been for a sunny afternoon. Maybe the clouds are covering the sun, he thought, but then he felt the warmth of a sunbeam kissing the back of his neck- and then, as a shadow draped over the couch, he felt something else.

"Mommy?"

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Donald Eppes left the Los Angeles office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation promptly at five-o'clock. He knew his father was going out tonight; his mother insisted that at least once a month her husband try to find some way to relieve the stress that accompanied the awareness that she was probably going to die from cancer. Don did not like his mother to be alone. Well, Charlie would be at the house, but he would not really be there.

After being stuck in a two-hour traffic jam, Don pulled up in front of his family's house with a thin sheen of sweat covering his body. He was frustrated as always with the realization that he had no means in which to help his family with their current situation. His mother was most likely dying, and there was nothing he could do to save her. Guns, knives, weapons of all sorts- put them anywhere near Don Eppes and he was sure to protect you from harm. But one little cancer cell- the strong FBI agent was no match for it.

Don felt a strong chill climbing up the vertebrae of his spine, its claws digging into his back. Since coming back home, whenever he thought about his mom dying, Don felt the chill of childhood nightmares engulfing him; only, this time it was worse, because the bogeyman was cancer and neither his mom nor his dad could beat him.

Don sat in his SUV for ten minutes before he found the emotional strength to leave the protection of the vehicle. He went up the front porch, opening the door and heading directly up the stairs to the bathroom set at the right side of the hallway. Entering the bathroom, he began running the water to get it hot, then crossed over to his old bedroom, grabbing some fresh underclothes, a t-shirt and jeans from the drawers of his old dresser. Since his mom had been diagnosed as potentially terminal, Don had been to the house on a daily basis. It had only been logical that he should leave fresh sets of clothes in the dresser, as he didn't want to look disheveled and tired when taking care of his mother. He knew she worried enough about him with the career he had chosen, so he tried to look relaxed- in body language and apparel- whenever he spent time with her.

Don took his fresh clothes into the bathroom with him, closing the door behind him. He stripped his suit and underclothes off, tossing them into a laundry hamper next to the tub. He didn't feel guilty about placing his dirty clothes inside, as he was currently the only one in the house doing laundry. He knew the clothing would still be there- along with the rest of his family's clothes- when he came back during the weekend. He set the tub's faucet to the temperature he liked, pulling the knob that allowed the water to rush from the showerhead. Don climbed under the stream of hot water as he grabbed the shower curtain from behind him, yanking it across the side of the tub.

Don climbed into fresh clothing after his shower, giving himself a quick but effective shave before running his fingers through his wet hair. He debated about applying mousse, but decided against it, enjoying the feel of his hair hanging about his face. After drying his hair with a brisk rubbing with a towel, he smoothed any loose strands with his fingers and then shut off the bathroom light, crossing over to his bedroom to begin the last step in his daily transformation.

Shutting his bedroom door behind him, Don held a small shaving mirror close in front of him. He perused his face, looking for any signs of tiredness or worry. Don then began to make faces in the mirror, trying to relax the stress lines that had magically begun appearing around his eyes and mouth, a trick that began the day he had come home to Los Angeles with the news that his mother had cancer. He tried to smile, but it came off as phony- he knew it would never fool his mom. His next attempt was thwarted when he heard the sound of someone coughing an "ahem" behind him, as he turned sheepishly around to face the only person who could sneak into his room without him hearing- his mother.

"Got a girl on your mind that you want to impress?" Margaret asked. She stood in the opening of his bedroom door, leaning the left side of her body against the frame, her hands clasped behind her.

Don grinned sheepishly and admitted, "Yeah, I got a girl on my mind".

Margaret smiled back. "You're not keeping more secrets from me, are you?" she asked, subtly referring to Don's past relationships with women, some more serious than others- but all kept from his family until the last possible moment.

"No", he replied, stepping across the room in three easy steps to his mother. Kissing her on the cheek, he stated "I've never kept it a secret that I love this girl." Don enjoyed watching the light color of rose that flushed his mother's cheek as she took in the meaning of his words; he then gave her a brief hug, which allowed him a view of the hands she held hidden behind her back.

She was gripping something in them, but he couldn't see what it was.

"Well," Don continued to play with his mom, pulling back from their quick embrace, "it looks like I'm not the only one who carries around secrets". Don nodded his head towards his mother's back, indicating that she should tell him what she was hiding there.

To his surprise, Margaret's smiled left her face and her body tensed up. The light color on her face was washed away, leaving her a sickly pale. Within the few seconds after he had uttered his words, Don saw the sickness of cancer gather a firm grip on his mother, leaving no doubt of the severity of her illness. Margaret turned from her son and fled down the stairs, her body aching from the effort, but she was no less determined that she shield her son from the pain that the object in her hand had caused her.

Don stood in his room, shocked at the emotional turnaround that had just occurred. One second, the mood so happy and playful- the next, so… so. Don was not exactly how he would describe it. His mother's face had been stricken with a sorrow that bellowed of pain and loss. Physically shaking, Don ground his teeth together, steeling his emotions so that he would have the strength to find his mother and broach the subject. She had been right about one thing. He had a history of keeping secrets-but so did she, and it was about time they stop playing that particular game with each other, even if they continued playing it with everyone else.

Walking down the stairs, Don started looking about for his mother. He found her in the living room, sitting on the couch, her hands cupped in front of her in her lap. Don went to the couch and, after giving it a good once-over, he began searching around the living room for the object she had hidden from him. Next, he went to the dining room, assuming that they were the only two rooms in which she would have been able to hide anything, considering both the limits of time and her physical capabilities.

Margaret watched her son. She did not want to try to talk him out of looking for her 'secret', as the effort of climbing so quickly down the stairs had exhausted her. She concentrated on taking in as much air as she could, her small supply of oxygen spent on her recent emotional and physical exertions. Besides, Margaret could tell by the look of concentration on her son's face that he would have ignored her anyway. Instead, she was grateful that he was not even coming close to examining the place where she had hidden the object.

Don moved items about the living and dining rooms, frustration slowly leaking into his movements as he did not quite return every object he touched to its original place. This is ridiculous, he thought, unless it's a bomb or some crazy thing like that, there is nothing that important she should be hiding from me. Don was on the verge of giving up, when he noticed the small stepstool in the corner of the dining room. It was in its normal place, but not quite even with the wall. With his father's penchant- or obsession- with neatness, Don knew it must have been recently used. He looked around the dining room and his eyes fell on the shelf that was firmly affixed to the wall.

When Don approached the shelf, he glanced at his mother and realized he had hit pay dirt; she was sitting stiffer on the couch and her eyes were glued to him as he began looking over each shelf. Nothing, he thought, as every item was exactly as it always had been. He was about to walk away, when instinct made him run his hand over the top shelf. Don could not see what might be up there, as it was above his head, but he started at one end and moved his hand- aha, there it is, he thought, and pulled down his treasure.

Don stared in curiosity at the silver brush he held in his hand. He tried to remember the last time he had used it on his mother's hair. It didn't make sense, he thought, and then he looked over at his mother. He knew she had continued to brush her hair every night, even after their own little routine had stopped. Why would she think she needed to hide this from him now? Don rubbed the bristles of the brush against his hand, noting the hair that was caught in it was the color he had always remembered, but now tinged with spots of grey. Curiously, there was lots of hair caught in the brush, more than he ever remembered, as his mother was careful to keep it clean. Realization slowly but effectively pierced Don's thoughts, a sickening feeling coating the inside of his stomach, drawing his body into a tightly wound knot that tensed to break.

Don turned to look at his mother. She looked so frail, the smallness of her body emphasized by the vast ocean of brown that surrounded her as she sat on the couch. Swallowing several times to keep the acid in his stomach reposing where it ought to be, Don walked over to where his mother sat and dropped the hairbrush beside her on the couch. He then cupped her chin in his hand and carefully turned her head to keenly peruse her hair. To his dismay, several small bald spots were unsuccessfully hidden by strands of thinning hair. He turned his mother's head to the other side, and sadly noted its condition was no better. Don let go of his mother's chin, his body sagging; he felt the tendrils of a chill wrap around him. He stepped back from the couch and tried to read the thoughts that lay behind his mother's tearful eyes.

Margaret looked away.

"It's just vanity, Donny, nothing more", Margaret whispered, trying to sound reassuring.

The lie behind her words struck Don hard, almost sending him reeling. He quickly recovered from the blow, his second response to her words a solid resurgence of determination. He stood straight, his entire body stiff, angry that his mother would attribute her behavior-the shame, the sorrow, the secret- to mere vanity. His actions deliberate, Don went to the door to the garage and pressed his ear against it. The sound of chalk scratching continually on a board satisfied Don that Charlie was well-occupied. Next, Don moved to the kitchen and locked the back door, moving steadily on to the entryway and locking the front one. At last, Don arrived back in the living room and shoved aside the coffee table that sat in front of the couch. With it moved out of the way, he grabbed the silver hairbrush from the place he had dropped it on the couch. Grasping the brush in his right hand, Don hesitated in his unbridled activity, standing before his mother and looking directly into her bewildered eyes. Then, in the flurry of a single movement, the FBI agent turned his back to his mother and sat on the floor before her, his legs crossed over in front of him.

Don offered the silver hairbrush to his mother.

Margaret was inert. She was shocked by the actions of her son, first moving so briskly from one room to the next, harshly shoving aside the coffee table, and then flopping down in front of her as if all his energy had been expended for an unknown cause. She was rendered immobile from her confusion.

After holding out the brush to his mother for several minutes, Don turned slightly, looking up at her. She seemed lost. The confusion that his actions had caused her were evident in her face; she did not know how to respond. So, Don responded for her. He placed the hairbrush in his mother's right hand, her eyes following his every move. He then fully enclosed her small hand within his larger one, as he softly but firmly pressed her fragile palm and fingers around the brush.

Delicately escorting them to the right side of his head, Don guided his mother's hand and the brush she held, his hand directing them to make sweeping strokes up and down- once, twice- the bristles grazing his hair, as Don tenderly pleaded "Gently, Mom, gently."

Don let go of his mother's hand, pleased that she continued to hold the brush. Actually, Margaret was clinging to it, finally aware of the intentions of her son. She brought the brush to her chest, closed her eyes to say a soft prayer of gratitude, then scooted up to the edge of the couch in anticipation, cradling her son's strong arms between her legs, leaning slightly forward to reach.

Her son responded to her touch. He pressed his back against the couch and tilted back his head, resting it on the small roundness of his mother's belly, his eyes closed. With his mother's body swaddling him in a pulsating warmth, Don felt the faint sensation of once again being in his mother's womb. Margaret, too, felt as if her son had been pulled back into her womb; the heat of his body penetrated the depths of her soul, and she felt the pressure from the weight of his head compressing her midsection, the combination of the two leaving her with the sensation that they were one again- and would never be apart.

Margaret began to slowly pull the hair brush through the thick hair of her thirty-five year old son, beginning on the right side of his head. She began to count to fifty, but moved the brush slowly, caressing her son's head with every stroke. It took her more than twenty minutes to brush both sides. As she began to draw the brush through the middle of his hair, she gathered all the breath she had remaining, from deep in her breast, to softly sing.

Mommy dear, when I was small,

Took good care of me:

Bye-O! Bye

Little baby in the cradle!

Now I'm big enough to care

For Mommy, don't you see?

Bye-O! Bye-O!

Little baby, you will grow!

For the first time since coming back to Los Angeles, FBI Special Agent Don Eppes was no longer cold; in the secure circle formed round mother and son, the warmth that radiated was absolute and impregnable- and easily thwarted the chill of nightmares.