Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Numb3rs or the characters therein. All characters are fictional, and should not be associated with any other person- real or imagined.

Author's note: I am sorry I took so long to finish this. It may not be affecting you the same way, but a lot of this story is what I associate with my own mother and it has been hard to write the simple ending. Thanks for waiting.

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Shelby and Don leaned into the twin touches of caressing warmth that flowed over their necks and shoulders, the filtered heat leaping across them and into the room, the air transformed into a solid but opaque mystical realm. The vague shadows in the room slowed their movements, the black veils of flowing blackness flitting into the corners as the room became unclear and misty. The little girl and older man watched as the faded souls of memories past emerged from within the dreamlike atmosphere of the room, unrelenting wraiths that flew towards them and swept over their reality in wave after wave of sorrow.

When the spiritually-charged room calmed, both man and child lay emotionally lacerated on the couch, their hearts and souls laid bare to each other. Shelby closed her eyes a moment, sinking deeply into the couch; when she slowly opened them again, she felt a difference in the body weighing upon her. She scrutinized the head of the man resting uneasily in her lap, hesitantly raising a hand to run her fingers through his short, coarse hair; he responded to her light touch, turning to face her on the couch, wrapping his arm around her and raising his familiar blue eyes to hers, his loving voice extending through a well-known and reassuring smile, whispering gently to her "I'm always with you, Shelby."

"Daddy!" she cried, reaching for him again, her fingers entwining tightly in his hair as she pulled his head to her breast and embrace.

Don lay still on the lap of the unknown child, clinging to the pillow in his hand and the silence of the room. As he tried to quiet his uncertainty about what he had just experienced, he heard the body behind him taking deeper, recognizable breaths, while strong and loving arms reached for him. Shivering slightly with fear and anticipation, he carefully turned, his own breathing increasing as the hands of his mother reached into his hair, pulling his head to press him close to her breast, the sound of her heartbeat and her gentle voice breaching the gulf that death had thrust between them. "I'm always with you, Donny."

"Mom!" Don cried, dragging an arm around her, sobbing quietly into the warmth of her body, remembering how this embrace had been stolen from him the last time he had seen her.

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His mother was going to die today, and there was nothing Don could do. He had gone to the garage and dragged Charlie to her bedroom, leaving his mother and her youngest son alone to say their last farewells. Charlie had bolted from the room crying, running past Don and his father without saying a word, pulling a piece of chalk from his pocket as he headed to the sanctity of his garage. Their father had looked after him, misery frowning his face as he turned to his eldest.

"Do you want to go next, Donny?" he asked.

"No, you go first Dad. When I'm done, you can sit with her until…" The words were choked off in his throat. Shaking his head as answer again, Don went to his room, sitting on the bed and crossing his arms as he allowed himself to cry briefly. After a few minutes, he wiped his eyes and grabbed the small shaving mirror he continued to keep on his dresser. Looking at his face, he rubbed his fingers along the bottom of his eyes, smiling several times until he was satisfied with his appearance. Then he opened his top dresser drawer and grabbed the silver brush he kept in the corner.

Since the first time that Don had allowed his mother to brush his hair, they had secretly met in his room every night. Margaret enthusiastically and reverently brushed her eldest son's hair, both mother and son enjoying the feeling of solitude and closeness that the act had rekindled between them. They had talked for almost an hour each night, Margaret taking an especially long time to pull the brush through her son's hair, always ending their meeting with her favorite lull-a-bye. After the first few nights, her husband had ceased to ask them what they were doing; he just assumed they were talking and had been glad they were able to spend the time together.

Now, Don was determined to perform the routine with his mom one last time- a ritual that had bonded them together for years when he was younger, and for what seemed like eternity in the last few months when he was an adult. It was the reason he told his father to visit with his wife- Don had wanted the time to grab the hairbrush before seeing his mother. With the silver juggernaut firmly ensconced in his hand, he walked downstairs to the bedroom that had been his mother's own since she had been completely overcome with the cancer. Peeking around the door, he looked for his father. The elder man was restlessly asleep on the recliner that had been placed next to his wife's bed, his left hand wrapped around her upper arm as hers was weakly stroking his hair with the tips of her fingers, trying to cure him of his emotional exhaustion, but she no longer had the strength to do so.

Don stepped into the room, careful not to disturb his father. Walking to his mother's side, their eyes met. He noted that she was barely breathing and her eyes were half-opened, her limp body scarcely perceived beneath the blankets that entombed her, her hand now lying still on his father's head. Don held the silver brush up in front of him, a small smile on his lips. His mother returned the smile the best she could, a tiny upturning of the corners of her lips the only response she was capable of giving. Don pulled the sidebar down on the hospital bed in which his mother lay, pushing his shoes off his feet. Climbing slowly and gently into the bed next to his mother, he settled down next to her on his side, their faces inches from each other. Tears formed in Margaret's eyes as she knew what her son wanted- one last request from her. Don took his mother's right hand in his own, and then he softly raised it to his lips, giving it a light kiss, staring at the fingers that had showed him so much love over so many years. Margaret watched her firstborn son, seeing the small child she once cradled in her arms; desiring with everything she had left in her soul for the ability to take up the silver brush and stroke his hair one last time, she cried loudly in agony deep within her heart- but only a small stream of air escaped her unmoving lips, the words "Bye-O, my baby" impregnated in the whispery breath that was her last.

Don picked up the brush, placing it in his mother's hand, knowing she could not possibly hold or move it on her own. As he raised the brush and their hands to his head, he stared into her open eyes- and knew she was gone, but was unable to accept it. Don gave his mother a single kiss on the lips, then lay his head on her silent breast, putting the brush to his head; as he moved her hand up and down, Don repeatedly begged "Gently, Mom, gently."

"Please…"

But though no one could ever deny that the will of Margaret Eppes had ever been weak, it was not strong enough to overcome the will of death…or so it seemed.

BYE-O, BYE-O MY BABY