Title: Shall We Play A Game?

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: per diem re all Numb3rs characters and characterizations. The "main hospital" featured in this fanFICTION is a work of FICTION and does not really exist in any location other than my mind. Ditto the "downtown Y", as well as whatever else I decide to make up.

A/N: The Cat takes this opportunity to clarify: Suggestions are always welcome in any review. Said suggestions may be ignored, borrowed, filed for future reference or, if there are enough of them, burned at midnight during a full moon while chanting Latin.

When Last We Left Our Hero…

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Chapter Twenty: That's Fairly Disgusting

The bathroom may have only been 15 feet away, but by the time Charlie arrived he was exhausted and weak; unable to stand at the urinal like a man. Embarrassed, even though there was no-one else in the place, he shuffled barefoot into one of the stalls and sat to do his business, trying not to think about what was on the floor. He giggled almost wildly: Why worry about bacteria when he already had a bellyful?

He half-sighed, half-yawned, and adjusted the drainage bag a little. The ominous slosh registered even in his somewhat-befuddled brain; he would have to get someone to empty that. He shivered, and looked down his naked chest to the tube sticking out of it, and the attached bag. "That's fairly disguting," he whispered, wrinkling his nose.

The pressure upon his bladder relieved, Charlie painfully and carefully pulled himself up, using the toilet paper dispenser for leverage. He exited the stall and spent considerable time washing his hands; not so much for hygienic reasons, but because he was freezing. All he was wearing was a thin pair of cotton hospital pajama bottoms. Charlie spent so long at the sink his knees began to wobble. Reluctantly, he turned off the water and headed back for his bed in the hospital corridor – he couldn't wait to get under the covers again.

It had long been idiosyncratic of his nature that Charlie counted his steps, when his mind was not otherwise occupied. His steps right now were short, abbreviated – quite possibly his return trip down the hall was taking even longer than his original trek to the bathroom. Still, his destination had been reached with 21 shuffling steps – and he was already up to 30.

He paused, confused, and looked around. His sense of landmark was discombobulated; there seemed to be fewer beds now than there had been just a few minutes ago. Moreover, none of those beds were empty.

An orderly brushed past him pushing a passenger-free wheelchair. He raised one hand slightly to try and flag him down. "Excuse me," he started.

To his credit, the orderly actually heard him, and paused to give Charlie the once-over. "Better find your bed, buddy." The use of Don's special nickname for him nearly brought tears to Charlie's eyes, and he smiled tenderly. "This your chair?" the orderly continued. "I was taking it to transport – found it empty in the hall."

Charlie wavered-in-place and frowned at the chair, blinking solemnly. "I have a bed," he finally decided.

The orderly nodded. "Right. Better get back in it then – you're turning blue."

Charlie wasn't thinking clearly enough to understand if the young man meant that Charlie was cold, or if he knew he was supposed to be on oxygen. He shook his curls slightly. "I need…"

The orderly was moving again, and called back over his shoulder. "Be back in a few, dude; transport needs as many chairs as they can get!"

A gigantic shudder shook Charlie and he stood, bereft, in the middle of the hall. He looked around again for his empty bed, or the old man who had helped him. His eyes met the brilliant blue stare of a woman about Don's age, who was reclining in a bed at the same 30-degree angle Charlie should be enjoying. She motioned with her hand for him to come hither. As much to get out of the flow of traffic as for any other reason, Charlie did. "I lost my bed," he confided quietly.

She smiled, and motioned him even closer. "Not supposed to talk," she whispered.

Charlie lowered his own voice to match. "I lost my bed," he repeated.

"I heard," she whispered, picking at the top blanket on her bed. "Take this; just came out of the oven. Bed must be further down. It'll keep you warm while you look."

The speech had obviously exhausted her, and she sagged into the pillow, but continued to pluck at the warming blanket. "I couldn't," demurred Charlie.

"Please," she insisted.

Charlie knew he should protest more, but he was so cold he was almost salivating at the thought of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Finally, he accepted her gift. "Thank-you," he whispered, and she smiled and patted his hand, resting on her hospital bed rail.

He couldn't really move well enough to swing the blanket around his back, but Charlie managed – with the help of his Good Samaritan – to turn it into a superhero's cape eventually. He whispered his thanks again and decided he had turned the wrong way when he came out of the bathroom. Hoping to find either his bed or another kind stranger before his feet fell off, Charlie shuffled off in a direction opposite that from which he started.

He passed the bathroom and moved on. Traffic was definitely thinning out in the corridor. Charlie came to an impasse – he must turn either right, or left – and looked over his shoulder awkwardly. He was fairly certain he was not under the influence of any drugs. For one thing, the last hit of Demerol that he remembered was just before Ian had come to visit; surely that was hours ago? It felt like hours ago…and he had that "morning-after" quasi-hangover headache that he always endured when serious painkillers bled out of his system. Finally, the pain was definitely no longer subdued. The incision where the drainage tube was stitched in place hurt. The bag of fluid had become so heavy by now, he was supporting it with one hand underneath the blanket, so that it didn't pull out the tube. And even though his pericardium was obviously draining, there was constant uncomfortable pressure in his chest, and his breathing was becoming labored after so long off the oxygen.

He wondered vaguely if the pill forms of the antibiotics were working as well as the IV version; perhaps they should have left him on those for another few days. Then he remembered Lee Havercamp coming to see him late last night, and telling him about the secondary Brucella release. She said that until patients were transferred, they had decided to DC almost all IVs, for fear that the bacteria was in the saline supply. The conversation and the feeling of dread all came back to him in a powerful rush, and he staggered sideways half-a-step while searching the corridor behind him one last time for his bed.

At length, in desperation borne of the soup of fear, exhaustion and pain, he turned right. The change was instantaneous; there were no beds or wheelchairs in this hallway at all. There wasn't even any foot traffic. Charlie started to turn around, but found his attention captured by a vision; an oasis almost beyond comprehension teased him from behind a set of sliding glass doors.

As he approached, his feet moving toward the Promised Land on their own frozen accord, he read the square placard screwed into the wall, beside the doors: Student Nursing Instructional Lab. That would explain the no-less-than ten beds crammed into the room, each neatly made and sectioned into curtained cubicles. Some had mannequins in them; at least, Charlie truly hoped they were mannequins. Other beds were empty, mocking him.

He reached the glass entry and nearly salivated, placing his free hand on the door to steady himself. Poor Charlie had no way of knowing that the current crop of student nurses had been unceremoniously yanked from the lab early that morning, and ordered to help with the evacuation. Even the anal-retentive Phyllis, teacher's pet, had been so disoriented by the news of Brucella, she had forgotten to make sure the door was locked behind them. She had been busy, one hand to her forehead to check her temperature, the other hand clutching her stomach. She passed through the door clearing her throat, convinced she was exhibiting all of the symptoms, and the status of the lab was the last thing on her mind. So when Charlie touched the glass, the door began to silently retract. If he hadn't so recently been to the bathroom, it would have scared the pee right out of him.

As it was, he jerked back a little, hissing when all of his pains intensified. He tried to think rationally. He remembered the crowd of waiting patients in the corridor, the busy employees who could not spare a moment to help him. Without realizing it, he had crossed the threshold and was approaching one of the beckoning beds.

He heard the door whoosh shut behind him and jerked again. He turned around as if to leave, and the last vestiges of energy completely abandoned him. His knees gave out, and he expected to hit the floor, but found that he was close enough to one of the beds that he was able to latch onto the footboard with a flailing hand. Shit, he swore under his breath, as the pain spiked in his chest. He held onto the bed and glanced at the door. He'd never even make it that far, let alone all the way back to the original hallway.

He managed somehow to continue to support the drainage bag and clutch his blanket-cape tighter around his shoulders. Just a few minutes, he told himself, frozen feet almost moonwalking toward the head of the bed. I'll just get warm, let the pain recede; I won't even fall asleep, he promised, frigid fingers reaching to pull back the covers. I won't even fall asleep.

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Ian Edgarton started to enter the passenger side of the SUV, pausing to call a reminder out to Sinclair. "We'll take the drops," he said. "You and Granger check out the abandoned property."

Granger yelled something back, his tone petulant, and Edgarton laughed, turning back toward the SUV. Eppes was already inside, his right arm resting in his lap, but Ian still saw the red, irritated skin surrounding a pus-soaked bandage right away. He lifted an eyebrow. "That's fairly disgusting," he noted.

Eppes had been staring out the windshield, but now he looked quickly at Edgarton and then down at his arm. "I know," he confessed. "Sorry."

Ian waited for more, which was not forthcoming. He was still standing outside the vehicle. "You have somebody check that out?"

Don sighed. The sniper imagined that the Team Leader's eyes were rolling behind his sunglasses. "Been to the clinic. They took some kind of culture and drew my blood for the Brucella test. Doc said he'll give me some antibiotics for the infection, but he doesn't want to do it until he has the results of the test – wants to be sure he gives me the right thing."

Ian tapped the edge of the open door. "So," he said almost conversationally, observing the perspiration on Don's brow, "maybe I should drive."

Don glared in his direction. "I got it," he bit off shortly. "Just get the hell in."

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Dan Simmons was on the verge of tears. He had been shoved into an ambulance and spent almost twenty minutes wondering how long he would be at County – only to discover, as he was unloaded, that he had been delivered not to the county hospital, but the county jail.

Any number of harried staff had either ignored his pleas or threatened him with bodily harm unless he shut-up, and now he was arguing with an intake nurse in the infirmary. "You don't understand," he whined again. "I've got cirrhosis. I'm supposed to be at County waiting for a liver transplant!" Sudden fear pushed the despair from his face. "Unless…do they arrest people now, for drinking up their own livers? I expected to be put on the bottom of the transplant list, since I did it to myself, but my doctor never told me I could go to jail!"

The nurse stifled a yawn, only half-listening, and continued to read the chart before her. "Considering the speed you were going when you trashed the vehicle, Mr. Simpson, you're quite lucky to have escaped more serious injury. A few cracked ribs…"

Simmons interrupted, reaching up from Charlie's bed with an arthritic claw and coming close to latching onto her arm before she deftly stepped back. "I ain't Mr. Simpson!" he insisted. "I don't drive no more, either!" He started beating on his own chest, like a demented, geriatric Tarzan. "Look, nothin' wrong with my ribs, dammit!" He held up an arm, again, and couldn't help himself when he sobbed. "Please!" he sniffed, "please look at my hospital i.d. bracelet!"

The nurse hesitated, then cautiously got close enough to twist the bracelet around so that she could read it. Her eyes grew round, and her hand fluttered to her own chest. "Oh my heavens," she stammered, looking from the bracelet to the face of her non-patient. "Oh, my heavens!"

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Millie remained silent as long as she could. She had let Amita freshen up at the house, let Larry unpack the car, let Alan fuss over everyone – and held her tongue. Now, however, they were just a few miles from Laurel Heights. She'd never be able to face Charlie in her current state of suspicion.

She eased the vehicle around a corner and took a shot in the dark. "If the baby is due in June or July," she said, "your maternity leave will coincide with summer break. You might be ready to come back for Fall Semester."

Amita, who had been silently staring out the passenger window ever since the two of them had left the Craftsman, jerked her head around so fast Millie thought she may have whiplashed herself. Amita's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Larry told you," she seethed. "That little gnome told you."

Millie gripped the wheel more tightly and tried not show her shock. "It's Larry's?"

Amita reached across the space between them and slugged Millie in the upper arm – hard. "Don't be an idiot," she spat. "Of course it isn't Larry's!"

Millie tried to keep up with the flow of conversation – as well as Amita's apparent personality transplant. "Well…does Charlie know?"

Amita sniffed and looked away. "No. I just found out late last night; I don't even know how far along I am – the doctor in Oceanside told me to see an OB/GYN as soon as I could."

Millie flashed on another moment, a frozen chunk of her memory, when she had been a younger woman. Had things worked out differently, she might have a child herself right now; perhaps a daughter, very near Amita's age. She glanced quickly at her passenger and smiled fondly. "It will work out," she promised. "Charlie will be happy; Alan will be ecstatic; you'll be a wonderful mother."

Amita looked at Millie almost shyly and smiled gratefully. "Thank-you," she said softly, thinking as she looked down at her lap that her boss had certainly received the news better than Larry – who had to be resuscitated by the CHP officer's smelling salts. Millie was steering the car into the parking lot of Laurel Heights. "I just keep thinking of those childbirth videos they made us watch in junior high," the younger woman confessed.

Millie pulled into a parking space and laughed, turning off the car's engine. "That's fairly disgusting."

Amita giggled, reaching to unbuckle her seatbelt. "Could…I don't want to tell Charlie until he's better, and until I know more. After I see the doctor."

Millie reached over and patted her hand. "Of course. Understood. This is your news – on your terms. Just don't wait too long."

Amita groaned as she pushed open the door. "Too much chance of discovery," she shared. "I definitely want to tell him before he…notices anything…and he sees me naked. A lot."

Millie stood at the rear of the vehicle and shook her head, waiting for Amita to join her. "Apparently," she intoned drily.

The two women traversed the parking lot, and stopped at the information desk in the lobby of Laurel Heights Rehabilitation and Recovery Center. They were assured that Professor Eppes had arrived two hours before, and directed to Wing III. Three minutes later, they stood at the nurses' station, checking-in as required.

PM Charge RN Erica Frank had just returned from change-of-shift rounds, and had been slightly taken aback by Mr. Eppes. She was looking for his chart and transfer papers when Millie and Amita appeared. Now she came around the desk and started to lead them toward his room. "I'm a little surprised that the Medical Director admitted him," she informed them primly. "The patient does not seem that ill. It appears as if he would do quite well at home." She looked down her nose at the two women. "If…no-one…is available to care for him there, I'm sure a private in-home care agency…"

Amita, hormones raging, stopped in the middle of the hall and interrupted, her tone furious. "I beg your pardon! Perhaps it's none of your damn business! Perhaps there's a reason you're not the Medical Director! And how dare you say that Charlie is not ill! He's infected with Brucella, and has pericarditis! He just had an emergency pericardiocentesis last night!!"

Nurse Frank frowned, and Millie placed a restraining hand on Amita's arm. "I'm sure…" she started, but Amita interrupted again, still furious.

"I don't want this woman anywhere near Charlie, do you hear me?" She glared at Millie. "Was this the best you and Alan could do?!"

Erica shook her head. "The patient's records have not arrived from St. Michael's yet – we expected him to bring them with him, but the ambulance driver said he was told they would be faxed later. But this patient has not had a pericardiocentesis, I assure you, at any time in the recent past. Certainly not last night."

Amita seemed stunned – or angered – speechless at that, but this time Millie spoke up. "He did," she insisted. "He has a chest tube, and a drainage bag…"

The RN started walking again, rapidly this time, and Amita and Millie chased after her. "He's right here," Erica announced at last, pointing to a room just ahead of them of the left of the corridor. "Charles Eppes. He was sitting up in a chair just a few minutes ago demanding chocolate pudding."

Millie and Amita bumped into each other in their race for the doorway, but didn't even notice. Amita, younger and at least temporarily smaller, was the first to arrive. She burst through the door, calling longingly as she did. "Charlie! Charlie!"

Dan Simpson looked up from the magazine in his lap, confused. "Who?" he asked. Then he recognized Erica, and smiled. "You bring my pudding?"

Millie and Erica were close enough behind Amita that they had no trouble at all catching her when she fainted.

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A/N: Oh, no! Amita's pregnant, pissed and lying in a tangled heap! County Jail knows Simmons is not Simpson! Laurel Heights knows Simpson is not Eppes! But does Charlie care, or will he just stay in the lab until he gets his nursing degree?