Title: The Fury of the Wind
Author: Windimere Wellen
Part: 13 of ?
Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs and I'm not making any profit off of this…
Author's Note: Ok. Sorry you all had to wait, thanks for your reviews and your patience. You have made me smile and laugh, so thanks. Here we go again. This is the first chapter I'm not switching POV…we're going to stick with Alan for this round. And be patient with my medical story. Mom was a little too busy this weekend to help me out, so as far as I can understand, I'm sort of on track. So forgive the license I'm taking! Hope you enjoy.
The hours had passed slowly. Alan tried to figure out just how long it was that he'd been sitting in the trauma unit's waiting room. Two hours? No, it was closer to three now. One AM was approaching swiftly. And still he was waiting. Still no doctor appeared from the double doors. Still he was left to question what was left of his sanity which had slowly been slipping away since the moment Megan Reeves had pulled into his driveway.
Less than half an hour after they'd arrived at LA Central, David Sinclair had appeared, looking haggard, but pleased with himself. He'd assured Alan that the woman that had hurt his son's was dead, and that her living accomplices were not only in custody, but one was singing like a bird under the threat of being charged with accessory to murder of a federal agent. David had meant to be encouraging, but all Alan could think was that maybe the bluff wouldn't be much of a bluff. Don could very possibly be dead.
Not long after David had arrived, a nurse had appeared, carrying a clear bag with Grace Memorial's logo on it. Inside were Don's personal affects.
"I thought you might want these," she said softly, comfortingly, to Alan. He'd accepted them with as much of a smile as he could muster and started to inventory what his son had been wearing.
There was a pair of jeans, with some dark splatters that Alan could only assume were blood stains. He fought down a wave of nausea. Casual dress shoes were underneath the neatly folded jeans, and Alan set them carefully on the chair next to him. Next was a tie, but Alan's heart caught in his throat when he saw it because it wasn't Don's tie. It was his. A black tie with a simple silver design sliding down its length.
The tie had actually been a father's day gift from Charlie a few years back. Don had borrowed it a few months ago when he'd stayed over at the house one night and had left straight for the office in the morning. Evidently he'd never returned it. Part of the silver line was blotted out by more blood spatter. Alan was suddenly very glad he'd turned down Colby's offer of food. There was no dress shirt to be found in the mix, but Alan wasn't coherent enough to figure out why.
Something else had caught his attention anyway. It was the bulk of a folded Kevlar vest.
Colby and David had been talking quietly in the corner and weren't paying any attention to Alan, but Megan had been watching him carefully as he'd gone through the bag. When her eyes caught the vest, she was on her feet.
"Mr. Eppes…" she said hurriedly, moving to intercept his hand as it closed over the dark material at the bottom of the bag.
"No," he said sternly when she got close. Megan froze and he looked up at her, catching the uncertainty in her eyes. "I'm sorry Megan. I have to…" he said lamely, then tugged the vest until it came free of the bag.
"I really don't think you should look at that, sir," she said, her voice strained, but it was too late for convincing.
Alan had unfolded the vest, noting that the straps on the side, which went under Don's arms, had been cut, therefore making it possible to free him from its protection. Slowly, Alan turned the vest over to see the front of it, and his heart turned to ice as he did so.
Ever so slowly, he traced the first hole he came to, the one directly over where Don's heart should have been. The fabric was seared, its edges hard where it had melted together from the heat of the bullet, and there, inside the hole, Alan could feel the lump of metal that could have ended his son's life.
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to similarly examine the other three holes, noting where each one's location was. Then, he turned the vest inside out, to see the damage from the inside.
"It did its job," Megan said quietly. "It stopped the bullets."
"I heard," Alan said, trying to make his voice sound normal, "that these things can only take so much abuse. That their integrity is compromised after so many bullets," he said with a wave of his hand, his voice on the edge of panic.
"That's true," she answered honestly. "but because the bullets were so spaced out the Kevlar didn't fail. See?" she asked, kneeling in front of him, running her hand over the inside of the vest. "No fraying. No weak spots."
Alan nodded, clutching the vest tightly in his hands, the bag on the floor forgotten with Don's wallet, FBI badge, and watch still resting in the bottom of it.
Slowly Megan put all of Don's belongings back into the bag and pulled the drawstring closed at the top. When it was clear that Alan was lost in his thoughts, she slipped back into her chair.
Alan didn't miss the look she gave the two other FBI agents – one of worry and concern, but all he could think about was Don.
The day that they'd brought Don home from the hospital had been the second happiest day of his life. The first was when he'd married Margaret. They were a young couple, eagerly starting their own family, and Don was a happy and healthy infant. And he had made Margaret so happy. She was fairly obsessed with her new baby boy and Alan would sit for hours and just watch her as she held him and talked to him.
Don was a beautiful child, and intelligent, just not in the same way that Charlie was. He'd started speaking early and had always been active. He was always getting into mischief and was constantly wandering away if not supervised.
More than once Don had given Alan a near heart attack. Some things, it seemed, never changed.
Things had significantly changed in family dynamics when Charlie was born, the third happiest day of Alan's life. Alan had been worried that Don, a healthy and happy five year old would struggle with a change so huge, but he had borne it well, and for a few years, everything had been incredibly smooth. The bumps began when they'd first discovered the gift Charlie had been given.
It was then that Alan realized that things were going to be different for his family. He'd never expected they'd turn out the way that they had though. He'd never thought he'd have a genius mathematician for a son. Nor had he thought he'd have a successful FBI agent for a son. He'd always imagined they'd be his little boys for ever. And never had he thought that their lives, especially Don's, would be so threatened by what they chose to do every day as their occupations.
Now things were going to change again and Alan wasn't sure if his family could survive another loss, not like this, not so soon after Margaret. Not Don.
When Alan finally managed to ease his grip on the flak vest in his hands, he realized more time had passed and Megan had fallen into a fitful sleep. Alan thought briefly about calling to tell Charlie that he hadn't heard anything, but he didn't have the heart to, and he sincerely hoped that Amita had gotten Charlie to go to sleep.
With his mind clouded over his worry for how Charlie might take everything that had happened, he didn't notice when the double doors opened and a tired looking doctor stepped through them.
"Mr. Eppes?"
Alan's head shot up and he nearly dropped the Kevlar vest. Hurriedly, he stood to meet the doctor, a tall African-American man with graying hair and kind brown eyes. He looked tired, but gave Alan a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"How's my son?" Alan demanded.
"You are Donald Eppes' father?" the doctor asked casually, taking in Alan's appearance.
"He is." Alan turned to find David standing to his right, his FBI badge flipped open. The doctor nodded at David.
"Of course I am."
"I'm sorry Mr. Eppes, just standard procedure for government agents. I'm Ashton Welker, and I just finished a pretty serious surgery for your son. Would you mind taking a walk with me?" he asked, gesturing towards the doors he had just come through.
"Of course," Alan said, and numbly handed the vest he was still holding to David, who squeezed his shoulder. His stomach seemed to have turned into a hard ball of misery. Dr. Welker gently took him by the elbow and guided him towards the doors. It wasn't until after they were through the doors that he started speaking.
"How much do you know about your son's injuries, Mr. Eppes?"
"It's Alan, and only what his partner told me. I knew that they flew him here on a Mercy Flight, but since the nurse told me he'd been taken into surgery, I haven't heard anything."
Dr. Welker pushed open a door into an office and gestured Alan inside. Alan paused at the door, glancing down the hall, as if he expected to see a sign telling him where his son was.
"Oh God, he's not dead, is he?" Alan asked, the words coming out in a tangled mess of fear.
"Oh no," Dr. Welker said quickly, as he pulled out a chair for Alan to sit in opposite a vast mahogany desk. "Donald came through the surgery."
"Don. We call him Don," Alan said absently. "What's wrong with him?" he asked shortly, his eyes still on the door to the office.
"Mr. Eppes, Alan, Don has sustained some fairly serious injuries. I want to be very honest with you. You're son is in grave danger right now." Once Dr. Welker was sure he had Alan's attention, he continued.
"When your son arrived, we had to take him straight into emergency surgery. His body has sustained serious trauma. The initial problem was that your son suffered blunt trauma to his chest, resulting in five broken ribs and two fractured ribs. This put serious pressure on his lungs. The bullets that were fired at his chest an stopped by the bullet proof vest he was wearing only added to the pressure and created massive bruising all over his abdomen. The bullet that struck over his heart caused some internal hemorrhaging underneath the skin, and the other bullets moved the broken bones as far as I can tell," he paused here to make sure Alan was still with him. Alan nodded slowly, only imagining what was going to come next.
"I've been told that he managed to get to his feet. That alone was enough to move all of the broken bones, but when he fell the force of the impact forced one of the broken rib bones through his right lung. The result was a full collapse of the lung. One of the bones on the left side also entered his left lung, but got hung up on another rib bone, and didn't force all the way through, leaving the lung only partially collapsed. This caused a series of internal wounds, which means a lot of internal bleeding. When Don was shot in the shoulder, it only exacerbated things by causing external blood loss as well."
Alan's throat was dry. He could only stare at Dr. Welker as he explained Don's injuries. He wanted to ask questions and demand answers, but no words would come out. Dr. Welker seemed to understand Alan's predicament and sighed softly.
"He stopped breathing numerous times on the way here and in the helicopter, the EMTs had to intabate him to keep him breathing. It's probably the only thing that saved his life. He crashed not long after that, Mr. Eppes. Upon arrival, he was unresponsive, and the only thing keeping him alive was the oxygen flow. I performed emergency surgery to stop the internal flow of blood and we were also able to get his heart beating again. We did what we could, which was to fix as much inside as possible and to move the rib bones back in place so they have a chance to heal."
Here he paused, and ran a hand over his tired face. Alan watched him closely.
"But, he's alive?" Alan managed finally when the Doctor said nothing more.
"For now, yes. I don't want to get your hopes up, Mr. Eppes. Don lost a lot of blood on his way here. We're currently running a lot of transfusions, and we've been able to fully stop the flow of blood out of the gun shot wound in his shoulder. As far as we can tell, we've stopped the bleeding inside, but right now he still has a tube down his throat, and in his chest to keep him breathing. And there are other complications. Don sustained a concussion of some severity. It looks like his head had numerous run-ins with several hard objects. The EMTs told me he regained consciousness in the chopper, but since then we've seen very little brain activity. In short, Mr. Eppes, your son is in a coma for now. His body is probably pretty upset with him."
"So you're saying that there's not much of a chance?" Alan couldn't believe those words were coming out of his mouth. He couldn't believe his eldest son was so close to death. He couldn't believe that his Donnie, always ready with a quick smile or a smart remark was so close to being gone forever.
Dr. Welker sighed and wove his hands together with his fingers.
"The next eight hours will be critical. If he survives through the night, things will be looking a little better. The main concern is that his body has simply had too much trauma and lost too much blood and will just stop functioning. It unfortunately isn't unlikely. If his body doesn't reject the oxygen through the night, and if he doesn't fight the transfusions, there's a good chance at recovery."
Alan stared wide eyed at the doctor, willing him to continue. Willing him to say that Donnie was going to be fine.
"Your son is young, and physically fit. At thirty six, he's in great shape. There are a lot of things we can't control, Mr. Eppes. The human will to live is one of them. That alone can make all the difference in the world. Tell me, does your son have anything to live for?"
Alan choked out a laugh at that, unsure why he found it funny. He swallowed hard and blinked to clear his vision that was swimming in liquid before him. "He has me and his brother. We love him very much. He… He was trying to save his brother, you see. He jumped in front of the bullet. That's why he got up. He was trying to save Charlie. And he would never leave this world until he knew Charlie was ok. And he has a wonderful job, and he's good at it. And his friends – his co-workers are good people and…" Alan trailed off. "Oh God, I can't lose him. Please, you have to do everything that you can. Please."
"I promise you that we will Mr. Eppes. We're not giving up on your son. Trust me, if he makes it through tonight, we'll have a lot more hope for tomorrow."
"Please, I have to see him." Alan knew he was begging, and he didn't care.
Dr. Welker frowned. "He's not going to look much like your son right now, Alan." His frown lightened a little. "But he is going to need encouragement. Normally it's against hospital policy, as Don is in ICU right now, but I think he's going to need all the help he can get. I'll tell you what, if you promise to be quiet, and just sit with him, I'll let you see him and stay unless I think it's adversely affecting him. Ok?"
Alan nodded gratefully, and as he stood, he found his knees felt weak. He forced himself to be strong. You'll be no good to Donnie if you can't stay on your own two feet.
A few minutes later, Dr. Welker left him outside the door to Don's room. The blinds were pulled shut on the windows, so Alan couldn't see Don and it took all his will power to open the door and walk in.
The room was dark, lit by the soft glow of the whirring oxygen machine and the various medical monitors that beeped softly. There, in the center of the room lay his eldest child, his firstborn.
Don looked so still lying there that Alan's breath caught in his throat and he wondered for a moment if Don was just simply dead. Then he caught the soft rise and fall of Don's chest, so rhythmic that there was no way to deny that a machine was running that part of the show.
Slowly, Alan forced his feet to move, taking him closer to the bed. Don's eyes were closed, dark bruises around his eyes, covering even his eye lids, a sign of concussion, stark against his unnaturally pale skin. Don's head was wrapped in a thin white bandage, red on one side from a little bit of blood soaking through. His face was covered with an oxygen mask, a tube running down his throat.
Alan's eyes trailed down over his son's neck onto his bare chest. They had apparently forgone the hospital gown, and Alan could see why. Practically Don's whole chest was covered in bandages, the white gauze covering his abdomen and chest. What Alan could see of Don's skin was a multitude of colors, ranging from black and purple, to a sickly shade of yellow and green. The bruises alone, sure to be worse under the bandages that tightly wrapped Don's torso, turned Alan's stomach. A thin hospital blanked was pulled up until it reached his chest mid way, where a tube poked out of a bandage. It was the chest tube the doctor had mentioned, inserted directly into Don's lung, where it would stay until the lung was able to heal and inflate itself on its own.
Don's left shoulder was also heavily bandaged, but there was no blood peeking through, for which Alan was grateful. His right hand was in a cast up past his wrist and Alan vaguely remembered Megan telling him that one of the men had broken Don's hand to get rid of the gun Don had.
The thought of a gun caused Alan to drag his eyes back up to Don's collar bone.
Don never talked of being injured on the job. Alan knew he had been, had even once received a call from Billy Cooper when Don was working Fugitive Recovery about an incident Don had had, but in general, he'd been left in the dark.
Don had become a private person when it became apparent that the details of his life were sometimes over looked. Alan had always thought it was a defense mechanism. Since he and Margaret had so often missed out on parts of Don's life, Don had in turn hid his life from them, obviously assuming that it wasn't important to them, and when they deemed it important, it was one thing he could hold over their head. When he'd offered it freely, he'd been ignored, and when they wanted it, he'd denied them.
Alan also knew Don was so private to protect them. Margaret had a hard time with her eldest son in mortal danger from his every day job, but out of respect, hadn't harped on him about it. Alan hadn't been able to hold his tongue, or his fear, so he had always ridden Donnie about the danger he was in. In return, to keep his parents from worrying more, Don glossed over the danger and the situations that put him in harm's way.
Therefore, the first time Alan had learned that Don had been shot in the line of work, it had been an accident. Don had been showering at the house one afternoon after work, and Alan had popped into the bathroom to grab the Drano when he'd heard the water go off. Don had been standing there, towel about his waist, shaving when Alan had come in.
Don had been startled and Alan had too because it was the first time he'd seen the round scar under Don's collarbone. An argument had ensued, followed by tears and many apologies from both sides after Don had explained that he'd been shot in Albuquerque, and hadn't wanted to worry his parents or Charlie, so when it hadn't been life threatening, he'd opted to hide it. Alan no longer wondered why, even on the hottest days that LA could serve up, Don never took off his shirt.
And there, in the warm hospital room, the round scar stood out, even against the white skin. It seemed to be the only thing pink on Don's body.
In exhaustion, Alan pulled a chair to Don's bedside, and sat, reaching up for Don's hand. He carefully threaded through the IV wire and stayed clear of the electrodes that were monitoring his heart and his breathing, but finally, he was clutching Don's left hand.
The skin was cold and clammy, but Alan held on, and slowly, he began to rub light circles over the top of Don's hand. Then, with only the whirring oxygen and the beeping machinery for an audience, he began to speak.
And until he feel asleep from exhaustion, he told Don how much he loved him and how much he and Charlie needed him, over and over again.