Title: The Fury of the Wind
Author: Windimere Wellen
Part: 15 of ?
Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs and I'm not making any money off of this.
Author's Note: For some reason, this chapter was very hard for me to write, so I'm sorry if it's a little choppy. I hope you all had a wonderful Fourth of July holiday…
Alan Eppes paced restlessly in the waiting room. He had reflected ten minutes earlier that he hated it when people paced. That didn't seem to stop him from pacing though.
Don paced a lot when he was worried. Charlie paced when he was trying to explain a math equation. Margaret had never paced. They boys must have gotten it from him. It was a trait he wished he hadn't passed on. After all, he hated it when people paced.
"Mr. Eppes, why don't you sit down?" David Sinclair asked. Alan paused in his pacing, glancing up at David. David was perched in one of the chairs a few feet from where he was standing, and looked tired. Beside David and Alan, the waiting room was empty. David had ordered Megan home for rest and Colby had gone home to shower, then was headed into the office to make sure that the office was still being run by someone competent. David had stayed through the night, even in the long hours where he'd not been told any information.
After Alan had gone back with the doctor, no one had spoken to Don's crack team of agents for some time. Finally, a nurse had taken pity on Megan's terribly despondent look and had gone to find Dr. Welker.
In retrospect, Alan felt guilty. His own need to see his son and touch him had over ridden every other brain function he'd had, which led to him completely disregarding the fact that Don's friends and work family might want to know what was going on.
Even if he had thought about it, Alan had to admit to himself that he probably wouldn't have wanted to drag himself away. He'd sat with Don through the night, and somewhere around four AM, he'd fallen asleep. He'd spent his time telling Don stories, pleading with him, and saying some things he'd never said before. Actually, he'd told Don a lot of things he'd never said before.
He'd told Don how genuinely proud of him he was. He'd told Don how sorry he was for all of the baseball game's he'd missed when Don was little. He admitted how he'd been overwhelmed dealing with a genius child and another rather rebellious one. Then he'd explained that he always had understood why Don had always gotten into trouble. And he'd apologized for having to send Charlie to high school with Don.
Alan had told Don how much he'd missed him when he'd left for Quantico and how, when Don had graduated, he'd been so proud he could barely speak. And then he said how he'd prayed every night that Don would be safe – that Don would be protected.
Then he'd started to tell Don how much he needed him. He thanked his eldest son for the support he'd given to the family when Margaret had passed. He explained that Don had provided the only sanity he'd had during that time. He hadn't been able to handle Charlie, and though he had feared Don couldn't either, he'd been proud to see that Don had. He'd tried to remind Don how important he was to Charlie. How vital he was to the survival of the Eppes family.
It was hard to put it all into words, but Alan had tried. Charlie had always idolized Don, but no matter how many times Alan had told Don that, his hard-shelled son had shrugged it off. As far as Don had always been concerned, everything he did in life was mediocre. It was a complete lie. Don had been more than capable at everything he ever did. But Don's doubts, probably formed in the shadow of Charlie's gifts, had always led to Don being unable to believe the fact that Charlie actually did look up to him.
When Charlie was younger, he'd always wanted to be Don. It hadn't always been easy. Don had been denied a lot as a child, but so had Charlie, though Don was most likely less aware.
When Don had started playing baseball, Charlie had instantly wanted to play too. At first Alan had thought it was a good idea, but Margaret had said no immediately. Alan hadn't understood at first. Charlie had been crushed. He only wanted to do what his big brother did. But Margaret had been adamant. And as time passed, Alan had finally understood. Baseball had become Don's refuge. It was something he was good at that Charlie wasn't. It was a part of his life that wasn't encroached upon by his brother.
Alan had left that part out when he'd been talking to Don, while his son lay so still on the hospital bed. He didn't want any guilt to shadow Don. All he wanted was his precious son back.
Sometime after four, Alan had fallen asleep, the exhaustion from worry taking its final toll. He'd been awoken several times after that by nurses and doctors coming and going. Dr. Welker had been in two or three times, but Alan had lost count. More than anything, he'd lost track of what time it was.
Some time later, Alan had been jarred out of his fitful sleep by Dr. Welker. With little or no preamble, he'd awoken Alan and had gently, but firmly told Alan that he'd have to leave.
"Is there a problem?" Alan had asked quickly, his eyes darting to Don's still form, his eyes searching for something wrong, trying to shake the cobwebs from his mind.
"Mr. Eppes, I need you to leave." Dr. Welker's voice brokered no argument. Alan's heart rate had jumped as his mind turned over. Dr. Welker must have seen the panic in his eyes, and he'd reached out. Gently putting his hand on Alan's shoulder, he guided Alan towards the door. "We need to examine Don and deal with some minor complications from the surgery."
At this point, Dr. Welker had managed to get Alan out of the ICU room that held his beautiful son, but Alan's head was craned over his shoulder, staring at the closing door.
"Don't panic Alan, like I told you last night, if Don made it through the night, things were going to be a lot better. Don's made it through the night and that's a great sign. But now you need to let us do our jobs. Try not to worry Alan, your son's in good hands."
Alan had found himself at a loss for words. Dr. Welker had left him in the hands of a capable nurse, who had escorted him out of the ICU and back into the waiting room. Before she'd ushered him through the double doors, and back to a world of waiting, she had smiled up at him.
"He's pulling a 48 hour, and should go home, but you're son has him perked," she said quietly, motioning back down the hall to where Dr. Welker had disappeared, back into Don's room. "Don't worry, he's just taking every precaution, and don't let him know I said it, but as far as we can tell, your son is out of immediate danger."
Her words had partially dispelled the growing sense of terror Alan had felt since his rude-awakening and subsequent removal from Don's room minutes before. He'd still been trying to figure out if he'd somehow missed one of the medical monitors freaking out, or if he'd missed Don stopping breathing. Now it just seemed that Dr. Welker was simply being overly thorough with his care of Don, and for that Alan was incredibly grateful.
After having caught David up on what little he knew, it occurred to him that he needed to call Charlie. A quick check of the time revealed that it was close to nine in the morning, and Alan blanched at the thought, hoping Charlie was still asleep, hoping that he wasn't at home waiting, afraid of what his father's silence meant.
He was just fumbling in his pocket to find his cell phone that Don had bought him several years earlier as a Christmas present and a general hint to become more progressive, when David's phone rang.
Although it was Charlie's name on the caller ID, it turned out to be Amita. After a brief conversation in which David excitedly told her that Don was still alive, Alan was left to wait.
He hated waiting. He hated waiting more than he hated pacing.
Alan thought staring at the double doors, waiting for Dr. Welker to appear, might speed things up, but soon he reckoned it to be something closer to the saying that a watched pot never boils.
Just as he was about to go up to the nurse's station to demand any sort of answers to questions he had yet to come up with, besides the most obvious, if Don was still alive, Charlie and Amita arrived.
"Dad?" Charlie's voice sounded small, but hopeful, and Alan stood immediately to greet his son. An overwhelming need to suddenly cry spread through Alan, but he bit back the tears and enveloped his youngest child in a tight hug, careful not to squeeze the arm that was so carefully wrapped and placed in a sling across Charlie's chest.
Alan found himself unable to let go. He was so grateful just to be able to hold Charlie in his arms, to be able to touch something tangible, that he didn't want the feeling to ever go away. Charlie seemed to need the physical touch too, because he was clinging to his father in a way he hadn't done since he was small, afraid of thunderstorms in the dark or of the bully's at school.
The moment seemed to stretch on forever, but Charlie broke the spell. With desperation in his voice, he spoke finally. "Dad? Is Don ok?"
Alan slowly disentangled himself from Charlie and pushed his curly-haired son back a bit, two hands on his shoulders as Alan examined Charlie's appearance.
"Don's alive," he said quietly, keeping judgment, fear, and worry from his voice in a way only a parent could. His eyes slowly took in Charlie's appearance. His son was clean and dressed in fresh clothes, but his skin was pale, and the skin still drawn from stress and fear, but Alan saw no signs of pain.
It was Charlie's eyes that bothered Alan. They were haunting. In the dark depths there was a clear sign of absolute fear. Even when Margaret had been sick, Alan had never seen this look from Charlie. Instead, Charlie had retreated into his numbers, and had eternally hoped that if he'd ignored what was wrong with his mother, it would simply go away. Alan was both relieved and frightened to see that this was not the case with Don. Charlie had taken the full reality of the situation in. He'd been there to see Don hurt and if last night had been any sort of clue, felt at least partially responsible for what had happened.
For a moment Alan wondered how any of them were going to make it through this.
"He's alive? Can I see him? Please?" Charlie was begging now, tears welling in his eyes, making them shiny and huge. Alan rubbed Charlie's arm comfortingly.
"I don't know Charlie. I was with him most of the night, but his doctor, Dr. Welker, asked me to leave about an hour ago." As the words came out of his mouth, he saw the spike in concern in Charlie's eyes. "The nurse assured me that it was just to examine him and to check for complications from the surgery," Alan added quickly, to try to stem the flow of terror that Charlie must have been feeling.
Alan had always imagined that Don might be hurt, but he'd never thought about how he and Charlie would have to deal with it. He'd never imagined having to look at Charlie and see this fear and worry.
"Dad, will you tell me? Please? I want to know everything."
Alan stared at him for a moment, confused. This happened often enough. Alan was often lost when Charlie spoke, but usually it was because his mathematician son had launched into some mathematical principle that he simply couldn't get his mind around. But ever so often, it seeped into other parts of their lives.
"What Charlie?"
"I want to know everything that's wrong with Don. And don't leave anything out."
Alan hesitated. He briefly reflected that he himself didn't really want know everything that Dr. Welker had told him. He briefly reflected that he wished he hadn't seen the tube running down Don's throat, or the one protruding from his chest. He wished he hadn't seen the bruises, or that he'd felt absolutely no response from his son, who lay so impossibly still, surrounded by tubes and wires and electrodes and stark white.
Charlie caught the hesitation. "Dad, I'm not a child anymore. I was there with Don. I watched him get shot. I watched a bullet go through his arm and into mine. Are you listening? I have to know! You have to tell me now!" Through the tirade, Charlie's voice level went up in elevation, rising to a pitch that Alan was only accustomed to hearing when his sons were fighting. It caught him off guard.
Charlie rarely raised his voice. He was emotional, but Don was the more volatile of the two. To top it off, Charlie had hardly ever raised his voice to his father. And the look on Charlie's face was a wild one.
Alan gaped at Charlie for a moment, and Charlie blinked once or twice, his good hand on his ear, a nervous habit Alan was used to seeing when Charlie was agitated. The nurses were staring, and David was on his feet, unsure if he should intervene.
"Dad, I'm so sorry," Charlie said suddenly, then the words began to tumble out of his mouth. "I'm so sorry. I just can't stop thinking about it. All I see is that one bullet and the blood and Don, falling. And I couldn't do anything. My feet were stuck on the ground. And then we were lying on the floor, and he wasn't breathing. And there was blood everywhere, and I was holding him. Then they took him. They took him out of my arms, and I couldn't breathe either. And then no one told me anything. I thought he was dead. I can't do this. I can't. I need him. Dad, please, I need him. Tell me he's going to be ok, please, tell me he's going to come back and be Don, and play basketball with me. And watch games at the house. And yell at me for doing stupid things. And fight with me about working for the FBI. Please Dad, tell me."
Charlie was just short of in tears, and Alan thought his own heart was ripping in two. He hadn't thought that possible. He thought the moment Megan had told him that the boys were injured, and he'd learned the extent of Don's injuries, that his heart would simply never work again, because it had shattered. But he found he was wrong. Over the night, it had sewn itself back up, and now it was ripping to shreds again.
Alan held Charlie, who had fallen into his chest. He whispered encouragement into his son's ear, promising all sorts of things that he knew he might never be able to fulfill, including Don's full recovery. He would have told Charlie anything he wanted to hear to erase the pain and the suffering that his son was going through.
Eventually Charlie calmed down a bit and pushed away from Alan. His eyes were rimmed in red, but he seemed more stable, though the haunted look was still in his eyes.
"Please Dad, I really do want to know," he said quietly, this time a bit more stable.
Amita, who'd been standing off to the side, now moved a little closer, and Alan turned to smile at her, surprised to find her wearing one of Don's old FBI sweatshirts from his Quantico days. She gave him a wane smile, obviously intent to hear whatever he was going to tell Charlie, so Alan motioned for them both to sit, and caught sight of the prescription bottles, tight in Amita's hands, and was grateful to her for looking out for his son.
Slowly, and with as much detail as he could offer, Alan explained Don's condition to Charlie, Amita, and David, who'd already heard most of it, the way Dr. Welker had explained it to him.
Charlie got paler as Alan spoke.
"Listen to me though, Don was alive this morning. Dr. Welker promised me that if he made it through the night, his chances were a whole lot better. He didn't reject the oxygen and his body is still functioning. These are good things." Alan found that his voice wasn't as convincing as he hoped it would be, but Charlie and Amita seemed to take comfort in his words.
Alan was just about to launch into another, more persuasive speech about how stubborn Don was when Dr. Welker, looking ever more tired that he had last night, appeared in the double doors.
"Mr. Eppes?" he called softly. Alan felt his heart seize up for a moment, and then turned to face Dr. Welker. The soft smile on Dr. Welker's face eased most of Alan's fears. "If you have a moment, can you come back to my office?"
"Of course. This is my youngest son," Alan said quickly, reaching down for Charlie's good hand. Charlie gripped his hand tightly, and Alan squeezed back reassuringly. "Whatever you're going to tell me, Charlie needs to hear too."
"Of course. It's nice to meet you, Dr. Eppes. I'm a huge fan of your work." Alan knew he must have looked surprised, but was glad to see Charlie's face beam in sudden pleasure, a smile almost reaching his eyes. "One of my nurse's made the connection for me. I studied mathematics as a minor during my undergrad years," Welker said, motioning for them to follow him through the doors. He put one hand on Charlie's good shoulder and smiled at Charlie, who animatedly began to ask where Welker had done his undergrad studies.
Alan suddenly felt relief that he was not alone in this. He not only had Don's FBI team, but he had Charlie, and he now had another helping hand. It turned out that Dr. Welker might be the best medicine Charlie could get, especially if he could keep Charlie a little distracted, and more importantly, if he could save Don's life.