Title: The Fury of the Wind
Author: Windimere Wellen
Part: 16 of ?
Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs and I'm poor. You won't get anything from me.
Author's Note: Once again, sorry for the wait. My life sometimes just simply spirals out of control… I hope you can all forgive me and that this chapter doesn't disappoint…
Charlie couldn't remember a time where he'd felt so miserable. He constantly felt like tears were just going to cascade out of his eyes, and he would never be able to stop them if they did. His chest was constricted, to the point where breathing seemed pointless even if it was possible. And his heart was simply broken. He felt like there was nothing left in the world for him – that nothing could possibly go right after so much had gone so wrong.
Charlie loved his world of numbers because it was neat. In Charlie's world, everything was solvable. There was an equation for everything. There was a law or a rule or a theory that answered each question. Math was elemental to life. It was in everything he did and saw. Math explained everything and solved everything. Occasionally, some mathematical problems would take longer to solve, and there was back tracking, and reworking of solutions, but in the end a solution would present itself logically.
The problem was that the current situation was not being solved. It was not a neat math equation that made sense. Charlie had tried to make it make sense, tried to force the issue, but he'd failed.
Back in the bank, he had assumed that logically, since the woman had said that he had a task to do to save his brother, that once he had completed the task, she would keep her word, and let Don be. Charlie wasn't naïve. While he'd been under that pressure, the rational part of his brain, the part that worked more like Don's, told him that there was no way out of the situation they were in.
So Charlie had formed a new equation. He had reworked the problem, and put the ball in his own court. He had tried to bypass that woman's equation to make one of his own. But still, it had failed.
Larry had once told him that when he was dealing with people, the answers to problems were never elegant. He had reinforced that concept when he'd been warning Charlie about that fact that being able to predict things was not the same as being able to control things, right before Charlie's equations had placed Don and his team in the line of fire during the Charm School Boys case.
Charlie was still trying to rework an equation to solve the current problem. That problem was that he didn't like the truth he was faced with.
Dr. Welker's prognosis of Don had been very guarded. He had been encouraging that Don had survived the night and had made sure to point out that all of the internal bleeding had stopped. He said that Don's body was still functioning on its own except for the oxygen. He had even said that a recovery was now in the picture.
But there were other concerns. Don's body wasn't responding well to the oxygen. It was taking it, but Don was fighting the tube down his throat, even in his completely unconscious state. Every now and then, his muscles would contract, trying to expel the tube. It was impossible to do, but it was taking a toll on the new stitches from the earlier surgery. The other difficulty lay in the fact that Don was showing no signs of waking at all.
Dr. Welker had once again been careful when discussing this part of the problem. He started out by explaining that due to the nature of Don's injuries, his body was past the point of severe exhaustion, and that a natural response was for his body to begin its healing process, and the easiest way to do that was to conserve energy, which would contribute to Don's lack of consciousness.
However, Charlie soon learned that Don's brain function was minimal, and that he was showing very little response to any stimuli.
"This isn't that rare," Dr. Welker had said plainly, in a confident voice. "It could be a matter of hours before Don wakes up. Or, it could be days or weeks. This could also turn into an extended coma. We won't be able to tell just yet. Don's going to have to answer those questions for us."
What Charlie had gleaned from his meeting with Dr. Welker was that Don's body had sustained terrible trauma. And there was a good chance that his brother would never be the same again. Alan on the other hand had decided to take things positively. He had decided to focus on the 'matter of hours' idea, and had confidently told both Charlie and Dr. Welker that he had no doubt that his Donnie was simply "sleeping off his exhaustion."
Charlie hadn't been so convinced. He had wanted to know what the worst case scenario was. Alan had been upset, angry even, but Charlie had to know. Dr. Welker looked hesitant, but Charlie had pushed, and that had driven Alan from the room. In retrospect, Charlie felt guilty, but he wanted to know what to prepare himself for.
"He could be brain dead from lack of oxygen, from the blunt head trauma, or from his seizure and subsequent crash upon arrival. He could remain in a vegetative state indefinitely. He might awaken but have severe brain damage. Or the damage could be less. He might not be able to speak, he might not be able to walk or use his limbs properly. He might have lost his vision. His body may simply give up still. The trauma may have proven too much and his organs may just give up one by one. If he does awake, he might not remember you, or who he is." The list had gone on. Dr. Welker had stopped several times, his words halting, but Charlie had pushed him, demanding answers, and had only stopped short of threatening the doctor by reminding himself that Don's life was in his hands.
"But Charlie, you have to listen to me," he had added after he'd finished his list, as Charlie shook in his chair. "None of that is definitely going to happen. Not unless you give up hope. Not unless Don gives up, and from what your father has told me, Don isn't exactly a quitter."
Charlie had nodded mutely, then meekly asked if he could see Don. Dr. Welker had nodded solemnly, and led him into the hall, and left him outside of Don's room.
It was there that Charlie was trying to figure out how to fix the situation he found himself in. But math was not helping.
The door in front of him was closed, but the blinds to the room were open just enough that Charlie could see in.
The room was dark, lit by machines, creating a warm, even inviting look. Charlie shuddered at the thought, wondering how a room that seemed so evil, could look comfortable. He couldn't see Don. At least not Don's torso and head. He could just make out the shapes that were most likely Don's legs, underneath a standard white hospital blanket. His father blocked the rest of the view.
Charlie felt another wave of guilt wash over him, knowing that he had behaved badly earlier. He should never have tried to make his father listen to what might happen to Don.
Why couldn't you leave it alone Charlie? Dr. Welker was just giving Dad some hope, just telling him that now it was a waiting game. True he said that they couldn't tell anything yet, and that Don certainly wasn't out of danger, but he had seemed so hopeful. And he had encouraged Dad. And I just broke it into a million pieces.
Unconsciously, Charlie's hand moved of its own accord, reaching out to grip the doorknob, its smooth surface feeling oddly numbing.
Charlie froze and had the overwhelming urge to run away. Surely no one would be surprised to find that he'd fled back to his garage and his chalkboards. Surely no one would be shocked to hear he'd returned to P vs. NP. Surely no one will blame me.
Wrong. Everyone would blame him. No one would understand how he could ignore his mother in the hospital, only to turn around and less than two years later, ignore his precious older brother as he too walked the fine line between life and death. No one would understand why Charlie thought it would be ok to hide in his numbers rather than sit by his brother's side and encourage him to live. No one would be able to handle that. Least of all himself.
With a death grip on the door, Charlie realized that for now he would have to put math aside. No equation was going to save Don's life. No equation was going to take away the hurt inside. No equation would answer his questions about why Don had taken that final bullet. No equation would be able to take the place of the love between brothers.
So Charlie turned the doorknob and pushed the door open gently, the blinds banging softly against the glass. Alan looked up quickly and what Charlie saw nearly broke his resolve.
His father was crying. His gentle face was wet with tears, and Charlie would have been hard pressed to miss the death grip that his father had on Don's hand. Instantly, Alan was wiping at his eyes, trying to erase the sign of weakness, but it was too late. Charlie had seen into his father's tortured soul, and it was something he would never forget.
"Dad…" he said, trailing off, approaching slowly, though he wanted to run to his father.
"Charlie, I…" Alan trailed off. "It's just that I'm so tired, and…"
"Dad, I'm so sorry," Charlie said, kneeling in front of Alan, and taking his father's free hand, still damp from tears. "I'm sorry I did that back there. I shouldn't have."
"No, don't apologize Charlie. You need to quantify, I understand."
"Dad, you aren't giving up, are you? You wouldn't give up on Don?" Charlie asked, panic rising in his chest, his eyes still on his father, unable to look at his brother's still form. His father looked so much older. So much more tired.
"No Charlie, never. I need you boys more than anything else in the world. You're my life. Both of you. And I couldn't live without either of you. And you better believe I'm not letting Donnie go anywhere. We're going to make him fight, and you're going to help."
His father's words were so earnest that Charlie found himself nodding eagerly.
They sat in silence for a few moments before Alan disentangled his hand from Charlie's, and placed it under his youngest son's chin, raising Charlie's head.
"Charlie, sooner or later you have to face Don. So why don't you start now?" The suggestion was soft, and Charlie blinked in surprise. He would never understand just how his father always seemed to know what was going on.
Without waiting for a response, Alan stood abruptly, careful not to jostle Don in any way as he removed his hand from Don's. He didn't quite break the connection though, but instead, he guided Charlie's hand until Charlie found himself gripping Don's cold and limp hand. Without another word, Alan slipped from the room and Charlie found himself alone with Don for the first time since the morning of the incident, which was only a little over a day past, though it seemed like years.
Slowly, Charlie moved from his kneeling position to take his Dad's place in the chair next to the bed. Unconsciously, he tucked his injured arm in closer, then raised his eyes ever so slowly to look at his brother.
It was hard. Almost too hard to deal with. Charlie rarely saw Don sit still. There were those few occasions, when Don was simply just sitting, a beer in hand, slouched in one of the chairs in the back yard, eyes locked on the koi pond, deep in some thought. Even when Don was sleeping, he tended to move a lot, rolling around more often than lying still. It had made sleeping in the same tent during camping trips that much more irritating. So seeing Don so horribly still was hard to take.
The skin color was all off. It was too close to the color of the sheets. And the bruising on Don's face was abhorrent. His eyelids were black and purple, and several bruises crept from cheekbone to temple, and then down behind Don's ear to the base of his skull. Charlie couldn't remember the coloring before, but then again, he'd been too focused on the blood leaking out of Don's arm.
Gently, with probing hands, Charlie traced the bandage around Don's head. It was loose, so he peered underneath, to find a neat row of stitches on the side of Don's head, closer to the back. Suddenly, Charlie couldn't help but smile. Several inches of skin was now showing where they'd shaved it to put the stitches in. Don would be furious. He had always been proud of his thick dark hair, which he kept short to prevent the genetically inflicted curls that Charlie proudly sported. When Don wakes up he's going to be so mad…
Charlie sobered immediately. If Don woke up. Not when. Charlie shook his head. Stop thinking that way Charlie. Don would be so mad at you.
To avoid more dark thoughts, Charlie continued his catalogue of Don's appearance. The oxygen mask of Don's face obscured his brother's handsome features and Charlie was chilled by the mechanical rise and fall of Don's chest. Don's torso was still bare of a hospital gown, but Charlie couldn't see much of his brother's skin. There were fresh bandages that hid the incision from the surgery, and a wide tenser bandage that held the ribs that Dr. Welker had told them were broken in place so that they could heal. The chest tube was disturbing.
Charlie had always been tactile, and he felt the need to gently caress each part of Don's still form, lightly moving over bruises and bandages, but he carefully skirted the chest tube, protruding from Don's lung, releasing pressure, and hopefully allowing the lung to heal itself.
Don's bare arms were evidence of his strong physical stature and condition. Charlie had always marveled at how defined his brother's arms were, and although he knew that his brother worked out regularly to keep in peak physical condition for his physically demanding job, he realized he was entirely absent from that part of Don's life.
Don had always been very physically oriented, and besides playing Basketball with Don, Charlie's only contact with that part of Don's life had been predicting Don's baseball stats and occasionally stepping on his big brother's ego by trying to suggest different tips that might improve Don's performance.
Charlie shuddered involuntarily as that thought morphed into the realization that he and Don had problems. They were brothers, and brothers were bound to have problems, but they had more than their share. Although things had vastly improved, the fact remained that there was a lot unsaid between the two of them.
He knew it was natural that he and Don might go head to head every now and then, especially when they were working on FBI cases. But that didn't mean that he liked it. He knew there were still deep seated problems revolving around the passing of their mother, and their respective childhoods. Charlie knew it was never going to be perfect, but now that he was faced with the morbid idea that Don might be gone from him forever, he couldn't believe he'd let so much slide.
There was so much more the two of them could have done. And the worst part was that they both knew the mortality of Don's job. They both knew, in the back of their minds, that every day that Don got up, strapped on his gun and put his badge in his pocket was a day that he might never come home. Yet they still let things come between them and fester. To top it off, Don was always so willing to gloss their difficulties over. He instantly forgave Charlie, instantly took him back. Sometimes Charlie wished Don would stay angry longer and really tell him how he felt, rather than having short angry bursts, with nasty words, that then passed to reveal a loving, forgiving and ultra-concerned older brother.
Charlie knew that he didn't always deserve Don's forgiveness. But it went both ways. Charlie had done the same for Don. It wasn't that he wanted the anger to last. He just wanted truth and reality.
The idea of truth and reality sent Charlie's mind careening again, and the numbers that Charlie was fighting so hard not to give into, tugged again at the edge of his mind, promising him a release. Promising him control.
Charlie pushed them aside again, and reached to trace the thick bandage that wound its way over Don's bicep and shoulder where the bullet had first passed before coming to rest in Charlie's arm. Then Charlie's hand snaked down over Don's elbow to where the cast on Don's hand came up just above the wrist.
Sighing heavily, Charlie leaned back and unconsciously managed to tuck his hand back around Don's still one.
"I'm not leaving you Don. I won't. I won't run back to my numbers, I promise. But you can't leave me either. Do you hear me? This family just won't make it. You have to stay here. I don't care how much you want to go. You have to stay."