A/N: Okay, so I just realized that I clearly need more sleep. While Don and Robin are more serious than they are in season 4, Megan's still present. *sigh* But that's why it's called fanfiction, right? So, yes, I realize my mistake. Just bear with me here, people. Oh, and for those of you out there wondering if the CalSci crew will be showing up any time soon, I hate to disappoint you. This is officially a math-free fic. It's not that I don't love the math-believe me, I do-but because I've wanted to write Numb3rs fanfic for years but have always worried that I won't be able to properly represent the characters that I love so much. For example, you won't be hearing much from David in this fic. That's because I struggle to write David. While I'm reasonably certain that I can do a passable fic with the FBI characters, there is absolutely no way I can mirror the CalSci crew. Not yet, anyway.
Disclaimer: Numb3rs is not mine.
I try to find one smiling face
To drive the shadow from my head
I'm stranded in this nameless place
Lying restless in a heavy bed
-"Tell Ol' Bill," Bob Dylan
Chapter 3—It Begins
Don opened his eyes slowly. In front of him was a wall. His head rested against it, and he felt his arms stretched above him. He was in a kind of kneeling position, except that his knees themselves were barely brushing the floor. It was his arms that were holding him up.
Don hurt all over. His right shoulder was particularly awful. It was twisted up above him at an impossibly painful angle, and when he shifted slightly there was a jolt of pain up his entire arm. It took him a moment to figure out why it felt encrusted with something. Then he remembered—blood. He had been shot. In fact, he had been shot two times, he was sure. The fact that he was no dead just meant that Hett's aim had been off slightly. He began shifting his body, trying to find the other bullet hole. He located it on his left leg, somewhere near the knee. He held back a gasp as he moved it. He froze as he realized something. There was absolutely no way that Hett was that bad a shot. Not with what they knew about this guy. He'd hit Don in the knee, while he had been running. Head shots tended to go wide, body shots as well, but rarely too low. Hett's shot had been designed to bring him down. Not kill him. So much for avoiding torture, thought Don, and then mentally scolded himself. It was much, much too early in all of this for death wishes.
There was a chuckle from behind him. Don stiffened. He tried to twist around to look for its source—Hett, he was sure—but he found that any movement was too painful to be worth it at this point. Don grimaced. He heard a sound as Hett moved about the room, but then nothing. Don tried to twist around again, gritting his teeth against the pain. Pain or no, he hated not having a location on the enemy. But Don simply didn't have enough purchase on the floor to use his knees to help, and his arms weren't enough. He could see nothing, hear nothing. But then he felt something.
It was a method not often used anymore in torture. There were more painful ways to do things, ways that didn't involve wasting cigarettes. But what was lacking in the pain department—and that wasn't much, from Don's perspective—was made up for by shock. Don hadn't seen the cigarette lowered down onto the back of his neck. He jerked when it made contact, trying to shy away from it, turning his head and pressing his cheek against the cool, cool wall. A hand held his head in that position and he struggled, trying to pull away. Now, if he strained, he could see the cigarette out of the corner of his eye, its glowing end seeming to be eating up the rest of the world, as if that little spark of fire was all that mattered anymore. And, as it came down on the tender skin of Don's neck at the base of his ear, it was.
Don's teeth were clamped tightly together and he yelled through them, his body tight and straining to escape. There was nothing rational about his escape attempts. There was nowhere to go. But all Don wanted was for the pain to stop. It occurred to him that Hett could do this for a long, long time. The thought scared him, and Don struggled to bite back the instinctual panic that came with helplessness. Eventually, Hett removed the cigarette from his neck. Don watched out of the corner of his eye and was amazed to see that the cigarette had hardly burned down at all. It had felt as though it had been on him for an eternity.
Hett thrust Don's head back against the wall, carefully choosing the places into which he pressed the cigarette next—the inside of Don's elbow, the base of his skull, the soft skin of his upper left arm. Hett particularly enjoyed that last one—Don could hear his cold chuckle in his ear. Don had jerked, losing his balances and putting all of his weight on his right arm, his right shoulder, where Hett had shot him. Don had cried out then. It had started as a gasp of pain, and then moved into a yell. Don had been unable to bite back the sound.
Eventually, Hett left him. Don's body shook from head to toe, straining in too many directions as it tried to avoid putting any of his injuries in greater discomfort. His teeth were clamped shut hard enough that his jaw ached. He made no sound. For hours, his world was nothing but pain.
At some point, Don began to think rationally. His team would be looking for him. They would have gotten to Colby by now—he'd be in the hospital (Don refused to consider the other option). They may even have gotten a statement from him and know what had happened. They would find him. Don was beginning to realize that Hett had no intention of making this short. He would be here for his team to find. He hoped.
A little while later, Don heard the door behind him open. He tensed, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to hold back his automatic emotional reaction. Hett couldn't see him either way, he reasoned. After the door clicked shut, Hett moved around silently. Don waited, anticipating the pain to come, trying to prepare himself for it.
He felt a breath on the back of his neck. Startled, all of Don's calm went out the window. He jerked his head up, trying to twist around. Suddenly it occurred to him that maybe it wasn't Hett who was doing this to him. Maybe he wasn't in the room at the warehouse. Maybe he'd been moved somewhere else, by someone else. He'd have no way of knowing, and that scared him. He frantically struggled to twist around, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He needed to see his captor. Anyone could be behind him. He twisted desperately until a vice like grip held him still, clamping down on the pressure points in his neck. He was unable to do more than grunt as a needle pricked his skin. Then the world faded away.
Don opened his eyes groggily. His head was pounding. He tested himself, shifting a little bit in each direction, trying to figure out if he'd been injured some more when he was out. Apparently not. He remembered being injected with something, but for some reason that seemed unimportant now. Actually, nothing seemed particularly important. He knelt there for a while, trying to think. He couldn't see his watch and although there may have been windows in the room, he couldn't see them and he had yet to see any light from them. The only light he could detect was clearly artificial, barely enough to light up the wall he was chained to. He had no idea how long he'd been there. What mattered, he reasoned, was that he was still there. No time like the present, said a slightly hysterical voice in his mind. Don shook himself, wondering what had gotten into him. He had never been the type to panic.
Don listened, trying to determine where he was and if there was anyone with him. He could hear no cars, no traffic, no voices. No breathing in the room that he noticed. Once again, he tried to twist, his imagination getting the better of him. What if there was someone there? He hated not being able to see anything. Sweat prickled his back. He thought he heard a faint chuckle. Then a voice.
It was a voice he loved. He didn't bother to think what she might be doing here. It never occurred to him that she might be in just as much trouble as he. It certainly never occurred to him that she might be causing the trouble. When he heard her voice, he tried even harder to twist around. He wanted to see her. But after a few minutes, he stopped struggling. He trusted her, as much as he trusted anyone. As long as she could see the room, he was safe.
"Robin," he muttered. His voice came out horse, a little bit shaky. He could feel her sad smile.
"I'm here, Don," she told him. "Of course I'm here."
"I knew you'd come," he said, resting his head against the cool wall. And in that moment, he did know, as though he'd always known it—Robin would come for him. Not David, not Megan, not Charlie, not Colby. Robin. And here she was. "I love you, you know," he continued, not even registering the significance of the words. She smiled again.
"I know," she said. "It's okay, Don, really it is. I love you too. You'll be fine. I could never let anything happen to you." Don listened to the words and smiled faintly, the skin around his eyes crinkling.
"Robin?" he asked, having no idea what he wanted to say. He just wanted to hear her voice again. He didn't feel the pain when he was listening to her.
But she didn't answer.
There was another chuckle behind him, and this time he knew that it couldn't be Robin. It was masculine, cold and cruel. "She's not here with you, Eppes," said Hett's voice. "She's never been here with you."
The words tore at Don, but suddenly he understood. The needle.
"What did you inject me with?" he growled.
Behind him, Hett shrugged. "I'm not sure, honestly. I know it's supposed to cause hallucinations, though. It has some long name I never even tried to pronounce. I admit, I was rather curious to see how hallucinations work when there's a wall in your face. Did you no longer see the wall? Or was it just her voice? Your girlfriend's? Or someone else's?" Don clenched his jaw, realizing that Hett had heard the whole thing. His conversation with Robin had been private—his conversation without Robin, rather. Her voice had seemed so real. Don wished she would come back. Even if she wasn't really here—if she came back, he wouldn't feel the pain again, the irrational part of his mind told him. The drugged part of his mind, he asserted.
"You won't get that lucky, Eppes," growled Hett. Don vaguely wondered if he'd spoken aloud. He didn't have much time to wonder.
Robin's voice didn't save him from the pain, not until hours later, when Hett was long gone. When he finally heard her again, he sighed in relief, closing his eyes and smiling into the wall.