A/N: See, wasn't that quick? I'm experimenting with writing from Robin's POV in this chapter, so I hope it's alright. There's a vague mention of Checkmate, by the way.
Disclaimer: I don't own Numb3rs.
You trampled on me as you passed
Left the coldest kiss upon my brow
All my doubts and fears have gone at last
I've nothing more to tell you now
-"Tell Ol' Bill," Bob Dylan
Chapter 9—Things Left Unsaid
Robin's throat ached from screaming. She was thirsty, she noticed, and hungry. But these things seemed unimportant whenever she turned her face to look at Don.
The amount of blood covering him scared her, although Robin knew that it was by no means their biggest problem. Robin could remember every single injury that Don had painstakingly listed for them. They were seared into her memory. Most of them would not bleed. This meant that what she was seeing on the outside was so, so much worse under all of that blood and dirt.
Robin's mind drifted to Hett. He was clearly getting a ton of sick enjoyment out of this. She saw monsters in her line of work, and she did her best to put them behind bars. This kind of case was a prosecutor's dream—so horrifying and sickening that getting a conviction was easy. The law had always been enough for Robin, but she knew that if a jury didn't send Hett to his death, then she would. She wanted to watch him die.
The door opened and Hett walked in. Speak of the devil. He leaned casually against the wall, facing Don, with his other captives off to the side. In his hand he held a knife. Without preamble, Hett began. His voice was casual.
"I hear that it's a horrible thing, to hear a knife slice through your skin. I hear it's something like cutting through steak. The skin splits in two, a perfect line down the middle. And there's always that certain satisfaction, as it slices so easily. Until you realize that what's being sliced is your own skin. I heard that's the hardest part—being unable to not appreciate the beauty, the elegance of the thing causing you so much pain. Not being able to stop yourself." Robin shivered slightly.
"I've always been fond of knives. There's something lovely in the work a good knife does, how cleanly it does its job." As he spoke, Hett was playing with the knife. He slid it across the tip of his finger, smiling slightly at the drop of blood it left there.
Robin watched the knife, horrified. The blade was long and sharp, the kind of knife that books described as "wicked."
Robin felt sick. Her skin was clammy and her body was going from hot to cold. She distantly wondered whether this was a result of the hit that she'd taken to the head—it still pounded—or her overall fear. She rather suspected the latter. Robin was terrified. Not for herself, but for Don.
She looked over at him, at the man whose mind, while drugged and tortured, had conjured up her voice for comfort. She looked at the man who made her happier than anyone ever had, at the romantic who opened the door for her and pulled out her seat at dinner, and who had, not long ago, saved her life.
He was still blindfolded, his body tense.
As Hett stepped towards Don, Robin felt her panic rising, adrenaline rushing into her veins. She fought hard to bite back the panic that was quickly rising into a scream. Her fear would not help Don. Nothing she did would help Don.
As Hett pressed the knife against Don's throat, Robin distantly heard David's bellowed "Wait!" and Megan's scream of "Stop!" Hett ignored them, not even looking up. Robin still made no sound. As the cool metal pressed against his throat, she saw Don stiffen. She was frozen in place.
"Do you know how to slit a throat, Agent?" asked Het, addressing Don. Robin her eyes grow wide with panic, and she couldn't stop her whispered "no." It had just struck her, truly struck her, that she was about to watch Don die. Although she had been biting back a scream mere moments before, her breath now came in short, silent gasps, and she was having trouble getting enough air into her lungs.
"Agent?" Hett prompted, and Robin realized that he was still waiting for an answer.
"Yes," replied Don, and Robin noted how exhausted he sounded. His voice was rough, and she wondered when the last time he'd had a drink of water had been. Not recently, she was sure.
Hett had positioned himself so that he was nearly directly behind Don, and they were both facing the others. Hett slowly removed Don's blindfold, the knife never shifting in his grasp. Don's eyes were closed.
Hett shoved Don's head down roughly, angling it, careful not to cut him. Robin was sure that everyone in the room must now be able to hear her gasping breaths. Watching Don, she noted that his own breath had barely even sped up. She felt as though she were trying to breathe for the both of them, as though that alone could keep Don alive once Hett made his move.
The room was frozen, waiting. Waiting for Don to go limp and to stay that way.
Then, Hett pulled away, taking his knife with him. Robin froze, holding her breath.
"Not yet, Agent," Hett told Don. "I won't set you free yet." He turned and left the room.
When the door closed, Don's whole body sagged. His eyes remained closed.
"Oh, God," Don suddenly gasped. He gritted his teeth and from between them came a strangled sound somewhere between a yell and a groan.
Robin looked at him in despair. She didn't know what to say to him.
"Robin." Don's voice saying her name startled her, and she looked up at him. "Robin, I need you to know…" Don was fighting to get himself under control, to steady his voice. "Robin, I love you." He said the words abruptly, shocking her. It was one thing to hear them when he was hallucinating, another to hear them spoken directly to her. His eyes were clear as they met hers. "I need you to know, before… before something happens." Robin noted distantly that the others were looking away, trying to give them some measure of privacy. "I thought… and I realized that I hadn't told you…" Don's voice was rough.
"I love you too," she interrupted, her declaration nearly as abrupt and panicky as Don's own. And as shocking. Robin hadn't been sure that she was ready to go there, ready to tell him—but now was the time. Robin thought she saw the ghost of a smile in Don's eyes.
"You'll tell Dad and Charlie that I—" Don began to ask.
"Don, nothing's going to happen to you," Robin interrupted, as desperate to convince herself as she was to convince him.
"You'll tell them?" asked Don again, ignoring her, his voice desperate.
"Yes," she whispered, knowing what Don wanted. She was supposed to tell his family that he loved them, that he was sorry. Either Don had somehow managed to hear her quiet response or he'd gotten the idea, because he didn't speak again.
Robin just sat and watched him, watched the breath enter and leave his body.
It might have been five minutes, a day, or a couple of hours later when Hett came back. Robin still had her eyes glued to Don. His eyes were closed, but no one doubted that he was awake—his breath was coming in irregular, painful gaps.
Robin looked at Hett. He was holding a gun. She thought she recognized it as the kind the FBI used. She realized with a sickening certainty that it was Don's gun.
Hett walked up to Don and pressed the gun against Don's forehead. Don didn't open his eyes, didn't even twitch.
The moment was surreal. The room was perfectly still and the silence deafening. Hett said nothing. The team said nothing. Robin said nothing. None of the panic Robin had felt with the knife came this time. Her body was numb. She was frozen in place, unable even to blink. She only noticed how easy it had all been. How easily Hett had walked into the room, not even pausing as he had made his way over to Don, not gloating or giving them a chance, any chance at all, to stop him. There was no longer anything between Don and death.
Hett smiled down at Don, then leaned down and whispered something in his ear. Still Don didn't move.
Then, once again, Hett turned and left the room.
Don noticed distantly the gun pressed against his head. He waited, dispassionately, for the shot that did not come.
Hett's voice was in his ear.
"You're broken," it told him. As the gun left his head and Don felt absolutely nothing, he was forced to admit that Hett probably had a point.
Don wondered calmly how long Hett would keep him alive. He wondered how long he wanted to be kept alive. He didn't know.
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