Disclaimer: Other than being a devoted fan, I have nothing to do with Numb3rs.
Author's Notes: My profound apologies for the delay... I've stopped writing drabbles for the time being, and I have no idea if/when I'll start up again. Anyway, I hope to continue to post for as long as possible.
3. Bedside
Michael sits by his mother's bedside, watching her sleep on the folding cot. Her sleep is restless, broken by mumbles and shifting and tears that slip out from under her closed eyes. He holds her hand and murmurs quiet words to her, trying to calm her fears.
He glances over at the other bed, and swallows back his bile.
It's been almost three months since the disastrous day when the phone rang in his studio, with Uncle David's solemn voice on the other end of the line asking him to come to the hospital, just as he was about to kiss Melinda, the lovely young woman he had met and dated and was planning to bring home to see his parents that weekend before asking her to marry him somewhere down the line. It had been almost twelve weeks since his mother had been called into the Assistant Director's office and collapsed on the carpeted floor of his father's workplace, half-cradled in Uncle Colby's arms. It's been ninety days since Aunt Megan explained to him and his older brother Nate that their father won't be coming home, that their sister won't be told — can't be found, I'm sorry — and Nate with his impassive expression nods and picks up his hat, the badge of the LAPD shining on it — look, she's probably working on something we can't know about and—for God's sake don't take it out on Aunt Megan; it's not her call to tell us about it. Listen, I have to go to a funeral later on today, I'm sorry Mike, I'd go with you, but I'm part of the Honor Guard and…Buckman was a brother, Mike. I have to be there. He didn't deserve to die in the streets, not like that. Dad would understand, and so will Mom. I'll be back, I promise, to see them. You take care of Mom now, and I'll be back, I swear. I promise.
And Nate had come back after the funeral for the fallen police officer, changed out of his somber dress blues, and told Mike to — get home, get some rest, I'll look after Mom. I promise I won't leave either of them. Even though he was dressed off-duty, Mike saw that his older brother was carrying his service weapon, just like the federal agents' posted outside of his parents' hospital room and around the facilities itself were.
Nothing's changed in the seconds and hours of waiting the family's gone through. His mother, after her shock, doesn't cry, but all of them know she isn't holding up very well with the strain of the protection and the investigation and the threats. His sister, recently come back from her first major assignment, spends all the time she can at the house or the hospital, trying to keep them all sane. His brother does the same thing, looking after him, urging him and his mother to take care of themselves. They want things to be all right, to be normal again. And him?
All Michael wants is his father to open his eyes again, to laugh, to scold, to smile, to tease, to call him, 'Buddy,' to do anything other than lie in a hospital bed, wrapped in unforgiving embrace of a coma. All he wants is his father back.