3 Little Words, a numb3rs fanfic

Title: 3 Little Words

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. They are close personal friends.

A/N: For the Number challenge:.In honor of "Numb3rs", a numeral must be part of the title, and the Oneshot should begin with a numeral.

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Four times before in his life, Alan remembered as he stood before Margaret's portrait in the dining room and tried to pull himself together, those words had brought him to tears. The first and last times Margaret had ever said "I love you" to him had nearly wiped him out — for entirely different reasons. Twice more, each of his sons had said it.

The times he remembered, the times that broke him apart, were not the first times the boys had wrapped their little mouths around the words. Those times were precious, as was every time you heard those words from someone you loved in return. He cherished them. Yet the words could come at a time, or in a way, that meant so much more………

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Donnie was nine, in fourth grade, when he asked his four-year-old brother to do his math homework. Charlie wasn't even in school yet, but he was already working with special tutors and could easily fulfill Don's request. He also had a mad case of hero worship going on, so it wasn't hard for Don to talk him into it. Alan had come home from work to find his youngest hunched over Don's math workbook. He was sitting on his booster seat at the dining room table, little legs kicking out in the air, because even then he couldn't be still. Don was standing behind him, coaching. "Try to write more like I do," he ordered. "I don't want to have to copy everything over."

Alan, head aching from poring over plans all afternoon with several other city engineers, had been livid. "What do you think you're doing?", he had shouted at Don, ripping the workbook away from Charlie. The youngest had burst into tears, terrified by both the shouting and the tiny physical assault, and Don had shouted back, defiantly.

Alan couldn't even remember the boy's arguments, now. He hadn't listened long then, either. Don had just started Little League that year, and Alan had forbidden him from playing in that Saturday's game. Don had protested mightily, Charlie trying to join in. "P-P-Please, D-D-Daddy," Alan had just barely heard. "It's…It's…It's not D-D-Donnie's fault…"

"Shut-up, baby!", Don had yelled then, and Alan placed his hands firmly on Don's shoulders.

"That's two Saturdays, Mister," he had promised, staring his son down. "You want to go for the entire season this time?" Don had shrugged away and stomed toward the stairs. "Apologize to your brother!", Alan had insisted, and Don turned around sullenly and came slowly back to the table.

"I'msorryIyelledatyou," he muttered, and looked at his father. "Can I go to my room now?"

Charlie had started to hiccup and Alan sighed, hoping he wouldn't work himself up into hyperventilating. He didn't need to try to explain that to Margaret, right now. "I think that would be a good idea," he said, and let his oldest go. The steps up the stairs were a little too heavy, and the bedroom door shut a little too hard, but Alan decided to pick his battles and let it pass.

Later, after Don wouldn't come down to dinner and Charlie, still upset, had eaten half of his and then vomited it all over his mother's plate; later, after Alan had sat alone in the living room for an hour reading the newspaper; much later, after he worked another hour on the plans he had brought home, Alan trudged up the stairs and knocked on Don's door. There was no answer, but he went in anyway.

Donnie was sitting up on the bed, organizing his baseball cards. When he saw his father, he raked them all back into the box. Alan approached the bed, and put half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the nightstand, with a glass of milk. He sat on the edge of the bed. "I made this, but then I decided I wasn't hungry," he said.

Don looked at it warily. "Thank-you," he said in a small voice.

Alan tousled his son's hair. "Donnie, I'm sorry I shouted at you and lost my temper. I'll try harder not to do that. But asking Charlie to do your homework was wrong, and the punishment still stands."

Don pouted. "He wanted to," he protested weakly.

Alan dropped his hand to Don's knee and looked him in the eye. "I'm sure he did," he answered, "but it's important for you to do your own work."

"Why?"

Alan thought. "Well, first, son, you're never too young to determine what kind of person you're going to be. Your mother and I are trying to raise you to be honest, and hard-working. And then, the things your teacher is trying to teach you right now really are things you'll use the rest of your life. It's important to learn them."

Don picked up the sandwich and took a tiny bite, then put it down and picked up the milk, draining half the glass in one swallow. Alan smiled at him, then thought of something and frowned a little. "Donnie, I know your mother and I spend a lot of time with Charlie…is the work too difficult for you? Would you like some extra help?"

Don shook his head and replaced the glass on the nightstand. "Nah, it's easy enough. I just wanted to watch 'Starsky and Hutch' tonight, and Mom won't let me unless my homework is done." He looked at Alan with a sudden gleam in his eye. "Dad, when I grow up I want to be a baseball player and a policeman. Can I do that?"

Alan smiled again and patted Donnie's knee. "Why not? You can do anything you want to, son, if you work hard enough."

He stood to leave. "I'll see you in the morning, Donnie. Don't forget to brush your teeth." He leaned over to kiss Don on the cheek, and expected the ritual protest. He knew he really wouldn't be able to get away with this sort of thing much longer. Instead, he was surprised when Donnie snaked an arm around his neck and pulled his father closer. "I love you, Dad," he had said, and Alan had choked a little when he said the words back. Then he had left the room and headed downstairs, to find Margaret and explain why he was crying………

Charlie had been closer to Margaret, while he was growing up, although Alan was sure he and his son had said those words to each other many times along the way. It was just last year, though, when Charlie was 30, that he had reduced Alan to tears again.

Alan had volunteered at the soup kitchen that day, and the sight of so many people near his own age, eating alone, grateful to eat at all — it may have depressed him, a little. Charlie had a faculty meeting that evening, so Alan ended up eating dinner alone himself, and that may have depressed him a little more. It was close to 10, and he was sitting in the recliner reading a book when he heard the kitchen door finally open, and then heard Charlie rummaging around in the kitchen. He heard the blender and was surprised. Charlie hardly ever went to that much trouble to eat. Poor kid must be starving — but there were plenty of leftovers in the refrigerator…Alan shrugged, and turned his attention back to the book.

After a few minutes the door to the kitchen swung open and Charlie came through it, apple in one hand and a tall, frosty glass in the other. "Hey, Dad," he greeted, and Alan smiled up at him.

"Long day," he observed.

"Yeah,". Charlie yawned as if to prove his point. "I'm just taking my apple up to my room and falling into bed." He crossed to the recliner. "Here. I made this for you." He handed Alan the glass and he saw a pink-tinted milkshake.

Alan looked up, surprised. "Thank-you, Charlie…did you have yours already?"

Charlie was about to take a bite of the apple, but lowered it to answer. "Are you kidding? You're the only person I know who adores cherry milkshakes."

Alan looked back at the glass, confused. "We don't have any Cherry Garcia ice cream," he said.

Charlie yawned again. "I stopped on the way home and got you some. The rest is in the freezer…"

"That's all you stopped for? And then you made me a milkshake?"

Charlie nodded. "Did you need something else?"

Alan shook his head. "No…No, I just don't understand. Why?"

Charlie smiled at him. "Because I love you, Dad," he said simply. "Enjoy. I'm going to bed."

Charlie had turned and started up the stairs, then, and Alan had put aside his book, and concentrated on not crying into his ice cream………

Memories momentarily over, Alan stood in front of Margaret's portrait and thought of five minutes ago, when he had come down the stairs balancing a laundry basket on his hip. Don and his friend Robin sat close together on the couch in the near-dark living room. They had joined Alan, Charlie and Amita for dinner, and were now watching a movie on the DVD player. As Alan passed close behind the couch, on the way to the laundry room behind the kitchen, he had seen Don lean over to kiss Robin, and had heard him say. "I love you" into her ear, heard her murmur the words in return.

Tears had immediately come to Alan's eyes, and he was overwhelmed by the understanding that knowing your child has someone to love, someone who loves him back…it was the greatest gift of all to a parent.

Now, somewhat composed again after his time with Margaret, he shifted the basket and pushed through the swinging door. Charlie and Amita both sat at the kitchen table, heads bent over the same stack of paperwork. Alan smiled at them when they looked up. "Don't mind me," he said. "Just going to start some laundry." He passed behind them and entered the laundry room, where he sorted lights into the washer. It wasn't full, and he decided to add the kitchen towels. He went back for them, stopping dead in the hallway as soon as he could see the kitchen table. Charlie and Amita were just breaking off a kiss.

"I love you," his son said huskily, lightly caressing Amita's cheek, and she returned the words, and the gesture.

Alan, eyes blurry, turned and headed back for the laundry room.

These boys.

His sons were going to kill him yet.

FINIS