Marked Epilogue

I wrote this in response to a reader suggestion that I add something that deals with Charlie's reaction to the events in Marked, while Don is away on assignment. It turned out to be two mini stories that later converge. One deals with Charlie's struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and the other with Don's assignment, where he deals with dangers of his own.

I strongly suggest that you read Marked before you read this story. This story is a work of fiction; any resemblance to characters living or dead is coincidental.

Finally, I do not own Numb3rs or the characters, although I do claim intellectual property rights to original story material. This story contains brief references to the episodes Uncertainty Principle and One Hour. These disclaimers apply to all chapter in this story.

Special thanks to beta, Alice I.

Chapter 1

The nightmares started the night before the hearing. The panic attacks started a week later, just before Don left for Houston.

Charlie attributed the first nightmare to the stress of the hearing the next day. Alan had finally gone back to work that week, and Charlie had left for the hearing at FBI offices Tuesday morning as soon as he had gone. By the time that Charlie got back that afternoon, he was exhausted, and he let himself in to the empty house with a sigh of relief. In spite of his physical fatigue, he was wound up mentally, and he grabbed his laptop from the dining room table, plunking down on the sofa. He had to change before his father got back if he didn't want to deal with questions; or worse yet, with fussing, but he needed to sit for a moment before navigating the stairs.

He popped open the laptop, fumbling with the catch. He felt an odd sense of unease, an anxiety in the pit of his stomach, and its very presence unnerved him. He should be feeling less jittery, not more, he thought, especially now that he had made it through the hearing. He sighed, frowning, and pulled up his files. It had to be the lack of sleep. He hadn't slept well in the hospital, and the sleep that he did get had been the product of drugs. The first few days back home, he had still been consumed by the horrible sense of betrayal, and had thrown himself into work with a manic fervor, barely stopping to sleep.

Of course he did sleep Friday and Saturday nights, he thought to himself. The relief that came with talking to Don created a huge emotional letdown, and he slept like he hadn't in years. He pushed down the thought that it had been mind-numbing fatigue that had probably made that possible. Sunday and Monday night were another story however; 'just pre-hearing jitters,' he told himself. He tapped away at the keyboard, trying to calm his racing mind. He had just made it out of that garage; he'd be damned if he was going back in. 'You have a choice, you know. You don't need to let it take over.'

He focused on his work, too immersed to realize that he was wearing the same intense, grim expression that had dominated his face the week before.

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Alan pushed into the kitchen, a bag of groceries in hand, and glanced in confusion at the suit jacket on the kitchen chair. It was Charlie's. 'What in the heck is that doing down here?' he wondered absently. The house was silent."Charlie?"

He set the bag of groceries on the kitchen table, and poked his head into the living room, half expecting to see his son sprawled on the sofa. Nothing. 'Probably upstairs, hopefully napping.' He turned to the task of unloading the groceries, and set about making dinner. He put the water on to boil for pasta, threw together a salad, and headed up to his son's room. 'Shouldn't let him sleep too late, he'll never go to bed tonight.'

Moments later he was downstairs, with a puzzled look on his face, headed back through the living room, just as the front door opened. Don poked his head in, followed by the rest of his body as he caught his father's eye. "Hey Dad." He glanced around the room. "Where's Chuck?"

"Darned if I know," Alan said in annoyance. "I was just going to check the garage." He trod briskly through the room into the kitchen. Don sauntered behind, snagging an apple from the basket on the table. He reached the garage just in time to see his father pull open the door, and Charlie whirl from the chalkboard with a guilty expression. His brother was still wearing his dress shirt, with the top buttons unbuttoned, and his tie, which was hanging loosely from his neck. His dress pants were covered in chalk; there was a healthy smudge of it on his cheek, and he looked at his watch in dismay.

Alan frowned, puzzled. "Charlie, what are you wearing that for?"

'Uh, oh, busted,' thought Don. "I guess he didn't tell you either," he said, around a mouthful of apple.

Alan scowled at him. "Why are you eating? Dinner's almost ready." He looked back at Charlie, who reluctantly set down his chalk, and headed towards them, his head down.

"I went to the hearing today." He pushed past them. "I'm going to change."

"A little too late for that!" Alan yelled after him. "Those pants have to be dry-cleaned!" He looked at Don, puzzled. "The hearing? Did he go with you? No, he couldn't have – you were gone when I got up."

"Come on," said Don, heading for the kitchen. "I'll tell you about it. You won't believe what he did."

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Three hours later, they were situated in front of the television. Don was focused on a Dodgers game, and Charlie sat cross-legged next to him on the sofa, working the mouse pad on his keyboard. Alan eyed the curly head bent over the laptop. Sometimes that mind seemed like a complete enigma to Alan, and never more so than lately. He would never have thought Charlie would have had the physical or mental stamina to make it through that hearing, and the idea still amazed him. He couldn't imagine what had possessed him to testify the way he had to begin with.

Charlie had done amazingly well since Friday, he conceded. He did seem a little out of sorts tonight, though, thought Alan with a frown. He had barely touched his dinner, and seemed restless; preoccupied. The laptop was not a good sign either. Maybe he had been doing a little too well. Alan pushed the nagging worry out of his mind. Charlie had had a rough night last evening, and rough day today. He was probably just over-tired.

His eyes wandered to his older son. Don was watching the game intently, but Alan noticed that he sat close to enough to Charlie to maintain contact, almost unconsciously moving an arm or an elbow to touch his brother if Charlie shifted positions, as if to reassure himself that Charlie was still there. Alan smiled as he watched Don shifted his elbow so that it was touching his brother's yet again, as Charlie adjusted the laptop. Don didn't even know he was doing it, and probably would be embarrassed to admit it if he did. 'Good heavens, I think I passed down the hovering gene,' thought Alan, and his grin widened. It was just so good to have them here, together, and emotion fueled his smile.

Don reached for his beer and caught his father's smirk. "What's so funny?"

Charlie looked up, and Alan grinned foolishly back at them. "Nothing – ah – nothing." The boys looked at each other, and Charlie shrugged and looked back down at his laptop, fingers poised.

Don's gaze lingered on him. "Hey Chuck, don't you think you've had enough of that for one night? Give it a rest."

A fleeting look of annoyance passed over Charlie's face, but he hit 'save' and closed his laptop with a sigh. His eyes rested on the television screen, but the preoccupied look was still there, and Alan got the feeling that he wasn't registering what he was seeing. Now that Charlie's head was up, Alan could see the fatigue in his face. "Charlie, you probably ought to think about bed."

Charlie blinked, and focused on his father with an effort. He was suddenly exhausted. He leaned on the sofa back and shut his eyes. "Yeah, I am pretty tired."

Don glanced over at him, and his stomach clenched. He had a sudden vision of Charlie in the hospital, eyes closed, with the same expression on his face. He looked away quickly, as his brother opened his eyes and lifted his head with a sigh.

Charlie uncrossed his legs and stood wearily, catching himself as he put his weight on his hurt leg, which had stiffened up. He set the laptop on the coffee table, and headed for the stairs without a backward glance, shoulders slumped. "G'night."

"Good night, Charlie." Alan watched him ascend the stairs with a slight frown. "He seemed a little off today."

"Huh?" Don's attention was captured by a double play. He jerked a glance at his father, then back at the TV, and he stared at the screen as he replied. "I dunno. I think he seemed okay. The hearing was kind of stressful – I think he's doing pretty good, considering."

Alan sighed. 'It's probably nothing a good sleep wouldn't cure.' He glanced at his watch. Almost nine o'clock. He couldn't remember the last time Charlie had gone to bed that early.

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Charlie stripped down to his T-shirt and boxers, and flung himself on the bed, his eyes already closed. No pajamas tonight. He had barely managed to brush his teeth. Too tired. His eyes popped open, and he stared up into the darkness. Too wired. A memory of last night's nightmare brushed his mind like a cold hand, and he shuddered. 'That was an anomaly,' he told himself, 'brought on by stress. The chances of having another one in a consecutive night are remote.' The thought made him feel a little better, and he pulled up the covers and closed his eyes. He was physically spent, and it felt wonderful to lie down. Now if only his mind would shut down …

He sighed, his eyes closed. He must have fallen asleep after all. It was windy outside – he could hear it sighing in the trees. So tired…He jerked suddenly, feeling confined. He couldn't move. Why couldn't he move? He felt the breeze on his face, and he opened his eyes in confusion. He was in the forest.

He watched the pine trees swaying overhead. The wind was growing stronger – and he felt the beginnings of panic. How did he get here? He tried to sit up but he couldn't move his arms, and he looked at them, finding to his horror that he was wrapped with wire from the shoulders down. He twisted, trying to free himself, but he was bound tightly, and he closed his eyes with a moan, as terror rose in his chest. "Nooo..."

His eyes flew open again at the voice. "I've bin waitin' fer you, boy." Mansour's eyes burned into his, and he raised the knife, leering with an evil grin. Charlie recoiled in horror, thrashing, twisting; as Mansour turned toward his feet. Charlie gasped and writhed in one last monumental effort –

He awoke as he hit the floor, landing on his side, stunned, the impact shooting pain through his hip; which was echoed by the healing muscles in his leg. The sheets were twisted around him; claustrophobia suddenly descended, and he thrashed wildly, clawing his way out of them like a madman, as he fought his way to a sitting position. He sat there for a moment, shaking, his chest heaving, until the sweat covering his body cooled, and turned the shaking to shivering. He looked around the room, dazed, his eyes finally lighting on the digital clock on his nightstand. 12:16.

He stood unsteadily, and collapsed on the edge of the bed, hugging himself with his arms, rocking back and forth slightly. He knew he should try to lie down again, but adrenaline coursed through him, and his brain was starting to race again. The garage was calling him, and he tried to fight it down, but after wrestling for a moment he conceded to a compromise. Just a little time at the boards, he told himself, just a little, to calm himself down, and then he would go back to bed. He reached down and grabbed his sweatpants, pulling them on with trembling hands, and crept quietly out of the room.

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End Chapter 1