For MusicalLuna, because everything I write is for her.

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Numb3rs or anything associated with it.

Edit: I apologize if my scene breaks are missing. I don't know what happened. They're in my document when I upload it, but not in the story when it's published. Not sure what's up.

There's a thin green thread hanging off a button on the arm of Charlie's shirt that will eventually come off if he doesn't stop pulling on it. The color reflects off the glass of the interrogation room and he can see himself every time his fingers run over the small piece of string. Most people might call this aimless, since Charlie appears to be doing it absentmindedly, but the young man counts each tug; calculates how many times he has to pull before the button falls to the ground.

Next to Charlie, Don alternates stares from the math professor to the woman in interrogation and back again. Charlie may seem to be keeping his cool, but Don knows his brother.

"I'm fine, you know. She was unpredictable," he says casually, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Nothing is unpredictable," Charlie mutters, still twirling the string on his sleeve.

Don rolls his eyes. "Well it wasn't your fault. So you can stop that whole brooding thing you're doing."

"I'm not brooding," Charlie scoffs. He gives the string one last light yank and the button releases, flipping over and over in the air until it comes to a stop on the hard floor. The mathematician allows a brief smile to cross his face before turning his full attention back to the interrogation where David's voice floats coolly through the intercom.

"You tried to kill an FBI agent, Missy. What makes you think I'm gonna give you a deal?" David sits across from the woman and leans in with his hands folded across the table.

Missy cocks her head to the side and grins, mouth wide with crooked teeth. "I got information. Lots o' information and you're not gettin' it unless I get off."

Charlie can feel his mouth curl slightly as the rage boils through his skin. He runs a hand over his face and tries to calm his emotions. "She's not getting off, is she?"

Don tries to shrug his shoulders and winces, whispering a curse while he rubs his sling-bound arm. "If she has what we need, we'll cut her something," he says as he arches his back. Charlie watches Don from the corner of his eye and silently seethes.

OOOOO

"In there, they're in one of those two units," Charlie ordered through the soft-tipped headset he had strapped to his ears. He watched the dots on the computer he knew to be Don and his team as they approached the storage units, listening to his brother's quiet orders.

"Three," he said and Charlie heard the team burst through the doors.

"FBI, FBI GET YOUR—"

Charlie's brow furrowed. There was silence. "Don?" He looked at one of the other techs in the van who seemed equally puzzled and asked again. "Don, can you hear me?"

Then, "Hey, Charlie, there's nothing here."

"That—that's impossible. Don, we lost you for a few seconds when you went in there, are you sure—"

That's when he heard a horrifically loud kathunk, followed by Don's strangled cry. His heart thumped painfully in his chest. "Don? Don?"

There were shouts from every direction, making it hard for Charlie to decipher who had said what, so he ripped the headset off and tore out of the van in the direction of the units the team had planned to raid. Once he rounded the corner, Charlie could see Don lying on the ground with one hand clutching his shoulder. His sunglasses lay smashed in the dirt beside him.

"Get your FILTHY hands off me, you pigs!"

Charlie's head snapped up to see a young woman with stringy blond hair trying to kick Colby in the knee as he yanked a large fire extinguisher from her hands. She fell to the ground when David tackled her.

Megan pulled Don gently to his feet and Charlie winced at the distorted way he hunched his shoulder. Their eyes met.

Charlie knew he would never hear the end of it.

OOOOO

David gives Don a thumbs up from the other side of the glass and Charlie's shoulders sag in relief at the fact that Missy won't receive a "get out of jail free" card. She'll do some time for assaulting a Federal Agent.

"Hey, we need to talk."

Charlie inwardly groans because he knew this was coming. The thread is wrapped around his finger now; he counts how many times he twists it in circles and calculates how long it will take before his finger turns blue from lack of circulation.

"Don't ever do that again, Charlie. I'm serious," Don says sternly. He looks like their father when he says it; sounds like their father, too. "This isn't some game. You don't know who else could've been out there and you could have gotten yourself hurt or worse."

Twisting the string around his other finger, Charlie looks away. "I took the FBI training course. I'm not stupid."

Don takes a step towards him and Charlie takes a step back. "So help me, Charlie—" he starts, unable to finish his sentence with a valid threat. Charlie sighs, twirling the thread around his pinky finger.

"I don't want you to be a statistic."

The room is silent, but Charlie's head screams and counts and multiplies and divides. Don shakes his head and says, "I'm not gonna be a statistic."

Charlie gives a half smile. "I hate statistics."

"That's a damn lie," Don practically laughs, "and you know it."

"Mostly," Charlie says, failing to find the humor in his statement. "But not when it's about death. Especially yours."

He lets the thin green thread float slowly to the ground before turning toward the elevator.