Hello! I now present to you, my first (intentionally) multi-chapter Numb3rs fic! I've got 10 chapters here, and it's complete. So good news, you don't have to wait for me to write more, because it's already written! Instead, you'll probably have to wait about 2 days or so at a time, because that's just when I'll post each chapter. This is a new type of story for me . . . I went places in this fic I've never dared to go before. But I had tons and tons of fun writing it, and cranked it out in a surprisingly short amount of time, so I hope you enjoy reading it just as much! The only thing I really hate about this story is the title but I don't really care that much about titles.

I must warn you: I have inflicted a permanent injury on one of the Eppes boys (something I've never done before). If you do not like that, I suggest you click the back arrow now.

Anyway, here's the first chapter. Hope you enjoy, but please leave a review either way!

Guilt and Dependence

Chapter 1 (Charlie)

Drops of water dripped off his eyelashes. It almost felt like he was crying, but it was hard to tell when the rain drops streamed down his face at so rapid a pace. The volume of water assaulting his face was making it nearly impossible to keep his eyes open. But he had to. It was a matter of life and death.

It was becoming more and more difficult to remember exactly why it was a life or death situation, but somewhere behind the incessant throbbing emanating somewhere from his forehead, something was demanding that he sit up, brush the water off his face, and go fix . . . whatever the problem was. What was it? What was wrong? Hmm. It was raining, and his head hurt. He turned his head slightly to the right, hoping the rain on his face would dissipate long enough for him to take in his surroundings.

He was lying next to a car. Something about the car looked wrong, though.

Oh. It was lying on its side. It took him a few seconds to register that cars weren't supposed to lie on their sides. All four wheels are supposed to be on the ground.

Car.

Wet.

Pain.

. . . .

Oh.

Now he remembered. Now he remembered with such stunning clarity that it only made his forehead throb harder. He'd been driving the car in the rain. His brother had been in the passenger seat, light-heartedly ribbing him about his driving skills, when suddenly, the car had begun to drift across the road. Before he knew it, before he could even think to apply the brakes, the vehicle struck a guardrail. He didn't really remember flipping over on to the side, or even being airborne, but his highly analytical brain was leading him to the conclusion that they must have left the ground at some point for them to be on the ground, sideways, on the other side of the guard rail. He didn't quite want to think about how he ended up not being inside the vehicle, but rather, next to it.

A thought slapped him in the face. Where was his brother? His brother had been in the car. Oh, crap. Where was he? He tried calling out. He somehow managed to get his voice to reach a reasonable level, but even then, he heard no response from the other man.

Panic setting in, he rose quickly to his feet. His vision went black for a second, and he found himself gripping some piece of the underside of the car, unable to move. Finally, he collected his wits and stumbled around to the other side of the car.

His brother lay on the ground, eyes wide open and clouded with intense pain. The entire lower half of his brother's body was obscured by the car. His brother was trapped, he realized. He had to get him out from under the car. His brother was staring up at him, silently begging someone to free him from his torment.

It was as if an invisible wall separated him from his brother. Literally. He couldn't move past a certain spot. He couldn't reach his brother, which was all he wanted—no, needed—to do. The one thing he needed to do was help his brother and he couldn't. All he could do was stand there and watch his brother be tortured by the pain and agony.

He found his legs wouldn't support him anymore, once he heard his brother cry out to him, pleading with him to help. But he couldn't. He was stuck behind the wall, helpless.

Horrified, he watched as his brother began to bleed. Profusely. It gushed out of him. He felt like he was literally watching his brother's life leak out of his body. It circled the older man's head like a deep crimson halo. His brother's skin was paling at a rate proportional to that of the oozing of the blood.

And still he could make no move to help. He was rooted in place. By now, the rain had slowed, but his face was just as wet—only now from tears. He called out to his brother, hoping somehow, the other man would manage to forgive him before his life was completely drained away . . .

Wheezing and gasping, Charlie shot up from the couch like a rocket. It took him a few seconds to comprehend that what he'd just experienced was nothing more than a dream—a horrifying nightmare. And a rather clichéd one at that. Who didn't relive traumatic experiences in their dreams?

At least that part about Charlie was normal. He remembered telling Don once a few years ago that he didn't even dream normal, after having his first dream about their mother since she'd died. But no, it seemed as if maybe he did dream like a normal person. Or at least had post-traumatic nightmares like a normal person.

In his head, he knew that of course it was normal. It had only been five days since the accident, after all. He'd nearly been killed—he'd sustained a nasty concussion that had kept him hospitalized until this morning. And his brother. Charlie shuddered. Don had come much, much closer to slipping away from them. Charlie still sometimes had his doubts that Don was still with them—because it had been that frighteningly close. It was only natural, Charlie knew intellectually, for him to be experiencing such unpleasant dreams.

But overpowering Charlie's intellectual knowledge—a rare occurrence for such a genius—was a feeling deep in his gut. He wanted to punch someone every time anyone reassured Charlie that the nightmares were normal. He didn't care.

Living through the accident was traumatizing and frightening enough. He did not want to experience it all over again every time he went to sleep—which these days, was quite often.

As Charlie was forcing himself to breathe normally, Amita appeared in the living room. Somewhat magically, Charlie thought. Suddenly she was just . . . there.

"You okay?" she asked, with a note of concern. She sat down next to Charlie on the couch, raising her arm to gently rub Charlie's back.

"Yeah," Charlie grunted gruffly. "Yeah, I'm fine." He couldn't bring himself to look his wife in the eye.

To her credit, Amita didn't say anything. Charlie was grateful for the lack of empty, reassuring platitudes. Instead, they just sat there in silence for a few minutes, before Amita spoke again.

"Your dad called a few minutes ago," she announced. Charlie made no response. He was almost afraid of what she had to say. "Don was awake for a little bit this morning."

She paused, and Charlie let this tidbit of information sink in. Don was awake for a little bit this morning. Well, that was good. Don hadn't been awake now for nearly five days. Of course, that was a predictable outcome for someone who had been partially pinned underneath a car in the wet rain for a prolonged period of time.

He looked up at Amita, but didn't say anything. She correctly took that as a cue to continue.

"Alan said he didn't really fill Don in on any of the details yet," she explained. "He was still pretty out of it and he fell asleep again pretty quickly, but hopefully next time he wakes up Alan or Robin can tell him."

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep, shuddering breath. Guilt slashed through him like a knife.

Of course, there'd be nothing to tell Don if Charlie had just reacted quicker—if he didn't have such terrible reflexes, he wouldn't have sent them careening off only to smash into a guard rail, and they wouldn't have flipped over multiple times only to—

His thoughts were cut off as he became aware of Amita speaking once more.

"You know, if you're feeling up to it tomorrow, we could go see him," she was saying. "He's going to need all the support he can get. But only if you feel better tomorrow. I don't want you to push yourself."

"We'll just see, I guess," Charlie murmured. He could feel Amita's concerned gaze boring into him. But he fell silent, not answering the question in her eyes.

Eventually, she spoke up again. "I was thinking about making some soup. Are you hungry at all?"

Charlie shook his head. "Not really."

"Okay," she replied, sounding a little disappointed. "Well, I'll make it anyway, and if you don't want it, we can always reheat it later." She rose from the couch, hesitating before she made her exit through the swinging kitchen door.

Charlie didn't even bother watching her go; he just stared at the floor. A part of him was indescribably grateful to her for being so understanding, but the rest of him hated her for it. Why does she have to be so goddamn supportive? He didn't deserve the loving strength she was providing him. Everything that had happened was his fault. He deserved to be left alone.

Everything was falling down into the crapper, and it was his fault.

His brother's entire life was about to change drastically, and it was his fault.

One thing Charlie knew for sure, there was no way Charlie was going to go see Don tomorrow. He didn't want to be within a mile of that hospital room when either his dad or Robin broke the news to Don. He couldn't bear to see whatever look of pain, or anger, or confusion, or fear that might manifest itself in Don's eyes.

Although in all reality, Charlie knew he deserved to be there. Either way, his brother was going to suffer, and Charlie knew he deserved the torment that would come from watching it. After all, it was his fault that Don was in this situation to begin with.

Charlie leaned back against the couch. He was beginning to get a headache. All he wanted to do was sleep and pretend the real world didn't exist. Unfortunately, every time he fell asleep, a twisted and more horrifying version of reality always presented itself.

At least Don was still alive.

Charlie had seen Don once since the accident. It was thirty-six hours afterwards, when they were both in the hospital. He'd still been fairly woozy from the concussion and the pain meds to help it, but he could remember it now anyways. His dad had wheeled him into Don's room in a wheelchair. Don had been so still. It was reminiscent of the previous time Don had been hospitalized, when he was stabbed. Thankfully, though, unlike last time, there was no ventilator to block Don's face from view.

He had seemed so still, Charlie remembered. Of course, Don was suffering from hypothermia (thankfully not too severe a case), had sustained blood loss from a nasty gash in his lower abdomen caused by the car door, and was also recovering from that awful, life-altering surgery that had been done on his lower leg that they'd viewed as a necessary evil.

Charlie felt his stomach turn just thinking about it. It was so awful, all of it. The accident. Don's injuries. All of it. And it was all his fault. All because he'd been driving too fast, like an idiot.

And Don's life would change forever because of it. He'd no longer be able to work as a field agent—something that everyone knew Don was good at. Sure, Don still had many good things in his life to look forward to. He'd finally married Robin, and they were happy together. On top of all that, Robin was pregnant and due to give birth in two months. Of course, Don would still be trying to work his way back to some semblance of normalcy in two months—and because of Charlie, Don's recovery would make it difficult to look forward to a baby.

Charlie didn't even want to know what would happen later, once Don was awake and lucid enough to learn of the sudden sharp turn his life was taking. He didn't want to be there when his brother put the pieces together and realized that it was all Charlie's fault.

TBC