Don Eppes, In Three Parts
Title: Don Eppes, In Three Parts
Fandom: Numb3rs
Summary: (But Don never was that good with words).
Spoilers: General spoilers for S1.
A.N. This is the final section. Chapter titles from Mary Chapin Carpenter's "I Am A Town". Thanks to nowastedspace for the beta and thank you to everyone who reviewed.
iii. memories and stillness
"I don't— I don't understand. I mean, I get it but I don't, I don't know what it means that… what—" And Charlie turns to him with pleading eyes, needing him to explain the parameters once again.
(But Don never was that good with words).
--
He loves his mother in the abstract way any teenage boy loves his mother; quietly, unobtrusively; secretly. Don never was his mother's son but he remembers a time when the two of them shared company, unfettered by the complications of adding Charlie to the equation. Don would play with the train set Uncle Albert bought him for his birthday and his mother would tend the flowerbed, singing along to the nameless tunes on the radio.
But now the two of them have increased to three and the ratio isn't one Don necessarily comprehends. Charlie's little and clumsy, quick to laugh, quicker to cry. He doesn't sleep the whole night through and he eats liquid food from little glass jars that line the kitchen windowsill, even when empty.
Don resents him, a little. Resents the attention he gets. But even Don understands the worth of a secret that big and he keeps his frustrations to himself; leaves his brother to his mother and gets on with his life, the way he knows he should.
--
Coop's always been an asshole but Don likes the guy anyway, if only because he's not an asshole to him.
--
Don is the prodigal son, except he still has money to his name and a whole other life besides. Don is the prodigal son and his mother is so happy to see him (so small and so broken); his father is standing in the doorway, blocking his exit until he has no other option than to step forwards and face the truth.
His mother is dying.
Don is the prodigal son and yes, maybe he didn't lose everything in his possession (even though he left behind a lover and a living and another life) but here he is and there she is and it feels like he's lost out anyway because at the end of the day, if you don't have your family, what do you have?
--
They stake out the Mitchell brothers' cabin for three weeks before there's any sign of trouble. Then it's all movement, all the time – move in, slap on the cuffs, get out of dodge and back on the road. There's barely time for Don to make a phone call home (to leave a quick message on the answering machine, first for his folks, then for Kim) before Cooper hears of another hot trail and they're back to doing what they do best.
If he thinks about it, Don knows this isn't any kind of life but there's something refreshing about always being on the move that catches his more reckless side. Sure, the work's hard and dirty at the best of times but on the odd occasion – like when Coop's burning their last meal over a half-dead campfire, or the two of them are running after some jackass who thought he could murder his own mother and not pay penance – Don catches his partner's eye and has to laugh. It's a testosterone max: guns, cars, cigarettes and alcohol, no one to worry about except yourself and your partner. No responsibility beyond the next horizon, nothing so trifling as a family to give a damn about: nothing so constricting as material possessions or well-meaning loved ones.
"You ready?"
"What's next?"
--
Charlie never blames him for wanting to get away but Don thinks that maybe his brother never understood his intentions because when Charlie walks into the kitchen the next morning and nearly trips over his own feet to see him standing there. He swallows, nervously, and there's a second there when neither of them says a word. Then Don smiles, a little, nods his head towards the papers in his brother's hands and asks, "Homework or extra curricular?"
Charlie shrugs, shuffles about, gives a non-answer.
(He's taller now, still lanky and uncomfortable in his own skin. Hair's longer, too. Don wonders what his brother's been up to for the past six years. Knows he's a professor now; wonders if he ever managed to find a girlfriend, if maybe he ever gets sick of the numbers and the formulae and just sees the world as is).
--
(Charlie was born on a cold day in early spring and to commemorate the event, Don's mother gave him her father's watch. It was far too big and ran too fast but even now, Don keeps it with him wherever he goes).
--
It's three days later and Charlie still hasn't said more than a few words to him. Don finds him in the garage, scrawling desperately over the blackboard. He doesn't really understand what his brother is doing but he wishes he could reach out to him, the way an older brother should.
Instead he watches the way Charlie moves, the intense concentration on his face and the way his fingers start to curl, hovering above his left temple. He's grasping for something just beyond his periphery, struggling perhaps for a flitting idea that's as elusive to him as words are to Don.
(He makes a move to say something but stops as Charlie slaps a palm against the weathered board, rubbing away the chalk lines and throwing dust into the air. He stops, wonders what next and makes the decision to retreat, instead).
--
It's summer when his mother slips away, quiet and inconspicuous as ever. Don comes in to open the curtains and shake her awake; she is cold to the touch, fragile and seemingly asleep.
(Charlie comes into the house for the first time in six months).
Don wants to say he's sorry but the words just won't come and anyway, he never was that good at making Charlie feel better. Instead, he looks at his mother one last time and walks out of the room to find his dad instead.
(Charlie stays in the bedroom all day, even after Mom is taken away. All Alan's attempts at dislodging him from the cold, empty space are met with silent rebuttals until Don walks in and pulls Charlie out by the arm).
--
Don is the prodigal son, Charlie is the genius and it seems odd to Don that he can't imagine his life without his brother anymore.
Don never makes it back to Albuquerque, Kim never marries him and Cooper stays on the road. Terry leaves him again, with the promise of staying in touch, though Don knows that neither of them is that good at keeping promises of that sort. He buys an apartment, has dinner with his dad and Charlie at least once a week and falls into the patterns a regular life can afford him.
And sometimes, if he catches his thoughts drifting towards escape again, well, that's alright too because indulging in fantasy, if only for a split second, is better than actually uprooting again. He knows, of course, that there are some lessons you only need learn once and Don is nothing if not pragmatic, he doesn't need to be told twice that his place is with his family (even if it takes a while for the idea to settle with him. After all, it's his family; he belongs there, in an abstract way).
--
"I don't understand."
And Don doesn't have the words to tell his brother that not understanding is a way of life and that miscomprehension is constant, not an immeasurable variable. He doesn't have the figures that sum to a perfect answer or even one that comes close.
So he shrugs. Leaves the numbers to the mathematician; wonders if one day Charlie will find the equation that numerates their grief.
"Yeah," he says, sighing, "I know you don't." He looks across his shoulder; looks at his brother – really looks at him and considers him, as though he is perhaps a stranger. "I don't think we're supposed to."
For the first time in five years, Charlie looks up to meet his eyes and it doesn't matter, suddenly, that Don doesn't understand him and that Don hasn't seen him and that Don hardly ever took that time to talk to him or work with him; Don knows him, the way a brother should, and Charlie isn't so alien to him after all.
"No." Charlie says. "I guess that's true."
FIN. there are no more words