Disclaimer: The usual. I don't own any part of Numb3rs or any of the Numb3rs characters. This story is not part of any summer alphabet challenge I just thought it was a good title. Since I am far too lazy to check the almost 3000 Numb3rs fanfiction titles, I fervently hope this one has not been used. In the event it has, I have already taken the precaution of lashing myself twenty times with a soggy, nasty noodle. Also, I took a few literary liberties with Colby's medical condition. Those of you who've been there will know what I mean. Anyway, here goes.

A Is For Anesthesia

Chapter 1

BUZZZZZZZZ!!!!! Colby's alarm clock sounded with a vengeance. "GET UP!! NOW!!! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! I SAID MOOOOVVEEE!!!" the device seemed to be screaming, drill sergeant loud.

Granger groaned and rolled over, pulling a second down-filled pillow over his head in an unusual attempt to evade the cantankerous clamor for attention. It was a miserable failure. Not only was he unable to escape the increasingly shrill demand that he cease to loll about in bed, but now his new neighbor, an IT specialist who worked nights, was pounding angrily on the wall. With surly resignation, Colby snaked a muscular arm out from under the blankets and bashed at the blasted thing, silencing it at last.

He normally wasn't so unforgiving of the alarm clock, which after all, was only doing its job, but today was different. Right off the bat he knew this was not going to be one of his better days. For one thing, after venting his frustration at having a great dream (one involving jalapeno sauce covered barbequed spare ribs, his beautiful girlfriend Kerri, a '67 Mustang and not a stitch of clothing between them) ruined, he tripped getting out of bed. Only to be expected. Upon finally reaching his apartment the night before, so tired it bordered on catatonic, serious concentration was needed to get the door unlocked and himself inside. Once he'd made it that far, however, he could hear his bed calling to him. No joke, it actually spoke, something Colby never knew before that it was capable of.

"Come to me" it purred seductively. "Let me wrap you in my padded embrace. Crawl into my waiting, comfort foam enhanced, Egyptian cotton sheet and blanket covered length and be glad. I welcome you, weary one, I await you, come to me" Amazingly enough, Granger heard it say all of this as he was stumbling in the general direction of his bedroom, removing shoes, socks and outerwear as he went. By the time he achieved sufficient proximity to the still bewitchingly murmuring bed to fall into it, he was wearing only a pair of boxers. His pants, last to go, ended in up in a crumpled heap on the floor next to him. Consequently, the ill-treated jeans were in a perfect position to exact their revenge by ensuring a face first meeting with the floor, and rug burn, the next morning.

Heaving himself off the floor with a grunt, Colby shuffled to the bathroom, took care of necessary business, washed his hands and brushed his teeth. This latter activity was definitely needed. Last night's deli sandwich dinner, wolfed down at his desk, qualified as more than decent, but its aftereffects, combined with morning breath, left the inside of his mouth tasting (and probably smelling) he reflected, like a freshly opened grave. His haggard visage and bloodshot eyes, he concluded, gave new meaning to the term "green-eyed monster."

Three solid weeks of work on the latest case, complete with stakeouts, sleepless nights, (including the last seventy-two hours minus a three hour nap) and a harrowing shootout within the confines of a pitch-black warehouse helped nab the bad guys. One in particular, thinking that his outweighing Granger by a good fifty pounds meant the FBI agent was going to be easy to take hand to hand gave the affronted Colby an added incentive. The bust also generated enough paperwork to obliterate an entire old growth forest. After mercilessly extracting a promise from all of them that they would complete the balance of their paper pushing the following day, Don Eppes had allowed his team to go home to sleep. Pass out really, but the term "sleep" was close enough. Grabbing a blissful six hours, Colby then dressed for the morning jog, and strangling a wheedling desire for more rest, headed out for his run time.

He'd almost passed on the daily ritual. Besides a lingering feeling of exhaustion, his stomach was killing him. Funny, the lean roast beef on rye had seemed a good idea at the time, but now… He sucked in a deep breath and endured until he'd logged his normal five miles. Back in his apartment, showered and dressed, he discovered his coffee maker had come to the conclusion that today was a good day to die. He sighed and headed off to work.

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"Uughh!" David Sinclair greeted him when Colby finally arrived in the bull-pen. "You look like I feel."

"Thanks" Colby fired back sarcastically. "You ain't gonna win any beauty contest either, you know"

" I don't have to" David replied. "I was hired for my crackerjack detective skills and ability to deal with difficult partners. And just to prove how good I am at it, I come bearing coffee and bagels from Schonenberg's"

. The restaurant his partner named was one of Colby's favorite places to grab a quick breakfast. Sinclair maintained they made the most mouth watering bagels outside of Manhattan, a rather large concession for a loyal son of New York to make. After the first few bites of his initial one, Colby'd agreed and been a fan ever since.

Today, though, as the cup of coffee was passed under his nose, Granger felt his already painful abdomen turn over with an unwelcome developing nausea. He backed away, fighting the urge to retch.

"Um, no thanks, man. No bagels or coffee today. I think I'll just settle for water right now."

A surprised blink from David. " Alright, who are you, and what have you done with Colby Granger?" Sinclair said, jokingly. "The Colby I know does not pass up caffeine. Ever."

"He is today. I can't…" What Colby couldn't do was left unsaid as Don arrived, drafting Sinclair and Granger into the briefing room in his wake along with Nikki Bentancourt and Liz Warner.

Studying the image which appeared on the oversized monitor, Colby was looking at middle-aged, well dressed man. An angular, face complete with aquiline nose, and a head of salt and pepper hair.

"This is Amir Sahar" Don began. "Mr. Sahar is an arms dealer that specializes in bio-weapons. He normally operates in Europe, but we've received info that indicates he may be expanding his horizons."

Don continued on but Granger was only halfway hearing what was said. More and more of his attention was being diverted to not embarrassing himself by upchucking all over the unsuspecting Nikki Bentancourt, seated next to him. Still in pain and increasingly nauseous, he excused himself hurriedly and headed for the men's room with as much dignity as he could scrape together. Noting David's concerned glance after him, Colby picked up the pace, still barely making it in time. Pale and shaky, he washed out his mouth and splashed cold water on his face, preparing to head back to the briefing room. He had a hand on the door to push it open when Sinclair pushed from the other side.

"Okay, you looked a little the worse for wear before, but now you don't just look green around the gills, you look sick as a dog. You need to turn around and go home, Colby. Right now, man."

"Nah, I'm ok. I think maybe that sandwich last night didn't agree with me after all. But, uh, I, I'm alright. Really. Feel a lot better now. Let's just get back to work, huh, before we incur the wrath of Don Eppes" Granger tried to lighten the words by backing them with a crooked grin, hoping to disarm David's concerns. No such luck. Sinclair wasn't buying.

"No way. You're looking worse by the second. Now either you go back in there and tell Don a day off is in order or I will. What's it gonna be?" When he got no response from Colby, who was busy choosing between his expanding discomfort and a way to alleviate Sinclair's big brother impulses, David determined his choice had been made. Turning on his heel to head back to briefing, he felt Colby's hand on his elbow.

"Come on, don't do that. I just have a stomach ache. It's no big deal. It's hardly the first time in the history of the bureau that an agent has had stomach trouble. No need to freak out and sic the boss on me. I'll pop a couple of antacids and be as good as new in no time. You'll see. Just let it go, huh, David?" Colby's effort to be convincing was somewhat short-circuited by the wince of pain he could not quite keep off his face.

"No, Colby. Not ok. The way you are now, you are not fit for duty. Listen to me. You. Need. To. Go. Home. And. Get. Off. Your. Feet. And it's not open for debate. You gonna ask Don for the day off? No? Then I'll do it for you. Somebody's gotta take care of you, since you obviously don't plan to do it for yourself." He turned away again.

Colby's second attempt to stop him abruptly hit a wall. The step he took after Sinclair was halted in mid-stride as he was gut-punched by the worst pain of the day. Doubling over with agony, Granger suddenly found himself on his hands and knees in front of the entire fifth floor. His vision blurred and swam as the corridor tilted to an odd angle. Dimly, he heard David's voice.

"Colby! Colby! Look at me! What's wrong? What is it?!" Colby?!"

The last thing Colby registered with his fading consciousness was David Sinclair frantically yelling for a medic. Then somebody hit the off switch.

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